The Nutcracker

Off to see the Nutcracker.

Leaving three sad sick ones behind . . .

(though we're the only two who were going to go anyway)


Lights, tulle, glittery snow, little bags of cookies and lots of applause -- we both loved it.

Love

Diamonds . . .

         Roses . . .

             Cruises on the Caribbean . . .

                                  All nothing compared to this gift of love:


Cleaning up someone else's throw up.  Someone who just downed a huge glass of deep purple pomegranate juice.  Someone who got a violent and quick flu -- hours after baby girl (so I was already knee-deep in another flavor . . .).

This is love.  Being on your hands and knees scrubbing your love's insides spewed out.

Merry Christmas, love.

The Trinity

I like this picture of the Trinity.

At first it kind-of turned me off.  The picture was quite small on a page of my book and it looked like God the Father was tolerating (at best) holding his son . . .  rolling his eyes as if Jesus was a bit too smelly or dramatic.

But in this enlarged, lightened version, I see no sense of eye-rolling or exasperation. . . which greatly improved my opinion of this painting.  I'm sure seeing it in real life is amazing.

I came across this picture in September and it hasn't left me yet.  I think about it all the time.  I love the image that God, sitting on God's throne, is this grouping: Father, Son and Holy Spirit, all cozy and making a complete picture of love . . . of sacrifice.

A trio of oneness.  A family.  The fullness of God.

On a throne.

Being love.


I like it.


The Trinity (Father, Son and Holy Ghost as a dove).  Left wing of a triptych.  Robert Campin (1378-1444).

The Tuesday Run

Do I run because I love life?

Or do I love life because I run?

That is the question.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care

Jingle All the Way

I just bought The Johnny Mann Singers "We Wish You A Merry Christmas" album on itunes.

These are the songs I grew up listening to -- the album that always played as we brought in our Christmas tree and decorated it.

Oh for lovely.

The music floods me with warmth, cheerfulness, and the hush of a dark room lit by tiny colored lights.

These songs are my childhood. . . . pure happiness . . . true joy.

And now, starting today, these songs will be my children's childhoods too.

Like all good things to pass from generation to generation: faith, compassion, service, kindness, tiny twinkling colored lights, and now, The Johnny Mann Singers.

Jingle all the way.

Bathroom Monday

It's Monday.

          So I clean my bathroom.

I love a clean bathroom.

A clean bathroom is inviting

               welcoming

                              fresh

      and . . . . well . . . clean.


I can feel ok putting my baby girl on the floor when I have to.


I've never been great with chores until I finally started putting them on a schedule.  I'm good with schedules.  And check-lists.  And charts.  And anything that puts thoughts into neat and tidy packages.

I'm not good with scattered.  Though many times that's how I roll.

But I've finally reeled in my chores and they are scattered no longer.  And now I enjoy them.  And even look forward to them.   (On Thursdays I may look at my bathroom, give a sigh, and then comfort myself with the fact that it will be taken care of on Monday.)

Nice.

Do all humans thrive on order?  Or just some . . . ?

     Are there people out there that thrive on chaos?

 Though my desk is chaos . . . and my many piles of mail . . . and piles of piles piled inside bags piled on each other under my desk to be taken care of when I have time . . .  I don't thrive on that.  It actually sucks me dry.

I thrive on order . . . and a tidy little seven day schedule.


Maybe we were created that way . . . (you think?)

                        with some extra time just to rest.

Nice.

The Broken Crayon

It's bad news when your red crayon gets broken.

  By your brother.

    In the middle of a worship service.

      While your mom is up front with her guitar.

        Leading a singing response.

          In the middle of the prayers.

So what do you do?

Easy.

  You scream. "Mommy!  Mooooommmmy!  Ba-zer broke my crayon!"

    And you keep at it until snot is flowing down your face
                             and your eyes are red-rimmed and tragic
                                        and your volume is at an impressive scream-level.



And your mommy --

                   actually puts her guitar down and comes to give you a snug.

   right in the middle of leading a singing response during the prayers.



And isn't that what worship is for?

So we can scream and cry and bring our broken pieces to God . . . .

         So we can let the snot flow . . . . and the tragedy show in our red-rimmed eyes . . .

   So we can be embraced by the arms around us . . . holding us . . . loving us . . .
                      through our impossible moments.


Isn't that why we go?

      To be embraced when we need it.

          To do the embracing when others need it.

      To be reminded that God is the master of rebuilding the broken.


Crayons and all.

Storybook Market

Farmer's Market Saturday . . . was like stepping inside a beloved storybook.


The air -- crisp and cool,

         the colors -- dancing . . . laughing . . .

                    the smell of kettle corn curling around us

as we picked up some fresh farm eggs from Nicole's chickens, Basin City peaches for a future pie, delicate zucchini for some warm bread, and a trio of sweet knitted hats for the babes.

It was a page out of one of my favorite fall books: Let It Fall.

There we were: tasting, smelling, laughing . . . just like the sweet drawn family of five.

How could it get better?

But it did!  Running into friends . . . taking time to chat . . . to wrestle (Blazer, not me), to share mini donuts dusted with powdered sugar . . . and warmth.


The bounty is plentiful . . .

                     the grace is abundant.

       Let it fall.

Born to Live

It's *Fun Friday* and we're loving life.


I've been reading a fascinating book called Born to Run by Christopher McDougall.  It's all about people who love life and who love to run (and perhaps run because they love life . . . or love life because they run . . . ?)

I may start running barefoot because of this book.  But the jury's still out -- I still have 1/4 of the book to go.


To celebrate loving life today . . .

Blazer pulled out his red skinny jeans to wear to school -- complete with a red striped polo shirt, red striped socks (and even red underwear, I was informed.)

Dash is running around in his Spiderman costume and mask -- and looks quite dashing with all those pillowy muscles.

Ryan is helping justice to be served as Juror Number One in Superior Court.

Finley is a snuggle bug today (most likely because she's sporting a fever) . . . and I've been sitting and holding her and reading my book.

Brilliant Day!


At the close of yesterday, I was at Park #3 with my three little sweets -- sun was setting -- chill in the air -- and the breeze was blowing wisps of Finley's cinnamon-streusel hair straight up in the hair.  She was smiling and squinting into the breeze -- embraced in the moment of joy.

Born to run . . .

       Born to love . . .

             Born to live . . .

We are the Running, Loving, Living People of God.

(and that, of course, includes you.)

Countdown to Kindergarten

Two days before Kindergarten!

Glue?  Check.

  Glue sticks?  Check.

     Crayons (24)?  Check.

         Box of markers (10)?  Check.

            Box of McQueen Kleenex?  Check.

Eight dollars and fifty-five cents later we are on our way.

This boy knows how to stick to a list.

I love the smell of crayons, a stack of paper neat and clean, the sound of pencils being sharpened, a new, unmarked datebook full of possibilities.

And that's just it -- brand new school supplies mark a beginning as yet untouched, unmarked, and un-mussed.  

                 The choice of words I used may suggest that: maybe I like brand new school supplies because they have the possibility of perfection.

Yikes.  I've never considered that before, but it seems to hit the nail on the head.

Perfectionism is one of those long-standing values passed down through my family tree.  So that's a tough one to wrestle with for me.

But I'm working on it -- have been for years.

And it's working . . . .

       I'm re-learning to see the beauty in imperfection.  I can imagine the new possibilities of a fuzzy picture or a broken plate or a tattered page.  I can re-shape a mis-shape into something new.

And those things I don't have the power to make new . . . shattered dreams, mis-shapen bodies, bottomless grief . . . 

      

                      are held in the hands of the Mosiac-Maker . . . 

                                          Jesus.

A mosiac is countless times more breathtaking than something "whole" and perfect and untouched -- 

          because the wholeness doesn't come from a lack of marks or cracks or mess-ups . . . 

Wholeness is completeness . . . 

                    peace . . . 

                          fullness . . . 

                               rest . . . 

      in the One whom all things broken are made whole.

How's that for a Kindergarten lesson?

Tales from Montana -- Milkshakes

If the gift of family could be compared to the sweetness of a milkshake . . . 

then being friends with your family would be one of those milkshakes served in a fancy tall, curved glass, adorned with loads of fresh whipped cream, a round cookie-straw, and a cherry on top.  Oh yes, accompanied by that stainless-steel refill, ice-cold to the touch.  Maybe even sprinkles . . . well, of course sprinkles.

Yum.

Yup.  I'd say being friends with your family is that good.  Probably even better.

What a joy to take a trip to visit family . . . and end up visiting friends -- because they are one and the same.

I love that I'm good friends with my brother.  How cool is that?  I love that Melissa is one of my best friends.  Extra cool.   I love that we take the time to visit . . . and share . . . laugh . . . and talk . . . and best of all . . . 

 drink milkshakes . . . 

 under a sweet milkshake Montana sky.

Tales from Montana -- Brother Pastor

My brother Joel is now a pastor.  So that makes him Pastor Joel.  Or, for me, Brother Pastor.  (Or perhaps, Pastor Brother?)

He's new and fresh and barely out of the starting blocks.  I'm incredibly proud of him . . . and incredibly excited for the journey he and his wife, Melissa, are beginning.

Really he should be Pastor Brother times two.  He's serving two churches in two towns in beautiful north-central Montana.  

We got to see their new church homes:

Messiah Lutheran in Havre

The boys were playing "Pastor".  Hey!  Now there's three pastors!

Check out Blazer.  Nice.

Stained glass-ness.

Christ Lutheran in Big Sandy

Checking out the Christmas costumes.

Playing in Aunt Melissa's new preschool room.

Dead bat in the garbage can.  Double nice.

Church family tree

 Uncle Pastor with the boys

New Preschool Teacher Melissa & Pastor Uncle Brother

And so the journey begins --
   
       or more appropriately, continues.

Because we're always beginning new journeys . . . which string together . . . new into old . . . old into new . . . continuing the beautiful, messy journey called life.

Amen, brother!

Tales from Montana -- The Destination

The destination: Big Sandy, Montana

Population: 750

What do you do when you reach Big Sandy, Montana?

Well, we . . .

Cooked, 

ate, 

played pretend baseball with a pretend mitt and batt,

slept . . .

a lot, 

did tricks, 

sat on the front stoop,

played tag, 

and cooked some more.

A full-circle stay involving all the good things in life:

   Family

      Food

         Fun

            and Sleep.

I can almost call it home.

Tales from Montana -- The Journey

I've been listening to country music lately. First time in my life.

I blame Montana.


A week ago today we returned from our Montana trip.

The journey there was quite pleasant.  We took our time.  We stopped a lot.  We turned a 585 mile trip into a two-full-days journey.  Dash didn't throw up too many times.  And he has impeccable aim.  Really.  He always made it into his plastic red cup.

What else did we do?

Well . . .

We hung out with some Silver Valley mining families.

We drove miniature trains.

We danced.

We spent the night in a hotel.

We enjoyed the summer breeze in our hair.

We've heard it once, we've heard it a thousand times: It's not about the destination, it's about the journey.

Here's to slowing down . . . 

     enjoying the view . . .

          and letting the wind play with our hair.

The Run

As I tightened the black laces on my retired sneakers, I could feel it:  it was the evening for the perfect run.

      the warm summer air full and expectant  --
           a whisper-breeze light on my skin

My lungs:  squeezed and full

   My legs: strong and stretched

       My body in a place of physical happiness.

Photo by Hillary Kalmbach, Moses Lake

And then a feast for the eyes . . .

       Pink-grey clouds thick and churning in stillness . . .
                               
                                      a feather-soft heaviness in the sky

 suddenly . . . amazingly . . .

           flooded by gold       cracking through the cloud seams --
             
                    breaking through darkness
           
                            splitting the sky into golden shards of beauty.


The work of a master artist --  with impeccable timing -- in a grand show for those who dare to see.

Who dare to believe

Brilliance.

Popsicles for Two

Summertime . . . when the livin' is easy.

Summertime . . . when you can sit on the front stoop and eat popsicles wearing only underwear . . .



I remember years ago, as a new summer camp counselor, sharing stories of my faith journey with the other counselors.  When I closed my eyes and pictured Jesus, I always saw him sitting next to me on a porch swing, sipping lemonade.  There we were, Jesus and me, enjoying the comfortable silence of sharing a swing-built-for-two on a perfect summer afternoon.

That image has stayed with me -- comfortable, golden and smile-inducing.


Maybe next time we'll try some popsicles.

County Fair

 There's nothing like a family outing to the county fair.

Cows

Pigs

Snow Cones

Fire Trucks

Goats

and a million bales of straw.

It's a quaint, wholesome family affair . . .

                      like a step into another world . . .

                                              gently cupped in this world's hands.

Demo Derby

It's not a demo derby unless there's dirt in your teeth.

Could it be that the county fair demolition derby is one of the quintessential American events?

Country music, fireworks and red rope licorice.


Yup.  That's about right.

Sharing Secrets. Sharing Life.

I've been practicing the "awareness examen" every night for some time now.  It's a delicious way to fall asleep -- looking back over the day and asking:

For what moment am I most grateful today?

For what moment am I least grateful?

It's a way to help identify moments of connection -- moments when I feel most alive -- more transparent to God and more loving toward other people.  It's also a way to identify disconnection, depletion and a sense of being blocked to the presence of God, others or myself.  It's a way to notice God in the tiny details -- and large moments -- of life.  When patterns begin to emerge, that's when I can really start to gain insight and (hopefully) change, deepen and grow.

I very recently started doing the examen with specific people or events in mind -- my three children, my husband, moments in ministry.


Today I played "Restaurant" for nearly an hour with my five year old.  He was clad in a red robe and red stretchy gloves -- a chef that cooked at such high speeds, he looked like a cloud of red dust.  I was ordering amazing delicacies -- most of them containing special ingredients such as chocolate chips, cream and cherries on top.

As I sit and hold that moment . . . I smile.  It was a time of completely putting all tasks and to-do's aside -- and completely focusing on my son.  He let me in on some delicious secrets (like who he's going to marry) and created a new identity as a dad, husband and "best chef in the world."  It was a pure moment.  A moment of sharing secrets . . . of sharing life.

Today my two year old ran into my legs, threw his arms around me and shouted "Mommy!  Mommy!" after missing me for two hours. A surprise gift of love -- a gift of joy.

My little baby girl broke out into whole body laughter when I looked at her and repeated some word I can't even remember now.

These moments -- suspended in time -- all connected because I was so real and present and in the moment.  All connected because they are gifts.  A pattern emerges day after day . . . my grateful moments are always when I'm present and connected and in the moment with my children.

I should do it more often.

Another pattern has become glaringly obvious . . . my least grateful moment always involves my desk.  It is so full and cluttered and screaming with important tasks I'm supposed to be doing that it's difficult to think.  So my question is: what does this mean?  What am I supposed to change or do or tweak so that this desk doesn't continue to drain life from me?

I'll continue to wrestle . . . and pray . . . and listen . . .

And maybe throw on some red stretchy gloves and cook up a storm.