“If dreams are like movies,
then memories are films about ghosts.”
                                        -- Counting Crows

Like Adam Duritz, sometimes I think with faint sadness of ghosts from the past. Those people  whose names conjure warmth or laughter or stories, those people I wish I still knew so they could know my husband, my children, my older self. They are people whose season in my life has passed, and mostly I am accepting of this coming and going.

Yesterday one of my most prominent ghosts said good-bye to his father. Not unexpectedly, but far too soon. And for him, and his wonderful family, I find myself heartbroken.

Though I am cognizant and accepting of seasons and their passing, there are people I used to think I’d always know. People for whom I had assumed I’d always be able to be there. I am struck by this deep sadness and loss, on behalf of others for whom I can do nothing. There is an urge to help, but to them, I am also just a ghost.

My time has passed. I can pray and will continue to. I can offer deepest condolences.  And I can use this untimely passing to inform my outlook today.

Today my little girls and I ditched the to-do list and went adventuring, through thousands of buttercups, strawberry fields, an antique café and ice cream parlor. My oldest played hooky and we wandered, unhurried, through a bright, gorgeous day.  I continue to grieve, vicariously and to no avail. But I am covered by a sense of peace and overwhelming gratitude for this family, for our life together, and for the gift of today.

There is a robin’s nest in one of our trees out back. We’ve been watching the mama gather sticks and hunt for worms, hearing the commotion in the branches. Over the weekend Daniel found a fallen baby, dead in the grass, and silently moved it to a burial place. Today I lifted the girls up to see the remaining babies, which at this point, look more like teenager robins (fledglings, I think they’re called). We could see them waiting to be fed and watched them fluttering their wings, anxious to fly.

Daniel is traveling all week, and I took the girls to Princess and Superhero night at a local fast food chain for dinner tonight. When we got home, just before dusk, we saw one of the still fuzzy-headed robins in the yard hopping around, trying to fly. He could get a couple feet off the ground, and somehow managed to clear our fence, but could not sustain flight.  His mother chirped incessantly from the fence post at him. We followed him and I tried to sneak up on him, tried to gently cradle him. I thought if only I were quiet enough, gentle enough, quick enough, I would be able to return him home.

My girls, still in their princess dresses, followed me around, nervous and excited. Mirabella thought maybe she wouldn’t seem as scary to the baby bird, since she was smaller.  We followed him through four neighbors’ yards, across the street and back several times. We stood back as his mother plucked worms from the ground and watched her feed them to him as he hopped; we watched her try to guide him home. Oblivious, he hopped away.  Mirabella prayed loudly, “Dear God, please help the robin not to be scared, and please help the Mama Robin not to be scared, and please help Mommy help him get back to his home.” As darkness closed in, her prayers became breathless, desperate.

We followed the baby across the street and up to the fence bordering the adjacent neighborhood.  He hopped into some brush and I lost sight of him.  It was nearly dark and Emerie started to cry. Mirabella started to lose hope: “Mommy! You have to save him!”

“I might not be able to, love,” I explained. “Sometimes, in nature, when creatures are small or weak, they cannot survive. I can’t help him if he doesn’t want me to.”

“But he thinks you’re a predator!” she cried, “What if there are real predators! His mama can’t pick him up; she won’t be able to get him back into the nest!” 

I bit my lip as I watched my precious girl crying in her safety-pinned Cinderella dress and cowgirl boots, heart so big and full and wide open it might burst.

“I should have found you a butterfly net! I should have gotten it right away!” She cried. I reminded her that none of this was her fault, even as I silently lamented my inability to squelch my skittishness and snatch that frightened bird when I had several chances.

I managed to get her inside before the real sobbing started. Her sadness was so big, so raw, so real. It hurt me that I couldn’t shield her from it; that I not only couldn’t prevent it, but that I may actually have made it worse.

Though she had already run upstairs to get ready for bed, she skittered down again. “I need to draw a picture right now, so I will never forget,” she wailed. I nodded.

I went about getting Emerie ready for bed, praying about how to handle Mirabella’s sense of loss, her tender heart.

She met me on the landing, eyes swollen from crying, and thrust her picture into my hands and herself into my arms. I cried at her rendering of me, setting the baby free. I marveled over her attention to detail, even in her sadness. I mourned her heartache that I could not fix.

We sat on the steps rocking; I sang her a song I somehow remembered from elementary school about a dying sparrow. I touched her chest and looked into her eyes and told her I was proud of her.

“You have a big, giant, soft and loving heart. You love all people and creatures and you never want to see them hurt or sad or scared. And it’s my favorite thing about you. Sometimes, it means that a lot of things can hurt your big, soft heart. But it makes you so special and wonderful,” I told her.

She fretted over the baby bird; she tried unsuccessfully to think of anything else. She worried its mother wouldn’t be able to help it; that it would be scared and sad and, ultimately, that it would die. She mourned it, and that she couldn’t protect it. I felt the same way.

We read Luke 12:6,“Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God.” She prayed for the robin’s safety and that she might dream of finding it and helping it get home.

I asked Mirabella if there was anything about this night that she could find to be thankful for. She said she was thankful for being able to see a baby robin so close up. She was thankful the robin family still has two babies to love.

I am thankful to be able to hold and comfort my own babies, safe in our nest for now, even as hurts too big for me to prevent or soothe loom.

“Often what seem to be our deepest desires are really just our loudest desires.” – Tim Keller

Several times lately I’ve heard mothers lament their own selfishness for craving some time alone. “Why does this feel so much more important to me than other things?” one might say, or, “Why do I rush through mothering tasks without joy, itching to find any time alone?”

 I have a theory.

This one is for the ladies and those who love them-- the mothers, in particular.  Sorry guys, it’s nothing personal. But in my experience, generally speaking, I find that men are often better at taking care of themselves than we are. They know what they need and know that stating their needs does not make them selfish or needy. We don’t always know that. So, this one is for us.

There is conventional wisdom that says when we are craving something, it may be because it contains something our bodies need.  This craving for time alone, it’s like that. So while I agree that mothers are regular people like anyone else, capable of selfishness, I don’t think that’s actually the root cause.  Motherhood is, by its very nature, a selfless and sacrificial job. I think my friends in the trenches are suffering because that time they crave is actually necessary, and I think beating themselves up about it is only making it worse.

If I crave a piece of chocolate, eating an apple isn’t going to get the job done.  Neither is telling myself I shouldn’t be craving the chocolate, or that chocolate is totally off limits.  You know what will help? Having the occasional piece of chocolate.

I don’t profess to know a lot about raising children, and I don’t think there’s one right way to do it. But I’d argue that taking care of their mother is always a pretty good place to start. I’ve had women argue with me about why they don’t need “me time” or why it isn’t possible in their situation.  To that I say—with all love and admiration—bull.

Before we were mothers, we were people with interests, hobbies maybe, and friends. Our need for those things hasn’t changed. Expecting them to cease to be or expecting our husbands and/or children to fill them just because our station in life has changed isn’t fair.

I’ve had this conversation enough times to know the standard rebuttals. So, again, with all the love and grace and gentleness I can muster, here you go:

“I’d feel too guilty leaving my children.” -- Power through it. Living in fear of guilt is not living, and the fact that its hard doesn’t make it wrong. Give your children the opportunity to be in someone else’s care (your husband’s, your relative’s, a trusted friend or babysitter). Lovingly demonstrate to your children that Mommy always comes back. Give yourself the chance to relinquish control of their every need. Remind yourself what it’s like to be an individual. I promise it won’t hurt as much as you think it will, and that the pay-off will be worth it.

I know it’s not easy. I’ve been there.  When I worked full time, I hated the thought of leaving my children for one more minute, especially for something that wasn’t “necessary.” I still hate giving up family time when my husband travels so frequently.  But knowing that I will come back refreshed and ready to face the everyday challenges that await me makes it worth it.

“I don’t have anyone to watch my children.” -- If you’re married, your husband can and should stay with the kids. He can do it; let him stretch those muscles. Let him and the kids find their own groove.   If you’re not married (or your husband works crazy hours or travels frequently like mine does), it does require additional creativity, sure.  But I’d argue that if that’s your situation, you need this time even more. Ask a relative, if you’re lucky enough to have some living close by.  Trade childcare favors with a friend; volunteer to trade hours at a drop-in childcare place; find a Mother’s Day Out program at a local church or a local MOPS group;  hire a babysitter if all else fails. It’s tough but it is not unsolvable.

“I don’t even know what I would do with myself.” -- This reads to me like an argument for spending some time away to reintroduce yourself to the woman you still are under all that responsibility. If you’re an extrovert: go out for dinner with girlfriends or take a class. If you recharge by spending time alone (like I do), take a book or laptop (or tablet or whatever) to a bookstore or coffee shop, go to the movies by yourself, workout, go shopping by yourself, get a pedicure—it really doesn’t matter. The importance is not WHAT you do, but that you do it. 

“I can’t afford it.” -- My response to this one is the same as when someone says she can’t afford to have regular date nights with her husband: I say you can’t afford not to.  I am no stranger to a tight budget.  I get it.  It just means you have to be more creative. Take a walk, buy a $2 cup of coffee at a coffee shop and mooch the wifi, go to the library, window shop, go on a hike, take a drive; again, it really doesn’t matter what you do with the time.

I could do this all day.  (Seriously, if you don’t see your excuse listed here, email me and I’ll help you overcome it).

Admittedly, there are times you can’t spend time away. Even (or maybe especially) then, it’s important to build it into your day. It might mean getting up earlier than everyone else for a guaranteed shower or half hour to drink your coffee and read. It might mean making your little ones take quiet time in the afternoon, even though you know they’re not napping. It might mean letting them skip naps so they’ll be ready for bed earlier and you’ll have evening time to yourself.  It might mean a candle lit bubble bath.  For me it’s even meant a beer and a phone call to my mom on the back deck while my husband put the kids to bed (and forbade them from coming outside). It can be done.

I would caution you not to try to make things count as me time that really aren’t. If you feel like grocery shopping alone or working or leading a Bible Study is really blissful and counts, then by all means, do it.  But if you do it, then find yourself still craving time alone, it probably doesn’t count.

And here’s why I so firmly believe this is necessary: Motherhood is not for the faint of heart. As hard as I found it to work full time and be away from my kids for those four years I did it, I sometimes feel being home is even harder for me. I have taken my phone into the bathroom and locked the door; I have snapped at my children when all they wanted was for me to play with them. I GET IT. Motherhood is a process of constantly pouring out: serving, showing patience and grace, teaching, and loving your children.  And it’s wonderful.  But it’s nearly impossible to pour out all day if there’s nothing going in. Taking care of yourself and being a good mother are not contradictory. Taking care of yourself—mind, body, soul-- is essential to being a healthy, strong, patient mother for your children. So if you can’t be convinced to do it for yourself, then do it for them.

If you’re like my friends who berate themselves for craving this time, you might find that this desire isn’t actually your deepest one. It’s just the one shouting loudest, the one that’s most desperate to be heard—and answered.  Make a plan to answer it, and I think you might find it will stop yelling so loudly.

I remember riding shotgun in a good ol’ boy’s Jeep in college. I don’t remember where we were going.  I don’t remember who was with us. I don’t even remember his name. But I remember a comment he made that his daddy had told him about never driving faster than the distance his headlights could shine.

Lately I am reminded of this idea of outrunning the light—of devoting mental space and worry to a time that’s not yet here.  When we are waiting for something: a change to come, an answer to be given, a circumstance to let up, we can feel paralyzed. I’ve often likened waiting like this to living in darkness; I don’t know what’s coming next.

I know people who get excited about the unknown. They love feeling out of control; like anything can happen. The older I get, that’s just not me. It’s not that I’m under the delusion that I’m in control of everything—I know I control very little. But I like to know what’s coming.

I’ve been ruminating on a line from the Avett Brothers song “Live and Die” that says, “All it will take is just one moment and you can say good-bye to how we had it planned.” Except it’s taking me far longer than one moment.

So many things in our life, from where we live to what we do, are far outside what I had previously been able to imagine. For them I am unspeakably grateful. Still, there are other things I thought would be different at this point, and they just aren’t.  My need to acknowledge these— and mourn them— has surprised me more than their lack of existence in the first place.

I’m not dismissing the role or importance of responsibility and planning for the future to the best that you can. I am a born planner; I thrive on it. Always there is some sort of balance between faith and diligence. But there are things that cannot be predicted and days that cannot be planned.  I wonder where we will end up, and when that will change. I wonder what the makeup of our family will look like in the end. I wonder who will join us that isn’t here yet. I wonder when and how. Sometimes this wonder is healthy and hopeful, and sometimes it is problematic in its ability to distract.

When I focus on what may or may not come, whether it be in wonder or worry, I take my focus off the blessings I’ve already been given and the responsibilities I am currently charged with. I fully believe it’s essential to dream and to wonder.  But my priority must be to make beautiful things—whether they be investing in our community, building friendships, looking for opportunities to show love and share kindness, or making memories with my husband and our quickly growing children—right now, with what I already have in front of me.

I will not often know what’s coming, and even when I do, it’s bound to change. But I can do my best with what I’ve got where I am. And I can commit to striving to live in the light of this moment and learn through and from it—even when it brings with it uncertainty about what may follow. 

Today I stumbled upon a beautiful reminder, not surprisingly, while in search of something else:
“You are all children of the light and children of the day. We do not belong to the night or to the darkness.” (1 Thessalonians 5:5).

Let’s live in the light of today.