Bursting

I've been noticing lately. Watching, then catching myself watching, grinning, heart bursting with all that is good and right and beautiful.

I notice the intensely beautiful smell of the garam masala as I add it to my favourite butter chicken recipe. I savour my slow morning cup of coffee. I relax into those rare moments of quiet and stillness, feeling my breath and my heartbeat as the tension in my muscles begins to loosen. I watch one season pass into the next, exchanging the warm sun for the cool damp air. I watch these growing children of mine, the steady witnessing of their passing days and years.

I watch Jay rally those around him into a single activity. My shy and introverted self does not understand this mysterious ability, but I love to watch him organize pick-up games of soccer or tag or imagination with whatever kids are in the area.

I watch Kai play soccer, chasing after that ball with such single-minded purpose and joy. It's his first year and he grins the entire time. I watch as the joy builds until he can't contain it, until he starts spinning in circles right there on the field, just a few spins and then back to the ball.

Ell watches too, always watches - her brothers' soccer games, her brothers' gym time, her brothers' this that and always the other, and it's hard to still be little and not get to join. So I signed her up for swim lessons along with her brothers, and oh, such joy and pride! To be in the water, participating instead of watching, is the highlight of her week right now; it is a privilege to witness.

I watch Min as he explores his world and his family and his own growing self. My favourite times with him are our alone times, early in the morning when he first wakes up and again at the end of the day as he and I settle into the dark bedroom until he falls asleep. We coo and nuzzle and laugh until he hums himself to sleep, funny child. He wakes me up in the morning, arms reaching for me, then grabbing my face until I'm properly awake.

There is joy in watching each of them, but watching them together is joy multiplied. Jay is achingly tender with Min. Min listens hard for Ell, goes straight for her each morning and follows her around the house. Ell and Kai are my crazy middles, their interactions summed up thusly:

Kai: "This part is lava, and you have to jump over top of it!"
Ell: "But I can't jump that far!"
Kai: "Yes you can! Jump!"
*crash*
Ell: "WAAAAAH!"
Kai: "Oh...I guess you can't jump that far."

The husband has been working long hours, and we're all feeling it. The kids miss him and I miss him; he misses both us and rest. But he comes home and reads and wrestles and cuddles and plays, and few things are more heart-bursting than watching the five of them, one big wild mess of puppies.

There is joy, too, in the way he looks at me. These past two years have been filled with difficult work, but we have done the work (and continue to do the work; it's part of this life together, always, I imagine) and it has been hard but good and it is so much better than I knew it could be. I am so grateful, so breathlessly grateful, for this man who chose to do that hard work with me. It could have been so different.

I've been running. I cringe to even admit it, remembering all the times I could not roll my eyes hard enough upon reading that yet another person had begun a Couch to 5K, because oh my goodness, shut up about the running. Well, now I run (sorry not sorry), the end of my own C25K in site, hello week 6. I run because it is the one thing that keeps my anxiety fenced in, almost, mostly, enough that I don't feel the desire to crawl out of my skin or hide from this beautiful difficult life. The familiarity of running surprised me. It's been years since my teenage self ran - cross country and track and even a half marathon once, all those years ago. But still my body remembers, familiar rhythms, feet and legs and arms and breath, and it is a joy of the more strenuous sort.

I've been sewing, too. Next to this precious family of mine, creativity is the most life-giving thing that I do for myself. I finished Jay's bucket hat, at long last, after having put it on hold early this summer because the pattern ran smaller than I realized and it wasn't going to fit. He was so pleased when I finally got around to altering it and handed him his finished hat; I could learn much from his graciousness and patience with me. I'm nearly finished a new purse for myself, and I love it already. There has been an embroidered doll quilt for Ell and a small basket for my keys that I generally toss haphazardly on the table next to the door, and always more projects waiting. There is something intensely satisfying about producing something Beautiful and Useful with one's own hands.

In all this, there is presence and witness and gratitude. Be here. See what is here. Give thanks for what is here.

I am here. I see. Thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Whoever said the days are long?

Whoever said the days are long?

(Oh yes, I did, once or twice or probably a lot.)

They don't feel long anymore. These days I'm holding on tight, and when I'm not holding on, I'm reaching to catch up. Where do the hours go?

Every day the baby looks older, the toddler jabbers on more clearly, the little boy learns more, and the bigger boy asks more. We moved the boys into bunk beds this weekend, and my (oft-neglected) craft room has been turned into a bedroom for baby girl. We're back down to just three in our bedroom now, the smallest baby and the husband and I, and I already miss hearing her light snores. But now she's in big-girl underwear and a big-girl bed in her own big-girl room and I guess it's time I stopped calling her baby girl?

No. She's still my baby. They all are.

I know why the days are slipping away like this. It's because of this death grip I have on them. Wait. Slow down. I need more time. I need more moments. I need more memories. It's all going by too quickly. I'm missing it, mourning its passing, even as it happens.

Relax. I tell myself again and again but I can't seem to let go of that frantic feeling. They're growing up and I make too many mistakes and I'm tired and there's so much to do and even more that I want to do and so much I never get around to and I need to get off this hamster wheel.

I know what I need to do. I know it demands surrender instead of control, calm rather than panic, intention rather that reaction - oh yes, and probably an earlier bedtime, as sad as that makes my introverted self.

I know what I need because there are moments when I feel it, moments when I actually get it right. It happens when I watch the baby fall asleep, when I say yes to a request for a bedtime snuggle, when I get outside and breathe the crisp air, when I run or laugh or look someone in the eye, when I turn off the light on another day and feel satisfied...

...when I celebrate this moment instead of grieving its passing.

This is my daily practice, today and tomorrow and the day after that, every day, trying again and again to enjoy the passing hours instead of clutching them in my fist in an attempt to hoard what will inevitably pass by.

Relax, laugh, celebrate, and enjoy.

40 Days of Gratitude: Days 38-40

There are moments when I'm left breathless with gratitude, but the moment passes and I forget too easily that it happened. I need to write it down. I tell myself that often and yet I never seem to get around to opening that notebook of mine, even with fresh paper and new pens and more than enough time in my day for this one small-yet-big thing.

What better time than Lent to return to this practice of recording gratitude?

- 40 Days of Gratitude

_____________________

First there was the sound of a can of compressed air being used in the bathroom, followed soon after by the sound of my hair dryer. I walked down the hallway and turned the corner and there was the husband, blowing hot air at nothing at all.

I asked him, bewildered, what he was doing.

"Cleaning out the vents in your hair dryer. Much more lint in there and it was going to turn into a heat gun."

My first thought upon hearing this was, write it down. Write it down, add it to the list, don't forget this moment because this is a gift right here. To have him notice the little things that I would never consider, to be cared about in practical yet no less meaningful ways - it's a gift.

He put the hair dryer down and we all left for a Good Friday service at (yet another) new church. It's been a year now and we're as homeless as ever. We try and we give up and we try again and I'm tired of trying, I just want a pew to sink into every week, to worship and fellowship and is this so much to ask? This one small grace?

I always panic when we pull up to a new possibility. I look at my husband and he reads it in my eyes, and he's not feeling so sure either. We'd drive away if it was just us, I know we would, just two big introverted chickens we are. But the kids are waiting expectantly in the backseat, so we squeeze each other's hand and step over one more unfamiliar threshold.

This one, though...it felt good. Maybe. It's often hard to tell after that first visit (other times, though, one visit is more than enough to tell us what we need to know). We're not holding our breath but we'll be back there tomorrow for Easter Sunday and that's all we can do, go back until we know one way or another. But this Good Friday service? It, too, gets written down. Thank you.

This is what the past 40 days have done to me. Write it down, I think it time and time again as I go about my day. Notice. Remember. Write it down. Cultivate this spirit of gratitude. Find the grace in it all, the good stuff and the hard stuff, and write it down.

384. Preparing. Anticipation.

387. Silent doors, and a husband who makes them so.

388. Baby girl's word explosion.

390. My sewing machine.

396. Clarity. Learning from past assumptions.

398. Hot cross buns. Rosemary olive oil bread.

399. Fellowship.

And you? A moment of gratitude, something from your list, a link to your own gratitude journey? I love reading every bit that you share with us.

40 Days of Gratitude: Days 32-37

There are moments when I'm left breathless with gratitude, but the moment passes and I forget too easily that it happened. I need to write it down. I tell myself that often and yet I never seem to get around to opening that notebook of mine, even with fresh paper and new pens and more than enough time in my day for this one small-yet-big thing.

What better time than Lent to return to this practice of recording gratitude?

- 40 Days of Gratitude

_____________________

It's Holy Week and I'm wholly stressed. A certain boy turns seven years old today and Easter is fast approaching and I've got an Easter dress to finish sewing for baby girl and the preschooler is having a challenging week and I must remind myself, always always, that he doesn't do this to me. He's the one having a hard time, and it's my responsibility and privilege to slow down and help him through it. Still, there are birthday presents to wrap and Easter bags to sew and plastic eggs to stuff, and I'm a bit tired already.

I can feel Good Friday approaching. Perhaps a portion of my busyness is to ward off the sense of mourning that accompanies the solemnity of the day. A quiet Saturday afterwards, and then, joyous day, He is Risen! But first, there's Good Friday.

But first, today, there is a delightful seven year old to celebrate. There will be a rainy walk through the nearby nature park, the excitement of long-desired gifts to be opened, and quinoa chocolate cake with blueberries for dessert.

Today will be a good day.

376. Perspective.

378. Going to a craft show with the boy. Getting to spend time with one child.

379. The husband taking over when I'm worn out. Having a partner in life.

382. My delightful seven-year-old boy and his excitement over his birthday.

383. Watching the preschooler and baby girl interact. Their bubbling laughter and sweet hugs.

And you? A moment of gratitude, something from your list, a link to your own gratitude journey? I love reading every bit that you share with us.

40 Days of Gratitude: Days 26-31

There are moments when I'm left breathless with gratitude, but the moment passes and I forget too easily that it happened. I need to write it down. I tell myself that often and yet I never seem to get around to opening that notebook of mine, even with fresh paper and new pens and more than enough time in my day for this one small-yet-big thing.

What better time than Lent to return to this practice of recording gratitude?

- 40 Days of Gratitude

_____________________

I woke up before dawn yesterday morning. The demands of a pregnancy bladder outweighed my desire to stay warm, but I was soon back under the covers. Of course, that's when my over-anxious brain decided to worry about All The Things. Two hours later, my husband was in the shower and I was still wide awake. I gave up.

In the kitchen, I put the cast iron pan on the burner. I was craving eggs, and I was willing to bet that man in the shower wouldn't say no to a nice warm breakfast either. I was right, and we enjoyed a lovely quiet breakfast together before he had to go.

Somehow all three children were still asleep, so after puttering around for a bit, I settled into my favourite chair with my favourite quilt and my favourite mug full of black tea. I opened my Bible to where I had last left off - Ezekiel 33 - and uncapped my pen.

Only 11 verses in, I discover yet another gift my childhood in the Anglican church has given me:

"As I live," says the Lord God, "I have no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but that the wicked turn from his way and live. Turn, turn from your evil ways! For why should you die, O house of Israel?"

How very many times it has happened that words I have known since I was a little girl, words of hope and love and mercy woven into the prayers that we said together every week, should appear in the very Word of God Himself? How little I realized the amount of Scripture that was placed deep in my heart through this weekly liturgy! For that gift, of which I have yet to discover its extent, I am grateful.

356. Finding the perfect gift.

358. Baby girl dressing up as a knight.

359. Healing foods. Comfort foods.

364. The library's hold system.

365. A rainy day inside after a stretch of lovely sunny days.

373. A good ultrasound. Curled baby fists and kicking legs.

And you? A moment of gratitude, something from your list, a link to your own gratitude journey? I love reading every bit that you share with us.

40 Days of Gratitude: Days 20-25

There are moments when I'm left breathless with gratitude, but the moment passes and I forget too easily that it happened. I need to write it down. I tell myself that often and yet I never seem to get around to opening that notebook of mine, even with fresh paper and new pens and more than enough time in my day for this one small-yet-big thing.

What better time than Lent to return to this practice of recording gratitude?

- 40 Days of Gratitude

_____________________

Some days, I confess, it all feels so pointless.

I rarely allow myself to think it. I know all the right responses. I know what I'd say to someone else. But some days I struggle to remember those same things myself.

I feel like I spend all day, every day, going from one mess to another. Get breakfast, clean breakfast, make lunch, clean lunch, prep supper, cook supper, clean supper, sweet the floors, do the laundry, run the dishwasher, tidy the living areas, tend to bumps and bruises and scrapes, intervene in the fights, change diapers, make the beds, wash the kids, on and on and on and on and do it all again tomorrow.

And all of it with a splitting headache, today at least.

Still, I press on. I wash the pots while the shepherd's pie cooks, hoping that my work now will give me a few extra moments of peace after dinner. We sit down to eat and the toddler drops her bowl onto the floor and I feel a flash of rage, as though she did this to me. On purpose. The bratty little tyrant, how dare she? Doesn't she know I don't have it in me to clean up one more thing tonight? I close my eyes on the mess and on my own ridiculous anger.

These are the days I need to remember gratitude more than ever. I'm home with these children, and it's just as I want it to be. We read and learn and create together, and it's just as I want it to be. Pushing back the dust and dirt and chaos time and time again reminds me daily of my own internal struggle with darkness, of the daily need for confession and repentance and worship, and it's just as I want it to be.

It's also exhausting.

It's okay to acknowledge that, I know. And it's important to recognize that point on the verge of overwhelm so that I can step back, look at our daily lives, make changes where needed, tend to my own needs so that I can continue to tend to the needs of others. That's when I feel the knot in the back of my neck start to loosen and things slowly begin to feel joyful again.

Throughout it all, though, I watch for the moments of gratitude.

334. Contentment.

335. Naps, mine and theirs. Quiet times.

338. Weeding and turning over the dark heavy garden soil. Earthworms. Dirt under my fingernails and an aching back testifying to hard work outside.

340. The boy's help and enthusiasm with weeding.

341. Fresh rosemary and basil.

342. Succulents.

344. Making things more beautiful.

349. Oven s'mores.

354. The hope and promise of burying seeds within the dark earth.

And you? A moment of gratitude, something from your list, a link to your own gratitude journey? I love reading every bit that you share with us.

40 Days of Gratitude: Days 14-19

There are moments when I'm left breathless with gratitude, but the moment passes and I forget too easily that it happened. I need to write it down. I tell myself that often and yet I never seem to get around to opening that notebook of mine, even with fresh paper and new pens and more than enough time in my day for this one small-yet-big thing.

What better time than Lent to return to this practice of recording gratitude?

- 40 Days of Gratitude

_____________________

I need to write down those moments of gratitude, and I am, but it's usually evening by the time I open that book and uncap my pen. How many little moments have I forgotten by then? They itch at the back of my brain, wanting to be remembered, but I find it impossible to bring them forward again.

No, I need that list of gratitude right here beside me, out in the open, waiting for that swell of gratitude to be written down immediately. Now I know.

300. Long evening shadows.

308. A sound sleep.

314. Moccasins.

317. Chicken soup with rice.

320. Prayer.

321. A morning walk in the spring sunshine.

328. The preschooler's eagerness to learn his letters and numbers.

332. Our big front windows. Bright daylight and beautiful sunsets.

And you? A moment of gratitude, something from your list, a link to your own gratitude journey? I love reading every bit that you share with us.

40 Days of Gratitude: Days 8-13

There are moments when I'm left breathless with gratitude, but the moment passes and I forget too easily that it happened. I need to write it down. I tell myself that often and yet I never seem to get around to opening that notebook of mine, even with fresh paper and new pens and more than enough time in my day for this one small-yet-big thing.

What better time than Lent to return to this practice of recording gratitude?

- 40 Days of Gratitude

_____________________

This was one of those weeks where gratitude was abundant some days and very difficult to find other days. It started beautifully, filled with sunshine and all the joyous flexibility that homeschooling has to offer. The weekend, however, brought news that the husband's grandmother had passed away, and the next days were both busy and quiet as he prepares to leave for her funeral. I, selfishly, feel the weight of being here alone for the next few days. We're both a little emotionally raw right now.

Even so, my list has not failed to increase in the midst of mourning. New life continues to grow. Joys both small and great continue to arise throughout our days. And always, always, there is hope.

283. Good chili.

284. Watching the boy help the preschooler climb a tree.

286. An unplanned picnic and afternoon at the park.

287. A sun-warmed bench.

291. A fresh stack of library books.

293. Receiving the Eucharist.

299. Feeling the growing baby's kicks.

And you? A moment of gratitude, something from your list, a link to your own gratitude journey? I love reading every bit that you share with us.

40 Days of Gratitude: Days 1-7

There are moments when I'm left breathless with gratitude, but the moment passes and I forget too easily that it happened. I need to write it down. I tell myself that often and yet I never seem to get around to opening that notebook of mine, even with fresh paper and new pens and more than enough time in my day for this one small-yet-big thing.

What better time than Lent to return to this practice of recording gratitude?

- 40 Days of Gratitude

_____________________

At last I have opened that notebook, picked up that pen, written down those bits of beauty that are there in even the most trying of days. Some days I have struggled to think of more than one or two, but most days it's a matter of where do I stop?

The more I search for gratitude, the more it reveals itself.

Here we are at Day 7 and I feel like I'm seeing the world through different eyes. Instead of interruptions, I see opportunities for unexpected beauty. Instead of demands, I see opportunities to love and serve. Instead of dreariness, I see bright colours - of course, the lovely change in weather hasn't hurt, either. Blue skies and bright warm sunshine are always good for the soul.

This first week's list has been a jumble of mundane and lovely, simple and complicated. That feels about right to me.

263. Do-overs. Grace.

268. "Thy mercy, my God, is the theme of my song, the joy of my heart and the boast of my tongue. Thy free grace alone, from the first to the last, hath won my affection and bound my soul fast." - John Stocker

271. London Fog, chai tea, chocolate chip cookies.

272. Kindness and compassion. Those who listen and offer love.

279. A freshly made bed.

And you? A moment of gratitude, something from your list, a link to your own gratitude journey? I love reading every bit that you share with us.

40 Days of Gratitude

Some years I have done well, writing down lists of thankfulness, the big and the small and the everyday things. There have been seasons, too, where my gratitude is offered in small prayers throughout the day, but I don't write it down and it doesn't feel, somehow, the same as when I can see those words on paper.

It's been the latter sort of season for me. There are moments when I'm left breathless with gratitude, but the moment passes and I forget too easily that it happened. I need to write it down. I tell myself that often and yet I never seem to get around to opening that notebook of mine, even with fresh paper and new pens and more than enough time in my day for this one small-yet-big thing.

What better time than Lent to return to this practice of recording gratitude?

Bring my heart ever closer to you, Lord. Some people draw away from God during times of pain and struggle, angry and bitter and accusing. I am one of the other group, the ones who forget during times of ease. I forget that He is my rock and my comforter, the source of all, Alpha and Omega, as near as my very breath. Gratitude reminds me.

I looked this past weekend at the last entry in my list of gratitude. During the very depths of my pain, it read simply this:

God, the one Who takes brokenness and turns it into joy, Who brings life from our death and beauty from our ashes, Who turns our mourning into dancing and binds up the hearts of the brokenhearted.

That is where I am during times of trial. Clinging to the rock and grateful for my very life, for the strength to simply take the next step forward. But now, when I feel my breath has returned to my body and my days are no longer awash in pain? I forget. I laugh more and smile more but I give thanks less fervently and this is my weakness.

It may not seem like much, but gratitude will be my Lent. Write it down, watch the list grow and grow and grow because gratitude is endless. 40 days and then beyond, why stop, let the habit carry me forward through Easter and past Pentecost and into Ordinary Time (which is anything but ordinary).

And if you'd like to join me? I'd love the companionship as we journal our gratitude through the next 40 days. Feel free to share the graphic to the left if you want to invite others as well. Leave your links, share parts of your list, whatever you feel comfortable doing as we encourage each other towards deeper gratitude in our daily lives. I'll share a few notes from my list each week as a jumping off point for those of you joining in.


Maybe Lent has snuck up on you this year and you're feeling unprepared, or maybe you're not sure what Lent is all about. Last year I shared some ideas on observing Lent. This year, I'm looking forward to the servanthood-focused series Waiting Tables over at SortaCrunchy; Megan has also shared some Lenten resources in preparation.

Interested in joining in? Already have something else planned for Lent that you're comfortable sharing with us? I'd love to hear about it!

Releasing the Myth of Done

Another thing added to the list. They come so much faster than they get crossed off, all these various to-do's, and it just keeps growing. It feels overwhelming, never-ending, why bother?

A new bit of work to tackle. A new mess that must be cleaned. A new email that deserves a thoughtful reply. A new thought that demands to be written down and fleshed out. Another meal to cook, another load of laundry to do, another dustpan's worth of crumbs under my feet. My head hurts.

It's never going to end! I think. Never!

But that's just it, isn't it? It's never going to end.

Have I been expecting, all this very long time, that the list will ever be empty? That the work will ever be done? The laundry, done, even as we wear clothes that will soon make their way to the hamper? The dishes, done, even as we look forward to our next meal? The work, done, even as we count on its continuance for its meager income? The writing, done, even as words ever rise within us?

It's never going to end - and praises for that!

If I look at these daily tasks as things to accomplish, things to check off, there, done, finished, I will feel endlessly frustrated. Because they are never finished. They will be there again, sometimes days later, sometimes mere hours later.

But if I view them as ways to bless myself, serve my family, and worship my God, they become good things, satisfying things. Not fun, not always, let's be real here. But Good.

These daily tasks nourish me physically. As I write these words, I feel the ache in my arms from an afternoon spent on my hands and knees, scrubbing every bit of tiled floor throughout our home. It's a good ache, a satisfying feeling, evidence of having pushed my body even in this silly small way. All day I lift and bend and scour, and maybe it's not a 5K run but some nights I collapse into bed as though it has been.

These daily tasks nourish me emotionally. They give me time and space to let my thoughts drift, to rest my mind, to let words swirl and form within me. The mindlessness of these duties is blessing in disguise, allowing that which is creative within me to bubble to the surface. Yet too often I spend that time grumbling instead, acting the martyr, silently stewing as I do what must be done. Why do I choose anger over daydreams, complaints over creativity?

These daily tasks nourish me spiritually. They mirror my own inner dailiness of confession and repentance, renewal of mind and heart, pushing back the darkness within as Christ shapes and forms and fills my heart. Always the dust and dirt returns, and always I wash it away it again. Always the mess returns, and always I tidy it again. Pushing back the darkness and the chaos again and again and again, what holy work this is!

I want to say No More to the grumbling and the overwhelm, but I know myself. Perhaps, though, I can remember more often? And then more, and still more? This is blessing. This is good. I am privileged to have these daily moments of mindlessness in which to think and pray and create and worship and bless and serve. Thank you.

These hands

It's the end of the day and I rub aloe into my dry hands.

And is it any wonder. These hands endure being washed after every diaper change, every bathroom trip, every request for Mommy, come wipe me! They change the cat litter, clean up accidents, and scrub down the toilet. They spend an inordinate amount of time far too near someone else's bodily waste. More soap, more water.

These hands hold the broom, the vacuum, the rag. They wash dishes in hot soapy water. They do laundry - sort, carry, transfer, fold - and then put clothes and towels in their respective places, begin again, never ending.

These hands stir soups and knead dough and chop vegetables. They endure burns and cuts in their effort to fill and nourish. Yesterday I slipped while dicing the squash; the dark red blood ran down my finger as I fumbled with the bandage.

These hands wipe messy faces and wash sticky hands. They bathe and dry and clothe. They fix owies and wipe noses, pull warm blankets over sleeping children.

These hands turn pages in books, type words onto the screen, write down scribbles - grocery lists, reminders, little things. They write letters to loved ones, press a stamp onto the corner and drop them in red mailboxes.

These hands lift tiny babies and growing toddlers and big boys. They stroke hair, cup chins, rub backs. They cradle and soothe and comfort and love.

Come evening, these hands wash away the day's troubles. They bring cool water to my lips, satisfy my physical thirst, then open God's Word and satisfy another thirst entirely.

They nurture myself, my family, others, my home.

It's the end of the day and these dry hands? They have earned their aloe.

Breathing it in

I skipped summer this year.

Too pregnant, too sore, too tired, and then a new baby, that tiny precious girl who so utterly captivated me. It was good but somehow summer slipped quietly by in the background.

Now it's fall and I'm getting my bearings again. Has it been eleven weeks already? But it's a beautiful fall. The Japanese Maple has burst into bright red outside our door and the grass is carpeted in its jeweled leaves. The air is so very perfect, crisp and cool and pure delight to breathe in.

We spent two hours at the park this afternoon and it felt good. It feels good to walk.

It feels good to leave behind the not so loud's and not so fast's and just let them run, wild boys out there in the open.

It feels good to leave behind the computer, the heaviness of watching too much anger and criticism fly back and forth and would we ever say these things in person, do we forget the reality of people on the other side of those screens? If only we could all sit down together, have tea in pretty cups, see eyes and hear hearts and maybe then it would be different, I'm almost certain.

It feels good to leave behind the long list of Things That Must Be Done. Catching up in one area inevitably means falling behind in another. It is blessing, all of it, this home and its demands, acts of worship all of them, but some days it all begins to feel like burden instead of blessing.

So I go out and I forget, forget unswept floors and harsh written words and too much noise. Everything feels lighter out there. I miss the warmth of summer sunshine and the dense bright green everywhere, but I embrace instead the smell of fall and the impossibly colourful mosaic of leaves under my feet and I declare along with the Creator that it is indeed good, praise Him always.

We return home chilled, warm up with mugs of hot chocolate and if we're lucky we top it off with a handful of marshmallows.

We may have missed summer this year, but we're breathing in every moment of this beautiful fall.

Just writing along with The EO...

While the nights are still precious

I pray over her as she stares into the shadows; it always feels like she can see things there that I can't. Then her eyes shift, catch mine, and I whisper her name into the lamplight.

It's three o'clock in the morning now. We've been cuddling and watching, whispering and nursing for the past hour. She is silent, just taking it all in, and I'm the same as I take her in, this tiny new thing laying in front of me. I am captivated.

Her brothers breathe softly from their places on the floor; her daddy is asleep beside us. I feel nearly selfish to be sitting here enjoying her while everyone else sleeps. I want to wake them up, look at her tiny feet, marvel over her softness with them. She is beyond belief; they always are, these tiny ones, but it's new all over again for me.

I gently massage her from head to toe. She lies there, still silent, then softly unfurls when I get to her legs. I continue, her calf, her foot, each toe. Then I apologize - I need to change your diaper, sweet girl - and for the first time, she doesn't cry while I do.

It's four o'clock now and the faintest bit of light is beginning to come in through the blinds. She nurses once again and I watch her until, at last, she drifts off to sleep. She'll wake again before morning but only to nurse; our time of silent conversation is done for tonight.

Four nights so far and these two hours have been just for us. She doesn't sleep but doesn't cry either, just lays with me and watches, listens. And I cherish it.

So I'm writing it down because I know one night I'll be tired and I'll just want her to sleep, just sleep, baby girl, and maybe then I'll remember these words. Maybe I'll remember how precious these silent moments are, just the two of us watching each other in the lamplight. And the lost sleep will become both my sacrifice and my joy, both privilege and responsibility, both worship and blessing.

One night, these sleepless hours together will be our last, and I won't even know it at the time. She'll sleep through them the next night and I will miss them even as I eagerly accept the extra sleep of my own.

Until then, I will cherish these quiet dark hours with her.

A Letter to Myself

It's my birthday and this letter is my gift to myself...
_____________________

Dear Self,

Today you begin the final year of your twenties.

You are learning, slowly, what it is to love others. My hope now is that you would continue to the "as yourself" part, loving what our Creator God knit together in your mother's womb.

You haven't always been kind to your body. Once upon a time you tried to starve it away, blind to who you were and who you would one day be. You despised your body and you despised your own powerlessness, your lack of a voice, and it was a terrible combination.

But you've found your voice these past few years, haven't you?

You've found your voice but you've lost your early-twenties body. You're starting to notice that loss more - an unexpected glimpse of dimpled thighs, a grimace when you glance at the red rivers running over your growing belly, a wave of embarrassment when you see yourself captured in a photo.

As you finish off this decade of your life, I encourage you to learn to love what is, not what was. Let me help you.

Your hands are beautiful. Today your hands are swollen; your wedding ring is stuck and you joke to your husband that there's no escape for you now, the ring won't come off. But those same swollen hands pulled a sliver out of your boy's foot, rubbed your toddler's back as he cried, and stroked your husband's hair. They daily prepare food; they scrub dishes with cloths they themselves have knit. They turn the pages of books and tap out your stories on the computer. They nurture yourself and your family and your home. Your hands are beautiful.

Your arms are beautiful. They lack the definition they once had, but not the strength. They are strong enough to lift growing boys, comforting enough to rock them to sleep, and long enough to embrace them both at once. They pull your husband close as you greet him. They lift and carry and hold and serve. Your arms are beautiful.

Your stomach is beautiful. The skin is stretched around your third child and will stretch even more over the next few weeks. The rivers run red and silver over it, memories of the months they held your other two babies. Your belly button is stretched beyond recognition; you once dreamed a teenager's dream of showing it off with a cute navel ring, but now you wish it would just stop showing through every shirt you wear. And you know what's coming next, the saggy belly, the pouch that jiggles with each heartbeat, the same one that made you cry out of sheer shock as you showered after the birth of your oldest. You'd known all about cracked breastfeeding nipples and sleepless nights and how to relieve the tenderness down there, but no one had prepared you for the sight of your post-birth belly.

But oh, that stomach. It has safely cradled your babies for twenty-six months so far, wrapping them in a blanket of security and warmth. It was once home to your lanky growing boy and your silly wide-eyed toddler. It now serves as their comforting pillow. Your husband admires its various curves. It holds you steady as you hold steady to your boys. It is your core - weak, stretched, scarred, and saggy, but beautiful most of all.

Your feet are beautiful. A long scar lines each of them from a childhood surgery. Like your hands, they are swollen; like the rest of your body, they are tired. But these are the feet that lead the way as your ducklings follow. They walk to the park, the forest, the library. They pace the room as you murmur comforting words to an upset child. They chase (slowly these days) boys with more energy than you can recall ever having. They follow paths both familiar and new. Your feet are beautiful.

Your legs are beautiful. You don't think so; you recently caught an unexpected glimpse of your thighs and stopped, shocked, wondering where those dimples had come from. You used to run and dance, years of cross-country and ballet and track & field and acrobatics. You danced right up until you became pregnant with your first child. You still dance, but now it's the slow circles of a tired mother rocking an even more tired baby, or the silly waltzing of mother and son dancing around the kitchen as they listen to their favourite music. You still run, but it's to scoop up your child and cover his giggling self in kisses. Your legs become seats when you sit down, a lap in constant use by little boys who just like to be close to you, Mommy. Your legs are beautiful.

Your nose is beautiful. You had never even questioned such until the day a boy told you that you were beautiful even though your nose was so big. It was the first time you'd been told that you had a big nose. You ignored the beautiful part but never forgot the part about your nose; you simply accepted the news as fact and incorporated it into your identity. But now that nose buries itself deep in your children's hair and inhales their sweet scent. It breathes in the comforting smell of your husband's Irish Spring soap. It brings the smell of clean rain, salty ocean, hot pavement, sweaty children, and scented flowers. It tickles your babies' necks and they reward you with gales of laughter. Your nose is beautiful.

Your brain is beautiful. Sometimes you feel inferior; you don't know much about this topic, you don't write often about that topic. You forget things too easily. Your mind is not filled with the endless trivia of your encyclopedic husband. You wonder what good your perspective is in this world. But that brain of yours? You use it. You refuse to be told what to think, valuing instead the ability to think. You question and search and dig deeper because you thirst always for authentic understanding. You form your own opinions, holding tightly enough to not be swayed by every challenge that comes your way but not so tightly as to stubbornly ignore new knowledge. You follow your passions. As for days passed, you may not remember everything, but you've got the important things covered; those memories are treasures indeed. Your brain is beautiful.

Your voice is beautiful. Like so many others, you cringe when you hear your recorded voice. Surely you don't sound like that, you think. But it is that same voice that calmly soothes your children as they sob into your shoulder. It is that same voice that they request over and over - sing another one, Mommy! It is that same voice, steady and familiar, that reads them book after endless book. It is that same voice that brings them back to center when they need it. And it is that same voice that makes your husband smile when he hears it, that binds the two of you even closer as you talk into the darkness of the late night. Your voice is beautiful.

You are fearfully and wonderfully made. There is nothing to gain from self-loathing, from desiring an artificial air-brushed body over the scarred and weathered one you have earned over the years. Embrace what is, each moment, because you will only continue to gather the badges of life with each passing decade. This is good.

With love,
Yourself

Linking up with SheLoves...

How to End a Day

Every night it's the same. I sit with my two boys until the little one falls asleep, and then I quietly slip out, leaving the older one with his lamp and his stack of books.

After he's read for a while, I hear his quiet footsteps as he comes out to find me.

Mommy, he whispers, can you come for a little snuggle?

I come.

As I settle myself down on the floor beside his bed, he asks me his question, always the same question: What was the best part of your day?

The best part of my day. Sometimes the answer comes without hesitation. Our walk through the forest or baking cookies with you or when our friends came to visit or when we read all those books this morning. He'll smile and sometimes he'll agree; other times he'll have his own moment, and it's rarely quite what I would have expected.

Some days, though, I have to dig deeper to find my answer. He waits patiently, never rushing me, as I think through those long days in search of some nugget of goodness to share. He doesn't let me get away with a careless "I don't know" - no, each day must have something good in it.

He's right. Even on those days when everything seems to have gone wrong, I can always manage to find something to share with him if I think long enough. Maybe it's as simple as a particularly good meal or as unnoteworthy as stepping outside to check the mail, filling my lungs with damp spring air. Always, though, there's something, and this little child is the one who draws it out of me on those days when I can't easily see it myself.

He thinks these nightly snuggles are for him - and they are - but they're for me too. On those nights when I go into that room reluctantly, ready to be off-duty after the day's work, gratitude reminds me that it wasn't all work. There was beauty and joy, too, however small the moment was or however blind I was to it at the time. I leave that room feeling lighter, because what else can gratitude do?

Thank you, sweet child, for reminding me to end each day with thanksgiving.

Letting go and celebrating small victories

I'm tired.

Really, to say I'm tired feels like a ridiculous understatement. This past month has been the lowest I've felt quite possibly ever. I'm tired in that if-I-have-to-stand-up-I-might-cry sort of way. Just let me sleep and then sleep some more. Please.

But I can't. I'm pregnant and raising two small children and I'm surviving but some days that doesn't feel like much.

I'm tired.

And no wonder. After my blood test last week, my midwife phoned to tell me my iron levels had dropped significantly and my iron stores had plummeted spectacularly since my last blood test. The Floradix I'd been taking, which had thus far allowed me to do such things as feed the children and maintain some semblance of being on top of the housework, wasn't enough. So I have more iron supplements on the way, along with some chlorella, and maybe I'll soon be able to return to the land of the living.

In the meantime, you know what? I'm not dealing so well. I cry. A lot. I cannot even tell you how very much I am not a crier. I didn't cry when my husband proposed. I didn't cry on our wedding day. Not when I saw the positive pregnancy tests, nor when I saw all the disappointing negative ones in between the first two. I didn't cry when my babies were born. I didn't cry when my granddad died. I've often felt guilty about it, even as a very little child, but I just don't cry.

Yet here I am, sobbing in the shower and when I lay down in bed and when I have to somehow find the energy to get dressed. And when I'm not crying, I feel like I'm about two seconds away from doing so.

Everything feels like a huge deal. I need to make a decision? Cue the tears. Don't make me decide anything. Please. I see another disgusting "we must WIN THIS CULTURE WAR!!!1111ELEVENTY!!!!" post on Facebook? Cue the tears. And the rage. And the dwelling on it for the next week. Oh yes. Overreaction has become my new constant companion.

I have no appetite. I haven't had an appetite since before I was pregnant. I don't want food. I don't want to think about food. I don't want to cook food. I don't want to plan what food everyone else is going to eat. I don't want to have to think, period.

But the worst of it is myself and my shoulds.

It's a nice day out. I should take the kids to the park.

It's noon. I should figure out what I'm going to make for dinner.

Dinner's done. We should go for our evening walk through the forest trails behind our house.

It's Saturday. We should go to the farmer's market and then have a picnic afterwards.

I should take the kids swimming, like I've been promising forever. I should do more with them. I should work more with the boy on his reading and writing. I should I should I should should should.

And this is probably just more overreaction on my part, but I'm tired of the blame being placed on Pinterest, or on "mommy blogs", or on Facebook, or on whatever. These shoulds are all mine, baby. I'm not trying to make a "pinnable" life. I'm not trying to live up to some image projected by any of the bloggers I follow. It might be easy to blame our whatever - perceived shortcomings, longings, misplaced motivations - on Pinterest or blogs or Facebook or insert other online target here, but the truth is it's just me and my own expectations of myself.

So I'm letting go and celebrating the small victories. No more shoulds, just reality. If we don't make it further than our front yard, awesome. If all I can bring myself to make for dinner is a pot of oatmeal, awesome. If we sit in bed and read ten books together instead of going for a walk, awesome. If we go to Timmie's after the farmer's market instead of having a lovely outdoor picnic that I've prepared the night before, doubly awesome, because I love Timmie's.

Whatever. I made it through another day? I'm awesome. Go me and my utter lack of iron. I can be a different kind of awesome when I have the energy I need to raise my arms above my head and wash my own damn hair without crying. For now, this is my awesome.

And I'm celebrating this week's small victories:

• We searched out some new adventures earlier this week. Two toddlers, the boy, and myself, we walked down to the open field before the playground and I sat on a blanket, throwing balls for them to chase. Then we became pirates looking for treasure, and they brought all sorts of lovely things to me. I handed over the water bottle so they could make a little patch of mud to play in. It was lovely and simple and hey, it was something beyond the front yard. Victory.

• We ate. Every day. Victory.

• Bedtime the past two nights? Happened without any yelling or impatience on my part. Victory.

• We went to the library before yesterday's midwife appointment and brought home a stack of awesomeness. And then we read through half of them in one sitting. Victory.

• I scrubbed under the kitchen table so that my mother-in-law's feet wouldn't stick to the floor when she visited this weekend. Would she have cared if I hadn't? Not even a tiny little bit. Was it my own stupid pride that had me down on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor last night? You bet. Am I going to celebrate it anyway? Absolutely. Victory.

• The kids and I are all freshly bathed/showered and ready to go grocery shopping when the husband is finished school today. I've even planned a couple of meals. My mother-in-law won't be offered oatmeal for dinner while she's visiting. Victory.

• I'm letting go of self-imposed shoulds and embracing what is. Victory.

Celebrate with me? Share your own small victories from this week. Because you're awesome too.

I'll take it

I feel like I am finally - finally - caught up after our time away. Things are cleaned and dusted and organized and yes, it will only last for a short time but right now it is good.

Sometimes the day's work can feel so fruitless. What do I have to show when most of it will need to be redone tomorrow? It is never ending but it is an offering in itself, my offering, and what more is needed?

If only it were simple to remember that. But then come days like today, with poop on the floor and on the freshly-bathed toddler and on the other toddler and really, four baths in one day when I only had three kids? Really? Cleaning tracked poop from three different rooms? Really? And it wouldn't be so bad if only I could say I was calm about it, handled it like an adult, but I'm too damn tired for this and I threw a fit of my own because really??

But then later I remember, one day I won't be cleaning poop off the floor. I won't be picking up toys only to have them strewn all over the floor a few minutes later. I won't be wiping trays and noses and bottoms, and the floor will stay clean for more than five minutes at a time.

And I'll miss them. I'll miss the wild abandon with which these children approach life. I'll miss the beauty they point out to me in all the places I'd never see it on my own. I'll miss the sloppy kisses, the toddler fingers tangled in my hair, the crazy "one day" stories of an imaginative boy. I won't miss the poop on the floor but I'll miss these years even as they are replaced with new stages in our life.

So I'll take it. I'll take giving four baths in one day if it means I get to hold a little one's hand as he falls asleep. I'll take scrubbing poop out of the carpet if it means I get to hear "Mommy, I love you" countless times a day. I'll take the sticky kitchen floor if it means I get sticky little hands on my belly wanting to feel the baby kick. I'll take the mess that regenerates as fast as I clean it up, because this season is beautiful in it's own way even when I'm too tired and grumpy to see it.

I'll take it all and I'll embrace it, because I'll sure miss it when it's gone.

Do the needful

I am tired and everything seems More. More demanding, more frequent, more weighty, more.

Two babies need their diapers changed and all three of them need lunch and I need food and the breakfast dishes are still on the table and my bladder is weighing in with its own demands and all of it needs to be attended to now but I only have two hands!

Overwhelmed by the growing urgency of all that must be done, I stop, remind myself: Do the next thing. Simply do the next needful thing.

I clear a space on the floor and kneel amidst the sea of toys to change two diapers.

I move the breakfast dishes to the dishwasher and empty the rest of the table.

I set one baby in front of his mama-sent lunch and begin slicing fruit and veggies for my own boys, scooping hummus and tearing up pitas and peeling boiled eggs.

They begin eating and I slip away to the bathroom, then return and eat my own lunch.

Everything is calm again.

Just do the next needful thing.

Again later in the evening, everything demands attention at once. Dinner is finished and the table needs to be cleared and the pots need to be washed and the laundry needs to be switched over before bedtime and it's time to start the boys on tidying up the living room and the floor needs to be swept and once again my bladder is making its presence known (thanks to the tiny human sitting on it) and oh, deep breath. Just do the next thing.

I feel annoyance rising as I move quickly from one task to the next, but then I remember: All is worship when done as worship. Thank you, Lord, for these dirty dishes, because it means that we have food. Thank you for this warm water. Thank you for the happy, if slightly chaotic, day that led to this mess. Thank you for this opportunity to serve. Thank you for this home.

I wash the pots while the dishwasher takes care of the dishes, humming along beside me, my steady companion in this daily repetitive work. Soon everything is done - laundry, sweeping, tidying - and children are ready for bed and I know the exhale will soon come.

In the meantime, I will simply do the next needful thing.

Thanksgiving

For the life you have given us, in this world and the next...

for the love of family, friends, and God...

for the laughter born of rich joy...

thank you, Lord.