Random Tidbits to Close November:

Søren went down without a fight tonight. I think my boy is back!

Elliot went down after a very minor fight. There is hope in sight!

I made my first real meal (by this I mean there were at least 3 food-groups present and at least 3 colors) since Thanksgiving, and I even made pumpkin pie. I was in some kind of slump with all the sleep training craziness and having a husband suddenly home all day, every day - not a bad thing, but not a productive homemaker thing either.

On the calendar for December: Elliot's 6-month check-up and packing, packing, packing, then unpacking, unpacking, unpacking, then Christmas, and a visit with my littlest sister from the land of Eugene, and a family portrait (hopefully) by the lovely Erin Julian of Lylium!

Sanctification for Today

This afternoon was one of those moments that moms do not like to talk about. Somewhere during the 60-minute-test-of-my-will with the incessant chanting of either "leave door open" (which I would love to do, except that he WILL NOT, under NO circumstances fall asleep if the door is open), or "milk, milk, milk" or "mommy, mommy, mommy" I seriously wanted to open the door into his face...repeatedly, until, perhaps, he blacked out.

The things that stopped me...I would love to say sanity, or love for my child, or my commitment to not use violence as a means to and end (I do not consider the way we spank to be violence, it is brief pain for the purpose of instruction), or something that would make me sound a little less like a psychopath...but seriously, the things that stopped me were the fact that I probably would feel bad as soon as he started crying, and then it would prolong the nap-time battle, and that even if I were successful in knocking him out just enough for him to fall asleep without dying, it would not be a good long-term plan for successful napping. The pragmatist in me stopped me from fulfilling my angry fantasies (well, okay, and probably the fact that I really am still sane, and that he is only 27 months old, and that he can feel the unsettledness of Andrew being home most of the day and the talk of moving and packing and not seeing people he has grown quite attached to seeing, and I think he is somehow afraid of falling asleep and having things change on him).

Still, it is somewhat infuriating to have 60 minutes of the 90 minutes I get "to myself" during the day spent holding a door closed listening to a screaming overtired boy and waiting for the 2, then 3, then 4, then 5, etc. minutes to go by before going in and calmly placing him back in bed and leaving again. There are dishes to be cleaned, things to be put away, laundry to do (this is the "to myself" time aforementioned), then hopes of afternoon plans, wishes of time to sit and read or write or make Christmas cards.

These are the kinds of days that face me so directly into the truth of my nature. It is easy to be kind and patient and loving and serving when things are going as planned and my children and husband are being easy to love. Where is the accomplishment in that? It is when I really start to feel inconvenienced, it is then that it is so much harder to be loving and patient and kind and self-less. This is where I see my ugly self rear my head proclaiming that I think that me and my needs are more important than my child's need (for a calm, loving, firm, and reliable mother). Then there is the ridiculousness of thinking that getting angry or physical with A TWO YEAR OLD is going to somehow show him that I feel really put out and do not want to take it anymore. As if it were personal or something.

Yes, I know, I actually need time to myself worked into our schedule and habit. Yes, my husband and I need more than 1 date a year. Yes, I need a lock on the door so that I can walk away and do something else while he screams (though that would require a door that actually latched shut, and we are renters and leaving in 3 weeks anyway). Yes, I know that this would not have even been such a big deal if it was not the fifth day in a row that I have had to do this. Yes, I know that I have now spent the last 30 minutes to myself blogging, but this is my place to vent and process. Yes, I know lots of things that could help reduce these kinds of days from occurring, but that does not change it for today, for this moment. We often do not know how important certain changes are until we are under too much stress.

Obviously, I did not hurt him, and, of course, I did not actually want to. I was loving, and calm, and firm, and reliable. He was never in danger. I was mad, and I was stressed, and I was feeling like my need for him to get over this weird sleep issue was more important that just about everything else. I was thinking "I hate my life!" when really, I just did not like that hour of my life. I let myself get caught up in thinking that some temporary circumstance was going to last forever.

Why do I post this? It is certainly not a pretty moment to share. It is because I find it most helpful to be honest about the difficult moments of what I am committed to (being a good parent), and because, perhaps, my experiences will help others who are also dealing with this and might think they are the only ones who get a little crazy sometimes.

There's a Turkey in my Bathtub

This is my first Thanksgiving playing host.

Yesterday I prepared onion-cranberry compote, soaked and toasted pine nuts, and made turkey broth.
Today I cooked green beans, Brussels sprouts, made dressings and pie crusts, and prepared the stuffing.
Tomorrow I will bake the pear-cranberry pie (my mom will bring the pumpkin pie), the sweet potato puree, and the turkey, as well as fry some shallots, mix the salads, and fix the gravy.

While technically, Thanksgiving is upon me, I still have some sleep to look forward to before a few more hours in my kitchen, and then a table full of guests, new and old, and perhaps some games in the evening hours before we all collapse happily from turkey exhaustion.

Moving!

In the irony that is often found in our own understanding of our lives, it turns out that my time back on the eastside of Seattle is coming to its end (see previous post). We are moving to Portland before Christmas. This is bittersweet for us all, as we are trading dear loved ones for other dear loved ones, and setting up home in the third city of Soren's 27 months, and embarking on the third major job-change in our four years of marriage.

It is interesting to me that I am revisiting all the places of my youth as a now married "adult". It is a reclaiming of sorts. It is an improvement on relationships that were left in the hasty self-importance of my youth. It provides time for me to reflect anew on the footsteps that have brought me to who I am. It is a new ministry to give to and from which to receive. I have received so much being back in Seattle, and I look forward to the gifts ahead as we see what is in store on Portland's westside.

Ah life, how I never know what you may bring!

Reading Tea Leaves

This was on one of my tea bags today:
"The art of being wise is the art of knowing what to overlook" - William James 1842-1910

Today, I am overlooking the fact that I needed a shower yesterday, and that I needed to vacuum last week, and that there is a big dead television sticking half-way out of my entertainment cabinet that needs to find its way out of my house.

I overlooked the fact that my adorable, 2-year-old, son was spilling half of his tea on himself and the table as we enjoyed our little tea party practicing the phrase "peppermint infusion" (even Elliot could not get enough of the sips from the end of my finger).

I am overlooking the fact that Andrew will not be able to join us this evening as we relish the potato soup that is simmering on the stove tonight as we sit around the table with candles and listen to the rain.

Um...but right now I am overlooking the fact that there is a little, squirming 5-month-old underfoot who would like some attention and a cat on the mantel eating one of our orchids, and this I do not think is wise!

Know Thyself

As if it is not difficult enough to avoid the sweet, white, death here in America, someone blanketed our apartment complex in door-nob adds that included a little, individually-wrapped, square of imported, French, 70% cacao, chocolate. Oh, and it was a difficult day, since Andrew is back in full swing for the last (thank God!) show of the season.

Now, as a former chocoholic, this was difficult to refuse. I held it. I carefully read every word on it. There was no ingredient list, but rather a website listed for more information. Still, it looked promising. I unwrapped it and smelled it. Yes, it smelled like good chocolate. Then, while quite tempted to pop it into my mouth (after all, it wouldn't have really hurt me to have a little), I opened our trash cabinet and threw it away. There were several reasons for this. One, I would probably get a little sugar induced depression if I ate it (since I am so sensitive to it now), and then there was the chance that it was not high quality chocolate and that I would be lethargic and depressed AND have eaten poor chocolate. No thanks.

Now, you might think me crazy, or extremely powerful, but I am not. Really, the only reason I was able to accomplish this was because I know myself, and I always have a bar of this in my refridgertor in case of emergencies. I can break off one little square and have my craving with little guilt. It is made with Rapadura (whole unrefined sugar cane) instead of refined sugar (have I mentioned that the process they take sugar through to make it that pure white stuff is the same process they take poppy's through to turn it into the pure white stuff, also known as heroine? It is not a food).

Though this chocolate can boast no dope, I still don't indulge much because it is expensive, and I am anti-caffeine as well (save that occasional square). Even a small cup of decaf makes Elliot spit up my milk. It is the same story if I eat an extra square of chocolate. No kidding. I could make him get used to it, I suppose, but I really am trying to be drug free...even when it is delivered to my door step!

Complaining Bitterly

A man named Sarah phoned the other day. I answered because I knew the allotted time of avoiding his calls was past, and that he would want details on the canceled wedding.

He was thinking that we should all go out anyway. We all had pretty new clothes and a free Saturday, after all. I politely replied something about her probably not being in the mood for a celebration in honor of a cancelled wedding this soon, and told him that our dresses had been returned.

Inside I railed, "In a time like this what she needs desperately is a FATHER, not an inappropriately-dressed, 47-year-old 'girl friend' and some drinks!"

I railed because I, too, wanted that father, and it seemed unfair to have to continue a relationship with no hope of his return.

Home again

We just returned from a whirlwind trip down to Portland for Andrew's last remaining grandparent's funeral. It was a long time coming, so it was not a terribly somber event. In fact, there was much joy in the memories of the family together, and the anecdotes of her last days where she had lost nearly every memory she had and didn't know a single family member who visited, but could sing every word to every hymn anyone sang with her. She was a sweet lady.

It was the fist time in MANY years that Andrew and all four of his sisters were in one place together. We did manage to capture a picture (his mom in the middle).


Yes, the sister in the bottom right corner is pregnant. I forgot my purse (which is home to the spoon), so we searched party guests for authentic silver jewelry and succeeded in finding one pair of small heart-shaped silver earrings. I tried them on a few adults first to make sure they worked, and then tried the belly declaring another boy cousin for Søren and Elliot!

We stayed at "uncle" Kraig's house after a 4 1/2 hour drive through Seattle, and Tacoma, and Olympia traffic on the way down. This was not the most fun we have had traveling, but not the least either =). Søren was enthralled with all the activity of his cousins, Boston (6), and Samantha (2). They were wonderful together. Boston gave Søren one of his many, many toy cars to take home so that he can remember his big cousin. Boston was two when I first met him, and it frightens me to think of how quickly the past four years have turned him into a full grown boy. It makes me appreciate the moments, frazzling though they may be, with my boys while they are so little.

The trip home could not have been timed more perfectly, with both boys taking 3-hour naps that allowed Andrew and I to drive straight home with no stops and lots of lovely adult conversation.

Now we have a down day before Andrew is consumed with the responsibilities of the last show of the season, after which, I hope we can rest, and during which, I hope he does not fall desperately ill with the colds we were exposed to on our little adventure.

For now, my littlest one beckons after a break where I had both boys sleeping and a small taste of things settling in around me with the promise that I will not always be so frazzled.

By Faith

By faith Abraham, when he was called, obeyed by going out to a place which he was to receive for an inheritance; and he went out, not knowing where he was going. By faith he lived as an alien in the land of promise, as in a foreign land, dwelling in tents with Isaac and Jacob, fellow heirs of the promise; for he was looking for the city which has foundations, whose architect and builder is God. (v. 8-10)

All these died in faith, without receiving the promises, but having seen them and having welcomed them from a distance, and having confessed that they were strangers and exiles on the earth. For those who say such things make it clear that they are seeking a country of their own. And indeed if they had been thinking of that country from which they went out, they would have had opportunity to return, but as it is, they desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God; for He has prepared a city for them. (v. 13-16)

Hebrews chapter 11 is one of my favorite passages in the Bible. It ties the old and new testaments with perhaps a peek into the grand narrative. If it were not too bulky for a blog post, I would type the whole thing out because it gives example after example of people "of whom the world was not worthy" (v. 38) who strove after God in faith without ever receiving what was promised, without ever receiving the gratification of their striving, because the gratification is tied up in "us". That is what it says. "Apart from us they would not be made perfect" (v 40).

I am no scholar, but I think this implies that the heavenly city is dependent on God saving all those he has determined to save. Abraham's descendants (by faith, not blood) are still being born. His legacy is not finished, and until it is, we all wait for the promises. We will endure whatever befalls us because we trust that God exists and that He rewards those who seek Him. We believe He will make good on His promises. We believe those promises are good (hence, reward) and are incomplete (i.e. not made perfect) without everyone God has chosen to call. If that promise is dependent on another 1000 years of history to bring in the fullness of the residents of the kingdom of heaven, so be it! (but if it only takes another 2 years, alleluia!)

Summer recently wrote of the pain of feeling this unsettled, alien nature we have here on earth. She ended by writing "I just feel like we are meant to really do something with our life. To make some sort of difference in someway. Like we are meant for something more than this." I think "this" refers to the suffering and trudging through life's more unsettling circumstances, circumstances in which we are to learn to be content, but may never enjoy. Something about her post resonated with me. It spoke of the emotional and mental frustrations of a sojourner. How I can relate!

It is so tempting (for me) to think something like this: "If we can just get to x-goal, and then enact y-plan, then I will feel like I am doing what God made me for, and then I will feel some satisfaction in my journey here."

Someone once told me that ministry comes from an overflow. It is not something that you necessarily set out to do, it is something that naturally results from your life as you strive after truth and God. Sometimes I wonder what in the heck I am doing back on the east side of Seattle, stuck in an apartment for the better part of everyday doing...well...doing the work of a homemaker with little feeling that I am making any sort of difference, or having any sort of ministry (as if homemaking was not extremely important and not a ministry in itself....I could write a whole post on the value and ministry of a homemaker, but that is too large a tangent for now).

When we first moved back here, I felt restless and unsatisfied almost daily. I kept coming back to the fact that this is where God had asked me to set up tent for now. I kept reminding myself that I am a missionary with a ministry regardless of where I live, or whether my ministry looks like a ministry to any other living person. I know that I have a ministry that ought to be coming out as an overflow from my life into others'.

When my youngest sister went off to Eugene, I thought that perhaps that was all I was up here for. Perhaps that was what God wanted to do with my ministry. Yet, I am still here, so there must be more. As long as I am here, it is here that God will make a difference with (or in) my life. Who knows if I will live until tomorrow, let alone x-day in the future when we have the resources to enact y-plan for "real" ministry.

So, I try to be cognizant of my position and the lives surrounding us. If I spend so much time at home, perhaps I can make a difference in the lives of my neighbors and the people at my grocery store. Perhaps they are a "mission field".

Laura moved in two evenings ago. I had plenty of food (since Andrew was gone), so I brought her a warm plate knowing how difficult it is to want to cook when you are moving, and how defeating it feels to order a pizza, and then not even know where your plates are.

Apartment dwelling can be terribly isolating and does not naturally foster community. Yet our apartment is ground level with all the windows facing the walkway that all of our immediate neighbors (11 other apartments of 250 in the complex) have to use to access their homes. As a result, we know everyone, and they barely recognize each other.

Flora and I are working on a nutrition plan (that involves me picking up an extra gallon of real milk for her each week) that we hope will prevent her from having a forth surgery to remove polyps that prevent her from being able to have children in hopes to open a small window to try once more.

We enjoy lively conversation about ideas over vegetarian dinners with Amit.

Debra is hoping we will watch her apartment and collect her mail for her while she is on vacation later this month.

We (well, Andrew) have helped several neighbors maneuver their moving vans in this little parking lot. We (well, Andrew) have helped carry heavy objects up flights of stairs. We smile and wave. We are available. I pick up trash on my way to the car. I once cleaned up the entire can full of trash that someone's dog, or a raccoon, distributed all over the ground outside the mail house that had proceeded to be rained and walked on all day.

Our previous next door neighbors moved out a few months ago, and suggested that we move into their place because it has better light, a better view (all its windows face a greenbelt), and more privacy. It was tempting, but we made a deliberate choice to stay put and foster a bit of community for our neighbors. I am currently getting ready to design invitations for a holiday party for our 12 little apartments.

I am not suggesting that any of this is extraordinary. It is not. It is quite ordinary. Perhaps I am trying to emphasize that ministry does not have to be extraordinary. Ministry is ordinary. One does not have to feed 5,000 people in order to feed people. One does not have to heal the sick in order to help the sick. One does not have to see the fulfillment of promises in order to continue to believe them. It has been recognizing the ordinary moments as opportunity for ministry that has allowed me to feel like my life has meaning while "stuck" back here on Seattle's east side.

It is for God to decide when someone's ordinary ministry takes on world-historic, extraordinary significance. We cannot (and should not) strive for such things. We should simply strive to have ordinary faith. That is all that "world-historical" Abraham accomplished. Having faith is no small task, and there is no greater miracle. The ministry will come as overflow.

One More...

Jemaine from Flight of the Conchords, or Søren playing with Daddy's glasses?

Early November Pictures

Candle-lit pumpkins on the mantel

Above mentioned candles

Fun fall craft projects with Søren

Cute man (Catinos - doesn't he look like a little Charles!?)

Serious table-top study

Quite the animated little one

Momma and her miniature

Things to smile over...

I have my stomach back!

Søren falling on my legs in a huge hug, with violin and bow in hand, exclaiming "own violin!"

Bathing Søren and Indy while hearing nursery rhymes and laughter coming from the other room containing Summer and my Elliot.

My husband will be home in less than 48 hours.

Blogging bible study is off to a good start.

A double batch of Kombucha in my cupboard.

A Sandra Boyton calendar on my kitchen wall with stickers and everything else you could want from a calendar.

Laundry mostly put away.

Friends busy with Nanowrimo, while I still *INSANELY* consider joining them. (Fortunately, if I wait another day or two to decide, it will be decided negatively for me).

The boys and I vacuumed!

We have a new dishwasher that actually cleans dishes!

My counters are overflowing with pears begging to be baked.

On a serious note, I watched "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" last Sunday...because, well, I have no husband at home and it's on right before Desperate Housewives. I usually don't watch Extreme Makeover, but they did a house this season right here in Kirkland, so we've been watching a few of the episodes again waiting to see the local one. Last week's episode was about a Navajo family. It was a good one. I cried at least twice (this is why I don't watch the show....I always cry, and I am NOT a crier). They were given a car, and informed of this while on their vacation. The whole family began weeping and embracing each other. You could see the relief it brought them just to have transportation. It was emotional to watch the appreciation they had for something I take for granted EVERY day.

The house they built was amazing. Just beautiful, and "green", etc. Lovely. The mother wheeled her way through everything and saw her bedroom and bathroom - beautiful, mind you - but went over to the sink and turned on the running water and just started silently weeping. This was a family who knew need. The design leader said something to the effect that there was water like that throughout the whole house, and you could tell he was a little humbled at the emotional depth of this family in coping with their difficulties and at his part in relieving some of their stress.

I remember coming back from West Africa with a conviction that I never wanted to take running water for granted. More humbling was the time we spent at a Liberian Refugee camp outside Ghana's capital city of Accra. There were 30,000 refugees living in a 25-acre fenced plot. We asked the women what their biggest need was (expecting, perhaps, something about water) and they responded "a safe place to go to the bathroom."

So, in weeks like these past two, where I am stressed with the responsibilities of parenting alone and without relief, I try to keep perspective that my life is wonderfully blessed and free of most all of the concerns of most of the world's population.