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The Sunflower Story

~ savouringmydays ~ Leave a comment

Last year we decided to have a family sunflower growing competition. We ceremoniously gathered the family and planted 16 seeds. They grew well initially in compost, but when we transplanted them to the bottom of the garden to grow by the wall, they died, one by one. The one that made it was short, wilted, and eaten by bugs. It was a sad affair. (Although Maisie still claimed the winning plant. Winners are winners, apparently, no matter how poor the produce).

This year I tried again. I carefully planted up 8 little pots, two seeds in each. Only for Storm Dennis to come raging through the country, flooding the nearby river and also drowning my amateur attempts at planting. The soil spilled them everywhere, and I gave up on my sunflower growing ambitions for good.

At the beginning of lockdown Liam planted some sweet pea seeds in the planter, and as they slowly started growing, we noticed a foreign plant growing and overtaking them. It turned out to be a rogue sunflower seed that had taken root from my rain drowned efforts.

And it grew and grew and it blooms, 6 ft 5 inches tall, turning its face to the sun as it stands guard over garden.

This week has been one of the hardest, heart hurting weeks I’ve known in our home for a long time. We knew the return to school would be hard. We did what we could, emailed schools, contacted professionals, put plans in place. But it’s been gut wrenchingly painful to watch three different children facing huge fears. The ones we expected, and then challenges we hadn’t anticipated surprising us and knocking us sideways.

Thursday morning was hard. It must have been bad, because I didn’t even get a photo. Me. Who documents every moment and etches it in my memory (well, the iCloud is a start). And that tricky start was with just one child returning to school.

Yesterday I sat and cried alongside one of the children. Cried at their tears, their hurt, their fears, their ‘why’ questions. Cried because I can’t fix it for them. Cried because I love them so much and I wish I could make it better. I promised that I would fight for them and never stop fighting. I am on their side.

But I couldn’t tell them why they had to face their struggles. I could only promise them that I believe in a God who cries with us too. Because He didn’t want a broken world. But He is the One who loved us so much He made a rescue plan and sent His own Son into the middle of our mess and brokenness. And then He left His helper to walk the road with us. And I promised that I believe this because I’ve known His help in my helplessness. I’ve seen His light in my darkest places. And I promised that you, my child, will never ever be alone.

And then because I felt helpless and especially unwise and wished I didn’t have to be a grown up today, I talked about the sunflower. Because quite honestly I’ve been obsessed by it for the last month. As I’ve sat at the dinner table and watched it grow, it’s exceeded anything I imagined for it.

Because that surprise storm-drowned seed grew and bloomed. And bloomed. And bloomed. It grew the first head, then two more budded. Then more. Long after the first bloom had withered, and despite the storms of last week, it stands strong and tall, and the flowers bud and bloom, day after day. Today I counted it’s tenth bud appearing. All on the same plant. All from the one lost seed.

And I told my child the reason I’m obsessed with the sunflower is because of its journey from tragedy to triumph. It gives me hope that even in our weakest, most hopeless, storm ruined moments, we can be planted. Through no efforts of mine, the seed took root. And through no effort of mine, God can work surprising miracles even in the hardest parts of my life. And that little seed can grow and grow and become more abundant than I could ever have imagined. Because even the tiniest of seeds, planted in the aftermath of the pain, can bloom beyond our expectations.

And I told my child all the ways I see them blooming already.

The metaphor is almost certainly weak, but I feel like there’s a reminder in my garden that God can do surprising things with even the hardest parts of life. This week has been really tough. And I haven’t held it together all the time. I haven’t felt full of faith all the time. I’ve got really angry at a phone call. Been patient for long conversations but been irritated by mud on the stairs. Felt guilty that I’ve let my children down. Been so grateful on one hand for big answers to prayer, whilst on the other being devastated at the brokenness in the world.

And I think the sunflowers encourage me because they played no part in the planting and growing process. They were passive and helpless and yet they have brought joy to the garden for weeks. Sometimes the events we think will be terminal to our hope, are actually moving us to the spot where we are in the best place to grow. Surrendering to the loss can give space for indescribable growth. Maybe He’s moving us to the place where we can look at His face and shine.

To bloom, to grow, to bring joy to the world around us, sometimes comes from riding the waves of time, mistakes, pain, and disappointment. Allowing ourselves to feel it, be broken, and wait. Maybe the way to bloom is to rest amongst the ashes of broken dreams, allowing ourselves to be fed and watered and nurtured, and facing the Son.

I can’t change the world for my children. But I hope I can always be the one who will sit with them in the hurt, arms around them, tears mixed with theirs, not trying to give answers but being there. Listening. Praying. Promising hope. And whittering about the sunflowers.

“The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad; the desert shall rejoice and blossom like the crocus; it shall blossom abundantly and rejoice with joy and singing. The glory of Lebanon shall be given to it, the majesty of Carmel and Sharon. They shall see the glory of the LORD, the majesty of our God. Strengthen the weak hands, and make firm the feeble knees. Say to those who have an anxious heart, “Be strong; fear not! Behold, your God will come with vengeance, with the recompense of God. He will come and save you.” – Isaiah 35:1-4

On 15 years of us

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On Thursday we celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary, and I’ve been sitting (metaphorically not literally) with what I wanted to write and share. We were incredibly lucky to have two days away WITHOUT CHILDREN, and I have lots of pretty photos and stories. But I didn’t want to just do the ‘romantic couples mini-break’ post without sharing some of what I’ve been reflecting on.

(I write this knowing everyone’s story is different. If marriage is a painful topic for you, I see you, and I love you, and I’m sorry. I can only write from my own experience, and I want to be honest and real. I hope you know how precious you are, whatever your story, wherever your journey is taking you right now. You are wanted. You are needed. You are loved.)

Liam and I have never been together continuously for more than six weeks. On that occasion of extended paternity leave, we had a three week old baby, moved house, and went to adoption panel for two other children. So we’ve never spent a long stretch of time together without work or big life events filling the weeks.

Welcome 2020, our 15th year of marriage, and Covid-19. Liam was put on furlough early on in March, and therefore all 8 of us have been together for 5 months. This has of course, brought ups and downs. We have had lots of fun, enjoyed family time, worked together on projects, and been grateful. When I was blogging our lockdown days, a friend told me that Liam came off well in my writing, and I’m glad. Because there’s been so much good in these months together.

But in true transparency, we’ve also annoyed each other beyond belief. Disagreed over how we parent. Wished the other one would do the washing up. I’ve sulked at him being in ‘my space’. I’ve been impatient and ungrateful and unkind. The flaws have been there, up close and personal, with no work to escape to, and for a long time with no other friends or family to break up the days.

We don’t have a perfect marriage. I know we are very lucky – we do like each other. We do laugh. We agree on a lot of important things. We have each other. There are so many things about my husband I am thankful for. And I know that’s not everyone’s experience.

But it’s not always a smooth ride either. We fought hard for this relationship before we even said ‘I do’. When others were questioning our decision, we stepped back and considered and decided we were serious. And that made our vows significant. And gave us a stubborn determination to make this work. And we made promises before God, trusting He’d walk with us.

And He has. He has given blessings above and beyond what I could have imagined. But there are days and weeks and months sometimes, when it can look like ‘until death us do part’ is an impossible dream. When the irritations are more than irritating. When we hurt each other. When love is conditional.

And there have been points over 2020 when absence might have made the heart grow fonder. And days where I knew I was being grumpy and selfish and complaining and I prayed, ‘God, let me see this man like you see him. Open my eyes to who you’ve created him to be, and the gifts he brings to the world. Help me to love him more.’

And then something happened.

A few weeks ago we went for a walk with my family and faced one of the scariest moments I’ve known in a long time. As we walked over a bridge, five adults and six children meandering over the river, Liam suddenly shot past me, and threw his phone at me with a look of determination on his face that I didn’t recognise. As I said ‘what’s wrong?!’, he shouted ‘he’s drowning’, ran down the river bank, and straight into the river. He swam across to a little boy, and as he got there, a second head bobbed up from under the water. He swam confidently back, fighting the undercurrent, whilst cradling the five year old boy, who we wrapped up, warmed up, pinked up, and returned to his terrified mother.

We walked back, very shaken but grateful that we’d walked that route. Grateful the little boy was ok. Grateful we’d been in the right place at the right time.

And as the week went by it made me think. There were five adults walking over that bridge, and only Liam spotted that the little boy down in the river was in trouble. The rest of us were distracted by other things going on. Liam walks and talks or drives and talks, but he notices things I’m oblivious to – birds hidden down on the river bank, cars about to do a risky manoeuvre, the child struggling in the river. He also happens to be the strongest swimmer out of anyone there. He swam competitively as a youth, and he is still happiest in the sea or a lake, whereas when I was in school I was told by the lifeguard to get out of the wave machine in the swimming pool because I looked like I was going to drown. He faces fears head on, and would do anything to help someone else. He had no second thought about going in that river, when I was already worrying he might drown too. And where some people would proclaim their heroic story loudly from the rooftops, he wanted it played down. He’d say ‘anyone would have done the same’, but I’m not sure I could have done.

And it occurred to me that maybe God was using that incident to answer my prayer and opening my eyes. To the fact that often I grumble or complain because Liam isn’t who I think he should be. He isn’t like me, or he isn’t doing the things I think he should, reacting in the way I think is best. But the truth is, that’s a really good thing. I’m overwhelmingly grateful that we are not the same. That Liam is gifted in ways I absolutely am not. That he is who God made him, that he brings to me and to our marriage and to our family and to the world things that God knows we need.

When I look back to 15 years ago, I know we were naive. We made promises and meant them, but didn’t really know what that might look like in real life.

We went to a wedding where the vicar said to the couple, ‘I didn’t ask you will you promise to be in love, but do you promise to love’. Because being in love is how you feel, promising to love is a choice.

So no, I could never have known 15 years ago what we might face. And I didn’t know the work it would take and that sometimes choosing love would be really hard. But I also didn’t know the ways the tattooed motorbike riding rugby playing swimmer from South Wales would encourage my faith, the way he’d say a resounding yes to loving children who don’t share his DNA, the way he’d always choose the quiet overgrown path to wander and find hidden beauty, the way he’d inspire me to be brave, the way he’d cheer me on, the way he’d put family first, the way he’d help me to see my own gifts and to not need to seek other people’s approval.

And I’m grateful that even though his jokes have not improved (or even changed) over the years, I now laugh out of tiredness and familiarity (and sometimes hysteria). And often I quote the woman in the ring shop when we were looking at wedding rings, who adopted the sales technique of telling him ‘oh, you’re so witty!’. I might add a little note of sarcasm, just to keep him humble.

I’m grateful we made those vows. I’m grateful for the family and friends who have come alongside us and spur us on. I’m grateful for a husband who sees me at my most unlovely and chooses to love me. I’m grateful for a God who showed us what sacrificial love really looks like. I’m grateful for 15 years, journeying roads we could never have imagined, through joy and pain we never dreamt of, and being gifted new mercies we don’t deserve. And I’m grateful that today we get to choose love again.

‘By this we know love, that he laid down his life for us, and we ought to lay down our lives for the brothers. But if anyone has the world’s goods and sees his brother in need, yet closes his heart against him, how does God’s love abide in him?Little children, let us not love in word or talk but in deed and in truth’. – 1 John 3:16-18

‘Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends’. – John 15:13

10 ‘In this is love, not that we have loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins. Beloved, if God so loved us, we also ought to love one another.’ – 1 John 4:10-11

A Tale of Six Babies. (On Breastfeeding Awareness Week).

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It’s Breastfeeding Awareness Week.

I’ve seen lots of posts this week, proud ones, sad ones, incredible ones, wistful ones.

And it made me think about my breastfeeding journey. I grew up watching my mum breastfeed, and then I was a midwife, helping other women breastfeed. It wasn’t a question of if I would do it, it was what was expected of me, wasn’t it?

Then I had my babies.

The first one I breastfed for 5 months and she and I both cried the majority of the time. They said to feed on demand. And she demanded. All of the time. And I felt a pressure of being the one who was supposed to calm her, but I wasn’t calm and she wasn’t calm and it was lonely and not the beautiful bonding experience I’d imagined. Because I was struggling to bond with her at all.

Number two I wanted to breastfeed, wanted it to be a different experience, a happy experience, and I tried to breastfeed. And the milk all came pouring back out of her nose, leading me to find her undiagnosed cleft palate. We were readmitted to hospital. She was losing weight. She had an NG tube passed until we were given bottles that we could use to physically squeeze the milk into her mouth. I cried because the choice of breastfeeding was taken away. I cried because my baby had a big hole in her mouth and went blue when she lay on her back, and the cleft would bring surgery and hearing problems and speech problems. I had a 13 month old running around my feet, and a baby who couldn’t suck her bottle, so we would painstakingly squeeze it into her mouth for an hour at a time, but she had severe reflux so she then vomited it all back up. I expressed exclusively for six weeks, until I sat at a friends house trying to chat casually whilst being attached to a pump, and I felt like it might just tip me over the edge. So I introduced formula for all of our sakes. And she was prescribed medication for the reflux and extra calories for the weight and at six months when she was wheeled into the operating theatre I couldn’t care less how she fed, just grateful that we live in a place where we have access to life changing medicine.

By the third baby, I’d decided that for my mental health, and our whole family’s wellbeing, I would breastfeed until it became obvious it wasn’t helpful to one of us any more. I enjoyed it. He fed well for 3 months. And then he was still taking 45 minutes to feed, and I had a 2 and 3 year old and was trying to run out of the house to pick one up from nursery but he was only halfway through a feed. So I introduced formula. And we were both ok with that.

And then there are the younger three babies.

One I don’t know if she was breastfed. But I know she wasn’t fed fresh milk.

One was breastfed. But he was not fed enough.

One was fed his first feed by a midwife because his birth mother had already left.

These last two weeks I’ve been shedding tears over my babies growing up. The cotbed going, more milestones passing. There are days I feel sad that my breastfeeding journey wasn’t what I’d hoped. That my emotional state was so low on baby number one. That my baby number two had a broken mouth that 13 years later is still causing her trouble. That I didn’t feed any of them until they were naturally ready to stop. That I wasn’t there for my youngest three babies first feeds. Wasn’t there when they were not being fed or cleaned or cuddled and rocked.

We are in a culture that encourages breast feeding, and that is good and to be celebrated. Breast milk is designed perfectly for a baby. It isn’t always easy, and it’s right to celebrate the hard work and journey mums and babies go on together, and to raise awareness of the need for support. And it’s important that it is promoted, it comes with huge health benefits and financial benefits, and can bring an attachment which will help a child develop physically and emotionally way beyond its breastfeeding years.

But I think it can become a pressure too. In the world of comparisons and competitions and self inflicted desire for perfection, it can become the perceived be-all and end-all and and there are mums and babies who suffer because of an unwritten need to succeed.

And there are women who feel less because they didn’t breastfeed.

Or even have a baby to feed.

And there are babies who can’t feed.

And babies who don’t get fed.

So I guess this is where I came to this week.

-I can celebrate other people’s journeys whilst acknowledging the parts in mine and my children’s that make me sad.

-Liam says I can’t keep just having babies to try and achieve the (unlikely) ideal breastfeeding experience. (Party pooper). So instead of regretting what wasn’t, I can keep looking for the gifts to be found in today.

-I can remember that every journey is unique in this parenting lark. Every child is different, every parent is different. Achievements will look different for all of us, and milestones are different for every child, individual to their story.

-When I listen to amazing mums worrying, feeling guilty, questioning, I want to remind them: believe me when I say that the fact you are doing all this is proof in itself that you are doing a good job. You have no idea of the impact you are having just by picking up your crying baby.

And most of all:

I never ever want another mum to feel alone.

Whether you birthed your baby or adopted.

Whether your baby is in your arms or carried in your heart.

Whether you breastfed or formula fed.

Whether you are loving every minute or finding that every day is a struggle.

Whether your family is picture perfect or so far away from what you dreamt.

Babies are an amazing gift, but the ride can be rocky. I want you to know you are not alone. Talk to someone. Message someone. I’m here for the laughs and the tears, with tea and cake and tissues. I’m here for community, not comparison.

‘He will tend his flock like a shepherd; he will gather the lambs in his arms; he will carry them in his bosom, and gently lead those that are with young’. – Isaiah 40:11

School’s Out!

~ savouringmydays ~ Leave a comment

Yes, it’s the end of the school year, and I’ve slidden into the ritual sense of nostalgia and questioning where has the time gone, and how are they growing so fast, and didn’t they look young.

And yet it’s feeling rather anticlimactic, in all honesty. Normally at this time of year, I’m bracing myself for the holidays, both looking forward to finally being able to stop running around like a cat chasing its tail, and at the same time tensing for the impending adjustment to all being home together.

Not so this year. Yes, we’ve aimed for some structure, but it’s been far more relaxed than normal school days, simply by not having to get everyone out of the door for a set time. We’ve not committed to many extra-curricular zooms, (not a bad thing, considering our frequent inability to be on time, if at all, for the ones we were committed to!) so there won’t be a great deal stopping there either.

On the plus side, there won’t be the usual first week tensions of everyone fighting for their place in the hierarchy. We’ve been home together for 4 months now, and we all know that Micah is the boss.

It does feel a bit like we’ve been robbed of something though. I tearfully watched the video Theo’s nursery teacher sent, with clips of their early nursery days, and the realisation that by the end of September he’ll be in full time school hit again. He looked so little in September, and somehow, over these last months where we’ve been busy slowing down and surviving, he’s grown and changed and getting ready to fly.

Toby particularly feels genuinely sad and disappointed at the end of year 5. He loved having a fun male teacher this year, hanging out with all his mates, and it all evaporated away somewhere back in March. He was especially down in the dumps at the lack of end of year class party, where they take in a paper plate of the same food that would normally be in their lunch box, and watch back to back movies. Because those are the rituals, and things don’t feel the same without them.

And then there’s the thought of filling the coming weeks. How to make it interesting when nothing much will change? Without the school day structure, will the teens morph into actually becoming a physical extension of their beds? Getting them out in the fresh air has been tricky enough with school work to do, what now?!

We’re going to sit down and have a look at the holidays, come up with some ideas, but it isn’t filling me with anticipation. I know places are open and bookable, but the thought of a committed time slot when you’re wrestling eight people in and out of the car and around an attraction is stress inducing at the best of times. And then there’s the uncertainties of how practical it will be to negotiate places with one way systems and strict toilet planning, especially if visiting new places with a lot of offspring. I admire the people who are weighing up the impact of the virus and going away anyway, I just don’t think my heart rate is ready for those kinds of anxiety levels.

I know a lot of people, like me, are struggling more with the lifting of restrictions than the actual complete lockdown period. The grey areas are harder to negotiate. Before you meet up with other people you have to get the measure of where they’re at with the virus, and respect and love one another whilst still wanting to make connection. There’s the planning for outdoor meet-ups but the great British weather to negotiate. The back up plans for if places are very busy, the toilet considerations if you pick somewhere more rural. There’s the different rules in different countries to keep tabs on. The hints of normality but headlines blaring that there’s a lot that just isn’t normal. And it can all feel quite exhausting.

And honestly, the homely introverted part of me can be sorely tempted to just stay at home reading and writing and crocheting (because in my head that’s how I would spend my days…) and hope that one day I’ll wake up and just be able to cough in public without wanting the ground to swallow me up.

Then tonight a sad Micah was calling for his Meggy when I took him up to bed, and she appeared in the room, gave him a cuddle, brushed his teeth and read him a story. And it reminded me that 2020 might not be the year of holidays and hugs and end of nursery parties, but there are opportunities in every day for moments that matter. Whether they’re in my home or on a phone or making the effort to effort to meet someone or get out of the house even when it feels more complicated, I get the chance every day to choose to love. To choose to be thankful. To choose to learn. To choose to listen.

I keep hearing people say ‘let’s just write off 2020’. I get where that comes from, but I think life’s too unpredictable to just write off the bits that don’t go my way. I don’t know what ups and downs the summer will bring. My calendar predicts September will be spent driving back and forth between 3 different schools in complex transition plans for six different children. So I don’t want to just get through the six weeks, just surviving.

And more than just the unknown changes ahead, as Rend Collective sing, ‘my every breath is grace’. Every day I am given is a gift, not earned or a right, but an opportunity to love my neighbour and worship my Maker. The Psalmist said:

‘So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom…
14 Satisfy us in the morning with your steadfast love, that we may rejoice and be glad all our days.’ – Psalm 90:12,14

The start of the summer holidays might not feel anything special this year, but they are full of possibility to be numbered, to be counted instead of written off, to make a difference. Even if it’s just in the mundane, in the gentle cuddles of a big sister with her cranky brother, in agreeing to sit and play a game with a child, in choosing to make eye contact and smile at a shop assistant, in stopping to send someone a text, there are opportunities every day to make 2020 count.

Imagine.

~ savouringmydays ~ Leave a comment

Just imagine being almost 2.

Imagine someone you don’t know arriving in your house.

Imagine your parents being angry.

Imagine the sounds of heated arguments, raised voices.

Imagine seeing uniforms you don’t understand, faces foreign to you.

Imagine being scooped up from your cot and put in a car you don’t know with a baby you’re terrified of.

Imagine being driven by a stranger in the dark.

Imagine her taking you to another house.

Imagine being left there with more strangers.

Imagine screaming as they gently wash the ingrained dirt from your hair, encrusted in your eyebrows.

Imagine being offered milk in a different cup, and it doesn’t taste the same here.

Imagine sobbing as they put you in a bed you don’t know, in a room that smells weird, whilst they sing songs you’ve never heard, stroking you with hands you’ve never touched.

Imagine trying to frantically climb away on legs that don’t work from the baby trying to touch you.

Imagine feeling it all without the words to voice it.

Imagine experiencing it all without the power to fight it.

Imagine over time building trust and growing to love and starting to feel safe. Of the old life gradually fading away and the new one becoming home. The strangers becoming family, reminding you you’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe.

But imagine that every time something changes or you feel afraid, you are transported back. Back to the two year old, paralysed with fear. Back to the two year old, unable to speak. Back to the two year old, who can’t run away. Back to the two year old, not knowing who is safe. Back to the two year old, having everything and everyone you know ripped away in moments.

And then imagine the fragile world you’re slowly starting to trust stopping with no warning. Those feelings rising up again. Familiar faces gone again. Familiar places gone again. You cling to the safety of home, of family. But you become so used to being there, that each time your Mummy or Daddy goes to leave, the panic rises up again. The world outside is different now. There are germs, there are rules, wash your hands, don’t touch, don’t cough, stand away, don’t hug.

And then imagine change again. You want to try. You want to be brave. You want to go to school. You pack your bag, you put on your uniform, you walk up the drive. And there it is. School, but not the faces you love. It doesn’t look the same. All those rules you must keep. Those invisible germs that might hurt. The fear of friends coming too close. The teacher doesn’t come to welcome you with her open arms and smile – she stands at the door, distanced. No one comes near to take your hand. Nothing feels the same.

Except the old familiar feeling of panic. Of paralysis. Of perhaps there is danger. Perhaps your parents won’t come back.

Imagine. Imagine the fears. Imagine the tears. Imagine our Monday morning.

People said kind things, encouraging things, well meaning things. ‘I’m sure you’ll have a great day!’ ‘It’ll be so nice seeing your friends again!’ ‘It’s only for a few hours, you’ll be back for lunch!’

But those things don’t wash when your brain is in fight, flight, freeze zone. When the pathways to the reasoning part of your brain have still not grown.

Adoption is beautiful, and adoption is broken. Because there’s no gain in adoption without loss. And there’s no quick fix, easy answers, textbook remedies for the damage done.

And let me be clear, the trauma is not just from the two years of abuse. The trauma of being removed from all you’ve known – even if what you’ve known was harm – is equally as real.

But, God.

I believe in trauma. I believe in brokenness. And I believe in hope. I believe in redemption. I believe in rainbows in storms. Of finding the gifts of grace.

Yesterday, even as I sobbed around the corner from her classroom, there were rainbows. The kind friend I bumped into in the supermarket, whilst still shaking, still crying. The senior staff member ringing to update me, who acknowledged, we can now see the need for support. The friend walking past the school who messaged to say she could see her, she is smiling, she’s talking to a friend. The teacher texting photos over the two hours, she’s drawing, she’s making, her special things from home are on her desk. The teacher she loves sending her a video message saying how proud she is. The messages from family and friends, asking, loving, caring, praying. The cuddles when she was safely home.

And knowing God knows my girl. He knew her before she was. He designed her. He loves her. His heart breaks when hers does.

He came to heal the brokenhearted. To free those held captive in their pain. To release them from their prisons. To bring joy to the mourning. Giving beauty instead of ashes. Gladness instead of sadness. To repair the damage of previous generations. To rebuild the ruins. To fight for justice. To protect the vulnerable. To counsel the hurting. To bring hope, joy, salvation, freedom. To bring His kingdom to earth as it is in heaven. (Is 61, Ps 146, Matt 6).

It wasn’t the first tricky day and it won’t be the last. But even when I’m sobbing in my car, I’m always surprised and grateful that we get to be trusted with these precious lives. To be the tear wipers, cuddle givers, tickle monsters, hope bringers. To be the ones trusted with the big questions and the big feelings, all the good and all the bad. I’m grateful for not doing it alone. And I’m grateful for hope of an eternity with no trauma or tears, no brokenness or abuse, no violence and absolutely no viruses.

Day 100 – A last minute hospital visit and an impromptu lockdown party

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Yesterday Liam threw out a comment about having a 100 days of lockdown party. And the more I thought about it, the more I decided we’d go for it. Moods have been tricker since school has come up in conversation, and it’s been almost a month since we last had a birthday here, so it seemed a good a day as any to throw a party just for the sake of it.

It helped everything really. Schooling became making decorations for the party. Although I did sneak in a spider web piece of art too, just so we weren’t entirely off topic.

Unfortunately Megan has been having trouble with her braces for a couple of weeks, so I contacted the hospital yesterday, and was told to bring her in today. The tough part was that at age 14, she was considered old enough to go into the department on her own, including being given a mask for the waiting room, having a temperature check and answering all the Covid related questions, and going through the orthodontic procedure, all with me waiting outside.

So off we went, with some understandable anxieties. But the promise of a drive through McDonald’s on the way back, and picking up party food from the shop, all went a little way in helping. She was brilliant and brave and the braces are sorted again for now. And I was brave too, loitering in the alleyway outside.

We got back in time for lunch, and Theo enthusiastically decided our party would have a Numberjacks theme. Because ever since his nursery teacher started sharing episodes for the children to watch, he’s been obsessed. So I went with it, printed off some colouring pages and got them making ‘decorations’.

It did all get a bit hot today though, didn’t it? So we had a break from crafting to dish out ice lollies, and to fill up some vessels with water and have a little play with the hose to cool down.

I then got slightly engrossed with printing off a photo for every day of lockdown, 100 hundred days of memories. Toby created lockdown party bunting, and was so pleased with his success that he announced confidently that he might become a party planner.

It was good to have someone matching my enthusiasm for the cause.

Picnics are a mixed blessing, I find. There’s something delightful about laying a table of food that everyone will eat – obviously completely disregarding the salads. And the happiness of dining al fresco, always to be regarded as a treat in Wales. But then there’s the freedom for small people to run around like excited puppies, and refuse to sit and eat their food, and the frequent freak outs over ants because our entire garden is basically an ants nest.

Nevertheless, it was a fun evening. We looked at all the things we’ve done in the 100 days at home together and picked our favourite photos. It seems like such a long time in a lot of ways, to look at the change in seasons, the things we’d forgotten about in those early days in March. And then the things we are starting to have freedom to do again. The first time we went out more than once in a day! The first time the kids went in the car. The first walk with friends, the first McDonald’s.

And on Monday it will be the first time back to school for two of the children.

There have been many ups and downs over the last 100 days, and although I’ve written a lot, there’s obviously a lot that’s left unsaid too. In my first post on day 1 I shared a page from our kids Thought for the Day book, entitled ‘But God.’ It said that those two words show up over 3,000 times in the Bible – whenever something terrible was looming, ‘but God’! He comes and turns it around, the bringer of hope.

In all the last 100 days, the ill ones, the well ones, the rainy ones, the hot ones, the cranky ones, the loving ones, the jealous ones, the grateful ones, the grieving ones, the rejoicing ones, the claustrophobic ones, the hermit like ones, the anxious ones, the hopeful ones, in all of those days, God has showed up.

He’s been there in the gifts people have sent, in the messages and phone calls. In the Zooms and the virtual church and the music in the kitchen. In the Bible and in books and in the changing of the seasons. In the turning around of cranky days and the teary talks with one another. In the rainbows and the kindness and the sacrifices people have made. In the saying sorry and the forgiving hugs and the chance to always keep learning.

He’s always been here. And He’ll keep showing up in the days, weeks, months to come. Whether they’re easy days or hard days, He’ll be there. Because He loves His world and He loves His people, and it can look like it’s all falling apart – but God.

23 ‘Nevertheless, I am continually with you; you hold my right hand.
24 You guide me with your counsel, and afterward you will receive me to glory.
25 Whom have I in heaven but you? And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides you.
26 My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.’ – Psalm 73:23-26

Day 99 – Unicorn Talk

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My latest strategy for coaxing them into learning is to do something really fun and then try and casually switch them into the boring stuff without them noticing. Today we got very excited about making lollies. Micah allocated the red and green chopping boards as teams, and took his banana dissecting duties very seriously. Theo held more of an operational leader role. We successfully filled the lolly moulds and put them in the freezer, and headed to the dining room.

Sadly they weren’t fooled at all. Maddie had a comparison chart to fill in regarding positives and negatives about spiders. The positives were hard to come by. The negatives seemed to consist of ‘creepy, scary, creepy’. I think that we know where she stands on the matter.

So we dragged ourselves through a bit of schoolwork, interspersed with, ‘are the lollies frozen yet?’ every five minutes.

I had to go to Morrison’s this morning, so I took Toby with me to experience the delights of social distancing in the real world. 10 year old boys are not naturals, it appears. But I think it’s given him a little insight into how school might feel somewhat different, and from that perspective it seemed like a worthwhile outing.

When we returned, the small people had moved from playdoh to kinetic sand, which they were now happily throwing around the garden in a wild and frenzied manner. But they seemed relatively happy, and for that both we and the neighbours were grateful.

I’m trying not to assume it’s directly related to the amount of time we’ve all been at home lately, but our neighbours have spent a lot of time constructing an extra extension of trellis above their fence over the last week, to encourage their thick and perhaps sound limiting trailing plant to grow along and up. I can’t say I blame them. I’ve thought about doing the same thing around my chair at the dining table. Maybe one of those Perspex cubes that drummers sit in would work. Although I hear Perspex is tricky to get hold of these days. It seems to be quite popular in the supermarkets.

Much to their delight, the lollies did eventually freeze and were ready for eating. It seems the chocolate milkshake ones were significantly more popular that the strawberry smoothie ones. No surprises there.

Someone had a power nap on the sofa whilst watching telly, a fact he hotly denied later, even when shown this incriminating evidence. ‘No! That’s NOT me!!!’

Everyone seemed to need a bit of exercise this afternoon, so we ventured out, albeit in different directions. Megan and Maisie deemed themselves too cool to go on a family walk, and left way ahead of the rest of us. Toby has been granted a small amount of freedom on his bike recently, so he headed off to do circuits around the outside of the nearby playground.

Which left Liam and I with Theo, Micah, and a slightly fractious unicorn. Who we engaged in conversation to try and see if we could help encourage some verbalising of the fears and feelings that kept her up late last night and saw her creeping into our bed at 1:30am.

‘Hey, unicorn, it seems like you’re a little bit worried at the moment?’

Unicorn nods it’s head violently.

‘I’m wondering if you’re thinking about going back to school?’

Unicorn nods again.

‘I wonder if maybe you feel a bit worried about school feeling strange, and about keeping a distance?’

Unicorn nods violently, neighs and paws at the ground.

It turns out unicorns are real, and I’m learning their language. And it’s much less scary to ‘speak’ through an inanimate object if you feel a bit worried about something and aren’t sure how to express it. I’m thinking about trying it myself the next time I have to face a difficult conversation. I wonder if Liam can interpret crocheted penguin language. And how to say, ‘please could you put your dirty clothes in the laundry basket instead of next to our bed?’ in penguin talk. Not that I’d ever need to say it, of course.

Tonight we had friends over and a fire and we got to use the fizz emoji again after far too long. It may be a cliché, but there’s definitely a new level of appreciation for these moments now we’ve lived some months without them. And with the uncertainty of what the months ahead will hold, these are the pots of gold to look for and enjoy.

It feels like the hope we hung onto is there, coming nearer with every garden glass of Prosecco, every distanced walk, every news announcement saying that maybe, in two weeks, we’ll be able to travel and move nearer and even go in a house. There is light ahead.

I looked closely at the growing sweet peas today. I’d say my sweet peas, but given that I didn’t plant them and haven’t watered them, I’m not sure I can make such claims. I love how as they grow, and they are frail and wobbly, they send out tendrils to hold onto something for support. They are vulnerable, they look for something stronger and cling on.

But in my Google education about growing them, I was interested to see that the advice to was keep a check on the tendrils, and snip them if needed, because if left unchecked they cling onto the wrong things, or their neighbouring plants, and the whole thing ends up a mess.

I saw myself in those young sweet peas today. When I feel wobbly I’ll send out a tendril, look for something to hold onto. A family member, a friend, the words of a book. Those things are gifts and blessings and good. But if I don’t hold onto to the right thing, there is a danger I’ll choke those around me and tie myself up in knots.

There is One I can cling to, who’ll guide me in the right way, who’ll hold me fast when the winds rock me, who’ll allow me to grow stronger and bloom and become who I’m made to be.

14 “Because he holds fast to me in love, I will deliver him; I will protect him, because he knows my name.
15 When he calls to me, I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble; I will rescue him and honor him.
16 With long life I will satisfy him and show him my salvation.” – Psalm 91:14-16

Day 98 – Incy Wincy Spider

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Hello and happy Monday to you. I wanted to start by giving a quick thank you to all of you who were so kind to comment on my post on Friday about finishing these blogs. I won’t stop writing, I do enjoy the process and there’s plenty more tucked up in my head! So I will be popping in, just a little more infrequently. If you’d like to see when I post you can opt to subscribe on the blog, and it’ll pop you an email to let you know.

So here we are again, another weekend passed. Saturday we had a morning of activity, prepping for Father’s Day. We made a cake, which my helpers lasted approximately until they’d stuck their fingers in the butter and spilt sugar over the kitchen floor, leaving me to do the rest.

We then moved on to cards. Feeling confident in my new found pre-school crafting abilities, I googled some ideas and went for it. It’s always hard to merge the Pinterest image in your head with actually letting the children have their own creative way. As the photo above shows, I struggle to allow freedom of creativity in the craft department.

The kids insisted on hiding their presents themselves, which was slightly concerning, especially as at least one had chocolate in it. By Sunday morning, Micah had hidden his so many times that even he had no idea where it was. Thankfully it was found just in time to avoid complete meltdown.

Saturday afternoon we walked with friends. This was the first time our little ones had seen friends in all these weeks, and it produced a variety of emotions as expected. But it was so nice to see them settling into it and enjoying hanging out together.

In the evening it was Marvel night, which Toby is generally excited about from somewhere around Friday lunchtime, and I fear it’s going to be with us long after we have freedom again. One should think carefully about these traditions. Especially when they involve watching the Incredible Hulk.

But all joking aside, for as much as the films themselves might not be my viewing choice, I love that it’s important to the children that we do it together. And for that I’ll keep mustering enthusiasm.

Liam was wished a happy Father’s Day by being held hostage in the bedroom, by a zealous Theo, who insisted he stay there until the party was ready. Cryptically, he told Liam the party was for ‘someone who puts up the sitting hammocks’, confirming just how important that particular role is to him.

After we’d made Liam his choice of bagel with poached egg, gifted presents and proudly presented cards, we moved to church online. We’ve hit the stage where the younger three children pick the exact same three songs every week, despite my best efforts at sneaking other ones into the repertoire. There was a lack of musical accompaniment this week, although Micah sat and ‘played’ the music on his pretend iPad, which is actually a kids kindle case, whilst singing along very loudly in his very deep monotone.

We made prayer hands for the crafts. There were different prayer points suggested for the different fingers, which was great until it got to the teenage girls, who were reluctant to choose to pray for ‘someone who points you in the right direction’. It turns out they weren’t that keen on being pointed in the right direction. I wrote myself on that finger for them. I need all the prayer I can get.

Especially on a Monday.

The Monday vibes were strong today. There was a significant reluctance to do anything I suggested. And perhaps not helped by Maddie’s topic for the week being spiders. I can’t say I relished the YouTube videos of extreme close ups either.

There was definitely a sense of heightened tension and anxiety for little miss, lots of questions about school and distancing and it was a day on the edge. So we crafted. A lot. It seems to help keep a vague degree of calm when one of us is by their sides, present to calm frazzled feelings, soothe sulky stand offs, and mediate in the melee.

Liam started them with stick spider webs, which they loved, although raised concerns that a spider might actually decide to live in it.

We made a new batch of playdoh which they then played with for a while, involving plenty of soothing sensory squishing. And also plenty of throwing it around the dining room.

We then attempted spider web plates, the most popular part of that one of course being the hole punching. They then insisted on hanging them on the door, fighting for whose was the highest, had the longest string, and swung the furthest when hit. If there’s a way to compete, they’ll find it.

And as the final last ditch effort, we made spider web rainbow cupcakes. I fear we’ve completed a week’s worth of crafts in a day, but maybe Tuesday will dawn with a slightly more positive take on literacy and numeracy. Maybe.

It took a lot of emotional energy to keep a level of calm today. Especially as I felt like I was losing it at around 9:30am as we attempted early pen skills at the same time as early number forming at the same time as a war was breaking out over the two times tables, one student was standing on a chair waving ribbons, and another was crying because ‘you made me sad’. (Micah’s favourite phrase of late. Said when we say absolutely anything he disagrees with.

In between the meltdowns over, ironically, a spider, the fear-related regression to baby-like behaviours, and the late night soothings of troubled minds, it was a Monday of Mondays.

But the sun shone beautifully and the washing dried on the line. There was enough of yesterday’s roast to not have to really cook another dinner, and lots of pudding and cake. We were on time for piano lesson zooms and happy birthday to my nephew zooms. And Ikea reopened today. So there is much to be thankful for.

28 ‘For it is you who light my lamp; the LORD my God lightens my darkness.
29 For by you I can run against a troop, and by my God I can leap over a wall.
30 This God-his way is perfect; the word of the LORD proves true; he is a shield for all those who take refuge in him.
31 For who is God, but the LORD? And who is a rock, except our God?-
32 the God who equipped me with strength and made my way blameless.
33 He made my feet like the feet of a deer and set me secure on the heights.’ – Psalm 18:28-33

I find huge comfort in the fact that tonight and tomorrow and all the days to come, there is One who lights a lamp in my darkness. Who gives courage for the battle. Who gives safety in the danger. Who gives stability in the unknown. Who gives strength in the weariness, freedom in the shame, and hope in the desperation.

Tomorrow is a new day, full of possibilities. And coffee, too, no doubt.

Day 95 – So near yet so far…looking to the ‘new normal’.

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Here’s a funny story. Earlier this week, Megan bounded downstairs enthusiastically, asking if she could buy something online as a surprise for her younger siblings. As she assured me it was only £3.95 I said yes, and promised not to ask any questions.

Last night she brought down this tin. She had ordered 100 miniature bee stickers (except they sent 106 Mum!), which she had numbered, and had planned out a treasure hunt for 99 of them. Before bedtime yesterday, Maisie and Toby ran around excitedly, sticking them all over the house, the most organised swarm there has ever been. They insisted I wake them when the little ones got up, a request absolutely unheard of, but such was their level of dedication to the cause.

So I dutifully sent the little ones up at 7 (much too scared to brave them myself!), and listened to them excitedly running around looking for bees and presenting them to Megan.

It was a very cute and creative plan and I loved watching Megan organise it all, and the younger one’s excitement at the game.

It got a little tricky when the last two couldn’t be found, some small children not able to cope with the idea of the poor little lost bees, but there was a sneaky replacing two of them to be found again and with that trick we found closure. There was also a little meltdown when one bee had to be removed from it’s position and this apparently was not ok. This resulted in a quiet time of a child hiding under a blanket in the corner of the kitchen whilst I sat on the stool calmly reading a parenting handbook giving advice on what to do when your child won’t come out from their blanket, whilst offering assurances that I was there when they were ready to emerge. Which they did, when I mentioned breakfast.

Undeterred by yesterday’s painting larks, I brought out another colour mixing activity. I was pleasantly surprised with the controlled mess levels on this one.

So we happily created three balloon pictures and then, once they were sucked in by the messy play, I sneakily switched us into other schoolwork.

Every time I do a google search for inspiration and print off worksheets someone else has produced, I am more in awe of both those who come up with the ideas, and those, like my mum, who taught and home schooled way before it was so easy to be the grateful recipient of other people’s efforts. Duplo number sheets were definitely a hit with the boys.

Liam went out today, so there was a general sense of unrest amongst the small people. They opted to empty boxes of toys all over the living room, unzip the bottom of the boxes and wear them as ‘box trolls’, until they got outside, abandoned the boxes, and ran around the garden for approximately 2 minutes before someone hurt someone with something for some reason, and they returned to tell on them. When I tell them not to tell tales, they whine indignantly, ‘it’s NOT a tale! It’s TRUE!!!’

So we tried magic painting books, which they boys committed to for somewhere around three strokes on two pages before complaining about the fact that Maddie was playing with all of the bees. Obviously she wasn’t actually playing with all 106 bees. But it still wasn’t fair.

So I took the road of shameless bribery, and promised pizza in front of the tv, which we’d literally never done until Maisie’s birthday in May, and they’ve begged to do it again ever since. With the holy grail of dinners to look forward to, we managed to make it through the afternoon without total disaster.

Today the Welsh First Minister gave our update on Coronavirus, and I felt sad again. Shops are opening, schools are opening. But I still can’t see my family or hug my friends or worship with my church. And that still hurts. And I sat with that sadness for a little while. And then I reminded myself of all I have to be grateful for. We’re closer to those things than we were at the last review, and we will get there, one step at a time, building resilience and patience and faith along the way.

When I began blogging daily at the beginning of our lockdown, I never imagined still being here 95 days later. I never imagined the kindness of all of you who’ve been reading when you can, and those of you who’ve sent encouraging messages – it’s definitely helped me feel less like I’m talking to an empty room, less like I’m alone in isolation.

We know now that lockdown isn’t just going to end. There’s no magic wand to get life back to normal, but we’re taking safe baby steps on our way.

With that in mind, I’ve decided that I will stop writing daily on day 100 of lockdown, which is next Wednesday. It feels a nice round number to my organised little brain, and as we prepare to help our children with a gentle transition back to school the following week, we take another step towards the ‘new normal’ we’re being told about. As much as it has helped me to process these days, life inevitably will shift again, – and there’s only so many pictures of our latest bakes or stories of my emotional wobbles that anyone except my parents would want to read!

It feels strange to be looking at some aspects of life re-beginning, feeling so near yet so far away from normality. Shops are reopening, but we don’t know when furlough will end for Liam. Yes, so near, yet so far. But the purpose remains the same. To try and keep each other safe. To love my neighbour as myself. To honour those who’ve sacrificed so much in these weeks.

In the book of 1 Samuel, after God has defeated the Israelites enemies, Samuel places a stone of remembrance. The ‘Ebenezer’, the stone of help, because he said, ‘Till now has the Lord helped us’.

He has helped me this far, He will help tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

Or as the hymn says it,

‘Come, Thou Fount of every blessing
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace
Streams of mercy, never ceasing
Call for songs of loudest praise
Teach me some melodious sonnet
Sung by flaming tongues above
Praise the mount, I’m fixed upon it
Mount of Thy redeeming love

Here I raise my Ebenezer
Here there by Thy great help I’ve come
And I hope, by Thy good pleasure
Safely to arrive at home
Jesus sought me when a stranger
Wandering from the fold of God
He, to rescue me from danger
Interposed His precious blood.’ (Come Thou Fount, Robinson/Rice)

(Duplo sheets free download from Life Over C’s website).

Day 94 – Paint and puddles

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I’m not sure what came over us this morning, I’m blaming the rain sending everyone a bit loopy. Liam and I got a bit carried away with organising creative art in the kitchen.

I started with bubble painting, which they absolutely loved because, you know, paint and bubbles are a recipe for mess, chaos and sheer delight. Unfortunately it was a complete flop and didn’t work at all. There was coloured bubble mixture everywhere and no lovely bubble pictures. But they had fun.

So then Liam suggested marble painting. Which definitely produced more successful artwork, but the price we had to pay involved paint covered marbles bouncing all around the kitchen.

Giddy with artistic success, Liam brought out string and finished the trio of abstract art with worm pictures. By now there were drying pictures and paint all over the kitchen, and we still hadn’t had coffee, so we decided that lesson should come to an end.

So we went for something a little more science based and made frog life cycle books. The big excitement of this activity was me bringing out my paper cutter, which everyone wanted a go at, and I narrowly missed losing my fingers in their eagerness to be involved. By now it felt like that was sufficient learning and creativity for all of us, so we opted for a YouTube education via Numberjacks, whilst Liam and I hid with coffee.

What is it about rain that sends children wild? There was some serious sofa leaping going on, so I gave them an obstacle course instead. But by mid afternoon we decided a welly walk was needed.

There were some who wholeheartedly approved.

Others opted to go around the puddles, which the small boys couldn’t understand at all. ‘But Mummy you’ve got wellies! WHY won’t you paddle?!’

Despite all the persuasion/direction needed to get everyone out the house, the arguments over not taking umbrellas/importance of wearing coats etc etc, it always lifts the mood tone when we get outside. We rewarded it with hot chocolate and a film for the kids, tea and a sit down for the parents.

We started talking about preparing for a return to school at dinner. How we’ll need to get up a bit earlier next week, whether some children would like to drive past school beforehand. How many sets of stationery I need to purchase, and whether their shoes still fit.

Different children manifest the anxiety over all the changes in different ways – not settling at night for some, overly sensitive and frequent tears for others, irritability for others. I watched a helpful video I was sent by the Psycology service today, which reminded parents that prior to managing our children’s fears we need to try and work out, what triggers my fears? What in all of this is my worry, and am I putting it onto them?

I know from years of frequent changes that when I hear of a new plan, I often get grumpy, objecting to it vocally or internally. Once I’ve thrashed it out in my heart and head, I gradually move to acceptance. In my dim and distant past I remember studying change, people’s responses, and management theories of it, and I don’t think I’m alone in my responses. Change isn’t easy, but it is inevitable, and I need to be aware of my own weaknesses in it, as I try and support my family through all the emotions of it too. Acknowledging all of the feelings, validating them for myself and the kids is helpful and necessary.

But most helpful and necessary of all, is lifting my eyes upwards to the One who doesn’t change.

‘God is not man, that he should lie, or a son of man, that he should change his mind. Has he said, and will he not do it? Or has he spoken, and will he not fulfill it?’ – Numbers 23:19

We started out this morning all a bit tired and grouchy. And I knew there had to be a choice, to get bogged down by all the hard stuff, all the unknowns and things I can’t control, all the tensions amongst the kids. Or I could hand over again all the things I can’t control and have no answers too, and choose the things I can-to ask for help, to be grateful, and to make choices to love. Even even it’s hard.

I didn’t and don’t get it right a lot of the time, today and every day. But I’m grateful for today, for puddles and coffee and crazy art making. And I’m grateful that tomorrow is a new day full of possibilities. And hopefully less rain.