remembering george

Daffodil season always reminds me of my grandpa George. A big teddy bear of a guy who was a collegiate wrestling and football coach, my grandpa melted in the presence of natural beauty. He was an artist who had a gift for tending the earth. For years he and my grandma lived in Colorado, with the most spectacular strawberry patch, wildflower garden, art studio and aviary. My favorite memories of the weeks my brother and I spent in Colorado include eating handfuls of warm strawberries straight from the patch, collecting jasper from the creek beds, naming the birds, sipping brown cows on the porch and listening to the windchimes, reading books in the hammock, painting and carving in the studio, and daily visits to the local coffee shop (where gramps would urge us to eat donuts until our hearts' content). My grandpa's last spring was spent in a retirement community a mile from where we live. Although nothing like the beauty of the Rocky Mountains, our spring landscape, with its surprising shocks of daffodils, doesn't disappoint. To see these tender beauties after a long, hard winter of ice and slush and snow brought my grandpa the greatest joy.

Old Man Dreams on the Daffodil Tour
“I’d love a little house like that someday.
Maybe a nice used Ford,
or a Cadillac, if I could get a deal.”
I glance at his dream as we motor by.
Between the riverside cottages, yellow peeks from tender green
and young leaves unfold on slender stems.
He consumes this visual feast like a starving man
seated at a table for the first time in months.
“That would be nice,” I say.
“Yep,” he says rubbing his gnarled knuckles, “It’d be just right.”

In his one room apartment at the residential community
he keeps his door locked, shades drawn, TV blaring.
Every visit I knock and shout so he will hear me
and worry how we bother the neighbors.
His walker scrapes on the linoleum;
I silently beg him not to hurry.
The door swings wide.
Hulking and hunched, a suspect first glance turns to recognition,
then joy.
“Hey, honey,” he chuckles. “Come in. Can you stay long?”
It’s not what he planned, but he tries to live above it,
around it,
as if there’s another future,
with a house and a car,
as if he’s only visiting.
It’s ugly, this business of getting old.

But today it’s sunny. We’re driving,
in search of a glimpse of spring.
I see a bright spot.
“Look, Gramps,” I say, slowing the car and pointing
to a flood of yellow in a side yard.
“Woa,” he whistles and taps the window.
His eyes twinkle.
“Sweetie,” he says, “it doesn’t get much better than that.”

green

Although the temperature was bone-chilling for mid-Spring, you wouldn't know it from the window. Wet and overcast, the earth was practically glowing today, that electric lime green that looks so alive and new, it's practically humming. I love that green. Every year I've lived in Chicago, I've had a slight apprehension that maybe this year it'll happen, maybe the landscape won't ripen again. Maybe winter really did us in. And every year I am a little surprised that by late April the neighborhood is blanketed in a lush and vibrant green, that dead-looking limbs have come back to life with their tender baby leaflets and sweet-smelling flowers, that the earth is actually awake.

This afternoon Elliott and I watched two bright yellow finches at the feeder for nearly ten minutes straight. Elliott is the hugest animal lover and has an amazingly long attention span for a one year old. He doesn't crawl or stand or walk yet but, boy, can he observe (and shriek and smile!). With the finches, he was captivated. And who could blame him. That radiant yellow against the shimmering green was breathtaking.

Michael Pollan recently wrote an editorial on the revolutionary act of gardening, which is not only a way to further "green" the earth but a way to re-engage with all living things. As Pollan writes (oh, so much more eloquently than I):

"The idea is to find one thing to do in your life that doesn't involve spending or voting, that may or may not virally rock the world but is real and particular (as well as symbolic) and that, come what may, will offer its own rewards. Maybe you decide to give up meat, an act that would reduce your carbon footprint by as much as a quarter. Or you could try this: determine to observe the Sabbath. For one day a week, abstain completely from economic activity: no shopping, no driving, no electronics.

But the act I want to talk about is growing some — even just a little — of your own food. Rip out your lawn, if you have one, and if you don't — if you live in a high-rise, or have a yard shrouded in shade — look into getting a plot in a community garden. Measured against the Problem We Face, planting a garden sounds pretty benign, I know, but in fact it's one of the most powerful things an individual can do — to reduce your carbon footprint, sure, but more important, to reduce your sense of dependence and dividedness: to change the cheap-energy mind."

Adding green to green. What could be more lovely and life-enhancing than that? Tomorrow it will be cold again, but Elliott and I will still be at the window. This time (in addition to looking for neighborhood wildlife) we'll be plotting the best way to plant our own little vegetable garden and make our yard even greener.

crafty

I've been told that as a child I would sit for ages with a shoelace and hole-punched card, "sewing." I was meticulous and patient as I blissfully pursued my goal. Considering it took Liam about two weeks to complete this small project, I don't think he inherited that same sort of passion for needle and thread. No surprise that his favorite part of the project was to throw the finished pillow around the house and stuff it down his shirt. I guess we're not quite ready for needlepoint.

more than coincidence

I almost named this post "pray for Gabe" because that's what's been in front of me all day long. This week our neighbors found out that their sweet, brave little almost-two-year-old son, who has been undergoing chemo for leukemia for the last four months, has to endure another six months of this awful (yet potentially curing) poison because the cancer never went into remission. It is devastating and horrifying and it makes no sense at all. And for those who know and love this family, it is difficult to get through the day without feeling lost and useless. But this morning some of the moms came together to pray for Gabe and his family who returned to the hospital today to begin the chemo again. It reminded me of the profound truth that we were created for love and to love - to love God and to love each other. And to do so each requires every bit of us. For some reason, the greatest commandment always sounded easy to me, but it is the most painful thing ever. And also the most beautiful.

Earlier in the week Andrew asked me to be on the worship team at church this Sunday because he was short on singers. So I went to rehearsal tonight and was awed by how the song choices totally aligned with the hopeful sadness of the day. I couldn't have come up with a better soundtrack for the agonizing reality of pain in life coupled with the absolutely awesome power of love. Here's the line up. Please have a listen (and forgive the cheesy videos) and please pray for Gabe.

Love's the Only House from Martina McBride
...Love's the only house big enough for all the pain in the world
Love's the only house big enough for all the pain...

One from U2
...Love is a temple
Love's the higher law
You ask me to enter
Then you make me crawl
I can't be holding on
To what you got
When all you got is hurt
One love
One blood
One life
You got to do what you should
One life
With each other
Sisters, brothers
One life
But we're not the same
We get to carry each other
Carry each other...

Who Am I from Casting Crowns
...Who am I?
That the Lord of all the earth,
Would care to know my name,
Would care to feel my hurt....
...I am a flower quickly fading,
Here today and gone tomorrow.
A wave tossed in the ocean,
A vapor in the wind.
Still you hear me when I'm calling,
Lord you catch me when I'm falling,
And you told me who I am.
I am yours....

Blessed Be Your Name from Matt Redmond
...Blessed be Your name
On the road marked with suffering
Though there's pain in the offering
Blessed be Your name
Every blessing You pour out
I'll turn back to praise
When the darkness closes in, Lord
Still I will say
Blessed be the name of the Lord
Blessed be Your name...

news to me

Yesterday Liam and I transformed half of our three-season porch (i.e., winter dumping grounds) into an art room. We put paper, markers, paints, playdough, felt, etc., each into its own special spot. And from the moment we finished, Liam has been in creative output mode. Below are just a couple examples. Imagination reigns.


Me: What a beautiful flower.
Liam: That's not a flower. It's the sun shooting a cat who just pooped.


Andrew: Who are those people in the house?
Liam (pointing to the four people holding hands in the middle): That's you, me, mom and Elliott.
Andrew: What about the person on the first floor?
Liam: That's my baby sister.
Andrew: Really? But you don't have a sister.
Liam: Not now, dad. But when I'm five and Elliott's three, that's when the baby sister comes.

3,038 soul-stretching minutes

Two nights and two days. 50 hours. 3,038 minutes. A blip in the scheme of things. But so many lump-in-the-throat, teary-eyed moments I won't soon forget and will need just as long to sufficiently get words around. Maybe it's because I've been missing intense spiritual and intellectual input for the last couple years, maybe it's because of the pain I'm witnessing in the lives of people I care so much about, maybe it's because I've been churning so many questions and thoughts around in my mind in the last few months, maybe it's because I spent nearly the whole time with my cousin Megan, a kindred spirit who has been one of adulthood's greatest surprises - whatever the reason, this year's Festival of Faith and Writing knocked the wind out of me, over and over again.

From Michael Chabon who made the beautfiul and freeing statement that imagination is key to morality (because if we can imagine what it's like to be like someone else, we're less likely to hurt them) to Kathleen Norris and Scott Cairns who reminded me that "knowing" is such a wrong word to use about God ("Thinking isn't believing," Cairns said. "Christianity isn't about what you think, it is about becoming the person you're meant to be. And that only happens bit by bit.") to NPR's wonderful Krista Tippett who was so full of incredible insights and thoughtful perspective I couldn't scribble fast enough but ultimately left with this: When we grieve in the places the world does not forgive and rejoice in the places the world does not notice, then we are loving like God does.

But, for me, the culminating moment of the whole event was in the last five minutes of Rob Bell's interview. He recounted a recent encounter with Bishop Desmond Tutu and the Dali Lama. Bishop Tutu told the old testament story of how Shadrach, Mishach and Abednego were thrown into the furnace by the king and when he came back to look into the furnace, not only were the men alive and untouched by the fire, there was another person in the fire with them. The Dali Lama then said to Bishop Tutu, "How blessed you are to have a God who does not stand at a distance, but to have a God who stands with you in the fire."

Memoirist and poet Mary Karr, explained the experience of God's undeniable, unconditional loving presence in her life like this, "Being snatched out of the fire is to wake up to what was there all along."

This promise of a God who stands with us in the fires of life is what I want to pass on to my children. Not the fantasy that there will be no fires or that living a pure life will ensure avoiding them, but that when they are thrown into the fire or when they make poor choices and willingly jump in themselves, there is a loving God who will be there with them. Waiting. Enduring. Arms open wide. They will never, ever be alone.

a day to celebrate

You know it's going to be a good day if it begins with the smell of brownies (and bright sunshine). For a week I’ve been promising Liam that we'd make some kind of cake to celebrate the birthdays of two of his friends, Matt and Banjo (who live in a world only Liam can access). So we whipped up some brownie cupcakes at 6:30 am, complete with colorful sprinkles and Halloween cupcake liners. While they were baking Liam took the phone into the living room and called his imaginary posse - Matt, Banjo, Simmy, Corny and Sour. I caught snippets of the conversations, including the incredulous sounding "no ways" (with an occasional knee slap for exrta emphasis) and how he ended each call: "Okay, man. I've got to shoot off." He's his father through and through.

The boys never showed up for their party, even though Liam had pillaged five gift bags from the frighteningly dangerous family room closet and "wrapped" random household items in each, such as a wooden spoon, a Baby Einstein DVD and a handful of birthday candles. If selecting and wrapping gifts was a viable career, Liam could pursue it. He'll definitely be big with the ladies.

I spent a couple hours in the morning helping sort for our church rummage sale and came home with a bag of craft supplies for next to nothing - burlap, pillow stuffing, sequins, brushes and lots of felt. (We should have a project to post tomorrow!) After lunch we took some cupcakes over to our "real" friends, Ian and Andrew and Tracy and got ringside seats to watch their old driveway be demolished. Now I understand why diggers are so fascinating. Later in the afternoon we all headed over to the park. It was sunny and warm(ing) and gorgeous and Liam ran his heart out playing tag and duck duck goose. We were late walking home and everyone was tired (and crying) but you couldn't wipe the smile off my face. Not for a million dollars. Well, okay, maybe a million. Thankfully, no one offered.

get out

There's the sun, the green, the coatlessness, the son who's out the door in his pjs at 6 in the morning (and dragged back in at least until 8). But the real joy of spring is being able to run outside and stay outside and not have to look at the six-months of mess that's built up inside your house. We don't have to climb over guitars and DVDs and teething toys to clear space for the Yahtzee game. We don't have to think about the dishwasher that needs to be emptied or the clothes in the dryer that need to be folded. We don't have to sift through piles of mail to find the drawing paper. We just get on our bikes and ride, grab our shovels and dig, lay in the grass and sigh. Nothing compares to being able to finally get out.

not whole wheat apple muffins

Today I saw these absolutely delicious-looking Whole Wheat Apple Muffins on the Smitten Kitchen website and decided they would be a nice afternoon treat. As I was getting ready to make them I remembered that a couple weeks ago, in a cabinet-cleaning frenzy, I tossed my three-year-old, half-used bag of whole wheat flour and never got around to replacing it. What to do? These were "whole wheat" muffins afterall. Rather than wreck an otherwise quiet and lovely afternoon by going shopping, I opted to substitute regular unbleached white flour for the whole wheat. And since I was already adulterating the recipe, I figured I may as well experiment and alter something else. So, instead of apples, I used a couple beautiful, perfectly ripe bartlett pears. And (on accident) I incorporated all of the brown sugar into the mix, rather than dividing it and sprinkling half on top (although I did sprinkle a smidgen on top anyway because, well, sugar is good). Here is my adapted recipe. (Thanks for the inspiration Smitten Kitchen!)

Dessert-Like Pear Muffins

2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon cinnamon
1/2 cup unsalted butter, at room temperature
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup dark brown sugar, plus 1 T for sprinkling
1 large egg, lightly beaten
1 cup buttermilk
2 large pears, coarsely chopped

Preheat the oven to 450°F. Grease and flour (or spray) muffin tins and set aside.

Mix together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt and cinnamon, and set aside. In a separate bowl, cream the butter and add the sugars. Beat until fluffy. Add the egg and mix well. Slowly mix in the buttermilk, alternating with the dry ingredients, until all incorporated. Fold in the pear chunks.

Divide the batter evenly among the prepared muffin cups, sprinkling the brown sugar on top. Bake for 10 minutes, turn the heat down to 400°F, and bake for an additional 5 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted into the center of a muffin comes out clean. Cool the muffins for 5 minutes in the tin, then turn them out onto a wire rack to cool completely. Makes about 18 muffins.

I can't speak for the original recipe (which I'm sure produces delicious - and healthier - muffins) but the pear version is pretty darn fabulous. A big bonus is how absolutely divine the baking muffins made my house smell. I figured the smell alone would bring the guys running. But nothing. It turns out they were enjoying their own version of a perfect afternoon.



p.s. Yes, Liam has been wearing the same t-shirt all week. He's a big fan, Tim.

i probably shouldn't have laughed at that

When my youngest cousin Kathryn was about 7 or 8, she told me (with lots of giggles) how her mom would lie down with her at night and while praying would begin saying odd things and then slurring her speech and then she would flat out fall asleep. I remember thinking, Come on, how could she be that tired? I was a know-it-all single girl at the time. Now I know.

Since Monday I have been getting up every morning around 5 a.m. to work and haven't gotten to bed before 11 p.m. I'm a tad bit tired. So, tonight, I laid down with Liam and as I was praying, I felt the bone-dead fatigue setting in. So I hurried up the prayer and promptly dozed off. A few minutes later, I woke, startled, and found Liam about an inch from my face staring at me.

"Do you remember the evil witch with the sour apples?" he said. "She gave one to the girl, and the girl ate it, and then she got dead."

"Uh..."

Liam plopped onto his pillow and thoughtfully stared at the ceiling. "I remember that," he said.

As my eyes began to close again, he rolled back to his side and said, "Do you remember when I was a bunny for Halloween and at the Halloween party that boy stepped on my foot under the refrigerator?"

Huh?

"Mom, your hair is all messed up."

"Okay, Liam, why don't you tell me your favorite thing today."

Pause. "I don't know."

"Well, what about something with Nora and Maggie?"

We had eaten lunch with my cousin and her girls and Liam always has the greatest time at their house.

"Oh, yeah. When we were eating we rhymed, like Liam padiam and Elliott padelliott," he said excitedly. "But my bite came out of my mouth when I laughed and then Maggie spit her bite at me and I spit at her."

In a flash, Liam popped up on his hands and knees and looked at me with a huge smile and said, "Watch this!"

Then, he spit. In my face.

It was a combination of the shock, the incredible fatigue and the realization that he was totally oblivious to the fact that this was a wrong thing to do. A very wrong thing to do. I couldn't help myself. I laughed, until I cried. Then I mustered all my mom power and said in my sternest voice, "Liam! That is very naughty! We do not spit. And we NEVER spit at other people. That's gross. Do you understand?"

Liam was lying on his side looking at me, sucking his thumb and nuzzling his blanket. He slid his thumb out of his mouth, grinned slightly and said softly, "But, mom, I think you liked it a little bit."

i don't want to work, i just want to bang on the drum all day

I think I'd be a lot less stressed if I sat on that little stool every once in a while. But could I play with even half as much abandon? Highly unlikely.

daily bread

While Elliott napped this afternoon, Liam and I made pretzels. It was highly therapeutic for mom (who had had a tedious morning of work, the bill-paying kind) and a lot of fun for Liam. . .and batman, who made a couple pretzel shapes (read: dough blobs) of his own. We topped half the batch (and pan) with kosher salt and half with cinnamon sugar. Next time, instead of the egg wash, we might try dredging them in butter.

Easy Soft Pretzels

1 packet of yeast
3/4 cup warm water
2 cups flour
1/2 t. salt
1/2 t. sugar
Egg (to brush on dough)
Course salt and/or cinnamon sugar for topping

Mix yeast and warm water. Add flour, salt and sugar. Turn out on floured surface and knead (adding flour as needed) about 20 times until smooth and just slightly sticky. Divide into 6-8 pieces and shape as desired. Bake on ungreased cookie sheet at 425 degrees for 12 minutes.

This recipe is easily doubled or tripled to make bakers out of all your kids or neighbors. But don't be over-zealous. Although these crowd pleasers are pretty tasty warm from the oven, they are a serious waste of calories the following day. Liam, however, doesn't really eat the pretzels, he just enjoys taking a bite out of each one. He either expects the various shapes to taste different or he's going to grow up to be one of those kids who licks every donut in the box.

it's the little things

the magic bed

Last night Liam had his first sleepover at grandma's house. I was a little worried about how it would go since he is usually very attached to me at night. But the sleepover went off without a hitch. In fact, as Liam told my mom before he went to sleep, "I love this place. I love everything about this place."

As I learned in the morning when Liam called me with the news, his pure satisfaction with my mom's "place" was, in large part, due to her magic bed.

"Mom," Liam breathlessly related to me on the phone the next morning. "I slept in a magic bed!"

"Really?"

"Yes! Grandpa John took the bed out of the couch!"

He was absolutely (and still remains) in awe of the bed that popped out of couch. Now if someone "popped" a bed out of a couch for me, I'd be thinking about how thin and short the mattress was, how I was not going to have the best night's sleep. For a 3 year old (nearly 4!), the world is filled with things to marvel over. Yesterday this included the daffodil sprouts emerging from the dirt in front of our house, the giant pile of leaves dad raked from the backyard, the birthday candle he positioned in a wooden bead and convinced me to light for "just one minute," the way he can hit the wiffle ball across the street and the way dad can hit it even farther. Every new sight and sound and experience is met with pure glee. More and more I am starting to see that a big part of my job as a mom is to help keep the wonder alive. Really, we should all be walking around in total awe of the daily miracles. Thank you, Liam, for waking us up a little. And, thanks, mom, for pulling out the magic bed.

one half hour into the day

piano concert
drum jam session
spring flower coloring
blanket fondling
two bites of cereal
and "argh, matey!"

living creatively

Today I got a surprise in the mail. Around Christmas time, when I was selecting gifts, I came across a book on Amazon that hadn't been published yet—The Creative Family: How to Encourage Imagination and Nurture Family Connections by Amanda Blake Soule. It looked so wonderful I pre-ordered it, and then I promptly forgot all about it. It arrived in my mailbox today, and I can already tell that it's going to be a treasure. There's a chapter on being resourceful, which includes instructions on how to make a cute pair of child's pants out of an adult's old t-shirt and make dyes from things in nature. Other chapters suggest ideas for sharing the tradition of handmade, everyday rituals and turning a child's artwork into objects. It is beautiful, imaginative and just oozes creativity.

The chapter on preparing your creative mind begins with rich little section on gratitude, including this thought:

"Creativity goes deeper than the 'art' sense of the word; it encompasses a whole way of living and being. Gratitude, and recognizing gratitude, can have a powerful effect on our whole lives. When we feel grateful, we feel full—full of love, full of inspiration, full of ideas, full of creative spirit. Practicing gratitude in our families can help our children learn this power (one they have within themselves) at a very young age, giving them a lifelong gift that will nurture all of who they are."

I am buzzing with gratitude just at having discovered this awesome book. I am going to try very hard night to stay up all night reading it! The author also has a great blog at www.soulemama.com.

privacy

Over the last several months, Liam has become quite modest. When he has to use the bathroom, he wants me to come and turn the light on but then he'll dance around in the middle of room and say, "Go out now, mom. Close the door." Same with getting dressed. He'll disappear into his closet for 10-15 minutes, selecting his outfit and completely dressing himself. God forbid anyone open the door. Even just a knock to say, "Is everything okay in there?" elicits a loud, "Nooooooo, don't open the door!"

So, I guess I should have suspected why he would make this sign and tape it (by himself) to his bedroom door. I vaguely remember him picking up a marker and a piece of drawing paper and saying, "Mom, how do I spell 'closed'?" But I was still surprised (and amused!) to see it on his door when I put him to bed that night.

"Liam," I said. "Why did you put this sign on your door?"

He shrugged with a shy little smile, "Sometimes I just need a little privacy."