(Real) Christmas

First of all, hi. 

 

I know I haven't blogged in two months and I have a ton to write about but no time to do it.

 

Secondly I have a confession to make and it's this:

 

I'm back on Instagram.

 

I feel a bit guilty about this, after I wrote about deleting it here but I really really didn't like missing out on what my sisters were up to and I love the little snapshots of life that are just so fun to take.

 

And thirdly, thank you to all of my friends who contributed to this post/article/anthem on being real at Christmastime.

 

 

 

It all started this way:

 

After a grueling school day and tons of lessons, errands and endless cleaning, children in bed, and surveying the house I had to transform into Christmas party central for the next night, I posted this picture to Facebook on Monday night:

 

 

i vow to keep my social media real

 

I was pretty surprised to get a very overwhelming response.  I got texts and pictures of messes and inboxes and one dear lady messaged me that she looked at my laundry picture through tears. Ha ha,  I guess I should do this more often!

 

After all the pictures I received, I decided to ask if anyone had more to include (you did) and write about it all (surprise, I have to write to process).  So here you are, my lil brain dump on women and pressure and Christmas.  Included are a bunch of brave photos from my amazing friends, who are all beautiful and all have beautiful homes and families.  

 

   

 

So did you see that gingerbread house recipe?  The one with the four pieces of bread stacked carefully and a little spice jar of ginger in the middle with the defeated words:  the only gingerbread house I can make.

 

I saw it.

 

It kinda sums up how I feel this Christmas.

 

I laughed.

 

I've come a long way from the newlywed who vowed to always use cloth napkins (I packed those away wistfully-yet-resolutely: I made it to year three, though) and send a lunch with my husband every day.  I've learned the brutally hard way that tradition can create tension and yet just when I think I've embraced the fact that Daniel loves me even if he eats at Subway and paper napkins are the right choice for my life stage, I get hit with Christmas.

 

 

You too, right?

 

I mean you're teaching, or working, or doing ministry, or tying shoes, (or all four) and just barely keeping your head above water and then you have to come up with twenty-four cool activities that are Christ focused yet not materialistic, unique, yet traditional?  Who started the advent calendar in this house anyway?!?

 

I did.  I love it.  This year's is little translucent wedding favor bags.  They're strung on wire against our chalkboard wall with little white paper + metal key tags attached that are supposed to be labeled with numbers 1-24.  They're not labeled.  They're also supposed to  be filled with Christmas activities written on paint chip cards.  They're not.  Well, I filled day one through five with things we had already done. Example: Day One: Get Christmas bins out. [Check] 

 

Tonight Cambria took it upon herself to finish the advent calendar:

 

"Mom how do you spell Christmas??"

 

"You know!"

 

"Oh yeah."

 

*five minutes pass*

 

{Shouted}

 

"Hey Mom, how do you spell candy?"

 

C

 

A

 

N

 

D

 

Y

 

patience waning  mine, not hers

 

"What can I do next, Mom?"

 

"How about Christmas Gifts for Tenants?" [Another tradition looming over my head.  We always do individual gifts for each child, each family.  It's a cool idea.  I also don't have gifts for my own kids.]

 

More shouting:  "How do you spell tenants?"

 

 

My problem is wanting to do it all.  My problem is thinking about Christmas perfection for my kids while the lil tot perched on my counter struggles with his mis-matched mittens.  (I just.bought.brand.new.thinsulate.mittens.  WHERE ARE THEY?) I stop myself and look at his precious little face and his brown eyes.  He is my little Christmas perfection.  He's singing: twinkle twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are.

 

My problem is wanting to do ministry my way.  I want to have a perfect little shoebox packing party for Samaritan's Purse.  It didn't happen.  We had friends stay with us en route to Chicago --->>> South Africa though and I am blind if I don't see that God gave us that for ministry.  Make the soup, light the candles, vacuum the floor, leave out the water bottles and chocolate, change the sheets - I can't do it all.  I can't always do both.  If God asks me to open my doors, then He'll surely allow you time to fill an extra shoebox for my absent one. 

 

My problem is thinking that I have to carry all my burdens alone. 

 

My problem is trying to clean my life up so that you don't see my inadequacies and then throwing open the door to my home but not my heart.  God has a way of humbling this in me:

 

 

Fifteen minutes before everyone arrived at our Bible Study Christmas / December birthday party, while I was lighting candles and doodling magic marker on my super cool brown paper tablecloth, I started smelling smoke.  Like serious smoke.

 

Yeah, there were literal flames in my artisan-bread-cooking-oven and my firefighter husband was not around to rescue me.  I managed to extinguish the actual flames, but my house was literally filled with smoke.  I greeted everyone through a (diminished) haze and the noise of a box fan blowing the remaining smoke out into the subzero backyard.

 

But that photo sure looks great, doesn't it?!

 

If I'm about a perfect house, I'm not about serving the people in it.  Obviously, a messy house doesn't serve people either, and it's wise to choose order and cleanliness. But as I plan and execute poor word choice (execute? thesaurus? help?!) carry out Christmas festivities  I have to constantly remind myself who I'm serving and Who it's all about.

 

You all had a lot to say on pressure and Christmas.

 

I'm going to let you say it because I'm wiped out from the pressure of figuring out how to make Blogger cooperate with all of your fantastically real pictures.  Plus I just keep eating chocolate to stay awake (we all know that's not a good plan) and since it's getting colder in here I think Daniel turned the heat down to get me to come to bed.

 

Enjoy these (real) Christmas snapshots:

 

Jodie's a pastor's wife, gifted photographer and my sister Lydia's friend.  I laughed out loud reading her story:

I think I put so much stress on myself each year to MAKE that perfect gift. I used to stress, finally find a project, make sure we still had the money in the Christmas budget, start to make the thing, get far into the project but mess it up (I hate sewing) and then frantically try pulling it all together the night before Christmas Eve. There was one year I wanted to make Isaac a little baby quilt. I messed it up so bad I gave it to the cat for a sleeping pad.  Another year I tried making the popular "sweater" stockings that you make from old sweaters. They looked more like elf feet than pretty stockings. I also wait till the last minute to wrap gifts, and end up doing it behind closed door in our bedroom on Christmas eve at some point. I was so frantic trying to hurry and wrap them one year that I managed to cut not just the wrapping paper, but also my new sheets.

This year I've cut back. I know I don't have the energy or patience to make every single little project I see on pinterest. We read Advent scripture with the kids each morning, but I don't stress about a daily Advent project or craft or activity. The kids and I made cookies together yesterday. Not pretty decorated sugar cookies with a mess of frosting fun on the table, but chocolate chip instead. It worked. They still had a fun time. I did all my shopping this year in one night at one store (Target, I love you). A few nights later I skyped my mom after the kids were in bed and we wrapped stuff together.  So this year, the cards aren't out yet, the cookies not decorated yet; listening to music, watching the snowfall the other day, watching Christmas movies. We haven't done every Christmas event known to man, but we're taking it slow and enjoying the season. --Jodie

 

 

My sister Edith says that she likes their little tradition of escaping all the pressure and getting a hotel room right in the middle of December; they  "hide out from everything for a little while. Swim,watch hallmark movies, eat junk. . . and then I'll be ready to tackle Christmas letters when we get home. Maybe."

 

 

 

Oh my goodness, I love this lil imperfect Christmas picture from Erin, a fellow firefighter wife at MFD.  I love that Erin posted this picture as is and didn't make Sam (cutest kid ever) fix his pajama top.  She says that Sam plays with his belly button when he's most excited.  (There you have it: he's excited.) 

Erin writes:  I'm trying to come to terms with the pressure myself. Buying for a teenager has done me in this year, and as usual I always feel like my gifts aren't good enough for those who receive them and I lose focus that a gift is a gift - that shouldn't have expectations at all. Makes me sad that Christmas has become so gift-focused, and less focused on the one true gift we all received when Jesus was born.

This is from Joy, who points out the leaning star, the laundry, and also her son Benjamin's orderly farm in the midst of all of that happy. I told Joy that I have about had it  with the pressure women place on each other and she said she was SO already there.



This is from Tracey, my sister's doula, the sweetest woman ever.  Sweet people's dishes are just supposed to disappear, right?  Ha ha- apparently not.  Tracey posted this to my facebook wall last night and said she knew I'd appreciate her honesty.

Stephanie, via facebook: What pressures are you talking about??? I totally fell apart yesterday because I feel like I'm failing on making Christmas prefect for the kids. And then I remind myself the pictures everyone post leave out the yelling, complaining and bad attitudes. Why do we do this to ourselves??? [8 people liked this, wow, I wonder why?!]

Lisa:   I've been thinking about all that too this Christmas. Our tree is super beautiful but also a bit too big, meaning with that + baby bed + playmat + toys + desk in our family room we can hardly walk. Our Christmas crafts are tacky and between 3 little ones and foster care craziness I am not doing any shopping. But ... those 3 little ones are all enjoying a special Christmas because it's not the image that counts but the heart!

Rebekah, wife to Josh, mama to Elliot and missionary/church planter, sent me these, captioned: 

Reality.  I'm making ornaments, writing 65 thank you notes to our supporters, working on laundry, being the sole playmate of my 2.5 year old.



(Sorry to interrupt your honesty, Rebekah, but that is just a super cool blue. . . ottoman??) (And I love your artwork.)

Rebekah writes:  Sally is not you, you are not Sally. Be secure in your relationship with Jesus. He made you with the talents that you have. So often I want to take my talents and use them like Sally uses hers. Why am I trying to fit her mold when God gave my own mold and made it unique?The purpose is to serve Jesus and others anyway (1 Peter 4:10), not to be comparing myself with others (2 Cor. 10:12).

Eternity is Long. Now is Short. When I try to do it all, something suffers. Usually it's my family that suffers first - never mind the hurting people around me.What a broken world I live in, with so many hearts bleeding. But am I too engulfed in my own chaos to see those hurting souls? Jesus cared for the children in the midst of his busy ministry. He withdrew to pray to his Father at the height of his miracles and teaching. His life and ministry is a challenge for me too with an eternal perspective!

Bridget is a business owner here in my hometown and she shared this with me:

I believe we shouldn't build up some Disney fairy tale Christmas.It is a nice story but even it has an end.  Our lives have cycles, and right now, I know I am learning to juggle new items I often drop them and end up picking them up off the floor. Knowing what I am juggling,   that I am content in my limits and not to let others influence me is such a help. 

We do a simple Christmas tree. We choose to make it all about spending time with each other. Our kids are very blessed they do not need anything, the occasional clothing that they have out grown is the closet need they know. I am thankful. The night before we bake a cake. We wake the kids early before they wake us up to celebrate the birth of Jesus. We eat cake for breakfast. Often stickers, crayons and watercolors are found on the table and new socks. Mark and I exchange our Christmas gifts not found in any store, a gifts that are priceless, uninterrupted naps. When there is a need we will purchase each other gifts through out the year. Mark does not wait for a holiday to show me he loves me.

We will have an epic family pillow fight battle. At this point daddy wins. We shall see when they are big enough to work as a team and "get dad". The house is filled with laughter.

I challenge you to wrap Christmas with the building lasting memories and friendships, not built with the stress of stuff.

Loren, my friend and former pastor's wife, texted me this picture this afternoon and  let me know that she had already blogged about the same subject this morning!

She had this awesome picture of a nativity scene that was pretty. . . haphazard. . . and I was asking to use it.  But she beat me to it cuz great minds think alike.  You can see her picture and post here. [I have purposely not read her story because that way we'll both be original, right? Ha ha.]

Emily, my sister's sister in law  (did you follow that?) texted me this: "Just another day at the kitchen sink! #keepingitreal"

Emily is beautiful and talented and super organized and I'll admit being surprised at those dishes in her sink.  She's married to Jason and they have the cutest lil guy ever.

Emily writes via text:

Maybe just this: God calls us to build each other up.  Portraying an inaccurate picture of having it all together when we really don't can lead other women to discouragement. 

Let's find freedom in honesty, encouraging each other along the way and celebrating when accomplishments do happen.

My new friend Kristi says she had to talk herself out of explaining her messes away and she just sent these anyway.




Phoebe sent me a Pinterest approved photo of her living room:

and then turned and snapped these:

 Phoebe writes: Ever wonder why candlelight is so relaxing? Overhead lighting can feel like flashlights in our tired eyes and force us to see all the imperfections.  So turn the lights off, light candles and focus on the people amongst you.

Darla is my friend Deeann's sister; you meet her and you can't help but like her cuz she's so hilarious and fun and nice; you can't even hate her for how perfect her four lil angels look or her crazy interesting Army [Officer] wife life.  Deeann sort of taught me about the South, but Darla is my real true connection.  Oh the manners and charm and amazing food and hilarious sayings: those girls are as mean as snakes! I always feel like I want to move to Alabama after hanging out with Darla. 

Shockingly, she sent me this and said:

Here's my keeping it real picture!! Turned my back for a minute. . . . . .

 



Apparently messes happen at Christmas time even in the South.  What is up with the apple juice?  Just thinking as I look at that - it's an awfully good thing the lid didn't come off or Darla wouldn't have had time to text me!

Janene writes:  I saw your post on FB about real life and for whatever it's worth I had a few thoughts- alot of the real life moments are ones that you can't IG or even write a blog post about lest you come off sounding like a complainer. It's the stuff like running a business in this crazy economy, showing love and grace to broken, hurting employees, staying connected when your husband works 80+ hrs a week, it's the messy relationships that you so much want to see fixed, but it's not always that easy, it's the sudden death in your family that is just messy and painful.

I could honestly go on and on, but I'll stop but I am convinced of this- regardless of how great our life looks on social media, we all have hard real life battles we face daily and for many of us out of respect to our husbands/family's social media isn't the place to go unload.   I think of this quote often when I am on social media- be kind, everyone you meet is facing a battle!

{janene blogs at celebrating life}

My friend Monica and her husband Ruben have taught Daniel and I so much over the past year!  Their happy children and obvious love for each other and God is just crazy refreshing.  I love this picture of their kids trying out their fireplace:



Monica texted me a picture of her laundry area:



and then another:

Monica writes: Like our hearts, we only allow people to see the "clean" areas.  Women under pressure need to know that all actions are only observed and judged by God and whoever is behind your closed doors.  God is so good in seeing us with loving eyes that we should allow ourselves to vent His direction.  It is ultimately up to us to choose the struggle with pressure or allowing our children to witness us in our perfect chaos, being led by the perfect Hand of Christ.

Beautiful Rachel blogs at Song In My Heart. We know so many of the same people that it's just a matter of time before we're going to meet. We share in common hilarious little sons who think too hard, a love of books, great cooking, house flipping and renovation plus Rachel is the best person ever to follow on Pinterest.  See, look how cute she is:

I'll admit having serious house envy of her fantastic style - I squinted incredulously at the laundry room picture she texted me last night. 

Pressure is no fun. I feel so much more relaxed now than I did as a young bride, wife, mommy...I felt like I could never keep up! Plus, interestingly enough, my new family and the other young married couples I knew at the time kept IMMACULATE HOMES. Wha-?!? Where were the paper piles?!? I couldn't figure them out! I felt like I could never keep up.

But then I grew more confident, and less concerned about what anyone else thought. I needed to live my life, not wallow in comparisons or self pity. It was a big day for me when my "perfect" friends saw my house and life, or parts of it, messy. Their eyes grew big, and my heart swelled. It was all okay, and even quite funny.

And when the valleys came, I cared less and less about what people thought, and keeping everything "just so" became distantly important. Not that I don't strive for beautiful moments and a tidy home and obedient children, but the heart behind it is completely different than when I first started this journey. Still always, always learning.

Here's another thing to think about: some of us may post charming Instagram photos or FB statuses not because we are only trying to highlight the "picture perfect" moments, or create a false image of ourselves, but simply because we live in so much chaos or grief or struggle that *those* pieces of the puzzle help bring us hope and joy and help remind us to be grateful. Personal examples for me: my advent basket on Instagram? The only "tidy" part of my kitchen this morning! Our Christmas photos?

The porch contained a tub yet to be installed in the bathroom (yes, a tub on our porch), black cat footprints, a dying plant, and who knows what else, all covered in dust. It was tempting to be frustrated about it.

But take those pictures we did, and the results made a great memory for us! And my friend who took them...well, she got to see the laundry pile, the boxes stacked in the living room, all of it. -- Rachel

Rachel's laundry

My problem is not my mess. Your problem is not your mess. Our problem is pretending we don't have one. Everyone has a mess. In fact that's the very reason, in very simplistic terms, that Jesus, while every bit God, came in the form of man to Bethlehem, to a very big mess:

Birthing room? Sweet moments? Perfect circumstances?  Warm welcome? Not so much.

Humility,

Sacrifice

Obedience.

That's what He's about.

That's really what Christmas is about.

Let Him have your mess.

Merry (real) Christmas.

Love,

Hayley

on savoring and sequins (in the bathroom)

What?

You too?

I'm not the only one who drives a letter to the post office so it can go out in today's mail so I can have ten minutes of peace?

[okay, peace is a nebulous concept, hard to put your arms around, but in my book, it's children restrained by the law of seatbelt usage and Matt Maher and Audrey Assad with Hayley on the background vocals belting out Lord, I Need You]

You don't?

So it's just me.  That's okay.

Savor the moments and slow down everyone says, you know, your mom, your grandma, Ann Voskamp's facebook posts, Jesus Calling (I read Jesus Calling and then I can't remember what I read five minutes later, but I'm pretty sure it was slow down and don't hurry).

I savor about one moment per week.

I showed Eli what sunshine patches on the floor were this week.  We sat on the floor in a huge square of sunlight and I made his little hand feel the temperature difference between the sun and the shadow.  It was very sweet to sit there and wiggle our toes together.  I should probably do it more often.

It should be more often.

Like wayyyy more often.

Instead I am annoyed by noise and irritated by the child reading the news over my shoulder while loudly crunching on a carrot stick and impatient with childish arguments.

Stop. Savor.  Yeah.  Sometimes.

I teach - it's a full-time job.  I get done teaching and all of the home stuff is waiting for me, patiently, it hasn't gone anywhere at all.  Some weeks teaching our children is glorious and heady and just such a privilege and other weeks you wonder if everyone is getting the short end of the stick.  We have a life outside all this and sometimes that life is super rewarding and other times it's just plain a ton of work.

I was driving home from AWANA tonight, stopping to check on a house issue that Daniel + tenant were working on, going home to dishes piled and laundry spread on the living room floor.  God. . . I just need a little bit of encouragement.  Please.  Just a little something pouring in.

I put Eli to bed and we read about the 9 little "bunkeys" that were Curious George's previous family- before the Man With The Yellow Hat- the things you learn.  I didn't even know. 

And then the kids were in our bedroom, breathless.  They had hot coffee and my Philip Yancey book that I am almost done with and book marks made from their looper loom. 

Mom, just stay here, please.  Ok? Don't come out.

I know it's  a shameless ploy to stay up a bit later but I'm too tired to care and oh coffee and Yancey sound too good to be true.

A little bit later they're back with careful notes and instructions: go to the pumkins.

I tiptoe down to the coffee table in the living room.  The laundry is gone (probably behind the couch, but who cares) and all the toys and library books are picked up.  The note next to the pumkins says: go to the appels and pumkins.

The dining room table is clean and dinner dishes left in the pre-church scramble are all cleared away.  The only thing on the table is my silver tiered cupcake platter filled with apples and mini pumpkins.  The note next to it reads: go to where your shoes are.

Oh my kitchen is so clean! The dishwasher is running and their faces are beaming.  The shoes are straightened and neat and my last instruction reads: go to the toilet

Um okay.

So my elaborate treasure hunt ends at the clean toilet, with a note on the lid declaring how much fun of a mom I am,  signed by "Jake" and "Cambria". . . . and the best part. . . . a whole scattering of sparkly sequins sprinkled around the toilet. . . for pizazz, I suppose, the hurrah of the treasure hunt.

I want to die laughing.  It's all so funny.  The toilet, the sequins, my request to God for encouragement, my children's happiness, that God answered with my kids. . .

My heart is warmed from the inside out and we sit at the dining room table and eat microwave s'mores and microwaved cookie dough-turned-cookies in the glow of our clean house and our pumkins and appels.

Thanks, God, for my sequined toilet surprise.  You're pretty creative. 

 Yeah, I'm savoring.

crescent roll egg bake

This is a great super easy recipe from my friend Phoebe:

 

it's the go-to dinner on a super hectic night

 

or we suddenly have overnight company breakfast

 

or let's just have a special brunch

 

kind of yummy treat

 

and with crescent rolls it's hard to go wrong.

 

1 tube crescent rolls

 

2 cups  shredded cheese

 

12 eggs, beaten, salt and pepper to taste

 

*see variations

 

 

Unroll crescent rolls in greased 9 x 13 pan, sprinkle with cheese, pour eggs over.  Bake at 350 for 30-40 minutes until eggs are puffy and done.

 

 

 

*Phoebe sprinkled sausage as the base, then crescents, then cheese.

 

*I made it all summer with crescents, cheese, and then precooked bacon strips lined up on top

 

*pictured below: fresh veggies, fried potatoes, sausage, cheese, bacon, then crescents + eggs = perfect quick dinner with a big green salad!

 

enjoy!!

 

 

. . .and life itself is grace

- Frederick Buechner, Now and Then,  [and taken from Philip Yancey's Soul Survivor: how my faith survived the church]

(the vision weekend)

These are things I heard my husband say this summer:

I want to go see Mark in Haiti this winter.  (best man in our wedding, Mark and Daniel have been friends for. . .ever)

Hey there's a FEMA class I wanna take.  It's like a week long.  (was it in Arizona? Louisiana? don't remember- it wasn't close, that's for sure.)

I think we should go see Jake and Loren, that would be really fun. (Hello, New Jersey)

Since this is our ten year, we oughtta book a week on a deserted island. (um, sign me up!)

among other items.

Daniel consistently logs 90+ hour work weeks and adding travel to that schedule just sounded insane to me.  I could feel my little security/pressure gauge rising as I logged in my head the logistics of these super great travel ideas that would leave me a) alone or b) snowed under in packing and unpacking alone.

I suggested said that we needed to sit down with a calendar and log this out so that all of these trips didn't end up back to back with all of us going crazy. 

Out of very short sighted and selfish reasons, one of our greatest lightbulb moments as a couple happened:

the vision weekend.

We were already planning to go away for a Thursday/Friday night in August to see Tim Hawkins with my fam so we just tacked on an extra night to our hotel stay intending to do some planning and scheduling together.

As we went through small group studies this summer we were challenged to strengthen our family and purposefully use and enjoy the gifts God has given us. We were given a lot to think about and bring to the planning table: beyond the calendar, what does God want us to do? 

Over dessert in our living room with Adam and Nicole one night, we shared our plan of going away to plan.

"That's cool," Adam said.  "Someone told me once that you shouldn't plan your next year, rather write down how you want the end of your life to look and then plan backwards from there. . . like, if I want  ____________ to be in place when I'm 90, what do I need to be doing at age 50, age 40, age 30 to make ____________ happen?"

We looked at each other; I saw the little glint in my uber-organized husband's eyes and I knew that we would be writing out end of life plans on our trip.

As our church has gone through a lot of change this summer, the leadership has been using a Strengths/Weaknesses/Opportunities/Threats (SWOT) model for charting out things we need to improve and work on.  Each member has had a chance to contribute to this list.  It's been an incredibly positive and energizing formula and we decided to let our kids do it for our family.

About a week before we went on the vision weekend I sat down with the kids and gave them a chance to voice our own strengths and weaknesses.  They talked, I wrote.  It was good.  It was enlightening.  I wrote as fast as I could and filed the results to talk about with Daniel.



Our long awaited calender --> vision --> priority evaluation weekend arrived and we started off early and motivated, not deterred by our first Hotwire bomb hotel choice (let's just say it was heavy on the maroon carpet)

We found this awesome little corner, maroon carpet aside, to spread our stuff out.

We started with these questions:

What motivates people?

What motivates us?

What are our dreams?

We wrote and dreamed and planned for hours.  It was good. We looked at our children's concerns (we don't want to see you argue) and what they loved (family mealtimes). We looked at our own dreams.  It was exhilarating to find how much God has taught us and how closely our dreams are aligned. 

I think in marriage, men and women fear sitting down and actually talking about their dreams because they might find out that he wants to go to the moon and she wants to never ever move.  You know, if we talk about our dreams, they might drive us apart. 

But not talking about them isn't the answer either:  the underlying tension of not being united causes a different set of problems. 

At the end of the trip we had scribbled through many legal pad pages, prayed together and separately, sought God's leading and His desires, listened to music that was currently impacting each of us, written desires for when we're old and gray, roughly planned out goals for our family over the next 5-10 years and written a family mission statement.

Really writing a mission statement was probably the most fun and we both felt dumb for not doing it sooner.  We had one for our business before it ever really started.  Churches have them. Anyone wanting to succeed at what they are doing has to filter a lot through the sieve of does this fit in the grand scheme of what we're about?

And what do families have?

Well. . . we have marriage vows.  Those are good.

And then you have a positive pregnancy test and all of a sudden you are hurled headlong into the tyranny of the urgent.

Never, never, do we want to view bending to tie little shoes and reading I am a Bunny as unimportant.  But without vision, sometimes you wonder if tying shoes is important.  Without any plan for our children or where we are going as a family it is far too easy to for us to be victims of our self-induced busy-town, to quote Richard Scarry. 

Writing a mission statement for our family has been so freeing.  It helps us understand what to say yes to and what to kick off the to-do list.  It helps us understand what we're about.

Planning for us is held very loosely.  We are well aware that all can be wiped away in a moment; we also understand peace and prosperity are poor teachers.  Planning what we will do next year? That's a concept we can only embrace because of great healing and believing that the heart of God is kind.  Our dreams and plans are not about control or telling God what we're going to do for Him, rather not wanting to waste the life He's given and prioritizing well.

And at the end of all those plans, we say, ultimately, God, these are all Yours. You can change anything You want.

And at the end of the weekend, we realized that while we never got to the calendar, we had accomplished something much more important:  we came away with unity, with dreams, with hope for our marriage and family, with great excitement about what God is doing and so much joy in joining Him.  Way better than charting dates and times.

We'll get to the calendar eventually.  :)


typical of us, whenever we find something that works, we're so excited and want everyone to be able to share the experience. the vision weekend is no exception.  here are some starter ideas. . . at the very least, good questions to ask people you love.

Quiet, Peace, No Distractions: This doesn't have to mean going out of town and getting a hotel, but that's what worked for us.  It's the only way to peel our noses off the grindstone. ;)

What are we learning about right now?

Who is impacting us?

What is the opportunity right in front of you?

Based on current performance would you trust you with this opportunity?

Am I preparing for the next opportunity?

Am I ignoring an opportunity because the income does not match the work load?

If you could do anything for God, what would it be?

How do you envision the end of your life?

What motivates you?

What drains you?

What do I/you love doing?

*Listen to great music. Great music is always a subjective term but here are the songs impacting our vision weekend: Believer (AudioA) + Jesus, Move (Big Daddy Weave)


Sample from our papers:

Family Mission Statement 2013/2014

we’re not afraid, we’re believers

Jesus, we’re alive to glorify Your name

 

We desire to raise a family producing effective children who will make others’ lives better through Christ; strong enough as a family to be able to open our doors and step out into the world that is broken.  We want our family to be a safe place where each one is loved unconditionally, where we meet and satisfy one another’s deep relationship needs. We want others to feel welcome, safe and loved in our home and family.

Go write your own story!

sister weekend

 

 

Snapshots from our sister weekend. . .

 

my sister-in-law Marlys and I threw a little "thank you" party for

my two youngest sisters, Abbie and Elizabeth

 

They are continually babysitting, cleaning, stopping by to help, endlessly cheerful

and just plain unselfish.  Last year we all took them out to Biaggi's-

 

this year we had dinner here and then spent the next day shopping

 

we sent invitations with menus from Francesca's (local Italian restaurant) and instructions to order

 

so fun to be together.

 

I kicked Daniel and the kids out  of the house for the weekend *wink wink* and made the kids bedrooms into little retreat - rooms (in other words, piled all the toys in the closets)

It was so much fun.

 

When Lydia got here we ran to the library and raided it for every girl - book imaginable to have sitting out 

 

Seventeen Guide to Style

What not to Wear

1001 Questions to ask Before You Get Married

Bakerella

Picnic Foods

 

we started out with pedicures from the last salon open in town.

 

 

it's kinda fun to set a table for adults ;)

my beautiful youngest sister- Elizabeth

Abbie and Mom

our authentic italian arriving via our authentic italian delivery guy (ha ha!)

salads

menu:
all kinds of pizza & pasta
greens with fresh tomatoes, feta & bacon
sparkling water via Trader Joe's (&Lydia)

shopping till we (almost dropped)


we missed one of my sisters.

she couldn't make it.

here's why:

(welcome to the world, my sweet newest lil nephew, zacharias thaine)

on pressure

She was beautiful, every girl's (and guy's) idea of beautiful, perfect hair, perfect skin, perfect athletic body.  She was a mom.  How could she still look so smoking hot and super girl-next door at the same time??!!

I could feel myself sweating, partly because I couldn't find my deodorant anywhere (best guess: Eli threw it in the trash) and partly because our little parental-soccer-information meeting was being held on the field in 102 degree midwest humidity. 

Well and I was also sweating because my clothes looked dumb, my BlackBerry wasn't an iPhone, my earrings were drooping in my ears-that-need-re-piercing, my flip flops looked like dog chew toys (although we don't own a dog) and because I shouldn't feel this way at thirty-one years old!

*It's really humbling to admit I care about this stuff.  I shouldn't.  I know.  There, I got it out. 

And then SHE started talking, timidly interrupting the little meeting, scared and unsure.  She sure didn't look like someone who would be scared.  Now, me, with the sweat marks, I should be scared. 

Her son has allergies.  Severe allergies.  Like, call-911-allergies.  She was scared that the other parents would be mad if her son didn't partake in the snacks they brought to games. 

Really?  Are people that mean?  Apparently they are, because she was legitimately concerned and wanting to clear the air before it ever got clouded.  We all agreed, a bit incredulous, not to be bothered and (hopefully) set her mind at ease.

But this bugged me.  Why should she have to worry what people think if her son brings his own snack?  Ahhh, as busy as we Americans seem to be, we have too much time on our hands if we can't live and let live a little. 

The same week, back at the same soccer practice,  I ran into an old friend I hadn't seen for awhile.  She was dashing from her (running) vehicle to grab something she'd left at the playground.  She was literally fifteen yards from her car. 

With the reclaimed item in her hands, heading back to her car, she stopped, breathless, to apologize to me that she'd left her kids buckled into her vehicle.   

I know, it's the big no-no, don't leave children unattended in vehicles. 

I get it. 

But somewhere, someplace, this insanity of worrying about what others think of our parenting has got to stop. 

It was still midwest humidity with ungodly temperatures.  What kind of decent mom would think of dragging her kids out of the cool car across a sweltering parking lot to grab a forgotten toy?

I know what kind of mom-- the mom that I am when I'm afraid everyone sees my inadequacies, the missing deodorant,  the tear in the skirt that was super chic a bit ago. . .

the mom who has been burned one too many times by well meaning whispers

the mom who tries so hard and still her kid keeps biting the other kids

the mom who feels that everyone is against her and she's holding up her little world with her own two hands

the mom who just can't bear another disapproving glance or well, the way I did it was the only way to go

yep, that mom will be afraid to make her own sane decision to leave her well adjusted, well behaved children in her own car for 45 seconds. 

I look down at myself.

What about me makes this sweet woman need to apologize to me?!  I did buy some more deodorant.  Perhaps that's the key to looking like you have it all together.

And I stopped her.

"Hey- you're a great mom.  What in the world?! Leave your kids in the car!  That's what I'd do, plus, I don't care! It's ok! I'm not like that!"

She smiled, relieved, and left, still breathless.


I think about this crazy pressure phenomena for awhile.

Why am I scared of the other normal women in the soccer mom group?

Why is Ms. Stunning Beauty scared of the other women?

Why is my friend scared of me?


I talk to Daniel about it, and he nods and grunts makes thoughtful uninterested sounds, completely oblivious to the pressure game women play with each other.  Men have their own pressure games, a bit more bold and in your face.  At least men seem to know where they stand.  Women are a bit more sneaky.


There aren't any great answers popping out at me as I jump into my own pressure cooker of teaching my kids, preparing for a year of Bible Study and relationships with other women, sports and music and trying to help my daughter stop sucking her thumb. 

I try to balance being a stay at home mom with hiring my very-first designated nanny as I desperately race to help my husband complete deadlines and finish our house renovation projects. 

I try to balance working crazy hard with the freedom of paying a teenager to come fold my laundry and scrub my floors. 

I try to balance ministry (people in my home at all hours of the day and night) (this means serving a second dinner at 11pm sometimes) and sanity (taking time to lay on the trampoline with Eli).

Is it a balancing act or a pressure cooker?  I don't know.  Some days it feels like a pressure cooker.


I logged into Pinterest last night intending to pin pin pin away after months of neglecting my boards. (I blame Africa for this.)  The pressure hit me like a sauna blast. 

Guys! Come ON!!!

"Thirteen ways to fold a napkin." (I just want to know how to keep napkins in the house.  Sanitary napkins, too, for that matter.  Seriously.)

"How to make a homemade jellyfish in a two liter bottle with a grocery sack" (I am not making this up.)

Install your own whirlpool in your master bath (I don't have a master bath, I just need to clean my one bathroom.  And it's directly off the dining room.  Try that out for convenient-- and awkward.)

Jewelry that coordinates with outfits no one should buy, nails and haircuts and celeb sightings and news and terrific birthday parties that are in no mothers' capabilities or budgets anywhere. 

IT DOESN'T MATTER.

Stop folding the napkins.

Hug your son and let him bumble his own way through the jellyfish project and you stop trying so hard. . .maybe go paint your nails some really happy WalMart $2 color.

Just be yourself. 

Wear your own jewelry.

I love Pinterest because I am a writer and artistic at heart and I thrive on inspiration.  I buy books just because the title inspired me and paint colors because of how they make people feel. 

But sometimes inspiration, on Pinterest, in books, out in the world, in the church, at the soccer field. . . sometimes it gets awfully confused with comparison and jealousy and envy and pressure.

I'm asking myself this week:

Am I a safe friend?

Do I project condemnation or criticism?

Am I part of the pressure problem?

What are practical ways that I can help dial down the pressure?

Can I be a gracious receiver?

Can I exhibit humility while offering help and strength?

Is my own identity as a Child of God enough if everything else is gone?


My chalkboard wall is littered with multiplication fact post-its and though there's a great centerpiece on the table, it isn't clean. The white lights hanging in the dining room give a cozy glow to my chaos and I don't feel pressure in my own home. Here is where I know without a doubt that I am loved by a good man, needed by beautiful children, and safe in the Hand of the one True Identity Giver- Jesus Christ.

from Pinterest  \/

definitely not from Pinterest \/

(but happy none-the-less)

Treats are yummy regardless how they're packaged ;) - on his way to Puggles

And camping. . . in your own backyard. . . is such a terrific experience.  A picture would say a thousand words of joy if only your mom was a photographer.  But since she's not. . . you just look like you're laying on a tarp and you have large nostrils.



Annnnnnnd, we may not be submitting this project to the paper anytime soon since we can't spell everything (WHO is the kid's teacher anyway?!)

Now here is a surefire pinterest/fb/foodblogger approved chocolate chip cookie recipe:  Start with Olive Oil Miracle Whip, add some eggshells and Windex and stir it all together with a butcher knife.  Yum Yum. (Believe it or not, there is chocolate chip cookie dough in that bowl.)

I suppose this is what you do if you are eight going on twenty-eight and you know how to use a camera and you really wonder what you look like driving. 

Last but not least, an original art sculpture.  No.  Really it's the only safe place to keep your structure from being demolished. Welcome to my living room.



forced rest

Sometimes God brings my life to a screeching halt through the . . .

dumbest

things.

Like a tooth infection ?!?!

Isn't that for people who are . . . y'know. . . gross and just drink pop and eat candy? 

Well anyway,

here I am, in bed, flattened and unable to do . . .really anything. 

It's a great time to catch up on the neglected blog, huh?

I don't have time to rest.

But then, suddenly, you do. 

Between Daniel (my rx go-fer/handholder/medical advice giver) and my mom (who has a direct line to my local Hy-Vee delivery) and my mother-in-law (who is cleaning my kids up from the camping trip among other necessities) (they still reeked of smoke and literally had sand in their hair when she picked them up)  I am being cared for quite well.  

If my mouth would stop being swollen, that would be awesome.  (Is God trying to tell me something? Do I have a big mouth? Hmmm. . .)

Stuff I'm reading right now:

(between school, soccer, piano, toddler-attitude-intervention, awana, and house renovations)


Soul Survivor: How My Faith Survived the Church  by Philip Yancey

Yancey is a fantastic writer and his explanation of why he chose to embrace the Church despite it's many flaws is a collection of stories:  the life stories of thirteen people who have deeply impacted him.  You may recognise some of the names, but others are quite obscure; and some are not even believers. So far I've read through Dr. King, (truth need not be violent) G.K. Chesterton, (humor combined with truth is refreshing) Dr. Paul Brand, (pain is a gift and not a curse) and Dr. Robert Coles (sometimes the greatest wisdom comes from the lowly and obscure). One of the most thought provoking books I've read in a very long time.


Extravagant Grace by Barbara R. Duguid (why do Christians sin?)

Fit to Burst by Rachel Jankovic (motherhood)

The In-Between: Embracing the Tension Between Now and the Next Big Thing by Jeff Goins (learning to live in the space between the "major moments")

7: an experimental mutiny against excess by Jen Hatmaker

Jen Hatmaker is hilarious breath of fresh air to my soul.  I love how serious her walk with God is and the humor that she uses to challenge people to reevaluate their priorities and goals.  My very favorite part of this book is when Jen and her husband splurge and buy each other way-out-of-their-budget cowboy boots (they're from Texas), wear them to a church service where unbeknowst to them, the theme of the morning service is not only giving to those in need, but "leave your shoes at the altar and go home barefoot."  I guess you'll have to read the book to find out what they did.  :)

The Secret Thoughts of an Unlikely Convert: an english professor's journey into christian faith by Rosaria Champagne Butterfield

Rosaria was a lesbian English professor at Syracuse University; she did not "become saved and everything was wonderful."  She describes her story as a train wreck at the hand of the Almighty: "Conversion put me in a complicated and comprehensive chaos.  I sometimes wonder, when I hear other Christians pray for the salvation of the "lost," if they realise that this comprehensive chaos is the desired end of such prayers. . . Sometimes in crisis, we don't really learn lessons.  Sometimes the result is simpler and more profound: sometimes our character is simply transformed."  Read this if you want a refresher course in why to open your home (love love love the pastor and his wife who invited Rosaria and her honest questions to their dinner table for years); read this if you want to be reminded that while deeply held beliefs on marriage are Biblical, so is reaching the lost with love and compassion;  read this if you need a fresh perspective on very current issues from a passionately Biblical perspective. 

** not pictured and already given away: (this is what I do with books-- buy them, start them, give them away, buy them again. . . .hahaha)

The Furious Longing of God by Brennan Manning (the title says volumes.  beautiful, intense writing)

Bread and Wine by Shauna Niequist (open your home, share your life)

Gods at War by Kyle Idleman (we still have idols today- they might look a little different than golden statues)

To Make a Life by Daniel Walser (grief, loss - stunning parallels between grief and a burning house. Truth.  So healing. )

But who has time to read anyway? 

It's not a secret that I love chalk:  I use it everywhere.  Did you know you can chalk on regular walls and then just wipe it off? That's what I did in Cambria's room:

But then she added a little post-it note to the wall.  When I tried to peel it off, I found that it had been glue-sticked firmly to the wall. 

Jacob dearly wants to have a collection, but doesn't know what to collect.  I told him that a collection just kinda happens.  Suddenly you realize you just love something and then you keep looking for more of that item.  He thinks he's found his collection: metal signs.  :)  3 down, many to come.   (looking at the other things that he loves, it could be worse: furs, animal skulls, handcuffs, ammo boxes. . . . .) The desk? He found it in a neighbor's trash down the street and dragged it home using a little red wagon. He is so my child. 

A million things to write about. . .  back to my forced rest now. :) (there is no swollen face smiley emoticon)

**embarrassed footnote:  I'm also in the middle of Happy, Happy, Happy by Phil Robertson. 

anne : africa, pt.3

What do I know about South Africa?

Nothing, really.  It's my first whole day here; grasping for placement and context  I am frantically piecing together the article I read in Time about Oscar Pistorious, the Wikipedia research on Welkom I did while I was packing and bits and pieces from the Nelson Mandela Morgan Freeman / Matt Damon movie that I never actually watched. 

That's a pathetic commentary on my knowledge of current world events, let alone world history. 

To sum up these bits of popular culture + mission trip preparedness soundbites,  here's what I know:

South Africa has a lot of crime
South Africa is home to 3 million orphans
South Africa is also home to an AIDS crisis
South Africa has extreme wealth and extreme poverty side by side
Also, refer to soundbite #1

Not very much.

At Amber's suggestion and our eager response, Loren and I are going to visit a creche, Anne's creche. I don't know who Anne is.  I feel like I know what a creche is from reading the French parenting book Bringing Up Bebe. The creche is located at a hostel. I feel like I know what a hostel is from my high school WWII/European reading frenzy.  I also feel like the European intrepetation of hostel and creche may be quite different in this Africa place that we are diving into.

We wave goodbye and climb into Amber's car and drink in the sights as Amber drives and explains.  We drive through normal neighborhoods that leave one wondering if you are in Southern California or Africa.  Amber flies on the wrong side of the road and it's hard to not duck and cringe when we see oncoming traffic.  The parks are overgrown, but that could be Detroit: my mind is constantly drawing comparisons to what I know and understand. 

She drives on, on, out of town.  The fields are grassy and flat and ominously empty.  Here and there a few tall trees stand, lumped together in an odd, unplanned way.  Amber explains that the hostel was built for miners.  I feel proud of my Wikipedia knowledge that Welkom was home to a large gold mining community at one time and I don't have to ask what they were searching for.  The hostel isn't for miners anymore, just low income housing. 

We are suddenly in front of a long, low building, like a machine shed.  I see brick buildings in the distance and know we've arrived at this hostel community. 

Amber says we can go in and meet Anne and stay and help for a bit.  We make our way through a rusty metal gate and up a brick sidewalk.  Amber opens a wobbly door and marches through a classroom of little black cherubs who are playing with two young women.  We have no idea who or where Anne is, so we keep following, through the surprisingly bright classroom, out into a courtyard with jagged, broken concrete and sunlight and trees.  I glance around the courtyard and see doors, probably leading to other classrooms. 

Amber purposefully enters one room and I see Anne for the first time.  Of all the people we will meet while in South Africa, I don't know yet that she will make the biggest impression and her story will be burned on our hearts. 

Anne is large and welcoming and she is surrounded by about 25 kindergartners.  Her hair is parted straight down the middle, no nonsense, but her eyes twinkle and you quickly understand why her little charges adore her.  There's crying and it's a baby and I am surprised to see an entire nursery of little babies at one end of her classroom.  There are ancient pack and plays lining one wall and a makeshift divider to keep the babies from the classroom. 

Amber smiles at us and says I'll see you in about an hour, okay? and in a panic Loren and I realize what we hadn't understood before:  we are being dropped off.  We are going to be on our very own out in this old mining community with a woman we don't know and one hundred and fifty beautiful little kids. 

Well, neither of us signed up for this trip to be wimpy and weak, so we suck it up like big girls and try to figure out what to do for an hour.  Anne is capably teaching days of the week and colors and we feel like weird observers, outsiders, Americans with clothing far too nice and big eyes that betray how sheltered we've been.  I climb over the divider and meet this lil man with huge brown eyes and chocolate skin and I miss my Eli badly and squeeze him tight.  There are other little babies and we feed them bottles and play with them, trying to piece together who these kids are and why they are here. 

Anne says we can help the kids with worksheets.  Everything she teaches is from her heart and from her own hands.  The work sheets are just pieces of plain white paper.  The children are to write Monday in English and then a blue house with four windows. Anne is very specific and there is no coddling.  Equal opportunity to succeed, but only if you follow the directions.  I watched her praise a child with four really sub-par windows in his house, and then firmly direct another child who had drawn two really phenomenal windows to go add two more.  She is strict and kind and warm and exudes love.  The window incident made my heart warm to her and I watch her cheerfully teach with so little and carefully, meticulously file all of the homemade paperwork in a file for each child. 

Anne speaks French and Sothu and English, easily moving between the three, talking animated and enthusiastically with the children, then explaining things to me and Loren.  She waves her hand at the brightly colored walls and the cheerful banners and tells us that a team from the States came and painted her classroom for her.

On the other side of the room a woman is working at a table in a makeshift kitchen of sorts.  She is preparing a snack for the children and I offer to help her cut up the oranges.  She is shy and calls me sister and waves me away, then hesitating, asks if I want to offer the oranges to the children. 

I take the tray and at Anne's beckon, head over to the children.  They are a little chocolate squirming mob all around me and Anne booms out at them to mind their manners and suddenly there is a line and ladies first take their little bit of orange before heading out for their recess.

Thank you Lohd, thank you teacha, each one choruses dutifully and scampers out into the cracked concrete courtyard.

We ask to go play with them and Anne heartily approves.

Out on the playgound we find a small broken swingset, some tires, weathered grass and gleeful exuberant children.  I am awed at their cheerfulness and stunned by the poverty. I sit on the grass and they crowd around, touching my hair and I teach them high five, down low, on the side, too slow. My hand is numb and they aren't anywhere near being done with this new game. 

I learn that these children are really lucky ones, they have homes in the brick hostel buildings and their parents have jobs.  They don't have anywhere to go, though, while their parents are working and if it weren't for Anne, they would be all alone. 

I can't get enough of these happy kids and Anne's beautiful heart and later will beg Louis and Amber to let Daniel come back with me to the creche. 

Anne asks him to teach a fire safety class because as the weather gets cold, the kids often burn themselves on buckets of coal, makeshift little furnaces in their houses. 

Daniel is great with kids and they love him. 

Don't hide, go outside, he says, and a whole little chorus shouts back

don't hide, go outside!

Daniel is also great with adults and he asks Anne questions I wouldn't have even thought to ask; we are intrigued by her love for God and people and her strength and why she is out here in the slum version of the boondocks, an obviously intelligent and savvy lady.  She lets her assistants take over and takes us on a tour of her creche and community.






Anne is a widow;  she is a mom to six.  When her husband died, she packed her family and came from Lesotho by bus to Welkom for a promised job.

The job was a lie, Anne explains, matter of fact.  It's obviously water under the bridge to her now.  It paid 500 rand a month and the equivalent of $50 is not nearly enough for a brave grieving mamma who needs to support her six little people. 

So she is in the promised land of Welkom, needing a place to live, running out of money, and she hears that someone is going to be renovating the old hostel buildings into housing; Anne gets a ride out to the community.

I can't even explain it, I just knew that God wanted us here.  I walked into that apartment and I just knew.  I said, I'll take it. 

She moved in with nothing and immediately started a little creche, or daycare.  She allows people to pay her in increments and with volunteering and only recently received a small grant from the government. 

She is talking to us in a cluttered office, stacked with books and typical teacher-fare.  I notice a booklet on her desk, The High Calling of Motherhood and smile, knowing my mom owns one too.

The building would be condemned in a moment back home;  she is so proud of the doors she made herself for the tiny boys and girls toilet rooms.  I took a picture. 

A guy with some tools and materials could do Anne a world of good in an afternoon. 

But she isn't about an amazing building, she is about bringing order and beauty to this little community.  She is about bringing Jesus to kids who desperately need hope.  She has chosen to cast her lot here with them, living among them and making a difference. 

She walks us out of the Genesis Creche, out into the field, a dusty street.  There are the brick buildings in the distance and she says she will show us her apartment.  She mutters a phrase in Sotho as we pass three young men loitering.  They look up and nod at her with respect.

Daniel asks what she called them and she says destroyers.  There is evil all around and you can almost physically feel the oppression, the poverty, the hopelessness. Daniel and I compare notes later and agree that we would have been scared silly out there if Anne weren't so obviously respected. 

There are chickens running, rusty cars, laundry hanging out and incongruous satellite dishes. 

In America, we have government programs to assist children who are falling through the cracks;  that's a globally rare situation and I'm realizing with wide open eyes that humanitarian aid in South Africa is largely provided by believers.  If Anne weren't here. . .

there wouldn't be any happy little lunch line. 

No happy songs.

No reading and manners and grace and truth.

Later I will be able to contrast the wholeness of these children with the emptiness of others and I will realize again what a monumental role Anne is playing in their daily physical safety, their psyche, their eternal destiny. 

She looks more beautiful to me by the minute.

We are suddenly at Anne's apartment, stunningly clean, with her patch of yard mowed and a courtyard next to her apartment cheerfully painted in acceptable graffiti with an occasional Coca Cola splashed on the walls.  Her first creche was in her apartment and then the courtyard.  Outgrowing that, she began renting the building where she is now. 

Her door is painted a cheerful blue and she welcomes us into her tiny dwelling.  Pictures of her children,  most in college and grown now, are everywhere.  She has so little and yet she is happy and fulfilled, pouring her life out and making a difference where she is at.

I think of her often, struggle to put her story into words that will do her justice, to capture how mightily God is using her. 

I stumble and fail and type and rewrite and think

Anne started a creche.

Anne had a mighty faith.

Anne trusted God to meet her needs.

It doesn't tell the story. 

You would have to see it and drink it in yourself, to see the garden that she's planted, the way she incorporates mothers into her teacher pool so that they can help the school keep running, the little handwashing stations and the fences she carefully built herself with bricks she found along the roads.

There are other Annes in the world.

Anne is not letting your tragedy define you.

Anne  is pouring your life out right where you are at.

Anne  is loving the least of these.

Anne is vision and clarity and hoping for the future.

Anne is applying God's Word and living it.

I want to be an Anne.

{Anne, in purple, with her little chicks around her}

 

end-of-summer pasta

Tonight: 


1 red onion sliced in rounds
3 cloves garlic, minced
3 ears of fresh corn, cut off the cob
Sauteed in
olive oil
fresh ground salt and pepper

Tossed with

1 pkg w/w angel hair (boil and drain)
1 zucchini, thinly sliced
1 yellow summer squash/ yellow zucchini thinly sliced
3 cups of spinach, cut in ribbons
3 cocktail tomatoes, thinly sliced
3 shredded chicken breasts (I baked them with a lil italian dressing)
1 small container of feta cheese

Mmmm. . . . served with crusty artisan bread. . . sooo good.

calypso burritos

After waiting literally hours for Daniel in Home Depot one day, I discovered their extensive cookbook selection as well as this great recipe.  I've modified it since and use it often. I have yet to meet someone who doesn't like it. . . no one misses the meat and it's super super healthy using olive oil and mozzarella.  I wonder if I would rename them Home Depot Burritos?

 

 

2 medium size zucchini

1 medium yellow squash (whatever it's called - I think of it as yellow zucchini)

2 large carrots

1 large green pepper

1 large red onion

3-5 cloves garlic

olive oil to saute

fresh ground salt and pepper

1 can drained black beans or kidney beans

1 can drained whole kernel corn

1 envelope taco seasoning

1/3 cup salsa

handful cilantro

 

 

 

 

Grate squashes and carrots; chop pepper, onion and garlic.  Saute the onion and garlic until tender, add the pepper, then add the squashes.  Continue to saute, adding the remaining ingredients and simmer just until everything looks blended. 

 

 

serve with:

tortillas [preferably homemade ;) ]

mozzarella cheese

fresh avocados and tomatoes

sour cream

 



So yummy!

 

 

hateful words and monday-quotes

I was standing with my head tilted sideways, scanning new titles in the front of the library on a gorgeous end-of-summer afternoon when I heard the little snuffles and looked up to see two ten year olds carrying a young child out of the library onto the sidewalk.

It was just a flash, and they were gone, just long enough to break my heart and bring stinging tears to my eyes.

The little one's mouth was bleeding. He must have fallen into something.

"That's why we told you to stay with us, you retard." hissed one of the children.

I recoiled at the hateful words out of one so young and then they were gone, too late, nothing anyone could do.

I wanted to offer a bandaid, to reprimand the cruelty, to wipe away the blood and tell the little fella it was okay to cry, but they were gone.

The little whimpers and the sneer stayed with me all afternoon, bothered me, hurt my heart.

Why were they all alone?  What awful words had been hurled at the older children that they would be so quick to lash out at the little guy? He was too little to have such controlled little tears.  Where did they go?

I know too well that abandoned, lonely children are all around us.  You don't have to go to Africa to see hurting little kids. 

And what am I doing to help?  I don't know.  I wanna help where I can.  It's not cool or fun though when the grimy little urchin from down the street pops into my kitchen without knocking.  I give myself a mental medal for sharing our pizza pool party with dear friends . . . and a thirteen year old neighbor boy, but that's pretty small and even I know it.

On a different note entirely, as quick as I am to cringe at the unkind words at the library, out of my own mouth pour bitter words at my husband, frustration at my children, sarcasm when I don't agree with your point of view, and how am I so different? 

Kindness in a world of cruelty. . . so very rare.

Kindness in the little safest place called home. . . rare, there too. 

It shouldn't be rare.

It starts with me.


Two quotes staying with me this week:

Go where Jesus is pointing.  If you're not sure where that is, go to the poor.  Bob Goff

I believe Christianity happens when men and women experience the reckless, raging confidence that comes from knowing the God of Jesus Christ.  Brennan Manning, The Furious Longing of God

letter to a grieving mom

Was it uploading files of photos to Shutterfly and running across 25 pictures of Gabe's pacifier that made me think of how far God has brought us?

Was it seeing other people just beginning the grief road?

I don't know why, but I've had these thoughts whirling around in my head these days, things I would have told the grieving, shattered young woman that was me. 



Dear Mamma-of-a-child-in-Heaven,

It is so hard.

I know.

It does hurt to breathe.

Your arms do physically ache.  It's not your imagination.  You're not going crazy.

Your heart does do weird stuff.  Grief affects us physically.  It's normal.

It's not normal.

It hurts so bad.

You are seeing people that reach out to you, people that have lost children, and they seem okay.  That is freaky scary.  How are they okay?  That intimidates you.  Don't let it.  Grasp the reaching hand they are stretching.  They aren't okay, they just want you to know there is hope. 

You can't sleep.  It's okay.  It's normal.  Your mind runs a movie reel of your child's death endlessly and you can't block it.  That's normal too.  Your mind needs to convince your heart that your baby isn't there anymore.  It's a process.  You can't rush it.  The movie reel won't always keep running, out of your control. 

That little boy wearing the same shirt as your son's-  take a deep breath.  This will not always be the sharp knife that it is now.  His mamma doesn't hate you.  It's not her fault.  If his mamma knew that was your son's outfit too, she never would have made you endure that.  It won't always be so wrenching.  Grief will tell your mind crazy things.  Don't let it lie to you about people.

The family reunion photos that seem like a prison sentence. . . I know, it's not a real family photo.  I know, you're thinking about the glaring omission and a cold little grave and everyone else is smiling.  Don't hate them for smiling.  I know.  I understand.  Take a deep breath.  It's okay not to smile.  It won't always be so brutal. 

Your first phone call hearing someone died, visiting a funeral home again - I know, you feel like you're panicking and going to vomit and you can't do it.  Cry out to Jesus.  Hug those sad people hard.  Get some more Kleenex.  Let the tears flow.  It's healing. 


Your kids talk about death, or play that they die, or their dolls die-  that is normal.  They cry.  It's normal.  They don't cry.  That's okay too.  Children are resilient.  Love them.  Give them hugs.  They hurt to see you sad too.  They will be okay.  The grief road for your kids is much shorter than it is for you.  Be thankful for that. 


Find the safe people.  You might not feel strong enough to look, but they are there. Find them.  You can pour it out to them.    In almost every situation and at almost every social event, there's someone who understands pain. . . you might find that safe place when everyone is laughing and you see a face, a heart, that isn't.  Don't expect everyone to be safe.  It's too much to ask of the entire world.

There are no ways to soften first birthdays, first holidays, death anniversaries.  It's just going to be sad.  I'm so sorry.  I wish you didn't have to go through it. 

You do things to cope.  You take pictures of keepsakes.  You carry little mementos in your purse.  You hope no one notices and then pray that they will.  Maybe then someone will ask how you're doing, let you cry on their shoulder, tell you that they love you and that they know you loved him.  You will always feel the need to commemorate and acknowledge but the ways of doing it will change.  And that's good.  

You won't get over it.  You will learn how to live with it.  You don't get over part of your heart being gone.  That's just your painful reality.  But you will laugh, you will smile, you will live again.  You can. 

What do I wish I could tell you, you with the dark circles under your eyes and the light on late into the night?  I want you to know that God will carry you if you let Him.  He will carry your pain.  He is so near to the broken hearted.  When He seems far away- and He seems light years away sometimes- cry out to Him.  He is there. 

There are things that happen, words that hurt deeply, that people say and do inadvertently now.  You will cringe and ache.  They don't mean to hurt you.  You will see this in a few years, but it will take years.  Be gentle with them and gentle with yourself, too.  It's okay to back up a little from painful situations, but don't think people mean to hurt you.  They don't.  Believe me. You'll see someday.

Oh dear one, weighed down with the heavy load of grief, know that someday the load will be lighter, and God will give you the incredible gift of helping someone else carry their own burden.  You don't know now, but healing will come from weeping with those who weep. 

One day you will wake up and realize. . .

we have this treasure in jars of clay

 to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us

we are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed;

perplexed, but not in despair; 

persecuted, but not abandoned;

struck down, but not destroyed

. . .therefore we do not lose heart

{from II Corinthians 4}

 

don't lose heart

 

Love,

 

hayley