christmas tradition

My beloved and I had a conversation last week trading ideas about family Christmas traditions. We haven't started any of our own yet--just continuing on our childhood ones since we still visit both families over the holidays. But with two little ones, we're starting to think seriously about what we'd like to do to celebrate Christmas with our family.

What partially spurred the discussion was watching a YouTube video of children reacting poorly to fake Christmas gifts (thanks, Leah!); however, the lion's share of the reflecting came from reading a blog post in conjunction with the video. Ann Voskamp describes a challenging tradition of gifting Christ in honor of his birthday: give to the least of these, and you give to me.

Challenging because it exposes commercialized celebrations; challenging because it mocks my selfishness; challenging because it requires personal sacrifice--a small version of the anguish Christ suffered for my sake.

Giving to the least of these is an option to celebrate a humble stable birth looking up to the blood-stained cross.

wrong question

This morning I read an op-ed article by David Brooks in the New York Times about the alleged Penn State scandal; in it Brooks unearths the hypocrisy of the public's disgust. Brooks is a thoughtful writer, but he missed the mark on his conclusion. Here's the end of his op-ed piece:

But we’re not Puritans anymore. We live in a society oriented around our inner wonderfulness. So when something atrocious happens, people look for some artificial, outside force that must have caused it—like the culture of college football, or some other favorite bogey. People look for laws that can be changed so it never happens again. 

Commentators ruthlessly vilify all involved from the island of their own innocence. Everyone gets to proudly ask: “How could they have let this happen?”

The proper question is: How can we ourselves overcome our natural tendency to evade and self-deceive. That was the proper question after Abu Ghraib, Madoff, the Wall Street follies and a thousand other scandals. But it’s a question this society has a hard time asking because the most seductive evasion is the one that leads us to deny the underside of our own nature. 

While Brooks identifies the sins of vanity and pride, and even our total depravity--yay!--, he stops short with the wrong question: "How can we ourselves overcome our natural tendency to evade and self-deceive."

We ourselves can't do diddly squat.

A better query might read: How can we be rescued from our natural tendency to evade and self-deceive." Note the passive voice. I know it's a faux pas in English grammar circles, but it sure is fitting in theological ones. We need rescuing by the Savior.

I suppose it's a little greedy of me to expect a columnist to complete the thought. I should be thankful Brooks at least exposes our sin. His assessment of human nature reminds me of a sermon I listened to yesterday by Ligon Duncan from The Gospel Coalition website. In preaching about contentment, Duncan states, "You are more likely to seek real contentment and find it than someone who is content in his/her circumstances." Hopefully Brooks' article struck a cord of discontentment with his readers; then we will be a step closer to searching for the source of true peace.

shutter fancy

I took a photography course my senior year of undergrad. It was a black and white film photography class, and I was so intimidated by an art course and its art majors that I took it pass/fail--embarrassing, I know.

It turned out to be one of my favorite non-literature courses. I enjoyed the reprieve from pending deadlines; the calming dark room process; the never-ending search to find the best angle, the best lighting, the best timing. It was a way to push myself artistically, and I've been missing that particular outlet lately.

In the last month, I've had a few opportunities to rekindle my hobby. The most recent occurred last week as a trial for cutting portrait session costs from our budget and to personalize our boys’ photos. It also served as a challenge to successfully shoot a stalwart 2-year-old who barely sits through 1 Dr. Seuss book and a tipsy 5-month-old working on trunk control.

So after nap time I schlepped both boys to the backyard with my gear and snapped away. Here are a few highlights from our “session” (Note there are no pictures of them together; I need a little help from my beloved for that task):

 J.N. - 2 yrs., 3 mos.

C. A. - 5 1/2 mos.

autumn entry

I've been in denial that summer is coming to a close--a la the present progressive tense. This last week's unusually warm temperatures didn't help my seasonal confusion either. I think I've been a season behind since June and July were a blur of mid-night feedings and early morning wakings. According to my clock, it's the middle of August.

Meanwhile the leaves on our front trees are half fallen and all but our tomatoes, peas, broccoli, lettuce, and spinach are piled in the corner of our garden in a heap, awaiting the tiller. I don't have the heart to pull the spindly tomato plants yet, and the others are thriving in the cooler weather.

I fear by the time I admit summer is over, I will have completely missed autumn's warm colors and be stuck inside the gray winter. I think I'd like having a winter baby; I wouldn't protest missing February and March too much.

grief's presence

I am presently inept in the presence of Grief. I've had a few run-ins with her lately, and an awkward conversation fumbles back and forth full of starts, interruptions, and red-in-the-face restarts.

She is confident, beautiful, and powerful. Unsure of myself around her, I feel a cowardly inclination to fill the pauses and end up mutely devising appropriate platitudes. What I'd really like to do is create white noise, so the silences don't feel so dead, so cold...so final.

Grief lays me bare, cuts to my marrow. I want to blanket my depravity, but she seeks me out and exposes my hypocrisy. I don't want to be another Eliphaz, Bildad, or Zophar, so I walk alongside her, wondering if my clumsiness will smooth with practice.

cleaning house

Last Thursday my oldest was trying to lure me from my pile of laundry on the floor with a Dr. Seuss book when I spotted a small furry creature make a bolt from our cracked front storm door to the couch. I shrieked (I won't deny it) and called for backup: my beloved with a broom. He propped our front door open and poked the broom under the couch in the direction of our prepared exit. My son's finger pointed toward the door and his verbal "uh-oh" made me confident the mouse exited our home.

Or so I thought.

Except I kept finding mouse droppings behind the couch, then the love seat, by a vent, inside the stove drawer, and then along the back of our kitchen counter top! Tired of cleaning like a mad woman for fear the mouse was a harbinger of my slovenliness, it was time to step it up a notch. In addition to the poison packets (Not to worry, Mom; they were out of reach of little hands), we (read: my dear husband) strategically placed sticky traps behind the stove and love seat and went to sleep disgusted that our house was hospitable to a mouse.

One sleep later, no success, more mouse droppings in the stove drawer, disinfecting. Two more sticky traps under the stove in far superior locations, more cleaning, paranoia. One sleep later, still no success, questioning whether the mouse ventured elsewhere, frenzied cleaning. A little shuffle under the stove this afternoon, success at last.

Wish I were as fastidious about sin in my heart as I was about having a mouse in my house. Vacuuming, sweeping, and deep cleaning the sin out of my life? More like ignoring, hiding, and excuse-making for my heart's filth, the stuff I hide in the back of dark, stove drawers.

good fences make good neighbors

When we planted our garden this spring, the plot wove organically into our backyard. But the probability of little critters feasting and toddler feet trampling prompted a fence weeks after it was planted. Set apart from the lawn with its strategically placed wood stakes and galvanized steel grids, the encompassed garden soon assumed an ostentatious manner; the only society allowed were long-legged benefactors.


Currently the garden is thriving--and sprawling, thanks to the cucumber and butternut squash vines. Instead of insulating the garden bounty, the fence now acts as a defense for the commoner blades of grass, ensuring the lawn has equal access to the sun. On a less Marxist note, the fence also prevents the vines from wandering into the neighbor's yard.

relaxation woes

Cicadas roar. The birds dart around our deck, and the creek babbles lazily through our backyard. Relaxation should drift over me any second as I watch the sun dip below the horizon and take a sip of my half glass of red wine. I look at the wandering potato vine in the flower pot, thinking how next year I should plant one in a larger pot, so it has more room to grow.
Relax.

I try to glide into a calm feeling and lean my head back on the adirondack as I glance over at Olasky's The Tragedy of American Compassion on the small cedar end table.
When is that due again? I should probably get moving on that if I'm going to finish it by the due date...I was going to sew up that pink blanket this week, too. Maybe I'll do that tomorrow during nap time. Wait, I was planning to set aside nap time to catch up on my reading list.

The fog on my wine glass finally dissipates from the thick humidity, and I gather my hair in a ponytail, though it's not long enough and I don't have a holder. Uselessly, I loosen my grip and extend my arm for another sip as our air conditioning unit kicks on, breaking the silence.
I have to remember to drink a glass of water after I finish this--wouldn't want C.A. getting anything second hand during his "dream feed." I shouldn't get dehydrated either.

I wave off the fruit flies before I lift the glass to my mouth, and as the fermented drink washes over my tongue, I come face to face with a housefly--presumably drunk or dead--at the bottom of my glass.
So much for relaxing.

natural induction

It would have been appropriate for me to hang out a proverbial "Gone Fishing" sign over my blog a couple months ago. Since the birth of my second child, I feel like I fell out of the fishing boat and floundered since. I'm coming up for air and hoping to resurface altogether soon. Here's a deep first breath.

I've always wanted a natural labor and birth, and minus the dose of IV antibiotics to temper my Group B Strep, I experienced one almost 2 months ago. Long story short: my water broke at 9:30 P.M. 5 days before my due date, and C.A. was born just under 5 hours later at 2:20 A.M.
Was the pain horrible? Yes.
Did I consider medication? Yep, but by the time I thought seriously about it, it was too late.
Was it worth it? Absolutely!

Having time to reflect, I realize the glaring differences between my labors. I had to be induced with my first because I was 11 days overdue. Though I labored at home some before my scheduled induction, I didn't progress quickly enough after the doctor broke my water at the hospital, so she ordered pitocin. After 2 1/2 hours of vomiting and bed confinement on account of my IV and monitors, I shamelessly begged for an epidural despite my natural labor plan. After resting up, J.N. was born at 5:40 P.M. after 18 1/2 hours of labor and 40 min. of pushing.

My first labor was forced, pushed, and monitored at every step. I was hooked up to machines that measured, poked, and interfered with my body. The pitocin manufactured relentless contractions, and when the doctor informed I was ready to push, she set up a mirror, so I could see the baby's progress. It was an invitation to my delivery, a preview to my body's labor.

My second labor was spontaneous, unforced, and unrehearsed. I was free to walk around and labor in the tub. My contractions were autonomous, varied; after especially deep contractions when I thought I couldn't handle the pain anymore, the next couple subsided in severity and timing. I told the midwife when I was ready to push and knew my progress without a mirror, let alone my glasses. I didn't need an invitation to my delivery because I was hosting the experience.

Though I prefer my second labor experience to my first, the outcome was the same: both gave me an unspoken closeness to my love; both gifted me a sweet boy I cuddled and loved; and both rendered me thankful to the Creator of all things...natural and induced.

spring doings

Spring has been a productive season for our household organizing, planting, celebrating, planning; some might call it "nesting," but either way I enjoyed the extra motivation. Here are some pictures of my most recent endeavors:

My first try at croissants; next time I'll use unsalted butter.


My contribution: picking out the slate, advising on a few tile placements.


Homemade strawberry shortcake with ice cream for my hubby's birthday.


Our first vegetable garden after planting; mulched tomatoes and peppers.


Five bags of rhubarb cut and ready for the freezer.


My suitcase packed for the hospital in anticipation of Baby #2.

mother's day

I was thankful for a day to reflect on my role as a mother and how I've been shaped by Christian mothers and mothers-to-be around me. Yesterday as I listened to a sermon on Acts 9:31-43 at my parents' church, I was reminded of the fact that I am daily engaged in kingdom work caring for and training up my children. It doesn't matter if the house is spotless or dinner is on the table at the same time every night; what weighs heavy is whether my children grow in the fear the Lord. It's a tall order, and I'm humbled daily at my failures to keep it at the center of my mothering.

Serving as a mother has made me appreciate my own mom in new ways. I often wonder how she mothered me, along with 4 other rambunctious tykes, working full time to boot! Grace. My mother always claims her source, and I find myself joining its refrain a generation later.

I brainstormed a small list of tributes yesterday: things I disliked about my mom growing up but I've come to appreciate in my (hopefully) wiser, more mature years.

1.) Buying fruit leather from the coop for snack recess instead of the coveted Handi Snacks.
2.) Baking oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, though I whined for ones without all the healthful ingredients.
3.) Asking me whether I practiced the piano after school, to which I frequently lied and said "yes" and now wish I hadn't.
4.) Helping me plant, harvest, and weed in the garden--all useful skills now as I tend my own.
5.) Making me pick strawberries at the local patch many summers; I begrudged the work, but now I wish for access to a local pick-your-own strawberry patch.
6.) Correcting my use of vulgarities: "(Fill in the blank) doesn't suck; a vacuum cleaner sucks."
7.) Taking me along to the Rolscreen recreation trail area; it wasn't as fun as going to the pool or park, but it taught me the importance of exercise.
8.) Refusing me when I begged for any of the following: candy, clothes, pop, junk food, the latest fad, etc.
9.) Enforcing rules of modesty in my dress and politeness in my manners.
10.) Shopping sale racks and almost never buying anything at full price; I now find myself heading directly to the sale racks in stores.

spring rain

I hear a gentle rain outside, and it reminds me of a Sunday morning a couple weeks ago when I woke up with a poem in my heart as I listened to one of the first spring rains. I jotted down a few lines on a scratch sheet of paper, thinking I'd finish it that afternoon. Well, it's raining now, and it seems like a good time to fill in the gaps.

spring rain
a scattered patter
to warm the blood
of a frozen field,
and green the ground of a
snow-melted brown.

the drizzle swells
into rivulets and streams,
a downpour of drops
morphs budding emerald verdure
while finches cheep esteem.

mercies brim forth,
gifted from heaven
to purify souls from
Sin's smut and Temptation's muck;
hearts bathed in crimson-cross
sprout Forbearance, Grace--
who blossom in gospel rains
and point contented to the Son.

overcoming fear

It taunts me from the black card table where it's perched, haughty whitish gray and blue, sneering. I approach cautiously, cozy flannel gripped as a comfort blanket in my hand.

"Just dig in," I repeat to myself as I venture close and sit on the matching, padded card table chair. Before I lose my new-found ambition, I fill a gleaming bobbin with royal blue strand, thread the machine, and push the pedal lightly at first, harder as my confidence grows.

I remember techniques my mom uses to make clean edges, keeping the needle down and turning the fabric mid-stitch. I learn my favorite hand positions, calculate how to make consistent top stitches, and find solace in the whirring as my fear bleeds out and stains the fabric blue.

Action is my best remedy for inaction.

Recent Projects:
Above: brown baby blanket with blue trim

Left: red blanket with brown trim; 4 burp cloths with green, orange, blue & red trim

Note: I've met lots of baby boys lately!

fear of art

About a month ago, I purchased a used sewing machine on ebay. I've been thinking about buying a sewing machine seriously for a few years, though I really knew I wanted one when I was just tall enough to peek over the edge of a yellowed wooden table to watch my mom sew beautiful things with her new gleaming Bernina.

I've always been envious of confident artists: poised, self-assured as they make bold strokes across a piece of canvas, voraciously write paragraphs of exquisitely strung-together sentences, or decisively press down the button and hear the shutter close with satisfaction. I watch hopeful their artistic certainty will rub off. Fear paralyzes me.

Fear of art not measuring up to self-imposed standards, of it not being interesting enough, perfect enough, inspired enough. So I think about stories I'd like to write, photographs I'd like to take, and fabric I'd like to sew...and sit on my hands for fear it will not be enough.

"don't cry over spilt milk"

Many a childhood family dinner was spoiled by spilt milk. Despite parental chiding to move our glasses farther away from the edge of the table--and subsequently out of our clumsy reach--, we played a game of milk-spilling four square each week. I swatted my hand across the table to my older sister, who then knocked hers sideways to the foot of the table in the lap of my older brother...and on and on. I think my parents had to buy an extra gallon of milk per week, anticipating the liquid waste on our plates, on our chairs, and on the floor.

I finally understand their frustration--empathize with it, actually. I've lost track of how many milk spills I've been sanctified by these last several months. At first, my gasps of surprise scared my boy to tears; next he cried when I disciplined him for his carelessness; then he sensed my brewing anger and tried to atone for his guilt without putting up a fuss over whatever food graced his plate. Now he says, "No-noh, noh-nah" and pushes the offending cup away from his tray as I cringe at what my responses have manufactured. I reassure him, "It's okay, sweet boy; you just need to pay attention to what you're doing," and I shuffle to the laundry room to fetch another towel for soaking up the white in the carpet.

Spilt milk has brought out my best patience and my worst anger. I recall a recent lunch when I soaked up 3 separate milk spills with as many towels. I almost cried after the second accident; I laughed after the third. Parenting has bolstered my forbearance...and my sense of humor.

a prayer for john irving

I recently finished reading A Prayer for Owen Meany on a friend's recommendation (thanks, Anna). Because of the holidays, I picked it up and put it down too many times to appreciate it as fully as I would have in a more focused context, but it was an interesting read. One of the overarching subjects of the book is faith, and I was intrigued by Irving's portrayal of belief as a product of coercion. Here are a few quotes from the book:

It seemed to me that Owen Meany had been used as cruelly by ignorance as he had been used by any design. I had seen what God used him for; now I saw how ignorance had used him, too.

This is what a self-centered religion does to us: it allows us to use it to further our own ends.

At times I envy Lewis Merrill; I wish someone could trick me the way I tricked him into having such absolute and unshakable faith. For although I believe I know what the real miracles are, my belief in God disturbs and unsettles me much more than not believing ever did; unbelief seems vastly harder to me now than belief does – but belief poses so many unanswerable questions!

Curious to research why Irving wrote this book and his religious convictions, I found this New York Times interview where he discusses a fascination in miracles as faith generators:

''I've always asked myself what would be the magnitude of the miracle that could convince me of religious faith,'' Mr. Irving said, identifying the kernel of philosophical curiosity that generated this latest book. He said that as a regular churchgoer during his youth, he himself had numerous religious doubts and ''an on-again, off-again faith'' [....] ''And yet,'' he said, ''so much accumulated churchgoing had an effect, even if, when I was a teen-ager, the pompousness of it, the self-righteousness of it irritated me. [....] For someone who was interested in telling stories, they [ministers] were among my first contacts with seizing someone's attention, telling a story and convincing you, not on intellectual grounds but persuading you, emotionally and psychologically, to believe something.''

This novel has made me consider the generation of my own faith--how someone like Irving might deem it "parental brainwashing" or "youthful indoctrination" which ignorantly loitered into adulthood. It grieves me that pondering the miracle of God's creation, incarnation and redemption is insufficient for Irving. Though many suppress the truth, God is still glorified through their work--whether they recognize it or not.

coffee snobbery

It's official: I am a coffee snob. The label materialized this morning when I ground my Vienna-roasted Capanna beans and attempted to make a strong cup of joe for myself and for a chocolate mocha cake using my undistinguished Braun coffee maker, the one we received as a wedding gift five-and-a-half years ago.

My French press has been glass carafe-less for a few days after it fell prey to a pair of busy little hands, and the coffee has been awful since. This morning I resolved enough is enough--I'm buying a replacement glass carafe online, and I don't care if I'm eligible for free super saver shipping from Amazon. Actually, I better make sure there's nothing else for $8.06+ we need first. [sigh] Can't quite take the Dutch out of this woman.

humble commission

On Sunday a guest pastor, a missionary in The Czech Republic, preached a sermon entitled "Every Christian Has a Commission" over Isaiah 6; it was a convicting sermon as I often wrestle with whether life is too "normal" or too comfortable for me. One of the questions he asked us to consider is, "Where does God want you to be salt and light?" It's a self-posed question almost weekly as I wonder if my role as a stay-at-home wife and mother is a suitable fulfillment of God's calling in my life.

When I taught at a public high school, I had built-in contact with people bereft of hope and served in a capacity to engage, question, and encourage young people and colleagues in a meaningful way. I love staying home, but I miss those spontaneous intellectual conversations about truth, total depravity and original sin the language arts curriculum afforded.

One of the encouraging applications the guest pastor made during the sermon was discussing first the fulfillment of our commission in the home, then at work, in our church family and in our local community before he mentioned the international scene. I think missionaries can default to the global and burden Christians with some heavy guilt, and it was refreshing to hear him value the everyday work followers of Christ do in their homes and communities.

Because I often forget. I forget that cleaning up messes, laundering diapers and clothes, preparing meals, and disciplining my child for a repeated offense repeatedly is part of my commission--it's not a matter of being too inwardly focused as I often convince myself or a selfish endeavor fit for chiding. It's a pouring out of myself as an offering to the Lord, and I hope it is sweet in his sight.

genesis revisited

I've been rereading the book of Genesis since the new year. I'm about halfway through, and it's much different than the Sunday school version I remember. Some observations so far:

1.) Scandalous stories: Lot's 2 daughters getting their dad drunk to have sex with him for posterity's sake; Abraham and Isaac pretending their wives were their sisters to protect themselves from harm and subsequently offering up their wives to foreigners (that's the sacrificial spirit!); Sodomite males wanting to have sex with angel visitors (presumably God the Son and God the Holy Spirit who had just come from a visit with Abraham).

2.) Concubines galore! Those Old Testament men and women took the whole "Be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth" cultural mandate seriously, often at the expense of family harmony.

3.) God's personal relationship with his people: remembering Noah and his family and not destroying them in the flood; visiting Hagar in the desert when she felt like she and Ishmael were left for dead; listening to Abraham intercede for any righteous in Sodom before it is destroyed.

4.) God's sovereignty: God uses sinful people to accomplish his purpose in the metanarrative.

Favorite story so far: Abraham sacrifices Isaac. After waiting decades for a son and trying to help God along with his promise, Abraham is finally blessed with Isaac only to give him back to God--how frustrating! And then how joyous for God's provision of a ram and the perfect Sacrifice!