Chesed

I am so excited to be hosting several book giveaways here on my blog in the next few weeks! I was going to be all organized and do one giveaway per week, but I really wanted to do all of them before Christmas so I think I’m going to hurry them up a bit and post one every few days.

I’ve contacted a few authors I know personally (or who have written for advice in their own publishing journey so it feels like I know them) to see if they’d like to give away a copy of their book and all of them have said yes. Which means *happy dance* you get the chance to win a free book. And they get the chance to expand the world of people who know about their book.

I will leave each giveaway open for one week. And just because we’re getting close to Christmas time and I think it’s fun, I’m going to do gift suggestion photo with each one (hopefully). Just for the record though, the other items are suggestions only. Most of these are being shipped directly from the author to you, not from me to you so the other items are my brain tangent only. Not part of the giveaway.

Stay tuned!

If someone were to ask you what the hot topic of 2011 is, how would you answer? There are probably several. But the one I keep noticing over and over is themed around grace. Everyone is talking about grace these days. Soapboxes start up and take off.

I need more grace. As in, I need to learn to extend more grace. (Kind of need it extended more, too. ). But something keeps niggling for me. Especially as I watched several discussions on grace disintegrate into differing layers of “don’t judge anything.” It’s almost as though people have a hang up with it. One person starts soapboxing on the don’t judge others subject. Someone else comes along and says, “Hey, you know we need to be careful that we aren’t judging the people who are judging.” And the next person comes along and starts saying, “Hey, don’t judge her. She wasn’t judging those people. She was just making a point.”

It’s almost funny.  Except that it’s not.  All of those points are true and things to think about, but sometimes it feels as though instead of all extending grace, we’re all just getting our you know what in a wad. We’re talking the talk, but not walking the walk. Why is that? Trust me, I’m a really big fan of not being judged. Especially falsely. Judgement hurts. Actually, it can kill.  I love that the current hot topic is one that teaches us to look with bigger eyes, a God-perspective, and less narrow horizons. But why is it not always working?

Is it because we sometimes misrepresent grace with poorly disguised relativism?

There’s a pretty big difference between grace and relativism.

Relativism ignores truth. Pretends all is good. It does not bother to find out what truth is but withdraws in an “I’m ok; you’re ok” mentality. Relativism doesn’t have to get involved; it keeps it’s fingers from getting messy. Relativism removes me from the risk of accountability.

Grace sees truth and loves anyway. It loves the unlovely. It believes in. Hopes for. Grace finds the elements of good in someone to speak well of. Not because it doesn’t see the bad, but because grace is mercy in action. Grace looks into the face of evil and sees the potential for redemption. Grace reaches out a hand — even if it means getting dirty.

Relativism is passive
Grace is active.

Relativism is amoral.
Grace is truth shrouded in mercy and love.

Relativism walks away.
Grace embraces.

Grace is a gift that can only be given to others when we’ve learned to accept it ourselves.

I have a lot of fears. More than I’d like to admit, really. One of the things I was most afraid of growing up was walking into a new situation. I hated visiting churches because I dreaded Sunday School in a strange church. What if I didn’t know where to go? What if no one talked to me? My parents weren’t of the easy, oh-you-can-just-stay-with-me variety and I had to go. Never once did I get lost, but neither did I ever stop being afraid until I hit twelve or thirteen.

I hated talking to strangers. What if I didn’t know what to say? What if they didn’t talk? And true to form, my mom didn’t let me off the hook there either. We HAD to go talk to visitors at our church. When we said, “BUT MOM ….” she just smiled sweetly and said, “You can either go talk to her by yourself or I’ll go with you.” Trust me. That was plenty of motivation to move on my own. Not that my mom wasn’t nice. And not that having her along wouldn’t have made the conversation start easily. But the hey-my-mom-is-here-because-I’m-too-shy-to-talk connotation was beyond embarrassing.

It happened everywhere. Even a brand new restaurant was enough to make me nervous. There’s probably a phobia name for people like me.

Then I went to college. I’d never been to public school. Our eNORmous private school of ninety-six students, ninety percent of which attended the same church I did, did little to prepare me for the culture shock of being alone. I went to school and stayed in the same classroom. Suddenly I was navigating classrooms and class schedules and learning how to use a microscope in a lab with thirty other kids who knew what they were doing. Scared? You have no idea. For the first two weeks I ate my lunch in the car just for some space and safety.

Then I met Holly and a few more friends. By then I’d aced the first few tests and discovering that my private school education actually did hold water and I wasn’t going to be light years behind gave me another shot of confidence. Before long I was hanging out in the cafeteria with friends as long as I could between classes and transferring to a different community college because the honors program was better and the clinicals practiced at a bigger hospital. Finally, new things weren’t quite so horrible. I felt twinges with every new semester as I once again found new classes, but it was better. Way better.

Fast forward a few years down the road and I’d lost all the fear. I’d learned that getting lost is as easy as asking directions. That no one kicks you out when you make a mismove out of ignorance. And best of all, my instructors had drilled the “There is no such thing as a dumb question” concept into my head well enough to take care of the rest.

Now, almost eight years into this journey of stay at home mom, I feel the woolies creeping back in. I find myself afraid to try. Afraid to risk. Afraid of new situations that take me out of my comfort zone. And I do not like it. Not one little bit.

So last week when I got a phone call from a research group, I tentatively hung on. They asked a million and one questions about my history, work, education, and who I was associated with. Best I could tell, they were performing research on something either related to business or law and they would pay me $125 for six hours of my time. Compared to book royalties, that looks like a millionaire in the making. She kept asking questions and I kept hedging. “But do you realize that I am a stay at home mom and that I am not abreast of what is going on in this area? I mean, I don’t even have TV.”

“Yes, I know, but we want a wide variety of people. You don’t have to know about this stuff. You just have to be able to express your opinion.”

By the time we’d talked for thirty minutes I was convinced it was not a hoax. I was equally convinced that I was trying to get her to disqualify me so that I wouldn’t have to face my fears. I mean come on, she couldn’t even tell me what I was going to be stating my opinions about.

I signed up. 1. Because I could really use $125. 2. Because I knew it was time to face my fears head on and make them go away.

I was nervous. Really nervous. And I went back to pulling out all the old coping techniques. “You can’t do anything worse than mess up. It’s ok to say, ‘I don’t know.’ This is going to be good for you. Think about it being fun. Stop thinking about yourself.”

Oddly enough, by the time I got to the {very nice} hotel, I was excited. I saw plenty of other people walking in with the print out in hand and I knew it was all going to be ok. Signed in. Remembered to smile. Sat down to fill out paperwork and suddenly realized this was not about market research at all. I was essentially becoming a juror in a medical malpractice lawsuit and my “opinion” was not only an opinion, it was going to change the course of the lawsuit. I thought perhaps the wording was wrong. But nope. Flipping through a few more pages I noticed juror # ___ on each page. Rats.

I walked back out to where I’d signed in. “I’m so sorry, but I didn’t realize I was actually about to become a juror and I cannot morally incriminate someone. I was told on the phone this was about business. I did not in any way mean to lead you on in regards to my participation.”

And just like that I hear a deep voice from three feet in front of me. “Yeah, they told me that, too, and I can’t act as a juror either.” I don’t know what you’d expect when you hear that, but I did not expect to see a twenty something male with long dark hair, darker sunglasses, and a bit of modern hippie in his demeanor. Just saying, he must have been as wide left on moral issues as I was wide right.

They were incredibly kind. Gave us both $40 for showing up and told us they couldn’t tell us it was about a lawsuit because plenty of people would jump in just for that reason because they want revenge. I was bummed.

At first I was bummed mostly because I really wanted that $125. AND the lunch cart was just rolling in. But as more of the afternoon rolled by, I realized that I was equally bummed by other losses. The thought of a medical ethics discussion has me absolutely salivating. I KNOW that moms are oh, so important. I know that in my head. My job and times with the boys is priceless. Blah blah blah. I really do believe it. And I wouldn’t trade it or else I’d be doing something else. This is voluntary. I just wish I could do two things at once. Because being there made me realize how much I miss being involved on an adult level and feeling as though you are actually a valuable, contributing member of society.

But hey, it was fun getting dressed up. And I did face my fears and go so I still win. Now maybe I can work on one of the next ones on the list. Anyone want to go with me? (Who said I learned anything?)

The whole kitchen smells like apples being cooked into sauce … probably because that’s what is actually happening. Three apples are lined up on the kitchen sink as a visual encouragement to make apple dumplings. Why do I dislike messy baking so much?

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On another note, I feel sorry for anyone who does not have a three year old in their house. If there were one year in childhood that I could freeze, three would be it. Potty trained. Past the main tantrums if they’re going to happen. Talking well enough to avoid frustrating communication blocks but not well enough to lose their little person cuteness. Three year olds are mostly comprised of giggles, stories, hugs, emerging critical thinking and puzzle solving skills, and appropriate independence (as opposed to the sassy I-can-do-it-myself when they really can’t).

Liam is three. Today I watched his face when he washed a big bowlful of apples for me. I followed his eyes when he poured sugar on top of ice chunks for the tea I was brewing. It’s all still new and fun. Without a word from me, he notices the way the apple feels under running water. He watches the little drops spray off the side. He turns it upside down and watches the little cavity in the bottom hold water when he moves it toward the bowl. He slowly moves the measuring cup in circular movements across the ice, watching. Always watching. And I want to tell him, “never lose that.” Some day it won’t be sugar spray or water droplets. But never lose the wonder and the fascination of learning.

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11/1/11
Favorite facebook status of the day (from David’s cousin, Virginia): “I can’t get the ones in the right place when I write today’s date.”

Good one, Ginny! Good one!

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And a few funny quotes from Liam in case your day really needed some laughter sneaked into the crevices:

I bought a cassette about zoology at Goodwill for the boys and Liam especially listens to it over and over. The other day he walked out to the kitchen and said, “Mommy, did you know you are a mammal?”

Another day I saw him standing in the living room with a Bible Story book. Apparently he was getting ready to preach to his imaginary congregation. In his most commanding voice he said, “There was a guy sent from God and his name was Johnny Appleseed.”

One Tuesday morning he started begging for a marshmallow well before 9:00 in the morning. Of course I said, no. “But marshmallows have protein,” he insisted. Good try, little man. Although it appears I may be soloing this journey to healthful eating. When I told David the story later he said, “Boy after my own heart.”

Liam was in a particularly happy mood today. When it was getting close to nap time I sent him into the living room to clean up his playthings. “This will be fascinating!” he said.
What will be?
“Picking up my toys!”

The bossiness is the one two year old trait that is not disappearing at all. In fact, I think it’s getting more pronounced. The other day he said, “Can you turn the light on?” I didn’t say anything, just quietly flipped the switch. Liam promptly said, “Say sure I can.”

But my favorite of all are his prayers … at least when he branches outside of the “Fank you dat we tan hab a dood day and fank you for our food” version. For a few weeks almost every prayer started out like this, “Fank you dat Dod {God} tould hab a dood {good} day in heaben ….”

And the one that has me working the hardest not to crack up in front of him is his passionate singing of “All God’s critters got a place in the choir.” It’s just way too many wrong enunciations in one sentence combined with phenomenal vocal emphasis. His version goes like this, “All Dod’s titters dot a pace in du tire.”

Ten thousand moments dashing around in my brain …. sentences pounding away in one corner, words bouncing off walls, thoughts echoing in cavernous places, wordless, indescribable emotions …….  It’s been a big month here so far.  Some of it good.  Some of it not.  The kind of month that makes you thank God for His grace, a journal, and skype. 

I’m still processing a lot of things and feeling kind of incapable of words anywhere.  It’s time for a midnight cup of something good to drink or a bowl of ice cream and a lot of quietness without a deadline in the morning so I can unstop at least two of three big things and get some closure by writing.  Stay tuned for Mac’s story first.  Some days I wish I didn’t feel things so deeply.  But then I remember what my friend, Anita, told me once when we were discussing the lucky people who stay even-keeled …. “Yeah, but they don’t get the fun of being over the top excited about something like we do either.”  So here’s to hot air ballooning someday soon.

So until that late night happens, here are a few snapshots of random happenings at our house this month.

Sometimes drawing gets really noisy:


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My $10 investment at staving off the blues this winter:
  

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Goldi runs around our yard freely thanks to an Invisible Fence system.  Whenever she goes into heat, we lock her up in the kennel.  Well, except for last time when David forgot.  So she’s in the kennel again this week.  But this guy is passionate let me tell you.  We found him IN the kennel with her busily trying to establish a lineage.  Not kidding.  David dragged him out and filled in the hole where he’d dug himself in.  But abstinence was not to be.  Three more times he had to be drug off and out and finally at ten that night we called animal control.  Can’t say I blame the sheriff for snickering.  David walked the dog down the road to knock on doors and finally found his owner who promised to keep him in the house. 



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Not every night, but often, the boys get lucky enough to double piggy-back ride up the stairs to bed.  Every time it happens I get one of those heart-jerk reactions in my chest.  Their ecstatic giggles as they desperately climb up daddy’s back before he can change his mind.  The way they cling to his head and hair as his eyes wince once or twice.  The sparkle times ten in their eyes. The way Liam’s big toe curls up like it always does when he’s excited.  And somehow I know that even if they never remember the actual rides, there’s a little love memory layer being established in their heart piggy banks.  Love.  Fun.  Excitement.  Security.  There should be a word that means all of those in one. 



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One of my favorite memories of this month: Learning how to make sushi from my Japanese neighbor.
She brought a platter of amazing sushi to our neighborhood cookout this summer and David, Adam, and I fell in love.  So, so incredibly yummy.  And what a gift to learn from her.



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The boys and I made our third annual trip to the apple orchard.  The first year was definitely the best.  Maybe it was perfect because David was along.  Maybe it was perfect because it was our first out the door experience after keeping Liam on weeks of isolation.  Maybe it really was just perfect.  Last year would have been fun except that I put the boys newest khaki pants on them thinking of the cute pictures.  Wrong move.  They have one of the best exhibitions of orange mud at the orchard ever.  Combine that and steep banks and little boy legs.  Otherwise it was fun, except Liam was a grouch because he’d missed a nap.  This year I put boots on them, determined to have the best experience ever.  It was fun except I think we went too late in the season.  We found all of FOUR apples to pick off the trees in spite of walking and walking and walking.  The boys were super good sports about it.  I was so proud of them.  The apple cider donuts were as yummy as ever.  And the apple cider they make is unlike anything I have ever tasted in my life.  Seriously, I don’t even usually like cider.  Theirs?  It tastes like it was made in the Garden of Eden. 
   


   


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Last warm evening at the park while David went to a board meeting = happiness:


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Another heart-jerking mom moment.  We were trying to get out the door and like normal got the boys ready first.  I told Adam to read stories to Liam while we finished getting ready and when I got downstairs I saw this.  Melt me. 


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So I promised to find a little beauty in fall.  Can’t say I’ve had a big heart change about the season, but I have found snippets of beauty.  And my taste buds are once again licking pumpkin.  A bit of eye candy …
October skies and color throbs:
     


 
 
 






and my favorite: the view from our back deck this morning:


Happy weekend everyone!

Gorgeous posts and pictures about autumn are popping up everywhere.

My sentiments about the season usually run more like this as I yank out over the hill flowers along the front walk:

“A thousand lavender tear drops surrounding freshly dug graves.”

Fall just feels like death to me.

So this month I am going to try, really try, to find nice things about fall. Or at least something less morbid. Because if fall is here, that means January and the “s” word cannot be far behind. I think that will be easier now that the antibiotics are kicking at the pneumonia and replacing the coughing with energy.

Maybe. Someone please pass me some extra Vitamin D.

If you actually want to be inspired about fall, go here.

It’s the week of natural disasters that actually haven’t been disasters. At least so far. Tuesday my mom and my sister, Beth, and Christy’s boys were here for the day. The four oldest boys were outside playing while the two little ones and both girls were inside. We were in the middle of a pretty involving discussion when suddenly there was a strange rumbling sound. It wasn’t that loud, yet very commanding. And then the house began to shake. At first I ignored it thinking it was the children playing rambunctiously on the deck. Just as quickly I remembered there were no children on the deck. We all went silent. I looked at Beth and said, “What is that?” And in the same somewhat dazed expression she said, “That’s an earthquake.”
 


Immediately I sprang into action and everyone else followed. “Head for the basement,” I yelled, grabbing Ian on my way out. Only later did I realize I’d done exactly the wrong thing (Never be on the stairs or in a doorway and go out, not down). Mom and Beth collected children and followed suit. About the time I got downstairs I saw the open door and realized I didn’t want a house on top of me. Knees and ground still shaking, I moved through the door. The boys were out by the dog house digging up tree roots because Zachary had convinced them that it was actually a fossil … a dinosaur knee to be exact.

“Adam, are you guys safe?”

He paused a moment and said, “I think so.”

And then the shaking stopped. At least in the ground. I’m not really sure when it stopped in my knees.

We sat outside for the next ten minutes, barely daring to go back into the house. The sky was so blue, the air so clear, a few flimsy clouds hanging in the sky …. Had I been alone I would have wondered if I dreamed it all up. “So if we’d be phlegmatics, we’d probably all still be sitting in the house saying, ‘oh, yeah, that must have been an earthquake’,” I told Mom and Beth as we got ready to go back inside. I was wrong. Facebook exploded with earthquake related statuses and both there and the next day at school in person, everyone seemed to need to share exactly where they were, what shook, what they felt and didn’t feel. It must have been a big deal for more than just the dramatic ones of us.

My favorite facebook status was one David’s aunt borrowed from a friend. “The Weather Channel says yesterday’s east coast earthquake was caused by an unknown faultline running under D.C. and through Virginia. It is now being called Obama’s Fault, though Obama will say it’s really Bush’s Fault. Another theory is that it was the founding fathers rolling over in their graves, but I believe what we all thought was an earthquake was actually the effects of a 14.6 trillion dollar check bouncing in Washington.”

This one from my cousin, Craig, (also borrowed from a friend) was a close runner-up: “As all of DC leaves work at the same time, the United States experiences a brief economic recovery.”

This article was a fun read.

They rated the quake at 5.8. That evening David went to visit our former neighbor, Mac. His story breaks my heart. It’s taking more heart-wrenching turns and I wish so much he were still our neighbor so we could stop in more often and easily. I gave the boys an early supper and headed for town because the school shoes I ordered for Adam didn’t fit. On the way home we were verbally processing the quake. I asked him how it was outside.



“Well, actually I thought it was a sami (he always pronounces it sami instead of semi) and Daddy’s truck coming in the lane at the same time. You know how the ground feels when a big sami goes past? Well, it felt like that and I heard Daddy’s ladder racks so I thought it was Daddy’s truck and a sami. But then I thought Daddy had pulled up to that place where he stops and backs down but the noise kept on going and then Lawrence said, “What was that?”



I asked him if he remembers what an earthquake is from his Big Book of Knowledge and he said yes. We talked about the quakes in Haiti and Japan and how the damage is so much less likely to be extensive here than Haiti because of the way our structures are built. We talked about the Richter scale. And then because I thought everything was over, I told him about the minor damage in Louisa and how some ceiling tiles fell and a few other minor damage issues.

It was time for bed as soon as we got home and he was supposed to be pulling on his pajamas when he wandered into my bedroom and said, “That story kind of scared me.”

I’d kind of forgotten about earthquakes by then.

“What story?”

“Well, no, not the telling of the story.”

“But what story?”

“Well, no, it didn’t affect me personally. Just those ceiling tiles.”

Oh, pumpkin. Where do you cook up that wording? Seriously. But boy, did I regret having told him all of that at 7:30 the night before school started for the year. We talked about aftershocks and how they are usually less than the initial quake. And if there isn’t structural damage in the initial one, then we probably don’t have to fear the aftershocks. But I also told him that I can’t promise him that, because it’s God who is in control of the world. Not us. And we really will never know what is going to happen next. He seemed to understand. And to feel less afraid. So he went back to the bathroom to brush his teeth and I was changing Liam into his pajamas. And just like that, the rumble started and once again the whole house jittered. 4.2 I saw the look in his eyes when I called him to come to the bedroom as soon as it started. I saw him come bravely back when it stopped and he finished brushing his teeth. I saw the little muscles in his arms as he pulled the covers up to his chin and I knew he was anything but relaxed. “Adam, would you like if I would stay here in bed with you until you fall asleep after we pray?” The seven year old who hates being crowded in bed and often says, “Mommy, GO,” when I lie between them uttered one word. “Yeah.”



That night I woke minutes before another aftershock. 4.5 I know all the things I told Adam, but when the boys are more than ten feet away from me, I cannot think of earthquakes as cool. Can you imagine the absolute horror of being trapped in a building and not be able to reach your child? I am not afraid of death so much as I am afraid of suffering before it happens. Funny how things change when you become a parent.

Today we are gearing up for Hurricane Irene. Apparently it’s not supposed to be a big deal after all and David and I had a bit of back and forth this morning about how much prep we should do. I kept remembering the hurricane in ’03 and the way our place way back in the mountains got trashed outside and we were left without power for almost a week. He kept saying, “Oh, it’s not going to be that bad. It’s moving up the coast.” I told him I’m the girl version of a boy scout. Always be prepared, you know. Seeing that I was roughly eight weeks pregnant and horribly nauseous the other time, my memory could be a bit skewed.

So we compromised. The patio chairs went in the basement. The table stayed on the deck. The hanging baskets went in the barn. The pots on the front porch stayed since they are protected by the house. The torches stayed in the ground. Inside the house, there are two bathtubs filled with water so we can flush toilets if the power goes out. The leftover pizza pieces are out of the freezer and thawing on the counter. I don’t mind eating cold pizza if the microwave goes, but it won’t do us any good frozen. The five gallon igloo is filled with drinking water. David braved the media-panicked masses at Whole Foods yesterday to stock up on ham and hot dogs for Liam in case we can’t cook. I’m thinking that in spite of all the talk about the hurricane hurting the economy, things will actually get a boost from all the people going out and buying big storage bins and things to fill them for their survival kits. Seriously, does no one stock toilet paper and band-aids and food enough to get them through a few days without a mass exodus to every grocery store in town? Shop your cupboards, people.



I love storms like this. Probably mostly because I love wind. I remember the wind in South Carolina and how I would sway into it, trying to stay upright. I remember wishing it would pick me up off the ground just a little. When Mom and Dad built in Virginia, they bought a few acres on top of a hill. There is always wind there. When others get a breeze, they have gusts. Sometimes when it goes on and on it gets wearying. But most of the time, wind is energizing. So this morning, sitting on the deck to finish our coffee before the clean up began, I fell in love all over again with storms and wind. Adam finally had enough wind to fly kite.

Oh, and just for the record, we won’t say who won the morning’s hash about being prepared, but the biggest potted plant I have on the front porch got blown off around 2:00. The potted plants are all inside now. Just sayin’. Then again, since David isn’t here to defend himself I’ll just tell you what he would say, “The night isn’t over yet.” And knowing how things usually go, the power won’t go off and he’ll get the last laugh. Except that we always both end up laughing. There’s only the difference in who starts first.

I hope we get lots more wind. I kind of hope the power goes off … sometime this evening after we eat our microwaved pizza. I hope the rain pounds the windows in that can’t-see-out kind of hurricane way. I hope the trees whip in the wind. I hope we get to hear the wind howling instead of whistling. But I also hope everyone stays safe.

If I wouldn’t have gotten married, I think I’d like to be a storm chaser. Funny how things change when you become a parent.

Sometimes I wonder where the quake in my heart would measure on the Richter scale. And sometimes I wonder how much of the magnitude is actually earthquake and how much of it is rubble from too much sand in my concrete like the buildings in Haiti. Or the result of media driven hype that may contain elements of truth, but is mostly not.

I love weather storms …. As long as they aren’t too dangerous and won’t hurt our children. But life storms? I’d be fine with sunshine and gentle rains.

Life isn’t like that, though. There are storms. There are periods of barrenness. There is weariness. No, make that exhaustion.

This summer it has sometimes felt as though I journeyed through a wilderness while already in the desert inside my heart. I wish I could say I see an oasis ahead, but I don’t. Maybe something more like a raging ocean. But as Ann Voscamp said, “…Catastrophizing is how we make our own soul-cages.”

Whatever battle you are fighting today, here is my wish for all of us:

Flexibility like the trees that bend and sway in the wind.

Freedom like the kites that use the winds to lift them up.

But most of all, that we would see Jesus.
Who He really is.
Who we truly are in Him.

Adam has always loved books. Now that he can read, that statement has reached superlative levels! If it’s quiet around here, one of two things is happening. Adam is sleeping or engrossed in a book.

At first, he was reading significant chapter books. Then he was diagnosed with lymes and after that week of really not feeling well, he reverted to shorter books or books with easier sentence structure. He also still loves a great picture book. It feels as though it has gotten somewhat easier to scope out the library for books he likes, but I feel so ignorant about children’s books. I suspect there are hundreds of great children’s classics I know nothing about. I wish for a great list of books to take with me on my search at the library.

Adam loves non-fiction. He loves books about space and the environment and history. Actually he likes most any story as long as it’s fairly realistic. His most common question about a book … “Mommy, is this true?”

Here are a few of our recent favorites.


Lovely story about the locusts.


I love this book so much! It has the sweetest wording and pictures about life in coal mining days.


And this book is a hands down winner. Gorgeous pictures. Powerful words. I could have read it over and over again. Well, actually I did. I read it. Explained the meaning to the boys. And read it again. And again because they both liked it so much. Three times in a row. I love books like this because they are so much fun to read but they also teach in two ways. They teach about something that happened. They teach about life. They teach children how to search for meaning beyond the obvious in literature. There should be thousands of children’s books that do all three of those things.

Adam also likes The Boxcar Children and Happy Little Family (by Rebecca Caudill). Other great books we checked out last time included, An angel for Solomon Singer, Peacebound Trains, and The Relatives Came.

I’m currently reading Blue Christmas by Katrina Hoover and on her book’s facebook page she linked this list of great children’s reads. I was thrilled! We’ve only read about a quarter of them and I can hardly wait to check out more of them.

My sister in law emailed me Faith Builder’s list of recommended reading for children which looks like this:



And now it’s your turn. What are your children’s favorites?

My eyes are burning from lack of sleep.  I’m pretty sure if I closed them I’d see red and green spots dancing from watching pizza sauce bubble on the stove for such a long time.  It’s been a zucchini relish, pizza sauce kind of day. And a bake cookies kind of day because we’ve been out for way too long.  It’s also been a Liam-could-not-be-grouchier kind of day. I have no idea what happened to that sweet little boy of ours, but I want him back.  This little guy who showed up yesterday morning and seems to morph into ever louder and more distraught versions of himself is not someone I recognize or enjoy.

About three o’clock I decided that if I were a dog, I would totally have my tongue hanging out. And if I were a two year old, I would totally be having a meltdown.  And if I were an adult, I would still feel like doing both of those things.  Just when I saw that I really was going to make it til the end of the day, the orchard (from an hour away) called to say my peaches were ready, could I come pick them up today. Shake head left.  Shake head right.  Repeat.

This week is Vacation Bible School at our church.  When I heard they were still five teachers shy less than a week from the starting date, I (okay, admit it,grudgingly) called to volunteer. The only little kids class left was kindergarten one.  Art projects at my house are an internal battle for me.  I looooove to tell stories.  I like to teach,to sing, to talk.  But I do not enjoy cutting out oodles of little pieces and then helping oodles times ten little, uncoordinated fingers try to glue them in the right place.  Give me fifteen years and a wave of sentimental feelings and I bet I’ll sign up.  But for now, I am quite happily studying for the eighth grade class.  You know, the people who are completely independent when it comes to drink and snack and bathroom needs.  They know where to go and what to do and how to have fun all by themselves.  I am lucky.  I have a class of five girls.

Tonight is about worship.  I was thrilled. I’ve been thinking about worship for almost this entire summer.  Ever since a friend of mine was mentioning a very, very difficult situation she was in.  It was one of those does-not-make-one-bit-of-sense things and just seemed so wrong on several levels.  But as she described it she said, “In all of this, I just keep hearing God say, I want you to worship me.”

It pretty much stopped me in my tracks.  Not the concept of believing God in the muddle.  I don’t think that’s new to any of us.  But the word,“worship” grabbed me like it never had before.  What does it mean to really worship?

Almost every time we hear the word, it’s associated with praise as in praise & worship. The two seem to go together like cinnamon rolls and coffee.  Praise conjures up images of declared thankfulness, singing, happiness spilling out and over … well, not always, but often.  But does praise define worship?  Or is it only a part of it?

We talk about going to church to worship God as though it’s an act we can schedule into a convenient slot on our planner.

I started thinking about moments of worship described in the Bible and how people responded. Moses fell flat on his face when he saw God in the burning bush.  Balaam shut up.  Zachariah was afraid.  Simeon, when handed baby Jesus, blessed God.  Paul fell to the ground and was struck blind.

It doesn’t sound to me as though many of these people were jumping up and down with thanksgiving. Not that giving thanks isn’t important.  I love all the gratitude lists I’m seeing.  I’ve broadened my perspective on so many days of life because of fantastic women who are truly learning to give thanks in all things.  But this summer, I kept feeling that there is something more.

Maybe worship is more than the discipline of learning to be grateful.

Maybe worship is when my soul sees and responds to God.

I started thinking back to the moments when it felt as though I truly worshiped God.  Not just read about Him.  Not just talked to Him.  The moments when I saw a glimpse of Him.  Sometimes I gave thanks.  Sometimes I cried.  Sometimes I just felt dumbfounded at how big and good He really is.  But always I walked away in awe of Him.  It was like there was no room left for thoughts about how small I am in comparison.  There was only room for God in my mind.  I wish it could be like that always.  And maybe it can?  Is worship a discipline?  Or only a response?  I wish I knew that.

The more I thought about my friend’s story, the more I wondered, how much do I really worship God?  Not asking (or begging).  Not doing.  Not being.  Just recognizing His presence.

In June when the puppies were born and sold like popcorn kernels poured into hot oil, I put a few more pieces together.  God knew way back in February (when David forgot to lock up Goldi for a an important week) that we would need money for a slew of unexpected doctor’s appointments.  So he sent the neighbors’ nicest dog over to our house.  Was that chance?  I don’t think so.  God doesn’t always align dates that conveniently, but I think this summer He knew that not only were we going to need some extra cash, I needed a 101 crash course on worship. 

I told David that it suddenly makes so much sense to me why it is easier to believe when you are thirty than when you are thirteen.  When you are thirteen, you hear everyone else’s stories about God.  You hear them say that God was there for them time and again.  But you’re still waiting and watching.  And sometimes falling through the cracks.  You see God.  Then you wait in the darkness.  You feel as though your prayers are answered.  You stand reeling and faithless at yet another shattered dream. But after fifteen years, the picture begins to emerge.  You no longer doubt God’s faithfulness because you have seen it for yourself. You’ve seen the prayers that were answered.  You’ve seen the unanswered prayers and the way God carried you through them.  You’ve seen glimpses of His glory. You’ve been left in the darkness and learned that God is still there.

I can’t wait to see how much more I understand of God when I am sixty.  This summer more than ever I have come to believe that,

Worship is recognizing God in the seemingly

serendipitous happenings of my life.

But I’m still in my thirties.  And I have not yet figured out how an uncharacteristically grouchy child and a garden with an overactive thyroid can coincide well with teaching VBS.

Liam didn’t pass or fail. Who but him could be so ambiguous?

The good news is that our three hour visit went really well. The last forty-five minutes was the worst. Liam was hungry, bored, tired of that room, and reacting slightly.

The other good news is that those three hours ended up being a gift to us. Because of all the implications, they recommend no siblings come along. Thankfully it worked for Adam to go to work with David this morning. I am hardly ever alone with Liam this summer and it was so much fun. He talks a lot so I didn’t realize until today how much Adam dominates certain conversation times (like on the road) until Adam wasn’t there. Liam had time to ask all the little questions like, “Why do just those peoples get to go?” when we sat waiting for a green arrow as the cars beside us zoomed straight ahead. I can’t help it. I get little throbs of happiness every time I hear evidence of the boys’ brains expanding, noticing, learning.

We spent the three hours reading lots of stories, working on his sticker book from Peter, playing basketball, trotting down the hall to get water because it is SOO much fun to push the button, going to the bathroom, and finally me singing to him when nothing else impressed him.

He ate the full serving of egg laced cake which meant he got about 1/8 of an egg. And not until after the last bite did he pop a real hive under his ear and a red spot on an arm and a leg. His face was a little flushed, his eyes watered and itched, and his skin was scratchy. And that was that.

“So now what do we do with him?” his allergist said when we walked in the door.

Pretty much the question we’ve asked for two years.

As long as he doesn’t get diarrhea, we can try again with 1/20 of an egg in something baked after a few days. Hopefully we can desensitize his system entirely.

Right now all I want to do is sleep for a month. I’m tired of ingredients and cooking and percentages and ambiguous results. But then I’d miss out on a month full of Liam’s cuteness. Because who can resist a three year old who grabs your chin at the post office and says in a surprised tone, “You’re dute.” Both ladies around me erupted with laughter.

Liam looked a little surprised at the laughter and then when things settled down he wrapped his arms around me and in a muffled voice I heard, “I iiii ou.”

“You love me?”

“No, I ‘ike ou.”

I love you, too, Liam.