I once asked my mom what she remembered most from my childhood.

She said she remembered always feeling badly that we were so poor. She said she always wished that she were able to do more for us kids, that she always longed to give us more.

Her answer surprised me because that’s not what I remember at all.

I remember that she rode bikes with us all over the neighborhood, that she let me pull all the stuff out of her cabinets and play in them, that she taught me how to play jacks and how to make a necklace out of clover, that in the winter she and dad would load up the car with all the kids they could find in the neighborhood and take us ice skating, that she was the den mother for my brother’s cub scout troop, that she worked in the school office, that she once made an abusive nun stand down, that she never sent me back to my own bed when I was scared. That’s what I remember.

If there is a lesson here, it is this:  Skip the Wii (whatever that is) and the expensive electronics and hang out with your kid.

Because that’s what they will remember.

***

Disclaimer: This post is not really about the Wii.

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.

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, mommmm, 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 some 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 prayer, 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 and swirls this way and that 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.

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.

One night last week, one of my dear friends from the olden days, Steve Cooper, stopped by for an impromptu visit as he was passing through my neck of the woods.  I love it when that happens — an old friend rings you up and drops in for a visit.  I think we need more impromptu visiting in our society and less scheduling.   So what if I have a giant tent made out of sheets and dining room chairs in my den?  Real friends don’t care.

I haven’t seen Steve for a couple of years and it’s always a treat when our paths cross.  Steve does all kinds of interesting and unusual things and it’s always fascinating to catch up with him and listen to his stories.  For example, last year he walked from the heel in the boot of Italy all the way to Santiago, Spain over a period of six months.  Walked!  He didn’t have hotel reservations, he just let each day unfold, walking from town to town and stopping when he was tired.  Sometimes he stayed in hotels, sometimes he stayed in hostels and sometimes he camped out.   

This trek was something that he had wanted to do for a number of years and last year, he decided that the time was right. He took a sabbatical from his college teaching position, sold his house and put anything he cared about in storage and put the rest in a backpack and got on a plane for Europe.  And oh the stories he has collected along the way and the people he met and the serendipity and the living in the moment!  It seems so much easier to live that kind of life when you are weighed down only by what you can carry.  You can read all about his adventures in his book Six Months Walking the Wilds.

For me, one of the most fascinating aspects of his adventure is this idea of putting everything you own in a backpack.  I try to imagine sorting through my stuff and deciding what to take and what to leave beind.  This week, it’s a thought that I can’t seem to put away.  What would I put in my pack to sustain me for six months? What? A Bible? An itty bitty slim Apple laptop? Immodium? Paper and pencil? A change of undies? Chapstick? Photos? Nail file? iPod?  What?

I’m curious, if you had to carry with you everything you needed, and carry it in a pack and carry it for six months, what would you take?  What?

Clarification: Imagine that it’s just you, not your kid and all their crud, because that makes the game too complicated. I know that’s kind of hard to imagine, but just try.

* * * * *

Speaking of backpacks! The Lands End people have offered me one of their fabulous backpacks to give away, so stop by tomorrow for the details.

Every afternoon, at precisely the same time, a rainbow appears on the door to my laundry room for just a few fleeting minutes.

Sean was the first one to notice it.  We stood and admired the rainbow as it dipped and danced its way across the door with some invisible partner.  But as quickly as it appeared it began to fade.   Within a few seconds it had dissolved completely and was gone.

The next afternoon, the rainbow arrived again just as quickly and as quietly as it had the day before.  We played in it, dipping and waving our hands in the shimmering waterfall of color.  But before I could get the camera, it had slipped away again.

The next day, we were expecting it and quickly traced its route back through the breakfast room into the living room where the sunlight was slipping through the pine trees in just the right way, through the windows and past a crack in the shades in just the right way and then through a prism of glass on the coffee table. In just the right way. And all of that because the sun was positioned over the earth in just the right way. 

It seems to me that that is the way it is with remarkable and beautiful things in life — rainbows, flowers, children — the rare and impossible come together in just the right way at just the right time, golden for just a bright and shining moment, and then gone.

In a few months, the earth will tilt imperceptibly, but in just the right way so that the leaves will begin to turn brown and flutter to the ground and the sliver of sun that peeks through my living room windows and past a crack in the shades will look elsewhere, through different windows.  And this season of afternoon rainbows will be over.

And another remarkable and beautiful season of life will be on its way.

Sean has been to several VBS’s this summer.  For those of you like me, who until several years ago did not know what VBS stood for, it’s Vacation Bible School. 

Well into my 30s, I had never heard the term VBS.  I was raised Catholic and we did not have VBS.  We never really had B or V.  We did get a lot of BS. But that’s another story. Or a whole lot of stories actually.  (Yet I embrace my inner-Catholic school girl, I do. She is me.) 

About ten years ago, at my previous chuch, someone threw out the term VBS and I asked “What’s VBS?” and everyone looked at me like I was the dumbest Martian from Mars.  That made me feel great!   Clearly, I wasn’t in “the club” and didn’t know the lingo.  Coulda used some of that Grace! Grace! Grace! (flick fingers three times here) that my friend Lysa talks about.

So suffice it to say, my knowledge of VBS could be put into a thimble. But I’m learning. I’ve even helped out at one. 

Maybe because we live in a metropolitan area where resources are plentiful, the VBS’s we have been to thus far have been extravaganza’s. The amount of effort and energy expended to put on these broadway style plays and interactive classes is — well, astonishing.  Sean has loved going to them and I think it’s fantastic that so many adults are willing to give their time and money to make that happen for so many kids.

Yet.

Something in me pines for small.  And intimate.  Something in me longs for a VBS experience that is just a group of ladies, cardboard and paperclips. 

Bigger might be better.  But small is nice too.