Blessed are the poor in memory, for they shall inherit...and blog

Oct 15, 2013
Sometimes my eyes and my heart see so much beauty in this world it wants to overflow from my brain and come out of my hands: typed, painted or otherwise documented, imprinted on a page and in my muscle memory.
 It's at these times that I become frustrated by my limitations. Limitations of time, limitations of memory, limitations of ability that I hope will all someday be erased. Some people can't imagine heaven without food or animals. I can't imagine heaven without these limitations gone.
These are the things  that I'm aching to imprint. There is more both in quality and quantity, but I have to be satisfied with what is. For tonight, it's enough.
       First, my children. How can a mother express the love and awe she has for her children's beautiful bodies? To think that I am even partially responsible for that perfect, glowing skin, those long strong legs, those chubby baby thighs, that dimpled hand, those thickly laying eyelashes. On the one hand they're commonplace, with me day in and day out, but in between brushing off mud, scrubbing away paint, bandaging up scrapes and hosing off the last meal, occasionally I am completely taken aback by their breathtaking beauty.
       Someday, though I may never have my babies back as they now are, I will be able to touch and hear and see them in my memory, not dimmed, dulled or altered as it now is, but the product of a perfect, resurrected mind. For me, this knowledge adds another layer of gratitude for the gift of the resurrection.
         I was remembering the other day the way that Rylan would growl, "Mess!!", low and menacing, every time he spread abroad his toys. He was about Anders' age when he would do that. To remember made me laugh, and then I told Rylan and Evie, who were delighted by this evidence of his babyhood. Rylan has waxed old on me overnight. He is in love with his kindergarten teacher and a classmate named Ava (Who me? Jealous?!?) and insisted this year on being a ghost for Halloween and making his own costume. He's been refusing to read books outside of what he's assigned for school simply because he says that's all he can read (trust me, I know better, he reads everything else from the cereal boxes to the street signs with no problem), but today I walked in and found him reading a book to Evie with no stumbling or hesitation. When did he get big? Yet big he is. My heart breaks and subsequently swells every time I renew this realization.
         Evie calls a PBJ a "Peaner and Jelly Sandwich". She also substitutes "I don't wait for" for "I can't wait for" (as in, "I don't wait to eat our vegetables from our garden!", uttered today) and has invented the contraction "amn't" in place of "I'm not". I've never written any of these down, but she's been doing them for years. She just turned four, as she's very proud to tell any and every one. One of her favorite things to do is to collect pet bugs from the backyard. Some of her favorite recurring names for them include "Kathy" and "Coco", and I had to permanently ban the use of tupperware for potato bug homes, because we were starting to run low. She is earnestly striving to prove to me that she is responsible enough to own a dog by caring for "Cootie", a hissing cockroach gifted to her by my disobedient father. I keep telling her I'm not sure if or when we're going to get a dog, but she's undeterred from talking about it constantly. That, and a pet iguana. She must have a smidge of her mother in her.
Trevor and I are absolutely gaga for Anders these days. His round, cherubic little person tots from one episode in his little life to the next, emptying cupboards and wreaking havoc on everything he encounters. We are absolutely ruined for him ourselves. He looks like me, which is so incredibly satisfying, and when Trevor is holding him and I see his little blonde head against Trevor's dark, I melt. He is quieter than our other babies, but incredibly expressive. His flirty smiles and scowls alike delight me. I just can't get enough of that baby; I'm head over heels.
How do I explain that this mess of facts to me means beauty? Even the cockroach?!? I want to remember, and I am not known for my memory. So I am drawn back to my blog.
Speak That I May See Thee.
 In a year, if I am struggling with depression, I can read this and remember. I can see both them and myself as we truly are-- the way I see them now.