The water is boiling and the plates are clanging together and I am in a flurry of last-minute dinner preparation. It's late so I'm focused on the task - realizing that a 6:45pm dinner could easily become a 7:30pm dinner with just a few interruptions here and there.
And Ryan walks in with a mason jar full of paint brushes, asking if he could, maybe, possibly, pretty please paint a picture?
And I offer that right now I am making dinner and maybe, possibly, pretty please could he set the table?
He looks sideways at me and then down at his jar of brushes. "It won't be messy mom. It will be really clean painting."
And inwardly I groan because I want to be that fun mom who says yes to painting at 6pm, and the guilt sets in because I know how little creative time they have gotten this week with all of the running around to doctor's appointments. But outwardly I smile weakly and say "Sweetheart, just not right now."
With a small sigh he places his mason jar on the counter just as his brother comes careening around the corner with a delightful squeal.
His face brightens. "Hey Dave! You wanna wrestlehouse?"
David grins wide and answers YES! and lunges toward him, arms outstretched ready for the tackle.
I gasp and immediately start to rethink the painting idea when Ryan, once again, reads his mama's mind.
"Not in the kitchen, Dave, we gotta go in the other room." And they run off in a whirlwind of laughter.
And I add noodles to that boiling water and stir salad and think how very grateful I am to have these two brothers.

Pink and Blue

It’s funny what you get used to.
Before I had kids, all I knew was girls. Besides being one, they are all I ever babysat. We didn’t know a lot of other boys until we were far past the tiny-tractor stage. When I found out our first was to be a son, I was overwhelmed at the thought because of this stage- the rough and tumble and wrestling and go go go energy...
And of course they are all of that, both boys.
Case in point:

Yesterday as I was making dinner they de-cushioned the couch and chairs to build a fort. David came and offered me an imaginary snake from his hands with such a delightful smile that I just had to take it from him and squeal. Later they turned off all the lights and crept through the doorways hunting for monsters (David was looking for "mosters," but he crouched down and kept up with that big brother of his). Of course they needed swords for their expedition into the unknown (colanders and bowls provide needed head-protection).
And when they went up to their room in a post-dinner tornado they dismantled their train track and re-engineered one that looped under beds and around tables and through tunnels.
And then big brother redecorated his shelf...
...mostly to see his mother squirm, I am positive.
It's comic, almost; that this was the stage I was so nervous about. And of course they are rough and tumble and go go go and mud-covered and bug-loving and lincoln-log constructing. How could life be any other way?
I had another ultrasound yesterday, my second for this little one. She's 28 weeks old and the technician confirmed once again that baby is, in fact, a girl. She even sent me home with a little picture that had the tiny words "girl parts" typed out. It makes me snicker...usually doctors are so technical with their descriptions.
And I wonder what she will do in a world of tractors and trains and worms. What will we do in a world of dolls and tea parties?
I'll have to get a pink colander so she can hunt those monsters like a lady.

Miracles

October 1, 2009
"Mom, look! I got them for you!" He runs over to me, breathless, nose and cheeks flushed with the chill of a crisp fall evening. In his hand he grasps his prize and holds them out, a smile spreading across his face in anticipation of my reaction.
"Miracles. I picked them for you!"
And I smile at the irony- yes, "miracles" little guy- them and you...gifts in season. And of course, though I should correct his mispronunciation, I don't. (I am allowed some liberty as mom here, and if that liberty allows me some beautiful irony in life, then well, I'll take it most any day.) I take the bunch of marigolds from his hand and inhale deeply, that scent transporting me to days of youth and my grandfather and his garden. I treasure it up, this last bit of summer, knowing that soon it will die away, giving the ground rest until the next growing season.
Do I linger here enough, grasping to those last pieces of summer? In this present moment, do I enjoy that warm breeze, that handful of marigolds, that garden-fresh crisp green bean? Or even more, those gifts that will not return again next growing season...like the rosy-cheeked boy who sweetly miss-names marigolds and sees them as a prize. He will grow and stretch out of this 4-year-old body and transform into a young man. There are moments I am positive if I blink I might miss it. Like that last bit of summer, I must always remember to enjoy, delight, cherish each moment...for this too shall pass.


(above: Ryan helping around the farm last fall. )
_______________________________________________
There has been a lot of life happening around here these past few months. I plan on sharing some over the next few days...
I wrote the above post this past October before I took my very long hiatus, and tucked it away in the "drafts" section.
It became meaningful to me months later, after I had forgotten the whole thing...Time passed and we found out we are expecting our third baby (a girl!). We have been talking for some time with the boys about their new sister.
Ryan came downstairs one morning in January (three months after I wrote the above post) and told me that he had a dream about what we should name his new baby sister. "Miracle, mom. We need to name her Miracle." And of course I thought it was awfully cute...until I found this post and remembered my reaction to his late-summer gift.
Miracle does seem to fit after-all, doesn't it?
And yet another reminder to me of why I should be writing these bits of life down...

And he turns two

He replies "YES!" excitedly and closes his tiny, chunky hand around two of my fingers. His grasp is firm, and he is ready for adventure. Of course, we both know that we are doing nothing more than feeding our sheep- the daily work of nourishment.

But when you are two, is not everything an adventure? (Isn't it too bad we lose that?)

We walk along in silence, hand in hand, and I wonder back to when the last time was that it was just he and I- not he, I, and big brother. What a different world this second one has- always in community. I marvel at how different our communication is- he with the excited one-word exclamations, me, with returned delight and awe, and then more silence.

A contrast from 4yo brother, who chatters along contentedly like a regular teenager, recounting the day that has been and the day yet to come (and the reason planes fly in the air and do they come in the day and the night like Hallie says they do? And did I know that the beans were now in the garden, also tomatoes? What should we name that cat?).

But today brother stayed inside- a rare experience for the little guy and I. Perhaps, on this birthday of his, a perfect moment. A moment to reflect on him, and the joy that he brings.

"Ooooh, wow!" he stoops down low, his entire body curled around his knees, and peers at a bee working on a bud of clover. I stay and look too, noticing new things yet again (don't we always when we slow?). For a moment, he is taken with the swing, swaying idly by and calling for us- "Wing! Wing!" He lets go of my hand and runs to it- old friends reuniting. I implore him "But Davey, we need to feed those sheep- they are hungry. Maybe another time." And he and friend part ways and he again clasps my hand.

We reach the barn and I lift down a bale of hay. He stands back, wide-eyed, looking for his chance. I untie it and he grabs a handful of dried grass and strides over to the door. He is still too short to see on the other side, to reach over with that hand, and so he stands on tip-toes and tries his best. I see him and lift him up to toss it over. He watches those "steeps" intently, eyes darting from one to another, checking, noting; farmer in training.

'Tis the work of my life as a mom: encourage, guide, correct, support. Today it looks like a trip out to the sheep barn, but it is a precursor- we are both practicing for those bigger walks, those larger lessons of life to come. Me, learning how to encourage, guide, correct and support, and he learning how to listen, learning what matters, learning how to persevere. A small dance that started back before that first birthday- foundations for something greater.

Chores done, we again match hands and start the long walk back to the house. This time when we pass the swing, he looks at me questioningly and I nod. And quietly, I push him and he flies back and forth with that wide smile that melts hearts and I take time to delight in this boy given to us two years ago today. We feel like bandits, not having to share "turns"- just he and I, I and he (and the swing, of course).

We run to the house and there is a piece of me that wonders if it's fair, this always having another around- always having brother and never just being one alone. It's not something I even consciously think, really, just a question lingering in the back of my heart.

When we hit that door, I hear the clomp clomp clomp of boots over kitchen floor and a squeal "RYYYYAN! STEEPS! WING!" And that smile of delight stretches across his face. His face is flushed and he is out of breath for all of the excitement. Ryan watches his brother closely and David again recounts our journey to his big brother, and I realize that most of the fun was coming back together with that brother of his. He's not really missing out at all- he's getting more- mom, dad, and big brother

.

They say that after you have kids, it is hard to remember what life was like before them. I can remember a bit- I remember quiet, reading for hours, the freedom to come and go without carseats and sippy-cups and extra changes of clothes (or babysitters). I remember long nights of uninterrupted sleep. But then I remember two kids. It's as if they have always been here together. There is life before- and then life with kids. And I love the relationship I have with each of them, decidedly different and each delightful. And no, I can't imagine life without either one of them.

You see, I need that reminder that a trip out to feed sheep is an adventure.

Among many, many other lessons, they have taught me that slowing down brings more joy, more appreciation, more gratitude. And where there is gratitude, you can't help but feel abundantly blessed.

And sometimes, it's best to run full speed ahead, with wild abandon and without care or cause (they are boys, after all)

.

Pictures: David getting boots on for chorin'; David 2 weeks old, and toy that Ryan thought he would like to play with placed carefully so he could "reach it"; David today, two years old and full of spunk.

Indoors and Out

Typed down this past April. Wiping off the dust, thought I would share...
------------------------


Having been myself, a child, content to be indoors
(climate controlled and comfortable was my favorite way to explore)

I could sell lemonade in a stand, and make a nice picnic outside
But the dirt? That could stay far away.

The garden and flowers could be tended by another
I would stay inside, if I had my druthers.

So it seems to me odd, a strange thing, for sure
To find myself with boys who can’t stay indoors
Before they even climb out of PJ’s
They are asking and pleading if today is the day
Could today be the one? Please mom, let it be
Could this be the day we are to be free?
Outside to roam to search and to climb
To seek ordinary treasures, to delight in the find?

They pull on chore boots to combat the mud
And a snap of coat buttons and off they run.
And I watch with delight as they go, one after the other
Small one working hard to keep up with that brother
They head out to discover, to play and delight
To hunt for robin’s nests, to see them take flight

How did this happen? Boys who love mud and bugs?
Kids who would choose grass any day over rugs?

That great yawning outdoors now draws me, too
With it’s warm sun for my back, it’s cool morning dew
It is true, that bright, crisp, clear day calls my name,
And that indoor-only girl? I hardly remember her name.

And now I get my grandpa’s love of the dirt
How he could work out of doors until sweat drenched his shirt
Long days you could find him, content with the ground
The midday rustling of trees and his spade the only sounds
I know the delight in that cool lemonade
Taken after a hard day’s work, sitting down in the shade.

Starting Seeds

This past week has been so beautiful that we could not stay indoors. On days like these I feel like the oft-depicted weary sea-traveller, so elated with dry land that they stagger in from the salty sea and revel in the feel of sand. We winter-weary Iowans throw open windows and make sweet tea. We walk a few feet out the door and can't help but close eyes with face pointed sun-ward, inhaling spring- glorious, life-giving spring.
To my delight, when Ryan has asked if he can go play outside, I can once again say yes, rather than reasoning with him that it is really too cold. David, intent on being right behind that big brother, finds any shoe he can (dad's, Ryan's, whatever) and follows me, holding it as high as possible, saying "boot" repeatedly, until I relent, find his boots, and we all make our way outdoors.

The average last date of frost for Iowa is in mid-may- quite awhile from where we are now, with many a-frost likely in between. So, Phil built me this cold frame from a salvaged sliding glass door and some wood. This way, the seeds stay warm and protected from the cold at night, yet benefit from the sun during the day. I was delighted with the idea of starting seeds now, rather than having to wait. So, yesterday, on a particularly calm, warm, delightful day, the boys and I took off in the truck in search of gopher holes.

Yes, gopher holes. Phil had heard that, before fancy potting soil came in bags from Lowe's, one would go in search of gopher holes, the dirt from which would be extra-fluffy and *ahem* fertilized, is perfect for starting seeds. I had also read about using egg cartons for the planters, because they are biodegradable and can just be planted directly in the ground when the seedlings are ready for transplant. We have an abundance (read, 30) of these egg cartons, so it sounded like a perfect plan to me.
We planted mostly flowers in this round- zinnias, bachelor buttons, marigolds and sunflowers. Even some heritage seeds (meaning, from grandpa and grandma and uncles, passed down and saved carefully in envelopes). I love the idea of having a "frilly" garden (as my Aunt Sydney describes her beautiful garden) and this year I am determined to line those practical plants that fill tables and tummies with beauties that stir hearts and lift spirits. We also started zucchini, beans, bell peppers and peas, not so much because they need help getting started (we all know how well zucchini grow here!) but because Ryan remembered a stash of seeds from last year that we had kept in the garage, and brought them out to add to the stack. He really enjoyed this project.

Those egg cartons were nice, too, because after each one had been filled with seeds, it could be closed - protected from tiny hands until it was ready to be opened and placed in the cold frame.

Do you realize how much dirt a gopher can throw out of his abode? I had no idea. I pulled 10 gallons (those two buckets there) from one hole, and it still looks like I barely scraped the surface. Here you can also see the cold frame and the patches of old garden space that will soon be turned over once again.

We have one more door that we hope to make into another cold frame, and if that happens this year I plan on starting some seeds directly into the ground- like lettuce and spinach, and a few herbs. This type of planting suits me really well- keeping the garden dirt in the garden, and taking advantage of those first beautiful days of spring.

Now, it's a waiting game- how well does this work? Will they come up too quickly? Will spring not set in by the time the seeds need to be transplanted? This is certainly a trial run- but oh, what fun! To think, flowers!

When winter decided to come up for air, and we were graced with a few days nearing 50 degrees, we could hardly contain ourselves. Fresh air and open windows and romps in the mud beckoned, and we answered with delight.

I found Ryan's first pair of "chorin' boots" and pulled them out for David. It was a good thing, too, because boys and mud are like glue and paper...birds and song...Oreo's and milk, and it was not long before he was tap-tap-tap-splish-sploshing through the nearest puddle.

Ryan, true to form, was off on an adventure. Of course, note that he has his stick in hand- never leave home without a trusty stick.

I hope when these days are long gone, one thing I remember is how much I loved hearing David call for Ryan. He 's doing that in the picture above- pausing to call with all his might...waiting for an answer, waiting to run in the right direction.

Ryan, (stick still in-hand) has found the half-melted snow-cave his dad carved out for him only days before.

And of course, we couldn't take a trip outside without seeing the "ladies". In a few months, we hope to be calling them "mom's." We can't wait! See that one on the right? That's Millie. And she still thinks she is more human than sheep.
We still have one cow (see those horns!?). He has grown a little, too.

It has turned back cold again this week- back down to the 20's and 30's- but oh, that breath of Spring was enough to get us dreaming...and planning...and hoping for brighter, warmer days!

Just Try...

...to keep from laughing as you watch this video.

You can see him looking over the camera- Phil came in during the song, and started acting out the story as Ryan was singing. When his dad opened the door and watched in amazement as his imaginary meatball "rolled out the door", Ryan could no longer contain himself.

I love being a mom.

When Dad Plays

For a kid who loves the outdoors, the winter months of indoor play can seem so long. It takes a stretching of the imagination, these hours upon hours of time without world to explore (with stick in hand).

One morning Ryan was digging around in the game cabinet and found a pack of playing cards with airplanes on the back. He ran into the kitchen and nearly yelled "Mom! Look at this AIRPLANE!" (You would have thought it swooped down in our front yard for all of his excitement). He turned his head to the side and said in a sweet voice "Do you think we could make this?"


"Make this? What do you mean, Ry?"

"Oh, like make the airplane!"

"Oh, I don't know...we could try, I guess. You get started."

And at this point my mom-brain turned back to the stack of dishes and the rising bread dough. Minutes later the silence was once again broken by a now discouraged preschooler.

"I can't do it mom. It doesn't work right."

He pulls me by the hand into the living room, where he has dismantled the couch and the cushions are piled un-dramatically into a heap in the center of the room.

"See? I don't know how to make the wings." He holds up the playing card, still clutched in hand, and shrugs sadly.

"Well...honey, I don't know that we can make an airplane out of couch cushions."

"You see how this has wings, mom? Like this one and this one?" he turns the card slightly so he can see and still show me, and traces the wings of the plane with his fingers. This is important.

But truly, I am at a loss. Airplanes are pointy...couch cushions are very un-pointy.

"Maybe you just need to pretend, sweetheart."

And then Phil walks in. Dads just think differently.

"He is trying to make the airplane with the cushions." I nod at the heap hesitantly.

Ryan is right behind me, pleading his case with Dad. "You see dad? It needs wings like this one and this one."

"Oh, well...let's see what we can do."

Retreating to the kitchen to finish my chores, I only hear muffled voices as the boys work. And then, sure enough, I am interrupted once again. This time, though, by Phil. "You want to go see his airplane?"

And I walk in to the living room to see a boy, grinning ear to ear, thrilled with the results of his real-live airplane. As he sits in the cockpit, ready to take off, I can't help but be delighted at a dad and his creativity.

Dads just think differently...and I'm so glad they do.


Other things we have done to pass the time, sans-TV:

• Go on a bear hunt
• Hunt for letters/colors/etc.
• Play animal charades (using stuffed or plastic animals chosen from a pillow case)
• Play-doh and coloring
• Lots of cooking!
• Cleaning (they do the hand-vacuum, dusting, sorting and towel-folding)
• Play the game of opposites (say this quietly, loudly, be small, be tall)
• Sing songs (hokey pokey, little teapot, if you're happy and you know it)
• Cut out pictures of produce and make a garden calendar for Spring

Our wonderful sister-in-law sent us this book for Christmas, and it has been a lifesaver. They have different versions for different ages, and I highly recommend it. I am thinking about getting one for David's age, because many of the preschooler activities involve items that would be too old for him...but come to think of it, he delights in just running as fast as he can after that big brother of his, anyway. "Toddler Busy Book, idea number 366: Get him a big brother."

Still Three...but not for too much longer.
Oh, how I love talking with my oldest these days. He is such a delight!
This evening, as Phil was talking with him, he started one of his favorite games.
"I love you." (Dad says, quietly, normally.)
"I love you more" (Ryan emphasizes, stifling a snicker)
"I love YOU more" (Dad raises his voice in mock-indignation)"No, I LOVE YOU MORE!" (Though peals of laughter, legs poised to run, expecting a tackle)
"I bet you don't love me enough to pick up all of your toys!" (Dad says playfully, eyeing the enormous tornado that is the play room, a valiant attempt at Tom Sawyer psychology).
Ryan looks sideways at the room, nudges a toy aside with his foot, and says nonchalantly "I don't."
At least we know he hasn't lost his spunk.

The Tradition of the Stupid Jello

We love family traditions.

One thing we want to both continue and create for our kids is that sense of family that comes through tradition. This year, with Ryan being old enough to really remember Christmas and Thanksgiving, we felt that we needed to decide on some basics for our home's holidays. We listed out some of the things that had been special to us growing up. This is a process, and I know we will be adding to it as we go along. Some of my favorite family traditions are the accidental ones- unplanned and wonderful, they rank among our most cherished.

The Tradition of the Stupid Jello is one of those in my family. I don't know when it started, but it was by accident. The beautiful jello salad molded into a ring, complete with layers, has adorned our Thanksgiving and Christmas tables for as long as I can remember. But the treat in this salad is how it always goes wrong.

My mother and my aunt are both wonderful cooks- with skill they were always able to create meals that were delicious, comforting, and artistically thoughtful. But there was always something wrong with this jello salad. The top layer would slide from the bottom, or the nuts would appear brown and unappetizing. The fruit layer wouldn't set up properly or it would jiggle and smash upon unmolding. Every year, without fail, it was a delight to watch the unmolding of the Jello Salad, the more folly it contained, the more fun the event. I remember watching with rapt attention the unmolding, and squealing with delight as it slid to one side in it's imperfect glory. From two cooks who were so accurate and precise, it was the one dish that they were not ashamed to have fail.

(Or maybe they were embarrassed, but they never let it show.)

This Jello Salad took on a mind of its own when I was first married to Phil, and we explained the tradition to him over dinner one Christmas. Being a boy, with horrible boy thoughts, he started coming up with ideas for new flavors to try. And of course the other boys, loving the idea of ruining the appetites of their women counterparts, dove in with relish. As a come-uppons, someday I think it would be delightful to actually serve an Anchovy and Sauerkraut jello salad...if I could stomach it's creation.

This year, since my parents were here for Thanksgiving, I had the privilege of learning how to make this molded, layered salad from my mom. I loved the idea that three tables this Thanksgiving were to dawn their own SJS: Iowa, California, and Washington, and it didn't take me long to have thoughts of our kid's and their kid's tables multiplied with their own concoctions and mishaps. Thus the beauty of tradition.

The Thanksgiving Stupid Jello Salad: unmolded on a bare plate. The lettuce? An afterthought. The layers? Half mingled, half separated. Ah, imperfect glory!
For Christmas, I was on my own. To start with, I forgot that I was making this and told Phil to go ahead and use up all of the cream cheese. But! It was supposed to be imperfect- so great! I improvised with orange jello, tiny marshmallows, and pineapple chunks. So far, so good.

But then, upon unmoding- do you see it? I opened the mold the wrong way, leaving the plastic turquoise lid underneath the fragile, wriggly jello. I thought maybe I could slide it off, hence the broken side piece. Instead, I ended up sprinkling coconut over the top...snow? Camouflage.

Can I tell you how I love this? Being quite imperfect myself, it is a delight to make things that are more fun when they go wrong.

And, as David's inability to wait shows, no matter how ugly the salad, it always tastes good!

Big Dreams

We sit curled together on the couch, Ryan and I, reading book after book on a lazy Sunday afternoon. I pause between books and smile at him "You are getting so big, kid. I don't know what I am going to do..." As I trail off, threatening to get lost in thought, Ryan doesn't miss a beat.
"Yeah," he says, bright-eyed, "and I will drive a lawnmower and have an ax and drive a car and have a tractor and a combine!"
From the speed and clarity with which he blurts all this out, I can assume he has been thinking about this.
"Yep," he concludes, 'when I get older, that's what I'm gonna do!'
And thus he leaves me in the dust- I was only thinking about the time when he would curl up on his own to read a book instead of next to myself, and here he is already tilling fields.

Moments in the Chaos

The morning air has been pierced with wails. Not enough milk. He's nor sharing. I want this not that. Why can't I eat crayons? Fists clenched and jaw set there is no debating his thoughts on these matters.
My nerves twinge with over stimulation and I scoop him up and pull him close. We head upstairs to the boy's bedroom where older brother has been playing quietly.
It's naptime, I singsong, intentionally sweet, for it has been a rough few hours. Older brother nods and is generous with hugs and kisses and "goodnight" and "we'll see you in a little while" and "sleep well". In a rush of words he leaves and the room echoes quiet. I take that small bear of David's and hold him up. A smile creeps up and he sighs contentedly, wrapping his arm tightly around the furry bear-neck. He cuddles down under the warm blanket I have wrapped around him and we rock...quiet, silent, listening to small breaths and letting that sweet peace come over us both. What a gift, this silence following such strife.
A low rumble outside pulls and makes my heart leap- who is it coming down that road of ours? I lay down child, still awake but calm and ready to fall asleep, and head to search windows.
No one.
Immediately I am sad I put him down, for all of the busy-ness of a one-point-five-year old those times to simply sit and wonder at the beauty of him are so fleeting and small. These gifts, this enormous gift of precious child and smaller gift of the moment to cherish him, are both profound and simple.
While we are called to rush about and do more and more, there is that small (sometimes loud) voice calling us to slow, to enjoy, to simply be, experiencing His grace, His love, His peace once more.
Blessings to you - may you savor the simple that surrounds you today.

Home for Christmas

Her words strike through to my heart.
She, too, is a mom of two young boys. She, too, is a wife of few but meaningful years. She, too, is displaced from all she has known and held dear.
In a strange new land her heart cries out for normalcy, constancy, familiarity. She yearns for home...and struggles with the reality that she is to create one here.
Immediately I am drawn to her- her light, her transparency, the way I know that story- that history.
She is me, minus three years in Iowa.
I watch her and can scarcely believe my eyes. Her struggles are ones I know intimately- the fears and frustrations and hurts and joys and guilt and love and triumph and overwhelm...I can speak her language and she also, can speak mine.
And my soul thanks the Lord that I have something to offer her, that she has something to offer me.
---------------------------
"How was it?" I asked her, wondering about her first trip back "home" since she and her husband moved here three months earlier.
"It was good. Both easier and harder than I had expected."
And then she recounts the moment, this moment that reminded me of how far I have yet to come. For none of us, not one, has arrived.
"T. told me how much he missed home. And here I thought he meant his previous home, the one I long for always. But no, he missed this new home, the one I have worked so hard to make him. And that warmed my heart, settled my fears, and allowed me to start settling in myself."
And I stand back in marvel.
How? How does that wisdom sink in so quickly? She went on to tell me of how she had been so pouring her time and efforts into creating a home for her two sons, that when this two year old told her he missed that place, she wept. It was all she wanted- for him to feel at home.
So often I get wrapped up in what I need. What I want. What would make me more comfortable here. And I lose perspective that I am a mom- I create, I serve, I inspire, I build for my family what someday my own kids will think back on as "home." I want them to remember not what this place was to their mom, but what this place meant to them. I want them to aspire to create wonderful Christmas mornings of their own, filled with joy and peace and goodness; days foreshadowed by those we hold in this house for them.
But this means turning my idea of home on its head. Letting go of my longings and desires to the extent that it allows me to build up for them...and for myself...a place worthy of being called home. And that goes so far beyond this furnishing or that meal. No, a home is built with the heart- the wholehearted love and care of a mom not clinging desperately in her deepest being to someplace else.
That sounds strange, you may say.
I know. It would, until you have been so far, wept for home, yearned for that place. And then you would know how that piece of you, though invisible for most days, does show itself in strange ways. Pictures don't get hung on the walls. I don't plant trees. Permanence, they mean permanence: these nails in walls and roots in ground. Friendships are shallow and meant for temporary happiness instead of deep, lasting growth. Whether or not I know it there is that piece of me that works against my whole self being here. And that creeps into how I build this place for my kids, for my husband, for myself.
I watch her yearn to create that sense of home for her kids and I want to have that heart for my family. To worry more about the home I am making for them than for my own comfort. Because this place, any earthly home, is here for but a breath of time. A sanctuary, a resting place. It is not the ultimate. It is not the end. We are but travelers, each one, setting our hearts toward the one true Home worthy of our unabashed longing. Here, on this journey, I am called to build up this home in Iowa worthy of comforting, teaching, transforming souls, and that doesn't happen one foot in and one foot out.
And I can say it and know it in my mind, but to live it out in my heart- that is where the battle takes place.
And so, in this month of Christmas, she gave me an unexpected gift. She renewed my focus, reminding me that I am here not for myself but for others. And I am setting out ready to create "home" for those boys in my life closest to me.
Truly, my prayer is that we will be home for the holidays this year. And that you will be, too, wherever you are.

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.

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.

Growing up, my sister and I were always in cahoots. This teamwork and delightful companionship is one of my greatest desires for my boys. I know that I need to be careful what I ask for, as that teamwork could work against their mother.

This morning, while I was making coffee (i.e. I was absent from view for two minutes, tops) the boys decided to reorganize for me. Brother Cahoots, I tell you, is unfair before morning coffee. I should call foul.

When I saw what they were up to, I informed Ryan that we were not going to empty the entire pantry into the playpen. Nossir. He needed to stop.

Plaintively he looked at me, sweetly and said "OK mom."

Seconds later I looked back and this was happening. Upon first reaction I thought "Argh!" But, admittedly, it was the beginning of the day, and I had far less frustration built up than I do at the end of a day, meaning I am also a bit more easygoing. I asked him plainly "What are you doing? Didn't mom ask you to stop?"

"I'm just helping Davey."

And true to his words, HE was not throwing anything in the playpen. You can see him stop himself a few times in this video, and that is the result of thinking he would get in trouble if HE were to do such a deed. The last container he wants to throw is sugar, and I tell you, the MESS if I were to let that be tossed over. Canned goods are one thing, flour, sugar, baking soda? There are limits, even before my morning coffee.

I also had to share this small snippet, which was filmed a few minutes before the above video. David, upon first coming downstairs, became fascinated with his shadow. Stand still, wave, grab, bob-up-and-down fascinated. It's so neat watching their little minds explore. Often, I get moving so fast I don't notice small moments like this, and it was such a treat to see him try and figure it all out.

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Speaking of comprehension:

While I was typing this, my phone rang. The cordless phone ran out of batteries and it went to the answering machine. It was my mom-in-law. In her message, she gave some detailed questions about Christmas gifts, asking about appropriate ages and a specific toy. Ryan was standing here and when she hung up here is what he said to me, in an excited, wide-eyed tone:

"A Noah's Ark! For me? Is she going to bring that for me? COOL!"

"Who?"

"Gramma Calli? Is she going to bring me clothes and a Noah's Ark?"

I'm telling you, I had no idea I would have to start hushed Christmas conversations so early.

A new journey

Three Novembers ago, we boarded a plane headed for farm country.
I looked down. The world below was covered in a blanked of white. Tears stung my eyes, threatening to spill. I pulled my baby. now seven months old, a bit closer. The heart-split happening mid-air, above the great nation spread below- a world divided. It was a beginning. A terrifying, jolting, wondrous, faithful beginning. Just two days before we'd had a teary, sweet Thanksgiving, filled with the aromas and people that had accompanied the major holidays for my first 23 years. It felt right, real, and on this particular occasion, solemn.
Above that great land, in the hours which transported my life between the world that was and the world that was to come, my heart cried for a respite from the turmoil. This dichotomy, the pull between here and there, this life and that, ebbs and flows, pushes and pulls, and has since that first flight, grown fainter, but is an ever present reality for me.
I held that little boy, small, sleeping, precious and unrambunctious, knowing that tomorrow he would wake up to his mom. And then I would be with him all day. I would make him his food, care for him when he nosedived learning to crawl. It would be his mom that would reach down and rescue him, wide-eyed and arms outstretched, after a long nap. After seven months as manager/mom, spending so much of my best energy focused on building another's castle, I was ready to be a mom-only.
The rest of the world was in a frenzy, lapping up the best deals at their local retailers, hastily devouring ads and planning elaborate shopping days that started before the first light of day. This would have been my world, only from the inside-out. Holiday hours for retail managers were in the 60's, at least 6 days per week, late into the night (or early into the morning, depending on perspective) and that one day off would be a mid-week break. My job this holiday season would have been no different. So as I sat on this plane, holding that sweet baby of mine, I distinctly felt the gift that had been given to me- I was to experience life as a mom, Christmas as calming, the New Year as renewal.
I am not good at this job. There are days that I wonder who in the world hired me for such a role. And then I am hit with the realization that God knew what He was doing- motherhood is not for the weak. It is for those willing to persevere, be patient, and above all, it is for those who can love.
That moment, that distinct moment is etched quite clearly in my mind. His tiny hand wrapping around my finger, his eyes closed and his body warm with sleep much needed. My mind swirled with longing for home, and then, sporadically, there was a spirit of adventure, although not one that I was willing to admit to or indulge. But it was there, bubbling underneath the surface. This, I knew deep down, was an adventure of the highest sorts.
And, in my innocence, I was right. Right in the way someone who has never seen a tree, after hearing it described and pondering it in thought might say "that sounds large, leafy, and wonderful." Its magnitude, its precise, intricate, and grandiose wonder is impossible for one to comprehend until seen, touched, and felt.
And, true to His way, the way I saw our journey here, and the way He had it all planned out, were worlds apart. Being human, I much prefer a simple, straight line, A to B. But oh, how I would have missed out! The curves, friends, are what make the road interesting. An Iowan mile can be driven without thought. And there can be comfort in seeing the entire road, the entire way. But the curves of a Washington road are beautiful, dangerous, alive with trees and wildlife, take you past cliffs where you can see seemingly forever out to the deep ocean. With only one life, can I afford to miss the scenic route? More specifically, can I afford to miss the route set aside for me by God, only because I prefer the simple A to B, without hills and valleys, cliffs or towering rock formations? We love to drive past those magnificent pieces of earth, in awe of their beauty and depth, but so resist becoming such a creation.
Three winters later, Lord, let me stay the course, with renewed determination to do it Your way, hills, valleys, cliffs and all.

Home

"Do you miss grandma?"
"Yah."
"Me too. Thanks for staying here with me."
"Your welcome."
"I would have missed you."
"I would have missed you, too."

Without my intention and truly, without noticing along the way, this blog has become a story of God’s faithfulness to His people. Our red sea. Our manna. Our five loaves and two fish. This journey to Iowa has not been easy. There is beauty, surely. Serenity and peace in fields of whispering corn and rest for the weary soul in the sweet breeze across the land. And by contrast, there is hardship. Harsh winds, bitter cold.
And longing.
I miss my family. I miss my mom. She left today after staying a wonderful week with us. What a beautiful time we had- watching David learn to walk, watching Ryan cling to her and inform me that he was, in fact, going home with Grandma and in no way going to stay with me. (After one particular tickle-torture session I demanded of him “Say ‘I love you mom! I will stay!’” With a shriek of laughter he yelled back “I love you mom! Goodbye!”) Her encouragement, laughter, and her piece in our daily lives will sorely missed. But, she is needed at home. I haven’t asked, but I am sure dad would be unwilling to trade her for a steady supply of cinnamon rolls. Hmm…(*strums fingers together contemplatively*)
I know many of you wonder from time to time why we would stay here, surrounded by all of these trials and so far from people we hold so dear. If I could write you one sentence for that answer, believe me, I would. I suppose that’s why I avoid the difficult discussions here. It’s easy to show the trials, much more difficult to explain faithfulness as it relates to our lives. God is faithful to us. I can’t say it’s an easy journey. I can’t say I understand His purpose or even His will with all of this. But I cling to the knowledge that He knows when even a small sparrow falls. He watches over the lilies of the fields and clothes them in great splendor. How much more valuable are we than a weensie bird?
In all of our trials, all of our discouragements and ups and downs, He has walked so faithfully with us. No, nothing has been perfect. Laughably opposite, in fact. But I know my job is not to be comfortable, but only to be faithful back- with each step, with each breath- walking straight ahead whether I am terrified or at peace, onward, onward.
I sat across from mom at lunch, discouraged, sad. I missed her already and she wasn’t even gone. This, I have come to learn, is an emotion directly related to the distance between us. And then, I looked at each of my boys, one by one. David scrunched up his face, smiling with his entire being. He let out a shriek and then a giggle. And Ryan sat politely, eating ice cream and refusing the bite offered by Grandma, because “I have my own, right here. No thank you.” And all of the sudden this amazing feeling of love for those two boys ran through my veins. I wouldn’t miss this for anything.
Love can be so painful. When it’s far away. When it’s gone. When it’s wrapped up in someone who is making bad choices. But would you trade it? Could you? Is not the entire fabric of life weaved of love?
“When my spirit grows faint within me, it is You who know my way." Psalm 142:3

Fence, Fence, Wherefore art Thou Fence?

Last weekend, according to our non-systematic winter-prep plan, we worked on fencing. Yes, fencing. In our grand plans, fencing solves two major areas of frustration for us: Animal control and snow drift management.

--------LATE MAY---------

"Mom…the cows are out of the fence."

"Mmmhmm" I respond distractedly from the kitchen.

"Cows! Go BACK to your fence!" Ryan has pushed open the front door,
poked his head through and is demanding the stray bovines return to their
rightful location.

"COWS? Where???" The situation finally sinks in, and I run to my front
window. The two cows, normally corralled behind the fence in the pasture (and I
use the term fence loosely here) were now traipsing throughout my front
flowerbeds, munching and, well, doing another inappropriate things cows do.
Wherever they please. Because they don’t realize that cowpies don’t belong on
the driveway, or truly, in any other well-trodden area for that matter.

Drying my hands on the towel I had grabbed in my haste to the window, I
panic. WHAT am I going to do? These cows, though small and quite
docile, are still cows. They don’t exactly follow me like our bossy
pet sheep, and I cannot simply walk back to the pasture with them patiently
following. And husband? In route between Washington and Iowa, cell-phone-less and
quite unavailable for aid in this endeavor to corral said bovines. Don't forget
the two boys- not old enough to manage themselves alone.

Think think think. I watch as they head to another flower bed. Plop.
"Ahh! Stop that!" I lose composure momentarily.
I don't have time to think! Wait, what did Mike say? Cows like
apples- that's right- he collects dropped apples from a friend to give to his "girls". I rush to the fridge- one apple-check. Maybe they will also like other
things, like fresh asparagus- yes, possibly! Worth a shot, no? I reason these
things to myself while fastening on my boots, Ryan's boots, and coats for the
two boys. I hoist David to my hip, and hand Ryan the apple. I explain my plan to
Ryan, who heads out with determination.

"HERE! Cows! EAT THIS APPLE!!!" He charges toward the cows with determination and glee.

The cows, however, do not return this glee. Nor do they show the slightest
bit of interest beyond that of getting as far away from the small human as
possible. Unfortunately for me, their flee-ing did not take them toward their
pasture. Rather, they cared much less about what direction they headed, the only
criterion being that it was away from me- toting the smallest human, and the
skipping, loud larger one walking with us.

For half an hour we continue an awkward dance of sorts with our cows. Two
steps left, turn, gallop, turn, swoop. Plop. Plop. David, nearly 20 pounds, is
starting to get heavy. Ryan, as energetic as he is, is torn between
being exasperated with the cows and the thrill of the hunt. The
cows don't want fresh asparagus, apples, hand-held grass or any other sort of
thing we have to offer. I have tried luring, cajoling, sweet talking, demanding,
and at this point, I am simply tired.

When he returns, I tell myself, we will be fixing this
fence! But that was the thing- I couldn't even see where they got out. It
looked quite intact, and it sunk in that even if I were able to conjure up a way
to return the cows to their rightful location, they had a way to simply escape
that I couldn't see, let alone fix.

Failure, however, was not an option. The freshly sprouted cornfields
surrounding our house were prime munching ground, and if the cows wandered that
way and realized the goldmine they had at their hoof-tips, I would have a whole
new set of worries on my hands.

I both wished a person would happen by and dreaded it, longing for another set of able hands yet knowing how rediculously dressed I was, baby on hip, chasing cows with apples and asparagus spears.

It was late by this point, so I stuck my tongue out at the cows, stomped inside, and hurriedly lay the boys down to bed. David, worn out from the excitement, was quickly asleep and Ryan was not far behind him. With both hands free I returned outside with renewed determination. I grabbed a bucket and filled it with
oats- the only grain I had on hand. In my other hand I held a rope
with a slip knot I had seen Phil use when he moved them once.

I sauntered up to the skitterish animals, and they munched grass, eyeing me with curiosity.

"That's right guys...look at this YUMMY food..." I crooned. "Why don't you
come see how good it tastes? There's no harm in a taste, right?" The light brown
one brought up his head, and to my delight started walking toward me. "That's
right...here, have a taste" calmly, as sweetly as I could muster for two ornery
cows, I lowered the bucket so the first one could take a few mouthfulls of
grain. As soon as his head was lowered and he was in range, I slipped the noose
over his head, carefully, quietly. Then, I lifted the bucket. He walked a bit
after the grain, but decided he didn't like my direction. "ho ho! I have you
now, cow!" Clearly, I and my rope had gained the advantage. With exhaustion my
inhibitions fell to the wayside and I leaned toward the pasture with all of my
might. Maybe he realized that you just shouldn't mess with a mom who's tired, or
maybe he just wanted some more oats, but at this point he just gave in. He
walked dutifully behind me to the pasture gate. I swung it open and led him
inside.

Now, Mike always says you have to be smarter than the cows. As I have learned with both chickens and sheep, this is true with most animals. The wisdom and ways you may think are going to work will normally fail. You can rarely chase animals in the direction you want them to go. Herding works with some, bribing with others. Slowly but surely I have begun to "understand" the
different species in our petting zoo. These cows? They like to be together. If one gets out and the other is in, OH my, do we get an earful. Also? There is a leader, and the other one will almost always follow behind him (if you take the follower, the leader could care less, for some reason). Thankfully for me, the
one I had captured was the head honcho of the twosome, and the second cow, upon seeing that there was Food! To be had! That might be good! sauntered along behind him, right into the pasture.

Ahahahaha! VICTORY! I closed the gate and walked the fence line, still unable to detect how they had escaped in the first place. But, it was late, and I knew it would at least be morning until they would try another Houdini. I went inside and called one of my farmer friends- "I need help. Can you come check my fence tomorrow morning?"

"Sure, what's going on??"

Ahh, community.

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Since then, we have pounded down poles, replaced gates, moved various animals to different areas, and put up for a number of months with "free range sheep", as Neighbor Mike warily calls them. With harvest coming, and winter not too far behind it, a solid fence will be quite necessary. We have mostly wire fencing, but noticed that wood fencing has a dual purpose in that it also works to capture and direct snow. So, in phase two of our fencing project, we will be extending our windbreak and directing the snow that comes in a new and specific way using wood fencing.
Last weekend we built a gate and four sections of fence, fixing the makeshift enclosure and turning it into a fence a normal farmer would even appreciate. I say we...but truly I was mostly food-lady, kid-manager, and conversationalist. The only actual work I got to do was remove nails from some of the recycled lumber we used. I think it turned out nicely. And, the thought of not having to chase animals around the property with a baby on my hip? Priceless.