egg roll bowls

I'm pretty sure it's 100% cheating to post recipes for the write31 challenge. . . I can wing through this month with no sweat and no problems if I just write about food and books, two of my favorite things.

I found this recipe on Pinterest, read it, and then lost it, and scouring the internet for it did NOT turn anything up.  So I invented my own, loosely following what I remembered reading.  It is DELICIOUS and nutritious and the smell is just amazing as you throw it together.

Egg Roll Bowls

hot cooked rice 

[I bake rice @ 350 for an hour in a covered dutch oven, 1 part basmati rice to 2 parts water + 1 chicken boullion cube for each cup of water.]

1 pound ground pork
1 head shredded cabbage
4 grated carrots
1 grated granny smith apple
4 green onions, sliced diagonally, white separated from green
1 clove garlic, minced
3 tablespoons brown sugar
soy sauce
fresh ground salt and pepper

chow mein noodles 

Brown the ground pork in a large cast iron skillet. Add the shredded cabbage, and slowly, carefully saute the cabbage in the leftover pork drippings.  It will be dry at first and you will have to stir a lot, scraping the bottom to make sure nothing sticks, but all of a sudden it kind of melts down and all becomes very easy. Add the carrots, the white part of the onions, the apple and the garlic.  Saute for another 2-3 minutes.  Add the soy sauce (to taste), sugar, salt and pepper and the green onions and mix together.

Serve with chow mein noodles over hot rice. 

crosses on shoes

"The Christian shoemaker does his Christian duty not by putting little crosses on the shoes, but by making good shoes, because God is interested in good craftsmanship."

- Martin Luther 

(friends who carry)

Today I sat in Sunday School, sipping on my coffee and studying Mark 2 right out of the Bible since I couldn't find my lesson book at home (story of my life).

I like highlighting the points that stand out to me and dragging my little purple pen along these words jumped out at me as I read the account of Jesus healing the paralyzed man:

Some men came, bringing to him a paralyzed man, carried by four of them. Since they could not get him to Jesus because of the crowd, they made an opening in the roof above Jesus by digging through it and then lowered the mat the man was lying on. When Jesus saw their faith, he said to the paralyzed man, “Son, your sins are forgiven.”

 

 

Haven't we all been there? Paralyzed by fear, by grief, by sin, by pain?  And sometimes you're just too weak to see your own need, and you're just too broken to fix it yourself or even know who to ask for help. 

 

Enter the friends. 

 

 

The friends that see through to the deeper need and carry you to Jesus.

 

The ones who stop their schedule and get involved in your mess.

 

The friends who aren't afraid to be in your face and tell you what needs to happen and propel you in the right direction.

 

Friends who hypothetically tear holes in roofs to get you to the only One Who can heal and help.

 

And Jesus saw their faith. 

 

Today I'm just standing in awe of the power of friendship and so grateful for the gift of friends who have the strength to believe even when I don't.

 

I want to be that friend.  

Saturday Morning Pancakes

According to Jo Frost, Supernanny, toddlers thrive on little rituals.

I think a lot of people thrive on little rituals. The world is enough of an adventure; having boring little weekly rituals gives children such a sense of home and place and security.

One of our family rituals is Saturday morning pancakes.

We even have a playlist dedicated to it. 

 

Here are our favorites:

 

 

 

Mom's Flannel Pancakes

 

These make a great mix if you withhold the milk, butter and eggs; when we were kids we made 1/2 million of these and packaged them in brown paper bags with bottles of real maple syrup for Christmas gifts for neighbors and acquaintances.  (Actually, Mom just kept them in a basket by the door and anyone that walked through got one.  That is classic Mom.) I like to use 1/2 whole wheat.

 

2 cups flour

4 teaspoons baking powder

2 tablespoons sugar

2 eggs

1/4 t. salt

2 cups milk

 

Fry on a hot  griddle!

 

 

Cornmeal Pancakes

 

From Taste of Home, these are the lightest, fluffiest pancakes I've ever made.

 

1 1/3 cup flour

2/3 cup cornmeal

2 tablespoons sugar

4 teaspoons baking powder

1 teaspoon salt

2 eggs

1 1/3 cups milk

1/4 cup oil

1 teaspoon vanilla

 

Mix together and fry on electric griddle. 

 

 

Oatmeal Pancakes Smitten Kitchen Style

These are the kids' favorite and probably the softest pancakes I've ever had; they're like velvet.  Delicious with raspberry syrup! I changed the recipe I found on Smitten Kitchen's site, so these are totally ours.  :) We double this recipe. 

 

1  3/4 cup all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons sugar
2 teaspoon baking powder
3/4 teaspoon Kosher or coarse salt
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted and cooled slightly (plus extra for the pan)
1 1/4 cups whole milk
1 cup cooked oatmeal

1 tablespoon honey

2 eggs

 

Fry on electric griddle and serve hot with your favorite toppings.

 

Malted Pretzel Crunch

This took about five minutes to assemble and we already ate half of it tonight at the homecoming football game. It is definitely a Pinterest win. I changed the recipe I found so I feel free to share the version below:

1 16 oz bag of mini pretzels, crushed

12 tablespoons instant milk powder

2/3 cup malted milk powder

1 cup packed brown sugar

1/2 cup white sugar

2 1/2 teaspoons salt (I thought this was too much - I'll decrease it to 2 teaspoons next time) 

1 teaspoon vanilla

Mix together, then  pour 3 sticks + 4 tablespoons melted butter over the pretzel mixture. 

Bake at 350 on a jelly roll pan for about 10-12 minutes, til foamy and golden brown. Pour out onto foil and let cool; break into pieces. 

The Supervising Teacher Day

Today our supervising teacher visited.

This is a day when you would like your house to resemble a slightly mussed, delightfully cozy Waldorf style classroom-morphed-into living room, with an art project thoughtfully in motion in the dining room and your coffee table strewn with Lego pieces being constructed into intricate structures (not guns) (or diving boards).

Every home school mother of the 70's and 80's can tell you about The Supervising Teacher Visits.  Bless their hearts, I do believe those moms thought if the house was not immaculate and the grades weren't 4.0, their darlings would be snatched from their arms.

But laws and teaching and education styles have changed a lot since then and the paranoia has essentially evaporated.  I have been told by veteran moms to make my meetings be in public, or at a restaurant.  Maybe foolishly, I resist this distrustful, wary stance; we are grateful and fortunate to work with a fantastic, supportive community school district and I have nothing to hide and nothing to fear.

However, The Supervising Teacher Visit still has capital letters attached to it in my head.

I kid you not, I queued "Classical Music for Studying" and pushed play.

I lay Eli down for his nap upstairs and pick up the fantastical  Lego grocery store (complete with aisles) that the kids built a couple weeks ago to display proudly on the coffee table set in the living room.  I hear voices in the entryway and hesitated.  I surmise that The Supervising Teacher may be early.  I do not have any eyeliner on. I set the Lego grocery paradise on the top step and reluctantly head downstairs to face my hour of critiquing without a lick of makeup on.  This is not starting well.

She is gracious and does have eyeliner.  The kids show her their projects and school work and chat amiably.  Cambria plays the piano and mentions that her aunt is a piano teacher. The Supervising Teacher asks if Cambria takes lessons from her aunt. 

I say,  "No, she's very, very good, but I wanted her to be able to be an aunt and not a teacher for their time together."

The Teacher looks at me: "And how does that work for you?  Mom and Teacher?"

Bahahaha terribly!  I laugh.  (I do not say that it works terribly.)  I do say that it is definitely the biggest challenge to homeschooling, having all the mom waiting when the teaching is done.

"And you don't have to get after them to get their school done?" she probes.

"No," I hear myself lie smoothly. I'm a terrible liar.  "I mean, not much.  Sometimes. I mean, only a little bit."

Somehow, for reasons unknown to me, my inbox is continually full of questions about teaching at home, curriculum, early childhood education, working with the public school system.  Last week I even got some lesson plans via text to look over. I find all of this hilarious.  I mean, who are we trying to kid, I am NOT an authority on homeschooling and certainly have never tried to portray an image of having it all together.  Ironically, the day I got the lesson plan text (and I did tell my inquiring friend this), Cambria was hitting a subtraction wall. 

I texted Deeann: (as I do on all days that are bad)
What abt me makes people ask me homeschool advice???? !!!!!
Abt to go crazy and it's only Monday!
Me (suspenseful voice) to Cambria (weeping): "If 3 + 7 = 10 then 4 + 7 eeeeequallllsssss. . . ."
Eli: ". . . .an elephant!!"

I mean, seriously, I am not lying, teaching Cambria math is one of the most brutally agonizing, frustrating things I've ever done.  It's like this: (I did not show The Supervising Teacher this video)


[For real, during Christmas at my inlaws, everyone was watching some popular war/action/blood/suspense movie (I hate war/action/blood/suspense movies) and I fell asleep next to Daniel on the couch.  I woke up, thinking I was teaching math, because everyone had finished the movie and was watching this video. It was so like my real life with Cambria that I thought maybe I was dreaming it.]

Well, 4+7 does not = an elephant, and Cambria and I dug out a bunch of cool math handbooks and stopped everything and focused on the subtraction principles. Truly, this is what I love about teaching my own kids. When they don't get it you can see, and stop, and slow down and explain and reteach. She's smart and though math may never going to be her forte, she tries hard and it's the biggest thrill when you can finally see the lightbulb turn on.  

I sit cross legged on the love seat and watch my kids show their work, their grades, their short stories and triumphs; Cambria's paintings and Jacob's business cards and ledger for his lawn care proceeds and my heart bursts wide open with pride in them.  They're bright and articulate and smart and they are doing just fine.  We will figure the math out.

It is a ton of hard work, this teaching/mamma thing.  It doesn't matter which educational option you choose for your kids, it's going to be work, and discipline, because education is preparing kids for real life. 

Is any part of parenting a walk in the park?

No, we just try to make it look like that on Supervising Teacher Day.

(on fall and holding some things loosely)

participating in a challenge to write for the 31 days of october - in classic hayley-style I jump on board at 11:39pm

Hello there, it's me, plinking from my phone again. 

Fall is here and school and football - it's my favorite season of all.  My mums are already dead, which is a bummer - I would so love to be able to keep plants alive. They started out gorgeous anyway: 

And then there's the rather sad story of all of my autumn/thanksgiving/pilgrim books, which were stored last November in a plastic bin along with two real pumpkins. Hopelessly moldy, I had to throw my carefully curated autumn book collection away. 

It was sad but God is teaching me a lot about what to hold loosely and what to hold tightly on my hands. 

Hold the book collection loosely; hold the autumn beauty tight 

Hold the fall flowers loosely; hold the open door attitude tight

Hold the schedule loosely (it is not my god); hold tightly to the Word and the Spirit's whisper - place the phone call, drop the note in the mail, make the trip, invite the child in, throw on the coffee pot, set another place at the table. 

The stuff will go, the people will not.

Today I listened to God and we laid aside my often-idolatrous schedule and the kids helped me throw a surprise birthday party for their beloved Matt, who works for Daniel but is our friend as well. It was the sweetest. They blew up balloons and wrapped lil gifts and drew pictures and wrote birthday wishes. 

I want this for Matt, sure, but I want it for my kids as well, to value people and spontaneous joy above accomplishment of selfish goals that can shut others out. 

Who cares about the schedule- it all got accomplished by the end of the day.

What are you holding loosely and what are you clinging to? 

(this)

Why can't I write?  I wonder tonight while I run, cicadas threatening to drown my soundtrack, sunlight fading, running, not because I love to run, but because my sisters run and because I'll never be thin and because I love food and because running is supposed to negate everything I ate last weekend.

 

Why is pain seemingly easier to write about than happy days and good stuff?

 

I could write books on grief and loss and pain and loneliness but my husband took me to Jamaica for a week in November and I don't know how to write about that.  Is it because it's all too beautiful and fragile, these days, months, now years of joy creeping through?  We leave the kids with their grandparents and drive to O'Hare, pinching ourselves like two little kids, buying mismatched clearanced swimsuits because it's winter in Chicago and I hadn't thought about that; chocolate and granola bars and Nike sun visors at Target and carefully laying out our super crisp passports (we are green to world travel) and asking the hotel desk for a three am wake up call.

 

We fly to Montego Bay groggy and hungry and disoriented and squinting in the blinding sunlight and then a sweltering bus trip and free-flowing alcohol and winding streets and smells and the ragged beggars and haunting faces out of broken hut windows and I wonder why us, why here? We don't belong here, tourists, vacationing Americans, I don't deserve this, I could never have dreamed of this back when we had nothing but each other and nothing to our names but hard work and delivering papers and furniture and babysitting and stretching ends to meet each other. This is too good to be true. 

 

Cool tile and palms and pools and the ocean right there and hours on the sand with books;  at the pool bar we order everything under the sun sans alcohol and the salt cracks my lips; we eat jerk chicken on the beach with our fingers; fresh coconut milk, which tastes exactly like soap, cracked open with a knife right in front of us, and we drink it for the experience.  We promise to watch the sun rise and never do, exhausted and spent from our demanding life, we sleep in like kids on summer break.  Lying in bed one night watching TV, I hear Sara Bareilles' Brave on a HP commercial and wonder why I've never noticed it before:

 

Maybe there's a way out of the cage you live

Maybe one of these days you can let the light in

Show me how big your brave is

 

And it's easy to let the light in here, on an island, with chocolate croissants for breakfast and music late into the night, but sometimes it's scary to let the light in at home, back in my little hometown with so much responsibility and our uneasy truce on whether or not to move and my entrepreneur husband's goals that seem to take him further out of my life. 

 

I want to be brave and sometimes brave is being happy.  Sometimes brave is letting go of the grief.  Sometimes it's closing a chapter and moving on.

 

And maybe fear would have been saying no to this beautiful week, choosing to stay in the mundane, choosing to close the door to adventure and choosing to play it safe and secure and so much less extravagance.

 

We rent a sailboat and go out in the bay and then to the ocean and watch another boat capsize;  I'm terrified and lose a twenty dollar bill out of my pocket in the wind and Daniel laughs harder than I've heard in a long time. We can see clear to the bottom, light all the way down to the sand, but we can't find my lost twenty and it doesn't matter anyway because money can't buy happiness, only a little freedom, and money can't prevent heartache, only pay for the aftermath, and we know all of this from painful experience. 

 

I've held a $127 masculine wedding band in my hand and said I will and I do,

 

and I've held a tinny (and tiny) navy blue cell phone and begged my girlfriend Allison to come visit me in this town where I'm so lonely and know no one,

 

and I've held a pregnancy test with two lines through it far before I thought I was ready to be a mama.

 

I've held nothing, I've held loneliness, I've held invitations, tentative friendships, I've held shingles and helped my husband roof our first little house, I've held my first child and felt my heart burst wide open with love.

 

I've held toddler hands and preschool pencils and a little sister's wedding invitations and one morning my little son who wasn't alive anymore and then I held loss in my hands.

 

I held kleenex and my sobbing mouth and dirt on a grave and cold winter snow; held on too tight and let go of some things I shouldn't have and held my husband as he drifted away from me; in humiliation held the edge of a counselor's couch and in shame I've held letters written with my own hands, wishing I could have taken back bitter, angry words, hurting the broken man I loved. 

 

I held grief and years of darkness and then another tiny son and I held him and terror, too, watching him creep toward the one hundred twenty-eight day mark.

 

And I wrote, wrote, wrote about all of this.  What do you have in your hand? God asks.

 

This, God.

 

This sorrow.  That's all. 

 

Tears are healing and life can be wildly healing and our people breathed grace into our broken hearts and then one day my hands held hope.

 

I held another shocked grieving mother, crushed her to me and stroked her matted hair and rocked her on my shoulder and looked into her swollen eyes and met the grief and I held little black babies all the way in Africa who were alive, but without love, and I learned about this, too, a different kind of loss, and maybe my grief tunnel had gotten a bit narrow and maybe I wasn't the only one suffering.

 

I held soccer schedules and then school books and choir programs and so much work;  Jamaica and rest and joy and somehow the iCloud loses all of my photos but it happened and I hold it in my heart:   this, sun and salt and water and joy and ten years with someone who loves me all the way to my soul.

 

And then I held my coffee cup in a restaurant and watched my husband buy a business;  held a pen and signed under his name, too, in shaky handwriting, and I held packing tape and moved to a dream house, brick, and front porch and on the same street as my beloved library, held my breath and said goodbye to that little bedroom where my son had breathed his last, held a cloth and wept as I wiped off the chalkboard wall:

 

love will hold us together

make us a shelter to weather the storm

 

Somehow the storm seems weathered and I don't know how to document this, the joy.  I feel so undeserving.  I remember being the sleepless insomniac, reading grief blogs, resenting and almost hating the ones who were happy again.  How could they forget the pain?

 

But now I know you don't ever forget the pain; your heart just opens up wider to hold everything- loss, joy, pain, happiness again- and this, this is a gift.

 

Lewis writes, "Aim at Heaven and you will get earth thrown in; aim at earth and you will get neither."  Earth is thrown in  now for me, and peace and happiness are fragile, unexpected gifts.

 

 

What is that in your hand?

Exodus 4:2

 

 

This is in my hand, now, God - joy, and thankfulness and I will thank You and and let the light in again.

Tiger Woods & Duck Towels

"Mom, can I google something?"

I am in the bathroom with a towel swathed Eli, struggling to clip his tiny toenails while he's perched on the counter. 

Granted permission, Jacob proceeds to google: pictures of Tiger Woods' house.

Huh.

You just never know what your kid is going to be interested in next.

"Mom, look at this. . ." his voice is full of awe as he holds out the phone, scrolling through photo after photo of the golf idol's little massive mecca.  He finds an aerial image with explanations and arrows pointing to the indoor pool, putting green and massive excess of amenities. 

"Mommy, is this the ducky towel?" Eli asks, peering suspiciously at his white wrap.

"Yes," I say absently, thinking that Tiger Woods is not someone I want my son to view as successful.

We discuss golf and success and cheating and faithfulness and what's really important and I think that we connected some loose threads and then Eli's offended little voice interrupts:

"Mom this is NOT the ducky towel!  There are no ducks on this towel! You said it was the ducky towel but it isn't!"

Sorry, bud, not the ducky towel.

Behind me Jacob voice-googles: pictures of the INSIDE of Tiger Woods' house.

Maybe I didn't connect.

Maybe I didn't listen at the right time to duck towel question, maybe I over criticized the golf hero, maybe I undervalued what was really going on: a normal curiosity about public figures. 

It's a wild crazy world out there; a scary one to raise kids in, and I am stretched as  I try to meet the intellectual needs of my nine year old, the social needs of my seven year old and the 157 wide and varied needs of my two year old.

Tonight Daniel took us out for pizza and after finishing and driving away, Eli heaved a huge sigh:  "It was a busy day. . ."  You betcha son, glad you noticed.

I hate busyness for the sake of busyness; my cover photo on facebook is a quote to remind me: stop the glorification of busy. I try so hard to have time for people and carve out moments that really matter, but the truth is life is beyond crazy right now and I am struggling to wrap my fingers around the minutes. 

Deep inside there is this huge fear of missing the most important conversations with my kids or failing to connect with my husband.  I feel:

weary

 

spread thin

 

full

 

exhausted

 

spent

 

happy

 

bone-tired

 

 Almost every mom I know feels this way; relief at the end of each day tempered by the awareness that sweet sleep may be interrupted by

 

a) vomit

b) nightmare

c) need for a drink at 1 am

d) all of the above

 

But underneath the exhaustion I am so thrilled  to get to be the one to watch them grow and develop and become little people with thoughts and dreams and interests and personalities.  It is a privilege. . .

weary, yes, absolutely. 

 

More coffee please.

 

Also, advice on how to handle celebrity sports figures and their dichotomous lives.

Just 18 Summers by Rene Gutteridge & Michelle Cox

The title says a lot. . .

This is the fictional account of a community who wakes up to the realization that life is short and our days with our children are numbered.

While the plot is not very complex, reflecting the screenwriting strengths of the author, the message is simple and direct: eighteen summers with our children are not that many.  In the form of novelization, the authors address four different parenting angles: single parent, hover-parenting, success-driven parents and relaxed, laid back parenting.  All styles have challenges and regrets and joys, but it's easy to see by walking through the storyline that our children need us, not a formula or method.

This book was an easy read, yet it may take you awhile: every time I started in, I wanted to lay it down to do just what it encourages: enjoy the summers I have left with my little ones.

Disclaimer:  I received this book for free in exchange for an honest review from Tyndale House Publishers.

Miss Brenda and the Loveladies by Brenda Spahn

Oh, this book is fun!

When faced with the possibility of prison for a technicality she was unaware of, successful businesswoman Brenda Spahn's eyes were opened wide to the hopeless cycle of incarceration for women.  She sees the despair of new parolees as they are sent back to the exact environments they came from without any hope for change; Brenda decides do jump in and do something out of gratefulness to God for reversing her own prison situation. 

Brenda is a rich lady.  Rich, rich.  While it is super heartwarming and movie-like to read the account of  seven ex-cons living with an extremely wealthy woman, the heart of  the story is clear: get involved. It's so easy to throw money at a situation rather than sacrificially giving oneself. 

This is the story of a woman who embraced the unlovable at great personal cost, and her courage moves you to reach out of your comfort zone. Whether it's taking newly released women shopping for undergarments at Walmart or bringing chocolate covered strawberries to prisoners, you will be motivated by all of the practical ways to speak life and Christ into those around you.

Disclaimer: Blogging for Books provided this book to me for free in exchange for an honest review.

Seeking Allah, Finding Jesus: A Devout Muslim Encounters Christianityby Nabeel Qureshi

What if everything you knew to be true wasn't truth?  Would you embrace the truth even if it meant walking away from everything you've ever known?  Would you choose truth over family? Truth at deep personal cost?

Raised in Western culture, Nabeel Qureshi traces his childhood steeped in Islamic tradition to his adulthood and his deep desire to seek truth.

Although I was reading to understand my Muslim friends and their background, I found my own faith strengthened as he wrestled with the difficult questions of Christianity: did Jesus really die? what about the swoon theory? what about the conundrum of the Trinity- isn't that polytheism? As Nabeel tackles these questions with intense scrutiny and deep skepticism, he finds over and over that science and history prove the Bible to be true.

Another thread running through this excellent account of a man's search for truth is the power of a friend who won't let go.  Nabeel's friend David doesn't just love him to Christ - he prays, he spends years building a relationship,  he doesn't shrink from the tough questions, and most importantly, Nabeel knew beyond any doubt that David loved him. 

I chose to read this book because I'm interested in apologetics and usually this genre of book is slow reading and a lot to digest: however I read this in a weekend and couldn't put it down.  The chapters are intense and deep, but also short.  Because of the comprehensive glossary throughout, there's so many aha moments for anyone who cares about Muslim people that you are compelled to keep reading so you can understand your friends even more.

This is a fantastic book for anyone who is interested in Islam, anyone who loves a Muslim friend and wants to understand their culture, and for anyone who is seeking truth. 

Disclaimer:  I received this book for free from Zondervan's blogger review program, BookLook. I was not required to write a positive review.

(why i went to south africa x2)

just some of my notes from when our team shared with our church family as we prepared to go to africa 4/16 - 5/1

CS Lewis said: "I pray because the need flows out of me, waking and sleeping.  It doesn't change God, it changes me."

For me this statement applies to this mission trip as well. Holding little abandoned babies actually changes very little about their circumstances, and it doesn't change God.  But it changes me.  I want to keep my heart tender and broken to the needs of people. Africa does this in a stunning way. When I grow weary and burdened with the frustration of sorting purpose out of the American Dream, looking back and forward to our time in Africa brings clarity and motivation to my days.

Recently Daniel and I took my younger sisters to a Rend Collective concert.  We quickly realized we might be a little older than the target age for the attendees when as we struggled to find seating, we found no chairs.  We'd had a really long week, and had been looking forward to sitting and taking in the concert.  Looking around, this lack of chairs, designed, I'm sure to avoid spectator entertainment and  encourage participation- this bothered no one but us, and it was a beautiful concert.  A two hour participitory worship concert. As  I looked around at all the cardigans and skinny jeans, I was impressed with the young people I saw. They were absolutely passionate, in love with Jesus; they'd taken packets to support children through Compassion; they were on their feet singing to Jesus with direction, focus and energy.  As I sang 10,000 Reasons, too, with a little less passion because my feet were numb, I thought how that passion leads to action.

Because active worship is not usually easy street,  10 years down the road, that passion will be working 90 hours a week in order to support a family and still give compassion, coming home from work and then leading a discipleship group, pouring into the local church, maybe running an orphanage in India or Africa.  But there may be a lot less energy.  You see a lot more discouragement.  You have more responsibility on your shoulders and more people depending on your passion/action . 

Passion led to action for the staff at RHI and they are on their feet in what God calls true worship, caring for orphans.  My main desire this trip is to metaphorically - offer them a chair.  Please sit.  Take just a moment and breathe.  We value you. Your labor is not in vain.  Thank you for pouring your lives out.  Can you just let us serve you for a moment?  Can you - just for a moment- let us care for some of your needs? What you're doing for these little kids matters.  Thank you for not wasting your lives.  If they can feel refreshment - for just a bit-  the trip is totally worth it for me.

In Exodus 17 the Israelites were fighting the Amalekites; As long as Moses help up his arms, the Israelites won, but when he put his arms down, the Amalekites started winning. When Moses' arms grew tired, Aaron and Hur brought a stone for him to sit on and they stood beside him and held up his arms, holding them steady until the sun went down.  In this way Joshua totally defeated the Amalekites.  Then Moses built an altar and named it The Lord is My Banner.  . . He said "hold high the banner of the Lord."

I can't wait to go, and I'm so grateful for the unwavering support of you all here. Thanks for helping to hold the banner high.

when you do mother's day solo

My morning at church has ended my two month writing hiatus. 

Sunday mornings are always a mad rush: we give rides, answer texts, have 1000 last minute ends to tie up and are almost always late.  It's really a shame. 

I also go to church by myself a lot.  It's okay, it's normal, I'm used to it, but it's never super fun and I always feel on the edge of mental breakdown fielding all the comments of where my husband is or how tired I look or hearing by myself which child misbehaved.

So today as I pulled up to the church and saw three cars in the parking lot I wondered for a moment if I was truly losing my marbles.  Maybe today was Monday.  Maybe I was an hour behind?  I drove the long way around and into the parking lot.  Still only three cars in the main lot, though I spotted a few more up above in the overflow parking spaces. 

"I guess we're just really early,"  I said to Jacob.  It felt ominous.

"I think we should just go look at the ducks in the park for a little while," he suggested.

"I know, it's like it's weird to be early.  We just can't hit it at the right time.  It's either way too early or late for us."

We're just going to embrace this early thing, I think, and in we go.

First of all, Eli and I must stop at the ladies' restroom; this is his very first Sunday at church in bona fide underpants. I'm not used to shuffling both of us into a bathroom stall and I promptly catch and slam my finger in the latch. 

It throbs.

It's actually bleeding. 

So that's awesome.

But he goes potty so that's really awesome.

I drop him off at Sunday school with extra underpants and promises to check on him. 

In my own class I sit and wonder why the universe still feels off.  I'm forgetting something.

I open the bulletin and what I'm forgetting jumps out at me.

Today is THE LAST DAY to turn in your child's camp registration money

 

As an exercise in futility I fish through my purse looking for a wad of cash.  Or perhaps the checkbook.  Who am I kidding? I never have a checkbook with me.  Who even writes checks anymore? I just gave my last bit of change to Cambria and Eli for their offering, so it's not an exaggeration to say that I'm penniless.

 

I sigh inwardly, leaving my coffee and early-to-church aura and slowly retrace my steps, swimming upstream through all the people who get to church at the proper time, get in the van, and drive home to find a checkbook. 

 

On my way home I see MFD's engine and my engine driver husband which is a nice reminder that my husband isn't home sleeping or out golfing. I already know this but it is nice to be reminded visually.

 

I stand in the kitchen and catch my breath for a moment, notice my now-cold coffee sitting on the counter and I stop and drink it.  I need caffeine.  I need a lot of patience.

 

I drive back to church.  I'm late.  I have missed all the coffee chat and sharing time.  Everyone is praying and I wait outside the doors to enter.  The universe is feeling on now.

 

 

During the worship service, I once again have the nagging feeling that I'm missing something.

 

 

the promises to take Eli potty.

 

Oh YEAH.

 

 

This is becoming the most interrupted worship experience ever. 

 

We finish and try to leave and search high and low for Eli's missing shoe, do the potty thing again and finally arrive at the van.

 

 

The hatch is wide open.  

 

???

 

Why?  No one knows.  Apparently it's just been like that, sitting in the parking lot, with my back-up purse, gym bag and lawn chairs free for the taking.  Like, seriously? 

 

I think today was just not my day to shine. 

 

I don't know if it's ever my day to shine actually, but it really, really wasn't today.

 

I don't have a sweet spiritual wrap up to this: haven't had enough time to think of anything.

 

But to you, solo momma at church, at school, at the grocery store, at home, who doesn't feel like she's shining, Happy Mother's Day to YOU, cuz you're in the trenches and it's hard

 

and no one is rising up and calling you blessed

 

YET

 

But I'm saying HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY to you.

 

You don't look a bit tired, your absent hubby must be a rock star, your children are all angelic and you're doing a great job.

 

 

 

P.S.

 

The "moms with grown kids" from church treated the "moms with kids at home" to Moms' Night Out the other night.  Oh my goodness- go see it. 

 

 

Post by Moms' Night Out.

Postscript: {I'm saying postscript because saying PS sounds like peee S to me and I've seen enough pee this week}
Yesterday was the sweetest day of soccer games, family time, out to eat twice and doing yard work and porch swinging with my Daniel, who took the day off for me. So don't feel sorry for my solo mother's day or anything, I'm quite all right.  Back to potty training.

on investing and our momentary stories

momentary carbon stories. . . life is here now, breathe it all in

I Am Mountain, Michael Gungor

 

 

 

Driving through slush and leftover salt and sand this week I was reminded of my first visit to this little town that is now all wound up in my heart.

 

It was early March, not a particularly beautiful time to visit anywhere in the midwest. I was driving down with my sister and then boyfriend Daniel to see where he was going to be living and working.  We'd both agreed to wait to get engaged until he landed a firefighting job with a real fire department so though I didn't have a ring on my finger I knew I'd be living and working here too. 

 

I was drinking it all in: industrial, slush, grey, foggy haze, frozen river, roads, brick buildings, old, old, very old.  We found an overlook to look at the bridge and the river and I was overjoyed because  I was with him.  The smoggy lil town didn't impress me much at all but I didn't care.  I was in love.

 

Daniel took me and my sister for lunch at the very worst Chinese restaurant any of us had ever eaten at; it closed soon after. He showed us around MFD, so happy to finally be back in his firefighting happy spot after college and half a year of full time paramedicine.

 

I never even thought about the less than ideal conditions. I learned soon enough that it would be hard to choose a less picturesque route than my first impression introduction; but I didn't care.  My rose colored glasses firmly in place, I looked forward to building a life with my boyfriend --> fiance --> husband.

 

Eleven years later we are here and this is home.  We have loved well and laughed and built friendships and discovered parks and said goodbye as others moved, hiked in the woods and boated on the river, splashed in the fountains, said hello (and goodbye) to favorite antique stores,

 

bought a house,

 

bought a crib,

 

bought a car,

 

bought a truck,

 

bought a potty chair,

 

bought a van,

 

bought a cemetery plot,

 

bought another crib,

 

bought a trampoline,

 

bought $20 x 52 x approximately 11 years of Friday night pizza (that equals $11,440) (wow.)

 

bought a bunch of swimming lessons

 

paid a lot of overdue library fines

 

bought a bunch of girls night appetizers

 

bought soccer cleats

 

bought pink soccer cleats

 

bought some golf rounds

 

bought a bunch of beach towels and pool chemicals up the wazoo

 

and it all invests in making a home.

 

When I pour in. . . money or time or resources or love. . . it matters to others, yes, but it impacts me.

 

Investing, pulling out the stops, throwing your hat in the ring to a community and saying I'm in. . . sure, it (hopefully) benefits the community but it benefits you too.  Belonging, loyalty, neighboring, friendships - they happen when you choose the rather risky investment of pouring time into people.   People make up any community, no matter how large or small. People are the best part of our lives: how rich we are because of the relationships that have been built here.

 

I'm thankful I never had the opportunity to overanalyze my small town:  because now it's home and I'm living this brief bit of life that God has given -- my momentary carbon story investing in my little corner of the world.

 

And it's so beautiful, when you choose to see.

In investing, what is comfortable is rarely profitable.

Robert Arnott

 

where you invest your love, you invest your life

Mumford and Sons