Rancho Ruperto

A Day in the Life

2012-02-10T13:30:00.000-06:00

10 am.

I hear slurping and find Baby Bro enthusiastically guzzling the last third of the coffee that I absent-mindedly left sitting on the table. I drink it black and so, evidently, does he. What I don't usually do is plunge my two hands into the brew so that my sleeves are sopping. At least it's decaf.

We go to change his shirt but he doesn't want any shirt. Pants, either. Or diaper.

In a moment of inspiration, I ask, "Do you want to go on the potty?"

"Wess!"

He waddle-stomps down the hall, turning only to hold up an imperious hand: "Wait!"

Okay. . .is he going to do this on his own?

But then, "Potty, where?"

So I show him the potty, though he knows full well where it is, and help him put the baby seat on it and climb up. He's got the whole routine down, except for actually making anything happen. He grunts, grabs some toilet paper and throws it in the toilet. Gets off the seat, waves at the TP. "Bye-bye wipe!"

My darling father-in-law sends me See's Candies for Valentine's Day every year. They arrive this morning. I am still in my pajamas. Of course everyone wants a taste immediately, and, not being one to postpone the eating of chocolate, I can't, in good conscience, say no to the kids. Those giant mints are part of a plant-based diet, after all: cacao, mint, sugar cane. . .

I suddenly realize that my 21-month-old has eaten nothing but simple carbs, coffee, and chocolate so far today. I swear it's not for my lack of trying to feed him--and everyone in the family--vegetables. Last week I was fed up with the general pickiness ("I will only eat one bite of green bean if it is cut exactly in half, sprinkled with three grains of salt, lying on its left side, holding one nostril shut." Or whatever.) I blended up a bunch of beet greens and I baked them into brownies. No one was the wiser and I got some greens down their fussy little gullets.

But for all that, it's a good day. Baby Bro and I have gotten over our colds; Sistah is recovering from her double ear infection, and N-boy is back at school after a random incidence of puking in the lunch room yesterday.

Sistah is wearing her leggings inside out, and the placement of the tag makes her look as thought she had a tail. She has created a large race car out of all the moveable items in the living rooms. She and I play dolls, which mostly involves making a Kleenex dress for one of the small ones. Sistah paints it with pink marker and sparkly silver nail polish. The doll looks ethereal, as she should since she has the lead role in an imaginary Christmas pageant mostly involving angels flying by means of invisible pink propellers.

We have guests coming for dinner and the house is mostly (?) clean and the laundry is half done. All I have to do is thaw the spaghetti sauce I made from our own tomatoes this summer. And bake brownies, sans beet greens.

One thing I won't be serving is coffee.

Conversations

2012-02-02T20:47:00.000-06:00

Baby Bro, getting ready to read:
Book.
George.
Come-come (tugging me by the finger toward the chair.)
Zsit.
Yay!

Anna, commenting on Baby Bro's food habits:
Baby Bro likes to share. Sometimes with bites, sometimes without.

As we pass the thermostat:
BB: Press.
Me: No, we're not going to press those buttons.
BB: Why?
Me: Because.
BB: Why 'cuz?

N-boy, in a discussion of his spotty schoolwork performance:
NB: It doesn't matter if you don't get everything right [on your homework.] What matters is if you get everything right in heaven.
Me: But you have to try your best (etc.)
NB: I mostly try my best. Sometimes I don't slant [my handwriting], and those spelling words are harder than rock that you are trying to cut with a dull knife!

What I say every day when I pick the kids up from school:
Me: How was everybody's day?
Yesterday BB pipes up: Good!

Lentil and Sausage Stew

2012-01-31T12:13:00.001-06:00

Although the snowy pictures I posted yesterday suggest otherwise, this winter has actually been oddly mild, with more 50 degree days than we usually have in an average spring. My tulips, normally early-April arrivals, have unwisely poked their heads above the ground, along with my daffodils (I'm not so worried about them--they are hardier.)

Nevertheless, it's still cold enough to welcome a hearty bowl of stew for dinner. Here's a good one I made this weekend. My friend SH also happened to make something similar (great minds, right?), but she added kale, which sounds amazing. Of course, she lives near Trader Joe's, where you can get bags of prewashed, precut kale. Please, please, please could we get a TJ's here sometime soon so this lazy cook can add some superfood yumminess to her dishes, too?

In the meantime,

1 pound sweet Italian sausage (my friend SM gave me this since she can't stand cutting the casings off sausage.
1 large onion, chopped
1 stalk celery, chopped
4 cloves chopped garlic
1 (16 oz) package dry lentils, rinsed
1.5 c sliced carrot (the purple, yellow, orange and white ones from our garden added a fun touch)
8 c water
2 (14.5 oz) cans chicken broth
1 (28 oz) can diced tomatoes
1 t Italian seasoning (oregano, basil, thyme, etc.)
1 T garlic powder
1 T salt, or to taste
1/2 t black pepper
I did not have the fresh parsley or the bay leaves that the original recipe called for, but the stew didn't seem to suffer much.

Brown the sausage and add the onion, garlic, and celery. Add everything else and cook for about 2 or 2 1/2 hours. You could probably do this in the slow cooker, too, if you wanted to. Just simmer it longer. This makes a lot. We had it for two meals, with plenty left over to pop in the freezer for several future dinners.

Here's the only photo I thought to take--just before eating the last bite. I guess it proves it was good. . .

Winter pics

2012-01-30T13:33:00.003-06:00

What I love

2012-01-30T11:15:00.000-06:00

. . .are normal PET scans. Which mine was. I am so relieved. Thank you, God.

Creative Endeavors [In which you need only simple materials and some imagination]

2012-01-29T15:09:00.000-06:00

Edible creatures (Peppermints, gumdrops, gummi bears)

Pottery (OK, I guess you need some specialized materials for this. But they aren't expensive. The pottery wheel kit, including the clay and paint was $10 at {blush} Walmart.)

Homemade Lava Lamps (Salt, water, food coloring, cooking oil)

Laura Ingalls puppet with covered wagon (boxes, fabric scraps, paper, tape, glue. The small white object to Laura's right is her snowman doll, which Sistah crafted herself from cotton balls and tape.)

Snow sculptures (snow, ice, rocks, tree branches)

Why, Waiting, and God's Kindness

2012-01-27T21:48:00.000-06:00

I shiver into bed at night and imagine my death. From cancer. The thought of my children possibly having to see me weak, sick, dying, turns my heart to stone.

These thoughts of my mortality have been brought into sharp relief by the wait for results from this week's PET scan (just done for a new baseline. I hope.) I've been crying out to God again, the "Why?" question. Where's the good in human pain? I wrestle with my thoughts. I wrestle with God. At least I would if I could find him.

I sound like Job, that other questioning sufferer.

And just like he did for Job, God shows up. Gently, patiently. Opening my eyes to his loving presence, my heart to his eternal Word.

I watch the kids trying out their new little pottery wheel and realize: Trust requires humility. The clay (that's me) can't say to the Potter (that's God) "Why did you make me like this? Or allow this to happen?" because the clay (that's me) realizes that she is simply a mindless lump of minerals compared to the Potter (that's God), the Expert at forming beauty out of blobs, the One who has in his Mind the whole process from start to finish.

I reread the story of some other beings made from clay. Adam and Eve, unlike me, were sinless and lived in a perfect world. But they still chose the wrong path. What on earth makes me think I could do any better? The smartest-ever human realized this: There is a way that appears to be right, but in the end it leads to death. (Proverbs 16:25)

This week's Bible study just "happens" to be on the kindness and goodness of God. It seeps into my soul: Isaiah 12:2 whispers, then shouts, "The Lord God is my strength and my song. . ." Not only does God help me endure, He brings joy and delight to my life. He tenderly cares for me like a mother, even when I don't realize it or appreciate his care. (Hosea 11:3-4)

Of course the sermon is about trusting God in uncertain circumstances. "And we know in all things God works for the good of those who love him." (Romans 8:28).

But why stop with just one verse of that amazing chapter?

If God is for us, who can ever be against us? Since he did not spare even his own Son but gave him up for us all, won’t he also give us everything else? . . .

Can anything ever separate us from Christ’s love? Does it mean he no longer loves us if we have trouble or calamity, or are persecuted, or hungry, or destitute, or in danger, or threatened with death? . . .No, despite all these things, overwhelming victory is ours through Christ, who loved us.

And I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons,neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow—not even the powers of hell can separate us from God’s love. No power in the sky above or in the earth below—indeed, nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Romans 8:35-39)

God's love surrounds me. No matter what. And he even has the kindness to answer my weak prayers to feel that love in my heart and not just believe it with my head.

Mug Rug

2012-01-22T13:16:00.000-06:00

One of the many joys of our trip to Hawaii was meeting a friend in person whom I'd previously met only through her blog. It was just as delightful to make her and her family's acquaintance in person as it had been in cyberspace.

Turns out she is a crafter (one of many of her creative pursuits.) She gifted me with flour sack towels that perfectly match my new kitchen and the darling little number you see below: a mug rug quilted from various 1950's-style prints--a fabric coaster of sorts, large enough not only for my tea mug, but a spoon and a piece of Trader Joe's dark chocolate.

Charming, just like Becca.

Healing

2012-01-19T16:00:00.000-06:00

Thin winter sunshine. Dry-as-dust snow snaking over the road in the 14-degree wind. Driving to pick up the kids from school, I am grateful. I feel strong, no longer overwhelmed physically and emotionally by the simplest tasks, let alone the volume of responsibility that is running a household of 3 young children and a husband with a demanding job. It's still daunting, but gone is the hopelessness born of the feeling that I just. can't. do. it.

Better yet, the invisible and inexplicable wall around my heart seems to be crumbling. For so much of last year, I hunkered down inside a fortress I couldn't understand. Didn't want to be friends with anyone outside my closest (tiny) circle. Didn't care. I was totally satisfied with the presence of my kids and husband, though I felt perplexed as to why this was so. Was this the new me, so unlike the old? I sort of hoped not, but oh well. Nothing I could do to change it. Besides, no new acquaintance could understand what I'd been through and I didn't have the energy to explain.

But today, returning to our church's women's Bible study after a long holiday hiatus, I was joyfully surprised. Every face seemed like that of an established or potential friend. Instead of a guarded heart, I found that I had an open one--open to the possibility of new relationship. The wall had been reduced to piles of rubble which I could peer past. I even began to clamber over: I told the whole circle of women about my upcoming PET scan and my desire to trust the Lord for its outcome.

I can only attribute this to the slow process of God's healing my body and heart (more about that tomorrow.) And I'm grateful.

Bro Post

2012-01-17T21:01:00.002-06:00

At almost 20 months, Baby Bro talks a lot now. His pronunciation is such, unfortunately, that if there is no readily visible referent, I have difficulty understand what he is talking about. This does not often deter him from trying to express his opinions and demands. In fact, if no one acknowledges his speech, he will repeat it at greater and greater volume until someone notices. He's been saying Sistah's name for a while now, but yesterday he learned to say N-boy's and so was shouting it over and over. Our little echo will also repeat the last word he hears in any sentence, so watch what you say!

In Hawaii it was fun to hear him adding new place-specific words: coconut, waves, slippers, shave ice. Now he's back to talking about the "'no" that's been falling outside.

Bro may be the calmest child of the bunch, but he is definitely a boy's boy. He loves fire, dirt, sticks, weapons, electronics, and all things wheeled. He loves to throw, wrestle, fish, shoot and play with the iPad. He's never met a guy, young or old, he couldn't hang with. Recently we were at a friend's house and the boys were demonstrating their new air rifle. Baby Bro wanted badly to participate. To my horror, I heard him begging, "Gun. PEASE!"

But he is a soft-hearted little guy, giving out concerned hugs to unhappy siblings and playing dolls with his sister. He is pretty well-mannered, too, if a bit mixed up, since he uses "[you're] welcome" in situations that call for a "thank you."

And he's a joker. He'll say, "Mom!" and point off in the other direction so I, who by now know the drill, will turn my head away toward where he is pointing. Then he growls loudly--my cue to let out a frightened squeal. This sends him into a fit of giggles, which gives him hiccups.

Speaking of laughter, his antics definitely provide that for us all. Thank you, our darling Baby Bro, the boy with a name like a chuckle.

Monkey boy with Uncle Doug

Riding in the backpack (Photo by Second Sister)

P.S. One of my favorite things Bro currently exclaims is, "Cool! Wow!"

Beach Day

2012-01-08T22:33:00.002-06:00

Photo by Betsy Curtis

photo by Hubby

Hawaii Pictures

2012-01-08T22:27:00.001-06:00

I should be asleep, trying to get my circadian rhythms back on Central Time. But instead I'm at the computer, reminiscing about our beautiful time in Hawaii, trying to decide which pictures to post, and wishing I'd taken more: they are what I end up remembering since I gaze at them so often. At the time, though, I was simply living one moment at a time, trying to soak up the sun and the warm laid-back fellowship of friends old and new. There's never enough time, but I'm so grateful for what we had.

Anyway, it's late. I'll start with these. . .more to come.

Our dear and uber-generous hostess Barb (the three-strand pikake lei is from her, of course.)

The ever-popular toy quad.

Slippahs.

Coconuts that Hubby cut from the tree.

The surfboards next door.

Merry Christmas

2011-12-24T10:56:00.000-06:00

In honor and celebration of our Savior's birth, we send you this rendering of the Nativity. Like the original event, it was a family affair.

N-boy constructed the barn of earthen brick and set the structure at the base of the Judean hills. There's a Swedish Mary triumphantly power-lifting a giant naked Jesus (Sistah drew that pair, along with the donkey, the empty manger, and the night sky.) The Baby has evidently kicked off all his swaddling clothes (typical infant, right?); Baby Bro showed them flying everywhere.

Hubby depicted the knowing Joseph who stands at prayer, hopefully out of the line of fire of the birds (owl, doves, grackle) I pictured on the rafter.

May your Christmas be filled with the joy of knowing that God has entered our very mundane and humble and imperfect world in order to show us his love through Jesus.

Roadkill Christmas Tree

2011-12-21T13:57:00.001-06:00

It all comes from being of Mennonite stock. Or maybe it was growing up in the hardscrabble hills of Appalachia. Whatever the cause, I try to hide it. I've learned to appear (mostly) normal, but the truth is that I'm still a full-on scavenger.

Let me give you some examples (all hypothetical, of course. None of these could possibly have happened to me or to members of my family. And if they did, I wouldn't tell you about it.) Let's say I am driving/walking down the road/interstate/street and I pass a pan lid/dresser/large branch from a conifer (or a kids' bike or a coat or a couch with matching coffee tables or a penny). Most people would keep driving, maybe muttering a tsk-tsk under their breath at all those crazy litterbugs out there.

Not me.

I would choose from several courses of action: stop in my tracks and claim the article; back up my vehicle and load up my find; go around the block and do the same; mentally make a note of the exact location and come back after dark with reinforcements (if the item in question is particularly large.)

Who cares if it is a bit dented/old/small or has a rusty frame, a missing button, a small stain or chip, or is "only a penny"? It serves the purpose and best of all, it's FREE.

I know. Right now you are thinking, "Yep, that's Queenie." Or else, "She's wacko and I never knew!"

Either way you'd be right.

The decorators

What I Want for Christmas

2011-12-18T21:01:00.002-06:00

(Besides world peace, of course.)

1. Sistah's missing red sock. I bought this pair of not-inexpensive socks specifically to match several outfits that she has. She wore the pair once (ONCE!) and lost one. Permanently, it seems, unless jolly old St. Nick comes through for me.

2. Two missing school library books. N-boy apparently borrowed one 3 months ago. I never saw it. Sistah borrowed the other a week or so back. The day before library day I suggested she put it in her backpack so as to be prepared. That was the last we've seen of it. I've scoured the house for both books (and the sock) to no avail.

3. A snow globe. But not just any globe. A beautiful keepsake musical snow globe. Was it last year we bought them for the kids? N-boy's failed to appear when we finally pulled out the Christmas decorations this afternoon. I don't even have any ideas about where to look.

4. Even more than that, though, I'd like a thin 2x5-inch piece of wood, flat on one side and gently gabled on the other. It's the backstop of the tiny stable that is supposed to shelter a miniature Holy Family. . .but it's MIA, and has been for 2 years now, so I don't have much hope that I'll ever see it again. Santa?

Of course none of these things is particularly valuable. But their aggregate loss threatens my sanity, which is.

[You may be wondering how I can set such store by these unimportant items. I don't. Really. (Except maybe the sock. Red socks are hard to come by.) It's just that right now our house is in an uproar. We're having some work done on the kitchen (Why now? No clue.) and getting ready for a major trip. Never one to achieve neatness/organization during the best of times, I assure you that during the worst of times the chaos is frightening. The last thing I need are addenda to the list of things I simply cannot find.]

Peppernuts

2011-12-13T11:08:00.001-06:00

It's as much a yearly tradition as the peppernuts themselves: unearth the recipes, try to remember which one turned out the way which family member likes them, tinker with the ingredients, and once again forget to write down the details in the margin. Some people make all different kinds of peppernuts during the holidays, but not me. I'm a one-shot kinda peppernut girl, always hoping for the perfect combination of hardness, spiciness, sweetness.

Well, this year I'm AM going to write down the details. Here. So next year I won't have to guess and neither will you. At least for this recipe.

Originally called "Schmeckfest Prize Peppernuts," they're also known as "Lisa's Favorite Peppernuts" in our household.

1 1/2 c. butter
1 c. white sugar (add more if you like them sweeter)
1 c. brown sugar
1 c. King syrup (didn't have any--I used Karo syrup and added some vanilla)
4 t baking powder
1 t baking soda
1/3 c sour milk (probably could use plain yogurt, too)
1 t cardamom (I used more because I love it)
3/4 t salt
1 t nutmeg
1 t cloves
1 rounded t pepper (I used fresh-ground, and I always figure a little more can't hurt. After all, they're peppernuts, right?)
1 t ginger
1 1/2 t cinnamon
7 c flour

Cream together butter and sugar. Add syrup and sour milk. Mix dry ingredients in a separate bowl, then gradually add to the wet ingredients mixture. Roll into ropes or snakes, then cut into 1/2-inch pieces and bake on a greased baking sheet at 350 for about 10 minutes or until golden brown.

This time I made mine extra small, for some reason. They turned out quite crunchy and hard. Not too spicy, but with a nice little delayed zing. I know that ideally these tiny cookies are supposed to be stored for weeks as they slowly increase in flavor, but in my opinion there is nothing like devouring them hot out of the oven. CAUTION: Highly addictive.

[Note for anyone with fructose intolerance: you could eat these with a few modifications--white sugar instead of brown, water plus a little sugar instead of syrup]

First and Last

2011-12-10T08:13:00.001-06:00

Yesterday was both the season's first snow and my last Herceptin infusion, with everything bracketed by the grace of God. Here are some pictures. . .

Eggnog Bread Pudding

2011-12-06T12:13:00.001-06:00

Probably the last thing any of us needs at this time of year is yet another temptation to indulge our sweet tooth. (Teeth?) But after I ate this bread pudding, I knew I needed to share the recipe. DEE-lish. Plus it looks pretty easy. It's not made with eggnog; it just tastes like it.

Caveat: I have not personally made this recipe, but my friend SM did, and she served me some. Yum. (Sorry, I ate it too fast to take any pictures of the lusciousness.)

Bread Pudding
12 slices bread, cut into cubes
4 c milk
1/2 c butter
1 c sugar
4 eggs, slightly beaten
1/2 t salt
1/2 t nutmeg
1/2 t cinnamon
2 t vanilla

Put bread crumbs in a large bowl. Melt butter and add milk; warm in a pan or microwave. Pour mixture over bread. Stir in remaining ingredients. Pour into a greased 9x13 pan. Bake at 350 for 40-50 minutes, until a knife inserted into the middle comes out clean.

Pecan Sauce
1 c sugar
1 c brown sugar
1 c heavy whipping cream
1 c butter
2 t vanilla

Combine sugars, cream, and butter in saucepan; cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until thickened. Stir in vanilla.

To serve, pour the sauce over individual servings of the pudding.

Lost and Found

2011-12-06T11:38:00.001-06:00

I felt like the woman in Jesus' parable, except that instead of misplacing a silver coin, I'd lost my swimming suit. Not in public, thankfully. No, I knew for sure that the suit had entered the house while still on my body. It's just that I couldn't find it anywhere.

Not in my dresser (emptied it twice.) Not in the kids' dressers, or Hubby's. Not in the boxes of summer clothes. I didn't sweep the house like the parable lady (wouldn't want to go to extremes, right?) but I did rummage through every clothes receptacle I could think of.

The whole time I was thinking in panic, Who loses their bathing suit 3 weeks before they leave for Hawaii? And, being anatomically challenged as I am, it's not as though I can waltz down to the local big box or department store and get a quick and dirty replacement.

"Sistah?" I asked, "Have you seen my swimsuit?" My sweet girl immediately dropped what she was doing and dashed off purposefully. I had a moment's hope and followed her only to find her looking in the drawer where the suit should be. "It's not there," I informed her sadly.

Whereupon she sank to her knees and lifted up the bedskirt. "I sometimes find things under the bed," she offered helpfully.

"So do I, " was my rueful reply. "But not this time. I already looked."

I didn't even have any other ideas about where to search. Hawaii was looming. In dire straits such as these, there was only one prudent course of action: fast, pray, and call my mom.

I must admit that it seemed a very non-eternal matter with which to bother the Almighty, even though I'm sure he didn't mind. Thankfully my mom didn't either. She didn't bat an eye at my strange question (When you were here a month ago, did you happen to see my swimming suit?). She just started right in brainstorming about its possible location. It only took her three tries til she located the darn thing from 600 miles away.

"Maybe it fell down behind the drawer," she suggested. I didn't need to be told twice. I pulled the drawer out and there on the floor was the lost bathing suit.

Everybody needs a mom like that.

And when she finds it, she calls her friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost [swimsuit].’ Luke 15:9

Party anyone?

Advent Devotional and Jesse Tree

2011-11-28T18:33:00.001-06:00

Every year since Hubby and I have been married, we've tried in various ways to celebrate Advent as a family. Candles and carols and calendars have been somewhat successful, but always I've longed for something a bit more meaningful. . .yet still somehow kid-accessible.

So this year I'm very excited to have an entire month's worth of family-oriented scripture-based Advent devotions. The booklet (by Ann Voskamp) comes with printable Jesse tree ornaments. What's more, it's free! Click here to check it out.

This is the first year we've done a Jesse tree, which is a tradition that uses ornaments and a branch of some kind to create a tangible collection of people and ideas from the Bible that point to the coming of Jesus.

We started this evening. True to form, I didn't have anything quite ready--no candles (the ones from last years are mere stumps--appropriate, I guess), and the ornaments were not cut out, but we talked about the Jesse tree concept since it was new to the kids, and we read the words from Isaiah chapter 11 that give this tradition its name, beautiful words that prophesy of Jesus' coming:

A shoot will come up from the stump of Jesse;
   from his roots a Branch will bear fruit.
The Spirit of the LORD will rest on him—
   the Spirit of wisdom and of understanding,
   the Spirit of counsel and of power,
   the Spirit of knowledge and of the fear of the LORD. . .

The rest of the chapter also contains some of my favorite scripture, a picture of the glorious peace and reconciliation that Jesus brings. I'll include it, too.

The wolf will live with the lamb,
   the leopard will lie down with the goat,
the calf and the lion and the yearlingtogether;
   and a little child will lead them.
The cow will feed with the bear,
   their young will lie down together,
   and the lion will eat straw like the ox.
The infant will play near the hole of the cobra,
   and the young child put his hand into the viper’s nest.
They will neither harm nor destroy
   on all my holy mountain,
for the earth will be full of the knowledge of the LORD
   as the waters cover the sea.

Sundries

2011-11-24T10:34:00.000-06:00

I happened to look out the kitchen window last week and this is what I saw.

He passed about 20 feet from where I sat snapping pictures. Eat your heart out, hunters.

Just following the directions on my shirt, Mom!

Grandma brought with her this scarf/hat/mittens set I'd knitted when I was in third grade. Sistah had fun trying it all on.

Sistah's preschool had some fun homework: disguise Tom Turkey so no one could find him and eat him for Thanksgiving. We decked ours out as a hunter (as my friend Sandi, said, "Sometimes the best defense is a good offense!) Other families were very creative as well. Their turkeys came back to school dressed as farmers, firemen, baseball and football players, princess, and even a peacock (that one was very convincing.) Each bird had a card next to it with the name of its disguise. My hands-down favorite was the turkey wearing pearls and a sweater seat. Its card read, "Grandma."

Baby Bro doing what he does best.

Old pictures from Halloween. Sistah was a birdwatcher, N-boy was a fireman again because that is the costume I found in the closet, and Baby Bro was a construction worker.

Why is Bro looking so mischievous?

Because he's sitting on the dog. Who doesn't really seem to mind. . .

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Grandparent Visit

2011-11-19T16:35:00.001-06:00

We had such a lovely time with my mom and dad the other weekend. They drove all the way to Illinois from Pennsylvania, bringing books, glow sticks, chocolate, and projects for the kids to do. While they were here, they read to them, baked cookies and played hedge apple soccer and softball, oversaw tree climbing and organized treasure hunts. We are incredibly blessed to have such wonderful parents/grandparents in our lives.

Today is my precious dad's 65th birthday. Happy Birthday, Dad! We're thanking the Lord for you and for the life he has given you.

My Morng Skegl (By N-boy)

2011-11-19T15:58:00.001-06:00

I'm hoping this helps make "morngs" a little easier. I'm tired of nagging.

In Praise of Story

2011-11-15T21:22:00.000-06:00

What is it about stories?

Stories stimulate memory. In graduate school I had difficulty retaining abstract concepts, but I never forgot a good story.

Stories bind us together. Long ago some girlfriends and I decided to make every hassle into a drama to be recounted over coffee (or bubble tea, as the case was then.) Since that time I've been privileged to share many a laugh over shared troubles. Stories say: you're not alone. My kid wets his pants in public, too.

Stories transcend time. Recently a dear friend ditched a work meeting to come to the Cancer Center and regale me with side-splitting tales of her adolescent dog while I sat through an infusion. The hours passed like seconds.

Stories dispel fear. My husband's wacky yarns about life in South America staved off panic in a tiny plane over the foggy mountains near Oaxaca. So did the narrative of a kindly nurse whose young son misspelled six. With an "e."

Stories open our hearts. Through them we enter the life of another and find that it links to our own. Differences disappear. I touch the soul of another and discover that it is similar to mine. I can relate to a pioneer in the American West, a lame boy in medieval England, a woman in China, a man from the Amazon.

Stories hold history. My siblings and I are undertaking an oral history of our parents' lives, using question ideas provided by NPR's StoryCorps. This past weekend I had the privilege of recording some narratives of my parents' growing up years. It was an unusual chance to listen at length, to really listen without the pressure of response, to cup my mind like a hand for the spilling story and drink it in. (By the way, November 25 is National Day of Listening. Check it out.)

In stories we discover ourselves, replete with foibles and failings as well as generous impulses. But it is a discovery in the context of something larger: the human family. Bigger and better yet, the Divine narrative--God's redemptive story, the drama of his love and grace. The story that reminds us of who he is, that binds us to him, that transcends time, dispels fear, opens our hearts, holds history. All of it, and all our stories.

Fudge, Fasts, and Feasts

2011-11-14T21:55:00.001-06:00

[God says,] "Shout! A full-throated shout! Hold nothing back—a trumpet-blast shout!
Tell my people what's wrong with their lives,
   face my family Jacob with their sins!
They're busy, busy, busy at worship,
   and love studying all about me.
To all appearances they're a nation of right-living people—
   law-abiding, God-honoring.
They ask me, 'What's the right thing to do?'
   and love having me on their side.
But they also complain,
   'Why do we fast and you don't look our way?
   Why do we humble ourselves and you don't even notice?' . . .

"Do you think this is the kind of fast day I'm after:
   a day to show off humility?
To put on a pious long face
   and parade around solemnly in black?
Do you call that fasting,
   a fast day that I, God, would like?

"This is the kind of fast day I'm after:
   to break the chains of injustice,
   get rid of exploitation in the workplace,
   free the oppressed,
   cancel debts.

What I'm interested in seeing you do is:
   sharing your food with the hungry,
   inviting the homeless poor into your homes,
   putting clothes on the shivering ill-clad,
   being available to your own families. . . (Isaiah 58:1-8, The Message)

Today, as I fasted, I was thinking about fudge. The kind made and sold by a lady at my church to raise money to adopt a special-needs little girl from China.

I was fasting, but thinking about feasting. The feast days of Thanksgiving and Christmas are coming soon, days when we indulge in rich foods and shower each other with gifts. I'm wondering, could my feasting this year involve a bit of the kind of fasting that God is interested in? I can choose give gifts that will benefit not only the recipient of the gift, but someone in need as well. Admittedly, it's a small beginning, but I can start by ordering some fudge. . .

So many people in this world fast by necessity from food, clothes, education, even love. Could we extend our feasting to include them? By fasting a bit?

Places to get started:

Compassion International

147 Million Orphans

Heifer International

International Justice Mission
Samaritan's Purse

Children of the Nations

World Vision

Autumn Gifts

2011-10-30T15:20:00.002-05:00

On a windy, chilly day that is a portent of colder weather to come, I'd like to share some photos of the warmer gifts of the season.

Children are a gift from the Lord. . . Psalm 127:3

Honestly Complex

2011-10-30T14:07:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago, I was explaining to my dear friend SM the pressure I feel (mostly from my own self) to move beyond breast cancer, to forget it all and leave the whole thing behind. Her reply was,"But you can't. It will always be part of you."

Rather than paper over the complexities of my experience with the hackneyed label "survivor," my friend dared, with rare but welcome candor, to acknowledge the fact that breast cancer is something that will always live in my consciousness and experience, woven inextricably into the fabric of the way I view life. She understood: it's never over.

We want simple answers: prevention, awareness, and most of all, cure. Too bad the first and last of that trio simply do not exist. And the middle one is often so muddled as to fail to live up to its name. It's tempting to skirt difficult realities by skewing vocabulary toward the feel-good, but the resulting half-truths are not a viable place to begin to make real headway against the killer disease that is breast cancer.

Is there really any way to "prevent" breast cancer?
Do mammograms do a very effective job of detecting breast cancer?
Does early detection determine prognosis?
Has there been progress in treatments for metastatic disease?
Is breast cancer ever truly "cured"?
Instead of bypassing much-needed clarity and clouding crucial issues with marketing slogans, could we start calling complexity complexity? (Unfortunately, the short answer to each of the preceding questions seems to be, so far, "no." It's more complicated than we've been led to believe.)

For a bit more reading on this topic, check out AnneMarie Ciccarella's guest post "Survival" and "Cure" Are NOT Interchangeable Words on Gail Sulik's 30 Days of Breast Cancer Awareness. She takes on a few of the intricacies of terms that are often used carelessly. An opportunity to to take a hard look into the often overly-simplistic lingo of the pink ribbon movement.

Indiana Dunes

2011-10-16T21:40:00.001-05:00

Last week the kids had fall break, and we took advantage of the two days off from school to visit the Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore. (We'd never been.)

What a treat! The weather could not have been more gorgeous: sunny, calm, 80 degrees. We did nothing for three days but explore various beaches and hike up some of the giant sand dunes. We collected rocks and shells and created architectural wonders in sand. The kids loved it.

When Baby Bro arrived at West Beach (the first one we went to), he could barely contain himself. Didn't know what to do first--throw rocks? Grab handfuls of sand? Walk in the water? Watch the seagulls? He noodled up and down the beach with one of his parents following at a safe distance. (As Hubby says, "Baby Bro doesn't hold hands.") As he padded by a couple relaxing on beach chairs, I heard the man say enviously, "He doesn't have a care in the world." He was right. Baby Bro was as sandy, wet, and as completely happy as a little clam.

And for those three days, so were the rest of us.

Bro Talk

2011-10-12T21:50:00.000-05:00

The pediatrician was spot on: she said that after Baby Bro learned to walk without having to think about it, he would start talking. Now that he has turned his attention to vocabulary-building, seemingly overnight he has made large strides (pun intended) in that area.

His favorite word used to be "owwww." It's still a close runner-up to the newest addition to his repertoire. Can you guess? It's "no." He says it with perfect diction and hearing that come out of his baby mouth just makes me laugh. Of course it will probably be funny only the first 5 times. The next twenty million, not so much.

This unfortunate first is slightly offset by two other new skills. Baby Bro now nods his head for an affirmative answer. AND signs "please," which pretty much gets him anything he happens to want. It only looks cute when he's doing it, so don't anyone else get any ideas.

Other words: cook, splash, frog, car, hot, brr, hello, bye (complete with waves), dog, boots, and apple, along with all kinds of animal and machinery sounds. The fun thing is that he sometimes puts sounds, signs, and words together to make entire ideas. Like when we were watching a tractor that drove out of sight and he shook his head "no," made his growling tractor sound, then waved goodbye: he was telling me he couldn't see the tractor anymore; it had gone away.

Hodge Podge Post

2011-10-12T21:34:00.000-05:00

Taking advantage of a bare spot underneath the swing to made a glorious mudhole.

An evening around the table

Afternoon in the apple orchard

Zinnia Leis

2011-10-12T21:19:00.000-05:00

I'd never made leis with zinnias before (perhaps it's never been done!) but when my little Hawaii-loving Sistah wanted to make leis in late September in central Illinois, I had to get creative.

N-boy, not to be left out of the fun when he arrived home from school, used the rest of the flowers to make a haku lei. Then they got out their Hawaii clothes (I think N-boy is supposed to be King Kamehameha.) Think they are getting excited for December?

Tea Party

2011-10-12T21:05:00.000-05:00

So much more peaceful than the politics of the same name. . .

From Sept. 27, 2011

Starting Again/An Autumn Walk

2011-10-12T20:56:00.003-05:00

(With apologies to the Apostle Paul)--Throwing off the long silences that hinder and the embarrassing typos that so easily entangle, I'm going to write with perseverance the blog marked out for me. . .fixing my eyes on Jesus.

For starters, a few photos from my friend and neighbor D's prairie two weeks ago. We laughed, chased monarch butterflies, looked for tiny frogs in the pond, got covered with burrs, and in general had a lovely walk.

Pink Ribbon?

2011-10-01T16:47:00.001-05:00

I'm pretty much a sub-activist. No, that's not accurate. I'm a non-activist, to my shame. Lots of ideals, little action. Thankfully there are some people out there who actually do something to further good causes. Like write, for example.

One of those women is Gail Sulik, author of Pink Ribbon Blues. In honor of the first day of the month set aside to promote breast cancer awareness (with a lot of pink hype and too few tangible results, IMO), I'd like to highlight her upcoming series of posts about breast cancer and true awareness of the issues surrounding this illness. Wanna see what's going on behind the pastel ribbons everywhere? Check out her blog, "But Doctor. . .I Hate Pink!"

Maybe one day I'll roll up my sleeves and accomplish something for the cause. Until then, I'm very happy to applaud those already doing just that.

Love that laundry

2011-09-26T16:13:00.000-05:00

After two weeks of iron-brown water and the seemingly unending saga entitled "Trouble with Water Softeners," the liquid coming from the tap is once again clear. Hallelujah. Thanks to a huge new filter/treatment system installed downstairs, I am once again washing everything that is not affixed to the floor or walls--without fear of staining it all orange. (Thank you to four friends who let me do loads of light-colored clothes at their houses!) What a blessing to have pure water. Let me not take it for granted...

Two-dash-two

2011-09-26T10:55:00.000-05:00

Most of the time I'm no longer surprised by anything N-boy says. Sunday morning before church as I was making pancakes, I heard, "Mom, I need a wire cutters." He was making an airplane out of some paper clips.

"OK." I called back. He'd find a pair.

And sure enough, a discussion ensued with Hubby about the location of the needle-nose pliers with the wire cutters. (N-boy eventually produced them from the top bunk, his storehouse of all things precious.) It was then that I heard it. Hubby asked N-boy how big the wire was and N-boy answered casually, "Two-dash-two, I think."

I gave an inward start. What was he talking about? Until now, even if I couldn't answer his questions as technically as he'd like, at least I had some inkling of the ins and outs of the topic.

Not any more.

This particular junket into engineering land started about a month ago when N-boy began jerry-rigging circuitry out of an old flash-light bulb, some wire from a straightened pen spring, and a 9-volt battery. He used the hot-glue gun to hold it all together, and though he would get a spark every once in a while, he could never get the bulb to light up. (Surprise, surprise.)

So last week Hubby took him to the hobby store where he got a very fun electricity kit. The two of them worked through all the activities together and then N-boy spent several more hours creating his own configurations with leads and buzzers and LEDs and little electric motors. The kid was so excited he couldn't sleep that night.

There was only one problem. Hubby had bought another kit which required a soldering iron (he didn't realize it at the time.) So this weekend was spent acquiring one and learning how to use it. Miraculously, no one got burned.

I'm happy N-boy loves doing these things. I just wish he also liked school.

Art Project: Stained Granite

2011-09-11T15:52:00.002-05:00

For this easy project, you will need:

--Granite. Preferably granite that makes up the countertop of a recently-remodeled bathroom. Even the pre-cut kind from your local big box hardware store will do.

--Watercolor paint. Not the dry Crayola kind. The kind that comes in little bottles and says "nontoxic" but NOT "washable."

--Paper.

--Two creative and enterprising kids who aren't afraid to make a mess in the pursuit of artistic accomplishment.

--One scatterbrained mom.

***No paintbrushes necessary!**

For best results, mix the first four ingredients and leave them alone in the bathroom for quite some time. When the kids call for the last ingredient, be sure to admire their artwork, including the beautifully bright stripes of paint in the sink. Take pictures. Do not clean up. The red and blue splatters should be nicely set in the stone after only a few hours.

If, for some reason, you decide that you like the original state of the granite countertop better than the enhanced version, get a bleach pen and daub the thickened bleach goop on the spots. Allow it to dry before scrubbing it off with a wet cloth. Repeat 6-8 times.

Post #534: In which the Tooth Fairy misses a milestone

2011-09-09T16:15:00.004-05:00

Behold, N-boy's hole-crowned grin! I can't believe I have a kid who's lost a tooth! He bravely pulled it out on his own, too. Needless to say, Hubby and I were quick to tell him about the reward the Tooth Fairy would surely bring him if he would only put his tooth under his pillow that night.

I could see the skepticism on his face. This is a kid who knows Santa isn't real (sorry, Viriginia) and obviously has grave doubts about the veracity of fairy stories. But amusingly, I could also see that he wanted it to be true. So he decided to give this TF thing a whirl, even declaring that he wasn't going to sleep with his head on the pillow so she would be able to reach the tooth.

But the Tooth Fairy didn't show. The horrible truth is that she forgot. Forgot!

Before you cross her off your nomination list for Pixie of the Year, let me explain. N-boy often goes to sleep after she does. Oh, he's in bed all right, but the ol' TF can hear him talking to himself as she is drifting off to dreamland--I mean starting out on her nightly rounds. This makes it difficult to sneak into his room, let alone exchange a tooth for some filthy lucre.

And you already know what sleep does to the TF's memory. So in the morning N-boy didn't mention the tooth and she didn't remember until he was in the bathroom brushing the ones he has left. Ever resourceful in the face of calamity, she ran for her purse. Maybe N-boy had forgotten to check and she still had time to stuff some quarters under his pillow.

But before she could make the drop, the carpool arrived--early.

So the Tooth Fairy sent her son off to school with nothing.

Worse, when she went to his room with quarters in hand, she couldn't find the tooth. Anywhere.

After school when she asked N-boy if he had found the money, he told her there hadn't been any, and he had found the tooth under his bed. When I--I mean she--told him to look again and he found the quarters, he gave a half-smile (was it sad and knowing, or just my imagination?) and said, "Mom, I don't need this money. You can have it."

How could I have bungled this so badly?

Apparently N-boy had related the Fairy's failure to his buddy W at school, because later that day, W's mom (who lives in town) told me that the word on the 1st grade street was that the TF didn't make house calls in the country.

Maybe the Tooth Fairy just needs a GPS--and an assistant with more experience. After all, there are lots more teeth where that one came from, right?

Here's hoping that practice makes perfect. . . .

2011-09-09T11:19:00.004-05:00

Today I'm so thankful for the rain which is even now reviving our almost-dead plants, and for the energy to do all the many loads of laundry that need to be done. I never want to take that for granted.

Still cannot upload pictures successfully. I'm thinking of changing blog hosts. . .thanks for your patience.

Pick Up

2011-09-09T10:13:00.003-05:00

It was a dark and stormy night.

OK, well, yes, that was actually just for dramatic effect. For those of you more interested in, say, historical accuracy, it was a beautifully clear and sunny early fall afternoon. If you must know.

I was tired. The baby had not been sleeping well. I'd been getting up early to walk in the mornings. Now it was only 2 pm. There was certainly time for a little tiny nap. Especially since Baby Bro and Sistah were already taking theirs, though they never last long.

I'd just lie down for a wee bit of shuteye. . .

When I blearily opened my eyes, out of habit I glanced at the clock. 3:40. What?? That could NOT be right.

But upon hustling into the kitchen, I found that the clock on the stove was somberly displaying the same ominous time. A time that, even to my densely-fogged brain, meant that I was almost half an hour late in picking up my son and his friend from school.

I panicked in slow motion. Called the mom I carpool with. "Um, K? I just woke up."
"Don't be stressed. I'll call the school."
Thank goodness someone was awake. I knew there was something like that that which should be done.

Somehow I ferried my other sleeping babies downstairs and into the car, then started up the road, still feeling as though I were driving underwater. My dear friend and neighbor D passed me and waved and all I could think was, "Who is that person?"

In the school parking lot, another conundrum. Where would the kids be? Should I pull up in front of the building or park and walk in? How much would they charge me for 30 minutes of after-school care?

But wait. Some sainted and smiling person was walking toward me with two small boys in tow. It was none other than the school secretary, who had personally watched over them so I wouldn't have to pay the after-school service. I will love her forever.

And I will never take another nap.

Check back for more scatterbrained mom stories. This week has been a treasure trove of inspiration.

Colossians in a Year

2011-09-01T16:10:00.002-05:00

Is anyone attempting this memorization challenge? Or want to? I've recently started and would love some company.

2011-08-28T09:51:00.004-05:00

Yesterday we arrived home from a wonderful week in which the kids played nonstop with Grandma and Grandpa C: skipping stones at the creek, fixing toilet valves, having tea parties, sewing by hand and on Grandma's machine, playing with cousins, making little machines out of the treasures on Grandpa's workbench, and, of course, feeding the chickens.

This was Baby Bro's favorite activity. Well, either that or catching bugs. He is enthralled by insects--crickets, ants, stinkbugs, cicadas, grasshoppers, butterflies, moths, bees--and tries, with surprising success, to catch them all. While shouting "Buh, buh!"

He was also entranced by his baby cousin H, and seemed to think that she belonged to him personally. By golly, he had never seen such a fascinating little person in his life and he spared no effort in putting as little space as he could between her and himself. If she left the room he would sign "more" until she came back. And heaven forbid she should cry!

~I'm sorry I can't post pictures; for some reason when I try to upload them to my blog, they show up "garbled," with lines through them and sections of odd color. Started having this difficulty last week. If anyone has any advice, I'm all ears.~

2011-08-18T21:50:00.001-05:00

BABY BRO IS WALKING!!!

Yes, SM, I know I was just sighing to you a few hours ago that he had no interest in even practicing.

And right after dinner, N-boy remarked that he thought Baby Bro would be three years old before he began to walk.

Literally a few minutes later, a movement caught my eye. I half-turned, only to see Baby Bro staggering across the kitchen floor, brandishing his precious plastic sword and grinning from ear to ear.

Birthday Gifts

2011-08-16T08:26:00.000-05:00

I didn't think my resurrection lilies were going to come up this year. But they finally did!

Hubby kept the home fires burning (and put some out, too, I'm sure, knowing our kids!) while I spent the weekend in Madison, WI with my friend D. I'd never been there before, but it was great. Madison is a fun, walkable city on twin lakes. It's got funky, cool neighborhoods with lots of trees and personality, public bike stations and bike trails galore, live music, lots of unique restaurants, a big university, and a huge and wonderful farmer's market. Seems like a great place to live--the Portland of the Midwest.

Best of all, when I got home, I found all my favorite people waiting for me with a "Happy Birthday" banner, a Queen[ie] chair, Latin dance music, and Hubby's homemade salsa. We spent a lovely evening just hanging out in the back yard.

Food

2011-08-15T08:11:00.001-05:00

Doncha just love my oh-so-clever post titles?

Latest infatuation: Almond milk. Only 40 calories per rich, creamy cup. Good on its own, in coffee, over cereal. Next I'm going to try the chocolate kind.

Rekindled romance: Nutella.

New favorite Destihl entree: Grilled Swordfish tacos (corn tortillas, grilled chimichurri marinated swordfish, cumin lime slaw, avocado mousse, pickled red onions, chili salted lime, ancho rice & beans). Yum.

Recent successful garden produce-processing technique: Slow-cooker spaghetti sauce. A full 7-quart pot of fresh tomatoes only makes 2 and 1/2 quarts of sauce, but it's easy and tasty. I freeze it in ziplock bags so it will be ready to thaw on a winter evening and serve over pasta.

Best salad ever: Baby greens with walnuts, dried cherries, grated parmesan (real, not fake), and a very light balsamic dressing.

Splurge: Two quarts of Door County, Wisconsin sour cherries for a pie.

No, I don't have pictures of any of these delights. But I do have photos of a zesty and flavorful package that arrived in the mail. (OK, the package was cardboard. But the contents were, indeed, flavorful. And zesty.)

Notice a theme here? My friend N, who is without a doubt one of the most thoughtful and creative gift-givers I know, teamed up with my friend Y to send me a hot 'n' spicy present. (Hmmm. . .were they thinking that like deserves like? Or that I need some help in the hot 'n' spicy department? {teasing grin} Either way, I got a box full of stuff I love! Thank you, ladies!!!)

If some of the items look like they are just wrappers, well, they are. N-boy ate most of the Texas fire balls single-handedly, and I admit to polishing off almost all the chocolate already. The Tajin chili and lime powder arrived just in time. My previous bottle was getting very low since N-boy discovered how tasty it is on just about everything.

This was on the back of the fire ball box:

Can you guess where N lives?

Summer Adventures

2011-08-09T14:33:00.000-05:00

I can't believe the summer is almost over. It's already time for school supplies and new shoes. At least, in addition to our family travel adventures, we've managed to have some good adventures right here at home. Among them (in no particular order). . . .

Reading Books

Catching Grasshoppers in the Garden

Making a Rock Museum

Washing the Dog

Watching Fireworks

Doing Chemistry Experiments

Eventually, someone (usually Sistah or me) gets tired. . .I guess there's something to be said for welcoming back more routine, less adventurous seasons.

Grandma Post

2011-08-06T22:00:00.000-05:00

Only a grandma would want to read this much about a baby, but here goes.

To borrow a phrase from my long-time friend Tink, there's just no end to how cute Baby Bro is. I've always said that the age between 1 and 2 years is my favorite time, if only because toddlers are so adorable: half baby, half kid. Well, maybe more like 95% baby, 5% kid.

So what is this baby-kid up to?

Words. He makes animal noises like "quack, quack" and "moo," and says book, car, ball, cracker, bath, go-go-go. . .and lots of his own special words. Including "beh," which apparently means "more." This utterance is usually delivered at full volume, denoting the incredible urgency of the matter, and is accompanied by an insistent point or a frantic "more" sign. The latter is also of his own invention: he pokes his right index finger against his left palm.

Laughing. Is there any better sound? I don't think so. Thankfully Baby Bro makes it often.

Teeth. As if lots weren't enough, he's getting two more: his upper canines.

Antics. Baby Bro likes to imitate "grown-up" actions. He holds the phone up to his ear and pretends to talk on it. Yesterday I dropped a piece of carrot on the floor and he picked it up and threw it in the trash. Speaking of throwing, anything and everything is a missile to him--and he's got a good arm. He can be dangerous; he is very willing to bite or claw you if he thinks you are standing between him and what he wants. And most likely you are.

For example, I discovered that he can move the step stool around and use it to climb. How do I know? I found him standing on it by the stove (thankfully off), trying to stir a pot of water (thankfully cool) with a wooden spoon. The step stool is now in exile.

Baby Bro loves animals. We went to the county fair and he could not believe his eyes--the cows and ducks and bunnies and sheep and pigs from his picture books all come to life! He looked and looked and looked. He was so exhausted that he fell asleep on the walk back to the car.

Mess. Any container is meant to be dumped, any drawer or cupboard emptied. Paper is meant to be ripped up. Toilets are meant to be dabbled in. Guess he's a normal 14-and-a-half-month-old.

Movement. A few days ago I caught him in the act of standing up from a sitting position. He looked straight at me and smiled. And then sat down. But over the course of the week he stood more and more. It became a game. He'd put his hands in the air and we'd all cheer. The other night he did it over and over on the wide, bouncy playground of our bed, to the accolades of his family. I was convinced, though, that this all meant nothing. To him it was only a party trick.

Tonight, as I was reading to the older kids, he repeated his performance. With a twist: he started taking a few steps.

Yep, that's right. Walking. Walking! One day I'm sure he will see it as a way to get from point A to point B. For now, though, it's just another party trick.

Taking on the creek.

And N-boy's ice cream cone.

Hugs for Sistah.

The wonders of water.

Standing!

Baby Bro excels at swordplay.

And at being cute.

Garden

2011-08-05T07:38:00.000-05:00

I don't even have any business writing about the garden, since Hubby has done by far the lion's share of the work there this spring/summer. Nevertheless, here's a little update about a place we spend a lot of our time and thought.

Gladiolas: First time planting these! The bulbs endured 10 months in my fridge in a plastic baggie and still managed to produce flowers. Don't know if I'll actually take the time to dig them up again like I'm supposed to.

Racoons: Ate all our sweet corn. Trapped two. Still lots more out there.

Carrots: Loved sinking their long purple, white, yellow and orange toes deep into the loose black soil of Hubby's raised beds. We've got a bumper crop. My friend Loretta says the pair below reminds her of Baby Bro and me (he's never happier than when I'm carrying him.)

Edamame: Hubby picked, blanched, and froze these all himself.

Salsa: 20 pints so far (Great recipe from Simply in Season--thanks, Mari!)

Raspberries: First season, but we still had enough to snack on

Asparagus

Tomatoes, counter clockwise: Kellogg Breakfast, Fourth of July, Brandywine, Black Pearl cherry, Mister Stripey, Green Zebra, Cherokee Purple

Dill for pickles

Work

2011-08-03T09:03:00.001-05:00

This summer we've had some wonderful opportunities to visit with family and friends (Check out these fun photos from our recent time in PA.) Due to our busy schedule though, I've felt like we've had very little routine time at home.

So. This week I decided that with school looming on the calendar's horizon, my kids needed to learn to Work In The Garden.

Never mind that it was 92 degrees in the shade and the air was pea-soupy with humidity. We were going to pick those tomatoes and harvest the carrots.

It took us two days. N-boy mostly paced around and talked about how hot it was. He was melting. He couldn't wait for a breeze. He needed shade. He was done! After being repeatedly enjoined to DO something, he eventually managed to put in his bowl a handful of cherry tomatoes (the first day) and a few carrots (day two.)

Sistah resisted more passively. She just stayed in the house, "getting on her shoes." The whole time. The second day when she reported for duty just as we were carrying the buckets of carrots up to the house (the other half of them, by the way, are still in the ground in the garden), I informed her that she was still required to go and pick some carrots even though the rest of us were finished. She wasn't exactly thrilled at the prospect.

Through all this, Baby Bro's happiness was undimmed. He got to crawl around in his beloved outdoors, cover himself with grime, investigate compost, and divest the raspberry canes of every fruit from ripe to entirely green. Then, even though he had to go inside, he got to take a "ba!"

We'll see what kind of work remediation program I am up for today. There are still two buckets of carrots waiting in the kitchen. . .

Monster

2011-07-15T06:54:00.001-05:00

It takes me by complete surprise this week: a double-headed monster of anger and envy rising from the depths of my heart. Overwhelmed by its claws and hot breath, I sink down into the mud of self-pity, all the while shouting "Why? Why?" at the heavens.

Why do I have to suffer? Why did I have to lose a year to cancer? Why do I have to live haunted by sobering survival statistics?

But it doesn't end there. I look at other women, women with two breasts, organizational skills, successful writing careers, elegant wardrobes, easy pregnancies, toned bodies, self-confidence. Women whose kids sleep and pick up their toys. Homeschool moms. Those with family living nearby.

I grow even more angry and envious: Why is my life the way it is? Why have you made me like this, God?

Rebellion is the name of the monster.

Fight it for me, O Lord, because weapons of my own strength are useless. Only you can overpower the ugliness in my heart. Only you can turn my sin of rebellion into grateful surrender to your loving sovereignty.

Only YOU, yourself, are the answer to all my questions.

. . .I almost lost my footing.
      My feet were slipping, and I was almost gone.
For I envied [others]
      when I saw them prosper. . .
They seem to live such painless lives;
      their bodies are so healthy and strong.
They don’t have troubles like other people;
      they’re not plagued with problems like everyone else.

. . .Did I keep my heart pure for nothing?
      Did I keep myself innocent for no reason?
I get nothing but trouble all day long;
      every morning brings me pain.

. . .Then I went into your sanctuary, O God,
      and I finally understood. . .

Then I realized that my heart was bitter,
      and I was all torn up inside.
I was so foolish and ignorant—
      I must have seemed like a senseless animal to you.

Yet I still belong to you;
      you hold my right hand.
You guide me with your counsel,
      leading me to a glorious destiny.
Whom have I in heaven but you?
      I desire you more than anything on earth.

My health may fail, and my spirit may grow weak,
      but God remains the strength of my heart;
      he is mine forever.

--Excerpts from Psalm 73

Walking (Not)

2011-07-14T17:30:00.000-05:00

There was certainly no switching of babies in the hospital. Nope, Baby Bro is definitely part of the family. In addition to the big head and sibling resemblance, he's got the stubborn streak to prove it. (We won't say which side he's inherited it from.)

Maybe "stubborn" sounds too judgmental. Let's just say that he has strong opinions on many matters and that once he's made his mind up, there's no changing it.

Take, for example, the walking thing. Baby Bro is now quickly approaching 14 months, and he has no interest in walking. None. In fact, efforts to encourage upright forms of locomotion are met with outright resistance. Take his hands to help him practice and his formerly strong little knees become instant jello. Never mind that a moment ago he was cruising around the coffee table, his pudgy feet working just fine.

Crawling gets him all the places he needs to go as well as the ones he doesn't. He can get up and down the stairs on his own, climb furniture, and "go go go go" (his words) out the front door. He will walk when he is good and ready, thankyouverymuch, and not one nano-second before.

This drives his mother crazy.

Much as she loves her baby, she is in an agony of impatience to finish already with cribs, diapers, high chairs, bottles, large car seats. . .and crawling. What irony that this child is on his own timetable, one far different than those of her other kids, who walked at 10 and 12 months.

I guess this mama just has to let go of her hurry, because what else can she do but accept this stage, like all the other seasons of childrearing, as a gift?

Next: Every Moment

2011-07-01T09:01:00.001-05:00

Funny, isn't it? How God can turn every blind wandering into a dance of meaning, choreographing our faltering steps til we pause and see the beauty in what we thought was only aimless and accidental?

How my friend asks me to think about what God has for me. Next.

How in my startle at the thought of "next," I should see the way this year of cancer has shrunken my idealism, focused down my dreams of great service for God to contentment in serving a tiny group of four people and a dog who look to me for love and help and kindness and clothes and food every day, all day long.

How out of all the verses of Psalm 18 only one should pop out at me: For you save a humble people, but the haughty eyes you bring down. (v. 27).

How I should rediscover this series of posts from Lent 2009. God planting seeds.

How during prayer for God's guidance one phrase comes to me: every moment.

How Ann Voskamp's first question for this very day opens my heart and closes the circle, bringing the dance round to a glimpse of what God may be doing.

What grander ideal than constantly turning to the Lord in need, gratitude? What greater service than humility and obedience right here, right now?

What better dream of "next" than every moment belonging to God?

I don't know the steps, but I want to learn to dance.

***Just for a glimpse of how much tutoring I need, the day after I wrote this I was grouchy all day and it seemed to be more than I could manage not to speak to my children in tones of constant exasperation. Sistah said with a sigh, "This has turned into a fighty day, Mom. Don't you wish it could be peaceful?" Yes, honey, I sure do. I'll start again now. God help me. *****

Shopping and Chemistry

2011-06-28T16:20:00.000-05:00

The kids and I went to the store today and we all survived, if barely. For his portable chemistry lab, N-boy got Borax and Mentos. For swimming, Sistah got silver goggles. For being incredibly cute and clapping his hands and laughing and shouting, "Ba, ba, ba!" Baby Bro got the object of his glee, a ball as big as he is. For good behavior or maybe because she needed it, Mom got Lindt dark chocolate infused with chili pepper.

So, about the chem lab. N-boy wanted to make a science lab and after several days of negotiations about an appropriate site, he got a permit from the powers that be (me) to make a portable lab, with its chemicals and equipment housed in a cooler. Nothing makes him more excited than heading out to the back porch with his cooler, ready to mix vinegar, salt, bluing, baking soda, Borax, gravel, leaves, dirt, and whatever else he can think of and "see what happens."

We've also tried some more structured experiments, like putting Mentos into a bottle full of soda to watch the fizzy results. We made a density column out of various household liquids. And we'd like to try invisible ink, penny cleaning, and coffee filter chromatography too. It's all on the this fun list of chemistry projects. If we're ad libbing a bit more, I make everyone wear safety glasses and dish gloves, just in case.

N-boy and Cake

2011-06-26T21:25:00.000-05:00

I told N-boy he could cut himself a piece of cake. This is what I found when I came back later.

Also, he wants to build a chemistry lab in the house somewhere and stock it with chemicals, including water softener salt, vinegar, baking soda, and carpet cleaner. And he showed his sister how to ski down the basement stairs on a pair of curtain rods with curved ends.

Back Home (With a glance over my shoulder)

2011-06-19T21:43:00.000-05:00

Last night late we rolled in to our place here in flat, humid central Illinois. A far cry from the snowy Sierras, the marine mist of Monterey, the brilliant heat of the foothills.

I'm remembering the purseseiners catching crabs in the bay, the guillemots with their showy white wing patches and bright red feet nesting under the enormous pier platforms at the Aquarium, the giant pink octopus gliding sinuously across the glass of her tank regarding us with her intelligent eye, the smooth bat rays and tough leather stars in the touch pools, the common murre diving for his dinner in the kelp forest exhibit.

Speaking of dinner, we had Asian food galore--Thai, Japanese, Vietnamese . . .

And that was all before arriving at the H Resort and Spa, which I would recommend as a destination except that it's my sister-in-law's house and she probably has had her fill of visitors after our stay. We played with the cousins and lounged by their backyard pool for two whole days during which N-boy reached a major milestone: he learned to swim. No noodle. He was so proud!

Still, this is home. The garden is turgid with rain, the pea vines thick with sweet pods, the turnips gargantuan. We harvested the first potatoes and a large bag of broccoli--enough to eat some now and freeze some for later. Afterward we celebrated Father's Day with ice cream and a family water battle.

Here are the kids in the T-shirts we tie-dyed at Aunt N's house.

Notes from CA

2011-06-14T16:09:00.000-05:00

-N-boy catching a 3-pound trout off the pier at Tahoe

-Hiking around Spooner Lake under a blueblueblue sky

-The fragrant spice of sun-warmed pine needles as we throw snowballs at each other

-A flycatcher feeding her nestlings

-Chile and lime chips from a Central Valley gas station

-Baby Bro and N-boy wrestling on the bed of a very small hotel room

-Sea otters playing in the kelp in Monterey Bay

-Sushi with old friends

-Longing for my Sibley's Birds of North America as I watch unidentified seabirds skimming over the water

-Really, really needing to do laundry

-Sistah: (Commenting on something or other) Pohfect!
Papa R, with a chuckle and his usual understated humor: Well, can't beat that.

Bodega Head Postcard

2011-06-09T22:00:00.000-05:00

Along with Hubby's dad, we drove the winding roads of Sonoma County today, through the goldening valleys to the Pacific Ocean at Bodega Head. Cliffs painted with vegetation of various colors: ice plants, California poppies, daisies, and plenty of others whose names no one knew. Sun peeking through the daily marine layer of fog. Mussel shells. Pelagic cormorants, black oystercatchers, brown pelicans on fishing mission sailing majestically by in formation. Kids delighting in tide pools where a sea anemone grabbed the kelp they fed it.

And me, so incredibly grateful to have the health and strength not only to be there, but to carry my baby on my back, climb rocks, hike paths, chase waves. . .

Picante Pina Colada Pops

2011-06-03T16:52:00.002-05:00

To make these creamy, cold, salty, spicy treats, you will need:

1 can crushed pineapple
1 can coconut milk ("light" is ok)
juice of a lime
a dash of salt

Put it in the blender for a minute, the pour into popsicle molds. Freeze.

Now here's the secret for going from pretty good to divine:

You'll have to ask my sister where to buy it since she gave it to me as a present. BTW, I heartily disagree with the disclaimer on the lid.

Now, sprinkle some of the secret on a plate or in a bowl and dip the end of the frozen pop in it before taking a bite. Like this.

Gluten free, Cori. Highly addicting. Do not try to photograph these right before dinner (while you should be making dinner.) See?

Cancer Survivors Week

2011-06-02T08:53:00.001-05:00

Maybe I was grouchy because I had to spend a glorious June day in a room full of grey plastic recliners and closed-caption TVs, hooked up to an IV (receiving a drug that could save my life in a place where mostly kind people have, indeed, already saved my life. But still.) Or maybe it was PMS.

Whatever the reason, I was quite irritated yesterday by the sight of a giant banner hanging across the entrance to the Cancer Center commanding "Celebrate Cancer Survivors Week."

Don't get me wrong: I'm very glad to be alive. But what, exactly, are we celebrating here? The fact that we have cancer? Uh, not an occasion for free fruit and donuts, IMO.

If we're celebrating that we, through no virtue or skill of our own, are the ones who are still alive, what does this imply about those who have died from cancer? Sorry--you died. No party for you. I mean, really.

Snarkiness aside (or not), here in a nutshell is what bothers me about admittedly well-intentioned events such as Cancer Survivors Week:

Too much "awareness" hype clouds the real issues of cancer. There is nothing glamorous or admirable about having it. Those who get it are not extra-brave. We're just people. And we have no control over this ugly illness' onset, remission, or recurrence, let alone our own survival. Personally, I'd like to be feted for something more meaningful than pulling an unlucky (or lucky) health number.

So please, take the money spent on complimentary tickets to the baseball game and put it toward real research--with results. Skip the snacks and do the science. Banners and banquets are ok, but I'd much prefer the knowledge that there is actually an effective treatment for metastatic disease. Or the assurance that my kids will never be cancer survivors.

Because there won't be any cancer to survive.

Now that would be something to celebrate.

Baby Bro is 1

2011-05-22T17:14:00.003-05:00

One year old. A big milestone for him, for me, for our family. I said to Hubby on May 20, Baby Bro's birthday, "I'm glad it's this year and not last year!"

Like his haircut? For some reason I decided I needed to trim it just in time for any important photos that might be taken to mark this anniversary. Yep, it's as crooked as it looks in the picture. There was so much wiggling and crying going on that I was relieved that both of us escaped unscathed by the scissors, if not emotional trauma.

Baby Bro's official nickname is "Mister Twister." Like his namesake, he's a phenomenon, quickly destroying the house, by clearing any reachable surface (nightstand, coffee table, even my desk!), emptying drawers, cupboards, boxes, or baskets, strewing the floor with toys, uprooting plants, ripping up paper, sucking up water from the bathtub, ingesting dirt, flushing toilets, reprogramming smartphones.

Unlike his namesake, he does it all with such good nature that it is really hard to be upset. Plus his knees are so deliciously plump.

Baby Bro's unofficial nickname is "Angry Bird," after the phone game, because he's round, bouncy, and squawks his disapproval loudly. And he demolishes things.

The other evening around 9 pm, it had apparently been quiet a bit too long, because Hubby suddenly asked, "Where's Baby Bro?" We found him halfway out the front door. Just going for a little stroll, I guess. Maybe he was looking for his favorite place, the sandbox, in order to enjoy a bedtime snack of its contents.

What can I say? Look out, year two: here comes Baby Bro.

Rowing

2011-05-17T17:12:00.002-05:00

I learned a new verb: to row. And no, in central Illinois that has nothing to do with picking up an oar and pulling for the shore. Especially since there is no shore anywhere to be found around here. Rowing is a farmer's term for looking down the furrow of a field at that first moment when the precious little sprouts of a crop are sticking up through the ground and seeing them standing, tiny and green, in a row. As my neighbor, one of the few farmers who planted early, told me, "If it snows on Sunday, I'll be able to row my corn real well."

Which brings me to the weather. Less than a week ago we had two 90-degree days in a row. This morning there was frost on the ground. Thankfully we were able to save our tomatoes, peppers, and several rows of green and soy beans by covering them with buckets, old sheets and T-shirts the evening before. I've become somewhat accustomed to the vagaries of climate here, but I don't think I'll ever be appreciative. Though it would probably be good to try.

This weekend, though, it was hard. Two days of cold gloom and rain. What better time to take a nap? I didn't resist the urge to do so. Of course just as I lay my tired self down on the bed, N-boy announced, "Mom, I'm hungry! I want popcorn." I mumbled something about the whereabouts of the popcorn and the function of the popcorn button on the microwave. The last thing I heard as I drifted off to sleep was the sound of kernels popping.

Next thing I knew, there was N-boy's voice again: "Mom! Mom!!! Sistah's got a monster truck stuck in her hair. I rolled over and opened my eyes. Sure enough, there was Sistah wearing a 6-inch off-road vehicle on her forehead like a phylactery. My oh-so-helpful response? "Go. Find. Dad." I think that's central Illinois for seeing one's daughter with a toy truck tangled in her bangs.

Painting

2011-05-15T16:32:00.000-05:00

Baby Bro and Friends

2011-05-15T16:19:00.000-05:00

Resolve

2011-05-04T12:22:00.002-05:00

Today a resolve took hold in my heart. It had started this morning when I listened again to the words of "Even Then":

So I put aside the masquerade
And admit that I am not okay
Which may not be the thing to say
But I'm not ashamed to need You more each day

Couldn't have said, let alone sung, it better.

Then I read Shannon's comment on my previous post. You must know: she is exactly one of those moms whom I regard as having it all together. I was so wrong, but not regarding her in particular. I was wrong because NONE of us have it all together. And pretending we do is just a form of pride. Why do we fall prey to a discouraging sense of failure, wasting time and energy comparing ourselves to other people, reaching for some impossible standard? God help us, friends: let's not do so any longer.

So I resolve, by God's grace:
To set my thoughts joyfully on the faithfulness of our Lord Jesus, not on my unstarted to-do list.
To view my house chores as opportunities to serve, not indicators of my success or failure as a person. To cultivate as my deepest desire glory and honor for Jesus, not for me.
To demonstrate honesty and humility that point people straight to Him.

And last but not least, to keep losing things--things like pride, selfishness, impatience, greed. Let them take their rightful place with the missing socks and library books.

2011-05-03T21:29:00.000-05:00

The kitchen floor is always crumb-y. Pieces of creative material (pencils, paper, legos, string, paintbrushes) are constantly strewn around the living room. Clutter multiplies on the counter. The toilets need to be scrubbed. There is a permanent pile of laundry to be done, no matter how many loads I've just washed, folded, and put away. Something in our household is always lost--a book or a shoe or a set of keys or a binkie or my energy to locate any of those things.

Worst of all is the nagging little voice in my head that is so hard to silence: Look at all those other energetic, organized moms. Their houses are neat and clean. They're homeschooling their kids. And doing lots of fun activities with them. And/or cloth diapering. Exercising. Memorizing scripture. Cooking fancy meals. Wearing cute clothes. And dressing their kids in them. What's YOUR problem?

Thankfully, my friend Sandi recently lent me her Nichole Nordeman CD. (I know, I know. Trading CD's is so quaint, so last century. It's just that I've never become buddies with my iPod. And it gets worse: I still have a flip phone. But I digress.) This morning on the way to yet another doctor's appointment, the words of Nichole's song "Even Then" rang in my ears en route to my heart. . .

When the expectations are too great
And the bar gets raised too high
I do my best with what I've got. . .
So thank you, Jesus,
Even when you see us just as we are
Fragile and frail and so far
From who we want to be
So thank You, Jesus
Even when the pieces are broken and small
Dreams shatter and scatter like the wind
Thank you, even then

Thank you, Jesus, for my weakness, my failure, my imperfections, the places (all of them!) in which I need you so badly. YOU are the one True Good in my life; everything else is just temporary.

Pics from Easter Weekend

2011-05-03T21:28:00.000-05:00

We had a lovely visit with my parents over Easter weekend. Mom and I saw warblers, Hubby found a huge deer antler, and Baby Bro discovered dandelions. Here are some pictures of our egg hunt. All the photos were taken by my Dad except for the eggs, the violet, and of course the one of him.

Baby Bro's Dirt Adventure (the first of many, I'm sure)

2011-04-26T14:59:00.000-05:00

Hmmm. . .what is it?

Dirt! I've heard of this. . .

Looks good. Wonder what it would taste like.

[Rats! I missed the split-second when he put it to his mouth.]

He had to ponder the sensation for a moment before making his decision. . .

Yuck! Get this stuff away from me!

Butter and Pie

2011-04-25T14:50:00.005-05:00

Generally speaking, I am pretty much a dud of a cook. What I make is mostly edible (just don't ask Sistah) but certainly not gourmet. And there always seems to be something that goes awry.

The butter, for instance.

Miss Laura Ingalls got the Little House Cookbook for Christmas and wanted to make butter. It took me a while to remember to get whipping cream (unfortunately not a staple at our house) and then even longer to find a good time to use it. Finally, though, I read the directions and poured the cream in a quart jar to start shaking it.

Miss Ingalls lasted about 3 minutes. Thankfully her brother stuck with me, because half an hour later we were still shaking that darn jar. And shaking. And shaking.

I grew cynical. Sure, sure: butter was really going to appear out of nothing. Riiiiight. In desperation I turned to Google and found this helpful site: "The important thing is to use cream at room temperature. The difference between doing this with cold cream and room temperature cream is the difference between an hour of churning and ten minutes." Oops. Wish the LH cookbook would have mentioned that.

We kept shaking the jar.

Forty-five minutes after the first shake, it suddenly arrived--a big chunk of pale yellow going ka-chunk, ka-chunk against the glass sides. Just like that!

Now, if I'd used this miraculous butter for the pie I'm going to tell you about, that would have been very cool. Extra foodie-like. But that's obviously someone else.

Not to worry--the apple-gruyere pie was fantastic despite my deficiencies in the kitchen. My friend Ruthie sent me the recipe as a compliment (apparently she thought I could recreate it.) Somehow I mostly did, with a little encouragement from dear Sonya, my epicurian friend who was visiting from Hawaii. If you like apple pie, you will LOVE this! Must try.

Tip #1. If you have leftover crust, make a little roll-up with some of the grated gruyere.
Tip #2. The lightly beaten egg does NOT get mixed in with the apple filling, though I can tell you that if for some reason you decide to go that route, it won't ruin the pie. Just don't ask me how I know, OK?

What I'm singing this Easter

2011-04-24T21:40:00.000-05:00

                      "In Christ alone my hope is found; He is my light, my strength, my song.
                This cornerstone, this solid ground, firm through the fiercest drought and storm. . ."

"There in the ground his body lay, Light of the world by darkness slain.

Then bursting forth, in glorious day, up from the grave he rose again!

And as he stands in victory, sin's curse has lost its grip on me.

For I am his, and he is mine, bought with the precious blood of Christ."

"No guilt in life, no fear in death: this is the power of Christ in me.

From life's first cry to final breath, Jesus commands my destiny.

No power of hell, no scheme of man can ever pluck me from his hand.

Til he returns or calls me home, here in the power of Christ I'll stand."

--Excerpts from "In Christ Alone" by Keith Getty and Stuart Townend

Spring

2011-04-12T14:31:00.000-05:00

Time for peas, toes, trees, sand, apricots, trowels, magnolias, daffodils. . .

Coloring Outside the Lines

2011-03-29T14:20:00.000-05:00

OK, OK. For you, JJ.

This is after much scrubbing. Trust me, the faint bruised-looking shadow was originally black.

I know, this last one is super-blurry. You try taking a photo of the back of your own neck.

More Hair

2011-03-29T10:13:00.001-05:00

A was right; it did look like spraying water or silver mist. Aka grey. So I dyed it. Dark brown. The hair itself looks ok; it's just the odd purple hairline I now have, the one that reaches almost to my eyebrows. And the dark violet shade of the back of my ears.

How on earth, at the age of 38, do I still manage to create this kind of teenage-style beauty fiasco?

At least I don't have to go anywhere until my Herceptin infusion tomorrow afternoon. Think there's a chance it will come off my skin by then?

Lessons in Gratitude

2011-03-29T08:55:00.004-05:00

It's snowing. The kitchen is buried in crusty dishes from last night's dinner. The laundry has followed the biblical injunction to be fruitful (growing mold counts, right?) and multiply despite my best efforts to stop it. Hubby has strep. Baby Bro and Sistah have ear infections. I have laryngitis. And we're late getting out the door. Again.

I need some reschooling in gratitude and sometimes kids are the best teachers.

In the car on the way to school I ask everyone to think of something they are thankful for. After some time spent gazing out the window, N-boy says simply, "Dirt." OK, I can see that, coming from a six-year-old who loves to dig and get filthy. But a few minutes later he adds, "Mom, do you know that soil supports all life on earth?"

I am brought up short. Looking around, I had seen only grimly empty fields, while N-boy had noticed--with appreciation--the basis of natural life.

(Sistah is more interested in imagining what we could eat if no plants could grow. At first she thinks only cheese, then candy. She is disappointed to find out that even those would not be extant without good old dirt.)

What other life-giving blessings do I miss that surround me in abundance, rich and wide--and completely taken for granted?

Many, evidently. Given the same thankfulness assignment, Sistah launches into a lyrical, whimsical, almost Walt Whitman-style recitation of all that is lovely, both seen and unseen:

"Sunshine and
bears and honey
and bumblebees
and shady trees;
birds and
riding in the car to school;
tall [prairie] grass and
buildings far, far in the distance. . .
But the thing I'm most thankful for
is the glory of the Spirit of God."

Amen.

Still smiling, I flick on NPR and am instantly mindful that neither my home nor my family have been destroyed by a tsunami or threatened by invisible radiation or civil war.

Hmm. Dishes and laundry and mild illnesses don't seem so bad anymore. I'm learning that they are the soil thankfulness can sprout from.

Spring Break 2011

2011-03-27T16:07:00.003-05:00

Just got back from vacation. I have the piles of laundry to prove it.

Looking for warmth, we headed south. After spending the night in Paducah, KY (yes, the folks there really do talk like that), we arrived in the Land Between the Lakes, a national forest half in KY and half in TN. It was 80 degrees and the redbuds were puffs of fuschia. Need I say more?

We cruised through the bison and elk preserve, stopped at the nature center for a planetarium show, and then went to The Homeplace, a living history museum of a 1850's farm. We watched some guys plowing a field (with Percherons), helped the lady of the house stoke the fire in the smoke house, explored the tobacco shed, and chased the shaggy Cotswal sheep and black- and white-striped Dominique chickens.

Nashville was fun, too. Highlights:
-Las Paletas (Rice rocks! Also loved the creamy lime and chocolate wasabi)
-our hotel's pool
-Cheekwood Botanical Gardens and Art Museum (if only it hadn't been so cold. . .or if the kids' mom had remembered to bring warm jackets. . .)
-the water table at the Adventure Science Center (entertaining but crowded)
-the waterfalls and tropical plants at the Garden Conservatory at the Opryland Hotel
-best of all, spending time with old friends whom we hadn't seen since we lived in Hawaii. Our kids played together like they'd known each other forever. What a sweet time. (Why didn't I think to take a picture?) Thanks for your hospitality, J&J!

We drove home through first thunder, lightening, and torrential rain, then through a snowstorm. Spring break was over, but we sure did have a great time.

Saint Baby

2011-03-27T15:07:00.000-05:00

I had heard rumors of babies like this, but I never really believed them. Urban legends of mellow babies who take naps and sleep through the night before their third birthday, even in a new place. Who eat pretty much anything, who ride in the car for hours without a fuss. Who smile at strangers and play independently so their mother can make dinner. Who go to the nursery at church, no screaming.

I'll tell you a secret if you promise not to hate me: I've got one of those. It's true. His name is Baby Bro.

Honestly, it's not as if I didn't pay my dues. Just think of the opposite of the above statements and you'll have a pretty good idea of why the early years of N-boy's life were so traumatic. For all of us.

But I've put those memories behind me because now for the first time I know why some people just love babies: they're cute and cuddly! They don't move much! They don't talk back! All they do is eat and sleep! (I used to say those things in a mocking voice, at least to myself. Now I actually mean them.)

The moral of this story? Don't trust any "expert" who promises a dream child in two weeks or less if you'll follow their advice (including buying their book.) Take it from me: your kid is born with personality in place. And there ain't nuthin' you can do about it.

More Gifts

2011-03-19T21:08:00.000-05:00

Gifts

2011-03-19T13:28:00.001-05:00

Champagne in hand-blown Japanese glasses for our Done-With-Radiation Celebration

Empty birdfeeder. . .full of morning light

Geraniums a-bloom in winter

Lilikoi (passionfruit) tendril

Shadows

Biscotti that arrives in the mail. In an unbroken glass jar. Homemade. Delicious. If you are a biscotti-maker, may I recommend this recipe? If you enjoy writing about food and family, may I recommend the blog the recipe is from?

Homegrown, home-canned apricots and grape juice from my sister in Virginia

A commemoration necklace of engraved sterling silver on a nylon cord that chubby baby hands can't break. Chosen with dear D and thanksgiving on a carefree spring evening: for new life, for love, for the beauty of everyday gifts.

2011-03-10T07:47:00.000-06:00

Trudge, trudge. Another dark grey day of rain. Another day of radiation (6 more to go--how can the number decrease so slowly?) My mind says, "In everything, give thanks." My heart says, "Lord, I could really use some sunshine here!"

A ray appears in my email inbox. D reminds me of the blessings of today: "Spring smells, red-winged blackbird calls, light jackets, mole holes covering the yard, muddy dog feet, an hour more of evening light - all this God gives as hope."

SM tells me she is going to loan me her chocolate pudding conditioner to see if I can tint my hair a bit less grey. Her little girl asks constantly if Baby Bro can come over to play.

Mom and Dad left this morning, but we had an extra day with them thanks to airline mechanical problems. And we still have Mom's homemade granola and a few pieces of chocolate "Crazy Cake" made from Great-Grandma's recipe. Not to mention wonderful memories of time together.

I managed to do something Lenten yesterday (talked to the kids about fasting and read them Is. 58). This morning Sistah is happy because she gets to go to her friend B's house and play. And I'm happy because my friend S is B's mom and I get to go to her house and talk.

No break in the weather outside, but the inner sun is peeking from behind the clouds. . .thank you, Lord.

SH

2011-03-07T15:44:00.010-06:00

Smart, funny, successful, tall, beautiful and sweet, sweet, sweet: that’s SH. Sure, it sounds like you would hate her, but trust me, it’s impossible. Her friendship is one of the best gifts God has given me in this year's journey.

We’ve been doing the radiation thing together. Seeing SH is the bright spot of my morning. We gossip, teen-style, in the locker room and compare war wounds like the veterans we are. Let me tell you, if you have to be in the cancer trenches, SH is the buddy you want beside you.

SH’s last day of radiation is today, Monday. I bought some champagne to bring for her, but, true to form, I couldn’t keep a secret and I told her about it last Friday. SH looked me in the eye and told me not to bring it.

“Why?” I asked, astonished.

“Let’s save it and celebrate together when you’re finished,” she replied. And then she said something that went straight to my heart (and evidently my eyes since they instantly filled up with tears): “I’m not done ‘til you’re done.”

That, folks, is what this sisterhood is all about.

Thank you note

2011-02-25T06:42:00.004-06:00

It's a morning of gift: the last (?) big snow of the season, a sky waking to pale blue and peach, the golden almost-half-moon crowning the white pine like a Christmas star.

I see that my hard-working husband has already shoveled our rather long driveway. And I grin as I remember traveling it with Sistah and Baby Bro during last week's false spring. Sistah with her suddenly-long legs still pedaling the little red tricycle, eschewing the big girl bike in the garage. Baby Bro in the wagon, jiggling along. For diversion I give him a small stick and a smooth (clean!) rock too big for him to choke on. With one in each hand, he examines the items with all grave intensity his fat baby jowls can muster, then decides that they might be useful for tooth practice.

So on down the lane in sun and warmish air, alternating: a bite of stick, a bite of rock. . . a bite of stick, a bite of rock. . . I notice that the stick is about half the length that it was originally. I refuse to worry about where that other half went.

Thank you, Lord. For snow and spring memories, for Fridays and friends to watch my precious kids while I'm at radiation, for your presence and peace.

Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts. . . . And be thankful. (Colossians 3:15)

Hair Not There

2011-02-22T14:13:00.000-06:00

Recently I stumbled across a post about hair problems from back when I didn't have a clue what hair problems were. A word to the wise: You don't know what you got til it's gone.

I mean, these days I even miss my nose hair. Seriously. Without it, there is nothing to stop nasal condensation from dripping straight to the ground with no warning, before I have even a second to grab for a tissue. Makes for some embarrassing moments.

Of which this is probably one.

Yeah. I'll end by sharing an all-too-appropriate quote I read:
"I'm not bald. I'm just taller than my hair." (Thom Sharpe)

Open Letter to Ann Voskamp

2011-02-14T11:09:00.003-06:00

What can I say, dear author Ann, except thank you? Your book One Thousand Gifts is a gift of love from God to me. I didn't want it to end. I hope it never ends.

I'm a 30-something mom of three small kids. I've dreamt all the common mom-dreams of helping my kids grow up. Then last July I found that my body harbored the stuff of the nightmare you recount in your book: cancer. And now I ponder almost every day the possibility of my more-imminent-than-I-thought death.

Nobody wants me say the word death, let alone discuss its reality with me. But you--you are willing to ask the hard questions aloud, the ones I so often wonder about in the privacy of my heart:

Where is grace bestowed when cancer gnaws and loneliness aches and nameless places in us soundlessly die, break off without reason, erode away. Were hides this joy of the Lord, this God who fills the earth with good things, and how do I fully live when life is full of hurt? (12)

You look pain right in the eye and do not deny your human response, the wail that has so often torn my own throat,

"If it were up to me. . ." and then the words pound, desperate and hard, "I'd write the story differently." (20)

Your story assures me that another soul not too different from mine has sought honestly in the dark corners of faith for the missing pieces of the theological puzzle, pieces to fill the blanks, the hurting holes in the big picture.

It's fitting to thank God when something clearly beneficial happens, yes, but what is that theorem's corollary? Whom do we thank--or blame--when the patient isn't healed? When untimely death arrives? When the happy ending we hoped for does not occur, but its exact opposite? In your words,

What is good? What counts as grace? What is the heart of God?
Do I believe in a God who rouses Himself just now and then to spill a bit of benevolence on hemorrhaging humanity? A God who breaks through the carapace of this orb only now and then, surprises us with a spared hand, a reprieve from sickness, a good job and a nice house in the burbs--and then finds Himself again too impotent to deal with all I see as suffering and evil? A God of sporadic, random, splattering goodness. . .? (86)

Awareness of death spurs me to sift through the dust of my life, searching for jewels. Lately I've rubbed off the grime of one and another piece of stone just to find that it is only a crumbling chunk of sand. I'm looking for what is important, what will last.

All the time I am asking, What is the purpose of life? How do I live it, knowing that mine might be short?

And like a comforting echo (I'm not alone!), you voice that question, too: "How do we live fully so we are fully ready to die?" (29)

The glory of your book is that then, oh then! you share the answer God has taught you: the discipline of thanksgiving.

You call it eucharisteo, using the Greek term for its interlocking components of grace (charis) and joy (chara.) Little by little you unfold the narrative poem of your discovery of how a dare to thank God for one thousand specific gifts becomes the discipline of a life of giving thanks for everything. Everything!

And I see. At least a little. And I feel hope sprouting in me, hope that has nothing to do with my physical prognosis but everything to do with my eternal one.

Because the minute-by-minute practice of gratitude speaks to all my deepest questions about death AND life. My finite eye cannot trace out the intricacies of an infinitely big picture, so how can I decide which designs, which events are bad or good, blessing or curse? I can only trust the all-the-time, forever goodness and love of God who has created the big picture and who weaves the patterns and circumstances of my life. I can thank him for it all, knowing that he only and always gives grace.

It is dark suffering's umbilical cord that alone can untether new life. It is suffering that has the realest possibility to bear down and deliver grace. And grace that chooses to bear the cross of suffering overcomes that suffering.

And emptiness itself can birth the fullness of grace because in the emptiness we have the opportunity to turn to God, the only begetter of grace, and there find all the fullness of joy.

So God transfigures all the world? Darkness transfigures into light, bad transfigures into good, grief transfigures into grace, empty transfigures into full. God wastes nothing--"makes everything work out according to his plan" (Eph. 1:11) (97)

Each moment is a love-gift from God, even the difficult moments.

By humbly accepting each one with thanks, by recognizing its beauty even if it looks ugly to me, I can learn the unendingly generous heart of the Giver. As you say,

I've got to get this thing, what it means to trust, to gut-believe in the good touch of God toward me, because it's true: I can't fill with joy until I learn how to trust. . .(146)

Toward "getting this thing" I'm going to re-read, both your book and the scriptures you include. I will pray. I will practice thanksgiving. And I will find the joy that is hidden in every day because I know the God whose goodness puts it there. For me. Because he loves me.

Receiving his love and loving him back is the worthwhile, fulfilling, joyful purpose of any life, whether long or short.

So thank you, Ann. For sharing the poetry of what God has given you. For reminding me of Moses in the rocky hole, covered safely by the hand of God. "Dark is the holiest ground, the glory passing by." (156). Like Moses, I can only see it afterward. In the meantime, giving thanks helps me trust the God who holds me and fills me with joy.

40 Degrees

2011-02-12T22:11:00.000-06:00

Me (excitedly): It's 40 degrees!
N-boy: Where??
Me: Outside!
N-boy: That's shockful.

Babies

2011-02-12T14:33:00.000-06:00

You can't imagine how besotted I am about them. There are about 100,000 of the little darlings (and I'm pretty sure I counted right), not one of them more than a millimeter long. They're teeeeeeny tiny eyelashes, sprouting miraculously from my old-lady eyelids. You cannot imagine how tender and motherly I feel toward these miniscule hairs. I'm like a mother octopus, curled in my bathroom den, gently bathing my precious hatchlings in my loving gaze so they don't feel unappreciated, shrivel up, and fall out.

I know, it's weird. But I'm just really, really happy to have eyelashes, even if they are baby ones.

Afternoon Garden Walk

2011-02-10T21:28:00.000-06:00

Dude

2011-02-10T21:11:00.001-06:00

Almost 9 months. He gets up on his hands and knees and rocks back and forth, unsure what to do next. Crawling, here we come. I don't help him.

He can already belly-scoot backwards and get himself stuck under all kinds of furniture. He smells like cookies and candy and ice cream all wrapped up in one, or at least he must because I want to gobble him up. Round of cheek and large of head, he's got 6 teeth and he knows how to use them on food and family. After his tummy is full, he throws his Cheerios on the floor so Groff the dog can eat them, then leans over the side and says, "Ga."

He's my hand-clapping, music-loving Baby Bro with the infectious grin. Favorite toy: anything stick-like. Favorite word: "Dude."

Nice Blizzard

2011-02-03T19:44:00.000-06:00

Back when we were both young and carefree, sort of, my dear friend L and I shared a tiny little plantation house in Hawaii. We crammed a whole lot of friendship into a year-and-a-half of roommate-hood. One of our favorite stories is of the time shortly after I moved in when L breezed by my room door and, with a glance, took in the junk-strewn floor (I'm messy, ok?) Her voice dripped friendly sarcasm back over her shoulder: "Nice room." ("Sooooo meeeeeean!" I wailed in mock-hurt. . .)

I am sure that all of my friends in CA and HI took one look at the weather reports this past week and commented on their way out to surf: "Nice blizzard."

I've never experienced a storm quite like that: a real live Laura Ingalls whiteout. All afternoon on Tuesday, as the wind worked itself into a roar, whipping the snow in the air, on the ground, into a swirling fog, I kept looking out the window in amazement. We live sheltered in some small hills; what must it be like up on the moraine, as they say here, where the gales howl unimpeded across miles of empty space?

After a windy night, the snowstorm subsided, the sun came out. . .and the power went off. For 9 hours. I much prefer to experience authentic frontier prairie life with electricity, thank you very much. Hubby had gone to Iowa, that great mid-winter vacation destination. Thankfully C&D were here to help with lighting fires in both the wood and gas fireplaces (and everything else that needed to be done!)

We were snowed in under a deceptively flat blanket of white that turned out to be made of something akin to wind-driven concrete. But today when I went for radiation, a day and a half of sun and scraping had cleared the roads. I was impressed, though, by the gigantic piles of snow heaped on the berm and around every parking lot. And also by large double-wheeled tractor with a shovel that was stuck securely in a ditch.

Snow-Covered Wagon: Journey to the Mailbox

2011-02-01T21:36:00.000-06:00

Yes, he was eating the snow off the wagon. Repeatedly.

Psalm 28:6-7

2011-01-31T06:53:00.000-06:00

Blessed be the LORD!
For he has heard the voice of my pleas for mercy.

The LORD is my strength and my shield;
in him my hearttrusts, and I am helped;

my heart exults,
and with mysong I give thanks to him.

Too Long

2011-01-28T19:09:00.000-06:00

January is about 3 times longer than it should be legal for any month to be.

Yes, I know it's almost over. The only problem is that the reward for getting through January is having to endure February.

I've been seeing flocks of robins for a while now. Maybe we'll have an early spring. Would next week work?

Hair Dream

2011-01-25T21:08:00.000-06:00

I stare at my scalp in the mirror. Is there or isn't there? Hair growing, I mean. I'm pretty sure I see some baby fuzz among the spiky, grizzled leftovers of my former locks.

Give it time, I think. So I do. Five minutes, at least. Then I'm back at the mirror again, obsessing. What if my hair is doomed to sprout super-slowly because of the Herceptin? Or what if it doesn't grow back at all?

This much I know for sure: almost 4 weeks after my last Taxol treatment, my eyelashes and eyebrows are thinning. Bummer. I'd thought that on that front, at least, I was home free. But apparently not.

I'm pining for hair. I look enviously the tresses crowning other heads, blonde or brown, straight or curly, long, short--all of it light and warm, so real, so attached, so taken for granted. I fantasize about growing mine out really, really long--longer than I've ever had it, so that it falls in abundant luxury down my back. There's only one problem with this hair dream: first I have to get some.

Christmas in January

2011-01-25T20:35:00.000-06:00

I just felt like posting these, even if they are a month old.

Sistah opening her present: a slate like Laura had.

Baby Bro's first Christmas stocking.

Shaka DIVA

2011-01-24T21:27:00.000-06:00

Here are my two new gauntlets. I love them! I put the "Garden Mist" one on my right had so I could get both gauntlets in the same picture. The other pattern is "Diva Dynasty." Doncha love that it has a bird on it? Now I just need a Hawaiian print one and I'll be set. We'll see what the spring prints look like. When they come out, my sweet sister-in-law is going to help me choose one. Cuz divas always need a buddy when undergoing retail therapy. even online. Looking forward to a little shopping with you, A. . .

Seasons

2011-01-24T21:17:00.000-06:00

N-boy: Spring is a season and summer is a season.
Sistah: January is a season!

So true.

And, just to remind myself, teething a season, too. Only a season. One that comes with round baby cheeks to kiss and chubby baby thighs to squeeze and funny baby sounds and facial expressions to laugh at.

To be sung to the tune of "Madelina Catalina":
He's got 5 teeth in his fat little mouth;
Two point north and the other three south. . .

Lymphedema

2011-01-11T06:25:00.001-06:00

I have a health condition that currently has no cure. For the rest of my life it will require daily treatment and constant vigilance in order to manage it and prevent severe negative consequences. No, it's not cancer. It's lymphedema.

This post is not a complaint, though I often feel discouraged and overwhelmed by the knowledge that I will always have to deal with lymphedema. I am writing strictly to raise awareness about this condition. Very little medical research has been done regarding the most efficacious treatment of lymphedema and I would love to see that change.

Lymphedema is a swelling of the tissue from extra lymph fluid that the lymph vessels have failed to carry away. This "clogging" of the system is caused in my case by the disruption of the axillary lymph vessels and removal of lymph nodes during surgery. If the fluid is not drained, the tissue of my arm may become hardened and prone to infections.

To combat this, I must do manual lymph drainage "massages" (more like a stretching of the skin) at least once or twice a day. I must wear special compression sleeves and gloves to squeeze the fluid out of my arm and hand. There is a long list of precautions I must observe for the affected limb, such as avoiding heavy lifting, blood draws and blood pressure cuffs, and carrying my purse on that arm, to name only a few.

Thankfully my lympedema has thus far been mild. Just glancing at me, you would probably not notice a big difference in size between my arms and hands. But I must constantly be on guard so that it does not worsen. It's difficult to suddenly be faced with a condition that will affect my appearance and lifestyle from now on. It gives me new compassion for those who suffer from disabilities and chronic health issues.

The only bright spot I have found is quite literal: a company who makes compression sleeves that come in beautiful prints. The folks at LympheDIVA thankfully realize that wearing an ugly compression sleeve can make a girl feel like a pariah. Wearing a cute accessory might help her feel just a little more more normal.

Smart

2011-01-09T15:47:00.001-06:00

I used to be smart. -er. Than average. At least in my own estimation (my brother and grad school profs would probably beg to differ.) Now? Not so much. I'm sure you've heard of chemo brain. I personally think the one-two punch of pregnancy and an entire pharmacy of medicines have knocked my neurons for an endless loop. Remember the old fried-egg advertisement with the caption "This is your brain on drugs?" I can testify that this indeed is how scrambled I feel. I had a friend who was fond of saying that he had a mind like a steel sieve. Mine is more of a straight pipe through which information falls without making the slightest impression.

I used to design studies, present at conferences and discourse on academic topics. Now I have trouble with simple greetings like "Nice to see you!" (I recently responded to that particular gambit with "Good.") I was once offered a job setting up and overseeing the nascent ELL program in a large swath of an eastern state. These days I can't oversee, let alone do, the vacuuming in single house. Under the influence of pharmaceuticals whole segments of time have gone missing from my memory, mostly several hours in the OR and several days at the Cancer Center. I can't remember what people have told me in response to questions that I myself have asked them. Sometimes I can't remember asking the question. Or the name of the person I forgot I asked.

I suppose I have to learn to accept this less-than-sharp mind I've got right now and decide that being a non-smart person is still OK. After all, the Apostle Paul tells me in 1 Corinthians 1 that God chooses "things the world considers foolish in order to shame those who think they are wise. And. . . things that are powerless to shame those who are powerful. . .As a result, no one can ever boast in the presence of God." Instead, the smart thing to do is to boast only about what God has done: "Christ made us right with God; he made us pure and holy, and he freed us from sin." Which matters far more than my IQ--or lack thereof.

Epiphany Fruitcake

2011-01-07T09:04:00.010-06:00

The fact that yesterday was Epiphany, or Three Kings' Day, gave me a lovely reason to leave our Christmas tree up for another 24 (or 48 or 72) hours. But I figured that I should do something to actually celebrate so it would not just seem like an empty excuse. Caroling was out for our musically-challenged famliy. The kids had gotten enough presents for one season. But what was this? Wikipedia says that people in some countries traditionally eat fruitcake on this day (so it must be true) and there was still that large (and unopened) container of candied peel that Hubby had bought. Fruitcake it would be.

Right at this moment anyone who knows me will be able to picture what happened next: mayhem. I didn't have the right ingredients. I was starting the process at 7 o'clock at night, for Pete's sake! I didn't take the time to print out the directions, so I was constantly running back and forth to look at the computer screen. Hubby wandered over several times to add his two cents, which greatly irritated me because he may have been right. Then as I was hastily adding yet another thing that I'd forgotten to mix into the batter, trying to do it quickly so no one would know, he strolled by again and asked, "Are you putting in more butter?" And of course N-boy quickly informed him, "She's adding it because she didn't put the right amount in before." I just looked daggers at everyone and kept stirring.

The recipe instructions said I was supposed to bake the thing for over two hours. But at an hour and a half, I sniffed the air and thought, Burning! Sure enough, when I took it out, it was a very dark brown. And by the next morning, it was, of course, as hard as rock.

But I was not about to give in. We were going to eat that fruitcake and celebrate Three Kings' Day, by golly! So I made a sort of glaze out of lime juice and sugar and butter and boiled it for a little while. Then I poked the cake full of fork holes (pounded would probably be a more accurate verb) and poured the liquid over the whole cake. And at snack time that night, we read the story of the Magi from Matthew 2 and ate the cake! With plenty of milk and tea to wash it down.

Prayer for the New Year--or any day

2011-01-04T11:18:00.000-06:00

Lord, I know not what to ask of Thee; Thou knowest what I need; Thou lovest me better than I know how to love myself. O Father, give to Thy child that which [she herself] knows not how to ask. I dare not ask either for crosses or for consolations; I simply present myself before Thee. I open my heart to Thee. Behold my needs which I know not myself; see and do according to Thy tender mercy. . .
--Francios de Salignac Fenelon, 1651-1751

December Adventures

2010-12-27T12:00:00.000-06:00

We've had a lot of fun this month. For starters, in early December the kids and I took in a program at the Early American Museum. First, we read some books about frontier Christmases in the mid-1800's, then, dressed as Almanzo Wilder, Laura Ingalls, and Ma, we showed up at the museum where we spent a couple of hours doing crafts and activities that kids from that time period might have done. Among other things, we made marbles from clay, fashioned potato people (Sistah's had carrot skis), cut out snowflakes, made our own wrapping paper and string and greenery swags. We also practiced snowshoeing (indoors) and getting from "house" to "barn" aided only by a piece of twine, just as Pa did during blizzards.

After the program we took a walk in the cold and snowy woods where we had fun throwing sticks in the creek. We also spotted a beautiful flicker perched on a large snag that had fallen into the water.

I don't have pictures of our outing to see the Nutcracker, but I do of another adventure which was also aided and abetted by my dear friend D. One day the kids had a snow day. On the phone, I was lamenting my lack of preparedness for making gingerbread houses (using, this year, rice krispy treats.) D immediately offered to pick up all the necessary ingredients since she was going to the store anyway. The resulting structures can be seen below, including the structures created by the so-called adults (I made a Viking palisade and D made a tipi.)

God has blessed us with several snowstorms so far this season, and we've enjoyed sledding quite a bit.

Both N-boy and Sistah had school Christmas parties and programs. Here is Sistah with the Nativity scene at her school and there is a photo of N-boy waving from the stage (sorry for the poor picture quality!)

Two dear friends from Hawaii, YZK and TK, sent us gorgeous antherium, orchids, ginger, heleconia, and ti leaves which we unearthed one by one from the damp newspaper in the box and arranged in a vase. It was like finding brilliant treasure.

Just the other evening we had an impromptu version of a tradition I grew up with: the shepherd's supper. It involves dressing in the closest approximation possible to what first-century shepherds might have worn (in our case, towels and bathrobes) and eating foods they might have eaten. What we had on hand was dried figs, apples, and raisins, hearty bread, cheese, milk, almonds, and olives. It was a toasty 27 degrees so we ate outside at the kids' picnic table (the only thing that wasn't covered with snow), huddled around the candles in the Advent wreath, imagining what the shepherds in the Christmas story might have thought or felt on that night when the angel visited them with the earth-shaking announcement of Jesus' birth.

And here is my favorite picture of the season:

Christmas Eve Calm

2010-12-24T22:47:00.000-06:00

God is so gracious. Despite my tantrums and pity parties, he sends me gifts. Today he restored calm to my heart with gifts of rest, of friendship and encouragement, of soft snow, of tasty food, of family joys. The Christmas peace has been a long time coming this year. But it's finally here. And so is he. Immanuel.