Overwhelm

Another post I wrote way back in 2008 and never posted...found it today and it still rings true. And while they still., 14 months later tear apart the couch with remarkable speed, they have gotten quite good at putting it back together.
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One of my son's favorite things to do is tear apart the couch. Between both boys, total destruction can happen, to my great dismay, in less than one minute. Seeing the large, plush object as a mini indoor jungle-gym, they toss the cushions onto the floor, hop excitedly from side to side, hide under haphazardly placed pillows, and squeal as they topple from back to front to cushions on floor.

Why I ever let them start this is a story left for another day, but this couch, it draws them. Though I have since asked them to start using it for it's intended purpose, often if I am off making dinner or step upstairs to put away laundry, upon my return I will find a livingroom filled with cushions and squealing boys.

But what I realized this morning was how typical that three year old response is. I often find myself telling him things that, sheepishly, I notice, I should be heeding as well.

Like so many other mornings, I had just lain David down for a nap. When I came downstairs, Ryan was laying on the floor in front of the couch, his right foot sneaking under the cushion. I peered at him, and then slowly shook my head. "No, honey, we aren't going to play on the couch this morning."

"What?" He asked, his entire leg now under the cushion.

"No. Just no." And then, fatal mistake, I went to get a cup of coffee.

Left to his own devises, my son nicely replaced the cusion, smoothed out the lump he had made with his foot, and sat down to quietly look at a book.

Ok, that's not what really happened. That's what I wish would have happened. No, as soon as I was out of sight, half the couch cushions quickly piled on the floor, and upon my return I found son, upside down on the back of the couch "Lookit ME mom! I'm falling!"

Ahem.

My point to this story was his response on picking up the cushions.

"Put them back, right now."

"I can't! I don't know how. You help me."

"You took them apart, you put them back."

He looked at the looming pile of cushions, too large to lift and place easily, and was suddenly daunted with the task. What came down so effortlessly was not repaired with the same ease. But, faced with further correction he decided to try.

Grabbing the cusion at the very bottom of the pile, he strained and pulled, cringing with frustration. "I just can't!"

"Just take one off the top, work slowly, bit by bit. You'll get there eventually."

And immediately my own list popped in my head.

Then, more comic irony followed. Instead of following my sage advice (of course, I was shocked that he didn't, at three, internalize something that I, at 26, have a hard time following), he flopped in a heap on top of the pile of cusions.

Inaction.

Overwhelm's favorite friend.

Eventually he tries and is more resilient, placing the cushions back somewhat normally on the couch. I am tired of the constant pull-down, pick-up, so I get picky.

"Well, you're almost there. That bottom one needs to be fixed." I say, pointing to a cushion jutting out perpindicular from the couch.

He looks at me plaintively "Mom, could you give me a handle of this?"

And I have to admit, I'm easily swayed when he pulls out grown-up phrases, and can't help but go and lend a hand. Together, we place, poke, mush the couch back in place..

And flashes of our farm, our home, our kids run through my mind.

Teamwork.

Overwhelm's worst enemy.

Wednesday Morning Thankfulness

Ann Voskamp has captivated me with her gratitude.
This morning, beyond all understanding, I want to dive in the deep end, wallow in longing and sadness. I stand here in the balance once again. Bah, too often.
This morning, though, I choose gratitude, for I know no other antidote. For it is only when I lose perspective- look past those sweet and abundant gifts- that I can be at all discontent. Who, upon opening their eyes to the true beauty around them, can be anything but thankful?

eyes searching, wonder reflected

A blur of energy, 15 months in constant movement

grass, green in November. A small bike waiting for adventure

I asked Ryan to "do what I do" and his tree, my tree side by side result. We dream of apples on green-leaved trees, swings and blue skies to dream under

Wood piled high to warm the house for the day, brought in by husband in the early hours before work

Warmth and glow, the hum and backdrop comforting our days

Gifts and connections- a table runner made lovingly by my mom, tiny perfect pumpkins and squash from a friend, a computer that spans miles, a red shaker to make music

Light of day spilling into our house

A rocking chair, made by great grandpa, enjoyed for (now) two generations

Compassion shown to a hurting friend, three huddle close and share comfort

Hair mussed from a warm, long sleep, eyes defying age- when did he grow so old?

Tiny hands grasping the same wood turned by great grandfather, generations linking

Dad and boys, teaching and learning, patience and love shine through

"... a happy day is not the genesis of thanksgiving,rather,
thanksgiving is the genesis of the happy day."

-Ann Voskamp

The ability to live full of joy is not so much our circumstance, but more about our orientation to it. Sometimes, I just need a moment or two to re-orient myself.

What are you grateful for today? Beauty abounds for us all, for the Giver is quite generous. I would love to hear of the beauty surrounding you today.

Morning

I am called.
It started out with one day.
David wakes up at 4am, body clock set specifically, and alarm unfailingly sounds. I am pulled, unwillingly at first, from deep sleep, wondering if it is possible that the time has actually come. Unsteadily and blurry-eyed I stumble to his room and comfort. He reaches those hands up, smiles through tears at my entrance, and his relief is palpable. He knew I would come. I always come. But still he rewards me with sweet thankfulness. And when he is calm, nourished, and tucked cozy under covers once again, I, instead of scurrying back to my own bed, slip downstairs.
The house is still dark, silent except for the steady hum of the furnace, warming the house. Though my body is still tired, my mind still in a haze, I push the button on the coffee maker and promise myself hot, creamy coffee. The house has chilled a bit, the fire burning through the night but having to battle against much stronger winds and colder temperatures. I walk down the back steps and push open the door into the breezeway- cold, dark, and silent, and sneak a few pieces of wood from the wheelbarrow-full from last night’s trip to the wood pile. I walk stocking-footed down to the furnace and open to see the warm bed of coals within. Always replenishing- the hallmark of winter in this house is the steady tending of home fires, the stitching hemming in our days, calling us always back home.
The furnace is large and forgiving: the wood, piled haphazardly, will burn well despite my lack of fire-building expertise. I head back upstairs to fill my mug, the coffee now ready, and sit in dark, in silence. And here, unhurried by expectation or distraction,
I type. I write here, or email friends in far-off lands. And I read: read and reflect on thoughts which, when read with a backdrop of squeals and stories and climbing and crashing towers, are not fully or appropriately internalized. I sit and read and write and feel the slow rejuvenation of my soul, waking and rousing, ready to give for another day.
An hour, then another, pass quickly, and the sky in front of me starts to lighten; sweet hues of crimson blend with that dark of night. The world, like me, wakes slowly. First, the faint silhouettes of trees come into focus, a still painting. Then, a grove of trees beyond the next field, slowly, assuredly, darkness becomes light; the obscure comes into focus.
Still, I am in awe of a simple sunrise, stretching brilliance across the sky, bringing light into a world darkened for rest. In contrast to our light switch, it comes gently, slowly. It is intentional and gradual, this turning on of the light of the world. And I know, you scientists remind, it’s because the earth is turning…can one not be in awe, reminded of simply that?
And that sun: it always raises, always sets. How many generations has it seen? What fullness of life has lived out beneath its rays? What tragedy? Wars. Hunger. Laughter. Happiness. Grief. In this context, I can begin to grasp that life for us on earth is so fleeting and small. I am reminded of the vastness of eternity, and in contrast, the brevity of life; that each day is but a whisper in a grand, unending story: a tiny stroke of the brush on the world’s canvas. And yet, this life composed of a pearl-string of days is astoundingly precious.
But I digress.
I am thankful.
This morning, I am rewarded with a gift, both small and brilliant. I watch the world come alive again, and I am renewed.

Simple Abundance

Wednesday morning dawns, and I rise, ready to create, nourish, renew.

Baking day. In days gone by, this was arduous, all-consuming. But like many of the overwhelming tasks of old, it has since shed its arduous nature, becoming a work of pleasure rather than duty or necessity (as the stores carry many loaves of bread). It has been distilled to only the blessings that come from such a routine task, one that is chosen and stems from only a desire to nourish family through the most basic forms- time, teaching, and full tummies.

I stir simple elements- yeast, sugar, water. Tiny hands reach forward to help, and I hold out the measuring spoon, letting those 1 year old hands turn it upside down into the bowl. He, delighted, bounces for more, and each time over, he rewards me with such sweet enjoyment of the simple.

We push the small bowl aside, and the other ingredients are poured into a large bowl- oil, water, salt, flour. Again the tiny hands long for involvement and again I slow, reminding myself that there is purpose here beyond outcome- that process matters just as much, if not more, than the finished product. His older brother, at three, is a "seasoned" helper, able to measure and pour ingredients without spilling, stir without splashing and sploshing. But those hands, too, started out unsteadily. The spoon jabbed and splashed and dumped. I must again remember patience in process for the small one, giving him the same opportunity to develop and learn.

And still, here is the calm before the storm. All elements remain in bowls, not yet mingling with table or hands. We pour all the pieces together, a mere six ingredients, and stir, the dough stiffening and resisting, taking form and pulling together. At last I turn it onto the floured table, sticky and flat. Immediately my helpers notice we have moved on to the most delightful stage of any bread baking (the most delightful stage of cookie-dough making, of course, is the tasting) But this? This unfettered ability to indulge in mess, to roll and create and pinch and smash in little hands? I might have offered them a trip to CandyLand, for the sparkle in their eyes. They delight in the process. Process, mom, I remind myself, noticeably calming my hurried nature, gearing up for the flour dust-storm on the horizon.

Once a week. And they learn. At first, it's mess- unhindered and all out destruction. Then comes imitation, then form. Fingers and hands and coordination all strengthen through process, and someday, they will know the measurements and steps in their bones. Purpose will collide with ability and then creation will become natural.

Perseverance and patience follow: Perseverance to clean sweet helpers, sweep and mop and shine, and patience to wait for the rising, the punching down, the forming, the second rising, and baking. Patience to await sweet aromas and warm butter spread across fluffy warmth. In all honesty, past this first amazing mess, the patience isn't all that hard to muster.

A glimpse into my heart- I read it and it sounds polished, like maybe the mess is pretty, or not so bad. But know this: though there is purpose, it is still, in all actuality, quite imperfect in practice: Memory-building at its best.

And here, each Wednesday, thirty-four cents is poured, stirred, mashed, kneaded and transformed into abundance.

A First Snow Falls

I stand near the back door holding coffee, ready for my husband who is busy rebuilding the fire that was reduced to embers throughout the night. The smell of wood smoke mingling with the clean frosty air of snow is nearly intoxicating. Swept away with anticipation I am brought back to places of warmth in years past, where the formidable cold was held back steadily by a sturdy house and a crackling fire.

Near the end of summer and throughout fall, I start to feel splayed out- pulled in a hundred directions and always seeing more that needs to be done. I am taken from home, beckoned outside to do, do, do. Even inside, the call is to do- do cleaning, do canning, do winter proofing, do laundry. This first blanket of snow is a sign that the frenzied work of fall is nearing completion, and a worthy and welcome rest is on the horizon.
Winter calls us home again, and we hunker down inside, cozy and content, for there is no endless project calling our names. Food has been put up, the garden lain to rest. Warmth wraps its arms around us this time of year and pulls us in close.
David, upon seeing the earth blanketed with snow, bounces and squeals delight, and then pads his way in fleece footed pajamas to the front window. He spreads his arms wide and leans his forehead against the cold glass. Watching kids experience this world is a training ground for appreciation. We lose the magic of simple beauty as we cram every space with speed and grandeur. We grow taller and complain about scraping the snow from windshields, but those little eyes haven’t yet become immune to the beauty, and they delight in the simple, yet incredible, wonders around them. He studies the world outside and its new clothes, and contrary to my normal character, I slow down and watch with him. I notice a small bird, hunting for scraps to warm her own nest between the patches of snow. The earth seems quiet here, covered just for this morning in perfect white, its blue hue streaming through our windows so that whether or not you are looking outside you know the snow has fallen. The world, despite its many imperfections, is momentarily pure and clean. Our home, warm and inviting, comforts and renews this morning, and I am filled with thankfulness that we have this refuge. And I am equally thankful that winter is on its way with its call to rest weary bones once again.
Where we, with our lists and agendas, would have fall last endlessly so we could ever-more complete important tasks, God, with His wisdom, will soon say “It is finished,” providing promise of a coming rest we did not know we needed.

“He stilled the storm to a whisper; the waves of the sea were hushed. They were glad when it grew calm, and he guided them to their desired haven. Let them give thanks to the Lord for His unfailing love and his wonderful deeds for men.”
Psalm 107:29-31

Expecting the Unexpected

We have had a week of amazingly warm fall days. The forecast says "rain" tomorrow, and so its about time I started gearing up for the "real" fall and winter days. There are a few things I did today that are so simple, I often skip them altogether. However, this year I decided to give my future self a treat and accomplish the tasks before they become absolutely necessary.

First, I cleaned and vacuumed the breezeway, which will probably be our normal entrance during the winter months. I went out and found our snow shovel, ice scraper, and stiff broom, and put them right inside the door, ready for the first snowfall. This way, I won't be hunting them down after those first flakes come. Simple, yet I know when the time comes, I will appreciate it greatly.

I then took advice that my sister gave me awhile back. Since we live so far from, well, everything, she mentioned that I might want to have a bag I keep in the back of the van, filled with blankets and such to be used in the event of an emergency.

Have I ever mentioned how great my sister is at being prepared? Well, she is.

Anyhow, I cleaned out the van and set out to pack a duffel bag with winter back-ups. Here is a list of the things I put in there, just in case you want to make your own. I love knowing that if need be, we will have the ability to stay warm in a worst-case scenario.

• Warm clothes, including sweaters for each family member, warm pants for the boys, long sleeved shirts for the boys, and an assortment of orphaned socks (we won't be entering a fashion contest, and I figure the matching socks can best be utilized for everyday wear).
• Extra diapers
• A warm hat and a thick pair of gloves for each family member
• A high-strength flashlight (actually a head lamp with an LCD light)
• Bottles of water
• Two warm blankets
• A whistle

This process also allowed me to think of last year's winter, and plan to pick up a few things at the store next time I am in town. To the above list, I plan on adding:

• A small shovel for each vehicle (for getting out of snow drifts, if necessary)
• Granola bars and other non-perishable food items
• Hand warmers (those ones you can bend and pop to heat up)

I think I will also make a mini-bag for Phil's truck, including some of the same above items. As normal as it is to bring things like a hat and gloves with you out on the road during winter, every once in awhile something happens and we end up unprepared for the unexpected. This is just a way of ensuring we have backups in that event.

OK, Sis, what have I missed? Does anyone else have ideas or tips? My bag still has some room, and I am anxious to hear what you would pack away for worst-case-scenarios.