Deuteronomy 5:12"Observe the Sabbath day by keeping it holy, as the LORD your God has commanded you.
Exodus 31:14" 'Observe the Sabbath, because it is holy to you. Anyone who desecrates it must be put to death; whoever does any work on that day must be cut off from his people.
Exodus 16:23He said to them, "This is what the LORD commanded: 'Tomorrow is to be a day of rest, a holy Sabbath to the LORD. So bake what you want to bake and boil what you want to boil. Save whatever is left and keep it until morning.' "
Jeremiah 17:22Do not bring a load out of your houses or do any work on the Sabbath, but keep the Sabbath day holy, as I commanded your forefathers.Jeremiah 17:22Do not bring a load out of your houses or do any work on the Sabbath, but keep the Sabbath day holy, as I commanded your forefathers.
Mark 2:26-28 the days of Abiathar the high priest, he entered the house of God and ate the consecrated bread, which is lawful only for priests to eat. And he also gave some to his companions." Then he said to them, "The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath. So the Son of Man is Lord even of the Sabbath."
It is a joke for women of small (or many) children that Sunday is a day of rest... and yet our Lord reminds us that the Sabbath was created for us.
Our responsibilities don't end on Sunday. In fact Sundays can be congested with getting children ready and transported to church, the feeding of families and the tending of homes. Even when laundry and and vacuuming are abstained from there is a great deal to do daily. So how are we women to carefully observe the day of our Lord and keep it holy?
It is a struggle and I am sure it is no accident that the pull of Monday exerts strong control over even the atmosphere of even the most leisurely of Sunday afternoons. The modern life tries to fit as much as possible into our weeks, and the eve of those weeks could be seen as prep day. Those of us who own businesses have the added burden of keeping that running while maintaining a sane home life, and for those of us who also homeschool it is a trial to not try to "get ahead" on this day set aside for rest. It is a challenge to NOT shop on Sundays. It requires more planning on Thursday or Friday to be prepared through Monday. It is a challenge to swim upstream against a society who would love to conduct business with us on the Lord's day, treating it like any other day of the week, degrading it.
Our family has resisted the invitations to sporting events on Sundays. That means no club teams. For many families whose children are physically gifted and wish to pursue specific sports for recreation this would not be an option. For our family this would not work. For others they see it as a time to spend time together encouraging one another.
In my personal time I try to keep Sunday holy by consciously avoiding talking on the phone of planning meeting for the time, and trying to control the media I read. I find my psyche needs a break from the worldly news, the trials and pains for a day. I try and be purposeful in my prayer.
Still, I am an exhausted person who cries out to pursue hobbies that I have little energy for. I find myself more frustrated on Sundays than on other days of the week as I try and find an hour to myself, a moment of peace and quiet. I struggle with feeling selfish when I try and take some time, angry that the neighbor has to run his lawnmower and disturb the quiet I finally found outside, annoyed when telemarketers call and interrupt dinner... Am I angry because there are so few like minded people in my life outside of church?
I desire for my children on the Sabbath to have peace in their hearts that they might get the joy and refreshment that comes from resting in the Lord. I desire that for myself as I have such a hard time putting down my spoon, my car keys, my wallet for today so that I can take up the opportunity to be replenished spiritually for the week to come. Why is it so hard for me? Do I so need to control the aspects of my life that I feel out of control of that fear of being able to fulfill all my responsibilities dominates the time I should spend resting?
I pray that I am able to allow myself to be used and perfected by the spirit of the Lord so I can have a greater depth of understanding of how He would like me to observe His day.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Friday, August 15, 2008
surprise
"Are they all yours?" Her Russian accent curled the "r" around her mouth as she stood slightly stooped over the table to take our drink orders. Yes, I replied, inwardly cringing at what the next response would be, they are. "Oh, well God bless you!" she said.
My shoulders release, my curses bitten back I ask for an iced tea.
My shoulders release, my curses bitten back I ask for an iced tea.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
A new heart address
I am not a mover. Nope. When I live in a place I put down roots- sometimes literally- with plantings, but I really get into that home. I was a pink bundle carried over the threshold where I called home until I was 21. College years excluded, I do not fancy changing addresses. Part practicality (bloom where you are planted), part entrenchment ( I am NOT updating my address book again and getting boxes!!) it is nonetheless a part of who I am.
In the evening when I survey my yard, my front door, listen to the hum of my children inside I feel a thrill inside- a warmth. I feel like I am at home. I am not one to imagine myself pulling up roots and sailing away to some far off place just because- too impractical, expensive, self-centered. I have parents here who need me, and whose needs in the future I anticipate will increase. I have built a life in this community. I love to travel; the smells, the different language, the dialects- they all beguile me. But home is sweetest- after all my sweet heart is there and my heart with legs and names live here too.
We are feeling called by God to journey to a different church home. I have been at my current church for 24 years. My mother, my aunt and my kids all are members. I met my husband there, married him there. I have some of my best friends and sisters in Christ there. But God is calling us and his call was long enough ago that I fear we are staying into disobedience if we do not act soon. I am grumpy and mentally exhausted when I consider starting all over. But then when we moved into our current house there was a thrill at all the possibilities, a thrill at the work ahead as we pondered the future within the walls. Perhaps I can gain a bit of energy and encouragement from that comparison.
In the evening when I survey my yard, my front door, listen to the hum of my children inside I feel a thrill inside- a warmth. I feel like I am at home. I am not one to imagine myself pulling up roots and sailing away to some far off place just because- too impractical, expensive, self-centered. I have parents here who need me, and whose needs in the future I anticipate will increase. I have built a life in this community. I love to travel; the smells, the different language, the dialects- they all beguile me. But home is sweetest- after all my sweet heart is there and my heart with legs and names live here too.
We are feeling called by God to journey to a different church home. I have been at my current church for 24 years. My mother, my aunt and my kids all are members. I met my husband there, married him there. I have some of my best friends and sisters in Christ there. But God is calling us and his call was long enough ago that I fear we are staying into disobedience if we do not act soon. I am grumpy and mentally exhausted when I consider starting all over. But then when we moved into our current house there was a thrill at all the possibilities, a thrill at the work ahead as we pondered the future within the walls. Perhaps I can gain a bit of energy and encouragement from that comparison.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Friday, May 16, 2008
Black Trash Bags
Seemingly innocuous, over the course of my life, these transporters of trash have have held much more than trash and signaled changes to come or a departure from a state (literally OR figuratively in this case) of where I have been.
My first memory of black trash bags were of the garden variety. Good for grass, their humble, tidily bunched and tied forms lined our street after my father mowed the lawn. Nothing spectacular. Later, in high school, I remember sorting through one in a desperate bid to rescue a paper of some sort I had been writing for a class and misplaced. Black bags were for more serious jobs than the white, kitchen variety.
Then there was the time my high school sweetheart and I finally called the relationship over. His stuff was handily transported and personally delivered with butterflies in my stomach and sweaty palms to his apartment in the Black Bag. This moment of time and my use of the Bag changes. It is no longer just a vehicle for trash but one for belongings, its contents carefully placed inside.
I began college, and in a self-centered and prideful move I insisted on going to an out-of-state university. Having a very small car of the Japanese persuasion, boxes did not easily fit its curved backseat and diminutive trunk. Being over 5 hours from home frequent trips back and forth to retrieve items from home were not an option. The black bag fit the bill for the crushables: blankets, comforter, clothes and the like, packed carefully with my Mom to arrive for the only time on my bed and in my drawers folded. Upon arrival at the dorm, the Bag was easily tossed into the trash- an economical version of luggage. It was not long before I bravely journeyed east to the coast to work at my first corporate job. Again, the Bag is put into hot use. The car a little older and less water tight held my few precious possessions as I lugged them up 3 flights of stairs to my first apartment with 2 mean roommates. This time the Bag was also used for trash. The mean roommates and I shared the responsibilities of lugging the Bag down the scary back stairs to the scary dumpster. Never living in a city previous to that, well aware of my femaleness and youth I carried the Bag a bit protectively like a shield and making sure I had a good handle on the slippery top in case I needed to fend off back alley rats, cats or worse, scary men.
Later I move home. Bags in force. My mother journeys to my coast town and helps me pack/shove/push/tamp the many Bags into my car. Amazing what two women can do when pressed for time and space! The Bag features as inexpensive luggage again, but this time also as a ticket to freedom from a sort of oppression I encountered in that city. I was free!
Now many years later and many moves under my belt, the Black Bag has featured in many ways in our household: as an impenetrable-to-the-sugar-crazed-eye Christmas candy hiding spot, Easter basket storage, Christmas tree needle catcher, broken mirror and glass receptable and even apparel for my children as they toss eggs to one another in a game (after all, black looks good on everyone).
Today I filled many black bags. Some bound for charity. Others bound for the dump. I was sickened to see how much STUFF we have accumulated; how much we waste. Some of what ended up in the Black Bag I gleaned from its cousin the white kitchen bag that was being used as storage. Today, just as with the many other times I have filled Black Bags, marks a departure of sorts. I will not allow so much stuff into our home. The old adage: "What goes IN must come OUT" is certainly true with homes. I do not care to pay the emotional toll that goes along with owning so much stuff- the organization, the care of the article, the fear of its break/loss/theft. As a parent I struggle to organize my children's things, glean the good, judge its value to the owner and decide the item's fate. Stuff is often a burden and the Black Bag- a trash bag- is the vehicle to transport it to the curb, or guiltily drop it at the docks in the back alley of the Goodwill and speed away. Today I will begin to pay closer attention to the bags that come IN to my house- the gift bags, white kitchen bags thoughtfully packed with hand-me-downs, shopping bags and grocery bags. I will weigh the value, and the cost much more closely.
My first memory of black trash bags were of the garden variety. Good for grass, their humble, tidily bunched and tied forms lined our street after my father mowed the lawn. Nothing spectacular. Later, in high school, I remember sorting through one in a desperate bid to rescue a paper of some sort I had been writing for a class and misplaced. Black bags were for more serious jobs than the white, kitchen variety.
Then there was the time my high school sweetheart and I finally called the relationship over. His stuff was handily transported and personally delivered with butterflies in my stomach and sweaty palms to his apartment in the Black Bag. This moment of time and my use of the Bag changes. It is no longer just a vehicle for trash but one for belongings, its contents carefully placed inside.
I began college, and in a self-centered and prideful move I insisted on going to an out-of-state university. Having a very small car of the Japanese persuasion, boxes did not easily fit its curved backseat and diminutive trunk. Being over 5 hours from home frequent trips back and forth to retrieve items from home were not an option. The black bag fit the bill for the crushables: blankets, comforter, clothes and the like, packed carefully with my Mom to arrive for the only time on my bed and in my drawers folded. Upon arrival at the dorm, the Bag was easily tossed into the trash- an economical version of luggage. It was not long before I bravely journeyed east to the coast to work at my first corporate job. Again, the Bag is put into hot use. The car a little older and less water tight held my few precious possessions as I lugged them up 3 flights of stairs to my first apartment with 2 mean roommates. This time the Bag was also used for trash. The mean roommates and I shared the responsibilities of lugging the Bag down the scary back stairs to the scary dumpster. Never living in a city previous to that, well aware of my femaleness and youth I carried the Bag a bit protectively like a shield and making sure I had a good handle on the slippery top in case I needed to fend off back alley rats, cats or worse, scary men.
Later I move home. Bags in force. My mother journeys to my coast town and helps me pack/shove/push/tamp the many Bags into my car. Amazing what two women can do when pressed for time and space! The Bag features as inexpensive luggage again, but this time also as a ticket to freedom from a sort of oppression I encountered in that city. I was free!
Now many years later and many moves under my belt, the Black Bag has featured in many ways in our household: as an impenetrable-to-the-sugar-crazed-eye Christmas candy hiding spot, Easter basket storage, Christmas tree needle catcher, broken mirror and glass receptable and even apparel for my children as they toss eggs to one another in a game (after all, black looks good on everyone).
Today I filled many black bags. Some bound for charity. Others bound for the dump. I was sickened to see how much STUFF we have accumulated; how much we waste. Some of what ended up in the Black Bag I gleaned from its cousin the white kitchen bag that was being used as storage. Today, just as with the many other times I have filled Black Bags, marks a departure of sorts. I will not allow so much stuff into our home. The old adage: "What goes IN must come OUT" is certainly true with homes. I do not care to pay the emotional toll that goes along with owning so much stuff- the organization, the care of the article, the fear of its break/loss/theft. As a parent I struggle to organize my children's things, glean the good, judge its value to the owner and decide the item's fate. Stuff is often a burden and the Black Bag- a trash bag- is the vehicle to transport it to the curb, or guiltily drop it at the docks in the back alley of the Goodwill and speed away. Today I will begin to pay closer attention to the bags that come IN to my house- the gift bags, white kitchen bags thoughtfully packed with hand-me-downs, shopping bags and grocery bags. I will weigh the value, and the cost much more closely.
Thursday, May 08, 2008
Unscripted. This is for real.
Early morning light accuses my eyes that they are still open. The baby has called and crowed even before the rooster- if in fact we had one (which thankfully we do not.)
Dodging helicopters (of the maple tree variety) I sojourn down the drive way to rescue the damp rag that again discusses the physical abuse that teachers receive from their students over many pages. Praising God that I homeschool, I envision with heaven-like light my coffee maker.
Inside, I put down the newspaper on the stove and in the process spill a drink over it causing the electric ignitor to click. click. click. click. click. **** sigh*** At this point I should have taken the warm squirming bundle of love back to his bed and not left it. However due to various people's ineptitude I am driving 7 children to school.
After feeding and dressing the chicklets it is time to get in el van when the most dreaded word in all the world for anyone to hear is yelled.
FIRE
As if in slow motion I push past the towers of children (they are all starting to get startlingly tall) to see what is on fire. Dear eldest boy in an attempt to right the travesty of The Click and the Knob has lit the newspaper on fire and is valiantly trying to get it outside. I grab it throw it in the sink, douse it appropriately and (adrenaline pumping) attempt to recover from the site of the blazing inferno, while trying to soothe very agitated children.
Queue the phone.
Painter. We can come TODAY! In an hour! (I think: Not Monday with a weekend for me to prepare!?)
My face: Envision the old western of the woman tied to the railroad track watching the locomotive barrel toward her.
My response. "Sure."
Driving home in my office, masquerading as a gigantic freezer with 4 wheels and 15 seats, I retuen my friend's call- I had forgotten I had agreed to take care of her pets while she is away this weekend.
Crap. At least there is a cute bunny. (sneeeeze)
Next scene. After returning (1 hour later) from dropping the few that go to public school off it is reported to me by reliable sources that the dog has eaten the remaining donuts in the pack (chocolate) and all I can picture is the dog puking. Great. Something to look forward to.
Rushing upstairs I attempt to secret 3 years of beads, doll clothes, hair barrettes and dust before the glint of the windshield in the sun from the painters van tells me that I am too late. Looking forward to coming clean with them about my lack of preparation and poor warden skills (can't get the inmates to keep their cells clean) I meet them at the door with the beginning prickles of perspiration on my brow, on the back of my neck. I also realize that I am very tired. It is only 9:11 am.
The painter, who reminds me of the boy in high school who you could never take seriously because he was friends with all the girls, picks at the wallpaper, scrapes at the wall paper, wets, tigers, peels at the paper. No dice. He leaves to go to the Big Orange Money Pit to rent a steamer. All I see are dollar signs being torn from the walls. Laughing to myself that: who knew a house bought with wall paper on every blessed wall could be so expensive, I go on the rest of the day to knock over rice, sugar, burn an entire pot of rice, burn the steak under the broiler while attempting to simultaneously check homework and hold babies.
Noticing that the rain had not come in earnest I put the baby in the highchair near the dear eldest to retrieve (some peace) and columbine from the side bed. Flowers in the house are of great solace and joy to me- and boy did I ever need both today!! On my way back in the dear eldest son mentions that he has heart burn and proceeds to throw up by the swing set, outside.
"There goes lunch." He says. (He has always been a great puker with a hilarious sense of humor.)
Now: proceed with rubbing back, gathering of ginger ale and the rescue of dinner for the other 8 people I question the wisdom of carving the meat with such a sharp knife. Dare I trouble the angels to protect me from the steel?
I spend an hour happily playing with the 2 babies while dear eldest discusses Barbie anatomy- especially the alarming lack of pelvic feature that Ken does not have. (He queries: is Ken like part girl or something?) I explain it is like underwear- all squished down. HA! Disaster averted! We did not have to discuss Barbie's features at length as we were saved by the toddler ready for bed.
Two girls with no room to sleep in their room (due toe the painters). SLUMBER PARTY in the other girl's room! (on the stereo: well, not the stereo more like on the plush purple frog that raps "Hey shorty we're gonna party like it's your birthday..." played, like, 50 times.
May I live through tonight...
Dodging helicopters (of the maple tree variety) I sojourn down the drive way to rescue the damp rag that again discusses the physical abuse that teachers receive from their students over many pages. Praising God that I homeschool, I envision with heaven-like light my coffee maker.
Inside, I put down the newspaper on the stove and in the process spill a drink over it causing the electric ignitor to click. click. click. click. click. **** sigh*** At this point I should have taken the warm squirming bundle of love back to his bed and not left it. However due to various people's ineptitude I am driving 7 children to school.
After feeding and dressing the chicklets it is time to get in el van when the most dreaded word in all the world for anyone to hear is yelled.
FIRE
As if in slow motion I push past the towers of children (they are all starting to get startlingly tall) to see what is on fire. Dear eldest boy in an attempt to right the travesty of The Click and the Knob has lit the newspaper on fire and is valiantly trying to get it outside. I grab it throw it in the sink, douse it appropriately and (adrenaline pumping) attempt to recover from the site of the blazing inferno, while trying to soothe very agitated children.
Queue the phone.
Painter. We can come TODAY! In an hour! (I think: Not Monday with a weekend for me to prepare!?)
My face: Envision the old western of the woman tied to the railroad track watching the locomotive barrel toward her.
My response. "Sure."
Driving home in my office, masquerading as a gigantic freezer with 4 wheels and 15 seats, I retuen my friend's call- I had forgotten I had agreed to take care of her pets while she is away this weekend.
Crap. At least there is a cute bunny. (sneeeeze)
Next scene. After returning (1 hour later) from dropping the few that go to public school off it is reported to me by reliable sources that the dog has eaten the remaining donuts in the pack (chocolate) and all I can picture is the dog puking. Great. Something to look forward to.
Rushing upstairs I attempt to secret 3 years of beads, doll clothes, hair barrettes and dust before the glint of the windshield in the sun from the painters van tells me that I am too late. Looking forward to coming clean with them about my lack of preparation and poor warden skills (can't get the inmates to keep their cells clean) I meet them at the door with the beginning prickles of perspiration on my brow, on the back of my neck. I also realize that I am very tired. It is only 9:11 am.
The painter, who reminds me of the boy in high school who you could never take seriously because he was friends with all the girls, picks at the wallpaper, scrapes at the wall paper, wets, tigers, peels at the paper. No dice. He leaves to go to the Big Orange Money Pit to rent a steamer. All I see are dollar signs being torn from the walls. Laughing to myself that: who knew a house bought with wall paper on every blessed wall could be so expensive, I go on the rest of the day to knock over rice, sugar, burn an entire pot of rice, burn the steak under the broiler while attempting to simultaneously check homework and hold babies.
Noticing that the rain had not come in earnest I put the baby in the highchair near the dear eldest to retrieve (some peace) and columbine from the side bed. Flowers in the house are of great solace and joy to me- and boy did I ever need both today!! On my way back in the dear eldest son mentions that he has heart burn and proceeds to throw up by the swing set, outside.
"There goes lunch." He says. (He has always been a great puker with a hilarious sense of humor.)
Now: proceed with rubbing back, gathering of ginger ale and the rescue of dinner for the other 8 people I question the wisdom of carving the meat with such a sharp knife. Dare I trouble the angels to protect me from the steel?
I spend an hour happily playing with the 2 babies while dear eldest discusses Barbie anatomy- especially the alarming lack of pelvic feature that Ken does not have. (He queries: is Ken like part girl or something?) I explain it is like underwear- all squished down. HA! Disaster averted! We did not have to discuss Barbie's features at length as we were saved by the toddler ready for bed.
Two girls with no room to sleep in their room (due toe the painters). SLUMBER PARTY in the other girl's room! (on the stereo: well, not the stereo more like on the plush purple frog that raps "Hey shorty we're gonna party like it's your birthday..." played, like, 50 times.
May I live through tonight...
Sunday, April 27, 2008
As if parents don't have enough to worry about...
Well another teen starlet to go down the tubes ... http://www.nytimes.com/2008/04/28/business/media/28hannah.html?ex=1367035200&en=e341467feda0a9f4&ei=5124&partner=permalink&exprod=permalink. The next thing we will hear is that she is
a.) pregnant
b.) shaving her head bald
A fifteen-year-old girl semi-nude in Vanity Fair? Silk sheets around her?? Please. Our nation has hit a new low that this rag would market this to us, fully expecting to continue to sell magazines after such a stunt.
Of course there are obvious questions. Among them what were her parents thinking? What was Annie Leibovitz hoping to portray through this work? Or has she utter sold out to her benefactors? The very cynical side of me wonders if Disney is actually behind it? Do they need to so alter her current pop-girl image to a more sexualized adult one? Ratings down? (though that would be difficult to believe since everywhere you go you see a Hannah Montana shirt/bag/shoes/poster/sunglasses/lunchbox. Aren't there classier more tactful ways to do such a thing?
Hannah Montana was one of the VERY few singers that I did not have any reservations with our 5 girls listening to. Granted, I think the hyper-commercialization a la Disney is objectionable and obnoxious, but it IS Disney. There are so few role models that the kids think are **cool**. It is sad a bit scary to think that another precious life- Ms. Cyrus's is slipping down the gunky Hollywood tube.
a.) pregnant
b.) shaving her head bald
A fifteen-year-old girl semi-nude in Vanity Fair? Silk sheets around her?? Please. Our nation has hit a new low that this rag would market this to us, fully expecting to continue to sell magazines after such a stunt.
Of course there are obvious questions. Among them what were her parents thinking? What was Annie Leibovitz hoping to portray through this work? Or has she utter sold out to her benefactors? The very cynical side of me wonders if Disney is actually behind it? Do they need to so alter her current pop-girl image to a more sexualized adult one? Ratings down? (though that would be difficult to believe since everywhere you go you see a Hannah Montana shirt/bag/shoes/poster/sunglasses/lunchbox. Aren't there classier more tactful ways to do such a thing?
Hannah Montana was one of the VERY few singers that I did not have any reservations with our 5 girls listening to. Granted, I think the hyper-commercialization a la Disney is objectionable and obnoxious, but it IS Disney. There are so few role models that the kids think are **cool**. It is sad a bit scary to think that another precious life- Ms. Cyrus's is slipping down the gunky Hollywood tube.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
depraved day
Fat Tuesday is followed not by
denial
sacrifice
gratefulness
rather a garish daily mardi gras
a bawdry parade of loud and proud misfits
attention addicted "psychologically-challenged"
bead-wielding, slatternly women
deep-fried dirt and grime- on a stick if you like
even cell phone thumb chatter
can't drown the siren's ill-sung song
SEX!
MONEY!
POWER!
the spit-polished-bought-on-credit-chrome-wearing Escalade
reflects our national values
...and cringing I can't help but stare
denial
sacrifice
gratefulness
rather a garish daily mardi gras
a bawdry parade of loud and proud misfits
attention addicted "psychologically-challenged"
bead-wielding, slatternly women
deep-fried dirt and grime- on a stick if you like
even cell phone thumb chatter
can't drown the siren's ill-sung song
SEX!
MONEY!
POWER!
the spit-polished-bought-on-credit-chrome-wearing Escalade
reflects our national values
...and cringing I can't help but stare
Monday, November 05, 2007
Drop in, decorate, donate, cookies
Saw this on a great blog today- check it out! Do it at your house!
http://www.theperfectpantry.com/2007/11/drop-in-decorat.html
Connect with a local agency that serves adults and children, and that would like the gift of cookies.Now let's talk about you, and a few things you should know about a Drop In & Decorate event:
It's fun!
It's a wonderful way to bring people together to "give back", without spending a lot of money.
It can be an event for school groups or book groups, neighborhood associations, family reunions, scout troops, or a gathering of friends, OR
It can be you, or you and your significant other, making a dozen cookies and delivering them to your community food bank.
It's fun! (Did I mention that already? Well, I have to say it twice, because it's true.)
Everything you need to know, including how/where to donate your cookies, how to organize a decorating party, where to find supplies, and cookie and icing recipes, is available in our free How to Host Your Own Cookie Decorating Event guide.
This year, to help spread the idea of Drop In & Decorate Cookies for Donation parties, America's oldest flour company, King Arthur Flour, has created a baking kit to get you started. In the kit, you'll find cookie and icing mix (enough for your first batch of large sugar cookies), cookie cutters, pastry bags and icing tips, food coloring and decorating sugar.
Order by November 15, 2007, and you'll receive a free dough scraper if you enter the Promotion Code "Dropin" during the order process. Put the item (#8957) in your shopping basket, and continue to Checkout. You'll see a box marked Promotion Code; enter "Dropin" (without the quotation marks), and Update your cart.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Like candy to a baby...
Screams were heard outside the house. It couldn’t be missed. Anyone in the neighborhood could hear it. A lingering feeling of dread and despair pervaded the house. Walking or driving past the home, neighbors couldn’t help but feel a shiver, too curious to NOT look at the house, to try and see in the windows; after all, who lived in a house that seemed to be almost haunted? To make it worse there were other hints at spiritual oppression- an ill-kempt lawn, junk hanging from the trees, a general distraction with destruction.
Pretty soon the malaise spread- other homes and even businesses caught the virus. The citizens of the town were under the deception that everything was normal- business as usual. Not one person called the police or talked to the manager at the local ice cream shop when decapitated corpses showed up in a hearse parked out front. One store prided itself on the blood that dripped down the front door. And yet, this is all just good fun. Surely, I was just missing the point- Halloween is just good fun for kids. Right?
We don’t participate in Halloween. The darkness that has always been an integral part of Halloween but downplayed in such things as trick-or-treating and primary school parties has gotten much too dark- and sexualized. Try and find an innocent costume outside of the toddler ages in the costume shops and you will be frightened by what you see. “Naughty” angel costumes replete with crosses and super short skirt and breast hugging bodices, devil costumes with a low décolleté (for size 7 children- approximately 5-8 year olds). Truly the holiday dabbles in things other than the occult. Following suit with contemporary ready-to wear clothes, Halloween costumes are another opportunity for children to be exploited.
One of the main reasons we don’t participate in Halloween is that it is counterintuitive to living a life that glorifies Christ. If we are to emulate Christ (the light of the world, the living water, bright shining stars in the universe) than putting severed heads, glorifying death, and placing flying wraiths in your front yard is not the way to do it.
Our children rightly call it the devil’s holiday. Our neighbors and even some of our church friends think we are crazy or at the least a bit extreme. I think they are either too lazy to look into the real deal about Halloween, or too afraid of being a people set apart and taking a stand for the light and truth of Christ.
Halloween night is no joke for those involved with the occult and Satanism. To borrow from a website that says it best (link below) “Those who oppose Christ are known to organize on Halloween to observe satanic rituals, to cast spells, to oppose churches and families, to perform sacrilegious acts, and to even offer blood sacrifices to Satan. While some may say, "But we only do this in fun...we don't practice witchcraft," those things that represent Satan and his domain cannot be handled or emulated "for fun". Such participation places you in enemy and forbidden territory and that is dangerous ground…It (Halloween) does not have even one single redeeming virtue. It is custom born out of pagan superstition. It is a demon-inspired, devil-glorifying, occult festival. It is an evening holy unto evil, death, and divination. The Scriptures tells us to "Abstain from all appearance of evil." [1Thess. 5:22] “ How can we who call ourselves Christians dare to dabble in a festival based on evil?
http://www.jeremiahproject.com/culture/halloween.html
Pretty soon the malaise spread- other homes and even businesses caught the virus. The citizens of the town were under the deception that everything was normal- business as usual. Not one person called the police or talked to the manager at the local ice cream shop when decapitated corpses showed up in a hearse parked out front. One store prided itself on the blood that dripped down the front door. And yet, this is all just good fun. Surely, I was just missing the point- Halloween is just good fun for kids. Right?
We don’t participate in Halloween. The darkness that has always been an integral part of Halloween but downplayed in such things as trick-or-treating and primary school parties has gotten much too dark- and sexualized. Try and find an innocent costume outside of the toddler ages in the costume shops and you will be frightened by what you see. “Naughty” angel costumes replete with crosses and super short skirt and breast hugging bodices, devil costumes with a low décolleté (for size 7 children- approximately 5-8 year olds). Truly the holiday dabbles in things other than the occult. Following suit with contemporary ready-to wear clothes, Halloween costumes are another opportunity for children to be exploited.
One of the main reasons we don’t participate in Halloween is that it is counterintuitive to living a life that glorifies Christ. If we are to emulate Christ (the light of the world, the living water, bright shining stars in the universe) than putting severed heads, glorifying death, and placing flying wraiths in your front yard is not the way to do it.
Our children rightly call it the devil’s holiday. Our neighbors and even some of our church friends think we are crazy or at the least a bit extreme. I think they are either too lazy to look into the real deal about Halloween, or too afraid of being a people set apart and taking a stand for the light and truth of Christ.
Halloween night is no joke for those involved with the occult and Satanism. To borrow from a website that says it best (link below) “Those who oppose Christ are known to organize on Halloween to observe satanic rituals, to cast spells, to oppose churches and families, to perform sacrilegious acts, and to even offer blood sacrifices to Satan. While some may say, "But we only do this in fun...we don't practice witchcraft," those things that represent Satan and his domain cannot be handled or emulated "for fun". Such participation places you in enemy and forbidden territory and that is dangerous ground…It (Halloween) does not have even one single redeeming virtue. It is custom born out of pagan superstition. It is a demon-inspired, devil-glorifying, occult festival. It is an evening holy unto evil, death, and divination. The Scriptures tells us to "Abstain from all appearance of evil." [1Thess. 5:22] “ How can we who call ourselves Christians dare to dabble in a festival based on evil?
http://www.jeremiahproject.com/culture/halloween.html
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Spilled milk and Secret Mom School
I won’t cry over spilled milk- but I might about spilled pineapple juice. Tears may result after an event requiring an atypical drain of emotional and physical resources.
****(Camera pans a kitchen, Kitchen counters covered in remains of cookie-making detritus, school work obliterates refrigerator, background noise a din of little feet stomping upstairs, doors slamming, babies wailing, telephone ringing. Camera rests on full length shot of a woman who steps into kitchen only to find her shoe remain stuck in place after she tries to walk. Camera pulls to a tight shot of the woman’s face as it crumples- wrinkles evident around her eyes as they fill.)****
I am not sure who came up with the expression- about crying over spilled milk- but I am pretty sure it was a woman. I know this because there is simple sense to it. It optimistically rebukes the person to not don’t cry NOW without excluding LATER: there are more disheartening things to shed tears over in the future- and after all there is more milk tomorrow that can be spilled (the waste of it all! What a shame, with those starving children in Africa!) and the person to clean it up is Mom. Why? Because when Mom became a mom she took an ultra-secret class where no children or hubbies were allowed admittance, where They taught her how to clean up things so they were CLEAN, where she was the only one allowed to dispense the official “Yes, it is clean!” proclamation because she was the ONLY ONE WHO TOOK THE CLASS. I mean, certainly that must be the only reason that no one else seemed to be able to clean up the floor (the sink, the toilet, the counters…) when the mysterious gremlins came in and made the mess. Right?
****(Camera pans a kitchen, Kitchen counters covered in remains of cookie-making detritus, school work obliterates refrigerator, background noise a din of little feet stomping upstairs, doors slamming, babies wailing, telephone ringing. Camera rests on full length shot of a woman who steps into kitchen only to find her shoe remain stuck in place after she tries to walk. Camera pulls to a tight shot of the woman’s face as it crumples- wrinkles evident around her eyes as they fill.)****
I am not sure who came up with the expression- about crying over spilled milk- but I am pretty sure it was a woman. I know this because there is simple sense to it. It optimistically rebukes the person to not don’t cry NOW without excluding LATER: there are more disheartening things to shed tears over in the future- and after all there is more milk tomorrow that can be spilled (the waste of it all! What a shame, with those starving children in Africa!) and the person to clean it up is Mom. Why? Because when Mom became a mom she took an ultra-secret class where no children or hubbies were allowed admittance, where They taught her how to clean up things so they were CLEAN, where she was the only one allowed to dispense the official “Yes, it is clean!” proclamation because she was the ONLY ONE WHO TOOK THE CLASS. I mean, certainly that must be the only reason that no one else seemed to be able to clean up the floor (the sink, the toilet, the counters…) when the mysterious gremlins came in and made the mess. Right?
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
When I was a new mother over 9 years ago I was having a conversation with a stay-at-home mother (SAHM) who confided to me that she found that the women who worked outside of the home were “different” from the ones who stayed at home. From her voice there was little doubt that she meant this in a negative way. Knowingly she promised- “You’ll see.”
This conversation occurred about 6 months before I was forced to return to work (30 hours a week) and attend school (full time) to finish my art degree. While I longed to be at home with my babies, I had just spent a grueling 10 months with twins as a single parent (though admittedly with a great deal of assistance from my mother) and must say that going back to work seems like a bit of a vacation. True, it was exhausted commuting and keeping the various plates spinning, but it contributed to my superwoman desire to “do it all.” I did feel a little guilty when I took pleasure in my work, constantly feeling like I “should” be at home with them. It felt unnatural and almost irresponsible that I was having someone else was raising my children. I really only had about 4 hours a day with them- and not the pretty bask-in-motherhood moments. We rushed to daycare, we rushed home from day care, we rushed dinner and baths, and then it was bed time.
Periodically I would see this woman and wonder, what was it that made the SAHM different from me? As time passed I was regretful of different things I was missing or missed having input on- I was envious of the day care mom’s insights into my toddlers’ life, bristled at the concerns she was having for them that I had not wanted noticed by anyone but me, cringed at a few of the movie choices that were shown to their innocent eyes without my input. Was this what I was missing? I wanted to have it all- and I could, but there was a cost. To gain financial stability I traded a loss of intimacy of my children’s days and ways. I have to give up on the small battles (food choices, questionable t.v. content, control of nap times) so that the bigger picture of quality day care was achieved. I had no choice. I HAD to work. I had a good situation with the day care. I had an excuse to pursue my own selfish desires too.
I met an amazing man, we married, I was able to cut back working to a flexible schedule that allowed me to work from home 1 day a week, and ultimately was able to resign. Suddenly I was home. All day. I maintained a freelance business for a period and enjoyed the novelty of being at home in the daylight hours during the week. I drove the kids to school and back, did homework with them, shopped and was available to my whole extended family. My prayers had been answered- all the things I had wished for became a reality.
Then I knew. I realized what the woman had talked about how SAHM are different. I knew what I had been missing. It was the crestfallen face of my daughter being harshly dismissed by a friend. It was the burst of joy over the loss of a tooth- not the end of the day report told with a bit less enthusiasm. It was me not being irritated over traffic and being preoccupied rather with how we could navigate our evenings as a family in a graceful, peaceful and intentional way. I was no longer schizophrenic in my thoughts. I could do the 15+ jobs that all mothers do- at home. Not from multiple locations. Not feel guilty having to leave work early to pick up my sick child from school, and then feel guilty for feeling frustrated at having to leave things at work half-done. My loyalties and devotions were to one place- my home and family. My energies were directed singularly. It was liberating. I felt free.
Women exist in a conflicted time- this is already well documented. For those who work outside of the home by choice there are many questions. Am I a selfish mother if I choose to work instead of spending my time raising my children? How much money is enough? If I dare to leave will I ever be able to return? Do I use my God-given gifts to pursue the things that I was doing before I had children that were worthy endeavors?
For the woman who chooses to stay at home there are equally tough questions, in part because her work is often (from the worldly point of view) not considered worthy of note. (My favorite question: “What DO you do all day at home??”) Now that I am at home I sometimes miss the work I was doing, the enervating conversations I had with intellectuals, the “beat” of the downtown to which I was part, the ability to actually finish a project. The nurturing work in the home is never finished. The little souls entrusted to us are always needy. It is not tidy, this lifestyle. I did not have an end-of-year review where I could report all my good jobs to get a raise. I don’t regret my decision to stay at home. I could never trade this life for my old working in the city one. I don’t want to miss the first laugh from my baby, the way the light shimmers over my daughter’s hair in the afternoon, the ability to serve my family with a whole heart and not be divided constantly pleasing a host of people.
One thing I have learned- the woman at home and the one who works outside the home needs to find her value and approval in our Maker- in Him alone- to have peace.
This conversation occurred about 6 months before I was forced to return to work (30 hours a week) and attend school (full time) to finish my art degree. While I longed to be at home with my babies, I had just spent a grueling 10 months with twins as a single parent (though admittedly with a great deal of assistance from my mother) and must say that going back to work seems like a bit of a vacation. True, it was exhausted commuting and keeping the various plates spinning, but it contributed to my superwoman desire to “do it all.” I did feel a little guilty when I took pleasure in my work, constantly feeling like I “should” be at home with them. It felt unnatural and almost irresponsible that I was having someone else was raising my children. I really only had about 4 hours a day with them- and not the pretty bask-in-motherhood moments. We rushed to daycare, we rushed home from day care, we rushed dinner and baths, and then it was bed time.
Periodically I would see this woman and wonder, what was it that made the SAHM different from me? As time passed I was regretful of different things I was missing or missed having input on- I was envious of the day care mom’s insights into my toddlers’ life, bristled at the concerns she was having for them that I had not wanted noticed by anyone but me, cringed at a few of the movie choices that were shown to their innocent eyes without my input. Was this what I was missing? I wanted to have it all- and I could, but there was a cost. To gain financial stability I traded a loss of intimacy of my children’s days and ways. I have to give up on the small battles (food choices, questionable t.v. content, control of nap times) so that the bigger picture of quality day care was achieved. I had no choice. I HAD to work. I had a good situation with the day care. I had an excuse to pursue my own selfish desires too.
I met an amazing man, we married, I was able to cut back working to a flexible schedule that allowed me to work from home 1 day a week, and ultimately was able to resign. Suddenly I was home. All day. I maintained a freelance business for a period and enjoyed the novelty of being at home in the daylight hours during the week. I drove the kids to school and back, did homework with them, shopped and was available to my whole extended family. My prayers had been answered- all the things I had wished for became a reality.
Then I knew. I realized what the woman had talked about how SAHM are different. I knew what I had been missing. It was the crestfallen face of my daughter being harshly dismissed by a friend. It was the burst of joy over the loss of a tooth- not the end of the day report told with a bit less enthusiasm. It was me not being irritated over traffic and being preoccupied rather with how we could navigate our evenings as a family in a graceful, peaceful and intentional way. I was no longer schizophrenic in my thoughts. I could do the 15+ jobs that all mothers do- at home. Not from multiple locations. Not feel guilty having to leave work early to pick up my sick child from school, and then feel guilty for feeling frustrated at having to leave things at work half-done. My loyalties and devotions were to one place- my home and family. My energies were directed singularly. It was liberating. I felt free.
Women exist in a conflicted time- this is already well documented. For those who work outside of the home by choice there are many questions. Am I a selfish mother if I choose to work instead of spending my time raising my children? How much money is enough? If I dare to leave will I ever be able to return? Do I use my God-given gifts to pursue the things that I was doing before I had children that were worthy endeavors?
For the woman who chooses to stay at home there are equally tough questions, in part because her work is often (from the worldly point of view) not considered worthy of note. (My favorite question: “What DO you do all day at home??”) Now that I am at home I sometimes miss the work I was doing, the enervating conversations I had with intellectuals, the “beat” of the downtown to which I was part, the ability to actually finish a project. The nurturing work in the home is never finished. The little souls entrusted to us are always needy. It is not tidy, this lifestyle. I did not have an end-of-year review where I could report all my good jobs to get a raise. I don’t regret my decision to stay at home. I could never trade this life for my old working in the city one. I don’t want to miss the first laugh from my baby, the way the light shimmers over my daughter’s hair in the afternoon, the ability to serve my family with a whole heart and not be divided constantly pleasing a host of people.
One thing I have learned- the woman at home and the one who works outside the home needs to find her value and approval in our Maker- in Him alone- to have peace.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
My Baby
Like grains of sand
The brevity of your babyhood
Sifts through my fingers.
I cannot freeze time-
And while I don’t think I would wish to
STOP
TIME
Altogether, I sometimes wish to travel through it.
Back to sweet moments of a freshly bathed head on my shoulder
The pat, pat of your chubby hands on my arm
That first chuckle…
Other times I predict into the future-
“she will be a spirited child, a strong-willed wonder”
Today I gaze mesmerized by your tiny hands,
dimpled knuckles grasping at toys, books
your copper highlighted head angled intently toward paper.
acutely aware of the twinge I feel in my gut
melancholy
Already I mourn the loss of you as a baby
I watch you- try to paint you on a cellular level,
Your fiery will , your smile, your softness
The sound of your toddling feet, your giggle
lest I grow old and forget
you as My Baby
The brevity of your babyhood
Sifts through my fingers.
I cannot freeze time-
And while I don’t think I would wish to
STOP
TIME
Altogether, I sometimes wish to travel through it.
Back to sweet moments of a freshly bathed head on my shoulder
The pat, pat of your chubby hands on my arm
That first chuckle…
Other times I predict into the future-
“she will be a spirited child, a strong-willed wonder”
Today I gaze mesmerized by your tiny hands,
dimpled knuckles grasping at toys, books
your copper highlighted head angled intently toward paper.
acutely aware of the twinge I feel in my gut
melancholy
Already I mourn the loss of you as a baby
I watch you- try to paint you on a cellular level,
Your fiery will , your smile, your softness
The sound of your toddling feet, your giggle
lest I grow old and forget
you as My Baby
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Thursday, August 16, 2007
"Lucky" 7
The number "7" has always figured prominently in my life. As a young soccer player I always attempted to score the jersey with a 7. If I had to choose a number between 1 and 10, it was a no brainer: 7. Jesus used 7 too, which as a youngster I always felt was important- he instructed that one is to forgive 70 times 7. I even have a color associated with the number: a bright emerald green. (Though to be fair I associate most numbers with colors: 2 is red, 3 is blue, 5 is yellow...) While I have never attributed any magical powers to 7 I have always thought of it as "my" number. Dunno why. Of course there are some people who REALLY like the number as they are actually naming their children after the number- bizarre. Perhaps they know something that I do not?)
I never realized just how special the number 7 would be. This year ('07) we welcomed our 7th child. I was happy to meet his dear self, and felt just fine with this perhaps being our "finale" addition. While I don't claim to know God's will for our life with regard to family number I feel good about this lovely 7th child. 5 girls framed between 2 boy book ends. Neat and tidy- utterly unreflected in the rest of our life- and wonderful.
One frustration that I will always have is the constant comments from others insisting that this surely "must" be our last child. Why would a complete stranger care about my family composition and number? Perhaps they just can't see how lucky* we are with 7.
*when I say lucky I am actually saying blessed....
I never realized just how special the number 7 would be. This year ('07) we welcomed our 7th child. I was happy to meet his dear self, and felt just fine with this perhaps being our "finale" addition. While I don't claim to know God's will for our life with regard to family number I feel good about this lovely 7th child. 5 girls framed between 2 boy book ends. Neat and tidy- utterly unreflected in the rest of our life- and wonderful.
One frustration that I will always have is the constant comments from others insisting that this surely "must" be our last child. Why would a complete stranger care about my family composition and number? Perhaps they just can't see how lucky* we are with 7.
*when I say lucky I am actually saying blessed....
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
reaping & sowing
A wise woman discussed the seasons of life with me the other day.
After I had caught her up on the doings in our rambunctious household she explained to me how my husband and I were in the summer of our lifetime. We were working hard, and as the Chinese might say, willingly eating bitterness. Bent over in our fields toiling, we barely have time to wipe the bit of sweat off our brow so busy were we sowing. We plant the seeds of righteousness in our household, in our children, we nurture the growth we see as well as prepare for the fruit we expect to yield, encouraging it along the way. The dear lady explained that she and her husband, empty nesters, were in the fall of their life- they were reaping the bounty for which they worked so hard for- their great kids were turning into competent, interesting and responsible adults, their businesses were going well and affording them the opportunity to travel to see loved ones and they were having a great time as a couple. But none of this would have been possible without the hard work, patience and perseverance during the summer of their life.
Recently she had visited family and was witnessing to me what winter looks like. Her in-laws, now in their 80’s, had braved many terrible storms together: war, deaths of loved ones, immigration from Europe, miscarriages, and now perhaps the most terrible one, Alzheimer’s. After dinner one evening this man and wife sat close to one another and watched slides of their life together- over 60 years of togetherness and hard work. The images they looked upon were much younger versions of themselves and their now middle-aged children and diseased parents. The wise woman commented that it was in the winter of our lives that we needed the filled storehouses from which to draw. We reap what we sow.
I pray that we are sowing a hearty harvest together, my husband and I, as we keep our heads down working hard with sweat dripping off of our brow.
After I had caught her up on the doings in our rambunctious household she explained to me how my husband and I were in the summer of our lifetime. We were working hard, and as the Chinese might say, willingly eating bitterness. Bent over in our fields toiling, we barely have time to wipe the bit of sweat off our brow so busy were we sowing. We plant the seeds of righteousness in our household, in our children, we nurture the growth we see as well as prepare for the fruit we expect to yield, encouraging it along the way. The dear lady explained that she and her husband, empty nesters, were in the fall of their life- they were reaping the bounty for which they worked so hard for- their great kids were turning into competent, interesting and responsible adults, their businesses were going well and affording them the opportunity to travel to see loved ones and they were having a great time as a couple. But none of this would have been possible without the hard work, patience and perseverance during the summer of their life.
Recently she had visited family and was witnessing to me what winter looks like. Her in-laws, now in their 80’s, had braved many terrible storms together: war, deaths of loved ones, immigration from Europe, miscarriages, and now perhaps the most terrible one, Alzheimer’s. After dinner one evening this man and wife sat close to one another and watched slides of their life together- over 60 years of togetherness and hard work. The images they looked upon were much younger versions of themselves and their now middle-aged children and diseased parents. The wise woman commented that it was in the winter of our lives that we needed the filled storehouses from which to draw. We reap what we sow.
I pray that we are sowing a hearty harvest together, my husband and I, as we keep our heads down working hard with sweat dripping off of our brow.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
now and away
Dearest baby boy
What shall we call you?
What will you be?
Who shall you resemble?
It remains to be seen
I have not yet met you,
Yet a few things I know
You will be loved
And cherished besides
A desired member of our tribe
The world that you enter
Is much less than perfect
(Not the one I would choose)
But we are here, and soon you too
To share this existence as best we can
For a time- just a small time
You will be safe- cradled by my side
I’ll teach you and love you
And ready you to fly
Strong and straight away
What shall we call you?
What will you be?
Who shall you resemble?
It remains to be seen
I have not yet met you,
Yet a few things I know
You will be loved
And cherished besides
A desired member of our tribe
The world that you enter
Is much less than perfect
(Not the one I would choose)
But we are here, and soon you too
To share this existence as best we can
For a time- just a small time
You will be safe- cradled by my side
I’ll teach you and love you
And ready you to fly
Strong and straight away
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
work in progress
I live in a house with hearts on the window
and
L
O
V
E
on the door.
graceful ladies in blue kimonos
climb up stairs with fans in their hands
the red heart of a home blooms
with flowers from outside the window
gifts, offered from tightly clutched fists,
stubby stems , flowers of white, fushia, pink
voyagers from kingdoms afar troop restlessly
through these hallowed doorways.
supplies tossed hastily aside
in favor of lemonade,
crinkly packages, and colored tubes of ice
these provisions secreted in pockets
the unconsumed remains of which appear in the laundry room linter
gooey, unrecognizable except for the plastic wrapping
shoes left disgraced in doorways
point in the direction of their owners
while socks strike out solo, all over
happy to be delivered from sweaty feet-prison
gardens outside roam unchecked
threaten to encroach indoors
a princess tree, unhindered, climbs to the parapets
reaching for 4 little princess’s windows on the 2nd floor
a ladder of green
sounds of life:
tinkle and clang,
giggle and screech,
thump and bang.
children everywhere
and
L
O
V
E
on the door.
graceful ladies in blue kimonos
climb up stairs with fans in their hands
the red heart of a home blooms
with flowers from outside the window
gifts, offered from tightly clutched fists,
stubby stems , flowers of white, fushia, pink
voyagers from kingdoms afar troop restlessly
through these hallowed doorways.
supplies tossed hastily aside
in favor of lemonade,
crinkly packages, and colored tubes of ice
these provisions secreted in pockets
the unconsumed remains of which appear in the laundry room linter
gooey, unrecognizable except for the plastic wrapping
shoes left disgraced in doorways
point in the direction of their owners
while socks strike out solo, all over
happy to be delivered from sweaty feet-prison
gardens outside roam unchecked
threaten to encroach indoors
a princess tree, unhindered, climbs to the parapets
reaching for 4 little princess’s windows on the 2nd floor
a ladder of green
sounds of life:
tinkle and clang,
giggle and screech,
thump and bang.
children everywhere
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Too Much and Very Many
That is what I have: too much and very many. I am blessed by a great deal of things- materially and spritually. We have many children and a decently sized, beautiful home that fits our family. This also constitutes a great deal to clean and manage. There are many birthday cakes to make, smiles to savor and fights to referee, and never enough band aids for the boos boos- both real and imagined. Right now there is too much heat, and I have too much baby in me to deal with all this heat and an un-air conditioned minivan in which I have taken 2.5 million whole-lotta trips today. With a 1 year old in tow.
This evening I have a great many papers sitting on the school table behind me. Semi-organized but not good enough for the homeschool review I have tomorrow at 10 am, after I drop kids off at camp and pick up the babysitter, take her to our house and set out to my appointment. Inside this box by my right knew are a whole ton of files on the hard drive for me to print out to show our field trips, art projects and whatnot. Unfortunately I do NOT have much ink for the printer left. I also am short on the energy and tenacity required to slay this organizational Goliath by midnight when I assume I will expire. I running out of space in my body for this too- big baby- measure 4 weeks ahead of where I should be given my due date. Too little of me. Deep breath. (Getting out my sling shot…)
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