If You Give a Mum a Muffin

If you give a mum a muffin you can get a miracle

“Mum?”

“Hmmm?”

“Are you going to do something when we leave home?  I mean, like a career or something?  When you are done homeschooling?”

I confess I clenched my teeth just a bit when the question was uttered.  I could have responded stating my life would cease to have meaning and that I would put myself out to pasture and crochet hats for neighborhood squirrels but it seemed a tad sarcastic.  “I expect by that point my life will have lost all meaning.”

“Mom, I’m just asking.”

“With any luck you will be able to afford my therapy and I’ll figure it out then.” I retorted.

There isn’t a mother on the planet that doesn’t struggle with self-worth at some point, but lately I don't have the energy for an existential crisis.  As one decade as a stay at home mother in a foreign country stretched into two, I am well aware what I have achieved, what I have gained and what I have lost.  It is part of the framework of my thinking and most days I’m okay with my choices.  On the grey days, when loneliness comes to visit, I have a harder time assessing my worth.  

Essentially, you want me on your team if you need to move furniture or want to eat muffins.  I make great muffins.  And chairs, I can move chairs like no body’s business.  Just last week I moved stacks of chairs across a church sanctuary and narrowly averted disaster when I miscalculated the weight of the stack while sliding it onto the chair dolly.  Some fancy footwork, a nearly separated shoulder and 3 cuss words later I had those critters tamed and begging for mercy.  (What church in their right mind stacks chairs 10 high?  Everyone knows not to go higher than 7.)  You might also need me if you want to make a good cup of tea, but as I live in America there is less call for that skill set, the Boston Tea Party doing what it did to the New World’s tea drinkers.  No.  I don’t drink coffee thank you for asking.  Because I am legally not permitted to work, I have accepted my role as a mere mother and maker of muffins.  Until I’m given something else to do, you’ll find me at home making tea and dishing out carbs while school happens.

Ironically my friend called this week to pray through some of the issues that were transpiring at her school, where she worked.  Do you ever pray for teachers my friend?  Remember to pray for them, because if anyone is on the front lines of society, trying to build into the lives of youngsters with limited resources it is those in schools.  My girlfriend wanted to pray for a little who was having a rough time.  “Ellie” came from a house of working professionals.  Sadly, her parents could not make the marriage work and Ellie was suffering as her family crumbled around her.  Time with parents was at a premium and Ellie was feeling it, which was why she had narrowly averted a meltdown entering school earlier in the morning.  The transition from home to school is not easy when a child is feeling insecure.  My friend kept Ellie close and watched her throughout the morning.  

At lunchtime, my friend and her student Sammy sat to have lunch.  Ellie joined them.  Sammy had a muffin in his lunch and my girlfriend started a conversation with her outrageous enthusiasm about making muffins, the best kind of muffins and how she made them for her own children.  Something about this conversation strained Ellie’s heart.  “I don’t have a muffin.  No one makes me muffins.  I don’t get those things in my lunch.”  She opened her lunch box and peered in the offending container. Those three sentences fractured my friends’ heart. Sweet Ellie realized that she was missing out on something.  When a family is in crisis, things like muffins are not as important as arranging car rides, suitcases and bill payments.  But to Ellie, muffins were important and at that lunch table, the missing muffin was paramount in her mind.  “Well Ellie,” my friend replied, “you have done such a good job today, I will happily bake muffins and bring you one for your lunch tomorrow.”  “You will?”  Ellie beamed, peace filling her heart. 

So it was that during our prayer time that evening, we prayed for Ellie and all the brokenness that muffin represented.  We prayed for 7 year olds, their sensitivity, and the injustice that comes from being little and having no say. We prayed for families that were holding on and families that were holding out.  It was the kind of prayer that makes your heart ache.  The next day, when Ellie flew into the classroom and looked frantically for my friend, she was given a bag with 2 muffins: one for her lunch and one for the weekend if it could last that long.   To a 7 year old, 2 banana chocolate chip muffins are a mighty kind of joy. Muffins can be miraculous. 

So I wanted to pray for all you mere mothers and muffin makers out there.  Perhaps you are only a secretary, don’t have a college degree, are balding or are in some astonishing way, absolutely insufficient. 

Welcome to the club.

In God’s economy, a mere nothing can become something, muffins can move mountains and the faith behind your loving actions can change the world. 

Jump in, love deeply and do a million little things.

Praying for you this week,

xoxKaren

Playing it by Ear

Behold! A new skill.

It was one of those un-diagnose-ably slow mornings.  Nothing had gone wrong, but things weren’t going right either.  A brutal case of insomnia meant I got to sleep when I was supposed to be waking and the extra hour cat nap did nothing to counteract the 4 hours’ sleep deprivation.  When I finally awoke the colour grey had hijacked the landscape.  Gone were the sunny blues and yellows of the day before, as thick clouds moved in and were pouring large amounts of water on all creation, turning the sky, air and roads the color of slate. 

The rains had returned. 

Deciding I needed a vat of tea, I made my way to the kitchen and filled the kettle, listening to the gutters mimic faucets as the tap matched the sound I heard through the window.  “Wet,” I thought to myself as I watched the rain spill out of the gutters without any respect for the containment architecture.  I pulled cups from the cupboard and emptied the tea pot.  I was an hour behind schedule which meant the girls were still in bed, thankful for the unknown circumstance that had delayed my arrival in their respective rooms to coax them into consciousness.  Heating the teapot, I stared out the window and prayed something non-coherent about the weather, my mood and the day ahead.

Those who reside in the Pacific Northwest know intuitively that the return of the rain is permission from the universe to cancel all appointments, errands and activities, as well as any remotely constructive behavior that would stop one from curling up under blankets and reading books.  Home-schooled children seem to observe this unstated shift in the seasons, much like squirrels obey the call to store food for winter. It’s uncanny.  I had serious doubts anything productive was going to happen in my household and sent up another feeble prayer that my fatigue wouldn’t act as an excuse for the vice of sloth. 

Soon after mugs of tea were distributed, children appeared and school books were taken off shelves.  Though nothing was being done with great speed, some work was being accomplished so I felt optimistic.  Turning my attention to my own chores, I putzed the morning away in relative peace.  Hubby was home so he valiantly set to math homework which filled my heart with giddy joy.  Turning my attention to email, I realized one of my children had been in her room for a fair number of hours without checking in.  I assumed it was because she was in a study groove and quietly peeked into her room to see her on her bed in the middle of a convincing pile of books.  I shut the door quietly without interruption.  The day passed lazily and before long, everyone was tucked into a corner, listening to the rain and reading a novel of their choice.  All except my strangely absent child, who had hidden in her room the entire day. 

When the family found each other in the living room at dinner time, my hubby commented on the rainy day and asked for a report on the day’s activities. I knew what two of the girls had done as I was within arm’s reach all day, but what the third had accomplished was a mystery.  I listened for her response, trying to decide if it was history or science that had taken up most of her time. 

“And what did you do?” My hubby finally asked addressing his girl.

“I was amazing!” She stated confidently.

“You were?”

“Absolutely.”

“And what exactly did you accomplish?”

“Well, not exactly what you might expect,” she smiled and looked somewhat embarrassed.  It was an interesting combination of facial expressions because she was looking pretty pleased with herself.  I secretly hoped she might have been doing some drawing again, but I was definitely curious.  “What does that mean?” I asked.

She sighed.  “To be honest, I spent an inordinate amount of time learning how to wiggle my left ear.  And I’ve actually figured it out!  I can wiggle my left ear, but not my right.  I couldn’t get that one.”

I was about to ask if she was kidding, using slightly more adult language than was required but I was beaten out by her two sisters who thought  that spending 5 hours on learning how to wiggle an ear was a fantastic investment return.  Impressed, they asked for a demonstration which my daughter graciously provided, pleased to showcase her new skill.  I looked at my husband in utter amazement.  He returned my gaze with an expression which made clear I was the primary teacher of his progeny; therefore everything wrong with the ear wiggling child was my fault.  Shaking my head, I glared at him in return, but figured he was probably right so I’d better let it go.

I sat perplexed, as the girls discussed the difficulty of locating muscles and facial manipulation.  Their delight at the discovery of a new skill fueling their hope that the unthinkable was possible: if someone could learn to wiggle their left ear, certainly the sky was the limit.  I sat wondering if they were in fact my children and came face to face with the realization that there is more wrong with home-schooled children than people could possibly realize.

So I am sitting here, trying to figure out how to come up with some form of encouragement when the biggest accomplishment in my household this week is that one of my children has learned to wiggle one of their ears.  Sometimes I feel like the playing field is never slanted in my favour.  If you, like me, tend toward analysis and introspection might I take the opportunity to remind you that not all of life is measured by productivity, output and accomplishment?  (Not that ear wiggling isn’t accomplishment because clearly it is…) Life is also composed of memories, enjoyment and silliness. So I’m asking the Lord for renewed hearing this week: ears to hear the joy of our little people, their ridiculous natures and outlandish ideas.  Ears to hear the kind words our Creator speaks as the world changes and groans. That I might have ears to hear where love is leading and the courage to follow.  If when all that is done and I have some extra time, I might pray for the ability to wiggle my ear too, cause I’ve always wanted to do that.

Stay dry this week,

xoxKaren