someone else's battle

Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a great battle. -Philo of Alexandria

Yesterday I made dinner for a family from church that I don't know. The woman, who has attended our church since childhood, has been caring for her grandmother who is in the last days of her life. Because I had overfilled my day, I had to call this woman and let her know I would have the meal to her house a half hour later than anticipated. I was a little taken aback by how short and unfriendly the woman sounded on the phone. I was making her a meal, afterall. I expected a little graditude or at least a friendlier tone.

After I mapped the address online, I put the meal in the car and took off. The family lived just 10 minutes south, but a world away. Every small house on the street was a duplex, nearly all badly neglected and needing repair. Windows were propped open with fans; beat-up cars lined the street; not a flower was in sight. I found the address and hustled up to the door. As I handed over the meal to a tired, sweaty, uncomfortable yet grateful woman, I wished I had done more. I wished that I had brought a better meal - the meal that I would have brought a beloved friend - and flowers, too. But more than anything, I wished I hadn't been so quick to judge. C.S. Lewis once postulated that the reason God called us not to judge is because we have no idea how far a person has come to be who they are. Only God knows the heart - and the circumstance and the history and the battles.

My cousin, whose husband is fighting cancer, recently told me how much differently she thinks about what people are going through. She'll be holding her one-year-old daughter in a store or on a soccer field and someone will comment on how cute she is and my cousin will think, "You have no idea. My husband has cancer. My life is not this perfect picture. You just don't know." None of us do.

And so I reconsider: The girl behind the register who isn't moving fast enough for me. The acquintance who's never satisfied with anything but seems to have everything. The woman who could have been just a little nicer on the phone. I can't begin to guess what anyone else's life is like, what their stuggles are, what crosses they bear. But, as I realized driving home from delivering my meal, tears falling, I can help make the burdens lighter. Not by withholding or judging or condeming. But by truly loving my neighbor, wherever, whoever and however they happen to be.

two-headed monster and a firefly

Several weeks ago when I was cleaning out Liam's closet, I started making a small pile of t-shirts that were stained beyond my ability to clean them. One was a soft, deep blue shirt that looks so good on Liam and I hated to toss it or donate it, but the stain smack in the center just wouldn't budge. As it lay next to a chartruse tank, also permanently dirtied, I had an idea. Inspired by both my friend Liita, The Picky Peasant, who has recently started a side business re-fabricating castoffs and thrift store finds, and a cute t-shirt applique idea on found on the blog what's that gonna be, I thought of a way that Liam and I could recycle his t-shirts together.

First, I had Liam come up with an idea for the t-shirt design. This is the drawing he presented to me, the two-headed monster.


Next we ironed the chartruse tank and traced the drawing onto a sheet of double-stick lite fusible web. After sticking the traced drawing onto the wrong side of the tank fabric, I cut it out and then positioned the pieces onto the blue t-shirt (hiding the obnoxious stain) and ironed. I let Liam have at it with the fabric paints, filling in the details on his monster and then guided his hand as we traced the outline. As a final touch, he picked out "eyes" for me to sew on. And, voila!



Creating the shirt was such a blast, we designed another one today for his friend Eden who will be celebrating her birthday tomorrow. For inspiration, we drew from the cover of the Eric Carle book The Very Lonely Firefly.


This time we purchased a clean, stain-free shirt, but we cut the dragonfly out of an old tie-dye t-shirt I found at a rummage sale this spring. (I plan to spend a lot more time at resale store and garage sales searching for plain kids' t-shirts because it feels so good to recycle!)


Being that this one is a gift, I did a little more guiding on the outlines, but Liam still feels very proud of having "made" Eden's shirt. I think both shirts are pretty adorable!

need more rhubarb

I couldn't leave rhubarb season without at least one more recipe. Tonight, for my book club, I made the Strawberry Rhubarb Crisp from Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver. It seemed only fitting since that was the book we discussed. Of all the crisps I have made in my love affair with rhubarb, this is my favorite one. I appreciate that it's mostly sweetened with honey and that it doesn't suggest dragging out the food processor to "pulse" the topping. Whatever happened to using a little elbow grease? Plus, the oats get all powdery. What good is that?

Assembling this crisp took less than 15 minutes from start to finish. I will definitely be commenting on this book further on a different day, at a more godly hour, but one big thing I was reminded of while reading: It really isn't that difficult or time consuming to make good, wholesome food from scratch. And nothing that comes from the freezer section or the bakery counter or even the dessert menu tastes half as delicious. (Next up on my rhubarb roster: Cami's Rhubarb Custard Pie. And then SouleMama's Strawberry Rhubarb Jam. Oh, yes, I really do love this odd fruit. I just hope the season doesn't end before I get my fill.)

Strawberry Rhubarb Crisp

3 cups strawberries, halved
3 cups rhubarb, chopped
½ cup honey
Mix together thoroughly and place in an 8”x8” ungreased pan

½ cup flour
½ cup rolled oats
½ cup brown sugar (or a bit more, to taste)
¾ tsp. cinnamon
½ tsp allspice
1/3 cup butter
Mix until crumbly, sprinkle over fruit mixture and bake at 350° for 40 to 50 minutes, until golden.

p.s. I just looked at this post the morning after posting it and realize that I misread the recipe when I made it last night. I used 1/2 cup of butter instead of 1/3 cup. No wonder it was so awesome!

oh yeah, this is summer

Today was one of those days. One of those glorious, loving-every-minute summer days, with bike rides (dad pulling the bike trailer), swimming lessons, a little weeding and planting and napping, Gramps' frozen custard, more bike rides (mom pulling the bike trailer), and swinging at the park.


However, lest anyone think we are that perfect blogging family with the idyllic life... a little reality: In the park, Elliott regurgitated half the ice cream he ate 20 minutes before (although, the goofball didn't even seem to notice) and, on the bike ride home I was treated to a chorus of Elliott bellowing and Liam saying things like, "Mom, Elliott's putting his feet on me." "Mom, Elliott's chewing my seatbelt." "Mom, Elliott smells gross!" Although I washed my hands and changed my clothes, seven hours later I still smell faintly of sour milk.

too easy to be true

I guess I'm a purist. I don't think of myself that way but then I'll be at this crossroads and think, okay, I can take the long way, the way my grandma walked and her grandma walked, or I can take the shortcut and cheat a little, modernize. When I get there, though, I realize I am too much of a purist to take the shortcut and too busy and tired and short on time to do it the old fashioned way. So I do neither.

Take bread, for example. I have made bread, kneading by hand -- the long, somewhat tedious process (stress on long) -- with satisfying results. I have also made bread by bread machine (borrowed), which was infinitely easier but not nearly as satisfying or tasty. But when was the last time I made bread by hand? At least if I had a bread machine, we'd be enjoying something fresh baked every few days. But I just can't do it. It feels like cheating.

Last week I was a friend's house for an impromtu lunch with our kids and she had the most delicious flax seed rolls. They tasted homemade, but this was a busy part-time pediatrician, mom of two young children and I knew she couldn't have the time for breadmaking. I was wrong! She confirmed that they were homemade. In fact, she makes bread a couple times a week! Then, as I was getting on my knees to bow to her, she told me her secret. She uses the bread hook on her Kitchen Aid mixer.

Ack! Could I do this? I mean, it's not the old fashioned way. It's not what my grandma did. But (and this is a big but) those rolls were incredibly good. You could not buy them in any store. Right then and there, I decided that for the first time in the life of my Kitchen Aid mixer, I was going to use that bread hook. And today I did just that.

I made the flax seed rolls and they were every bit as incredible as the ones my friend made. They took about the same effort as making a brownie mix. While the rolls were magically kneading in the mixer, I tidied the kitchen. And, voila, delicious, chewy, fresh-baked rolls! So, if you have a Kitchen Aid mixer (the obligitory wedding registry item), dig out the bread hook. You will be SO glad you did.

Flax Seed Rolls (or bread)

4 1/2 tsp yeast (or 2 packets)
2 cups warm water (around 110 degrees)
2 tsp salt
2/3 cup sugar
2/3 cup canola oil
Approximately 6 cups flour (I used 3-4 cups white, 2 cups wheat and 1 cup of flax seeds)

Dissolve yeast in warm water and add the rest of the ingredients. Start kneading as you add the ingredients. Stop adding the last cup of white flour when the dough pulls away cleanly from the side of the bowl. (Total kneading time should be 5-7 minutes.) Let rise in bowl until about double; punch down and place in two greased large/medium bread pans or make rolls (about 20) and put on greased cookie sheets. Let sit 10-15 minutes. Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes.

when I grow up

After Farm Camp today we took a little friend of Liam's to his "school" because his mom, a part-time pediatrician, was working. On the way home, Liam asked me why Will went to school. I told him Will's mom is a doctor and she had to work today.

"Why is Will's mom a doctor?" Liam asked.

"That's her job," I said.

"Where did she get the doctor stuff?"

"Well, she went to school for a long time and learned to be a doctor," I said. "You can go to school, too, and become anything you want to be."

"I want to be a driver," he said.

"That sounds fun," I said.

"And a doctor, too."

Then, with great enthusiasm, he added, "And a worker at Target!"

vive la france

Our high school neighbor/occasional babysitter is going to France for a year on a student exchange program. I see her enthusiasm and excitement and envy that free-floating, seize-the-day joie de vivre. My memories of living in France while in college are so vivid, I am sure that if I could transport to any street in Paris, I would know exactly where I was. I spent five to six hours a day walking, aimlessly, purposely, for every reason, for no reason. I breathed that city. I became part of Paris like I've never been part of anything before or since. I lived with such an intensity, I was sure people I passed in the street could see me glowing. Actually, I'm sure no one in Paris noticed me at all. This is France I'm talking about afterall. But I was happy. Even in my homesickness (which struck during subtitled American films when the credits rolled on the New York City skyline or weekly ten-minute calls home), I was still intensely happy. It's not that I'm not happy now (although I'm sure Andrew would say that I seem serious and irritated more than happy and glowing). Life is just different -- full of responsibilities and ever-changing priorities, unfinished projects and unattainable plans, things to clean up and things to put away. I used to think I would feel like I felt when I was in France if I were French. If I lived in Paris, I would sip un cafe en plein air for hours people watching; I would eat baguette stuffed with Belgian chocolate everyday for lunch and never tire of it; I would catch my breath each and every time I stepped out of the Metro in the Latin Quarter and caught sight of Notre Dame. But I'm sure the French would finally begin to get on my nerves and my feet would start to ache. Still, I'm grateful for the memories. They remind me that once upon a time there was a girl who smiled at everyone and everything for absolutely no reason at all, even though not a single one ever smiled back. Vive la France.

So Say the French
I prefer kisses to handshakes.
I prefer to pretend I don’t understand.
I prefer those I know to those I don’t.
I prefer fresh to frozen.
I prefer wine to water.
I prefer no ice.
I prefer to ignore those who speak to me in English.
I prefer a cigarette for breakfast.
I prefer Camembert.
I prefer not to speak to Americans.
I prefer American music.
I prefer to wear an outfit everyday until it’s dirty.
I prefer to let my children pout.
I prefer serving café au lait to small dogs in fur coats to serving snobby tourists with money.
I prefer fewer choices.
I prefer to shout when I don’t agree.
I prefer public displays of affection.
I prefer not to smile.

old mcdonald

Liam had his first morning of Farm Critter Camp at our farm today. He wasn't particularly excited about the drawing time or the snack (goat milk yogurt) but brightened when he told us about shoveling the goat poop. Maybe there's some farmer in the kid. He is part Mennonite, and he chose the outfit himself.

Tomorrow the campers take care of the chickens. Boy, would Elliott be bummed if he had any idea what his brother is doing every morning this week. This boy is the real Old McDonald.

what I learned from my father

Never burn a bridge.
Always act like you know what you're doing.
Linger; that's when the good conversations get started.
Make a decision.
Pull up a chair.
Relish every bite.
Know good wine; enjoy it; share it.
Wear a bow tie whenever you can get away with it.
Cling to the bright side.
Carry a good book everywhere.
Give; it makes you richer.
Be kind, especially to those who don't expect it.
See everything as a gift and be grateful.
Share your doubts.
Pray believing.
Love your kids.
Live, and let them watch you do it.

rock on, dad!

Liam and Andrew speak a special language. I guess you could call it sign language. Earlier than most kids can give a high five, Liam was holding up the "heavy metal" sign. And, dad, of course, was as proud as could be.

If only the Father's Day gift was this easy. Afterall, does it really make sense to have a preschooler give dad sci-fi movies or pint glasses? Is a paper towel roll music maker enough? This year, thanks to Soule Mama and her creative ideas, Liam made his dad (as well as himself) a very special "heavy metal" t-shirt. In order to get matching shirts in the right sizes, I had to deviate from Andrew's prefered black. But Liam decided he wanted to make the hands different colors anyway (green, Liam; black, of course, dad). The whole process was so easy and so fun, I think we'll all have multiple stenciled shirts very soon.

doing something

Prayer does not fit us for the greater work, prayer is the greater work. -Oswald Chambers

When someone you love is sick or in pain or experiencing a struggle or grief that's hardly bearable, you want to do something, but usually there's nothing. That person is overrun with baked goods, plagued by well wishers and phone calls, living but lost even to herself.

Tonight I miss my cousin. Her husband was recently diagnosed with a very serious and aggressive stomach cancer and he and she are on the edge of my thoughts every moment of the day. I long to "be there." But they are covered by his immediate family and her immediate family and doctors and neighbors and long-lost friends. It is too much. She is ready to hang a sign on the door, "Please, no more food," and take the phone off the hook. I can feel it for her. But, still, I miss her terribly.

Tomorrow hundreds of people will be praying for Ray. We all agreed (enthusiastically) to do it. I have often questioned what prayer "does." How does it work? Can and will God intervene? Does a prayer really do anything?

The sad events of the last several months have shown me that prayer is the only tool at our disposal, the only trick in our bag, and, very often, the only thing we can do for someone that makes any kind of difference. Prayer is a mystery. It is not science. It's power cannot be proven (although studies show some fascinating results). And it has an incredible, potentially lifechanging impact when two or more people do it together.

Hundreds will pray for Ray tomorrow, and the heavens will be ringing. Together we will finally all be doing something that really matters.

butter, sugar and chocolate

Everyone likes a different sort of chocolate chip cookie. I have three main recipes that I rotate. One, chock full of oats, is from my friend Ann; the second, awesome Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Walnut Cookies, comes from The Frog Commissary Cookbook; and the third is the recipe I made today for the flat, chewy chocolate chip cookie. (And, since it's scrawled on an index card, I don't remember where I found it.) It's the least attractive of the bunch but that doesn't matter since the batch hardly lasts a day around here (which is really too bad since the cookies honestly taste best the second day). If you make this recipe, be warned the cookies are really flat and really chewy. (They kind of look like puddles of melted chocolate chip ice cream when you pull them out of the oven.) If you really prefer thick and cakey, you'll be disappointed. When it comes to baked goods, I am difficult to disappoint. But when I'm looking for a serious butter, sugar and chocolate fix, these are really good.

Chewy Chocolate Chip Cookies

1 c. butter
1 c. light brown sugar
¾ c. sugar
2 eggs
2 t. vanilla
2 c. flour
1 t. baking soda
1 t. salt
1 bag chocolate chips (or, if you buy the giant bag at Costco like I do, one long pour)

Cream butter and sugars; beat in eggs one at a time and the vanilla. Combine dry ingredients and slowly add to the mixture. Add chocolate chips. Drop large spoonfuls on parchment lined baking sheet. Bake at 350° for 10-12 minutes. Cool on wire rack.

p.s. If you want to share your favorite chocolate chip cookie recipe with me, I would love to try it. In this domain, I am definitely not monogamous.

the sweetest things

The best things in life are nearest: Breath in your nostrils, light in your eyes, flowers at your feet, duties at your hand, the path of right just before you. Then do not grasp at the stars, but do life's plain, common work as it comes, certain that daily duties and daily bread are the sweetest things in life.
-Robert Louis Stevenson

lack of supervision

Lately we've been letting Liam do a lot of roaming, in the house and in the yard. He relishes this freedom and in addition to the copious amount of paper he blows through drawing all forms of monsters and families and 35-letter "words," and all the love notes he writes and tapes and posts in the mailbox to his "fiance" Ava, he particularly enjoys concocting drinks and un-baked goods in the kitchen. He gets to do this when I am not paying attention because I don't like the mess or the waste and I almost always end the fun when I find him rifling through the cabinet. But Friday was declared Banjo's birthday and when I found him mid-pillage, making a "cake," with cocoa with honey and water and gelatin, I saw the pleading look and decided to let him be. Strangely enough, the end result, with sprinkles and carrot chunks cut with a table knife, kind of even looked like a cake. Banjo, who was turning 10 until the number 2 candle was unearthed, apparently enjoyed the birthday cake. I believe he received a decorated toilet paper tube, three M&M, two raisins and a belt.

Today, while I was working and Andrew was cleaning up the kitchen, Liam picked up the digital camera and took a few shots around the house. Then he said to Andrew, "Dad, I'm just going outside to take a few pictures." And Andrew, of course, like the father of any four year old, said, "Okay, buddy."

When we looked at the camera later and clicked through the 30 odd photos Liam shot today, we cried with laughter. Messy piles in the kitchen, closeups of the floor, still life in the back yard and many, many self portraits. I'll spare you the messy piles, but you get the picture.

milestones

All kids are gifted; some just open their packages earlier than others. -Michael Carr

I forget how joyous it is to watch a baby do something for the very first time. If there is an advantage to having a child who takes his time developing, it is that because you're always waiting and anticipating, you're likely to see the progress when it occurs. But you still forget how it makes your heart swell when it happens.

The last couple days, Elliott has seemed different. Not exactly like someone's lit a fire under him or even like he's got somewhere to go, but, well, curious. Nearly a month after his first birthday, he *should* be moving - crawling, certainly; walking, probably. Elliott does neither. Our physical therapist tells us he's long (no doubt); he has weak abs; but mostly he has a "Why bother?" personality. If something takes effort, do something else. If it's hard work to get on all fours, don't do it! Just roll around talking and happily shrieking (both of which he does rather well). If they force you onto your hands and knees, cry like the dickens! Act like it's torture until you can wiggle free back to your tummy or into your mommy's arms.

Today he stood at the side of the tub watching Liam take his bath, holding himself up for long stretches. Suddenly anything Liam is doing is fascinating and worth squealing about, which is probably the only reason why he also took a keen interest in the T-crawler our friend Liita made for us. This wonderful t-shirt tube, made of all recycled materials, is specially designed to get kids motivated to crawl. Liam "demonstrated" for Elliott over and over and over, while Elliott very curiously observed Liam's coming and going and happily chewed on one end. For a baby who does not enjoy tight spaces like tents and blanket forts, it was an accomplishment in itself that he seemed perfectly comfortable at the mouth of the t-shirt cave. Next session we'll go a little deeper in.

His big accomplishment today, though - the one that made us catch our breath and make that goofy "awwww" sound that people make around cute babies doing cute things - was to wave, a real finger-action, grow-up wave. The funny thing about it is that he was as surprised as we were. Andrew kept waving to him and he kept waving back, staring at his hand with an awe-struck face, like, "What do you know? I can wave." Before long he'll be adding to his repertoire, I can crawl. I can walk. I can drive. It may take a while, but that's okay, we don't mind waiting.

lost

Tonight was definitely a bath night. The ring in the tub proves it. Since I was bathing Elliott, Liam took the initiative to wash his own hair and get clean and dry on his own. Boy, was he pleased. When Andrew got home (early), Liam proudly told him about his accomplishments in the tub, how he did everything all by himself.

"Buddy, you're growing up so fast," Andrew said. "Pretty soon, we'll be giving you the car."

Liam laughed and slapped his knee.

"No, dad!" he cried. "I'll get lost!"

sister act

Today, Liam and I went to spend the day with my cousin's three girls while she and her husband were at the hospital. I left Elliott behind with Andrew and my mom as a tag team because I just couldn't fathom five kids from 8 am to 9 pm when two weren't even walking yet. I know a lot of moms do it, but I don't know how.

Kids are kids, but life with girls is a little different than days filled with boys. For instance, in the morning, after a mad rush to put hair in buns and costume up, we all shuttled off for Nora (5) and Maggie's (3) dance recital dress rehearsal (which sure was a treat for a mom who will never have the pleasure of dressing a girl in adorable outfits and watching her twirl and tap). Then, throughout the day, there was the occasional break from play to tend to random baby dolls - cuddle them, wrap them, put them to sleep. At one point, three dolls were swaddled and sleeping in the soccer net. Liam, although not adverse to holding a doll, always seemed to find a way to introduce a weapon (preferably sword) or "bad guy" into the mix. But the damsels loved having a stand-in brother and Liam couldn't have been happier. This is the trick to a bigger family when two is your limit: borrow someone else's kids.

these are days to remember

Yesterday Liam served as ring bearer at my friend Sabine's wedding. He looked downright adorable in his $8 resale shop wedding attire. He carried a sweet pillow that he made (with the help of a few last-minute stitchers) on which the rings were tied and he performed his duties perfectly.


It helped to have good friend Sarah (whom he absolutely adores) as flower girl. Sarah and her mom Ann (whom I absolutely adore) stayed with us overnight and Liam and Sarah pulled off several parties of their own this morning, including a tea party for 12 on the twin bed "table" in Liam's room and a birthday party for 8 in the family room. There is a three year difference, but they are two peas in a pod (or else Sarah's just a really good sport).

Today Andrew had a gig on Navy Pier so we went down with Liam and Elliott to enjoy the day. It was the first time Liam had seen dad on stage and he was the most unbelievable fan imaginable.



The entire second set (with no pause whatsoever), Liam danced in front of the stage, striking poses and hodling up his heavy metal sign. I was a little worried he might pass out but there was really no stopping the kid. The showstopper, though, was when Andrew brought Liam on stage to play his (Liam's) guitar with the band.



The whole thing was so darn adorable that complete strangers came up to Andrew at the end to tell him how incredible Liam was. Where did this boy come from? Like father like son, I guess.


Elliott (our homebody) barely tolerated the event. His favorite part definitely was getting back into the car at the end of the day so he could make some music of his own.