Stepping on Cheerios

by Snyder, Betsy Singleton;

  One evening at bedtime, Sullivan and Wyatt were discussing with me the two brief parables about the man who sold all he had to buy buried treasure and the merchant who sold everything just for that one precious jewel (see Matthew 13:44-46). After a moment, I asked, “What do you think of these stories?” Very quietly, Sullivan said, “God is the treasure.” I tried not to stare at him, slack-jawed, because I had just heard the good news. Oh yeah, I thought, I have to remember that when I get myself worked up about the dirty floors, the recent ant invasion in my kitchen, the laundry noise that is my background music, and all my momma-fears that threaten to overwhelm me. God is my treasure, and, incredibly, God believes I’m worth finding, too, even when I’m one hot, weird, anxious, weary mess. Could you just hand me that tissue?

  CHAPTER 4

  LEGOS ARE A MEANS OF GRACE

  To-do list: Buy estate. Make winter coats. Weave cloth 1st. Make family look good. Be strong. Get Michelle Obama arms.

  —Proverbs 31 #Twible

  I think I got it . . . but just in case tell me the whole thing again. I wasn’t listening.

  —Emmet, The Lego Movie

  One Sunday, when my oldest child was about eight, he decided he wanted to get dressed a bit earlier and come to church with me, alone. That’s how it started. For over a year, Penn had wanted consistently to distance himself from the rest of the pack and hang with the older crowd. By older, I mean people not his age. That might have been anyone not the age of his brothers and any people who were not his brothers. He regularly asks for a vacation from his brothers. Please, Momma. You just don’t know. Well, I’m not sure that’s fair. I live with them too.

  So my little big man would start Sunday by snagging some coffee in the fellowship hall with his own cup, enough coffee, sugar, and milk to render the Starbuck’s franchise null and void. I’m told he sat at the tables with the adults asking things like, “Now, Mike, what do you do?” He had friends like Mr. Steve who taught him how to work the digital camera for the online streaming of worship services. Penn was enjoying learning how to use his gifts and talents in a nurturing place. Yes, he’s the pastor’s kid—one of them—but he wants to carve out his own spiritual identity. I’m all for that.

  As I was backing out of the driveway one Sunday morning, I paused and applied the brakes. I surveyed our yard, and I did not like what I saw. There was boy debris everywhere. They—meaning all of my kids—had taken the metal bowl that had once been the outdoor fire pit and placed it under the green recycling bin and “secured” it with rope. “It’s a boat,” I was told. Obviously. They had dragged bricks into the yard, left over from the time we turned the garage into a playroom and added onto the carport. There were pieces of metal wrapped in rainbow duct tape scattered around. I started rethinking the trendy-colored tape I’d bought because I didn’t like the way it looked when I saw it littered throughout our landscaping. The bikes were also lying higgledy-piggledy across the yard.

  “Look at that, Penn,” I said with indignation. “What a mess! I bet our neighbors are sick of our cluttered yard. ‘What kind of kids are we raising?’ That’s what they must think. We have got to get this stuff picked up.”

  He looked at me and calmly responded, “Momma, I don’t think many people have four little boys. And they sure don’t have four boys who like to get outside and create and invent things. Anyway, we’re not doing a bunch of video games like other kids.”

  My son, the child-developmental specialist.

  Parental tail between my legs, I had to agree.

  By nature, I tend not to embrace clutter. I did fine without it for about forty-seven years. The problem is that no matter what bins or lockers or organizational system I use, nothing inoculates me from the mess of six busy people.

  I confess that my aversion to piles of stuff probably mirrors the chaos going on inside my head: get the sermon done, take the cat to the vet, get gift cards for the teachers, have lunch with a pastor friend, reschedule dinner plans with friends, text a mom about a pick-up time for a son’s friend, play tennis, drive to the ice rink and freeze my butt off during lessons, and, Oh Lordy, I forgot my puffy gloves, which is awful for my Raynaud’s.

  One night, while we were waiting for three children to practice for a spring ice skating show, I looked at Victor—both of us in our heavy coats—and said, “You know, when we had that ultrasound that showed we were having three more boys, I never pictured we’d be spending loads of time in an ice skating rink. Baseball, basketball, you know, something more organized maybe. But Zambonis, skates, guards, soakers, and skate bags that are used only half the time were nowhere in my future.”

  And why is it that the skate bags—a good theory of organization— are not used much? Because the Snyders have figured out that it works better for each boy to put on skates before we leave. We have to help get the boot comfortably in place, cinch them up, tie them, then leave for the rink.

  I wish I was better at giving in to chaos, just letting it swirl around me like I’m in the eye of the hurricane. I can handle only so much of it, and then I default to a sweep of the house, picking up drained cups of milk scattered around, putting pillows back on couches, throwing books back in the cubbies, and, my personal love-hate favorite, trying to get a handle on the Legos.

  For those of us struggling neat freaks who live with Legos every day, we know that those innocent-looking plastic pieces are more sinister than they appear. Duplos, the pre-Lego pieces for younger kids, were larger and more manageable. Loved them. Legos, however, look very large on the packaging, but don’t let them fool you or intimidate you with those powerful scenes of super heroes and flying spaceships. Legos are insidiously tiny outside of their boxes and hyperfertile. Here’s one of the greatest memes of all times: I’ll walk across Legos for you. That’s love, right there. All parents know they hurt like heck. Even Lego knows because they made a limited edition Lego slipper, given to 1,500 lucky parents—in France! How is that helping my tender tootsies in America, Lego manufacturer?

  Sisters, every time we go to our favorite Lego store, I make a futile pledge. No more Legos. OK, no more Legos, for a while. I’m not going to collude with the interlocking brick system for at least forty days. Lego Lent. Besides, do the math, I remind myself. Take the number of Lego sets we own, the pieces in each, and the magic number of four boys, and what do you get? Too many Legos. They are under couches and tables, behind doors, in the laundry after washing clothes, on the floor in almost every room, and near my makeup. There are the mini figures, mini dolls—should be many figures and many dolls—Ninjago Spinners, Chima Speedorz, Elves’ amulets, not to mention Star Wars, Minecraft, and Harry Potter sets.

  But now we’re in a public STEM school (science, technology, engineering, and math) and attend Lego League (robotic Legos!). How can I truly, in all good conscience, curse Legos when educators say these pieces of plastic have loads of potential for problem solving, creativity, teamwork, following instructions, and fine motor skills.

  I need to play, and I want my kids to see me play, all my life.

  I asked our third born, Sullivan, if his careful analysis of each building project was leading him toward engineering, architecture, or life as a contractor. “Not at all,” he said, “I’m going to become a master Lego builder.”

  “You’re going to design Lego kits,” I assumed.

  “No,” he said. Slowly speaking, and so I could see his lips move since I obviously hadn’t heard him, he clarified: “I am going to build Legos.”

  The reality is not as clear. I think he’s more rogue than he realizes. Sullivan makes exactly what he sees on the box one time. One time he follows the instructions. Occasionally, he asks to preserve the vehicle, building, or flying object depicted on the box. Most of the time, though, at our house, nothing is allowed a long and happy life. At some point, it gets dismantled to be recycled into something less perfect and, probably, more original. Their creativity makes me feel insanely happy. I read about a blogger and extraordin
ary Lego builder from Tokyo who makes re-creations of popular food, like pizza and soft-serve ice cream. One morning I found Star Wars’ Rey with her speeder boasting purple unicorn and spider hood ornaments. I would love a unicorn hood ornament.

  I’ve noticed these creative mutations occur when anything on hand—not just Legos—seems almost obsolete or simply available for adaptation. Remnants of an old drum kit, a sound machine, a remote battery-operated car, or some of my dental floss. Fact: climbing our stairs to put up more of their stuff in their bedrooms, I found string lying on the floor, unwound from a tiny paddle. Oh for heaven’s sake! It was my mint-flavored dental floss. I knew immediately my limited supply had been confiscated for creative scrutiny and to decipher how it unwinds and what creative treasure it might yield. The same disappearing happens with rolls of tape, toothpaste caps, and shoelaces. Once, my boys even tied their underwear together to make a rope. Another time they used yarn to build a booby trap in their room. Booby traps were very big for a while. I didn’t even know my children knew what booby traps are. I guess that’s partly what’s fun about them. They are a surprise, secret mess, not a giant billboard mess.

  Sisters, We Gotta Play More

  Sometimes I have to remind myself about play since I am a serious adult who has experienced serious life events. What can look like a bunch of nothing can be the very ingredients of creativity and play.

  Chaos and creation are so very close. I love the way the Book of Genesis illustrates the story of God creating. I’m convinced that was also play: “When God began to create the heavens and the earth—the earth was without shape or form” (Genesis 1:1-2a). But lo and behold, God fashions all this gorgeous stuff, and God really likes it. God sees how truly smashing it all is.

  My momma loved the poetry of the great African American writer James Weldon Johnson. I still have her worn, illustrated copy of God’s Trombones from 1964. In the verses of “The Creation,” Johnson offers his own sermonic riff on how creation gets going, describing God’s playfulness and creativity, standing there alone in the dark. God looks around and declares God’s loneliness in the midnight of a hundred Louisiana swamps. And then God smiles, light breaks, and the darkness rolls away, so that God can declare, “That’s good!” Since we are joyfully made in the image of God, we need to claim the ability occasionally to slay the chaos.

  It’s like the green floral party dress and accessories I recently wore to a spring event. I stood back and looked in the mirror at the necklace, heels, hair (freshly done), and toes in hot pink and thought, Well, Sister, you took some chaos and made it work! It took some effort, but that looks good! Boom.

  I really do get overwhelmed by clutter. (Maybe I have a real diagnosis.) I get nervous and want to immerse myself in funny cat videos. But a pile of Legos on a table, that’s someone’s potential right there. Potential all over the place.

  Believing that, I coach myself to let the chaos have its say, until here and there, I have to put my hands on chaos and start fashioning something different and new. Instead of Legos, it’s those staples in my pantry. Maybe it’s the butter, shortening, salt, flour, and cold water that are just screaming for me to get over my fear of failure. Make the blasted pie crust because it will be beyond belief tucked between layers of homegrown strawberries and real whipped cream! Tackling a pie crust freaks me out worse than Victor’s yard designs, but it could be such a triumph. When I make flawless meringue, which is about once every other year for my Thanksgiving chocolate pie, I feel like dancing.

  We are made in the Creator’s image, and that ought to give us permission to let loose and dance. It grieves me when women hold back when playing. Your play is not my play. My play is not making pie crust every day either, but sometimes it is. Sometimes my play is framing pictures, planting in my tiny garden, listening to music, and singing out loud, even when my boys tell me to shush because they are embarrassed by my enthusiasm (which makes me sing even louder). Dissident, solitary singing is one way I play.

  When I was in high school, I discovered tennis and played regularly through college, but then I became all adult busy and stopped playing. When my boys began to take lessons, I think I started mind-melding with our retriever, Nilla, and getting all ginned up when I saw a tennis ball. I just had to start taking lessons again.

  Of course, a lot has changed, including major personal body shifts and alignments. Recently my backhand was so off that I told my coach my glasses were making it impossible for me to keep my eyes on the ball and follow the stroke all the way through. Plus, they just really mess up my foot work. He said it wasn’t the glasses. OK. I accept his advice and feedback as he assesses my freaky throwback moves. But occasionally I produce a swing that is really quite pretty, quite good. And the ones I miss—and that day I fell and skinned my knee—well, those things never happen if you don’t play. I need to play, and I want my kids to see me play, all my life. God made me to play, and that was so generous of God to do that.

  Stop More

  I want to recommend something that mothers need much more of than we get or even allow: idleness.

  When I traveled to Italy some years ago, I discovered that shopkeepers closed the doors and took naps during the day. And—oh my gosh!—so do other civilized people in this world. Uncivilized families (like my family) are way too busy too much of the time, which means we need more naps, less structure, and some mental wandering. I think we should have some specific off-grid, mental-wandering holidays.

  Today, on this Grand Official Idle Day, you aren’t allowed to think about what you did yesterday or are going to do tomorrow. If you do, your phone will blow up when you try to schedule anything in your calendar on this sacred and important day, and you’ll be forced to sit at the Genius Bar for hours with your broken phone, unable to be idle. For what will it profit you if you have a magazine-worthy house that has sucked all your time and energy and has left you in mental anguish over laundry, sticky stuff, what’s for dinner, or making sure your children are overly accomplished (see Matthew 16:21-28)?

  Idleness can be a Sabbath, in which we’re tuned in to what’s happening right now. Like that butterfly that just landed on my cone flowers. I notice not only the butterfly but also my cone flowers. In purple brilliance, they are stunning. I thank God for the cone flowers that were not more than a dormant clump of root ball below the dirt, waiting to bloom. As lame as I am at growing lilies, God still invites me to consider them, take note of them.

  Sometimes I just leave Legos on the floor. I allow them to sit in idleness. Of course I’m tempted to pick them up or tell someone else to do it. I’m tempted to remind these people with whom I live that there are numerous places dedicated to putting their Legos, places I created that mean something. I resist saying that a dog might chew them, which would be very sad. I resist saying that Momma is so tired of picking up these tiny pieces. Poor Momma. These itty bitty blocks could be doing something or be hidden from view, but instead, they invite me to stop all my infernal, irritating need to get life just so—so neat and tidy.

  I’m not good at idleness, but I think I need it. And I think it’s an opportunity to be aware of God’s invitations, which means I’m probably a closet Jesuit. I’m OK with that because I fell in love with Pope Francis when he washed and kissed the feet of a diverse group of young Muslims and Christians in prison that one Maundy Thursday. It’s like he was kissing their boo-boos. Imagine that: the most important Christian leader, whom most of the world observes, stopped the customary upper echelon hobnobbing expected of him and got down on his knees, taking time to tend life’s bruises. Take time to pause for the little encounters that are enormously important.

  God Likes Legos

  I can’t always luxuriate in play or idleness, but Legos remind me that God is somehow involved in all our overwrought and cluttered lives.

  Let’s confess. We may forget that God cares about every last ounce of our lives, but God doesn’t forget. We may not notice that God is in the pile of Legos at our fee
t and all the messiness that symbolizes, but that doesn’t mean God isn’t right in there with us.

  Sometimes we need a “mac-and-Jesus moment,” a way to understand that God can meet you in your extremely untidy house where the cuckoo crazies live and eat easy meals out of a box.

  Think about how often God is so absolutely nutty to meet people wherever they are and whoever they are, for that matter. There was a man who was not in his right mind, but he didn’t have to wait and get it all figured out on his own before Jesus was so right there! That’s so comforting. Jesus was interested in him and cared about his current chaos (see Mark 5:1-20). That same Jesus showed up where an adulterous woman was about to be stoned and basically noted that we’re all in the same sin boat and in great need of love, most especially when we have failed (see John 8:1-11).

  The day came when I had to take the triplets shopping, which, unfortunately, was in public.

  And, it’s just like God to show up where you’re working your tail off. Jesus met people in their workplaces and in their homes. Jesus came to Peter, James, and John, who were busy fishermen, trying to mend their nets. Jesus met a Samaritan woman who was trying to get water for her home. Jesus met Matthew in his little tax booth.