Yesterday was the 4th of July, and naturally, we grilled out. I also made my grandmother's German Potato Salad. John is pretty sure this is required summer holiday food.
But I almost didn't make it. The recipe wasn't where I normally keep it, and I had a moment of panic that I had lost it. Most of my favorite recipes had found their way onto Forkinit.com (a recipe sharing website that my brother Christian set up), but for some reason, that one hadn't.
Thankfully, I found the recipe, the dish was made, and all was well. I also made sure that the recipe made it on to Forkinit today. Just to avoid any more panic. =)
The incident got me thinking though. Mostly about Grandma, and food. So many of my memories about my maternal grandmother revolve around food. I remember she and my mother canning and freezing food almost every summer of my young childhood. We did it both at her house, and at ours. I loved to help freeze corn and beans, and can tomatoes, peaches, and pears. Of course, most years my delight revolved around gnawing on the corn cobs after most of the corn had been cut off, and less around snapping the ends off green beans, but as I got older I felt honored to be able to cut the corn off the cob myself, and help make up the pickles in her large crocks.
Grandma made and canned jam too, and sauerkraut. Our pantry was always stuffed with home canned goods, and the extra freezer had a never-ending supply. I don't think I knew you could get frozen vegetables from the store until I was at least 10 or 11.
Not all the food memories are pleasant for me. To this day, I don't like oatmeal. I ate it at Grandma's though. For the longest time, I thought "Eat such things as are set before you" was one of the ten commandments. Recently, John asked for brats and sauerkraut for dinner. The smell brought back memories. I can't remember what Grandma served with her kraut, but I didn't like it then either.
But I always liked, and still do, her German potato salad. Grandma was only a few generations removed from the old country, and German food was a proud part of her heritage. I'm sure if I quizzed her children, they could each name a dish of their mother's that they remember and love. But I'm pretty sure they can all remember this one. When Grandma turned 75, they threw her a surprise birthday party, and tricked her into making potato salad for it. My aunt told her it was for a church potluck, and she "just couldn't make as well as you Mom."
Grandma did a lot of things well. She raised 10 kids, and worked as a nurse after they were grown. She was a strong woman with very definite opinions, and a very strong faith. I was only 14 when she died, so I'm sure there are many things I don't remember, and many memories I can't do justice to. But I do like to remember her. Every time I make her potato salad, there's a little bit of Grandma that makes me smile.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Saturday, June 9, 2012
A new kind of normal
Seven weeks ago, our family grew again. Baby Nathan joined us, after a surprisingly short labor, and life would never be the same again.
Nathan is a sweet, happy baby, and well loved by his big brothers, not to mention his parents. He's a big boy, and growing fast. I don't remember the other two outgrowing their carseats and baby carriers so quickly. But he is undeniably a blessing and a joy.
I spent the first half of this pregnancy afraid of losing him, and the second half being more uncomfortable than I thought I could stand. I was so tired, and just sore all the time. I fear my boys suffered from my lack of energy, but there were enough things to keep us busy, and out of the house. Thankfully they didn't require ME to move too much. =)
Almost as soon as I had Nathan, I felt SO much better. Of course, I was tired, but being able to move again was so wonderful! I felt so good, I may have overexerted myself a few times. =)
Then, John went back to work, and my mother left. And, I realized how much had really changed. Suddenly there were three little boys needing my attention. Three little boys who were hungry, usually at the same time, two older boys who quickly discovered Mommy's lessened ability to move when she was nursing. No to mention, I was still tired from the lessened sleep. The house quickly deteriorated as I rediscovered how much time one spends nursing a newborn. Nathan is a good eater, but not a fast one.
Then there was the week where I didn't managed to get food or clothes for myself until almost noon, and that was only through the aid of PBS kids, and a 15 minute nap on the part of the baby. For some reason he didn't want to sleep much in the morning that week. The house was a mess, I could barely walk in my room, the kitchen was constantly overflowing with dishes, and I was reaching breaking point. I didn't realize it until John asked me: "Do you enjoy being the mother of 3 boys?"
It caught me by surprise. Of course I loved it. I had three sweet boys, and the bigger ones doted on the baby, even if they still fought with each other like cats and dogs. But I was tired, and overwhelmed. John asked what he could do to help, so we spent the next week-end deep cleaning, and getting back to where I could stay on top of things. We found our room again, cleaned up the backyard, and generally reorganized the house. It looked so nice! And amazingly, it still does. It's not always spotless, but I can maintain a lot easier. It's amazing how a clean house can change your outlook.
I'm learning to live with a new kind of normal. Some say the hardest adjustment is when you go from one to two kids, some say from two to three. Both have had their challenges, with John by my side, we can do this. It's been seven weeks now, and the last week or so, I'm finally feeling like things are back to normal. But not the normal of before. A new normal. A normal with a small baby who needs lots of attention, a nearly five year-old who grows more independent by the day, and an almost 3-year-old who wants to be so as well.
The are a great help to me, especially with their baby brother. They adore him, without any of the jealousy I feared from Andrew. He will come and tell me when the baby is crying, then go back and say "Baby Na-fan, it okay" He'll even try to give him his binky. Timothy wants to hold him and talk to him, and will grab diapers for me whenever I need them. If I phrase it right, both will happily unload the dishwasher, or do pretty much any chore I ask. Well, except clean their room. =)
Normal has changed, but I am immensely blessed. I have three beautiful boys, and a wonderful husband without whom I couldn't survive. We make a great team. And cute kids. =)
Nathan is a sweet, happy baby, and well loved by his big brothers, not to mention his parents. He's a big boy, and growing fast. I don't remember the other two outgrowing their carseats and baby carriers so quickly. But he is undeniably a blessing and a joy.
I spent the first half of this pregnancy afraid of losing him, and the second half being more uncomfortable than I thought I could stand. I was so tired, and just sore all the time. I fear my boys suffered from my lack of energy, but there were enough things to keep us busy, and out of the house. Thankfully they didn't require ME to move too much. =)
Almost as soon as I had Nathan, I felt SO much better. Of course, I was tired, but being able to move again was so wonderful! I felt so good, I may have overexerted myself a few times. =)
Then, John went back to work, and my mother left. And, I realized how much had really changed. Suddenly there were three little boys needing my attention. Three little boys who were hungry, usually at the same time, two older boys who quickly discovered Mommy's lessened ability to move when she was nursing. No to mention, I was still tired from the lessened sleep. The house quickly deteriorated as I rediscovered how much time one spends nursing a newborn. Nathan is a good eater, but not a fast one.
Then there was the week where I didn't managed to get food or clothes for myself until almost noon, and that was only through the aid of PBS kids, and a 15 minute nap on the part of the baby. For some reason he didn't want to sleep much in the morning that week. The house was a mess, I could barely walk in my room, the kitchen was constantly overflowing with dishes, and I was reaching breaking point. I didn't realize it until John asked me: "Do you enjoy being the mother of 3 boys?"
It caught me by surprise. Of course I loved it. I had three sweet boys, and the bigger ones doted on the baby, even if they still fought with each other like cats and dogs. But I was tired, and overwhelmed. John asked what he could do to help, so we spent the next week-end deep cleaning, and getting back to where I could stay on top of things. We found our room again, cleaned up the backyard, and generally reorganized the house. It looked so nice! And amazingly, it still does. It's not always spotless, but I can maintain a lot easier. It's amazing how a clean house can change your outlook.
I'm learning to live with a new kind of normal. Some say the hardest adjustment is when you go from one to two kids, some say from two to three. Both have had their challenges, with John by my side, we can do this. It's been seven weeks now, and the last week or so, I'm finally feeling like things are back to normal. But not the normal of before. A new normal. A normal with a small baby who needs lots of attention, a nearly five year-old who grows more independent by the day, and an almost 3-year-old who wants to be so as well.
The are a great help to me, especially with their baby brother. They adore him, without any of the jealousy I feared from Andrew. He will come and tell me when the baby is crying, then go back and say "Baby Na-fan, it okay" He'll even try to give him his binky. Timothy wants to hold him and talk to him, and will grab diapers for me whenever I need them. If I phrase it right, both will happily unload the dishwasher, or do pretty much any chore I ask. Well, except clean their room. =)
Normal has changed, but I am immensely blessed. I have three beautiful boys, and a wonderful husband without whom I couldn't survive. We make a great team. And cute kids. =)
Monday, April 16, 2012
Never mess with an extremely pregnant woman... Or, how to make Mommy feel better....
I don't usually like to whine. At least not in such a public forum. But it's been a long week, so bear with me.
While I haven't actually hit my due date yet, I am still, surprisingly pregnant. Pregnant and miserable. I don't usually handle my last trimester very graciously, but in these past several days I seem to have reached new lows.
At about 36 weeks, I started having contractions. I wanted to make it to at least term, so I put myself on semi-bed rest, and breathed a sigh of relief when I made it to the next weekend. Good Friday was the 37 week mark, so I knew I was fine to deliver at any time. Not that I wanted to deliver Easter weekend, but if he was ready, so be it. Even so, we took a chance and drove to the beach that day. The beach is about 90 minutes away, but I felt we'd be okay.
I was right. At least as far as labor went. No baby. But, when my 2 year-old decided to go swimming in the surf by himself, I took off after him, without even thinking to yell for John. Now, running that hard when you're that pregnant was probably something no one wanted to watch, and is definitely not something I recommend. When I hit the edge where the dry soft sand met the wet hard sand, I went down hard. But even winded, I didn't stop until my son was safe on dry ground again. Then the adrenaline passed, and I barely made it back to our stuff. John took Andrew, and I collapsed under the beach umbrella and stayed there. Thankfully, the baby began moving fairly soon, so I knew he was okay. My groin on the other hand, was not. I spent the next few days trying not to cry every time I moved.
Since I wasn't moving much, my feet swelled up, adding to my discomfort. I can't really reach my feet, haven't been able to in weeks, so I sadly had to just watch them swell. John had a basketball tournament at church, and had to work tech over the weekend, so I barely saw him. Tuesday he was finally free, and able to help me put the boys to bed. That night he graciously agreed to sit with them until lights out, and I headed downstairs to put my feet up. That's when it happened.
I blame my swollen feet, but I'm still not entirely sure why I missed a step and tumbled head over feet almost the whole way. I ended up headfirst, striking my head on the last 3 or 4 steps, and coming to a stop when I hit the wall at the bottom of the stairs. John was ready to call 911, but thankfully I was able to get up (with help), and spent the rest of the night icing various parts of my body. The baby once again moved around fairly quickly, assuring me that he was fine, so I waited until the next day to call the midwife, and then called the chiropractor.
I know I am very blessed to have walked away from that with nothing more than some nasty bruises and a broken toe, but the resulting contractions (which I was warned could happen) got me excited that maybe the baby would be joining us soon. I figured as long as I was already miserable, I might was well get it all over with and begin the recovery process all at once.
Thursday, I even thought I was in labor. The contractions were coming hard and fast, and were really starting to hurt. But, at my appointment that day, I was informed that no, not yet, but it could happen. About 4:30am the next morning, I was starting to think that maybe this was really it, but no. The contractions stopped once again, with no sign of a baby.
Friday, I hoped all day, but went about my life as normally as possible. (Physical pain notwithstanding) By Saturday morning, when for the first time in several days I hadn't been woken by contractions throughout the night, I was starting to resign myself to waiting a bit longer. We took Timothy to his school "Family Field Day" and then took in a free FSU football game. I was actually feeling pretty good for someone who's 9 1/2 months pregnant. The bruises were healing, and aside from my swollen belly and feet, I felt I could function. Baby needed more time to bake obviously, so I would be patient.
Yeah.... That feeling lasted until the next morning. I dragged myself out of bed, and made it to church, but I was feeling really sapped by the time the first half-hour was up. It didn't help that I was dealing with what felt like EVERY member of our congregation offering advice, encouragement, their own (or their wives) birth stories, and having people I barely knew touching my belly, rubbing my back, and... let's just say that I was ready to bite someone's head off before church even started.
I know they all meant well, and they're all wonderful people (even the ones who's names I couldn't remember), and I know I must have looked pretty miserable for them to have been trying to make me feel better, but really, all I wanted was to crawl back in my bed and pretend the rest of the world didn't exist. This baby had been teasing me for almost 2 weeks with his impending arrival, and I really didn't need the rest of the world reminding me of it!
Thankfully, we made it out of church without my doing anyone any damage. I even managed to be polite to everyone I spoke to. My sweet husband put me to bed, and I felt better after a 2 hour nap. Mainly, I think it was the alone time.
Unfortunately, I'm still slightly bitter about still being pregnant. I mean, I want my body back, dang it! I'm tired of not being able to move, of feeling like I need a crane to get off the couch, of not being able to fit into ANY of my shoes... And, after 2 weeks, I'm done getting excited over every contraction. They happen every time I move, so I'm over it. John, not so much. He made the mistake of asking about my latest "stop-and-breathe" moment as I was getting up to make the boys some lunch, and I snapped at him. Then promptly broke down crying for being such a witch. He wisely steered me out of the kitchen and into the bedroom and held me until I calmed down, assuring me that it was okay.
It was then that we heard our offspring getting into the fridge. Nervously, I sent John to check on things, and he discovered our sons tearing lettuce into a bowl and adding whole baby carrots. They were making me lunch. John helped them cut some tomatoes and shred some cheese, and my little angels brought me my salad. I then started crying to a totally different reason, but I felt so much better.
This baby really doesn't seem to be in a hurry to come out, so I should stop being so impatient. I will have plenty of time to hold him, and soon, this discomfort will be but a faint memory (That's how we are able to get pregnant again right? By forgetting?). But for now, I need to remember the rest of my family, and cherish them as well. I'm going to try. Hormones make it difficult, and I will probably do my best to avoid anyone outside of the men in my life, but I am treasured, and I need to do better showing them that I treasure them too. I am so blessed.
I still miss my shoes though.... =)
While I haven't actually hit my due date yet, I am still, surprisingly pregnant. Pregnant and miserable. I don't usually handle my last trimester very graciously, but in these past several days I seem to have reached new lows.
At about 36 weeks, I started having contractions. I wanted to make it to at least term, so I put myself on semi-bed rest, and breathed a sigh of relief when I made it to the next weekend. Good Friday was the 37 week mark, so I knew I was fine to deliver at any time. Not that I wanted to deliver Easter weekend, but if he was ready, so be it. Even so, we took a chance and drove to the beach that day. The beach is about 90 minutes away, but I felt we'd be okay.
I was right. At least as far as labor went. No baby. But, when my 2 year-old decided to go swimming in the surf by himself, I took off after him, without even thinking to yell for John. Now, running that hard when you're that pregnant was probably something no one wanted to watch, and is definitely not something I recommend. When I hit the edge where the dry soft sand met the wet hard sand, I went down hard. But even winded, I didn't stop until my son was safe on dry ground again. Then the adrenaline passed, and I barely made it back to our stuff. John took Andrew, and I collapsed under the beach umbrella and stayed there. Thankfully, the baby began moving fairly soon, so I knew he was okay. My groin on the other hand, was not. I spent the next few days trying not to cry every time I moved.
Since I wasn't moving much, my feet swelled up, adding to my discomfort. I can't really reach my feet, haven't been able to in weeks, so I sadly had to just watch them swell. John had a basketball tournament at church, and had to work tech over the weekend, so I barely saw him. Tuesday he was finally free, and able to help me put the boys to bed. That night he graciously agreed to sit with them until lights out, and I headed downstairs to put my feet up. That's when it happened.
I blame my swollen feet, but I'm still not entirely sure why I missed a step and tumbled head over feet almost the whole way. I ended up headfirst, striking my head on the last 3 or 4 steps, and coming to a stop when I hit the wall at the bottom of the stairs. John was ready to call 911, but thankfully I was able to get up (with help), and spent the rest of the night icing various parts of my body. The baby once again moved around fairly quickly, assuring me that he was fine, so I waited until the next day to call the midwife, and then called the chiropractor.
I know I am very blessed to have walked away from that with nothing more than some nasty bruises and a broken toe, but the resulting contractions (which I was warned could happen) got me excited that maybe the baby would be joining us soon. I figured as long as I was already miserable, I might was well get it all over with and begin the recovery process all at once.
Thursday, I even thought I was in labor. The contractions were coming hard and fast, and were really starting to hurt. But, at my appointment that day, I was informed that no, not yet, but it could happen. About 4:30am the next morning, I was starting to think that maybe this was really it, but no. The contractions stopped once again, with no sign of a baby.
Friday, I hoped all day, but went about my life as normally as possible. (Physical pain notwithstanding) By Saturday morning, when for the first time in several days I hadn't been woken by contractions throughout the night, I was starting to resign myself to waiting a bit longer. We took Timothy to his school "Family Field Day" and then took in a free FSU football game. I was actually feeling pretty good for someone who's 9 1/2 months pregnant. The bruises were healing, and aside from my swollen belly and feet, I felt I could function. Baby needed more time to bake obviously, so I would be patient.
Yeah.... That feeling lasted until the next morning. I dragged myself out of bed, and made it to church, but I was feeling really sapped by the time the first half-hour was up. It didn't help that I was dealing with what felt like EVERY member of our congregation offering advice, encouragement, their own (or their wives) birth stories, and having people I barely knew touching my belly, rubbing my back, and... let's just say that I was ready to bite someone's head off before church even started.
I know they all meant well, and they're all wonderful people (even the ones who's names I couldn't remember), and I know I must have looked pretty miserable for them to have been trying to make me feel better, but really, all I wanted was to crawl back in my bed and pretend the rest of the world didn't exist. This baby had been teasing me for almost 2 weeks with his impending arrival, and I really didn't need the rest of the world reminding me of it!
Thankfully, we made it out of church without my doing anyone any damage. I even managed to be polite to everyone I spoke to. My sweet husband put me to bed, and I felt better after a 2 hour nap. Mainly, I think it was the alone time.
Unfortunately, I'm still slightly bitter about still being pregnant. I mean, I want my body back, dang it! I'm tired of not being able to move, of feeling like I need a crane to get off the couch, of not being able to fit into ANY of my shoes... And, after 2 weeks, I'm done getting excited over every contraction. They happen every time I move, so I'm over it. John, not so much. He made the mistake of asking about my latest "stop-and-breathe" moment as I was getting up to make the boys some lunch, and I snapped at him. Then promptly broke down crying for being such a witch. He wisely steered me out of the kitchen and into the bedroom and held me until I calmed down, assuring me that it was okay.
It was then that we heard our offspring getting into the fridge. Nervously, I sent John to check on things, and he discovered our sons tearing lettuce into a bowl and adding whole baby carrots. They were making me lunch. John helped them cut some tomatoes and shred some cheese, and my little angels brought me my salad. I then started crying to a totally different reason, but I felt so much better.
This baby really doesn't seem to be in a hurry to come out, so I should stop being so impatient. I will have plenty of time to hold him, and soon, this discomfort will be but a faint memory (That's how we are able to get pregnant again right? By forgetting?). But for now, I need to remember the rest of my family, and cherish them as well. I'm going to try. Hormones make it difficult, and I will probably do my best to avoid anyone outside of the men in my life, but I am treasured, and I need to do better showing them that I treasure them too. I am so blessed.
I still miss my shoes though.... =)
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Moving thoughts
It's been a crazy couple of weeks. Packing up four lives and moving them over a thousand miles away will do that. 2 weeks ago, we were gearing up for our last week before we left, and a week ago we had just said goodbye to all our friends, and were about to leave Iowa. A week ago it was Andrew's 2nd birthday. We celebrated with a cake. From a box. No presents, that came when we got here. Good thing 2 year-olds don't really understand the concept yet. He was just excited there was cake.
This past Monday, we loaded the car with 2 cats, 2 small boys, some toys and books, snacks and PBJ, sleeping bags, and hopefully enough clothes to get us the 5 days or so until the truck with all our stuff arrived at our new home. The trip went well. We took our time, and the boys traveled really well. The cats...eventually stopped howling. Of course, we stopped several times, so when we finally got here, it took them a while to settle down and realize we weren't going to put them back in their carriers. (The cats, not the boys...)
Then we arrived. And I almost cried. The inside of the house seemed clean enough when we got here, but the outside left much to be desired. Someone is supposed to come and powerwash the outside, but we didn't know that at the time. The plants outside were overgrown, the house was dingy, and one of the address numbers was missing from the front of the house. The backyard was full of soggy leaves, and I was afraid to let the boys outside until I knew what was under them. So much for my fenced-in backyard. Our landlady had told us she'd had trouble scheduling the painter with the back-to-school rush, so we had expected that, but we hadn't expected the pink peace sign on the dining room wall. Then, after I put the boys to bed, I discovered the carpet was turning my feet black. Professional cleaners had come through, but I don't think the previous tenants owned a vacuum, so there was only so much they could do.
I knew these things were all fixable, so I tried not to let it get me down, but the next day, when I found out our stuff had been delayed, and that we weren't going to get it until at least Monday (Not Thursday or Friday like we'd been expecting) I finally broke down and bawled like a baby. With the exception of a saucepan, a cookie sheet, and a strainer, I had nothing to cook with, we were sleeping on the floor (the crusty floor) and with this extreme heat, I was beginning to worry that our stuff would show up warped and/or melted.
But you know, I've discovered this is not the end of the world. After some rest, and a breather, I stepped back and looked at things as positively as I could. We still have each other, and we made it here safely. While the boys miss their toys, they're having a lot of fun riding their birthday bikes around the empty living room. Our landlady came yesterday and shampooed the carpets, and her husband got rid of the leaves and trimmed the bushes. And at least I have some cooking implements. We're not going to starve.
I'm still a little worried about the condition of our things, but I'm sure it will be fine. Maybe a few melted crayons, but it's doubtful that the truck could get hot enough to melt the TV or warp the circuits in the computer. Especially since that last one is packed in several layers to protect it.
The Lord is still taking care of us. There are a lot worse things than having to camp on the floor a few extra days. Those few days won't make that much of a difference in the grand scheme of things. =) I have what's most important with me now. The rest is just stuff. =)
This past Monday, we loaded the car with 2 cats, 2 small boys, some toys and books, snacks and PBJ, sleeping bags, and hopefully enough clothes to get us the 5 days or so until the truck with all our stuff arrived at our new home. The trip went well. We took our time, and the boys traveled really well. The cats...eventually stopped howling. Of course, we stopped several times, so when we finally got here, it took them a while to settle down and realize we weren't going to put them back in their carriers. (The cats, not the boys...)
Then we arrived. And I almost cried. The inside of the house seemed clean enough when we got here, but the outside left much to be desired. Someone is supposed to come and powerwash the outside, but we didn't know that at the time. The plants outside were overgrown, the house was dingy, and one of the address numbers was missing from the front of the house. The backyard was full of soggy leaves, and I was afraid to let the boys outside until I knew what was under them. So much for my fenced-in backyard. Our landlady had told us she'd had trouble scheduling the painter with the back-to-school rush, so we had expected that, but we hadn't expected the pink peace sign on the dining room wall. Then, after I put the boys to bed, I discovered the carpet was turning my feet black. Professional cleaners had come through, but I don't think the previous tenants owned a vacuum, so there was only so much they could do.
I knew these things were all fixable, so I tried not to let it get me down, but the next day, when I found out our stuff had been delayed, and that we weren't going to get it until at least Monday (Not Thursday or Friday like we'd been expecting) I finally broke down and bawled like a baby. With the exception of a saucepan, a cookie sheet, and a strainer, I had nothing to cook with, we were sleeping on the floor (the crusty floor) and with this extreme heat, I was beginning to worry that our stuff would show up warped and/or melted.
But you know, I've discovered this is not the end of the world. After some rest, and a breather, I stepped back and looked at things as positively as I could. We still have each other, and we made it here safely. While the boys miss their toys, they're having a lot of fun riding their birthday bikes around the empty living room. Our landlady came yesterday and shampooed the carpets, and her husband got rid of the leaves and trimmed the bushes. And at least I have some cooking implements. We're not going to starve.
I'm still a little worried about the condition of our things, but I'm sure it will be fine. Maybe a few melted crayons, but it's doubtful that the truck could get hot enough to melt the TV or warp the circuits in the computer. Especially since that last one is packed in several layers to protect it.
The Lord is still taking care of us. There are a lot worse things than having to camp on the floor a few extra days. Those few days won't make that much of a difference in the grand scheme of things. =) I have what's most important with me now. The rest is just stuff. =)
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
37 years of love
My parent's 37th anniversary is today. Not traditionally a very notable anniversary, and probably not one they have a lot planned for. (But then, whenever they do plan something big, life usually gets in the way.) It probably wouldn't have been that notable to me either, except that I happen to be digitizing their photos, and I just scanned the ones from their wedding. Last week I scanned some poetry my Dad wrote for my Mom, and an old column he wrote about her. (For those of you who don't remember columns, they were kind of a precursor to blogs, but you got paid for them. They put them in newspapers. You do remember those, right?)
Anyway, here's my favorite wedding photo:
To someone who's still seeing that look so many years later, it's doubly beautiful.
The poem made me cry. It was written a few years after they married, and is such a perfect picture of a young couple learning to be content in what the Lord has blessed them with. That's something they still counsel young couples today. Here it is:
"A Christmas Song of Joy"
Wally Metts, Christmas, 1976
I. A Prelude
Two People Cold and alone
No job,
Away from home,
No friends nearby....
Eating spaghetti,
And wondering why
They've come to start,
A quest for a vision
That fades, it seems
With daily needs
And common things.
II. A Prayer
"Lord," we say,
"Teach us to be thankful,
And to pray each day."
What one means
Is that we want steak
Instead of beans.
But the Father's plan
Brings greater joy
Than that of man.
III. Provision
He gives instead
The cold dark night
From which is born
Our soul's delight...
Not in the gifts
Which we may own
But in Himself
Upon the throne.
The morning comes
When we desire
Not the gifts,
Not the blessings;
But the holy fire
Consuming our hearts
With songs of praise
Adoring the beautiful
Ancient of Days
And seeking only
His wondrous face
And only then knowing
The scope of His grace.
IV. Proof
...and after all,
Isn't the source of Christmas joy
His gift of Himself - a baby boy?
Born long ago, on a cold dark night
To give the world both peace and light.
Our Savior, Redeemer, Lord and Friend:
Giving and giving, till in the end
His love poured out, full and free,
And proved itself on Calvary's tree.
In the old column I found, Dad said he was pretty sure my Mom only had two faults, although he used the word vices. In his blog this year on her birthday, he compared her to a fine wine, that she was wonderful and intoxicating. He often sings her praises, and I love to hear them.
My mom isn't the writer that dad is. She's a much more private person. But I know she loves my father just as much as he loves her. She looks to him for guidance as he looks to her. She has always told me of things that he helps her with, and what a good and godly man he is. She doesn't write about her love, but she shows it in so many little ways. The tea and conversations they have, the shirts she irons, the meals she cooks, the way she is constantly learning more about his health conditions so that she can keep him healthy. She is a source of inspiration to me in my own marriage.
This week, it's been a wonderful experience to see them as they were young, and just starting out, and compare it to how they are now. In many ways, they haven't changed. Yes, they are older, wiser, and more in love every day, but my Dad still looks at my Mom the with the same look he has in his wedding pictures: Like he can't believe how blessed he is to have her in his life. He still writes to her, and about her. It may not be poetry, at least not that I've seen, but it's beautiful nonethelesss. And my Mom? She's quietly there for him every day, in so many ways.
Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad. Thank you for the blessings we've all gained from your love and years together. I love you.
Anyway, here's my favorite wedding photo:
To someone who's still seeing that look so many years later, it's doubly beautiful.
The poem made me cry. It was written a few years after they married, and is such a perfect picture of a young couple learning to be content in what the Lord has blessed them with. That's something they still counsel young couples today. Here it is:
"A Christmas Song of Joy"
Wally Metts, Christmas, 1976
I. A Prelude
Two People Cold and alone
No job,
Away from home,
No friends nearby....
Eating spaghetti,
And wondering why
They've come to start,
A quest for a vision
That fades, it seems
With daily needs
And common things.
II. A Prayer
"Lord," we say,
"Teach us to be thankful,
And to pray each day."
What one means
Is that we want steak
Instead of beans.
But the Father's plan
Brings greater joy
Than that of man.
III. Provision
He gives instead
The cold dark night
From which is born
Our soul's delight...
Not in the gifts
Which we may own
But in Himself
Upon the throne.
The morning comes
When we desire
Not the gifts,
Not the blessings;
But the holy fire
Consuming our hearts
With songs of praise
Adoring the beautiful
Ancient of Days
And seeking only
His wondrous face
And only then knowing
The scope of His grace.
IV. Proof
...and after all,
Isn't the source of Christmas joy
His gift of Himself - a baby boy?
Born long ago, on a cold dark night
To give the world both peace and light.
Our Savior, Redeemer, Lord and Friend:
Giving and giving, till in the end
His love poured out, full and free,
And proved itself on Calvary's tree.
My parents have learned this lesson well. They strive almost daily to teach it to others. Their faith is as much a part of their love as their years together. It is what strengthens and sustains them. Well, that, and a good cup of tea. =) My Dad mentions this very thing, in one of my favorite recent blog posts.
In the old column I found, Dad said he was pretty sure my Mom only had two faults, although he used the word vices. In his blog this year on her birthday, he compared her to a fine wine, that she was wonderful and intoxicating. He often sings her praises, and I love to hear them.
My mom isn't the writer that dad is. She's a much more private person. But I know she loves my father just as much as he loves her. She looks to him for guidance as he looks to her. She has always told me of things that he helps her with, and what a good and godly man he is. She doesn't write about her love, but she shows it in so many little ways. The tea and conversations they have, the shirts she irons, the meals she cooks, the way she is constantly learning more about his health conditions so that she can keep him healthy. She is a source of inspiration to me in my own marriage.
This week, it's been a wonderful experience to see them as they were young, and just starting out, and compare it to how they are now. In many ways, they haven't changed. Yes, they are older, wiser, and more in love every day, but my Dad still looks at my Mom the with the same look he has in his wedding pictures: Like he can't believe how blessed he is to have her in his life. He still writes to her, and about her. It may not be poetry, at least not that I've seen, but it's beautiful nonethelesss. And my Mom? She's quietly there for him every day, in so many ways.
Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad. Thank you for the blessings we've all gained from your love and years together. I love you.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
All I want for Christmas... I mean Mother's Day
Last night I told my husband I wanted a sweater drying rack for Mother's Day. His pained expression reminded me of my father's when I opened kitchen towels in my stocking this past Christmas. - I was thrilled. Dad was apologetic. Last night, John's reaction was slightly outraged. "That's not a Mother's Day present!"
Maybe not, but it's what I want. Something that would make my like easier, but that I can't justify in the budget right now. (Plus it hangs over the shower rod, keeping it out of reach of both cats and small children.) And since he's going to spend money anyway.... My husband and my Father both like to give gifts that are wonderful and sweet, but not practical. They don't feel things like that belong as gifts.
My mother understands. We are both of a practical bent. There are a hundred little things more important to buy than sweater drying racks or kitchen towels - especially when a pillow and a bath towel will suffice, or the old kitchen towels still have SOME wear left in them (Although to be fair, many of them are now in the rag basket)
Now, there is a way that we could afford all those little things, and probably more (although with the cost of childcare these days, that's hard to judge), but we chose not to go that route. We made the choice to stay home with our kids. A small sacrifice worth all the kitchen towels and sweater racks in the world.
Growing up, I remember an aunt giving my Mom new bath towels. I was probably 10 or 12 at the time, so those bath towels, which I'm sure were wedding presents, were probably about 15 years old. Still usable, but getting pretty worn. Don't get me wrong, they weren't full of holes or anything, and they got us all dry, hence they just weren't really high on my Mom's list of priorities.
My mother has been drying sweaters on towels for years. She still does. Probably because, even with most of the kids out of the house, there are still other things to spend the budget on. My parents are extremely giving people, and I know that they are helping people out in ways that I can't even imagine. I only know what I see when I come home, and I am constantly impressed and inspired by the little things I see: The constant hosting of college students who come for a little taste of "home-away-from-home" and the sage advice; the gifts of Shaklee supplements to those who need it; not to mention all the things they do for their church family.
I'm not able to give much more than time for those outside my home right now, but I hope that when I grow up, I can take a page from my Mom's book, and be the gracious giver that she is - in so many ways. Although, I still may yearn for things like sweater drying racks. At least until I figure out a better way to keep the cats and kids off my wet sweaters... =)
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Teaching times.
I love my kids. As a stay at home Mom, my life revolves largely around them, and I'm totally okay with that. There are sometimes though, that I wish I was better at being their Mom.
I'm largely a task-oriented person. I like to see measurable results. The problem with being task-oriented, is that I get these ideas for organization, or I just get bit with the cleaning bug, and I just want to go until the project's done. Not really possible with a 3 year-old and an 18 month-old.
On the other hand, it's hard to resist a small face begging me to read a book, or someone needing a snuggle. This is such a crucial time to be with them and teach them. Timothy will be starting school all too soon, and Andrew's already growing up so fast! We took the side off of his crib this week, and he's learning to stay in it. I can almost see the wheels turning though: "What's the point of being able to get in and out of my bed if I'm supposed to stay there?" Oh well, it's getting better each night. Maybe soon we'll even find him asleep in the bed and not on the floor.
I keep reminding myself that Timothy is learning too. He knows his letters, he's very independent with building, and he loves to show how big he's getting. ...If only he'd potty train. I was looking back at my journal from last year, and realized it's been almost a year, off and on, that we've been working on this. At first he just wasn't ready, then we stopped because Mommy was loosing patience too easily. I have better hopes for this try, but he's still pretty resistant. It's hard for me not to get frustrated. But I guess this is a learning experience to me too. Certain things take longer for some people than others. I'm reminded all the time that this is one project that is not on my timetable, and it's going to take a lot more work than I'd prefer. But it does have measurable results. And, as my brothers can attest, it took me a long time to learn some things too (They had to eat my cooking while I learned.) One day both Timothy and I will reach our goal. He with potty training, and me with knowing how to best teach them. I'm pretty sure he'll reach his first. =)
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