Because sometimes love is a pot of hot water

I guess Brian & I were like any typical teenage couple. We couldn't be together enough, couldn't be apart too long, couldn't wait to spend the rest of our lives together. Well, maybe that last one was just me. I jest. Maybe.
At any rate, the things we defined as love in our teens were different from the things we defined as love in our twenties were different from things we defined as love in our thirties and all those were even different from what we define as love now, as one of us has already begun their forties. Getting married so young meant literally growing older and growing up together if we really meant those words we said that day twenty-one years ago.
Love in our teens was very typical for young love. Lots of romance & gifts. Long calls on the long distance phone. (You'll have to look that one up kids....) Handwritten notes & cards. Boxes with trinkets commemorating our "anniversaries". Then, we got married.
Now, for those of you that know us now, you might be shocked to know that love in our twenties meant lots of fighting & just staying with it. Those first years together as husband and wife are years that I would never go back and live again. But they have made me, made us, who we are today. Gifts turned into packages of diapers. Dates turned into bill money. With alternating schedules, handwritten notes looked more like something a teacher would send home - "Today I really could have used your help but I know you'll try better next time. ♡" The heart meant to mask the dripping sarcasm & passive aggressive tone, of course. Baby one, baby two, baby three and even baby four arrived during that oh so fun time as arguments about money & "quality time" filled the air of the 1050sq ft home we made. Our thirties couldn't come fast enough.
By the time they arrived, patterns & routines had been established. We both realized either the money was there or it wasn't & the one person we fought with about it was the one person on the same team. We only had one year of diapers & sleepless nights left. We could do this! And so, we did. Gifts started re-emerging again but they looked a little different. Instead of flowers & chocolates, a crockpot was great! Forget the jewelry, I never wear it anyway. I want a vacuum cleaner that works please. You want to watch another football game? Ok. But the best gift of all? Who would take the first shower. Before we knew it was even happening, love went from something we were doing to something we simply were being. Being aware. Being available. Being second.
Now, as we've (almost) entered this new decade together, love again is different. Some days it is - Really, sports again? Other days it's a text with a picture of a penned on wedding ring and an "Oops, look what I forgot today." Gifts today are wonderful, cherished Symphony bars. Love looks like the trash taken to the end of the driveway or dinner actually ready when he gets home. Grooves & routine are just that. Habit. We are set. But then there are those moments when love goes above & beyond, taking me back to where it all began.
For me, this week, those moments have strung together. Steriod injections Monday warranted flowers & an early birthday card that made me cry when I got home that night. Tuesday it was the quality time I was given to recuperate by having the whole day off while he filled my homeschool mom shoes. With a storm Wednesday morning, we divided and conquered - Brian cooked dinner & I searched for flashlights, batteries, fans & other basic supplies. But we're (almost both) in our forties now. Thursday would be different.
I, thinking I was being the selfless one, sent him to gma's to take his shower. I would have a simple bath here, at our house, by warming pots of water outside on the burner. So selfless, right? But I watched as one stockpot, two stockpots, three stockpots, FOUR STOCKPOTS were warmed & carried for me to the bathtub. With temps in the high 70s & a humidity of 85%, the shower he had taken an hour before had been pointless. But there he was, not complaining a bit, even when the plug drained & he started all over again.
You see, sometimes love IS flowers & chocolates. Sometimes it's diapers & there's a whole lot of crying, from everyone. Sometimes it's in realizing you're on the same team & dividing to conquer. But sometimes, love looks like a pot of hot water. Gentle filled, lovingly poured out, refilled again & again.
There was nothing for him to gain from that constant pouring out other than the smile on my face. For me, it was the reminder that sometimes I think I'm being selfless but love is really about being poured out, over and over again. Even when I don't want to, even when it's uncomfortable, even when I think I've done my fair share. Love, true love, is always about being poured out.

Living a marathon life in a sprint paced world

The fact that I was laying in bed on a heating pad Tuesday evening at 630 probably did not surprise my husband a bit. The fact that I was staring at my phone with tears rolling down my face, again, probably did not surprise him either. But the words - I don't want to be me anymore - flashed a saddened look across his face. It wasn't that I didn't want to be me anymore. He knew the words that came out mouth were just a cover as I attempted to deal with the flood of emotions I was trying to suppress from the day. The pain from the day was just more than I could bare at that moment.
Seventeen years ago we made the somewhat unpopular decision for me to stay at home with our kiddos - well at least the one we had at the time. All worlds were rocked two years later when we announced that we would be a granola-eating, grain-grinding, cotton-weaving homeschool family. Ok, I jest. Although I really do like granola.
Perhaps one of the biggest lessons for me in this homeschooling journey has been to pace myself. When we first started, school looked a lot like I had plucked it out of its public school atmosphere & duplicated it at home. Teaching posters lined our kitchen & the crates of books, workbooks & worksheets probably cost us, globally, a small forest. There was a strict schedule outlined on the wall, complete with a clock mounted next to it. Now, before all my vet homeschool mommy friends pee on themselves in absolute hysterics, remember your first years. Remember that new-to-this-journey mom that you know & take her a cup of coffee today, ok?
At that to say, FOR MOST HOMESCHOOLERS, the sprint paced public school model either constantly drives them crazy or they succumb to a new way of life. Homeschooling children is no sprint. Most vet homeschool moms would tell you that attempting to duplicate what we've always understood education to look like just doesn't work in their world. And that's ok! I spent 13 years in the public school system, got an excellent education (at least well enough to homeschool my own children, right?) & do not think that homeschooling is the right education mode for all families. (Yes, I'm an oddball even in my granola eating world!)
But for us, the ability to homeschool our family has meant more than a simple academic education. It is a way of life. For us, it is a slllloooowwww way of life. And we've lived that way, not because we're just to lazy to be more involved (although......), but because we've been extremely intentional in our activities. With all of the opportunities out there for homeschoolers today, we could EASILY fill our schedule 6 days a week, 8 hours a day. That's just not who the Fosters are.
So when a friend texts me and asks me to visit at a time when her world has been stripped out from under her, academic education takes a backseat. When a young momma reaches out because she feels lost & forgotten in the middle of reading Treasure Island, I slip away & cry through the next few hours with her. When math & history & science were spread across every surface of the livingroom & kitchen table but gma just wanted to show us the hummingbirds, math, history & science stayed where they were as we slipped our boots on & headed out the back gate.
It's not that homeschooling is better, it's just different. And it's caused me to live differently.
Sprinters train by studying the technique of their individual strides, constantly trying to lengthen each pace & keep their posture straight so as not to lose their balance. Marathoners train by finding their lactic acid threshold & running at or near it for an hour or better so that their body builds a tolerance to the lactic acids their muscles are emitting. One isn't better than the other, they're just different and serve different purposes.
Every person in my family would tell you that the past three years now have been the most difficult marathon we've ever run together. There has been plenty of training as we joke about survival not being a lifestyle but a mode to get you through a time. There has been no time between situations to examine pacing techniques nor any desire to lengthen our steps.
This is our marathon. And with God as our trainer, we have been held at the threshold of what seems like "I can't take one more step" for a very long time. No, what we're going through isn't enjoyable. No, it's really not a comfort to hear you say, "It's such a blessing to see how faithful you guys are being." Honestly, we're tired. Each and every one of us is tired.
BUT when we look back & see the endurance that God has built in us over the past three years, we can all say - I'm not who I was. There's a strength there that wasn't before. There's a fortitude that only threshold training could build.
So as I continue to make conscious decisions about the busyness I allow into my life, I temper it with the ability to continue running at my threshold. No, I don't want to go shopping; I'd rather be available to sit at Chili's & cry with a friend for three hours. No, I don't want for my kids to be involved in more activities; I'd rather spend a couple of hours in the garden with them & my aunt everyday. No, I don't want to nail another schedule to the wall; I want to teach my kids how to run the marathon that will be their life, learning along the way. I want them to run with the Trainer we can trust as he pushes us past our limit so that our endurance in him can grow.
It's not that I don't want to be me. It's that sometimes "me" feels the burn of my muscles while my endurance grows. I'd much rather feel that burn though than forever stay the me that I am now.

You're done ladybug

This is actually a pre-blog writing I shared a year ago today. 

This past Saturday night I wanted my momma's advise on my Monday night lesson. Honestly, this isn't at all new - I frequently want my momma's advise and frequently I want it about my lesson. On the surface, there was really nothing new about what was going on. But really there was.
We live on a compound - well, l use "compound" loosely. With conjoining properties, gma, mom & dad, Brian & I and Jeff all live within "I need a roll of toilet paper now!!!" distance. I printed my lesson, slipped on my rubber boots, trekked through the lot next door, checked on our garden, and meandered my way to gma's house.
Now, to all of those people who are taken back by the idea that a 92yrs old woman lives by herself, I scoff. Why did I go to gma's? Because my momma & gma have a routine every Saturday night. Gma's not winning any marathons and honestly, her strength has decreased more than I would like to admit to myself over the past month but mom & gma's routine is for gma to be able to have a bath - as long as she wants - and to have her hair curled afterward. She's just not strong enough to do it all alone.
My plan was to have mom read my lesson and leave so that I wasn't in the way when gma got done. But the older I get, the more I realize, things don't always go the way that I have them planned in my head. Gma got done WAY earlier than I thought she would. So I sat at the kitchen table, wondering if I should leave. Then I heard my momma call me. She needed help with something that was just out of her reach. I handed it to her and resumed my place at the table, now waiting to see if there was anymore help that was needed. Another five minutes or so went by and then my gma called to me.
I walked into her room & stood at the end of her bed. All of the activity seemed to have taken the strength out of her. Over the next 30-45 minutes, I stood there in that room, soaking in EVERY SINGLE SECOND. The thought that one day it would be me on the floor, rubbing the lotion in on my momma's tired, frail feet & legs was almost too much to hold the tears back. "You're done ladybug," words that I will remember for a long time to come - even though they will mean nothing to anyone else. I watched in amazement as they had this whole routine down with the comb and the curlers and the bobbie pins. Momma knew right where every curler went. And gma remembered exactly which curlers had been a gift from my gpa. "Ok Ms Butt, you're done." I giggled at their silliness. Ms Butt, Ms Burt - ha!
It was only a silly bath & momma was only curling gma's hair like she's done every Saturday for the past year. But the humility that my gma has shown in loosing some of her independence is a testimony of her confidence in who she is. And she'll tell you - She's a child of The King.
And my momma. The gentleness and tenderness that I watched that evening - she wasn't rushed or hurried or just doing it because she had to. She was serving her momma just because she loves her. She was pouring out all of that grace and mercy on the same tired and weary feet that had carried her all those years ago.
So on a weekend when my own family had left me feeling overlooked and unappreciated, God again gave me a small glimpse of who he is....who I'm supposed to be. God is faithful and he is loving. Jesus demonstrated humility that goes beyond all human comprehension. He is gentle and he is tender. And this time, he used two of the women I hold most dear, and a bath, to show me.