7 Quick Takes Link-Up

Despite the fact that Jen and I have been blog buddies for about a year now, this is the first 7 Quick Takes Friday I have ever participated in. Isn’t that how it goes sometimes, though? Friends and family are often the last to hop on the rolling bandwagon. In any case, I’m on now. At least for this week. Let’s see what I’ve got. (And, I promise, I won’t mention either weddings or Royals.)

1. Why is it that our children don’t come with a pause button for those moments? You mamas know the ones I mean. Someone’s wet their pants (again) because they were too busy tormenting the cat (again) to notice that they had to pee. You get lunch on the table and no one will eat a bite of it because, let’s be honest, sandwiches and carrot sticks are not jelly beans and chocolate-marshmallow rabbits…and then someone spits the sandwich on the floor. You spend all of thirty seconds finally using the bathroom alone only to walk back into the homeschool room and find your toddler grinning from ear to ear, forest green marker in hand and coordinating scribbles all over your white carpet.

It’s not that you won’t laugh about it later. It’s not that you’re not grateful to God for giving you these precious blessings even and despite it all. It’s just that you need a moment to take a chill pill before you shout them deaf and pull out a few tufts of your own hair. Fortitude. Clover Lane is onto something.

2. Doing a survey of some of my past posts (especially some of the earlier ones when I was still finding my groove as a writer and, more importantly, as a public sharer of opinions), I’ve hurt people with my words. Some of them have come right out and said it. Others have merely drifted away. If you’re one of those people, I’m sorry. I’m working on that quiet and gentle spirit thing. I’m still learning the way to weave the warp of grace into the weft of truth. But, I will try my hardest to do better. We women, we do this. This hurting each other deep because we hide the hurt from each other and we sometimes don’t realize until the damage is done. But, I hope it’s not too late. I am trying to be better. Truly.

3. So, over the next few weeks, I’m going to be digging back through my archives. I plan to re-craft and repost those pieces that I feel don’t really belong in the sanctuary of the Cider Mill any longer. I hope you’ll all join me in celebrating this rebirth-reconciliation of printed word.

4. And speaking of women and healing: I so want to be this friend when someone I know has a baby. I wouldn’t turn a favor in kind from my door if the Lord blesses us with another baby, either.

5. We had these incredible strawberry shortcakes as our dessert this Easter. Like the writer of this blog, we topped our biscuits with macerated strawberries and sweetened vanilla whipped cream. After polishing off his second helping, my husband put his foot down. “That’s it. I’m officially laying down the law. No more experimenting with shortcake biscuits again ever. There shall never be any other shortcakes in our house but these.” We both laughed and licked the strawberry juice from our saucers. I agreed.

6. But holidays are never all strawberries and whipped cream, right? I know mine wasn’t perfect. Despite the shortcake. But, like Anna, I know that the celebration is in the Christ-presence and in the presence of Christ in all present. No matter the pain.

7. My family is currently working our way through the classic Little House on the Prairie series for our evening read-aloud. We finished the first two books in the series and have moved onto Farmer Boy this week. Even my husband looks forward to our nightly chapter. Remember, my oldest is only three-and-a-half. Don’t worry if your kids can’t understand every word or concept. Read them the good stuff. You’ll enjoy it, too, I promise.

The Training of a Soul (My Own)

If I am brutally honest with myself (and all  of you, I suppose), I am complainer. I might say by nature, but I hope not. I like to think that all of us are, by nature, born to praise and not to petulance. By birthright, then? In any case, I cannot remember a time when I did not complain. In the culture I grew up in, it was about more than the occasional gripe fest. Complaining was a sort of modus operandi for filling each other in on the news of the day.

“How was school?”
“Well, you wouldn’t believe…!”

“Didn’t so-and-so get married.”
“Yeah. The food was awful. Oh, but her dress was lovely.”

That was the way we did things. Complain, then throw in the stuff that went well. I suppose we thought the complaints made for a better story. More authentic. We were big on authenticity. I was proud of it.

When I went off to college in Southern California, my poor West Coast friends didn’t know what to make of me. Especially my friends from Hawaii. They just didn’t talk that way. When someone asked me how a class was going and I said the lecturer was boring or I disagreed with the thesis of one of my texts, they began to wonder among themselves if I was suffering from depression. I found this quite odd, since where I came from, I was noted for being overly cheerful. What I saw as authenticity, my new friends saw as morose. Well, we were both wrong.

There isn’t anything particularly noble about noticing the good in something over the bad. Most things in life can be good or bad; it’s all in how you spin it. You can take a hard, honest look at spilled milk and still see a half-full glass. Or, you can see a puddle of spilled milk.

And, as for morose, I wasn’t either. I didn’t mean to be depressing. I’d just built up such a habit of complaining that it’s where my mind went first. In fact, I often found—find—myself complaining about events or places or things about which I am actually perfectly happy. I just don’t say it that way. It’s not the way I learned to tell a story.

Aye, there’s the rub. Learn. I learned to complain. It’s not my nature. My nature—my goal—my reason for being—is to glorify God.

Our Blessed Mother said it best, “My soul magnifies the Lord.”

Or it should. But, mine wasn’t. Because I’d learned the habit of complaint. For years, I tried, unsuccessfully to stop complaining. I tried giving it up for Lent. I made New Year’s resolutions. I prayed. I knew what the problem was, but I was going the wrong way about eradicating it. I was navel-gazing. Looking at my own failings and trying to extirpate them. But, I didn’t need to examine the beam in my own eye. I knew it was there and how coarse and how long and how wide and deep, and the looking and the knowing wasn’t doing a lick of good to get it out. What I needed was new eyes.

Ann Vos Kamp writes in her book One Thousand Gifts,

“…all these years it’s been utterly pointless to try to wrench out the spikes of discontent. Because that habit of discontentment can only be driven out by hammering in one iron sharper. The sleek pin of gratitude.”

If I wanted to unlearn complaint, I would have to remember how to magnify. To do that, I needed a new language. The language of thanksgiving. The language of blessing. The language of gifts acknowledged. The language of, as Ann says, Eucharisto.

Every week, sometimes more than once, I hit my knees, I bow my head, I hear the ancient words translated into English, transmitted through the voice of my priest, and He is there. Thanksgiving Himself. Broken and bleeding for me. I swallow, kneel, give thanks for this moment, this bread and wine, this Body and Soul and Blood Divine. But, until now I do not learn. I do not learn that this is only the beginning, the weekly strengthening, the refocusing of new eyes. To live into this faith, I must live into this Eucharist, into thanksgiving.

“How was your day?”

Kids pushing. Disobeying. Discipline with tears and I’m sorry. Let’s pray for Mama. Dinner forgotten until too late, and I’m tossing together what’s in the pantry. What’s in the darn pantry? Kids, get out of the pantry! Hungry, tired, failing.

I put aside my prideful visions of authenticity. I bite back the words of habit.

Teaching opportunity. A moment of humility to let my Savior in, let my children see Him in my brokenness. Little hands laid on Mama in prayer. A full pantry. Young curiosity. Obedience this time, though it would have been better had I not shouted. Dinner cooking, warm bed waiting, Savior catching…

“Good. Long. How about yours?”

We talk as I cook. I try to listen more than I speak. It helps to keep the gripe fest spilling forth.

This, too, is authenticity. I’m not a Pollyanna. I am simply a woman with eyes wide open who wants to see the world for more than just the downside. If I get one go at this, then I’m going to squeeze those lemons for all their worth. I’m going to drink that glass down to half-full. Dip fresh-baked cookies in spilled milk. I’m going to see it all as gift, and learn again to magnify Glory.

Multitude Monday

We woke in pre-dawn darkness that never fully dispelled. It is Seattle, after all, and there is an unspoken rule that it must always rain on at least two days of the year: July 4th and Easter Sunday. Every year, Easter moves around, but the clouds are never fooled. This year is no exception.

But, it’s of no concern as I shuffle slipper-footed to the stove, preheat the oven, and turn back to the warm bedroom to put on pearls, an Easter dress, a spritz of my perfume. I trade my slippers for sand-colored ballet flats and tiptoe past the nursery, back to the kitchen. I start shaping hot cross buns. A basketful of warm, iced buns brought to Mass to treat our priests. Little plates with Bible verses to brighten neighbors’ mornings. And, a platter piled high for our breakfast table. But, these must wait.

Little fists rub bleary eyes. Still dark, and we dress. Freeways empty, but the pews are full, and hearts fuller. The pianist begins the first song, one of my favorite hymns, and all is white and lily-fragrant. All is joy.

Back home, there is the smell of bacon and later ham, the warmth of walls and arms, and if there is no sun, there is still light. Brightly colored eggs, candlelight, and children’s shining eyes.

It’s not all perfect. There are chocolate smears and cranky tears, and the ham is a little fatty. Little hands that folded in prayer snatch and push and ball in fists of frustration. A forgotten block of Gruyere is replaced with Monterey Jack at hand. The family favorite is a bit different this year, but still good. Still very good. There are empty places at the table for loved ones whose plans were forced to change last minute. We make phone calls instead.

It’s never quite perfect, is it? But, consider it all joy.

Simple Blessings #66-75

I tuck ham and eggs into the refrigerator,
seeds in the ground,
cards signed by beloved hands into a box.
Jelly beans shine like jewels in my mother’s candy dish beside the sofa.
My children congregate beside it, fingers and smiles twitching, and I say yes. This once.
Inevitably, sugar-crash tears follow, and I am grateful for wise words 
that guide me when I am unsure.
I give thanks for the Word that spoke to Solomon’s heart
and grips mine fast in two sure hands.
I praise Him for little lives
and for the grace to help me train them up for glory.

Risen

Heart bursting.
Hands praising.
Knees bending.
Head bowing.
Lips singing.
Worship winging.
Thanksgiving.
Believing.

Son rising.

Jesus Christ is risen today, Alleluia!
Our triumphant holy day, Alleluia!
Who did once, upon the cross, Alleluia!
Suffer to redeem our loss, Alleluia!

Hymns of praise then let us sing, Alleluia!
Unto Christ, our heavenly King, Alleluia!
Who endured the cross and grave, Alleluia!
Sinners to redeem and save, Alleluia!

Bare

My children and I enter the church, and it takes my breath away. The emptiness. The silence. All is stripped to bare bones. Carpet. Wood. Quiet. 

No crucifix. No altar cloth. No Bible. No Eucharist. Even the holy water fonts are emptied.

Barren is the word that comes to mind. A barren wasteland. The pews are still here, the piano in the corner, the kneelers that remain folded away, but it hardly feels like a church.

Where is Jesus? I wonder, looking at the emptiness all around me.

And, then it strikes me. Is this how the world feels to other people? To people who do not know Christ? Do they step out of their front doors each day and wonder at the barren wasteland of living?

No, for the most part, I don’t think they do. I think they find things to fill the void. I think they find happiness, at least much of the time. I do not think they feel the lack down to their bare and longing bones.

But, they should.

This is what I realized today. For, every moment without Christ is bare. But, it seems that it is we who know Him who feel the lack most keenly. This is why we must remember every year. Why we must tear down the crosses from our sanctuaries and strip the altars and empty the fonts. We must remember the emptiness that is out there.

Then, we must go forth to shine the Light that fills the void.

Learning Basket for Holy Week

Here are my learning basket picks for the week leading up to Easter. This selection of books gently, accurately, and engagingly guides my children through the events of the Passion and makes alive for them the glory of the Resurrection. Oh, and I had to throw in a little Tasha Tudor just for some whimsical fun!

A note for my Catholic readers: The story Benjamin’s Box gives a slightly inaccurate depiction of the Last Supper. The text states that Benjamin was confused when Jesus “said the wine was like his blood and would be spilled, and the bread was to be broken like his body.” This is not what Scripture tells us, and it certainly is not what our Faith proclaims. I still think that this story has incredible merit, though, so rather than throw out the baby with the bathwater, I just crossed out a few of words so that our copy reads “the wine was like his blood and would be spilled, and the bread was to be broken like his body.”

What is your family reading for Holy Week?

The Story

I’ve been away. Not just in the virtual realm. In my real life. I was off on a youth group retreat. Two days after that, my family left to celebrate my best friend’s wedding in New York. We were gone for a week. The same day we returned home, my husband left for a four-day conference in yet another state.

Now we’re finally all home again. Now life is starting to return to what we know as normal. Now that the dust has settled, I am cognizant of a few things that got lost in the whirlwind.

There are so few hours in a day. Even when the day is dragging or the kids are clinging to my tired body, there are so few, so very few hours. It’s my commission to use them wisely and to enjoy them well. So how am I spending these twenty-four? And tomorrow, I must ask myself again.

I am only one person. My brain does not divide well. I’m one of those people who seems cursed to get lost if they try to have a conversation while driving. I do things whole-heartedly, which means that when I do a thing, it is with focus and intent… and that means that I cannot simultaneously be doing something else with equal focus and intent… or even at all… because then my focus from the first thing becomes blurry and the intention wanes and… well, you see how it is. It gets confusing. And in the confusion, something is lost. Focus or intent or clarity or joy. Or my mind. Or maybe me.

I am only one person. And, that is quite enough. Sometimes, I just have to remind myself that it is quite enough. That I am enough. That the hours in the day are enough. That if something is lacking, it is because I have forgotten that a day is a day and that I am me and that is how it should be.

“This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” – Psalm 118:24

Let me rejoice in this day, Lord. Let me rejoice in me, and in life and in twenty-four hours, and in whole-hearted efforts and in You. Let me recall that it is enough and to ask for nothing more.

And on a day like this, I stop and I think, what am I doing with this day, with this life? With these twenty-four hours? This week? This year? These two hands and these two arms and this voice and these eyes? This mind and this heart and this soul?

Scripture tells me that where my focus and intent are, there is my heart. So, on what am I focused? Where do my best intentions lie? To whom have I given my heart?

Is it to my family? Or my home? Or my comfort? Or my country? Or my work? Or myself? Or my God?

The hours of our years tell stories. They tell the story of our hearts. What story is your life telling? What is the tale of these twenty-four hours? And, who is the author?

When the whirlwind stops, when the dust settles, what is left behind? What is really left behind?