Our first night in the mountains I was carsick, homesick and full of anxiety over our primitive surroundings. When it got dark, I felt a cloud of doom hover over me as my friends and I walked outside the spider-infested structure where we planned to “sleep”.

I suppose it is the irony of the universe, the funny way that ugliness and beauty contrast in the same place and make each other more vivid. Over the grass-roofed huts, and the stench of roaming pigs was a sky so bright it seemed to move with life of its own. A million, no a gazillion speckles spread like a field over us, blinking, shooting, smiling. I have never seen so many stars. I could have read a book underneath their light. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

Its the only time I have seen a sky like that. So, thank you God for showing me your vastness and sovereignty, and the veil of love you drape over humanity, even in the wildest, remotest corners.

Thanks, Kim.

Its me and him. And we are the same because he is three and I carried him not long ago, not long ago at all. I knew there would be a day that he suddenly noticed, anatomically speaking. A moment when I shrugged my shoulders and admitted with a lump in my throat that he’d probably known for awhile. I imagined an awkwardly encoded conversation regarding the important “parts”. He would be old, you know, years from now when I am ready to let him go. Years from now. Instead, I realized that boys and girls are different long before “parts” have any relevance and letting him go is happening now, in a slow frenzy that I will never be ready for.

Since school started, there has been Ava. She captivated him with her brown-eyed beauty. He mentions her freely while talking about storybook time or music class. His teacher stopped me the other day to tell me all about their chase game on the playground (which I found positively un-funny).

I decided to ask him about her. Tell me about Ava, I said. His eyes gleamed and it hurt me a little. He told me about sitting beside her at chapel, and asking her to be his friend. He told me about the toys they play with in class and what they make in art. He narrated conversations and pointed out the matching color of her hair in a picture book nearby. He told me about the rescuers. The game where Ava is in trouble and he saves her day. Mommy I save Ava, he said, like I am Fireman Sam.

His hands are chubby and he hasn’t grown into his wide sparkling eyes, but he already feels the desire of a man’s heart to be the hero. You are not a man! I want to say. You are my little boy! That is how I want it to stay. Let’s go play trains, because I want you to need me forever. Years from now, we will talk about grown-up things and then you can go search for your princess and save her day.

Years from now.

Later we sit together in the big chair because it is storming outside and he is scared. “You are my favorite girl, mommy” he says with his head on my shoulder. I can smell his head smell. I kiss it slowly, and wonder how something can fill you with so much pleasure and pain at the same time.

Toby, what a man you will be.

(Years from now.)

God is good.

It won’t be long and I will not be sharing a computer. I cannot wait to write my posts during normal, wakeful hours instead of squeezing them in at midnight or five in the morning when Greg’s computer is available. Until then, I will try to quell the sense of guilt and longing I feel every time I think of Tales From the Running Mama whimpering in cyberspace like a neglected puppy.

Since I don’t have long I will have to save most of my thoughts for another day (soon I hope). I just want to bring up an interesting topic that seems to be jumping out at me from every turned corner. Its a little book called The Shack and though I have not finished it, I think it might be one of the most important works I have ever stayed up too late devouring.

This book covers the one topic that conceals my God in a terrifying shroud of painful mystery. In fact, after an experience two years ago with a dear friend, I might upgrade mystery to bitterness. How can God be present in a world full of horrible suffering, sin, and hate? If this question could settle in my mind, even on a tiny thread of truth, it would give me peace in my deepest places, the ones I push back during play group, or while I am vacuuming the floor, but that crawl into view in the quiet of night and haunt me like angry monsters.

My faith so far has been shaky at times, waffling at times, forgotten at times, and taken various shifts and turns down my long road. However, until recently, I never doubted God’s goodness, power, or love for me. I suppose it is inevitable for any Christian to grapple through murk and mire and either drown in it or emerge closer to Him than before. Right now God still seems elusive to me: in one moment a refuge, in another, the source of my indignant scorn.

During my first few weeks on this blog I noticed a trend that bothered me: His noticeable absence in any of my writing. I cover my children like beautiful, cherub-like idols, the very embodiment of love that feels safe to me. But bringing Him up feels like cheapening the outpourings of my heart with feigned contrivances. How I got here, a girl who would have given her very life for Him a few years back and longed for heaven like water in a desert, I’ll never fully understand. I guess it is easier to live with abandon when you have nothing to lose.

I don’t want to sound hopeless. He is chasing me, this I am sure. I am walking the road, though limping and questioning and I believe that He is strong enough to tackle my doubt when I am not. I still love Him enough to stay the course and trust Him enough to be honest.

If I have learned anything about Him in nearly twenty years of relationship, I think that will be enough to pull me through.

“Dear God… Amen.”

You’re three and you already grasp omniscience.

He asks:

Member when I was in dat bed mommy? (Points at crib)

Member when I yoos to eat in dere mommy? (Points at high chair)

Member when I put my poop in my diaper? (Yes, I say with emphasis, since it was like two months ago)

Member when I was in a box at Big Toby’s house? (He says after visiting our friends new puppies, to which I quickly say no, you were not ever in a box)

The past is complex.

But not the whole night… A storm blew in at four in the morning and regaled the entire house with unfortunately loud thunder and bright flashes of lightning. I wanted to roll over and stay asleep, I really, really did. I tried to ignore the panging in my stomach prompting me to go check on Toby who was probably frozen with fear under his covers gripping tightly to his stuffed dalmatian, Samson. I willed that he was sleeping soundly through it, snug as a bug, blissfully unaware of anything unusual. But I knew I was wrong.

Toby has an anomalous list of fears that ebbs and flows in intensity: bounce houses, large inflatable Christmas decorations for the lawn, getting his head wet (hence the buzz cut…), loud noises, and socks with holes. The other night he gave a sidelong glance at the yellow fire hat perched above a matching raincoat on his bedroom wall that I hung to accent his firetruck quilt. Mommy, I don’t like that Toby, he whispered as if it were not an ornamental novelty but an evil alter ego, he no have eyes. A good mother would have removed it at once and explained that it didn’t have eyes because it was just a hat and jacket, nothing more. But I was too busy marvelling over my son’s imagination to be a good mother. If there is one neuroses this mom can appreciate its an over-active imagination. I spent my childhood dreaming of scrubbing the floors in Miss Hannigan’s orphanage like Annie or riding on the back of giant flying dog with Atreyu in The Neverending Story. I would lay awake at night and terrify myself with all of the creepy things that might be lurking behind my own closet door. If I can’t offer a cure, I can certainly empathize.

Most often, Toby’s creative enterprises compel me to play along because he is just so sincere. I spent a month in the fall sweeping invisible “dinosaurs” from his path while commanding “Shoo! Go away” because it delighted him so much that I saw them too. To him dinosaurs, the very embodiment of evil, are not huge prehistoric lizards (and extinct), but knee-high and mechanically roaring like the toy T-Rex in his friend Kyle’s bedroom. Therefore, in September, when I became the lone member of the Dino Extermination Squad, it didn’t require any extravagant heroics on my part. And it was easier than wasting logical reasoning on someone who still maintains that Sodor is an actual geographic location.

But this night is different. Standing up to an invisible pest while already awake is not as self -sacrificial as rousting from a deep sleep in the wee hours of the morning to invite a wiggly, chatty three-year-old to share your bed. I slump over the edge of the mattress and drag myself to the bedroom door, but I am stopped by a whisper from Greg.

“Are you going to check on Toby?” he asks.

“Yes, I don’t want him to be afraid,” I say nobly.

“Well, neither did I so I went and got him already.” And in the dark I spy a small quiet body snuggled safely in the crook of his daddy’s arm.

“Mommy, the funderstorm made me skeerd,” He says in a hushed, sweet voice. I crawl back in beside him and kiss his fuzzy, buzz-cut head. As I drift off to sleep I think of chasing dinosaurs and magical lands and the wonder of crashing thunder outside your bedroom window. I pull him closer to me. Sweet dreams little buddy.