She showed up at the front door, suitcase in hand, wearing genie pants she purchased at a Spanish market. I think she is taller than she was five days ago because I had to raise my eyes further than usual to look up at her. She bent down to hug me and it felt strange to be the one receiving the hug instead of giving it.

This morning, I visited my daughter's classroom for the class Fairytale Showcase. When I arrived, she jumped up to hug me and said over and over 'Thank you so much for coming, Mom. Thank you, thank you so much.' Precious. A bit overly effusive, but precious nonetheless.

Today I'm joining Lisa-Jo and friends at The Gypsy Mama for Five-Minute Friday. Would you take five minutes and join us there?

1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking.
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. Please visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them.

Today's Prompt: Together


It's beginning to look different, the ways that we connect, the way I sit in the hollowed out space on the sofa and she, long and lean, in the leather chair next to me. You think that being together will always look like her hanging on to the bottom of your leg, begging for you to pick her up. Then it starts to look like her snuggling next to you and asking for another bedtime story.

This week we are enjoying Spring Break, and I will be spending time with my kids, my husband, and a glass of wine or five. It might be quiet here on the blog, although there is the possibility that I will need to talk about how much I love my kids, and/or the revelation I have every school break in which I realize once again, that homeschooling will never be an option for us. I think it's more important that one, my children learn math, and two, they have a mother who is not driven to brink of insanity.

This week will be a good one. My son will turn ten, and I will lament that fact that we have two children in double digits. We will sit in the sun and I will wear big hats because the sun has become my nemesis. We will explore and I will look through the lens and appreciate learning how to see all over again. I will think about running and writing and change and new life and celebration.

I will remember Christ's work on the cross for us, His blood and His love. And even though things on this great, green earth keep changing, my limitations grow ever clearer, and my children become more themselves every day, even in this I know God's love for me is unchanging. Nothing I've said, done, thought, hated, loved, sought after, cried over, doubted or trusted in will ever change what happened on the cross.

Nothing.

So when numbers tick upward and change is a revolution I can't win, I celebrate a God who remains the same yesterday, today and forever. He makes all things beautiful in His time, including me.

Hello and welcome to Five Minute Friday. This is where I sit and stare for three minutes and then write feverishly for two and then wish I could do it all over again because clearly I am not made for writing under pressure. But I have five minutes and a few words, so here you go. Meet me at Lisa-Jo's?

1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking.
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. Please visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them.

Today's prompt: Gift

I see my faults rising like cream to the surface. When they are present in the people you parent, the ones who share your very DNA, they make their presence known early on. He has my tendency towards perfectionism, she has my laziness, he, she, I could go on all day.

DNA shows it's gifts in the brown eyes and pink lips with the perfect cupid's bow, but it stands like a mirror reflecting my soul and sometimes what I see there makes me want to say 'I am so sorry'.

I'm sorry when they receive the worst of me. But, in some ways this is a gift because I have the battle scars to prove I have been through the soul war and come through the other side. Limping maybe, but heart beating and brown eyes clear and able to see. I see, and that is the true gift.

I walked that road and battled those demons and I will be standing there with the first aid kit when they face them too. May they come through the battle limping but victorious.

Stop.

On the drive home, the kids and I talk about our day. E is still under the impression that I lie around and spend most of my time channel surfing. For that matter, so is his father. However, clean clothes and full bellies tell a tale, one that doesn't involve laundry fairies and grocery laden leprechauns. In the car I listen, mostly between the lines. Today, we skip over the inevitable tattling on one another, and launch straight into Very Important Matters. These almost always center around which classmate had a cookie in their lunchbox or who said a naughty word in class.


My boy tells me that they are learning a new song in band class. Band consists of nearly every fourth grade student, each toting an instrument bigger than their head, and one lone, loud band teacher. God bless her. She managed to get them all playing the same piece, with the delightful command to 'Play it faster'; always a crowd pleaser amongst the fourth grade set. According to E, the trumpet players mistook faster for louder and in their excitement drowned out the rest of their bandmates. He said with a sigh that it became too hard to keep up. He finally quit trying, his horn drowned out by the noise of the others.

I sighed too because who better to understand this than his mama? I know what it is to fear being drowned out by the louder, better, stronger, more talented among us. Don't you? There is always someone who will be heard above the cacophony of noise, one who will play with more passion, one whose talent will rise and seemingly drown ours out. There is always someone whose music will shame us into putting away our instrument.


Too often we let them. We allow their music to drown out our own, until we are silence instead of a symphony. I tried to tell this to my boy, feeling a lot like the pot talking to the kettle, but I know he needed to hear it and so did I. Maybe you do too. Maybe you need to be reminded that you are an essential part of the piece. The song isn't the same without you. You are not silence, you are a part of a symphony. It's time to pick up your horn and play.

It's Five Minute Friday and I'm joining Lisa-Jo at the Gypsy Mama. Join me there?

1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking.
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. Please visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them.

Today's Prompt: Loud

She came home in tears, and it's not the first time. She said there are mean girls, ones who lie and spread secrets. They write notes and list her faults; one of those faults was selfish. I told my baby that these words aren't truth, that mean girls don't know her the way we do. I said the words loud and clear.

You are loved.

You are selfless.

You are beautiful, and kind, and a good friend.

You are not their words.

She gave me a half smile through tears. I asked her if she believed me, if she believed truth and that no one knew her better than her mama and Jesus. She nodded, but from the look in her eyes I could see that the truth wasn't making it past the lies.

Why is it the lies are always the loudest?

I tried again. Louder now, and I worried that maybe I sounded angry (which I most definitely was). So I softened and we decided to pray. Whispered words from my lips to her heart and His ears.

I know that Truth comes softly and I asked that in its sacred echo, Truth would drown out the lies.

STOP

Hello there! Welcome to Five Minute Friday. I'm joining Lisa-Jo at the Gypsy Mama where today we write for five minutes on being empty. I'm a mother. I could probably write for five years on this, but I disciplined myself to keep it to minutes. Join me there?

1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking.
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. Please visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them.

Prompt: Empty

GO

There's a quote floating around in the ether that says something to the effect of wanting to 'die empty'. In other words, this person wants to give of themselves in such a way, that when it's time to meet God, they have nothing left to give. They already gave it all.

When I first read this quote I had small children. Three little people who made constant irrational demands: Feed Me, Bathe Me, Get up in the middle of the night and pretend that you actually enjoy this part of mothering me. I thought it was the stupidest thing I'd ever read. I emptied myself on a daily basis over things like stinky diapers and toddler tantrums. Obviously this person was a man and had no idea what they were talking about. There was never anything left to give.

My children grew up a little. I stopped calling the person who said that quote stupid. I realized that this season of mothering very little ones is brief. I have to be purposeful about finding ways to empty myself now. I spill myself onto these dear ones still, but these days my husband gets more, and Jesus, and my treadmill. I discovered I love to spill onto the page too.

And I surprise myself, because I realize I'm working my way back to empty.

STOP

All it took was two inches leftover from the last snowfall. A sunny afternoon. A pair of rain boots standing in for cold weather gear. Upside down mittens. A 'yes' from mom. A few two dollar sleds. And two kids with the imagination to make mountains out of molehills. Or small backyard hills, as it were.

It's so cold that the snow won't melt. It lies like white ribbons of piped icing across the rooftops. Yesterday, I stood outside in the cold, staring at snow ribbons, waiting for the kids to come home on the bus. I waited, and waited, possibly said a bad word, and waited some more. They finally pulled up some twenty minutes later. I pasted a smile on my face so as not to look annoyed at the bus driver. Rumor has it that they were late a few days ago because one kid, a girl with an easy smile and my big brown eyes, was screaming too loud. That day the driver stopped right smack in the middle of the road until there was quiet, probably thinking that someone should talk to that kid's mother. It's at times like these that I am thankful for the language barrier.


Anyhow, the kids weren't off the bus thirty seconds before I got the full story of this afternoon's adventure. Apparently, the door to the bus is broken (think less bus and more large van with a sliding door). The driver was ascending a hill when the door spontaneously flung itself open and then slammed shut, repeatedly. If the driver doesn't want screaming kids on board, then perhaps she should reconsider a van whose gaping wide door might give a six year old a near death experience. She pulled over and attempted to shut it, and that dang door would not shut. Hence, the twenty minutes I spent rooftop gazing.

I haven't laughed that hard in months. I had to stop to catch my breath on the walk up the hill to our house. I laughed, they laughed, and we walked bent over at the belly from the sheer joy of it. There's nothing like laughter to knit the things that have fallen apart back together again. Now, if only someone could work that kind of magic on the bus.

Well, no one is going to be giving me a Mother of the Year award. I sent all three of my kids to school today. Jet-lagged. A little bit sad. In the bitter cold. The littlest and I had a date with a box of Pop Tarts at one in the morning. That and a little dose of Benadryl. Sue me. I need my sleep as I am having a busy day sorting through laundry, making lists, staring into space and contemplating the formation of toast sweat on my white china.

I have been sitting in front of the laptop for a while now, willing the words to come. They're not really. I tried this same tactic with the treadmill and the silence was deafening. I haven't run in a week. I am woefully behind and I don't think I have the heart to keep up a training schedule. I'd rather eat chocolate. For some reason, this doesn't seem to present the same challenge that writing and running do. It's Dove chocolate. It's not even Swiss for crying out loud.

Today, life feels a bit like a fractured fairy tale. We are here and our family is there, and our sadness spans the ocean and endless sky. Those skies won't be carrying us home for good anytime soon. When you agree to life abroad, no one prepares you for the worst. And let me tell you, this is the worst. These fractures take faith. I know they will heal, and the moments will again have meaning, but for now I want to eat chocolate, contemplate toast sweat, and wonder if my kids will ever forgive me.

I'll give them time. And maybe a little chocolate.

My youngest looks forward to Library every Monday afternoon. She brings home two books, and only two, because there is a librarian-imposed limit. I don’t understand this, as there seems to be nothing congruous about books and limits, so we supplement with our own. She loves to hear me read although she’s perfectly capable of it herself, and so we alternate paragraphs or pages. We have one rule. I am never allowed to read words written in all CAPITAL LETTERS. Capital letters are only meant for six-year olds looking for a parent-approved reason to shout.

Yesterday I put on my Hot Chilly's, packed the car with three snowboards, one pair of skis, and three reluctant passengers, and drove up a mountain. It was snowing, and the police were pulling some cars over half-way up the mountain and forcing them to park. To say that I was concerned when they allowed me to pass and continue the drive up is an understatement. However, we arrived at the top safely with a few of my nerves still intact. The snow and wind picked up as the four of us fought to get into our gear and to the slopes for our lessons. If you've ever tried to put ski boots on a fussy six year old in a tempest, then perhaps you can understand how close to the edge of sanity I was inching.

A long story short:

Gear on. Instructors located. Brave face, the kids are watching.

Blizzard. Ski lift. Big mountain. A fear of falling.

Falling now. Repeatedly. Instructors laugh.

Oops. Wrong turn. Instructors stop laughing. A walk back up.

Feels familiar.

White out. Can't see. Worried. Kids continue. Mama doesn't.

Day over. Snow swirling. Slippery, slow drive down.

Brave face, the kids are watching.

The moral of this short story? Fear it. Face it. Know when to order a hot chocolate and call it a day.

Even if the kids are watching.

Today is the last link up with Emily for Tuesdays Unwrapped. I'm afraid traveling between countries and states hasn't allowed for a quiet walk, so I have something else on offer today. I've so enjoyed unwrapping the gifts of this month with all of you. Join us at Chatting at the Sky one last time?


We were 'home' a grand total of four hours before I found myself on the phone with 911. I'd had a premonition/feeling/God whisper that there might be a health issue on our trip, so I wasn't surprised to find myself standing in the kitchen giving details about shortness of breath and increased heart rate. Later, after we heard that treatment had begun and discharge the following day was likely, I mentioned to my husband that I knew something was going to happen, I just hadn't counted on it being so early in our trip. He laughed and said, 'Well, there's always a 50/50 chance around here that someone's going to the hospital.'

He's right. Some of our family members have a penchant for self diagnosis and treatment that usually ends up with me needing a glass of wine, and their taking a trip to the hospital at our insistence. We haven't decided whether to call it maddening or endearing. I'm leaning towards maddening. And that's the thing about families. They make us crazy. They make us love them. They make us want to wring our hands and fall apart and hold them together and pick up the pieces and laugh like a hyena and treat them to a coffee and thank God that He saw fit to put us in one.




I didn't need a premonition to know that my kids would be jet-lagged and waking up at four a.m. every morning. But they are and they do. For days, I've begged for the mercy of more sleep while my daughter curls into the curve of me in the bed. She wants to talk. And while I want to cry because, good gracious I'm exhausted, I bend my head into her neck and and her brown hair tickles my nose. I hold her hand in the dark, and I remember her in my womb, curling into the curve of me. I remember the call to 911, the crazy that is family, and that God saw fit to place me in this one. I lie in the dark and I unwrap each name and I call them a gift. Then I shush my girl, because if Momma doesn't get some sleep there isn't enough red wine in the world to make that look pretty.


If you have expectations for this Christmas, but find that things aren't going according to plan, you might enjoy reading this post. Have a wonderful Christmas and enjoy unwrapping your gifts this season.

Kimberly

Given our travel schedule and limited time with family, I'm likely to go a bit quiet here for the next few weeks. I'll pop in occasionally, but not very consistently. If you'd like to receive email updates, there's a little gadget at the bottom of the blog where you can sign up.

Before our children were born, my husband and I gave a lot of thought as to what they were to be called. We thought not only of the name they answer to when it's time for dinner, but the meaning behind those names, the words by which they are known. One is called 'Lamb', one is known as 'Strength', and the littlest is 'Wisdom and Grace'. I don't call them that on a daily basis, but some nights once they're tucked and cozy beneath the blankets, I remind them of who they are and what they are called.

You, son, are Strength. You are strong and courageous in spirit.

You, daughter, are my Lamb. Precious in our Shepherd's eyes.

You, little one, are Wisdom and Grace. Your name is your blessing.

My hope is that when I speak those names over them, the truth will bury itself deep in their spirit. My prayer is that they will become what they are called, that their name will be their gift and their blessing to others.

Last week my German tutor corrected me when I introduced myself as Kimberly. She said that the Swiss never give their first name in an introduction. Here, I am Frau Coyle. Your name is something you give to a dear friend, not a co-worker, acquaintance or even a neighbor. Your name is a gift.

I've been turning this idea over and over again. Your name is a gift. Who you are and what you are called, is a gift. This idea might be harder to grasp for those of us with names that don't really mean much of anything, but I believe that God gives us names too. He was in the habit of renaming people in the Bible, Sarai to Sarah, Jacob to Israel, Saul to Paul. I believe that He has a name for me, and that He wants to whisper the truth of what I am called if I will be still enough to listen.

Have you heard His whisper? Do you know who and what you are called?

I know her emotions are as real to her six-year old heart as they are to mine, but I believe she decides which one she will choose on any given day. After all, it is her talent. If she is free to choose, then my hope for her is that she will learn to embrace laughter. I pray that her girlish giggles will help her to laugh at the days to come, and that the rest of us would pluck merry off the wind with her.


Kimberly

My poor little blog has suffered from a lack of attention this summer. I can assure you my children haven't, but the blog certainly has. School is back in full swing this week, leaving me a bit of a mess. The first day of school is a mixed bag of emotion, and you never know which one you will reach in and pull out. It can range from a slight sense of euphoria, 'Hey look, there's no one here to bicker and sass me and leave out every toy in the house' to a mild sense of panic 'Hey look, there's no one here to bicker and sass me...'



You understand, I know you do. Being a mama is like wearing your heart forever on the outside, laid bare ready to soak up every bit of pain, pleasure, failure, and joy that life spills out. It's a holy calling, this mothering.


But, it's hard to mother the absent, and so I act a little crazy and feel a little teary and wonder what in the world I will do with all my free time. Then I remember the ironing, the groceries, the unmade beds and my heart finds a way to mother them even here, in the quiet hours.

Kimberly

It's been ages hasn't it?

We've been busy settling back into life in der Schweiz. There has been laundry, groceries, and lots of gardening to catch up on. Cold, rainy weather has led to some rather interesting dynamics among my little people, namely who can be the most annoying without getting caught and who can make their sibling the first to cry on any given day. There have also been rousing games of who can make the biggest mess and not clean it up, and who can complain the most about the bad weather/soggy garden clean-up/general obnoxiousness of their family members.

I may or may not have won that last round.

Summer as an expat is a tricky time. Most families head back to their home country for the better part of the summer months, so playmates are scarce. Add in some exceptionally bad weather, and you are looking at a lot of empty hours to fill. We'll be filling them soon with a villa in Italy. Until then, I will be silently begging God to accept that I have enough patience and I no longer require the aforementioned situations in order to produce it.



What are you doing to fill your empty summer hours?

Kimberly