friday haiku

this terrible life

heart-stoppingly beautiful

unthinkably sad

....

One of my dearest friends in the world lost her 17-year-old daughter in a car accident yesterday. I've known beautiful Sarah since she was born. There are no words. 

Keep looking for the beauty. Take every opportunity to love your people. Reach out. Hug.

One life, noted

On the back of old envelopes

he wrote

his latest joke

a happy verse

parakeet names—Sweetie Pie, Georgie, Mr. Green,

   with their colors and the dates he brought them home

coffee, donuts, peanut butter

family birthdays

account balances

the names of aircraft carriers he never boarded

   blown to bits in the sea

all of the Presidents, in order

the outrageous price of a cinnamon roll

in his wobbly, squared-off script he transformed scraps of garbage into poetry

one by one he'd read them out
laughing or pontificating, and repeating
   always repeating
his precious thought life scribbled down
for safe keeping

nothing to complain about

Every morning from train to office I pass four or five homeless men, most holding cardboard signs summarizing their plight. For a few months I randomly handed out dollar bills when I could. Sometimes now I think ahead and offer a bottle of water or the fruit I bring for my breakfast. But mostly I just walk by and feel kind of sad and useless that there’s nothing significant I can do.

Yesterday as I turned from Wacker onto the Franklin Street bridge, I caught the face of a man I hadn’t seen on previous commutes. Clearly wilting from the unexpected September heat and in need of a shave, he stood against the scaffolding with a warm, friendly gaze and a piece of cardboard on which he had simply penned, “Smile,” in bold black letters.  

It was so surprising to see this sign and the man who held it, I couldn’t help but meet his gaze and give him a huge smile.

Near the end of the train ride that brought me into the city that morning, a woman ran through the cars calling urgently for a doctor or a nurse. Moments earlier the conductor had made a similar announcement over the intercom. Two women sitting across the aisle from me commented loudly how the woman running through the car should get the conductor to make an announcement.

“He did make an announcement,” many of the passengers noted to them.

They hadn’t noticed because they had spent the entire train ride complaining to each other. About a co-worker who slacks off and doesn’t get reprimanded. About a teenage son who always leaves the car tank empty. About something shoddy one of them bought and had trouble returning. About all the work they do that no one notices. About the train schedule. About the heat.

The ladies were dressed nicely and clearly had good jobs. But whatever their lot in life, they appeared to be utterly miserable. It seemed like their only enjoyment was feeding off the other’s greatest woe of the moment. A conductor’s call for help didn’t even move them.

Don’t get me wrong. I know how easy it is to complain, to get bogged down by the small injustices of life, but the contrast yesterday morning between two middle class women and a homeless man gave me pause.

Although not widely recognized, September is devoted to childhood cancer awareness. The only reason I know this is because we have friends whose son died of cancer just shy of his second birthday. Every day this month my friend has been posting links on Facebook to stories of families whose kids have or had cancer. Some of these kids are right in the thick of their treatment, some are in remission, and some, like my friends' son Gabe, lost their fight with this wicked disease.

Every night on my train ride home I read the story of the day. The stories hurt and sometimes I end up in tears. But I am compelled to read. Even with the hell the parents and kids, many of them babies or toddlers, have been through, not one complaint makes it onto the page. Instead, in every story, there is, amazingly, an element of thankfulness. The stories help me gain the things those women seemed to be lacking yesterday morning: perspective, empathy, awareness and incredible gratitude.

Last night when I got off the train I so easily could have gotten into the car and complained about how long the commute was, how it's getting dark earlier, how hot it still is, how tired I was. But all of those thoughts faded away when I saw two boys hanging out of the car windows shouting, “Hi mom!”

I have a vehicle, a house, a job, a beautiful, healthy family. I have absolutely nothing to complain about.

So, for the second time that day, I gratefully accepted the homeless man’s gift. I got into the car and gave my husband and my kids a huge smile.

***

I encourage you to read the story about my friends' son Gabe and their experience with childhood cancer. The story is beautiful and heartbreaking. I believe knowing stories like Gabe's make us all better people.

the beauty of a filter

I brought our camera to the lake this weekend but I never unpacked it. I've been too enamored with the Instagram app and the filters that can be applied to photos taken with the iPhone. In my mind's eye, the filters make each image warmer and truer. Like I'm seeing through something two-dimensional to something so beautifully multifaceted, something living and breathing. Like I'm capturing what is most essential about each moment. Like everything is precious.

Spending a long weekend in a house with fifteen family members requires its own kind of filter. Sisters and brothers, parents and in-laws, nieces and nephews. There was work to be done—path mulching and wood chopping, porch vacuuming and dock scrubbing, boat launching and screen washing. There were big meals to prepare and clean up. There were discussions that got a little heavy. Like most families, we don't all agree on the same politics or theology. And we're all a little stubborn and opinionated. But we like each other. A lot. And we like to be with each other. A lot.

So we apply a filter. We still debate and discuss challenging topics. But we do it remembering that the person in front of us is not two-dimensional but so beautifully multifaceted. That what is essential in the moment is not winning the argument or being right, but recognizing that a close-knit family you can laugh with and play with and raise your kids with is something precious. And that, in the end, everything is best viewed through the lens of love.

jesus lives in my neighborhood and it's taken me ten years to find him

Several inches of snow fell on Thursday. The next morning, while the rest of my family built a fort in the side yard, I hung around the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher, washing the previous night’s pans, checking email, baking bread and watching my neighbor out the window.

Sally is an odd bird. She lives two doors down, but from my kitchen window I have a clear view of her back porch. Her house was probably cute at one point. Now the front yard is a forest of dead trees, broken lawn ornaments, plastic chairs, faded silk flowers and cat carriers.

On days when we are out walking and Sally is sweeping the dirt and carpet-covered driveway, we stop and say hello. She saunters over and poses, Marilyn Monroe style, carefully brushing a loose grey wisp from her forehead and says, quite dramatically, “What a beautiful family.” We talk briefly about the weather and she usually tells us to wait a moment while she digs into the back of her PT Cruiser to find some kind of treat for my kids—cream-filled oatmeal cookies or a bag of very old Hershey bars.

Sadly to say, after ten years of living in our home, two doors down from Sally, that’s been about the extent of our interactions. We always take her cookies at Christmas and send a card, but sadly, I’ve never done much more. Sally is so unusual, so hard to figure out, I’ve never known if she’d want me to. Or, at least, that feels like a reasonable excuse.

So, yesterday morning, I watched her from my kitchen window, as I often do, tiptoeing around in the new-fallen snow, removing the umbrellas she had set up over her bushes. I imagine she puts the umbrellas out to keep the snow from falling on the evergreens, or perhaps to protect the miniature flags and magazine pictures she ties to their branches.

After a while, I poked my head out the door to be sure my kids weren’t getting too cold.

“Hey,” my husband called. “Guess who shoveled our front walk?”

Liam chimed in.

“Sally did it,” he said and then added, “That was really nice of her.”

I closed the door and inhaled the warm, yeasty scent of bread baking. I decided to take her a loaf.

I trudged through the snow and pushed open the gate on the two-foot-high chain link fence that runs across the middle of Sally’s driveway, picked my way through rusted folding chairs and many garbage cans that line the path to the backyard. Standing at the backdoor, I paused.

A thick chain and padlock hung on a plastic chair next to the storm door. Her means to assure no one broke in when she was out, I guessed. Big plastic bows and weathered silk roses were tied haphazardly around the little porch. A big pile of circulars, newspapers, rags and other garbage was piled in the corner.

This woman loves to decorate.

I took a breath and knocked. Nothing. I tried again. Her car was in the drive. I knew she was in there. On the fourth try, the peeling wooden door, heavily taped with pictures of the saints, slowly squeaked open.

“Oh,” Sally gasped when she saw it was me. Then she looked at the loaf I was holding and fluttered her eyes and seductively moved one hand to her hip and cocked it. Her clothes were filthy but she had put on fresh lipstick. Always a lady.

“Amy,” she said in her breathy, movie-star voice. “What a precious family. You’re so busy with those beautiful children. I can’t believe it.”

I wanted to say, “Really, Sally, you’re wrong. I do next to nothing for you. I watch you from my window and worry about you, but you are so foreign to me. I glance at your lawn whenever I walk by and wonder, how in the world did you become this, the woman who tends rotten trees, feeds and houses skunks and raccoons and finds faded plastic flowers worthy of planting? I feel like I can’t begin to know how to know you. And this frightens me.”

But I didn’t. Instead, I smiled and handed her the warm bread.

“Well, Amy,” she looked at me as if she had just planned the greatest heist in history and intended to make me her getaway driver.

She discretely pointed to a small drift of snow at the base of her garbage pile. A champagne bottle was sticking out of it.

“Oh, that will go well with the bread,” I ventured.

“Noooo,” she fluttered her lashes at me. “I put that there for the next person who comes to the door.”

I looked at the peeling foil on the top of the bottle and wondered how many years it had been out here.

She motioned to the bottle and I lifted it from the drift. Then Sally gingerly stepped her dirty stocking foot out onto the snowy porch, leaned toward me with her hand cupped around her mouth and whispered, “I have a whole stash of that.”

I thanked her and considered the implication. I think I had just been invited back.

“You’re a doll,” she sing-songed as I walk away.

Not really, I thought. But I’m learning. And suddenly, the most unlikely person is teaching me.

::

As a side note, I have been inspired lately my friend Margot Starbuck’s Monday Minute videos, which are simply short, beautiful lesson in how to love your neighbor. Check out her blog to watch them. And then check out her book, Small Things with Great Love: Adventures in Loving Your Neighbor. She’s a fun and sassy writer who has gotten me thinking about all the places Jesus is living in my neighborhood and how often I fail to see him. . . But I'm learning.

why we should be talking about George Whitman

Two literary icons died this week and the Internet is all abuzz. But just about one.

Although he was brilliant man, much discussed and debated, Christopher Hitchens won't be the focus of this post. The social media and news outlets have his legacy covered today. And, quite frankly, I'm tired of the smug and pitying comments. There has to be more to a great man's life.

And so this post is about the other icon, the unassuming one. The one whose death should be stealing bandwidth. The one whose name you probably won't recognize.

George Whitman, an American journalist, veteran and traveler, moved to Paris in 1948 and opened a little bookstore on the left bank. Packed floor to ceiling with books, Shakespeare & Company quickly became a haven for roaming writers and book lovers and a literary landmark in La Ville-Lumière.

As a study-abroad student, massively infatuated with my new home away from home, I frequented Whitman's famous bookstore and spent hours grazing the stacks, curled up in cushioned corners and practicing my broken French on Whitman himself. To this day, I can smell the musty pages, hear the creaking floorboards and remember the warm welcome. Even before I discovered the significance of the place, I knew there was something special about that store and the man who owned it.

According to the Shakespeare & Company website, before Whitman moved to Paris, he traveled to an isolated part of the Yucatan, fell ill and was nursed back to health by a remote Mayan tribe. He was so impressed by the generosity and friendliness of these people who lived in such extreme poverty, their philosophy of "give what you can, take what you need" shaped his life forever.

Living in a little apartment above the store until he died this week at 98, Whitman managed to create a home for the homesick and be a friend to the friendless. It was simply his way of doing business.

He didn't write controversial books. He didn't try to unlock the secrets of the universe or debate the meaning (or meaninglessness) of life. He never went on a talk show or wrote an op ed piece for The New York Times. But to thousands of people, many lonely, many lost, he was a brilliant man.

Whitman showed his greatness by welcoming strangers. He left his door unlocked - all the time - so anyone who needed a place to sleep could come in and do so. He shared great books. He shared meals. He shared ideas. He shared love.

He was a beloved man in a city that doesn't really care for Americans. His bright mind, his big heart and his eccentric little shop were known among authors, readers and vagabonds around the world.

On the wall of Shakespeare & Company, these words from Yeats are penned, "Be not inhospitable to strangers / Lest they be angels in disguise."

We would all be wise to stop filling our social media spaces with pitying comments about the dead and fill them instead with Whitman's philosophy. We would then be brilliant to live by it.

why he does it

"For Andrew Bordoni, a private guitar teacher in St. Charles, music is more than just entertainment. It's a tool that can help better the world."

So begins an article in today's paper on my husband's student concert and fundraiser for the community of Taurage, Lithuania. I couldn't have written a better lead.

Last weekend Andrew pulled off a concert/recital that featured a dozen of his guitar students strumming, picking and shredding their well-practiced tunes with a full backing band. Playing everything from the Beatles and the Blues Brothers to Led Zeppelin and Nirvana, these kids (and a few adults) rocked the house (or our church's fellowship hall, as it were). The concert also included a silent auction to benefit our sister church and orphanage in Taurage, which raised about $2,000.

My husband had never been on a "missions trip," but a couple of years ago, he was (gently) coerced by our associate pastor at the time to go and visit the orphanage and see firsthand the work of the Taurage UMC, dubbed "The Little Church That Helps" by locals and government officials. Andrew was so moved by the beauty of the children coupled with the absolute hopelessness they face. And he can't get them out of his heart.

Lithuania currently has the highest rate of suicides in the world. Most children in the orphanages have at least one living parent and are, thus, unavailable for adoption. In many cases, the extremely poor economy has made it impossible for parents to keep their children, or the parents have left the country in search of work and left their children behind. It's devastating. And Andrew is all about nurturing whatever hope these kids have left.

Because he overcame an incredibly difficult and painful childhood, my husband believes in the impossible. The kids (and adults) on his student roster get the benefit of his passion as well. He teaches students with developmental delays, social disorders and autism. One mom told me, with tears in her eyes, that her son's response to lessons with Andrew has been a complete miracle.

A former student, now studying music in college, recently wrote about Andrew, "Some people are blessed with talent. Others are blessed with the ability to teach. Andrew is blessed with both."

My husband could probably find a salaried job somewhere. Or he could be out on the road with a band 300 days a year (as he's quite the genius guitar player himself). Instead, he uses his gifts and channels his passions to change lives. In my humble opinion, nothing could be better.

{photos by Tom Nicol}

30 minutes cracking eggs

I cut an hour off my work time yesterday to help prep food for the community dinner at our church. As I stood cracking 24 dozen eggs, I chatted with an older woman from our congregation who I knew but had never really talked to before. In thirty minutes I learned that her son died of pancreatic cancer at 41; one of her children died at 4 months old; her one granddaughter, now an adult, has been wheelchair bound her whole life with spinal bifida; another granddaughter began life developmentally delayed (sounding much like Elliott) and now in her 20s is still essentially a child; and her husband of more than 60 years died one year ago, also of cancer. Although the stories themselves were depressing, the conversation was warm, heartfelt, even hopeful.

Many days I wish I knew what the future held for Elliott. I wish I knew what he was going to be like as an adult. Will he have the intellectual capacity of an 11 year old when he's 27? Or will other tragedy befall us? After the conversation yesterday, I think it's better not to know.

Visiting with my egg-cracking companion reminded me that life is chock full of sadness and challenge. There is no way to avoid it. We can hover over our children, eat only organics, do everything possible to ensure a safe and healthy life. But on this planet there is no guaranty.

Instead, we hold onto faith, friendship, community. We find ears to listen, shoulders to cry on. We open our hearts and give of ourselves, even when we could be huddled in a corner feeling sorry for ourselves.

May is by far the most glorious month in Chicago. All chance of ice and snow has past. The earth is glowing green. Fragrant lilac boughs drip onto the sidewalks. Yet, in the month of May, I am reminded that right in the midst of beauty is heartbreak. Three years ago this May our neighbors lost their 2-year-old son to cancer. Three years ago this May my dear cousin was informed by specialists that her 37-year-old soulmate really had no chance of survival. And four years ago this May a beautiful, blonde-haired boy emerged in a bright, warm hospital room, surrounded by a family ready to shower him with love. We didn't know the struggles he'd have to walk or talk or understand the difference between big and little, green and blue. It was just a blissful day.

As the story of Elliott's life unfolds, we don't know what will happen next. And that's okay. We choose not to think ahead to the sorrow and struggle that could come. Instead, we find the happiness in today. Because, no matter what, in some form, difficult days will come to us all. Talking to someone schooled in grief reminded me that trying to avoid pain just wastes precious time on this journey. As does complaining, comparing or worrying.

I used to imagine that life would be richest when it was filled with only good and happy things, ideal situations, blessings overflowing. I see differently now. Joy and sadness live together. There is no other way. We can try and fight it. Try to sterilize and insulate our little worlds to know nothing of the grief and sorrow. But that doesn't bring us any closer to what we long for. Because it's from our cracked, imperfect, loss-filled lives that real gratitude, service, joy and big love flow. Every beautiful person I know who has suffered great loss knows this is true. And I thank my lovely new friend, cracking eggs with me on a glorious day in May, for one more reminder.

because Ann came to visit and Josie had a dinner party

This is my new sweater thing. I don't know what to call it because I've never seen one before. I just made it up in the 30 minutes I had planned to clean up and shower before joining my cousin for dinner. But inspiration and cute, free clothing supersede clean hair. (Thank goodness for headbands.)

Two days earlier I had spent 24 wonderful hours with my dear friend Ann who drove herself and her kids to town for a visit. After weeks of nothing but work and fighting a cold, I was feeling pretty worn down and uninspired. There's nothing like hanging out with a beautiful artist to turn me around.

Usually the inspiration comes on Ann's turf, surrounded by her quilts and artwork and books and recipes. This time it came on mine, in non-stop conversation about faith and parenting and books and cooking and sewing. Oh, yes, sewing. I forgot how much I love talking and dreaming about sewing. And how lit up I get when I actually do it.

I brought out my sewing books for her to flip through (after I sheepishly showed her my totally trashed "sewing room"), like The Sweater Chop Shop, Born-Again Vintage and Betz White's Sewing Green. I love to look at these books (although I hadn't in a while) but I get bogged down in deciding what I could tackle. I get paralyzed by the possibilities and then get distracted by the paying work and leave the sewing machine untouched. It takes a birthday or a baby shower to get me in there, ignoring the disaster surrounding me, whipping something up. Turns out a dinner party works too.

Saturday night my cousin Josie had a fancy dinner prepared for her and a small group of friends by her two daughters and three nieces. Her mom Ruth, the girls' grandma, had the girls give the dinner party to Josie as a Christmas gift and then Ruth made it happen. And what an amazing gift it was! The food was fabulous and the girls were adorable, serving us like caterers.

That afternoon I had an idea for something to make and I was itching to do it. I wasn't sure if it would work, but with the idea that there would be an event that night to wear it to, I figured it was worth a try.


In one of the many piles in my "sewing room," I located a soft Merino wool turtleneck sweater I had thrifted (and already washed and dried - shrunk a bit). I cut off the bottom of the sweater just below the arms. Then I cut straight down the front of this piece (Note: If you try this, be sure to mark the front of the sweater before you cut off the arms!). I found some wide lace I bought for nearly nothing at an estate sale and cut a piece a little longer than each side. I pinned and sewed on the lace, then topstitched around the top of the whole piece. The lucky part (as I had no idea while sewing this thing as fast as possible how I was going to fasten it) was digging up the cool vintage broach, also thrifted, I've held onto, unworn, for years.

It may look like I simply ended up with a silly sweater thing. But that's not the whole story. Barbara Brown Taylor sums it up beautifully in her book An Altar in the World when she writes,

"What is saving my life now is the conviction that there is no spiritual treasure to be found apart from the bodily experiences of human life on earth. My life depends on engaging the most ordinary physical activities with the most exquisite attention I can give them. My life depends on ignoring all touted distinctions between the secular and the sacred, the physical and the spiritual, the body and the soul. What is saving my life now is becoming more fully human, trusting that there is no way to God apart from real life in the real world."

Whether I'm slicing an apple while deep in conversation about potty training, Japanese quilts and a dear friend's pentecostal childhood, or I'm drooling over a bite of perfectly cooked beef tenderloin while listening to a new friend laugh about her life as a stepmother, or I'm keeping a line of stitches straight in a small bubble of stolen time, something holy is happening. I don't understand it, and I sure can't explain it. But even now, when I look at my silly sweater thing, I tear up, just to know it's true.

::

Thank to Tara at Go West Young Mom for reprinting my post about struggling with keeping a clean house and to all the wonderful commenters. Evidence, I'd say, that it's good and right to leave the dishes in the sink in order to sew for 30 minutes.

beautiful things I've seen online

:: This heart-breaking story that's a tragic piece of history eloquently linked with a mother's love for her "special" son. To think that in another place and time, my own son would be considered expendable and wiped out. I was moved to tears when I read this tender story, which isn't really surprising, I guess. It hits very close to home.

:: This sweet little video of a now-popular Etsy artist and how she brought her dream to life. In addition to loving her approach to the craft, I am enamored by her accent (what a surprise!) and her chickens. Yes, I want chickens.

:: This incredible "proverbial" quilt that a blogger I like just whipped up. The letters are awesome and the fact that they spell out lyrics of a song by my favorite band, well, I'm speechless. I'd like to think I could copy the idea but I should probably start with a potholder.

:: This wonderful lesson in perspective that a very popular blogging neighbor sprung on her kids the day before Christmas. All that's needed is a pocketful of dollar bills, a pack of post-its and a giving spirit. Thanks for the example, Kasey.

:: This life-giving project from Craft Hope that enables people like me and you to make a difference in the lives of new moms in Haiti. Did you know that only one in 10,000 people has access to a doctor in Haiti? This project provides safe birthing kits and would be an awesome thing to do with a small group of like-minded friends, crafty or not.

What beautiful things have you seen online lately?

trash to treasure

Friday night I spent five hours around beautiful, creative people and a whole room of handmade items that were dreamed up in the mind of their makers and fashioned out of old, found stuff. In other words, upcycled, useable and wearable art. I was giddy the entire time. I made half a dozen recycled jean skirts for the event and a bunch of coffee cozies made from the left-over denim and other vintage fabrics and buttons.


One of the first people in the door bought a jean skirt, which was a thrill. But the real fun was all the dreaming I did that night. Of making fingerless gloves from the sleeves of old sweaters, sweet ornaments from fabric scraps and strands of discarded fake pearls, and beautiful gift bags from leftover white house paint, salvaged ribbon and empty cereal boxes. Nothing new but the ideas.


My friend Liita can do the most incredible things with garbage. Things you would be pleased to own. Things people would want to receive. Things that look like they cost big bucks at Anthropologie (like her necklace - the type that costs $130 at Anthro). Real-life trash to treasure. It costs nothing to make these amazing things but a little time and creativity.

Not only does this kind of "making" help conserve resources and feed the creative soul, it breeds bigger ideas about ways to be kind to the planet, to ourselves and to one another. The sales at this gallery night raised enough money to buy two sewing machines for an outreach program Liita and her business partner Rose are putting into place at the Ronald McDonald Children's Hospital. They are sharing this creative, restorative kind of craft with terminally ill children and their parents, giving them the tools to pour their hearts into making something beautiful out of something that - on the surface - is not. It's transformative. It's rewarding. It's life giving.

I'm really not exaggerating. Before you toss that old sweater, take a second look. Hat, gloves, blanket, garland, stocking...there are so many things it could be. Spend an afternoon at the Little Bits Workshop and be inspired. Be giddy. Be Anthropologie.

Only 12 upcycling days til Christmas.

crossing thresholds

A couple years before I met my husband, he had moved to Edinburgh, Scotland, on a whim. He was living in Italy, where he had spent most of his youth, and was jobless, homeless and essentially ignored by his mother and siblings who lived in the same town. As he tells the story, he had the equivalent of $400 in his pocket and saw a sign in a travel agency window for a one-way ticket to Edinburgh for roughly the same amount. With barely a second thought, he walked into office, bought the ticket and left the next day.

His first day in Edinburgh, Andrew found a job washing dishes at a pub. After a week, the pub manager called him into her office and asked him how it was going and where he was living. He told her (proudly, I imagine, and without any sense that it should have been otherwise) that he had a tent and was camping at a nearby campground. Alice, the bar manager, looked surprised and then shook her head "no, no," reached into her purse and pulled out her checkbook. Before Andrew could protest, she wrote out a check for 800 pounds and told him to go find an apartment and he could pay her back later.

Every time I hear my husband repeat this story to someone, I get a lump in my throat. Although Alice knew Andrew for another two years and saw not only her loan paid back but his promotion to cook and assistant bar manager and his courtship and engagement to this nice-enough American girl, I don't think she could ever know the tremendous (dare I say, life-changing) impact her split-second decision had on him. She did not know my husband for more than seven days and yet she risked losing a large sum of money, not to mention trust in another person's ability and desire to do the right thing, just because she had an instinct to help him.

And yet, after all the times I have heard this story, I wonder. What would I have done? Even if I had an extra $1,500, would I freely loan it to someone who clearly needed it but who couldn't give me any collateral or firm assurances that he could pay it back? Would I be too caught up in wondering if I'd be taken advantage of or if the person in need really deserved to have the loan? Would I be afraid of looking foolish if I was "had"? Would I be willing to cross the threshold between what was comfortable for me and what might make a life-changing difference for someone else? I'd like to say that I would. I would like to say that I would be like Alice. I would like to say that I would do what Jesus would do. I am really praying that I would.

This post was published on another blog a couple years ago, but in this season of giving I thought it was worth repeating. May we all be moved to cross thresholds and give in such extravagant ways. In ways that pay dividends in the future but do nothing to improve our own position. In ways that cannot go unnoticed in the life of another, even years later. Thank you, Alice, for being Jesus to my family. May we never forget your example.

out of darkness comes light

This is an interview with my husband that was shown in church on Sunday as part of an ongoing series called The Story Project. It shows what a big heart this man has and why, logically, he shouldn't. Such is the power of God's grace. Despite our pasts, our hurts and our losses, love can make us whole. Then, we can be love to others. (To see more videos in The Story Project,click here.)

I married a difference maker

Around 3 a.m. this morning Elliott woke up. I tried twice to soothe him and put him back to bed, but he wouldn't have it. At 4 a.m. Andrew went in and the crying stopped for good. I went back to sleep. In the morning Andrew remarked that he would have preferred not to get up early, but he sure loved how Elliott burrowed into his chest and went back to sleep, arms hugging his dad, snoring peacefully. Andrew stayed with Elliott until he woke at 7:30. I would have complained. Andrew relished the experience. This is just one of the thousands of reasons I love my husband.

Nine years ago today Andrew and I got married. He was a foreigner (literally and figuratively) to my family. A Brit who moved here to marry me. Tattooed. Long haired. Guitar playing. Not an evangelical. My family loves me and were welcoming and gracious, but I don't doubt that many wondered if I knew what I was doing. Some probably still do.

Two years ago I wrote a list of ten things I love about Andrew. I think it's a sign of a great marriage that the list continues to grow. And he never stops surprising me. Here are some of this year's examples:

:: He is a stickler for not being taken advantage of by people who try to bend the rules but he is incredibly generous to those who don't ask for anything.
:: He is an active part of our church's mission committee, plays with the worship team almost every Sunday, helps run the Friday night movie series and has found many of his dearest friends among that body even though he has never been or would ever think of himself as "a church person."
:: He doesn't own anything that he wouldn't happily part with, including his hair.
:: He has never exercised or played a sport and he is more than halfway to a black belt.
:: He is the world's best Mr. Mom.
:: He has never ridden a school bus and will for the first time with Liam tomorrow when they go on a field trip to the zoo.
:: He does laundry. Very well.
:: He understands that everything he has is a gift.
:: He cares for people on the outskirts, those who are marginalized, underrepresented and misunderstood. He is a friend to the friendless. I absolutely love this about him.
:: He is blunt and direct and funny in ways that not everyone understands. But he is who he is and he'll never be anyone different.
:: He dreamt up, organized and pulled off a guitar recital and silent auction that raised over $2,000 for a playground for our sister church and orphanage in Lithuania.
:: He thinks I am beautiful all the time.

My husband always challenges me to look beyond the surface to see what's really essential. He is not, by any means, an appearance person. He looks far deeper than that. It's too bad that some don't extend him that same grace. They are missing out on knowing a great difference maker. But I thank God that I do. I am so lucky to be married to him.

a little girl and some pj pants

When I was young and single, I spent many a weekend with my cousin Kathryn. Since I lived in a flat in her town, with two kittens and a closet full of extremely cool dress-up clothes (or so she thought), and she lived with three older brothers and zero kittens, she happily came for sleepovers whenever she could. Being that I am the eldest of 20 cousins and she is the youngest, one might imagine that I could have given birth to this girl. And one would be right. There were days when I wished I had. In fact, I loved to take Kathryn out to eat or to the video store and imagine that people thought she was my daughter. She was adorable and funny and I was quite sure that I must have been the absolute coolest mom in town.

Now, incredibly, 12 years later, I have a six year old of my own and little Kathryn has graduated high school and is off on grand grown-up adventures. This weekend she leaves for a 9-month stint working with street kids in Cape Town, South Africa, getting a way broader view of the world and God's love in action. In addition to adorable and funny, she is now incredibly awesome. I am very proud of my pseudo-daughter.

For Kathryn's high school graduation I wanted to make her something special that she could take with her on her trip. Earlier this year when our grandma died - the grandma that she and I both spent countless hours with, including many nights of sleepovers - I took a small pile of sheets when my aunts and I cleaned out her closet. Instead of using the sheets for their intended purpose, I had an idea of a couple ways I could remake them. One was as pajama pants.


I found a pattern with a wide-bottom leg (McCall's 5989) and cut into the pair that we granddaughters remember so well from our cherished nights in the guest room. I left the groovy wide, white top edge of these funky blue sheets as the bottom of the legs, which made them extra cute. I've already duplicated the idea with two other top sheets for another special cousin and my sister. Someday maybe I'll make some for myself.

For the next nine months, though, I'll be thinking about the little girl with the blue pj pants. I'll be praying that she always remembers where she came from, how much love goes with her and what a cool thing it is to be original. Although I'd still find it amazing to be her mom, I feel lucky just to be her friend. Sweet dreams, Kathryn. We'll miss you!

eating with my neighbors

Tonight I ate dinner with Warren and his lady friend Eunice. These days Eunice isn't walking well but she dresses up for dinner. Tonight was no exception - silky orange blouse with a gold broach at the neck and a gold cross she purposefully pulled from behind her blouse to show me. I hoped she didn't feel she needed to impress me, being that we were in a church building. Afterall, Jesus was sitting at our table and I'm sure he didn't care.

Every month I see the couple at Third Tuesday Suppers. Although they appear rather feeble, they are both outspoken and Warren's cologne always makes a statement. In the past, I've just cleared their plates and chatted briefly, this was the first meal I sat with them.

Eunice talked a lot about her ailments, pausing often to comment on her meal, how delicious it was, how her plate looked a little different than Warren's, how she could never eat it all, how she's lost some weight and needs to eat more, how she'd like me to go get her a to-go box with another sub for later. Eunice was chagrined that the little girl with the cookie basket passed her by, but recovered when the girl came back and put four desserts on her plate.

I learned that Eunice spent her whole life in town, as did Warren. In a couple weeks, Warren told me, he'd be attending his 60th reunion at Geneva High School. He started his career as a teacher but got fed up with all the "punks" who weren't interested in learning so he went into shipping and travelled the world. He never moved from his hometown but, he said, "if I could get the hell out, I would." Geneva, he told me, has become an awful place.

"It's gentrification," he said. "Pure and simple, gentrification."

By Warren's standards Geneva has become a commercialized mess where no one knows you and no one cares. All the city dwellers settling out here, all the farmland eaten up. First it made him sad. Now he's just angry.

"I don't go into town anymore," he said gruffly. "Everyone's just bustling around ignoring you. What's the point?"

By most people's standards Geneva is a dream town. It's quaint, safe, clean, full of great little shops and restaurants, right along a beautiful river. Normally I would have blown off Warren's statement as a typical complaint coming from a grumpy old man. But like I said, Jesus was at our table, so I did something I rarely find time to do anymore. I listened.

I'm a bustler and, probably in Warren's eyes a gentrifier. But something happens the third Tuesday of every month. For two hours that evening, I hang out with neighbors. Some I know, some I don't. I visit. I catch up. I clear plates. I smile. I enter a different world. One where people have time to stop and see you. One where everyone is on the same level playing field no matter how they got to dinner or why they're there. One where there are no barriers. Not money. Not status. Not even religion. Absolutely none.

It was in this world tonight that I chatted with a woman from church whose name I know but whose life I don't and heard about some of the incredible health struggles her family has faced and the rough years she's had. I chatted with a deaf visitor using all the sign language I could muster and learned that the universal language of the body - a smile, a pat, a laugh and a hug - goes far when you can't figure out what to say. I helped a regular diner pack up a to-go bag and felt my eyes well with tears when I told her I hoped she'd come back next month and she said, like she wished she could be here every night, "This place is better than a five-star restaurant."

I'm not sure how we'd all be able to function in an outside world with no barriers, but for one night a month it's beginning to feel like an essential part of my life. I need to visit and smile and clear plates and sit with neighbors like Warren and Eunice. Otherwise I'd never really know that these people have interesting pasts and current struggles, that they are frustrated with busy people like me, that a free meal among friendly people can soften their angry hearts.

As I stood to get back to clearing plates, I told Warren and Eunice it was nice to talk and I looked forward to seeing them again next month. Warren grabbed my arm and pulled me in.

"I have to tell you," he said. "This is the nicest, the best thing that has happened in Geneva in a hell of a long time."

I thanked him and told him I'd share that with the people who made the meal. Then I smiled at Jesus and headed off with our empty plates.

hard-working pie dish

For probably ten years, a few dear friends of mine have been hosting dinner parties for each other every couple months. The host, responsible for the main part of the dinner, divvies out the rest of the meal's responsibilities, including appetizer, beverages and dessert. No one ever goes home hungry.

My good friend Laura makes the most incredible desserts. It's not really surprising considering she and her husband own a very popular cafe and she fills the dessert case with pastries that pop from her own ovens. She does this, of course, while running a catering business, selling real estate, rehabbing her 100-year-old home, counseling her teenage employees (to the point of legally adopting them if need be), fighting city hall (yes, she's crazy this way), all with four young children in tow.

I met Laura the spring of 1998 when she and her husband were rehabbing the building across the street from my apartment. That summer they opened their cafe. In the years that followed, Laura inspired me to try knitting, latte making, blind dates, natural childbirth (with a cheering section), and, recently, baking pie.

To be her friend is something special. To be a recipient of her pie or homemade ice cream is heaven on earth. So, whenever it's my turn to host our dinner party, Laura brings dessert.

A couple years ago, Laura shared the recipe for her summer pie. My deep-dish pie pan has seen four berry pies this season and it's not even officially summer yet. I aways shied away from making pie, thinking there was some exact science to the flaky crust that I wouldn't be able to master. Don't be intimidated. It's so much easier than you think. The real key is getting the ratio of fruit to crumb topping right. Pack the pie with fruit. Use more than you think you should. Like a friendship with Laura, you won't be disappointed.

Laura's Summer Pie
Crust (makes two 9")
2 1/2 cups flour
1 tsp. salt
2 tbs. sugar
1 cup shortening
1 1/2 sticks butter
1/4 cup ice water (maybe more, maybe less)
Put all ingredients except water into large bowl and use a pastry cutter to cut butter and shortening into dry ingredients until the pieces are small. Sprinkle water over and use a large fork to stir until dough comes together into a ball. Divide into two balls and refrigerate for 15 min. Roll out and place into pie pans. Refrigerate again.

Filling (for one pie)
4-5 cups of any fruit combination you can dream up
1/2 cup to 1 cup sugar per your taste and tartness of fruit
1/4 cup instant tapioca
Squeeze 1/2 lemon (and grated peel if you like more tang)
Mix all ingredients together and let sit for 15 min.

Topping (it makes a lot, you can stretch it to cover 2 pies)
1 cup flour
1 stick butter
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup either chopped nuts (any kind) or oatmeal
Use pastry cutter to cut butter into dry ingredients until it resembles course meal. Sprinkle topping on pie. Bake pie at 400 degrees for 40-45 min.

the hand of an old friend

I am captivated by this photo I took over the weekend of my three-year-old son engrossed in the music of three women playing dolcimer at a Fiber Festival in Indiana. What gets me is how sweetly he is holding the hand of my dear friend Ann's nine-year-old daughter. It's one thing to visit a long-time friend that you love - to reconnect over fabric and gardening, recipes and parenting, shared history and imagined futures, the battles that do us in and the surprises that leave us speechless, and, of course, the world's best cookies. It's just icing on the cake to have my kids adore and be adored by hers.

There is no quote, no sum up that can adequately capture the value of real friendship. Or the joy that comes in seeing your kids caught up in its magic. It's just a beautiful thing.

my tribute

This past Friday I had the honor of giving a tribute at my grandma's funeral. Summing up her life, influence, character and gift to her family and a very large world of friends is a nearly impossible task, especially when you are allocated three minutes. But my tribute in concert with the other 11 family tributes offered on Friday morning created a beautiful mosaic of this one very precious woman. I am posting mine here in case anyone wants to read it and so that I will always have and remember it.

::

Some of my earliest memories of my grandma Gaye took place at her and my papa’s townhouse in Emerald Green. I remember everything about that home – the floorplan, the furniture, the bumper pool table, the bread dough rising on the counter, the flower-strewn patio overlooking the river. That home was one of my favorite places on earth. On one visit in particular, I remember a duckling. In my child’s eye, the story went like this:

It was early spring. My grandma relished spring. An absolutely avid nature lover, my grandma, this particular spring, was keeping close tabs on a duck who had chosen to make a nest in a bush outside her door. Soon the ducklings hatched and a few days later the mama duck led her brood in a little parade to the river. All but one. For hours my grandma fretted and fussed over this duckling that had been left behind. Night was falling. The temperature was dropping. So Gaye did what only my incredibly loving and compassionate grandma would do. She slipped outside, gathered the duckling into her nightgown and took it into bed with her. (Now, I am sure many of you are wondering where my papa is in this story, as it would be hard to imagine him agreeing to a duck in his bed. But this is my memory.)

I tell you this story because for me it creates a tiny picture of what my grandma’s love was like. She didn’t think twice about showering it. She didn’t worry that she would love one too much and another not enough. She didn’t care what the neighbors thought – because she loved them, too. She never grew tired and weary. She just loved. Big love.

Her husband knew it. Her siblings knew it. Her children knew it. Her YFC family knew it. Her church family knew it. Her friends knew it. Her neighbors knew it. Many times, even strangers – and ducklings – knew it. But, best of all, for me, her grandchildren and her great-grandchildren knew the fullness of her love.

In all my life, I will never forget listening in week after week while Gaye taught my son Liam (number 18 of 27 great-grandchildren) his ABC Bible verses. Often with tears in my eyes, I would sit in the other room and listen to her tell my son, in the most tender voice imaginable, “I’m so proud of you.” “It’s great.” “What a good job you’re doing.” And, as though it burst right from her heart, “I love you, honey.”

The day she passed away, I walked Liam to Kindergarten and asked him if he understood what it meant that Gaye had died. Quite matter-of-factly he told me that Gaye was very old and her body was very tired and she had gone to heaven. “Don’t worry, mom,” this five year old said. “She is so happy to see Jesus, and Jesus is so happy to see her.”

This statement from my son has made me wonder how often Jesus welcomes someone home who loves like our Gaye did. We are sad, so sad, to lose the woman who loved us each so tenderly, so individually and so completely. But like Liam said, we can be sure that she is so happy to see Jesus, and Jesus is so happy to see her.

what i am thinking of

I am thinking of my grandma. It is still so strange to imagine that she is gone from this earth. After 42 years of her very significant and loving presence in my life, her total absence if nearly impossible to comprehend. And so, I am thinking of her. Specifically . . .

:: I am thinking of her long, elegant fingers cutting fabric on a big board laid over the bumper pool table in her basement. And those fingers kneading bread dough on her floured countertop, and expertly french braiding my hair into a crown around my head.

:: I am thinking of the great spread of food she would lay out on the table for any meal - whether it was just lunch for her and my papa and me or dinner for 25 family members. Always healthy and homemade and special.

:: I am thinking of her shredded wheat bars, bread and applesauce, brunswick stew, spinach souffle, and corn soup.

:: I am thinking about the way she belly laughed when we read the letters my papa's insanely conservative mother sent him at college, warning of the evils of candy and jazz music. Although she had every reason to, she never spoke ill of or sarcastically about this woman who often made her life very difficult.

:: I am thinking that she never spoke ill of or sarcastically about anything.

:: I am thinking of the birthday calendar that hung on the back of her powder room door and how happy I always was to see my name penned on it. And how she always remembered my birthday.

:: I am thinking of all the times I slept over at her house and how she sang to me in the darkened bedroom and rubbed my back and her sheets smelled so fresh and in the morning she was always in the kitchen making breakfast when I woke up. And when she saw me she would throw her arms around me like she hadn't seen me for a year.

:: I am thinking about how she loved beautiful things like a tree peony, a golden finch and a pretty-smelling lotion. And how her life was never about accumulating pretty things but always about seeing God's handiwork in everything.

:: I am thinking of how lovingly she spoke to my children and the incredible way she would swoop them into her arms. Even in her last days here, she squeezed them.

:: I am thinking about how earnestly, specifically and regularly she prayed.

:: I am thinking of her radiant smile.

:: I am thinking about the way she bubbled with joy and awe at the sight of her 27th great grandchild, so new and tiny. How holy that little visit seemed and how lucky I felt to happen to be there. How she couldn't take her eyes off that baby.

:: I am thinking of the amazing greeting I received at the door of her and my papa's hotel room in Nairobi. Never a hug so big in all the world.

:: I am thinking that my grandma made an astounding choice to leave a plain mennonite life, sell her house and possessions and to go to Japan with her husband and four small children. She had no idea what was in store. She just knew that God was calling them there. Before comfort or security, she heeded God's call.

:: I am thinking she was as brave as she was beautiful.

:: I am thinking that staying tethered to God was her secret.

:: I am thinking that being known and loved by this extraordinary woman for the last 42 years is just about one of the best gifts I've had in this life.

:: I am thinking that losing someone who loved you this much is something you never really get over.