Vanilla Pudding Day

Look at what you're doing. Right now. Perhaps you're curled up in a comfy pair of pants. Maybe you sat down with a piping mug o' tea. Did you just finish a long day of work, with tired muscles and sleepy eyes?

I'm wearing yoga pants (my favorite), I'm nibbling on a bowl of strawberries, listening to my baby holler in the next room as he steadfastly refuses to take his afternoon nap, and I'm watching my hubby read on the couch.

There was nothing special about today.

Scott teases me about my desire for adventure, and several months ago we went on a "great explore." I now consider occasional Saturday "explores" one of our traditions. They're very easy to complete, and delightfully relaxing and invigorating. We wake up early (don't wince... it's actually fun on a day off!), and bundle up in warm clothes (that will change in July). Then we go on an "explore." They're typically wonderfully, un-planned adventures... to new places, new parks, yummy eating spots.

Today was wee Grantling's first "great explore."

Wee Polar-Grant!

The sun peeped up in rosy splendor, and just as the house-tops were changing from dull gray to golden shingles, we set off on our adventure.

Grantling is clearly thrilled.

Stroller-fixer. Handsome. Perfect hubby.

The neighborhood was silent, and I tucked my hand in my handsome hubby's arm, as we argued about whether or not Grant was really warm enough. Through the neighborhood, out into the "great beyond" we ventured. This jaunt was shorter than most, as our tiny polar-Grant was with us.

They spelled my fake name wrong: "Mattie"

We stopped at Starbucks. We sipped caramelly goodness, we passed baby back and forth, and listened to conversations of people next to us. (It really is amazing how long people can discuss running shoes and trimming walnut trees...) I just enjoyed my hubby and baby.

Blessed.

"Honey, this is why people laugh at your stories..."

In the aching, windy-cold we raced home, whimpering the entire time. (Don't worry, Grantling was in a fuzzy cocoon of warmth. But Scott wouldn't let me climb in with him...)

The tiny polar-bear was exhausted after his great adventure. And his parents were feeling very polar-ish, so we all cuddled down under piles of blankets and snoozed away.

I made a roast.
Scott put away laundry.
We had a laughing match as he slide-tackled me into a pile of sheets.
I dusted.
Scott fed Grant.

Grant was nice enough to save his first "roll over" for when we were both home (three times in a row!). And yes, I'm the mother who checks developmental milestones... for your information, most babies don't roll over until month four. Grant is just two months old. I'm saying he's a genius. Scott is saying that I'm over-reacting. Whatevs.

Now I'm sitting here. With my strawberries. My handsome men. And my yoga pants.

And I'm amazed at the goodness of God. Not the "goodness" in the sense of the good that people whip out every time that they're in pain. Not the goodness that explodes like firecrackers in your face through life-changing blessings. No, this is "vanilla pudding" goodness.

This is God letting the sun shine every day. This is comfy clothes, warm drinks, and cuddly babies. God gave us down-time. God created Saturday mornings. God gave me a husband who folds laundry.

Straight ballin' in some of Daddy's 1980's duds.

This goodness slips into our lives in mellow, forgettable moments. It's like vanilla pudding... yummy, comforting, and... normal. Look at the shear normalcy of your daily comforts, your daily joys. Think about the bubble of joy you get when your kitchen is clean, when you have a matching pair of socks, when you get home in 10 minutes instead of 20. It's not German chocolate cake goodness... No one is gasping in awe at your vanilla pudding days.

But isn't it amazing that they are given to us? God could have chosen to make our lives here on earth complete and utter misery without Him. He could have given us only the things that we ask for, or the things that we remembered to thank Him for. God could have decided that we only receive what we earn: you went to church? You get a cup of coffee on Thursday. You helped the homeless? That should earn you one smooth commute home from work.

But He didn't.

He gives us vanilla pudding days... lots of them... in between the brussel sprout days and the German chocolate cake, God gives countless moments of vanilla pudding.

Goodness in tiny details. Love in every moment. Gently constant in its presence. Unnoticeable in its very permanence. Vanilla pudding happiness.

And you shall rejoice in all the good that the Lord your God has given to you and to your house...

Deuteronomy 26:11a

Free At Last, Free At Last!

Maternity leave has been a BLAST.

I'm not going to lie.

All you stay-at-home moms out there can chuckle about how it really is a more-than full time job. You can pat me on top of my curly, new-mom head and tell me about the rigors of housewifery and motherhood. And I'll believe you. Don't worry.

But I will also tell you that this is the BEST gig any woman could possibly hope for. And it is far superior to anything that comes attached to a bi-weekly paycheck.

The weeks prior to Christmas were very full for young Grantling and I. We were learning each other, finishing Christmas presents, and trying (vainly) to figure out a "schedule." We had a primarily "homemade" Christmas this year, so that meant lots of hustling and bustling on my end of things, in an attempt to communicate love, despite the lack-luster compilation of gifts. And so, this Christmas compilation of glitter, family time, and love all served to camouflage my heart. But it soon came out. It always comes out.

All this bustling was followed by  spiritual doldrums. (And consequently... wifely doldrums, motherly doldrums, cleanliness doldrums, etc. The doldrums add up!)

Here I was, cuddling a baby, staying at home, making dinner each night--living the dream! And yet I was grumpy, dissatisfied, and a perfect poster for the feminist movement: clearly I was a woman who wasn't satisfied at home.

But it wasn't my home. It wasn't my (amazing) husband. It wasn't my (adorably perfect) baby.

It was me.

I had been handed freedom... Ten hours a day of pure, uninterrupted bliss which otherwise would have been occupied by work.

And my sin had filled those hours.

I became lazy, tired, self-absorbed. I was dissatisfied, cranky, and hard to please. I groaned, cried, and whimpered my way through a precious week of leave, before I realized that I had ignored a vital warning.

"For you were called to freedom, brothers. Only do not use your freedom as an opportunity for the flesh, but through love serve one another."*

Paul warned the Galatians... Freedom will entice you towards sin. Freedom provides a vacuum of time, which you will have an opportunity to fill. And your heart will want to fill it with selfishness.

In my week of doldrums, I had focused on me--my happiness, my comfort, my desires. Focus on others, striving to serve, and (most importantly) gleaning glory for my God and Savior, were not my priorities. I wrapped myself up in dank, foul self-absorption, and the light of grace and mercy were shut out. Here I was, hourly holding proof that God had a glorious plan for me, while I was content to shuffle crumbs under my kitchen table and watch Cosby Show reruns.

This is not an attempt to elicit the perfect "June Cleaver/Susie Homemaker Movement." Crumbs under the table, and un-vacuumed steps were not the problem. Productivity with a new baby is hard. That is not the point.


The point is, I was living for myself. My heart was the problem. I had narrowed and shrunk my world to the size of me, and that is always a recipe for disaster. I filled the void of my new-found (albeit temporary) freedom of time, with selfish goals and priorities.

So here I am today: freely acknowledging my selfishness (for selfishness can often be ignored, when it's just you and a wee baby), and turning to the Creator of Freedom. He alone found my wayward heart. He alone inspired contrite confession. And He alone can elicit service of love which my life owes Him.

I'm busting out the vacuum cleaner and cranking up a sermon on God's glory. After all, He may not call me to big things. But He has called me to great things.

Hear, O Lord, and be merciful to me!
    O Lord, be my helper!

You have turned for me my mourning into dancing;
    you have loosed my sackcloth
    and clothed me with gladness,

that my glory may sing your praise and not be silent.
    O Lord my God, I will give thanks to you forever!**

* Galatians 5:13 

**Ps. 30:10-12