This summer is clearly not the time for me to devote myself to writing.  And that’s okay, except when it isn’t.  What I lack in writing time is made up for under under the Seattle summer sky with the Twedtlings.  Summer vacation has also been a time to work on Chloe’s Behavior Modification Plan For Anxiety.  That’s right, my little dog has a Behavior Modification Plan For Anxiety.  I won’t bore you with the details of why we even need a Behavior Modification Plan For Anxiety in the first place.  You’re welcome.

Actually, it’s a comfort to known that our dog, who hasn’t a care in the world other than wondering if she’ll be fed sometime around  7 a.m. and again at 5, struggles with anxiety.  So do I.  It’s freeing to say it out loud, and for certain, that Chloe’s anxiety is hardly an issue of not trusting God with life’s worries.  Not enough faith is hardly the point when you’re covered in fur, or silky hair if you are of the Havanese-variety like Chloe.

In the end, all it took was a stroll or two around our neighborhood with Chloe and a snack-size Ziplock baggie of carrot pieces, allotted every few houses or whenever we encountered a walker, biker, car or animal.  It’s a scary world out there, but our little dog is overcoming.  Greg rolls his eyes every time I turn to Chloe and say, “Chloe, you are a brave, brave doggie.”  But it’s enough to somewhat bring her through her funk.  There’s hope for us all.

I’m enjoying my time outside with the dog.  The Twedtlings are not.  Almost everyday during the school year we walked to and from our neighborhood elementary school, about a half-mile distance one way, with minimal complaining.  Or is it a quarter-mile?  I’m really not sure.  Distance has never been one of my strong points.  Yet our brief walks around the neighborhood are torture to them now. With our grey-blue rambler still in sight, you can hear from our little band of walkers: “Are we there yet?  Do we really have to do this?  It’s too hot?  Mom, is this what you’d call a scorcher?”  Spoken like true Seattleites.  We don’t know what to do with ourselves when outside temps finally hit the seventy-five degree mark.  No matter the weather or distance, Steven’s rants revolve around the iPhone I won’t let him have.  “Can I get a phone?  Why can’t I have a phone?  Everyone has a phone.  How about when I’m ten? thirteen?” This is the typical soundtrack of our kinda-sorta daily to twice-daily walks.

Chloe’s carrot-on-a-stick comes in a baggie, but the kids’ promised carrot is a stop at the Little Free Library two streets away and perfectly timed near the end of our walks to cheer them on and keep them going.  I’d walk for books, free or not, and so will they.

I’m not sure what’s up with walking, but something about it removes the fog in my mind and leads to reflection, stirring something deep within me. The splendid concoction of exercise and fresh air?  Probably.  Usually my deepest of deep thoughts are born out of a session of writing.  I’m sure you’ve picked up on the theme of my life: I write to discover what I’m thinking, feeling, learning. Yada yada.  I’m learning that walking, being outside, even playing the piano, all these activities, well, they also quiet my soul and help me make sense of God, myself and the world around me.  This summer has been lacking in writing time, but the thinking, the deep pondering, it’s happening anyway, especially during summer walks with the kids and Chloe.

I didn’t realize I was making a point but it’s clear to me now that God cannot be limited in how he chooses to speak to his children, even if he has worked a certain way in the past.  He has a knack for showing up whenever and wherever.  This revelation shouldn’t come as a surprise to me.  He’s God, after all.

This summer has also been the Summer of Reading, even book launches. You’ll hear more about these yet-to-be released-titles and how God is using them to speak to me when it’s time for me to write more about them.

Speaking of books, back in late May or early June, I met Lindsey in Bellevue.  Over chips and salsa and frozen fruity drinks, she told me about Sara Hagartey’s Every Bitter Thing is Sweet.  I don’t remember if I had the self-control to wait until the next morning to reserve Sara’s book from our local library, or if the book-junky side of me won out and put a hold on the book right then and there via Sno-Isle’s online library system.  I’d like to think I’m socially aware enough to wait, but once a book nerd, always a book nerd.  Either way, after a few day’s time, a text banner flashed across my iPhone screen announcing that Lindsey’s book recommendation was waiting for me on the hold shelf at the Mill Creek branch of our local library.

But I couldn’t read Every Bitter Thing is Sweet.  In fact, I waited the duration of three renew cycles before I picked it up, knowing deep down that something hidden in the words of the little blue book with the vintage bottle of honey on the cover would change me.  I’m a change-resister through and through. That or just plain stubborn.

Which brings me to a delicious summer morning in July, just after the Tiniest Tiny’s sixth birthday.  Emily and I were lounging around the family room in our PJs, my big girl on the love seat, I, curled up at the end of the matching burnt red-colored couch that used to be trendy but now is not, kind of like the entire decade of the 90s.  The other two played at the oak farm table in the dining room with their construction paper and Scotch tape creations.  Starbuck’s coffee tumbler of Tony’s French Royale Dark Roast in my right hand, book in my left, cream-colored throw blanket that’s unraveling (compliments of Steven) covered my morning-chilled body, little dog on lap, tears flowing.

You see, God always has something to say, to remind us of his presence, even when his presence seems to come out of nowhere.  Tears cascading down my cheeks, I’m reminded once again in Sara’s book that God is here and has a lot to say about undoing and rebuilding.  Sara writes about her early marriage but my mind makes a connection to another time and another place.

It’s an evening in early spring, not long ago.  I’m at Emily’s house in North Seattle for our Writer’s Connection Group. It’s just past 9 p.m.  I know the time because Kimberlee and Meagan had to leave by nine.  Emily is telling Kate and me about her project, Kindred Mom, and how motherhood is the place where she found herself.  I joke that motherhood has been my undoing. I’m trying my hand at comedic timing, but my statement is a confession all the same. Every day, the parenting struggle is real.  Each day, while mercies are new, so are opportunities fall short of my expectations, to fall on my face.  Like when I lose it in front of my children, especially my child who has special needs.  Parenting is not what I thought it would be.  I’m not who I thought I would be.

Undoing.  Rebuilding.

Random connections in the form of ADHD is a rare gift, and the message my heart is desperate for, as sappy as it sounds, breaks through like a radiant sunrise, the dawning of a new day.  And just like that, God gently or not-so-gently sweeps in and whispers to my soul that what I see as failure, what I view as my undoing, he sees a radical rebuilding.  What appears to be a disaster is simply the ongoing story of rebirth, of being brave when life is hard, a showcase of a life being transformed in real time by his grace and his great, great love.  Once again, his kingdom is an upside down kingdom.

This summer is clearly not a summer devoted to writing.  It’s going to be okay.