In Moments Like

If I were a comic strip character, I'd say "ARG!" just about now. Today, after church and two soccer games, Elspeth dipped into the tupperware of rice and, presumably, ran across the kitchen with it into the dining room. And someone drew on the wood floors with chalk. The kids watched TV this afternoon and threw their cheese-stick wrappers on the floor. My pretty brown leather shoes now officially pinch my toes. And in an effort to enjoy the evening, we went on a walk that actually stressed me out MORE--children ran amok toward roads (Bea hasn't quite learned yet), Merry insisted on riding a scooter over the cracked sidewalks, and I pushed a big, empty stroller and shouted: Stop right there! Stop!!!

In moments like these. That phrase takes me back to 6th grade, Nairobi, Kenya, our school on a hill surrounded by coffee bushes. The UN compound was within walking distance down a smoothly paved, quiet road. My first year there under enormous spreading trees. Mr. O's classroom. He and his wife had painted his desk in zebra stripes. I remember him as a tall man with hairy nostrils and a high, nasal voice who distrusted me, accused me of cheating, and then made me pray with him in the back of the classroom. He mocked my way of writing cursive "Ls" by demonstrating on the chalk board for the class. His favorite word was audacity, as in, You have the audacity to come in here and. . .I must give him thanks for one thing, though: under his tutelage I learned once and for all that A LOT is two words, not one. Oh, thank you, Mr. O. Good work.

Not uncommonly, our class sang praise songs in the morning. Carla D. was by far the holiest of all the girls: she would actually lift her hands in the air, palms up, and sing In moments like these, I lift up my hands. . . I can see her now with her blond Dutch bob and that unbelievably cute, lopsided grin. She could pray well, too, and she always had a following of devoted boys. I--Kimberly Long with the incorrect L--boasted badly cut bangs and acne. I'd also not yet learned that wearing a bra (a BIG deal in sixth grade, mind you) under a white cotton shirt could expose me to ridicule.

In moments like these. In such times as now, when I realize that my life is full of bits of chaos, good things, frustrating minutes and hours and a fuller measure of love than I deserve--in fifteen minute increments when I've been encouraged to take a time-out--I can begin to breathe again. There is the sound of crying from downstairs, but there's also the sound of birds singing as they fly across a darkening sky outside my window.

So I gather my skirts, lift them above the mire of my own issues, and slog on until I get to some dry, grassy ground. Here I go. Bedtime for the children. Teeth to be brushed, stories read, nightgowns donned. Then, QUIET.