Bed-time prayers

Now that I'm working on a book of contemplative, intentional family prayers,
I thought I'd repost these prayers that I pray over my children...

This is what I pray over and for my children each night.
The words differ slightly for each child,
as each is unique in their call before God.
But they are,
I believe,
the words I've been given,
to speak over their lives.
The hope of my heart.
The burden of my mothering soul.

"May the Lord bless you and keep you,
May He make His face to shine upon you,
And give you peace."

Dear Jesus:
Thank you for this child,
we are so grateful for them.
Protect them as they sleep tonight
and stand guard over their life all the days of their life,
even when they are old and I am long gone, guard them.
Inhabit their dreams,
the dreams they dream when they sleep and when they are awake.
Speak their name,
so that they might know your voice,
and recognize it always as the voice of Love.
Give them wisdom and help them be good listeners,
to You and to us.
Make us wise, too, and help us be good listeners to You and to them as we parent them.
May they know we love them so so much.
We are so grateful for this gift of their lives.
Amen.

Followed by many kisses and end of day hugs.

What are some of the things you pray over and for your children? Please comment

And now, he's one

Today our baby turns one.

That year,
it went too quickly.

My bodyguard,
he went with me to work
and all through the high desert of SoCal
for six months.
He'd sit with me while I did paperwork,
nurse in the car,
and sleep while we drove.

At six months he weighed too little,
and so the push for solid foods began.
Today he eats more than his big sister.
Still, he feels so little in my arms.

He crawls so fast,
and stands even faster.
Like a lemur.

He toddles out a few steps
and I know in the next month he will be walking.
All on his own.
Without our help.

Enormous brown eyes
and long lashes.
Wherever I take him
women almost always say:
oh, he's handsome.
Just like his daddy, I reply.

Uh-oh, he likes to say,
and click his tongue.
He screams for what he wants,
and grins a picket fence smile.

He likes to read books
and play with his big sister,
who still calls him baby,
like we all do.
Is that a baby, mommy? she asks,
and points at him.
Yes, it is.

And always,
as I try not to cry too hard at his growing up,
his walking
his weaning.
Always.
My baby.

I've said that Sophie-girl
seemed to spring out of my prayers of desperation.
Desperate for a baby.
I was 37.
Maybe I would never conceive.

I did.
And was so thankful.

A year and a half later,
I conceived again.
And so I say that this baby boy,
Mason,
Sprang out of our gratefulness.

With humbled grateful hearts,
we celebrate Mason,
who we named with prayers that
he would build what God plans,
for a Kingdom whose foundation are forever.

With gratefulness we see his life as bountiful,
overflowing with blessing
for us and for others.
And while we know not what that will look like,
it is with anticipation that we look to the future
at what God will do.

Right here
Right now,
though,
is my baby boy.
I fold him into my arms,
his face in my neck...
not caring what he will build,
only that I have him.
And my heart crumbles
with so much love.

McDonald"s

Today
I decided to bring my kids to McDonald"s.

Normally,
we don't eat there.
(True confession: all through my last pregnancy I CRAVED McDonald's. Today may have been the first time I've eaten there since baby boy was born).
But,
This McDonald's had a playland
And I knew Sophie-girl would enjoy it,
so we went.

I parked our car,
took out Sophie-girl
and said: don't move,
and then re-entered the car to get out baby boy.

Sophie didn't listen.
She ran up to the door of the restaurant
and almost straight into the arms of a man who was begging.
He hollered at her: your mom said to stay with her!
And she ran back to me.

She was a little scared,
and I said: he told you to stay with me.

Together, then, we walked to the door,
and the man,
who couldn't speak very well
and was very dirty
began to ask me for money.
I said: I'll buy you a burger.

So, I did.
Value Menu #2:
2 cheeseburgers, a fry and a drink.

Sophie was running around the restaurant,
I was carting around a heavy diaper bag
and an almost one year old,
wondering how I was going to juggle all that food and drinks.
Wondering what the man wanted to drink
and maybe I should just choose for him.
But I thought: I'll ask.
So I did.
And then I brought it to him.
And then he followed me back inside
and the people working there were looking at us
and the people eating there were looking at us
and the man asked: are you babysitting?
And I said: no, these are my babies.
And I was shaking...wondering what I'd do if the employees treated him badly.
But they didn't.
And he left.
And I sat down, still shaking.

Sigh.

Deep breath.

Stop shaking, I told myself.
Eat. Your nutrient-less lunch.

And then Sophie-girl got stuck in this enormous play structure.  Leaving Mason by himself in a high chair, I prayed: please protect him and I had to climb ALL the way to the top to get Sophie-girl, through tubes that were disgusting and hot and clammy. She was crying and sweaty when I reached her. Then I couldn't fit into the slide tube to slide down, an easier alternative to climbing back down backwards. Which I ended up having to do. Climb down a disgusting hot clammy small tube backwards. And I could hear Mason, calling for us. So I tried to go faster. And I did. No, if you are thinking that all this leads to me falling out of the tube backward, I didn't. Thank God.

What.A.Lunch.

And a man said to me: that was nice what you did. Buying lunch for that man.
And I thought: shouldn't we all be doing this?
Clambering through muggy playstructure tunnels to reach the ones who are loved and bring them home and feed them? Shouldn't we be climbing over one another to do that? Even if we don't fit in the tunnels. Even if it makes us shake. Even if we are afraid of what others will think.

Isn't this the Kingdom of God?

It exists here. Now. At our door. In our very lives.
We are Kingdom living.

And I wish I lived that way all the time.
Because mostly I don't.
Mostly I don't give.
To the man begging or the child whining or the husband asking or the friend needing.
And sometimes,
we need to have our boundaries.
But today,
at lunch at McDonald's,
I thought about living in a way
where I am climbing over myself to give.

Even if it makes me shake.

linking up with Imperfect Prose.

Changes

I'm trying to wrap my heart

around the changes.

Sophie-girl is sleeping in a 

big girl bed as of last Friday~

and I cried and cried as I put her to sleep.

She, of course, does not stay put,

but she also doesn't come out of her room,

and for now,

that's enough.

Baby boy is weaning himself

and I wonder if this is the last baby I will nurse.

I gaze into his big brown eyes

and gasp

at how he has stolen my

very marrow and sinew.

In only a matter of days

he will be one.

And sooner than that,

walking

and going

and moving

and I'm just not ready.

I know he can't be baby boy much longer.

Leaves are falling,

as does the light earlier in the evening

and I hope I am ready for gray days ahead.

Last week Sophie-girl joked with me~

I mean really came up with a meant-to-be-funny response

and I thought: 

this two year old truly has a sense of humor.

And so, as days change

and shorten

and darken

and I struggle to catch up

and adapt

and stretch my heart to reflect

the altering of time and matter~

I reach for that girl,

I snuggle that baby,

I hold the hand of the one I love~

and I settle in

and down

and deep.

Night time routines

Often,
when I put baby boy to sleep at night,
he sleeps for about 45 minutes,
and then wakes.
And cries.

I leave him for awhile,
letting him cry,
thinking he will go back to sleep.
But usually he doesn't.

He only does this at night,
this little: cry after you put me down routine.
Not during the day,
when he naps.

And I've begun to wonder,
if at night,
he just needs one more assurance that we are here.
That if he cries, we will come.
And that there are long hours ahead when we will sleep in separate rooms,
so will you hold me one more time?

And so,
I go to him,
hold him,
nurse him a little more,
and then put him back in his bed.

Sometimes he goes right back to sleep,
sometimes he cries again...
but not for long,
and then he rests.

Since becoming a parent,
I've often thought on how God parents us.
And I know our fathering and our mothering is nothing like His,
but I know there are times when I cry in the night,
because I need to know He is still around,
just in the next room,
and will come when I cry.

And what I find so magical is that He tells me:
I never left the room.

We've got tonight

I woke this morning
much too early,
to an eager little boy
wanting to eat.
And like I do most mornings,
I stumbled back to bed with him
to nurse.
As he finished,
I hoped he fall back to sleep,
but he didn't.

Through sleep slanted eyes,
I put him in his high chair,
and scattered cheerios on the tray.
When the Planter Guy said:
I had bad news this morning.

An email from Romania,
and a boy we'd worked with was dead.

(His name was George (george-ay).)

Swimming in the Danube with his brother and uncle,
He'd come to a point where he just couldn't tread water anymore,
and called for help.
His brother went to rescue him,
grabbed him,
but couldn't hold on.
And so the current of the Danube did.

They still haven't found George's body.

(His brother's name is Elvis.)

We didn't see George and Elvis when we visited in May.
Neither of them attend the drop-in center where we worked anymore.
We heard Elvis was stealing to make a living.
George was living with his girlfriend; married, the Roma call it.

In May, when I heard this news about how the brothers were living, my heart sank.
These boys had come to the center for years and years,
and my response,
in my sunken, broken heart,
my cry,
was: what the hell, God?

Knowing that the culture of a family and a people
can be stronger than any amount of years
spent at a drop-in center.
And that the culture and cycle and pull and fear of poverty
can be stronger than the years of meals and tutoring and showers and friendship.
The brokenness of poverty exchanged for the brokenness of stealing.
One brokenness for another brokenness.

There is much to say about brokenness at the end of this week,
when we've learned the fate of a man who killed a child.

(The child's name was Trayvon Martin).

I'm not attempting to make any political statements,
and I don't pretend to understand the justice system in the United States,
all I know is
a child is dead,
a mother lost her son.
to a system of fear and prejudice and violence called brokenness
that no court can ever replace.

And this week, too,
the sad passing of a young, talented addict.

(His name was Cory Monteith).

I saw him sing
'We've got tonight',
and my heart...
oh my heart
was swept into a deadly current of ache.

The brokenness of life exchanged for the brokenness of addiction.
All that torments and haunts and skirts around the edges of our aching bulging hearts that can hardly hold anymore that this world has to offer,
trying to fix fear and pain and poverty and prejudice and racial profiling and death with just more brokenness. .

And I've been singing that song all. day. long,
We've got Tonight,
While holding that ache of all that's broken,
and holding my Sophie-girl,
trying to reconcile that oh-so-sweet-tender-ache of her little life with this enormous ache of brokenness.

The girl who just looked at me,
pulled her pacifier out of her mouth,
covered her mouth to cough,
and then put the pacifier back in to resume playing.

She likes to lay in the grass and gaze at the sky.
seriously, she does.
It's almost unreal how she knows to put her arms behind her back and cross her legs and just look at the deep blue.
Once in awhile she points and says: sun!

She likes playing with her shadow.
Really, she does.
she talks to it, doesn't hear me come into the room she's so engrossed in conversation with it.
When I say I'm sorry to her, she puts her hand on my shoulder and says: it's okay, mama.

She's only two.
I'm telling you this girl is good...
she puts trash in the trash
and dirty clothes in the dirty clothes hamper
without being asked.

And.
She's broken.

I'm whirling in all of this today,
thinking about how we'd
rather exchange one brokenness for another brokenness
rather than just ache with what makes us broken...
because what if we're swept up in an ache that takes hold
and never lets go
and our bodies are never found?

Today i'm wondering
if the ache
is part of our glory.
And to sit in it
is a glory,
a privilege,
of living.
I think someone once wrote: The Weight of Glory.

(His name was C.S. Lewis).

I'm not going to quote him.
Instead, I'm going to quote (stay with me) Bob Seger:

I know it's late, I know you're weary 
I know your plans don't include me 
Still here we are, both of us lonely 
Longing for shelter from all that we see 
Why should we worry, no one will care, girl 
Look at the stars so far away 
We've got tonight, who needs tomorrow? 
We've got tonight babe 
Why don' you stay? 

Deep in my soul, I've been so lonely 
All of my hopes, fading away 
I've longed for love, like everyone else does 
I know I'll keep searching, even after today 
So there it is girl, I've said it all now 
And here we are babe, what do you say? 
We've got tonight, who needs tomorrow? 
We've got tonight babe 
Why don't you stay? 

I know it's late, I know you're weary 
I know your plans don't include me 
Still here we are, both of us lonely 
Both of us lonely 

We've got tonight, who needs tomorrow? 
Let's make it last, let's find a way 
Turn out the light, come take my hand now 
We've got tonight babe 
Why don't you stay? 
Why don't you stay?

I'm sure what I'm about to say,
could be dissected a thousand ways,
and all kinds of wrong could be found in it.

And.

What if,
we gave into the ache,
for one night?
What if He,
(His name is Jesus),
Said:

I know it's late, I know you're weary 
I know your plans don't include me 
Still here we are...We've got tonight,
Why don't you stay? 

And. What if He said:

Deep in (your) soul, (you've) been so lonely 
All of (your) hopes, fading away 
(You've) longed for love, like everyone else does...
We've got tonight,
Why don't you stay? 

If you're still reading,
maybe you're rolling your eyes...
All I'm saying is:
if for one night,
or day
or hour
or week
or month
or year
we were present to our ache,
to our brokenness,
we might know the weight of our glory,
of living,
of laying in the grass and gazing at the sky 
and we'd point and say:
Sun!
Because for the first time
we would truly see
and be seen
and the Light would expose 
everything
and we'd be fragile and need to be held carefully.
But instead of being swept into a current of only more brokenness,
we'd be held solid in peace.
Shalom.
Wholeness.

And poverty wouldn't end in theivery.
And prujuidice wouldn't end in murder.
And pain wouldn't end in addiction.
And death? Oh death, where is your sting?

It's coming
that night
that day
that life.

But this night,
this day,
I stay
in this
ache,
and hold my girl,
and all the good this Life has brought.
(His name is Jesus).
And grieve George,
who I knew,
and those others,
who I didn't know
and hope that as I'm present in the pain
I also become more present to the glory,
Laying back in the grass,
pointing to the Light.

This post is dedicated to Emily Wierenga, who was present in brokenness.

And, I lie: 
From The Weight of Glory:

“At present we are on the outside of the world, the wrong side of the door. We discern the freshness and purity of morning, but they do not make us fresh and pure. We cannot mingle with the splendours we see. But all the leaves of the New Testament are rustling with the rumour that it will not always be so. Some day, God willing, we shall get in.” 

Making a place

And so,
you may wonder,
why the move...
if the move is so hard?

You can read about the why HERE.

The reasons haven't changed,
along with the aching.

And as we stretch into our new place,
we also look back to the old ones...

A couple weeks before we moved to Portland,
we went back to Romania
for the first time in two and a half years.

My husband (the Planter Guy) is Romanian,
and it is where we met and fell in love and married.

In many ways the timing of our trip was wrong;
our kids are so small,
we were just about to move from one state to another,
everything was in upheaval.

Still, we went.
And one of the best reasons for going
was to be reminded
again
of why we want to serve Jesus among the most vulnerable.

We were intentional about finding a couple kids that I worked with when we lived in Romania;

twins, a boy and a girl. 

It took a bit of doing, but we tracked them down to the outskirts of town.

We followed a potted, dirt road,

lined with dusty shacks posing as homes.

Not sure which was theirs,

we stopped to ask a man,

without legs,

if he knew them.

He said to keep going.

But we didn't have to go far,

before three kids emerged,

and they called to their sister,

the twin sister,

my favorite.

She'd been across the street visiting an aunt.

Dressed in a flowing red Roma skirt,

she looked the young gypsy* woman,

readying for marriage.

Even at 12.

She kept hugging me and saying: I missed you! 

They were dirty

her hair was matted,

and the twins littlest brother and sister were so tiny; we are guessing malnutrition.

She asked the Planter Guy:

how did you find us?

He said: we went to every house in the city and asked: where is Mihaela?

We all laughed...knowing this silly.

They'd never seen our kids,

I was pregnant with Sophie-girl when we left.

Sophie was sleeping in the car,

and so they walked over to see her

(although I think they were more interested in the car than in her).

And the strong line of difference between them and her crept up my bumpy spine,

just as we'd driven up the potted road to their home.

My girl's life would never be like theirs.

At two, she was already as big as the four year old.

Blonde and light skinned, 

our girl would never bear the weight of the Roma.

We hugged one last time,

and bumped away.

And tears made their way

down my smooth white face,

away from my own blue eyes.

Later the Planter Guy and I talked about what these Roma kids mean to us.

How they are a sort of memorial of why we are choosing to be on staff with WMF again. 

They are like those stones the Israelites would use to build altars that would serve as reminders of what God had done for them. 

And hopefully these kids will be that reminder also for our children.

And for me.

But we also hope that we will be a memorial for them. 

That somehow they would think of us and know that God is good.

Not because we are rich monetarily (at least by their standards), but because just as we sought to find them and see them and love on them, so does our God.

He's knocking on doors.

He's traveling down dusty bumpy roads.

He's asking.

He's ignoring dirt and color and matted hair.

He's stretching out His arms

in those places that are hard to be;

Portland or the back roads of Romania or the potted road to your house,

He's looking for the ones He loves.

He wants to give us a home,

He's making a place for us.

Even here,

the Kingdom of God.

Linking up with Imperfect Prose today.

*I use the word 'gypsy' here in order to paint a picture of how most the world imagines the Roma. However, the word 'gypsy' is not a flattering when in most of the world. In order to be more honoring of this people group, I almost always refer to them as Roma.

Still my heart

When I was pregnant with Sophie,
I wrote a post
that lingers with me still.

I offer it again:

http://aprilfolkertsma.blogspot.com/2010/09/groan-and-illumination.html

A more just world

I'm a mere two weeks from our baby boy's due date.
I get lots of stares.
Lots of: is it soon?
Kids I work with want to know if
1. I'm having twins and
2. When I'm going on maternity leave because I'm so big.

These comments just make me laugh.
While being this big is not comfortable
I'm relishing the movement of the baby
How close he is to me, closer than he will ever be,
for this little while longer.

And the sweet things those same kids will say to me:
They'll whisper their name to my belly.
They tell me they want to see him.
They give me sweet tummy rubs.

While working late in pregnancy is not easy,
Those moments of tenderness with kids
from whom it may not be expected
reminds me how it important it is
to protect and work for justice
for those who have seen little in their young lives.

And maybe a tiny seed of that passion
will plant itself in our baby boy's unborn life
while he is still this close to my heart.
And he, too, will be one who longs to see a more just world.

Gratefulness

It's been two months since I posted.
Time just slipped away.
And now,
soon,
our baby boy will be born.

Just the other day I was considering
the birth of this baby,
with the birth of our first baby.

And while both spring from our deep desire
to have a family,
I feel that the first was planted in a soil of desperation:
Will I ever conceive?
Please God, I'd pray, please...

And this little one,
after having birthed his sister,
after sitting in the joy of being a mama,
and a family,
was planted in a soil of gratitude.

And along with Mary, I cry:
My soul magnifies the Lord,
for He has done great things for me.

Naming a son

We were only 13 weeks along in this pregnancy
when we learned we were having a son.
And while it took hardly any time to name our daughter,
naming a boy has been a different journey.

Our tastes in names are different.
I like things a little off the beaten path,
he likes more traditional ones: John, Joe, Bobby.
And it's understandable.
The Planter Guy grew up with an unusual name.

We haven't come to any conclusions about naming our boy,
Although we keep coming back to one
and here is the idea behind it:

At our wedding we had a song called: You're House
(lyrics to follow)
and since that time we've been impressed over and over
with the idea that what we are planting
what we are building and becoming
is not our creation,
it is His.
And so,
these trees we plant,
these children we birth,
this home that is forming,
is His build.

And the name we are close to choosing
reflects this thought:

Build us a house, Oh God,
Its rooms are filled with praise.
Build us a family Father,
sons and daughters of light.
Build us a house, Oh God,
its walls will echo your peace.
Build us a family Father,
children to run and play.

We sing as people got set free,
You dream the very best, You dream!
And then we know, we know
A home is what we find in You
You love Your children, yes You do,
We are Your house, Your home.

Build us a house, Oh God,
keep us safe at night,
Build us a family, Father,
our daughters Your Word will keep...
(by Aaron Strumple)

The words: its walls will echo your peace
are almost prophetic,
in terms of name choosing.
Sophie's middle name, Irina,
means: peace.
And the name we may choose for this little guy
means: peaceful ruler.

This wasn't purposeful,
but how amazing that they both echo the same idea...
and the prayer we prayed and sang
on our wedding day.

I realize that I've written an entire post
about a name we may not choose.
Obviously, we are close to using it.

Still, the thoughts here,
the ideas stirring,
the desires burning,
are real.

Build us a house, oh God.

(print by Liyin on society6)