Welcoming the Light

". . . I think your windows are the most important part of your home. Whether your furnishings are Louis Quatorze or cast-offs, your windows overlook the matchless blue of the sky, the silver glow of a young moon, or the black-purple of piled storm clouds galloping. Looking out keeps you from fretting because the chores aren't done or the washing machine won't work or it is time to change the beds again (a chore I absolutely hate). The vast outside brings a sense of proportion to you and a kind of quietness."  -Gladys Taber, from her book Country Chronicle

When I read Gladys Taber, it reminds me of conversations I used to have with my mother-in-law. She could talk about anything and would meander from subject to subject in a soothing voice. I miss her and I miss those conversations. Gladys is a great stand-in, from the same generation and with eclectic interests. The only drawback is that it is a one-sided conversation! So I'll use my blog to "answer" Gladys and especially her comments about windows being the most important part of the house.

I'm thinking of the window in the 1890s Dutch Colonial house, where we lived when my children were babies. The wavy glass in the panes brought in so much light and pleasure to this tired mama. I nursed babies from a rocking chair and watched the huge old apple tree through the carousel of seasons. From pinkish-white blossoms to mature fruit, I took delight in it each and every day to the point of feeling it was my special friend. It also gave rise to much meditation, as I thought upon the budding personalities in my charge and the hope of one day witnessing their fruitful maturity. 

Upstairs, in that same house, we could view the top of the apple tree from my bedroom window. Squirrels would often leap from the tree to the rooftop and my toddlers enjoyed watching their antics. One day an especially violent thunderstorm rolled through and I remember my oldest daughter and my son sitting with me at that window, spellbound as we watched the hail fly and the wind bend the old tree. We were hushed as we watched, with the window open, and there was imparted a special something into our souls: the awe of the Creator who holds the hail in His storehouse. 

In our current house, we have a large window by our dining table that allows us to enjoy beauty each and every time we sit down to eat. Purple clematis, lilacs, and a peace rose may be seen blooming during the spring and summer. One year, I planted huge sunflowers right in front of the window and we delighted to watch the goldfinches alight on the huge blossoms, oblivious to our  presence. 

I've seen the replica sod houses that the pioneers lived in, especially here in Nebraska, and I wonder, how did the family make it through a long dreary winter without the light of a window? I shudder to think of how dreary that must have been. 

When I get up in the morning, early, before the rest of the family, the first thing I do is open the shades and curtains to let the light into my home. I love that job---welcoming the light. While it seems a small thing, it is indicative of the great opportunity I have as a homemaker: to be a gatekeeper for the light. Let it shine!

Filled with the Fragrance

"Mary then took a pound of very costly perfume of pure nard, and anointed the feet of Jesus and wiped His feet with her hair; and the house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume." John 12:3

Perhaps Mary, after witnessing the miraculous resurrection of her brother Lazarus, now felt the spikenard non-essential. Death no longer held power over her. The sweet fragrance, originally intended for the anointing of the dead, was now being enjoyed by the living. Mary lavished the spikenard upon Jesus, the author and the sweetness of life.

Celebrate life! Celebrate Jesus' presence at the table! Let the whole house be permeated with the oil of gladness!

"Now thanks be to God who always leads us in triumph in Christ, and through us diffuses the fragrance of His knowledge in every place. For we are to God the fragrance of Christ among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing. To the one we are the aroma of death leading to death, and to the other the aroma of life leading to life." 2 Corinthians 2:14-16

Hum or Hurry?

I found myself happily humming aloud the other day as I ambled through the grocery store. It caught me by surprise. I rarely amble through any store, grocery or otherwise--seems I'm always in a rush. Did my laid-back attitude give rise to the music in my heart?

I love to sing and dance in the kitchen (much to the embarrassment of my teenagers).  I'm pretty sure God likes the music I belt out when I'm driving, and I've been known to whistle while I do housework.  But hum?  Not so often.

Humming triggers in me the memory of my Mother-in-law.  The first time I met her, she was humming as she peeled a sink full of potatoes.  She was leisurely carving potato-peel spirals with a sharp paring knife, humming away like crazy as she worked.

We exchanged some niceties, and I asked if I could help her. " Do you use a vegetable peeler or a paring knife?"

"A vegetable peeler, please."

She was the tortoise, I was the hare.  I can peel vegetables at lightning speed, owing to my year of college culinary experience. My pile of potato peels towered over her pretty spirals. Momentarily she stopped to ejaculate, "My!!"

But she was a rock.  My pace affected hers not one iota. She just kept right on leisurely carving pretty spirals and humming.

In retrospect, three elements of that encounter perfectly showcased her personality :  the potato salad--her signature dish, her slow and leisurely pace, and the happy humming which seemed as natural as breathing for her.

My grocery store humming was an epiphany of sorts:  I simply cannot hurry and hum at the same time.  From now on, I'd like to be mindful about leisurely ambling through the supermarket. Maybe I'll even hone the fine art of carving pretty potato-peel spirals with a sharp paring knife, because it would be a very nice thing if someday, I were to be remembered as the lady who hummed.

Soul Hunger

Open Doors by criggchef

There comes a time in the life of a family when the diaper bags are put away, the floor is no longer strewn with legos, and the big glass door sparkles--without sticky fingerprints. It is then that manager-mom looks around with some satisfaction at the order she has worked so hard to create and sighs. Ahhhh, a season of relative rest after years of weary effort! Life is good.

As she looks through that CLEAN glass door, she sees lots of kids in the neighborhood, many who are known to her by name because they've shared the swing set and the pool and daily adventures alongside her own brood. She knows them and their parents well enough to chat pleasantly. She assumes that their lives are very much like her own. Until....

One sweet young face begins to show up more often. There's a wistful look when the child comes to the door and sees the family around the table. For this child, the long summer days are not punctuated with the familiar, "D-I-N-N-E-R!!" cry that beckons the other children home for meals.

He is alone. Oh, there is an older sibling in the house but seldom an adult. His kitchen is stocked with boxes of macaroni & cheese, chips, and a few convenience foods but little else. It is not clean. He doesn't eat breakfast, and lunch he's learned to do without. It's just not worth the effort to go home and make his own mac & cheese every day. He hopes his Dad will buy him a burger when he comes home late in the evening.

His story unfolds along with the summer: turbulence at home. No one says, "I love you." There's talk of major changes; earth-shattering changes that strike fear into a little person and he wishes he'd never been born.

Instinctively, the mom-across-the-street finds the room to shelter one more under her wings. No, it's not her chick but she has food enough to spare. He can sit at her table and when he does he ogles at the "real" dishes! He can try his hand at an art project along with the art student in the family. With his family's permission, he can join in worship with the blood-bought saints, the BIG family at whose table he can satisfy the deeper hunger of his soul.

I am that Mom and this child has forever changed me. Because of him, I've become more intuitive about other "skinny kids", the kids who have hungry souls. I've extended the tent pegs of my heart.

Save the world I cannot, and my little loaves of bread pale in comparison to the needs around me. But like the little boy who brought his loaves to Jesus, I can let Him bless and multiply my offering. The paradox is this: it's MY soul that's getting fat!

"...he that putteth his trust in the Lord shall be made fat...and he shall give thee rest; yea he shall give delight unto thy soul."

After the Storm

Girl in Bed with Cat
Vintage Art Print

It's a fierce thunderstorm that's raging this evening, the kind that sends the cat skulking to his hiding place under the couch. I find my own place of refuge propped against the bed pillows, sipping a cup of PG Tips tea. My emotions have been as intense as the storm this evening, and I share the cat's instinct to take refuge in a safe place.

I reflect on the carefully planned dinner that a few hours ago took a downward spiral into a disastrous debacle. Where did I go wrong?

I had spent a lot of time preparing spareribs, fresh sweet corn, and oatmeal buns slathered with butter. I pictured a time of sweet family fellowship around the table. But instead of enjoying the food, a couple of the children rehashed an old argument. When my attempts to quash it failed, I became angry.

HOW DARE THEY SPOIL THIS NICE FAMILY MEAL???

The long and the short of it is that I didn't act any more mature than they did.

A wise woman once said we need to love without getting tired. I guess that means I need to:

• seek forgiveness
• extend forgiveness
• let it go
• prepare another meal tomorrow

I learned a long time ago that victory is putting one foot in front of the other and moving forward. It would be easier to quit trying, but then I know I'd miss out on that fresh new beginning that can only be described as a world freshly scrubbed after a thunderstorm.

As I finish writing these words, the thunder peals have become more distant. I can barely hear them. Tomorrow, I probably won't even think about them.

It will be a new day.

"It is of the Lord's mercies that we are not consumed,
because His compassions fail not.
They are new every morning: great is Thy faithfulness."
Lamentations 3:22-23

Old World Baked Goods

At the risk of sounding like a commercial, I can't resist singing the praises of one of our local gems. Rotella's baked goods have been a staple in Omaha area restaurants and grocery stores for about a century, but it has only been recently that I discovered the home bakery where the bread is actually produced. A mere 75 cents will buy you a one-pound loaf; or 95 cents for a two-pound loaf. Hearty and substantial, I have been forever spoiled and now sniff snobbishly at the wimpy loaves that typically pass for bread on the grocery shelf.

It is worth a separate, once -a -week trip to Rotella's to make selections for the family's menus and to enjoy the smell of warm bread whilst I am making decisions. The element of surprise is half the fun. Will they have marble bread today? I hope so, because Dana has made me hungry for a Reuben sandwich. Oooh, there are cored sourdough bowls for soup this time! Rosemary focaccia ciabatta will go into the freezer awaiting that Italian meal I've been wanting to make.....and just look at all the ways I can dress up a hamburger!

Like merchant ships, the excellent wife described in Proverbs 31 "brings her food from afar".
For the ones we love most, it is worth a little extra effort to make the table we set special. The smell of fresh bread baking is just a little perk for doing that, no calories added!

Knitting

This lovely print by Anthony Watkins bears a resemblance to my oldest daughter, who has been doing quite a bit of knitting and crocheting this winter. Her example has inspired her sister Joy to bring out her needles, and this morning they were both clicking while I was reading our literature selection aloud. It's the perfect winter pastime~~ something industrious that can be done by the fire. Melody likes the lush angora yarns and uses big needles to create long scarves. She figured out her own way to make the fringe, a little different from anything I've seen. She has used crochet chains and I think the end result is very pleasing.

Although I haven't engaged in any knitting lately, I have wonderful memories of knitting with my neighbor and bosom buddy during my growing up years. We made Barbie doll dresses, slippers, scarves, and lots of other little projects. We did it in the summer, though, pulling our lawn chairs into the shade, talking and knitting furiously like 2 little old ladies.

I was very proud that I was able to teach my Grandmother to knit after developing my skill. She far exceeded anything I ever accomplished. I think she knitted an afghan for each of her 9 grandchildren.

I hope to do that someday! Knitting is like riding a bike; you never forget how to do it. The only reason I don't do it now is because I can't figure out a way to read and knit at the same time!

Do you knit?

In the Sight of the Angels

"Mrs. Peterson was such a nice good mother! All mothers are nice and good more or less, but Mrs. Peterson was nice and good all more and no less. She made and kept a little heaven in that poor cottage on the high hillside--for her husband and son to go home to out of the low and rather dreary earth in which they worked. (snip) True, her hands were hard and chapped and large, but it was with work for them; and therefore in the sight of the angels, her hands were so much the more beautiful."
~ from the Princess and the Goblin, by George MacDonald

My youngest daughter crawled onto my lap last evening after we had laid my Mother-in-law to her eternal rest. She had a book in hand and asked me to read to her. It was the perfect balm after five days of traveling, remembering, planning the funeral service, and grieving.

The second paragraph in our reading was the one I quoted at the beginning of this post. Isn't it amazing how God orders our lives, down to the tiniest detail? The words were written over a hundred years ago and yet they were meant for me at this moment in time. If I were to pen an epitaph especially for my Mother-in-law, I could not have written anything more fitting or descriptive of her life.

It made my mind go other places; I thought of the terrible mall massacre in our city that occurred the very same day as my Mother-in-law's death.

In a strange way, it made me very thankful for the way in which I was grieving. Mine is a healthy type of sadness that comes from being temporarily parted from a loved one. Others in my city are at this moment grieving very differently. Their loved ones have been senselessly ripped away from them by the hands of a cold-blooded murderer. Instead of a loving and gentle parting, their grief is no doubt compounded with anger and a host of other emotions.

How might this tragic scenario have been altered if the young man who did the shooting had been blessed with a mother like Mrs. Peterson? Or like my Mother-in-law?

So this little post is a tribute to an unsung heroine: just a Mama who did her job well.

"Well done, thou good and faithful servant. Enter into the joy of your Master". Matthew 25:21

Gypsy Children

Gypsy Girl
1879 Giclee Print
Pierre-Auguste Renoir

The months' events stretch forward on my calendar like so many ducks-in-a-row. But because I HAVE to provide myself some breathing space, some quiet spots for reading and thinking, I sometimes allow the kids to sleep late. I catch my time for renewal while they are asleep.

Then I feel guilty. Am I requiring enough from them? Am I inadvertently teaching them to be lazy and undisciplined? Perhaps I am lazy myself for indulging in morning quiet hours?

I wrestle with guilt even more when I speak to other mothers whose children are schooled 7 hours a day, engage in extra-curricular activities & sports, and do 3 to 5 hours of homework in the evening. What I require from my students seems a mere pittance in comparison.

I'm older than many of these other mothers, having come to the role of motherhood late in life. I've had time to accumulate some observations along the way: families that have overloaded schedules often cut out or miss regular fellowship time with the saints. I suspect--though I have no proof-- that they also miss out on a fair number of family meals and personal devotions. It's also probable that there are no leisurely walks, no lingering in bed a few extra minutes when it rains, no reading of books just-for-fun, nor indulging in a second cup of coffee over conversation with a loved one. Does this sound critical?

My aim is for a well-rounded life. There are times I think I succeed at that. There are other times I am either too lax or too regimented. Always, there is tweaking and evaluating when it comes to being a steward over the hours entrusted to me.

Typically (and ideally), I arise at 5:30 and have my quiet time, exercise, and grooming done before the kids get up (7:30). This works well UNTIL: a) travel schedules deplete the mother b) late nights deplete the children c) sickness slows the family down.

When this happens, I get up when I wake up. I sit in my chair and read until I am finished. Then I get the kids up. It may be 8:30. It may be 9:45 (GASP). And we proceed from there.

Now the Lord sometimes intervenes in mysterious ways to show me that I need to give the same cosideration to my children that I give to myself. Children, too, need quiet spaces in their lives.

This week, my little Artiste begged off from her art lesson at the museum. This is uncharacteristic of her; normally those lessons are the highlight of her week. Her reason, "I've been too busy. I need a break."

I PAID FOR THOSE LESSONS!

But she needs a break.

An artist, even a young one, cannot crank out masterpieces week after week without having a margin of inactivity in her life. She needs to play in the mud puddles, wield a stick, inhale the fragrance of fall. "Masterful inactivity" was what Charlotte Mason called it. These are the essentials that feed the creativity of artists. Could I demand Artiste produce art when her heart was crying out for renewal?

We skipped this one lesson~~guilt, be gone! There are some things more important than the cost of a measly art lesson.

I've seen the same principles at work with my oldest daughter, Melody. Melody normally composes a lovely piano piece about every 6 months. A few years ago, I noticed that the composition had come to a halt. After some investigating, it became obvious to me that I was the culprit. She was dutifully cranking out all the homeschool assignments I had required of her without complaint, but she had no time left over. There were no spaces left in her life for quiet; no time to just mess around at the piano; no time to engage playfully in her art. I relieved her of several requirements and within a month she was writing music again.

Tellingly, Melody chose a poem entitled "Leisure" to recite for her cooperative school speech class. It's not fine literature by any stretch of the imagination; it would be considered poetry of the working class in the last century. But it's obvious that the theme struck a chord in Melody's heart. The author of the poem, William Henry Davies, was a tramp. He was a gypsy-poet who lost his leg in one dramatic leap from a train.

Ah~~we risk losing our children to the gypsies when we turn them loose amongst the books!

Leisure

William Henry Davies



What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs

And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,

Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

My Sphere of Influence

"We, however, will not boast beyond measure, but within the limits of the sphere which God appointed us-- a sphere which especially includes you."
~2 Corinthians 10:13


I've recently been engaged with the idea of my sphere of influence. My nearest and dearest dwell within the center of that sphere, and in the outlying concentric circles lie those with whom I am acquainted, but to a lesser degree. The people in the uttermost parts of the world are at the periphery of the circle; in truth, most lie beyond the border of my sphere.

The technology of our times has brought our generation unprecedented knowledge of those at the periphery and beyond via the evening news, internet news blogs, etc. Neil Postman's book, Amusing Ourselves to Death, has given me much food for thought on this issue. He descries the shallowness of relationship that results from our steady diet of forty-five second news clips. His contention is that "It is simply not possible to convey a sense of seriousness about any event if its implications are exhausted in less than one minute's time. "

He goes on the say:

"What is happening here is that television is altering the meaning of 'being informed' by creating a species of information that might properly be called disinformation. (snip) Disinformation does not mean false information. It means misleading information--misplaced, irrelevant, fragmented or superficial information --information that creates the illusion of knowing something but which in fact leads one away from knowing. (snip) I am saying we are losing our sense of what it means to be well informed. Ignorance is always correctable. But what shall we do if we take ignorance to be knowledge?"

That last question is profound. What shall we do?

If you are like me, you feel a nagging sense of guilt when confronted with another world crisis. It seems almost wicked to go ahead and eat your toast and drink your coffee when you know that people halfway around the world are suffering. But the question remains: what shall I do?

Postman is better at asking the question than he is at providing the remedy. He feels that the last chance for stemming the decay of culture is through education.

But enter a woman's perspective. It happens that my reading of Anne Morrow Lindbergh's Gift from the Sea has been juxtaposed with the Postman book. She ruminates on the same subject, but from a different angle:

"We are asked today to feel compassionately for everyone in the world. (snip) The inter-relatedness of the world links us constantly with more problems than the human frame can carry. (snip) Our grandmothers, and even--with some scrambling--our mothers, lived in a circle small enough to let them implement in action most of the impulses of their hearts and minds. We were brought up in a tradition that has now become impossible, for we have extended our circle throughout space and time. (snip)

But can one really feel deeply for an abstraction called the mass?

If we stop to think about it, are not the real casualties in modern life just these centers I have been discussing: the here, the now, the individual and his relationships. (snip)

The here, the now and the individual, have always been the special concern of the saint, the artist, the poet, and --from time immemorial--the woman. In the small circle of the home she has never quite forgotten the particular uniqueness of each member of the family; the spontaneity of now; the vividness of here. These are the individual elements that form the bigger entities like mass; future, world. "

YES!! Lindbergh's answer resonates within me. It is the individual that makes up the masses, and as I tend to the individuals that are within my sphere of influence, I am contributing health and vitality to the masses. Culture truly does begin at home, maybe even in the kitchen! My little home circle is not insignificant and does not have to be sacrificed on the altar of global causes.

Carol brought this lesson home in another, very practical way. Her love for a woman in Zimbabwe brought a personal connection with someone on the periphery of the circle. A distant place suddenly wears a human face, and loving prayer and support can be lavished upon a unique individual for the ultimate benefit of the masses.

I love the connections that are gleaned from reading a variety of books. Who would ever dream that Neil Postman and Anne Morrow Lindbergh had something in common? Neil gave me much food for the intellect; Anne gave me affirmation of the soul. We need to know the problems in our world, but we also need to know that our small contributions matter.

Lemonade Hospitality

I took my first job when I was sixteen working as a student aide at a nursing home. I will never forget the moment when it dawned on me that the elderly, frail, and sometimes difficult residents were "real" people who lived significant lives.

Because we lived in a small town, the older nurses and staff workers had life-long relationships with many of the residents, and knew their histories and relatives. As we worked together, they would sometimes tell me stories of their lives. It was then that Fred became more than just a "resident" to be fed, bathed, and clothed.

Fred and his wife had no children, but they loved people. All their lives they lived in a big, two-story house with an expansive front porch. On sultry summer evenings Fred and his wife would sit on the front porch with a cold pitcher of lemonade between them. Anyone that came ambling down the street would be invited to step up on the porch to share conversation and ice cold lemonade.

It's funny how that little vignette changed my attitude toward Fred. I no longer felt impersonal about the way I took care of his needs. This was a man who had offered heart and hospitality to countless people and now it was time for heart and hospitality to be offered back to him.

Our deeds follow us.

Photo credit
Probably, Fred and his wife had a plain, old fashioned pitcher of lemonade. But isn't this apothecary decanter just elegant?

Morning Joys

*Open windows and a cool breeze

*Birdsong concert upon awakening

*A good cup of coffee~~ Sumatran with half & half

*My faithful Bible waiting for me by the rocking chair

*Flowers on the table, pink peonies and lavender iris~ my favorite colors

*The absence of the low back pain that has plagued me for the past month

*Systematically opening the shades to allow the morning sunshine into the house

*The tactile pleasure of soft fur as I give the cat his morning belly rub

*Poetry, like this one:

*******************

JOY OF THE MORNING

I hear you, little bird,
Shouting a-swing above the broken wall.
Shout louder yet: no song can tell it all.
Sing to my soul in the deep, still wood:
'Tis wonderful beyond the wildest word:
I'd tell it, too, if I could.

Oft when the white, still dawn
Lifted the skies and pushed the hills apart,
I've felt it like a glory in my heart--
(The world's mysterious stir)
But had not throat like yours, my bird,
Nor such a listener.

~by Edwin Markham

Nesting

I've been blessed this last month with 2 short trips; and not-so-blessed that my nearly new iMac has been in the hospital for three weeks. Attempts to use the other 3 computers in the house have left me frustrated--do you know that feeling? It is like being in someone else's kitchen.

So I have been nesting instead of blogging. Springtime inspires home spruce-up activities for me, and it feels good to have accomplished a few things on my list:

*Planted a dozen caladium bulbs around the big tree in the front yard

*Interspersed zinnias in amongst the perennials in the flower garden

*Took out several clumps of day lilies and planted raspberries instead (Heritage and Latham)

*Took the day lilies to church and gave them a new home

*Added a climbing rose to the patio called "Joseph's Coat"

*Polished the wood. I've used lemon oil for years, but this time I tried "Method Wood for Good". It has an almond fragrance that I love.

*Tried to duplicate a wonderful salad I had at the Cheesecake Factory: dark greens (incl. spinach) , roasted asparagus, diced beets, sugared pecans, balsamic dressing, and goat cheese. To roast the asparagus, place the raw tips in a ziploc bag with a Tbsp. of olive oil and a smidge of salt. Shake to coat. Roast on baking sheet in a 450 degree oven for about 20 min, stirring several times. The asparagus is what makes this salad memorable!

*Also have been hooked on roasted cauliflower, made in the same way as the asparagus, but baked for a little longer. Vegetable candy!

*Made tons of chocolate-dipped strawberries.

*Tried my hand at an Asian dish from Gourmet magazine

*Removed the dark burgundy drapes from the family room, and replaced them with wispy sheers that let in a whole lot of light

*Threw away the tired mini blinds in one of the bathrooms and hung a crisp, white lace curtain instead

*Replaced nearly a dozen light bulbs in the house with energy efficient ones, and this time I spent a little more to get the full-spectrum bulbs. If you have never tried them, you will be amazed at the difference. Everything else seems yellow in comparison.

*Created a pretty little nook in the master bedroom by topping my sewing machine with a round piece of plywood, and covering it with a rich fabric tablecloth. I have it beside a floor lamp and my Grandma's antique rocking chair. Now my husband won't have to lug the sewing machine up from the basement every time I need to use it. And the bonus is that the skirt hides underneath a lot of books. I'm always looking for places to hide books!

Whew! It feels good to see the small accomplishments of a day add up to something significant when viewed as a list. I try to do something every day that I DON'T WANT TO DO. It is a good discipline for me.

I think the thing that was most satisfying was bringing more light into the home. Being a "light-keeper" is of significant importance in the home, isn't it? What a responsibility and a privilege homemakers have to influence their loved ones in such a way.

But I still don't do windows.

Lilacs

Elizabeth's Lilacs
by Xlaogang Zhu


April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
~T.S. Eliot


The lilac has always been my signature flower. I can never get enough of its evocative fragrance. Once, as a teenager, my high school sweetheart filled my car with arm loads of blossoms. I still recall the memory when I breath the fragrance.

Later, my husband indulged my love of lilacs by introducing me to the Ewing Park in Des Moines, where the Lilac Arboretum is nothing short of supernal. As newlyweds we lived nearby and I remember brilliant spring days, running from bush to bush and exclaiming over the variety of colors and fragrances. And the high point of it all was to just lay on a blanket and get intoxicated with the perfume.

Never the blossoms of nobility, lilacs are loved by "common folk". In the language of flowers, their short-lived blooms symbolize humility.

Chalk up one more good reason to be ordinary!

What is your signature flower?

Try on History

This is a picture of a lovely, historical landmark in our area called the General Crook House Museum. Of the Italianate style, it once served as the residence of the commanding General of a military fort. Here the General and his gracious wife entertained at least 2 presidents and many other important dignitaries (1880's era).

Meticulously restored and furnished with Victorian furniture, it boasts wonderful collections of glass and period artifacts. Most impressive is the costume collection and a wonderful learning program for girls called 'Try on History".

I was privileged, along with 2 of my girls and 10 other homeschooled girls, to participate in this 4+ hour experience. The docent who leads the program is a retired science teacher~~a real gentleman with a white moustache and proper manners to match the atmosphere of the museum. The girls were subtly challenged to act in keeping with their surroundings; to sit with good posture, to walk elegantly and slowly, to exhibit good manners and speak gentle words.

The teaching style was Socratic; a continual stream of questions stimulated thought and conversation. It was fascinating to watch the effect it had on the girls. For example, the teacher explained that kerosene lamps had to be washed daily because they produced soot. Later, he questioned the girls as to why there might be a protective, circular plate around the hanging chandelier? They made the connection on their own and were able to ascertain that it was for the purpose of keeping the soot off of the ceiling. I saw the girls making connections like that all afternoon.

An especially fun part of the program was the kitchen demonstration. This was very hands-on. A cast iron waffle iron was handed from girl to girl to test each person's strength. It was very heavy and had to be flipped deftly and quickly in order to avoid imaginary "spills". This little exercise gave everyone a dose of reality. Ladies from the Victorian era needed MUSCLE and had to work very, very hard.

All the time we were in the kitchen we were smelling cornbread baking, and then got to enjoy it piping hot from the oven and slathered with honey butter. mmmmmm!

The grand finale of the afternoon was the costume segment. Each of the dozen girls got to model a vintage costume (complete with drawers, petticoats, chemises, hoops, and under-blouses!) and were presented very formally. Then the docent twirled them three times so they could enjoy their wonderful, twirly skirts. There were ball gowns of satin, bankers' wives suits with trains, prairie dresses, school dresses, frilly dresses and business suits. What amazed me was that the elderly gentleman selected styles that perfectly matched the personality and coloring of the young ladies. He obviously had a trained eye and was an astute judge of human nature.

I loved this experience. I loved the shy smiles on the girls faces as they twirled in their skirts. I loved the interest that shone in their eyes as they envisioned bygone days. I loved their chirping, excited voices after it was all over. One little girl exclaimed, "Oh, I wish we could go back inside and do it ALL OVER AGAIN!"


The season of childhood is so brief and fleeting. Sometimes I, too, want to go back and do it ALL OVER AGAIN. To savor and enjoy the sweet memories being tucked away in my children's hearts is the next best thing.

A Different Sort of Luncheon-Basket

A few days ago I was musing over the delectable luncheon basket that the River Rat packed for his friend in Kenneth Grahame's beloved story, Wind in the Willows. Today that memorable description returned to me as I was in the process of packing a different sort of luncheon-basket. I have been asked to speak at a Mother's Day brunch in a neighboring state and am in the midst of making heart preparations so that I may provide my friends with a yard of French bread, sausage out of which the garlic sings, cheese that lays down and cries, and red wine that recalls the ripeness of summer fruit.

The bread (God's Word) is the staff of life, the daily essential-but-never-mundane element of our diet. Sausage with a tang of garlic makes for strength and robustness. The sharp cheese adds pungency (perhaps a little prick of conviction?), and the wine joy.

Oh, may that be the kind of luncheon basket I carry with me to share with my friends.

"What man is there among you who, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone?

Or if he asks for a fish, will he give him a serpent?

If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask Him?"
Matthew 7:9-11

Facing the Giants : Infertility and Fear

If you have been fortunate enough to view the movie, Facing the Giants, you have no doubt reflected on the "giants", the major obstacles, in your own life.

The biggest giant I have ever faced, my "Goliath", was infertility. This is my story.

The first 8 years of my marriage I was engaged in career and church-planting in partnership with my husband. Starting a family was on the back burner.

But somewhere in that 8th year, the longing for children emerged. Why wasn't it happening?

Medical tests revealed no problems. As we consulted with physicians regarding our options, it became apparent that continuing on the path of medical intervention would require us to center our lives totally around the goal of having a baby. It would demand both our money and our time. It didn't feel right. We decided to stop medical procedures and just wait on God.

We prayed. We relinquished our desires to God. We hoped.

I made the personal decision during those years to live a fruitful life regardless of whether or not God chose to grant my request for a child. But emotions sometimes run counter to the decisions of the will. Before coming to a state of peace and restful acceptance, I would struggle through tears and entreaties. Scripture brought great hope, but the hope seemed to be dashed monthly. Then the emotional cycle would start over.

As time passed, my emotions stabilized and then I would think, "I have conquered this thing." But occasionally the wound would be reopened, like when I visited new mothers in the hospital, or when a circular would arrive in the mail advertising maternity clothes. Then the grief was fresh in me again.

This phase of life lasted about 7 years. Toward the end of that time, we decided to attend a seminar for people wishing to adopt children. As the date of the seminar neared, my husband uncharacteristically changed his mind about going. There was a pressing ministry concern that he felt took precedence. I was crushed and very, very angry.

The same week of the seminar, as I was delivering meals-on-wheels to an elderly client, the woman greeted me with excitement. "I had a dream about you last night!" she said eagerly, "I dreamed you were pregnant!" I was a little taken back by this. I barely knew this woman. She was foul-mouthed and had a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. Not anything like the Gabriel that presented Mary with her good news! But like Mary, I pondered these things in my heart.

Another out-of-the-ordinary event happened a little later. We hosted a small gathering of believers in our home to listen to a missions report from Bulgaria. Pretty routine stuff for a ministry couple. But my heart was pierced. As I viewed the pictures of sweet little Bulgarian children attentively listening to the gospel message, I knew I had to go. If I couldn't have my own children, I would go to these and share my love with them.

My husband was in absolute oneness with me on this.. He had the same strong urging to go. We immediately began preparing for our first mission trip: passports, applications, training, videos, etc.

And then the day came for the required medical exam and immunizations. As I answered the routine questions that were a part of the exam, it became apparent that my cycle was askew. Would it be OK if they did a pregnancy test? I explained that I had been infertile for 15 years, but if they needed to do a test, fine.

The test was positive. At the age of 36, after 15 years of marriage, I was going to have a baby.

I laughed all the way home from the clinic; but the minute I walked through my front door into my husband's arms I dissolved into tears. Could such a gift truly be ours? It seemed surreal.

Our God is a super-abundant God. He blessed us with four children in quick succession between the years of 1993 and 1999 .

"He settles the barren woman in her home
as a happy mother of children.
Praise the Lord." Psalm 113:9

I am convinced that God ordains that each of His children face a giant at some point in life. When the Israelites spied giants in the land of promise, they shrank back in fear, causing their blessing to be postponed for 40 years. Surely the biggest giant we face is Fear. It was refreshing to see a movie, Facing the Giants, that realistically portrays the believer's battle with fear. One thing that stuck with me was a comment that there are 365 "fear not" verses in scripture. If that be true, then there is a "fear not" for every day of the year. I intend to keep a list of them in the coming year.

Here is my first one:

"Even though I walk in the valley of the shadow of death
I will fear no evil for Thou art with me." Psalm 23:4

What is a Family? In Time of Sickness.....thoughts from Edith Schaeffer

Artiste, age 7

As he left the house Thursday morning for work, my husband commissioned our youngest daughter, Artiste, to "take care of your sisters, your brother, and your Mom". The four of us were violently sick and unable to even get out of bed. Artiste took her commission seriously, flitting from room to room bringing ice chips, popsicles, 7up, and little get-well letters written in her best, newly-learned cursive. On a couple of occasions, she popped her head in and asked, "Mom, can I pray for you?"

When I began to feel better, I was prompted to pull out one of my old Edith Schaeffer books entitled, What is a Family? In it she devotes a whole chapter to the subject of caring for family members when they are sick. Here are a couple of quotes I found meaningful:

"What is a family? A family is a well-regulated hospital, a nursing home, a shelter in time of physical need, a place where a sick person is greeted as a sick human being and not as a machine that has a loose bolt, or a mechanical doll that no longer works--to be shoved aside because it is no more fun, nor is it useful! A family should be a training place for growing human beings to know how to care for a great variety of sicknesses and for people who have just had accidents or operations because each one has received both knowledgeable and loving care and has watched it being given to others. The knowledge of what is necessary for basic care ( and what is added thoughtfulness to make the time more bearable) should be absorbed through years of living in a family."

and this:

"When illness hits we should remember that this period of time is part of the whole of life. This is not just a non-time to be shoved aside, but a portion of time that counts. It is part of the well person's life, as well as part of the sick person's life."

I find so much comfort in those words, especially the part about not viewing sickness as "just a non-time to be shoved aside". Certainly God ordains lessons in the midst of every circumstance of our lives, and seeing the little acts of compassion develop in my daughter more than compensated for a miserable day of illness.

"...I was sick and you looked after me...
The King will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least brothers of mine, you did for Me.'" Matthew 25: 36, 40

Weaving, the Art of Queens

In his book, _Sesame and Lilies_, John Ruskin speaks of weaving as the "art of queens." Addressing well-to-do art lovers, he speaks scathing words because they have not used this skill to adequately clothe the poor.

A quote from the book:
"Six thousand years of weaving, and have we learned to weave? Might not every naked wall have been purple with tapestry, and every feeble breast fenced with sweet colors from the cold?"

He then uses the words of Christ as a reproach:
"I was naked, and ye clothed me not."

All of these lofty ideas were running through my mind as my seven year old daughter, Artiste, tackled her first weaving project this week. All of my girls have been introduced to weaving by making a simple potholder. It is a satisfying project for a young girl, because it can be finished in an hour or two and produces something both lovely and useful. My older girls quickly graduated to using a larger loom and making more substantial items.

Creative pursuits train little hands to be skillful and little eyes to notice details. But there is much more than skill and self satisfaction involved. Domestic arts provide young ladies with a tool by which they may contribute to the welfare of others.

It may seem that giving the gift of a simple potholder would not benefit another person a great deal. But consider the following incident.

A few years ago, a good friend of mine lost her mother. We all grieved for her loss.
This happened at about the same time my oldest daughter, Melody, had been honing her weaving skills. Melody had such compassion for my friend, and immediately asked, "Mom, could I make her some potholders?"

Now most people give flowers as a gift of condolence. But my friend got potholders.
They were woven with love and sympathy, tangible evidence that my daughter cared.

That incident is one that I have treasured in my heart. And I think it epitomizes John Ruskin's ideals. Sometimes we feel so small and insignificant in the midst of worldly sorrow and brokenness. I cannot feed or clothe the multitudes en masse, but I can touch the soul of others, one potholder at a time.


"She layeth her hands to the spindle, and her hands hold the distaff; she stretcheth out her hand to the poor. She is not afraid of the snow for her household, for all her household are clothed with scarlet." Proverbs 31:19-20

Domestic arts are not frivolous. They serve a meaningful purpose in life and provide the means by which we might serve our fellow man.

The Office and Duty of a Lady

Quote from John Ruskin:
"I would have them desire and claim the title of "lady" provided they claim not merely the title, but the office and duty signified by it. "Lady" means "bread-giver" or "loaf-giver," and "lord" means "maintainer of laws"; and both titles have reference, not to the law which is maintained in the house, nor to the bread which is given to the household, but to law maintained for the multitude, and true bread broken among the multitude.So that a Lord has legal claim only to his title in so far as he is the maintainer of the justice of the Lord of lords; and a Lady has legal claim to her title only so far as she communicates that help to the poor representatives of her Master, which women once, ministering to Him of their substance, were permitted to extend to that Master Himself; and when she is known, as He Himself once was, in breaking of bread."
~~from the book Sesame and Lilies

I remember the exhaustion I felt after giving birth to my first child. A dear Lady, who deserved that title, brought me a piping-hot, fresh loaf of bread. It was such a comfort.

That small act of kindness stimulated me to distribute loaves. I enjoy bringing a loaf with me to church and giving it to the person who seems most in need of a little boost. I bring a loaf to the hairdresser every time I see her. It has become my standard offering as a housewarming gift and to new mothers. At holiday season, a homely loaf of bread is appreciated as much or more than a plate of sweets.

I love the end of Ruskin's quote, "...she is known, as He Himself once was, in breaking of bread." The willingness to feed the lambs is the mark of a Lady and manifests the true character of Christ, the Bread of Life.