Someone's Playing the Piano

Small pudgy fingers carefully press one white key at a time, jumping and skipping from one to the next, but being careful never to land on more than one key at a time. Not always so careful, they've learned not to pound or hit all the keys at once, if they wish to keep playing. The rule of the house is to only hit one key at a time, except when the big kids that take lessons are there and their fingers fly across the keys, mixing notes in a beautiful song.

Unexpecting

Isaiah 54:1* Sing, barren woman, you who never bore a child; burst into song and shout for joy, you who were never in labor; because more are your children than the children of her who has given birth.

When this scripture was read at my prayer writing group I couldn't help seeing a little of myself and where I'm at in life in it.

I have no children of my own. While to describe a woman as barren would generally indicate a more permanent and less voluntary state than I would presume or wish for myself (or anyone), the fact remains that I've never given birth. I've never experienced labor or held a baby in my arms knowing it came from me.

I don't have a family of my own to raise (though I hope to someday), yet I spend my days raising children. I've cared for enough families I've lost track of how many. I've had countless kids capture pieces of my heart, and to myself I call them my kids. Especially recently, now that I'm working for a single family instead of a preschool with dozens of kids, I've caught myself saying “my __ year old” and adding “that I watch” or “that I babysit” before telling something they did, to prevent confussion over why I talk about “my” kids but never have them with me. And so I have both many kids and no kids.

*I adapted from the New International Version

Flash Fiction - Hide and Seek

I finally decided to write something for the flash fiction prompt a writing group I'm in sent out a few weeks ago: "That's when I realized I could control time and space"

Hide and Seek

I was only six. My brother had yelled at me for the millionth time that I wasn't allowed to play with him and his friends. He said I wasn't old enough and I would cry when I wasn't any good at what they were playing. He'd only reluctantly agreed to let me join them when Max told him to just let me play so I wouldn't go crying to our mom.

I saw Max whisper something to him and him nodding before he told me “We're playing hide and go seek. You get to hunt first, but you have to find everyone in ten minutes or you're out of the game.”

One of his friends snickered “She'll never find us all.”

“Close your eyes for one minute so we can hide, and then you get ten minutes to hunt.” My brother issued his final instructions to me then turned to his friends “Come on.”

I closed my eyes and started counting silently before remembering the new watch I'd gotten for my birthday had a second hand on it, so instead of counting I quickly pulled my head and arms into my coat and stared at my watch. I willed the second hand to move faster as I waited for the big kids to hide, and it seemed to work. I burst my head and arms back out of my coat yelling “ready or not here I come!”

Silently I prayed for ten minutes to be long enough to find them. That minute had seemed to move so fast, I willed time to slow down. I knew the territory for our game spanned the space of six yards, but I tried to convince myself that wasn't half as big as it seemed. Looking up the houses seemed closer together, and even smaller then usual.

That's when I realized I could control time and space, and my brother and his friends didn't have a chance.

Raising Jewish Kids

Since January I've been nannying for a Jewish family four afternoons a week. I'm also on a less regular schedule watching the kids in another family where the mom is Jewish. I'm spending large chunks of my week helping to raise jewish kids. But I'm not Jewish.

Outside of how it has been retold into Christian traditions I know very little about Jewish culture, traditions, and history. I don't know where the lines are between Jewish beliefs that have been morphed into Christian faith and the beliefs that are “new” with Christianity. I don't know what traditions stem from Judaism, what traditions have their roots in the early Christian church, and what traditions come from other religions.

I don't know the Jewish language or words for talking about God and faith. If I tell someone a friend of mine is probably at synagogue on Friday night I catch myself having to make a conscientious effort not to say “church” instead of “synagogue.” I've never really believed in the very Jesus centered language of some churches – I believe in worshiping God above the son of God – but I do consider myself Christian and Christianity is the faith I'm most familiar with.

When I worked in a Christian daycare I knew there were certain things I had to be careful how I talked about. I tend to be more liberal than many of my coworkers and the families we cared for there, but I knew it would be ok if the kids heard me singing a Christian song or saw me wearing a shirt from church camp and asked what it said. It wouldn't create a conflict or leave me needing to explain something I didn't know how the parents would want addressed if I mentioned Jesus or a New Testament Bible story. It probably wouldn't even evoke questions from the kids I watched.

Now I wonder how much the kids I watch know about Christianity, and how much their parents would want them to know if they ever asked me questions. I've thought about wearing a church camp shirt to work and changed my mind because I wasn't sure what I should say if the three year old asked what my shirt said. If and when the kids ask me questions about God, faith, or holidays I want to answer honestly, but I also want to answer in a way that is consistent with what they already know and aligns with what their parents want them to be learning.

I feel like I should know a lot more about Judaism than I do, just so I could know what the kids I watch are being taught about God, and what they are talking about when they mention something related to a holiday or their faith.

The Dust I Know

When the dust settles,

what will be left?

Will we still remember,

the clash of sticks,

scratching at ground,

the fascinating ability,

to find the fun in anything,

or will we be wired,

inseparably tied,

to electronic beep,

and flashing light?

When the dust settles,

will we still know how,

to play in the dirt,

make mud pies,

make cookies from scratch,

and laugh at a poof of flour?

Or will we forget,

what it means to get dirty,

how to sustain ourselves,

the taste of homemade bread,

and the thrill of waiting,

as it's smell fills the house?

When my kids are grown,

will dust mean the same thing,

or will the only dust they know,

be stirred up by power,

outside of themselves,

a race car's wake,

or the danger filled cloud,

whisked up by the buzz,

of a rotary saw,

big boys toys,

to be carefully guarded?

When the dust settles,

will we still be human?

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: When the dust settles.

Ladybug

Forgotten signs,

of past lives,

scratched into walls,

and swept into corners,

reminder these walls,

hold unknown stories,

someone who played,

with a spotted red bug,

in the ladybug house,

before it was mine.

Prompt from A Writer's Book of Days: You're moving into a new house; write about the people or person who lived there before you.

Tasting the Bread

Last night my church had one child attend the Christmas Eve late service. This little girl was absolutely adorable. She looked about four, had a head full of curly hair, and spent half the service whispering to what appeared to be her mom and grandmother.

When it came time for communion everyone was invited to circle around the altar table to share the bread and juice. The little girl was antsy waiting, then didn't want to take any. When everyone returned to their seats I could hear her asking her mom "why did you taste the bread?"

Though the whispers of a four year old changed the mood of what is generally the "adult" service, I found it both adorable and thought provoking listening to her. Nearly every Christian church serves communion at least occasionally, but how many adults even don't really understand why they take communion?

So this little girls question got me thinking. Why DO we "taste the bread" at communion? If a child asked me that could I even begin to answer? Do I even have a reason for it when I take communion, or am I doing it just because that's part of what we do? If it's hard for adults to understand, how can we possibly explain communion as anything more than a snack to a child?

I can't answer all the questions. In fact I'm not sure I have any good answers, but it did make me think about what communion means to me. And I realize... sometimes I'm just going through the motions. Sometimes I take communion because that's what you're supposed to do, and it really doesn't mean anything to me. Perhaps I should be ashamed to say that is probably the case more often then not.

As often as it doesn't mean anything though there are times it does. Sometimes it is exactly what I need. Sometimes I need to be told I'm loved. I need to be told God loves me enough that it doesn't matter how much I screw up or how stupid I am God is there with open arms and a precious gift. Sometimes that simple reminder of love - love directly from God in Christ and love through all the people who hold my hand even when I doubt God is there - is exactly what I need.

So I think if I were asked "why did you taste the bread?" I would have to answer that it's a reminder of God's love. That it's a reminder God loves me and you enough to give us the most precious gift that could be given, and that there is nothing more important than sharing the love God has given to all of us.

And there's my sappy Christmas post that was surprisingly difficult to write...

Rain

Cold drizzle creeps,
into bones,
sinking in,
chilling,
heart,
and mind,
and body.

My blankets call out,
stay in bed,
snuggle in,
drink some tea,
and write a bit,
block out the cold,
with warming ritual,
tea and books,
writing by fire light.

Icy grip,
of downcast weather,
slows me down,
but children are immune,
bouncing and giggling,
begging for escape,
confining space,
too tight,
trapping busy bodies,
who resist the call,
of rainy rest,
with boundless,
overflowing,
energy.


Writing prompt (courtesy of my cousin): "a poem... about... rain and obnoxious children"

I love you

little words,
said with simple,
sincerity,
every pint-sized hug,
proclaiming,
the truth of words,
not heard enough.

Reading in Bed

With eyes scrunched shut,
breath held tight,
a too still body,
listens...

To the creak of the door,
carefully opened,
to take a peak
at a child's sleep.

Wiser eyes know,
the scrunched ones aren't sleeping.
With silent smile,
they turn off the light.

After the door shuts,
and the footsteps die,
small eyes pop open,
as if spring loaded.

Little hands search,
for their lost page of adventure,
to silently read,
by the light of the moon.


Inspired by the prompt "After the door shuts and the footsteps die..." which my cousin shared with me.

Who told you that?

That's an electric fence,
to shock you if,
you try to break in.

Who told you that?

It's true,
they turn it on at night,
and then,
it shocks people.

Who told you that?

My mom.
A child's eyes declare,
it must be true,
My mom said so.

It's not,
but how can I say,
Mom lied to you?

IHATU

for my Pre-Ker, who's only beginning to find the power of writing

"IHATU",
carefully drawn,
in big pencil lines,
angry words,
in a lined paper book.

A cruel face bares teeth,
upon page two,
all because he couldn't place,
the carrot seeds,
that he wanted to.

Jail

"Jail.
Jail.
You're in jail"
They tell me I'm glued,
...taped,
...stapled,
to the fence,
and yet I feel freer,
than when alone.

When jailed by a preschooler,
it's easily to escape,
to run and be free,
til little hands catch me,
giggling "jail."

If only the prison,
inside my head,
were as easy to escape,
as energizing to run from,
but locked in my mind,
is a vacuum for courage,
a dark tangled web of fears and despair,
holding me captive,
draining my energy,
stealing all motivation,
to take care of myself.

My kids tie hungry tigers,
round the jail they make,
say the tigers guard it,
will eat me if I run.
They let the tigers eat me,
and yet I feel more whole,
than any other time.

My own imaginary tigers,
gnawing at my mind,
eating me alive,
from the inside out,
are far worse a threat,
than any my kids set,
to guard my playground jail.

Fire Drill

Today a smoke detector in the daycare I work at malfunctioned, leading to a unplanned fire drill in the cold. While fire drills are a routine thing, hearing the alarm, and looking toward the office to see the director with a face that says "what's that?" is not. If a fire drill is planned the director knows it, but when the alarm goes off and I see she doesn't know what's happening, it's down right scary. As the adrenaline rush slowly faded during my break a couple hours later I wrote this poem:


Adrenaline

Alarms sound,
My heart pounds.

"Fire Drill"
my voice is calm,
but one glance,
tells me,
this drills not planned.

My racing heart, combats,
the sureness of my voice.

"Fire Drill, line up!"
Thirteen kids,
listen quick.

Grab a clip board,
counting heads,
"You take them,
I'll help the babes."

Fueled by adrenaline,
I act with confidence.
Pick up a baby,
"I'll meet you outside."

Count the kids,
everyone's here.
Shiver in blankets,
hear the siren.

Watch the truck,
and wait to hear,
"All is clear."