let it snow

I've been craving a good snow fall lately--not a piddly dusting, but a bona fide 7-to-8-inch-get-out-the-snow-shovels-and-hot-cocoa kind of snow that shocks you awake when you peek between the blinds in the morning. A few weeks ago I came across this quote from Wendell Berry's Hannah Coulter:

A wet snow comes in the night and covers the ground and clings to the trees, making the whole world white. For a while in the morning the world is perfect and beautiful. You think you will never forget.
You think you will never forget any of this, you will remember it always just the way it was. But you can't remember it the way it was. To know it, you have to be living in the presence of it right as it is happening. It can return only by surprise. Speaking of these things tells you that there are no words for them that are equal to them or that can restore them to your mind.

I don't know how many times I've woken to a feathery comforter of snow, but I can never quite get the picture clear in my head of those beautiful mornings. I know part of my propensity to take pictures stems from this lack of clarity. I remember furiously taking pictures of a particular glen in Scotland as the fog lifted, revealing green tufts springing through the gray monotony. To no avail. I try hard to recall the scenery, the angle of the hill, the smell of the dense, earthy air, but memory fails. Even looking at my photographs doesn't do justice; they don't feel authentic somehow.

The feeling of those snow-covered dawns lingers inside, and I want to relive that moment, bask in the radiant morning, knowing full well my mental picture will eventually fade despite my efforts to remember it exactly. It makes me wonder if our capacity for remembering beautiful scenes will improve when we are glorified and made whole. I hope so.

mysticism alive and well

Before our family Thanksgiving travels, I finished Leif Enger's Peace Like a River. It was my first exposure to Enger, and the book was brilliant. The story meanders through the Badlands in search of runaway criminal and oldest brother Davy Land, strung together by various supernatural nods to the family via the faith of its father Jeremiah Land.

Enger's book is a breath of spiritual fresh air. In an age of skepticism about all things mystical, 11-year-old narrator Reuben Land bears witness to his father's miracles. He closes his story with a statement of faith:

Is there a single person on whom I can press belief?
No sir.
All I can do is say, Here's how it went. Here's what I saw.
I've been there and am going back.
Make of it what you will.

He reminds me to bear witness to the gospel miracle free of worry about trying to move hearts. Leave that to the God of miracles.

Next up: Wendell Berry's Hannah Coulter.

bah, humbug!

Last week Saturday I had a quiet evening to myself, both my men tucked in for the night by 8:00: my little guy on account of a 7:30 bedtime, my love on account of flu symptoms.

Other than empathizing with my husband's nasty bug--which I probably passed to him earlier in the week--, the night was glorious! Before I opened a book and nestled between the couch and a blanket in my slippers, I shuffled through our CD's and settled on Tchaikovsky's "Nutcracker Suite" and one of our favorite 2-disc Christmas compilations. Ah, "Joy to the World"! The "O Holy Night" bliss!


What I want to know is who says it's too early for Christmas music? I'm under the impression that breaking out Christmas tunes before Thanksgiving is some sort of faux pas, an offense equal to displaying holiday lights and decorations well into April. Really? I think there's a significant difference between celebrating Christ's birth a little early and extending not-so-holiday-anymore cheer out of neglect. Unless, of course, the mistaken indolence is truly a man's desire to celebrate Christmas year round. To that man: "Amen" for thinking the matter through. To all the social critics: "Bah, humbug!" for calling out my blunder.

late-night results

Every other year I stayed up late on a school night to watch the election results, competitively fist pumping every time my parents'--and therefore my own--party won another state, seat, or district. I sat on the edge of the couch (and often on the floor because I couldn't take the suspense) shifting positions as I waited for trustworthy opinions, official calls, and put my confidence in news anchors' projections. Often my tired body drug my still-reeling brain up to bed in the wee hours of the morning after hearing "too close to call" or "recount" in a semi-conscious state.

Last night I read Leif Enger's Peace Like a River through most of the election coverage, my eyes on the book while my ears listened in periodically to some projections and their impact on local, state and federal government. Maybe it's cynicism (or perspective), but it's nauseating to listen to news anchors ruminate for hours about political movements and "America's voice"; my response: as quickly as two years from now, constituents will be upset with their current representatives and vote the other way. Pendulums shift, momentum changes. God is immutable. As I grow older, I have a keener sense of my responsibility for community and political involvement, but it's always enveloped in the greater awareness of God's faithfulness.

I confess I stayed up a bit past my usual bedtime to watch some coverage (my book sat resting on the coffee table); apparently, I can't quite wrench the child from me.

write frame of mind

Last night I discussed Marilynne Robinson's Home with some lovely, thoughtful women. I forgot how much I enjoy deepening my understanding of literature through conversation. It was a friendly game of ping-pong, where ideas were served out, morphed, bounced back for further inspection and another go-around.

In an attempt to prepare myself for the discussion, I read a transcript of an interview with Robinson in The Paris Review. It was delightful, and I ran across this quote:

I really am incapable of discipline. I write when something makes a strong claim on me. When I don’t feel like writing, I absolutely don’t feel like writing. I tried that work ethic thing a couple of times—I can’t say I exhausted its possibilities—but if there’s not something on my mind that I really want to write about, I tend to write something that I hate. And that depresses me. I don’t want to look at it. I don’t want to live through the time it takes for it to go up the chimney.

When I started this blog, I quietly set a goal to write once per week, but I've detected an ounce of drudgery in my attitude (and writing) more than once. In addition, I found myself tabling excitement for topics and mentally adding them to next week's agenda to discover those same topics shriveled and desiccated after days of neglect.

Maybe it's my sense of work ethic--infused to me by generations of hard-working Dutch folk--which leaves me unsatisfied with a missed week or a bland entry, but I think writing is different for me than dishes or laundry. I can't will myself into a creative writing state like a rehearsed drop-to-my-knees-for-a-kitchen-floor mopping. And you know what, I'm okay with that...today anyway.

back to the grind

Last week Wednesday through Sunday our family visited my sister and brother-in-law in Dallas. Though the city doesn't have many cultural attractions to speak of--it boasts cement strip malls and chain restaurants--, we had a relaxing time walking around the Ft. Worth Zoo, enjoying dinner at Zorba's Greek Cafe, talking theology by the pool, and catching up in the living room. We slept late (all 3 of us) and loitered in our pajamas well past breakfast.

Then we flew home.

The alarm bleeped us back to reality on Monday morning, and in case we felt like snoozing, our built-in alarm woke up an hour earlier than he had all vacation. Yep, vacation is over, and it's back to the grind.

Here are a few pictures of our trip:

We decided the lion roaring at the zoo alone was worth our admission fee. This fellow had quite the superiority complex: he felt the need to exert his authority after he caught a playful paw in the jaw from his female counterpart. I suppose--keeping up appearances for the passers-by. Poor boy bolted the opposite direction from his watchful tante (and the commotion) when the king of the zoo bellowed his warning.


My son enjoyed the exotic bird exhibit where he mostly tried to touch the lime-yellow and sea-blue feathered strays which were seemingly in his reach...to no avail. He didn't seem too phased and found a bit of water on the ground to pat his palms in and swish around.

In true sports fan fashion, the hubby toured the new Texas Stadium with his brother-in-law. The television screen in the picture is actually one of the smaller side versions of the 40-million dollar one next to it. Apparently, it's the largest high-definition television in the world, and it cost more than the entire old Dallas Cowboy stadium.

kneading relief

Almost every Wednesday (sometimes Thursdays) I pull ingredients from the kitchen cupboards, procure my baking stone and pizza peel from the closet pantry. And almost every Wednesday I get busy measuring, mixing, adding, mixing a bit more until what's in the bowl is ready for kneading.

I didn't bake bread last week; our freezer was stocked with a couple loaves, and I was laid up with a week-long stomach virus. Coming off the gut-punched bug, I didn't feel like baking bread this week either...or doing much of anything actually--the bacterium expunged my innards along with my motivation to keep house.

By Monday our bread supply was depleted, so I was forced to uncurl myself from the couch and start baking. A churlish mood barraged my measuring and raided my mixing, but the blitzkrieg dissipated as I began to knead, folding my self-pity into the dough and allowing some perspective to illuminate the acrid haze.

Kneading was the perfect prescription to shake my funk; I've accomplished more in the last 2 days than all of last week combined. Perhaps I should move my bread-making task to Mondays.

self suchickency

an excerpt from Wendell Berry's Sex, Economy, Freedom and Community:

In a healthy community, people will be richer in their neighbors, in neighborhood, in the health and pleasure of neighborhood, than in their bank accounts. It is better, therefore, even if the cost is greater, to buy near at hand than to buy at a distance. It is better to buy from a small, privately owned local store than from a chain store. It is better to buy a good product than a bad one. Do not buy anything you don't need. Do as much as you can for yourself. If you cannot do something for yourself, see if you have a neighbor who can do it for you.

I find the idea of self sufficiency kind of romantic--in the idealistic sense of the word; there is something wonderful about changing the oil in your car, submitting your own taxes, and fixing problems around your house. Or for me: making yogurt and granola, mixing batches of laundry soap, and butchering chickens.

Last Friday our family clan gathered for another round of slaughtering to Papa's motto "Boo-tcher, boo-tcher, boo-tcher," which never fails to get a chuckle from his kids. This is probably the 4th or 5th time our family has participated in this endeavor, and everyone agreed the system was a well-oiled machine. Our process: catch chickens, cut heads off, skin broilers, de-gut naked birds, clean bodies, toss in ice water, transfer in coolers to "processing station," divide into pieces, clean again, stuff into bags, vacuum seal, and place chicken in freezer. 135 chickens and 7 hours later, the job is finished. My contribution: 2/3 de-gutting, 1/3 child-caring.

The following Monday a crew of 4 piled out of pick-up trucks wielding shovels, ladders, and cords to the motto "one roof per day" as they checked their tool belts and dug in. Everyone knew his job and executed it; it was a smooth system. Their process: tear off shingles, change out moldy plywood, replace vents, roll out and tack down tar paper, nail gun shingles, pick up renegade trash, blow off roof debris, sweep sidewalks, walk a metal detector through the grass. New architectural shingles and 10 hours later, the roof is finished. My contribution: 1/3 serving homemade zucchini bread, 2/3 mama pointing and watching.

I sometimes wish I did more for myself instead of hiring out work, but then I remember the idea of investing in community and blessing others with work. I'm glad Berry addresses the inability to do these things for my sake, and maybe for yours. I tried my hand at tearing off shingles once when I was young, but I think I'll stick to de-gutting chickens and baking bread.

ode to egg lady

My first egg lady was a nurse Nancy;
She dropped off several dozen when we 7 communed together;
The order reduced a few when numbers whittled to 5, 4, 3, now 2;
Sometimes Mom and Dad parting-gifted me a dozen pair,
Or toted a 3-carton greeting with loving care;
But when I left home, in my heart was a gaping, brown-egg despair.

My next egg lady encounter was brief,
Only a handful of weeks to be less than exact,
I don't even know her name in fact;
No-name's yolks were orange-ripened hearty,
But now that summer has ripened to crisp autumn,
her hens' production is stalling like a dwindling party.

I met my new egg lady last week on a stroller walk,
The front-lawn ad vanished months before I could knock;
So I presumed the free-range birds were out of commission;
But with a new-found mama courage I launched my tire-path mission;
Gently rapping the front door, girding my politest behavior,
A kind, middle-aged woman answered: Audra, my egg savior!
She unveiled her brown, white, and speckled pearls,
And sent me on my way with 2 cartons of treasure,
A tooth-shaped paper with name and number to unfurl,
and the smile-warmth assurance to pay at my leisure;

For dinner, we ate a delectable omelette beyond measure,
I wish everyone knew an egg lady with pleasure.

stick-tree suburbia

A few weeks ago I went for an early afternoon stroller-jog around my usual loop. My lungs hoarded and squandered the summer air as my shoes pounded the streets through the older section of our small town. I looked up; the tableau was picturesque--straight off the cover of a watered-down, inspirational devotional you might find in a Christian bookstore: sun glimmering through the wind-dancing leaves of a vested oak tree.

I'm sure you've seen it, and so had I, but for some reason it maintained my gaze as the phil&teds wavered off its once-efficient line and tugged me from my trance. I contrasted this neighborhood with the newer subdivision just south of it, where suburban houses are a repetition of piled boxes and triangles whose monstrous fronts are only highlighted by the token stick tree stuck in manicured front lawns. It was like a snippet out of Rod Dreher's Crunchy Cons (I loaned my copy to a loved one, or I'd include a quote about the "McMansions").

In the old section of town, varied patterns of the mature homes peek from shady undergrowth, and thick limbs dwarf the roofs behind. Towering trees command respectful nods, and wandering eyes are drawn up. "Huh, how appropriate," I muse.

In addition to the aesthetics of the creative designs those homes provide, I was struck how directed to an Other I was looking up at those deep-rooted shaders. They forced me to look outside myself--as opposed to suburbia, where superficial solutions come from gray concrete, bland vinyl, and melting asphalt.

Make no mistake, I'm in full agreement suburbia has its proper place; in fact, our family is hemmed into a 15-year-old subdivision--where thankfully, its trees have outgrown flimsy stakes. I hope our next home is tucked in a place with an abundance of seasoned trees which remind us to look outside ourselves, beyond materialism, and upward. If not, I'm sure the Lord will accommodate in our future home.

veneration "bube tube"

I have a love-hate relationship with television. Love: the entertainment, the notion that t.v. both shapes and reflects culture, but mostly the plop-on-the-couch-and-shut-off-my-brain effect. Hate: See above.

Growing up, t.v. was frequently characterized as an enemy, whose wiliness was tamed just long enough to watch the news or The Cosby Show before you found yourself surrounded and unarmed. I carried that prejudice to college and ushered it into marriage. Lately it's made a resurgence with a little one at home.

"What's the big deal?" I occasionally ask. If t.v. is a reflection of society and a culture maker, I should know it well in order to maintain relevance as a believer, right? Enter sin. Slothfulness, idolatry, and covetousness make their surreptitious entrance as I cozy into the couch a little deeper and throw on a blanket for warmth.

Maybe I struggle with moderation in this area, but I also tend to agree with my older sister's comment about the television industry: "Hey, they're good at what they do." Indeed. I can easily shut off and tune in for an hour or two before I realize I forgot to hang up the diapers, put away the dishes, or meant to go to bed early.

What about t.v. as a form of bonding? One of my undergraduate professors addressed this question in an Interpersonal Communication class. His response: television often acts as a barrier to communication between individuals. Instead of talking about your struggles, joys, etc., you focus on something else--a distraction. Though I agree in some instances, I find discussing films and shows fruitful. Then again, I have to critically observe to have those conversations.

Most of my summer evenings have been unplugged and open-booked, and I've found it refreshing and peaceful. I think I'll continue this practice--in moderation, of course.

"in het midden" debut

I've contemplated starting a blog for months now. I need to write, and this is the perfect excuse to get motivated.

This is a personal blog, and the title derives from the following:

1.) In high school I was a 'tweener because I didn't quite fit the jock, nerd, class clown, or musician stereotypes. I was all of them--to a greater or lesser extent--, and I often found myself ensnared in the middle of diverse interests, each one vying for my preoccupation. Not much has changed. Here's a brief list of my more recent "in-between" roles: wife, mother, stay-at-home mom, teacher, reader, baker, athlete, writer, cook, photographer, traveler, sewer, canner, gardener.

2.) As a follower of Christ, I often find Christianity is a balancing act to avoid unbiblical polarizations, which often manifest themselves as "-isms." I desire the gospel to be the root of my life, and I want it to sustain my endeavors while I stand in the middle of multiple realms: the already and the not yet, in the world but not of it, the kingdom of God and the earthly one.

3.) "In het midden" is a Dutch translation of the English "in the middle." Because I'm from a Dutch heritage, the name seemed fitting--especially since the English title was taken. It also suits me because I'm from the Midwest, somewhere between young and old, a middle-end child, and usually mid-thought. Not especially profound, but there it is.