|
||||
RSSArchive for the ‘family life’ CategoryWhen they were youngPosted June 8th, 2013 by Jen in family life0 Comments
I remember climbing up Misery Ridge with them that day, six years ago now. I don’t remember them being so little. Maybe it was a different time and my mind is playing tricks on me?  In Fields of GracePosted May 26th, 2013 by Jen in family life, music, religion2 Comments » Jeté, échappé, a stag leap and a pirouette — I’m not a dancer but there was this moment of freedom and I danced a dance of worship. Being home alone without the cacophony of kids and their chatter and no pressing duties as mother and wife must have dropped my self-conscious restraints. I’d finished up scrubbing tubs, toilets, doors, walls, floors — a deep cleaning kind of day, and I paused to listen to the radio. In my usual practice, I’d been praying to myself throughout the day, petitioning God for blessing for my family. I’d just changed the sheets on my oldest son’s bed, and glanced at the photograph on his dresser. He was only a toddler, barefoot in the salty, wet sand with his diaper-sagged jeans rolled up, pointing in awe at crashing waves. I was overcome with love and emotion. Now he’s a boy-man, and I breathed out the prayer that every believing mother prays over her child: God, would you protect him, bless him, fill him with your Holy Spirit, direct his path, give him the grace and courage to follow You all his days? And then, in the marvelous exchange that happens in the miracle of “it is more blessed to give than to receive,” I received a piece of the very blessing I prayed for my son. Not that I prayed for him to break out in dance, but the Spirit of God does move in wonderful ways. The song on the radio was “Fields of Grace,” and just like the lyrics said, “I’m dancin’ with my Father God in fields of grace.” Dancing before the Lord is not new or foreign to me, but in polite society in the circles I run in, it’s not a frequent occurrence. I felt someone watching me, so I clearly hadn’t lost all inhibition. I looked out the window in the middle of a twirl and there were the lambs staring at me. Oh yes. I do believe they knew exactly what was going on and wanted to join me. And now I’m positive that David must have danced before the Lord out there in the fields while he watched over his sheep, and they looked on in wonder, possibly wishing they could dance, too. Shrubs for SalePosted May 17th, 2013 by Jen in family life1 Comment »
These are my genius children: Dig up grass clumps from the back of the property, place them in pots, offer them for $1 each, and talk Dad into buying all of the beautiful shrubbery. #entrepreneurs (But Dad, for that dollar, does require the children to transplant the “ornamental grasses” up near the house and demands a refund if they fail to thrive…) The Remarkable Thing About MotherhoodPosted May 6th, 2013 by Jen in family life1 Comment » It’s the small moments.
It’s this little note that warmed my heart like that flame she lit.
It’s the Mardi Gras beads, strung out on the sparkling granite no less than the stars strung across the universe, that arrangement of letters that only a child of mine can say in all its fullness. The remarkable thing about motherhood is this: a sacredness in the ordinary, everyday acts of life, and motherhood requires both a child and a woman, both giving and taking–and extending the exquisite thing begun by God in Eve, and now even me. NCLBPosted April 20th, 2013 by Jen in family life0 Comments This is how we do No Child Left Behind. All you need is some open country, trees (especially those suitable for building forts), and a happy dog to chase you. Someone should tell them it doesn’t take an act of Congress.
Odds and Ends from Good FridayPosted March 29th, 2013 by Jen in family life, holidays, the ranch1 Comment »
It feels like Spring and Sunday is coming! I sat up in the tree fort with my ten-year-old for a good spell today, she thinking about picking out her 4H lamb later today, I drinking coffee and enjoying the breezy, lazy feeling of watching clouds dance along against the bright blue, realizing it’s been far too long since I just sat like this and wondering whether Josie would remember this moment when she’s all grown up. The cats joined our reverie. I had a dream last night that Josie fell…off of something, I can’t remember the fuzzy details, but I made sure to help her down the wooden rails nailed into the old Juniper trunk. Jaime found Ralph just minutes ago. He’s a Blue Belly Lizard she caught and marked (with purple nail polish) last September. He used to be 2 1/2 inches long, now he’s 5 inches long. I love that she thought to mark and chart her wildlife finds and that it’s come full circle for her–she is immensely pleased. She says he’s favoring one eye, left-over wounds from the cat. Luke pulled on his swim trunks, because when you’re eight and you hit a nice spring day, you think it’s summertime and you look for a swimming hole. I’ve sent him out to wash the car. Levi has a friend over, the other Luke who we call the bottomless pit and he’s plowed through several Dagwood sandwiches already, but he did the pruning in my garden for me and more than worked it off. Now the older boys are playing frisbee which already required two trips to the rooftop to fetch a wayward disc. Levi climbed out his second-story bedroom window and I held my breath and looked the other way. As I glance out my window now, all the boys are sparkling wet, somehow the car is forgotten and they have wild grins and raucous laughter, their bare white chests soaking up a few rays and welcoming spring. It’s a good Friday. Technorati Tags: Good Friday, Central Oregon, childhood The anti-Alpha and OmegaPosted January 26th, 2013 by Jen in family life, politics/world news1 Comment »
I was thinking about how the Lord said, “I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end.” It’s strange, isn’t it, how here in America these are the two points at which we fail most unspeakably — we desecrate and dishonor both the beginning and the end? In the beginning, we kill and abandon unwanted babies, and in the end, too, we kill and abandon the elderly in increasing numbers. It’s known to anyone who has read the Bible, or simply experienced life, that whatever God holds dear, the enemy sets his sights on. Whatever power God possesses, Satan wants. Whatever is good and lovely, the enemy will purpose to steal, kill, and destroy it. So of course, if the Lord has made holy and declared power over the beginning and the end, guess what? The anti-Alpha and Omega wastes no time. Join me in prayer for the largest human rights issue of our day? Tradition!Posted November 25th, 2012 by Jen in family life, politics/world news4 Comments » This just seems wrong. I’ll take a cold spill on real ice, thank you. And that thin spray of ice shavings you can kick up when you do a hockey-stop? I’d miss it. And this? How will the children ever read the original U.S. Constitution? Or write a personal Thank You in flowing script for that special gift, signed with their unique signature? And what of those brain benefits and fine motor skills and the loss of an art? I’m with Tevye:
The constant tension between tradition and progress will never end. I like tradition for the comfort of it, the meaning it brings to life, the connection to the past and to others. Progress, it’s a benefit, too, of course, and a matter of course, and sometimes better. I would just hope that as a culture and as a nation we don’t ditch tradition because it’s the trendy thing to do, or the politically correct way, or the cheaper way, or because we think we’re intellectually superior to the “artificial constructs” we call tradition. And how do we keep our balance? The Amazing Lemon Meringue Pie Time MachinePosted October 27th, 2012 by Jen in family life, features, health/cooking/food, parenting12 Comments »
There was Nancy, eating lemon meringue pie in Amsterdam. She messaged me, that’s how I knew, and she’d made it from scratch just like our mom used to do when we were children, and Nancy, too, when she was probably ten. You need to make this for mom, she insisted. Food is one of those universal associations, a time-traveling commodity whisking us in an instant to the tables of childhood. This is how I came to be in the kitchen with my daughters (nine and eleven) a few evenings ago gathering ingredients for lemon meringue pie. I’d already sent a message to Nancy asking for the family recipe, but being too many time zones apart, I had to chef on alone. I settled on my trusted standards: Grandma’s pie crust recipe and Better Homes and Gardens for the pie. I heard from Nancy the next day. I left the recipe in Amsterdam and today I’m in Paris, so I can’t help. If the mere mention of the pie from my sister caused food flashbacks, both the creation of and the tasting of were full time warps. The part where you beat the egg whites stiff? This obviously was the pie-making job my mother gave me, because the moment I saw the white peaks form, I was seven years old, barefoot and covered in egg splatters, all astonished at the transformation. Many great chefs point back to their early cooking with their mothers or grandmothers as a meaningful element in their later careers. I’ve also read accounts of women who know little about cooking because their mothers didn’t allow them in the kitchen. The Language of Baklava (Diana Abu-Jaber) convinced me I needed to make a significant place for food in my relationship with my kids — from the choosing of ingredients at the market, to the preparation of the meal, to the lip-smacking enjoyment of it. Abu-Jaber says she “comes from cooking,” and notes that how you cook and eat, and how you feed your neighbors defines who you are. The lemon meringue pie-making process took several hours. After the rolling, mixing, beating, cooking, and cooling, and well past the children’s bedtime, the tangy dessert was ready to eat. We gathered around the hearth and ate rich heaven. I had not eaten homemade lemon meringue pie since I was a child, and may I say, it was an awakening. That a mere taste would have such power of reference was profound. My mom was asleep by this time, but the next day I offered rather casually, “Would you like a piece of lemon meringue pie?” I’ll tell you what, the sight, smell, and taste of that pie was a trifecta which broke right through her dementia and she positively glowed like a lemon. “This is delicious!” I asked if she knew what it was and she called it by name. She proceeded to have a long, lucid conversation with me about her mother, her children, and her grandchildren. And as providence would have it, this day was her mother’s birthday. “She’s looking down on us from heaven,” she murmured, scraping the last bit of lemon filling from her plate. It’s a wonder how my mom’s lemon meringue pie, circa 1977, Cochise County, Arizona, and my sister’s and my 2012 renditions à la Amsterdam and Oregon all imprint such similar trails of crumbs, caches of flavor, in the brain. In forty years, my older daughter will say to my younger, you need to make lemon meringue pie for mom. ******
****** You may also enjoy these stories from the archives: Technorati Tags: childhood, cooking, dementia, family life, food memories, lemon meringue pie, pie crust recipe Because I’m Too Busy for Actual BloggingPosted September 26th, 2012 by Jen in family life4 Comments » I present a series of short Facebook status updates from the past month or two…because when I delete FB for good, I still need a record that I was alive and well these past few months with a lot of good things happening, but I’m too swamped to talk/write about life (with my days scheduled down to about every 10 minute increment), it’s enough to just live it. September 20, 2012: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN TELL me not, in mournful numbers, Life is real ! Life is earnest ! Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Art is long, and Time is fleeting, In the world’s broad field of battle, Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant ! Lives of great men all remind us Footprints, that perhaps another, Let us, then, be up and doing, ********** September 17, 2012: ********** September 15, 2012: ********** September 7, 2012: ********** August 30, 2012: ********** August 10, 2012: He continues, all these 16 years, to point out many things I don’t notice, like signposts and passersby I invariably run into, and he still teases me about when we lived in Eugene during a time Autzen Stadium was being renovated, and after a year of daily driving by the construction, I turned to him one day and said, “When did they build THIS?!” Luckily, we do still notice each other, and Happy Anniversary to us. ♥ ********** July 27, 2012: **********
Technorati Tags: family life, parenting July at the Oregon CoastPosted July 18th, 2012 by Jen in family life, features3 Comments »
Four days away to the Oregon Coast, plugged only into the great outdoors, does a world of good. My family packed up the truck with a tent, sleeping bags, a little charcoal grill, lots of hot dogs and hamburgers and marshmallows and chocolate, and seven of us. We hauled a trailer, too, with two ATVs. This trip happened because the State of Oregon, as of January 1, 2012, requires both on-line safety training and hands-on rider training for all youth age 15 and under who want to ride a quad or motorcycle or other ATV on public lands. During the time frame we had available, the only hands-on training class was located in North Bend at the Oregon Coast. So, off we went and made a fun vacation of it! We camped at Riley Ranch where the class was being held. With direct access to the Oregon Dunes, this was the perfect place! Very nice bathroom/shower facilities, new and clean. Butterfield Lake was just yards away from our campsite, and I spent a lot of time there with the kids, fishing, hiking around the lake, and rafting. Funny enough, though the kids spent a lot of time riding on the dunes with their dad and uncle and cousins, I got no pictures of that!
I will insert this little bit about the downside of this camping adventure, just to remember in years to come and for my readers to know that in fact, this was not a perfect trip. I said there were seven of us because I brought my 83-year-old mom, who has lived with us for 12 years and has dementia/alzheimer’s. She can’t be left alone, and rather than have someone look after her at home without us, I thought it best to bring her. Never again. Ever. I ended up having to sleep next to her, barely catching a wink because she kept waking up, not knowing where she was, needing to use the bathroom, me having to walk her there in the dark, both of us very grumpy. And since the campsite we were at was way too close to the neighbors, we disturbed them as well. Back to the fun stuff. One of the kids’ cousins lives at the coast, only about 10 or 15 minutes from where we camped, so that was a highlight for them to get to visit and play! Plus their other grandma came for the first part of our trip, and their uncle and two other cousins who live in Eugene. Family fun!
I mentioned how close our campsite was to the neighbors, but luckily, they were terrific people! One of the men went out deep-sea fishing during our stay and returned with all kinds of good stuff. They shared their haul, and for our final meal we enjoyed a giant crab, fresh out of the Pacific Ocean. Amazing. We have a son who’s a bit like a Mark Twain character—he loves to climb trees. The boy spent a number of hours exploring the woods behind our campsite, mostly up in the canopy. He also crafted this highly functional bow and arrow out of sticks and string he found lying about, and who knows the fantastical adventures he imagined in those woods.
And then back home again! Unpacking, emptying pockets of sand and shells, reorganizing camp equipment, days of laundry—all very much worth it. Happy summer to you!
Technorati Tags: Oregon ATV safety, family life, nature, summer vacation, Oregon Coast An Arbor in the Desert for PoetsPosted July 10th, 2012 by Jen in family life, features, poetry8 Comments » In the place where trumpet vines bloomed in the desert, an arbor hung over some children while words danced poetry above their heads. Seated there in the shade on hard wooden benches, their small fingers curled tight around fat pencils, thin pencils, crayons too, they crafted rhymes, for even children, especially children, are poets. Unrelenting Arizona sun thwarted by a leafy cover, they were content with this happy art of words. They batted the occasional fly and bee, and birds joined too — a little nest up in the corner of the beams — and all around was a rosy glow. My mom built this arbor herself, a crude frame of worn, untreated timber just waiting to sliver anyone who rubbed the wrong way. It seemed spacious as a child, but really it was only about a 10 by 12 foot structure. Rustic, but refuge, in this Sulphur Spring Valley. She fought nature and place to create this haven, and being such a small woman, this was a herculean task. She was a transplant from the east, and if she could try to grow in a desert, why, too, shouldn’t these flowers bloom and this arbor give shade? Trumpet vines crept together with wisteria and honeysuckle. Dominated by the flamboyant and vigorous bright orange trumpets, these vines twisted an artist’s canvas over the entire arbor, magnificent leafy green and colorful, which surely unbeknownst caused poetic thoughts to stir. It was the summer of 1978, and I was eight years old. My mother, who loved poetry and words as life itself, decided to form The Little Rimers. It was my sister Heather and me and about six other neighbor children, and this was about the best thing my mother did for me in my whole life. Big canning jars of sun tea for the kids, sweetened just right — I’d watch it sit out to brew and that was nearly as good as its refreshment — small tea cookies, and handmade cloth-bound books for each child to write her rhyming words there in the arbor. There were haikus and acrostics, riddles and limericks, and all sorts of silliness. I wrote about Christmas and Thanksgiving and Shoes. Theresa’s poem about a hunter cat was so good I was sure she’d copied it from somewhere. And never could I have imagined that this little book from the arbor would carve out such a substantial memory, and I wonder if any of those other children remember too? Before we moved to this place, we lived in Tucson, where I was born, about an hour northwest. There, my mom belonged to a poetry group called the Rimers of Tucson, and as far as I know, it was the only time in her life that she had a “social network” or group of friends. I mostly remember, in addition to numerous white-haired ladies with elegant speech, being locked out of the house during poetry meetings that my mom hosted, confined to play in the back yard, possibly even harnessed to a tree, but on at least one occasion I snuck in through an open window. I was born during this poetic and productive period in Tucson, and even named after one of these poetry group ladies. But my dad relocated our family and here in this remote desert place, far from city life, it was just us children for her, so she created the Little Rimers. (I know, it’s not spelled properly, it was meant to be that way.) My sister Nancy, she hated to write poetry. My mom would demand poetry, telling her as a little girl — you can’t come out of your room until you’ve written four lines. She’d get so angry, being forced to write poetry, and so she hated it. I never knew this until Nancy told me recently, because I only had this lovely memory of writing poetry in the arbor. Nancy, being seven years older than me — a teenager at this time — had no use for rhyming with eight-year-olds. After that summer in the arbor, it gradually fell into neglect over the ensuing years, like its poetry was all used up and the last orange trumpet had blown its horn. I wonder if the verse of the summer of ’78 was a moment like the Isabella, the rare butterfly in the French film Le Papillon? The character called Julien, the old grandfather figure, said in response to little Elsa’s sadness about the brief life span of the butterfly (three days, three nights), “It’s a life. A butterfly’s life.” It really may not seem like much, an arbor in the desert, but well, it is my life and my arbor — and poetry. I heard of a rare flower that bloomed once every 30 years, whereupon the plant would die but leave behind several smaller plants which then would flower after a few more decades. Sometimes, rare and beautiful things are like that, and quite unforgettable. You may also enjoy these posts about my Arizona childhood: My Reflection in the Dirty Pane Glass
Technorati Tags: arbor, childhood, desert, family life, poetry, trumpet vines, Tucson, Arizona Dear Morton Salt Umbrella GirlPosted June 6th, 2012 by Jen in family life, health/cooking/food, humor, product review4 Comments »
Please do not ever, ever leave. You were my best imaginary childhood friend. I always wondered where you were going with that umbrella in the rain, worried that you might ruin your pretty yellow dress, but I wanted to walk with you and also to let you know that you were spilling your salt–you might run out, please be careful. Remember that time when I was eight and my parents left me and my sister at home by ourselves while they shopped in Tucson all day? We made a Wowie Chocolate Cake—from that page in the cookbook that was rather crusty from overuse because we made this recipe so often since it didn’t call for eggs and we were always out of eggs—just us and a pinch of you, and we ate the whole thing before they returned in case they’d be mad. You’re so fun. People I haven’t seen in a long time tell me I haven’t changed a bit, but you? Wow, it’s like a miracle, you have not changed at all since 1968!! Mr. Morton could have easily morphed you into a hippie or punk rocker or glam girl over the years, but somehow you are still the same sweet umbrella girl and I declare that the best branding decision ever. It’s been over 30 years since those memories of making cakes and all manner of other cooking adventures first sifted out, but…gosh, tonight as I made hamburgers and poured the finest ever seasoning straight out of that timeless blue canister, it’s like not a day has gone by. You are the salt of the earth. An icon. A classic. Stylish and carefree, ah, that’s what I loved, so carefree. So what that it’s raining and I’m spilling my salt? It’s a happy day! Thank you, darling. Love, Jenny (as all my childhood friends called me) Last week of May in picturesPosted June 2nd, 2012 by Jen in family life, features, parenting, the ranch2 Comments » Because don’t all little boys read comic books dressed up in motorcycle clothes? (Waiting his turn to ride.)
It was a full week, that last bit of May here in the country. Someday life won’t be so overflowing with noise and ruckus, dirt and wild animals–and wild children, so dear diary, help me remember this for the quiet days ahead. The youngest son learned how to ride a motorcycle, a little 50 minibike that his big brother used to ride. Now I have four children on motorcycles and I just work hard to push out of my mind those incidents that are bound to happen: run-ins with rocks, scraped up knees, broken bones. He ran in to proudly tell me, “I only ran into three trees, Mama!”
As a minor upset, the neighbor’s dog attacked the 4H lambs while the girls were out walking them. Some doctoring up was in order, and our neighbor, affectionately known as Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman, came and helped us out. We discovered the miracle of Vetericyn for wound care.
Our own dog, ever a central figure in days around the ranch, brought us a few gifts: baby jackrabbits. He dug up a nest somewhere out in the sagebrush, and trotting over with little ears hanging out of his mouth, deposited them on the lawn, completely unharmed though slobbering wet. We’re letting the girls keep them for a week or so to “nurse” them, then release them. It’s not at all advisable to try to raise a wild rabbit, but we figured either way (dropping them back in the desert somewhere or nursing them) was about the same level of success–which is to say, not much of a chance of survival either way. We’ve been through this before.
Waiting for the Moving of the WatersPosted May 26th, 2012 by Jen in family life, features, religion1 Comment » It was this phrase I read in John 5 this morning, all those sick people waiting for the moving of the waters at Bethesda, when the phone rang. The words still turning in my head, the meaning still emerging, and the voice on the phone told me that Jane had died. Jane, my friend, our adopted grandma, our neighbor, that funny little Polish lady–her son told me she quietly passed in the middle of the 23rd Psalm. I couldn’t speak and said please wait a moment, and the hot tears came and the gasping for breath, bitter tears for myself that I didn’t get a proper goodbye. Hadn’t I just spoken with her on the phone a few days before, ending with, “I’ll be by to see you this week”? My heart had been weighted with the thought for weeks that I needed to get the kids and my mom over to see her soon. Since we moved to the country and didn’t live three houses down anymore, it wasn’t so easy. Bitter, grieving tears. And then the waiting for the moving of the waters, and as my little son, the one who Jane held when he was a day-old baby, comforted me in confidence with the words that “she’s in Heaven now and all better,” I wondered about these words of John.
Yes. She waited for the moving of the waters, she wanted to be well, and Jesus came and picked her up and carried her Himself to the healing pool. Now she breathes without all those tubes of oxygen, now she walks without dragging that metal frame with the heavy canister, now she dances a Polish waltz. Dearest Jane, we love you, and I’m so sorry we didn’t give you a proper goodbye, but we cherish the day for a proper hello on the other side. Other stories about Jane: When you have to grow up with your kidsPosted May 19th, 2012 by Jen in family life, features, parenting1 Comment » She is asking for her first bra; his feet just outgrew mine–they are working hard at the job of growing up, and I’d better grow too, because right now I can barely handle this change. When I unpacked his bag from the 6th grade coast trip, I didn’t cry as I reached for that small stick of deodorant, a sure sign of him entering a wholly new stage of life, and I sort of came to terms with it. And hello! I’m awfully glad he has it. And when I did laundry, I also came to terms with the little “bralette” of the girl just one step down from the deodorant boy with the expanding feet. Every single child grows up. And that’s all I have to say about the matter. They all grow up, whether I embrace the stages or fight the stages, or worse yet stubbornly ignore them, it happens. I thought I might have some wisdom to share about how to handle this metamorphosis, but it turns out I don’t. I am just along for the ride, and like the roller coaster pictures you see of folks at the wild amusement parks, I hope my snapshot shows me thrilled with delight and not screaming in terror. The Dead President DreamPosted April 27th, 2012 by Jen in family life, politics/world news1 Comment » I had a dream last night that I was speaking to a dead president, actually I was practically wailing, begging for help for our nation’s predicaments. I specifically cried out to this specter of a president, white haired and stately, across the divide of time and space, about gross abuses of the First and Second Amendments by the current administration. The dead president? It might have been Jimmy Carter, as best as I can recall, but that would totally not make sense, but you know how dreams are. **Crazy** yes? I was hoping he could help. I don’t actually recall all the details of the offenses I brought before the ghostly man, but some had to do with the imprisonment of many people for their exercise of “free speech” that was somehow against the ruling authority and their social ethics. The other particular I remember pleading about was that guns were being completely confiscated from all people. On my honor, I was not watching or listening to any conservative rhetoric just prior to this dream, it just happened. In fact, I feel asleep listening to a Pimsleur French audio CD. I told my husband about the dream this morning and he mentioned this song, which I’d not heard before, called Mr. Lincoln by Hank Williams, Jr. The theme, while just sort of related, weirdly goes well with my dream.
A pressed and faded memoryPosted March 6th, 2012 by Jen in family life, features3 Comments » Chicka chi lick chi lunk chi lay….This is how it began. My mother wonders if I’ve ever heard this silly tune, and I can’t place it and the closest I can come is Boom Chicka Boom from a summer camp counselor gig twenty years ago. The song sends her reeling back in time to the 1930s and hidden slips of memory make a slow emergence. I’ve been watching for over a decade now how memory fades to gray obscurity like her silvery white hair, thinning and stripped of color. Why do minds fail?– I wonder. The memory is still there tucked away in some fold inside her cranium, I am sure, but the retrieval is where the malfunction happens. The whole piece is gone, the people, the houses, the connections that made the memory a complete vivid thing, and so it must be hard for just a slice to be recovered as a fragment of the former whole. “My dad walked to work everyday. Mueller Brass. He was a chemist.” This statement comes shooting like a solar flare, a brightness for her, a cheerful thought uncovered when I tell her that I’ve just returned from taking the kids to school. She remembers walking to school, and her dad walking to work. She’s told me before about the little candies her dad would bring home from work for her and the other children. “I walked with my brother Doug to Roosevelt School, it was not more than a mile away.” This reminiscence surfaces when I remind her (again, again, and again) that my children don’t walk to school, it’s too far away. She utters with obvious pleasure, “we walked.” “Sometimes we’d go to Gomer’s house for lunch and she’d make us pancakes. We left school at lunch time and walked to her house. We listened to records on her Victrola.” I ask her about Gomer, whose pet name has stuck even until now, the grace of some little child who couldn’t say grandma. Her given name was Hattie and she was short and thin, and I work hard in my imagination to create this woman, because I never met her and can’t recall any clear pictures of her, and yet I can see her in my mind with muted colors. Gomer was her mother’s mother (and my great-grandmother), and I have her Bible, black leather with frayed edges and broken binding, her name inscribed in a loopy, elegant but simple inked signature, the kind of script I never see anymore. The “H” in Hattie, bold with a sharp stroke off the top left, makes me think that she was a determined, original, and independent woman. One day I found a crackled, pressed leaf somewhere in the Psalms and gently touched its thin flaxen veins, and her. My mom says that Gomer “went around doing something for people, taking care of the elderly, and she looked nothing like my mother, who had a pug nose and high cheek bones.” She loved them both, her mother and grandmother, and I know this because I ask her, and she laughs at my question that seems absurd to her, saying, “of course, I loved my whole family!” Her mother with the high cheek bones, that was my grandmother, Thelma, the only one I ever knew, and my mom looks nothing like her. She was some remarkable lady, and perhaps I will write about her another day. I ask about her grandfather, Gomer’s husband, what about him? Granddad, she says, was a gardener for an official at Mueller Brass. I want to know what he was like, and she remarks, “I don’t know, he was just Granddad.” I labor in vain to solicit more details about Granddad, about what kind of garden he kept, and if he was funny or stern. Nothing. Except she does say that Gomer and Granddad slept in separate rooms, him upstairs and her downstairs, though she found nothing odd about this, and perhaps for the 1930s it wasn’t so unusual. She reminds me half a dozen more times that Granddad was a gardener for the head of Mueller Brass. It must have been an important post, in her mind at least. This is what’s left. Stray, dim thoughts of what must have really mattered. Pancakes for lunch at Gomer’s. Hi Ho, chicka chi lunk chi lay.
Technorati Tags: alzheimers, childhood, dementia, family life, memory The ClotheslinePosted January 17th, 2012 by Jen in family life, features8 Comments » White sheets flapping under luminous blue skies, I would skip through the rows of clothes feeling billowy and clean myself. Sometimes it was my job to hang up the clothes, sometimes to unpin the dry, stiff socks and shirts. Of all the jobs of childhood, this work at the clothesline was my favorite. Scrubbing the dirty linens necessarily had to come first. There I’d sit, out under the endless expanse of Southwest blue, small pail under me, usually an old paint can which left merciless indentations in the backs of my thighs, and just before me like a yawning silvery gray band sat a large stainless steel basin. The brightness of metal caught the sun and cast a glow against the brown earth, loose and dusty, but hiding just below was endless clay. First, I’d dump a cup of suds right in there, that same tub we used for baths and dishes, then I’d position the old hose that snaked about from a spigot at the side of the house, and being this close I had no cause to worry about kinks in the tubing like when watering trees a hundred yards out. A turn of the valve, an eruption of liquid, and I’d be careful not to waste a drop of that first spurt, hot from sitting in the length of hose, the only hot I’d get. Cottons, and small knuckles, invariably, rubbed on a metal washboard, fingers quickly numbing from cold. I could never figure how to scrub the material closest to the big brassy buckles and buttons on my dad’s heavy overalls and was continually vexed by those fixtures. Scrub, wring, toss in a bucket. When all pieces were washed, I’d empty the great tub, at first by the pail, then once I could muscle it, by tipping the basin, creating rivulets and muddy swirls and soon my toes were submerged and curled under mud and clay. When you live in the desert, water is extra fascinating. I would refill the washtub for a rinse that never seemed to run clear, and now hands were raw and back aching.The water would be brown and filmy by the time the last sock was scooped up from a bottom crevice, the last shirt wrung as tight as my tired arms could wring. A final dragging of pails heavy with washing over to the lines that stretched from east to west between wooden poles, beckoning to take my load, and I was at the best part of the job. Arms stretched up, toes stretched, too, to hang the clean, wet clothes, and retrieve the dried, and this was a happier place. There is nothing tragic in an eight-year-old having to wash tubs of laundry by hand. Millenia of young girls have been little washerwomen and mothers’ helpers and labored under more than this. Ancient girls would have cleaned their clothes by pounding them on rocks and washing the dirt away in the streams, and made their own soap, too, from the fat of sacrificed animals. When I was eight, the electric-powered washing machine was barely 70 years old and it’s not unreasonable that I should still be scrubbing clothes. No, the tragic things aren’t the work and crudeness of the apparatus. It was my mother, sick in mind and body, lying in bed for weeks –in the hot summers even–loaded down with heavy blankets, alternately shivering and fevering, wet cloth on her forehead, and so the child was loaded down with all that laundry. Always with a wet cloth to cool her head, that’s how I remember my mother. It was my father, inexplicably letting a brand-new washing machine shipped by my aunt from nearly two thousand miles away sit untouched in an outbuilding. After a while, the mice took up residence in the beautiful machine, and after a greater while, it was unusable, important parts chewed through. Really, it wasn’t inexplicable, it was the way he did most everything, in fits and starts and always undone. I spent many moments lost in dream over that machine, as if it were a magic capsule to usher me into normal life. On the rare occasion when a friend was over, and it was laundry time, she would enjoy helping, quite entertained by the novelty of the washboard. In those instances, it was all joy — splashing water, wringing contests, and a race to the clothesline. The clothesline. If the cord had more tension, I could be a tightrope walker. If it were stronger, I could swing from my knees and do a cherry drop like on the monkey bars at school. The clothesline was the end of the job, reaching up toward blue sky and all clean around me, and endless possibilities. Technorati Tags: washboard, laundry, childhood, hand wash laundry, clothesline The Year She Knew She Was LovedPosted January 8th, 2012 by Jen in family life, features, religion6 Comments » Happiest of New Years to all, and blessings of love to you. The new year holds so many possibilities, promises, hopes, expectations. I’ve always wondered about how the Chinese proclaim a message or theme for each new year, awash in traditions and rituals, based on a complex Chinese calendar and Chinese zodiac. My own quiet celebration and resolution is not so festive, but observed in my own way. I met a new friend recently, the mother of a friend, actually. She is a small, wizened Hispanic woman who speaks of signs and symbols and prophecies in the most colorful way, and she shared with me that 2012 will be the year the bride knew He loved her. I took this word for myself, as it greatly resonated with me. The little woman related an anecdote to me, her words tumbling faster than I could catch, of two friends, and one knows she is completely loved by the other and is thus willing to share quite openly and honestly with her companion, with no fear of being taken wrongly or judged harshly and no fear of loss of that friendship because she knows how that love won’t break. This brief narrative was the beginning of my understanding of a powerful message of knowing you are loved and the consequences of that knowledge. I missed some points, I do know, and she knew it, too, and expected that I would. And that is how it must be between you and God, she declared. When I am completely at rest in the solid, unmovable fact that God loves me, I am willing to take risks, to be utterly vulnerable and honest with Him, to throw myself with abandon into all of Him. And then there can be real relationship. I’ve pondered, too, the relationship from the other end. If God knows that His bride is completely and passionately in love with Him, then perhaps He has access He didn’t have before? He can open Heaven’s gates and pour down abundant blessings and ravishing love upon the bride that He knows is also unmovable in her love for Him. And further yet, there are applications in these earthly vessels of husband and wife, mother and daughter, father and son, friends, sisters, brothers. You must know the critical nature of this point? Knowing you are deeply loved, oh, there is nothing like it to make for a glorious marriage, friendship, relationship. 2012: The Year She Knew She Was Loved — I hope to share my journey of realizing this.
Technorati Tags: Chinese New Year, faith, Love of God, The Year of 2012 Mommy, do I have Catholic or Jews in me?Posted November 23rd, 2011 by Jen in family life, religion3 Comments » Her question made me laugh out loud, and my heart warmed at the wondering, because don’t we all long to know where we come from and don’t we desire to be distinct and remarkable?
The confusion between blood ties and religious persuasion is understandable for an eight-year-old. Her inquiry followed with me explaining the difference. I was in the dark on the origin of her question, perhaps some discussion with a teacher or classmate or friend? But I heard her heart, and it was an innocent curiosity, a wanting to be special.
It’s the same question I hear when my child says, “Mommy, tell me what I’m good at,” or “Do you like how I sing?” Oh, that we could really know how wonderful we’ve been made, that we are His workmanship, that we are chosen, redeemed, established, complete.
Technorati Tags: childhood, faith, you are special, fearfully wonderfully made All Things Bright and BeautifulPosted November 19th, 2011 by Jen in family life, religion, the ranch4 Comments »
Out my wintry window today, I think of Mrs. Cecil Alexander, who penned in 1848, “All things bright and beautiful, All creatures great and small, All things wise and wonderful; The Lord God made them all.” My older son says the world is a better place when there’s snow, and it certainly is bright and beautiful. The way the snow sits in a cluster on the junipers, the tracks that leave behind a larger you, the way my child contours an image and shape with what was once water, it’s all so other-worldly, and I know why he loves this. Boots, hats, gloves! I see growing spheres of snow, half-bodies waiting to be put together. What compares to rosy cheeks, snowballs flying, frosty eyelashes, and pure happiness hung in crystals?
Who would have ever thought to do it this way but the One who sent that other white manna from Heaven? Manna that brings joy, that is for the day, that brings sweetness to the soul and melts in the mouth–this snowy provision is a gift. The kids are out gathering early this morning, and those who are prone to fight have assembled in harmony, harvesting the plenty, powdered white as far as the eye can see.
Bright and beautiful manna. Taste and see–and tell.
Technorati Tags: family life, first snow, All Things Bright and Beautiful, manna, Cecil Frances Alexander Thursday ThreadsPosted November 17th, 2011 by Jen in family life, politics/world news8 Comments » Good Thursday to you! I’m too busy to write much or write well, but here are some threads catching my attention today. 1. The Iron Lady. This film is a biopic on Margaret Thatcher, Prime Minister of The United Kingdom from 1979 – 1990. Because Hollywood hates conservative women, I’m afraid this will be a hit job, but I await the release with huge anticipation. Her arrival at 10 Downing Street was historic, and I’d love to see a fair treatment of her complex personality and contribution to world affairs, but casting Meryl Streep as Thatcher is like casting Sean Penn as Reagan–you can’t get more politically polar. The jury is still out on whether Streep, an outstanding actress, will put aside her own contempt of conservative politics and do right by Maggie. 2. This fantastique French blogger is on her way to publishing a book in 21 days! Kristin Espinasse, my French connection and kindred spirit, is culling hundreds of blogs post to compile into a vignette of French life, to be self-published through Amazon’s CreateSpace. Go Kristin!! She had previously put out a traditional house-published book, also a collection of blog posts, and this new book will pick up where that one left off. 3. Today in history (November 17, 1558) marks the beginning of the Elizabethan Age! (Hello, Shakespeare). Queen Mary Tudor died, and Elizabeth I ascended the English throne. Also on this date in 1603 Sir Walter Raleigh went on trial for treason and today in 1796 Catherine the Great of Russia died. This day was also terrible for the tango: on November 17, 1913, Kaiser Wilhelm in Germany banned the armed forces from dancing the tango. 5. Detroit also has a coffee angel. Random photos from my file (and wow, rearrage the letters of file and you have life!):
~Love Jen
Technorati Tags: Margaret Thatcher, Prime Minister UK, The Iron Lady Thanking God for Mrs. YoungPosted November 7th, 2011 by Jen in family life, features, religion8 Comments »
The wooden bench in the hallway, between the pot-bellied stove and the hanging ivy in a macramé plant holder, that was where I learned to love. With my skinny legs dangling almost to the worn linoleum and my green eyes hung down to avoid Mrs. Young, I studied the brown and orange geometric lines on the floor beneath my dirty tennies with intensity. I had picked out the shoes myself from the rack at Value Village in Tucson and now they were squeezing my toes and maybe my heart. Mrs. Young had placed me there on the bench and I burned with shame. Despite my anxious discomfort, this house was warm and safe, and the place to learn about how normal people do life. Like a plant engaged in phototropism, I found a light source and turned to it for survival. I was there for church, a house-church in my desert village, planted in that southeast corner of Arizona by Providence for my sustenance. I think now of Deuteronomy 8:15. “He led you through the vast and dreadful desert, that thirsty and waterless land, with its venomous snakes and scorpions. He brought you water out of hard rock.” This place was my water. Strings of memories wrap around this place like a large ball of twine, strong enough to tie a young sapling to a stake to steady it in the wind. Holy words were said there, pudgy old ladies in flowered dresses and bloated ankles served potluck meals, and I heard laughter. I cherished a few special sanctuaries as a child, the leafy branches of the poplar tree in my own yard, the flat roof top of our shed, and here too in this place, the swing in the side yard where I’d tuck my feet up under me to get away from the chickens or where I’d lazily rock and pretend I lived there. And there was Mrs. Young in front of me, the best mother I knew, her brown hair in a bun with gray wisps falling near her porcelain face. She and Mr. Young owned the general store about five miles down the dirt roads that criss-crossed the clay and dust, grasses and tumbleweeds, and sometimes I’d walk all the way there just to buy a Baby Ruth. A small group of girls, including myself, and a little Korean girl named Kim wearing the prettiest clothes of all and shiny black patent leather shoes, we’d all been playing after Sunday-School. And why, I don’t quite know, because I was the least of them all and thought so little of myself, but I had been terribly offensive that day, and perhaps I’d fallen victim to that psychology of only liking what is “similar to me,” and in fact in my tiny homogeneous community I’d never known anyone before who wasn’t white like me. “You are not being very nice, young lady!” Mrs. Young had seen it all, heard the words, noticed the hurt, and pulled me aside there to the bench. I was ablaze with honest shame because it was all so dreadfully true. I wasn’t nice, and I didn’t like her daughter, and I had actually said to the brown girl, “you can’t play with us.” The best mother stood over me and spoke to me privately about her daughter, an adopted Korean girl with impossibly thick black hair, smooth brown skin, and small dark eyes that held all of Seoul. Mrs. Young told me where her Kim came from, that she was just like me, and though very few words were said, something in her voice seared my soul about the dignity of each human life. She asked me to apologize. I embraced that other little brown girl. She soon, almost instantly, became my first best friend, a treasure. I spent many nights at her house, and we were just two little girls with dreams, and we’d give each other a head massage as we sleepily talked about the possibilities out there in the great big world. She wanted to be a gymnast. I thought the circus sounded fun. We ate spicy kimchi at her house and dressed up in kimonos. Mrs. Young told me how much Kim wished for hair like mine, and I told my sisters I wanted to be Korean. If you never have a best friend you can’t learn about things like keeping secrets, writing notes with bubble letters and hearts, sharing those silly glances when you have a crush. You learn that girlhood is universal no matter what your race or religion or social status. Sometimes you get hurt, too, like the time in 7th grade when I moved away for a year and after I came back, Kim had a new best friend. Things were not the same, and a year later, Kim moved away to California. But I thank God for Mrs. Young and that holy bench, and this lesson in love.
(to be continued) Technorati Tags: childhood, faith, friendship, God, love To honor when it isn’t fairPosted November 4th, 2011 by Jen in family life, features, parenting7 Comments »
Our paths connected through our children and so I didn’t expect to be sitting there talking about our mothers. Kelly is one of those rare, faithful confidantes who is an exceptional blessing to know, the kind who sees you through weary, complicated trials and you shake your head sometimes marveling at the loyalty and wondering how you gained such a friend. Behind me a sheet of water was eternally cascading down an ornamental fountain. The small café was cozy with warm colored walls, burnt yellows and cinnamon, just big enough for a dozen or so comfortable patrons. I was late to our breakfast appointment and greeted her with a hung head. She laughed at me and was thankful I had still come.
“How are the kids? And your mom?” Kelly’s inquiring brown eyes searched out the answer, glossy auburn locks falling perfectly past her shoulders, and I remembered I hadn’t applied a spot of make-up in my hurry. The waitress offered the special, eggs Benedict with Hollandaise lime sauce and cooked pears over sourdough, or something along those lines, I couldn’t remember but ordered it anyway. I squinted at her hard, trying to recall just where it was the previous day I’d seen her. It came to me, it was the library. Her son brushed past mine, my freckled boy who clutched the Scooby-Doo video in his little hands, utterly cheered to find it there, finally. This mother with son at the library – I’m always so happy to see mothers with children at the library, it’s my strange joy. And her son wanted that video, too, and he squalled to his tall, blonde and beautiful mother, “It’s not fair!” And those were the very words I painfully expressed to Kelly over coffee and breakfast platters, just as petulant as that child. Why should I have to take care of my mother? She barely took care of me, I practically raised myself, and it wasn’t fair, and sadly it was only at the end of the meal I considered my unforgiveness. It happened that some years after I met Kelly, her mother moved in with her, too, and like mine, has degenerative brain problems. She’s forgotten how to comb her hair and take a walk. Her conversation has dwindled to “no.” Kelly gracefully chided me with, “At least yours talks.”
And grace it is that I need at this moment, and the compassionate forbearance of mercy. I know it. I know it by its absence. I know it by the tightness in my chest when she walks into a room. Oh, grace to cleanse my irritated soul. The way she shuffles, asks again what day it is, tells me she forgot how to whistle, burps at the table, a thousand ways that need grace. I mourn that I’m not doing this well. I mourn that my own children observe my lack of grace and mercy, because one day, they may need to draw on it. Kelly explained how she came by new grace for her mother. “Last time,” she shared, speaking of her mom’s prior six-month stay, “it was really hard and I was always frustrated.” But then she returned from retrieving her mom from a sibling who shares the care-taking, and here sensitivity laced Kelly’s every word. The mother she knew had never a hair out of place and things ordered just so, but now her hair was stringy and unkempt, her clothes ill-fitting, and her exercise unattended to. Sometimes it is seeing the indifference in others that provokes us to tenderness. “Is that honoring to my mother?” Kelly had asked herself with renewed humanity. Those words tumbled around my head. Honoring. The sheets of water continued to course behind my chair, molecule after molecule, and I wanted to jump right in and wash away the vexation, the impatience, the anger. Could I replace those insipid characters with esteem, respect, appreciation, love? And how? One molecule at a time by the grace of God.
Is it fair that Jesus died for sinful me? Is it fair that I don’t deserve his grace but receive it freely and abundantly? I guess fairness really can’t be part of this equation, but forgiveness, yes, to forgive as I have been forgiven. And that will be another story, my friends.
Technorati Tags: alzheimers, caretaking, dementia, family life, God, grace The House of the Lord on the OceanPosted November 2nd, 2011 by Jen in family life, features, religion4 Comments »
The day he taught her to surf was a beautiful day with slate-gray waves pushing up arcs just her size and sun and wind offering competing comforts. She, so brave, he, so proud. And me, just so content to watch the unfolding of a love transferred. We talk often about the future and where we’ll live and how we’ll live, as if we really have the freedom to make our lives what we want. And always, the ocean comes up. He wonders if it’s just childhood nostalgia, a deep longing for the simple, but a deep so elusive one wonders, was it real? The mighty waves call “come ride with me,” and awaken something unutterable and eternal. The two push out there, and then she comes gliding in with a smile and flicker that tells me she’s been captivated, too, as deep calls unto deep.
The house of the Lord is all around, they entered it there, so real in the surf, and it’s here too in my desert, and may I dwell in his house all the days of my life, may I notice the beauty of the Lord as I seek Him in his temple.
Technorati Tags: childhood, family life, Oregon Coast, Psalms, surfing Beware the secondhand stress!Posted October 14th, 2011 by Jen in family life, features, parenting, religion7 Comments » “Beware the secondhand stress!” Practicing patience today with my children. I grew up inhaling secondhand smoke every single day thanks to my dad, and I’m terrified I’ll die of lung cancer, but maybe secondhand stress is just as deadly for children? As Kevin DeYoung points out in this insightful article titled Children and Secondhand Stress, research has shown that it’s not the parents’ ability to make their children feel loved or appreciated that’s the problem…it’s the anger. It’s Mom or Dad with a short fuse of patience because what they’re really worried about is how to pay the bills or make the dinner or find the time to do everything they’re juggling, and it’s overwhelming to the point of explosions of stress that shower down on the children, wounding like sharp bits of shrapnel that never really get removed. The interesting thing about blast injuries that involve shrapnel is that the deadlier physical trauma actually occurs from blast overpressure, or shock waves. Especially when the explosion occurs in a confined space. External injuries aren’t evident, but inside? Lungs can be collapsing, hearts can be bleeding, brains can be swelling. Really. It’s that deadly. We should be more intentional about removing stress triggers in our family life. Maybe we schedule fewer family activities that require the hurry and rush that inevitably causes stress. Are there other ways to simplify our lives, like downsizing and eliminating things that cost more, so there’s less financial demand on the parents? Maybe take time at the beginning of each week to schedule meals so the family dinner isn’t a grab-n-go scramble, but a thoughtful and peaceful event? The next time I’m driving down our gravel road late for life and spilling out my anger and stress-laced piercings on those absorbent souls, I hope I remember my dad’s old Ford rumbling down Havasu Way, a trail of dust pluming into the Arizona sky behind us rivaled only by his toxic smoke irreversibly penetrating my lungs. And I will pause, pull over if necessary, roll down the windows, and breathe slow. If we’ve blown it, parents? Pray. Always pray. Both alone and together. Ask forgiveness. Hold tight one another. Breathe fresh clean air and listen. And make the necessary course corrections. Blessings on us all as we pursue peace and patience.
Technorati Tags: faith, family life, simplifying, stress Hope RenewedPosted September 28th, 2011 by Jen in family life, features, religion6 Comments » Those who hope in the LORD “Your pace will change from a sprint to a marathon,” she counseled. These words brought immense hope to my soul on the heels of a few exhausting years that did indeed feel like the 50-yard dash on replay every hour of my day. The thought of a marathon panics some, but its pace is slower, steadier than the sprint, and yes, we still have a race to run, but perhaps it didn’t have to kill me? I had been waiting for this comfort, and many translations in fact interpret the words “hope in the Lord” as “wait on the Lord.” Following a difficult circumstance that involved condemnation, emotional pain, all my own irresponsible and naive decisions, and despair of such magnitude I thought I might die of it, I discovered the truth that those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. This renewal of strength is conditional of course, as all of God’s promises are, on a decision I had to make: would I hope in the Lord? If so, then I could soar with the wings of an eagle! I could run and not grow weary! I could walk and not be faint! These are miracles, all humanly impossible, for who among us can sprout wings or never tire or feel faint after endless movement? I remember praying to God to make me invisible. For the first two weeks after this situation erupted, I couldn’t leave my house (except for the picking up of the raw fragments of it all), held there by my own almost manic despair. My husband did the shopping, errands, and all necessary functions of life as I half-lived, my movements like a lizard’s tail that moves after it’s been dropped from the body. When finally I did have the strength to make one small trip to the store, I got through it by praying, “Lord, please let people miraculously look right through me. Make me invisible. I can’t handle the bitter words.” I yet had no hope and felt no grace. I lived for a long time in fear and mistrust, which may be the antithesis of hope. Fear of never recovering, mistrust of the intentions of everyone, afraid of sleeping, for then the shadow of death settled in. And then came the period of the sprinting, sometimes running hard to prove I was something, sometimes running hard just to get away. I was wounded too much to hope, I thought. I couldn’t speak and I was mute and knew no one and no one knew me. I lived in the Psalms during the dark days as in no other season of my life. In fact, I believe I never before even remotely had an emotional connection with the Psalms, with the pursuit of enemies, the sheer agony of despair that David cries out about. I never before needed Hope like I needed it during those years. I cried out to the Lord out of the brokenness of my spirit as I had never before cried. I could almost physically feel my mind splintering. And behold, this hell is the very best opportunity to experience Hope, though who would want to live in these dark David-like caves? But who was called a man after God’s own heart? “Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall.” These words precede the promise in Isaiah 40:31. In my own strength and youth (immaturity), I was weary and had utterly fallen. I needed Hope. It took time, but gradually I re-entered normalcy as best I could, and bit by bit He renewed my strength. I would still be in that cave were it not for this promise of God: Those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. God-sent friends thoroughly loved me through these months and years, believed in me, lifted me up, and indeed still lift me up, like the wise woman who shared the gift about the marathon. I clung to His Word. I was as the deer who panted for water. Biblical hope is powerful and mighty to save. This hope is an expectation that positively, absolutely the thing will come to pass. The hope we’re waiting for is always God’s salvation, both His eternal salvation and the salvation we need in the daily moments of life. It’s beyond me, yet I must actively participate. I found that Hope required me to move. I wanted to lie in bed in my despair but it was in the rising up, pursuing Him through prayer, worship, and meditation upon the Word, that Hope changed me. Hope renews, and I’m also learning that it’s a daily renewal. Hope yesterday was for that day. Today? I need it fresh. Because sometimes, I still hear a graceless word and want to crawl in a cave and am overcome by fear and mistrust. As Vincent McNabb, Irish scholar and priest, once said, “Hope is some extraordinary spiritual grace that God gives us to control our fears, not to oust them.” I pray daily for that special grace to have Hope for the day, for new wings and fresh feet. {A very special thanks to Anita at Dreaming Beneath the Spires who first invited me to write on this topic.} And sharing today with Ann at A Holy Experience, as she also explores Hope.
Technorati Tags: faith, God, Hope, Those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength île flottante and morePosted September 14th, 2011 by Jen in family life, france/french, health/cooking/food6 Comments » In the kitchen with Elise tonight, it’s Quiche Lorraine, une salade, and les baguettes, followed by the fabulous île flottante (which is sort of a ball of meringue floating in a sea of custard). How did I get so lucky? And why does she leave so soon?
I told Elise about the time when I was around her age and had the opportunity to be an au pair for a family in Besançon, a city in the northeast of France at the foothills of the Jura Mountains and near the Swiss border. I shortly thereafter met my future husband and cancelled the job and the opportunity of a lifetime, which is unknown to a young girl at the time who just worries about whether he’ll be there when she gets back. I’m so proud of her, and perhaps a bit envious, for getting out there and doing what is not so simple and unfettered a thing to do once you’re married and have children. Oh, I’m so happy I stayed back and married my husband, and someday I will have another opportunity. However, I generally counsel the youth I work with or come in contact with to just go. Really, if that boy truly loves you, he’ll still be there. I have a French Bible which I’d love to give Elise, and I’m wondering about that. It’s a little book I’ve had for at least 20 years, and once in a while I’ll read it to practice my French. I’ve so far avoided direct discussion of my faith and her lack of faith. I’ve prayed, wondered, and haven’t sensed the time is right. During Elise’s previous visit, we spoke often on issues of God and Christianity, and she’s mentioned just once this visit, during a discussion of her boyfriend, about her disbelief in God. I didn’t press. Just prayed. Perhaps I’ll tuck it in her bag with a note, would she consider God? La cuisine beckons, so je suis aller! Recipe for île flottante Ingredients Directions For the caramel, heat 1 1/2 cups of the sugar and 1/2 cup water in a small, heavy-bottomed saucepan until the sugar dissolves. Cook over medium heat until the syrup turns a warm caramel color. Don’t stir, just swirl it in the pan. Off the heat, add 1/2 cup water and 1/2 teaspoon of the vanilla; be careful, the syrup will bubble violently. Stir and cook over high heat until the caramel reaches 230 degrees F (thread stage) on a candy thermometer. Set aside. For the praline, combine the almonds with 1/4 cup of the caramel and spread them on a sheet pan lined with parchment paper. Bake for 10 to 12 minutes, until the almonds are lightly browned. Allow to cool at room temperature and then break up in pieces. Lower the oven to 250 degrees F. Line 2 sheet pans with parchment paper. For the meringues, beat the egg whites, salt, and cream of tartar in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the whisk attachment on medium speed until frothy. Turn the mixer on high speed and add the remaining 1 cup of sugar. Beat until the egg whites are very stiff and glossy. Whisk in the remaining teaspoon of vanilla. With dessert spoons place 12 mounds of meringue on the parchment paper and bake for 20 minutes, or until a cake tester comes out clean. For serving, pour creme anglaise on the bottom of individual plates. Place a meringue on top of each serving, drizzle with caramel sauce, sprinkle with praline, and serve. To make a day or two ahead, leave the caramel and praline at room temperature and refrigerate the creme anglaise. Bake the meringues before guests arrive and assemble the desserts just before serving. Creme Anglaise: 4 extra-large egg yolks 1/2 cup sugar 1 teaspoon cornstarch 1 3/4 cups scalded milk 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract 1 1/2 teaspoons Cognac Seeds of 1/2 vanilla bean, optional Beat the egg yolks and sugar in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment on medium-high speed for 3 minutes, or until very thick. Reduce to low speed, and add the cornstarch. With the mixer still on low, slowly pour the hot milk into the eggs. Pour the custard mixture into a saucepan and cook over low heat, stirring constantly with a wooden spoon, until thickened. The custard will coat the spoon like heavy cream. Don’t cook it above 180 degrees For the eggs will scramble! Pour the sauce through a fine strainer, add the vanilla extract, Cognac, and vanilla seeds, if using, and chill. Yield: 2 cups
Technorati Tags: French cooking, ile flottante, family life, France Preparing for Elise: Partie Deux (or, hosting a foreign exchange student)Posted August 23rd, 2011 by Jen in education, family life, france/french9 Comments » Elise arrives next week from France! Her presence always creates a pleasant stir, a certain je ne sais quoi, an excitement of the exotic and faraway lands–and of course, a nervous energy on my part as I prepare for her once again. The first time around, four years ago when Elise was fourteen, I worried about having her room just so, I squawked about in French trying to improve my language skills real quick like, I fretted over the menu, I positively wrecked myself over itinerary. I’ve since learned, after hosting several foreign students, and especially with Elise, that:
And then there’s this. How to handle politics and religion? She is liberal atheist, I am conservative Christian. Our differences made for some interesting discussions last time. I love her so, and I love her country, and want for her to intimately know the love of God and the miracle of salvation in Christ, and surely the Lord’s merciful hand is upon her return here. I will speak only as the Holy Spirit leads, and love a lot. I’m not backing down to avoid a conflict, I think I’ve just learned a lot about the French postmodern culture since she first came, and I need to be deeply prayerful about, and educate myself about, how to represent Jesus Christ to the postmodern. The French hand towels Elise brought as a gift on that first visit are still used daily in my kitchen, and I pray as I dry my hands and a dish, Lord, how can she know objective truth? How to present one crucified and risen Savior, when the very thought of only one and utterly necessary is offensive?
I’ll be driving to the airport in Portland a week from now, and would you pray for me if it comes to mind? And for Elise? We’ll all have so much fun, she’ll teach us new songs and folk dances and read French fairy tales to the children again, I’m sure. I’ll correct her English because she asks me to, and play chef in the kitchen with her and instruct her about American measures, and she’ll have many questions. And the things of eternity will swirl around, and oh that I will be always full of grace and seasoned with salt, knowing how to answer.
Technorati Tags: education, family life, France, God, hosting foreign exchange student, postmodern culture Life in a picture framePosted August 18th, 2011 by Jen in family life4 Comments » I visited Jane yesterday, stepping carefully over oxygen tubes and scattered papers in response to her call to please come by, she had a painting to give me. She worked with oils 25 years ago, and her days closing in like her lungs, wanted me to have this Hopi Indian Woman canvas. Her only son didn’t want it. “Promise me you’ll put it in a fancy frame.” Of course I will, I assured her with all true grace mixed with deep knowing. It’s not all together attractive, but it’s like her very soul that she wants well remembered after she’s gone. “Don’t you love the deep purples and blues?” she wanted to know. Don’t I want my life put up in a fancy frame, too, and hope my children would think it beautiful?  Beauty: Five Minute FridayPosted August 12th, 2011 by Jen in family life, religion4 Comments » The deep burnt red coffee mug I sipped from just now, a swallow of hot, smooth brew, is my favorite. It’s beautiful; a thank-you gift from a friend, it held a bag of quality chocolates on the day it was given. A school year’s end, a child well taught, another chapter closed and a new one to begin. The beauty of life lived together. This mug I reach for every morning, its gentle curve of a handle makes exactly half a heart; I hold a half, another holds the rest. Is this how it is? Yes, this makes life beautiful, this willingness to have half a heart, to be made complete in relationship with another; a spouse, a sister, a friend, a daughter, and ultimately, the One who created all hearts.
From Gypsy-Mama, a writing prompt: Want to take five minutes with me and share what you found? Want to just write without worrying if it’s just right or not. Here’s how we do it: 1. Write for 5 minutes flat with no editing, tweaking or self critiquing. 2. Link back here and invite others to join in {you can grab the button code in her right side bar} 3. Go and tell the person who linked up before you what their words meant to you. Every writer longs to feel heard. OK, are you ready? Give me your best five minutes for the prompt: Beauty…
Technorati Tags: Five Minute Friday, beauty, God Fair Time!Posted August 9th, 2011 by Jen in family life, features, the ranch7 Comments » It was county fair time last week, and the kids and I quietly gathered a few items to exhibit in the open class…just for fun. A few of my photographs…this first one, such a sweet little duckling, and such a sad story! My dear friend Linda, my country neighbor…her little son called me up several weeks ago, entreating us all to come and see! the baby ducks had been born! We all just oohed and ahed at the darlings, hiding there under the mama. It was hot, and a tray of water had been set out for them to wade in. Somehow, no one quite knows how, every one of the six ducklings drowned two days after this picture. I’ll frame this for Linda. This old fence, like any other country fence, its splintered wood and barbed wire marking a boundary, just captured me. Who twisted those wires way back before rust took hold? What was this barrier keeping in or keeping out? Did you grow up looking forward to the fair? For me it was the Cochise County Fair in Douglas, Arizona when I was very young. You must know about the cotton candy, cowboy hats and rodeo, happy music, dizzying rides, the earthy smell of livestock, colorful people? Oh, I loved it, and also that long, quiet ride home, all exhausted from that spun out endless day, sleepy eyes on the black sky with twinkling stars, one with my name, and if I turned my head back I could still see the fireworks exploding against that great dark canopy above. My last year there, I brought my 4-H lamb. There under the bluest sky with those classic Arizona clouds, little white puffs that went on forever, I washed my lamb in the livestock pen, preparing for a final shear, adding to those little white puffs above. This was a market lamb, and this was time for goodbye, a goodbye to daily feedings, walkings, worrying about weight, wool, and bracing a lamb. I remembered when I chose this one, there at Diane’s place down the dusty road from me, and I had the last pick since I drew the shortest straw, but this was the best lamb for me, even though he escaped more than once to explore the tumbleweeds. My kids didn’t have animals to show this year, but perhaps next time. We submitted photographs, carvings, crafts, paintings, and joined the community of people that have been gathering for a century to show the best of their harvest and hands. Luke won a blue ribbon for his angry-browed, scar-faced, Victorian button-eyed bear. Josie won a second-place ribbon for her watercolor of a glass bottle. I was glad the judges overlooked the potential awkwardness of an eight-year-old painting a wine bottle, but she just loved the design on the label. Levi’s soap carving was fun, another second place. After learning how to do this at school, we spent a terrific summer day at the table slipping about in soap shavings, all the children armed with butter knives and Ivory, and Levi was the only one who could master this art. I remembered him telling his teacher, “I didn’t know I could do this.”
Until next year, my fair friends. Technorati Tags: Central Oregon, childhood, Cochise County Fair, country life, Deschutes County Fair, food art, photography Stormy, Yellow Thoughts of Thunder and PuddlesPosted August 2nd, 2011 by Jen in family life, features, religion, the ranch7 Comments »
The potbellied raindrops came thundering down, the cat hid under the bed, the dog barked at the booms, the kids danced all silly out there under umbrellas, and I was in awe. Don’t you love a good storm?
It was rolling out there last night and I couldn’t take my eyes off the yellow hue of the sky, the light spectrum showing off a new reflection. Now, yellow can have a lowly meaning, as in a yellow-bellied coward. But did you know that a pure, bright yellow is the easiest color to see and that some people blind to other colors can usually still see yellow? And yellow can also symbolize wisdom, intelligence, joy, creativity, and of course energy, as in the powerful energy source of the sun. Have you seen yellow after a storm? It’s His glory I hear in every rumble and His splendor I see in every strike of light. I do feel small at times like these, and wonder who am I that you are mindful of me? And then, suddenly, the sun broke through! If only you could have seen through the new lens that flipped, creating vivid, high-contrast shadows thrown long from the junipers, you’d beam and be in awe, too. Thunder still pealed in the distance, echoing a reminder from a far corridor that God’s voice thunders in marvelous ways and he does great things beyond our understanding (Job 37:5). Luke found a puddle in the midst of this, as all children do, his toes squishing the sticky earth as delighted as a rhino taking a mud bath, while rain pelted his enormous maroon and white umbrella, magnifying the sound of every drop to the decibel of a cannon. I did the same as a child, and would have wondered at any kid in my desert who didn’t like to jump puddles with face in the rain. Why is this so, this irresistible draw to these pools in the mud? Maybe we’re born to love this, some wild sense of freedom and power, and weren’t we born of the dirt anyway? That day when God scooped up a handful of soil from the ground, it must have been wet and moist, for in those days before the rain the water came from the depths. We all desire to know where we come from, and this was the beginning. And could it be there’s a sense in this small puddle of the child feeling so big it’s like walking on water? That’s what Jesus did in a storm–He walked on water, so I suppose it’s natural for us to long for the same. Today, there’s no trace of the storm. It fled fast across mountains and plains for new encounters, and I’m left with the reverberations in my head, and continued pondering of His displays of power. As Psalm 29 ends, after a vivid description of God in the storms, we’re told that “the Lord blesses his people with peace.” Peace to you~I love that it ends with peace. {Counting One Thousand Gifts~41-50}: ::thunderstorms::best friends::visiting sisters::tennis with child and grandma::chess with a friend::wildflowers picked for me::great coaches::boys learning football::catching crawdads::river play::
Technorati Tags: Central Oregon, childhood, counting blessings, country life, faith, family life, God, Psalm 29, puddles, thunderstorms Sister Love, Brother BearPosted July 21st, 2011 by Jen in family life, features, parenting, religion15 Comments » “If my hair and face and shoes were like yours, then we’d be exactly alike!” Josie’s words gaily skipped across the once bumpy space between her and Jaime, flooding my senses with gratitude at this sister-love. After one sewed a dress for the other, the two girls had disappeared up to their room, returning quickly, arm-in-arm, wearing matching shirts and pants, a symbol of their hearts turned to one another. He who knit them both together in my womb smiled with me.
While my husband and I were out dining with old friends in a nearby town, the four children were left in the care of Abby, an able young girl who turned out to be more capable and skilled than I could have imagined. She was brave to take on the four kids and the grandmother who couldn’t remember names, dates, or pills, and little did she know she’d also be threading bobbins and teaching backstitching before the night was over. The sewing machine had sadly been consigned to the corner of my closet for a number of years, me too lazy to figure out why it wouldn’t stitch, and perhaps ungrateful for this thoughtful gift from my husband from a birthday past. The girls hauled it out when Abby came, their hopeful eyes begging the question, “Can you make it work?” “It just so happens I can,” was the happy reply. And so I came home to a mess of fabric scraps spilled across the walnut floor, machine whirring and bears stuffed with the most cheerful of hands. “Look, Mama! A teddy!” shrieked Luke as he thrust a skinny blue bear with white stuffing leaking from all sides toward my chest.
The hour was late, the entire floor was swept into the oversized old red gift bag, and kids were soon ushered to bed. The miracle that unfolded the following day was bigger than all this. I left for an early doctor’s appointment the next morning, kids still in bed with my husband in command. Yet savoring the joy of the previous night, I had no thoughts of how the remnants of all that would sweetly hem in around the four. The Day of Sewing was in full swing when I cracked the door after my doctor visit. Both boys, both girls, all busy with patterns, cutting, sewing, stuffing. Their ages stack up at 6, 8, 10, 12, and they all stitched together with no attention paid to numbers or genders. I didn’t even need to convince the oldest boy that sewing was cool, and I had a great story ready, even. I told him about how the younger kids went on a field trip to the smoke-jumpers unit, and how they have a sewing room there because all the manly firemen who jump out of airplanes made their own uniforms there, their broad fingers running industrial machines for every task from a delicate parachute repair to building a thick pair of fire-resistant pants. The morning scene in my living room, that frenzy of strips of cloth and bolts of color and stitches whipping, was all about creation and reconciliation.
My older girl can have a sharp tongue that pierces little hearts and my constant reminder to her about tone, words, kindness, seems nagging. She has some repair work to do (and don’t I, too), especially with her little sister. Josie loves dresses, and Jaime, not so much. But I watched as Jaime fitted the fabric for Jo, carefully considering what style her sister wanted, and the patience, oh the patience! It was redeeming. Stitch by stitch, their souls were being connected. Jaime held the fabric tight against Josie’s back, and her “Keep still, Jo,” hit just the right note of a big sister intent on being helpful and Josie received it with love. “Can I please wear this to town?” Josie pleaded. “No, it’s not done yet, you can wear it Sunday.” I was thrilled; she felt like Cinderella and Jaime was the fairy god-mother. It was shortly after this scene that the girls appeared in their matching t-shirts and pants. For the boys, I suppose anything involving a power-operated machine is enticing. Both made bears, pillows, pouches, and other oddities. Luke entered his Victorian-button-eyed sky blue bear in the upcoming county fair in the 6 and under division, and is prouder than a haute couture designer.
The Day of Sewing was literally an all day activity, and something of His restoration was threading through the fabric of this family. Now I’m off to buy more sewing notions for the ravenous seamstresses and seamsters. {Thank you to Abby, who began to unravel it all.}
Technorati Tags: art, childhood, faith, family life, dressmaking, sewing The Miracle and Gift of BrotherhoodPosted July 11th, 2011 by Jen in family life, features, religion9 Comments »
The brothers ran together, again together. These grown men with children of their own who now run together, up at the crack of dawn to reconnect the joy of boyhood that’s always down in the heart somewhere. We had watched the old home movies the night before, those captured bites of colored motion and time, my husband and his brothers as playful little boys in snowball fights and splashing wars and games with Grandpa. I heard the small clatter in the kitchen at 5:30 a.m. as the brothers stole a mini-breakfast before heading over to Smith Rock for the sunrise run with several hundred other brave early rising runners. I wanted to go, to see it myself and snap that photo at the finish line. But it was more than the early hour that kept me home. This moment was just for the brotherhood, this triangulation of boys that makes its own unique folk sound just like that metal instrument that sings when touched with the wand. The triangle can always beat the call to dinner later. Back home with stretched legs and aching calves, I saw the boys happy and accomplished and fulfilled. Next year at Smith Rock can be the call. Shouldn’t we all run this race together? After the run, we all, the brothers and families, headed out for a day full of fishing, swimming, sunning, and barbecue. The brothers’ children then had splashing wars and mudball fights and silly games at the lake. {Counting One Thousand Gifts~#31-40}: ::brothers running in the early morning::racing numbers::catching little bass and throwing them back::home movies 40 years old::the good family memories::little boy making mud trails on shore::little girl building princess castle of same mud::playing with cousins::grilling burgers::blowing out candles on the cake::
Technorati Tags: childhood, counting blessings, country life, Central Oregon, faith, family life, Smith Rock, One Thousand Gifts The Toothpaste StoryPosted July 5th, 2011 by Jen in family life, features, parenting3 Comments »
I hastily wiped my dripping hands on the red flowered towel hanging askew from the oven door and answered the commanding ring of the phone. “Hi, this is Jasmine, can I talk to Jaime?” trilled the young voice, obviously experienced in phone-calling. My kids aren’t phone-talkers yet, and at ten, I’m not ready for my daughter to jump into the world of wireless communication. After a brief hello, Jaime queried, “What did you call for?” because she’s not accustomed to this way, and surely one only calls if one has a question or certain purpose? Jasmine hesitated only a moment, it seemed, and I learned later she had phoned simply out of boredom. “I just got done making toothpaste,” Jaime offered. I heard the confusion on the other end as one of our many family peculiarities was revealed. Jaime had come to me several days ago complaining that every time she brushed her teeth, her eyes were watery and stinging. “I must be allergic to toothpaste,” she surmised. Being the independent, thinking person she is, Jaime set out on a quest to discover a perfectly natural toothpaste that would leave her with clean teeth and clear eyes. Tom’s of Maine seemed to give rise to no problems, so I suggested she make a list of every ingredient in the standard Crest versus the Tom’s. What was Tom’s missing that the other had? She couldn’t figure it out. I was sure it was the sodium lauryl sulfate, but was surprised to see that the Tom’s of Maine variety she used actually did have that ingredient. Coincidentally, The Toothpaste Millionaire by Jean Merrill was on my bookshelf at this moment, on loan from the library, and by the way, it’s a fantastic children’s book on entrepreneurship and business. Having read bits of it already, Jaime took it up again when I reminded her of a recipe the boy in the book used to make his toothpaste. There followed the collection of various ingredients–mint and lavender from the garden, vanilla, cinnamon, flour, starch, and of course baking soda. She settled on a mint flavor, but only after much trial and spitting and because she didn’t want to take my advice right off the bat. Jaime now has a small tupperware tub of sticky toothpaste next to her sink that she uses daily. She’s bugging me to take her to the camping section at the store to buy those reusable tubes. I’m so proud of her. She wants to sell it and make money, but I’ll tackle that problem another day. I do think I’ll let her call Jasmine on the phone so she can tell her all about her plan.
Technorati Tags: childhood, education, family life, The Toothpaste Millionaire, entrepreneurs Dear Mom, tonight we will go to Starbucks.Posted June 27th, 2011 by Jen in family life, features7 Comments » She smiled a toothless grin, eyes sparkling as she handed me the note, carefully written in her ever improving handwriting but still lopsided and multicolored. “Dear Mom, tonight we will go to Starbucks and I will pay. We will leave at 5:00 and you can bring a friend.” Not only had she stolen my heart, she set up a play-date for me. Her own money, her own kind heart, her…just her. She really melts me. A tear escaped later at Starbucks as she paid for my coffee, along with our friend Julia’s latté and her own hot cocoa, and I fought the strong urge to pay myself. No, I had to let her do this. This gift was hers to give and her eternal blessing. ::love letters from my children::dates with daughters::connections with sons::a faithful dog::a broken egg, found and treasured::Vacation Bible School::crème brûlée and the way it makes me all happy when seven little girls say it’s the best dessert ever and thank you for making it::friends who bless::so many good books::summer swims::counting my blessings today.
{Counting One Thousand Gifts~#21-30}
Technorati Tags: Central Oregon, childhood, counting blessings, country life, One Thousand Gifts Missing Front TeethPosted June 20th, 2011 by Jen in family life, features3 Comments »
::missing front teeth::sisters::learning to ride::a horse to love::finding expression for your passion::sketching by the lake because your grandma sketches and you’ve inherited her gift::being six and finding a butter knife washed up on shore, treasuring it like you’re in Ancient Egypt and you discovered a king’s tomb::reflections in the water::learning to sense which way the wind’s blowing::cat and dog curled side by side::counting my blessings today.
{Counting One Thousand Gifts~#11-20}
Technorati Tags: Central Oregon, childhood, counting blessings, country life, family life, One Thousand Gifts Freckles and Big EarsPosted June 13th, 2011 by Jen in family life, features8 Comments »
::freckles and big ears on my boy, and his home-made fishing pole::strawberries growing plump in my garden::noses buried in books::fish taco night::surprise meeting with an old friend::wildflowers thrust through the window for me by her small hands::their joy at discovering a quail’s nest::the bright blue butterfly that followed me around::frogs that let small girls catch them::picnic on the front lawn with all their little book club friends:: counting my blessings today.
{Counting One Thousand Gifts~#1-10}
Technorati Tags: childhood, counting blessings, country life, family life, One Thousand Gifts Just a Wednesday in JunePosted June 8th, 2011 by Jen in family life2 Comments » Just wanted to drop a pin on the map. I’m here. The kids are all finished with school tomorrow; three have been done for two weeks, and the fourth had the tough job of continuing on for those extra days whilst the siblings played. I’m regrouping my homeschool kids tomorrow for a play time and to give them their first summer book club book: The Penderwicks: A Summer Tale of Four Sisters, Two Rabbits, and a Very Interesting Boy by Jeanne Birdsall. It’s the first in a wonderful, witty, charming, sort of old-fashioned series of books, and we’ll read them all this summer. I have to say that I was completely inspired when I discovered that the author, Ms. Birdsall of Massachusetts, didn’t begin the book publishing business until age 41 or 42. See, life does begin at 40. It feels like change is in the air. All senses are alert; I’m listening hard, hoping to have keen ears and a wise heart, wide eyes, sensitive soul.
Technorati Tags: Central Oregon, family life, book club, homeschool ing, Jeanne Birdsall, The Penderwicks To Give a Gerbil a BathPosted May 20th, 2011 by Jen in family life, humor, the ranch4 Comments »
I didn’t know a wet gerbil would cause me to laugh hysterically. He looks so…cold. Or is he just shivering because he can’t remember his letters? Who does such a thing, bathing gerbils like babies? Was this really out of concern for gerbil hygiene, or a chance to play parent, or just something fun to pass the time? I do like to think the best, I’ll go for hygiene.
In this boy’s defense, he was simply aiding his big sister, owner of the gerbil pair. It does take two or three extra hands to give a gerbil a proper bath, what with all the squeaking and squirming attempts at freedom. But of course, what little boy can resist a flurry of animal activity?
And another truth be told, I’m pretty sure I saw a smile flit across the whiskers of Mika and Merlin. These gerbils have a good life here in our schoolroom, sitting quietly (save for the incessant turning and grating of the wheel) while the kids learn sounds and signs and names and places. If a bit of freedom meant also getting soaked to the skin, what’s that to a desert rat? Especially considering the last time they roamed free, one skinny tail got stepped on and lost. Yes, this bath was a good thing.
Technorati Tags: childhood, country life, gerbil raising What makes a desert beautiful?Posted May 5th, 2011 by Jen in education, family life, features, the ranch2 Comments » Life, death, and the breath of God — we were blessed to see all on a simple hike through our spring desert last weekend. {life} {death}
{the breath of God}
Technorati Tags: Central Oregon, country life, nature hike, nature study, Oregon wildflowers On an enchanted journeyPosted May 3rd, 2011 by Jen in education, family life, features5 Comments » ~scenes from a family hike at Sahalie Falls, Oregon~ If God had wanted to be a big secret, He would not have created babbling brooks and whispering pines. ~Robert Brault
Technorati Tags: childhood, family life, Sahalie Falls, McKenzie River, Oregon hikes, nature hike My Reflection part 2Posted April 28th, 2011 by Jen in family life, features, religion8 Comments » I had a dream a few weeks ago that I know was about this journey. I was back in my childhood home, and I struggle to recall the details, but this was the first time in years I’ve dreamed of the place and the first time in my dreams I was there as an adult and feeling in control. Standing in that room where I had longed for beauty, it was daylight and I looked about the mess and had ideas: I could conquer this! The rough wood I planned to paint a lovely blue, just like the French gate in Marseilles. And curtains! With lovely ruffles! Cupboards could neatly enclose the old open-faced shelves nailed to the wall and much could be done for beauty. I was not afraid. Then the most curious thing. I looked below me through an opening in the floor, and kneeling with utter surprise discovered another dwelling of such beauty and majesty–fine marbled floors, a stately curving staircase leading to greater rooms and even an indoor pool. (Or was it utter surprise? Dreams are so difficult to gauge, that realm where even the most bizarre is not astonishing.) Why was I living in this shack when under my very feet was a mansion? Nearly as soon as my eyes took in the beauty of those impressive quarters, I heard a wind gaining strength in the distance, knowing instinctively the gales were headed my way. Suddenly, the door to the mansion below flew open and I was filled with old terror. There at the doorstep lay a girl, a waif, as if blown in by the east wind. Was this a picture of myself, was I afraid of entering into the beauty? Fear and beauty cannot live together, just as disorder and beauty cannot. The girl stood up, revealing a pack on her back. The knap-sacked stray with long straight brown locks, unkempt with the wind, walked almost defiantly into the entry of the great mansion, and I was afraid, feeling that she did not belong here, threatened by her very presence. Was she a symbol of every fear that threatens to undo me, a whole suitcase full of anxiety? Just today I had another perspective. I may be living in a mansion but not really living. I may have at my disposal all the riches of Heaven and be ignoring them, or just peering at them through the cracks, perhaps relegating myself to a corner. Why, oh why, would a child of God behave this way? Such thoughts found home in me today as I walked into the guest room of my real-life house, now clean. But this room had sat a mess for months, a living specter of misorder within a mansion. Not until yesterday when the floors were cleared of shambles and every carpet tuft free of box and burden did I understand: if I exercise discipline and look closely at what I already have, I may discover that I am indeed equipped for every good work.
I’m growing in strength and beauty, but still I journey, and have miles to go before I sleep. ******** My Reflection in the Dirty Pane Glass, Part 1
Technorati Tags: childhood, dreams, faith, family life, God How to Draw a Self-Portrait (and some wisdom from the child)Posted April 25th, 2011 by Jen in arts & crafts, education, family life, humor10 Comments »
I think my boy here could give some art lessons on self-portraiture {and life}. 1. Know how many freckles adorn your face and love them all. {Or, love every unique mark the Lord has blessed upon your countenance, and love that you are wonderfully made.} 2. Realize how far your ears really stick out. {Or, be aware of your faults, your weaknesses, your differences, and make them as darn cute as possible.} 3. Make your eyes brighter than they really are. {Or, know that the eyes are the gate to the soul, and work to let all the love of God pour out through them and smile through them, too, and so bless those who look upon you.} 4. Draw yourself happy. {Or, remember that a cheerful heart is good medicine, and the joy of the Lord is your strength, so do not grieve.} Thank you, Little L. for the art lesson. Technorati Tags: art, family life, self-portrait My Reflection in the Dirty Pane GlassPosted April 17th, 2011 by Jen in family life, features, religion16 Comments »
When nightfall turned windows into mirrors, I used to look into one of the dusty old frames on the east wall and stare hard, willing the glass to produce a beautiful me, praying to God to let me see myself as I would someday be; beautiful. The night-darkened window cast back a grainy romantic picture, and waved by the layers of dirt and oil, I could imagine in the shadows. I imagined a beautiful, grown-up girl in a pretty house. I had to call my sister to ask her if we had a mirror. I remembered a small, round one that my dad used for shaving, but Heather would know the details. Yes, we had a mirror, she said. It was as I thought except I hadn’t considered that my chest would tighten and my breath catch as I tried to remember. The east wall, why was I standing there, what job was to be done along that wall? Nothing, Heather said, it was a tiny space between the front door and the refrigerator and I would have had to stand on my tiptoes to see myself in the window, but I must have done it many times, this I do remember. I did have a job in that cramped spot, that of baring my heart to God begging for beauty. The prayers to be beautiful were constant. Poverty can feel ugly, and I felt the depths of it. I remember the day in Sunday School when the teacher asked us children to raise a hand if we knew someone more poor than ourselves. Apparently we were to pray for that unfortunate soul. I knew no one with less than myself, but raised my hand anyway, thinking that maybe the Cartmells had it worse but knowing deep they really didn’t, not missing the furtive glances my way. Why would a teacher ask such a thing? And there was my teacher at the elementary school who went round the class after Christmas asking each child to share what he received. I lied and made up gifts and everyone knew I lied. I vowed to never ask a child that question. I could have been a child-leper, calling out ahead in a thin voice of shame, “Unclean, unclean.” Our shack made of corrugated iron and rough wood, dirt thick on the floor, a crude hole in the floor with a pipe for water serving as sink, and always undone~this, this was my shame and ugliness. Long I’ve considered my childhood but just now have discovered something. What frightful thing I couldn’t put my finger on I’ve now marked. It wasn’t just that we lived in extreme poverty, that my mom was unstable, that my dad was the town drunk, neglectful and abusive, though these are frightful things. It was the disorder and the chaos and the filth. Always dirty clothes, dirty dishes, junk strewn about, boxes stacked with items long-forgotten by all but the mice, piles of old construction materials in the side room anchored in the dirt, and how could I have ever expected to feel beautiful? Being raised in such a chaotic mess I wore it every day as my garment and I felt ugly. I was haunted for years after I left my home in Arizona, too afraid to look deeply for the reason, afraid my memory was hiding something sinister. I was terrorized at night in my dreams and it was always that place, the mess, the demons of disorder that thrashed to get me. The nightmares were me as child straining under shame to make order and quickly present an unsullied home to a soon approaching visitor. Never was that mission accomplished before I woke in a black panic. Beauty is ordered by God. I longed for it like the deer pants for water. It was not my vanity. God set the universe in order, and the stars that sailed bright by my window each night were exactly in their place, and the sun followed his path across the sky in a manifest pattern as if on some invisible line, and absolutely everything in all creation is meant to be ordered and this is beauty.
I’ve heard several people throughout my life share of growing up in poverty but never quite knowing how poor they really were. The common thread was that without exception these people came from loving families where there was a rhythm to life that included breakfast, lunch, and dinner, evening family time, whatever kind of order that particular family possessed. Their clothes were clean even if threadbare and simple, their tummies were filled even if with rice and beans every day. And that is beautiful. I’m so grateful for the Arizona desert. Were it not for the mountains He called up, the stars He appointed to their place, the surety of the rising and the setting of the sun, the rhythm of seasons, I would have had no order and no beauty. I cannot express the comfort of seeing stars align into the Big and Little Dippers and Orion’s Belt, without fail. Though no trace of order could be found inside that rundown shack on Havasu Way in Cochise County, Arizona, all the beauty and sequence of the universe was beckoning me from outside–and so I lived outside as much as possible.
Though He is far from done with me, God is steadily teaching me how to carefully arrange my home and my family life, and I am called to teach my children so they too can find beauty in the order, and whether rich or poor in dollars, they will be rich in beauty.
{to be continued…I will share a most curious dream I had after I began this post last week.}
Technorati Tags: beauty, childhood, faith, family life, reflections Hario, et cetera.Posted April 8th, 2011 by Jen in family life, health/cooking/food, religion8 Comments » Ethiopia Sidamo prepared Hario style by Sisters Coffee Company made my morning, the best coffee I’ve had. Ever. I loved that Winfield (owner) made it special for me, and with each slow drip I loved seeing him greet everyone that walked in the door like the old friends they were. I loved chatting with my girlfriend in the corner, the Jesus Saves sticker on the fridge behind the counter, the wide wood floor planks and full stone fireplace; I would move to Sisters just for this. Slow, small, intimate. Julia spends the night tonight. Even grown-up girls need sleep-overs. Last time we stayed up late and cried together over Bonhoeffer. Tonight we’ll probably cry over Pride and Prejudice. Friendship is precious. I spent the better part of my day trying to find a mobile dog groomer for a photo-shoot I’m helping coordinate. Ten attempts and still no luck; all booked for weeks. If you are out of work, I have a serious suggestion for a niche market you should pursue. I hope to spend the next week contemplating several threads of grace: His Presence, my purpose; His gift, my gain; His reality, my redemption. SandwichedPosted March 30th, 2011 by Jen in family life, features, religion16 Comments »
82 it was this year. The six-year-old had to help her blow out the candles. She ate four pieces of cake, only because each time I offered a new piece she had forgotten already about the previous piece and her stomach hadn’t yet caught up. S’pose that wasn’t nice of me. (It really wasn’t out of spite, she just awfully seemed to want more cake). Sometimes I’m angry. Uncle Doug wrote her a letter which she received yesterday. It was a birthday card that he’d misaddressed so it came late. She was already confused about that when her eye fell upon the sticker. For his return address Uncle Doug used one of those free labels that Some Charity sent in hopes of procuring a donation. It had his legal first name Basil on the label because who knows from what list direct mail marketers got his name. So my mom says, Oh, I see that Doug is now going by the name Basil. I wonder what he’d like me to call him. Jenny, should I start calling him Basil? No attention paid to his personal signature of Doug on the birthday card, or perchance to the fact that he has always and only in his whole 84 years gone by Doug or Douglas. Despite numerous, dreadfully numerous, attempts to explain that Some Charity doesn’t really know Uncle Doug and he just uses the free address labels because he’s frugal and that obviously he would have let her know if he changed his name, my mom insisted that he must have, for there it was on the sticker. And *I* was the one who was crazy for not thinking so, too. Yes, I lowered myself in my frustration to saying, You Are Crazy to think that. I maintain a multi-generational family and do struggle along with millions of other “sandwich generation” folks in the raising of my own young children while caring for an aging parent. I just read a statistic from Pew Research Center that 1 in every 8 Americans aged 40 to 60 is doing this. This is what happens when people live longer and start families later. Sometimes I feel every warning sign they tell caregivers about: burnout, anxiety, anger, fatigue, depression. Sometimes I laugh and feel doubly blessed. It depends on the day. I thank God for my husband who has the most amazing sense of humor about it all, and willingly shares his castle. Because my mom has lived with us since our oldest (11) was an infant, this lifestyle is all my children know. I’m glad for that. Nothing was disrupted in their life by suddenly having Grandma move in. It was always this way and this is just what you do. My kids had a conversation in the back seat of the car one day about who would take care of mom when she was old. I was so stinking proud of them for coming up with a plan for my old age that included each one of them hosting me in a rotating fashion. Of course we all know it will be JoJo who takes care of me. She decided that when she was six.
James 1:27 says this, and yes, I comfort in these words not because I feel so self-righteous, believe me, I don’t, but because I need to know that we care for those in need because we are commanded to do so, it’s biblical. On hard days, it really helps to have that to lean into, lest I be tempted to fold. Speaking of fold, my mom is really good at folding laundry. Of course there is absolutely no guarantee about in which drawer clothing will end up, and I just realized that explains my son wearing my husband’s running underwear as shorts. It’s all part of the sandwich and sometimes the lettuce is wilted but you eat it anyway and it still nourishes you. ~~~~~~~~
A Holy Experience is offering a scholarship to the She Speaks conference, a Proverbs 31 Ministries event, held in Concord, North Carolina on July 22-24, 2011. Click here for instructions on how to apply. Technorati Tags: alzheimers, dementia, elder care, sandwich generation Three little kittens have lost their mittens…Posted March 25th, 2011 by Jen in family life, the ranch2 Comments »
…and I began to cry. Our lovely trio of orange tabbies has dwindled to two. Chubsters, on the far left in this photo, disappeared four days ago. We hope and pray for his safe return, but this is the third cat we’ve lost out here. The neighbors down the lane warned us when we moved here to not have outdoor cats. Their 30 years of experience in this wild desert place taught them that if the coyotes don’t get the cats, the owls will, and they even spoke with fear of the occasional cougar. I have unfortunate dander allergies and keeping an indoor cat is a bad option for us. And we need help keeping the rodents down outside the place. We took our chances. These fastidious felines who so generously groom one another also leave us mousy gifts at the doorstep most days. We took chances on the wild, but made sure the boys were fixed to prevent wandering and also made sure the cats had lots of good food and love–an easy task with four doting children who are forever kissing, carrying, stroking their softness– and even a cozy cat house, and as much indoor time as my sinuses would allow. Chubsters had a glorious life here. I’ve been out looking for him everyday, the children call him at all hours, but nothing. We miss him. The dog misses him. The night before he went missing, my husband heard the howling in the fog of his dreams. Coyotes close, too close, and he wondered why the dog didn’t bark. Could it be? A broad owl swooped out of a tree just ahead of him on his run that day. Was it? We like to think he’s just out visiting new sights and will be home any time. We see him in every bunch of golden waving grass and coppery downed log. We hear mewling in the wind and in the creak of the door. Return to us dear one; and if you can’t, may you rest in peace.
Technorati Tags: country life, Central Oregon, outdoor cats, kittens How to Return to Your First LovePosted March 23rd, 2011 by Jen in family life, features0 Comments
Start there. *UPDATE* But I do believe the best place to begin on this issue of reconnecting to your lost loves is to recognize that you left or wandered, and to confess that to the Lord and let His spirit bring you back. This verse in Revelations is from a letter written to a church that had done many things right and well, but they had also done this one grievous thing: left their first love, that first passionate love of a new believer in Christ. How to get back there, whether it’s to the love of God, spouse, or a leisure pursuit, involves taking inventory, like those letters in Revelations do so well, acknowledging the successes as well as the failures, and developing an intentional plan to get back on track. Journal your plan and find a way to have accountability. Let a trusted friend in on your desire to return to your first love and say, “hey, hold me responsible!” If we are talking about your relationship with God or your spouse, returning to your first love is beyond critical, so take every last measure conceivable to rekindle the romance. This process will involve much grace, a lot of humility, learning to forgive both yourself and others, and perhaps more effort than you think is humanly possible. And speaking of humanly possible, this isn’t. The only being that can bring something dead back to life is God himself. Call upon Him, and He will answer. Strep-induced quietPosted March 19th, 2011 by Jen in family life7 Comments » I’ve allowed myself to rest in bed for several days because I’m sick with this fiery, swollen throat that makes swallowing feel like giving birth. From my horizontal position, I turned to watching clouds, my way of childhood, though nothing can ever compare to my sapphire Arizona skies with her swirling, captivating cumuli, so full and ripe for imagining. Sister and I staring into sky, taking turns for hours as familiar shapes emerged and troubles retreated. Here from my window, decades on and short on fancy, I see a slow train coming, her engines gathering girth as she chugs forward. Following the iron horse is a charging elephant with turned up trunk, and I expected the rest of the herd, but there in his wake is the great Arizona horned toad. Toad gives way to the wispy puffs of an old man’s pipe. Then all is clear and my cloud game is done. I declare, I do feel better. ******************** [weekend links]
Technorati Tags: Central Oregon, cloud shapes, family life, strep throat In the Garden with ChildrenPosted March 13th, 2011 by Jen in education, family life, features, parenting, the ranch7 Comments »
{Parts of this post were previously published here at Diary of 1 on April 6, 2008.} Planning, planting, nurturing, enjoying the beauty and the bounty~there are so many facets to a child’s gardening experience that makes planting a garden one of the most treasured gifts you can give your child. You should have no trouble in getting a child to garden with you. No surprise, children are drawn to dirt like nothing else! You mean you want me to dig holes? I’m allowed to get filthy and mucky? To direct that childish energy and wonder into a productive endeavor like a garden is not only wise on the part of the parent, it’s a lifelong blessing to both of you.
I ended up deciding that the sense of community and family in the main garden would not at all be diminished by each child’s ownership in their own scratch of earth. In fact, it would probably deepen their respect for the family garden, knowing the responsibility and effort their own gardens required. I found a wonderful book to guide me through some activities to do in the garden with children. It’s called Roots, Shoots, Buckets & Boots: gardening together with children, by Sharon Lovejoy. The book covers not only the basics of how to plan, plant, and care for your garden, but the top 20 plants for kids, theme garden ideas, and many little bits of garden wisdom. I would say that my first tip for gardening with children is to involve them in every decision. Where should we put the garden? Is this spot too shady or too sunny? This area is nice and level, but we’ll have to dig up some rocks, is that okay? What shape do we want the garden to be? What should we plant that will thrive in our region? Let’s test the soil and decide what supplements we may need. All of the issues that arise in the planning of the garden are incredible teaching tools, and there’s no better way for your kids to really understand the complexity – and joy – of it all than to walk through it with you step by step. And the sense of ownership will be there from the start – the greatest motivator I know. I never have to twist their arms to go work on the garden.
Here are the top 20 plants for children to grow. This list comes from Roots, Shoots, Buckets & Boots, based on the fact they are proven winners: They have personality, fragrance, texture, and color — vibrant color. They grow quickly — something kids need in response to their work. And they’re versatile; they can be used as jewelry, toys, clothes, musical instruments, and household utensils. 1. Pumpkins Do keep in mind your climate – some of these will fare better than others depending on where you live. In Central Oregon, for example, root crops like potatoes and carrots grow well with our short growing season and cool nights; but for some vegetables like corn or tomatoes, a short-season variety is a must for your plant to mature.
Theme gardens can be a joy for children, and I’ll highlight just one of the themes from Roots, Shoots, Buckets & Boots: the pizza patch. The Pizza Patch: gardening in the round is sure to delight children who are used to seeing a straight-row vegetable garden. This pizza patch garden is a giant sized six-foot-wide wheel shaped plot, divided into seven great wedges and edged with a thick rock crust. Ms. Lovejoy suggests the following ingredients for your pizza patch garden, but you can add other favorites as well: 3 seedlings plum tomatoes To begin this project, select a flat 10×10 foot plot of ground that gets at least 6 hours of sun a day. Place a stake in the center of the area, and tie a 3-foot string to it. Your child can take hold of the very end of the string and walk in a circle, while another child walks behind with a hoe to mark what will be the outer boundary of the garden bed. Divide the garden into slices: mark spots at 32 inch intervals along the outer edge. Draw a line with a stick from each of the seven marks to the center stake, to denote the seven slices. Then place rocks along those lines for a permanent boundary, and you can remove the center stake. Place the five tall vegetables in each of the five slices on the northern side of the wheel – the plum tomatoes, cherry tomatoes, eggplants, bell peppers, and zucchini. In a slice on the south side, plant the herbs, onions, and garlic. Set aside one slice to be the pathway for the little feet tending the garden. The bright gold marigolds and Calendulas can be filled in around the vegetables and herbs, the “cheese” of the pizza. To plant each slice, start from the center and work your way out. Plant tomatoes, eggplants, bell peppers, and zucchini 12-18 inches apart. In the small herb slice, space them 6 inches apart from the onions and garlic. The flowers are scattered throughout each slice, but allow 3 inches between them and other plants. When harvest time comes, you can throw a big pizza party with toppings straight from the garden! You can find more fabulous garden ideas and activities to do with children, such as a sunflower house, container gardens, and a moon garden, in Roots, Shoots, Buckets & Boots. Don’t forget to teach your children about the use and care of gardening equipment, about watering requirements for various plants, and about safe weed/pest control. You can also measure plants, make growth predictions, learn about pollination, visit with a master gardener…the opportunities in a garden are endless. Mostly, just have fun!
Technorati Tags: Central Oregon, family life, gardening with children, high desert, outdoor education, planting Conversations with a little boy.Posted February 22nd, 2011 by Jen in family life, humor, the ranch2 Comments » I love him, I love his ideas, and gosh, I wish I could just jump in there sometimes and see it in full color. This must be how it is with children; they slow down enough once in a while to share a piece of the rolling film, but it’s only a shadow of the lively non-stop, action-packed thriller that is the mind of a six-year-old boy.
A few days ago, he sat on the floor playing with an airplane “slingshot” toy as Grandma sang an old song that I remember her singing to me as a child. Well, she doesn’t really sing it to anyone, just an unconscious singing. Sitting small in the cushioned chair with pillow tucked behind her gray and her songs, she stared into yesterday:
“I CAN!” shouted my little boy, aiming his airplane for a sure fire into the chair. And he was off, in the heat of battle, just him and Grandma’s song, conquering the skies. **********
Technorati Tags: Garden of Eden, family life, Army Air Corps, Jewish roots Thankful in this place…Posted February 14th, 2011 by Jen in family life, features, holidays8 Comments » …for child-made Valentines, especially the glittery heart one that sparkled today in the sun, each of the thousand squares of tiny glitter unable to outshine the joy of the son in the giving. …for chocolate truffles and coffee, dark as midnight and as smooth and strong as David’s stones, and particularly for the thoughtful hand that delivered the gift. …for rib eye steak and a night in, and mostly for the request from him to cook a special gourmet dinner together in the kitchen. Who is this sophisticated man and where is the uncultured one I married? (wink) …for a new refrigerator that doesn’t leak, doesn’t freeze the lettuce within two hours, doesn’t belong to another century, doesn’t open the wrong way, but does come with a message from above that says “I love you and I will bless you when you least expect it.” …for my grandmother’s watch, newly discovered last week in a box of junk jewelry left to me twenty years ago, and for the ultimate surprise that it indeed works and is a beautiful piece of antique art, running a bit fast just like she used to. …for gratitude, a gift in itself. One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp: A ReviewPosted February 8th, 2011 by Jen in book reviews, family life, features, religion14 Comments »
One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are by Ann Voskamp A book review by Jen One Thousand Gifts is the beginning, a game of sorts, to list one thousand things in life for which to be grateful. Ann Voskamp discovers that with each listing, her joy enlarges and she is soon addicted to the joy, in the very best of ways. It’s easy to dismiss this itemizing as an amusement for the immature, but as I began my own list, I chanced upon a switch.
The ticking of the thanks triggered something. It’s like when a circuit breaker trips in the house leaving you powerless and dark, only you don’t know where to find the electrical panel to reset it. This is it, my friends! It is the giving of thanks that corrects the problem that caused the breaker to trip in the first place. A ground fault is one reason why the power can go off, and Ann Voskamp identified the root cause of this fault: ingratitude. Breaker! Breaker! Let’s give thanks! Ann scatters herself, her humanity, just right throughout this book, and I am left knowing that she is an authentic woman who has deep places of pain just like the rest of us. We learn of the death of her little sister, her mother’s mental illness, her own dark interior struggles. And so I connect, I engage, I truly learn. I had shadows of doubt about Ann Voskamp at various points in OneThousand Gifts, but Ann is like that children’s word game where Grandma loves poundcake but hates chocolate cake, she loves Pringles but hates chips, and you have to know that Grandma’s secret is that she only loves things that begin with “P.” So it is with Ann. She loves the Christian mystics but hates the idea of wisdom found outside of Christ; she loves to run with the moon and lie prostrate in fields but hates nature worship; she digs deep into her soul to share it raw with the world but hates narcissism. You have to know that Ann’s secret is that she is indeed a woman after God’s own heart. I did come to a certain point in the book where I thought I couldn’t go on. Voskamp spends an entire chapter describing a bubble of soap, its shape, its color, its chemical composition, more of its color. It was the night I had hit the wall of exhaustion and emotional overload and my husband had to tuck my crying eyes into bed, pulling the patched quilt up over the worry, hurry, fear, condemnation, the crush of life that threatened to undo me, then he finished the dinner I had abruptly left and tended to the four children’s bedtime. And I’m supposed to draw comfort and wisdom from the sudsy bubbles? I still don’t completely get it, but I understand that a writer has a certain style, and Ann Voskamp is a poet and I love words like she does, though we may play with them differently. So I will let her talk about suds in the sink all day long if she wants because in the end, I rose large the next morning, new grace upon me, and I remembered how much I loved bubbles as a child, the endless joy in swooshing the wand to create the perfect sphere to run after and chase with the wind, and the sheer delight in catching it before it burst into another dimension. Here’s the thing. I am working really hard at this thing she calls eucharisteo–what Christians know as the Eucharist, or communion, the taking of the bread and wine. This charis grace, chara joy, eucharisteo thanksgiving. I’m working harder than I have in a very long time, because I have to or I will shrivel. There are some tools in this book to help this jumble of myself to begin to conquer life-smothering fear, to reach for a firm grip on His everlasting love for me, to give thanks in all things in such an unceasing way that the power is restored in this short-circuited woman. A thousand thanks to Ann Voskamp for writing this book. P.S. I want to know why the sows were losing their litters. A small complaint, but she never tells us. P.S.S. Thank you, Ann, for ending in Paris, the place where God says, “Enjoy Me.”
Technorati Tags: Ann Voskamp, eucharisteo, faith, gratitude, One Thousand Gifts, thanksgiving Hurray for boring!Posted January 31st, 2011 by Jen in education, family life2 Comments » I saw the word written plainly this morning atop his new spelling list. The list of small words for a small six year old boy. I would not have noticed the message had he not pointed it out. “Do you know what this says, Mom?” he asks with a cheeky grin. It was his own newly minted penmanship, each letter carefully proclaiming his fledgling independence.
Asking him to read the word to me, I worked hard to conceal my heart. Surely it was a bit naughty to write such a word on one’s work…but he wrote it all by himself, oh, the joy of a mother-teacher! Spaghetti Squash to Iron ManPosted January 19th, 2011 by Jen in family life, features, health/cooking/food, the ranch10 Comments » Spaghetti squash, baked with butter and brown sugar, is quickly eaten by my girls. I had a heck of a time getting it to the oven, what with my dull knife and its tough skin. What an amazing creation, this squash, right up there with the pomegranate in its ability to make your mouth water and your fingers cramp as you ready it for consumption. Someone we know is training for a triathlon, and upon reading the nutrition section of Joe Friel’s Triathlete’s Training Bible, he’s been requesting unusual amounts of brightly colored fruits and vegetables. What happened to my meat and potatoes man, his wife wondered? He’s still there, but make it lean, if you please. Please enjoy this picture of me risking my digits to cut a fresh pineapple in honor of the health conscious athletes in my own family. And do look closely at the bowl, for each and every pomegranate aril was hard fought and I even had to do some research to learn how to de-seed this ancient fruit without ending up in an awful pulpy mess.
I’m actually having fun with with exotic fruits lately, and may have to expand beyond my small town grocer in search of things stranger and wilder. I have the idea that the more bizarre the fruit, the healthier it must be.
Technorati Tags: Iron Man, pomegranate, spaghetti squash, triathlon training Happy New You!Posted January 4th, 2011 by Jen in family life, features, holidays3 Comments » Happy New Year and Happy New You! What a great time for reflection and renewal. I love the beginning of January for this reason–the turning of the year is so symbolic for me of the burying of the old man and the raising up of the new, revived and purified man. On a totally superficial level, I love this time of year as well for the lingering effects of the Christmas gifts. I’m wearing the super cute handmade apron my husband gave me (Becky, you are amazing, it’s perfect!), feeling all officially housewife now. And I was under the influence of Rouge-Bleu for several days, amazed that my husband again surprised me by finding the one and only wine import I’ve ever asked for, made by my friends in the south of France. (Again, Becky, you came through on this as well–thanks to you and Brian for finding that wine shop). If you have never tried a really great French wine…the search ends here. Back to my reflection and renewal, I just started a new Bible study by Nancy Leigh DeMoss called Seeking Him. It covers topics such as revival, humility, repentance, obedience, and grace. I’m looking forward to seeking Him this year. Here’s wishing a Happy New Year to you! A toast for my friends:
Corncob Dolls and Christmas ComingPosted December 18th, 2010 by Jen in education, family life, features, parenting5 Comments »
I caught my breath on these words, picturing Mary and Laura playing for hours in the dusty-spicy attic with nothing but a rag doll and a corncob. Life was very hard, I know, and sometimes the romanticized view of pioneer life does it such injustice…but still. Still. Having no flat, dimensionless drivel flashing before them incessantly such as modern children are subject to, these girls had the freedom to develop the creative power of a brilliant sunrise. That Laura’s corncob doll was given such power of feelings, and never a second’s thought as to her stature, speaks volumes for the strength of simplicity. I told my children to guess what Pa did with the pig’s bladder. First, they had to be informed what a bladder was, for they didn’t know. In 1870, a four year old knew what a pig’s bladder was, and what fun it could be! Pa blew it up into a little white balloon, which the girls batted about and bounced along with endless joy. Who needs a bounce house? Oh, and the pig’s tail was even more fun! I’m sort of old fashioned and nostalgic, so I need to not get carried away with sentimentality. I know that about myself. I live in the 21st century and I’m glad I do, but still. Good literature always demands a response from me. I can’t read something meaningful and not come away with an action, however small. With Christmas just days away, and since tomorrow’s reading with the kids is the Little House chapter entitled “Christmas,” I have a reply. If you know Little House, you know that simple is not dull. Ma loved beautiful things, and I’m amazed at how she used so very little and so common a thing to make her home charming. I hope to create beauty with simple things.
Maybe I’ll make pancake men for breakfast for the kids on Christmas morning, like Ma. We’ll bake together, sing carols, make pictures in the snow, sit and look at the fire, read stories, and of course talk about the birth of Jesus. Anyone have a pig’s bladder to lend me? Gingerbread…hut?Posted December 15th, 2010 by Jen in arts & crafts, family life, features, health/cooking/food, holidays5 Comments » Why I thought I could begin baking all the gingerbread pieces I would need for the nine children in our homeschool co-op at ten-o’clock…p.m., not a.m., the eve before hosting a gingerbread house-making party, is because I’m crazy and need to be committed to the Hansel and Gretel asylum. Once upon a time there lived a very silly mother in a house in the juniper forest with her four children…who deserves to be shoved into an oven. I hunted down gingerbread templates for very petite, wee little houses, perhaps a lean-to, that would not require me to produce 50 pounds of flour to make enough dough for nine houses, plus extra for the small child who would surely squeeze his house too hard and cry and want another one. I printed some templates, then began to fret over the gingerbread house “glue.” Do I use the recipe with raw eggs, surely it would hold better, and chance that no one would be poisoned a week later as she snacked on her house, or go for the no-egg less-hold version? If not sleeping at all tonight is an option, I should definitely make 10 separate batches of gingerbread house dough, so these precious kids can each have their own Queen Anne Victorian scale model reproduction gingerbread house complete with turrets and spindles. I’m sure the other moms are doing this. Lucky for me and my sanity, I came across a website from a mom who has been hosting gingerbread house parties for children for 15 years running. Mass quantities of children, at that. Not just one spoiled child who gets the Queen Anne, but up to 20 children who all make a blessed mess and have the time of their lives with…graham crackers! Oh yes, I will! I don’t know where that article went, but I believe this woman made up the houses ahead of time, so as to be sure of the structural integrity of the (fake) gingerbread houses. Using about six to eight crackers per house, never mind they are small huts, it’s about a five minute per-house job to make up beforehand. All the less candy to get fattened up on, my dear. In fact, I will not even make the cracker houses ahead of time. As it is now well past 10 p.m., snowing and pitch black, I shall go to the store tomorrow before our afternoon party to buy graham crackers, for who has four boxes of these on hand? Certainly not the woman who is even contemplating this endeavor at 10 p.m. the night before the party. Besides, the children don’t even know this is a gingerbread house-making party. It’s just a regular old Christmas party as far as they know, with perhaps eggnog and checkers. So they will have no idea they’ve been downgraded from the castle to the hut, from the homemade gingerbread to the cracker. And this mom will keep her sanity. And they all lived happily together ever after. Prayers for DanaPosted December 12th, 2010 by Jen in blog stuff, family life1 Comment » Please pray for Dana who lost her little boy, 22 months old, today. One of my very first and beloved bloggy friends, she has inspired me, made me laugh and made me think for several years now, and desperately needs your loving prayers. You can visit her here and bless her and her family with whatever words the Lord puts on your heart. It feels like there are no words to say, but I believe she will be held up by your very prayers, thoughts, and words from the heart of God to her. I shined my sinks, and other news.Posted December 4th, 2010 by Jen in family life, features, the ranch2 Comments » I finally took the Flylady’s advice and did something about my grimy sinks. They are so sparkling at the moment! No one dare set a dish in there, please. My husband actually noticed on his own, first thing upon entering the kitchen. I was feeling pretty good until he saw my cheat sheet on the counter–the organizing lady’s directions, everything from getting dressed to the shoes to how to do crisis cleaning (like, someone’s coming to stay with us for Christmas vacation!). Dinner tonight was rice and beans; a tip from another helper I like, Dave Ramsey. It’s a lovely meal, really; there’s a lot you can do with simple grains and legumes. I just heard of someone making fantastic East Indian recipes nearly every day with rice and beans that are gourmet meals. Mr. Ramsey’s basic advice is to try to live on very little as you are working your way out of debt or as you are trying to save. In other mundane news, as if the condition of my sinks or beans didn’t bore you enough, I’m nearly caught up on laundry. Due to a certain child throwing 1/3 of his clothing down the chute in lieu of putting said clean clothes in the drawers, I had to rewash everything, not knowing what was soiled and what was fresh. We had a meeting, it won’t happen again. Is it truly just about 20 day until Christmas? Everything just seems faster and earlier this year. We did some decorating (and cleaning) today with the Christmas tunes floating throughout the house. The stockings are hung and tomorrow we go to the Ochocos to cut down a tree. Those of you who don’t live in Oregon may be envious to know that for only a $5 permit you can cut down up to a 12 foot Christmas tree from the forest. If I don’t make it back to this spot before Christmas, please slow down with me and enjoy the season. Celebrate the birth of Jesus in a new way this year. Begin a new tradition. Do something magical with your children. Play in the snow. Give from your heart. May the peace of Christ be with you. Thank You for my dishes.Posted November 22nd, 2010 by Jen in family life, features, the ranch2 Comments » Another piece of Dansk Concerto Allegro Blue went down tonight. My husband and I have wagered that perhaps not one piece will be left by the time the kids are grown. It was a wedding gift, nearly all of which was given to us by the late, great John E. Jaqua. So, it’s doubly sentimental. Will my grown-up children catch a glimpse somewhere of our special Dansk and remember a warm, full table of family and love? I have no memories of a special tableware, because we had none that I recall, just a bit of this and that. I want my kids to have memories. They already know how I feel about our dishes, given my constant, “be careful, it was a wedding gift!” But I believe the less I say, the better. Just serve up good meals on the Allegro Blue, that’s all I need to do. A Different HarvestPosted October 22nd, 2010 by Jen in family life, features, the ranch1 Comment » I was to be writing about the harvest this month. I was lulled out of vigilant garden care by a late warm spell, and then, bam, it froze and died. All lost. There are harvests of others kinds to ease the pain. I’m busy reaping the fruit of childhood. Raising kids is a continual and concurrent sowing and harvesting. Today I both collect the joy of children who know how to be silly, innocent little ones who at nearly ‘tweenhood still bless me with sweet simplicity, and also sow the seeds of self-control. Someone else will reap that one some day. I harvested a budding intellect in one child today, a seed which was sown beginning at birth in the countless hours of reading, playing, exploring with. Sowing and reaping, like my garden that I’ll soon start again, is a forever process. It flew by.Posted September 28th, 2010 by Jen in family life, features2 Comments » Wow, the end of September and not a single post. This photo from our last hurrah before school started sums it up:
This is us traveling at high speed up an Oregon sand dune and screaming with…something like a thrill. So, the past month has seen the end of a season and the beginning of another–a normal part of life but somehow something I’ll never be totally comfortable with. The wonderful lazy days of summer have been replaced with the fine pace of fall. Back when I lived in Michigan, at least I had the change of color, the spectacular foliage that compels thousands to take long Sunday drives just to take it in, breathe it in. Here in Central Oregon, what do I have to make fall really worth it all? The same green/gray junipers looking at me with their blue-berried eyes and unchanging scraggly limbs, no apple orchards to make an Autumn tradition, no piles of leaves to jump in. But, as a friend told me, look on the bright side–no change to cause a stress in emotions, no apples to dig worms out of, no leaves to endlessly rake into heaps. The grass is always greener! One month of school under their little belts, and the kids are stretching into more of who they were created to be. So am I. In spite of and because of various trials and new situations we are facing, we are growing, growth pains and all, and it fits the season. Though fall in Central Oregon doesn’t look like much, there is grand activity going on under the surface. The nights slowly get colder, and the garden gives us its last. Even with an Indian summer enticing us at the moment, I am not fooled. The purpose and function of fall can be missed, but it’s essential. The cold, shorter days play with our chemistry, but somehow prepare us for an eventual spring. Upheaval, activity, schedules, insanity…then a long, cold winter that relies on that burst of fall activity to carry you through safely til spring. We won’t visit the sand dunes again until next Labor Day weekend. Until then, I’ll cherish the memories of sand-angels. Happy Fall, y’all!
Technorati Tags: Central Oregon, Oregon Coast, autumn, fall Car troublePosted August 4th, 2010 by Jen in family life3 Comments » It went like this: Car Guy: Your van is done. ****** This, after breaking down on top of the mountain with my four kids, 81 year old mother, and a foreign exchange student, having our family van towed into town, waiting almost 2 weeks for an answer…Nothing to do but smile. At least it didn’t blow up with us in it. And my girl from Poland got to experience the generosity of American strangers and friends who helped this stranded family off a mountain pass. When your daughter finds a baby jackrabbitPosted July 21st, 2010 by Jen in family life, features, the ranch5 Comments » The dog brought a baby jackrabbit to our lawn. Miraculously unharmed, the small gray creature with eyes wide open was a gift to my 9 year old animal loving daughter. She has wanted to raise a baby rabbit for years, and this appeared to be the genie in the magic bottle that answered her deepest wish. Appearances can be deceiving and wishes can be answered in other ways.
I learned several years ago when same dog unearthed a wild jackrabbit nest that it’s never recommended and nearly impossible to raise wild rabbits on your own, not to mention that it’s illegal to possess Oregon wildlife without the proper state and federal permits. The survival rate is miniscule. I had foolishly and greenhornedly gathered up two of the babies and brought them home, only to have them cry all night, and then I wanted to cry when I researched online and discovered that I was now party to the likely demise of the sweet bunnies. I got up before dawn the next morning and returned the babies to the very spot beneath the junipers where I found them, following the instructions I had read, and believing that, as stated, the momma would find them even though she had obviously moved her nest elsewhere by this time. Having learned this lesson, I knew JJ couldn’t keep the baby jackrabbit that our dog was so pleased to deliver. I let her hold the baby, and little sister JoJo gave it some love too, as I reminded them of the literature that clearly counseled the return of the jackrabbit to its nest. The problem was, we had no way of knowing where in the midst of the hundred acre wood the nest could be.
These are the beautiful moments of our lives. There is something precious and priceless about loving a wild thing that must be let go, and making that decision on your own. The children decided upon a location for the return, an area of junipers where the dog had been recently spotted. JJ and JoJo prepared a safehouse for the newly orphaned bunny who would hopefully soon have a reunion with a mother who would be calling her baby for a midnight feeding. A careful hole lined with soft grasses, some twigs meticulously set across the top of the child-made nest, and some tender goodbyes and goodlucks were the scene.
Goodbye, wild bunny who brought a thrill of delight and a living nature lesson to my children.
Technorati Tags: baby jackrabbit, Central Oregon, family life Newborn kittens over here!Posted July 11th, 2010 by Jen in family life, the ranch9 Comments » There is nothing better! Newborn kittens, and children who got to watch the miracle happen! Five sweet little noses at mama’s belly, the awesomeness of new life.
Technorati Tags: newborn kittens Skunk Cabbage at Clear LakePosted July 6th, 2010 by Jen in family life, features4 Comments » Our family had a great trip to Cold Water Cove, a beautiful, quiet area around Clear Lake, the headwaters of the McKenzie River. We had driven from Central Oregon over the Cascade Mountains to get to this scenic getaway in the Willamette National Forest. One fun discovery was skunk cabbage, which we found growing in swampy areas near Clear Lake, the “lake born of fire.” I don’t know if the volcanic rock sediment makes it grow so huge and odorous…there is a reason it’s called skunk cabbage. Don’t eat it. It won’t kill you, but you’ll be sorry.
To give you some proportion, here are the kids with their cabbage leaves. Can you believe I let them take these home with us IN THE VAN as we traveled for several hours? What a migraine.
The leaves are now shriveled up on the front porch, but it was fun while it lasted! Technorati Tags: McKenzie River, Clear Lake, Cold Water Cove, Cascade Mountains My High Desert Wildflower TourPosted June 6th, 2010 by Jen in family life, features, the ranch6 Comments » Spring in Central Oregon has been wet and wonderful! Yes, I felt like I was back in Eugene, but for desert dwellers, we can’t complain about the rain. It’s produced some lovely wildflowers on my property, some of which I’ve never seen before. Here is a photo tour, and I hope to update this post with all the names of all these specimens, but for now, please enjoy the beauty. Over the next week, I’ll be working with the kids on creating a nature journal with the proper designations for each flower. I don’t have in hand a Central Oregon Wildflower book, but I’ll pick one up tomorrow. First up, this pretty long-stemmed flower was discovered by my daughter growing amongst the sage.
This gorgeous lavender colored wildflower appeared in a few different locations, and has a short blooming season. I believe it’s called a “phacelia,” and it almost seems to glow.
Next, I almost stepped on this miniature deep purple-petaled beauty. It’s called a monkeyflower. It was all by itself, I believe the only one I saw. Barely a stem, it seemed to have sprouted straight from the grains of sand. Another low-growing flower called Bitter-Root was discovered near some volcanic rock. This specimen was confined to a small area, and only grew next to the moss-covered stones. It’s the closest thing to a desert rose on my property. There were both white and pinkish varieties. Traditionally the roots were peeled, then cooked and eaten, or dried for future use by the natives. This was an interesting white daisy, with only three distinct petals at this point. Isn’t it pretty? It might be a blackfoot daisy. I wish there were enough to pick a bouquet and place on my kitchen table, but as with all the wildflowers here in my desert, they show up as a rarity with a bountiful rain, so I leave them where I find them. We go out for hikes nearly every day, so I do get to enjoy them while they last! I almost missed this next bunch of pink blooms with yellow centers, but luckily I had my children’s eyes. Lower to the ground – perhaps this is why they seem to uncover more than I do? These are Mohave Asters. Ah, I loved this next one before I found out what it was, the first wildflower I saw this spring! The tall blades it grows within, the puffy oblong yellow cluster of blooms, reminds me of a tiny version of the yuccas I grew up with in Arizona. But it’s HIGHLY POISONOUS! Yes, it’s called Death Camas, and for good reason. Beautiful to behold, deadly to ingest. The final bunch of wildflowers I discovered were the brightest yellow delicate tassels near the edge of the cliff. These are called “Oregon sunshine” and it’s a terrifically happy flower! Each petal was like a spike, each flower beginning with arms reaching straight to heaven, then slowly opening as the day unfolds. I hope you enjoyed my Central Oregon wildflower tour. We are blessed with such beauty in our backyard. “…Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow.” Mt. 6:28.
Technorati Tags: Central Oregon, high desert, wildflowers Happy Memorial Day Weekend!Posted May 29th, 2010 by Jen in family life3 Comments » Have a great weekend, friends. Honor your country, hug your kids, and enjoy life. The Pixie Chicks and other signs of springPosted May 7th, 2010 by Jen in family life, features, the ranch3 Comments » I call these these the Pixie Chicks:
Here are some more harbingers of spring around our place:
How is spring turning in your part of the world?
Technorati Tags: catching snakes, chickens, spring I did something dangerous.Posted April 30th, 2010 by Jen in family life, the ranch4 Comments » I let my kids visit the neighbor’s little farm.
Technorati Tags: family life, ranch, baby goat, new chick Pogo: Toxic to the Tongue! A Tragic Tale of Little LPosted April 24th, 2010 by Jen in family life, the ranch5 Comments » Do you remember pogo sticks? As a little girl in the ’70s, this was one of my favorite past-times, jumping and balancing like a happy kangaroo. Besides my stilts, another old-school toy, the pogo stick was IT. One of these spring-loaded poles showed up at my school, and the children lined up for their turn to bounce their way to a new school record. My five year old son was hopping like Tigger with the rest of them, until Wednesday.
The hurry to gather him and my other three children to race off to the doctor was a flurry of emotions, yet in those times of crisis, a mother is somehow able to hold it together. I had no thoughts other than keeping him from choking on the blood that kept coming, and trusted that he was in God’s hands. Because when it rains it pours, of course my husband was out of town for this entire ordeal, and I also put the truck in a small ravine in my haste to get to the hospital in the neighboring city where surgery had been scheduled. Because I live in a rural area, the surgeon actually personally called to find out where I was. “I’ll be there as soon as I get out of the ditch,” I responded calmly. As I was waiting for my neighbor to arrive with his John Deere to pull me out, I placed Little L on a nearby rock and comforted him with hugs and my coat wrapped about him to fight off the chilly spring wind. His jacket had, as might be expected, been left at school in the swirl of events. In these times of calamity, however, as in most watershed moments, there are diamonds in the rough. The staff at St. Charles in Bend were amazing. The ENT surgeon was a father of four children, like me, and he and the nursing and anesthesiology folks just fell in love with Little L and made him feel so special that he said, despite his great pain, “I like it here.” In his new tongue-mangled lisp, he was so charming as he explained that he got hurt when he “wath pogo-ing.” My dear friend Julia showed up to take my other three children to dinner and then home to tuck them into bed. Since Little L couldn’t eat or drink a drop as he waited for general anesthesia and surgery, I couldn’t very well eat or feed my kids in front of the ravenous little soul. She saved the day, and I must say, I had a few other friends call and offer to do the same. We are very blessed. One of the most trying moments was an unexpected one, and the Lord sent me another friend to navigate this part. Have you ever witnessed a child coming out of anesthesia? Howling, bellowing, thrashing, wild-eyed — these descriptions barely do justice to the occasion. So, having Courtenay show up unexpectedly at the hospital was a Godsend. She brought me coffee, gathered popsicles and Children’s Motrin for Little L to aid in his recovery, and offered just the right conversation diversion I needed to not be overly consumed with worry over my baby boy. All stitched up and wranglers back on, Little L was ready to go home. I had promised, however, to take him “somewhere special” and he was holding me to this pledge. Aaaah, it was nearly midnight and after a grueling day like this, I couldn’t, I just couldn’t do anything else. He wanted pancakes, his favorite comfort food. He drifted off as we headed home, and finally, I was carrying him in the house in what seemed like a dream. I relieved Julia who had taken such good care of my other kids, and set about to get Little L ready for bed. I opened the refrigerator and discovered that God takes care of the most minute details. There were the leftovers of my older son’s dinner that Julia had treated them to. Pancakes. Hallelujah, Little L could have his comfort. Not that he could eat much with his tongue in such a shape, but a few tiny bits of soggy pancake were all he needed to feel satisfied. The next morning was met with more moments of being cared for in crisis. The Country Wife took Little L for the day, my fellow teacher picked up the other three kids for school, classroom aides handled the morning classes, and I set about living “the day after.” There is the pogo stick story and why they are toxic to the tongue. Truly, I still think pogo sticks are a classic toy, but we’ll be avoiding them for a long time. It’s been three days, and just so you know, Little L is out happily playing, though he talks really funny for now.
Technorati Tags: childhood memories, faith, pogo stick, tongue surgery When Ginger Came Flying My WayPosted March 10th, 2010 by Jen in family life, features, health/cooking/food9 Comments » It was one of those days when I’m glad to live in a small town; and believe me, there are days when I wish I didn’t. I was shopping at my local grocery store this evening when a friend approached as I lingered over the apples, and with a quick word she tossed a mesh sack of ginger across the produce aisle. In a big city, a lady tossing food at you in the grocery store might cause a riot, but here in my cow-town, it means you’re loved. I barely caught it, but firmly caught the advice she gave me on how to make ginger tea. “Just grate some up in pan of water, heat and simmer it for a bit,” she suggested. She claimed it was great for arthritis, and I wondered if I possibly looked arthritic at the moment. Perhaps frenetic, as my four kids were scattered hither and there, grabbing goat cheese off the shelves and bumping into strangers’ carts. I do remember being told when I was pregnant and facing morning sickness that chewing on a bit of ginger would do a world of good for nausea. I’ve drank plenty of ginger tea, usually a ginger-lemon or ginger-honey variety, but always brewed from a bag. I looked forward to this homemade brew from a rhizome that my little boy thought was a bag of doggie treats. Okay, I confess I was going to say ginger root, but upon further research, I discovered that only “common” people call it a ginger root, as it is botanically not so – it’s a rhizome because whole new ginger plants can self-generate from budded sections, whereas a root will die if split into sections. I had a flashback to that time in my childhood when I went through a phase of wishing I had a different name – the name I had inexplicably chosen was Ginger, and my dear Mom humored me and called me Ginger until I grew tired of it. At any rate, I promptly grated up a pile of ginger (way too much) and threw it in a pan of water and made some tea. With neither lemon or honey on hand, I added molasses to to my brew. Voila, Ginger Molasses Tea, the finest, spiciest, and most aromatic tea I’ve had in a long time! I prepared a cup for my mom, telling her how good it is for her, especially if she has arthritis. She looked at me askance, but with her memory, she doesn’t know if she has arthritis or not. What she does have, however, is apparently much benefited by ginger – poor circulation, migraines, chills, and more. After looking up the health benefits, I realized how grateful I am that my friend send ginger flying my way tonight. Here are some of the benefits of ginger:
Cheers, have a cup of ginger tea! Dear March – Come in!Posted March 1st, 2010 by Jen in family life, features, poetry, the ranch6 Comments » How are things in your part of the world? It may not feel like spring, but I know it’s coming, the calendar tells me so. And also the sky, the birds, the tiny signs of life I see poking through the ground. Are you still covered with snow? Is the wind chilling you to the core? Take heart, it’s March! That means April and May are just around the corner. Are you thinking about what you’ll plant in your garden this year? I am, and I hope to add a few things to the mix this year. We started some vegetables last week, but here in Central Oregon, the rule of thumb on when to plant outdoors is “when the snow is gone from Black Butte,” which tends to be about June 1st! Here is a lovely poem by Emily Dickinson, one of the greatest poets to ever write about nature, next to David. Enjoy these lines, and enjoy your March. Dear March, Come in! Dear March, Come in!
I got your letter, and the bird’s;
Who knocks? Technorati Tags: nature, March, Emily Dickinson, outdoors, poetry I Am FromPosted February 13th, 2010 by Jen in family life, features, poetry16 Comments » I AM FROM I am from dusty country roads, I am from clothes on the line and Kick the Can, I am from Tucson and Scots-Irish and English blood, I am from Mama’s stitched up album, I wrote this poem in response to the meme over at Chrysalis. Tonight is the last night to enter her contest, but I hope you’ll write your own and share it with me. The template for this poem is here, and the original poem of this style by George Ella Lyon is here.
Technorati Tags: family life, I Am From, poetry Hello, not much to sayPosted February 10th, 2010 by Jen in family life4 Comments » What can I write about? I’m feeling very much like I have nothing to say, so here is my meager offering to my diary. I did a load of dishes and a load of laundry, swept the kitchen and the mud room, and that’s all I can muster. It’s about 8:30 p.m. and I’m ready for bed. I’ll get up early. I talk myself into going to bed early with “Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.” I hope it works. It’s not usually my nature to get to bed early, but I am unusually tired. I need to rise early to make a batch of sugar cookies for the kids at school. We’re celebrating Valentine’s Day tomorrow. I’m realizing at the moment that I have nothing with which to decorate the cookies, so they will be plain Jane. At least I have a heart-shaped cookie cutter. The cookies will be all the healthier, I’m telling myself. Will the kids buy it? Uh-oh, I also just realized I’m not supposed to take home-baked goodies to school. Store-bought only. Great, let’s deprive kids of healthier options, it’s the law. Bring on the artificial colors, flavors, preservatives, and plastic wrapping. I’ve been having many days in a row of putting my foot in my mouth. I did it again today. What’s with me? Do you have weeks like this? Do you ever ask the good Lord WHY can’t I learn my lesson about [fill in the blank]? Why am I so dull-headed? Geez. I digress, from nothing, so it’s okay. I’m emptied of all my not-very-deep thoughts, so now I’ll head to bed. Tomorrow is a new day, which I’m grateful for. I have an evening coffee date with two amazing ladies, one a dear friend, and the other the friend of the dear friend. God bless my sweet husband for getting the kids to bed, all tucked in with a kiss and a prayer. Technorati Tags: family life Sleepy GoodnightPosted January 20th, 2010 by Jen in family life7 Comments » Goodnight, that’s all. I’m tired, so I’ll go to bed. I’ve lived most of my adult life not following that simple reasoning, and instead have pushed myself to the very limits of physical and mental endurance. For something or another. A final exam, a work project, a busy season, there is always a pressing reason (in my mind) to not listen to my body say, “I’m fatigued.” I’m finally learning that there are consequences to this behavior! I’m nearly 40 – yikes, in July. After my last unexpected visit to the doctor, when I recently felt faint and dizzy at work for no reason at all (just sitting helping a student with math), I was roused from my blasé attitude that my body can handle anything. My doctor, who delivered my last baby and knows me fairly well, had looked at me with her eyes tearing over and said, “I need to write a note to your boss to tell him/her that you can’t work so much.” I laughed self-consciously and told her she’d be writing a note to myself, at which point she promptly scheduled me a counseling appointment to deal with my seeming inability to not work so much! I didn’t go to the appointment, but the incident did serve as a needed wake-up call, and I’ve made some changes in my schedule. Which begins with, goodnight, I’m tired. The holocaust of timePosted January 10th, 2010 by Jen in family life, features, religion8 Comments » Note: this blog post turned into an essay. If you don’t have TIME to read it, then don’t. But it just might save you some time. What a harsh word to use – holocaust. I think about my comfortable, wise viewpoint of 2010 as I look back upon the Holocaust of the 1930s – 1945 in Europe. HOW could the bystanders and the apathetic and the scared and the collaborators have EVER let it happen? And then I thought about what evil forces are at work at this moment in history, a very different holocaust, the annihilation of well-spent time, and I believe that my descendants will have the same judgement: HOW could the bystanders and the apathetic and the scared and the collaborators have EVER let it happen? Time is…what? Even the greatest physicists don’t understand the nature of time. Time is clearly more than a hand on a clock. It is motion, logic, and life. Time is perhaps a dimension, an eternal state. Whatever it is, in our daily life we understand that we are limited in our access to time, and if more time is consumed than we have accounted for, we are left motionless, logic-less, and lifeless. Oh, how often people say “I don’t have enough time” or “I ran out of time.” Time is a commodity that is essential to life itself, and so I’m not surprised that the Enemy of our soul would like to destroy our time. Since there is nothing new under the sun, I suspect that the modern version of time-wasters have some kind of past counterpart. I’d like to try to identify some of the biggest modern time-wasters, then discern what it is that makes us human, and next, distill some basics of life that must be done before all else. I think this progression of thought will be helpful in eliminating those elements that steal time, and hope that we can make some radical changes to avoid a time-crisis of holocaust proportions. Finally, I’ll look at the elements of a holocaust. First, what are some of the biggest time wasters? Here’s a short list I came up with, and by the way these are all probably addictions:
A friend recently sent me an email ending with this pronouncement that says it best: So when you want to talk in real time, using real voice and ears, please feel free to dial us up. E-mail is OK, but you won’t find us on Facebook, tweet, twitter, or twerp; nor on YouTube, the boobtube, or at Jiffylube.
Finally, recognize the basics of life that must be done before all else. See, because time is in fact limited by the nature of our finite lives, it would be wise to do the things that have to be done first, those things essential to being human, then, whatever time is left, tend to the non-essentials. You may discover there actually is no time for the non-essentials. Sadly, we’ve reversed this precept, and are left with the essentials hanging out to dry. So, earn a living, take care of your family and home, and get enough rest, good nutrition, and exercise. That’s about all you’ll really have time for. If there is a holocaust of time, who or what is the perpetrator? In the midst of a holocaust, it seems there are four main groups of people: the strong minority perpetrators, the weak majority victims, the mass of unassisting spectators, and the few and brave of the resistance. My mind screams, “Hollywood!” “Consumerism!” “Gluttony!” But who can I point a finger at, where is the evil Hitler who is the diabolical villain behind the extermination of quiet evenings at home reading to your children and the massacre of talking to your neighbors after work instead of garage door up, garage door down? Is it just modernity? Declining morality? Certainly there is a particular greed surrounding the monetizing of time that can be found in Hollywood and the corporate gadgeteers. There’s money to be made off of people wasting their time on your latest fad, gadget, game, icon, celebrity, or cereal. The weak majority of Americans who fall for these artifices are suffering intensely. We have anxiety over the stress we feel on our time, so we’re perhaps on some kind of medication, we fail at family life, maybe turn to drugs or alcohol. It takes time to be healthy mentally, spiritually, and physically! What about that mass of spectators that is typically found in a holocaust? I would describe the unassisting spectators as those whose heads are buried in the sand and think nothing is wrong. They love their sitcoms and sit idly by while their kids play violent games on the X-Box and become entrenched in a depraved culture with little likelihood of finding their way out. And the resistance. I’m a big fan of the heroes of the French Resistance, the Dutch Resistance, and others who bravely fought to defeat the Nazis. They worked underground, through stealth and reconnaissance, and turned the tide. True, they were also betrayed, tortured, and killed. So, to complete the holocaust analogy, this is where it happens. It’s the Resistance who need to be courageous in this battle for our time. Resist the time-wasters and for heaven’s save, do not allow your children to succumb to them. Get rid of your TV if you have to. Unplug. Kids do not have to join organized sports at age three. They don’t need to check Facebook and text their friends twenty times a day, nor do you. Blessings upon your time, my friends. Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time, for that is the stuff life is made of. – Benjamin Franklin
Technorati Tags: faith, family life, God, time, time management Keepin’ it Real in 2010Posted December 29th, 2009 by Jen in family life, holidays, humor7 Comments » The New Year’s Resolutions are a’comin’, by the thousands, around the globe. Many lofty, admirable, and noteworthy goals will soon be flowing from pens near and far. As for me, I’m keeping it real, attainable, and utterly basic, so as to actually realize a few goals. Gone are the “read 30 classic novels in one year,” “become fluent in French” and “learn to play Bach.” Here’s my top ten New Year’s Resolutions for 2010, unsophisticated and no-frills:
How about you? What are your hopes for keeping it real in 2010? Happy New Year! Technorati Tags: New Year’s Resolutions, family life, 2010 Merry Christmas from Diary of 1Posted December 24th, 2009 by Jen in family life, holidays, parenting5 Comments »
The last of the Christmas cards went out yesterday; mine via email due to lack of time or resources – I do apologize if this is too tacky for your taste, I don’t particularly like it either; and my mother’s via post. My mother. Four Christmas cards were prepared for Uncle Doug, three for Aunt Pat, and duplicates for several others. It’s her mind. I usually run interference and rescue the bonus cards (and their accompanying stamps), but this time, I sent them all. They need to know, right? Oh, a terrible thought, what if they think they’re the ones going crazy? :-) Jane is coming for dinner tonight. I ran into her at the grocery store last week. She was in the baking aisle, putting along in her electric chair with oxygen tubes giving her breath. She wept tears of joy upon seeing us, me and JoJo who loves her like a Grandma. It’s not like it used to be when we lived half a block away from her sunshine yellow house and visited several times a week. “Can I bake you some cookies?” she wanted to know. Of course I replied. I missed her 85th birthday and feel terrible about that. It’s a few days from Thanksgiving, and what a time to try to remember a birthday. Her mind is yet sharper than my mother’s, so I know she noticed. We’ll make it up to her. I’m just wondering how I’ll get her into my van and how I’ll keep my five year old from tripping over the miles of oxygen tubing. My two girls are scrubbing toilets as I write, and the older sister, just eight, asked if this can now be her job. “Since we haven’t been composting as much (her other main job), can I be the toilet scrubber?” Who knew it was such fun. Note to self: meaningful jobs make kids feel a mile tall. Well, Merry Christmas to all! Hold your dear ones tight, reach out to a soul in need, and love, as we have been loved by our Creator.
Technorati Tags: Christmas, elder care, seniors and aging Scene and HerdPosted December 22nd, 2009 by Jen in family life, features, holidays, humor4 Comments »
J: No, no, the angels are looking at nothing! L: Well, let’s move the shepherd back here, he’s a lesser one anyway. J: The Wise Man can’t be giving his gift to the cow, move him! L: Oh, here’s the little lamb that broke last year. Oh well. It’s just one. J: How cute, the camel is peering through the gate! L: If only the angel could sit on top of the stable, there’d be more room and she’d be looking right down at Jesus. But she’d fall. J: Everyone has to be looking at the baby Jesus! (after many minutes of shuffling, conversing, and pondering the cramped quarters, the children reach an agreement) L & J: It’s perfect! Technorati Tags: Christmas, creche, manger scene Revisiting the Magic WindowPosted December 9th, 2009 by Jen in family life, features, religion, the ranch3 Comments » I wrote about my Magic Window last December, and guess what? I found it!
I wrote last December:
Here it sits, right at home in my bedroom window, a magical melding of past and present. This was the first day of snow in Central Oregon, several weeks ago now. Gazing out my windows at the crystalline air and bustling winterish activity, I had an epiphany. Something I can’t put into words, but a full circle was realized on this day. My littlest made the first cheery snowball of the season. His big brother followed suit in a grand way with his own ambitious snowball. Who knew my little Magic Window circa 1975 would be a foreshadowing of such delightful affairs? I thought of a passage from Paul’s writings in the New Testament:
Here’s to a continued revealing and clarifying of the “magic window” of our lives. May unspoken dreams come true. May dark days get brighter. May we soon be face to face. Technorati Tags: Central Oregon, childhood memories, Christmas, Magic Window When you feel like giving upPosted November 20th, 2009 by Jen in family life, politics/world news, religion6 Comments »
Remember Winston Churchill’s words to Harrow School on a visit in October of 1941:
He could not have known fully what was to come. It was only 1941, and several years of terrible, unspeakable war were ahead. Churchill did also say in that same speech something that does, however, lead me to believe he had an inkling:
I feel like giving up almost daily. I stop and pray. Sometimes there is a breakthrough and the clouds powerfully part and the sun shines through. Sometimes there is no breakthrough, only new struggles. I was struck in Churchill’s speech by the quote from Kipling to treat Triumph and Disaster just the same (from the classic poem “If” by Rudyard Kipling). Which is with courage and humility. As the Bible says, give thanks in all things.
Be strong today.
Technorati Tags: faith, “If” by Rudyard Kipling, don’t give up, Winston Churchill Dang, the kid can color!Posted October 25th, 2009 by Jen in arts & crafts, education, family life, parenting10 Comments » I’m not one to pay much attention to developmental milestones in my children. But my five year old boy gives new meaning to “color inside the lines.” Here is what he accomplished last week, all in one sitting.
I thought it was pretty cool, my husband thought it was pretty freaky. “Did you notice how he colored every shape the same color?” he asked incredulously. While father was proud of his son, he wondered at the sophisticated color patterns and the precision of his little strokes. Talk about fine motor skills. Had I not observed him complete this entire masterpiece, I wouldn’t have believed it. I remembered being annoyed with him for stomping around the room in frustration because he couldn’t find yellow. Apparently, he had run out, and no other color would do. He found what he wanted, and continued. So, could you do as well? Not me! Technorati Tags: art, art for children, coloring, developmental milestones Mint tea and mePosted October 14th, 2009 by Jen in family life, the ranch12 Comments »
Last week, I made the first pot of my very own mint tea. I boiled some water for my mother and me. I lingered over the stove, breathing in the tingly aroma as the minty vapors cleansed the air. Later, as we snuggled down into our chairs with cups of mint tea, I asked my mom if she remembered our mint patch. Vaguely, she said. I never thought I’d see the day when the bed of mint was a “vague” memory of hers. Still, it was a wonderful, savored moment. I have friends who are also caretakers of an aging parent. The wife’s father is the live-in parent, and in my case, it’s my mother. A few weeks ago, my friend’s father had a stroke, and now he needs assistance with feeding, toileting, bathing, everything, and he no longer speaks intelligibly. The fact that I could sit with my mother and enjoy a cup of mint tea and simple conversation is a great joy. One of my sisters grows mint. It turns out my grandmother from Michigan grew mint, which led to my mother’s love of mint. This sister took some of Grandma’s mint and transplanted it into her own garden, and has moved it from house to house, wherever she goes. She lives in Ohio now. I’m wondering if there’s a way for her to ship some of her mint to me in Oregon? My mother’s Arizona mint patch is long gone, and Grandma’s is too (she’s been in Heaven for almost 20 years now). Am I crazy? Good grief, mint is mint. Oh well, perhaps I’ll be checking on getting me some of that old family mint.
Technorati Tags: Central Oregon, elder care, family life, mint tea, gardening My Garden: A Short Photo EssayPosted September 27th, 2009 by Jen in family life, the ranch4 Comments » Our garden brought a smile to my face all summer long.
You may also enjoy these past posts from Diary of 1:
Technorati Tags: Central Oregon, gardening, gardening with children, nature study, outdoor activities Boy’s eye view of sciencePosted August 25th, 2009 by Jen in education, family life, features, parenting, science10 Comments »
My favorite photo from last week is my 10 year old son putting together his “Snap Circuit Set.” He needs a more advanced electricity kit because he does this one by heart and so fast it would make Franklin and Faraday spin. But he still loves it. What is it about boys and energy/power? Not that girls aren’t into this, I do have a daughter who loves to dabble with this electricity kit as well. But notice I said “dabble.” I certainly give my girls every opportunity I give my boys, and my 8 year old daughter rides a motorcycle right there with her big brother. But still. Anyway, just look at his intensity and concentrated tongue as he eyes the invisible current; curious, so curious. My blog theme this month was supposed to be something about mothers being present with their children. I haven’t written much, I’ve been busy. But a good sort of busy and doing what I can with the kiddos in the midst of busy-ness. I suppose I would just recommend to moms out there to include your children in whatever it is you are doing, and include yourself in whatever it is they are doing. The jobs I give my children I do with them as much as I can. The girls are responsible for the kitchen. Since they can’t reach the cupboards, it means I have to be in there as the hand-to person, grabbing each plate and bowl as fast as they pass them up. As my boys tend the garden, watering and weeding, I will sit with my coffee and marvel with them at how tall the sunflowers have grown, and rejoice with them over the size of the squash. I was careful to let my son know that I would love to take a picture of him as he constructed a current. This meant a lot to him. My daughter wanted to know that I took a picture of her, too, which I did. This wasn’t about them being proud of being in the spotlight, it was about Mom caring and noticing that they did something noteworthy. When I’m FivePosted August 16th, 2009 by Jen in family life, holidays, the ranch6 Comments » When I’m five, I can fly a kite,
ride a bike,
shoot an arrow,
frost a cake (and eat it, too),
make a wish and blow out the candles.
Happy Birthday, Little L!! You can do so many things when you are five! Technorati Tags: Central Oregon, childhood memories, outdoor play, Happy Birthday Faith Like PotatoesPosted August 13th, 2009 by Jen in family life, religion8 Comments » “The condition for a miracle is difficulty, however the condition for a great miracle is not difficulty, but impossibility.”
My husband and I watched the movie Faith Like Potatoes last night. Great movie for this season of our life especially. It’s the real-life story of South African farmer Angus Buchan who, in faith, plants potatoes in the dust in the midst of a severe drought. You can guess what happens. Are you facing difficulty or impossibility? Then you are ripe for miracles, if you would just have “faith like potatoes,” or “like a mustard seed,” as we have more commonly heard from Scripture. The photo I posted here was from our recent outing to Lake Billy Chinook. This log captured my attention and mesmerized me for quite some time. The old timber would float to and fro with the waves, smoothed to nearly silk from the endless action of the waves. It provided hours of glee for my son who would sit on it, and hours of contemplation for me as I thought about the ups and downs and yet constancies of life. Technorati Tags: faith, Faith Like Potatoes, Lake Billy Chinook, God Boy and a RiverPosted July 30th, 2009 by Jen in family life, the ranch4 Comments »
We enjoyed the most wonderful morning at Smith Rock State Park a few days ago. There by 7:30 a.m. to avoid the scorching afternoon sun, we hiked, played, and splashed our way around to the backside of the mountain. My children all had a fun time, especially the youngest. Big-eyed and four years old, Little L looked right out of Norman Rockwell’s sweet scenes of idyllic American childhood.
Will he remember this moment? Perhaps when he’s a young man passing a river he will have a sense of joy that can’t be explained, and when he’s an old man he will recall this experience in nature with clarity, unable to resist the urge to skip a stone across the water.
Technorati Tags: Central Oregon, nature study, Smith Rock She’s a BiologistPosted July 9th, 2009 by Jen in family life, parenting, science, the ranch8 Comments »
Sadly, she discovered this morning that her lizard was dead. She was curious. And maybe she could save the eggs. Frankly, I know nothing about lizard anatomy and may not know a lizard egg if I saw one. But I’m sure this girl would know. She has an instinctive nature when it comes to the study of living things. She loves animals, and her desire to cut open the lizard is inquisitive not cruel. “That’s a-skusting!” cried the little brother. “Not while we’re making muffins!” asserted the little sister. JJ brought me a paring knife. She’s a persistent girl, a trait that alternately drives us crazy and makes us proud. Am I ready for a dissection? Do I let her explore?
Technorati Tags: Central Oregon, children’s biology, creation, lizards, nature study Hello SummerPosted July 2nd, 2009 by Jen in family life, the ranch8 Comments »
Hello Summer! We’re done being sick and we are ready to enjoy this beautiful world. I’m listening to Little L read a book to himself, I’m feeling anticipation about the days ahead, I’m smelling the fresh garden dirt, and I’m seeing a clear blue sky out the window.
Today, I need to accomplish: cleaning all the bathrooms, vacuuming the upstairs hall and guest room, washing about five loads of laundry, and supervising the kids’ chores. I have a visit from Elisabeth today, the gal who arranges the French Exchange Program. I’m also expecting a friend from out of town to stop by on her way through to Idaho. What’s on your plate today? Many blessings to you as we head into a celebration of Independence this weekend! Stomach Flu tonic?Posted June 27th, 2009 by Jen in family life, health/cooking/food8 Comments » My family has been hit hard by a stomach flu virus. First, it was my oldest son on Monday night. Then the youngest son on Wednesday night–throwing up every 20 minutes for four hours. Myself on Thursday night. Hubby Saturday morning. We’re dropping like flies. It’s a horrible, stomach churning, vomiting, exhausting kind of thing. On Friday afternoon, when I finally felt like I could ingest something, I really wanted Gingerale or 7-Up, but there was none around. I found a liter of Club Soda in the pantry and decided to experiment. First, I made a vanilla soda for myself, and my stomach was pleased. Here’s what I did: Jen’s Vanilla Soda This morning, my stomach still not normal, I tried another recipe and liked this even better: Jen’s Lemon Soda There’s my stomach flu tonic for you–both of these calmed down my seething tummy and tasted fabulous, too. If you’re healthy and don’t need a flu tonic, just spoon a few scoops of ice-cream on top and have a delicious dessert drink. Do you have any family recipes for easing the pain of the stomach flu? Please share, I have at least one more person to nurse through this. Little of This and That: Train, Garden, France.Posted June 21st, 2009 by Jen in family life, features, france/french, the ranch7 Comments » Happy Father’s Day to all the amazing dads out there! I have a little of this and that to write about today. TRAIN.
A little train depot we pass nearly every day had a surprise for us one fall afternoon last season. The regular train was on vacation, and this beautiful steam powered locomotive, called the Mount Emily Shay #1, was there to greet us. Built in 1923, she worked for 30 years on a logging railroad in southern Oregon, then spent some time in West Virginia running tourists on the Cass Scenic Railroad. The “lockie” has since been retired to the Oregon Historical Society, which leases #1 to the City of Prineville Railway to occasionally pull its Crooked River Dinner Train. There’s the facts, and for you train lovers, you will appreciate the history. My kids appreciated the power and beauty up close.
GARDEN. I transplanted what I could into the garden, and reseeded almost everything. I may not have enough days to make it to harvest before a fall frost, but I’m taking my chances. No matter the outcome, I love working with my kids in the garden. My husband shared my pain over those lost seedling leaves. He found a Maine Coon Cat on Craigslist. Apparently this enormous (seriously, it’s like a dog) feline mouser is the thing to have, and there’s a free one in Springfield, Oregon. To further protect against critters, he’s out right now putting boards around the bottoms of the garden, and I’ll be joining him shortly to help place rocks around the garden base. FRANCE. Getting her room cleared out is the number one priority. It currently holds several dozen boxes of …. stuff. I love having a pressing reason to get things cleaned up! I mean it. After having Elise as our guest, I also realized that the French have a certain expectation about food. Like, it should be prepared at home, not acquired at the drive-up window or in a frozen cardboard box. So, I need to get my menu in order. Finally, language lessons are always fun for me, so the kids and I will spend some more time with French lessons. But that’s not a huge concern, since I already figured out with Elise that these Europeans nearly always speak English better than we will ever speak their language. As far as activities, we just plan on living our normal life. The expectation of this particular exchange group is to just have an immersion experience with an American family as they go about their day. I will certainly show her some highlights of Central Oregon, but I have no plans beyond that. Do you want to host a French exchange student? If you live in Central Oregon, get ahold of me right away, because there are still a few students needing to be placed here immediately.
Technorati Tags: family, France, gardening, ranch, seedlings, French exchange student, steam engines, trains Just in from the Great LakesPosted June 12th, 2009 by Jen in family life7 Comments » I so wish I could sit down and write all the wonderful details of my trip to Port Huron, Michigan, but I have too many pressing duties at the moment. But, so I don’t forget, I’m making myself a short list of a few of the highlights. 1. Continental Airlines still serves meals. That’s all I have time for–blessings on your weekend! Memorial Day: taking a minute to writePosted May 25th, 2009 by Jen in family life, features, the ranch7 Comments » Life has been incredibly busy, but I wanted to take a minute and record the days. Memorial Day weekend has been wonderful. Family came to visit from the valley, and my kids enjoyed some precious times with their cousins and grandma and uncle. Lots of dirt and many baths later, we said our goodbyes. Today, I took the kids for a bike ride down the gravel drive and onto an old BLM road. We stopped to pick cattails and JJ found a 1966 quarter half-hidden on the dusty trail. Further down, we came upon an old campsite of some former cowboys or pioneers – actually, that is the children’s hope, because it was likely just a place where many decades ago, people dumped their trash. Here are a few photos I’d like to share:
I think my children will have their own fanciful notions about this land where we now live, and I hope they share these impressions with me as they grow up.
Technorati Tags: Central Oregon, childhood memories, Cochise Stronghold, gardening A bowling lessonPosted May 21st, 2009 by Jen in family life, features, religion0 Comments I took my sixth graders bowling several weeks ago and was reminded of something about the Lord. One of my students said, “Mrs. T., do you want to bowl with me?” I wasn’t officially bowling because I wanted to be available to float around and watch over all the kids. But this child let me in on his game, and even though I threw a few gutter balls on him, he invited me back! God spoke to me about my position with Him. How gracious and merciful of the Lord to keep inviting us back into His “game” and His calling and kingdom work, even though we throw gutter balls now and again.
It’s by His grace. Not by any merit of our own that we receive God’s favor. I am not invited to partner with the Lord because I have a perfect game–whether I bowl a 300 or a 30, I have still been “chosen in Him, before the foundation of the world” and I am loved no more or no less for the game (Eph. 1:4). This is truly glorious, as many versions put it, “glorious grace.” I love Ephesians chapter 1. It’s a passage that I read to my firstborn nearly every night while he was still in the womb–it’s a passage you would truly want someone to speak over you, believe me. If you or someone you care about struggles with feeling a condition on the love granted to him/her, Ephesians 1 is a great place to begin correcting that. These are such soul affirming words, and my bowling lesson the other day reminded me of this. I don’t want you to have to look too far for these life-giving, power-filled, blessing-bestowing words, so here is Ephesians Chapter One in its entirety: Ephesians 1 2Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Spiritual Blessings in Christ 3Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in the heavenly realms with every spiritual blessing in Christ. 4For he chose us in him before the creation of the world to be holy and blameless in his sight. In love 5he predestined us to be adopted as his sons through Jesus Christ, in accordance with his pleasure and will— 6to the praise of his glorious grace, which he has freely given us in the One he loves. 7In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins, in accordance with the riches of God’s grace 8that he lavished on us with all wisdom and understanding. 9And he made known to us the mystery of his will according to his good pleasure, which he purposed in Christ, 10to be put into effect when the times will have reached their fulfillment—to bring all things in heaven and on earth together under one head, even Christ. Thanksgiving and Prayer 15For this reason, ever since I heard about your faith in the Lord Jesus and your love for all the saints, 16I have not stopped giving thanks for you, remembering you in my prayers. 17I keep asking that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the glorious Father, may give you the Spirit of wisdom and revelation, so that you may know him better. 18I pray also that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which he has called you, the riches of his glorious inheritance in the saints, 19and his incomparably great power for us who believe. That power is like the working of his mighty strength, 20which he exerted in Christ when he raised him from the dead and seated him at his right hand in the heavenly realms, 21far above all rule and authority, power and dominion, and every title that can be given, not only in the present age but also in the one to come. 22And God placed all things under his feet and appointed him to be head over everything for the church, 23which is his body, the fullness of him who fills everything in every way.
Technorati Tags: Bible, bowling, devotions, Ephesians 1 |
Search
|
|||
I was actually shocked at how dirty the water was. Truth be told, this was the rodents’ first bath, so we witnessed about a year’s worth of dirt, oils, bedding, and WHO knows what being washed away.
God answered my prayer. He eventually took me out of that place, and through a journey too much to recount, I’m a beautiful, grown-up girl in a pretty house, more beautiful than I could have imagined in that darkened window. “For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.” These words from 1 Corinthians 13:12 are doubly meaningful.
JoJo spent several hours some time ago with her pint-sized rake and shovel. I was working on the main garden area while she staked out a spot of her own. The other children were doing likewise. I hesitated a moment when suddenly all the kids wanted their own garden space in addition to the main garden. Was this okay? Would I be teaching them to be selfish and look out only for themselves?
Here is my little boy’s idea of an Iron Man, versus that world famous triathlon called the 
I was in the gym when I heard the scream, not unusual for Little L who is dramatic and feisty. But the blood that ensued and the look of fright in his eyes told me this was tragic, not trivial. By the time I got his mouth rinsed enough to see the damage, I discovered he bit clear through his tongue and his bottom lip, in a sort of double-whammy collision, and jarred several teeth out of place in the process. The laceration in his tongue was about an inch across, which is nearly the whole width of a child’s tongue. Seeing through someone’s tongue is very alarming.
I grew mint in my garden this year, mostly because of the treasured childhood memories I have of the mint growing in our Arizona garden. I loved this mint as a little girl, and when I would get sent out to pick it for my mother’s tea, I would usually eat my way through the mint patch as I plucked some leaves for her. I must have had the freshest breath in Cochise County.
Balancing on a rock, he peers into the shimmering Crooked River, on the verge of discovering his own reflection. He eventually collected a shell, a feather, and a crawdad leg.
“Mommy, can I cut the lizard open?” JJ questioned very matter-of-factly. She had just come in from checking on her latest lizard, a big fat one she was sure was pregnant with dozens of eggs. She had felt little bumps inside the bulging belly of the western fence lizard, and this eight-year-old child with a bent for biology made the expectant diagnosis.
