From Little Children Learn

I'm no self-help writer or anything, but while traveling a couple of weeks ago, I nailed down one tricky little way to increase your faith in humanity:

Take a toddler to an airport.

On my various trips wading through airports and flying with a baby, I have been awed by the emotional encouragement strangers have invested in me and my child, ready at any moment to help as I wrestled with the demands common to traveling alone with a kid--

The kind old couple sharing our five hour flight who held six month old Halle, though she screamed with separation anxiety, so I could use the restroom.

The exotic looking woman with flame red hair, rough tan skin, and fading tattoos who stopped to say, "God bless you."

The peppy flight attendants who learn Halle's name and repeat it throughout the flight, making her smile.

The business man who simply gave me a smile as I chased her up the airplane aisle for a fifth time, her little legs taking her anywhere but her seat.

The people who have let her crawl on them and play with their stuff, chew on their bracelets or watch movies on their laptops, who have smiled and waved and played peekaboo when they really wanted to read or sleep.

Most recently, at 9:00 p.m. in a Chicago Midway airport gate waiting to board our final flight home, I found myself laughing to tears along with thirty other tired and disheveled travelers as we watched little Halle stumble around like Jack Sparrow on her new walking legs, going from stranger to stranger to show them her most prized possession: her belly button. In a moment of willing vulnerability, the crowd laughed together as we watched this carefree toddler roam, assured and proud of her belly.

These are people caught in the weariness of travel, the gray layers of an airport, and yet the kindness emerges in ways that give me the most tender of feelings for these people. Taking a toddler to an airport has not discouraged me, but shown me the power of innocence to encourage good.

...And now, on a less formal note, pictures from our visit! A dreamy afternoon at Grandma and Grandpa's house.

The girl loves to show off her belly button:

She refused to touch the grass with her hands, and every time she began to fall forward, she would throw those hands back, tighten her abs, and scrunch up her nose in concentration, determined to defy gravity.

 

 

Forget her belly button, Halle found out her finger fits perfectly in her nose...

  

 

Stripped: To the soul who found my grocery list

The other day as I was unloading groceries into my car, the wind picked up my grocery list and carried it into the sky in a whir of motion. I watched the white paper against the storm clouds flit at an impressive pace across the parking lot, rising toward the city buildings beyond the street. The paper rode so high I watched it sail for what seemed like a mile at least. I stood by my empty grocery cart, bewitched. (Really. The baby was chillin' in her car seat, the milk getting warm, and I'm just standing there all wind-blown, my mouth hanging open.) Who is going to find that? I thought, and then felt the sudden need to make sure I'd fully dressed.

If you are the innocent who stumbled on that list and read it, you know these things: I didn't get my sweet potatoes, black beans, granola, or eyeliner. You might wonder why some items were highlighted blue, others circled, and others with black dots next to them. The answer is that I often wonder this, too. Why did I circle the cremini mushrooms? Maybe you can tell me.

If you've read my list, you have definitely noticed that sometimes I just don't have time for vowels. You might assume I'm some healthy foodie because I buy nonfat plain yogurt and black strap molasses. But what you won't know is that I accidentally bought 10% milk fat Greek yogurt last time and I will now have to spend the next two months mixing it with the nonfat plain in an attempt to remain in my current pant size. You also won't know that the entire jar of molasses turned itself over while we slept, the stuff slithering over three shelves of food and under my fridge, where it still sits in a sticky pool, mocking me.

If you read my list and thought, "A female wrote this," you'd be right.

Once, back in my undergrad days, my boyfriend and his roommates found a shopping list on the ground inside the local grocery store, and its contents amused them so much they brought it home to display on the fridge. That list--its quirky spellings and obscure ingredients that I can no longer recall (mom brain)--popped up in conversations for months and I know we shed plump tears from laughter. Yet I remember even then feeling a little bit like I had trespassed.

If you discovered my flighty shopping list, know this: I felt naked as I watched it--two weeks worth of collection--slip away.

Tip Me One Way, Internets

Today while the baby napped I

exercised
showered
cleaned up breakfast
unloaded the dishwasher
started laundry
let the dog out
did my hair and make-up
painted my toe nails
super glued a broken mirror that had been waiting for days to be fixed
and entertained the thought, "I'm going to start a small business."

I brainstormed product, marketing, creative angles, colors. From task to task around the quiet house I floated on excitement. Then the baby woke up with pink eye and I thought, "Or not the business."

I do this constantly, swaying back and forth between lighting the torch for my own ventures and blanketing myself completely in the demands of being a mother to a toddler. My dreams ignite usually within the comforts of a clean home and a healthy family (and, let's be honest, a sleeping kid). Then one of us--and soon the rest of us--gets sick or injured or sad, and I fall behind on dinner prep and I didn't walk the dog and I feel so tired and I just want to watch Gilmore Girls and suddenly I could care less about my creative business. And I usually end up thinking, "How the heck does Joanna Gaines do it?"

My husband--awesome dude that he is--gives only encouragement. The only thing he asks is that I commit to my dreams and stop with the swaying. (And, to be transparent, to decide on a dream. I have a few.) You don't want to know how many blog post drafts I have sitting around, just waiting for a loving moment of focus to dot those i's, cross those t's, and get that cherry on top. (A real cherry. Maraschino who?)

This post doesn't get a cherry. (Or an edit. This is raw, y'all.) I don't even have a conclusion. I don't have a wise crack or a lesson learned or a sweet story reminding me how it will all work out. Instead, I'm writing this free form, mid sway. So, internets, what say you?

And, since this is a blog, a photo or few:

Aphorisms By Way of a DIY

If you've heard the TED talk by Liz Gilbert on the creative genius, you'll know what I mean when I say I've been hit by the genius--more than once, if you can believe it--regarding this blog post, every time in the most inconvenient of places, as it seems to go; which means I could not capture the genius. It got away. So instead I'm left with whatever I can force out, and you are left with what follows:

My husband and I received his parents' old oak dining table and chairs upon our move to Indiana--a beautiful set that had been in storage. I appreciated the craftsmanship, but in general I have never liked the oak color and so intended to refinish the table.

I never remember to take before pictures. We know this. This is the only picture I could find.

The big project finally happened, and immediately I have to declare that it is a very, very good thing I did not try to take on this project alone. I would have ended up with a half-sanded dismantled oak table and an ulcer. As it was, my parents came to town to help us move in and I'm left with a nearly perfect refinished oak table. (And a personal declaration that I will never again take on a "DIY" this big.)

About the nearly perfect: at the project finish line, I made a major mistake that resulted in my re-learning a few vital life principles. I have thought about these principles daily since the debut of le tableau des horreurs:

Pay attention to your instincts

Break rhythm

Ask questions

Slow down

It'll all work out

#1--The first is pretty obvious. Go with your gut, listen to Jiminy Cricket, and all other cliches about conscience. It's a real thing, y'all.

#2--However, in order to succeed at #1, you must succeed at #2, and this lesson was perhaps the most acute of all: break rhythm.

I am a dancer. I always will be, even if my body can no longer do what my soul wants it to. I am a pianist. Rhythm matters to me. My rhythm is a powerful force, causing my husband to get home from work and say, "You got how much done today?!" But it can also hurt me. Recently, my husband brought to my attention the need to get out of rhythm, to step back and consider. He said this as I was about to dig in to a giant bowl of ice cream that I knew before first bite I would regret. He told me that just because the ice cream was scooped, the spoon in hand, my mouth open, I did not have to eat the ice cream. I could simply put it back in the freezer for later. This is probably obvious to all of you, but I had a major paradigm shift. I am a committed person and a finisher. I plan to eat a bowl of ice cream, I follow through to the bowl being licked clean (okay, not quite, but you know) even as the little voices in my head (you guys have those too, right?) are frantically waving (apparently they also have arms) at me to stop, stop! you will regret this! while I squash them out with the sound of my train engine plowing (like this sentence) through my commitment. Are you exhausted yet? I didn't realize I was until I began to see in my daily routine where that drive and rhythm was not actually helping me.

Rhythm is important. Sometimes it needs breaking.

#3--Slow down. In order to break rhythm, you have to slow your thought processes down enough to acknowledge those little voices and decide if they need heeding. Deliberate and realize that just because you have committed to a thought in your head does not mean it cannot be reversed before it reaches your hands (or your mouth, as in the Case of the Ice Cream).

#4--As a help-meet to slowing down, ask questions. Doubt, wonder, contradict, reconfigure, ask some more. Be a gatherer of information.

#5--It'll all work out. God often sends you little hints to help make your life easier, but these do not determine absolute outcomes. (The heavenly messages that do are a different topic.)

By now you are probably wondering what any of this has to do with a giant solid wood dining table.

I'll spare you the details of the actual table transformation since this is not a how-to post, so let's fast forward--

past the sanding

(gotta keep that hair protected...)

 and staining

to the varnishing.

The evening before my parents' departure, we stood around the table admiring it. We had three coats of varnish applied to the table and it looked beautiful. It was complete. We had been working for six days on this thing. Yet in a moment of over-protective haste, we decided to add a fourth coat that night. Both my dad and I had the gut feeling to stop! put away the ice cream! you'll regret this! But we were in rhythm, our supplies handy. We were eager--my parents flew home the next morning. My dad is quite a handy man, and I didn't question.

So that night I added fourth coat of varnish by the light of the garage and a cell phone flashlight (are you cringing? you should be), unknowingly setting myself up for hours of extra reconstructive work.

The next morning we went out to check our work before my parents left town and discovered a bubbled, streaked, tacky mess.



All of our work over the last few days had been undone in one evening. Standing there filled with regret and disappointment, I recalled each feeling of warning from the night before. We would have to sand down to the earliest layer of varnish and try again.

But wait, wasn't my dad leaving? Yep. He gave me some instructions, a vote of confidence, and flew away with my mom to the other side of the country.

I spent the next two days sanding that baby back down to the second coat of varnish, wearing away all of my fingernails in the process. The perfectly smooth surface was irretrievable and I had to touch up some areas with more stain, but eventually it was prepped once again for the real final coat of varnish.

I think I held my breath with every stroke across that table.

Finally finished, with the flaws hidden enough to the ignorant eye, I was reminded that things work out. Sometimes you just have to change your expectations. It is strange that a table refinish can be so instrumental in my character development, but I'm glad for it. 

God is forgiving.

So is oak.

Thank goodness for sand paper, mineral spirits, and dads.

PS--If I ever break my word and refinish a table this big again, I need to remember:

Use two brushes when varnishing--one for each side. The brush gets too heavy with varnish.

Tape the hardware
Wear that mask when sanding. Gross!

Our Stroller Never Faileth

Hi. So we have a baby and a lot has happened since I wrote last and yada yada and all that jazz.

Moving on. I want to write about our stroller--our fraying, rickety, used and abused stroller. Every time I push that thing I want to curse it and be ashamed of it and put it on a pedestal with a big bow to display to the world, all at the same time.

That stroller provides me a constant reminder of my good and selfless husband. Mushy, gushy, I know.

Here's why: Late last summer, as we entered the new school year and began preparing for the birth of our baby whose gender was still unknown, a friend of a friend's friend (you get the idea) was preparing to move to Europe and trying to sell a bunch of stuff.  She posted to a local online cork board her desperation to sell quite a few baby items, and I responded with tentative interest.  I told her we didn't even know our baby's gender and weren't sure what we would be needing.  She mentioned that she had a few boxes of used boy clothes, a car seat, and a jogging stroller that needed some fixing up but that was in good condition otherwise.  Since none of it was selling, she asked if I'd be willing to take the lot for $25.  I agreed to look at it, and we arranged a drop-off at my house.

I ended up not being home for that drop-off, and my husband intercepted the items instead.

When I got home later that night, he mentioned that instead of $25, he'd paid the lady $40 for her things.  She had seemed so desperate as they spoke--she and her husband were moving to Europe for his job and had no money and no room to take anything and she was so stressed--and at first it had looked like a lot of stuff.  I scanned the small pile and realized immediately that we had paid $40 for junk.  The car seat was disgusting.  The stroller was covered in cobwebs with one wheel detached.  And the boy clothing was wrinkled and stained and just thrown into boxes.  I stared, wishing I had been home in time to tell her no thank you, there is a reason that stuff won't sell.

Preston then realized that, as far as our interests were concerned, he'd made a mistake.  He felt terrible, frustrated that he hadn't noticed the condition of the items.  I, too, wanted to be angry that he hadn't noticed.  I wanted to be angry at the lady for actually accepting that money.  I wanted to tell him to start paying more attention.  Yet, in a moment, I realized that he had, in fact, been paying attention to the most important thing: a scared, anxious woman seeking any form of security.

We learned a couple of weeks later that we were expecting a girl.  The boy clothes and car seat, after a washing, were sent to the Goodwill.

But we kept the stroller, hoping something could come of our purchase.

Preston spent an afternoon working on the wheels, trying to get the thing to steer straight, while I scrubbed the seat and attachments thoroughly.  After a lot of trial and error, we pushed the stroller down the driveway, and then did a happy dance--it had rolled straight, all wheels attached.

Now, months later, as I push my new little daughter along in a stroller that wiggles and whines in protest, and my cheeks begin to flush, I shake my head and laugh.

I have one caring husband.

Lately

This last week was one of those where the clean dishes made it out of the dishwasher and right back into the sink, where the clean laundry from two days ago is still sitting in the dryer, and where I said a lot of "Oh wells" and "tomorrow..."

I'm getting better at taking these kind of weeks in stride.  Life's days pass by fast enough as it is.  And sometimes little gems show up amid the chaos.  Like fun mail!

First came our 2013 scrapbook.  I am so pleased with it.  I spent a stupid number of hours on it--many just trying to align a color palette haha.  This is our second Mixbook, and we love the product.  The book is a reminder that among all the crazy little stresses, we have some pretty great things going on.

 

Second came another card from our old lady neighbor, Shirley--which she sent via USPS rather than walking it across the street.

We took her flowers for her birthday a couple of weeks ago, which we learned about only because she brought us a card on her birthday (5/6) expressing what great neighbors we are (it doesn't take much for her).  So in true Shirley fashion she mailed us another card (6/6) in gratitude:

"Dear Kelsey & Preston
Thank you so much for my Birthday Flowers. It was very sweet of you all.  Tell me when your Birthday's are and I'll send you a card.  I'm not able to write good anymore but hope you can read it. My right hand has carpal tunnel.
Your neighbor's and Friends Shirley and Don"

She must be the funniest, most prejudiced old lady with the ickiest well-intentioned fudge this side of the river.  Looking forward to cards 7 and 8, Shirley.

Lastly, Preston and I were lucky to get in an evening at the driving range last weekend before this week picked up.  The weather has been beautiful and we enjoyed wacking the heck out of our worries past and future ;)

Things won't slow down for a few more weeks, which makes me more and more grateful for a teammate who doesn't mind searching for clean underwear in the dryer.

On Sweaty Palms, Gravity, Anger, and Faith

It has been nearly two months since the tragic shooting at Purdue. I revisited my journal entry, looking for my account of a bizarre dream I had the evening of the shooting.  Here is what I found:

I had a very frightening dream last night--a dream that compares to only two others in the way it imprinted me.  Perhaps it formed from the shooting and my threatened safety and my prayers to God to help this country and this world.  Perhaps it formed from my recent viewing of Gravity.  Perhaps it formed a long time ago.  The dream was long and twisted, but the noteworthy part of the dream was my time at “Pacific Rim.”  This “Pacific Rim” was not the rim that the world knows; it existed in an entirely different sphere, at the outer most edge of the earth.  Shaped like a shallow, wide vase made out of rippled and uneven red sandstone, its mouth opened up into the galaxy.  Around the rim of the vase were eight waterfalls, staggered--four below and four above.  The lower four waterfalls fell in long, thin streams down, down, down.  The upper four waterfalls were the attraction for all the tourists who visited this Pacific Rim of my dream.  Because we were at the top of the earth and due to the earth’s spin, these waterfalls did not bubble downward, but swept sideways from their mouth to make an impressive, frothy stream of water that circled the rim.  It was exquisite, watching water defy gravity in such a way.  Though it was night and the galaxy above was as dark as ever save the billions of stars that dotted the sky, below, where the lower four waterfalls fell eternally, was light--the kind of light that sparkles from a diamond back-lit by fire: blues, greens, pinks, yellows, purples.  The light was warm, invigorating, and absolutely lovely; it has marked me.  Hooked to the walls of the Pacific Rim interior were metal rings a few inches in diameter.  These rings circled around the entire mouth of the rim, hundreds of them.  Visitors were to grasp these rings with their hands and work themselves all the way around the rim until they reached a stream of glowing water in which they would submerge in order to return to earth as we know it.

I journeyed to this Pacific Rim not as myself but as an adolescent blond girl, a girl who had just lost her father in an accident that occurred in my dream preceding this one.  He fell from some great height to his death, and I watched it happen.  He was a strong, kind, respected figure.  I was with a petite blond mother in a pink velvet sweatsuit, and a brother, who was also Preston.  We journeyed to the Pacific Rim because our father loved this place--revered it--and we sought closure and peace following his death.  This Pacific Rim was a sacred place for many people--a Mecca of sorts.  A once in a lifetime opportunity.  But for me, the dreamer, it turned into a nerve wracking, terrifying experience.

The hundreds of tourists visiting the site had their gear, having prepared for a long time to journey around the rim.  We were encouraged on by guides, lifted inside the vase by some contraption and urged forward beneath the stars and other-worldy waterfalls.  The mother moved first toward the small rings, solemn and determined in her journey around the rim.  It was her way of coming to grips with the loss of her husband.  She moved quickly and I never saw her again in the dream.  As I took in the Pacific Rim, its eternal waterfalls and its magic light, I was overcome with its beauty.  I stepped onto the sandstone, my shoes gripping the gritty rock, and grabbed my first ring.  Preston was just ahead of me.  The beginning of my journey was fueled by the surrounding beauty.  The energy was warm and light.  I could hear the reverent exclamations around me—this place was stunning.  Only God could have created such a place.

As I moved from ring to ring, carefully placing my feet on the rippled sandstone and curling my fingers around the metal, I noticed a fatigue in my fingertips.  My legs started to shake and for the first time I realized that I was not fastened to anything.  No one was.  We all relied solely on the strength of our legs, arms, and fingers to get us around this rim.  If our strength failed, we would fall, rolling down the sides of the rim and into the eternal light below.  It would mean death, just like the father's.  Why was I not given a rope?  Why was no one else concerned?  People moved steadily above and below me, their hushed chatter happy.  I, however, was panicking.  I did not want to join this father.

Preston stood by me urging me on, compassionate in my distress.  I kept moving, my hands getting sweaty.  My rings started to get smaller and thinner.  They had gaps in them, like my hooped earrings, and my fingers kept slipping through the gaps.  I had to take precious moments to rotate each ring for a good grip.  I began to really panic, being too far along to turn back but yet so far away from my destination.  The stars looked menacing as I stared at the abyss both above and below me, having nowhere to go but to the next ring.  But I was shaking so badly that I could hardly get my fingers into the feeble ring.  And those fingers were so sore, rubbed raw.  My shoulders ached as I carried the weight of my body.  I could not find a grip for my feet.  I reached for a ring that was too far and ended up barely grabbing it, my fingers curled backwards.  As I released my weight, I slipped, my body spinning to face the center of the rim as I hung from the two rings.  As if on a cross.  As my sweaty hands slipped, I looked up to the sky above me, seething.  I could not do this.  Why was I here, and where was my help?  Why would someone who loves me let me get into such a situation?  I had no strength.  I had no tools.  I had no companion.  I had nothing.  I was utterly alone and the light below me and the heavens above me laughed.

Somehow, I maneuvered off of my cross.  Preston was there again, encouraging me.  The rest of the journey was exhausting and faithless.  The rings continued to shrink until I was sure they could not hold my weight.  But they did, and I eventually reached the flowing river that stood as portal to my safety.  I entered with shaky relief, giving only one last look at this idolized Pacific Rim, my emotions peaked and frazzled, my injuries fresh.  When I finally woke up, my thoughts rested on the idea that a life without faith, without hope, is not a life worth living.  But those desperate emotions were too real and too recent.  I had to remind myself that I know a life of faith, and that God has not abandoned me.

Tales: Air-Born and Starving

Being hungry makes me do things I otherwise would not.

In college, while on a ten hour flight home from London, I asked the sophisticated British grandmother next to me if she was "going to eat that," gesturing to her unopened packaged roll from dinner.  I had already scarfed down all of my food and the flight attendants would be coming by soon to pick up the trash.  She looked at my empty plate, paused to consider this bold, thrifty American way, and then with a little bit of youthful pep said, "Oh, well, no, I am not.  You eat it."  As she leaned away from her food to give me space to grab the precious roll, she let out a reserved, very British smile.

When I think back to that moment, I am often shocked at myself.  I'm sure I figured that asking about her uneaten food was no big deal since we had already been seat mates for hours.  We'd talked about politics, her children and how they loved horses and dogs more than her desire for grandchildren ("Truly British," she'd said.  "Dogs and horses."), her husband, her travel plans, and other little life details.  I guess sharing food was the only thing left to develop in our air-born relationship.  Or maybe I simply considered that in a few more hours I would never see her again.  Either way, at times I am shocked that I did such a thing.

And then there are other times when I am not so shocked--like right now as I sit on a plane, slowly nibbling my fifth package of Biscoff cookies within three days with a narrow hope that wheat flour, sugar, and vegetable oil can hold me over until landing when I can finally scavenge for food.  At times like this I cease to believe that my actions on that plane home from London were irrational.

For some people it's love, for others money.  For me, it's totally food.

A Fourth Cup of Pero, Please

On bitter cold days in Indiana that begin in the negatives and only with chimerical hope reach 8 degrees even in the sun, I ignore my afternoon plans to run errands and instead drink endless mugs of hot Pero or honey cinnamon tea while making homemade chili and cornbread and folding laundry to the background noise of a semi-final women's Australian Open tennis match replay, and rather than feeling holed-up I become quite contented with my cozy day, knowing that I braved the -25 degree wind chill at 6:30 a.m. to get to the gym and can now do whatever it is that I want.

Stay warm today, friends.

~K

The Invisible Woman: When God Only Sees (Nicole Johnson)

Last week in church, this article was related.  It has stuck with me all week. Though not all of her words ring with truth to me, the image of building great cathedrals is a beautiful one.  Searching for the article online, I found the book it came from as well as a copy of this passage.  The texts are a little different, but both are attributed to Nicole Johnson.

Enjoy.

The Invisible Mother

It all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of response, the way one of the kids will walk into the room while I’m on the phone and ask to be taken to the store. Inside I’m thinking, ‘Can’t you see I’m on the phone?’

Obviously not; no one can see if I’m on the phone, or cooking, or sweeping the floor, or even standing on my head in the corner, because no one can see me at all. I’m invisible. The invisible Mom. Some days I am only a pair of hands, nothing more! Can you fix this? Can you tie this? Can you open this?? 

Some days I’m not a pair of hands; I’m not even a human being. I’m a clock to ask, ‘What time is it?’ I’m a satellite guide to answer, ‘What number is the Disney Channel?’ I’m a car to order, ‘Right around 5:30, please.’

Some days I’m a crystal ball; ‘Where’s my other sock? Where’s my phone?, What’s for dinner?’

I was certain that these were the hands that once held books and the eyes that studied history, music and literature -but now, they had disappeared into the peanut butter, never to be seen again. She’s going, she’s going, and she’s gone!

One night, a group of us were having dinner, celebrating the return of a friend from England . She had just gotten back from a fabulous trip, and she was going on and on about the hotel she stayed in. I was sitting there, looking around at the others all put together so well. It was hard not to compare and feel sorry for myself. I was feeling pretty pathetic, when she turned to me with a beautifully wrapped package, and said, ‘I brought you this.’ It was a book on the great cathedrals of Europe. I wasn’t exactly sure why she’d given it to me until I read her inscription: ‘With admiration for the greatness of what you are building when no one sees.’

In the days ahead I would read – no, devour – the book. And I would discover what would become for me four life-changing truths, after which I could pattern my work: 1) No one can say who built the great cathedrals – we have no record of their names. 2) These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see finished. 3) They made great sacrifices and expected no credit. 4) The passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the eyes of God saw everything. 

A story of legend in the book told of a rich man who came to visit the cathedral while it was being built, and he saw a workman carving a tiny bird on the inside of a beam. He was puzzled and asked the man, ‘Why are you spending so much time carving that bird into a beam that will be covered by the roof, no one will ever see it,' to which the workman replied, ‘Because God sees.’ 

I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place. It was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, ‘I see you. I see the sacrifices you make every day, even when no one around you does.  No act of kindness you’ve done, no sequin you’ve sewn on, no cupcake you’ve baked, no Cub Scout meeting, no last minute errand is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building a great cathedral, but you can’t see right now what it will become.'

I keep the right perspective when I see myself as a great builder. As one of the people who show up at a job that they will never see finished, to work on something that their name will never be on. The writer of the book went so far as to say that no cathedrals could ever be built in our lifetime because there are so few people willing to sacrifice to that degree. 

When I really think about it, I don’t want my son to tell the friend he’s bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, ‘My Mom gets up at 4 in the morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand bastes a turkey for 3 hours and presses all the linens for the table.’ That would mean I’d built a monument to myself. I just want him to want to come home. And then, if there is anything more to say to his friend, he’d say, ‘You’re gonna love it there…’ 

As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot be seen if we’re doing it right. And one day, it is very possible that the world will marvel, not only at what we have built, but at the beauty that has been added to the world by the sacrifices of invisible mothers.

—Nicole Johnson

Sweet Caroline...in St. Louis?

To drive 10 hours within 24 to go see a World Series Red Sox game in St. Louis, or to not?

These are the life questions my husband and I find ourselves asking each other.

Do we have the energy?  Man, that's a long drive.  But it's the Red Sox.  In the World Series.

And how blessed we are to have such questions, for it won't always be that we're capable of living so spontaneously.

Our sacrifice would be substantial: sleep, energy, and time--all things most rare and valuable to the husband right now.

Not much can compete with our couch and a cup of cider with which to watch the games.

But what an opportunity to watch the Red Sox play live in the World Series.

The other night, Preston and I finished watching Fiddler on the Roof (it took us a bit).  I felt discouraged after the movie, so Preston played some clips from Singing in the Rain to cheer me up. What distinctly different movies.  How different our human experiences.  How vast the scope of culture.  How overwhelming and energizing and wonderful is this world.  I want to tangle my fingers in its threads, to capture its stories, to fiddle in its offerings.

Yet how much can I explore from the comfort of my home, and how much to find through extremities of time and effort?

Stadium lights.  Hot dogs.  Baseball caps, scarves, and mittens.  Napoli and Ortiz knocking the ball out of the park.  Camaraderie, all in the name of the game.

Yeah, yeah, I know, I came into this marriage with my own Yankees jersey.  But I was never a die hard, and Preston's Sox Fever is contagious--that excitement and loyalty towards his team is hard to beat.

And it will always be his team, which makes me think maybe I should let it be mine.

So, do we go?

Introvert: Challenged

I'm an introvert.  And my introvert tendency to hide out is being challenged right now.  (Read more about it here.)  Up the street live three little girls who are obsessed--like, really obsessed--with my dog.  And they are not shy about it.  I made the "mistake" of saying that if they saw him in the back yard they could come play with him.  Well now they ride their bikes back and forth in front of my house until they spot him outside.  When one of them does, they holler to all the neighborhood kids, "Sonny Boy is out!" and little feet come running.

Seeing one of these girls in the backyard for the first time hanging out with my dog was a bit disconcerting, but I adjusted.

This evening after dinner, I heard the little bike breaks in the driveway and the feet running to the backyard to visit Sonny, and I was okay with it because Sonny Boy was a little restless and needed variety.  But I was surprised to hear a little "tap tap" on the front door.  Peeking outside to discover the source of the noise, I found 4 year old Riley standing there smiling, her big brown eyes curious and her bangs askew.  She looked at me, saying nothing, and then stepped inside.  I watched her scan the family room.  Judging it based on the few times she'd seen it she turned to me and asked, "Where is your dad?"

"My husband?  He's at school."

"Oh, my dad is at work."

She stood with her hands clasped, twiddling her fingers, big brown eyes observing the space around her.  She looked back at me and I looked at her and we continued just looking until I heard another voice from behind me.

"Where is your dad?"

Riley's twin, Reagan, had come looking for her.

"My husband is at school."

The third sister soon joined, and the girls gathered in my family room, twiddling their thumbs and looking at me until their mom called them home for bed.  They scampered out, waving over their shoulders as they hopped on their bikes.

I waved back and shut the door.

My introvert was conflicted.  I was not supposed to take delight that three little girls love to be in my home.  But I finally had to admit that my "mistake" of inviting them to play with the dog was no mistake at all.  These cute girls are forcing me out--forcing me to be friendly, to have an open door and an open heart.

And to always be fully dressed.

PS-- One week until my birthday!!!  Eeek!

Honeycrisp Tender Mercy Apples

Sometimes God sends uncomfortable tender mercies so that you have to grow.

The hubs and I have some woes.  I've gotten comfortable with being alone all day long, and as a result, any unplanned human interaction totally puts me in a panic.  Do I remember how to converse?? Gjdlsdoifjds flasjfldskjfr lkee!!  Preston's woe is that he thinks he is going to die.  This program is killing me slowly, he texted me earlier.  So, in an attempt to ignore our woes, I sat on our front step on a warm, overcast afternoon eating ice cream and reading a brochure about fun things to do in Indiana.  Sonny Boy lay just in front of me, stretched out in the cool grass.  He had been such a good dog, minding so well and not chasing the large Schwan's truck that kept driving by.  

A mother and her little girl walked past, holding hands and talking about her day at school.  In an instant, Sonny was on his feet and racing across the lawn to the little girl.  He let out a bark, which scared her.  She whimpered and scampered up into her mom's arms as I ran after the dog, apologizing and explaining that he really is sweet and very friendly.  The mom gave a half smile and kept walking with her daughter in her arms. Looking at the dog, I snapped my fingers and pointed inside, taking my hand to his backside as he walked.

I tell you what, I think those spanks hurt me far worse than they did him.  (Already he is curled up in my lap again.)  The poor thing just loves to play, and whimpers every time we pass another dog on a walk who won't stop to say hello.  I wanted to explain that to the mother and little girl.  My dog with all the pureness in his heart just wants to be friends.

So as we got in the house, the humbled dog hid underneath the couch and I flopped on top of it, deciding then and there that I deserved a good cry.  Forget ice cream and trips to the zoo that husband doesn't have time for anyway.  Life was stupid.  I prepped myself to let out some hearty tears when, of course, the doorbell rang.  Who was it but the Schwan's man.  After our brief but friendly conversation, I returned to the couch still in the mood for some emotion.

I sat there for a second, just thinking, when the doorbell rang again.  Wondering what the Schwan's man could have forgotten, I opened the door to face our sweet elderly neighbor named Shirley. Immediately she placed two apples and an envelope in my hand, jumping into a story about her cats and how they scratched her and these are her band-aids and it happened when her husband got kidney stones removed and so he can't help their handicap son move to a new place on Friday no Saturday and she didn't want to come inside because of the dog but she'd be by with munsee apples when those were ripe but for now enjoy the honeycrisp and sorry for your time and thank you bye now.

She walked away, her body tipping side to side as she adjusted for the pain in her hips, and I quietly shut the door, taking in the moment.

Apparently, a good cry is not what I needed.  I needed some homegrown honeycrisp apples, a sweet note, positive human interaction, and a reminder that we are surrounded by good.

How many times have I walked by Shirley's home and wondered how she was doing, but let my shyness get the best of me?  This tender mercy encouraged me to be more brave, to get out and meet people and let them welcome me into their lives.  Uncomfortable, yes, but the good kind.

So, friends, have a happy, uncomfortable, tender weekend.

their eyes were watching god - zora neale hurston

"Some people could look at a mud-puddle and see an ocean with ships.  But Nanny belonged to that other kind that loved to deal in scraps.  [Janie's] Nanny had taken the biggest thing God ever made, the horizon--for no matter how far a person can go the horizon is still way beyond you--and pinched it in to such a little bit of a thing that she could tie it about her granddaughter's neck tight enough to choke her.  She hated the old woman who had twisted her so in the name of love."

Zora Neale knows humanity--knows it well.  I read this passage, and instead of hating the grandmother like Janie, I felt sad for her.  Because, unlike Janie, I know the grandmother's sacrifice: that as a slave, she was beaten and raped and driven from her only known home for carrying her abuser's child.  And that defined her, and made her scared, made her to cling to precious things, to choke out dreams because dreams are dangerous for a slave.  The grandmother protected Janie by choking her dreams, and Janie hates.

If you haven't yet, read this book.

I Choose to Hope

The other day, I was sitting on my couch in my new living room, looking at the bare walls and the mismatched furniture and feeling overwhelmed at my approach to the decorating process.  Preston and I don't want  to "wait" to live.  During this crazy graduate school process, we decided that we'll be happiest if we see ourselves in the middle, enjoying every day rather than wishing away the time until it's over.  As a result of that perspective, I'm putting more energy into our new home, creating a place that feels settled and organized--a sanctuary for us both during a time of challenge and discomfort.

I'm trying to be a good grad school student spouse, but oh boy has it been hard to find a routine.  Both Preston and I have been feeling a bit overwhelmed lately.  He is hammered with internship applications, career fairs, meetings and seminars, interviews, his graduate assistantship, and regular classes and homework.  I've been applying for jobs but haven't been enthused about any kind of work. I want work doing what I love--something I'll feel motivated to do for 40 hours a week.  I can't seem to determine what that is.  Right now I just want to stay home to cuddle my dog and decorate.

Back to the couch: I was staring at paint chips and color palettes, a bit anxious because I could feel the pressure that the husband was under while he worked in the other room.  And then Syria happened.  In no time I'm listening to news of murdered civilians, chemical weapons, and rumors of U.S. involvement and a divided government.  This was not the shot of hope we both needed so badly.

I sat back into the couch cushions as my perspective completely disassembled.  I felt awful for wanting to paint my walls and worrying about color palettes when others were worrying about chemical warfare.  I felt awful for desiring a stimulating job and having ambition--I told myself I should be satisfied with whatever job I got, because it would be a job.  I felt selfish and shallow for stressing about graduate school and wanting to go about the process in the right way, because who cared?  What mattered was staying alive.  I felt so guilty for being American and privileged.

I sat--my world gray--a bit stunned, when an image of a little Syrian child came to mind. Thin and wearing dirty linen, he nevertheless smiled a beautiful, happy, smile, and then gently began to pick up the pieces of my scattered mind, holding each thought with consideration and reverence.  He made a beautiful picture out of these jumbled pieces, and I knew that this child, brought up in a world of bigotry, cruelty, and fear, wanted me to dream big, to hope--hope even in small things like matching place mats and warm cookies.  He looked at me, holding his beautiful creation, and requested that I never limit my own happiness for the presumed sake of the sufferer.  Because it would not help that sufferer.  I imagine those lost little children who are angels so soon are grateful that my concern is not about civil war.  My concerns involve stretching my heart and my mind.  Managing my time and finances.  Building relationships.  Making the most out of the crazy that is grad school.  I do have concerns.  This is a challenging time for the husband and me.  We're easily swayed by anxiety and doubt.  Hope has been elusive.  Those challenges are real in their nature.

And a little Syrian child in my head taught me (again) that I need not regret a life where such are my challenges.  I am free to revel in the beauty that surrounds me, to love a bouquet of roses from my husband given in the pureness of his heart.  Though others suffer, it's okay for me to water my roses.

So that evening, for the sake of good, Preston and I regrouped.  We committed to choose hope, to act rather than be acted upon.  We will dream, seek greater heights, and live happily because what else is there to do in the face of suffering?

I tell you what, that next morning was indeed lovely and bright.