Beautiful Things

Five Minute Friday: Ache

2012-03-02T09:24:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, suburban life is the lukewarm water you want to spit out. Neither hot nor cold, here nor there. Neither country mouse nor city mouse.

Sometimes, I am hungry for experiences beyond the beanfields and the minivan and the local supercenter. I lay awake, mentally tallying my meager bucket list, and that slippery serpent whispers discontent. Because I haven’t seen the Grand Canyon. Run a marathon. Flown in a hot air balloon.

But truth speaks up and reminds me that life is no more about big experiences than it is about big possessions, that the glory of God is as much in a family campout in a backyard tent as it is at the top of Mt. Everest. Maybe more so.

As I lay awake and think what I really want in life, what I would be sorry to have missed, the most random image comes to mind. I see myself sitting on the kitchen counter late at night, eating a bowl of cereal and chatting with them about their Friday night.

And that thought nearly leaves a hole in my chest.

Multitudes on Mondays {501-510}

2012-02-27T21:40:00.000-05:00

#501…

#502… when she shouts in the car, “God, thank you for this snow! I love it!”

#503…

#504…

#505… the joy in making the gift

#506… and in the recipient’s response

#507… the burst of energy to get the house back in order (thank you steroids!)

#508… chatting with Dad on a Monday afternoon

#509… a Starbucks gift card in the mail

#510…

Five Minute Friday: Grit

2012-02-24T11:41:00.002-05:00

Wrapped in my great-grandmother’s afghan under a nearly starless sky, I told God I wanted apathy. If this tender heart he crafted inside of me was a gift, it wasn’t working out so well for my situation thank-you-very-much, and could I please exchange it for a new one? One with the thickened sole of bare feet in August. One with a protective layer against the grit that chafed and rubbed raw—wounded. One with some callouses.

Callouses may be functional, but they are hard. Ugly. Is that what you want?

It took every ounce of will to change my prayer that night.

Don’t give me what I think I want.
Don’t send leanness into my soul.

“I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.” (Ez 36:26)

Multitudes on Mondays {489-500}

2012-02-20T20:09:00.000-05:00

#489…

#490… getting carded at the restaurant

#491… his willingness to camp out on the air mattress in the living room for way too long

#492… the babysitter who won’t take the money when we forget to cancel,

#493… and hugs me like the crazy lady I am when I start to cry

#494… finding the library book

#495… Saturday night church

#496… holding his hand tight as they sing

#497… when the littles can tell me what they learned

#498… a day on the couch

#499… purging the toys

#500… when some of the energy returns

Five Minute Friday: Delight

2012-02-17T10:58:00.009-05:00

I delight in their mile-long eyelashes and sweet little lisps. Their bare feet, bare tummies, bare anything. His tender heart, and His wild passion. Their speech that becomes incomprehensible to anyone but each other when they laugh so very hard.

I delight in her love of books. The curve of her lips and the way her hair curls when it’s wet. The affection with which she wraps herself around my waist. The loud and silly side shown only those who love her best. She is so her mother, so her father… so her.

I delight in his smile—the first thing I loved; the first thing I miss. His easy laugh and the way he chuckles over my punch line for two days. Buttery popcorn and massages as we steal a quiet hour of TV in the evenings. The flowers when I least deserve it. His arms around me.

I delight in you—all of you—and the One who made you.

Every time you feel in Gods’ creatures something pleasing and attractive, do not let your attention be arrested by them alone, but, passing them by, transfer your thought to God and say: ‘O my God if thy creations are so full of beauty, delight and joy, how infinitely more full of beauty, delight and joy Thou Thyself, Creator of all!’”

~Nicodemus of the Holy Mountain~

Multitudes on Mondays {468-488}

2012-02-13T18:08:00.001-05:00

Multitudes on Mondays {468-488}

Three gifts red…

#468…

#469…

#470…

A gift broken, a gift fixed, a gift thrifted

#471…

#472…

#473…

Three gifts that were surprises—unexpected grace!

#474… ready for Bible study with to spare; an unhurried morning

#475… no cavities for two little boys

#476… A check in the mail for two pieces of writing I had assumed to be rejected

Three times you heard laughter today…

#477… the boys in the bathtub

#478… her chasing them around the living room

#479… his retelling of the practical joke on the new employee

Three gifts found in working…

#480… clean carpets

#481… fresh-smelling clothess

#482… an eight year old who feels loved and celebrated

Three hard eucharisteos…

#483… when the cake falls apart

#484… when the ice skating rink, despite what is posted online, is closed to the public

#485… middle-of-the-night coke and tea-induced insomnia

Three gifts found behind a door today…

#486…

#487…

#488…

Five Minute Friday: Trust

2012-02-10T11:19:00.002-05:00

I’ve been writing off and on all morning. I write and it’s not right.
I bake a birthday cake and write again.
Still not right.
Wash dishes.
Nope, that’s not it either.

Think.
Think .
Think.

I know it’s supposed to be five minutes—five minutes free of inhibition and editing—but I can’t. I can’t wrap my head around the crux of a five-year journey in five minutes. I can’t get even a snippet of it on paper without analyzing and overthinking, because my words aren’t just about me.

So I write and write and it’s not right, and it’s not going to be right. Not today. I’ve overthought and overworked and dipped into time that belongs to two sweet five year olds. Today, the timer won.

Some Five-Minute Fridays are like that.

Multitudes on Mondays {447-467}

2012-02-06T20:46:00.000-05:00

A gift found on paper, in person, in a picture...

#447…the yellow sticky note on the fridge from two Thanksgivings ago, in which he scrawls his thankfulness for me

#448… her chatter as we walk

#449… his big little personality caught on camera

A gift found at 11:30 am, at 2:30 pm, at 6:30 pm…

#450… their quick lunch as I unload groceries before the preschool dropoff

#451… five minutes with a novel while waiting in the pickup line

#452… dinner as a family

Three things overheard today, all gifts…

#453… five-year-old truth: “God keeps his promises.”

#454… five-year-old silliness: “Meat-sa Go!”

#455… the seven year old reading to her little brothers

Three gifts found in writing…

#456… finding the right words

#457… efficiency

#458… memories

Three gifts found when bent down…

#459… the heater on the bathroom floor

#460… crawling through the entry-hole of the snowfort

#461… helping with little shoes

One gift stitched, one hammered, one woven…

#462… the baby picture frame from my bestie

#463… hubs rehanging the towel rack on a Sunday after as I laze on the couch

#464… a simple braid

Three gifts found outside…

#465… the frost sculpture on the mailbox

#466… winter morning fog

#467… a cold and clear starry night

Five Minute Friday: Real

2012-02-03T09:44:00.001-05:00

I am pasting photos in an online album while my children draw chalk Christmas trees on the driveway on a warm February day. I flip pages back and forth, back and forth, entranced with the sweet faces of my babies. Time passes for I don’t know how long. When my girl asks me to come look at their creation, I auto-respond without taking my eyes off the screen. In a little bit, honey. She sprints out the garage door, and I am free to return to my reverie—to love my quiet, perfect images while the real thing rolls around under old comforters on my driveway.

I want to love mothering more than the idea of mothering.
I want to love my children more than the idea of my children.

I close the virtual album, discover my son on the sofa behind me. I kneel down in front of him and press my lips to the arch of his bare foot, listening as he chatters on about the mushroom houses and castles and snappies in world six. This boy, with mismatched jammies, cotton-candied hair, and marker-smudged cheeks is real. Unquiet, imperfect, and so very real.

Multitudes on Mondays {426-446}

2012-01-30T21:08:00.004-05:00

Still counting gifts—in the form of Ann’s 2012 Joy Dare

Three things blue…

#426… Sorry! pawns and Candyland cards

#427… his blue eyes that get so big when he talks

#428… pieces of bright sky peeking out from behind the gray canopy

One grace borrowed, one grace found, one grace inherited…

#429… my sister-in-law’s book on the kitchen desk, long-since read and (still) awaiting its return

#430… Squinkies under the couch

#431… Grandpa’s oil lamp

A gift before 9 am, gift before noon, a gift after dark…

#432… snow delay and snuggle time in bed

#433… reading the story of Samson at the lunch table

#434… sitting on the counter and talking with him as he pops corn

3 gifts that might never have been…

#435… a whisper of strength via Coldplay

#436… a dad to take me to the hospital and sit and wait with me

#437… an impromptu date the day after the procedure

3 graces found in your friends…

#438… the phone call just to check in

#439… mad cooking skills and the willingness to share recipes

#440… quiet, heartfelt prayers

A song heard, a soft word, where you saw light…

#441… Jesus Loves Me

#442… “I wanted to kiss you, Mom.”

#443… sunlight diffused through a haze of snowy wind over the field

Three old things seen new…

#444… the kitchen table, cracked and chipped from years of meals and homework

#445… the old globe on the desk hutch, inherited from my mother-in-law

#446… the dented, crayoned, on-its-last-miles mini-van that brought my boys home from the hospital and saw all my children through their preschool years

Multitudes on Mondays {416-425}

2012-01-23T18:17:00.000-05:00

#416… little boy bedhead

#417… hearing them read their first words

#418… falling back to sleep

#418… a sunset behind bare trees

#419… the smell of bread baking in the oven

#420… comforting her tears and praying with her

#421… the sound of the wind in the eaves

#422… their funny attempts at jumping jacks

#423… hot soup on a cold day

#424… a heating pad and a warm blanket

#425… checking off every item on the to-do list

Five Minute Friday: Vivid

2012-01-20T10:09:00.001-05:00

It’s been one of those dull weeks, home with two boys with mild cases of chickenpox. It’s been a week of homework, bills, and lackluster meals scraped together from the remnants of my freezer and pantry. Laundry, messes, and lots of little-boy noise. Sweatpants. Ponytails. Far too little adult interaction.

And I feel… colorless.

Coming on the heels of five-year-old birthday fun and memories, a sick-week pales in comparison. Peace sounded so… peaceful. When did it become drudgery?

(Somewhere around day four).

So then, day five is the day to change the lens and dust off the perspective. To revel in little-boy bed-head and too much Mario Brothers. In storybooks, snuggles, and hearing them read their first words.
To soak up all this color and call it rich.

Multitudes on Mondays {406-415}: Five

2012-01-16T17:47:00.001-05:00

#406… play-outside-in-sweatshirts January weather

#407…

#408… Fruit Loops on the floor

#409…

#410… when they remember to say thank you

#411…

#412… the waiter who brings an extra strawberry drink for the un-birthday girl

#413…the way he wished with his eyes scrunched tight

#414…

#415…

Five Minute Friday: Awake

2012-01-13T11:38:00.002-05:00

GO.

A twin-mom once told me she hardly had memory of the first year, that her photo albums brimmed with pictures of her at parties and events she didn’t remember attending. Twelve months of twin-induced amnesia.

That story scared the pants off of me.

I didn’t want to sleepwalk through an entire year of my life. An entire year of my babies’ lives and my almost-three-year-old’s life. I wanted to remember.

How the boys were terrified of the See ‘N Say.
How she used to call me a “silly moose.”
The phase when they would trade spoons between each bite.
The time she saw a coyote in the field and told me there was a kangaroo outside.
The hysterical fits of laughter coming through the baby monitor after naptime.

Even the not-so-sunny memories…
The ottoman poop-tastrophe.
The sleep deprivation.
All those horrible, scream-filled rides in the van.
All the screaming in general.

Though some of it is hazy, I’m thankful I was present enough to live it.
And that I don’t have to live it again.

Happy five years to my Wildman and my Tenderheart!

Multitudes on Mondays {396-405}: Twelve

2012-01-09T20:05:00.000-05:00

#396… impromptu ten-minute chat in the van with my sis

#397… kind words from a teacher: “You’re doing a good job.”

#398… snuggling up to a wet, strawberry-scented little head

#399… sending the kids to Grandma and Grandpa’s for an overnight

#400…a restaurant that makes me feel like a kid playing dress-up

#401… eating off of each other’s plates

#402… ten uninterrupted hours of sleep

#403… two movies in twenty-four hours

#404… breakfast at noon

#405… twelve years

Five Minute Friday: Roar

2012-01-06T10:39:00.002-05:00

GO.

There are days I can feel it.

He prowls about like a roaring lion.
Around my marriage.
Around my mama-heart.
My writer-heart.

I am small, my defensive roar pitiful and unconvincing to my own ears.
Yet, this I call to mind, and therefore, I have hope.
I am a lioness—the daughter of the Lion of Judah.
Greater is he who lives in me.

So I will roar.
I will roar from my prayer closet.
I will roar as I wash dishes, fold laundry, or wait in pick-up line at preschool.
I will roar, bent over the Book on my kitchen table or where I lay sprawled with it on my living room floor.
I will roar.

For though my enemy prowls like a lion, really, he’s just a slobbery, stupid, mangy poacher.

Greater is he who lives in me.

{1 Pet. 5:8; Lam. 3:19-26; Rev. 5:5; 1 John 4:4}

STOP.

Multitudes on Mondays {386-395}

2012-01-02T20:50:00.002-05:00

#386… sleep, sleep, and more sleep

#387… round after round of Skip-Bo Junior

#388… when he tackles the items on my honey-do list—without my even asking.

#389… insomnia, fried eggs, and Pride and Prejudice on DVD

#390… praise from a total stranger at a restaurant for my well-behaved boys. (Gotta love getting caught in a good moment every now and then).

#391…the brand new pair of little boy underwear in the van I almost removed a couple of weeks ago because we’ve never had to use them. But I listened to that little voice that said, You never know... Whew.

#392… a sugar-dusting of snow

#393… ringing in the new year with Thai take-out, Gnomeo and Juliet, and Scrabble

#394… Tom and Jerry and snuggles on the couch way too early in the morning

#395… new goals for a new year

Multitudes on Mondays (on Tuesday): 376-385

2011-12-27T12:15:00.000-05:00

#376… five packed-out Christmas Eve services

#377… that he could sing through the strep

#378… 1300 a cappella voices singing, “for he alone is worthy…”

#379… staying up too late with the hubs on Christmas Eve to share some moscato d’asti, buttered popcorn, and While You Were Sleeping

#380… waking to thunderous pounding on the bedroom door

#381… Happy Birthday, Jesus sung over a candle in Nana’s cinnamon rolls

#382… the annual family talent show at Grandma’s

#383… safe travels

#384… cleaning up wrapping, putting away toys and clothes

#385… a week of family staycation

Multitudes on Mondays {366-375}

2011-12-19T22:51:00.001-05:00

#366… baking Christmas cookies with my littles

#367… the chance to be a fly on the wall in Bay’s preschool class

#368… ding dong ditch from the men in brown (but at least they leave nice things on the porch).

#369… the Christmas Express

#370… reading portions of the Christmas story over bologna and ketchup sandwiches

#371… new Christmas music on the iPod

#372… a good hair day

#373… when they make up their own funny lyrics to include Wall-E and cricket in "Up on the Housetop"

#374… a mom-sanity day

#375… chatting with the hubs over a late-night bowl of peppermint ice cream

Five Minute Friday: Connected

2011-12-16T09:32:00.003-05:00

GO.

Connected.

I have to let the word percolate, so I putter around the downstairs—frying eggs, loading laundry, scrubbing last night’s dishes. Thoughts swirl around marriage, Christmas, or relationships. An umbilical cord, a Kinect, the internet. None of them settle.

All the while, those two little boys with rooster-comb hair and “mix-matched” jammies are chattering and giggling as they draw picture after picture of Wall-E and Cricket. They jabber and chirp and meow in that average-morning sort of way.

I am so used to their connection, sometimes I overlook it. But today’s word prompts notice. I break out the camera and snap a couple shots, record a couple videos. I try to cast a forensic light on the invisible tether between them.

Afterward, they sit on my lap, smelling of sugar cookies and morning breath, cracking up at themselves on the digital screen. They beg to watch it “again,” until I call it quits after the third viewing. I send them off to play—together—and I smile.

It's Not About Me

2011-12-14T15:16:00.003-05:00

“Honey, in all the years your children are home with you, you will have only a handful of those ‘magical Christmases,’ where everyone is healthy, happy, and gets the perfect gift...”

I'm honored to be guest posting again today over at A Pink Daisy Life. Won't you join me over there (and show my friend Heatherly a little love while your there?) Thank you much!

Multitudes on Mondays {356-365}

2011-12-12T21:41:00.000-05:00

#356…a steaming mug of wassail

#357…game time with all the fam

#358…online shopping

#359…book club: cupcakes, a good book, and a lively group of girls

#360…my little reindeer and gingerbread boy on the preschool stage

#361… going to see Santa

#362… a good coat on a cold day

#363… writing to Grandpa in his birthday card

#364…when I botch the recipe and it still turns out delicious

#365… going to church when I don’t feel like going, and leaving so glad I went

Five Minute Friday: Color

2011-12-09T11:07:00.002-05:00

Color...

GO.

I lost the debate long ago.
White lights or colored?

He argues for colored; I argue for white.
“White Christmas lights are classy; peaceful.”
“Colored are more fun.”
Back and forth, back and forth.

He wins with the We-have-small-children trump card. Our tree glows in LED blue, green, yellow, and red. The star on top seems something straight out of Who-ville.

And it turns out, he’s right. It suits these years.
Bright.
Lively.
Fun.
Colorful.

{Someday, I’ll get my classy, peaceful Christmas. One that doesn’t have Lightning McQueen or Mater at the manger, a collection of ornaments on the kitchen counter awaiting their appointment with the superglue bottle, or a trio of singing chipmunks as background music. One with serene, white lights on my tree.

That’s when I’ll miss the finger-painted Christmas trees on my fridge. Reading Rudolph one. more. time. His little Elmer Fudd voice singing “Holly Jolly Christmas.”

That’s when I’ll miss the color.}

STOP.

{Yes, I went over time again today. Totally worth it.}

Chronic Illness and the Holidays: Part I {The Schedule}

2011-12-08T17:02:00.002-05:00

If you or your spouse are one of the 133 million Americans who suffer from chronic illness, you know that chronic illness doesn’t take a holiday. In fact, the busyness, stress, overabundance of junk food, bad weather, and advent of cold and flu season can make the holidays more painful than the everyday. Self-care is bumped down the priority list, and we spend the “most wonderful time of the year” stressed, depressed, sick, and wondering where the peace and joy went.

The holidays can be difficult for many different people for many different reasons. Our particular reason is my husband’s chronic pain. And while this will mark our fifth Christmas since its onset, we’re still learning that Christmas takes a little more effort and strategy. That we have to plan to create peace, cultivate joy, and celebrate Christ.

This series is my strategy.

Schedule events at the best time of day.

Like many chronic pain sufferers, Danny tends to feel best in the morning, with pain increasing as the day goes on. If we are planning something special—taking the kids to visit Santa or shopping for Christmas gifts—we’ve learned it’s best to do it early in the day. If needed, we talk with family about scheduling get-togethers during his “good times.” This isn’t always possible because families are large and busy and unable to revolve around one person. In some cases, chronic pain can be difficult for others to understand, particularly if the person isn’t visibly ill. But as much as it lies within our control, we do our best to work around when he feels well.

Make a plan.

So, we’ve learned the hard way that not only do we need a plan, but we need a plan B (and sometimes C and D). Well in advance of a family gathering, party, or holiday outing, we hash out our solutions to a potential episode of pain. Do we need to drive a separate vehicle so he can leave if necessary? Will we be somewhere he can lay down in another room? When we were in the earlier stages of dealing with his chronic pain, a bad day for Danny meant I packed up the family and we all headed home. Since then, I’ve learned it’s important for the well spouse to continue on with normal activities and lifestyle as much as possible despite the spouse’s illness. It sounds insensitive, but this normalcy is important for the ill spouse, well spouse, and children. Which leads me to my next point…

Stick to the plan.

If not for his/her own sake, the well spouse should keep in mind that children will respond to the illness in the way the well parent responds. Just a few weeks ago on the night before Thanksgiving, Danny wasn’t feeling well and asked what I would do if he didn’t go to the family gathering. I didn’t want to make a two-hour drive with our kids to his family’s Thanksgiving without him, but after some thought, I told him I would do so because our children were really looking forward to it. Thankfully, he felt well enough the next day to join us and I didn’t have to make good on my words. But I was prepared to do it and will do so in the future.

Create white space.

This isn’t new information to anyone. But often, we I need encouragement to act on what we I know. Everyone could use some recovery time during the holidays, and those who are chronically ill especially need it. So do the spouses. If not a physical toll (which it often is), supporting someone who is chronically ill takes an emotional toll. To care for our spouses, ourselves, our marriages, and our families, we need to build in extra time before and after each event. It’s not easy, but it’s important. Seriously. So get out your sharpie, your stylus, your touch-screen—whatever you use—and mark off time on your calendar for nothing but rest and recovery. If other invitations or tasks come up, tell others (and yourself) you have another obligation. Because you do.

How do you and your family celebrate holidays in spite of health issues or other challenges?

Multitudes on Mondays {341-355}

2011-12-05T20:07:00.000-05:00

#341… making a sale!

#342… dinner on the blue plate

#343…Christmas shopping with the hubs

#344… his really good mood—dancing, laughing, and silliness

#345… a good doctor—one who takes time, listens, and validates

#346…snow

#347... school delays and lazy mornings

#348… packages on the front porch

#349… two four-year-olds asleep in their Halloween costumes

#350… good morning hugs

#351…a friendly and helpful phone representative

#352… legacy of a faithful great-aunt

#353… enjoying the moment without worrying what tomorrow will bring

#354… rejuvenation of spirit

#355…new niece or nephew. Coming June 2012. :)

Five Minute Friday: Tired

2011-12-02T10:25:00.009-05:00

Oh, I have such a terrible time with only five minutes! I can’t leave an idea half-finished, so I always go over time. *sigh*

Lovely inspiration from the Gypsy Mama, as always.

TIRED…

It’s in my spirit, this fatigue.

It’s the hair-trigger with his pain and all that comes with it that sends me to the closet on my face begging for patience—for compassion and love.

It's in the unbidden tears that pop up at will.

It’s the elephant sitting on my chest. The heart that pounds into the mattress, so that some nights I can’t lie on my left side. Nights reading on the couch when the words swim on the page—and I hold my exhausted eyes open with my hands just like Grandma used to do when the disease had muddied her vision—only to drag myself to bed and lie prisoner to the thoughts that won’t shut up.

Then, on Thanksgiving Day, I spend two hours driving in the dark with no music, no book, no conversation—only thoughts. They talk and talk until they are talked out. And my spirit emerges from that mini-van, rested.

So, I make a decision to be gentle with myself, to gift myself some time and space during this season of our lives, this season of the year. For two weeks, I haven’t done my Bible study workbook. I’ve read very few blogs. I’ve been back on the treadmill and in my prayer closet. I’ve been spending more time with my kids. I’ve almost caught up on an entire season of Parenthood. And I feel the best I’ve felt in months.

It’s not forever. It’s for now.

That’s what I keep telling myself anyway…

STOP.

As I briefly mentioned a while back, I have been planning a new series for December: Chronic Illness and the Holidays. I am not sure yet whether or not this will happen. As I began to write it, I realized I needed to take some of my own advice, particularly that both ill spouse and well spouse need to be vigilant about white space on the calendar and extra time for rest during this season. If I can write the series within my allotted writing time, I’ll put it out there. (I am not allowing myself overflow writing time this month). If the series doesn’t appear, know that I am working hard to take care of me and my family. Thanks for understanding.

Multitudes on Mondays: 321-340

2011-11-28T16:41:00.000-05:00

#321…turkey, sweet potato casserole, and pumpkin pie

#322…four days of family time

#323… hauling out the holly

#324… gingerbread and whipped cream

#325…Saturday evening church

#326…hundreds of twinkling lights

#327…love notes from my girl

#328…encouragement and wisdom from Dad

#329…that you’re never too old for your mom to bandage your cut

#330… a full refrigerator

#331… kinesio tape

#332…messages on the answering machine

#334…Christmas cards in the mail

#335…when he holds my hand as he drives

#336…superglue

#337… getting through the to-do list

#338…Todd and Lisa Beamer’s story (10+ years late, but still…)

#339…trimming little fingernails

#340… a new PC

Five Minute Friday: Grateful

2011-11-25T10:41:00.001-05:00

For early-morning food preparations

For three last-minute errands on our way out of town

For two hour drives

For twenty minutes late

For food and family and football

For volleyball after dinner

For scooters and kids arguing over turns on the scooters

For little fingers that get smashed and little tears that ensue

For Charlie Brown Thanksgiving and popcorn for dinner

For the bad mood

For nieces who sleep over

For dancing around in the kitchen to Miley Cyrus, Glee, and Taylor Swift

For hauling out the holly to Christmas music

For the picturesque,

For the imperfect,

I choose to be full of gratitude.

Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop: What's Cooking for Thanksgiving

2011-11-23T09:33:00.010-05:00

In addition to the turkey-themed veggie tray and cranberry-jalapeño-cream-cheese dip, I’ll be cooking up my favorite bread pudding, semi-homemade pecan bars, and a mixed vegetable casserole (because the only way to eat vegetables is drenched in butter and mayonnaise and cheese).

Dakota Bread Pudding
6 eggs
1 lb. loaf Vienna bread, cut into 1” cubes
1½ C. sugar
3½ C. milk
2 tsp. vanilla
1 C. light cream
½ C. raisins (optional)

Spread bread in a shallow pan overnight to dry. Beat together eggs, milk, sugar, cream, and vanilla. Add raisins to dried bread cubes. Pour milk mix over bread and stir until bread is soaked. Turn mix into a well-buttered 9x13 pan. Cover with foil and bake at 325 º 1 hour.

Caramel Sauce:
½ C. sugar
½ C. brown sugar
½ C. butter
½ C. whipping cream
1 tsp. vanilla

In heavy, medium-sized sauce pan, combine all but vanilla. Cook and stir over medium heat until mix boils. Stir in vanilla. Serve immediately over warm or cold pudding. Makes 1¾ cups sauce.

Pecan Toffee Bars

Crust:
1 two-layer pkg. yellow cake mix

   ½ C. butter, softened
   1 egg

   Filling:
   1 (14-oz.) can sweetened condensed milk
   1 tsp. vanilla
   1 egg
   1 eight-oz. pkg. almond brittle chips or toffee bits
   1 C. chopped pecans

In a large bowl, combine cake mix, butter, and 1 egg. Knead well with a pastry blender. Press mix into a greased 9x13 baking pan. Bake in a preheated 350º oven for 7 minutes. Meanwhile, combine condensed milk, vanilla, and 1 egg. Stir in brittle and nuts. Remove pan from oven. Pour filling evenly over warm base. Return to oven. Bake 25-30 more minutes or until filling is set. When cooled, cut into bars. Store in fridge. Makes 3-4 dozen.

Mixed Vegetable Casserole
2 (10 oz.) pkgs. frozen mixed veggies
1 c. chopped celery (I omit as per my aversion to celery)
1 c. chopped onion (I substitute onion flakes as per my husband’s aversion to cooked onions)
1 c. mayo
1 c. shredded cheddar cheese
1 c. crumbled Ritz crackers
½ stick butter, melted

Cook mixed veggies according to package. Drain (don’t overcook!) Add celery, onion, mayo, and cheese. Mix well. Spoon into a 1 ½ qt. casserole dish. Mix cracker crumbs with butter and spoon on top of veggie mix. Bake @ 325 for 30 min.

The Pinterest Challenge: Week Eight

2011-11-23T08:51:00.005-05:00

Eight weeks and twenty-two pins later, the intentional pinning project draws to a close…

I made these white chocolate chip pumpkin muffins last Thursday morning for my Bible study group and they were delish. I have several pumpkin muffin recipes, but this is one is my new favorite.

And if I may indulge in a mommy-anecdote, my spirited son cracked us up that morning as I tried to get the two boys out the door. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Boys, let's go. I've got to get these muffins to church.
Bo: Mom! I'm not a muffin!
Me (confused): What? Bo, no... I've got to get these muffins to church.
Bo: MOM! I'm not a MUFFIN!!
Me (picking up containers of muffins): Bo, I'm not calling you a muffin. THESE are the muffins.
Bo: Oh.

That same boy cried when I came home without any leftovers.

I love this idea for a “Mommy and Me” journal, where Mom and Daughter write notes back and forth to each other in a notebook, then leave the notebook under the other’s pillow.

As my daughter isn’t much for talking about her day, I’m hoping a new tactic might open her up a little. I wrote my first entry in it this morning, and when Addison found the notebook at bedtime, she came flying down the stairs and into my arms with the BIGGEST smile.
"Thanks for the note, Mommy!"
It made my night.

I FINALLY finished the prayer pail I’ve been meaning to do for several months—though I guess technically, ours is more of a prayer planter-pot.

I wrote down on tongue depressors all the names of our extended family, the girl we support at the Home of Love in India, our Compassion child, and our pastor’s wife. I plan to add other names as needs arise. Once per day, each family member will draw a stick and pray aloud for that person. It’s a tangible reminder for us to pray for others, and I’m hoping it will build my kids’ confidence in praying aloud.

Last night I made Taco Pizza for dinner. It was just okay; it needed some kind of sauce or something.

For Thanksgiving with my husband’s family on Thursday, I am taking my standard mixed vegetable dish and semi-homemade pecan bars. As the last couple years my attempts at new dishes have turned out only so-so, this year I’m going with tried and true. For Thanksgiving with my family on Sunday, I will be making a version of this turkey-themed veggie tray and my favorite bread pudding (Dakota bread pudding with warm caramel sauce).

I am also contemplating making this cranberry-jalapeño cream cheese dip if I am not too tired of cooking by Saturday night (or too tired of eating). It sounds verrrry yummy…

Whatever you eat, whoever you're with, may you have a blessed day of giving thanks.

Happy Thanksgiving!

The Pinterest Challenge

Multitudes on Mondays {301-320}: The Early Fruits

2011-11-21T14:09:00.002-05:00

The doctor calls him on Friday afternoon to deliver the news; the lab results are in and the numbers are not good.

I hear the news a couple hours later as we are heading out the door for a date, and all the old fears come rushing back. What’s going to happen to him? To us? I trudge toward our black Sonata assuming the evening has been ruined, and I almost suggest we stay home.

“Do you want to talk about it or not talk about it?”

He says he doesn’t, but the words come out anyway. And on a four lane highway the midst of five ‘o clock Friday traffic, I see the change in both of us, the early fruit four years in the laboring—faith. We talk sadness and fear, but we don’t settle there. We move on to the positive, to what we can do. We move on to God’s protection, lab results that will prompt us to make changes now and possibly stave off more serious ramifications in the future. We move on to God’s provision, remembering he has brought us safe thus far…

Fifteen minutes fly. We pull into a parking space and he shifts the car into park. “Okay, I’m done talking about it.” He gives my hand a quick kiss and flashes me the smile that first caught my eye over fourteen years ago. “Let’s go.” And we do what we couldn’t have done in this situation four years ago.

We have a lovely, laughter-filled evening.

#301… finding the emotional “off” switch

#302…good food with my favorite company

#303…finding my seventh grade sense of humor to make him laugh

#304…when he laughs until he sounds like his dad

#305…crowded movie theaters

#306…how he cracks himself up

#307…Christmas music

#308…yummy pumpkin smells wafting from the oven

#309…friends of the road

#310…friends of the heart

#311…mustard seed faith

#312… my personal Gilgal

#313…baptisms

#314… creating crazy Barbie-hairstyles with my girl

#315… Wii bowling with the boys

#316… writing a letter to my nephew

#317…Chinese food dinner date with a dear friend

#318…glory brought to God through breast cancer

#319…the example of those who walk ahead of me in maturity and in faith

#320… the creeping changes in my heart wrought by the 1000 gifts project

Five Minute Friday: Grow

2011-11-18T11:02:00.000-05:00

I look at the picture of the gawky, underdeveloped pre-adolescent with braces and headgear, a perm and big bangs. Surprisingly, she doesn’t embarrass me. She is far-enough removed from Grown-up Me that I can love her for the sweet, happy, and blissfully-ignorant-of-her-awkwardness girl that she is. I can love her because her clumsy attempts at hair and makeup and friendship were the training ground for the thirty-two year-old woman of today.

Yet, this grace is often only skin deep, only applies to the past that is two decades removed. For when I look back on the fumblings of Young-Wife Me, or New-Mother Me, I cringe. I am ashamed.

Tears come as a flash flood when I realize—rather than scorning Young-Wife-New-Mother Me, I can love her. I can love her because she, too, was in a training ground, an awkward phase of growth that leads to maturity and beauty. I can love her because she has made me the thirty-two year-old woman of today. I can love her because she is far-removed from me—if not two decades removed, or even fully removed in word and deed, removed as far as the east is from the west.

The Pinterest Challenge: Week Seven

2011-11-16T13:58:00.002-05:00

This week I successfully made my own dishwasher detergent.

this recipe works best for those with hard water

It was easy to do, though I didn’t have a bowl large enough to mix everything together at once, which got a little tricky. That aside, I’m happy with the results. Three loads later and my dishes look as clean as ever (even on the short wash cycle).

I bought all the supplies for these cute magnets that are all over Pinterest, but when I started to assemble them, I noticed my gems were too rough on the bottom side to easily see through them. I think I need to return the clear fish tank gems to the pet store and hit the dollar store for gems specifically labeled as vase fillers. Hopefully I’ll have better luck the next go-round.

Also, I forgot to give myself credit a couple weeks ago for a some pins.

A few weeks ago, I tried this hairstyle.

It turned out a little too Jane Austen for my taste, but it could be a jumping-off point for something cute. (I really like the pictured style, but its creator took some liberties and didn't go into details with the how-to's. But it makes me want to go back and try it again).

Also, I tried freezing my leftover green onions.

The water bottle seemed like a great idea, until I was trying to stuff the chopped onions through a funnel and into the neck of the bottle. And I haven't tried using any of the onions since freezing them, but I plan to next week, so we'll see how fresh they taste.

Next week will be my last week for the Pinterest Challenge. It’s been fun and a good source of accountability in doing versus pinning, but I want to free up Wednesdays in December for a new blog series. (See, now that I’ve said it I’ll have to do it.) And though I won’t be blogging my future pinning activity, I plan to stick with my one-pin-a-week goal indefinitely.

Multitudes on Mondays {281-300}: Sabbath Rest

2011-11-14T14:05:00.014-05:00

I pause in our cabin that smells of wood-smoke to look at him. “It’s nice to be here when we’re not in a state of healing.”

We’ve been here before, to this ranch. And we’ve done well at taking weekends away during the past four years—or rather, my husband has done well at caring for our marriage in this way. But in the past, the getaways have been aimed at restoration, at recovery. And while I am thankful for the season of hurt and healing that has changed us both for the better, this time, it’s nice to start from a place of relative good health, to take a Sabbath rest and simply enjoy God’s good gift of marriage.

#281…Connect4, Hi-Ho Cherry-O, and Sorry! with my sick boy

#282…praying aloud in an empty house while putting away laundry

#283…fiery pink sunsets

#284… opportunity to use my painful experience for someone else’s benefit

#285… early morning insomnia—prayer and writing time

#286…his uncomplaining last-minute trip to Wal-mart for me

#287…loping the horses up mountain trails

#288… hot tubs with a mountain view

#289… hiking the Rockies

#290… hot chocolate by a fire

#291… He, washing my hands; Me, his.

#292… planes all on time, tight connections made

#293… hugging their little necks

#294… their sleepy middle-of-the-night smiles

#295… a little extra padding in the finances, in time for a month of abundance giving

#296…book recommendations

#297…figuring it out on photoshop

#298…home videos—reliving precious days and enjoying those memories with my children

#299…two excellent reports from preschool teachers. (whew).

#300…when the fever goes down

Five Minute Friday: Unexpected

2011-11-11T10:02:00.001-05:00

“Here’s the heartbeat.”
My husband and I squeezed hands and our eyes went blurry at the pulsing image on the screen.
The tech moved the ultrasound head several inches to the left. “And here is the other heartbeat.”

I was nineteen weeks pregnant when we found out we were getting a two-for-one deal. And though this pregnancy had been planned, though it came on the heels of a miscarriage, the news of twins was overwhelming, even more than those first blue lines three years previous when we weren’t trying for a baby. When my husband was deep in the throes of chiropractic school and we had no money, no maternity insurance, and a lot of debt.

As much as I like to joke that two of my three children were unplanned, that my boys will have to settle between them which one was planned and which one was a surprise, my heart aches for all my sweet babes to know the truth; though they may have been unexpected, they were always wanted, always loved. Always.

The Pinterest Challenge: Week Six

2011-11-09T17:06:00.000-05:00

I just got back yesterday from a long weekend with my hubby at a dude ranch in Colorado. Four days of horses and rocky mountains—without cell phones, TV, or internet.

It. Was. Fabulous.

With all the trip preparations, jam-packed travels, and post-vacation recovery (read: lots of laundry and sick kids) my pinning activity last week was light. In fact, my only effort in checking off pins was this outfit I used as inspiration for my square dance attire.

Unfortunately, I didn’t want to wear my favorite brown boots for serious riding and hiking, and I didn’t splurge on cowgirl boots, so my running shoes looked decidedly un-western with the rest of my ensemble. *sigh*

But oh, we had fun.

Multitudes on Mondays {272-280}: Thankful Implies a Giver

2011-11-08T01:30:00.000-05:00

thank•ful (adjective) — feeling or expressing gratitude; appreciative.

grate•ful (adjective) — warmly or deeply appreciative of kindness or benefits received; thankful.

ap•pre•ci•a•tion (noun) — gratitude; thankful recognition.

In this season of giving thanks, I recognize my gifts. I count my blessings and appreciate my bounty.

And sometimes, I stop there.

I recognize my gifts without recognizing the Giver; I count my blessings without acknowledging the Blesser. I say I am thankful, when actually, I mean I am fortunate.

for•tu•nate (adjective) — having good fortune; receiving good from uncertain or unexpected sources; lucky.

As I contemplate my gifts this season, I am mindful that thankful implies not only a “for what,” but also a “to whom.”

Thankful implies a recipient of thanks.

Thankful implies a Giver.

“Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights…” (James 1:17a)

#272…hugging in the hallway in the dark

#273…sticky marshmallow faces

#274…the smell of a bonfire

#275…the crackle of wood and flames

#276…sunrise over the lake

#277…mist rising off the water

#278… his little voice singing “Jingle Bells”

#279… new life

#280… home again, home again, jiggity jig

**all definitions from dictionary.com

Five Minute Friday: Remember

2011-11-04T03:56:00.000-04:00

It’s 2:08 when I roll over and look at the clock, 2:44 when I give up and slip out of bed. I shuffle down in the dark, pull out my half-finished Bible study from the yesterday. The pages are underlined and circled, but it is the asterisk that draws my eyes.

Remembering God in our past spills into believing God for our future.

1 Samuel and Come Thou Fount swirl in my head in the dark of 2 AM.

Here I raise my Ebenezer;

Here by Thy great help I’ve come;

And I hope, by Thy good pleasure,

Safely to arrive at home.

And I think of the dear-hearted friend who worked up the courage to call and ask for help, for wisdom, how I felt slightly tongue-tied. Inadequate. But the words I didn’t know were etched on my heart-Ebenezer eventually came. And remembering helped us both.

“Then Samuel took a stone and set it up between Mizpah and Shen. He named it Ebenezer,[b] saying, “Thus far the LORD has helped us.” (1 Sam. 7:12)

The Pinterest Challenge: Week Five

2011-11-02T08:00:00.002-04:00

It has been a crazy busy week around here, but I still managed to eke out a couple of my pins. Any new pinning has completely fallen by the wayside, but I am sure I will make up for lost time at some point in the future...

Lately, my friends and I can’t seem to get our schedules together for a girls’ night, so my sweet friend who is six weeks away from baby number four invited all of us, our husbands, and our kiddos (twenty-four of us in all) to dinner at her house. I brought leftover pumpkin cookies and pumpkin rice krispie treats, as well as some of this black bean salad with corn, red peppers, avocado, & lime-cilantro vinaigrette.

It was tasty despite my substitution of canned white corn for fresh sweet corn, and I’m sure it is only better with fresh ingredients. (And in case you need another reason to make this, the leftovers are fabulous on tortilla chips. FYI).

On an unrelated note, I had a rare outing to the mall by myself last week. I’m not a big shopper, but I had a small list of fall “wants,” one of which included some more over-the-knee socks.

I usually don’t part with my well-budgeted personal money on something as trivial as socks (don’t even get me started on underwear) but these are so cute and cozy-looking they had me pining for thicker knits in more colors to wear with my boots. I hit Forever 21 and splurged on three pairs. Later, I told my husband I felt like some kind of a spoiled housewife, shopping in the middle of the day while my children were at school.

Clearly, I have issues.

Multitudes on Mondays {251-271}: Blessed

2011-10-31T16:23:00.000-04:00

When life is full of happiness and prosperity, of good health and loved ones, I am blessed.

And when it there is sadness and hardship, illness and loneliness, still I am blessed.

“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in the heavenly realms with every spiritual blessing in Christ.” (Eph 1:3)

So when

#251… his neck flares up with sudden ferocity,

#252… the rain comes hard when we’ve paid our entrance fee and don’t have our umbrellas,

#253… little hands pull the towel rack out of the wall,

#254…and rip the pop-up Wall-E library book,

When

#255… soup splatters the microwave

#256… the washing machine smells like mildew

#257… and I come home to messy bedrooms and bathrooms,

When

#258… one boy cries because he has a cold and his ear hurts

#259… he throws a fit because they are the wrong socks

#260… and the day is gray and cold and wet

I am blessed.

And when

#261… the neck pain disappears just as suddenly,

#262… we make memories in the rain,

#263… and our visitors don’t mind the imperfections,

When

#264… I share time with our friends and their families over a meal,

#265… time with girlfriends over chocolate,

#266…time with family around a bonfire,

#267… and time with sisters and parents on an annual outing,

When

#268… the air smells of sweet autumn leaves and wet grass,

#269… a friend freely lends a home remedy not readily found in stores,

#270… the boys are quiet and easy to manage,

#271… and I settle to write in the warmth of my home with a cup of tea and the lull of the dishwasher,

I am blessed.

Five Minute Friday: Relevant

2011-10-28T10:38:00.005-04:00

“For we are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which he prepared in advance for us to do.” (Eph. 2:10)

Perhaps I am tempted to feel irrelevant because I expect “good works” to be grand—to be world-changing, one-of-a-kind endeavors. When my good works look more like vacuum-cleaning and boo-boo kissing, there is disappointment. Doubt.

Can I wipe down a kitchen counter to the glory of God? Rebuild a pillow fort? Write something no one reads?

Sometimes it’s hard to believe in the butterfly effect, that such meager works could have a profound impact on anything.

But then, I can choose what I will believe.

I can choose to believe I was created with intention, for a purpose. And though the tiny flapping of my wings is not grand or one-of-a-kind, it is world-changing.

The Pinterest Challenge: Week Four

2011-10-26T08:00:00.028-04:00

There is a pin on my organization board I’ve been wanting to check off for a while now, so this week I finally made it my priority. I added cereal dispensers to my grocery list, purchased two in the desired size, lined each with a plastic sack, and Viola! Trash cans for our vehicles.

Reuse a plastic grocery sack instead of wasting a trash bag

Genius, right? A couple times a week I have go through our van to clear out wrappers, tissues, receipts, and various papers. Getting my kids to carry all their toys, books, bags, and other stuff into the house is enough of a chore, so I usually end up picking up all the trash they leave behind. The readily available trash can is the first step in making them more self-sufficient and my van a little less cluttered.

I also made these supercute pumpkin Rice Krispie Treats for our family bonfire last weekend.

With fifteen littles, including one who is gluten free, we needed plenty of kid-friendly treats. A friend tipped me off about pumpkin spice marshmallows, so I made one batch with those and one with regular mallows. Even though I glooped up the frosting a bit, those little pumpkins turned out cute and tasty. And because I made a double batch, my kids and I have been enjoying the leftovers the past couple of days. (I may or may not have eaten one as I typed this).

It’s been a fun week around here, and I am already looking forward to the coming weeks and months when I get to do some of my holiday-related pins. Good times await.

What pins are on high on your to-do list in the coming weeks?

And in case you missed these...

The Pinterest Challenge: An Introduction

Week One

Week Two

Week Three

On Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Days

2011-10-24T19:40:00.000-04:00

Some days you wake up aching all over when you are already worn from illness.

You drop your brand-new, no-insurance-purchased cell phone into the cats’ water dish.

Your wallet is in the van when it is time to pay, and your boys are late to music class.

You rant to your husband.

But in that same day, you watch your children fill Operation Christmas Child boxes with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, and realize, for once, they didn’t ask for anything for themselves.

You remember the picture on your fridge, the thirteen-year-old Indian girl left as an orphan in a country that devalues her because she is a female.

You think of that pinterest quote that has been mulling in your brain for several weeks.

And you look your first world problems in the eye and say, “You will not steal my joy.”

#241… “This is fun, Mom!”

#242… family gathered around a bonfire

#243… hayrides (and the uncles and cousins who drive them)

#244… Mama’s homecooking

#245… safety in travels

#246… four new soup recipes

#247… a stroke of patience

#248… getting through to my stubborn boy

#249… the park on a sunny October afternoon

#250…the sound of the garage door when he comes home for the evening

Five Minute Friday: Beyond

2011-10-21T13:40:00.002-04:00

I have to confess that lately, I have gotten away from the idea of Five Minute Friday. I have been spending too much time thinking and editing and re-writing all my words. I've been missing the point. So today, I’m going back to a true five minutes. Today, I’m just going to write.

GO.

I dream small.
I pray small.
I live small.

I am afraid to hope for something too big, to be disappointed, to ask and not receive.

I tell myself to commit to the small work, because I’ll never be good enough for the big.
I tell myself it’s time to stop asking for healing, because four years of No feels final.
I tell God of what I am and am not capable, of what He is and is not capable.

This is my journey, to move from unbelief to belief. To be willing to ask even if I don’t receive. To get my hands dirty and my heart broken. To get embarrassed because I tried something. To learn with my heart and not just my head that I serve a God who walks on water, raises the dead, and empowers the weak. That my God can “do immeasurably more than all (I) ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within (me).” (Eph. 3:20)

STOP.

That was freeing. Happy weekend, my friends!

The Pinterest Challenge: Week Three

2011-10-19T09:33:00.002-04:00

Alright, it’s Wednesday, and I am proud to say I did well checking off pins this week. (I have the feeling this statement will come back to bite me at some point in the future).

Saturday was a very fall-ish kind of day around here, carving pumpkins and toasting the seeds. I decided we needed a fall beverage to go with the festivities, so I loaded up the kids to hit the grocery and get ingredients for this hot caramel apple cider.

This was worth making just for the delicious aroma as it steeped on the stove, and the flavor did not disappoint. I dosed mine with a healthy shot of Torani caramel syrup, and it tasted like a Starbuck’s caramel apple spice. Yum.

Sunday was church, chili soup, and lots of football on TV. The kids were getting squirrely by evening, so I broke out some empty cereal boxes I had saved for them to decorate their own cereal box monsters.

We took liberties with these. Addison made a vampire and the boys made kitties. (Well, Bo made a “bat-kitty.”) I was a little annoyed it took me more time to cover the boxes in construction paper than it took the kids to decorate them. But they were so proud of their creations. It was cute.

Today is Bo’s day to be the leader in his preschool class, so for his treat I mixed up some of this fall snack mix.

The kids tried it out yesterday and seemed to like it, and since I still have most of the ingredients I might make some more for all the littles to munch on at our family bonfire this weekend.

Last night’s dinner was the real winner of the week. Seriously, this lasagna soup was Ah-mazing. So. Good. You have to try it.

And the 7Up Biscuits—oh my goodness. I ate three.

I actually had all the ingredients on hand for these, which isn’t many, but it included 7up (duh) and sour cream. I’m not a big sour cream girl so typically it’s only in my fridge when a recipe calls for it, but I actually had some I needed to use up. The recipe said to pat out the dough and cut the biscuits into the pan, but it was so wet and sticky I just dropped it by tablespoons. They came out with the shape and texture of Red Lobster’s cheese biscuits, which is perfectly fine by me. (Did I mention I ate three?) I had two bowls of soup and two helpings of my grandma’s baked red apples as well, so you can rest assured I went to bed with a fabulously full tummy on a rainy day. It was perfection.

I love hearing what you all are doing with your pins. Keep ‘em coming!

*****

On the Sick Days

2011-10-17T13:48:00.004-04:00

It’s the worst way to wake up.

“Mooooom, dere’s fwo-up in my bed.”

I roll over and groan, rally myself to face round one of Sick Season.

Yet as I strip the bed, fill the washer, and make him a comfy spot on the couch, gratitude finds me. I am stocked up on ibuprofen, Jell-O cups, 7up, and latex gloves. I have a working washing machine. I have a mother-in-law who is willing to pick up one boy from preschool so the sick one doesn’t have to leave the house with me again.

And the day surprises me with its sweetness. Despite his high fever and the in-and-out of consciousness, he is full of smiles. When I lightly kiss his forehead, my normally unaffectionate son tells me it was a little kiss and he wants a big kiss instead. Later in the day, I try to give some attention to his inseparable other half, the one who has entertained himself quietly all day. I praise him, telling him how well he has done without his playmate, without his buddy, ALL DAY long. His little face crumples and blue eyes fill with tears, and I can’t help but scoop up that sweet boy in my arms for a squeeze.

Nearly four days later, we think are in the clear. We carve pumpkins, toast the seeds, and drink cider. We go to church, play outside, and eat chili. Then I spend part of that night on the floor with the other boy, holding his hand as he thrashes and moans with fever, as we wait for the medicine to kick in. I brush his hair back, kiss his forehead, and pray. When I pull my hand away, he reaches for it again. Eventually, we both drift off.

And I have to say, it’s not the worst way to fall asleep.

#221… a working washing machine

#222… getting sick in the bottom bunk, not the top

#223… the foresight to stock up on sick supplies

#224… hitting the bucket

#225… Nana’s help

#226… rare one-on-one time with my boys

#227… holding his hand at 1 am

#228… carving pumpkins

#229… toasted pumpkin seeds

#230… hot apple cider

#231… family picnics by the pond

#232… their excitement as they describe the fire truck at school

#233… counting smoke detectors

#234… fresh-squeezed lemonade

#235… the daily homework ritual

#236… chalk drawings on the driveway

#237… Rudolph in October, because it makes them happy

#238… friends who call to check in

#239… Father Abraham’s inspirational hope

#240… an encouraging friend who volunteered out of the blue to make a blog button for me.

Five Minute Friday: Catch

2011-10-14T12:24:00.001-04:00

I grew up believing I was unathletic. For four years in little league softball, I played right field, the position we all knew to be reserved for the benchwarmer girls. When choosing teams in gym class, I generally was in that awkward handful of leftover kids standing against the wall. In high school I avoided activities that involved hitting, kicking, throwing, or catching a ball—pretty much all the “real” sports.

Maybe it’s for this reason I found a nagging dislike for the life-is-a-juggling-act analogy. Because juggling for me would involve dropping a lot of things. Because juggling gives me a mental image of tennis balls raining down as I cower under my arms. Because if success at life equals success in juggling, I am doomed for my inability to keep all my responsibilities in the air. If success as a wife/mom/writer means juggling as much or as well as some of the women around me, then I should give up the game.

Fortunately for me when it came to athletics, I eventually discovered some abilities, just not in the hand-eye coordination category. I found I was a decent runner. I had natural aptitude for dance and tae kwon do. And if athleticism was measured solely on flexibility in yoga poses, I would be a first-round draft pick.

So maybe I’m not created to be the star shortstop. And maybe I’m not created to be the mom who functions on six hours of sleep a night, or the writer who knocks out thousands of words a day. Someone else’s life may be more like a game, when mine is more like a dance.

And you don’t catch a dance.

{This post was inspired by the gypsy mama. Head over to Five Minute Friday to join in the fun!}

The Pinterest Challenge: Week Two

2011-10-12T14:23:00.003-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, I challenged myself to check off at least one Pinterest pin per week.

I did it because I want my pinboards to be more than a wish list, more than the Sears Christmas catalog with Sharpie circles around all the things I want. Not that I’m not going to pin pretty clothes or in-my-dreams home décor. Believe me, I pin plenty of those. I just want balance. I want to be inspired to do things with my life more than to have things in my life.

And okay, sometimes, I want to look cute while I do it.

So in the interest of doing things, here are the pins I checked off my list this week:

Last week, I made an entire meal of Pinterest pins, starting with this cheeseburger soup.

I have to admit I thought "cheeseburger soup" was a bit of a misnomer. To me, it tasted like a glorified potato soup, but my husband LOVED it and my kids ate it up. Either one of those would be reason enough to add this to our meal rotation. And thinking back on it now, I am 99% sure I forgot to put in the cheese in before serving it. Typical Stacie. *sigh*

I also made these yummy parmesan knots.

I under baked these at first, and I had to throw them back in the oven to get them done all the way through. And I wish I would have used powdered parmesan instead of shredded, because the shredded cheese didn't want to stick to the knots. I also might try brushing the mixture on before baking them next time, as I thought doing it after made them a little soggy. But they were easy and yummy, a definite keeper.

And I finished us off with crockpot baked apples.

These were just okay. I was the only one who ate them, and I probably won't make them again. But this recipe did give me the know-how to modify my grandma's baked apples for the crockpot. So I'd consider that a modest win.

Three down, lots more to go. Tell me what you are doing with your pinboards this week...

Multitudes on Mondays {206-220}: When the Night Turns Special

2011-10-10T21:50:00.001-04:00

The sky is darkening as we turn onto our road, and my tired thoughts are turned toward home. I think of little toothbrushes, jammies, and much needed bedtimes; my sweatpants, the couch, and some TV or a novel. I can almost taste the relief of 8 pm.

Then, I see them—a staggered line of orange lights rising across the dusk. I squint and lean forward over my steering wheel, nearly upon them before I recognize them. Floating lanterns.

My husband misses the display by a mere minute, save for the glimpse he catches as he closes the drapes at home. By the time he meets us in the garage and we all pile back into the van, the luminaries are nearly gone. Not to be deterred, Danny gives chase. The windows are down and the kids are squealing, “There, Daddy! There’s one over there!” But the lights quickly fade into darkness, and we are forced to give up the pursuit. Resigned, we turn toward home. As our headlights sweep across the grassy lawn of our daughter’s school, we see it is littered with luminaries.

We park the van and race through the grass with neighbors we’ve never met, me in my heels and slip of a dress, the kids in bare feet and sweatpants. Danny scales a fence in his dress pants and shoes to get the lanterns that have drifted onto the soccer field. A police officer pulls in and I think we are in trouble until I realize he is out with his granddaughter for the same purpose we are. She dances around in his high beams in her pink nightgown and bare feet, and we can’t help but share some of the spoils with her.

Back home in our yard we relight the luminaries, watch them swell then lift into the night. They are beautiful. Magical. And I am amazed how with one quick turn, an ordinary evening becomes special.

"For great is your love, reaching to the heavens; your faithfulness reaches to the skies." (Ps. 57:10)

#206…GORGEOUS week of Indian summer

#207… fall colors, the changing of the leaves

#208… sunshine and a warm breeze

#209…well-behaved boys in the grocery store

#210… running way late, then arriving with time to spare

#211…children who eat their suppers without complaint or coercion

#212…a walk in the woods

#213…prayer

#214…a massage

#215…a spontaneous date

#216…his little surprises for me—a slushy or a cookie

#217…a day of intentional time with the kids

#218…getting some face-time with an out-of-town friend

#219…clean sheets

#220… floating lanterns

Five Minute Friday: Ordinary

2011-10-07T10:44:00.001-04:00

Though it’s nearly 10:00, cereal bowls still litter the kitchen table. There is an open container of almond milk and next to it a blue sticky note that reads, “lunchbox, library book.” Acrylic-painted pumpkins are strewn over stained newspaper on a smaller table in the corner. The draining rack in my sink is piled high with clean pans, bowls, measuring cups, and a rolling pin. From the other side of the glass door, my boys chatter away in the sandbox as they work together to build “Geppetto’s house.” These are the testaments to my ordinary life.

And as I start to feel down about my ordinary, some favorite words pop into my mind.

“Do everything without complaining or arguing, so that you may become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in which you shine like stars in the universe.” (Phil. 2:14-15, emphasis mine)

My work may be common, but it does not have to be unspecial.
Because even the ordinary stars are extraordinary.

{This post was inspired by the gypsy mama. Head over to Five Minute Friday to join in the fun!}

When Guys Do Stupid Things

2011-10-06T16:06:00.002-04:00

Guys do stupid things.

Several weeks ago, my family had a reunion. Toward the end of the day my husband came to me, face alight with excitement, and announced, “We’re gonna go outside and Cam is gonna to mace us.”

Some of the guys had convinced my brother-in-law, a police officer, to spray them in their faces with his mace. The responses from the other adults in the room varied from laughter to heated words to eye-rolling. I just shook my head and said, “You should probably take out your contacts.”

There are times my husband does things he probably shouldn’t do. He engages in a simple activity that is likely to flare up his pain. He doesn’t ask for help when he should. He doesn’t pace himself or resign himself to his limits. He doesn’t listen to me.

And there’s the rub. Certainly a large part of his journey with this chronic pain has been about relinquishing control. But to a surprising degree, it has been mine as well. He can’t control his pain, and I can’t control him. I can’t make his decisions regarding medication use or medical treatment, his activity-level or his attitude. I do have influence; I won’t cop-out of my role as his wife. But if an activity is not dangerous, if it doesn’t set a bad example for our children, I am trying to let him make his choices. To that end, I lately find myself repeating, He is a big boy and he can take care of himself. I am not responsible for his pain. I am not responsible for him.

That day at the reunion, those of us inside the house crowded around the windows and glass doors to watch the guys take their turns in the searing mist. They hacked and cried and shook their heads violently. My husband took a straight stream to the right eye. And he loved it.

Danny later told me how fulfilling it had been to participate. So often, he feels left out. He can’t join in on many of the fun things young guys do together, things he used to do with his brothers and friends. To be a part of this silly, masculine venture—it made his weekend.

So while it’s true guys sometimes do stupid things, sometimes girls need to let them.

The Pinterest Challenge: Week One

2011-10-05T08:00:00.004-04:00

{The Pinterest Challenge}

I am not the mom who cuts heart-shaped peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, who makes Mickey Mouse pancakes or draws ketchup smiley faces on bologna. I don’t sew or decoupage. I’ve never made play-dough or let my children paint with shaving cream in the bathtub. I think glitter is from the devil.

But this past weekend, I was the mom who puts glow sticks in the bathtub.

My boys love flashlights. They can play for hours in closets, a darkened hallway, or a makeshift fort. Light-up spinners were the best motivators during potty-training. They love anything that glows, especially if it “super-glows.” (Or, as they say, “It soopa-gwohs!”) So when I saw the glow-sticks-in-the-bath pin on Pinterest, I knew we had to do it.

Not my tub

I picked up the glow sticks during our weekly trip to Dollar Tree (part of our reward system for *ahem* behavioral issues at preschool). I grabbed four packs of five sticks (ten sticks for the boys’ bath and ten for my daughter’s) for a total just over $4. If I was to do it again I would grab at least one more package per bath—it was pretty dark in there. But the kids didn’t mind. In fact, they LOVED it.

And this mama loved it because it was a) easy b) cheap c) non-messy. An all-around win.

So, thank you Pinterest for helping me create a memory for my children. And maybe one of these days we’ll get around to painting the bathtub with shaving cream.

What pins have you checked off your list this week?

Multitudes on Mondays {196-205}: Good Enough Girl Time

2011-10-03T22:19:00.004-04:00

She curls up on the linoleum, her body huddled over markers and construction paper.

“Don’t look at what I’m doing, Mom. Okay?”

I try to mirror the serious, but a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. I turn away to lift a stack of clean plates into the cupboard. “Okay, honey. I won’t”

Ten minutes later she hands me a card, shyly watches me as I read it.

Inside is a drawing of us, holding hands in the sun, smiles on our faces. The letter gushes with compliments, exclamation points, and heart-dotted i’s.

Earlier in the week I briefly mention the idea of a mommy-daughter night—manicures, hot chocolate, and a chick flick in her room. She hasn’t forgotten. This girl of mine, who can be so stoic, so hard-to-read and drawn into herself, is excited to spend time with me. This girl who, as a three-year-old, when questioned about what she did in preschool or Sunday school, would reply, “I just don’t want to talk about it, Mom.” When she was in kindergarten I made it into a game, you-tell-me-one-thing-about-your-day-and-I’ll-tell-you-one-thing-about-mine, and this worked only because she wanted to know what her little brothers had done all morning. Even now as a seven year old, she constructs walls against questions, no matter how carefully-worded or open-ended. She will open up in her time and to her degree, usually during some type of quality activity. A walk through the neighborhood or an “adventure” to the nearby hills and ponds loosens her tongue more than anything. It is this bit of insight (along with a couple of gifts cards) that prompts me to suggest our girls’ night.

Saturday afternoon she sits behind me at the nail salon, and she ducks her head and smiles every time I turn to give her a wink. Though she is shy during the process, as we leave she enthusiastically announces her manicure was “AWESOME!” The drive to our next stop is peaceful—no radio, no chatter—and neither of us seems to mind. At the fine chocolatier, she is observant of the chocolate colored walls and ceiling, the fancy pillows and drapes. She quietly drinks her hot caramel, using her few words to proclaim it the “best drink ever.”

We meet the boys at the park for an hour, and as the kids play, my husband asks if our daughter was very talkative. I have to confess she wasn’t. And with those words come the inklings of mom-failure, the perfectionism eager to discount my efforts. It whispers I could have done better, I should have done better. But tonight, the whispers are more distant. Something in me knows I’ve done well enough.

Something tells me I can lead a horse to water but I can’t make it drink. I can set food in front of a child, put her in a bed, or sit her on a toilet, but I can’t make her eat, sleep, or do her business. I can offer myself to my child, but I can’t make her talk to me.

And I’ve decided that’s okay. Back then, she eventually ate. Slept. Made the switch to underwear. So I can only hope that now, if I present her with the opportunities to be with me, eventually she will talk.

The quiet is companionable as we lay down in our sleeping bags on her bedroom floor to watch Ever After. It’s been a good day; we’ve shared experience and made a memory. And that is good enough.

#196…crisp autumn days

#197…soup

#198…a handmade card from my girl

#199… 50% off groceries

#200… hot bath and a magazine

#201… a new perspective on an old relationship

#202… watching him wrestle and play with our kids

#203… online concordance

#204… two well-behaved boys in the grocery store

#205… dancing to the Monster Mash

Five Minute Friday: Friends

2011-09-30T09:28:00.003-04:00

It’s been too long. Our monthly girls’ nights have stretched to every two months, then three, sometimes four. We have babies and small children and not-so-small children, husbands with crazy work schedules or crazy work schedules of our own. Friendship of 15+ years holds us together until someone sends out a desperate-for-girl-time e-mail, and we make room in our calendars for each other. For ourselves.

We squeeze into a booth at Cheddar’s after all the children have been put to bed. We order water and cookie monsters, and when those black skillets arrive, everyone piles maraschino cherries onto my plate. We talk of preschools and tantrums, husbands and jobs, hair and clothes and good reads. We laugh—maybe not so much because we are funny, but because we need to laugh. The hours go by like quicksilver, until the one or more of us who usually is pregnant or nursing can barely keep her eyes open, until the servers are sweeping under their tables and rolling the next day’s table service in a corner booth. We reluctantly say our goodbyes—make one more trip to the restroom, hug in the parking lot, wave from our cars. When those early wake-up calls come the next morning we will be tired. But it will have been worth it.

{This post was inspired by the gypsy mama. Head over to Five Minute Friday to join in the fun!}

The Pinterest Challenge: An Introduction

2011-09-28T17:01:00.004-04:00

Ah, Pinterest.

I dragged my feet about getting into Pinterest. Honestly, it was the time-suck that scared me. I was afraid it would be one more thing to vie for my attention, one more distraction from the more important things I should be doing. But I kept seeing all the cute pins shared on Facebook, overhearing all the conversations my friends were having about their latest pins. I held out as long as I could stand it, and then… I caved.

And oh, how I adore Pinterest! It is good. SO. GOOD.

Alas, as I had feared, I found myself ignoring the Best for the Good. I pinned when I should have been writing, doing Bible study, playing with my kids, cleaning my house, or any number of other things. Because I am an organized, problem-solving, planning kind of person, I made a plan. I set down a specific time during the week when I allow myself to pin, as a reward, a fun treat after a week of discipline. This parameter seemed to work well and I felt just a little proud of myself for remedying the problem.

Then, last weekend I went pin-crazy, and I was struck by guilt at the number of things I was pinning versus the number of items I was doing. So, I made another plan.

I set a goal to check off one pinspired activity per week.

It doesn’t have to be big, time consuming, or expensive; it can be whatever works for me and my family that week. It can be a recipe, craft, family activity, home décor, an outfit... If it is inspired by a pin, it counts. I’ll post the results here every Wednesday, and anyone is welcome to play along. Just leave a comment about your latest pinspiration, or better yet, write your own pinspired post and leave your blog URL so others can check it out.

Because I haven’t done mine yet for this week (I am planning to get my supplies on Friday) I am filling in the gap with the pins I’ve checked off my list in preceding weeks.

Wordwall Blocks. We do these a couple times a week and my boys love them!

http://www.filthwizardry.com/2010/07/diy-spinny-spellers-and-repurposing.html

Three new hairstyles, two for me and one for my daughter. Not as skillfull as the pros, but still cute.

http://www.hairromance.com/p/30-hairstyles-in-30-days.html

http://www.cutegirlshairstyles.com/5-minutes/glee-hairstyles-quinn-fabray-tieback/

This sweet HP mug I gifted to my li’l sis last month.

http://www.wbshop.com/Harry-Potter-I-Solemnly-SwearMischief-Managed-Transforming-Mug/HPNCMUGS,default,pd.html?AID=8058771&PID=3872207

Lemon burst cookies—like a lemon bar in cookie form. Thanks goes out to my friend EG over at Two Bibliomaniacs for this one.

http://tidymom.net/2010/lemon-burst-cake-mix-cookies/

The one that has kept my pen going on some tough days.

http://pinterest.com/pin/61279732/

This inspired me to snap a pic of my boys, who just learned how to swing themselves.

http://pinterest.com/pin/127325500/

I’m super-excited about this project, and I hope you’ll join in. Look for my week one post next Wednesday!

Multitudes on Mondays {186-195}: 10K

2011-09-26T22:22:00.004-04:00

“I don’t know that I’ll ever run again.”

Two summers ago, my mom, sisters, and I lazed in the sun at our old lake cottage. The littlest of the littles were asleep, and the older of the littles were under their fathers’ care for a sweet stretch of time. As we bobbed up and down on our rafts, we chatted and laughed and took full advantage of our window of grown-up girl time. Eventually, the topic turned to one of our favorite shared interests—running.

My sisters and I had been dedicated runners since high school, though they were significantly faster than I was. I had continued to run after our daughter was born, but things changed with the arrival of our twin boys. And those changes didn’t get better with time. I told myself my body would improve once we made it through the first year. When that didn’t happen, I assumed it would happen around the second, then the third… That summer at the lake, my boys were three and a half, and I discouraged. I was two months recovered from my first of two failed surgical attempts at childbirth repairs. Additionally, two recent sinus surgeries had done little to improve the chronic infections that had plagued me since the boys’ birth.

“I don’t ever need to do a marathon, or even another half-marathon, but I’d like to at least be able to run a 5K. A 10K would be nice, but I’d settle for a 5K.”

Saturday, I ran a 10K.

My first road race in eleven years. My first time hitting 6+ miles in over six years.

All week, I could feel myself fighting a cold. So when I woke at 4:15 am on race day with a fiery throat, I lay there worrying. Will I have the energy to run? Will I be sentencing myself to three weeks of misery if I do? In a weakened state, my immune system does not tolerate exercise. And lack of sleep is my death knell. My mind went round in circles for an hour before I broke out an audio book in hopes of distracting myself. Finally at 6 am, I got up to ready myself for the big day, to give it my best shot.

And I did.

Though my throat and chest ached as I sucked down cold morning air, though my shoulders grew tighter with each mile, though by mile four I willed the race to be OVER ALREADY, each step was a shout of gratitude. I was RUNNING… past tap dancers and Jesus dancers, country singers and cowbells, past chalk drawings on neighborhood roads and superhero-clad preschoolers amid the cheering sections. I was running with my sisters and my high school cross-country girls, and though we were spread out through the thousands, we were running. Together.

I didn’t hear my name when I entered the stadium, though I am sure it was announced amid the others. My eyes desperately scanned the circle of red dirt leading to the finish at home plate. Unable to get a look at the stopwatch on my iPod during the race, I had no idea of the time or pace I’d been running. So when I looked up at the jumbotron and saw the time, I was ecstatic. Not only had I run the entire race (goal #1), I did it in less than an hour (goal #2). I was sweaty, shaky, and sublimely happy.

I received more than the minimum, more than I asked for. He gave in abundance and in lavish love.

He gave 10K.

“Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.” (James 1:17)

#186…10K

#187…rain that held off and perfect running temps

#188…reunion with some of my favorite runner girls

#189… sickness that waited until after the race

#190… carb-loading

#191… a lunchdate with the hubs while all the kids are in school

#192… a girl who loves to snuggle and rub my back

#193… after a rough start, two weeks of good reports from the preschool teachers

#194…the boys’ excitement to collect pennies for the little girls in India

#195… bloggy words of encouragement

Five Minute Friday: Growing

2011-09-23T09:24:00.003-04:00

Your four-year-old bodies are stretched out long over rumpled sheets and blankets. I stand in the doorway of your room, awed you ever fit inside my body. You’ve outgrown the length of all but one pair of pants. Conversion car seats have been abandoned for booster seats. Most of the time now, you pronounce your L’s and your Th’s, and I’m sure it won’t be long before the R’s and the Ch’s and the J’s follow. Some new phrase pops out of your mouths daily—“real, live” “whole wide world,” or “That’s sick!” Your drawings have progressed from potato-like bodies sprouting arms and legs to anatomically correct portraits (much to Mama’s chagrin).

And with each invisible notch in your growth chart, I think, This is my last year as a mom of preschoolers.

I hope I’ve savored it enough.

I hope I have soaked up as much as physically possible.

Because as much as I want you to grow up, I don’t.

This bittersweet growing-up process, more so than pregnancy and labor and delivery, this is the true pain of childbearing.

{This post was inspired by the gypsy mama. Head over to Five Minute Friday to join in the fun!}

Multitudes on Mondays {176-185}: The Answer

2011-09-19T22:24:00.004-04:00

It’s been my struggle lately; it’s the thing I need to ask her.

“How do you turn it on and off? I mean, how do you feel love when things are good, and turn off the emotion when things are hard?”

I feel small for asking it, but I want to know. Is there some trick I’m missing?

Turns out there’s not.

“Do you need to feel it?” We both know the answer.

“No... but I want to.” I sound like my four-year-old boys when they get whiney, but she doesn’t tell me so. She just gives me that smile that says I’m with you on that one.

I know I’m being ridiculous. I can’t opt to feel the good and not the bad. But, as I tell her, the emotional back and forth feels impossibly hard sometimes.

Then she asks me THE question. Isn’t it worth it? In those good moments, isn’t it worth it?

I’m not in the mood to think positive. I stubbornly hem and haw. “I don’t know…”

“Bull. Bull.”

Despite the gravity of our conversation, I can’t help but laugh. She is the best kind of friend, one who will emphatically call my bluff in the middle of a coffee shop.

“Those moments when you see your husband wrestling on the floor with your kids, when you know what it’s like not to have that…” she trails off.

I can’t help but admire her. She is no-nonsense and tough as nails, yet she loves in a way that is quick to forgive—quick to remember the good and hold on to it. I make a note of these characteristics and tuck them away in my heart.

Two days later in a tent in the backyard with my little family, her inspiration lingers fresh in my mind. As my husband’s mood seems to shift, as he broods and turns his back and gives too many one-word answers, I find the familiar self-pity creeping up on me, the sadness and anger. Though I want to give in to emotions, I make a greater-than-usual effort to step back and evaluate my typical knee-jerk reactions. And the truth that hits me is not new, but it has been neglected in recent months. I can’t change my feelings, but I can change the direction of my thoughts. I can react with prayer.

So I pray. I stare unseeingly at Bambi on the portable DVD player, pleading God’s intervention on my husband’s body and on my heart. I am still praying when, out of nowhere, Danny turns around and draws me to him. It is more than comfort. It is affirmation of my efforts. Encouragement in the direction I need to go. A response to the question.

The answer is not to be numb to the hurt. The answer is to pray for the one who is hurting.

*****

#176… a friend who calls me out in the middle of a coffee shop

#177… family campouts in the backyard (even if I only made it until 9:30 before I was too cold and went inside)

#178… hide ‘n seek and the way the boys squeal and laugh when I yodel from my hiding place

#179… a new Bible study full of great things to be learned in the coming weeks

]#180…writing group

#181… the way Bo currently adds “alright” to the ends of his phrases. (“Yep. I’m full awwight.”)

#182… his growling noises when he tries to purr like a kitty

#183…the sudden inspiration to give him an eyeliner kitty-face and the way it pulls him out of his stubborn mood

#184…sitting on the floor with the hubs, a pizza box across our laps, football on TV

#185… his arms around me

Joy

2011-09-16T10:17:00.002-04:00

Today is in honor of Gitz, a beautiful young woman who is on her way to meet Jesus after long years of chronic illness.

Sara, thank you for your constant reminders to "Choose Joy." I can't wait to meet you one day, hug you, and tell you how you have touched my life. Much love...

Joy

Rain streaks gray down the glass panes as we curl up in the two chairs, coffee cups in hand, a pumpkin scone between us. The Beatles play in the background as we talk and laugh and cry just a little. She is a friend who understands the hard stuff in life, more so than most people I know. Yet she prevails—strong, upbeat, more beautiful than ever.

I ask her the tough questions because I know she understands these. I reveal to her the smallness of my heart when faced with my own hard stuff, because I can trust her. And rather than speaking directly to my experience, she speaks truth when she shares her own.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen (in our situation). In 15 years, life may be just as good as it is right now. Or, in 15 years I could be living in my parents’ basement working so many hours I hardly see my kids.”

She shrugs.

“And life will still be good.”

And life will still be good…

"Though the fig tree does not bud

and there are no grapes on the vines,

though the olive crop fails

and the fields produce no food,

though there are no sheep in the pen

and no cattle in the stalls,

yet I will rejoice in the LORD,

I will be joyful in God my Savior.

The Sovereign LORD is my strength;

he makes my feet like the feet of a deer,

he enables me to tread on the heights."

(Habakkuk 3:17-19)

{This post was inspired by the gypsy mama. Head over to Five Minute Friday to join in!}

Multitudes on Mondays {166-175}: Imperfect

2011-09-12T21:20:00.004-04:00

I have adorable, beautiful, cute-as-anything children. (Yes, I am biased. No, I can't take any of the credit). But they are THE most uncooperative kids in front of a camera.

I thought these shots from the boys’ first day of school just about sum up the general photo-taking experience at our house.

By the time I was done shooting boy #1, I was already sweating. (It wasn’t even hot outside). The process was taking longer than I had planned, so I told #1 to get in the van while I snapped pics of boy #2. Boy #2 was just as uncooperative as his brother, until in total desperation, I offered him a bribe—a Starburst from the kitchen cupboard. At one point I noticed my normally-obedient boy #1 wandering around the garage instead of getting into his carseat, and I repeated my earlier instructions. By the time I finished the second round of pics, I was irritated to find boy #1 still poking around in the back of the garage.

At this point, we were most definitely late for school and I shooed him towards the van. He began to whine that he couldn’t find his nametag, which he had been wearing only moments earlier. Frustration mounting, I searched around the clutter of gas cans and rollerblades until I found the missing nametag—torn in the center and detached from its yarn necklace. I pushed/pulled the boy toward the van, then I ran into the house for a quick masking-tape repair. I dashed back to the garage, jumped in the van, threw it into gear, all the while ranting about “obedience” and being “late.”

As the back tires hit the road, boy #1 shrieked, “MY SCHOOLBAG!!” I turned around to look at him, and sure enough, his hands were empty.

I punched the garage door opener a second time. “Where is your schoolbag?!”

“Wight Dere.” He pointed to the right side of the garage, and I saw his canvas bag in a heap on the deep freezer.

I gunned the van into the garage and slammed it into park, grabbed the bag and threw it onto my son’s lap as I re-reversed out of the driveway.

As we drove through our addition, the only sound was the quiet sniffling behind me. I fumed for a few minutes before I could offer my Tenderheart forgiveness, ask for forgiveness for myself. I handed him a Starburst he hadn’t earned, and he offered me a smile I hadn’t.

We arrived at school just in time for the late-on-the-first-day walk of shame. With each humiliating step I had to remind myself that their teachers won’t remember how my boys’ first day of the school year started, but my boys will. I had to remind myself that if I believe imperfect and happy will always trump perfect and unhappy, I need to live it. So here’s hoping for many more imperfect first day of school photos (with a little more happy to go with them).

"...but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears." (1 Corinthians 13:10)

#166… four-year-olds’ grace

#167… pumpkin spice latte season :)

#168… fantasy football

#169… her good choices and the honor that comes with them

#170…spoons (the game, not the utensil—though I AM fond of utensils)

#171…spontaneous dance parties that keep a bunch of mamas laughing and up past their bedtimes

#172… sleeping in

#173…libraries

#174…fluffy socks

#175… Sunday afternoon games of Old Maid and Rack-O

The Other Five Minute Friday: Real Life Confessions

2011-09-10T00:23:00.002-04:00

So I wrote two Five Minute Friday posts today for the prompt "In real life..."

Have a second round on me.

I changed my clothes before a Bible study leader meeting this week. Not because I was embarrassed by what I was wearing, but because I knew it could be potentially offensive to others. I, in fact, really like my Nirvana t-shirt, but I decided this was not the time or place to flaunt my I’m-an-edgy-Christian look.

I like to think I’m an authentic person, that what you see is what you get. And while I want to respect the feelings of others regarding sensitive issues, I also want to be real about who I am. I don’t want to take myself too seriously (because I can go that route—and it’s not pretty).

So, the spirit of not-so-serious-but-completely-authentic authenticity, I confess…

I laugh hard at farts and even harder at well-timed swear words.

I adore all things Harry Potter.

I like to break it down on the dance floor.

I know all the words to Rent.

I enjoy the comraderie of smoking a cigar with loved ones every great once in a while.

I love Jesus.

{the sweet gift I recently found for my l'il sis's birthday}

{This post was inspired by the gypsy mama. Head over to Five Minute Friday to join in the fun!}

In Real Life…

2011-09-09T16:28:00.001-04:00

“Don’t take this the wrong way hon, but I really like you online. You’re so… upbeat.”

Um, thanks?

I do try to be intentional about ending my blog posts, even the heavy ones, on a hopeful note. If I can’t do that, welllll…

That’s why it’s been a little quiet over here this week.

I’ve been working on a post for several days, and I just can’t hit publish. The words are still too heavy, too depressing. Apparently, I haven’t finished processing this one, and I can’t write from right perspective until I’m done. Blog readers eventually will get the finished product, but my husband has had me during the process. And while I need him to be my safe place where I can be less careful, less filtered in my thought process, it might do me some good to be more intentional about “ending on hope” at home.

{This post was inspired by the gypsy mama. Head over to Five Minute Friday to join in the fun!}

Multitudes on Mondays {151-165}: Rare Moments

2011-09-05T19:51:00.002-04:00

Her back is to me as she is quietly sobs in the corner.

I am taken aback; I can count on one hand the number of times in a year this seven year old breaks down. I pull her away from her cousins, to give her some privacy and find out what has broken her little heart. Her body racks and heaves as she tries to stifle her cries, and I can’t make out her words the first four times she tries to whisper them.

Finally, I hear her gasp, “I miss the cats.”

I want to laugh. I want to roll my eyes. I want to send her right back to the playroom to pick up toys. Instead, I draw her to me. Her emotion is real, I can tell that much. I make an attempt to reason with her, but it quickly becomes apparent she is beyond reason. So I coax her onto my back, trudge up two flights of stairs, and lay her down in bed.

“You are emotional right now honey because you are so tired. It happens to a lot of people.” I lean in confidentially. “You get that from your mom.”

I leave her for a few minutes to put her brothers to bed, and when I return her cheeks are wet with fresh tears. I lie down with her and she hurls her arms around my neck, burying her face in my chest. As her cousins file into the room and fill up the other bunks, she quells her tears, but once the light is out she begins to weep again. I don’t always understand my daughter, but this I understand, this detrimental repeat cycle of negative thoughts and feelings. I know I need to interrupt the process, to distract her, so I begin to whisper the story of Sleeping Beauty in her ear. She quiets.

Then, “Who is doing that whispering? Stop whispering!” A voice squeaks out of the darkness.

“Maya, it’s me.”

My five-year-old niece gives a sheepish little, “Oh.” And I hear her flop back on the bed.

I continue whispering, and by the time prince kisses the princess, three of the four girls are breathing deeply. Only my daughter remains awake. She makes shadow puppets on the underside of the bottom bunk and dances Teddy around in the air. My neck hurts and the bunk is boney, but I am determined to stay until sleep has found her. After several minutes she turns to me and says, “Mom, I’m feeling a little tired. Can you go now?”

Always unpredictable, this girl of mine.

I give her a quick kiss and clamber over the two seven year olds in the bottom bunk. As I slip out of the room I blow her a kiss, and I can see just the shadow of a wave in return.

It’s strange to be thankful for this, time I would have liked to have spent with my extended family in a downstairs room rather than crammed against a wall with an overtired child. But it is one of those rare moments when this girl wants her mom and welcomes her comfort. A moment when I understand her need, when I know how to help her. A moment that is gifted to me to leave me feeling confident and satisfied in a place and depth of need only God knew.

#151… ovations from my family at the dinner table—better than a crowd of thousands

#152… when he laughs until he is doubled over and crying

#153… late night/early morning milkshakes and cheese fries

#154… 22 kid-free hours

#155… the purple afghan great-grandma Martha made

#156…family reunions

#157… inklings of fall weather

#158… a row of rocking chairs on a lower deck, filled by loved ones

#159… women that hoot and shriek and cackle when they laugh together

#160… old stories—the times my uncle climbed the communication towers or when, as a seventh grader, he was allowed to drive himself to the basketball games.

#161… new stories—the time all the “big boys” decided it would be fun to have the family police officer mace them in their faces

#162… sharing the hard stuff in life, knowing that while we all have different hard stuff, it’s all so much the same

#163… wrapped in a blanket on my husband’s lap under the quiet of a dark sky

#164… processing through a tough week

#165… breakfast around a table with my parents and sibs

Rest

2011-09-02T09:15:00.001-04:00

Rest...

“You HAVE to listen to me, hon.”

Spouses are the worst patients, and my husband knows it.

“You have to rest or this thing is not going to get better.”

I sigh into the phone. This time, I am in enough pain that I reluctantly comply, but not before dragging him through a tough negotiation defining “rest.” He asks to speak to our seven year old, and he gives her strict instructions to take care of Mommy and her brothers until Daddy gets home. We hang up the phone, and I pop the pills and lay on the couch with season three of Gilmore Girls. An hour and a half later I wake, enough relieved to put together a simple dinner for my family.

And I wonder why it is easier to acquiesce to his other instructions. Why is it the rest that gets me?

Maybe it’s my heritage, the hard work in my blood and in my upbringing.

Maybe it’s my gender and the belief my work is never done.

Maybe it’s my stay-at-home-mom status and the slight inferiority complex that comes with it. The need to prove myself an able, hard-working woman. The need to have something to show for a thirteen hour day.

Maybe it’s stubborn pride, an inability to admit a weakness or lack of perfection.

Whatever it is, I put aside for the day. I obey and I rest, and when the new morning comes my body is much restored.

{This post was inspired by the gypsy mama. Head over to Five Minute Friday to join in the fun!}

Zija

2011-08-31T17:07:00.005-04:00

He threw the box across the room.

After everything I’ve been through, how is some “miracle tree” going to help me?

My husband was more than skeptical. As a chiropractor, he often has been approached with the "latest and greatest” natural healing agents. He does his homework and he sticks to the supplements with substantial research behind them. And he HATES multi-level marketing.

But Zija (ZEE-zsa) came to us from a trusted source, a family member who said it helped her. After months of resisting, we finally got to the point where I said, "Why not? We've tried everything else." (If you or someone you love has ever reached this point, I know you understand). Crazier things have been done, I know, but we were afraid to take the risk. We were afraid to look foolish. To be taken advantage of. To give in to false hope.

Danny researched the moringa oleifera tree (from which the all-natural Zija products are made) in his medical journals. He was impressed, and though still hesitant, he decided to give the product a try. Within three weeks, he began to notice small differences. On Mother's Day several weeks later, he looked at me and said, "I have NO pain." For the first time in 3 1/2 years. Since then he's had two other days he’s rated as "0" on the pain scale. It's not a miracle cure; he still takes his same regimen of meds. But before Zija, he always had some pain, even while on the meds.

The biggest change has been in his activity level. Moringa is noted for its ability to calm inflammatory conditions, to aid the body in the healing process. Danny has been able to mow and weed whip in the same day, which has never happened without A LOT of pain in the following days. He went kayaking over the 4th of July, which should have completely abused his clavicles. Two days later, he was still fine. In short, Zija has given him back some quality of life.

I've been taking it as well, and have found I've been able to run, really run, for the first time in over five years. My already less-than-stellar immune system took a dive after I gave birth to the twins, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to run again. I started Zija in May, crossed my fingers, and signed up to do a reunion run with my high school cross country girls. My training is going well and I am on schedule to run the 10K in a little over three weeks. I am SO excited!

I’ve hesitated to write this post, because I know how it sounds. I am not being compensated by Zija to plug their product, and I am not trying to sell it for my husband. (In the spectrum of salespeople to non-salespeople, I am at the FAR end of the non-sales side. I’ve never even hosted an at-home party of any type because I feel so uncomfortable with sales). However, I have found I can’t NOT write about Zija, because it is a part of our chronic pain story.

And we’ll take any little miracles we can get.

Multitudes on Mondays {141-150}: Unremarkable Gifts

2011-08-29T22:12:00.002-04:00

It’s an average kind of day...

Pay the bills

Scoop the cat litter

Take out the garbage and recycling

Help little fingers connect puzzle pieces

Create the menu and grocery list

Unload the dishwasher

Push two little boys on swings

Sing several verses of “Down by the Bay” and “On Top of Old Smokey”

Heap plates full of macaroni and cheese, applesauce, and broccoli

Run

Play a game of Memory

Bake a cake

Warm up leftovers for dinner

Work through spelling words and reading homework

Pick up toys

Give baths and tuck little ones in bed

They aren’t remarkable days, these everydays. Neither good nor bad, they march by unappreciated, then hide in the recesses of memory. If it’s true what they say, Life is what happens while you’re making other plans, this IS my life. It is a remarkable gift disguised in unremarkable wrappings, unnoticed and undervalued until I remember the love with which it was given.

#141… money for the bills

#142… animals to love

#143… the opportunity to be at home with my children

#144…good food to eat

#145... their smiles when I sing (even if they won’t sing along)

#146… a new milestone in my training runs

#147…non-cooking nights

#148…conversation sparked with my girl by reading a book together

#149... bedtime prayers

#150…at the end of a long day, a few moments with my husband

Older

2011-08-26T11:19:00.002-04:00

“As we grow old, the beauty steals inward.” ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

I am on the dock at the lake. My sixteen-year-old self sits in a bathing suit with a friend, and we are whining about our perceived physical flaws. My aunt overhears as she passes by and says, “I wish I would have appreciated what I had when I was your age.” We blow it off as something old people say and carry on with our conversation.

Sixteen years and three babies later, I have a better idea what she meant.

Today, I wish away my under-eye pouches and fine lines. The hair near my left temple, which I swear is thinning. The “twin skin” my friend just this week called “a badge of honor.” And I think, I am doing the same thing I was doing at sixteen—whining about what I have not instead of appreciating what I have.

The strength to run.

The energy to lift and chase and tickle-fight my babies

A figure, though stretched and scarred, that still has the semblance of cute.

Moments when I look in the mirror and see pretty.

And when those gifts have faded into memory, I hope I can say I fully appreciated them while they were mine. When I think of “older” I hope I don’t think of faded beauty or of ugliness, but of years full of gifts—of life and laughter and love.

{This post was inspired by the gypsy mama. Head over to Five Minute Friday to join in the fun!}

The Shelf in My Heart

2011-08-24T15:11:00.000-04:00

The week is a strange one, full of contrasts and contradictions. There are bickering and hurt feelings. There are work and busyness and passing each other without seeing. The air conditioning goes out and the water softener floods into the house, leaving us in chaos and in stress.

But there is sweetness too, moments of soft juxtaposed against the hard. He tells me some of the loveliest words.

You have a beautiful heart.

He bends down to level his face with mine. You know that, don’t you?

Hours later, I am irritated with him over a minor infraction. When I think back to those quickly forgotten words, I am forced to examine my ability to be petty and small. I ponder my tendency to allow tiny disappointments to define our relationship. To define how he feels about me—how I feel about me. All too often I throw away the alabaster moments and polish the garbage; I place the trash on a prominent shelf in my heart and toss the treasure into a junk drawer. The realization challenges me, and I commit to a new appraisal system, one that values the valuable and disposes of the disposable. One that assumes the best in him, in us, rather than the worst.

At the end of the week full of its ups and downs, we sit down together in the evening.

“Do you want to watch something?” He asks.

And I do want to.

Instead, I pour each of us a half-glass of the birthday wine I forgot to give him, and we sit on the couch talking about our goals and hopes and aspirations. We talk about where we are now, where we want to be, and how our individual dreams can be part of our “us” dreams.

This is the stuff that matters, yet our human bodies are oh-so-tired and can only dream together for a short time. Then it’s him on the air mattress and me on the couch next to him in the cool of the downstairs, lulled to sleep by the hum of the fan and buzz of the cicadas. And it is a moment spit-polished and shining brightly on the shelf in my heart.

Multitudes on Mondays {131-140}: What I Will Miss

2011-08-22T14:58:00.005-04:00

I spot-clean the carpets and wipe down my woodwork. I dust, vacuum, mop, launder, and bake. As we prepare for company and I try to clean my house, really clean my house, I seem to find two marks for every one I remove. I sigh as I scrub yet another smudge from my doorframes.

I’m not going to miss this.

Immediately, I regret the thought, because I know in my heart that someday I will miss this.

I will miss peanut butter on the lightswitch.

Pizza sauce on the toilet seat.

Sticky-somethings on the doorknobs.

Couch pillows all over the room.

Sand on the kitchen floor.

Marker on the linoleum.

Smudges on the walls.

Nicks in the woodwork.

Fingerprints on my laptop screen.

Pollypockets and Squinkies in the couch.

Trucks in my bed.

Chalk drawings on the garage walls.

“We love God” scrawled in the dust on the outside of our front door.

I know I won’t miss the messes. But I will miss what they represent—the years when my children were at home with me, the years Mom and Dad and Grandma and Grandpa tell me are “the best years.” The years full of imagination, hugs, and childlike wonder. Of crayola-ed drawings on the fridge and Jenga games on the kitchen floor. Of Wall-E and crickets and Junie B. Jones. Of family movie night, evening walks, and bedtime stories. Of “He hit me!” and “No, I didn’t hit him. I punched him!”

I don’t want to wish any of this away for the convenience of a clean house, for the pride of showing others a well-kept, well-decorated home. I don’t want to trade what I won’t miss for the moments I will.
Lord, help me remember...

#131…marker-stained little hands

#132…Jenga games on the kitchen floor

#133…sleeping with the windows open

#133...prayer with friends

#134… morning fog on the field

#135… little legs wrapped around my waist, a little head buried in my chest

#136…apples and peanut butter

#137…zumba

#138…a moment captured in a photograph

#139…fresh fruit salad, prepared with love and enthusiasm by my seven year old

#140…settling into a routine again

A First-Day Memory

2011-08-19T09:58:00.004-04:00

NEW...

New pencils, crayons, scissors, and glue.

New backpack, gymshoes, and jeans.

Shamelessly, she holds my hand as we traverse the crowded hall together. We find her locker, unload her supplies in her desk. She barely seems nervous, this stoic girl of mine, and I wonder if I hid my jitters so well at her age. I try to remember what it feels like to be a second-grader, but the memories are fuzzy.

As I ready myself to leave, I see the slightest flash in her eye, a panicked stiffening that says Don’t leave me yet, Mom. But she’s a big girl now, always has been really, so she casually says, “See ya.” She gives a small smile and a wave as I slip out of her classroom, and I think how crazy-proud I am of that smart and sweet little girl. She’s going to destroy second grade, in the best possible way.

This is my new first-day memory, because someday all too soon I’ll be the well-seasoned woman trying to remember what it felt like to send my oldest child off to second grade.

{This post was inspired by the gypsy mama. Head over to Five Minute Friday to join in the fun!}

Unpretty Beauty

2011-08-17T09:22:00.002-04:00

Today, the gypsy mama asked us about the ugly-beautiful scars we bear as testament of motherhood, and I've decided to share my response here.

What unpretty marks do you celebrate for their beauty?

"Twin Skin. The saggy, baggy proof that I carried two boys to 38 weeks (and before that, my 9.1 lb daughter to 41 weeks). God answered my prayers for healthy babies, and I’ve got stomach skin like the scruff of a cat’s neck to prove it.
Maybe that makes my body an altar to God’s goodness…"

Guilt & Grace

2011-08-16T09:35:00.002-04:00

A few weeks ago I had a particularly bad day, when a little criticism met with fatigue, stress, and PMS to create the perfect storm of discouragement. Through tears I confessed to my husband an overwhelming sense of failure. Of guilt. The rarity of days I go to bed feeling as if I’ve done well...

I am SUPERexcited to be guest posting today A Pink Daisy Life. So head over there to check out the rest of my story, and leave some love for Heatherly while you're there. Because she's pretty awesome. Thanks again, Het!

An Altar

2011-08-15T21:54:00.003-04:00

I danced around and hopped up and down inside the metal stall, giddy as a child. “There isn’t a person here today who is more excited to ride a rollercoaster than we are,” I guaranteed my husband.

I rubbed my hands together and let out a little squeal as the coaster clack-clack-ed toward us and halted. The gate swung open and I dashed onto the seat, buckled my belt, and reached over to give my husband’s knee an excited squeeze. Just before they released us up the incline, he let out an embarrassingly loud yell, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

It had been nine years since we spent a day riding rollercoasters. Pregnancies and small children kicked off our hiatus. Then came his chronic pain, and we thought that part of our lives was behind us. In the grand scheme of things, it was a small loss, puny in comparison to other forfeitures we had faced. But we felt it just the same. It seemed to symbolize the larger losses in our relationship. The loss of fun. Laughter. Dates and activities and enjoyable time together.

This past week was our annual trip with our kids to an amusement park, and because of recent improvements in his health, Danny and I rode one real coaster. One. That number would have been an Epic Fail in years past. But this year, it was a HUGE victory. I stepped off that ride full of happiness, hope, and an appreciation for a simple gift.

A ride operator commented at length that we had visited the park on the best day all season. After weeks of heat indexes that soared into triple digits, we had a beautiful day in the mid-80’s with a pleasant breeze. God handed me a yes to the petty prayer I’d been repeating for weeks—Please God, anything below 90. For Danny.

There have been plenty of days in the past couple of years I haven’t felt as if God loves me. I haven’t felt as if he has good plans for me or that his intentions toward me are good. It’s been easy for me to focus on all the No’s and ignore all the Yes’s. It’s not that I think God is more good or he loves me more when he gives me what I want (okay, sometimes I do think that), but when he does give me a gift, however small, I need to honor it. I need to memorialize it for myself so I can remember his goodness, his loving intentions toward me, on the days I don’t feel his love.

This post is an altar, a reminder to me that every good and perfect gift is from above, that I am the daughter of a father who delights in giving good gifts to his children. Small, perfect, everyday gifts.

Thank you, God.

121…B-E-A-U-tiful day at an amusement park

122…sharing the day with our parents

123…the boys first coaster ride ever. “I WUVED it, Mom!”

124…30 minute mini-date with the hubs on a grown-up ride

125…first day of school—backpacks, pencils, crayons and more

126…feeling like a mom (in a good way)—walking her into school; helping her find her locker, classroom, and desk

127…a friendly cashier

128…homemade, ingredients-fresh-from-the-garden salsa

129…sharing zucchini with the neighbors

130…his birthday—the culmination of a good year, and more to come.

Beauty

2011-08-12T09:43:00.001-04:00

My mama-heart hurts for her, this girl of mine who is on the verge of losing her innocence. For this sweet, now-second-grader as she tries on school-jeans in the dressing room, wading through sizes that already tell her she is not small enough. I wonder how much longer she’ll think herself pretty, how much longer I can protect her from the world’s price tag gun.

My mama-heart hurts for my nieces. The seven year-old who hates being so short. The six year-old who has called herself fat. The eleven year-old who prizes her tiny waist. I want to tell each one of them, You’re BEAUTIFUL. With your high-pitched giggle and god-given ability to run. With your almond-shaped blue eyes and tomboyish nature. With your cinnamon-colored freckles and tender heart. You. Are. Beautiful.

I want to make them to believe me, but maybe I don’t demonstrate that kind of belief for them. I feel saggy and baggy and gaining on shapeless. Stretched and wrinkled and puffy. Do I think I’m beautiful? And maybe if I answer that question first, if I find my beauty in a smile or a laugh or a listening ear, I can lead the way for the little feet that follow.

{This post was inspired by the gypsy mama. Head over to Five Minute Friday to join in the fun!}

Multitudes on Mondays {111-120}

2011-08-08T10:00:00.004-04:00

111… good writing days, when the words come easy

112… the early morning quiet

113… a tiny, dancing flame

114… blankets and pillows and soft mattresses

115… clocks ticking

116… spontaneous sister dates

117… three young siblings, playing nicely and enjoying each other

118… thank-you cards in the mail

119… the smell of fresh cilantro

120… little girl giggles

Facebook Status Highlights 2011: March

2011-08-06T06:00:00.004-04:00

3/16/11
Danny and the boys were wrestling when Bay shouts, "Hey, Dad! You stepped on my penis!" Danny apologizes then says, "Shake it off, Buddy." Bay gives him a thoughtful look, then jiggles his hips around and says, "I shaked it off, Dad."

3/3/11
I walked into my bathroom to find one boy doing his business on the potty and the other standing beside him wiping his brother's bottom. I still can't decide if I think it's gross or adorable.

Whole

2011-08-05T11:16:00.002-04:00

GO.

Whole...

If I am a vessel, I am well-worn. Like a grandmother’s mixing bowl, I am chipped-edged and cracked from frequent use. My tasks aren’t grand; they are everyday kinds of work, the works of marriage and motherhood.

Marriage is delicate, two fragile vessels in close proximity. Sometimes we are nestled together comfortably; others, we clink and chink and chip. Sometimes our contents, the stuff of life, are of a yeasty sort of nature, a measure that expands and grows until our clay walls begin to splinter. Though we are sure we will shatter, we do not. And somewhere along the way, those bitter contents, those shared bits of broken, turn sweet.

Motherhood, too, threatens my frailty, for it is a task beyond my ability. Fortunately, it also is a fish-and-loaves kind of miracle, multiplying the heart to feed an impossible number. It is a Wonderland kind of love that, when divided, becomes more whole. At times, I don’t want to hand over certain parts of myself. Fear and selfishness whisper lies—You don’t have enough to share. A hole will gape, an emptiness for your sacrifice. The liars neglect to tell me my children will give me pieces of themselves, larger and more colorful than the ones given them.

So if I am a vessel, chipped and scarred, I am held together by some holy kind of glue. My hope is that someday, I will see all the bits and pieces from a distance, rearranged into a beautiful mosaic of broken. A story with the hope of whole.

STOP.

I have to admit, these days I am taking more than five minutes of writing on Friday.... these prompts are just too rich for my slow mind and fingers to have only 300 seconds. *sigh*

{This post was inspired by the gypsy mama. Head over to Five Minute Friday to join in the fun!}

Communication Rule #5: Honest Questions

2011-08-03T15:39:00.001-04:00

“What am I supposed to do?” He knows he sounds exasperated, so he adds, “It’s an honest question… what am I supposed to do?”

There is such a thing as a dishonest question—one that pretends to ask for one type of information while actually seeking another (e.g., “How do I look?”). In these situations, I often want affirmation rather than a truthful answer, to be told I am pretty, talented, or loved. However, there are times I do want to know when I am wearing something unflattering, if my writing is weak, or if I am nagging my children too much. I am trying to solve a problem and I want constructive criticism. To ensure I get the honesty I need, I hedge my question with the no-penalty disclaimer, “it’s an honest question.”

Communication Rule #5: Honest Questions

When my husband pulls this card on me as we wrap up one of our chronic pain discussions, I am surprised. I have done a lot of communicating about much of the same stuff—the hurt I feel when he pulls away during an episode of increased pain, the anger I feel when he is moody or irritable, the sadness and rejection I feel when his love and energy run dry by the time he gets to me. Processing these emotions with him is healing for me; I feel known and comforted and loved. On his end, it can be frustrating—a problem without a resolution. A lot of process and no product. For women, oftentimes the process IS the product; we’ve been heard and understood, and that is all we really need. However, we mustn’t forget sometimes processing is about achieving an end, a change.

So when he asks the problem-solving question, it throws me a little.

What can he do?

We look at each other for a moment, thinking, and my answer comes to me. “Affection. I need you to hold me.”

He looks surprised. “Really? You want to be near me after I’ve been that way?”

I am not a person who is often certain, but I am certain about this. “Yes. I need to know that you still love me.”

“But I DO love you.”

“I know… But I need to feel it.”

As we continue to talk, he confesses that sometimes during those times when he is hurting and distant, he wants to hold me, to be held. He needs my comfort as much as I need his, but he keeps his distance because he assumes I am too angry with him or I will feel used by him. I assure him, as his wife who is a sponge for physical affection, I will not begrudge any tenderness shown me. We laugh and shake our heads. How have we been married for 11 ½ years, facing chronic pain for 3 ½ years, and just now are figuring this out?

We figure it out because he is brave enough to ask an honest question—to seek information that invites a response. He doesn’t ask to be let off the hook because of a disability, but what he can do in spite of it. We both know we can’t change all the ups and downs of this chronic pain thing, but we can change our responses to it, to each other. Because no matter the circumstances, no matter the physical changes, he is still the man I married. And that man still is pretty great.

Multitudes on Mondays {101-110}

2011-08-01T14:35:00.001-04:00

101… the sound of rain against the window

102…a wink from my girl

103…a couple of hours, frozen yogurt, and my bestie

104…a little nose pressed up against mine (even if I was trying to talk seriously to him and I totally couldn’t keep it together after that)

105…”Your food is the BEST, Mom!”

106…the comfort of shade and cool breezes

107…I love you’s said with clean sheets, washed dishes, and home-cooked food.

108…sand between my toes

109…choruses of Happy Birthday

110…pajama-clad sibs, spouses, and parents crowded into a kitchen, sitting on countertops, talking and laughing and eating

Still

2011-07-29T09:19:00.001-04:00

STILL…

I lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The only sound is the hum of the central air, and I breathe in the quiet—the stillness.

I need this moment.

I have two clingy, whiney, and emotional boys who are in the process of being weaned off their afternoon naps.

I am readjusting to life without evening classes, those taken-for-granted mommy breaks.

When we sit down to dinner, I am chorused with complaints and refusals to eat what is served. Child #3 is excused from the table and sent to his room. The hubs and I get into an argument in which my bitterness toward the chronic pain—toward him—leaks out in the form of sarcasm. (Appropriate after my series on communication rules, no?) Child #2 spills an entire cup of milk and shrieks at the cold and the wet.

I clean up the mess, then escape to a quiet room. I curl up and absorb the silence, recalling the days when the noise was inescapable, when a locked door in a small house couldn’t shield me from the din of screaming babies and a needy toddler, and I am thankful for this sweet, sweet stillness.

Fifteen minutes later, I slip downstairs to apologize to my husband and hug my babies. They all are full of smiles and hugs; they love me, still.

{This post was inspired by the gypsy mama. She’s at (in)Courage today, so head over there to join in the fun!}

Communication Rule #4

2011-07-27T22:38:00.002-04:00

So, I thought I was done with the communication rules, until a recent conversation taught me a new one (which I will post next week), and I stumbled across another I had written some time ago. This fourth rule is an extension of the third, as it also has a lot to do with semantics.

Communication Rule #4: Don’t Assume

“You seem like you are tired, stressed, or not feeling well today.”

I use this type of phrase on the days when my husband seems “off,” whether it’s due to chronic pain or something else. I’ve found the way I phrase a statement or question will determine the type of response I will get. It’s a semantics trick that works for us for two reasons:

1) It doesn’t assume the cause of his behavior or attitude.

If I ask my husband, “Are you feeling okay?” the question is closed-ended, only asking a confirmation of a hypothesis. It is true-false rather than multiple choice, giving him the opportunity to give a one word answer. (“Are you tired?”—“No.”) By offering options, the question becomes a little more open-ended. It invites him to choose an option or create one of his own. With the open-ended format of the question, he gets a little more talkative; I usually get at least a sentence or two, rather than a one-word answer. Also, it’s not so insulting to him, asking if he is sick when he feels perfectly fine.

2) It is phrased tentatively.

I can’t look at my husband and say, “What is up with you today?” though that is often a temptation. That phrasing is far too confrontational in our house, especially in the swells of chronic pain. My questions have to be gentle probes, suggestions, wonderings. Examples might be something like the following:

“It could just be me, but I’ve noticed that you seem kind of …”

“I’m just wondering if everything is okay, because you seem like you might be…”

“It could just be me, but I thought you didn’t seem like yourself today..."

And when I tell him that he doesn’t seem like himself, I think it helps to give gentle, concrete examples: “You don’t seem quite like yourself today; You’ve been (a little short with me and the kids/quiet/distracted) this evening. Are you stressed or tired or not feeling well or something?” Also, because there are times such as these when I revert to “you” statements instead of “I” statements, the tentative phrasing softens the attack.

It’s one of the little things that works for us. What works for you?

Multitudes on Mondays {91-100}

2011-07-25T13:24:00.000-04:00

#91…fireflies (or, as we call them around here, lightning bugs)

#92… new friends

#93… audio books

#94… hot, rushed, summer storms

#95… pulling blankets over sleeping children

#96… kissing their soft cheeks goodnight

#97…zucchini bread

#98… naps

#99… a dark movie theater and a shared bowl of popcorn

#100… laughter

Facebook Status Highlights 2011: January

2011-07-23T06:00:00.004-04:00

1/5/11
During dinner, Bay calls out from the bathroom, "Mom, I made a cricket poop!" I mildly respond, "Yep," and continue to eat. I then realize that this is weird. But once you've heard about "banana" poops, "rock" poops, and "Walle-E" poops, crickets poops aren't anything impressive.

1/17/11
I never thought I would be the type of person who lives in a house with dried pizza sauce on the toilet seat. But then, that was when I was childless and blissfully judgmental of parents.

1/30/11
Quote from little sis telling me why she loves Liz Lemon from 30 Rock: "She's just weird and awkward and... she actually kind of reminds me of you!"

Full

2011-07-22T10:04:00.001-04:00

I can’t sleep. As the night wears into early morning, I lose count of the number of times I get up and down and in and out of bed. The last time I slip under the covers, I hear a large inhale from beside me; I’ve roused my husband.

He doesn’t say anything, but he knows I am sleepless. He reaches over and gently strokes the back of my neck, touching the loneliness of my insomnia. I wonder at his ability to give a small tenderness in the middle of the night, a grace I do not possess.

After a moment his hand falls away, and he slips back into dreams. I lay awake, remembering my not-so-distant fears marriage would be an eternity of empty. I whisper thanks to God for this gift, this tiny moment of full.

And when sleep comes, it finds me replete.

{This post was inspired by the gypsy mama. Head over to Five Minute Friday to join in the fun!}

Communication Rule #3: Speak the Truth in Love

2011-07-20T22:49:00.006-04:00

After I have temporarily bitten my tongue, after I have waded through the time-space continuum, I arrive in the final communication phase—the time to mend.

In these recent years of chronic pain, our mending often starts with silence. Feelings are raw and we must move slowly. It is as if we are waking from a heavy sleep, not unlike those times our boys wake up hard from their naps, when the best I can do is sit in the quiet and wrap them in my arms. This is how the mending begins for my husband and me. We don’t speak yet of the hurt; our first healing comes from the presence of the other. We sit together. We touch—his arm around me or my head on his shoulder—and we find quiet comfort.

Eventually, however, the mending involves words, uprooting those little seeds that have the potential to grow into bitterness.

Communication Rule #3: Speak the Truth in Love

Instead, speaking the truth in love, we will in all things grow up into him who is the Head, that is, Christ. (Ephesians 4:15)

I’ll be honest; sometimes I’m angry with him when he reemerges. Maybe his tongue has been sharp or his attitude has been poor or I simply feel slighted out of my marriage ideal. Maybe I’m actually feeling sad, hurt, or rejected, but I label the emotion as anger. Regardless, I now have to decide what to do with my negative emotions.
I haven’t got this one completely figured out yet—and probably never will—but I have learned two things:

1) Self-controlled honesty

“In your anger do not sin: Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry, and do not give the devil a foothold." (Eph. 4:26-27).

“A fool gives full vent to his anger, but a wise man keeps himself under control.” (Proverbs 29:11)

The wisest man who ever lived doesn’t tell me not to express anger, but not to FULLY vent anger. Honesty and self-control must be in balance. (The honesty part is a lot easier for me than the self-control part). I have learned pouring out a venomous stream of word vomit will not make me feel better. The more I allow myself to yell and rage and throw a fit, the angrier I become. When the tirade is over, I am as furious as ever, with a heaping addition of guilt on top.

Other times, I harbor my angry thoughts, replaying past slights over and over again. I nurture those seeds of bitterness that have crept in over time. Then, when a new slight occurs, I add this offense to all the other offenses done to me, and the strength of my reaction is not in proportion to the slight. In fact, in most of my relationships, I tend to be a hold-it-in-until-I-blow-up type of personality. That lack of honesty can be just as damaging as the lack of self-control.

2) Speak the truth gently.

One of the best tools I’ve ever been given, one of the best ways to be both honest and gentle, is to use “I” statements. “I” statements in general are good communication, but they are essential for couples facing higher-than-average life stress. I also find them HARD to use, especially when emotions are high, so I think I am in for lifelong practice on this one.

When we are in the mending stage of the latest pain episode, I want to say something to the effect of, “You hurt me when….” But I’ve learned this statement is more effective (makes the hearer less defensive) when rephrased as, “I felt hurt.” The latter is also more truthful because, really, I can only speak about my experience and not someone else’s. Someone else doesn’t make me feel sad/angry/embarrassed; I am the owner of my emotions.

Here’s a recent real life example: we were beginning to talk over things after he had been unusually distant for a couple of days. I carefully sifted through my feelings and was able to express, “I feel hurt right now. I feel rejected.” His response acknowledged and comforted me: “I’m sorry, hon. I don’t mean it that way.” If I would have said, “You are rejecting me,” or even, “I feel like you are rejecting me,” I can say with 90% certainty he would have been defensive and said, “I’m not rejecting you. I’m just in pain.” The first works because it is a statement of how I’m feeling. The second fails because it is an accusation.

My biggest pitfall is dressing up a “you” statement as an “I” statement. For example, “I feel like you’re not listening to me,” seems to be an “I” statement because it starts with “I feel.” However, note that the “I feel” easily can be dropped and it reads, “You’re not listening to me.” Beware any “I Feel” statement followed by the word “like”—“I feel like…” rather than an actual emotion—“I feel sad/happy/angry.” Ideally, “I feel” statements should be followed by a FEELING.

So, when issues come up in my marriage I am trying to ask myself how I feel. What emotion is at work? Then I can say, “I feel (frustrated) right now because I don’t think I am being heard.” It takes more time. It takes more thought. And that is the point. (James 1:19 “My dear brothers, take note of this: Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry.”)

It’s all semantics, I know. But semantics is making all the difference at my house these days.

*****

*“Dramatic Plots” of Basic Emotions: (What I’m Feeling and Why)
Anger – I have been slighted or wronged
Frustration – I have encountered an obstacle, something that prevents me from attaining a goal
Sadness – I have experienced a loss
Envy – I want what belongs to someone else
Jealousy – I have lost or feel the threat of losing something I consider “mine”
Anxiety – My personal security is threatened
Fear/fright – My physical well-being is in danger
Guilt – I’ve done something bad
Shame/Embarrassment – I am something bad
*Lazarus, R.S. & Lazarus, B.N. (1994). Passion and reason: Making sense of emotions. New
York, NY: Oxford University Press.

These Fleeting Days

2011-07-19T06:00:00.004-04:00

I watch them as they run through the sprinkler in the backyard, these boys who have grown in tandem since the moment they were conceived. I catch a glimpse of them and pause mid-step.

Stop what you’re doing. Just watch them for a minute.

I turn back and sit on top of the kitchen table, my feet propped on the plastic booster seat in front of me, a bowl of sour cherries and a spoon in my lap. I watch them from my front row seat on the other side of the glass door, and they don’t even know I am there—memorizing them. I mentally snap pictures of their yellow-blonde heads, the way their skins glow in the setting sunlight, the shapes of their legs and the cuts of their shoulder blades. Their swimsuits droop with the weight of the water until I can see the rims of white, untanned skin below their hips. They are wildly happy—laughing and squealing and chasing each other in circles through the arcing mist, and I notice myself smiling.

I should take a picture.

But instead of digging out my camera, I choose to enjoy the moment. I sketch the scene in my mind, will it not to fade until I can jot it down after they are tucked into their sleeping bags inside the fort their daddy built. I recreate the image with my words as best I can; the result is soft and slightly out-of-focus, but I can see it still—a loosely-captured representation of these fleeting days.

Multitudes on Mondays {81-90}

2011-07-18T06:00:00.010-04:00

#81…blowing bubbles at dusk

#82…evening walks

#83…freshly painted toenails

#84…zoo outings—ice cream cones, carousel rides, and moon jellies

#85…”Mom, I want to hold your hand.”

#86…July-blue skies

#87…good news for a loved one—Benign!

#88… Sunday lunch with the parents

#89… running

#90…snuggling inside a dark and cool blanket-fort on a 100+ temp day, watching Tangled for the zillionth time :)

Momfession #2

2011-07-16T06:00:00.011-04:00

Sometimes...

When dinner comes out of the oven all hot and savory,

And all the children are playing upstairs,

And my husband won't be home until later,

And the kitchen is beautiful in its near-silence...

I sit down to a lovely dinner.

Alone.

And I enjoy every bite. :)

Loss

2011-07-15T09:40:00.003-04:00

LOSS...

I don’t want to write this today. I don’t feel like going to this place. I don’t even know how to begin. And now, I’m sitting here, already crying as the words begin to form in my mind.

I think of his loss. Of our loss. I think of what the chronic pain has taken from us. And then I immediately push the negative thoughts away because I’ve taught myself not to dwell on them. Because they are painful. Because I don’t want to worry my mother or make my sister cry. Because I know my husband will read this tomorrow and it will make him sad. And that sentence is not completely on the page before I realize it is one of my subtle losses—those pieces of my honesty. Fragments of truths better kept to myself so as not to inflict more pain.

I think of my loss. The childbirth injuries that stole some of my youth. Some of my femininity. And I grieve those private, shameful scars.

I think of Dad and the disease that has eaten his muscles. The fourteen-year-old girl who was told her father wouldn’t live to see her graduate, much less get married or have children. And I am overwhelmed by how much I have NOT lost.

Father's Day 2011 (minus big bro)

Christmas 2010

And I can see the hand of God, his scars holding mine, until the day when all things are made new.

“Brothers, we do not want you to be ignorant about those who fall asleep, or to grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope.” (I Thess. 4:13)

Where I'm From

2011-07-14T17:13:00.002-04:00

Where I'm From

I am from grass-stained summer feet, from Ballreich’s potato chips and Dinnerbell ham.

I am from the old white house in town with the casket elevator in the garage. The English tudor in the country with green hills and acres of woods. From a tire swing out front and bike-riding up and down the long driveway.

I am from lilacs and tiger lilies, buckeyes and catalpas.

I am from corn and wheat and soybeans, printer’s ink, and doctorates.

I am from Slob and Bob stories and summers at the lake; euchre and hearts and table-thumping laughter. From Roth’s and Myers’ and Andrews’ and Mayes’.

I am from the sensible and the good.

From blood is thicker than water. From sensitive to the feelings of others. From work hard, play hard.

I am from the evangelicals. From the little white missionary church. From the covered heads of the Mennonites. From baritone voices that sing it is well with my soul. From Jesus loves me this I know.

I'm from the country’s crossroads, the flat land of the Midwest tri-state. I’m from chicken and dumplings and chipped beef on toast. From Johnny Appleseed and the Ohio State Buckeyes.

From Uncle Steve’s ketchup on everything, Grandma Annabelle’s day-early birthday cards, and Grandpa Don’s coffee scent.

I am from well-kept photo albums and family antiques. From embarrassing footage on video tape and oral histories too rich to be forgotten. From generations of loved ones who have shown me that I am from family and I am from faith.

{This is a writing exercise I borrowed from my friend Heatherly, who borrowed it from her friend. It is based on a poem by George Ella Lyons.}

Also linking up over at Bigger Picture Blogs for the Writing Me Project.

Rule #2: The Time-Space Continuum

2011-07-12T06:00:00.008-04:00

So last week I started my list of communication rules—practical advice for living with someone with chronic pain/illness. This second rule comes right on the heels of the first. In fact, it’s kind of an extension of the first:
Continue to bite thy tongue as thou enterest…

The Time & Space Continuum (Communication Rule #2)

When he shuts you out. When she snaps at you. DON’T TAKE IT PERSONALLY.

This is the toughest phase, at least for me—especially in the beginning when his bouts lasted for weeks rather than days. It hurts to feel insignificant to my significant other. It matters when I feel like I don’t matter. But what I feel and what is true are not always the same thing.

During this time, emotions whisper he doesn’t love me enough. That I am not enough. And it is not always easy to remember that those are lies sent by the father of lies to target my weakness. But I will repeat the advice given to me by a wise friend. Think of what is true, and test the thought. Is it true that my husband doesn’t love me? Is it true that I am not enough? If the answer is no, I must not think on it. And because it is difficult to intentionally NOT think of something, it is important to replace those thoughts with Truth. After all, Philippians 4:8 doesn’t tell us what NOT to think about, but what TO think about.

Another important part of this phase it to remind myself not to make his pain about me. Certainly the situation affects me—even hurts me at times—but it is Not.About.Me. If you remember from your psych 101 courses, Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs postulates that basic needs must be met before higher needs.

{image credit}

In Maslow’s hierarchy, physiological needs must be met before emotional needs. When a lower-tiered need isn’t met, any need on a higher level just doesn’t matter. Starving people aren’t worried about self-actualization. Those in the throes of chronic illness aren’t concerned about love and belonging. And when my husband is hurting, I am comforted to know that he is not pulling away because he doesn’t love me but because he is focused on a more primary need.

I’ll admit—no matter what, that waiting period is pretty terrible-awful. If you are going through that right now, I would hug you if I could. I would say to you with tears in my eyes how sorry I am that you and your spouse have to go through the terrible-awful. And that is about as much as anyone can do.
And maybe the best thing they can do.

After that, there are only small tips I can offer for wading through the time-space continuum…

● Let it hurt, because it matters. (It may be wise to set the timer on your grief).

● Write down your feelings in a private journal. (This can help you process emotions and communicate them later with your spouse).

● Immerse yourself in scripture. (If you don’t know where to turn when you feel certain emotions, get your hands on a book of God’s Promises).

● Pray. For your spouse, the burden they’ve been given to bear. For yourself—for encouragement, strength, and perseverance—the ability to love when it’s hard. And for protection over your marriage.

● Let your significant other know you are there for her when she is ready to talk, then leave the ball in her court. Give her space and be patient in allowing her the time she needs to regain herself.

●Make yourself busy, but readily available.

● And wait.

● Then be there when he/she emerges. Don’t pout or punish. Because our spouses need us too.

Multitudes on Mondays {71-80}

2011-07-11T06:00:00.012-04:00

#71…the laughter of loved ones

#72…my girl's spot-on Spanish accent as she reads Skippyjon Jones to her brothers

#73… a half-moon, soft-edged and pearlescent

#74…lounging on the porch—hidden by the tall grasses—soaking in the evening warmth

#75… air-conditioning

#76…pasta in rose sauce

#77…a few minutes alone to browse the used bookstore

#78… evening swims in a pool warm as bathwater

#79…the way he puts his arm around me at church, rubbing my skin when he feels the goosebumps

#80… sunsets under big Indiana skies

Saltwater and Skinny-Dipping

2011-07-09T09:15:00.001-04:00

Earlier this week we dropped off the kidlets at Grandma’s house for a couple hours. They were all excited to go swimming, until we realized we had accidentally walked out the door without the boys’ swimsuits. Tears ensued. Grandma kindly offered to let them swim in their underwear. More tears from two boys who did NOT want wet underwear. When Grandma offered to let them swim in the nude, their little faces lit up. Naked swimming!!

When we picked them up that evening, we asked our daughter if she’d enjoyed her swim-time.

“Yeah, except one time when I was underwater, I almost ran into one of their wieners. It was gross.”

And later, when we asked our children the nightly question, “What was the best part of your day today?” (we usually get a whiney “I don’t know” from the boys) there was an instant brightening.

“Swimming NAKED!”

Why do I have the feeling this is going to come back to bite me?

Oh, and today as we were getting ready to head to our association pool, Bo asked, "Is our pool salted like Grandma's pool?" I smiled at his four-year-old literalness and said, “No, our pool is not a saltwater pool.”

Without missing a beat he quipped, "Oh, our pool has pepper in it?"

Grateful

2011-07-08T08:01:00.001-04:00

Another Friday, another five minutes with the gypsy mama. :)

And GO.

Grateful

For summer…

Garden-fresh tomatoes

Coconut-scented sunblock

Sun-warmed skin against cool sheets

Little hands waving the stars and the stripes

Cloudless blue skies and grass faded brown

Crickets and campfires and country music

A few weeks—mere minutes—to slow down and BE with my children. To watch them laugh and run and squeal. To hand them popsicles as their bathing suits drip puddles beneath them.

For all of these small gifts and more, I am grateful to The Giver.

STOP.

Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows. (James 1:17)

Communication Rule #1

2011-07-05T23:37:00.007-04:00

I was frustrated.

Hours of searching online for chronic pain resources had been fruitless. I had found a meager selection of books for people in chronic pain, but there was little to nothing for the spouse/person supporting the chronic pain sufferer. Oh sure, there were some short bullet-point lists that said things like “breathe deeply” and “communicate.” {*insert massive eye-roll and impulse to hurl laptop across the room*}

Seriously? SERIOUSLY?

The one list I found that was helpful had been created by a nurse practioner in a chronic pain practice, which gave practical tips such as, “Don’t ask the person about their pain every day.” And I thought, THIS is what I need. Functional advice that teaches me how to live this chronic pain thing.

So I’m starting a series of practical tips for those living with/supporting someone who is chronically ill. Lessons I’ve learned the hard way as well as information gathered from books, journals, and yes, the internet. Details to fill in the gaps left wide open by the folks who tell us to “breathe deeply” and “communicate.” So to start, I’ll be taking a few weeks to focus on specific Rules of Communication. (And hopefully with your input, I’ll learn a few more).

Communication Rule #1: Bite Thy Tongue

“Even a fool is thought wise if he keeps silent, and discerning if he holds his tongue.” (Proverbs 17:28)

Okay, I’m not saying to stuff your feelings (at least, not permanently). I am saying, choose the timing carefully. Know when to hash it out and when to wait it out. And in saying this, I’ve made myself the Biggest.Hypocrite.Ever. I would never be accused of stuffing my feelings, at least not with my husband. I definitely tend more towards over-communication than under-communication, as I often lack the emotional maturity required to put negative emotions on hold. To wait until he’s not hot, hungry, or hurting. To wait until I’m not tired, hormonal, or sick.

I learned the hard way that it is best not to have a conversation about his bad attitude when his attitude is bad. (And now you’re thinking I’m a total genius, right?) But really, my first inclination when he snaps at me is to snap right back. I think of the story Ben Stiller told of when he accidentally hit his wife Christine Taylor in the face while filming Dodgeball. He described how in that split-second when the physical pain registered, she had a primal urge to rip out his throat. (Okay, so he didn’t say that, exactly… But you get the idea). Suffice it to say, my emotional knee-jerk reaction usually is along those lines.

Though I could tell you more of the communication failure stories than I care to count, one success story stands out in my mind. When for once I held my tongue until the right time, and the results were remarkably different than the norm. It occurred one evening during the time when my husband’s chronic pain was at its worst. I had volunteered through our church to help with an event called Feed My Starving Children. Inspired and excited, I came home that evening eager to tell my husband about the experience, but didn’t get any further than what my assigned task had been when he snapped, “It must be nice (to be able to do that).” I knew it wasn’t personal; he was hurting physically and emotionally. Still, it stung. I was angry and hurt, but I bit my tongue and seethed in silence. I didn’t fake it or act like things were fine. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was upset. But we both knew he wasn’t himself at that moment, and to discuss anything would have been counterproductive. What he didn’t know, what I really wanted to tell him, is that I wasn’t just angry—I was sad. I was grieving our relationship, the disconnect that left me unable to share my thoughts, feelings, and experiences with him.

My mind and stomach churned for half the night, and I woke the next morning feeling tired and grumpy. Danny worked his typical half-day Saturday, and when he came home he was ready to talk. I, however, was in a horrendous mood, as usually happens when I am low on sleep. In one of my rare moments of good decision-making, I told him I needed to take a nap first. I slept for three hours, and later we had a very productive and positive conversation about the ordeal. I learned an invaluable lesson that day, one I had long needed to learn, about choosing the right time to have certain discussions.

For those of you who have worked through difficult circumstances with your spouses, what specific communication tools/techniques were helpful?