maya

Angelic Nudists

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Down two flights of stairs and into the living room, she is completely unfazed by her own nudity.

“I can’t find jammies.” She is whining and sprawling and we are blushing at our own offspring. And laughing.

I often ask my kids, “What if Dad and I acted the way you are acting right now?”

I’m here to tell you, if Chase were to do this every time he was frustrated, he’d get whatever he wanted just so the act of disgrace would end.

How are kids so unashamedly comfortable in their own skin?

I suppose nudist colonies would be similar. But where would the personal boundaries start and stop? How does one determine what is appropriate and what isn’t? I don’t think I’d survive long in one, assuming I could ever get past my own moral code. Which I can’t.

It makes me wonder about the trusting, free nature of children. And about “faith like a child.” Humanity began in nudity. Unashamed, free, out there nudity. And it was beautiful.

I wonder if we’ll just be a bunch of undressed innocents in heaven. It might be worth the surrender to get there, just to find out.

 

Deeply Grateful

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For a husband who will sing loudly off-key along with the performers of the Macy’s parade, because he loves to make our kids laugh and engage them.

For scattered puzzle pieces that need a family of fingers to make sense of them.

For chives that add just a little something to potatoes.

For a spilled glass of water, because it means I have a little girl who will come tell me in her sweet, three-year-old voice what happened.

For the musical sounds of announcers and fans and helmets against helmets.

For laughter, the kind from the gut.

For hairy teeth, because it means I’ve eaten way too much sugar, and I’ve never really wanted for anything.

For exhaustion, because it means my day, my life is full.

For shoes on the floor and smears on the sliding glass door, because it means I have kids, and they’ll leave traces of themselves.

For lotion, because my hands get so dry this time of year.

For squiggly, fake spiders, because they challenge my son to be brave.

For a beard that makes me appreciate a smooth face.

For a pillow, every night, since the day I started using one.

For a group of people who stared persecution in the eye, who were ready to die for freedom, and who changed everything by seeking out this amazing country.

For a Savior that has given me what I do not deserve.

For all this and more, I am deeply grateful.

“When it comes to life the critical thing is whether you take things for granted or take them with gratitude.” 

                                                                               -G. K. Chesterton                                                                                       

               

  

Truly Rich

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Freshly picked, my youngest demanded to be held. She’d just finished a few hours of finger painting, picture book reading, rug time singing, snack devouring, preschool heaven. And I just finished being in heaven, elsewhere.

Through the heavy glass doors of the church, the heat came at us like a dog out of its cage. Intensely. But still less so than the meltdown my dear toddler would have if I forced her to walk. Often she has to deal with these kinds of injustices but when it’s just her and me, so close to another couple hours of naptime freedom, I oblige.

As we approached our car I saw a new, pearl white SUV stop perfectly between the lines in the next space. Leather. Limited. License plates that wore the pride of a Disable Veteran.

Luxury comes with silver linings, I thought. The kind after you fight for your country, or on your head, or after many years of work and service and life. Yes, please take the handicapped section. All of it if you like. You, have, earned it.

But luxury doesn’t always come with age. It is not a guarantee. I think of this as I turn the pages of my husband’s copy of his late grandfather’s book. I think of Grandma, still with us, happily driving her old Subaru. She was giddy when they bought that thing all those years ago, and I wonder if she’ll ride it up to Glory someday. For now it sits before her small home, with her old decorations, when she isn’t gallivanting to seniors groups.

I love the seasoned of our society. And I love her.

The beautiful sun spots on her arms shadow the tireless work beside her beloved at their ranch. A ranch they devoted to sharing with other people. The gray that touches her neck came from raising four riotous boys and one sweet girl whom I assume was worried over just a much.
She is not fancy, she does not flaunt, and if you asked her to pick the one thing in her house of the greatest value, she’d most assuredly point to the wall-sized (I am not even joking, it’s gigantic) family portrait in her living room.

And it makes me think, she’s the one that is truly rich.