Category: Thoughtful Thursday

With Thanks

I snapped this photo while little Ellie-bean was sitting pretty in the morning sun, surrounded, no doubt, by the slew of baby toys her helpful sister saw fit to arrange meticulously around her.  She started to crawl this week, as in move forward, intentionally, even occasionally lifting her belly off the ground. These last eight months have flown by.  I remember telling my husband, just before Christmas, that it was all down hill from here: that six months was the ideal baby age – blissfully immobile but fully engaged with smiles and coos.  No tantrums, all cuddles.  But I think I feel that about each stage (tantrums and all), that each moment we’re in is the sweetest, and that I don’t want to give it up, only to be surprised at the new joys around the corner.

We’ll be moving in a few months.  Ted started a new job this week, our normal routines have been thrown to the wind, and we’re in the middle of the complex chaos and waiting game of attempting to purchase a short sale. So many of the things that have been constants during the formative years of our life together are changing. But somehow, the simplicity and contentedness of little Ellie’s sweet presence has reminded me today that I have a lot to be grateful for.

I’m thankful for these sweet girls.

I’m thankful for a husband who shares his heart with me freely and loves me deeply.

I’m thankful for family & friends who love and encourage me, despite my many shortcomings.

I’m thankful that regardless of this house, I belong, and have found a home in Christ.

I’m thankful for the sunshine pouring in my windows, and that my girls took naps today.

I know it’s easier to be thankful in some situations, or seasons, than in others, but I want to encourage you today to embrace a posture of thankfulness.  It’s like a good sugar scrub for your heart: exfoliating the grime and sweetening up your perspective. So, tell me, what are you thankful for?

A Lesson from Laura

I was driving with the girls this week, listening to the news to find out just how much snow was expected (a foot, it turns out), when a report came over the airwaves regarding an explosion at a gas plant in Connecticut.  As I reached for the dial I glanced in the rear view mirror, hoping to see Laura spaced out or tuned into to something other than the words streaming over the radio.   “What does it mean that two people were killed, Mommy?” Of course.

I try to be straight forward and simple in my answers about the tough things: honest, but age appropriate.  After a fairly simple explanation, only slightly complicated by 37 “Why, Mommy-ies” I asked if she wanted to pray for the families of the men who had died.  I often pray about things as they come up throughout my day, and recently I’ve been making it a practice to do so aloud, and inviting Laura to join me if she wants. It seems like a simple way to show her my faith lived out. And as she usually does, Laura said she wanted to pray with me, “but with just [me] talking.”  So I prayed a simple prayer, asking God to comfort the families of those men, and with amen, thought I had ended our little conversation.

“So what did God say?” Laura asked after a few seconds. It hit me like a ton of bricks.  All this time I’ve been praying with her, she expects that I am hearing answers back, that prayer is a two way street. And she was right! Scripture says that God’s Word, written throughout history, is living and active (Hebrews 4:12)- it applies to our little lives and questions and requests.  And it also says that Jesus’ sheep know His voice (John 10:4). Perhaps the question is if we’re listening.

That moment, those words, that brutal innocence, is exactly why when some of Jesus’ followers tried to prevent a bunch of kids from bothering their master teacher, he chided them:

But Jesus called the children to him and said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it” Luke 18.16-18

Perhaps the single, greatest gift of motherhood is the opportunity to see life through the eyes of your child.  For me, rediscovering faith, through Laura’s perspective has caused me to confront the places in my faith that have become routine or stale, instead of the beautiful, life giving relationship He offers. So today, I am praying, and I’m listening.  Thanks, kiddo.

Love Letters

Are you working on Valentines at your house?  Yesterday I went rummaging through end table drawers and my antique trunk, hunting for letters and scraps for a project.  Given my affinity for the past, I shouldn’t have been so surprised by the number of dear, sweet letters I came across.   Okay, I admit, I do not have a mile high stack of love letters, per se.  Some are from my grandmother, a college roommate, my childhood pen-pal.  I’ve always had a love for the correspondence, and these letters are a slice of my personal history, representing seasons of life and the people I love.

Reading through my little stash of stamped treasures brought me back to an age old truth that has encouraged me again and again as I spend my days pouring into the lives of my daughters and those around me.  In Scripture, Paul writes to the church in Corinth to affirm his credentials for his work:

Do we need, like some people, letters of recommendation to you or from you? You yourselves are our letter, written on our hearts, known and read by everybody. You show that you are a letter from Christ, the result of our ministry, written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of human hearts. (2 Corinthians 3:1-3)

Did he rely on his achievements and success? His performance review report or his gleaming resume? No, Paul’s letters of recommendation were the lives of those he had impacted with the love of Christ.  This week we’ll be pasting doilies on paper hearts and sprinkling glitter into pink envelopes, but my real love letters are those I write each day, not with my favorite Sharpie pen, but with love, written on the hearts of my children, my husband, the woman walking in the cold that I offer a ride to, or the friend who needs to vent. And my heart is overwhelmed with thanks for those who’ve “written not with ink” on my heart over the years – mothers, sisters, mentors and friends. (Hmm… maybe some letters of appreciation are in order!)

Happy letter writing, my friends, with ink & without!

Authentic Homemade Bread

Authenticity. It’s undoubtedly one of the buzz words of our generation. My trusty, well-worn (okay, okay, abused is probably a more authentic description!) 1966 Webster’s gives only these two definitions:

1. authoritative; trustworthy; reliable
2. genuine; real

Fast forward forty years, Merriam-Webster now lists five definitions for authenticity, the last of which reads: “true to one’s own personality, spirit, or character.”  The definition itself has expanded to reflect the burgeoning value we place on authenticity.  In the name of authenticity, we write off people and causes that come across as disingenuous (in our subjective opinion), expect full disclosure, and see authenticity as the key to any meaningful connection. At the same time, though, our primary medium for social, and often professional connections are forged in the fires of facebook, twitter, and flickr, where we can calculate and control the images, tone, and information surrounding our virtual selves.  So how do we live authentically, really?

This morning I made homemade bread.  With the help of my great-grandmother’s original recipe, my three year old’s  master ingredient-pouring-skills, and about seven phone calls to my mom, we produced the beautiful loaf pictured above. Now, before you think I’ve completely lost my train of thought (which, as those of you who know me can testify, would not be entirely out of character to flip from philosophizing to food prep in one breathe), let me explain:

The inspiration to bake came, oddly enough, from a conversation I had Wednesday morning on the topic of hypocrisy, which I propose is the antithesis of authenticity.  In the Gospel of Luke, chapter 11, Jesus slams the religious leaders of his day for holding to the letter of the law, for requiring outward perfection from their followers, yet having hard, cold hearts.  They had it all together on the outside and were pressuring others to measure up, but inwardly they cared nothing about the things closest to God’s heart: the poor, justice, and the love of God are a just a few Christ mentions in this passage.

In chapter 12, Jesus goes on to warn his followers against the “yeast of hypocrisy,” which got us talking about bread. Quantitatively the yeast is the least ingredient, but it sure does have a lot of bang for its buck. Over time, it changes everything. So too, when I start focusing on the externals, my outward performance and what I have to show for it, at the expense of the condition of my heart, I become a hypocrite by definition.  And sadly I infect others when I begin to size them up by these external measurements apart from a heart that is motivated by love.

This concept of first taking care of the condition of my heart and allowing the externals to follow (albeit the following often takes discipline and hard work) seems so counter-intuitive to everything inside of me. I’m not sure if it’s just my human nature, my people pleasing personality, or what, but my gut reaction in almost any situation is to look good on the outside. Rarely is my primary motivation love, or justice, or the cause of the oppressed.   So tonight, with flour dust still on my counter top, I’m longing for a heart that beats in rhythm with Jesus’ heart: for the poor, for justice, for the love of God and trusting He’ll help me sort through the rest.

Photo Credit: Believe it or not, my three year old snapped this picture.  After trying to capture a good shot of the bread we made together, I left the camera on the table, with autofocus on, and Laura snapped this shot when she got up from her nap.  Here she is, my little protégée!

On Grief, Joy & Fallen Soldiers

All week I’ve been scheming about my Thoughtful Thursday post, planning to share some exciting news, but as is so often the case, I was met with the unexpected today, and feel compelled to share about it.  I met a friend for lunch at her place, and we spontaneously decided to walk into town with the kids to grab a bite of pizza.  I was aware that later in the afternoon there would be a funeral procession through town, a hero’s welcome for the remains of a soldier killed in the war in Afghanistan.

What I didn’t understand was the magnitude of the procession.  As we casually strolled out of the pizza shop and down the main drag to Trader Joe’s, women were handing out flags. (Ours eventually found a home with our avocado sprout, pictured above.) People were lining the streets: World War II vets with matching red jackets, firefighters from 30 different towns in dress uniform, a motorcycle gang clad in red, white, and blue, the elderly clutching flags, children taken out of school.  Looking up, we saw the largest American flag I have ever seen billowing in the crisp air, strung between the fully extended ladders of two fire trucks.

You can see some of the stunning images and read more about Sgt. Christopher Hrbek here and here. I can testify that in all my life I have never seen a community come together to honor someone’s life in this way.  I left Westwood in a somber state: such sadness, and yet such a truly beautiful tribute of gratefulness for the highest sacrifice.

My mind was reeling.  Already this week, I had been grappling with the devastation in Haiti.  And although I am amazed and grateful for the enormous outpouring of aid and financial help for Haiti, a dear soul reminded me that there are countless others suffering from not a single quake of devastation, but a slow descent into poverty, the cruelty of AIDS, the hatred of genocide, the destructive nature of abuse, the hardships of mental illness. There is grief all around us.

And all the while, as I process these devastating losses, I am surrounded by two little girls, who know nothing of earthquakes and genocide and war.  They delight in such simple joys and thrive in the security of the love that surrounds them.

All this brought me back to a simple concept that significantly shifted my understanding of grief: the idea that grief and joy exist in our lives on a continuum, and when we limit our experience of one, we also shut out the other.

Henri Nouwen wrote:  “Joy and sorrow are never separated. When our hearts rejoice at a spectacular view, we may miss our friends who cannot see it, and when we are overwhelmed with grief, we may discover what true friendship is all about. Joy is hidden in sorrow and sorrow in joy. If we try to avoid sorrow at all costs, we may never taste joy, and if we are suspicious of ecstasy, agony can never reach us either.”

So, tonight I am giving myself permission to feel the pangs of loss, both the tangible and those beyond quantification as well as the sweet whispers of love and moments of pure joy, with gratitude that joy and grief are chisels in the hand of the sculptor, and I am a work in progress.

Good Grief

Have you ever sojourned through a season where loss seems to be the anthem of your cadence? This has been my path these last few weeks.  And while I have not lost anyone in my closest embrace, I have of late witnessed those I love and many more I know by acquaintance suffer great losses: the expected, yet still piercing deaths of old saints, the bittersweet relief of death after the carnage of cancer, even harrowing unexpected deaths of young fathers, of children.

I have heard it said that death comes in threes.  Perhaps it’s more likely that when we suffer loss, we become more aware of those around us who are grieving, and wrap their loss into our own sorrow, until loss and grief seem as much a part of our day as the laundry that needs folding or the phone that keeps ringing.  This has been one of those seasons.

People often refer to the time surrounding the loss of a loved one as a fog.  A cloud of malaise settles around us, and although our feet are moving forward, the details of the scenery and the direction remain unclear.  Yet, paradoxically, in grief certain things become palpable.  The gravity of death causes the frivolous details to disapate  into the background, and those things that are left standing in the face of utter grief are reborn with greater value:

The laughter of my children.

The opportunity to stop nitpicking, and instead nuzzle into the crook of my husband’s neck.

The constancy and faithfulness of Scripture.

The sweet and silly stories from my mother’s childhood. And her mother’s. And her mother’s mother’s.

The gift of warm sunshine on a crisp fall afternoon.

The promise of a love that conquers death, and life beyond the grave.

Lessons about Reality from the World of Make Believe

My two year old, Laura, is very into make believe.  It all started just before Christmas time last winter.  She quickly identified the main character of any story as herself, and assigned my husband and I supporting roles.  When Ellie was born earlier this summer, Laura began incorporating her into most of these play games by making her a pet.  Poor little puppy!

So these days, Laura is Karen from Frosty the Snowman, I am Frosty, and my husband, Ted,  plays Santa.  She is Annie from Little Einstiens, I’m Leo (after all I drive our rocket & wear glasses) and my husband is Quincy.  Random friends and grandparents rotate in and out as June, the fourth member of the gang. She is Bob the Tomato and I am the taller, sillier Larry.  Somehow Ted ended up as Mr. Lunt, the squinty eyed gourd with a Mexican accent.   She is Cinderella, I am Sleeping Beauty, and Ted is our (shared) prince. She is Spot, I am Sally, and Ted is Spot’s Daddy.  There is no scenario she cannot adapt.

When she was younger, she would slip in and out of character.  But now, in her mature almost three land of imagination, she announces with pomp & circumstance when she is donning a new role.  Recently, when she is finished playing, and wants to return to just being herself, she says so by telling us: “Now I just want to be my Momma’s child.”

I was struck today, when she said this to my mother-in-law, that she is summing up her identity in this statement.  She sees herself first and foremost as belonging to me, being my child. She knows who I am, and she finds her own identity in relationship to that understanding.  What a beautiful picture.  It’s so easy to see myself as wife, mother, teacher, artist, diaper changer. But my true identity lies in knowing the One who loves me, the One I’m at home with, and knowing I am His.  Sigh.

dream home

The inspiration for this blog stems largely from the idyllic images of home that resonate in my memory.  Even given my bent towards perpetual optimism, it’s difficult not to glorify my childhood. I grew up across the street from a dairy farm, in a home creatively managed by a mother who gardened, sewed, cooked, cleaned, crafted, parented and entertained with contagious flair and little inhibition.

I now find  myself striving to create a home that is full of the warmth and laughter and good taste that surrounded my formative years– for my children, for my husband, for myself, for our guests.  I want my home to envelope people into all its charm and chaos, whether they want to simply come and be part of our process or sit long hours and converse.

Most days I enjoy this adventure in home-making, this crafting of abode.  But then there are days when life seems too complicated, or too wearisome, and I long to be nine, and barefoot, and racing my sisters to the mailbox, despite the fact that I always finish last. I yearn for the smell of chlorine and damp cotton against my cheek as I listen to peepers and drift off to sleep after an evening swim. And, really, what wouldn’t I do to regularly walk through my front door and be met by the aroma of chocolate chip cookies wafting through the house?

And yet, as I endeavor to create this home of my ideals, I am discovering more and more that my striving will be merely work, a performance that at some point ends (at which point the real Annie, off camera, burns out or melts down or snaps) if my home is something I am creating in the space around me, but not in the space within me.

One of the wisest women I know recently pointed out to me that in Scripture, when Abraham’s beloved Sarah died, he choose not to return home for her burial (as would be culturally and historically expected in this time grief). Instead, he opted to lay her body to rest in the promised land, even though he owned none of it at the time of her death.  She challenged me to consider where my home is, to identify the places I run to in times of grief and discouragement.  Do I run to the past? To my ideals? Or do I, like Abraham, run to the promises of God and truth of His Word?  Here I find real hope.  Actual peace.  Joy. Comfort.

Like the great patriarch, the home that I’m really longing for is one whose architect and builder is God, not one marked simply by good taste or reminiscent of my childhood.  As I find myself at home in Him, I am able to rest and work and live fully, and those around me are warmly welcomed to come and enjoy that rest and work and life right alongside me.  This is the home I long for.  My dream home.