Hot Cocoa for the Heart - Explaining Discipline to My Boy

image: Pexels.com

Earlier today, my oldest lost a privilege that means a lot to him. It was a direct consequence of his actions, and it was devastating for him. He cried until he was hoarse, then cried some more. We patiently assured him that it would be all right, that it was okay for him to be angry/sad/frustrated about it, and that we super duper love him. This was his biggest consequence so far, and he was just beside himself. At one point he had crawled under the dining table and was moaning painfully.

"I feel like I'm in a place that I don't know what it's called." He cried. "Like a scary castle." (He's six, so I was impressed that he was able to verbalize this feeling)
I heard him from the kitchen and my heart felt his pain. I went over and lay on the floor so I could see him. "I know what you mean, and that place does have a name." I said softly.
"Is it Home?" He asked.
"No."
"Is it Love?"
"No. It's called Discipline." I said. "And it doesn't feel very good. I know."
"What is Discipline?" He asked.
"It's something that helps to get you back on the right track."
"But I don't want to be on the right track!" He protested, tears running down his cheeks.
"It helps you get back on the right track even when you don't want it to." I said. "You know how you go bowling with Dad, and when it's his turn the gutters are clear? If his ball goes to the side, it lands in the gutter. When it's your turn, little gates pop up and make sure that your ball stays on the right track. Your actions went into the gutter, so we had to put up a gate to keep them on track."
He wasn't happy about it, but I could tell that it had helped to put a name to the dark, lonely feeling he was experiencing.
"It's a part of home, and it's a part of love, but it's called Discipline." I said.
Not much longer and he had crawled out from under the table so I could give him a hug, and then he went on a walk with his dad and little brother. I promised him some home made hot cocoa upon their return.
Discipline is never fun, but it doesn't have to be a dark, scary castle. It can be a walk through the neighborhood, a hug, and a warm mug of something that nourishes the heart (even if it doesn't go down so smoothly at first).

Cloud Mountains

11x17" watercolor. Too bad my scanner didn't pick up the purple in the sky! I painted this after watching a tutorial showing something similar. 

As a teenager I would sometimes ride my clunky vintage bike a couple of miles out of town to get away from it all. Out of my section 8 apartment complex I'd wheel, past the little old houses and then the nice old houses by the river, and then out where the grasses grow tall and golden-green and the breeze pushes a bit of warmth into one's skin. I stopped at the overpass right outside Elkhart, Indiana, and rest near the middle of the bridge with a clear view to the west. There I'd sit, perched on my bike or standing, watching the cars duck in and out beneath me, and always my gaze would fall to the horizon. The highway narrowed to a point like an arrow showing me the way. Low clouds looked became mountains, wild and adventurous - the only mountains I'd ever seen. I imagined myself driving towards them, into the unknown, and I'd sigh. 

Once or twice, a driver stopped on the bridge to check that I was okay. They were concerned that I might jump. I assured them I was fine, I just wanted to go out west. I'm grateful that they stopped, and I'll never forget that.

That dream finally became a reality in 2008, and I left home for a world I'd never seen before, to live with people I'd never met before. I had $350 dollars and an old stick-shift Dodge Stratus. I printed out my MapQuest directions and stapled them together - turn by turn - in the corner and set them beside the dusty gray driver's seat. Flip phone in my purse, and all of my belongings piled behind me, I set off one cool August morning before the sun had risen. I went with the prayers, love, and well-wishes of my family and friends, and thus began one of my most enchanting adventures. It was my home for 10 years. I found my soul mate there, and we built a family together. My husband's workplace was a constant source of pain and stress, so we were always looking for something else.

In a strange plot twist that none of us saw coming, we found ourselves leaving leaving our lush green-scapes, wild seas, and thundering mountains for the humidity and isolation of the southeast. No family, no friends, nothing to remind us of home. The Pacific Northwest and the Southeast are just about as foreign to each other as any two places in the world could be, and we are like fish out of water here. And though we're still currently in the southeast, we're hoping with every fiber in our beings to once again call the Pacific Northwest home. We were promised a better work environment. We decided on a short term move to the south, but found that these promises were dead on arrival. 

For now, our breaths are shallow, achy. Thoughts of home keep my mind in a perpetual state of longing. When will we make our escape? How do we break free? 

Shortly after we arrived in South Carolina I went hunting for a red Oregon wine at the local grocery store. As the wine attendant helped me narrow down my choices he asked, "You like it there? I heard it's always raining." 

"There's a climate for everyone." I smiled. Inwardly, I just wanted to cry. There will be rain one way or another - either in the verdant landscape I love so dearly, with me sipping my cup of coffee on a foggy morning, or from the dark clouds that cover my heart as I wait for our chance to fly home for good.

So what does one do when stuck in an uncomfortable setting? How does one get through it? I've been in far worse places than this and made it through. I lost my youngest brother to suicide while 4 months pregnant with my first boy. I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer when my second boy was only six months old. These terrible things were lightning bolts and earthquakes and drowning in the deepest seas...but they passed. And here I am in a lesser storm, fighting for ground as if my life depended on it. Fear, insecurity, and anxiety pound on the door, and I welcome them. Shame knocks, and I answer. But I shouldn't.

On good days, days when my faith makes a stronger rhythm than the pounding at my door, I settle a bit and wait the hours out with laughter and homemaking. I dress my children and go out into the world with a nice bit of armor riveted around my heart. I know I'll make it. God has brought me through before, and he'll bring me through this as well. Nothing has changed. All of the things that were true when I came out of those terrible fires are true now:

God is good and he's not against us.
God is faithful and he promises to perfect our faith.
These hard things are temporary in the grand scheme of life.
We are not promised tomorrow, but 99% of the time we get it anyway.
Waiting, though painful, is not lethal.
Bitterness and defeat must be dealt with constantly, head-on.
God is with us, even when he is silent.
God is caring for us at all times.
God is providing for us at all times.
The Holy Spirit is encouraging and strengthening us so we can keep going.
Our kids are watching and learning how to handle stress and disappointment.
Living faithfully even in discomfort is a huge blessing for our kids.

These are the things that get me through the hard days. These are the things worth fighting for, and what gets me through. I know that someday this will all be a memory, and once again we'll find ourselves sipping coffee on a cool, foggy morning with ferns all around, and the sound of the great Pacific Ocean stomping around on the shore. I know we'll see the high cliffs of the Columbia Gorge and feel the spray of the waterfalls in our faces. We'll sink our teeth into the biggest, juiciest honeycrisp apples and trail our fingertips over the marred stones jutting out of trails through ancient old-growth forests. We'll get there. And even if we don't, God is still good.