Buried Treasure

Today, my sons and I viewed a dinosaur exhibit at the Science Center - Dinosaurs in Motion - an unusual display of recycled metal hammered into mechanical art of life size creatures.  Running from exhibit to exhibit, my 9 year-old was the effervescent teacher and I, the student, as he rattled off from memory the crucial details of these fantastical beings.  I learned each one's scientific name, prehistoric era, length, height, and food preference.  He even pointed out the difference between an herbivore's teeth and a carnivores'.  I was beyond thrilled as you can imagine.  His eyes lit up as he reached a new display, and my eyes lit up as I watched his eyes light up.  We enjoy 2 hours of pulling levers and pushing dials to make these rustic dinosaurs come to life.  With each yank of a pulley, a metal claw or jaw or spike came to life and gave new meaning to recycled cans.

To commemorate our fond memories at the gift shop, Tyler opted for a small replica of his favorite dinosaur - the Velociraptor - packed in a solid square of sand with a small hammer, pick and brush.  He was elated.  Cloud nine.  "Mom, when I get home, I am going to start right away digging out this dinosaur to prepare for my career as a paleontologist."  "That's great son."  "I can't wait to get home, Mom. This is the best present ever.  When I'm done with this one, I want to get the Tyrannosaurus Rex or the Diplodocus.  I can do them all, Mom.  This is great practice.  I am so excited. I really am a chatterbox when I'm excited." 

One archeologist makeshift tent in the yard and a couple of hours of digging later, this resolute boy starts to see some bones.  It's a tough job.  He has to carefully scrape, pick, dig, and brush off the sand to extract his treasure.  Too hard, and the delicate bones will break.  Too soft and the sand doesn't budge.  It's tightly compacted around each stray piece.  Tyler is engrossed.  His mission is to extract the individual bones in order to construct a complete and whole product. 

Later that evening, I had my own hours of digging at a dinner date with my longtime mentor and friend.  The main topic of discussion.  Buried treasure.  While I didn't have a tent in the backyard, I did have a pick and shovel and some determination (like mother, like son).  In hunt for purpose and making a difference in this life, I have found a bone here and there - scraped the surface.  But, it's difficult.  Tougher than I thought.  And much tougher than the instructions on the box say.  You have to store the good advice to remember in the bad times.  You have to believe that you will find your way out even when you fall in a dark hole that may or may not be near your dinosaur bones. 

I think many of us are searching for our "finding" in some pretty packed earth.  Some of us are searching in the wrong spot.  Some of us have missing pieces or may have misplaced our tools, and some have just given up.  But, my son's tenacity and belief that he could get this thing out sparked something in me.  His excitement and fervor spoke volumes to me.  That sometimes all we need is a will and a way.  A will that we can do it.  The confidence that we know the right way and the reaffirmation that we have been given the right tools.  We've had them all along.  We have been "equipped for works of service" and can attain the whole measure of who we are supposed to be.  Life's storms are inevitable.  Tossing us back and forth by waves.  But, finding our way back to solid ground and picking up our tools is the important part.  We have to keep digging and scraping our way to the truth.  There is no clean or easy way to do it really.  It's about reaching our fullness in who we were designed to be.  Fullness in spirit.  Fullness in life.  And whether it takes a pick or a shovel or a darn backhoe, I'm going to find it!     

The Bombers Go All the Way!

Last night was the final game of fall ball for my son’s baseball team, “the Bombers.”  Dressed in cherry red and navy blue uniforms with cursive letters on the front of their jerseys, this scrappy group of misfits looked fresh out of the post World War 2 era.  We were playing our last game against the formidable team, dubbed the Pirates “A” team.  They were an elite team of polished players who poached good players from other teams and held tryouts to man their roster with only the best, relegating the rest to the “B” team. 

Dressed in all white, the Pirates looked pristine prancing out to their positions.  Their coach chewed tobacco on the 3^rd base line and yelled orders as each player solemnly walked to the plate. 

The Pirates’ dugout was serious and quiet, as the team patiently listened to coach’s strategy and laid out their game plan.  Our dugout, on the other hand, was mass chaos, as our coaches focused on getting the players to actually stay in the dugout rather than running off to go potty or doodling in the dirt.    

As the parents, we just hoped it wasn’t a blowout.  “Watch the ball!  Stay ready!  Bend your knees!,” we yelled anxiously from the sidelines.   

The Pirates were undefeated and had a reputation for man handling their competition.  They were “in it to win it” and we were pretty much in it to…. well, just to be in it.  They lacked the uniqueness of our team though.  We had Joey – a cross eyed, small kid with a crackly high voice, who was too young to be on our team, but we needed players and let him on anyway.  Joey was the one who had to go potty every 30 seconds. 

Mick was tall and lanky but slow as an elephant and about as disinterested as one too.  Cory was a couple years too young and came up to some of the pirates belts in height.  But, we kept him on because he was going to be good and his dad coached the team.  

We were a determined bunch.  By some happenstance, Joey always managed to get on base, and we had Luca.  Yes, Luca Zarky - our best player.  Bigger, taller, and could hit the *** out of the ball.  We all cheered when Luca came on base and silently prayed that he would wallop one out to center field far enough so little Joey could get around the bases.  Try as he might, Joey, ran with his chest first and head and legs behind him, pumping his little arms and skidding his feet with each step.  We all just held our breath.  “Safe” was the call…. Whew. 

Oh dear, I sighed, it was going to be one of those game where you watched with one eye closed and a silent prayer on your lips. 

With half our kids big and uncoordinated, and the other half small and zippy, we looked like easy Pickens for the Pirates.  They would raid our ship, claim our booty and be off in the sunset before we could say, “Strike three.”  Yikes.  All the parents knew the odds weren’t in our favor.  But, our kids could have cared less.  Through our weekly practices, they had grown in camaraderie.  They liked to talk to each other out in the field and cheer each other on when we were hitting. 

Then something happened.    

It was like something clicked.  We caught ground balls, threw to first and GOT OUTS.   Tyler played 3^rd base, threw to Luca on 1^st and got out after out.  This was a big play that we had been working on in practice.  Another force out came when Tyler scooped up a ground ball, ran and slid into 3^rd, just barely beating the runner.   I couldn’t believe it.  Our defense actually looked better than the opposing teams.’  Our practices were paying off.  They had worked on the little things, like catching, throwing accurately, picking up ground balls, running in a straight line to the bases and not twirling in the outfield.  And it was working. 

Halfway through the game, we were winning 9 to 3, and I could see the other teams’ coaches start to get nervous… and angry.  The next inning, they got 4 runs, but our boys continued onward, like nothing had happened.  We got to the plate and scored three more, winning the game 12 to 10. 

At the end of the game, we commemorated the season with personalized trophies and team photos and our coach congratulated our little team on a winning season! 

Last season, we were easily one of the worst teams in the league and now we had beaten the undefeated Pirates.

I looked at their happy faces in the cold, brisk evening, and each face gleamed in the full harvest moon.  Our beloved Bombers couldn’t have been happier.  They knew they had accomplished something big and had a blast doing it. 

That night, going to bed, I couldn’t stop thinking of our team’s accomplishment.  In a way, my son’s little league is like the big league of life we adults find ourselves playing.  We may have a losing season, but if we work on our weaknesses, stay focused on having fun and making friends, we create a winning atmosphere.  We have to keep plugging along, practicing the basics, waiting for that “something” to click.  I think that “click” has a lot to do with staying positive and working on improving the “small things.” 

Our team didn’t go to the batting cages once.  We practiced the team skills of working together, throwing and catching, and fielding.  In life, sometimes it’s not about the big “at bat” of a job interview or a big presentation at work that wins the game.  It’s the little things like praying with your son before bed, watching his favorite show, “Call of the Wildman,” with him and encouraging his current interest in the book, Moby Dick, that make the difference.  (Yes, Moby Dick..... a tall tale for next time….)     

Rocks of All Ages

It's Friday night, and we're headed to our much anticipated Friday night dinner.  Time to unwind from the week.  In the car, my husband comments that he didn't get much sleep last night.  "I did.  I slept like a rock.  I was so tired."  Tyler pipes up, "Me too."  My husband laments, "Yeah, spring is coming, and I don't know what I'm going to do with you two snoring machines."  I spout off suggestions - Breathe Right strips, antihistamines, nose surgery?  "Yeah, maybe I need surgery too" chirps the backseat.  He takes a long sniff.  I hand back a Kleenex.  "But, dad, I can sleep with mom.  Her snoring doesn't bother me."  Sniff again.   "Yeah, because you two sleep like a couple of rocks." 

Sniff.  The backseat is quiet for a few moments... thinking.  "Yeah, except rocks don't snore."    

The boy has a point. 

Seating in the booth at our favorite Mexican establishment, we discuss names for Tyler's soon to be born baby brother.   

Tyler, as always, is an active participant in the conversation.  We are thinking Trey or Luke for first names.  For the middle name we want a family name and something with meaning.  My husband asks Tyler, "Do you know who your middle name is after?"  He shakes his head.   

"In the Bible, there was a young fourteen year old boy whose name was David from the country Israel.  He was thin and scrawny, but very clever.  One day there was a large man more than 8 feet tall who kept taunting the Israelites.  Do you know what taunting means?" 

Tyler shakes his head.  He is kneeling in the booth, half sitting, half standing, elbows on the table.       

"He was making fun of the Israelites because they were so scared.  He was like a bully.  This giant's name was Goliath.  He had a very large sword and a whole army behind him.   No one from Israel wanted to fight him.  Except David.  David took out his slingshot, found some rocks and faced the giant.  Goliath laughed at how small David was.  David was not scared.  He swung his slingshot with his first rock and hit Goliath right in the forehead.  The giant fell down dead.  And this teenage kid used the big man's own sword to cut off his head.  Do you know why David was so special?" 

Tyler shakes his head.

"He was the great, great, great, great grandfather of Jesus." 

His eyes light up like bulbs in a pinball machine.  

"If David had not been so brave, Jesus might not have been born!  Isn't that amazing?" 

He nods his head.  We can tell the story has definitely had an impact on him. 

"We should definitely not name the new baby Goliath!" 

Yep, the boy has a point. 

Whether it's the sleeping habits of rocks or the rocks in his predecessors' weapon, this little boy certainly knows how to slingshot through to the truth.  

He's funny, yes, but also insightful.  I hope and pray he finds his own rocks to use in life...the stones of truth that you collect along the path of life, and the Rock of our Salvation.  I hope he continues to live up to his name and create his own legacy that generations of his children's children will speak highly of.   

A Little Slice of Heaven

Profound statements often come out of my seven year old's mouth when he's bathing.  He starts floating in the water on his back... his hair spanning out from his head, where the ideas start knocking around like the last 30 seconds of a bag of popcorn in the microwave. 

"Mom, I don't want you to die." 

"Mommy's not going to die for a long time... you don't have to worry about that," I respond, trying to brush past the subject.  How am I going to explain dying and age to a boy who has yet to lose all his teeth. 

"Am I going to die Mom?"  He does not let the subject go.  "Not for an even longer time than mommy bud."  "Besides we're all going to be together in heaven... so you don't have to worry about dying." 

Pop...pop...pop.  The barrage of questions starts filling my son's head.  "Will we have a house like this in heaven?  I like this house... I want everything the same as it is here... Can I be hockey player in heaven?  Is there ice in heaven?  What age are we in heaven?  Is Santa Claus in heaven?  Will our fish be in heaven?" 

I am in no way qualified to answer these questions and frankly do not know the answers to half of them... but, I muddle through... "We don't get old in heaven...heaven is better than here... because it's perfect and you can get everything you want.  And I'm not sure about the fish."

He stares back at me with bubbles on his head... doubtful.  "But, I like everything the way it is here.  I don't want anything to change."  More tears...they are streaming down the bubbles.  

"I don't want you and daddy to die mom.  Is grandmum going to die too?"  I weigh my answer.  He pretty much thinks grandmum is invincible, so I don't want to touch that with a ten foot pole.  Who knows... maybe she will live forever.  

Bath time is a little late this evening, and he's in no frame of mind to excavate the mysteries of the afterlife.  The mysteries are becoming more apparent to me as well... I haven't thought this deeply about death ever...Do I lie to make him feel better?  How do you tell a tired, dripping wet and confused first grader how we're all going to die and live happily ever after in a place called heaven?  More tears. 

"What is making you think about this bud?"  He shrugs..."I just love my life so much," he sniffles.  He doesn't want to lose the people, things, and routines he loves so much.  It's his little slice of heaven.  And he wants no part of the actual whole pie that he knows nothing about.  No way... no how... He likes his bedtime routine, his fish, his letters to Santa that he is still sending him via the Iphone app, and his baths.  Heaven is no comparison.  I try to relay what I think I know about heaven.  "There are streets of gold, mansions, angels."  "God is there.  You get to really be with God!"  Nope... he's just fine with him living in his heart.   

But, he dries off, wipes his tears and changes the subject, leaving me more confused than him.  He got all his questions off his chest and goes back to living in the moment.  I wonder about that slice of heaven.  He's living for today, not a better tomorrow.  I think I'll take a slice.  

Reflections of a Seven Year Old Sitting on a Toilet

Every month my son has "share" day at school.  He brings in his prized possession and shows it off to his class.  One day he brought his Transformers Bumble Bee arm that makes powerful noises and lights up.  For this month's share day, we had it all planned that he was going to bring his Cardinal's honorary "contract," signed by Tony La Russa and stamped with an Official Seal of Excellence.  This document confirmed that he did indeed catch a foul ball on the day of September 5th and included a guarantee that "at no time will the holder's loyalty to the St. Louis Cardinals be traded to any other Major League Baseball club."  I had it framed and on the table ready to go.  This was going to be special.  Not many other kids had a contract to show off.  Our little hero in the making.

But, this hero's loyalties were in a different place.  "Mom, I was thinking of bringing the pictures of the baby instead."  Tyler was very excited about his new little brother or sister to come, and I had recently shown him the scroll of ultrasound pictures.  We got out a ruler and I showed him that the baby was still only 4 centimeters long.  He was amazed.    

"I already told my class that you were pregnant mom."  I'll bet he made an announcement in front of class.  My seven year old has told more people than I have told... Yikes.  This little guy sure was special. 

Sitting on the toilet, thinking, passing time, he inquired out of the blue, "Mom, do you think it will be a boy or girl?"  Turning to his upturned face, I answered, "That's something that God decides.  Did you know that?"  He nodded in the affirmative.  "Yep.  I know."  I went on, sensing this was a good teaching moment for the little hero on the john. 

Did you know that God decides what you are going to look like, act like and be like?  He decides everything about you!  Tyler's eyes light up. "It's like the Wii where you get to pick your character!  Only he has tons more choices."  I can imagine God holding his numchuck scrolling over the thousands of choices he has on his Wii.  "Yeah, that's exactly what it's like."  He's got a big job.  He picks your hair color, your eye color, and all of your gifts and talents.  He made you really special with a lot of gifts to use.  Thinking this over, he had to agree with me.  He was good at a number of things. 

"Why did he do that mom?" 

"Because he wants you to use those gifts to make him happy.  Do you know he has a plan for you?  He has a plan for everyone." 

"What's his plan for you mom?" 

"That's a good question bud.  I'm still figuring that out, but I know one of them is to take care of you and make sure you know how to use your gifts." 

"I think his plan for me is to be a hockey player mom."    

"It may be, but you're good at a lot of things, so you just have to keep doing what you're good at and figure out how you can help people with your gifts.  This makes God happy." 

"I think I can help a lot of people being a hockey player mom." 

So, as I work on expanding my son's career choices, I realize that he has no lack of confidence and resolve.  He just needs direction on how to use his abilities to achieve God's plan.  In fact, we all need direction and a bit more confidence and resolve.  Maybe we all should take a moment, whether it's on the toilet or not, and ruminate over our plans and gifts and how we are using them.  It got me thinking that maybe some of my gifts are buried and not producing anything.  While I look at my son, I see that none of his are buried.  He is jumping into anything that he can get his hands on, not looking back, with no regrets.  But, all of this running and gunning could turn selfish if he's not guided to help others and think of how to make God happy.    

As we approach this season of reflection and hope, I hope we all get guided into using our God-given talents and make a resolution to find more of these talents that we have hidden away.  Why do we hide them away?  Why don't we have the same confidence and resolve we used to?  Because we stopped believing.  Again, we can take a note from our smaller counterparts.  Believe that there is a Guy up there who gives us gifts for a reason.  He may not have bells and a sleigh, but he has a still small voice in our hearts.     

A Thanksgiving Tradition

I love Thanksgiving... spending time with family... eating lots of food... watching the rest of the leaves fall.  This year on Thanksgiving, we all trooped over to my sisters' house, where she had painstakingly orchestrated her first official hosting of this carb-filled holiday.  Twenty-one people submerged her granite countertops with spreads of cranberry stuffing, marshmallow sweet potatoes, pecan cheesecake, perfectly cut carrots and cucumbers, red eye dressing, and gobs of turkey and ham.  

To keep us all busy, my son exercised the spirit of giving by asking each couple if they would like a check for one thousand dollars.  Of course, no one turned down this spectacular offer.  So, he busied himself with making out his fake checks and signing them...

He soon realized that he was going to run out of checks and came back to his old standbys.  "Mom and Dad," he whispered through his cupped hand.  "I think you're going to have to split a check."  We nodded solemnly and he bounced back to finish his John Hancocks. 

At the tables, we each had a sheet of paper with a quote about gratitude on our plates... a nice touch.  The quote read, "Gratitude turns what we have into enough.  It turns denial into acceptance, chaos into order, confusion to clarity.  It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend.  Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today, and creates a vision for tomorrow."  This is why I like this holiday so much.  For a day, we all focus on the good, the possibilities, how precious the present is and how promising the future is. 

By definition, gratitude means an awakening of the heart.  My son seems have to have these little awakenings throughout the year and voices them regularly.  When deciding between the homemade apple pie, pumpkin pie and pecan pie, he turns to my mom, his grandma, and states, "I'm going to have what you brought because you do everything good."   He's grateful to me on a regular basis - "I have the best mom ever!  I just love my mom!"  While part of me wonders what it is he wants in return for these fawning phrases, another part of me marvels at his easy transition into an "awakened" state.

It seems he looks at the bigger picture more than me.  He is thankful at the drop of a hat... sings songs in the backseat about how much he loves his mommy and daddy.  He declares out of the blue, "My teacher is just fantastic!"  and doesn't stop there...

Why is it easier for kids to tap into their gratefulness and wonderment more than adults?  They seem to be very certain and not easily confused.  Yet another lesson we can learn from our successors.  "Don't let the past weigh you down.  Allow yourself to be happy in  the present.  And look forward to the future." 

The chaos and confusion we let into our lives only block our view of what really matters.  With gratitude, we still have dilemmas to sort through and problems to fix.  But, it helps us sort through the difference between the facts and the truth.  They are two very different things.  The facts can change with circumstances and come and go... The truth never changes, and when we hold onto this, facts don't matter as much...  

The Reality of Ideals

One of the many things I dislike about getting older is the slow deterioration of my idealistic perspective of life.  I used to be a hopeless idealist.  Now, whether is it experience that comes with age or living through more trials and errors, I am sliding into a realist.  Life becomes muddled with busy work schedules, deadlines for bills, and getting through the work week.  My rosy outlook on life that good intentions always win has become less absolute and more pragmatic.  Oh, dear... I'm becoming pragmatic in my middle age... like my grandmother Vivian.  She had a realistic perspective on life.  Never pie in the sky.  Never missed the mark.  And, she was respected and feared because of it.

So this leaves me to wonder what do we live for if we know that our ideals are not always going to be upheld?

We live for those who still have those ideals.  We live for the inspirations and moments in life where we see those ideals win.  My son, like most children, is absolute and idealistic.  I try to live up to his ideals of me as his mother. 

Last Thursday, I picked him up from school.  We did our errands and headed home.  Out of nowhere, he makes one of his famous from-the-gut observations, "Mom, every day is a new you.  I like it!" 

"What do you mean every day is a new me.  I'm the same person aren't I?"  I look in the rearview mirror as he's biting his lip thinking.  "No, mom, every day you do something nice, and it's like a new you!"  I'm skeptical that this is his way of putting a positive "spin" to saying, "Gosh mom, I sure am glad you're not crabby today like yesterday."  But, I take it as a compliment.  It's his "ideal" of his mom.  A new mom who is nice every day.  And, he likes it! 

I realize that even though my perspective is jaded and a bit more "Vivian like" as I grow older, I do still get to live up to my son's ideals.  That is an inspiration in life and a great purpose.  I get to strive to be as good as my son so undauntingly believes I am.  Living up to his idealistic perspective is not only inspiring and encouraging, but meaningful and hopeful.   

Life's inconsistencies, burdens, and injustices pale in comparison to the new goal of living up to our next generations "ideals" of us.  They don't see the realistic side of life yet.  And I think that's a good thing. 

In the car, I ask my son if he got a star today.  He gets a star from his teacher, Mrs. Custard, if he does something extra special and well behaved at school.  These stars are given out judiciously and take a lot of effort.  He is excited about his fifth star that month. 

"Mom, how many days are in October?" 

"Thirty-one." 

"I'm going to get thirty one stars this month!"  he announces from the backseat. 

Knowing that this goal may be a little unrealistic considering he won't actually be in school all those days, I hold back my concern.  Why burst a bubble that is full of so much hope and determination. 

I just give my encouragement.  "That would be great bud."  And I realize that sometimes holding a balloon of hope and ideals is more fun to live for than sticking a pin in it with reality.