When I was younger, our house in Columbus was pretty near some railroad tracks. The train would go by at night, and if it blew its whistle while passing our subdivision, it would sound an awful lot like a trumpet. You Left Behind readers are already way ahead of me, aren’t you? Sure enough, every night that train whistle would sound, I would jump, fearful. Afraid Jesus had come and I’d been left behind, many times I would head to my parents’ bedroom door to see if I could still hear snores. Then, quite relieved, I could go back to sleep, pretty certain the end wasn’t too near.
At naptime on Monday, A Minor disappeared. A Major had gone in the bedroom to do something, and noticed her bed was empty. I knew it had been empty, too, earlier, but had just assumed she was in the bathroom. We looked all over the house as quietly as we could, and in our house that didn’t take very long. Still no A. So we went through all the rooms again. It was raining, so I was reasonably sure she hadn’t ‘run away’, a game they play during waking hours. I was beginning to think, given the size of our house, the weather outside, and how eerie her sheets looked without her under them,
What if the rapture has happened and she was the only one saved?!
This was disconcerting on many levels: first, she is not a Christian yet, to my knowledge. Add to that, a little while later I discovered that my phone had been dead all morning, so if anyone else’s unsaved five-year-olds had disappeared, I wouldn’t have heard about it. Hmmm.
Finally A Major looks under A Minor’s bed and there she was. A Major said she looked there before, but… I was relieved on many levels. First, this means I am on the right track spiritually (phew- was worried there for a split second), and what’s more, it made me unusually grateful for the rainy day making her hiding somewhere in the house the only option.
So, He hasn’t come back yet. How should I feel about that?
“Even so…”
Can’t wait to see You, Jesus.
I am sitting at my Internet-access site, aka McDonald’s, right now, just having polished off a Rolo McFlurry. Hey, you gotta buy something if you’re gonna sit in the restaurant, right? This particular joint is currently undergoing a major renovation, yet remaining open throughout. [Steve Martin voice:] Thank you! Staying open has its inconveniences; today was the men’s room being closed. Actually, the bathroom being worked on was the ladies’ room, which apparently will be the men’s room when the redo is finished. Males needing it have a port a pot outside, while females get to use the old men’s room. Those last lines were a bit confusing- still with me? I had to go, so I got to check out the facilities I normally never see. There were two stalls with toilets and doors, and the two urinals sat on the main wall, in full view. When I went to wash my hands, I noticed the tile in front of me- red, my favorite color- and I noticed that I noticed quite a lot of tiles. There was no mirror over the sink! Maybe it was removed already during the work on the building, or maybe there never was one? My imagination ran with the possible reasons there wouldn’t be a mirror in the men’s room. Perhaps to provide more privacy to the urinals directly across from it, possibly because studies have found men don’t use mirrors… Hmmm. Well, I have learned a lot from just being here at McD’s tonight!
Surrounded by this restaurant’s skeleton inspires me almost as much as some blog posts I have been reading lately. In them mothers just like me bare their souls, ugly and beautiful thoughts alike. As they share, I am so encouraged to find that I am not alone in my postpartum breakableness. That it is normal to be the way I am, the way I have been nine times now, each time getting a little worse. In the above picture are some beautiful creatures surrounded by the messy reality that is our day. Pictures don’t lie; at least mine don’t. But another reality is that I do not have to go through the messiness on my own; I have a wonderful Savior who is with me in the midst of each difficulty. To ignore this truth is like not having a mirror over the sink. Lots of pretty tile, but you miss the truth of where you are- in a really stinky place.
He’s there, too. He’s there, too.
The year of my birth happened to coincide with the 200th anniversary of our country’s birth. Towns both big and small, from sea to shining sea, were especially alive in celebration during this particular July 4th. Naturally, then, I experienced my first parade at a ripe young age of two weeks. Mom took me out in a stroller to watch the festivities on Salem Street in downtown Rutland. The drums and bugles got to be too loud for me, though. An old teacher of my mom’s, Mrs. Chapman, invited us into her house away from the noise.
There are lots of things I love about this story. To have one of my first experiences out and about be a small, hometown parade-possibly the high school marching band putting their all into some patriotic tunes, perhaps the town fire engine polished to a shine, maybe the mayor sitting in the passenger seat. I can just see my mom taking it all in on a familiar street, running into people she knew and introducing them to her newborn daughter. This is a unique snapshot of a time in my mom’s life. She was about my age.
I took this in iPhoto from bed, since I’m not up and around yet. The best you’ll get ’til Luke returns.
Yesterday morning at this time, we were enjoying a late breakfast after sleeping off the fireworks fun of the night before. I’ve been really badly frying my eggs, and yesterday’s were no exception. I had the thought- I wonder if I will be able to talk about ugly eggs and Adon in the same post (ie. he comes today)? The whole day passed without much hint of it, but I finally did have some interesting patterns of contractions that evening. They continued all night, never getting regular or consistent, but enough to make me think we should head for the hospital. This morning, I held a nine pound boy in my hands instead of a plate of overdone eggs. I’ll take the boy any day.
Our history course this year ended with the Ottoman Turks taking over Constantinople in 1453, and the Gutenberg printing press. I thought our book’s author did a great job of drawing our attention to the way many events in history are linked together, like a chain. There are about six important links in Constantinople’s chain, for instance, that without any one of the events, the others might not have happened in quite the same way. The author pointed out how the apostle Paul is one of the first links, spreading the gospel to key cities in that area and establishing a godly heritage for many people there.
One of the activities for that lesson was for the children to make their own ‘history chain’ of any five events. I shared as an example the progression of my father choosing to move to Ohio to go to college, then meeting my mom, then me being born, then me choosing to go to Liberty, then me meeting Luke, then the children themselves all coming along. Pivotal events in this chain include my dad’s and my big, states-long moves to go to college. If those events wouldn’t have happened, who knows who or where I would be, let alone the children. I think they really caught hold of not only the interesting side of history, but also the providence of God.
I’ve been mulling over the idea of writing my memoirs for some time now. On the one hand, shouldn’t one wait until they have a) done something noteworthy or b) lived a long time to see something noteworthy happen, before they plunge into something like this? The older I get, however, the less I remember, so my gut says to get kickin’.
I don’t know how far I’ll get into this before I lapse into a blogging coma again, but for the next little while this space will be the notes for that elusive memoir, for better or worse. I know there are some terrific links in my history chain that I want my kids to see and experience the way I experienced them, so here goes.
I was born on June 21, 1976, in Athens, Ohio, exactly three weeks past my due date. Since I was in a breech position, I had to be delivered caesarian. Back then the hospital stay for that surgery was one week, and after that, my mother went to stay with her mother in Rutland for another week. I think it is interesting to note that my dad, though seeing me in the hospital after being born, didn’t come to visit my mom at all while she stayed with her parents. Mom says it was because they were thirty miles apart, and due to his hectic work schedule at the coal mine. Did you know I was born a coal miner’s daughter? The separation would have been difficult- I can’t imagine not seeing Luke for weeks after A Major was born. He was my biggest help in those early days, singlehandedly unraveling my no-bottle, no-binky ambitions to allow me to get some much-needed sleep. Grandma Turner quite expertly filled this role for my mom, in addition being able to share her wealth of experience in motherhood.
How did your history chain begin? Tell me your story.
“Now, my dears,” said old Mrs. Rabbit one morning, “you may go into the fields or down the lane, but don’t go into Mr. McGregor’s garden: your Father had an accident there; he was put in a pie by Mrs. McGregor.”
~Beatrix Potter
I got so spoiled at Carol’s house, with those garden boxes up off the ground. Here at the new house we are planting things at ground level, and it is like leaving my most precious valuables out in the yard to be ravaged by the elements and the animals. Just as I’d feared, yesterday the kids came running in to tell me that some of my tomato plants had been compromised. We’d seen a rabbit in the garden the other day, and I suspect that this was the culprit.
Luke is my knight in shining armor when it comes to fencing. C had a phase where he was wandering away from the house, and Luke built me some temporary barriers to at least help slow his progress. Sigh- “My hero!” Not to be outdone, last night he put up a fence around my poor Romas in the hopes that this would give them a fighting chance against the unknown snacker. This morning, I looked out to see a rabbit in the garden again. It was hopping all over the place, apparently confused by the fencing. Big S ran out to shoo it away and check on the tomatoes. “Fourteen,” she came in with the survivor count. I started with eighteen. Yikes.
Seeing that rabbit (I’m guessing it’s the same one both times- he’s found his own Hometown Buffet!) made me think about the Beatrix Potter story we love about naughty Peter Rabbit and the gardener he thwarts, Mr. McGregor. There have been times in my life I could identify best with Peter. Aw, c’mon, it’s only a carrot. He’s got a whole garden full. I’m hungry, and getting what I want is all that matters, right? Lately, though, I am so much more in tune with the gardener, running after that pesky rabbit, rake in the air, angry as anything that he’s getting away. Gardens, and life, take a lot of work. It is frustrating to put in all that effort, only to have it not be appreciated by careless ones around us. Maybe I am getting old and crochety, but planting those tomatoes wasn’t easy.
We learned about Dante this week in history. What an intriguing fellow! Seems he was in love with this girl since he was nine! He would write love poems to her, and after she married- uh, someone else- he would continue to write about her, but not use her name, out of respect. Dante is best known for his masterpiece, The Divine Comedy. This is an epic poem in three parts about Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven. I especially liked hearing about how he didn’t even try to describe the Lord in the third part, except by an inexpressible light. Beautiful.
One of the suggested activities for the lesson was to have each child write a love poem. A Major and Big S went to it with great gusto, even after I made the rule that they couldn’t just write, “Roses are red, Violets are blue…” Little S balked at the project, claiming he could never write a poem. I eventually let him write it about his bike, to keep peace. N was the cutest, though- all while he’s writing, he’s under cover and saying the poem, and its recipient, are a “secret”. Then when he was done, he folded his paper up small, asked me how to spell ‘Wayne’, and if we had any stamps. We don’t, so, Nate, your love poem from N is on the island awaiting the next time we see you. 
Big S said at one point, “I know who you would write a love poem to, Mama- Daddy!” Later on that day, I did just that. This is for my love- it goes along with the thoughts I was having in my previous post.
Redwing blackbirds give chase between the trees
I think of how glad I am that stage is past
When we had to wonder where we stood
Times between calls I could not be certain
But have we arrived yet to our nest
Where you are home as well as I
In love
Much work remains to finish this nest
Beaks bearing brush, straw and twine
May I not carry what is not mine
To simply wear the yoke that is offered
By One whose eye is always on me
Less weight gives me freedom to enjoy each flight
Sharing more, having more, pursuing you home
Thanks to the hard work of my loving husband, some vegetables got planted in our garden last night. For a while, he wasn’t sure where to plow up the ground and put it in, but finally decided on the far west side of the backyard. I am excited about all the possibilities in the coming years. This year, because of my condition, I am forced to scale back my original dreams for our first gardening season in the new house. This is good for me- I have been learning repeatedly how I can’t do ‘everything’, but should pursue the best things and do them well. Little delights of Romas, onions and potatoes for now. Luke is so great at that- he’s constantly driven to create an excellent product, whether it be a garden plot, website, or VBS program. His example is inspiring.
One area I know I need to work on seeking the best in is our marriage. Sure, I work hard and do lots of things to show that I care about him and our children, but when it comes to really delighting in him, making him feel special, I am often at a loss. I don’t know how to communicate to him how much I prize him above all others, in a way he understands. This kind of expression takes time, thought, and effort that goes beyond the everyday “make sure his shirt is washed” and “fix things he likes for dinner”, and it is a love language I do not know very well. The burden of trying to please him in this way feels staggering at times.
Fortunately, Jesus promises me His burden is light; if I am overwhelmed, it must be something I am getting wrong. Maybe it goes back to what I was saying about the garden- not trying to do it all, but making what I do attempt be the best it can be. Little delights of walks, talks and smiles for now.
your hand in mine
a steady line
drawn on my heart
and deep in my mind
and you walk with me
you never leave
you’re making my heart
a garden
-Matt Maher
My Magic Bullet died yesterday. Can I admit to feeling a little relieved, even giddy at the prospect of throwing it away? Don’t get me wrong, it is a nice gadget to have around for my smoothie making and tomato pureeing, and I have appreciated having such a tool in my cabinet. Problem is, the tool takes up way too much of my cabinet, with its plethora of attachments. I have been looking forward to the day I need to upgrade to some other, simpler food processor. Moving to our new house, with limited space to put stuff, has forced me to think even harder about the things I have, and things I have to store.
It has been fun to open boxes and bins that have been stored away since we moved from Waldo to Luke’s mom’s house. Kinda like Christmas- “Look, there’s those sweet flowers we had up in the girls’ room!”- but kinda like the day after Christmas, too. Some of the things we can and will use now, but what about the rest? I don’t want a basement full of stuff, so the sorting starts today. Hopefully, the two older girls can help me out while earning their own cute mini egg pans (Kroger, $5). The plan is to fill the eight bins I have already with other season/ other size clothing, bedding, and coats, and not have anything left over for which I would need to buy more bins or that would have to sit in a garbage bag. Wish me luck.
The two real challenges for me, however, lie in other parts of the basement. One is in the art/ craft/ scrapbooking department. Some of it I can legitimize easily- “Hey, that watercolor paper cost a lot of money!” and “I have to at least finish one scrapbook before I die- it’s on my bucket list!”- but other stuff I’m not so sure about. How much construction paper, play dough, yarn, and beads do I keep for my kids’ educational enhancement? We’ll need a spot downstairs for all these forms of expression, and I will have to keep the ever- reproducing piles maintained. The other big job is managing all of our homeschool supplies. Booklets, posters, videos, and tons of papers are all needing a new home, never having had a good one yet. Bookshelves? Tall cabinets? Hung from the ceiling dry cleaners style? In addition, I haven’t quite found the balance between what could stay paperless (ie. stored on the computer to read) and what needs printed up. Of course, the printer is out of ink when I do occasionally figure it out- oh well.
Let’s close with a little perspective:
Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows. James 1:17
Thank You, Father, for all that I have! Thank You for not being fickle and tossing me when I break or go out of style.
Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. Matthew 6:19-21
What can I store in Heaven today? Unpacking those boxes will be even better than Christmas!