{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.
May you be filled with laughter and joy!
Friday, November 15, 2013
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
a giving heart
The baby was born weighing only 15 ounces, read the newsletter. Before I knew what the article was about, I'd begun reading it aloud right in the midst of little ears. He's doing well and gaining weight, it continued. But Mom has had to take a leave from work and travel daily to the city (over an hour away). They could use our help.
Feeling empathy as only mothers can, this story struck me to my core. I could feel the hollow in my heart that would never mend if I were her. The terror in the thought of this being my child. The gratitude that it never was. Tears streamed my face and my children fell silent, intently listening for the ending.
As the final words of instruction for families wishing to make donations fell from my lips, Peace bolted from the room. I was fearful this story had been too much for her sensitive heart. Then I realized... she had bolted for the very first $10 she earned in chores just the day before. Following her lead, Pie found every penny, nickel, dime, and quarter she could fit in her tiny little hands.
Together they made cards pondering what would be the best message for this family. Should the message be of hope? of peace? simply to say we are sorry? The envelopes were stuffed with every possible monetary contribution the two of them could make and even wishes they had more to give.
How much is 15 ounces Daddy? He found a can of green beans in the pantry and helped them feel the weight. How much should a baby weigh Daddy? Something like this gallon of milk. Flickers of knowing and sadness in each set of eyes as they lifted that gallon.
Then, talk of how they could spread the word ensued. We'll tell our friends and our class and collect money for this family. Their kindness and generosity contagious and palpable.
For all the busyness of our home, this was a moment that made time stop. We were still and with one another and safe and thankful. I was in awe of the children who have blessed me with the name Mom.
Feeling empathy as only mothers can, this story struck me to my core. I could feel the hollow in my heart that would never mend if I were her. The terror in the thought of this being my child. The gratitude that it never was. Tears streamed my face and my children fell silent, intently listening for the ending.
As the final words of instruction for families wishing to make donations fell from my lips, Peace bolted from the room. I was fearful this story had been too much for her sensitive heart. Then I realized... she had bolted for the very first $10 she earned in chores just the day before. Following her lead, Pie found every penny, nickel, dime, and quarter she could fit in her tiny little hands.
Together they made cards pondering what would be the best message for this family. Should the message be of hope? of peace? simply to say we are sorry? The envelopes were stuffed with every possible monetary contribution the two of them could make and even wishes they had more to give.
How much is 15 ounces Daddy? He found a can of green beans in the pantry and helped them feel the weight. How much should a baby weigh Daddy? Something like this gallon of milk. Flickers of knowing and sadness in each set of eyes as they lifted that gallon.
Then, talk of how they could spread the word ensued. We'll tell our friends and our class and collect money for this family. Their kindness and generosity contagious and palpable.
For all the busyness of our home, this was a moment that made time stop. We were still and with one another and safe and thankful. I was in awe of the children who have blessed me with the name Mom.
Sunday, November 10, 2013
home
Home....
This simple and lovely word has been very present on my mind of late. What does it mean, exactly? How does one find home? How does one make home?
Paint is my usual answer. Just paint the walls. This color or that. Warm or cool. Paint will make this place home. You see, that's the extrovert in me which believes if I can control what's on the outside, I will feel in control on the outside. Unfortunately, I have a strong introverted side that doesn't fall much for this pretense and still looks inwardly for answers.
It seems I have a tendency to know in my being when I am not in a place to call home. That shy, pulled back temperament sneaks in and effectively shuts off all intention of interacting with others. I am guarded.
I've done my fair share of whining about how this place is exactly that -- NOT home. Work, community, churches, the narrowness of it all. I've held the same position at the same institution for eight years and feel no more part of that community than I did the day I first stepped on campus. Such irony for a campus known for its warmth and welcome. It's there, to be sure. Just not for me and I am not alone in this experience.
For much of my life there has been no place more like home than church, especially when I was making music with others. I'm still working hard to find home in that space.
As I've not been able to find it in the traditional places, I've been yearning for home. A place where my body softens. Where I might laugh. Where I might stop trying to figure things out for just a bit. Where hugs are genuine and strong and the people inside know the heaviness of my heart before I even speak a word. Where once inside, the heaviness falls away. Just...like...that. So simple.
My respite has been my mother's home where my guard comes crashing down and I stop doing. This is a place where I can say aloud the thoughts on my mind and don't fear they will go unheard or belittled. Where the loneliness of my darkest hours finds company and my spirit strengthens. This I call home...
I want so very much for my own home to be this space for me, for my children. I notice how there is tension when we greet others in our home and I wonder what I've done wrong. Somehow our home seems a base, a place to clean and straighten before heading out into the world in our own separate ways. A place where doing gets in the way of being and there is much to be done.
A few weeks ago, a dear friend invited me and my family to a peace pole dedication. I watched as my son leaped through the front door to find his new friend and thought how he looked as though he were home, a place quite familiar and comfortable. As I crossed her threshold, I felt it too. H.O.M.E.
She told me later she was glad we came. Holding back tears, I replied...it feels a little like being home. And it did. So many dear friends and friendships unchanged. I recognized myself in her home -- my own warmth, my own love, my own softening.
I think of her words often. She thanked her guests for coming that day and making her new house feel more and more like home. She's written about the moments in their new house that add to the feeling of home. I've witnessed her being that sings an example of making home for every person who comes through her door.
Following our visit, I had a strong urge to paint. I brought home paint samples galore with a patchwork of colors still fixed to my kitchen wall. We did paint the dining room. But, Papa looked at me in the middle of my frenzy. He gave me those eyes that said this isn't about paint. And he was right. It is all about finding home...
This simple and lovely word has been very present on my mind of late. What does it mean, exactly? How does one find home? How does one make home?
Paint is my usual answer. Just paint the walls. This color or that. Warm or cool. Paint will make this place home. You see, that's the extrovert in me which believes if I can control what's on the outside, I will feel in control on the outside. Unfortunately, I have a strong introverted side that doesn't fall much for this pretense and still looks inwardly for answers.
It seems I have a tendency to know in my being when I am not in a place to call home. That shy, pulled back temperament sneaks in and effectively shuts off all intention of interacting with others. I am guarded.
I've done my fair share of whining about how this place is exactly that -- NOT home. Work, community, churches, the narrowness of it all. I've held the same position at the same institution for eight years and feel no more part of that community than I did the day I first stepped on campus. Such irony for a campus known for its warmth and welcome. It's there, to be sure. Just not for me and I am not alone in this experience.
For much of my life there has been no place more like home than church, especially when I was making music with others. I'm still working hard to find home in that space.
As I've not been able to find it in the traditional places, I've been yearning for home. A place where my body softens. Where I might laugh. Where I might stop trying to figure things out for just a bit. Where hugs are genuine and strong and the people inside know the heaviness of my heart before I even speak a word. Where once inside, the heaviness falls away. Just...like...that. So simple.
My respite has been my mother's home where my guard comes crashing down and I stop doing. This is a place where I can say aloud the thoughts on my mind and don't fear they will go unheard or belittled. Where the loneliness of my darkest hours finds company and my spirit strengthens. This I call home...
I want so very much for my own home to be this space for me, for my children. I notice how there is tension when we greet others in our home and I wonder what I've done wrong. Somehow our home seems a base, a place to clean and straighten before heading out into the world in our own separate ways. A place where doing gets in the way of being and there is much to be done.
A few weeks ago, a dear friend invited me and my family to a peace pole dedication. I watched as my son leaped through the front door to find his new friend and thought how he looked as though he were home, a place quite familiar and comfortable. As I crossed her threshold, I felt it too. H.O.M.E.
She told me later she was glad we came. Holding back tears, I replied...it feels a little like being home. And it did. So many dear friends and friendships unchanged. I recognized myself in her home -- my own warmth, my own love, my own softening.
I think of her words often. She thanked her guests for coming that day and making her new house feel more and more like home. She's written about the moments in their new house that add to the feeling of home. I've witnessed her being that sings an example of making home for every person who comes through her door.
Following our visit, I had a strong urge to paint. I brought home paint samples galore with a patchwork of colors still fixed to my kitchen wall. We did paint the dining room. But, Papa looked at me in the middle of my frenzy. He gave me those eyes that said this isn't about paint. And he was right. It is all about finding home...
Friday, June 14, 2013
this moment
Linking with SouleMamma and many others:
{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
tribute to teachers
We have officially crossed from one family era to the next with preschool graduation of our youngest. No more full-time daycare. All three children in one school, on one schedule (for now...).
I am thrilled to have reached this milestone and, of course, the feeling is bittersweet. I love the toddler and preschool years and this moment ceremoniously marks the end of that stage. I will miss it so! But, I do look on to our next phase with excitement and eager heart. I truly enjoy watching my children grow in the face of new situations and I know this next phase comes with new learnings, new aches, new joys, new sorrows. For me, this is welcome!
Thinking through this change, my reflection has turned to the wonderful teachers and caregivers who have blessed our children and their early learning. I think of the criticism our educational institutions receive. I think of the governmental influences that make my stomach turn. But, then I think of Miss A, Mrs. R, Mrs. G, Mrs. S., Grandma S and all the beautiful women and men who have willingly stepped into our lives and given all they could. They shaped our children's love of learning. They encouraged their word development and language skills. They taught our littles to explore and express their emotions. They listened. They hugged. They used every ounce of energy in their bodies and minds to expand and mold the minds and hearts of our children.
There is not thanks enough for them. They - each and every one of them - have restored my faith in teachers and in our education system. They've affirmed my belief that it is the impact of a few loving individuals who make a difference in our lives.
So, I thought it would be fitting to share the many faces of teachers we have come to know. These are photos from Pie's preschool graduation and I think they express how committed and passionate our teachers are. This is a tribute to them!
Education is a precious gift. And I am thankful we've been gifted with outstanding teachers along our educational journey. We've taken the time to share this gratitude with them because we know all too well that it will be over sooner than we know...
I am thrilled to have reached this milestone and, of course, the feeling is bittersweet. I love the toddler and preschool years and this moment ceremoniously marks the end of that stage. I will miss it so! But, I do look on to our next phase with excitement and eager heart. I truly enjoy watching my children grow in the face of new situations and I know this next phase comes with new learnings, new aches, new joys, new sorrows. For me, this is welcome!
Thinking through this change, my reflection has turned to the wonderful teachers and caregivers who have blessed our children and their early learning. I think of the criticism our educational institutions receive. I think of the governmental influences that make my stomach turn. But, then I think of Miss A, Mrs. R, Mrs. G, Mrs. S., Grandma S and all the beautiful women and men who have willingly stepped into our lives and given all they could. They shaped our children's love of learning. They encouraged their word development and language skills. They taught our littles to explore and express their emotions. They listened. They hugged. They used every ounce of energy in their bodies and minds to expand and mold the minds and hearts of our children.
There is not thanks enough for them. They - each and every one of them - have restored my faith in teachers and in our education system. They've affirmed my belief that it is the impact of a few loving individuals who make a difference in our lives.
So, I thought it would be fitting to share the many faces of teachers we have come to know. These are photos from Pie's preschool graduation and I think they express how committed and passionate our teachers are. This is a tribute to them!
Education is a precious gift. And I am thankful we've been gifted with outstanding teachers along our educational journey. We've taken the time to share this gratitude with them because we know all too well that it will be over sooner than we know...
Friday, June 7, 2013
this moment
Linking with SouleMamma and many others:
{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.
{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
a silly little thing
My Facebook status this morning read:
Agenda for our first day of summer break: strawberry picking, making jam, swimming.
Weather for our first day of summer break: cloudy and raining. Bummer!
So we didn't get to head into the acres of strawberry fields, stooping low to find those sweet berries, tasting a few as we go (ahem), and staining our fingers red. Maybe next time.
There was a moment where I was truly worried. I've been quietly waiting for those roadside signs, made of wood and hand-painted, that read STRAWBERRIES - 1 MILE. Two days ago my van rounded the bend and there it was - that Amish farm sign with that sweet, sweet message - the strawberries are ready!
The strawberries are ready, just as we are preparing to leave our home and travel to the much warmer air of Texas where there will be no such sweetness this time of year. There will be water, lots of it. And family and cousins, and relaxing, and swimming. But my stubborn mind was anxious to put away freezer jam before this short berry season passed us by.
I did manage to buy 4 quarts of berries this morning and was able to get jam loaded in the freezer. And, the kind lady at the farm stand assured me the berries would still be ripening when we return from our vacation.
How silly to fret over a few jars of jam. How silly to worry that we'd miss the season. Sigh!
So I'm moving from my silly, but very yummy jam, to packing, laundry, packing, and... did I say packing!
May you know the seasons and all their blessings in every ounce of your being and may you have the sense to stay rooted in this very present moment!
Agenda for our first day of summer break: strawberry picking, making jam, swimming.
Weather for our first day of summer break: cloudy and raining. Bummer!
So we didn't get to head into the acres of strawberry fields, stooping low to find those sweet berries, tasting a few as we go (ahem), and staining our fingers red. Maybe next time.
There was a moment where I was truly worried. I've been quietly waiting for those roadside signs, made of wood and hand-painted, that read STRAWBERRIES - 1 MILE. Two days ago my van rounded the bend and there it was - that Amish farm sign with that sweet, sweet message - the strawberries are ready!
I did manage to buy 4 quarts of berries this morning and was able to get jam loaded in the freezer. And, the kind lady at the farm stand assured me the berries would still be ripening when we return from our vacation.
How silly to fret over a few jars of jam. How silly to worry that we'd miss the season. Sigh!
So I'm moving from my silly, but very yummy jam, to packing, laundry, packing, and... did I say packing!
May you know the seasons and all their blessings in every ounce of your being and may you have the sense to stay rooted in this very present moment!
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