Hands Free Life Read online

  I laid my head on her flannel-clad chest. Her heart sounded just as I remembered — calm, steady, strong. Fearing I may have suffered hearing loss over the past several years, my child clamped her arm around my head and pushed it closer to her beating heart. “What’s it sound like?” she inquired.

  I mimicked the sound I heard with a “lub-lub, lub-lub” and then added, “Your heart sounds really happy tonight. Maybe it was because you completed that Lego beach house without help or maybe it was because you tricked me into eating that sour gum and couldn’t stop laughing!”

  With a huge smile, Avery suggested a few more reasons why her heart was happy that night. Then she sat up abruptly and announced, “My turn!”

  How could I have forgotten? With this particular child, listening to my heartbeat was just as important as listening to her heartbeat.

  Suddenly a mop of unruly curls fanned my face. My cuddly child wiggled around until she got a clear sound. “Your heart sounds like this: Boom, badoom, boom . . . Boom, badoom, boom.”

  Hmmm . . . my heartbeat sounded eerily similar to the chorus of “Super Bass” by Nicki Minaj. And when I told her so, we both exploded with laughter. I’d forgotten how entertaining it was to have a ukulele-playing rock star check your heart palpitations.

  “Let’s do this every night,” she declared.

  With relief, I smiled a wholehearted yes. It was not too late to seize the gift.

  Next, it was Natalie’s turn. With her, I was a little nervous. What if she had gotten too old for this? What if the mere thought of her mom’s head on her chest weirded her out? What if she said yes but it was just plain awkward? I decided not to listen to the voice of discouragement — because what if it did work out? What if The Heartbeat Check was just what she needed tonight?

  After we read a chapter of her Nancy Drew mystery together, I swallowed the lump in my throat and took the direct approach. “Would you mind if I listen to your heartbeat like I used to?”

  Natalie gave me an exasperated look as if to say, “Are you serious, Mom?” But I noticed she didn’t say no. Her eyes slowly rolled upward as she considered my request. Finally, this child who adamantly chooses her own clothes, walks by herself to her friend’s house, and wears deodorant four out of seven days a week informed me that it would be okay.

  Then she did exactly what she had done when she was younger: she inhaled my scent and said, “Your hair smells so good, Mama.”

  While listening to the steady beat of her heart, I remembered that she liked me to interpret what I heard. “Your heart sounds sleepy tonight, Natalie. Perhaps it was all those laps you did at swim-team practice or the way you tackled that entire page of math problems after school.”

  “What else could it be, Mama?” she asked, interested in what other noteworthy things I had noticed about her that day. It was comforting to know that although my child had grown in height and years, she had not outgrown this special ritual. It was not too late to seize the gift. I promised myself that I’d try to keep it going for as long as my children would allow and have strived to uphold that vow. Although there are occasions when The Heartbeat Check is trumped by a late arrival home or an extensive homework assignment, nearly all our nightly tuck-ins conclude with the rhythmic sound of two growing human beings. While one girl’s heartbeat check brings laughter so intense that hiccups result, the other child’s heartbeat check inspires solemn talks of surgery, death, heaven, poverty, and pollution.

  Yet, there is one commonality.

  The Heartbeat Check offers refuge.

  No matter how crazy the day . . . no matter how discouraged I feel . . . no matter how dismal the state of our nation, The Heartbeat Check offers sanctuary.

  It brings clarity when I am conflicted . . .

  It brings calm when I am in chaos . . .

  It brings direction when I am lost . . .

  It brings peace when I am overwhelmed . . .

  It brings redemption when I’ve failed . . .

  It brings inspiration when I feel unmotivated . . .

  But that is only the half of it.

  Sometimes I’ll walk by Natalie’s room as she’s placing her head on the chest of Banjo the cat. “I’m doing a Purr Check,” she explains with a smile. I have to hold back tears knowing this connective ritual is an even greater gift than I ever could’ve imagined: The Heartbeat Check is God’s quiet retreat for those growing up in a world of distractions.

  Perhaps one day when my children are adults and life just looks too bleak . . . or the news is too disturbing to hear . . . or the schedule is too packed . . . or the distance between themselves and the people they love is too vast, they will remember where to find solace.

  And when they draw their loved one close, they will be reminded that the sound of hope is merely a heartbeat away. It is never too late to lay aside past regrets or future worries and listen for it.

  HANDS FREE LIFE DAILY DECLARATION

  Today I will set aside my insecurities and ask my spouse, child, parent, or loved one if I can hold them close. I will listen to their heartbeat, breathe in their scent, and tell them how much I love them. There will be obstacles and challenges that will interfere in carrying out these moments of connection, but I will not let the distractions of my life stop me from investing in what matters most — at least not today.

  HANDS FREE LIFE HABIT BUILDER 1

  Fill the Spaces of Life by Taking Off the Ticking Clock

  I take off the ticking clock to sit on floor of my child’s bedroom as she holds up every single shirt she owns, contemplating which one to wear to school the next day.

  I take off the ticking clock to listen to my husband talk sports scores, politics, and grilling techniques.

  I take off the ticking clock when my parents provide detailed medical commentary and exercise reports when asked how they are doing.

  I take off the clock when my child shows me how she can do her own hair for school — a style that takes no less than seven minutes and resembles a bird’s nest in the back when complete.

  I take off the clock when my little nephew and I take a walk around the block and he wants to put every “wock” he finds in his pocket.

  I take off the clock when I kneel beside my sleeping child and recite prayers of gratitude that morning chaos has a way of squelching.

  These offerings of my time, presence, and patience often require deep breaths from me, a Reformed Rusher. But with every triumph over my former rushing ways, I heal a little more. I feel at peace knowing I am exactly where I need to be.

  I know every minute of life cannot be lived like this. We have responsibilities, commitments, bills, deadlines, and duties. But when I take time to open my eyes, my heart, and my hands, I become aware that there is often something more pressing at hand.

  There must be time to wave to the elderly man across the parking lot.

  There must be time to ask the cashier how her day is going.

  There must be time to kiss the man I love before we go our separate ways.

  There must be time to notice the ladybugs that flitter across our path.

  Because when I find myself thinking there isn’t time to wait as worn-out shoes shuffle across an intersection, to look into hopeless eyes and offer a smile, or kiss the lips of the ones who saved me from my distractions, I might as well strap that ticking clock back around my neck and struggle for my next breath.

  But I refuse to live my life by the sound of a ticking of a clock.

  The sound of my own steady breath and the heartbeats of the people I love are the sounds that make life worth living.

  The next time you yearn to fill the spaces of your life and be all there, try using the visual image of physically removing the heavy clock from around your neck. Feel the weight being lifted off your chest as you give yourself permission to be in one place and one place only. Remind yourself these are the spaces where real living occurs and you have every right to devote time and attention to the
most important spaces of life.

  Habit 2:

  SURRENDER CONTROL

  Surrender to what is. Let go of what was. Have faith in what will be.

  Sonia Ricotti

  IT WAS THE WORST case of the stomach flu I’d ever experienced. After being awake the entire night, I managed to make my way to the living room couch, where I collapsed in agony.

  With Scott away on a business trip and my family living several states away, there was no one to come to my rescue. Normally I would’ve worried about how Natalie and Avery, then ages eight and five, would be cared for. But the only thing on my mind was how I would survive the next wave of nausea.

  Suddenly two bright, smiling faces with morning bedhead hovered over me. “Don’t worry; we’ll handle everything,” the big one consoled.

  Handle everything? They can’t even pick up dirty underwear from their bedroom floor, I scoffed to myself, fearing how the next twenty-four hours would play out.

  I closed my eyes, planning to rest for just a few minutes, but woke up hours later. Surrounding my lifeless body were teetering stacks of (nearly) folded laundry. Next to my head was a metal cookie sheet acting as a hospital tray. It held a large ice water with a straw and three Saltine crackers on a pristine white napkin.

  The girls appeared before me both fully dressed. Natalie sported a ponytail and Avery had managed to comb the front of her hair. The back of her head resembled a mound of dryer lint, but I wasn’t judging; I was wearing pillow marks on my face and two-day-old pajamas.

  The kitchen timer began going off. Were they using the oven? I panicked.

  “Don’t worry, Mama. We made lemon-poppy-seed bread,” Natalie assured me, as if two small children baking bread was a routine thing around here. “And we cleaned up our mess when we were finished,” she added, as if reading my mind.

  Thinking I was surely dreaming, I struggled to pull myself up to peer over the top of the couch. With an oven mitt on each hand, the girls were admiring a grossly misshapen loaf of bread as if they’d just produced a bar of gold.

  Within minutes they congregated at the kitchen table with thick slices of steamy bread slathered in butter. Engaged in critical baking evaluation, they quickly forgot about their sickly mother balled up in the fetal position on the couch.

  “It’s not as sweet as the bread Mama makes, but I think it’s better this way,” said one.

  “Yeah, definitely better. We should totally take over the baking in this house. What should we try next time?” said the other.

  As I listened to them collaborate, problem solve, and dream up future baking pursuits, two fat tears slid down my cheeks. It had been a rough twenty-four hours, but that is not why I cried. I cried because right before my weary eyes, I saw my children reaching their potential. Although I had not been there to monitor that heaping teaspoon of baking soda or that extra ten minutes of baking time, things had turned out just fine — actually, better than fine. My children’s faces held the unmistakable glow of ungoverned triumph.

  The truth is, had I not been sick, I would have tried to control the situation. Because that is what I did. In my haste to get things done quickly with the least amount of mess . . . in my effort to avoid conflict and achieve the best results . . . in my quest to protect my children from harm and failure . . . in my pursuit to appear as if my children and I had it all together, I attempted to control everything, including people, events, time, and situations. But seeing my children soar to heights unimagined during my illness enabled me to I see what I failed to see before. My need for control was holding us all back from fulfilling life experiences, meaningful connection, and transformational growth. By micromanaging our lives in small and big ways, I was missing the joy found in carefree living and lumpy loaves of bread made with love. I didn’t want to miss any more. I vowed to begin releasing my grip — and not just in the kitchen.

  While interacting with my parents, family, work associates, and children I taught at church, I made every effort to step back and let others take the lead. Because tasks did not have to be carried out my way, for once I found myself learning too. It was okay to be wrong or not know the answer. No longer did I feel pressured to be the expert or the taskmaster. Yes, there were more messes and mistakes, but there was also more laughter, more autonomy, and more joy from unplanned results. Making it my daily practice to surrender control over situations, people, and events led to the ultimate freedom: allowing my life to evolve according to God’s plan rather than my plan.

  Surrendering Control, the second intentional habit of a Hands Free Life, allows everything and everyone to simply be. Because you are no longer managing, predicting, or regulating people and situations, you have an expanded view. At last you are able to see opportunities to connect to what really matters in authentic, spontaneous ways. In this chapter, we’ll explore how surrendering control frees us to live better and love more. It is my hope that you will be inspired to let life happen the way it’s meant to happen — even when it feels uncomfortable, inconvenient, scary, or too late to even try. After all, how are we able to witness the beautiful results of allowing something to naturally unfold if we hold it captive to our plan? There is a much bigger plan than we could ever imagine for ourself, our family, and our life’s work that can only be seen when we stand back and behold the beautifully lopsided results of life being lived.

  SURRENDER CONTROL TO BE FREE OF PAST MISTAKES

  It was my first time participating on a parenting panel. Mike Robbins and Michelle Gale, experts in the field of living with intention and gratitude, joined me at the front of the room. Having participated in this conference format many times before, Mike and Michelle were relaxed, assuring me the discussion was going to be great. As panel moderator, Mike decided he would pose questions based on the feel of the audience. “We’ll just let things flow and see where it takes us,” he said casually.

  Panic gripped me. Letting things “flow” was not how I operated. There was always, always a plan — especially when it came to public speaking. I always had some idea of what I was going to say in response to every question. I’m pretty sure Mike could see the blood draining from my face. He gently touched my shoulder and assured me he would jump in if I got stuck.

  I nervously took my seat next to Michelle and realized this would be the first time I was seated while speaking to an audience. Naturally my eyes were drawn to the people seated in the front row. I smiled. They smiled back. They are nice people, I repeated to myself several times. Even if I drew a blank or became tongue-tied, they didn’t look like individuals who would laugh at me, I desperately hoped.

  Mike began posing questions: When did you realize you were living distracted? What was your first step to becoming more present? I was so relieved! I knew those answers! I began sharing my journey with “my people” in the front row. It wasn’t long before I forgot I was holding a microphone or talking to a large group of people. It wasn’t long before I forgot what I was “supposed” to be saying and just spoke from the heart. One man in a red sweater nodded encouragingly, just like a friend sitting across from me at a coffee shop. Another man clapped enthusiastically after one of my responses. One woman, whose thick, dark hair swooped over her left cheek, could not stop her tears. I was speaking to those people, literally and figuratively. I could feel it, and it made me want to openly share more.

  About midway through the discussion, Mike invited the audience to participate in a group exercise. He instructed them to complete the following sentence with a partner:

  If you really knew me, you would know . . .

  After each person took a turn, he or she was instructed to go a little deeper:

  If you really, really knew me, you would know . . .

  The partners were encouraged to exchange their truths until time was up.

  Although Mike had checked with Michelle and me ahead of time, I shifted uncomfortably in my chair when Mike said that the panelists would go first to illustrate the exercise.

 
; Part of me hoped my microphone would malfunction or I would suddenly lose my voice. Part of me wanted to think of something light and easy that would make people laugh. Part of me wanted to get up and run away.

  Because the truth was, I did not have a prepared response. I’d never been asked this question. Therefore, I would be forced to do something completely out of my element — just let things “flow.”

  I prayed for God’s guidance and rested my eyes on my supporters in the front row. Their loving gazes indicated I would be safe and encouraged, no matter what I said.

  And what came out of my mouth was not at all what I expected. I said:

  “If you really knew me, you would know I have trouble forgiving myself for the mistakes of my past. You see, I missed a lot of important moments in my children’s lives due to my distracted, perfectionistic, hurried ways. And when my readers write to me and say, ‘I’ve made a lot of mistakes. Is it too late for me?’ I tell them, ‘It’s never too late. Today is a new day. This journey is not about yesterday. It is about today and the critical choices you make today.’ That is what I tell my readers. That is what I believe with all my heart. But yet, I cannot offer those same forgiving words to myself.”

  And then I took it one step further:

  “If you really, really knew me, you would know that I’ve apologized to my daughters for the impatient, unhappy, perfectionistic drill sergeant I once was and for the hurt I caused . . . but when they wrap their arms around my neck and say, ‘I forgive you, Mama,’ I can’t quite allow myself to accept or embrace their forgiveness. For some reason, I keep revisiting past mistakes, as if to punish myself.”

  As I set down the microphone, I felt a single tear slide down my face. I’d never said those things to myself, much less an entire roomful of people, but for some reason I did not feel embarrassed or ashamed. In fact I felt lighter, as if a heavy burden had been lifted.