We were all crammed on baby-bear chairs in the back of the first grade classroom. Me.
And twenty other moms wiping sweat beads off of our foreheads on a sultry May day near the school year’s end.
The kids were lined up in a perfect row in front of the whiteboard at the classroom's head.
Each child held a laminated sheet of writing paper, that precious elementary-school-kind with thick red lines separated by light blue dashes in the middle.
The students were beaming, swaying and bouncing with excitement and flashing their toothless grins.
And we beamed back, proud and expectant.
Finally the teacher stepped in front of the wiggly line and the noise dropped to a low hum.
With a smile that could have lit up a starless night, Mrs. Smith announced the purpose of our gathering.
The kids had been working hard on Mother’s day poems, and they were ready to share their words with their guests of honor.
Shyly, the first reader stepped forward, her eyes searching the crowd for her mom.
Brown-haired Mom waved from her baby-bear chair, and little girl straightened her shoulders and began to read...
My mom. I love my mom because she makes me macaroni and cheese and she tickles my toes when I’m laying on the couch. I love my mom because she reads me stories before bed and she watches my favorite tv show with me. I love my mom because she helps me get all the tangles out of my hair and she tells me I’m pretty. I love my mom because she is the best mom in the whole world...
The bashful author peeked her eyes over her poem and looked right into her mommy’s gaze.
Mommy nodded and smiled while little girl blushed, bowed, and happily headed to the back of the line.
We broke into gleeful applause and waited in quiet expectation for the next reading.
Odes to mommies filled the room.
The audience of grateful guests responded with tears and giggles, camera flashes and winsome winks.
Brown-haired Mom waved from her baby-bear chair, and little girl straightened her shoulders and began to read...
My mom. I love my mom because she makes me macaroni and cheese and she tickles my toes when I’m laying on the couch. I love my mom because she reads me stories before bed and she watches my favorite tv show with me. I love my mom because she helps me get all the tangles out of my hair and she tells me I’m pretty. I love my mom because she is the best mom in the whole world...
The bashful author peeked her eyes over her poem and looked right into her mommy’s gaze.
Mommy nodded and smiled while little girl blushed, bowed, and happily headed to the back of the line.
We broke into gleeful applause and waited in quiet expectation for the next reading.
Odes to mommies filled the room.
The audience of grateful guests responded with tears and giggles, camera flashes and winsome winks.
Slowly the line in front of the whiteboard diminished, and my daughter stepped into the spotlight, her unruly curls caressing her pixie face.
I waited in sweet anticipation for the lines of gushing gratitude and love that were sure to flow from this girl of mine.
After all, this child was a writer like her mommy.
At eighteen months old she’d begun to talk and had never stopped.
There was never enough time in one day to fit all her words.
This was the child who often called me to her bedside in the middle of the night just to articulate a few more thoughts before the sun rose and a new day dawned.
The girl who stocked my closet shelves with stacks of little-girl journals and homemade cards.
I could only imagine what she had concocted on her little laminated sheet of paper...
Eloquent lines about our Sunday afternoon walks and Saturday morning pancakes.
Accolades for my silly singing and impromptu story telling.
Praises for our girl dates and game nights...
I wiggled my fingers in a two-finger wave, and Lizzy flashed me a confident grin.
Then she began to read loudly and clearly.
“I love my mommy because she is never too big to play with me."
She paused, caught my eye, and then finished with a sanguine smile.
"And that’s why my mommy is the best mommy in all the world.”
I waited in sweet anticipation for the lines of gushing gratitude and love that were sure to flow from this girl of mine.
After all, this child was a writer like her mommy.
At eighteen months old she’d begun to talk and had never stopped.
There was never enough time in one day to fit all her words.
This was the child who often called me to her bedside in the middle of the night just to articulate a few more thoughts before the sun rose and a new day dawned.
The girl who stocked my closet shelves with stacks of little-girl journals and homemade cards.
I could only imagine what she had concocted on her little laminated sheet of paper...
Eloquent lines about our Sunday afternoon walks and Saturday morning pancakes.
Accolades for my silly singing and impromptu story telling.
Praises for our girl dates and game nights...
I wiggled my fingers in a two-finger wave, and Lizzy flashed me a confident grin.
Then she began to read loudly and clearly.
“I love my mommy because she is never too big to play with me."
She paused, caught my eye, and then finished with a sanguine smile.
"And that’s why my mommy is the best mommy in all the world.”
My girl friend elbowed me as the women around me broke into appreciative applause.
I joined in the clapping and tried to absorb my daughter’s succinct little poem.
She had chosen to celebrate such a small thing.
Or had she?
I joined in the clapping and tried to absorb my daughter’s succinct little poem.
She had chosen to celebrate such a small thing.
Or had she?
My promising poet doesn't bear a toothless grin anymore. She doesn't scribble on paper measured with light red lines and pale blue dashes.
But at nearly-twelve-years-old, she still loves to spend a day in play.
And now and then she still invites her not-too-big-to-play mama into those small and sacred moments.
Thanks to my curly-haired girl, I've come to think of play in a whole new way since that long-ago day in the first-grade classroom.
In my early years as a mom, I saw play simply as a necessary tool for passing time.
It was something I did with my children to get from breakfast to nap time, from supper to bed time. Play was merely something that filled the long hours of our days until the moon replaced the sun.
It was something I did with my children to get from breakfast to nap time, from supper to bed time. Play was merely something that filled the long hours of our days until the moon replaced the sun.
But fourteen years into motherhood, I am beginning to realize that the true nature of this gift revolves around redeeming time, not pressing through time.
Play is an incredible tool for weaving our ordinary days with threads of the extraordinary.
It's a gift of grace for rediscovering the marvelous in the midst of the miraculous, for infusing the wearisome with wonder.
Play is an incredible tool for weaving our ordinary days with threads of the extraordinary.
It's a gift of grace for rediscovering the marvelous in the midst of the miraculous, for infusing the wearisome with wonder.
When I pause to play, I slow down the incessant whirl of time.
I make myself small enough to enter into the present moment and engage in it.
When I live in that space of play where my children reside, I embrace the now. Because that's the only moment they know.
They aren't planning out the future or brooding over the past. They are merely enjoying the present. Unwrapping the gift of today.
I make myself small enough to enter into the present moment and engage in it.
When I live in that space of play where my children reside, I embrace the now. Because that's the only moment they know.
They aren't planning out the future or brooding over the past. They are merely enjoying the present. Unwrapping the gift of today.
In 1000 Gifts, Ann reminds us :
Time is a relentless river. It rages on, a respecter of no one. And this, this is the only way to slow time: When I fully enter time’s swift current, enter into the current moment with the weight of all my attention, I slow the torrent with the weight of me all here.
I can slow the torrent by being all here. I only live the full life when I live fully in the moment. And when I’m always looking for the next glimpse of glory, I slow and enter.
And time slows. Weigh down this moment in time with attention full, and the whole of time’s river slows, slows, slows. ...
Time is a relentless river. It rages on, a respecter of no one. And this, this is the only way to slow time: When I fully enter time’s swift current, enter into the current moment with the weight of all my attention, I slow the torrent with the weight of me all here.
And time slows. Weigh down this moment in time with attention full, and the whole of time’s river slows, slows, slows. ...
Oh, dear moms, do you see it now? This big gift called play?
When we enter into a moment of Tonka Trucks or tree house fun, when we put down our to-do lists, turn off our computers, and leave the mounds of laundry for later, we put ourselves in a posture to see God.
When we crawl on the floor and and push that Barbie car across the carpet or crouch in the closet during a game of hide-and-go-seek, we lower ourselves in the most marvelous of ways.
When we enter into a moment of Tonka Trucks or tree house fun, when we put down our to-do lists, turn off our computers, and leave the mounds of laundry for later, we put ourselves in a posture to see God.
When we crawl on the floor and and push that Barbie car across the carpet or crouch in the closet during a game of hide-and-go-seek, we lower ourselves in the most marvelous of ways.
Crawling may not produce anything but holes in our jeans, but adjusting the posture of our hearts will indeed breed wonder.
In the words of G.K. Chesterton, “How much larger your life would be if your self could become smaller in it!”
In the words of G.K. Chesterton, “How much larger your life would be if your self could become smaller in it!”
And so today when your son invites you to join him in sandbox or your daughter welcomes you into her world of princesses and palaces, don't be afraid to get small.
For as you do, you may just discover the secret of those moms who are never too big to play.
You may discover that while you are driving Hotwheels through the dirt and parading those Polly Pockets down the hallway, you are really just paving a road for God to enter.
For He is drawn to the low in spirit. And to those with childlike hearts.
You may discover that while you are driving Hotwheels through the dirt and parading those Polly Pockets down the hallway, you are really just paving a road for God to enter.
For He is drawn to the low in spirit. And to those with childlike hearts.
The Overflow: “I live in a high and holy place, but also with the one who is contrite and lowly in spirit,
to revive the spirit of the lowly
and to revive the heart of the contrite."-Isaiah 57:15
Counting all these small moments of play as grace...
1160. Playing ball tag at the park after an impromptu picinc.
1161. Playing hide-and-go-seek on the playground with the little ones and my dear friend Allie.
1162. A just-before-bedtime game of rummikub with Lizzy.
1163. A bike ride in the rain with Joshua. Squealing louder than the thunder as we soar down the hill! (And much thanks for healthy legs to pedal back UP!)
1164. A spa on the back deck--big girls pampering little girls with foot massages, hair glitter, and make up.
1165. Watching my man teach Joshua how to pitch baseballs in the front yard early on Sunday morning.
1166. Rob playing goalie in the 90 degree summer heat as Lizzy practices her footwork.
1167. A walk in the dark with my husband- time to talk and get away from our noisy life.
Linking again with Ann and these lovely grace seekers: l.l. for on, in, and around mondays, laura for playdates with god, ruth at the better mom, and jen for soli deo gloria
to revive the spirit of the lowly
and to revive the heart of the contrite."-Isaiah 57:15
Counting all these small moments of play as grace...
1160. Playing ball tag at the park after an impromptu picinc.
1161. Playing hide-and-go-seek on the playground with the little ones and my dear friend Allie.
1162. A just-before-bedtime game of rummikub with Lizzy.
1163. A bike ride in the rain with Joshua. Squealing louder than the thunder as we soar down the hill! (And much thanks for healthy legs to pedal back UP!)
1164. A spa on the back deck--big girls pampering little girls with foot massages, hair glitter, and make up.
1165. Watching my man teach Joshua how to pitch baseballs in the front yard early on Sunday morning.
1166. Rob playing goalie in the 90 degree summer heat as Lizzy practices her footwork.
1167. A walk in the dark with my husband- time to talk and get away from our noisy life.
Linking again with Ann and these lovely grace seekers: l.l. for on, in, and around mondays, laura for playdates with god, ruth at the better mom, and jen for soli deo gloria
