It's midnight somewhere.
new mat
I'll miss your ability to contain (even though he could scale the sides and escape) .
Hello, Extra Long Twin.
Bring on the freedom and boundary-enforcing parents.
thankful
Our family is so blessed!
Feeling grateful that even though we deserve the worst, we have life in Christ.
Forever.
come, lord jesus
Our family has seen a lot of death lately. Friends, family members, mere acquaintances. Several losses were unexpected. We've done some visitations, mostly funerals. Morgan and Andrew have asked many thoughtful questions about eternity and the logistics of being heaven-bound.
Scott and I have also learned of people in our church and school community that have been affected by serious illness or challenges in their home lives. Things that make your jaw drop. Things that make you wonder how such awful stuff can happen to such great people.
The disputes in our world seem like more than just talk these days. There's more intensity, more anger, more reaction, more fighting. Most times I just keep scrolling so that my blood pressure stays in check.
I've joked more than once in the last month about Jesus making his return. "Okay, any day now, Jesus," I laughed with a friend in the school office as I was picking up Morgan for a funeral service. "Come on back." But there's truth and sincerity in my words. I wouldn't mind at all if His return happened during my lifetime so that we could escape any more tragedy and unrest.
Did my parents feel this way raising us, or is the world really a more awful place just three decades later? Maybe I see more now? Raising kids in such time of brokenness can be scary. It's easy for me to let the fear creep in. I mean it when I say I don't want my children to live in a protective bubble. I want them to know how to handle conflict when it crosses their paths, how to be brave. But gosh, there's a whole lot of conflict out there, most of which I hope they never, ever have to encounter.
In the middle of all this crazy going on around us, I nearly posted something on social media about being ready. About believing. About the fork in the road when one's time has ended - there's only heaven or hell, and these are real places. Paying for the person behind you in the drive thru line isn't going to get you one over the other. And neither is putting a bullet through someones body.
Think about this: I'm hanging over a cliff. I'm holding on by a chain of sin, each link representing the things I've done. The links vary in size, some even vary in shape or color. I look over my shoulders and as far as the eye can see, there are others also hanging by their linked chain. Some people hang below me and others above me, their chains vary in length, but we are all in the same predicament - we're about to fall to our deaths off the edge of this cliff. It doesn't matter the degree of our sin. It doesn't matter if we hang by just a dozen links or two thousand. We're all screwed unless someone can swoop in and save us. This isn't an action thriller, this is life. The only super hero big enough to conquer that task is Jesus Christ. And I believe he will.
The prayers of those in the Old Testament were the same as mine. They were waiting for their promised king to save them. And I believe with all my heart that this same King who came as a baby in a manger the first time is coming back to save. My fear - and sadly a reality - is that not everyone believes.
This Fall has been murky. A muddled mess of sadness for too many people we know. As Advent nears, I'm hopeful that the God's message comes through crystal clear - Jesus is the ticket to heaven. And it better be in-hand because the train is coming when you least expect it. It feels more urgent than ever that this is known. Because in the end, it's all that really matters.
no thanks
Am I really a grumpy stick-in-the-mud? Or has having kids opened my eyes to the craziness that this world is? (Rhetorical questions, completely rhetorical... although I'm totally feeling the latter.)
Today I went with Morgan's second grade class on a field trip to a local nursery. It was clean, well-hosted, nicely organized and void of any other school groups. Right up my alley. The kids played games, painted pumpkins, took a wagon ride, climbed a pyramid of hay bales. All in all, a great time was had. But even at seven years old, a couple kids (mine included) were in tears for various reasons: the spooky corn maize and the haunted house, to be specific.
My kid can read. "Enter if you Dare" just isn't going to work, no matter how friendly the font.
I hesitate to verbalize my thoughts to other parents, knowing my child is the exception (so instead I just write here, ha). I don't want to be that parent. The uptight one who can't relax and let her daughter enjoy a little fun. The thing is, though, my kid isn't having fun. Not when the commentary is peppered with words like spooky, haunted, creepy, scary, you get the idea.
I want her to be brave. I want her to realize that these things are fakes, harmless, meant in jest. But when panic sets in and tears are streaming, it's hard to reason. She's no fool. She knows her likes and dislikes. So why does it feel different for her say 'no' to a haunted house tour than it does to say 'no' to going on the swings on the playground? In my mind, it's the same - she makes good choices for herself knowing her own limits and desires. And yet sometimes it doesn't feel that way when comments meant to comfort just keep coming, wave after wave. As I crouch beside her in a net of safety, I smile to the others, mentally wishing them away, knowing full well that no amount of coercing from friends or parents will sway her.
Even though so many do not understand, I love this about Morgan. She is brave, going against the grain, risking embarrassment to stand her ground. She won't cave to pressure, but instead retreat to find relief and clarity. She's distinctly different than the rest, and I can't help but believe that God has gifted her with this ability in her character to keep her safe as she grows. As difficult as it is to work though, I know this practice will be helpful as she faces even bigger choices down the road.
A tiny blip in our two-hour excursion. A big deal in my little girl's day.
for sale.
contents not included.
In the summer of 1965, a young couple and their three daughters moved into a charming ranch home with a deep lot in a desirable neighborhood. The father was more than a handy man around the house; he was able to design and craft and build with his hands. The mother was more than a homemaker; she was a talented seamstress who could transform fabric into clothing, curtains and quilts.
Through the decades the home was transformed by the couple. An addition was put on the rear of the house off the kitchen where the growing family dined together daily. A perfectly poured cement slab was laid just off of that to create a lovely patio. And a two-car garage was added with a breezeway that connected the structure with the house.
Not only did the house change, but so did the family. The girls grew up, married and had children of their own. Despite moving away, the daughters and their families visited their parents and layers of new memories were created. Holidays and birthdays were celebrated, traditions started, parties thrown, reunions held.
Even as an empty nest, the house was still abundant with love and life. Each room contained keepsakes that the couple collected and acquired, displayed with pride on nearly every wall. And both he and she could recount the history and acquisition of each item. Some were gifts, others passed down, and others still a result of The Great Depression mentality, never to be thrown away.
Over the years the couple aged, and the health of the father grew poor. In 1998 after 48 years of earthly marriage, he entered the gates of heaven where he still awaits his bride. The widowed wife, despite her grief, was determined to make the best of her situation and immersed herself in activity with her church, family and friends. And the house, without it's master, continued to thrive and breathe life.
As she entered into her 90's, however, the brave wife recognized her limitations and decided that help would be in her best interest. After all, she could no longer care for or pick the sweet pears that grew from the tree in her backyard. The flight of stairs from the basement laundry became more challenging. And the long, cold winters threatened her opportunities to leave the house.
In September of 2013, the house was sold. Forty-eight years of history, memories and attachments were re-gifted, relocated and recycled. Forty-eight. As God would have it, identical to the years of the wife's marriage.
And so with great sadness, she and her family said farewell. For some this brought relief, knowing the wife would be properly cared for, while others grieved the loss of the home and all it represented. While the house can still be plotted on any map, it will never again return to it's former self.
Today at 91 years old, the wife continues to live bravely in West Michigan surrounded by loving family and a few remaining treasures, eagerly waiting for her turn to be called to her forever home.
Click first picture for slideshow. Afterword below.
Afterword:
It's been an entire year since I last walked through my grandparents' home. Next to my childhood home where my parents still reside, this house holds the most meaning, sentiment, longing, happiness. This place was a destination, a journey that brought excitement on weekends when I traveled with my family to visit. I jumped off the front porch and played in the cool basement with my cousins after our parents dropped us off for a week of VBS. There's the Saturday morning garage sales with the guys, and rides in the back of my grandpa's old Dodge sedans. As I grew, Saturday shopping at the mall with the ladies was the place to be. Christmas cookies decorated, birthdays celebrated. My brother's connection with my grandpa (and dare I say, my dad's connection with his father-in-law) was nourished here. My sister's baby shower was held in the back yard, as were countless reunions. I actually lived in this house with my grandma for six months after taking a job in the area to be closer to Scott. It's been a part of my history through many ages and stages.
For my mom especially, even though only half of her childhood was spent in this particular house, it's the place she returned to, the place she brought her own family. It's the reason the gas pedal would sink a little lower if she was behind the wheel on those Friday nights. And I have no doubt about the heartbreak my grandma felt to close the door on the place my grandpa customized with leftover materials and roadside finds, the home they shared for so long, the rooms where he spent some of his last days.
Clearly it's not just the four walls that were cherished.
I look at these pictures and I can smell that house. My grandpa's pipe. The sawdust in the garage. The breezeway. Every room. I hear the clank of the vintage measuring cups against an opening cupboard door and the dong of the clock from the living room bookcase. I feel the red carpeted stairs on my feet and the temperature change as I walk to the basement. So many tangible things are embedded in me. Like my grandma, the desire to preserve what once was is of most importance, and despite now living just 25 miles from this special place, the curiosity for me to catch a glimpse of any change is non-existent. To me, it will forever be Grandma B and Papa's.
 |
| Christmas 1981 |
young fives: first day and beyond
Monday was Andrew's first day of school. Long-awaited, much-anticipated, first day of school. Scott called Andrew to wish him a great first day.
Because this is the best place for you. This is the place you're supposed to be.
And after the first day, it's completely clear that keeping up no longer matters. Morgan is upset at dinnertime because Andrew is stealing the spotlight with stories about his afternoon adventures. There's a purpose to Andrew's day and that makes a world of difference. He is eager to head to school.
two years
Dear Matthew,
Happy second birthday! Just a year ago we celebrated your first year of life, back when you were so small and bald and - relatively speaking - lightweight. And now here we are, looking back on the last 12 months of growth and progress and personality revealed.
It's hard to remember that you started this year crawling. At 13 months old, however, you were beginning to toddle and walk, always in the opposite direction from me. The idea to escape has never left your brain. To this day we still battle over holding hands because, quite frankly, carrying all 38 pounds of you hurts my biceps. The stroller continues to be one of my best friends to keep you safe and strapped in!
Determination seems to be the name of the game for you. You are a persistent problem solver. If there's something you want, Matthew, you have no trouble figuring out how to gain access. It took me by surprise that you had mastered door handles by 18 months. Anything to be near Morgan and Andrew... or their stuff.
Speaking of Morgan, she's like your second mother. Most times you enjoy all the smothering and attention, and even more, you love when she takes you outside or lets you into her room. It's a dream come true for you - hanging with and pretending to be a seven-year-old. Always wanting to be like the bigs.
For as much grief as you give Andrew, you sure do love him, too. Now that you're closing in on him size-wise, you hold your own with your older brother, especially when he can't keep his hands off you. I never put it past you to clobber Andrew when you've had enough. We're working on how to communicate "stop" instead of just taking people out with your fist.
You love to wrestle, tackle and rough house. You throw your weight around without any reservation. You plow through people like a tank on a mission. Quite frankly, it's a bit dangerous the way you move, and I've been on the receiving end of your strikes. Big ouch. Nothing gets in your determined way, and accidents and injuries don't seem to slow you down. Scraped knees only require a kiss. Bonks on the head, just a hug. Your fractured wrist didn't prevent you from the action, either. Can we all just whisper up a prayer that this is the only cast your body will ever see? Please?
It never took long for you to get the concept of silverware and you prefer to eat everything with a fork, even toast. As the son of Mr. Scott A. N, this is perfectly acceptable in our household and keeps your hands exceptionally clean at the table. Win for all.
For the entire last year, you did not eat a single vegetable unless it was mixed into your favorite stir fry, chicken pot pie, or some other casserole-type dish. You simply refused. Daddy and I hold firm on our veggie policy with you: If you don't want what is offered, that's fine, but there's certainly nothing else to eat, especially dessert. Your chair has seen many tears and tantrums over food. We were delighted when two weeks ago, you conceded your stance and agreed for the first time ever to taste, chew and swallow three entire bites of fresh green beans. I guess Scooperman ice cream will do that to a veggie-hater.Even though we go toe to toe at the dinner table and have a zero tolerance policy for hitting, kicking, and the like, Daddy and I have relaxed a bit in other areas since you've come along. There's all the leniency with television, you sing along to way too many PBS shows. We faced you forward in your expired car seat before two years old (I feel awful guilt and rebelliousness about this all at the same time). And then there's the ice cream at IKEA before lunch. Who are these coo-koos raising you, claiming to be responsible parents?
One of your favorite pastimes is being outside. Mostly you enjoy playing with water, but other activities will also do. Anything to get that body moving and into the fresh air. I'm curious to see how you'll be when the snow flies, since we spent much of last winter debating the merits of mittens.
Your other favorite? Playing trains. All it took was one randomly selected Easy Reader from the library on Thomas the Train for you to fall in love. Your engines are always nearby, even with you when you sleep, alongside your most beloved "blanken". Sitting still for an entire half-hour episode of Thomas is out of the question, but you insist on reading the books multiple times every day.
Daddy is the one who reads to you most often. Or at least the most consistently. Bedtime is when you two connect. And it's not just with books - you prefer Daddy to say prayers, sing a song and get you perfectly situated to sleep. Whether it's the stories or prayers or song lyrics, you easily finish the sentences of your favorite rhyming phrases. "...forgive my sins, and when I wate, help me the paff, of love to tate. A-min."
The words you speak increase every day. While "Daddy" is crystal clear, it's difficult at times to decipher "Moe-din" and "Ah-din" as you refer to your siblings. But what's most comical is that you just call me "Mom". No Momma or Mommy or any other cutesie toddler speak. Just straight-up, mature and to the point Mom. Period. You've started putting two words together to make little sentences like Bumpy Woad (Bumpy Road) or What Daddy Dooo-een (What is Daddy doing?). I love how your little mouth forms letters into words and the way you emphasize certain sounds like Bee-ib (bib).
Afternoon smoothies are your favorite snack with apples following closely behind. And you know the routine well: pick up Morgan from school and come home to a place on the couch.
I'm amazed that you sit so well for books, considering you are constantly needing to move. It's that discovery thing, you always want to know more about your newest encounters from the food I'm prepping to the one-inch binder Morgan is using for class. "What's Daht?" you constantly ask. And already, "Why?"
Happy second birthday, Matthew Evan.
All my love,
Mom
Follow God’s example, therefore, as dearly loved children and walk in the way of love, just as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us as a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God. Ephesians 5: 1-2
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