Janene Frank: Die a Little

It is crazy how the days rush by and I'm left speechless. . .or with writer's block as to what needs to be said and what needs to be read. Documenting the lives of my littles is a dream come true. Years ago I let go of perfection and became content with the record keeping that worked for me: this blog! Even if it's only for my family's eyes, it is a real life way of record keeping, of documenting the ways my dreams became a reality and how they were a part of that journey. They were the reason my ship shifted to a different course and that has made all the difference.

It's crazy to think of all the conversation and activity that goes into the day. Between homeschooling, cooking, cleaning, and parenting, there's not a whole lot of down time. This week has been no exception. Sometimes at the end of the day I feel like I am crawling into bed desperate for rest. There has been a phrase that just keeps creeping into my mothering moments. Those times, when she asks me to stay and play with her hair, or he asks me to tickle his back, or she wants to fill me in on every single detail of her lunchtime, or he is telling me about the pole change out they completed and the trouble they ran into, or she wants me to play Barbies, or he wants to explain Pokemon to me for the billionth time and I still don't get it. In these moments where I naturally want to rush through to get to the next item on my to do agenda, my conscious has been whispering, "Die a little. . .Die a little to yourself."
At first I was kind of oblivious. I didn't think about what it might mean. . .until it was like a neon sign screaming and flashing on my daughter's face as I looked up from the floor I was mopping only half-heartedly listening to her story. Then it kind of just crushed me. The magnitude of the holy spirit speaking to me and there I was again, missing it. Missing the small moments that matter most; the ones that won't always be in my kitchen spilling out their guts or in their bed asking for more of me. I was rushing through again and missing the lovely life that was begging me to stop and pay attention.

As I allowed the words of this ancient song from my Catholic School days to come back, I was met with the very realistic conclusion (again) that THIS STUFF MATTERS MOST.
Would you die a little?
Would you die a little to yourself-to bring to me a gift you could not buy?
Would you die a little?
Would you die a little bit for me?
And in dying would you rise again to life?

I have searched high and low to find the rest of the lyrics but to no avail. I wish I remember what the whole song said but I guess the chorus is what is most important: obviously. The Holy Spirit was whispering it but now he's flashing it across faces to get my attention. I need to stop. Get down to their level. Watch my tone. Be present. Embrace the gift that is their stories to tell.

Last week was rough. My birthday was probably the only real brightspot and even that was questionable since the day was so busy! I had to do a mammogram at the request of my Dr. She didn't want me to wait until December so I went and I was uneasy. Not anxious. Not scared. Just uneasy. And waiting for the results made me feel the same. I had some crazy thoughts. And then there was the whispering, followed by the flashing sign. And I began to think the message was one I needed to hear (again). Die a little. Every time there was that thing that needed to be done. Die a little bit more.

So this week I've been practicing dying a little.
It is in dying that I will rise again to life: the fullness of life, the richness that is mine for the taking. . .
all I have to do is die a little bit for Him.