PeaceMoms Blog

I want you to meet this man... just to watch him when he talks, to notice his eyes when he listens to children, to see how he connects with people.
Amazing how he makes clear communication seem effortless.
I don't even know him very well.
I just observe and that's all I need, to know what I know about him.

He gets results too.
He makes requests in his predictable, kind tone, and people respond.
You know the sweetness that some people exude, but it has no affect?
There's a fakeness to it.
It reeks of insecurity.
It sniffs of mischief.
It spells out alterior motives.
There's a way of talking where disclaimers are overused; smiles are forced.
Well, that's not this guy.

He's the real thing. I've watched him enough to know.
I watch him when he doesn't even know I'm watching, just to see if he's ever different. He's not. I don't think I've ever seen him have a bad day.
He's kind and generous constantly.

He stands up in front of the entire student body and speaks with poise and confidence.
His words are straightforward and clear.
He makes his requests known and students want to please him.
His kindness is so powerful, it spreads through the school like a bad rumor.
The climate of his leadership permeates into the kids and they resemble the kindness too. Remarkable.

I know he has his moments.
He must.
He's human.
I know his wife and children see things I don't.
He's like the rest of us. He has to be.
But, he stands out among thousands as a picture of what I want to be... as a teacher, a wife, a mother, a daughter, a friend. He models the fact that nothing is so important that it's worth disregarding kindness, just to be be right or to advance a selfish cause.

I can be nice. I don't mean "nice" in the "let's avoid truth" kinda way, but in the simple, human, common courtesy way. I've discovered that the seeds sown in authentic love, generosity, and kindness toward others always reap a harvest.
Sometimes you can see it. Sometimes, not.
You can see it in this man.
You can see it in the school.
You can see it on faces of children and staff and parents.
Kindness is contagious. It is a force that wins every time.
Even if we don't immediately benefit, someone else will, and that is enough.

I dropped my daughter off for her first day of school today.
She's a first grader. No more half days.
No more blankies tucked away in her back pack, for that sudden cuddle fix she needs when she's away from home. No more walking her into the classroom to help her find her coat hook and shelf to hang her lunch box.
She's a big girl now. Just a few short weeks ago, she was using crayons to write her name, listening to stories on a carpet by a rocking chair, and needing a rhyming song to help her learn the days of the week. But they're already calling those days, "last year" and referring to what she knew then as baby stuff.

It's hard to move on.
It's hard for all of us.
We grow accustomed to routine and the friends and experiences that go along with it. We say we want something different, but can barely take the next step without resistance. I'm the worst when it comes to saying goodbye to something wonderful. I'll tell you all the reasons to make the space in your heart for new miracles, and how God is always doing a new thing so you should keep watch, but I rebel against transitions' natural flow. In other words, I don't believe my own declarations of what God's best for me is. I preach it. I don't practice it, at least not consistently.

Each time I look at her toothless smile, I want to stop the clock. I don't want to miss anything. When I stoop to kiss her, I want to treasure the short time that she is still smaller than me, because it's passing. Not a day, not a spilled breakfast, not a scraped knee, not an over dramatic reaction to a spider web, do I want to miss or wish away. Everything is passing. Everything is changing.

This reminds me of what I'm reading in the gospels when Jesus is talking to his disciples and he keeps referring to the time they still have while He is with them. It won't be forever. He is going to leave them someday. He'll be with them in a different way. And as wonderful as that might be, it will be nothing like the moments they have with him, as a man... standing in their midst, performing miracles, talking to them, touching them. He doesn't want them to miss it; to miss Him. For me, as I imagine what those days must have been like for the disciples, I want to give them a talkin' to. I want to remind them to stop. There were times they did, but they rushed around a lot too. I want to help them look into the future to see what life is like when faith is all you have. I want them to know there are going to be times they'd give anything to have him around again, so they could ask him questions and he'd be there... as a man... to answer them. I want to warn them to get out of the past and the future and to treasure the moments they have right now. I get jealous of Peter, of Matthew, of James. They got to see it all with their own eyes. They could touch Him. They could look right into His eyes. They were there. Facing the transitions, they too resisted change, but it came anyway. I want them to know that way into the future, if they were to walk up my driveway and sit at my table, or use my guest room for the night, that their privilege to actually be with Him was truly God's greatest gift to any human ever. Do they know how lucky they are?

I'm finding new ways to spend my days now that she's gone. I'm making the transition just fine. I'm seeing all kinds of new possibilities for her and for me and it's quite exciting, but I'm resisting it too. I'm caught in the in-between place of what is and what was and trusting God to meet me there.
He will. He promised He would. He's doing it now... for me and for you.

Onward and Upward,
Nadyne

I'm reading the Gospels right now. Finishing up the book of Matthew. To begin each day, I rise before dawn and have my cup of tea, and then cuddle in a blanket and read my Bible. I have said for so many years, that I want to do this - to take time out and just sit and read. No notebooks and pen in hand. Just read. So, I'm finally doing it. That's one of the reasons I love the season of Ramadan, because for me, as a Christian, I take time to stop a lot of the other noise that clutters my thoughts. I become more reflective and quiet. I am intentional about noticing what's around me, down to the minutest detail. And getting up before the sun; before the rush of the day, I can focus on the scriptures and avail myself to the Lord's leading - without distraction.

Silence is a powerful noise.
Silence in the dark is even more so.

I am one of those folks cursed or blessed with a creative mind. I think and plot and plan and wonder and dream almost obsessively. I can't get my mind to be quiet. Add the sun, and the small child, and the phone, and the unpaid bills, and all the things I was going to have done by now, and the battle in my head gets even louder. So, I am on purpose about rising, and sitting, in the dark and the quiet to see if I can hear God in a new way. Today, I heard Him. In the pages of scripture. Imagine that. The life giving Word of God in verses I've read a hundred times before, became new to me today. In the dark. In the silence.

"When Jesus stood before Pilate, and the governor asked him,
"Are you the king of the Jews?"
"Yes, it is as you say," Jesus replied.
When he was accused by the chief priests and the elders, he GAVE NO ANSWER.
Then Pilate asked him, "Don't you hear the testimony they are bringing against you?" But Jesus MADE NO REPLY, not even to a single charge - to the great amazement of the governor."
I read that and want to shout into the pages to explain to Pilate who Jesus is; to defend his innocence. You know, because Pilate doesn't already know that. As if Jesus is not God enough to defend Himself. As if "defense" is the appropriate reply. And in my own stirring emotions, just sitting here in my study on a dark and chilly late summer morning, I want to shout out because I'm getting angry for Jesus who doesn't seem to get angry for himself. His silence is making me mad. As if "anger" is the appropriate reply.
And I notice, in the humble example of Christ, that He is willing to stand in complete vulnerability - fully knowing He could get out of this if He wanted to - Silent. Silent enough to be okay. Silent enough to be at peace. Silent enough that in that public arena filled with screaming citizens demanding He be given up for crucifixion, His voice is the most powerful one in the room.
Interesting.
Maybe I ought to try this.
Maybe my voice isn't working much of the time and my silence might.
Maybe, the possibility is there that what is broken in my life could be repaired by my not doing, but by being, and in my being; silent.

The sun is up now. The race is on. Gotta leave my quiet sanctuary and empty the dishwasher. Gotta answer some emails and make a few phone calls. I have some new things to think about. Maybe the most important one? My voice isn't necessarily the most beautiful contribution as often as I think it is. There are other times and places for that. I'll let the sound of the ticking clock and the wind in the trees and the early morning birds be enough for now. Words will have to wait. If I have the courage to silence them.