Another Go

Despite my dismal gardening record...we are giving it another go.

This time, with gusto.

Updates, hopefully positive, to follow.

I need....

"I need more milk. More milk."
"Scoot me in!"
"Waaaaaa!"
"Mama, may I have more milk?
"Chair! Scoot me in!"
"Waaaaaa!"
"Mama, may I please have more milk?
"Chair!"

Each request, on its face, is quite reasonable. The three-year-old needs more milk, and after several iterations she has asked for it nicely. The two-year-old is about to fall under the table unless someone scoots his chair closer to his food. And the baby... is a baby and simply needs something, most likely to be picked up out of his chair where he has been placed to wait for his turn at baby food, which he will receive in in between sprinting to the refrigerator for more milk and grabbing the two-year-old as he topples off his chair.

No, these requests are fine. But it is the immediacy of everybody's needs all at the same time that is my undoing. Every. Single. Morning. Predicably each day around 6:30 a.m. I am found in the kitchen, trying to reamin calm. I attend to each child individually, in turn, which inevitably this means that someone has to endure an additional five seconds of excrutiating pain.
"Milk! Milk!"
"Chair! Chair!"
WAAAAA!"

It is only when I step back and consider this moment, usually later during naps when they are all quiet and sleeping, that I am able to appreciate the validity of the needs expressed in this scene. After all, each of my children is an autonomous, beautiful human being. And in their world, each of them are the center of the universe around which the rest of us are to rotate, predicably, attending to their every need. I know that I act the same way. It's just that I'm not three, or two, or 8 months old, and so I've learned to couch my selfishness in other, socially acceptable ways.  And most of this surfaces during Lent, the time when we give up the things that we typically turn to when we are pressed and tightened and should turn to God but instead eat a bite of chocolate. Okay, maybe we eat the whole package of chocolates. The point is that I wonder at the supreme patience of God, our common Father, as I continue to pray, day after day:
"I need..." "I ask for..." I want..."

I considered this today as I warmed my undrunk, lukewarm coffee in the microwave for the third time. On mornings like these I want to shout to the pint-sized trio sitting acoss from me: "What about MY needs! What about my coffee!"  But God, our merciful, loving, and longsuffering Father, does not rebuke us for our requests about ourselves. He lets us pray about our needs until we are done, and then, gently, He will nudge us. There are others out there, you know, the Holy Spirit prods.

And so this morning as I reflected on my earlier prayers of the day I found that they were not all that unlike my children's morning song. My prayerful requests reflect genuine needs, faithful wants, and heartfelt desires. But they are first about me. Is this how the Lord has taught me that I am to pray? Is it not first about His Kingdom, and second about my daily bread? I am not an infant any longer. I am not a toddler; nor am I three. And so it is with quiet conviction that I return to my prayer chamber. Humbled. Start over, I think. This world, in fact, does not revolve around me.

Bread on a Rainy Day

From the back of the bag of King Aurthur 100% Whole Wheat flour comes what might be the tastiest bread I've ever made. Seriously. Well, except maybe kowatch. But unlike that epic Polish bread that no one really knows how to spell, this bread is easy and requires no kneading, punching, slapping, or other forms of beating. It also does not consume an entire day.

So last Thursday when the rain poured for a soggy twelve hours and everyone was sick and we were all forced inside staring woefully at the drops on the window panes...I decided to peel myself from the floor...and bake. I needed a diversion that would require only a few ingredients and a relatively simple process, so I tried this recipe that I first saw acclaimed on the faith and family website. It looked awful in the mixing bowl. It was sticky and grey and it seemed very un bread-like. So we added a little more flour and a few extra stirs, and amazingly it came out looking bakery fresh and smelling...and tasting...delicious. Also, I say "we" because the kids, though sick, never pass up an opportunity to "help." They weren't allowed anywhere near the actual food, but they did stir their own bowls of some kind of floury goop on the other side of the kitchen.

Here's the recipe:

1 cup warm water
1/4 cup orange juice
1/4 cup vegetable oil or melted butter
3 tablespoons molasses, honey, or maple syrup
2 teaspoon instant yeast
1/8 cup nonfat dry milk
3 cups whole wheat flour, white
1 1/4 teaspoons salt


Mix all ingredients in a bowl. Beat with mixer, on high, for 3 minutes. Place in well greased 8 1/2” x 4 1/2” pan. Let rise 90 minutes.

Bake 40-45 minutes at 350 degrees or to desired brownness. After about the first 15 minutes tent the bread with foil so the crust doesn't brown and harden too soon. Cool 5 minutes and then turn out of pan and cool completely before slicing. We brushed the top of the loaf with butter both before and after baking. Butter, after all, is very good.

Purple is for Preparation...

Earlier last Fall, my 3-year-old began shouting at the top of her lungs singing beautifully a new song she learned at school: "Purple is for prep-ar-at-tion; Green is for the grow-ing time. Red and white...are the co-lors of the LIGHT!" After a little research, I discovered the words to the song, called "The Liturgical Colors Song" by Holly Tosco from the Catechises of the Good Shepherd:

 Purple and green...red and white are the colors of the year.

Purple and green...red and white remind us of the light.
Purple is for preparation;
white is for celebration;
green is for the growing time,
red is for Pentecost.
Purple and green...red and white are the colors of the year.
Purple and green...red and white remind us of the light.

The near constant rendition of this song in our house has led to a keen watching at the beginning of Mass to see what color the priest is wearing. Even my two-year old has been known to shout during particularly quiet moments of reflection: "He's wearing green! GREEN Mommy!" Nonetheless, this has been an excellent lesson for me as well in thinking about the seasons of the year, and the seasons that God has given us with which to prepare, again and again, for His coming. And now we all know that starting with the liturgical move into the season of Lent, he will be wearing purple —  for prep-ar-a-tion. 
 
It so happens that I love to prepare. Or, more accurately, I hate being caught unprepared: I hate fumbling for an answer to a question at a meeting, or trying to cover up the stack of dishes overflowing the kitchen sink when the neighbor "pops by" for a visit. At work I carved out time to prepare for  briefings, meetings,  presentations, even phone calls; at home before hosting a meal or house guest I clean, cook, and make lots and lots of lists; and for trips I pack days, sometimes even weeks in advance. My preparation for these events is deliberate, planned, and a bit compulsive.

So...  what does it mean that the Church gives us a time to "prepare?" And...for what are we preparing?  I pondered these questions with conviction last fall during Advent. While I prepped for work meetings with vigor, and I clean my carpets with zeal, how am I focusing on readying myself for the single most important meeting I will ever have, the most defining "trip" I will ever take -- that singular moment when I see Him face to Face? "Do not be caught sleeping," the Lord forewarns. 
 
The voice of my 3-year-old will echo in my mind for all ages whenever I think about the liturgical year. And so, as I crest the night from Fat Tuesday to Ash Wednesday, I prepare to prepare. The kids and I have made our Lent calendars, our alms giving jars, and talked about fasting (I'm giving up treats! my 3-year-old declared. Aha, I thought to myself). Tonight I'll eat my jambalaya and cake. And then I'll go to bed with the (gulp) anticipation of a spiritual deep spring scrubbing. When is the time to prepare? "Now is the acceptable time, now is “the day of salvation (2 Corinthians 6:2)."

Now, and now, and NOW!  So here we go.

Thoughts from the Mirror

I found this creative game from the "Heart of my Home" blog. Since I am trying so hard to put something new on my blog at least once every week, I'm going to play along. Gypsy Woman comes up with the prompt, and we type for five minutes, no more. How fun! Won't you play, too?

When I look in the mirror, I see…


A 30-year-old with 12-year-old green eyes, smiling back at me and pretending that I am still that courageous, feisty, pre-teen again, ready for another adventure. I am amazed that while time whips at my face and hands and has created the faint lines of a woman three decades in to life, my eyes remain seemingly unchanged, green and deep. Only now, almost two decades later, they seem more knowing, more sure of the body they belong in. These eyes have been inducted into the world and they reflect knowingly from experiences and friendships and a soul that is still growing.

I look in the mirror and I see a woman, a mother, and a friend. I see a wife. My goodness. If I time warp back I think that the 12-year-old me would laugh to see those labels in front of her name. Back then, these were the eyes of the Explorer, the Adventurer. These were the eyes of the girl who formed a two-person club called Yucca-teers after the name of the arid plants that we would tromp over in our Tevas after school. Undaunted, unafraid, uninhibited. And yet, when I look in the mirror I still see an adventurer. The life has changed but the eyes are the same. I look in the mirror and it is not long until the mirror sees other little faces behind me: one, two, three little bodies. They are giggling, splashing water in the sink, reaching for toothbrushes on extended knees dangling from the toilet seat. These are the three little beings that sprouted from me.

I look in the mirror and I see a life that has transpired, and a life that is still coming, and green eyes and a long nose and blond hair that is windswept from a day at the park. This is me? This is me. This is me.

STOP. 5 minutes!

Hospitality, the Christ-like Kind

Last week the kids and I spent four days in Colorado without Daddy -- a bittersweet elixer of blue-sky, white-peak, crisp-air days; of laughing car rides, hiking adventures, and new play areas; of old friends and family and meals shared around tables...but no Daddy. And after a three hour journey of self-discovery flying by myself with all three kids, I decided that the husband must be with us, whether here or there.
The trip was a good reminder that while the Colorado blue is deeply inbedded in my DNA, my husband has grafted himself in to my being. And the husband wins. 

That said, while we were sans-Daddy, we relied wholly and unabashadly on the hospitality of our family.  And having been the recipients of their generosity for nearly a week, a word about how their hospitality warmed my soul.

It is most summed with a  quote from the Heart of My Home blog:

Hospitality... seeks to minister. It says, “This home is not mine. It is truly a gift from my Master. I am his servant, and I use it as he desires.” Hospitality does not try to impress but to serve.... Hospitality...puts people before things.

Somehow, inexplicably, my brother and sister-in-law and my parents put us before their own "things" last week. When we descended upon their well-ordered lives with the wildness of a five-person tornado, they stepped aside. When our twister of flying clothes, toys, baby food, and diapers wrecked havoc upon their basements, living rooms, and kitchens, they stepped aside. And when we careened through their hallways, pounced on their beds, ate up their snacks, and rolled in their yards, again they stepped aside. They served us baskets of kid-friendly snacks and personal plastic plates, with Toy Story and Princess Beds, with matching pajamas and prepared, turned-down rooms. For four days we enjoyed delicious home-cooked meals, pre-set coffee ready in the morning, french toast and blueberry pancakes, and shared toys and games. They served us, and they served us well.

 

And then, the day before we left, everyone got sick. They got the really yucky kind of sick that is the stay-in-bed all day kind of sick, and our gracious hosts got it the worst. And yet, even in sickness, they opened their home. They let us "be" in the basement; they gave us a place to rest.  

My brother, my sister-in-law, my mom and dad -- gave us what we needed most last week: loving hearts, open ears, and eyes that saw Christ in all the little, wild people who crossed their thresholds. They sought to comfort and to minister. They lightened our load. They loved us, no matter how cranky, no matter how demanding. They allowed Christ to minister through them, and oh, to be the recipient of a minister of Christ.

To my gracious hosts, I thank you, again and again.

Home

According to Dictionary.com, a home is defined as "a place of residence or refuge." This seems appropriate as I sit here in Colorado Springs in the house where I grew up: it is the residence where I spent my formative years building friends and memories; and now, with three young children of my own, Grandma and Grandpa's house is, quite literally, a refuge. Save me, I tell them, handing the baby to my Dad.

I retreat to the back deck, where I watch the birds fly in the crisp, 6,000-feet-above sea level air and listen to the drone of the gliders floating over the Air Force Academy, sounds that to me are so tightly intertwined with my concept of home. Home. Here.

But what does it mean for me that this is home? And what type of home memories am I creating for my budding children? What will they remember as they, too, one day cross the threshold of a structure and breathe in deeply, drinking in all that reminds them of a fleeting moment of when they were ten, twelve, fifteen, eighteen-years old?

Our family seems to be on perpetual pilgrimage, and our "home" is right now neither here nor there. Home is where we are. And when I reflect on this, I see that it is true for me as well. While I love the memories lurking in these walls, they would be empty without the sounds of my mom in the kitchen, without my dad fixing something in the basement. Home is more than a house, and it is more than a location. Memories are made that revolve around people and around relationships, and not around bricks and mortar. I think fondly of the people I encountered here in this house, of the laughter we shared, and even of those crazy teenage years of so much...growing. Without the people, this place would be another house in a series of ranch-style homes on a street in a sub-development nestled close to the mountains. Beautiful and charming, but vacant.

And so I ponder "home." I think about what it means to be a source of "home" for my family. I pray that they will  think the words "love" and "laughter" when they think the word "home." I hope they will remember smells of popcorn popping and cookies baking. Let them remember prayer times over candles in the morning, art time with pudding paint and messy floors, and meal time when we gather around the table.

Home. Let that place be people, too. Let that place be me.