Sifting and Sifted

Twenty four hours. Six days and one for worship and rest. Those of you who have been reading for awhile know that I long to live with purpose and attention, intention and grace. And there is no way around it- to do so is a matrix of nos and yeses. We navigate through our days gleaning urgent from important, need from want, self from servant.

This week I tried. I said no to days without order, and yes to a plan. I said yes to homemade pita bread, and dancing in the kitchen to Sam's new favorite song. (To listen, look for A Woman and a Shovel on the player at the top right of the page.) I said yes to more chapters read aloud, and no to impulse buying. Yes to good conversation, and no to most TV. And of course, as always, there were nos that should have been nods, and assent when denial would have been better. Sharp words where silence would have done as well, and speed over gentle slowness. But every day, morning and evening, the Father Who delights in shining through my fractured but colorful self, cast His mercies over me and it was good.

I talked with a friend this morning about what it means that we were created for God's pleasure. He delights in us. Just as we bend over our children, flushed and sleeping and are filled with a pure joy and satisfaction, not because they did anything for us, but just that they simply are, so it is with God. In Him there is no foot-tapping impatience, no dubious waiting to see if we will "get it right" this time.

The process of sifting our lives and allowing ourselves to be sifted is not to earn love or approval, it is instead to experience His best, to allow Him to shine through less obscured, to breathe in mercy to breathe out grace.

Because of Bob and Fred

Meet Bob and Fred.

Now, at first glance, they might look to you like just a couple of plastic figures, trapped in their acrylic box, bobbing up and down on the surface of the mysterious blue liquid of their personal ocean. A souvenir of our visit to the Tennessee Aquarium last summer.

You'd be wrong, friends.

You haven't been here for breakfast, or bedtime snack the last few weeks. I can't remember exactly when it started, when these two became stars in little stories told by John, in fact, when they were christened Bob and Fred. But you would be amazed at their adventures. They've formed a rock band, run for president, and over and over come to terms with their lack of electricity, out there on the ocean. (They can't play Star Wars on a playstation or plug in an amp for their electric guitar.) This morning they suffered an encounter with a couple of outlaws turned horsetheives, with a side discussion on the difficulties of webbed feet, cowboy boots and stirrups.

Every day I hear the requests, "Penguin story please!!!!!" And then the snickers and the chuckles and finally the belly laughs, and the protests when the story is over. As I refill a juice glass I see Joshua and Sam, shining eyes fixed on their dad. It is one of those utterly ordinary, everyday, something from nothing family miracles.

It's February people. You know, still.

This mom has been running low lately on energy and creativity, and I am appreciating again the seamless handoffs that parenting with a shared vision allows. How much it delights me to see him doing something that never would have occurred to me, that delights them.

So today, when you ask me why I love my husband, why I value him as the Daddy of these little people, I might say. . . because of Bob and Fred.

Inspired

Well, um, wow. . . We had one of those afternoons that we'll be chewing on for awhile, tasting every bit of the good from it, over and over. . .We asked a friend from church, an older woman who is in John's Sunday school class and who has been especially kind to the boys, to join us for lunch. We got Mexican at a local restaurant, and sat and talked with each other over quesadillas, and then she invited us to come to her house, a few moments from the restaurant.

She lives in an octagon-shaped home, three rooms, all hardwood and tile and cedar shake and windows. It is a spare and perfect as a piece of art, as the amazing local art that hangs on her walls. There in the space and light, with the profusion of nothing except books, and on her countenance, was everything we have ever read about voluntary simplicity. Every object selected for usefulness or beauty and mostly both, no more than would fit and a tiny home that felt spacious. "Enough as good as a feast."

Everything was touched with her vibrant spirit. We came away with so much to process, a desire to drink in everything we thought. I am not writing about it well even now, but I had to get some of it down, and behind it all-- the real deal-- that so clearly by saying "no" to some things, she has said a full and singing "yes" to others. And so, is there any space in our home, schedules, budget, brains, where we are called to say a small "no" that could pave the way for a deeper, truer "yes?"

Filling the Library Bag

There has been some reading going on in this sick household! In read-alouds we breezed through the last half of Little Town on the Prairie and are now enjoying an encore visit with Farmer Boy. John has alternated military history with a little Grisham to lighten things up, and I lapped up my wonderful What the Land Already Knows all too quickly. But a real treat awaited me in my next choice, Gail Godwin's Evensong. I remember reading the first book she wrote about her character Margaret Bonner, Father Melancholy's Daughter, several years ago, but I don't remember the thorough absorption and enjoyment I've found in Evensong. It helped that it is set in my beloved Western NC, so while penned up indoors, I got to wander the mountains and waterfalls that I love.

Joshua has alternated spending time with Ramona and Calvin and Hobbes.

But the pages we may revisit the most often were found in A Hole is to Dig, suggested by the wonderful Angry Chicken. Not sure how I missed this book-- of course we know Maurice Sendak, whose illustrations are at their most charming, and Ruth Krauss' husband penned Harold and the Purple Crayon, which I never read as a child and discovered delightedly with Joshua just a couple of years ago. (Why did I not copy all those index cards made my my future-teacher college roommates when they took children's literature? Why?) But this book, this book has already given us all so many smiles. I'll be ordering our own copy, and exploring more of Ruth's work.

This is a specific gift the blogging world has given me, a constantly growing list of books for us to explore with our boys. I'm thankful for so many passionate parents and readers who share their reviews and impressions to fill our library bag.

A Helping of Normal

I remember I started feeling bad on Super Tuesday. There we were, ensconced on the sofa in front of CNN, treasuring the last few days of nonstop political punditry before we canceled our satellite service. As the states lit up on John King's interactive map, I realized I was not enjoying Barack Obama's many wins as much as I had planned. In fact, by bedtime I felt distinctly unwell.

Sigh. Over the last two weeks I battled what I started out believing was a nasty cold, through the flu that got us one by one, and finally I am left with John, in the bedroom nursing pneumonia and reading his third book in as many days. My kitchen counter has looked like a wet bar of pharmaceuticals, with cold medicines and fever reducers standing in for mini bottles. The various juices and Gatorades to tempt our nonexistent taste buds and keep us hydrated have multiplied as well. We have made it halfway through a teetering library pile of books and videos.

But this morning, with husband still on the mend and eldest headed off to school with his sick note, Sam and I made a stand for normal. Medicines were banished to their top of fridge bins, everything wiped down, and mixer pulled forward. Flour and sugar and shortening from the cabinets, water from the tap, yeast and whole wheat flour and wheat germ from the refrigerator. Time to make bread.

It was wonderful how much I felt the regular rhythms of a good, well life returning as Sam and I measured and added and blended. We smiled as the Kitchenaid did its thumping dance as it kneaded, and were delighted after the first rise as the dough brimmed its greased bowl.

How those loaves satisfied me in their ordinary splendor, cooling on the counter. All shall be well and very well.

A Handful of Feathers

So perhaps a bit about the blog hiatus I took. . . I was feeling one of my periodic waves of ambivalence about my blog and about internet communications in general. Partly for privacy reasons, partly as a new blogger seeking my comfort zone, I had set pretty narrow topical boundaries here. And I think I got bored with them, got bored with the few sides of myself and my thoughts and heart that I had shared. And yet, knowing that there are things that I could write about that would be exciting for me, but would perhaps stir up controversy. And knowing that debate is not why I began to blog, and is not what I enjoy or want to engender here. Now, I can have a good debate with the best of them, and it is something I used to enjoy. I just don't have that kind of energy in the online portion of my life, to do it well and respectfully. The distances between us in cyber world, to me, demand an even higher level of civility than needed in our face to face interactions, as online we are without the graces of tone, gesture and expression to soften our words.

So I felt caught between a rock and a hard place, chafing against my own fences here and unsure of the land beyond them, should I climb over them. I told a dear friend, also rethinking her internet life, that I would mull it all over while I embroidered my bathroom valance, that I would not make a decision until the project was done. The center motif is a kind of stylized bluebird, and as he grew beneath my needle, it occurred to me that reading someone's blog, someone you only know through that venue, is a handful of feathers.

They are full of the color of that person, their texture and were a part of them. They are precious. But they do not tell you what it feels like to fly with the wings they came from, or what the landscape looks like from that bird's eye view.

No matter how true our words, no matter how tuned to our lives in perfect pitch, they are a part and not the whole of us. We hold each other's feathers but don't know the whole flight path, the journey that came before, the way the mountain looks from another's nest.

As I share other parts of my mind and heart I hope you will welcome them as just a few more feathers from a woman living and loving and praying, still creating and growing and figuring things out.

Translation

We have been living the hermit existence of a sick family this week. Aside from furtive rushes into pharmacy, grocery store and library for supplies to weather the storm, these four walls have been our space and us four, each other’s company.

With the distractions of work and schoolwork and church gatherings and daily commerce peeled away, I appreciate again the intimacy of family life. We know every inch of these little people in such detail, and can track symptoms and emotion as they play across their features.

Joshua curls next to me on the sofa. The bristly hair against my fingertips is like no other texture I’ve ever felt. He gets a fever hard and fast, this one-- as I hold him and read aloud, I can feel the heat through his Spiderman pajamas and see the glaze over his eyes as he sinks into my side. Thankfully, the fever reducer works equally quickly; he will be jumping around and chattering nineteen to the dozen in a half an hour. Sam always grips my upper arm for comfort, looping both hands around my bicep. When this little morning buddy chooses thumb and blanket over granola bar, he really doesn’t feel good.

This knowledge can come only through the crucible of family life closely lived. I can still remember the surge of competence we felt when we were first able to crack the codes of cries, facial expressions and body postures. The pouched lips and puffed cheeks of the teether, the waxes and wanes of appetite and growing pains, the little skirmishes and irritations that called for more sleep. Bodies and faces and tones to be learned by heart.

The trick seems to be, as they grow, when they are well and we are flown to the routines and relationships of daily life, to stay schooled in them. To be able to read the hurts and happiness they may not tell us, and to respond. The quiet that needs to be drawn out into conversation versus the quiet that needs only its own company. The anger acted out that sprouted from an earlier hurt. The over-eager helpfulness that whispers, “I need to be close to you right now.”

And then to hold, in the tension of paradox where being a parent is best lived out, the humility of the knowledge that we cannot and should not meet every need, the ones we interpret and understand and the ones that remain in all ways unspoken. They have a Maker who is the only one who can fill their deepest longings. We are the caretakers, with Motrin and cookies and cuddles and Little House and “You Are My Sunshine” and new crayons and the grace to translate and speak the language of family.

Happy Valentines Day!

Happy Valentine's Day!

I will be returning soon, looking at life with a bit of a wider lens.

Ice, Light, and Silence

I am more out than in with the blog these days it seems. For the first time since right after I started blogging, I am feeling an odd reticence when I sit before the keys. But this time it is not the quandaries over showing my kids' faces, or how much to reveal about our hometown. It has more to do with how much of the real stuff I heap on a platter and bring to the table versus how much I keep here. Not just for myself, but for fuller conversations and deeper relationships that honor the topics with context, time and grace.

I don't want to write here about the political candidate I am supporting this year, though I am a passionate armchair pundit, because I fear a box-- "oh, she is one of those sorts of people!" more or less committed to one thing or another than the reader imagined. A mark of our times, to look for those boxes into which to file each other-- I do it too.

I have a certain impatience toward writing about parenting-- I have not been at the top of my game lately, and I don't mind revealing that-- I just have the misgiving that I should be doing it more and pontificating less. Actually, that speaks to a general impatience I am feeling with myself-- a "just do it!!!" It is lovely, most of the time, to care for our home, so I guess I am in a season of just reveling in it more and reflecting on it less.

Perhaps this blog has had its season for me. I'm not sure. John and I chuckle often over the generation gap we feel between ourselves and some of his younger coworkers. The world online still seems utterly other to us-- we are somewhat crotchety and insecure in it. Real connections are made here and I don't discount them-- the hearts and minds that bless and nurture me pulse and beat in real bodies and real hands convey their thoughts.

But for me, when I feel unsteady, or as though my footing in the here is not what it should be, this world is the first thing to be placed, gently but firmly, on some back burner

Perhaps I will return to this space at some point. Until then I encourage you to seek and find the beauty and grace in every day.

Within and Without

Yesterday the mountain was icy blue, school was closed, kids were up early for a cup of hot chocolate, fingers itching to pack the first snowball. Do you remember that feeling-- even if you loved school-- that breath-held, if-only, can-it-be-true wait to find out if school was canceled? In this part of the South, it doesn't even happen every year, and when it does, most often for ice storms that slick the streets and leave us, power out, scurrying for candles and more polarfleece.

This was a real snowfall, by our standards. It began as darkness fell Wednesday night. We were at church, and I looked out of the 2s and 3s room to see Sam's class, noses pressed against the windows, erupt into squealing in the hallway, squinting up toward the streetlights to see the first flakes coming down.

It was still snowing at daybreak, for a little while before changing to rain, and we played outside early, to make the most of it. And the rest of the stay was spent inside in the warmth. I had the blessing of contrast-- we are planning our first "real" garden, so I could drown in pictures and descriptions of flowers and produce, or read the helps and hopes in this book, but glance up to see white lacy branches and the far red cardinal who stopped for a snack. A little bit between the now and the not yet.

New Ways, Old Roads

I've been greeting the new year is typical fashion this week. The laundry basket and Goodwill bag, they runneth over. A menu plan is neatly printed on the first page of a new planner. I've sweated my way through workouts on three of the four days of this new year. The house is swept clean of holiday decorations and the sun shines in with chill brightness of bare floors and plumped pillows.

I loved the holidays, the extra family time and the celebration and feasting and fun. But this is good too-- like a deep breath of the coldest air this winter has seen yet. A kind of comfort that I already know the novelty of some of my virtues will wear off long before Valentines Day. But some might stick, might become part of my becoming this new year.

What are your hopes for 2008, your intentions and dreams? Would you like to learn something new, read some great words, learn to hold your tongue or let go of your agenda? Let us remember to balanced self-denial and abundance. ( A little less chocolate but all the library books you can carry? ) Let us step into His Hand, and see what He has in store-- both for us and in the making of us.

Calm and Bright

It has been quiet here, hasn't it? I don't really have any explanation, exactly. But it has been good. I feel ready for the flurry of feasting and giving and receiving of the next few days. All our extended family celebrations will be happening before Monday, so Christmas Eve and Day are all ours, for worship, and simple food. Scattering glittery oats on the lawn for Santa's reindeer, rising early, curling ribbon and muffin crumbs, and two boys impossibly taller than last year. For once I feel ready to drink in all its messy glory.

This year feels different. We did the dinner party, and it was fun and busy and festive, and then I just. . . stopped. The days since have been quiet. I had a visit from a dear friend, and Joshua had a school program. Sam stood up so straight to sing in church, and we caroled on the coldest night yet. But mostly it has been reading The Long Winter aloud to the boys, opening a new door in The Advent Book each evening, drawing Christmas trees and reindeer over and over, and playing a CD changer full of holiday music on the stereo next to the tree.

I let go of many things. We were so inundated with homemade treats from others that I have not baked very much, and for the first year, we have not sent Christmas cards. I imagine myself writing some letters in January to dear ones. We said no to several events; if we were trying to decide and it seemed like a bit too much, we said no.

And just now that feels just right. To know that I would not have traded one peaceful hour for our own greetings to be winging into others' mailboxes, or to purchase one more "perfect" gift, or to turn out Martha-worthy trays of confections. Our kids are still young, and their boundless delight in the small ceremonies and celebrations of home is a luxury I am reveling in.

We have many traditions that are the bones of our Christmases, but the character and shape of them is different every year. Every year we discover a new tone to our celebration, and perhaps this is uniquely appropriate for a holiday that is not a day at all, but a Person. May we, may you, as we savor Christmas, meet Jesus in some fresh way. Let us make Him room, as the hymn says, let heav'n and nature sing.

A Feast Before Us

I am not crazy about "Christian book stores." Not because of the books, for I love books, but all the "stuff." (And I won't go on here, because there is a big old soapbox of self-righteousness calling me, and I'm keeping my feet on the ground today.) But one time, in one of those stores, I saw a poster that depicted the Bridegroom's banquet that awaits us in heaven, a table with places set, stretching as far as the eye could see and beyond. I loved that.

Last night and today, I have felt like a guest at a feasting table, each rich and fragrant dish that passes a blessing heaped on my plate. Holidays and calendars are so good for marking our time, looking back to the last time or two we hung an ornament on the tree, or set out the silver. And I cannot deny that, while there have been times of need, moments of loneliness in these last two years, we have traveled a way I could never have imagined. At last, a career that my husband loves, a home that is beautiful to us, boys blooming with health and good-naturedness, a church home. In letting go of some things, some people, my hands were opened to welcome others.

And for this moment, I am so glad to sit at this table.

To Make Ready

Every year of our married life I have filled the shallow pottery circle with water, and snips from the yard, magnolia, nandina and evergreen, fitted the candles in place. Sometimes joyfully and expectantly, sometimes in sorrow and uncertainty, through the dim sleeplessness of new parenthood and the glad noise of small ones. And we have drawn around this circle.

Likewise my heart has been in different states by this Advent wreath. Absent and distracted or worried. Longing beyond the lighting and reading to bedtime for little ones and a few moments of peace before I am sleeping too. But, somehow, always making this circle of light part of our Christmas preparation.

This year, as the cut stems drink and the wicks stand ready, I, too, am longing. To drink more fully of Advent, to experience a season of preparation for Jesus. A slow dawning in my heart, again, of what it means that God poured His divine self into a human vessel, a man who laughed and wept and taught, who made friends and loved and was betrayed. But Who, Himself, was faithful to the cross, To the tomb. And now, to the Throne. Breath held, candle lit, as an old story is told and retold in our own four-flame circle, I want to see the wonder in our faces, to be made ready to come and adore Him.

St. Nick of Time

I cringe at puns, I really do. And yet, occasionally, I cannot resist them.

Here it is the Advent calendar inspired by the wonderful Teresa McFayden. I LOVED doing this project. My total cash outlay was $3, for an adhesive magnetic strip to make my magnet numbers. I had the cookie sheet, and the paint, glitter, paper, and trinkets were all from my craft room. Ribbons and glue and mateless earrings, bottle caps and wooden stars and stickers and ink.

I finished the last several markers today, and after this picture was taken, all the magnets were removed so the boys can start taking turns tomorrow, adding them one by one.

My favorite thing about this project was that I felt so free with it, like I could just have a good time making each little piece. It will be out for a short time, it can be homespun and crazy and glittery and a little too much. And now it is ready, ready for the first of December tomorrow.

Good night, and twenty five more sleeps until Christmas!

Dry Run Dessert, Take One

We are having a little winter supper here in a couple of weeks for John's coworkers. (I am resisting the term dinner party because it sounds oddly grand for what I am hoping will be a festive but relaxed gathering.) And so it is a winter supper with a lovely salad, a choice of soups, and these little lovelies.

I am testing my recipes this week so all my plans and shopping lists are in place well in advance. I am serving a chicken tortilla soup that is less a recipe than an always evolving Southwestern stew. The potato soup I am serving tastes amazing, as my family could attest after Monday night, but did not prove very photogenic on a dark, rainy evening.

And now these cakes. I'll make them the day before, and the ganache the day of the party. Dessert plates dusted with powdered sugar, cups of decaf all around, Christmas tree lights twinkling off of silver. . . aahhhh.

Greenville Glitterati

The paper trees have been put on hold for the moment so I can steam ahead on the Advent Calendar. It is trucking along, life is good, boys were just taken to the dentist by their daddy and I have glitter under my fingernails. It is a gloriously sunny day, washed clean by yesterday's rain. Two embroidery projects down, one to go for gifts, and then another tea towel for me if time and crunchy neck and shoulders permit. Seems like the camera spends more time slung around my neck than snug in my bag, the boys have caught the bug and are cutting and gluing and pasting at every turn, and my papercrafting desk looks like a very pretty, sticky bomb went off.

I've learned, in my life of creative pursuits, that it always seems to be this way, a flood of ideas and energy and inspiration that has my fingertips tingling.

Or three months of evenings spent on the couch, eating Cheetos and watching House reruns.

Creative energy is always a gift of grace for me, and I've learned, learned slowly and with trial and error, to take it in, to clear the calendar, to let the house be a little dirty and get my hands more than a little dirty. It is feast or famine, and when the feast comes, best to pull up to the table, spread the napkin, and dig in.

God gives us so many gifts of fellowship with Him, ways to peek into His God-ness. To me this most precious one is the curiosity, industry and spark to make beauty, to enjoy process and product. To feel a faint shadow of perhaps what He felt, when jewels of stars slipped through His fingers into the velvet night, when He said it was good.

Make

I hope everyone had a Thanksgiving full of good food, the people you love and enjoy, and a heart full of gratitude. It feels like we had it all-- extended family time, a lovely dinner, and lots of hanging out, just the four of us.

Now, a confession: I LOVE Christmas. I love the preparation, physical and spiritual, the candles and readings of Advent, and the decoration of the house. I love the hushed and holy, but I love the bright and glittery too. I love the fleeting wonder of Santa in my boys' eyes, and I love giving presents.

Each year, we thoroughly enjoy Thanksgiving and the autumn season. (Yes, I am another indignant blogger who does not appreciate lit trees in Hobby Lobby the day after Labor Day, when I am there to buy floss to embroider maple leaves on a dish towel.) But after Thanksgiving, all bets are off. Like, the day after Thanksgiving. We enjoy a Christmas season around here! The kid in me just can't wait, and the mom in me thinks that with all the time that goes into the trimming and feasting, we might as well enjoy it for a few weeks.

And like most of us who play with paper and glue and thread and such, a chilly, rainy day turns our thoughts to crafting. I made the little tree above in non-traditional colors from directions here It will look perfect in our pale blue and cream bedroom. And I've had the paints out this morning to make one of these. My goal is to have it finished by Saturday, so we can start adding the numbers.

We have Advent booklets from our church, one for John and me and one geared more toward the kids. When the rain stops, I'll be clipping evergreen to trim our Advent wreath to make ready for Sunday.

Suffice it to say that it will be looking a lot like Christmas around the blog--- I have plans for a couple of kids' book reviews, and maybe a recipe or two. Blessings to you!

Edited to add: I've tried a few times to fix the abrupt text size change that occurs for no reason toward the end of the post, but with no luck. Formatting, not my gift. Many apologies!

Waking Up and the Power of Touch

I am feeling grateful in this week of gratitude that the ghastly cold that lasted way too long, (over your seven to ten days pal!), has packed up and moved out and I am left with that wonderful sense you have when illness has left, like all your windows have been washed.

I've been feeling better for a few days, but reaching out for work in my hands rather than burrowing into the place in my head where writing happens. That is the gift for me of embroidery, of papercrafting, even of cooking if the recipe is familiar and the ingredients certain, is that I am drawn out of my head and into a peaceful place that is more restful than sleep, as the work emerges beneath my hands. As I've written before, these things slow me down in good ways.

And the sense of touch does not lie-- things can be tarted up to look good from a distance, but the hand gives them away. Luxuriously good hand cream has a definite feel between the fingers, the smoothness of cotton pillowcases beneath the cheek, even the freshness of produce or bread tells its tale beneath our sensitive fingers. In the same way, I can feel the love knitted into the stitches of the scarf Rachel sent me today, the yarn that passed warm through her hands and needles and sent on to me communicates her care. As I run my hand over the stitches of the angel I am fashioning, I feel the many moments of silent worship that moved in and out with the red thread through the weave of the dishtowel.

Long before our children can make sense of our spoken words of cherishing and devotion, our gentle touch of loving, feeding, cleaning, soothing, whispers our love, bears them up in silken threads of nurture.

In this week when many of us will spend hours preparing food, laying a table, writing down our blessings and speaking them aloud, we will be communicating our love with the work of our hands.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone. Hold a hand of someone close to you, breathe a blessing and receive one.

Light for the Way

I came here to write a wonderful review of the book I just finished: Building the Christian Family You Never Had: A Practical Guide for Pioneer Parents. And it was wonderful, wonderful and searing and full of grace but hard truth too, hand in hand as they serve best.

But I can't do it. As someone with a painful childhood who has heard someone say, "I get it," and is feeling some creaky old doors in her heart come open, as someone who is sensing a new peace stealing around her shoulders, I can't write a glib few sentences.

I am feeling thankful, I am reading back through my notes and just breathing.