These Three Remain

What I couldn't write about

2012-01-19T10:26:00.000-07:00

Please forgive the silence.

Some wounds beg to make their way to paper, journal pages soaking up the hurt and exposing it in neat rows of ink-on-white. Sometimes putting pen to paper puts thoughts and fears in perspective, rows written and captured to rectangle page, tamed by the writing.

And some things escape words altogether, seem too large to capture in twelve point courier.

How can I write down all the thoughts, the feelings, the heartbreaking loss, the overwhelming love? I can't succeed in capturing it. So I am just going to write.

For one year, we were their family. Their parents, their brother and sisters. We gave them all that we could and kept the hope that their mother would rise out of the downward spiral she'd fallen into. She became a sister to me, one who taught me that love is, and isn't enough to save a life. We tried our hardest to protect the boys and keep them safe and in the end, we had to let them go. Oh, I knew all along that they would break my heart...this is the nature of foster care. But I believed that when the time came, they would be going because their situation had turned for the better, their future brighter. That they would be safe. There is much I could say about this but in the end, it boils down to a series of failures in the system, checks that didn't check, balances that failed to balance.

In the end, we waited there in the living room. Seven souls bound together by some strange set of circumstances that we could never have predicted nor imagined. Surrounded by packed bags and heartbreak that defied words. And when they left...oh, friend. I can't write it. I can't.

So we are here now, a month later, back to five from seven. We are alright. There is a lot of prayer going on. And through it all, there is this: Love. It is stronger than all the rest, it prevails even in the darkest of times and the most incomprehensible of situations. In the end, it is all that matters. It is the one hope in all of this, that love made a difference, that it laid a foundation. It is the biggest thing that we will take away from a year that escapes description....love, heartbreaking, messy, overwhelming, piercing and beautiful love that is well worth it all. In the end, this is the truth we've learned: That we aren't called to anything less wrenching, less beautiful, less profound.

And that is the only way I can explain why, the morning after, through falling tears, the first thing that came to mind was: We would do it again. Yes, Lord. Again, if you call us. Because we see your heart in this kind of love, the type that knows the cost and still proceeds, that pours into the need that gapes and never fully fills. Because what we know now is something we could only have learned through this hard year....that loving this way blesses us more than anything. That it exposes our own need and our own shortcomings and our own brokenness and lays it all bare to sky and still, we are standing in His Grace and counting it all as blessing.

The lie of the porcelain nativity

2011-12-07T06:49:00.005-07:00

The porcelain is smooth under my fingers, glaze thick over her frozen features. In cupped hands I hold Mary, serene and beautiful with hands forever crossed over her heart. I turn the figure over, run my hands over the flowing robe. Place her kneeling beside the babe, the Son, nestled in a manger.

This, here on the mantle...perhaps this is where it starts? I see the eyes of my children gaze on this scene, so peaceful and beautiful. And I wonder, maybe this is where we go wrong.

Because the features here are so perfect, so calm, so beautiful. Because the hands folded, they are white and smooth and soft. There is no crease of worry on Joseph's brow, no sign of fatigue in Mary's eyes. The child, he is pale and smooth and everything is clean, so quiet, perfectly beautiful.

Is this our idea of beauty? And do we paint it over truth, call it real, strive for it? Is this false idea of the beautiful an idol we set up, long for, worship?

Because I know this life, the same one we share, the one Mary, Joseph and Jesus lived, too. And it is beautiful, it really is...but it does not look like this, the frozen, painted serenity and perfection of my porcelain manger scene.

No, Mary's eyes were tired, shot through with the weary work of bringing the Son into this world. She was poor, her robe was worn and stained with travel and travail. And Joseph, the worry and struggle of these last days must have shown on his face, the shock of these unplanned and unnerving months come to a climax here, in the last place he could have foreseen; a dirty shelter full of animals. The hands crossed over hearts must have been worn, chapped, rough. I picture Jesus...this tiny baby come to save the world. And he is ruddy, wrinkled, his brow lined like a little old man's. He is, on the outside, every newborn baby ever born; this weak flesh, these tiny hands, his eyes unable to focus. Streaked with blood, bruised and swollen. New life, as beautiful and as ugly as it ever was and always will be.

And there is the beauty, that God himself chose to grace this ugly, beaten, worn-out world and chose to come into it as one of us, in the same painful and messy way. That there, in the ugly-beautiful of the simple everyday, into a world of weakness and pain and fear and doubt, into the deepest shadows of the ordinary lay God himself. A beautiful light in a weary, dark land.

The false beauty of the porcelain nativity scene, it damages the real beauty of the Truth: That this story, it was written for you and for me. For each of us, in our simple, everyday beauty. For us, with our cracked hands covering our broken hearts, with the dirty dishes piled high in the sink and the bills past due and the ache of brokenness pulsing through our veins. It is this that He will make perfection, this that He loved enough to come here for, to die for.

The image that sits, perfectly crafted, on my mantle is a lie. A trap. It paints over the true beauty, which is deeper and more real than any created by human hands. The earthly beauty we strive for pales when compared to God's honest, piercing, heartbreaking beautiful. The false, gilded sense of beauty we hold as an idol only serves to separate us from the one who gave up the perfect beauty of Heaven itself to come here, come into the ugly-beautiful and live as one of us, God-made-flesh, perfection surrounded by a simple, ordinary earthen jar.

Lord, help me put away the idol of false, unattainable beauty and embrace the ugly-beautiful of my everyday. Help me rejoice in it, in the beauty of what is, now.

Homeschooling a Dyslexic Child...Words that Break the Rules

2011-11-16T10:23:00.002-07:00

English is a crazy language. If you are dyslexic, or if you're teaching someone who is...you learn to really, really hate those rule-breaking words that pop up unchanged from Ye Olde English or have been borrowed from another language (with a whole different set of rules!). First you have to spend years drilling all the phonics rules into the poor kid's head, and then you have to explain why this particular word does not actually sound like it ought to. I remember learning in French class that the French people are so particular about their language that they have a government department whose sole purpose is to examine words and decide whether or not to allow them to become part of the accepted French language. I used to think that was obsessive and excessive....now, however, I'm thinking of writing my congressman and asking if we could get a little of that going over here.

We got a good tip from our reading specialist that I thought I'd share...it works with any beginning reader and also helps with spelling those nasty phonics-ignoring words.

While Youngest is reading, I quietly make notes on the rule-breakers that trip her up. Then, we choose a few at a time (I choose the words that are commonly used first) and make flash cards. She watches as I write the word, then we sound it out together..."This word is spelled d...o...n...e. Let's sound it out the way it should sound: D-oh-n. But it's a rule breaker, so instead it says d-uh-n." Then, I have Youngest circle the part of the word that breaks the rule.

We use the cards, a few a day, to go over and remember what the rule-breakers look like. I hold the card up and have her look at it, then we draw the word with large letters in the air while saying the letters. Then we draw and say the letters backwards just for good measure. Finally, I hide the card and she writes the word on some paper. It's a lot of work, but I have found that with just a few sessions like this per word, the rule-breakers don't trip her up any more.

So there you have it. Until we get our own Délégation générale à la langue française et aux langues de France, we'll use this tool to combat those nasty phonics rule-breakers!

Faith and the Mustard Forest

2011-11-09T11:37:00.000-07:00

Again he said, “What shall we say the kingdom of God is like, or what parable shall we use to describe it? It is like a mustard seed, which is the smallest of all seeds on earth. Yet when planted, it grows and becomes the largest of all garden plants, with such big branches that the birds can perch in its shade.” ~Mark 4:30-4:32

Jesus said it, so it must be true. But have you seen a mustard seed? It's not that small. And have you seen a mustard plant? It's not that big. It's one of the parables I've glossed over, keeping the big-picture in mind and suspending my tendency to want scientific proof to back up everything I read.

Except I have found that when you gloss over these things they don't go away, they wedge like weeds in the back of your mind. Waiting. They wait for the water to find them, the moisture of discontent and life circumstances and weak will to seep in and germinate them, these weed-seeds of doubt. And although I never meant for them to grow, they do.

But Jesus said it, and it is true, and Truth does stand up to even the most careful scrutiny. And so I have learned to look. To research, to turn every stone and not to stop until my heart is satisfied....and I am blessed, every time, with much more than a lack of doubt. Scientific fact will never replace faith, assurance about what we do not see. But each time I seek to understand more fully, the space where doubt lived is filled to overflowing with grace, with hope, with Truth and with a deeper understanding that leaves me breathless, hungry for more. With each dive deeper into this sustenance called The Word I find faith, like a mustard seed, increasing within me, choking out the weeds and I find the courage to delve deeper into each mystery because yes, the Truth does stand and yes, the harder I look the more He speaks. And yes, some times faith is a blind thing. A walking in the dark thing, a clinging tightly with all you have thing. But the Word? It opens the blind eye, it speaks in the darkness, it holds you so that when your grip loosens and you expect to plunge downward, you find that He was holding on to you, your grip was never meant to hold you up because He was holding you all the time.

So, the mustard seed? Though not so small, was the smallest seed in that time and in that place. Jesus spoke then to a crowd who would have planted nothing smaller. And the mustard tree? The fields of small, yellow flowers we think of here and now are not the same. Black mustard was the plant the Lord referred to, and it grew. In a land where water was scarce and most trees were not that tall, Black Mustard would grow to heights of over 3 meters...12 feet. If left for years, these shrubs could become giants, branching over fields and providing a perfect place for birds to perch, sway. And as far as a garden plant goes, you would not see one any bigger in your vegetable patch. Jesus said it, and it's true.

And, like the mustard seed, when I searched with the smallest faith that said this is true, and I want to know why I found something take root that grew much bigger than my doubt. I found that, beyond the vertical heights of the black mustard plants, there was something else. There was this: Tenacity. These plants, they don't grow only skyward. They propagate, setting their small seeds out far and wide, running their yellow blooms down hillside and across field. They reach and spread. They cover the bare earth with nodding, yellow light. And once it takes root, it is very hard to weed out. It can take years of tenacious effort to uproot a field of black mustard, for once it has established it grows to a forest meters tall. From a website outlining how to eliminate an unwanted field of established Black Mustard, here is a description of a "Black Mustard forest":

The destruction of a thriving forest may not seem like a fitting pursuit for restorationists, but that was our obsession when we began work on San Onofre Beach in 1994. The forest was a single-species stand of exotic Black Mustard (Brassica nigra). Normally only waist-high, this "forest" was two meters in height, with occasional " forest veterans" nearly three meters tall. This widespread southern California weed had a nearly unbreakable hold on the open ground between remnant patches of coastal sage scrub on the coastal bluff. The high fertility, both natural and from agricultural chemicals, brought dense stands of mustard exploding out of the ground every year......Black mustard has all the attributes of a successful weed, including rapid growth, copious seed production, and independence from mycorrhizal fungi. Under the mustard canopy was an understory of more mustard, and the supply of seeds was nearly infinite. The fertile soil was of little use to native plants, which are adapted for the low-nutrient conditions of a natural ecosystem. The mustard, on the other hand, was able to take full advantage of the fertility. Any hapless native that might germinate under the mustard was hopelessly outmatched in growth rate and competition for water and sunlight. (www.sanfoundation.org)

Could we, with our tiny mustard-seed faith, be meant to grow a forest? Could our faith catch on like wildfire, spread miles of burning yellow flowers dancing in the wind? Could it grow to heights suitable for birds to nest, provide shelter and sustanence to living things in need of home? Could it become a live thing, an ecosystem of grace and protection and love? Could it overshadow the evil in this world, grow faster than the pain, replace bare soil with deep roots to fight the erosion of the soul?

I find this thought: Our faith, however small, may plant those tiny seeds and they may grow. That one small seed, the lowliest of all, might start a forest that spreads and grows and roots itself deeply in the soil of hearts...to be spread outward, in ways we may never know this side of Heaven.

Someone Else's Tears

2011-11-08T11:47:00.000-07:00

I didn't know.

When we opened the door almost a year ago with the simple word "yes," when we opened our arms to an infant tossed and tumbled by the storm of tragedy, when we brought home his brother too (little more than an infant himself) and made them a part of home, we didn't know what we were getting into.

We knew we didn't know. We felt God's hand on our shoulders, His voice soft in our ears...surrender to my will and we said that "yes" without condition or direction, knowing only that we did not, could not know and that somehow, God asks us to find peace in that place. In His wisdom He knows and all that we can do is be still, listen, let him grow us in the protected garden of the now-- where the future comes one day at a time and shows itself no further than that, a chain of nows that He waters in the shelter of submission. There are some "yeses" that lay the heart bare and open, that break apart the hard, protective shell of costal bone and lay it wide to the slings and arrows of the world and this year has been open-heart surgery, open soul surgery.

What I didn't know, is how life can break a person so that their heart is hard, the walls have thickened and grown cold and inside there is no room for the kind of love you need to raise a child. What I didn't know is that addiction is a cold, hard thing...a killer that rages within and stamps life out, one love at a time. A thief of will and judgement that breaks into your life to take everything of value and leave you empty, always wanting. What I didn't know is how you can love such a person so intensely, want so badly to see them succeed and fall so easily into the habit of saving them from the natural consequences of their actions over and over again. How easily a person can contribute to the downward spiral, simply by trying to ease the blow at the bottom of the fall.

I have found myself in places I could never have pictured myself in before...locked in a room full of addicts court-ordered to come and share their stories, waiting for the outflow of heartbreak to be finished so I can take her home, this meeting being a rung in the ladder she must climb. Here in this office, shabby and worn, is more heartache than my mind can possibly wrap around. More heartbreak, but no tears...they speak these bare, hard stories out flat and frank, unsoftened by emotion, untouched by tears. I have come to the conclusion that tears are the solvent that breaks down the hard crust of apathy, that they are absent here speaks more than the words that are falling down around me. They are talking to each other in loud voices, comparing stories of prison time and discussing the favorable conditions of the jails here in this state. My friend, she does not belong here. Not yet. But then, too, any of us could belong right here, given a few months of bad choices and bad circumstances.

Or, perhaps, given the compassion to be here as a healing voice to catch and defuse the harsh words and hurt that fly through the air of this room, this life. Me, I only sit here thinking about how wrong this could go...with the doors locked for the meeting and the gang tattoos and the fractured minds and I am weak, thinking only of myself and not the love of God that needs so much to be spoken here. I look at my hands, fiddle with my purse. I search for Bible verses stored in my mind but they read through my head without waking my heart. I tell myself this is not my calling. I tell myself this over and over, Jonah-like, grasping at any excuse to stay mute and safe in my imaginary world where these people do not exist, where they know how to heal themselves and Jesus doesn't need to be spoken loud enough to break through closed ears and emptied hearts.

It occurs to me: I am the only one waiting there for someone. All of the others? Have no one. I hear one woman say, in a voice raked over by years of smoking things I've never even heard of, that she's alone now, entirely alone. She's used up everyone she ever knew, used them empty and then, too, I see it on her face...the empty, so that even as these words are spoken her eyes are dry. The hurt lives somewhere else, in a place apart from her. I think perhaps it lives instead in the eyes of those used up, who have had to let her go. I know this personally, how someone else's tears can fall from your own eyes. There are no words for the fear, pity, rage, and sadness that collide in my heart sitting there, faced with the knowing that this story, in which I am just a chapter...a transient, supporting character...is only one of so many others and each one is equally broken, equally incomprehensible. My own, too, except for Jesus. Sometimes the weight of all the suffering, knowing it is there...the weight of it presses down on my chest and makes it hard to breathe. To draw in the air of all this brokenness and sorrow, and to do it again and again...perhaps it's that very weight that drives people to pick up the bottle, the needle, the pills.

Where is Jesus in this room of suffering? I'd like the answer to be simple, to say that if only they each knew Him, the suffering would immediately end. But I have lived enough life to know that sometimes even those of us who know Him suffer, even those who love Him sometimes bleed out of hope and out of touch. Where we are heading is one thing, how we are living is sometimes quite another. I have seen enough to know that sometimes all of us, like lonely addicts, we use Him without giving back...no, without giving up...our control, our will, our desire, or idols, our addictions to anything and everything other than Him. We do our best to empty ourselves of Him, our souls seem to run dry. And our tears fall from His eyes.

Jesus at the WIC office

2011-11-03T10:59:00.002-06:00

                                                                   Photo from a stock image collection

It is my first time in a WIC office, second time in a public health office at all. I am feeling a little superior here, I must admit. I have grown accustomed to the diaper bag again, after an 8 year break from carrying around half my belongings everywhere I go. I have three other children who have, thus far, turned out pretty great if I do say so myself. I have a degree in Psychology, emphasis in Child Psychology. I have spent years reading the labels on everything my family eats, cooking most things from scratch, planning menus and sharing meal planning ideas. I could, if I chose, teach any of the classes offered here. That's my attitude as I sit down at the desk to get the boys' WIC temporarily switched over into our name.

I set Toddler on my lap and eye the waiting room critically as the person behind the desk takes information, examines guardianship papers. I vow to avoid letting these two babies touch any of the toys in the corner, which are clearly seething with a variety of viral filth sure to bring on any number of illnesses within a week of even the slightest contact. Toddler babbles and points. Baby squirms on my lap. The paperwork takes twice as long as it should, the employee on the other side of the desk is the only person working this area of the office and must answer phones and direct people who are coming in, while she is entering our information. She answers the fourth phone call, speaks in fluent Spanish. As I shift the squirming Baby on my lap, I wonder...not for the first time...why I took French in College.

Thirty minutes later, the office has filled up. There is a general chaotic noise around us that makes it difficult to hear, our answers and questions are vaulted over the desk in tones only slightly softer than a shout. There must be 50 children under the age of five here, I marvel. Or maybe it only seems that way. More keep coming in through the door, most of their parents must stop to ask the woman behind the desk what to do. My patience is wearing thin, I feel a claustrophobic panic start to rise in my chest. Toddler has exhausted every brightly colored plastic item in my arsenal of diaper bag boredom-busters. Baby has chewed on my keys, my smartphone, my arm, and his brother. Both are fussing, squirming, and in constant need of re-direction. I am sweating in my tee-shirt and hoodie, wrestling with a combined 57 pounds of baby boyflesh while trying to keep all our belongings from being spread throughout the office and continuing to answer questions...many of which seem increasingly arbitrary considering the mounting stress of the current situation. I stare hard at the plastic, germ-infested baby-nirvana calling to the boys from across the room. Thirty-five minutes have passed before my resolve breaks and I send them toddling off to contract three weeks worth of booger-noses and sleepless nights, playing with the waiting room toys.

As the woman behind the desk is explaining to me that I now need to watch an orientation video (with two squirming children on my lap in a room where the decibel level is only slightly lower than a runway at the airport?), the room becomes strangely silent for a moment. Then, filling the silence, a woman shouts in a shrill voice: "You can't do that! That's abuse!" I turn and see a young woman with a little boy, perhaps three years old, her hand clamped around his shoulder. Another woman stands and points accusingly at her. "Did anyone else see that? Did you see her drag her child across the room by the ear?!?" Murmurs begin to float across the room, and the woman with the boy shouts right back. "None of your damn business, lady!" she snarls. "He was taking a toy from that other kid." Her friend is standing beside her, glaring savagely at the other woman. The babies, sensing the shift in mood, abandon the germ-infested toys and begin to toddle back in my direction. The two women continue to fight, and tension mounts in the room. Several other people saw the incident, and everyone seems to be ready to argue. The lady behind the desk makes a quiet phone call, and a bored-looking police officer comes from the front of the building to intervene. The lady, her child, and several witnesses are escorted to a back room and the noise level gradually rises back up to fill the empty space.

I turn back to the employee behind the desk, with what must have been a bewildered look. "Happens all the time," she says with a shrug, and answers the phone for the fifth time. The florescent lights, the noise, the whole situation start to close in on me and I feel suddenly so lost; a speck of person afloat on a vast and uncertain sea, clutching a pair of sticky hands and trying to touch something within myself...anything!...that feels normal.

"What will happen?" I ask, when she hangs up the phone and hands me back a stack of paperwork. She sighs. "Nothing, probably. DCFS is so overloaded with cases that they don't do anything unless the situation is serious. Not enough foster families, not enough funding." I pull the boys off my leg, tote them over to watch the inaudible video in another area of the office. I can't get the little boy's face out of my mind, his mop of dark hair, chocolate-brown eyes. He never cried, just stood there looking.

Over an hour later, I finally have everything I need to purchase Baby's expensive allergy-free formula and Toddler's cases of milk substitute. I have vouchers for a month's worth of babyfood, cereal, and produce. The babies are past their limit and I am, too...both boys need lunch and a nap and I need to get out of this building as soon as humanly possible. I yank sweaters over two bobbing heads, track down a missing shoe, re-pack the toys into my diaper bag and fish my keys out of my purse. I am exhausted, emotionally and physically, overwhelmed and feeling dangerously close to tears. I sling the diaper bag over one shoulder, hoist one boy on each hip, and push out into the crisp fall air.

As I am buckling Baby into his carseat, I hear her. The woman with the three-year old has been released and is walking her car, the boy tripping along behind her as she speaks staccato bursts into the fresh afternoon, her friend agreeing with every obscenity-peppered word.

"None of their damn business how I raise my kid! Who do they think they are, telling me what I can do? What do they know about my f---ed up life, anyway?" She walks past me, opens her car door, lights a cigarette. The child climbs into the back seat. They drive away, and I try not to think about where they are going.

I put the key into the ignition, turn the car on, sit back in my seat. I press a hand to my forehead, the space between my eyes, but the tears come anyway. I try to picture Jesus at the WIC office...his lap is full of children; his hand touching their faces, brushing back curls and wiping away tears. I try to listen to what He says to their mothers, yes, even to that mother. But I can't quite hear Him over the noise of everything else, over the sound of my own angry tears.

A Mile in Her Shoes

2011-11-02T12:25:00.000-06:00

“Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven." Luke 6:37

Did you see her in the grocery store? She has two small children, babies really, squalling in the cart. She's parked in the babyfood aisle, blocking the lane...one hand re-arranging a bottle propped in the infant seat that's resting precariously in the front of the cart. The toddler in the basket, surrounded by babyfood jars and boxes of diaper wipes, is pulling things off the shelf and she doesn't even see him. She's fumbling with boxes of rice cereal, rifling through rectangles of paper vouchers in her purse. "That's it," you think, as you try to maneuver around the cartfull of chaos blocking your way. "Food stamps. My tax dollars at work." The toddler is screeching and shaking the side of the cart, he looks like he might pitch over the side at any moment. The infant in the carseat is starting to fuss, her bottle having rolled to the side again. Her nose is crusted with mucous and her brother's face is covered with whatever he ate for lunch, you can feel the sticky from three feet away. The mother doesn't even seem to notice the noise and disarray, she's frantically tossing babyfood into the cart and picking up the scattered stack of vouchers that have fallen to the floor. She's everything that's wrong with the welfare system today, too young, too overwhelmed, completely inexperienced. You shake your head and push your cart on by, get out of there as fast as possible. You only hope that she's not in front of you in the checkout line.

I've been there, too. Rolled my eyes as I passed by. Been frustrated by the fact that I'm scrimping and saving to buy the groceries in my own cart while she's filling hers with the money that I (ok, my husband) worked so hard to earn. Judged her parenting based on the mess I saw in aisle four.

And this week, I have been the mother with the WIC vouchers. The one holding up the checkout line, with the two babies in tow and 32 assorted jars of babyfood rolling around in my cart.

Hubby and I managed to avoid using social services. We were dirt poor for a lot of years, and we barely made ends meet. We would have qualified for food stamps and WIC for many years, but we proudly refused to apply for or use these services because by working hard and not spending money on ourselves, by driving old cars and sewing up the holes in our socks instead of buying new ones, and by God's grace and the generosity of family we were able to make it through. Were we right to refuse to look into these services that were available to help us? I didn't question anyone else's decision to use those services, just figured it wasn't for us. I was always glad to know that they were available should we really need them. We just thought we could get along without it, and we did. We were getting Hubby through school and we knew that there was an end in sight, so as little as we had back then we were looking at it all as temporary, a passing hardship. Those tough years were a blessing, they taught us to make a little money go a long way, and once Hubby finished school and got a good job we moved happily forward into the American Dream and didn't look back.

Even in the hardest years? We were lucky, blessed.

In the last year, along with the two babies we took in, we began a crash course in compassion and understanding for those in "the system". A graduate level course on patiently dealing with mounting frustration, caused both by people and the system itself, with the programs available to the poor and lost among us. A learning experience that has highlighted both the remarkable faults of the system, the terrible brokenness and need that lives right next door without our realizing it, and the amazing strength and fortitude of the people we tend to hold the least respect for. We have seen stereotypes confirmed and stereotypes proved wrong. We have been stretched in all different directions, we have been blessed and broken and challenged and changed and still, a year later, we are waiting blindly and trusting God to lead us.

In the days to come I'll share some of what I've seen and experienced. I'm not offering any answers, in fact I have found that I'm left with more questions the harder I look at things. But it's made me leave my safe little place of ignorant bliss and realize that there is a great need right here, in our own neighborhoods and on our own streets. That there's a whole world out there that I walk right by, that I could live a whole life not noticing if I chose to remain blind to it.

And the desire to judge? One thing I've found, the more involved you become...you first fight the desire to judge by the way things appear. Then you question every judgment you find yourself making, realizing that there are an overwhelming number of factors that contribute to the way things are and you are not qualified to sort through them all. Finally, you find that there is simply a sense of profound relief...that this is not my job. That I can do my best to walk a mile in someone else's shoes, and in the end I am responsible for my own actions and thoughts and nothing else; we are all accountable to the same Judge who is infinately more qualified than I.

Homeschooling...What We Use (Part 2...Winter Promise and Sonlight)

2011-09-27T10:53:00.000-06:00

In the last post, I talked about using K12 as a part of our curriculum. You can read about that here (and see a related post here).

As I mentioned earlier, my kids started to really dislike the K12 curriculum as they got older. In particular, I noticed that they were not developing a love of reading and they were not getting a very good overview of really enjoyable books using the K12 program. Middle Child, especially, did not like to read and dreaded Language Arts. Both older children were not seeking books to read during their free time, and it was clear that this was only getting worse as time went on.

It was hard financially, but well worth it to switch to a curriculum that fosters learning through excellent books. Sonlight has always been a leader in this area, and we had done a year of Sonlight once before and enjoyed it. When I started thinking about buying a new curriculum, Sonlight was my first thought.

However, a friend of my was using a new curriculum by Winter Promise, and as much as I love Sonlight I have to say that my family enjoys Winter Promise even more! Winter Promise is very similar to Sonlight, but has several advantages (in my opinion). The first advantage is that they have packaged their Humanities Curriculum in such a way that you can homeschool many levels with just one core. This allows all the kids to study the same thing during the year and sit in on the read-aloud novels and history books together, but have separate readers and Language Arts aimed at their grade level (but all tying into the core). For example, we used WP's "Quest for the Ancient World" as a Humanities core for all 3 kids. Middle Child did the Sixth Grade Language Arts and Literature package, Eldest did the High School package, and Youngest did K12 phonics and reading. That year, we also did K12 History because it happened to be studying the same time period as the WP curriculum, and we had many age-appropriate readers and read-alouds from K12 to add to Youngest's experience. Even though we had to make modifications to the WP Core for Youngest (and we let her color or play with beads or blocks while I read aloud), we were able to do one core program as a family, which really builds up sibling relationships and makes my job much easier!

Another thing we love about Winter Promise is that it includes many, many projects, hands-on experiences, and suggestions for further reading, videos, and websites. Sonlight also does a good job with this, but in my experience WP is a stronger curriculum for children who enjoy exploring learning physically, doing projects, and learning through artwork and experimentation. The program includes Notebooking, which gives students an opportunity to record what they have learned in their own words and pictures (making their new knowledge "stick" much more effectively). Maps were included to color and label as we studied different world regions. It also offers a nice Time Line, with two options for pictures to glue to pages in a time line notebook. Other themed WP programs include lapbooking projects that produce a beautiful record of each child's learning through the year. You can purchase all the printed material to do the lapbooks, which cuts down on your printing and supply-hunting time. My kids love this approach...we were able to do cooking projects, work with clay, watch videos about what we learned, write down our thoughts, and do many other activities together. Eldest had material above and beyond what Middle Child and Youngest were expected to do, and I felt that the curriculum kept each child challenged at their own level while allowing us to enjoy working together.

I also like the History text used in WP better than the one used in Sonlight. Mystery of History is engaging, fun, and solid both Biblically and Historically. Sonlight uses the Story of the World series, which is a great alternative to a traditional History textbook but does contain some historical errors.

Sonlight is a solid program and we did use it last year (long story as to why, the main reason was that it filled a time-gap in our history timeline so that we could start on American History this year). We enjoyed the reading we did last year using Sonlight and their Bible Study was great. However, we missed the projects from WP and it was harder for us to accommodate different grade levels in our studies.

Over all, I can't say enough good things about Winter Promise. Sonlight is also great, has been around for a long time, and if you have kids who are not really into project-based learning or you don't want to combine age groups with one curriculum, Sonlight is a great way to go. For families with a wide age range of active, creative learners though....Winter Promise is wonderful! I am happy to say that my kids really enjoy reading now. Middle Child went from a reluctant reader to an avid reader in less than a year, and I credit the excellent literature selection of the curriculum with that change. Eldest read many, many books he would otherwise never have read due to WP and Sonlight, and I am very glad we chose to go this route. Literature-based learning is a lot of fun, and I have to say that in the last few years I have learned more about History, Geography, and World Cultures than I learned in College! Both Winter Promise and Sonlight

Homeschooling...What We Use (Part 1)

2011-09-23T11:59:00.000-06:00

As the school year gets underway, we are learning and growing and trying new things. I've been meaning to post more about some curriculum and strategies we've used in homeschooling and, in particular, in homeschooling a child with dyslexia-- but it's been hard to find the time because...well....I'm homeschooling. I had a moment, so I thought I'd get as much down as I could.

First of all, as I mentioned in this post, we have been using a program called K12 for some of our schooling. I'll start this group of school posts with an honest critique of K12, from the point of view of a Christian homeschooler.

In our state, K12 is a free program available to homeschoolers through a local school district. It is technically a "Public School" and as such, Youngest is enrolled as a public school student. The upside to this is that there is a teacher available to answer questions, and as a public school they have to offer help to students who have learning challenges-- which means we have had some resources that would otherwise have been expensive and difficult to obtain. The downside is that we have a few hoops we have to jump through. The main drawback (in my opinion) is that we have to do the standardized testing each year, for the subjects that we are using the K12 program. Other than showing up for the testing, which is located in schools or libraries, and going to arranged field trips if we choose to do so, we do not ever have to engage in "school" anywhere other than our home and we are able (at least in our state) to exercise a great deal of freedom in how we use the program. If you are interested, here is a link to check if your state offers K12 as a free public school program. I should add right here and now that if it's not offered free, I would not recommend buying it! It's good, but it's a very expensive program otherwise and for the money I'd go with a good Christian-based program instead.

We have used this program for long enough to have formed some opinions of it...by and large, I think it's a great program in many ways. First of all, you get an amazing amount of learning "stuff" for free. Check out this post for photos of what we received for Kindergarten! They offer an excellent and fun secular school program in grades K through 4, full of hand-on learning, colorful examples, and good books (they do offer classes through High School, I'll talk a little more about that later). Part of the program is done online through an easy-to use program, and the rest is done with traditional books, workbooks, and projects. If we could afford to buy any program we wanted, we might have used something else. But we have been thankful for being able to use some K12 classes for free and we have been happy with many aspects of the program.

Our family has the option to only use part of the program, in some states you must use all subjects to enroll in K12 and if that were the case for us we would probably not be using it at this point. I am using K12's Language Arts, Math and Science right now for Youngest, she does Bible study and History with the older kids using a curriculum I'll describe later. I have found that K12's Phonics curriculum is especially good, they use many of the techniques we have been learning with our reading specialist and you would pay hundreds of dollars to find a program equal to this one elsewhere. For my child with learning challenges, it has been a great program--just what you need to build a very solid base in Phonics. I should add here that the older children were reading before they started school and would not have needed the depth that the K12 program offers...they did fine with the old standby, Teach Your Child to Read in 100 Easy Lessons. If you were using the K12 program for a typical child, you would probably want to skip much of the repetition in the lessons.

K12 has recently renovated their early elementary math program, and the changes have been great! They have added some fun online games and animations to help teach math concepts, and the workbook texts are colorful and easy to work with. The program comes with a ton of fun manipulatives. The math program teaches concepts that help children develop critical thinking skills and a deeper understanding of how math works, which helps children learn to enjoy and understand math in later years. There are programs out there that teach math in ways that are better for visual learners or kids who don't like math or have problems with it (Math U See is a great visual-learning program we're using for Middle Child) but so far we are enjoying the K12 Math with Youngest.

We have done both Science and History through K12 in the past and, while both are good programs and much more in-depth than a typical program in public school would be, I have chosen to do History with a different curriculum (Youngest sits in on her older siblings' lessons) and will be doing Science with another program after 3ed grade. I just want a more Biblical view of both subjects, and I also really enjoy the Classical Education approach. We have used Sonlight and Winter Promise for History core, which includes Language Arts. I feel that the programs used in both Sonlight and WP are better for writing skills, grammar, and communication...and offer far better options for literature and a global, cross-cultural view of History. Both programs also offer an in depth Biblical, Christian viewpoint and excellent a Bible Study component (I will write more on this in the next post).

But I digress. K12's Science program is fun and comes with all sorts of great things...for example, Second Grade Science came with a magnet set, many books about different science subjects, a rock collection, a spring scale, pulley, thermometers, and many other supplies for various simple experiments. The program offers a good, simple overview of Science for young children. Due to the secular nature of the program we add a lot of our own lessons and opinions to K12's science (I do all the lessons alongside Youngest) and we have her listen in on the older kids programs. K12 does offer the option in the lower grades to opt out of the unit on Evolution, which gives you the option to teach your own unit in its place. We will be changing to Abeka or Apologia science once Youngest is done with the Third Grade program. Again, if money is tight and you can get K12 for free, it's a great place to start. If I had to pay for the program, however, I would have gone with Sonlight's science programs instead...which also offer all the supplies needed and are a lot of fun.

In my opinion (and my kids will fully back me up on this!) by 4th grade, the K12 program starts to feel like a public school classroom...boring, repetitive, and full of extraneous worksheets. I also feel that the early years in K12 offer comparatively very in depth information and an overall better education than traditional schools, but in the upper grades the program just doesn't cover as much or do it as well as other homeschool curriculums. Unfortunately, I think that a big part of the drop off in educational value may be because they have to follow public school standards and they begin to "teach to the test" much more at that point (just my opinion). By the end of third grade, my older kids were starting to get bored with the program and learning wasn't fun at that point. We switched curriculum, and my kids started enjoying school again. I learned from this that for us it's fine to use K12 for the subjects that it's strong in, as long as it's working for the particular kid at the particular level they are working at. It's also fine to stop using it when it stops being helpful. If you use K12, be sure to remember that the curriculum is there to serve you, and if it's not serving your kids well then by all means don't feel bad about changing to something else. Because it's a secular program, you'll also want to make sure that you are doing plenty of Bible and Christian education in all your other subjects that are not K12.

With this in mind, by 4th grade, we have dropped all K12 classes and phase full time into WP or Sonlight. At that point we have had the younger kids sit in on our our History read-alouds and do the projects that the older kids are doing with their History Core, so the transition is smooth...the History Core is done all together, while the kids each have their own Language and Math and Science programs (which is were we use the K12). After 3ed grade, we will be combining Science for my younger 2 as well, and Youngest will join in the History/Language Arts core full time (with whatever accomodations we need to take into account for the reading issues) and graduate to a new math program.

Whew. If you made it this far, congrats! Of course, all this is my opinion only. Feel free to ask questions if you have them, in the comments or via email.

Transoceanic Chimpanzees, Zombie Pa, and Snapping Atoms

2011-09-19T11:06:00.002-06:00

One of the things I love most about being a parent is that it really challenges your idea of what is "normal". There are times when the things that come out of my mouth just really cause me to sit back, shake my head, and marvel.

All three of the kids have had their moments, but Youngest wins the prize for requiring the most unusual parental responses so far. A few of my favorites from over the years:

~Please stop licking my leg, you are not actually a dog.

~Beetles do not belong in your mouth.

~No, chimpanzees can't swim across the ocean. And even if one did, it's not likely it would break into the house to pull your arms off.

As the chimpanzee comment suggests, many of Youngest's greatest moments have involved her creative imagination running away with her. She has struggled with night-time fears, anxieties, and bad dreams that when re-told will often keep me up at night. Her description of a nightmare in which the characters from Little House on the Prairie died and came back as zombies still gives me the willies...."Oh, Mommy...zombie Pa was so scary!

The latest issue arose when she was positive that she had shut the closet door and turned off the closet light, and then turned around to find the door open and the light on. What could have happened? The conversation went something like this:

Youngest: "I think it might have been a ghost. But then again, that doesn't really make sense...ghosts can walk through walls, right?"

Me: "Well, actually, there is no such thing as a ghost. You know that, right?"

Youngest: "Well, yeah. But if there was such a thing as a ghost, it would walk through walls. And if it walks through walls, it can't actually turn on the light or shut the door. And it couldn't even actually touch you, either! So it couldn't, like, strangle you anything. So I don't think it was a ghost! And I'm not going to be afraid of them, since they couldn't hurt you."

Me: "Because they don't exist! You don't need to be afraid of them because they are not real."

Youngest: "And they couldn't touch you if they were real. But a zombie could!"

Me: "But zombies are also not real, remember we talked about this? They are stories made up in movies to scare you but they are not real."

Youngest: "Yeah, they're not real. And besides, it couldn't have been a zombie that did it. If a zombie actually was in my room, then you would know by now. Because it wouldn't have waited this long, it would have eaten my brain a long time ago."

The door-and-light issue kept her up for the better part of a week, before she settled back down and was able to sleep well again. I was about halfway through a sigh of relief when a new issue cropped up from an unexpected source: A science lesson on molecules.

Youngest: "Atoms are smaller than molecules, right?"

Me: "Yep. Molecules are made up of atoms, remember?"

Youngest: "Yeah." [a period of silence, during which her brow becomes increasingly furrowed and a worried look starts to settle on her face]

Me: "You OK, sweetie? What's on your mind?"

Youngest: "How hard is it to, you know, snap an atom?"

Me: "What?"

Youngest: "To snap an atom. Can you break one yourself? Like, by accident? I've just been really, really worried lately about accidentally breaking an atom and causing a huge explosion. Could you do it by accident? Like step on one or something?"

Me: "This explains why you've been wanting to wear your slippers everywhere we go, doesn't it?"

I expected monsters under the bed. I even expected something scary in the closet. But who could have been prepared for a childhood fear of spontaneous nuclear fission?

I'm still not sure what "normal" is, but I am pretty sure it doesn't live at my house. That's fine. I sure do enjoy my kids and their funny way of seeing things, and I am sure that one day Youngest will laugh right along with me about the days of transoceanic chimpanzees, zombie Pa, and snapping atoms.

At which point she will give up wearing those fuzzy slippers everywhere. Right?!?

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Sometimes, it's the times when you least feel like laughing that doing so is most important.

It's been a rough year, really. I have seen a lot of heartbreak and struggle and been through some dark days, and though much growth and learning has come from this a person does get...weary.

In a rare quiet moment, I ran across an article on TheHighCalling.org about laughter, and I realized that I need to remember to really revel in the funny things that life brings, take time to enjoy and appreciate them and share them with others. Deidra over at Jumping in Tandem is offering up a place to share some laughter, I thought it would be....therapeutic....to join in!

Half My Life

2011-08-23T10:19:00.001-06:00

It's this man's birthday today, the one who's stood by me through thick and thin, through all sorts of trials and tribulations, through sleepless nights and hikes in the mountains and music playing and children laughing and so many, many blessings. It is also the month that marks the day I have been with him for fully half of my life.

Do you know what?

I am truly blessed by being married to my best friend, this God-loving, bass-playing, hard-working husband of mine.

Happy Birthday, Husband. You make me happy beyond what words can express. (And you look darn good in that Stetson, too!)

Free Album Download and Music Resources....

2011-08-19T11:21:00.000-06:00

Yep, another music post!

I have had quite a few people email to ask about the music playing on this blog, and I've told you all a little about our involvement in worship music. The artist who wrote and performed the song "Your Love Remains" is Steele Croswhite, he is also a pastor at our church and director of The Rock's music ministry. Steele left a career in secular rock music to follow God's calling to produce excellent worship music for the glory of God, turning down a dream offer from the producer he had hoped to work with. As a result of that hard choice, an amazing movement of music has been growing here....we have been so blessed to be a part of it. It is life-changing to see how music that is directed to the Creator of Music (and not to the glory of anything or anyone else) can change lives.

Recently, Come & Live has picked up some of The Rock's music and has put an album of music together for Free Download! There are eight songs on this free album (including Your Love Remains). Come & Live is a great resource, you can listen to and download free music from Christian artists from all over and you can read and learn more about the artists and what's going on in the world of Christian music. Here's a bit from what Come & Live has about The Rock...

We believe Jesus Christ was the ultimate revolutionary for social and spiritual change. Our foundation is His Word, the Bible. We don’t water it down. We don’t take what’s convenient for us and forget the rest. We don’t add to it or subtract from it. We seek to incorporate His teaching and values into our everyday lives. We’re committed to loving our enemies, refusing to judge people, being kind, and treating others as we wish to be treated. We seek to love as God loves. As we celebrate God’s existence and the new life that is available through His Son, Jesus Christ, we hope to create an atmosphere where spiritual exploration and growth is nonthreatening and exciting, while helping to meet the real needs of real people.

I hope you will visit Come & Live and download some free music! It's a really great ministry and a blessing to musicians and music enthusiasts alike. Also, you can find free song sheets, chords, and powerpoint to the music on the free download album on the Rock's music website if you want to learn the songs, use them in church, or sing along!

Coming in November....

2011-08-02T21:41:00.001-06:00

Remember the live album recording I mentioned in The Catch-up Post? The album is now in post-production, and will be coming out in November. It will be so exciting to hear how it all sounds, once it's finished! This album has a much more acoustic sound to it, and there are some amazing new versions of old hymns as well. Here's a teaser with some photos from the recording! I am so proud of Hubby and of all the musicians who have been working so hard on this project. It was an amazing evening, and I know the album will be great! (Note: Please turn off the music before you play the video, or the two will conflict. You can find the music on the lower left side, it's the pink iPod looking icon. Just click on the pause button to turn it off!)

TRM Live Record Release from The Rock Church on Vimeo.

Closer

2011-07-29T11:15:00.000-06:00

Closer

In the azure place
where earth and sky collide
and stone rises, turns its cool face
to sun's radiant caress
in the soft sound
of water falling, whispering
a thousand voices distant in its wake
in the lush expanse
of fragrant green where future
meadows sway in seed-heavy blades
are we closer, somehow
to answers that dance
just here, only inches
out of reach

Homeschooling a Dyslexic Child...If You're on the Fence

2011-07-27T13:58:00.000-06:00

I know that the school year technically has not started yet and maybe nobody wants to think about school right now, but with the crazy year we've had we are still working on finishing up. Plus, when it comes to a child with dyslexia, there is no rest for the weary...taking time off from reading in the summer is the kiss of death for a struggling reader. If we do nothing else, we have to keep up on the reading!

The good news is, Youngest has come an amazing distance in her reading this year! It is nothing short of a miracle. We started the year with her reading specialist gently cautioning me that some children just never really are able to overcome their difficulties entirely, but we are ending the year with my little trooper almost caught up to grade level! I don't think any of us really expected the amazing progress she has made. It's been nothing short of a healing from God! And it has also been a lot of hard, hard work on the part of Youngest, her reading tutor, and myself.

If you have a child who is dyslexic and struggling in school and you don't yet homeschool or you are are unsure if you can handle homeschooling a child with a special learning need.....please consider doing it! I know many of us feel at our core that we may be not-quite-up to the task of homeschooling our kids in general, the added issue of a learning disability can really compound those feelings of inadequacy. Can I really handle this? Or given this special need, should I leave it up to the experts at the public schools? I can't begin to tell you how much difference teaching them at home makes. I have never been so glad that we homeschool! Youngest knows she struggles with reading, but her self esteem has not taken a beating. On the contrary, she is proud and happy with how far she has come, she is delighted with being able to read at the level she now reads, and she has suffered very little because of the fact that dyslexia happens to be a part of who she is. It does not in any way define her, it has just made her stronger.

Homeschooling has allowed Youngest to grow at her own pace, to not be frustrated by her abilities, and to celebrate who she is. Homeschooling has also allowed us to keep her going with the things she excels at...Math, Art, History, Science...by reading instructions and books aloud to her and helping her learn without the obstacle of the reading struggle getting in her way. We have been able to focus intensely on the reading, one-on-one and with a tutor, every day, for as long as she can handle it. In a school setting, she would have had a very short appointment with a reading teacher a few times a week, she would have spent most of her time lost during much of the day in school, and she would have suffered with the label of "different" or "slow" despite the fact that she is a firecracker of a girl, so smart and so sweet and loving.

As a homeschooler, rather than having dyslexia be a problem that takes away from her value as a person (not that it ever really does, but it's seen that way by teachers, students, and others), we have been able to see that dyslexia is a struggle that can be overcome, and can give you something special in the process. I am convinced that this is true whether your dyslexic child ever really learns to read on grade level or not...there are things you learn in the process that other people miss out on. There are ways to excel even if you don't do so in the same way that "everyone else" does. Having to work as hard as she has to accomplish what she's done this year has changed Youngest for the better...and it's given both of us a profound sense of appreciation and joy for the skills she has fought so hard to learn.

Is she reading at the level of other kids her age yet? No. But I have confidence that she will be before too long. She is getting very close. And in the meantime...she's reading! And she likes it. And she's really proud of how hard she's worked and how far she's come in a year's time.

And you know what?

I'm proud of her too!

This is what you do....

2011-07-14T21:32:00.000-06:00

This is what you do....

When your fever has reached 104

And the doctor says there's nothing to do but medicate and wait it out

And you need to have a little joy as much as you need to cool off.

Heat

2011-07-13T10:37:00.001-06:00

Time goes slowly in the heat of a fever. The hours limp by in a fog of exhaustion, sticky with sweat and liquid Tylonol. I count the hours, the long ones that lay stretched out before us on day three of a sick baby. How to pass the time, when this little one needs only to be held and be held some more? The fever radiates from his body and in my sleep-thirsty mind I feel I can see the heat around him like a halo, like a mirage.

It has been years since I was here, the rocking and soothing and comforting punctuated by down-time not nearly long enough to knit this ravelling care-sweater. There are days of mothering that seem to do that, to pull the yarn a stitch at a time just faster than you can knit it back. Nights that pull you, dream-like, cribside for the hundredth time and wondering when, how you will ever catch up.

I have an agenda in my mind, a list of things to do, of things that I feel are my right. The right to a night of sleep, to a cup of coffee sipped still-hot and uninterrupted, the right to type a small collection of words in one sitting, the right to take a shower before lunch. I feel these are needs. I feel I have earned them. I have come to expect them.

Frustration is what happens when my agenda knocks hard against truth.

The truth is, my agenda is not as urgent as I think it is. The truth is, it will all wait. The truth is, this is where we are tested; in the furnace of a fevered infant, the toddler up all night teething, the sobbing child whose crisis happens five minutes before your important meeting. To raise another human being, we pull pieces of ourselves away; we line this nest with feathers plucked from our own breast and it is this softness that lines the souls of our children, forms a barrier between them and the sharp edges of the world. This is not martyerdom, nor an exceptional act of great mercy. This is simply a part of the gift. There is no embracing the beauty of this without also embracing the pain of it. It is not the other side of the coin or the price that must be paid for the happy times, it is simply and completely one with love, an integral part of the whole.

And so today I will hold and I will rock. I will watch the layer of clutter collect on the table and the dishes pile in the sink, I will cancel my plans for this day and surrender to the plans of one mightier than I, one who knows what sacrifice really means, one whose plans are better than my own small agenda. I will feel the heat of this small body and know that only by submitting to this furnace will I experience the whole refining of something more precious than a few hours of sleep, a clean house, another chapter written or read. I will remind myself that what I consider urgent will look entirely different in time, because time will pass too quickly through your fingers if you don't live it...all of it...intentionally and with thanksgiving.

There is value and beauty in this, too: We sit on the porch swing, to catch what we can of the summer breeze. I smooth cool water over fevered brow, feel the heat and weight of his small body against my chest. He sighs shuddery into my shoulder, eyes half closed. We rock there, embracing the heat of this passing moment.

Gluten Free Dairy Free Raspberry Layer Cake

2011-07-02T13:30:00.001-06:00

A special treat for the Fourth of July....Gluten/Dairy free raspberry layer cake! It's actually really easy to make, since I used a mix for the cake itself.

I used a cake mix from 123 Gluten Free, which I loved! You add your own sugar, so you have control over how much and what type of sweetener you add. It made two nice-sized layers of cake!

Follow the directions on the cake mix, and let the cakes cool. I put them in the freezer to speed the process along! When cakes are cool, carefully cut each layer into two layers horizontally. You can use a long, sharp knife or a piece of thread to do this!

The frosting is a wonderful, light, almost marshmallow-cream texture. You can use it as a substitute for whipped cream! It is very, very simple and it does not contain dairy or soy. You just need 2 egg whites, a cup of sugar, a cup of water, vanilla, and a half-teaspoon of cream of tarter. Combine the water, and sugar in a sauce pan. Bring the solution to a boil, and boil until it begins to make a syrup. In a mixing bowl, beat egg whites, vanilla, and cream of tarter until they start to froth. Slowly add the sugar syrup to the eggs, beat until stiff peaks form.

Spread raspberry jam on the cut side of one cut cake layer. Add a thin layer of frosting on top of the jam. Place a second cake layer, cut side down, over the first. Repeat the process with the layers of jam and frosting, topping cake with the un-cut side of the cake up.

Frost the top and sides of cake with the frosting. Decorate with fresh raspberries, a sprig of mint, and a sprinkle of decorating sugar.

For the Fourth of July, you could serve a rectangular slice of this cake with a dollop of frosting in the upper left side of each slice, and a few fresh blue berries on the frosting....little American Flags!

The Catch-up Post

2011-06-27T10:43:00.001-06:00

It's been so long, and so many things have happened in the months since I was faithfully blogging...I don't really know where to begin. It has been a stormy, up-and-down time, a beautiful time, a sad time. In the end, we are more blessed than I could have imagined and this time sweating in the furnace of refinement is surely producing something stronger in our family, something good.

Our family is still tipping between five children and three, depending on the day and the week. We are trusting God with that, He has a plan. His grace has astounded me, I am a person who loves to have a road map in front of me and craves the security of a good, solid plan. That is why I know it is Him, not me, who has given me peace with living in uncertainty! When the babies are with us, I have joy in the crazy-busy, always going, flowing-over-with-love reality that comes with five kids, two of them under two. When they are not here, I have joy in the cozy, quiet, simple, established ease of a family with three older children. I am amazed at the love, grace, and flexibility of my husband and children, who have stepped in with nothing but love. Prayers for the boys and their mother are very much needed.

Three months ago, in the midst of homeschool and babies and...everything else...we moved from the Displaced Farmhouse to a suburb about half an hour from The City. This blessing was made possible by my father, who sold the house that had been in our family for some thirty years and gave us money for the down payment on a new, larger home. I cannot begin to describe my father's generosity, he has blessed me more in my life than I could even begin to describe.

Maybe I will write some time about the moving process, the house hunting, the ups and downs. Right now, I'll just say that we love our new house, it is beautiful and open and there is enough space for everyone, and then some. We are adjusting to some major differences...since moving to The City, we had always lived in one particular area...not far from the heart of the city itself, in an older area that had a lot of large trees and older homes. There were many positives, the proximity to the city and all it has to offer, the beautiful trees and charming homes, the old parks and a certain hip funkiness that older, city-type areas have. We've never lived in a suburb. Our farmhouse was a throwback to a bygone time, a little oasis in the city where, when our six-foot gates were closed, we had our own little world of towering trees, established shrubs, a cottage across the driveway that was a mini version of the "big house" (with wonderful renters who have become like family), and a small orchard of fruit trees. Our home was built in 1930 and had all the charm of that era, distressed wood floors (the dog and the kids added to that feature) and a general feeling of cozy homey-ness that is pretty tough to duplicate.

But it was small, very small. And it was, despite being located in a busy and very populated area, isolated. The kids could not walk or ride their bikes in the neighborhood due to the busy streets, we never really got to know our neighbors (who were largely renters, coming and going) and we were a half-hour from almost all of their friends. Hubby commuted half an hour both ways to work, and we commuted the same distance nearly every day of the week for church, band practice, more band practice, small groups, and seeing friends. We spent more time in the car than I'd like to remember.

Our new house is....New. Clean. Well planned out. Convenient. I will have to give you a tour soon, this photo doesn't really give you a good idea of what it's like. The yard is nice, although it's not comparable to our old yard. We have a glorious homeschool room! And we are learning what it is to live in a neighborhood...the kids live close to friends and we have a variety of children in and out all day long, which we love! There are parks nearby and we are adjusting to the fact that the kids can go out on their own a bit, ride their bikes on the sidewalks along quiet streets, walk to the park just across the way. We are five minutes away from church and hubby's work, and we have much more time now that we are not driving all over the place every day. It's going to take a little while for us to adjust and for this to feel like home, but it is lovely and safe and quiet and we are so blessed to be here. As things settle and we add our own touches to it, this house will feel more and more like home.

There is much, much going on. Hubby's band was part of an album recorded live last month, which was an amazing experience. Eldest's band has been coming along nicely, and had a very successful performance at the Scout-O-Rama in the Spring. Hubby, as the "grown up in charge" of the youth band, has enjoyed getting to to work with the boy and his friends and we have all been blessed by being a part of it.

I have somehow managed to do a little work on the novel I wasn't writing, but am considering writing now. No poetry has happened lately, but maybe that will change soon.

We have about 2 months of homeschool to make up, as we missed most of December due to the babies and Christmas, and half of March through half of April was lost in moving. But I feel like we've all grown closer through this year of change, trials, and testing...and we have become stronger as individuals and as a family. God's on the move here, He's got this covered, and I am ready to slow down and enjoy the blessings with which we have been graced.

Summer may actually be here...

2011-06-25T12:31:00.001-06:00

This may be the first morning in over half a year that I have had....no plans.

So I am going to sit, in the warm Summer morning, swing quietly on the porch swing, and let the cool breeze play over me. And it is going to be amazing.

To celebrate, I'm making myself a tall glass of iced tea with a just a hint of sweetness and a touch of mint.

Do you have a moment? Make a glass, put your feet up, and celebrate with me.

Mint infused simple syrup:

-Several sprigs fresh mint
-1 cup sugar
-1 cup water

Put sugar, water, and mint in a sauce pan, whisk together, and bring to a boil. Boil until it forms a syrup, remove mint and keep in a closed container in the fridge to use as needed.

Make your favorite iced tea (I used green tea...decaffeinated, because goodness knows I don't need the caffeine). Add as much or as little syrup as you'd like...I added a few teaspoons. Toss in a sprig of mint, and relax!

A little housekeeping....

2011-06-20T11:26:00.001-06:00

...just a little redecorating and organization here, dusting off the blog and the keyboard as things settle at our house.

This is how it happened...Part 4 (building)

2011-03-17T10:38:00.002-06:00

Please forgive the silence...this last post in the series weighed heavy and I felt I couldn't move forward until I was finished with this part of the recent past. But each time I sat down to write, I found I couldn't find the words...

This is a continuation of a post started here. The story is ongoing and I have no clear ending to it. Then again, that's the way all stories are...our souls are continually written by Great Author, each new chapter beginning where the last left off. The chapter that ends with the last days of life here on earth leads to the one that begins eternity.

Part One
Part Two
Part Three

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It is late, later than we intended to be up. We have a fire going in the fireplace, and scattered around us are boxes and bags, fields of colorful wrapping paper, bows blooming brightly against the living-room carpet. The lights on the tree are on, we are wrapping gifts just after midnight just like we do every year, despite the fact that each year we promise not to let this happen again. We share Christmas cookies and a warm drink, laugh about the fact that we always end up here: Frantically wrestling with scotch tape and ribbon in the hours before Christmas morning.

We don't talk about it much just now, but this year is different.

This year, alongside the gifts for our own children, we have a box of beautifully wrapped gifts for the two babies who we are caring for. A sweet soul from our church family had called a few weeks ago, gotten together everything the boys will need for Christmas morning. It is beautiful to see the love of Christ alive and active, it is a blessing that the boys will not remember but one that will stay with the rest of us forever. We arrange them under the tree, pick up the scraps and empty shopping bags and rolls of tape. For just a moment, we stand leaning on each other and gaze into the room, the lights sending their soft glow out into early-morning darkness, the packages, the Christmas Cards that line the mantle. The room waits for joyful children, for bright sun shining down on Christmas morning.

I find I can't talk much about the day before. The emotions are too raw, the pain too deep. It feels unreal, and yet it weighs heavy in my chest and when my mind brushes against it the crush of it knocks the wind out of me. Hubby understands and does not press me, he does everything he can to make things seem as normal as possible and when I pause too long over the gift wrap and tissue paper he just draws me close, holds me there a moment. I am fighting to find the balance where I can process the suffering that is going on with the babies' mother, the reality of the situation with their father....while living and enjoying the beautiful days that I have been blessed with in my own home. I am struggling to let my children know just enough about what is happening without taking away from their joy. The sweetness of the babies, their innocence, Toddler's bright smiles and Baby's precious warmth...oh, it pierces me through when I think of what is happening in their lives. But there is so much joy, as well...the beauty of a powerful new love that has settled down on us, has filled our hearts and our home with a deep fullness that defies description. The hands that reach out, open-palm, open heart--to help them, to help us.

The morning dawns gray and overcast, rain still hanging over the valley. The children are sleeping still, and hubby makes coffee while I feed Baby a bottle. I have worried that Toddler, who has no Christmases logged yet in his memory, will not react well to the bustle of Christmas morning and I feel bad for being concerned that this will take away from the children's morning. But this morning, Toddler sleeps in and we have more than enough time to open gifts, share Christmas cookies and the usual family time that has been tradition through the years. It is a beautiful, normal moment in the midst of everything, this little window of time...our three children have been amazing in their adjustment to having the babies here, and they share their time and their love with open abandon. Yet it feels like a gift that we are able to have this time together, and then a gift all over again when Toddler wakes and we can all help him learn to unwrap his gifts, laugh as he hides in the boxes and toddles about with bows stuck to his footed pajamas. The gifts are finally all opened, we are deeply touched by the time and thought put into the babies gifts...how blessed to see the love poured out be people who have never met them, and love them like family.

It is late in the day, and we are at Hubby's parents house, surrounded by family. Toddler has been bounced and tickled and chased round the house by our children and cousins and uncles and aunts. He has fallen into a fitful sleep, after a day spent on the sensory overload that inevitably hits young children on holidays. Baby is being passed from lap to lap, and he is flashing his new smile generously at all the new faces. I reflect that in the time we have had him, he's gone from newborn to this smiling baby, who holds his head up bobbing and wobbling, tiny forehead wrinkled with the effort, big bright eyes scanning the room for faces to smile at.

The call comes before dinner, the one I knew in the back of my mind all day must be coming.

That morning, just before noon, while we were opening packages, snuggling Baby and laughing at Toddler swimming in all the tissue paper and gift wrap, their father passed away.

I hold Hubby and we cry. The fact that this happened on Christmas day is bittersweet, we are told that his mother is taking some comfort in the fact that this day is the anniversary of the day he accepted Christ, and so it is fitting that he go home to Him on this of all days. I bury my face in Hubby's shoulder and I can't get the picture of that tiny apartment so full of medical equipment, of a wife and mother walking down this hard path she could neither change nor leave, of the darkness and sadness and the terrible strength that is found in simply getting through. I wonder if the Cathedral bells are chiming, wonder what they say to the grieving family this Christmas day.

The day is closing and the children as asleep, all five. Hubby and I sit quietly in the living room, the lights on the tree glow into room, the shapes of left-over boxes and paper and gift bags change the landscape of the room into something chaotic, the aftermath of a storm perhaps. Hubby holds Baby and I lean on him and we wonder but don't speculate on what will happen next. Tomorrow will dawn and we will do our best to put the pieces back together, to help build something new out of the chaos that was left behind.

There would be dark days ahead, weeks when the future was so uncertain that the thought of it was too much. There would be a time when the babies' mother seemed lost, when we all wished we could go back to not knowing how tragic life can be, how quickly things can change. Slowly, slowly the pieces are being put back together, the brokenness is being healed and the future, though hazy, is beginning to take shape. As a family, we have grown...we have learned, we have laughed and cried and had good days and bad days and we have, without a doubt, been blessed mightily through this. We have seen our church family become the hands and feet of God, and we have seen the babies' mother adopted in to that family. What I didn't know then is this: I have been given not only the gift of knowing and caring for these two babies, but also the gift of knowing their mother. We are taking things day by day the Grace of God abounds, it is enough.

This is how is happened, Part 3 (Let it begin with me)

2011-02-16T11:05:00.003-07:00

Can you bear with me through this just a little longer? I struggle to write about the days I'm sharing with you and yet I also struggle when I don't write. There is pain here but there is also beauty, there is suffering but there is also redemption. Sometimes I ask myself why I am writing this, is it my own selfish need to get it out, see it on paper? It feels raw, naked to share this and yet I feel like it needs to be shared. Because although this is just one story, it is part of a greater need that is important to think about, important to share. Right now, there is someone with a need this great in your community. Right now, there are children whose parents cannot care for them, whether it is due to a tragic crisis like this one or a different, equally desperate need. I want to share it because we, who are blessed with our health, our financial situations, our homes, our stable families, the support of our church families...we are the ones who can offer our hearts and homes to those who are struggling. Through foster care, through adoption, through giving to others who support the care of orphans and families in need. I want to share this in hopes that in reading it, the need will become more real...and the call to action more audible.

Part One
Part Two

For some reason, it is raining. I can't seem to make it feel like Christmas Eve, with the rain drumming down and melting the snow that crusts the corners of the yard. It is Christmas Eve, and the rain is falling and I am tugging a shirt over Toddler's head, snapping grippers on Baby's onesie, pulling tiny shoes over feet too small to stand. I comb their hair, close my eyes to inhale the smell of fresh baby shampoo. My three children stand and watch, quietly. They are not dressed up, they will be staying here with their father and doing Christmas-Eve things. They will light the fire, play cards on the floor in the spot of warmth it creates. They will listen to Christmas music and wrap gifts, sip cocoa stirred with candy canes.

The babies and I, we are going to say goodbye to their father.

I load them in the car, speak silly words that amount to nothing as I snap Toddler in the car seat, secure Baby next to him. There will be a photographer there, one who specializes in photographing families who are losing a member to cancer. I cannot imagine doing such a job, and yet I see what a blessing it will be. A part of me cries out to God against the fact that there even is such a job. Rails against reality of this. Why do cancer photographers have to be necessary? It is a dead-end question that does nothing to help the situation.

We drive across town, the three of us. The rain drizzles down, gray against gray, as I pass through the tall buildings of down-town. Lining the streets are the Christmas lights...Oh, the lights! They glow against the rain and look out of place here, this day does not seem to warrant Christmas lights and yet there they are, silently glowing. Lighting our way.

I pull in front of the run-down building that holds her apartment. I let the motor run a moment, let the shush and whoosh of the heater warm me through. Baby is asleep in his car seat, toddler is quiet. The rain still falls. I turn off the engine, take a breath. In front of the apartments, a white home-health care van is parked. I wonder, abstractly, what it is they provide for this? What accouterments do the last days of life entail? I don't know what I will find inside. I don't want to think about this, I don't want this to be the way it is, I don't want this Christmas Eve to be the last one for anybody's family. I am not strong. I am not good in these situations, I don't know what to do or to say and I fear that the discomfort and sense of I've ineptitude I've always felt around people will seize me in this situation, make me silent, strike me dumb.

What on earth do you say at such a time?

I pray in the car, pray for whatever it takes. I don't even have words for it, I just ask for whatever it is that I need. I pray for their mother, because I can't even imagine the strength it is taking her just to draw a breath today, just to draw a breath in the room where her husband is dying. I close my eyes, breathe in. There is something I can't identify that moves me forward, a strength good enough for this moment (and, please God, for the next) that takes me out of the car, moves me where I need to go. I take out Toddler, kiss his warm forehead. I pull Baby's carseat out of the back and walk across the street, past the white van. I am selfish, I admit, even at a time like this. As I pass, I pray that there will never be a white van like this one in front of our house.

I knock, softly, on the door. Inside, a small crowd of people are standing. Hushed, too quiet. There is the home health care nurse, who murmurs a few things, a few instructions, saying again and again...when you need us, call us. We will be here right away. Anything at all, you just call us. She nods and nods, smiles a little but not too much. She has been in many rooms like this before.

Toddler bounces from lap to lap, does not seem to be phased by the hospital bed or medical equipment in the living room. In his short lifetime, it's become natural to him. He is blissfully unaware, and we are all struck by a fact that is both comforting and heartbreaking: He will not remember this, and, he will not remember this. The man who lies on the hospital bed, each breath sounding like cloth being ripped a bit at a time, this man who not too long ago was strong and cared for his boys with the hands that now lay so still...he will be a memory to be passed down second-hand, though photos and stories and memorabilia. There really is no good outcome here, when you think about it. Is it grief or second-hand memories that is the lesser of two evils?

The photographers arrive. There is posing, Baby placed in the crook of his father's arm, tiny pink hand in stark relief against the white of flesh, the black of tattoo. I help hold his father's arm in place, feel the weight of it, how cold, how heavy. There are a lot of pictures taken. There are tears. I place my hands on his head, pray. The photographers are packing up, they are practiced yet compassionate in their hushed tones, their heartfelt condolences. The afternoon passes quickly, and then again I feel like years have passed. Someone puts a cd of Christian music on the stereo. I hug their mother, hold her. I hug the babies' grandfather, am cut to the heart when he breaks down in my arms. They asked me where I am going...I had to tell them, I am going to watch my son die. No one should ever have to say this, no one.

Outside, the cool air feels like a blessing. I am thankful and feel guilty to be thankful that I am on this side of the door, that I get to go home to my husband and my house full of life and I must leave them all here. The rain is drizzling, mixing with my tears. I have cried more in the last month than I have all year combined and I don't care who sees it, don't stop to rub the tears off with the palm of my hand. Just down the road, the bells of the Cathedral start to chime a hymn I remember from childhood. I sit in the car, the babies in the back seat. Sit there and let the tears fall and feel broken and grateful, feel grief and the reality of death and the amazing, oh the amazing and piercing beauty of life wash over me. I thank God for what He has given us, for the moments He has let us have and the beautiful bells sing out a message for Christmas, a message for me:

Let peace begin with me, let this be the moment now.

With every step I take, let this be my solemn vow.

To take each moment and live each moment with peace eternally.

Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me.

How it happened, part 2 (made to be broken)

2011-02-09T12:47:00.001-07:00

This is a continuation of a series started with this post. This situation is unique, but our world is full of hurting people, families in need, children who are displaced, orphaned, or in need of loving arms to care for them. There are many ways to help...open your home to foster care or adoption. Give some of your resources to ministries that help families stay together. Help raise funds for another family's adoption. Go on a short-term mission to an orphanage overseas and love on the love-starved children there. I believe that in His Holy Word God clearly calls every one of us to help. There are many ways to answer that call. Let's all continue to pray for God to lead us in what His will is for each of our families.
____________________________________________________________

Part Two: Made to be Broken

We stand together, Hubby's arm around my shoulder, and gaze at the newborn child who sleeps in his car seat on our table. The same table that we'd sat around just a few weeks before when we first learned of the tragedy unfolding in this new baby's life. Somehow, pie crumbs and coffee cups have brought us to this: a beautiful new child with an uncertain future now depending on us for his every need. The sense of unreality that I experienced on my way to pick him up still clings to me. I am slow to process all of this. A part of me is beginning to feel a frantic sense of panic. Have I forgotten all I used to know about infancy? About newborns? This baby is so much smaller than I remember. Memories and bits of babyhood, facts and numbers and needs come flooding back in a disorganized barrage of thoughts, memories, fears.

The baby, unaware, is sleeping. His brow is wrinkled, a pucker of concern cuts a line between downy eyebrows just barely beginning to be visible. Even in his sleep he looks tense, anxious. I think back to the days of colic and reflux when Eldest was this age, how we barely managed to make it through each day. The late nights, the ringing in our ears as he cried inconsolably for hours on end, the mountain of laundry as we struggled to keep the milk inside the baby long enough to make him grow. There had been two of us, both healthy, and Eldest was our only child. I can't even begin to imagine how things must have looked for Baby's family in the few short weeks of his life so far.

He wakes.

I hold Baby, laugh at the faces he pulls. His eyes are that indescribable shade of blue that may well one day turn brown. He is tiny, so very small that I marvel he could even be four weeks old. He seems so fragile, so new. He seems, in the way all newborns do, to be just a bit unfinished. Hubby fixes a bottle (formula being a new skill we must now learn) while the kids and I sit on the couch, wonder at the amazing way life begins. His fingers curl around my pinkie, Middle Child notes how tiny those little fingernails are. Eldest laughs as Baby's little-old-man forehead, how it wrinkles as Baby studies us, his mouth working, eyes struggling to focus. There is a hush to the moment, a sweetness that I feel deep in my bones. Hubby returns with the bottle and takes Baby gently on his lap, settles him in the crook of his arm, feeds him. You could never tell that eight years have passed since he last fed a month-old baby. It is as natural as it was back then and I am blessed, moved by love that comes so easily, by the acceptance and devotion that my children show so naturally, the steady support and love my husband gives so freely that makes an unfamiliar situation feel comfortable.

We fall into a routine, caring for Baby while trying to keep up with the usual pace of life as best we can. Some days are much easier than others. Once a day I call Baby's mother, touch base with her. Some days she is despondent, her husband is slipping farther away as organs fail and infection rages. Other days, her voice holds hope: Today he sat up. This morning, he knew her and they had a lucid conversation. The days after those hope-days are the worst, when he has slipped back into that in-between place and taken her hope along with. Some days when I call she does not answer at all.

It is hard to picture the darkness and tragedy unfolding on the other end of the phone. Hard to connect the baby flourishing here in our family with the life unraveling on the other side of the city. As days blend into weeks Baby changes, becomes settled. Colic seems to be a thing of the past although reflux stubbornly remains. He changes day to day as a new baby will, growing and learning. I find that it is impossible to hold back love, even if I had wanted to. I learn that everything they tell you about adoption and foster care is true: it is as easy and natural to love a baby that is not biologically yours as it is to love one that is. Love is not found in the double-helix of DNA or in tidy rows of paired genes. Love is found in the heart and in the very marrow of our bones and it is blind to biology.

In the dark hours before morning I find myself rocking, soothing with the familiar motions of mothering and I marvel at how deep these feelings are. I know now that you can adopt a child and love him as deeply as your own, I know now that you can foster a child and love both him and his mother so much you are willing to face the heartbreak of giving him up. I know now that the human heart is made to be broken, that it is not loving and losing that shatters the soul but rather never loving at all. The words of a counselor friend echo in my heart, "It is better that this baby bond with you and lose you, because he will have developed the ability to bond again. It's the babies who never bond that fail to thrive."

It is now just a week before Christmas. We have put up lights, decorated a small tree. We are reminded by the baby in our arms of the baby in the manger so long ago, another foster-child of sorts whose broken heart would beat for the least of these, for the widows and the fatherless and those in need. I feel it in my own heart, the openness of a soul broken wide by love. I had not noticed the way I'd hidden my heart, the way it had become muffled and smothered under a protective layer of safety, until it lay bare and open and feeling, awake again.

The phone calls grow more sporadic, the news when it comes varies wildly between improvements and deterioration. It is late one evening and Christmas music is playing quietly in the background and I am holding Baby in my arms, rocking gently, wrapped in the warmth of the moment. The phone rings, and the moment crashes down: whatever hope had been held out, whatever prayers for healing now lay broken. There is only the bare, hard truth of the direction this is going: Baby's mother sobs as she tells it, as she breaks under the weight of a decision no wife, no mother should have to make. They have done everything they can, and everything is not enough.

The week before Christmas, she chose to take her husband home to die.

It is wet outside, the brightly colored Christmas lights reflect garishly in pools of rainwater on the front porch and the music continues to play and the fire is flickering and I don't want to tell my children what is happening, don't want them to know how fragile life is. In the morning, I will go and get Baby's thirteen month old brother. We will give them the best Christmas we know how. We will pour our love into these small boys and into these moments and this bittersweet season and our hearts will lie open to whatever God wills next. In the dark hours after everyone is in bed, Baby is fussy and nothing seems to soothe him. I pace the living room floor trying to keep his cries and mine from waking the rest of the family. The rocking and pacing and swaying do not work and on this night, it is the jagged rhythm of my sobs that soothes Baby back to sleep.

Also visit The High Calling to read more about helping children and families in need....

Gratitude Journal... Light in the Morketiden

2011-02-07T11:11:00.000-07:00

It is the gray-brown time of year again, the time of year when scraps of leftover snow cling in the corners of the yard, dirty and spent. When the sky is low and dark and the sun is hidden. When the air is not fit to breathe and I feel trapped, locked inside an inversion that sits over us relentlessly for weeks on end, snuffing out colors and draining the light out of the day.

February is my morketiden., a time of darkness when I struggle to stay above the drag of depression as the sun stays hidden in the muck of inversion. I grew up amid pine trees and ice-blue skies, black bears rooting through the dumpster in the Kmart parking lot. We took for granted the pristine air and the sparkling-clear water that ran glacier-cold through rivers that circled our Montana town. The lack of light and the thought of breathing bad air are a combination that I struggle with every year.

All the more reason to count my blessings...to bring a little light into the thickening gray by remembering the shining colors of grace, the sweet moments that abound, the waiting promise of Spring.

521. Squares of light traced on oak

522. The world's tiny-est snow sculpture (brought to you by Youngest)

523. Learning to make messes

524. And learning to clean them up again

525. For the kids, taking Toddler on his first ride on a sled

526. For the baby swing, an extra set of arms when it's needed most

527. Bright-orange clementine smiles

528. Icy patterns on the window

529. Seed catalogs

530. For what lies waiting, ready to bloom in the Spring

In, on, and around Monday....Sunday Evening Birthday

2011-02-01T11:33:00.000-07:00

My stress level is high, we are juggling too many things right now and, at the same time, trying to keep up with the full schedule that is daily life. The sounds of voices drift into the kitchen, laughter punctuates the waves of sound here and there like the roar of the ocean, like a seashell held to the ear. A sound that could lull me to sleep if I had a moment to close my eyes. I am bouncing between dining room table and kitchen sink, collecting plates, rinsing forks, sweeping crumbs into my open palm. We've gathered to celebrate Eldest's fourteenth birthday, Hubby's family tradition of Sunday birthday parties. Dinner has been served, and we're moving on toward the cake.

I am tired, that bone-tired that washes over you and wraps you up and pulls you down. This is the third time in one week I have done this dance between counter and stove, table and sink, the flow of guests washing through the house and I love it and it fills the house with joy and today, just today, I am tired enough to let it wash over me, rather than join in the flow. The bustle of people, the noise of talking, the party around me is like a river flowing and the sound of it makes me want to lay my head down, here on the kitchen counter, and fall asleep. I see Baby bobbing from guest to guest, Toddler laughing as Eldest holds him on his hip, Youngest snuggling in an Aunt's arms. Hubby joins me, sets two carafes of decaf coffee on the expanse of our oak table, begins to deal cups and saucers out like cards: Royal flush, two-of-a-kind, full house.

I bring over the cake, which looks a little like I feel: the top layer has settled and slid slightly off kilter, giving the whole thing a tired look. Or maybe it's just me. The ebb and flow of conversation continues around me, I am floating like a rubber duck in an endless sea. The cake is on the table, I hold a box of candles in one hand and there is something important happening here, something I should be awake for and then suddenly Hubby is there, he breaks away and for a moment everything comes into focus. We wash up on an island, just the two of us, looking at each other over this tired birthday cake and I say, "Should I put on all fourteen candles, or just one since there are getting to be so many?" and he smiles, and the moment grows suddenly clear. It's as if the clouds have parted and the sun shines on us there on our little kitchen-table island, and we are there in the moment together and the party flows around us while we just look. We look at the years that the cake represent and it's not tired any more, it's life well loved and it's years that held colicky nights and days spent holding small and sticky hands and it's three-a.m. wrapped in blankets sitting out in the night air to chase away croup and it's laughter and tears, it's evenings by the fire playing cards and nights snuggled together reading books and it's prayer and fear and joy and love and fourteen years of water under the bridge. We feel it all without words in that island-moment, all the love and joy that is a gift, a gift.

"Put them all on," he says. "There are not that many years left when they'll all fit."

And I do, I put all fourteen candles on and wonder how I ever questioned the need to see all fourteen bright flames glowing.

We call the party in and the rush closes over us like water and I hold on to that island moment, when it was real and it was bright and I am blessed, so blessed to be present in the glow of fourteen years of life.

This is how it happened

2011-01-26T10:51:00.003-07:00

Can I tell you a story?

Will you bear with me as I fumble with the words, struggle to share what needs to be told, not just this story but the story of so many others, so many others in many different situations who may be waiting for you. Maybe waiting to become part of your story.

Some time over a year ago my heart began aching for the orphans of the world, for children lost or abandoned, children in need of loving arms and a safe place to stay. I prayed. I blogged. I did my best to find what role God intended for our family to play in the ocean of need that exists in this broken world. He answered in unexpected ways, bringing an infant and a toddler into our lives as caregivers while their mother puts the pieces of her life together after losing her husband. We are blessed to be a part of their story and to know all three of these precious souls.

This story is still being written, it is unique and unusual and yet it is, in essence, the same story shared by many others. We are in a unique situation but perhaps something about our journey will speak to you, will move you, will give you pause to consider what God might be calling you to do. I tell it for that reason only. There are details I will change and parts I must leave out but I will strive to keep true to what is. Please, don't make our little piece of the greater picture into more than it is. It is simply putting into action what God calls us to do, and nothing more. We are hard-headed and often hard-hearted and God, knowing this, placed His will directly in our path in a way we could not deny. If I have learned one thing from this experience it is this: When you give love, you gain as much as you give.

________________________________________________________________

Part One

The Thanksgiving feast is almost over, traces of wine in crystal glasses line the counter by the sink, dishes stacked high that I vow not to think about until morning teeter precariously and roasting pans are soaking and the turkey is safe in the fridge. We are sitting together amid crumbs of pie crust, wilting whipped cream, chairs pushed back from the table. We are in that place where we continue to sip lukewarm coffee because we are enjoying the conversation and it might end if the cups are collected and the crumbs swept away.

That's when she brings up the situation. Hubby's sweet aunt has befriended a woman ten years younger than I, a sweet lady who I last saw four months ago with her then nine month old son, a strong soul whose second son swelled six months along as we sat and talked that summer afternoon. I'd met J perhaps twice before, at Hubby's aunt's house, and marveled at the strength of her soul. Her husband was sick, fighting for his life. Cancer is an evil thing, an unfair adversary for a couple so young to be facing. In all honesty I could not imagine what she was going through...did not want to imagine it. I offered whatever help I could give, but did not hear from her. I was, after all, little more than a stranger.

Hubby's aunt now tells me she has heard that J's husband is in the hospital, and it does not look promising. That their new baby is suffering colic and reflux, has been in the hospital and is now in crisis care, his mother so burdened by caring for her husband and Baby's thirteen month old brother that she can't care for him. Hubby and I look over the table at each other and know: this is something we know how to do. Eldest's infant-days were plagued by these two woes and we have done this, we can use what we learned from those days for good and God always gives us that opportunity. He works all things for good for those who love Him, who are called to serve His purpose.

We offer help, finally connect. Yes, she says when we speak on the phone. There are hospital noises in the background and I hear the strain of too many late nights, too many moments of hope crashing to the floor with each new problem arising, each step forward brings two sliding back. My voice breaks and I speak softly and wonder what on earth I can offer that will help, short of love and prayers. It is and it isn't enough.

After hanging up the phone I walk down to our basement, looking for boxes of baby items I remember storing. How quickly eight years have passed! Youngest was an infant just yesterday. Youngest's infancy was a hundred years ago. The boxes are mostly gone, passed down to others with new babies who have grown and are now in grade school. Have I really gotten so far removed from babyhood? I loved every moment of it and carry it with me, in my heart it all happened just a few short months ago. In my basement, it happened long enough ago that I find I have very little left to offer.

I make phone calls. The first of the many blessings of having a beautiful church family happens, and in a matter of days I have more than enough baby items sitting in my living room. A sweet sister in Christ brings over a tub of clothes, blankets, baby wipes. A bassinet. Another friend brings a swing, toys for the Toddler. Hubby's aunt brings baby gates. I look around and feel blessed, loved. I realize that we don't have as much space here as I thought we did. Things are arranged and re-arranged and we walk nervously around and pace a bit and we realize how long, how really long it has been since we cared for an infant. We are nervous and we are excited and we feel the grip of the unknown, that we are embarking on a journey that only God knows the end of and we realize that yes, that is how it's going to work and yes, that is where we need to be, what we need to embrace.

The phone call comes at eight o'clock on a Saturday morning. I dress quickly, kiss Hubby, pray with him. The morning is gray and cold, there are points of white snow drifting lazily down in a not very serious way. It is a silly, average, regular morning. It doesn't seem like someone's husband could be fighting for his life, that a young woman could be fighting on her own for balance, for hope, for respite from the terrible burden of caring for everyone in her life and needing so desperately to be cared for herself. It doesn't seem real that I am picking up an infant to care for, that she is trusting me to take this precious burden, this beautiful child, to care for him while she cannot. I should be bringing her a baby gift, dinner in Tupperware containers to be eaten late at night with her husband, when both babies are finally asleep and they have a moment together. The feeling of un-realness somehow makes everything sharper, makes me see things in greater detail.

I find her apartment, hold her a moment, tears falling. Baby is in his car seat, ready. He is tiny...so impossibly small. I have forgotten how small four weeks is, I am floored by how much I have forgotten. I have a bag full of diapers, medication. I have insurance cards and a medical release and bottles and formula. We strap the car seat in the car and I cannot imagine how she is able to say goodbye, except that goodbye must mean something very different to her just now.

I start the car, drive down the hill. The sky keeps falling in tiny white flakes.

I cry all the way home.

Read part 2 here...

This story is only one, about one way we can care for children and families in need. Over at The High Calling, there is a series unfolding on the plight of orphans and children in crisis, and the ways that we can follow God's command to care for them. Please go there and read more about this, and if you have a story to share link up there!

Gratitude Journal...How Gratitude Transforms

2011-01-17T11:00:00.000-07:00

Here it is another Monday, another beginning and here I am again, fingers moving over the worn keys punching words into empty space, calling into shape the thoughts that slide over one another and some days laugh at the idea of being captured, tamed, written into being.

There is something beautiful happening over here, at Ann's quiet corner. Ann's offering of 1000 gifts, the counting of blessings, the Gratitude Community has shaped itself into a book, all this beauty and all suffering, the breathtaking and the ugly, the sweet and bitter and the wholeness of it all that together form an overwhelming offering to really Live, to appreciate each moment as the gift it is, to unwrap it with eager anticipation, with the understanding that this gift is given by the One who knows us best, who loves us most.

I can't wait to read it. Ann's words are poetry whispered breathlessly into your ear, and I cannot think of anyone whose words I'd rather hold in my hand, unfold with the turning of each page.

And the Gifts? I have been changed by the counting. I've seen my days slow and the hours count, I've felt my vision sharpen, I've learned how to pull myself up when the daily overwhelms, I've learned to appreciate the fact that what seems like the mundane routine of daily parenting is actually water that feeds the blossoming future, I've found that I'm thankful for some things I didn't think I ever would be, I've found the beauty in the broken and I've learned to appreciate and live in the exquisite, the piercingly-beautiful moment of the everyday now.

I am just slightly over halfway finished counting and recording 1000 gifts here. In my heart, countless more have been unwrapped, appreciated, written on my heart. Have you started counting? Have you let gratitude change you?

Thank you, Ann, for sharing your gifts and inspiring so many to count theirs!

A recap of Gratitude posts that share how counting these gifts has changed my heart....

511. 100 Celebration...how counting my blessings has changed my life

512. Slowing Time...how gratitude slows you and keeps you in the moment

513: Beauty Voyeur...how gratitude sharpens your vision and opens your eyes

514: What We Really Need...How appreciating the beauty of creation lifts our mood

515: A Mother's Days...How the everyday waters the blossoming future

516: The City...How looking at life through grateful eyes helps you appreciate things you never thought you would

517: Beauty in the Broken...how some things must break to let the beautiful shine through

518: Beautiful Everyday...how beauty shines in every detail of every day

519: For Ann Voskamp and her heart

520: For this book....the anticipation of a blessing to read and share

A video about Ann's new book....

Gratitude Journal...Days of soft light and gentle sounds

2011-01-04T11:11:00.001-07:00

The days are short, night wrapping round to darken morning and dampen the hours of sunlight on snow. We are overloaded, full to bursting, struggling to find balance and order but it is an overload of love, and therefore a burden easier to carry. It seems to be a season of soft light, a season of gentle sounds as we tend to Baby and try to remember how we did it in the old days, those days of diapers and feeding schedules and late nights (or is it early mornings?) sitting in the half-light, feeding and rocking and soothing softly. School has started and I have no idea how to accomplish everything that needs to be done while caring for a newborn babe, and we are going to have to learn this on the fly and the beauty of it is that we are learning to give each other grace despite many fumbling and bumbling and grace-less moments. I don't know where this is going and how it will all turn out or how long we will be in this place, and I am learning how to be OK with that, to take it a day and a week and a step at a time. I am grateful beyond words at my children's willingness to love, to share, to help, to give selflessly. I am overwhelmed by my church family's love, support and offers of assistance. I will write about it soon, sort it out with words. For now, I take the moments when I can do nothing but feed and rock and choose to see them as a gift, an invitation to live in the moment and quietly be in the soft light of now.

511. For everything foster care has taught me
512. For the golden glow of Christmas lights
513. For the strength to go the next step
514. For organizational aids
515. For quiet moments amid the storm
516. For church family, helping hands and loving hearts
517. For a husband after God's own heart
518. For vacuuming the last of the pine needles off the carpet
519. For nap time
520. For grace under pressure

Naming the Year

2010-12-30T20:05:00.001-07:00

The snow finally comes, blowing in powder-white and fine, mixed with snow-globe glitter. There are a hundred things to do and dinner is simmering on the stove when he says come, leave the to-do and come outside in the night with the kids. I look around at all the things I should be doing and somewhere alone the way I have lost touch what I want to be doing and I hesitate and drag my feet.

And I do. I do go.

The lights from the city below cast themselves upward, bleed into a cloud-hung sky and tint the heavens soft peach-pink. All around, falling and blowing, the snow envelops and cushions and sweeps over the earth. The streetlights are halos of glitter, silver glinting and laughing around orbs of light, pinpricks of brilliance among the blowing white. Our footsteps mark the new snow, first to fall there in the blanketed white. There is the silence that a snow-storm brings, the muffled quiet of a world paused to wonder at this beauty, a world wrapped and blanketed in softness. The edges of everything are blurred, blunted. The sharpness has worn off, has been padded and made gentle under a cover of white. It is a world transformed.

Youngest runs ahead, her footsteps small in the new-fallen snow. She is a little, dark-dancing point on the horizon in the strange new landscape of blunted-white, an angel in a brown ski-coat dancing under the strange pink sky. We listen to the silence and feel the purr of snow under our feet, the icy prick of snow on our faces. Along the way, Christmas lights blink from rooftops and under eves. Yellow-gold light glows from windows where Christmas trees stand watch.

There has been turmoil and tragedy and there has been soul-wrenching love and blessings that confound me in these few weeks around Christmas. My mind feels as thickly blanketed as the snowy landscape before me, where everything has slowed and the cars line up crawling toward where they need to go, one after the other on the road in front of our house. It has been a season that so far escapes words.

Ann says to name the year, and I don't know if I can find the words to do so. Here with this white world, a tabula rasa, a new year ahead like a sheet of white paper and me holding the pen, black ink and where do I lay it down? What form should the words take? Perhaps more than other years, my heart knows that it is not my ink that spills across the page, not my hand that holds the pen.

I can only give a name to what I choose to do with the ink that's given, the ink that's spilled. That's the best we can do: take what is written and use it as best we can to point to the One who is author of it all.

There is much that is ahead and my heart wants to know what is written now, to read ahead to the last pages of this chapter and not wait for the unfolding of the story. But like any good writer, the Author holds me captive and the story unfolds in front of me a page at a time, holds me here in this this sentence, in the paragraph of now.

So...to name the year, when words escape you. This much I know: it is a year of submission to His will. It is a year of gentleness, of slow intention. It is a year of living faith out loud, of putting action to the Word written by the Author who knows our story best.

It is the year of Living His Will.

Living His Will, not just suffering it or submitting to it or going along with it. The year of putting faith into action, quietly and with conscious intent. It is the year of living out the Word and passing it on through the quiet message of our lives, lived.

Yes, You are with us

2010-12-22T11:39:00.000-07:00

The lights glow on the tree, reflect twin points of light against squares of window glass, made mirrors by the darkness beyond. There is music playing softly, there is a fire flickering behind me and there is a hush over everything, a blanket of quiet and peace that feels tangible. It is thick and warm around us.

I sit holding this bundle, this newborn baby whose eyes keep drifting to the lights behind me. I remember the Christmas that Youngest was this age, remember sitting like this with her and watching her...wondering at her wonder. What is it about new life that is so indescribable? The children stop and kiss his head, laugh at the faces he makes. Hubby and I take turns trying to make him smile.

His brother, older by twelve short months, is here now too. I am thankful for my older three, who have stepped up and joyfully shared in caring for the babies. I am thankful for those who heard of the need and provided gifts...beautifully wrapped with love...for the babies' Christmas. In the midst of the grief and struggle and pain their family is facing, there is this bright spot, this outpouring of love. And there is the aching knowledge that as hard as we will try, it's in God's hands. There is the edge of uncertainly and we learn to live with it, because it is all we can do.

There is something about this, the babies and the Christmas lights and the way the pace has changed. I feel it deeply when I hold the new one, this tiny baby and all around us is the celebration that revolves around a newborn babe and holding one now seems to bring it home. I think of Mary and of Joseph. I think of the Word made flesh and the God who created the universe contained in a body like this, a scrap of seven-something pounds who struggles to hold up his head and needs every need cared for, who relies entirely on others for every want. It defies words, it leaves only a speechless awe aching in my heart to think of this.

Youngest cups her hands around the tiny face, kisses his wrinkled brow. She is almost out of the room when she turns and says it shyly, says it quiet.

"Mommy, with all the Christmas lights and the music and everything, it kind of feels like the baby is Jesus."

My first impulse is to correct her. No, that's not right...you can't say that of this ordinary babe, this little one.

But then it catches in my heart, the words are fighting in my head and I am overwhelmed by this: The words that the Saviour born a newborn babe some two thousand ago spoke to his friends...“The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

And I choke it out, past the tears, that yes, in a way, this baby is Jesus. Yes, He is the orphan and the fatherless and Yes, He is the widow and the homeless and Yes, He is the sick and the broken and the overlooked and Yes, He is with us most of all when we are caring for Him by caring for the least of these.

The Christmas lights become star bursts through my tears and Yes, Lord, Yes. You are with us.

You are with us always.

Gratitude Journal...my heart is full

2010-12-20T10:23:00.001-07:00

It is less than a week now, less than a week until we celebrate the day of Christ's birth. Most of the "have-to's" are finished, the week lies ahead of us like a blank canvas ready to fill. My heart, already, is full. Filled with awe at the beauty of all of this, filled to overflowing with the love of family near and far, the love of church family and the fullness, the exquisite beauty of it all. Filled with the Spirit that flows with love through each of us, that fills until you think you cannot hold any more and then grows you until yes, there is room and the abundance is everlasting, ever-growing, ever-giving. Blessings to each of you this Christmas week! Thank you to the One who gives us all that is beautiful, all that is good. To the one who came, the God of all creation in the body of a helpless baby, to give us life.

501. The quality of light that settles in the living room when the Christmas lights are on and the fire it going
502. Angels in tinsel wings
503. Church family
504. Big red hair ribbons, fancy dresses worn with winter boots
505. Children singing Christmas carols
506. One last year to be an angel in the church play
507. The snow (will we have it for Christmas?)
508. Quite moments by the tree
509. The generosity of friends towards those in need
510. The feeling of the Spirit filling church, filling hearts

In, on, and around Monday....for a moment

2010-12-13T15:30:00.000-07:00

The old rhythm comes back quickly, it has been stored up deep in my bones where it lay these eight years, dormant. The years pass and the mind forgets, but somehow the motions of mothering an infant have stayed true and fresh, wrapped tightly 'round sinew and bone like a double helix deep in the soul. The steady rock, the gentle bounce, the swaying motions are as instinctual as breathing, a primal need to give, to protect.

It is somewhere in the shadowy hours of early morning, that no-man's land time of day when nothing stirs, when all is dark and quiet and warm, womb-like and soft as velvet. I sway, hold the bottle just so. In my arms, a wisp of a baby boy lies still, drinks in. His eyes are dark in the faint light coming from the hall, his brow wrinkled with some neonatal question, some deep thought. Tiny hands reach out, find mine. Wrap like soft cords around my finger and hold, hold.

I lay my cheek against the curve of his head, the impossible softness of newborn skin. His breath is milky and soft, I feel the sleep take over his tiny body one part at a time, feel the tension ease and he becomes somehow heavier as he gives in to sleep. The heater kicks on and I hear warm air glide into the room, I hear the clock ticking out this moment in tiny increments and the dog at the foot of the bed sighs, re-arranges in her sleep. The baby's breath comes steady, even, slow. I stroke his tiny fingers, wrapped round mine, feel his grip loosen, fade.

In this quiet moment none of it matters, he is not my child and I will choose to love him as though he were for the time he is here, and yes, he will break my heart and yes, he will not remember this but yes, it matters and it is worth it and somehow even the breaking is a gift. Everything I cannot fix for him does not matter in this quiet moment, I can only love him for his mother now and I have found that holding back is not possible, the love comes just the same as it did for each of mine, it is what will mend and what will fill the broken places and it does not matter that this is only now, it is all I can give and it is enough and nowhere near enough, both at the same time.

Caring for a newborn this week, blessed and overwhelmed and tired and joyful and so many other things. Prayers, please, for this sweet child and his sick father and his care-worn mother and his 13 month old brother, too.

Gratitude Journal...Thanksgiving

2010-11-29T08:38:00.002-07:00

Sorry to have gone missing on you...what a whirlwind the last ten days have been! We were blessed to have my parents in, and spent the week enjoying life with them. The weeks around Thanksgiving bring three family birthdays, out of town guests, and often some frantic editing and photo work. It was amazing to take last week to just relax and enjoy time with my family!

Nothing profound to say this morning...just sitting here in the midst of torn wrapping paper, birthday cards, a sink full of dishes, birthday cake crumbs clinging to holiday plates. There is snow...lots of it...is drifting all around our little house, padding the rose garden and muffling the early-morning sounds. The kitten is pouncing around, shredding tissue paper and hiding in empty gift bags. Three children are sleeping soundly in their beds, our newly 8 year old snuggled up to the stuffed cheetah her brother and sister saved up to buy her. In a moment, I will get up from this quiet place and go pick up the scraps of last night's birthday party. In a moment, I will put back the chairs and re-arrange the living room and start the dishwasher. I'll put the laundry in the washer that has been waiting all week to be done, because some things are just more important than doing laundry. I'll put away the silver and the serving platters and the Thanksgiving napkins, and spot-clean the meringue off the holiday tablecloth. I'll clean the seven-minute frosting off the walls and possibly the ceiling (forgot to turn off the mixer when I checked for "stiff peaks"). I'll pull on my boots and shovel a path through the snow so that the car might...just might...be able make it through.

But right now, I'm just sitting here looking at pictures, sipping warm coffee, enjoying a quiet moment to just be.....Thankful.

Happy, happy birthday to my Thanksgiving Baby! Eight years old seems to have come too soon. What a blessing you have been to all of us, sweet child!

A couple of helpers, brining the turkey

Layered cherry chocolate cheesecake

Thanksgiving table....

Long games of Mexican Train

Her place, set the night before

Gifts from Pops and Granny (love that headband!)

How has it already been eight years?

Family party

Special cheetah from the siblings

It's good to be enthusiastic...

Eight Candles

A tag-along

Oh, the snow!

491. Thank you for family's safe arrival

492. For planning together

493. For time spent in the kitchen, learning, laughing

494. For the blessing of family...my parents, their grandparents

495. For huge flakes of snow

496. For the smell of roasting turkey

497. And the new stove to bake in

498. For an abundance that sometimes makes me cry

499. For worship music and slide bass

500. For the blessing of eight years of Youngest

Join the Gratitude Community at Ann Voskamp's A Holy Experience!

Thanksgiving Menu and Plans, Gluten Free!

2010-11-18T10:45:00.000-07:00

Scary turkey head from a stock photo program I own....

Our family looks forward to the Thanksgiving holiday every year, it's one of our favorite weeks of the year. My father, mother, brother and his girlfriend have joined us here for Thanksgiving for the last five years now. This year, my dad retired and they will be here a little longer than usual! My father and mother (step-mom, but that's a technicality) are both wonderful foodies. When this family gathers, we eat well! We've had a basic menu that we pull from for the last few years, and we don't normally deviate too much from that since we don't usually have much time. This year, since we have a few extra precious days with them, we're changing things a bit and trying a few new things.

Oh, and did I mention that we're doing dinner for 15 this year?

Yep. Our little house is going to be full!

With the added element of gluten intolerance in our family, planning for Thanksgiving dinner takes a little extra effort (which is probably why we've stuck with the basic plan for so long!). Here's a rundown of the plans for this year:

Appetizers have not always been served, but with so many people coming I'm thinking it might not be a bad idea. My dad has a salmon spread (at least I think that's what he's planning on!) that he's going to make that apparently is amazing. I've never tried it, so I'm really looking forward to it! We'll also do a cheese platter, because I've found a great co-op that sells amazing cheese at a huge discount. I am planning on pretending that dairy does not bother me a bit that week, just so you know.

We usually brine a turkey overnight and then roast it....so tender, juicy and good! One year we wrapped the turkey in bacon and roasted it, which resulted in some very excellent gravy but also in an anemic-looking turkey that looked like it had been boiled rather than roasted. Probably won't do that again. This year, my mom has a really interesting rolled turkey breast recipe that we might try. I'm thinking that since we love leftovers (that's the best thing about Thanksgiving dinner...the repeat performances for days afterward!) we will do one large turkey plus a turkey breast for the crowd this year.

The stuffing is probably my favorite part of the Thanksgiving meal. I know that's weird. We do this wonderful gluten-free stuffing using sausage, apples, lots of sage, and gluten free stuffing cubes from Ener-G. I know....the apples sound really strange. I promise you...they don't taste like apples at all, but make the stuffing really tangy, moist and flavorful. I would never have believed it until I tasted it myself, so you're just going to have to trust me!

I also always make cranberry relish...the last few years I've made it in advance and canned it so that we don't have to worry about it on Thanksgiving day. I toss in two packages of cranberries, two large cans of Mandarin oranges with the juice, four cups water and four cups sugar. Cook until thick. This makes enough to have relish on Christmas day, too!

We'll do some mashed potatoes with gravy...thickened with corn starch rather than flour. Always mix your corn starch with water before adding it to the gravy to avoid clumping!

My mom is bringing sweet potatoes this year...she has something really yummy up her sleeve, I'm sure. In the past, we've done them this way...sweet potato rounds with pecans, butter and brown sugar. So good!

Side dishes...we've made peas with turnips and bacon before, but this year Hubby's mom will be bringing a green vegetable so we won't have to worry about it! Hubby's aunt is also bringing her amazing Caesar Salad (sans croutons, of course), and if I get the recipe for it I will definitely share it with you.

Somebody is bringing some rolls, which I will put in a bowl and wrap in cloth napkins and keep far away from the rest of the food, to avoid crumbing all over the place and contaminating things. I used to try and make gluten free breads for Thanksgiving, but found that since Eldest and I will already be gorging ourselves on all the other food, we absolutely do not miss the rolls. They just take up valuable stomach space that could be filled with more gluten free stuffing!

And....finally....dessert. Ah, dessert! I'm making pies in advance...and I've splurged and purchased a gluten free pecan pie from a local gluten free bakery. That, and two dozen gluten free sugar cookies....yeah, I know. But you only live once! We'll be eating the cookies over the week, not on Thanksgiving day.

Normally I make a pumpkin spice cheesecake with a crust made of Mi-del gluten free ginger snaps, covered in whipped cream and drizzled with caramel sauce (find the recipe here). I'm kind of tired of that, though. So this year in addition to the pecan pie and a regular pumpkin pie (made with the GF crust found in this recipe), I will make a three layer cheesecake with a crust from GF chocolate cookies (I am still deciding which cookies to use...maybe K-Toos sandwich cookies from Kinnikinnik

So, there you have it! And if you are doing your first gluten free Thanksgiving and would like some help making family favorites edible for you this year, please, please don't hesitate to email me. I would be happy to help you out! There's no reason why a gluten-free Thanksgiving can't be just as wonderfully tasty as a regular one, and I'd hate for you to be stressed out about it!

Here's the recipe for those interested (its' not my own invention, but I can't remember where it came from):

Ingredients:

1 pound sweet Italian sausage, casings removed
1/4 cup (1/2 stick) butter
5 cups chopped onion (about 3 large)
2 cups chopped celery
6 cups diced cored tart green apples (such as Granny Smith)
1 tablespoon dried rubbed sage
2 teaspoons dried thyme
1/2 teaspoon ground allspice
5 1/2 cups Ener-G stuffing/croutons, gluten free (Order these NOW or find them at a health food store...or you could toast a loaf of Ener-G bread until it's hard and cube it yourself).

Preparation:

Sauté sausage in heavy large skillet over medium-high heat until cooked through, crumbling sausage with back of spoon, about 10 minutes. Using slotted spoon, transfer sausage to large bowl. Add butter, onions and celery to skillet; sauté until onions are tender, about 15 minutes. Add apples; sauté until apples are tender but still hold shape, about 10 minutes. Add sage, thyme and allspice; sauté 1 minute. Add to sausage. Stir in stuffing cubes. Season with salt and pepper. (Can be made 1 day ahead. Cover; chill.)
Preheat oven to 325°F. Generously butter a baking dish. Transfer stuffing to prepared dish. Cover with foil and bake until heated through, about 40 minutes.

The Gift of Giving

2010-11-17T11:11:00.000-07:00

We push the cart down aisle after aisle, looking for just the right things. What would you want, if this were the only gift you'd get this year? How do you balance the needful things...flashlight, socks, batteries...with the joyful things that make a child's heart happy? We spent a long time looking, a long time thinking.

We're not in a place where we have a whole lot to give. But we quickly found that the painful thing is not parting with what we do have but wishing that we had more to give away. Wishing those shoeboxes that were filled for Operation Christmas Child were bigger, deeper, wider, able to hold so much more. Wishing that we could send the children more than a few small gifts...wishing we could fill a box with hope to send, with fresh water, with abundant food, with a safe, disease-free childhood.

In the end, we packed what we had in tight. Filled as much as we could into each small space. Then tucked into the empty places in each box our prayers, our hopes, our petitions for these precious children we will never meet...and for their families and others like them. Prayers for the love of Christ to fill the empty spaces within them, the need that gapes where we are not able to reach.

Three small boxes, filled with not nearly enough. The precious thing about a gift, though, is the way it changes not just the one who receives it but also the one who gives. The children who open these small packages will know that they are loved, that they are not forgotten. They will hear about the love of Jesus, and that, not these simple trinkets, will fill them in a way that lasts--will bring them hope. The gift will live on in the hearts of the givers, as well...participating in this simple act broadens the horizons of those who take this very small step to act against poverty. Pushing the cart down those aisles and thinking about what life is like for so many children around the world, putting yourself in their place for a few hours, thinking about what they want, what they need, has a way of changing your heart. A way of broadening your vision, enlarging your point of view. A way of opening within you a deeper desire to do more with what you have, to make it reach beyond our lives, beyond our understanding.

Walk with Him at A Holy Experience.....

Gratitude Journal...The City

2010-11-15T09:02:00.002-07:00

Here in The City we live in our little house, surrounded by tall old trees and enclosed by as tall a privacy fence as we could legally build. When the gates are shut, we have our own private bit of country...fruit trees, pine trees, flowers everywhere. Our little bit of land is a throwback to earlier times, the farmhouse and trees and the little cottage beside it. When we built our fence, we pulled barbed wire from rotted old fence posts, clipped it near the trunks of trees where it had bit into growing wood, become part of the whole. Our displaced farmhouse is an oasis, we are not far from the The City and yet it feels years away.

And so we forget to make the short drive into the bustle and fray, to enjoy the blessings that a City has to offer. Funny, how that is. When Hubby worked in the center of it all we'd make that trek at least once a week, to visit for lunch and take in some of the buildings, the sights, the things that go on in a city. In the last few years, after a job change to a different nearby city, we have visited The City far less.

A friend's child had a birthday last week, and her request (oh, it makes a reader so proud) was to visit the City Library for her birthday. And so we did what we should do more often: ventured into The City for an afternoon of exploration.

You know what? I am thankful that we live here.

And that, my friends, is something I thought I'd never say. It's been a long road. I've been a pouting, tantrum-throwing Jonah along the way. Over the years there have been at least a hundred other places in this world that my little human mind would rather live in. Some of them don't even have running water. But right now, right here, I'm glad this is where God has us.

And that's something to be very thankful for!

Here, some photos of our afternoon....

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Gluten Free, Dairy Free Corn Dogs and Onion Rings

2010-11-11T10:54:00.002-07:00

Ok...so, I feel that I need to throw out a disclaimer first. I don't usually....fry. Anything. In oil. However, over the years we've spent living gluten-free, we have discovered that there are just some things you can't find a substitute for. A few foods that we used to enjoy, but can't buy in a store or order at a restaurant. Or, more accurately, can't buy in a store without taking out a loan and risking paying way too much for a product that's mediocre at best.

Recently we've noticed a hole in our lives. A hole that had been growing for seven long years. And it's name was: Corn Dogs.

You can buy frozen gluten-free corn dogs at the store, but you'll be out over $10.00 for five corn dogs, which is a risk I've not been willing to take. But when a friend of mine shared a recipe for gluten free corn dogs with me, I decided it was time to fry! Hubby and I went to the gym first, in anticipation of the ridiculous number of calories we were about to consume. Seriously. And then I went crazy in the kitchen making some treats that we've missed for many years. Why is it that the cheapest and quickest foods are the hardest to duplicate gluten-free?

As long as we were clogging arteries, I decided to make onion rings as well. Onion rings are another food you just never get gluten-free, in fact I don't think I've ever seen them in a store or restaurant. My reasoning was, the oil was there, the batter was there, and I am unlikely to fry anything again for who-knows how long.

The whole experiment was a raging success...not only did the corn dogs and onion rings taste like the "real" thing, they were so far superior to the frozen type we used to get pre-Celiac that even the gluten-eating members of the family were thrilled. These corn dogs tasted more like type you can buy at a food court in the mall, from a teenager wearing a ridiculous multi-colored hat. And the onion rings...oh, bliss! I had forgotten how good bad food can taste. You'll find me back at the gym tonight, but it was well worth it. For one sweet dinner, we were in Corn Dog heaven.

The recipe I used (adapted from this one at Allrecipes.com) is doubled, and will make you a LOT of corn dogs and a LOT of onion rings. We put the left overs (enough for dinner for all 3 kids, at least) on a cookie sheet and froze them individually, then put them in zip lock bags to throw in the oven for a quick dinner some time in the future. We also decided to forgo the sticks and cut the hot dogs in thirds, next time I make these I'll probably buy some wood craft sticks and make them the traditional way just for fun...but the smaller version turned out really good. If you are not on a gluten free diet, just substitute the gluten-free flour for regular wheat flour.

Here's the recipe and a photo-tutorial. Enjoy!

You Need:
2 cups gluten-free flour mix (I used Tom Sawyer, love that stuff!)
2 cups gluten-safe corn meal (Bob's Red Mill is good)
1/2 teaspoon salt
dash of black pepper
1/2 cup sugar
8 teaspoons baking powder
2 1/2 to 3 cups rice milk (I found that a thinner batter worked better)
15-20 gluten-free chicken frankfurters (use whatever type you like, remembering to check the label of course!)
craft sticks (if you're using them)
1 quart Canola oil ('cause it's healthier, you know)
If you plan to make onion rings at the same time, you'll also need:
1 very large onion, cut into rings.

You Do:
Cut the chicken franks into thirds. Boil them for a few minutes until they are nice and fat. This will make sure that they are juicy and that the frank part of the corn dog is hot, without over-cooking the crispy exterior. Let the cooked franks dry in a strainer while you prepare the batter (the batter will stick better to dry franks).

Mix up the dry ingredients in a deep bowl. We had fun with the baking powder, as you can see!

Add the wet ingredients and mix well. Using a skewer, dip the frankfurters into the batter (or, if you're using sticks, poke the stick into the frank and use that to dip it).

Using a second skewer, slide the corn dog into the hot oil (I had the oil on medium heat on my stove top). Cook for several minutes on one side, then turn and cook on the other...corn dogs are ready when they are lightly browned on both sides. The batter will puff up considerably, so don't worry if it looks a little thin to begin with. Place the cooked corn dogs on a plate lined with paper towels and set in a warm oven while you cook the rest of the corn dogs and onion rings.

For the onion rings, repeat the process above, dipping each ring of onion in the batter and frying until the rings are browned on both sides. Remove the finished rings to a paper-towel lined plate.

Enjoy your super-fried meal! You'll be surprised at how both the Corn Dogs and the Onion Rings taste just like the ones you remember. So good, and so bad for you....but hey, you only live once, right?

Remembering to Remember

2010-11-10T10:09:00.003-07:00

How the noise, the bustle, the busy gets in the way this time of year! November isn't halfway over yet, and still I feel the press of the to do list, the encroaching panic as the calendar fills up one square at a time. How easy it is to forget, how easy to get caught up in the string of days as they flow so quickly by, flick like telephone poles past the passenger window, going 70.

I forget to be thankful.

To be thankful for these blessings, the big ones and the tiny ones, the piercing orange-crimson of a leaf hanging from an otherwise bare branch, the furled beauty of the very last rose, bravely holding out the last of summer in its deep, sanguine beauty. To be thankful for the icy-cold bare feet that slip in next to me between flannel sheets early in the morning, and then two more pair as our bed turns to a game of Sardines and giggles fill the air in the hour before the sun rises.

It's so easy to get caught up in the rattle-trap raucous of homeschool books, papers that need to be filed but instead have become cat toys for the kitten, pencils that are never where they ought to be (I know I bought a dozen packages of those in September!). There is dust on my piano, which means I have not had time either to play it or to clean it. The phone is ringing, ringing, and as I am talking, phone tucked between shoulder and ear, both hands packing baked potatoes into an insulated bag to take to church because if we want to eat together as a family we'll just have to picnic there...the cell phone rings, too and the dog is scratching at the front door, marring the new red paint. I toss the salt and pepper shakers in and zip the bag, instruct a child that no, when I said put on your shoes I meant shoes, not sandals. I lose my temper and yell at Eldest to please do as I asked and get his guitar and hubby's bass to the car right now and I bite my tongue through the construction and traffic all the way to church and I bite it even harder when I see that although the child I spoke to about the inappropriate footwear has changed her shoes, the one who is older and ought to know better is wearing flip flops.

I forget to be thankful.

I forget that earlier that day I was brought to tears as I listened to the strains of music floating down the stairs, Worship music pulled from a guitar by hands that are now as big as mine, my son creating a new song for his Lord. I forget the joy on that little face as she recounted a lesson we'd learned earlier, her face alight with enthusiasm, her hands moving as she spoke. I forget that on my desk sits a new volume of written work by a child who is blossoming, overflowing with creativity. I forget to be thankful for the quiet of the church as we hold hands, bow heads, and pray over a picnic-dinner spread on folding table, enjoying this oasis of time together before band practice and girl's group.

How is it possible that it's so easy to get caught up in the downward spiral of temper and frustration? Why is it not just as easy to be caught up in the upward lift of gratitude?

Perhaps being thankful is a habit to develop. Perhaps it is like any other habit, needing simply our conscious effort, our commitment, our willingness to exercise it daily.

Perhaps it needs a reminder, an alarm set four times a day to pull us back, remind us to remember, to praise God for each and every blessing He has bestowed on us. To thank Him for forgiving us our tempers, our frustrations, our blindness and business and forgetfulness.

Perhaps it needs a place to rest, to be recorded, written down. A journal of gratitude to remind us to stop, to listen, to really see.

Stopping to give thanks, taking moments to revel in simple gratitude, will change the way you see your life. It will slow down the rush, give you pause to catch your breath, re-set your attitude and re-build your perspective.

I know this, because on the days when I do remember to be thankful, the time goes by more smoothly. The bustle of life becomes a rhythm, a symphony rather than a cacophony. When I remember to be thankful, the irritants become blessings, the burdens become reasons for gratitude. When I remember, the world that was whizzing by at twice the speed of sound suddenly slows, comes sharply into focus.

Beauty blooms in every corner, rests on every minute. In this busy season, I resolve to set my clock to it, to write it down, to remember to remember.

Will you consider remembering with me? Start a gratitude journal and join the community of gratitude started by Ann Voskamp. Set the alarm on you cell phone for 9, noon, 5, and 9 again and when it goes off, simply stop what you are doing and give thanks to God for the blessings in your life. Perhaps we could pray, also, for those less fortunate...for those who live in need and despair, that we would find ways to reach out to them from our place of abundance.

Nine o'clock, noon, five o'clock and nine again...four pauses set to remember, to give thanks.

Homeschooling a Dyslexic Child

2010-11-09T10:56:00.008-07:00

I've been wanting to post about this for some time now, but haven't really found the 'right' way to start. I decided there probably isn't really a 'right' way, so here goes.

Dyslexia has been a thorn in my side for some time now. First of all, I had some dyslexic tendencies myself as a child and went through testing in fourth grade. There were some oddities about the results but I wasn't given the LD (learning disabled) label until later in school. Whatever dyslexic issues I have, however, have not really slowed me down. I was a good student who loved to read and write, and really didn't have much trouble doing well, with the exception of math. I suspect whatever problem I was having was due to having a worse than average working memory, and perhaps more to the fact that I wasn't inclined to work very hard at things that didn't come easily to me. Whatever the case, it was more of an annoyance than a hindrance.

Then I met Hubby. Hubby is an amazing man, extremely smart and very creative. He is also dyslexic, the type of dyslexic that caused him endless problems in school. I will spare you the gory details, but suffice to say that when I met my husband he had been so scarred by battling through school for so many years, it affected just about every aspect of his life. He has an amazing auditory memory and can tell you in fine detail any historical fact you'd care to know...he's a walking history book, complete with dates and geography. He sometimes has to ask me what his cell phone number is. He got through college without buying most of his textbooks...he just showed up and listened, and for the most part he did very well in his classes. He sometimes used books on tape from the library for the blind. It was a struggle, especially with working two jobs and having two kids, but he managed to get his B.A. and graduated with a good GPA. It's a hard thing to live with, but it has shaped him and given him unique strengths and a work ethic than few people have. He has proven, through hard work and deep faith, that anything is possible despite (and perhaps in some ways, because of) dyslexia. He has, in the past five years, passed several very difficult exams for his career, exams that have a very low pass rate among 'average' people...much less dyslexics. He's proven that dyslexia does not have to stop you. He's my hero.

So, considering this, I was prepared for the possibility that our children might inherit some learning differences. Each of them do have an oddity or two...none of them are good spellers, all of them sometimes reverse letters, although the older two are finally showing progress in both areas. Middle Child had a terrible time memorizing her multiplication facts, a problem that drug on for two years before we fixed it in two days with a miracle book, Multiplication in a Flash. Despite these 'glitches', however, both the older children are good readers and have been pretty easy to teach. Keeping up with them is perhaps my biggest problem.

Then there's Youngest. Oh, Youngest. She is a shining little light, so bright and funny and so sweet and loving. She comes up with some of the most amazing things, some of the deepest thoughts, some of the most profound observations. She has so much energy, I thought at first that that was why it was taking so much longer to teach her to read than it took for her siblings. It's hard to get a whole reading lesson in when you are bouncing up and down, falling off your chair, standing on your head. Later, though, as she calmed down and was able to really sit and work, the differences became more apparent. She has worked and worked, memorized so many rules of phonics, spent so many hours struggling with pencil and paper and beginning readers and letter tiles and still she struggles with reading. She could write simple words and read simple sentences before she could manage to say the alphabet in order. She could add and subtract two digit numbers before she could count without forgetting numbers here and there. She sometimes starts reading at the end of the word instead of the beginning. She writes many letters and numbers backwards, and she can't tell on her own which ones are wrong. She is embarrassed in Sunday School when other kids are reading things, things she might be able to slowly read herself at home, but is too afraid to try in front of her peers.

My heart just hurts for her. It's hard to see your child struggle so.

I could tell that this was going to be a problem early on, but it's hard to get any intervention for a child before about second grade, third in many cases. Before I quit working to stay home and homeschool the kids, I taught...and some of my experience was with kids with learning differences. I have never been more glad to be homeschooling, thinking about what Youngest would be going through in a regular school just breaks my heart. We have had the freedom to keep her learning at the level her little mind wanted, needed, by reading aloud to her, letting her listen in on the older kids' lessons, using books on tape, and giving her a lot of hands-on learning opportunities. Homeschooling has also given us the chance to work hard on the reading, at her level...using letter tiles, flash cards, writing on the white board, the black board, and paper, reading and reading some more.

Some days it takes us half an hour to read a few pages out of a simple early-reader book. I smile and nod and encourage her all the way through, and praise her for her success. While inside my head, where she can't see, I cry out in frustration and sadness over how hard this is for her, how difficult and laborious every little step forward has been.

We are now at a point where the difference is clear enough...her peers are expected to read well enough...that it's possible to get some outside help. Because we are using the K12 program, we have been able to start Horizon Intensive Phonics Online, and we are already seeing some improvement in the month we have been using it. We will also be starting some one-to-one therapy at a learning center soon, and I am excited for her to have this opportunity. We have been blessed in that both programs, while ordinarily expensive, have been offered to us free of charge!

I have been encouraged because this year, even before we began the special phonics work, I've seen a lot of improvement with Youngest's reading. Perhaps the hard work is finally paying off, or maybe there was some brain development over the summer that has helped her put things together. Perhaps she's gained enough confidence to relax, which helps so much. Perhaps it's all the prayer that's gone into it....certainly that has helped. But I have high hopes that she will learn, that she'll eventually catch up.

In the meantime, we'll keep working hard. We'll keep up the good fight, keep working with those letters and numbers until they straighten up and make sense. She is doing well, she is proud of what she's learning...and I am proud of her! For a child of seven, she is having to learn early that sometimes it just takes hard work...day after day, week after week, month after month, and yes--year after year, of very hard work...to reach your goal. Perhaps that's one of the gifts of Dyslexia, the lesson of hard work and dedication, which is a gift most people don't get until later in life (if ever!).

In the weeks to come, I'll post more on homeschooling a child with dyslexia and share some resources that we have found helpful. I also want to explore the gifts that a learning difference can bring. God doesn't make mistakes, nor does He turn a blind eye toward His children who struggle. I know that by looking at this "disability" from all sides, you can see that there are some beautiful blessings worked in among the struggles. It's my heart to learn to embrace this journey and be thankful for it, and to teach Youngest both with words and by example to do the same.

Note: I found a kindred spirit over at A Country Girl's Ramblings. She's doing a series on homeschooling a struggling reader, here is part one.

Gratitude Journal...Let the Snow Fly!

2010-11-08T09:56:00.000-07:00

There was something in the wind that whispered "Hurry...". Leaves scuttled across pavement, scraping out the rustling sound of Autumn. Overhead, the sky was blue with small white clouds scudding by, looking like they were late for an appointment. Flocks of birds passed over, stopping here and there to rest on telephone wires...neat rows of small black shapes, balancing forward against the wind. Hurry, hurry. Something in the wind spoke even to the birds, Winter is blowing in behind this last warm day.

We pulled out ladders, brushes, paint. The last day to finish this Summer-long project, to get the house and cottage and garage completely wrapped up before the cold weather. We had trim to paint, windows to finish, shutters to hang. Little girls in over-sized paint shirts took up brushes and helped, music played and laughter rung through the near-bare limbs of trees as we worked. So much work had gone into this, so many hours spent scraping in the hot sun with sweat running down your back, wasps buzzing around your head, so many hours with brush and primer and tape and tarp. So many blessings, too, as friends offered their help and dropped off their extension ladders and grants made painting the big house possible. Still, it had all looked undone for so many months and it had been so hard to picture what it would look like finished. When I saw the house, I saw a thousand loose ends and for so many months I struggled in that unsettled place.
And then, in one weekend, the ends began to weave together. How much difference do those finishing touches make! The last of the shutters, painted red, were hung. The ladders cleaned and put away, all cans of paint and tarps and scrapers, buckets and tape and mineral spirits tucked out of sight. The last of the weekend was spent cleaning and trimming and raking in the yard, the roses cut back to their stubby, winter shape.

And finally, after all the time, the setbacks, the do-overs, the trips to Home Depot...

We stepped back and admired the job, the finished job, the fresh new paint covering what started out as an unsightly, toxic lead hazard. This morning, the wind blows and the rain falls and the sky is November-dark. And I am ready, finally ready, to enjoy it. Because the job is finally done! And you know what?

It feels really, really good.

Thank you, God, that You are there for us when the job feels never-ending. Thank you for the joy of loose ends being woven together, for the feeling of joy in the completion of hard work, for the feeling of unity we get from working together. Thank you for church family, those dear friends who offered their time and their experience to help us. What a blessing hard work is!

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Making Christmas

2010-11-04T08:04:00.001-06:00

I can't believe I'm saying this, but it's true...it's time to start thinking about Christmas! I was thrilled this morning to find a post about making Christmas gifts over at Raising Olives, it's the perfect time to start browsing through Blogland to get ideas for making Christmas gifts. Well, in all actuality, July would have been a better time to start...but I just can't seem to get in the proper mood before November!

A friend of mine has been been making all or most of her Christmas gifts for a few years now, and has had wonderful success. The kids take so much pride in making gifts to give away and they enjoy the wonderful gifts that their mother makes them. I'm not as apt at sewing or crafting as she is, but I do love to make each child one or two gifts every year.

Our family has always made gifts to give to friends and neighbors, and we have fun thinking up what to do. Actually, the years that we made most of our gifts for the kids were years that we didn't make many gifts to give away, due to being so busy sewing during the weeks before Christmas. Lesson learned: Start now, friends! You don't want to be sewing seed beads onto felt sugar cookies at 3 a.m. Christmas Eve. Trust me.
When my kids were very small, we started the "Smiley-Guy Soap Company". Every year, we'd take a day or two and make homemade soap to give away. The kids created cute labels--the first year we made soap, Middle Child was in the toddler drawing phase where they draw a circle, two giant eyes, a huge lopsided smile and sticks for arms and legs growing right off the head...this became the label we used on the soap and gave our "company" its name. We printed the label out on stickers, wrapped the soap in tissue paper, and secured the paper with a sticker. As they kids got older, we've added lotion and even lip balm to Smiley-Guy's selection of gifts. Making soap is easy...we used the melt-and-pour soap, you just melt it in the microwave, add whatever fragrance you like (you can even get fancy and add dried flowers, or any of the many add-ins soap supply companies offer) and pour it in a mold. We sometimes add little toys in the bars of soap as a bonus. Just let them harden and pop them out...it's really very simple!

In the past, I've made felt food, doll clothes, pajamas, and mini-quilts and sheets for American Girl dolls. This year, I'll be finishing the felt sandwich set I started last year (just couldn't do the 3 a.m. Christmas morning thing again last year!), Middle Child has requested that I make her a large, floppy stuffed animal (still working on finding a pattern for that one), and I'll be finishing doll quilts for the girls' friends and doll clothes for both girls. I may make a little purse as well. I will probably make some flannel pajama bottoms for Eldest, and maybe for Hubby, too. And I have some cute applique dishtowels in mind as well.

Here are some links to Making Christmas posts from the past:

Matching pajamas for girls and dolls

Felt Food and Craft Links

Mini-Doll Quilts and Sheets: (I'll put photos up when the girls wake up, and I can photograph the quilts for you)

Soap-Making supplies

Free Pattern for Felt Sandwiches (not the one I used, but similar...and free!)

Free Clothes Patterns for American Girl Dolls (these are amazing! They are the real thing, very detailed period clothing made by Pleasant Company but discontinued. They are not easy patterns, but you can make a whole wardrobe from these!)

I'll be re-visiting this topic in the months to come, so check back again for ideas and photos!

Memory Madness

2010-11-03T12:16:00.000-06:00

The line reaches halfway across the front of the church, bustling with people. Mothers carry their babies on their hip, one hand holding colorful cards with verses...lips moving as they silently recite to themselves this week's verse. Children stand and fidget, eyes closed, verses scrolling through their minds. Fathers listen to their sons recite, then take their turn...it's a scene we see every Sunday morning at church between services: Memory Madness.

At home, we gather each morning before school begins. We pray, read from the Word, and then the cards come out. Little book-mark sized strips of cardstock, some laminated, in different bright colors litter the table. Each card contains ten verses to memorize, one per week. We start the day reciting the week's verse, taking turns around the table. Youngest has her own card, the same theme with shorter verses, more manageable for young memorizers. We go around the table, once, again. Then we recite last week's verse, to make sure it's stuck...and every few days, we go over verses from previous weeks to brush up on those, too.

Later in the day, at dinner, we pray over the food. Then, Hubby pulls out the Bible and reads the Proverbs for the day. We discuss them, think about them, apply them to what is happening in our lives. After dinner, the Memory Madness cards come out again. We work on the verses as a family, memorize them together.

We carry the cards, one in the car, one in my purse, one in Hubby's wallet. We pull them out when we're stuck in traffic, when we're waiting in line, when we have a long drive. The cards have become a part of our life, these stacks of dogeared cardstock mark places in our Bibles, previously memorized cards are kept in the back of a drawer secured together with a paper clip, they turn up frequently on the kitchen counter and occationally they are found in the wash. Some day, when the kids are grown and have families of their own, the cards will bring back memories of those mornings and evenings spent together in pursuit of memorizing the Word of God, writing it on our hearts.

And yes, some weeks we lose track and yes, some Sundays we frantically memorize in the car and yes, some Sundays a few of us are unprepared, or are working back in Sunday School and don't make it in time to do our verse. But we catch up, we do. Middle Child has made it a personal goal to never miss, and she will make it rain or shine to that Memory Madness line, no matter what.

At the end of ten weeks of reciting verses, the challenge begins. Can we Mad Smash? Recite all ten verses in a row, with no prompts? I am amazed at how hard my kids work toward this, and at how they succeed. Youngest, who struggles so with the written word, will work so hard and even though I wonder at times if she will make it, she always does. Ten verses recited!

I am very thankful for the Memory Madness program at our church. The emphasis on memorizing scripture is a blessing, and the program offers a challenge that families can work on together. It also offers rewards: points are earned with every verse, and extra points are earned when you "Mad Smash". The points can be redeemed at a Memory Madness "store," where prizes are purchased. It's amazing how valuable a cheap, plastic toy becomes when it represents weeks of work, committing the Word to memory!

There are times when we memorize verses apart from Memory Madness, and I am excited to try some of the memory aids mentioned in this post by Ann Voskamp, and others that bloggers have shared in related posts. But it is a real blessing to have a church program dedicated to challenging families to memorize the Word together!

Logically Speaking

2010-11-03T08:37:00.005-06:00

Note: if you're coming over from Walk with Him Wednesday, I messed up and jumped the gun with this post! Please click here to find my post on memorizing scripture. Sorry!

We are sitting at the table, books piled high beside us, around us, even on the floor. There are so many things to do each day, so many subjects that we study and so many more that I want to bring to this table, but don't yet have time to do. Finding time to fit it all in has become increasingly difficult, like juggling too many balls while trying to balance on a tightrope and talk on the phone, all at the same time. Some days I feel like a circus act, with these stacks of books and the dishes piled in the sink, the writing and photography jobs waiting at my desk. Patience comes easier some days than others.

Considering this, it may seem an odd choice that I've chosen to have the children study Logic this year. Logic, of all things. It's not a topic typically taught in schools nowadays, it won't be found on any standardized tests. At first it seems like something that a person could easily skip. But the more I reviewed the topic the more certain I became that Logic is a valuable subject to study, worthy of a spot in our busy schedule. So I pulled out the books, pulled up a chair, and we dove in.

My children's first reaction was whimsical...Mom, Eldest quipped, I think you'll almost certainly live to regret teaching us this class! He was joking, of course, but I could see his point. We've been dealing with enough petty bickering and argument between siblings lately, why would I choose to teach them a class that outlines principles of sound argument? Coming from Mom, the ardent professor of "You-will-stop-that-arguing-right-now-or-there-will-be-dire-consequences," this class must have looked like an odd choice to them. At first it seemed ridiculously easy...outlining different kind of statements, teaching rules that seemed self-explanatory: A statement is either true, or it is false. Well, sure! We knew that.

But things quickly got difficult as we began to pick apart the nature of various statements, as we begin to learn the laws of thought and examined how sometimes logical-sounding statements, when studied with careful consideration, are not actually logical at all. The study of Logic, which seems in many ways to be an extraneous or overly academic pursuit, has a power and a value that Christians, in particular, can benefit from. In our society, we have mixed up the idea of "Logic" with our idea of "Science". For something to be Logical, we've started to assume that it must be imperially proven through modern ideas of scientific method, a "Logical" thought must be somehow provable in a laboratory, recorded by someone wearing a white coat, proven to be statistically significant and published in a scientific journal. Don't get me wrong, I'm a huge fan of science...it was always one of my favorite subjects in school. But we do science a disservice by assuming that all science is practiced by logical means and in the correct way, and is therefore sound. We do ourselves a disservice by assuming that what we now think of as "logical" is, in fact, truth, just because it is backed up by statistics and written up in magazines. Anyone who has taken a class in statistics knows, those numbers are dependant on so many factors-- if you don't have all the facts you can be very easily misled.

But I'm getting off my original point.

Why study Logic? Because as Christians we need to have a solid framework to argue for Truth. The foundation of this framework, of course, must always be the Word. If you do nothing else, you must be sound in that. But we live in a world that believes that a statement is logical just because it excludes any possibility of faith in what is unseen, and we as a whole have lost the ability to hear flawed logic. If something is true, then it will stand up to logic. We can't be afraid to study our faith and learn to discuss it using the principles of logic, and in the society we live in it can be very valuable to be able to discuss Truth and yes, even to debate it, using the tools found in the study of Logic.

Please know my heart here...I am not believing for a second that people can come to a saving belief in Christ because of any one set of arguments--logical or otherwise--that a Christian can contrive. I am still very much (and always will be) a Mama of the "Stop-that-arguing-right-now" ilk. But we should be prepared to discuss our faith in a precise and logical manner. We should be prepared to present the historical evidence, the logical conclusions, the concrete facts of our faith. In doing so, there is a chance we could inspire someone to think of things in a different light, to look closer at their beliefs. I believe firmly that it is Christ and Christ alone that saves, and that the strongest thing that draws others toward Truth is to see it shining strong in others...to see the difference Christ makes in our lives, to see the love, to let the nature of the One we believe in shine true. But it is not an ideal, or an image, or a thought that we worship. We worship God who is very real, very apparent, very constant and very real. It's faith in the unseen, to be sure...but then, nobody has trouble having faith in gravity--and that's unseen, too. What is true, will stand up to logic. And in studying that, we shore up our own faith...we learn to look at our own view of logic and learn to examine our own thoughts, be strong in what we believe.

So we are studying Logic. We are backing it up with a few other books, books that lend insight to the historical evidence for Christ and build a solid case for faith. And we're continuing, above all and always, to study the Word...to read it, discuss it, examine it, and memorize it. Without that, there is no point to studying the rest.

If you are interested, here are some of the books we have been working with:

Walk with Him Wednesday at Holy Experience...find more ways to grow closer to Him at Ann Voskamp's blog every Wednesday!

Gratitude Journal...End of Autumn

2010-11-01T09:48:00.001-06:00

431. Sisters in the leaves

I can't help but feel, though the calendar tells me otherwise, that November first is the first day of winter-- the day that Autumn wraps up her golds and crimsons and graciously steps aside to give the season over to her frosty sister. Oh, the colors are still glowing on many of the trees and the sun is still warming the late afternoon sky, but I can feel it...the folding in, the battening down, the fast approach of cold and snow. We have enjoyed these days, this gift of Autumn glory...with field trips to the corn maze with our homeschool friends, days spent raking and playing in the leaves (mostly playing!) and moments just enjoying the last of the warm sun falling on our shoulders.

I am a true scrooge when it comes to Halloween, and the children don't mind skipping that tradition. In fact, it bothers them that when we go shopping, we have to pick our way around gruesome decorations and rubber skeletons for the whole month of October (and, increasingly, September as well!). But when a friend of mine told me that the kids explained, when asked if we usually carve a Jack-o-lantern, that no...Mommy just buys pumpkins, roasts them and makes them into food....well, I felt a bad. Not that we don't do Halloween, not at all. It was just that I realized that sometimes I am given to being so practical that I forget to really enjoy things, and sometimes my kids miss out on things that might be fun.

So this year, I let the girls carve a pumpkin. They wanted to make a cat, in honor of the kitten we have frisking around the house this year. They enjoyed it, it was fun to photograph the light glowing around them, and I felt good about letting fun trump practicality for a moment.

And yes, I baked and pureed the other pumpkin we bought. It's in the freezer, waiting to be made into soups and breads and pies this Winter. I can't help it. Every time I see a Jack-o-lantern I just think: that's a lot of wasted squash!

Is it cheating to count each photo as a separate blessing? I debated that and decided that I don't think it is. Every moment is a blessing, and sometimes words don't do justice to those moments of joy, of appreciation.

432.

433.

434.

435.

436.

437. Our homeschool family...such a blessing to us!

438. perhaps this was the inspiration for the pumpkin-carving this year

439.

440.

441.

442. for the smell of fallen leaves

443. for the sound they make as you walk through them

444. for the dancing, whirling cascade of leaves as the wind blows them from the branches

445. the sound of fat raindrops pattering on the roof

446. for friends willing to help wrap up projects

447. for looking forward to having it all done

448. for the joy of planning family gatherings

449. for warm chili on a cold night

450. for the memory of dear a very Grandfather, cherished

A Poem...This Broken Faith

2010-10-28T08:21:00.004-06:00

This Broken Faith

O pilgrim, know your bruised and fractured soul
shines beautiful, like sun sparks through the rain
and though the darkness longs to claim its toll
this broken faith glows brilliant though the pain.
What words are there to still the baneful voice
whose lies in blackest darkness now you grope?
Such strength it takes for us to make the choice
to silence despair's siren call with hope.
To struggle on when everything seems lost
and you can barely lift your voice to pray
Oh, God forbid we underrate the cost
of simply moving forward day by day.
So true, sometimes the very bravest act
is moving forward, longing to go back

For some reason, it needed to be a sonnet.

A Kind of Fatih That Breaks the Heart

2010-10-27T08:58:00.002-06:00

Empty Chair photo by Andrew Hale. Used with permission.

We sat in a circle, ladies sharing our hearts after a talk about having faith. My sweet friend shared her fears, talked of the crucible of faith that had become her heart these sixteen weeks. Spoke of the faith that grew in her heart as the child grew, sixteen weeks day by day, in her womb.

This was no easy faith. Twice before, you see, at sixteen weeks my friend had known the grief of losing tiny sons, the babies she had longed to hold, to mother. Twice before. There was no reason, there was no explanation, only emptiness and grief.

And so this faith, it was not the ordinary kind. Oh, we long so much to have that ordinary reassurance, to have the child-like faith that everything will turn out, just like we want it to. To have the comfortable, blind, naive assurance that a good God, a fair God, would never let such terrible things happen. Not to a family who has had them happen already twice in a row. Not to a family whose little children have been praying, each day, for the baby in Mommy's tummy to live this time. Oh, please, not again.

My friend, she knows a deeper kind of faith. A kind of faith that breaks the heart, a kind of faith that walks blindly in the darkness of that brokenness and weeps, yet still knows that the hand of God cups 'round, embraces, heals with ways and plans beyond all understanding. I have to have faith, she said, not that this baby will make it, but that God is good and is in control no matter what happens.

So much, we wanted to see that faith rewarded with a perfect outcome. So much, we wanted this time to be different, this time for her to bring that child home in her arms and for the glory of God to be shown by the miracle of a child's safe birth. But it was not to be. Just days after we prayed in that circle, the nightmare began a third time. One more tiny, perfect son, lost. One more devastating night in the hospital, one more crushing loss. This time, they almost lost her. This time, the bleeding wouldn't stop. And when she woke up, confused by the doctors saying they'd saved her life, that she was lucky to be alive, she knew the loss was even more final: no more pregnancies, the risk is too great. She walked out with empty arms and an emptiness in her heart that no words can justly describe.

In such devastating grief, even the strongest Christian begs to know....Where was God?

He knew about this. He allowed it. He had the power to stop it and He chose not to. Why?

And this is where the faith comes in, the messy faith, the ugly faith, the heart-breaking faith that defies all earthly reason. This, now, is where faith seems to be lost and the empty heart seems to swallow the soul and the broken pieces seem too shattered to make sense of, too scattered to even start to put back together. This is where the broken-hearted faith stumbles, wounded and bleeding and crying out to God in pain, in grief, and yes...in rage and where the soul rends and the strength fails and hope seems far away. Where faith is just a thread, is a frayed and knotted rope you didn't realize you were holding on to, where faith is a path cut through the tangled weeds and briers that you didn't realize you were walking on until you look back, see it cut its way through the impossible darkness, winding 'round the hidden pits and snares. It is where you say the words, God is good, in all things and you don't understand them and sometimes you don't even want them and yet they stand, they pull you through, they pull you through.

Friends, will you pray with me for my friend? For her family? I know many of you have suffered similar losses, if you feel led to will you email me or leave a link in the comment box...any words of wisdom, any thoughts or stories that might help would be appreciated.

Homeschool Curriculum

2010-10-26T08:45:00.002-06:00

"What curriculum do you use?" That's one of the first questions you get as a homeschooler....well, after "Are you crazy?" and "How do you do it?" and "What about socialization?" (the answers...yes, probably...day by day...and, don't even get me started on socialization.)

We have used three different core curriculums and are currently working with two. This year I am using Sonlight for my older two kids and K12 for Youngest. Last year, we used Winter Promise for the older two and K12 for Youngest, and in previous years we used K12 for all 3 kids with some other programs thrown in here and there.

Let me tell you a little about K12...it is a program available at a (substantial) cost to anyone in the US, but it is also available in some states as a free public school program. There are some great things about the program and some not-so-great things, but it is a wonderful way to get started if you are just embarking on the homeschool journey. It is not a Christian based program, but the program does take into account that many of the people who use it Christian homschoolers and I found that it is much more accommodating in that area than a traditional public school (you are allowed to opt out of certain lessons, and they include a unit on Bible stories that is optional as well). If you use it, you'll want to add your own Bible study. But the program is very thorough, has many different types of lessons, is easy to use, and provides you with a ton of supplies at no cost (assuming you're in a state that uses K12 as a public option). They also provide you with access to a certified teacher in case you have questions or need help at any point. In our experience, the teachers have been very helpful without being overbearing or intrusive, they are simply there for us to call on as little or as much as we need. In our state, children in second grade and beyond are required to do the state testing while using K12, since it's technically a public school (and is payed for by our tax money). Classes are found online and in textbooks, and the program provides very clear directions for parents and many worksheets, lessons, supplies (microscopes, balances, rock collections, math manipulatives...even a computer in some cases) and books for students. It was a great way to start homeschooling and we enjoyed many things about K12. You can see some of the supplies that came with Youngest's Kindergarten classes in this post.

Why did we decide to change curriculum for the older two? Several reasons. The main factor was that the kids were starting to get bored. K12 was great in many ways but after a few years, the kids were just not as excited about learning as they used to be. I wanted them to have more hands-on experience, to have more responsibility choosing the direction of their learning, and to read more good books, and I felt like we could accomplish that better by switching curriculum. We had used Sonlight before and enjoyed it, so I decided to look for a program that was more history and literature based. We ended up going with Winter Promise, Quest for the Ancient World. Winter Promise offers tons of great books, a good strong Christian perspective, and many ideas for in-depth projects and hands-on learning. It was also great because we were able to buy a program that allowed me to teach a 4th grader and a 7th grader using the same core, with different independent study materials for each grade. Youngest enjoyed listening to the books and doing the projects with us, too.

This year, we decided to go with Sonlight for the older two because Eldest is enrolled in a distance High School program, and Sonlight's core curriculum transfers easily to credits in that program. I would probably have stayed with Winter Promise, but after looking at some long-term planning we decided to go with Sonlight this year for both older kids, then switch to Winter Promise for Middle Child and Youngest next year while Eldest continues with Sonlight. We have been able to stay with the same time-period in history with all 3 kids, and will continue to do that for the next few years so that group projects and read-aloud history books will apply to everyone's studies.

We have kept Youngest with K12 because she is struggling with reading, and we feel that K12's program is strong in the area of phonics and Language Arts in the lower grades. Also, because it is a public school it has been easier for us to tap into resources to help her...for example they offer an intensive phonics program for kids who struggle with reading that we could not afford if we were not enrolled. We're working hard in the area of reading (I'll probably post more on that another day) and the hope is that by next year, she'll be ready to move on to an American History unit through Winter Promise with her older sister.

We also read many of the books used in Veritas Press, and have used Rosetta Stone for Latin and French, Power-glide for French, and Abeka and Apologia for science. Eldest is using Video Text Algebra for math (and I am enjoying finally understanding Algebra through learning with him!) and Middle Child is using Saxon math.

Well, there you have it. It's very hard to put into one post what we use for school, and I'm afraid it's also no. If you've got questions, feel free to ask in the comment box or email me! And if you've got curriculum ideas that have worked well for you, please do share them!

They-I-You....What I needed to hear (and maybe you, too?)

2010-10-21T13:06:00.000-06:00

My plate is heaped full to overflowing this week...photos to edit, house to clean, painting to finish (the snow is coming!) and school to do.

I was not planning to post at all today, but I had a moment and popped over to visit my friend, a Simple Country Girl. She spoke right to my heart....maybe it's what you needed to hear today, too? Go on over, please, and read what she has to say today.

And I want to know where I can get one of those shirts!

The Very Same Lies

2010-10-20T08:21:00.001-06:00

She is crying hard, hands over her face, hair falling all around. I sit for a moment, trying to gather my thoughts, finding a place to start. Where did this come from, so suddenly? Youngest is a soggy mess on my lap, the tears that seemed to come from nowhere still rolling down her cheeks.
"Please, tell me again what you're feeling?"

A long, shuddery sigh, a hiccuping intake of air. "Nobody loves me, Mommy. Nobody thinks I'm smart or good and nobody likes to play with me. I just can't do anything right!" Fresh sobs take over as she finishes those last, terrible words.

I sigh, wipe tears from her face, hold her tight. I rock her gently on my lap, wait a moment for the sobs to quiet, tilt her little face up to mine. "You know, those things are just not true. I know they seem true right now, I know how real that can feel. But those thoughts are just not true. They are lies that Satan would love you to believe, to make you feel terrible. The only power he has is to lie to you to try and get you to forget the Truth. He loves to whisper those lies in our ears and make us think we aren't good and we aren't loved. Those lies can feel very real, can't they?" She nods, the tears have slowed and she is listening quietly, earnestly.

"Did you know that everyone feels that way sometimes?" A pause, a tiny shake of her head. "Well, everybody does feel like that sometimes. I feel that way and think those same thoughts sometimes. I guess the devil just isn't very creative with his lies...because I sometimes have to put those very same thoughts right out of my head, too. It must be something he knows will make us stumble because pretty much every girl I know, grown-ups and kids alike, struggles with those very same lies sometimes. They feel so real, but they are nothing but garbage meant to make us feel worthless and useless."

She is calming now, I can feel her little body relaxing into my lap and her breathing is ragged, but the sobs have stopped. I rest my chin on the top of her head, glad I can still hold her like this and rock her like this. Broken over the fact that this world is so fractured, that it is so easy to lose sight of Truth. I wish I could take these lies and hurl them back to hell, protect my daughters and my friends and all the sisters and mothers and women in my life and myself from these lies that are so easy to believe.

"You know what the truth is, don't you?" She nods a timid nod, looks to me and waits to hear the words. "The truth is that you are so loved I can't even start to describe it. I love you with all my heart, and Daddy loves you, and your brother and sister. You have lots of friends who love you and who love to be with you. The truth is, you're smart and funny and so very creative and you can do so many things! And the truth is, you're good and sweet and loving and altogether lovable. The truth is," and I turn her around on my lap so we are face to face, "The truth is that God created you to be His special child, and He has great plans for you that are bigger than you can imagine. You are precious to Him and to all of us and nothing is ever going to change that. Do you understand?"

She is smiling a little now, nodding hard and sitting a little taller.

"You see, you knew that, didn't you? Even when you were feeling so bad, I bet you knew in your heart what the Truth is."

"I knew it in my heart," she said. "My brain just forgot it."

"Well, it's pretty easy to let thoughts and feelings get the best of us. But you know what? We don't have to listen to those lies. They're just the same old lies that every one of us has to fight and they're just plain wrong. What do you think you could do next time you hear those lies start in your head?"
"Pray?" she suggests, and I nod. "That's exactly what to do. Pray those lies away, and ask God to take your thoughts captive. Ask Him to catch those lies and throw them away before they can make you sad."
We prayed, and she slid off my lap smiling again.

I sat there for awhile longer, thinking. Thinking of how the very same lies can often tangle my own thoughts, can bring me crashing down in the same way. How it is so easy to see that these thoughts and feelings are lies when someone else is struggling with them, but they seem so real when they are infecting your own heart. Why do women believe these lies? Why is it so easy for us to forget our own value, to forget how loved and special and blessed we are? How can I, knowing these lies and seeing that the very same lies work just as well whether you are seven or seventy, still listen to them some days and let them steal my joy?

I am praying for these lies to be thrown down. I'm praying for my sisters and daughters and friends, for wives and mothers and grandmothers and women everywhere...that we'll see these lies for what they are and recognize them before they take root. I'm praying that we'll look at them, list them, name them and become so familiar with how they work that when we hear them whispered in our ears they'll stand out like a flashing neon sign and we will stamp them out before they have time to tangle us up. I am praying that we'll cover those lies with the Truth that frees us from them.

I know that men probably struggle with similar lies, too...but it just seems to me that women are so often struggling with these feelings...that we're unloved, unlovely, not good enough or beautiful enough or....the list can go on and on. If you're struggling, here's a book that I have found very helpful...Lies Women Believe: And the Truth that Sets Them Free.

Walk with Him at Ann Voskamp's Holy Experience.....

In, on, around (and up)...painting

2010-10-19T08:06:00.002-06:00

The days start out cool and crisp, no frost yet but each morning teeters on the verge of ice. The sun is low and lazy and sleeps in these days, taking hours to warm up. By the time I am through with school, with dishes, with putting something in the oven to slow cook for dinner, the sun has climbed high and warmed the yard with yellow light. I am here again, up high on a silver ladder speckled with various colors of paint in layers that track the projects we've done over the years. I've been up here forever. So many afternoons spent scraping and cleaning and spackling and priming and now, painting...it seems like this project has been going on for as long as I can remember, and will be going on forever. This would normally bother me, but there is a peace about it that I can't explain. The hours I have been spending on this project seem to be set apart somehow, separate from the usual flow of life. I feel like I am in my own world out here, high on the ladder with blue sky above and the sun falling warm on my back. I am alone here with my thoughts, and I have nothing to do but paint and let my mind drift, listen to myself think. How long has it been since I last took time to do that? It takes a bucket of paint, a ladder and a huge project to get me to slow down, to converse with myself and pay attention to where I am. I am doing what I am supposed to be doing, I am doing what has to be done. And these hours painting the exterior of the house...laying fresh paint over thirsty, chipped clapboard...are also covering a need within, a need for quiet, for introspection, for covering a thirsty soul with prayer and thought and solitude.

The afternoon wears on, I hear the neighbor's dog bark. I feel surrounded by blue, enveloped in the warm afternoon sun and the cloudless azure sky and the rhythm of painting, smooth and easy. For the first time in a long time my mind is empty, quiet, the mental equivalent of how my muscles feel after a good long run. A car door slams, a bird is calling from the tree near me and for a moment I feel at home here, level with the birds in the trees. I have to remind myself that I am this high up, to step back down the ladder. For a moment I feel as though I could walk right out, six feet above the ground, walk through the deep blue sky with the warm sun falling all around and touch the tops of crimson trees.

Writing from where you are....In, on, and around Monday at LL. Barkat's Seedlings in Stone

The Lead Paint Post

2010-10-18T15:11:00.001-06:00

As promised....the lead paint post!

A long time ago I posted a picture of the peeling paint on our house. Our home, built in 1930, had peeling paint on the clapboard exterior when we purchased it. We signed a waiver, of course, stating that because it was built before 1970 there might be lead paint on or in our house. We figured we'd cross that bridge if and when we came to it.

Painting an old Cape Cod style house is a lot of work...or a lot of money...or, well, both. We managed to put off taking care of the exterior for years, until this Spring when we were sitting on the front porch with some friends after dinner. I pulled a bit of peeling paint from the wood and it ripped off in a nice big flake. This is easy, I thought. My friend and I peeled about a quarter of the front of the house with our fingers, impressed with how fast the paint came off. No problem! We'll just strip the old paint off and throw up a few coats of new. We now had a big bald spot on the front of the house, so Hubby and I were committed to finishing the project before the winter weather set in.

Word got around, and we had many friends offer to come over and help us with the house. I can't even begin to tell you how blessed we are with our Church Family...in no time at all, we had enough people offer to come over and work that we figured we could get the job done in a few weeks...one weekend to chip the paint off, one to paint it. Friends with ladders, painting equipment, experience and huge hearts were all willing to give us their time to help get the job done!

Then we remembered the lead paint warning. It is, after all, an old house! Hubby went out to the paint store and brought home some lead testing kits.

The instructions read that the testing tubes would turn pink if lead were present. Ours turned even pinker than the example on the package! All our paint-party plans came to a screeching halt. What to do now?!? We had a house covered in lead, exposed wood waiting to get damaged with wet weather, and a hazard that needed to be dealt with properly in order to avoid contaminating ourselves and the neighborhood. What we didn't have was the money to pay a professional to do it!

A friend of mine reminded me of the Lead Free Kids program, a government program designed to help home owners remediate their lead paint safely. The program gives grants to home owners to have the work done at no cost to them! To qualify, you need to be below a certain income bracket and you need to have children living in the home who are six years old or under. The income bracket was quite generous, but our youngest child is seven. I almost didn't even call, but I figured it couldn't hurt to give it a shot.

I'm so glad I called! It turns out that the program (at least where we live) will also consider painting your house if you have children under the age of six visiting on a regular basis. We have wonderful little visitors over all the time, and were able to qualify for the program!

Being a government program, it was not a fast process. We begin the application process in the Spring and work didn't get started on the house until Summer was nearly over, and there was some paperwork, phone-tag, and waiting involved. But what a blessing! The program sends people out to test for lead all through your house and yard, and pays for lead testing for anyone under age six. Then, they send professionals out to bid on the job, and choose a company to work on your house. Finally, professionals come and scrape the damaged paint off the house, completely clean all the chips from the area, seal the remaining old paint with a primer, and paint your home! We even got to choose the color.

The program covers the paint inside and outside your home (we had one small area inside that needed to be painted, but the rest was safe). If the soil is contaminated, they fix that, too. And if you have windows that have lead, they'll replace them at no cost as well!

We were able to have our house painted...for free...through the Lead Free Kids program. It was well worth the paperwork and waiting, and we are all now safe and sound in a freshly painted house! The program did not, however, cover our rental cottage...so Hubby and I did the work ourselves....following very careful guidelines. Thank goodness the cottage is small, it was a lot of hard work and I don't know how we could ever have done the whole house ourselves! We are now almost done with the project and the whole family is going to be very happy to finish the last of the Lead Paint Saga, hopefully before the cold weather sets in.

Do you have an older home? Learn from our story....Check for lead before you start a painting project! And if you do have lead and live in the United States, go to this website and see what programs are available in your area!!! If my friend hadn't known about the program, I would never have known to call. Where we live, they don't advertise and we would never have known the program existed. It would have been dangerous and very difficult for us to have undertaken the project alone, and the estimates we had on having professionals come and do it ranged from $7,000 to $12,000....and that's before we knew that the existing paint was lead!

The day we found out that we had lead paint on our house, I had no idea how we would ever manage to fix it. The grant we were given was a huge blessing, and I hope that by sharing our experience other people will be able to benefit from this amazing program, too! Please, pass the word on to anyone you know who might benefit from this!

Gratitude Journal...Beautiful Broken

2010-10-18T07:44:00.004-06:00

No photos of my own to post today...just these shafts of rainbow-light captured by Youngest in the early morning sun. The light was pouring through the window, casting itself about the house in strings and lines and waves of color. Beautiful, simple light...broken by the prisms of an oval leaded glass, shattered into rainbow pieces that danced on floors and walls and captured the attention of a little heart looking for beauty, ready to appreciate the gift of a thousand dancing rainbows swinging near the break of day. Oh, the fractured beauty of the rainbow...its glowing bravely against the gray, showing clearly how things broken can be the most beautiful of all.

And this is how I knew who the beauty seeker was....a lover of grace, with pig-tails and Swedish Fish teeth.

Thank you, Lord, with all my heart...

421. For small beauty-seekers, finding grace in everyday moments
422. For friends who gather, lift each other up
423. For one sweet family who sets off today on a new adventure...how we will miss them, how we treasure each one of them.
424. For the bands of believers who play music to Him, for their hearts and friendship
425. For the chaos of many young children playing night games outside, as the wind rushes through the trees and leaves tumble
426. For the bittersweet of friends leaving, friendships growing, the blessing of hearts shared
427. For projects getting finished, wrapped up before the snow falls
428. For the blessing...oh the blessing...of being surrounded by people who love you
429. For the beauty in the brokenness
430. For the close of one thing, the beginning of another....

What's going on around here?

2010-10-15T13:59:00.000-06:00

What's going on around our house? Well, turns out that one of the downsides to an old, charming home is that any home improvement project you start opens up a Pandora's Box of other issues that need to be fixed before the actual project can even get started. Case in point: Lead Paint (can you hear the scary violins playing in the background? I hear them every time I hear the word lead...) The news isn't all bad...on Monday I will share with you our Lead Paint Saga in hopes that our experience might help someone else out there with the same problem!

Have a blessed weekend!

Breakfast Favorite...Easy Frittata

2010-10-14T10:42:00.003-06:00

I have to confess, I'm not much of a breakfast person. Pretty much the only breakfast I like is one that's eaten after 11:00, for lunch. I know, I know...it's the most important meal of the day. Yep. So I make it for my kids sometimes, on the days when they don't make it themselves...Eldest is King of the Eggs!

Here's a recipe we like that's fast and easy and has great leftover-recycling potential! I just whisk up some eggs...I usually do two per person. If I'm not making many eggs, the frittata will be thin instead of nice and puffy, but nobody seems to care too much. Add a tablespoon of milk, cream, or milk replacer for every 4 eggs you're using. I like to add salt, pepper, garlic powder and dill to my eggs, and a little chopped green onion if I have it.

Then, snip up some bacon (we use turkey bacon), ham, sausage or turkey and throw it in a cast iron skillet. Here is a great place to recycle some chopped meat from last night's dinner! NOTE: For you gluten-sensitive people, make sure you don't let any gluten touch your skillet! I've heard that cast iron retains the evil stuff and you may get sick if you cook in it again. Yipes! If you need to make a bigger frittata, you can use a baking dish...just transfer the ingredients from the skillet to the dish.

Cook the meat completely if raw, or reheat meat until hot through. Arrange the meat in a layer on the bottom of the pan and turn off the heat. Now you can add other stuff...chopped potato, vegetables of all kinds, diced tomato, fresh basil, grated cheese, feta or blue cheese crumbles, (watch for wheat in that blue cheese!). I love to toss some fresh spinach leaves in.

Pour the eggs over everything and pop it into the oven. Bake at 350 until the eggs are set, and the edges are browned and pulling away from the skillet.

Cut and serve...you can top the slices with cheese, salsa, sour cream, or...Youngest's choice....ketchup. Ick.

Here are some fun combinations:

Taco Frittata: Add leftover taco meat, green onion, tomatoes, olives, cheese...whatever is left over from your taco dinner last night!

Basil and Blue Cheese: Fresh basil leaves and blue cheese crumbles

Onion and Mushroom: Caramelize onions with a little olive oil, cook mushrooms 'till done, and pour eggs over.

Pesto Potato: Cubed cooked red potatoes warmed and tossed with pesto. Mmmmm!

Pizza: Cook green peppers in the skillet with a little olive oil. You can leave them in rings and flip the frittata onto a plate when it's done for effect! Sprinkle chopped pepperoni over the peppers, add some mozzarella and the eggs. Serve with tomato sauce drizzled on top if you'd like!

Enjoy!

Seasons

2010-10-13T08:33:00.002-06:00

How is it that the dying of the season, this slow decline of Summer's lusty green comes so luminous, so bright? There is something in the light, an amber quality of warmth that falls at a low angle, like the sun has tired in her azure sky and slid just a little toward the horizon. Why does God paint the world so in the waning moments of the season, sow beauty...brilliant crimson, glowing orange...across the fields and woods that will soon be little more than black skeletons, bare arms etched against cold gray sky?

All things in creation move in season, wax and wane and we, too, move in and out through time, His time and His seasons. The swelling tide, the crescent moon, the rising sun and yes, these leaves that die so beautifully on the vine.

I am burdened and weary and I stumble, and this, too, is a season. I am bright and joyful and strong and this is a season that will wax and wane, swell and diminish. I see my children, how they've grown and how they've changed and I remember this about raising children: that childhood is just a continuous series of changing seasons and you never really get the hang of it, you never cross the finish line because the end of one challenge means the beginning of another, the end of one set of joys is wrapped in the beginning of another new and different one.

How many times must I remind myself of this, that God who IS and has been and will be always the same, He is a God who loves variety and woven into us is this spinning, this orbit of change that keeps things turning over. The seasons change and the years pass and waves crash and swell and recede, and still it feels sometimes that things will be this way forever, that what is now will never pass. And in that blindness I sometimes fail to appreciate the moment, fail to rejoice in the beauty that is now and in that blindness I sometimes forget to hope, to know that whatever the situation the one thing we do know is that this, too, shall pass.

What would happen if I embraced these seasons, if I flowed with these changes like a paper boat skimming the water's surface? What if I trusted that God will bring these seasons 'round and that He'll weave them together, pull them into something beautiful and good? Perhaps it is a human trait, present at birth that we have this shortsightedness, that we are at the same time so blind to the passionate beauty of this moment and also so short of vision as to the glory of what is to come.

Lord, I pray that you help me to embrace the seasons as they come, to enjoy the beauty of each of them and to live them fully. Help me remember that they pass, the good things and the bad, they wax and wane and that the end of one thing is woven into the beginning of another.

Ministry Appreciation Month...Patching the Leaks

2010-10-12T09:46:00.005-06:00

Did you know that it's Ministry Appreciation Month? Over at (in)Courage, they're celebrating with a blog carnival. Pop on over there, read the prompt and join in the fun! All of us have someone whose ministry has made a difference in our lives, someone whose faith and dedication has left an impression on us. A pastor, a Youth Minister, a sister-in-Christ who has walked you through some tough times....Here's a chance to tell the world about them! Link up to the post at (in)Courage and then spend a little time reading the encouraging stories that others have posted.

When I sat down to write about someone who has ministered to me and made a difference in my life, one particular family popped into my mind immediately. The Hahn family moved here to The City from Colorado to plant a church in this much-needed mission field. They'd moved to Colorado, in fact, from the Midwest on another church plant years before. When we were new at the church, the Hahns were there for us. They were patient with us. They opened their home to us in small groups, shared meals with us. Over the years, the Hahns have become a second family to us and we've loved and appreciated their friendship more than words can express. Linda is my sweet friend, mentor, and sister in Christ and I would love to do a whole post on her wisdom, patience, and strength. I could write a second whole post on the five Hahn kids and how they are amazing examples of teens and young men and women who serve God. But since Phil is the official Children's Minister at our church, I'll narrow it down to him.

Phil Hahn does a great job running the Children's Ministry program at The Rock, and he is also is in charge of the physical aspects of our church buildings. Let me tell you a little bit about our church...we're a church that's made up of a body of believers first, and the building we meet in is...well....just a building. In fact, up 'till recently, it was just a building with a roof that leaked like a sieve every time it rained or snowed! For years, Phil spent countless hours on ladders, rigging up ingenious water systems above the acoustic tiles to channel the water into funnels, PVC pipes, and finally into sinks and buckets all around the church. When it rained, water poured into the church and he worked nonstop to find and fix the leaks. Rube Goldberg had nothing on Phil, if you removed the tiles that hung above the church you'd find a tangle of pipe, plastic, duct tape, wire and creative odds and ends that kept the water from falling through...old mixing bowls, bits of tarp, yards of PVC. Once after an election, recycled political signs were re-purposed into parts of this creative waterway. Often, he'd be attending a river pouring into the building in one area, when a whole new watercourse would break loose in another area. Tiles soaked through, grew too heavy and finally fell to the floor in a disgusting, wet explosion of disintegrated pulp. He'd simply finish the first leak and move on to the next, and the next, and the next. Every time it rained or snowed, Phil would spend late nights up in the ceiling devising ways to route the water and clean up the mess, and early in the morning he could be found cleaning up the new leaks that had sprung the night before, shoring up his water-catching system many feet above, and then hiding it all with fresh tiles.

That's the heart of a servant, friends. All of Phil's hard work was put into something that was outwardly invisible, a system that directed the water in a proper direction rather than a destructive one, a system that...for all the hours he spent on it...very few people ever saw or even knew about. On Sunday morning, the worst of the leaks were fixed and people were able (by and large) to sit in church and concentrate on the sermon, not on the stream of water trickling down the back of their neck. Phil's lack of sleep, the sacrifice his family made in supporting him through the late nights and hours away from home, were hidden behind the hanging tiles. Through it all, he continued to run the Children's Ministry and find time to help people out, lead small groups, and do many other things to help build the church...both literally and figuratively.

A good minister is like that...channeling the rainwater away from people and the Living Water to people, serving invisibly, working tirelessly.

Thanks, Hahns, for all your hard work!

Our church building now has a new roof, and I suspect that nobody appreciates that more than the Hahn family. We are working on getting a new church building, which is greatly needed here in The City where there is truly a great need for Christian churches and where God is busy doing amazing things. We could use all the help we can get in raising the money for a new building [shameless plug for our Roots Campaign ;o)] Here's a video clip for you to enjoy...and you can meet Phil, who plays Eugene in this video (and a few others). He's the one with the moustache, bow tie, and suspenders. (And no, he doesn't usually dress like that!)

You'll want to pause the music in the sidebar before you play this!

Roots: Growing Deep for Further Reach from The Rock Church on Vimeo.

Savory Baked Chicken...a Fall recipe with a hint of Summer

2010-10-12T08:19:00.002-06:00

I know I haven't posted much about food for awhile, but it's Fall and I'm starting to get excited about all those cold-weather meals...soups, stews, savory dinners that simmer on the stove or slow cook in the oven, filling the house with good smells.
Here's a simple meal I made last week that combined a touch of Summer with Fall flavors. It was easy and could be done in a crock pot, but I used my beloved Le Creuset and baked it in the oven.

Savory Baked Chicken

You Need:
One chicken breast per person
Gluten Free Barbecue Sauce (Kraft is a good one...most of their flavors are GF but always check the label)
One strip of turkey bacon per person (Jenny-O Turkey bacon is GF)
Shredded cheese or dairy-free cheese product (if you're going with dairy free, here's a good one that's also GF and actually melts)
Chopped green onion

You Do:
In a little olive oil or a non-stick pan, brown both sides of the chicken breasts. You can use frozen chicken breasts if you want, just make sure that you've got enough time before dinner to bake them. Pour 1/2 the bottle of Barbecue sauce into the bottom of a crock pot or covered baking dish. Arrange the chicken on the sauce (preferably in a single layer). Cook the turkey bacon until crisp, and use kitchen scissors to snip the bacon over the chicken. Pour the rest of the sauce over the chicken.

If you are using a crock pot with a removable crockery, you could follow the recipe up to this point the night before, and then cover it and put the whole thing in the fridge. Just take it out the next morning and let it bake. Bake in a crock pot on low for 7 to 9 hours, or bake in the oven at 350 until the chicken reaches 165 degrees and the juices run clear. The Barbecue sauce should reduce and thicken during baking.

Remove the chicken, put it on plates and spoon extra sauce over each serving. Sprinkle with cheese right away, and then garnish with green onion.

This goes great with stuffed baked potatoes! Just cook an extra couple of slices of bacon when you make the chicken, and save a little extra cheese and onion for the potatoes. Bake the potatoes in the oven along with the chicken and add a little steamed broccoli for a simple and savory meal!

Gratitude Journal....Beauty Voyeur

2010-10-11T08:33:00.004-06:00

The air is crisp and fresh, just a little too cold for these flip-flops and this baggy gray sweatshirt but it feels good, feels like a cool drink of water after a long, hot day. I am in the yard, it is 7:15 and I have had a breakfast of today's reading from the The One Year Bible: The entire English Standard Version arranged in 365 daily readings. I have fed the animals, have done two loads of laundry. Now, camera in hand, I am searching for bits of beauty to record, thankful blessings that represent what's in my heart. I try not to wonder what the neighbors will think, me out here again scouting for a picture to sum up a thousand words as they are standing at their kitchen windows, rinsing out a coffee mug, or getting into their cars and tuning their radio for the commute. I am a crazy, beauty-seeking God-lover and this has blessed me, and I hope they ask one day what I'm doing out here...a beauty voyeur with a camera, snapping moments of grace and smiling away in the early morning light. Today, as my fingers and toes grow cold in the almost-frost of this October morning, I find...

400. Red roses blooming still

401. The purple-blue that dots a carpet of green around the house

402. Luminous yellow peering from behind the Weeping Mulberry

403. Crimson stars...Oh, the brightness of that color!

404. Just a touch of Sunrise Gold still hanging in the painted sky

405. A rainbow of color in a single frame

406. Our doorbell, old-school verdigris against freshly yellow clapboard

407. Oh, the new paint! All but the rails and doors.

410. The shiny-green shutters, and butter yellow

411. The safe new coat this displaced-farmhouse wears, lead-free and winter ready

And more blessings counted....

412. The cottage, too, its pain nearly finished

413. Soup and Scripture, fellowship tonight

414. That the garage is lead-free and requires nothing but a coat of paint

415. Family and Sunday Dinner

416. Dental insurance

417. Public Libraries

418. The smell of cinnamon

419. The weather holding, still

420. New nickle knobs on kitchen cabinets

Join the beauty-voyeurs at....

Stereoscopic Vision

2010-10-08T11:42:00.000-06:00

Youngest sits on her chair, perched dangerously near the edge. She is swinging her feet under the chair, her ankles crossed, beaded flip-flops swaying back and forth, back and forth. She is dressed in what she came downstairs in before we left, a pair of green camouflage capris, a pink fleece pullover with boldly colored flowers blooming all over it, a gray faux fur vest zipped up under her chin. And the beaded flip-flops, swinging under her chair. I had weighed my options, decided to let the outfit ride. I noticed, as we ordered, that the fleece is inside out.

Our conversation goes as it usually does, ranging quickly from fairy tales to Indians to the merits of stereoscopic vision: hunters and gatherers have eyes up front, runners wear them to the sides. She sips a warm apple cider, tells a five minute joke with no punch line, smiles her brilliant smile that shows the new too-big teeth, the gaps between. There has never been anyone so vivid, I think, as I watch her talk, watch her take it all in. I am watching her loopy curls bounce, calculating the distance of her apple cider from the edge of the table, listening with one ear when I hear her say, "Jesus had two fathers, pretty much. We were talking about that in Sunday school." I nod, wondering where this is going. "I thought you'd be interested in that, you know," she continues. "Since you have two mothers and all. You know, kind of like Jesus."

I don't know where to go with that, what to say. How do you explain these things, to someone whose reality is so different? How do you explain the brokenness that is this world to someone who has seen so little of it? Her world is mostly teddy-bear tea parties and dragonflies caught like iridescent jewels in the clear glass globe of a Mason jar. I want her to hold on to that for as long as she can, to see the world through these simple eyes. I think of our earlier conversation, how she held one hand over her right eye, then her left. Noted the difference, what you see with one eye covered. I think of how it's a balance of both that helps us see things right, stereoscopic. I can see it one way, or the other, or with both sides. I can show her to look at it that way, too.

"Jesus was lucky to have a dad like Joseph to take care of him, since he was God's son and that wouldn't have worked out so well here on Earth," I say. She nods, curls bounce. "And I was lucky that Granny and Pops got married, so that she could be my mom and your Granny." More bouncing nods. She is off again, the next subject on her mind is crowding out the last, impatient to be shared.

I close one eye, then the other. Notice the shift, subtle but real. See that it is both ways, really: the struggle and the blessing, the brokenness and the healing. I think of how perhaps this makes the difference, seeing forward, a blend of both...how this way you can be a hunter of blessings, a gather of grace. How seeing one-sided makes you timid, afraid, waiting for disaster, always ready to run.

I hold the door for her, she walks out under my arm and into the drizzle of an October evening. I think of how, so often, what you learn in the teaching is of greater value than what was taught. Our conversation will flow past her, leaving her with some bits of information about eyes and how they work, with the vague memory of spiced cider and light rain. I will take away from this a new appreciation for the gift of stereoscopic vision, for the way it can make you see things in a new light.

Filling the Emptiness

2010-10-06T08:29:00.005-06:00

The heart's an empty vessel, hollow walls that are open and wanting, waiting to be filled. The condition of being human carries with it many symptoms, and this hole in the heart is one. The feeling that you are the only one with this empty space inside, the assumption that everyone else has this space filled and this problem fixed is another. We all are walking around, with outer husk preened and perfected, pretending to be whole, protecting the secret of the empty space inside.

Did God forget to fill it? Why this open space, this secret longing that won't be silenced?

We try to fill the void with what the world has to offer. We search for the answers, we look to philosophy, we fill it with hours of experts talking on TV. We take the empty space to the mall, let it window shop, fill it with the credit card. We mistake its longing for boredom, and we try to fill the empty space with business. We confuse the ache of openness for hunger, and we seek the cure in the refrigerator. We think the hole is due to poverty and we try to fill with our bank account. We label the emptiness with a sickness and medicate it with alcohol, with drugs, with anti-depressants. We assume the space is a need for self-actualization, we try to fill it with accomplishments, praise, perfection. We fill it with sin, with secrets, with gossip. We feel the guilt of this and try again to fill the hole with good works. We fill it and fill it and fill it and wonder, daily, why it isn't full.

C.S. Lewis said "Emptiness is at the center of my being" and I feel that, feel the pull and the draw and the vacuum that nature abhors. Oh, it is our nature to hate the empty spaces and long for fullness. But God is in the spaces in between, and the thing that makes music something more than noise is the places between the notes, the rests and pauses that bring order out of chaos. This space is not an accident, this hole is not a defect.

The hole is God-shaped and God-given, the hole is meant to be God-filled and we can't consume enough of anything else to dull the ache, to still the hunger. The empty space in the human heart was created to hold the Creator and everything else is too small to fit, everything else is just more emptiness.

If the struggle has been long, if the path has been twisted, if the ache has broken you again and again, lay it down. Each of us carries this with us always, this broken heart, this empty space. Lay it down at the feet of the One who can fill it, the One who waits for you to ask for Him to fill you. You don't have to be good, you don't have to have it figured out, you don't have to know or understand anything more than this: God fits in the God-shaped hole and everything else...sin or sanctuary, lust or control or wealth or religion...will fail you, will spill though and will not last and will leave you wanting. Fill it with the One Thing that can fit.

In, On, and Around...Ordinary

2010-10-05T08:25:00.007-06:00

I am sitting here, in the dark, the computer screen throws out a strange kind of light and in this unnatural halo I huddle and type. It is the quiet, in-between hour of the day, before the children wake and after I kiss my husband goodbye for the day, after I spend time in the pages of the Word and before breakfast, before they come downstairs with hair tangled and pajamas twisted, rubbing sleep from their eyes. This quiet space is sacred, in an ordinary way. A pause to let words flow, tumble, arrange and re-arrange. The clock behind me measures out time, a sound like the echo of an old man with a cane walking down a tile corridor, the tap of the cane and the thump of the shoe. Tick tock, tick tock.

Some days I use this time wisely, writing furiously. Some days I put my slippers on and I photograph things in the yard, pajama bottoms peeking out and my huge gray hoodie zipped up under my chin. Some days I waste time reading facebook, aimlessly skipping from blog to blog to blog, looking for what? Some days the words that appear on the screen surprise me, sometimes I don't know what I have to say until I see it there, black-on-white, cursor blinking back at me.

As I write I hear the traffic on the street outside pick up, I notice the sounds of neighbors starting their cars, doors slamming. A dog is barking in the yard next door, begging his master back. I write as the sun starts to peek over the mountains to the East, and the window beside my desk starts to glow with the light of dawn, and the light seeps into the room and details start to emerge from the darkness. I write and the coffee in my cup grows cold, I pick it up to take a sip and am surprised to find it's gone. I write and hear the sound of small feet hit the floor above me, and the dog pricks up her ears because there is no earthly reason why a dog should leave the warm hollow of her bed until the children are awake, is there?

A friend told me yesterday that she admires the fact that I can write about the ordinary and make it seem like more, give it meaning. I can do that sometimes, and I can live that sometimes, and I wish I lived that way always. What we have is the ordinary, and what the ordinary is in truth is touched, blessed, gilded, gifted, breathtaking. What it is, is Holy and why I write is to remember that. Because I forget, all too often, and I don't notice the quiet Voice whispering love into my ear all day long, don't see the offered gifts of beauty being passed to me with tireless grace, one by one by one.

And now the first child is downstairs, and the dog has re-animated and is standing at the door waiting to go out, and enough morning has poured through the window that I can see the day's work ahead of me, etched in a cold October light. I see the gift of a day before me, sacred and ordinary.

Writing from where I am, prompted by LL Barkat's "In, On, and Around Monday" .