11.7 // The Wonder of Dinosaurs

Benson’s love of dinosaurs is spiritually convicting.
His passion puts my fickle heart to shame.

For starters, Ben knows 40+ species of dinosaurs— their features, diet, relatives.
At quiet time, he prefers to skim and review dinosaur encyclopedias that weigh more than he does.
He has dino t-shirts, shorts, pajamas, and socks. And he only wears dinosaur underwear.
He loves broccoli because they look like little trees, and he can pretend to be “prehistoric herbivores.”
And right now, my kitchen tongs have become spinosaurus jaws.
Who, by the way, was the biggest meat-eating dinosaur there was.

Who knew?
(Well, Benson did.)

When we arrived to the library each this morning, Ben unabashedly ran down the entrance ramp and right to the dinosaur section— per usual. But he was extra thrilled this morning because our library’s monthly theme is currently “Dinovember” and the children’s area is decorated and ready for all things dino.

As we walked in, our favorite librarian smiled and turned to Benson.
”Are you back for some more dinosaurs, chief?”

And of course, he was. Our Dinovember story time did not disappoint, and Benson was in top form ready to fact check and correct those tricky pronunciations. (Pachycephalosaurus is no joke.)

I’ll be honest: I’m really proud to be mama of the dinosaur chief.

I’m proud not just because his knowledge is ridiculously expansive and hilarious, but because of how much he genuinely loves dinosaurs.

Next time you see him, bring up dinosaurs and then watch his whole body. As he talks about them, he smiles and wiggles and moves his hands. He has to show you how big the tyrannosaurs rex skull is and illustrate how a troodon’s claws can hook around its prey and experience the stomping of a ankylosaurus through the brush.

You see, as much as he knows, Benson continues to wonder.
He never complains about hearing the same story twice, three times, or eighty-six times. Ben can play with his model dinosaurs for hours and imagine how they would sound and move and relate to each other (or eat each other). He finds great joy simply by looking at them, relearning the details, or hearing a new silly story with a cast of cartoon dinosaurs characters.
Dinosaurs are just as alive in his mind as they were 250 million years ago.
And they are just as exciting as they were when he firs discovered them 18 months ago.

Yet, when I look at my own life, I see a great distaste for repetition.
Throughout my days and weeks, I find myself daydreaming about new things— and not just material stuff, but new experiences, challenges, places.
I find that my rhythms grow boring quickly, my places are soon dull, and my daily tasks are mundane.
And my soul grows complacent and ungrateful.

Today can feel just like yesterday.
And the day before that.
Like perpetual Groundhog’s Day.

(And I know this is true for most all of us, regardless of our current vocation. This isn’t just motherhood. Our nine-to-five jobs can feel like monotony. Retirement can blur together without distinct, changes of pace. The school year can have a relentless marching rhythm: school week, weekend; school week, weekend; school week, weekend. Even “newness” or the quest to be interesting can get dull after a while. Its the same old chasing, the same trip routines, the same addiction to thrill and adventure.)

But when I watch Benson squirm and giggle while listening to a stegosaurs story, I realize that it is not about breaking out of our lives that will resurrect us.
No, in moments of examen, the memory of Benson teaches me that gratitude and wonder begin within our monotony—within our given life.
As Father Jim Martin says often, we simply have to “keep noticing.”

In the smallness of my days, do I notice the wonder, the growth, the miracles all around?
Do I measure my life by the depth of my moments or the number of my experiences?

I consider how I typically respond to seasons of monotony, and I am confronted with unhealthy habits and a need for confession.
Finding wonder does not come by escaping into something more exciting— for that will soon become my new normal.
It is not discovered by hurrying through this day or week or season to get to my next “more interesting” place in life— for the new job, relationship, place, house, experience will become a part of me just as this one has.
I will not be more satisfied by numbing myself by scrolling through social media for far too long— because when I look up from my screen, my life will still be here waiting for me to wake up and actually start living in it.

No, as much as we know and as normal as everything feels— we can continue to wonder.
Monotony is not a sign of lackluster life.
We simply have to take notice.

I scan around the house and try to notice.
In the face of monotony, I look into the face of John Taylor.
Sitting on my lap, he is the closest to me in this moment, and so I look— really, really look.

And I take notice:
His blue sleeper patterned with snaps and puppy dogs— and I touch the soft, cotton pajamas I am immediately taken back.
I recall the dear friends from Ferndale who gave me that exact piece of clothing. It was her favorite outfit to put her firstborn son in five years ago. And the I remember how we met, how we stumbled into each other carrying our babies around the neighborhood, trying to remember what it was like before this, bodies and souls neck deep in postpartum depression. And so in desperation we joined the other, and we walked with our newborn babies for blocks and blocks and blocks. And so the babies slept, and we felt less trapped, less alone, less afraid.
For months after, we would text one another and walk. And we walked alongside one another through regressions and tantrums and mastitis and milestones. We walked body and spirit. And then she had another and I did, too. So we switched newborn clothes: I gave her Olivia’s old infant clothes for her new daughter, and she gave me her son’s old clothes for my new son. And now here we are, four years later, and my next son is wearing her gift of grace still.
And only now, in hindsight, do I see that her friendship was a miracle of healing to me, a miracle of timing. I would have never made it through that first year of motherhood without her.
And I can’t help but wonder: Where else has God given me just what I needed, at the perfect time, to bring healing? Does anything in this room remind me of how far I’ve come, God and me?

Gratitude rises to the surface in the noticing, in things that are already here, close to us.
I don’t have to invent or consume or discover something new to wonder at.
All the glory is here.
I just have to notice.

And then I see John’s bright blue eyes, all the more bright and blue with the matching outfit— and I realize his inheritance.
I think of Jackson, how I always loved his blue eyes. And then I remember all the fun and adventure and challenge that came before days like these. College Jackson comes to mind, how he was loud and reckless and bold (and probably very obnoxious to everyone else but me). His blue eyes and shaggy blonde hair reminded me of Nick Carter then, and he would sing with equal angst and showmanship. Oh, I would swoon. The memories begin to flood now.
I remember our first date to The Wooden Spoon for breakfast, and how I ended up having to pay for our omelets; when we walked around the university track late, late at night trying to decide if our hopes and dreams would actually line up, if we could actually build a life together after graduation; how we hiked up the Pacific coast and really fell in the deepest of loves; what it felt like to dance at our wedding and all the weddings after that.
All of this, and more, in our son’s eyes.
Our son who shares his middle name.
And I can’t help but wonder: Am I living as if that vibrant love story is still being written? With my partner? With my family? With God? Even with myself?

As I ponder this crazy life with Jackson, John Taylor squeals and squawks in my arms, kicking and flailing, sucking on his fingers. He babbles and coos and smiles an extra gummy grin, and I lean in to be reminded of what else is here, what else there is to notice.

Oh yes, he is finding his voice— a timely revelation for me.
As I hear him rejoice in his newfound voice, I consider my own journey to regain my voice. After years of feeling too anxious, too unsure to sing or write or teach or speak, I sense a spirit of release. And I contemplate this journey of writing and how it has rejuvenated me, how the examen has asked me to name moments of gratitude, dissonance, joy, and peace. I imagine that throughout this year, as John Taylor learns words and phrases and meaning, I will grow alongside him— trusting my voice and learning new words for grace and peace and joy.
And I can’t help but wonder: Are there small ways that God is leading me, healing me, and showing me his faithfulness? In what other ways have I grown since last year?

And then I look at John Taylor as a whole.
This whole life that will be revealed and written in the monotony of days. The miracle of him will be played out as he joins his siblings in repetitive games and books and puzzles. We will know him as we wake up in this little parsonage over and over and over again, day after day.

Before I go to bed, I am left to consider GK Chesteron’s idea of repetition and wonder and gratitude:

“Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, "Do it again"; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony.

But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, "Do it again" to the sun.; and every evening, "Do it again" to the moon. It may not be automatic monotony that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never gotten tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.”
(Orthodoxy)

So I have decided that tomorrow morning, I will sit with this young God and Benson and read about dinosaurs. And with John Taylor in my lap, I will look around our living room and find evidences of God’s faithful and constant mercy that rises on us each morning, again and again and again forever.