Late last year, I was asked if I would be willing to speak to a group of ladies and if so, what would I talk about?

I said, yes, and I have no idea.

That there folks is pretty much the way I approach life - half cocked.  Life is an adventure.  Why be fully cocked when half will do?

So then. I panicked.

And then I called my friend Lysa Terkeurst (subliminalmessagebuyLysasbooks) who is by far the most dynamic and powerful speaker I’ve ever heard and I prevailed upon her for wisdom. She gave me some great advice about planning a speech and crafting a message.  She also helped me see that the essence of what I write about here is capturing the joy of motherhood. And together we decided that would be a great topic for a speech. Or a book.

So then, later this month, I will be speaking to a group of ladies about capturing the joy of motherhood.

As luck would have it, life is not oozing joy at the moment.  Life is peaks and valleys my friends, we all know that, and right now I’m just sort of hanging out at the bottom of the mountain waiting for the ski lift to take me back up to the top.  It’s fine.  There’s a snack bar down here and lots of nice people.

So the other day as I was trying to put together some thoughts on the joy of motherhood that I could talk about,  I was interrupted 87 times by my child who seems to have a knack for knowing when I need a moment of peace or need to get something done.

Mom, MOM, mommy, hey mom, Ma-ahmm, hey mom look at this, mom do you know where, mom have you seen my, mom what if, hey mom, mom will you pour me some, hey mom come see…

At which point, I shouted not joyfully “DO NOT CALL MY NAME ONE MORE TIME! DO! NOT!”

Now one of the many things I like about God is how he uses my own short comings to teach me stuff I need to know.  I imagine sometimes that he is sitting up there in heaven with one of those apostle guys saying something like, “Hey Pete, Jimbo! Dudes, come watch this.  You’re gonna like this. Yeah, Antique Mommy again.”

After I heard the sound of my own voice screeching at my child I was struck by the irony that I was trying to write a speech on the joy of motherhood.  And I had to stop and ask myself what is joy exactly, separate and apart from motherhood? And what business do I have telling others about it?

After much research and introspection, I came to the conclusion that joy is not happiness.  It is not glee or exhilaration or giddiness - those things reside on the surface and they come and go with the wind that blows steadily at the top of the mountain.

For me, joy is deep and abiding and resides somewhere up under the sternum.  Joy is as ever present in the valleys as it is on the peaks. It is satisfying and it is fulfilling and it is not fleeting. It’s the certain knowledge that this place in time, this right now — this is good! And that each day of life, each moment,  is a precious and beautiful gift - even when it’s not oozing joy.

Being Sean’s mom is a tremendous source of joy in my life, even when he’s driving me crazy.

That is the joy of motherhood.

Saturday afternoon, Sean and AD took a break from deconstructing Christmas and walked to the park to enjoy the rare winter blessing of sunny and 74.

I finished up a few things and then walked over to join them. As I made my way across the street I could see Sean on the swing set with another boy, both trying to touch the clouds with their toes.

I walked up behind them and listened to them chattering little boy nonsense for a few seconds before the other boy noticed me standing there.

“Your grandma is here,” he said to Sean.

Sean turned his head and saw me standing behind the swing set and then quickly turned back without meeting my eyes.

“That’s my mom,” Sean said quietly in a way that pieced my heart.

No greeting or further acknowledgment was made of my presence.

I’ve been mistaken for Sean’s grandma a number of times in the past five years and honestly, it hasn’t really bothered me. In fact, I usually find it kind of funny.  This time I didn’t find it funny because it wasn’t about me. It was about Sean and his brand new awareness of how others see me.

I don’t really much care what other people think about me but to think that I might be an embarrassment to my child hurt my heart a little bit.   When I embarrass him in front of his friends, and I will, I want it to be on purpose.

Up to this point, in Sean’s eyes, I have been a vision of motherly perfection.  Like a clumsy affectionate puppy dog, he is happy just to be in my company.  He is oblivious to my wrinkles and graying hair and imperfections.  It has probably never occurred to him that his mom is “a little older” than the other kid’s moms.

But now, I could tell in his voice, in the softly defensive way he said “that’s my mom” that he had taken his first bite of the bitter fruit that falls from the tree of a social awareness.

And I wanted to whack him on the back of the head and make him spit it out.

This morning as I sat at my desk around 6am cuddling my first cup of coffee, I heard the roar of the trash truck coming down the street and I was hit with the startling realization that it was trash day.

I went into overdrive.  I cinched up the belt of my sorry, balding, chenille-shedding hot pink robe, turned up the collar, and like a super hero I sprinted towards the cold garage to lug a mountain of post-Christmas crud to the curb before the trash guys passed by.

Mission accomplished.  Infused with adrenaline and brisk morning air, I jogged back up the driveway anxious to get back to my warm house and my coffee.

But over the groan and rattle of the descending garage door I heard something — small and delicate and pleading.  I cast a quick glance over my shoulder  into the dim light of the garage but saw nothing unusual.  Probably another new squeak in an aging garage door I thought.  The garage door shut with a thud, faded to black and I turned once again to go into the house. But there it was again, a tiny pitiful voice calling out of the darkness, “Sweeee!  Sweeee!”

It was not a rusty garage door that called to me.  It was some thing.

I raised the door again to let in the light of day.  Perched on a shelf on the other side of the garage was a tiny bird.  She did not immediately fly away to freedom, but paused to look at me from across the garage.  “Sweeee! Sweee!” she cried again.  And then she cocked her head in an unusual way and escaped off into the morning sunlight.

I’m not one to make New Year’s resolutions or set goals; I don’t know where I want to be in five years, other than alive. But as I watched that little bird fly away, I realized that this year I want to do better at listening for the still small overlooked voices  in my world.

If I am to be honest, I would have to say that this was not the merriest Christmas on record.  Having said that, we are well and we are fed, so it’s also not the worst Christmas on record either.

I will not bother to whine about the particulars because I doubt that I am the only person in America who has been slapped upside the head by life lately or that my woes are worthy of mention compared to those that I know many of you are suffering.

In addition to all that, shortly after lunch on Christmas day, my mother-in-law’s twin brother came to the backdoor unannounced.   Aunt Jean and I were in the kitchen washing up the lunch dishes when Uncle Leo appeared in the doorway.

I could see in his face that he had come to deliver the news we had all been expecting.  “Pearl is gone,” he said quietly and matter-of-factly.  After a long illness and untold suffering, Aunt Pearl had finally yielded the pain of this life to the sweet relief of death. And I did not blame her. She was 85-years-old.

Later that afternoon, AD and Sean and I went for a walk around the block to clear our heads and to see if we could find our misplaced merry.  The sun sparkled brightly through leafless trees and the December air was cold and cleansing; its sting felt good on my face.  AD and I walked hand-in-hand, listening to Sean chatter as he trotted ahead of us, collecting pine cones for me to carry home.

Before we were home, I realized that next year and in the years to come,  I won’t remember the sorrows of this season, for they too shall pass.  I will only remember how Sean’s hair shimmered like a brand new penny under the winter sun and the prickly feel of a pine cone pressed into my hand.

* * *

What will you remember of this holiday season?

Every night before bedtime, and sometimes before school, Sean and AD will read at least one chapter from a book of children’s classics.

Having gone through most of the other more exciting and well known titles, we are down to Pollyanna. But he is just as enthralled with Pollyanna as he was with The Swiss Family Robinson.

Stepping up to chapter books like Tom Sawyer and Oliver Twist has presented many opportunities to talk about some of the more unsavory and unpleasant aspects of life.  Many of the characters are orphaned or suffer cruelty at the hands of those who should protect them.  And there is always a concern to AD and me over how much of this kind of information is appropriate for a five-year-old.

But the thing about Sean that continually amazes us is how wise he is beyond his years and how tenderly perceptive he is about the human condition and matters of the heart.  Although we would certainly like to claim credit for that,  it’s simply the way God made him.

If you don’t recall or haven’t read the story of Pollyanna, she is a young girl who was orphaned and goes to live with her Aunt Polly who is a cold and crusty middle-aged spinster.  Aunt Polly suffered a thwarted romance early in her life which left her bitter and she has never gotten over it.  Aunt Polly has a big house, yet she makes Pollyanna sleep in a hot, stuffy, bleak attic and in general gives Pollyanna no affection.  Nonetheless, as the story goes, it is Pollyanna’s way to see the silver lining in every gray cloud.

At one point in the story, AD stopped reading and looked over the book at Sean who was lying in bed.  “Why do you suppose Aunt Polly is so gruff?” he asked.

“I think she has a children ache,” Sean said quietly.

“Oh Sean,” AD sighed, “I think you are so right. A lot of times when people are gruff on the outside, and sad or mean, it’s because they are hurting on the inside.”

It’s true. I had a children ache once too.