Evey Wonder

"Good morning, Eve." I smile at my youngest child. The one with the wild corn-silk colored hair.

"Your face doesn't have any boogers on it," she tells me. It's her version of a compliment.

"It doesn't, huh? Well yours doesn't either." I wanted to return the favor.

This morning was church. Dan exalted that he was able to get her into a church dress.
She hates them so. I don't even know why we bother.

"I got her in that black velvet dress," he smirks.
"It's dark green," I correct him.
"No, it's black," he retorts.
"Dark green." I can play this game all day.
"Anyway, she's in it," he exclaims.

And she is. She is in a dark green velvet dress with puffy sleeves and a scallop-edged trim. The dress is exquisite with all its trim and underskirts; I'm sure it's from Nordstrom or Neiman Marcus. I don't know because I got it at a thrift store for $2.00. It was a score and I snatched it up.

My child stands looking at me with a brilliantly tailored dress, white floppy socks and silky hair which keeps flopping in her eyes. She keeps doing somersaults, revealing her Ariel underpants. I have no shoes for her except her blue lady jane sneakers and I honestly don't care.

I have always heard about people who grew up saying, "My Mom wanted me..." and then they'd finish the sentence with a heaving sigh...
... to be a piano player
... to be a figure skater
... to be a doctor
... to be a boy

And I swore to myself that that was ridiculous silliness. Why would we want to change someone?

But then I had my Evey and I caught a glimpse of the envy.

When one wrestles to have a child, I suppose that *one* might think they can pick a child who is angelic, free from sharp edges and incredibly demure.

More realistically: I suppose that the only child to make it through such a barren place would have to be a very strong child. A child whose will to live needed, well, a strong will. And that's what I got. 

When I was filling out Eve's preschool application form, one of the lines asked me to say something about Eve. Exhausted from the 40 pages of paperwork prior to that one I wrote snarkily, "Eve will never be a ballerina." And she won't. Her build is not suited for ballet. *For the record: I don't care.*

But I can tell you this: A month ago I took her roller skating for the very first time. She fell approximately 172 times and I can tell you that nearly each time she fell, she laughed hysterically. "Whoa, this is fun," she said as she scampered to her roller feet before she fell again.

She's not afraid. This child is fearless.

When she first learned to walk, one of her first "steps for mankind" was a bouncy plummet down our stairs from the second floor. She cried a bit, but not as much as you'd expect.

Eve will walk in the middle of a circle of older kids and say, "Hi, guys!" They'll say, "You're just a baby," and she'll say, "Wanna play?" Fearless.

Last year she saw her sister coming home from school via the back yard and before I could catch her, Eve ran stark naked into the school field, screaming her sister's name.

At the Christmas Eve service at our church, she didn't know the words to "Silent Night" so she put on her most solemn face and sang "Lollipop. Lollipop..." to the tune of Silent Night. Quick on her feet, that one.

She is unbridled joy, limitless energy, eternal discoverer and courage unlimited. She is the reason my head falls hard on the pillow every night and why I laugh so hard all day.

My job, as her mother, is to show her that I love her just the way she is. And since she'll probably be close to six feet tall, my other job is to show her to hold her head high, smile wide and love deeply. The nay-sayers of the world might try to snuff out her courage, but with a strong backbone I'm hoping she'll retort, "Hey guys... wanna play?"

Gray Days and Sunshine

The days after Christmas have a stunned feel to it. The crescendo of holiday hoopla has dropped off very suddenly. We're left with a full week before the new year celebration to reflect on the fact that Chicago winter is upon us, that the evenings come sooner and that we're a little unsure how looking forward to the next celebration-- Valentine's Day-- is going to make up for the gray which surrounds us.

When I have a flight scheduled on a day which is cloudy, I'm always impressed with how we ascend above the cloudline into a world which is blindingly light-giving. The sun reflects brightly off the clouds so much so that I am often forced to pull my window shade, even a little. Every time this happens I tell myself, "See? It only SEEMS like there is no sun. But beyond that cloud covering is something far more marvelous than you could have ever imagined."

In fact, when the plane descends back into cloud cover and lands on the gritty runway, I find my heart is fuller when I know that I have seen the sun; the gray doesn't bother me as much.

This year I don't anticipate having the opportunity to take that flight, but when I peruse the pictures of this past year, of the memories that beam brightest, they simulate that sun effect on me.

I see a very proud girl in a blown glass workshop.

 

I see beautiful fragility.

I see creativity.

And color.

Summer mornings.

New life.

Motherhood.

Garden pride.

Sheer joy.

Expression.

Playing with food.

Uninhibited.

Peace.

Sketches.

Little helper hands.

Summer fun.

Becoming.

Christmas Giving

We are unemployed. This is a heavy statement to make, but at Christmastime it's ten times stronger because everyone is giving, giving, giving and it's hard to be wise with money but generous in heart at the same time. Tricky.

I'm reminded of the story of Elijah and the poor widow woman. He approaches her at a time in life where she was on the brink of total deprivation of food. She can't even bake bread. She only has flour and oil. Even if you were a master chef on the Food Network you can't make anything wonderful out of two ingredients like that. "See? You dip the dusty flour in the oil and then you make a paste that will have ALL your friends asking for the recipe."

So Elijah comes to her and says, "I need water and bread." Wait... let me back up... God TOLD him to go to her in her poor state and ask this. God says, "Go to Zarephath and a widow will give you food."

So he goes. He asks. And she reveals, "As surely as the LORD God lives, I don't have any bread... only flour and a little oil. I'm gathering these sticks to take home and make a meal for me and my son that we may eat it and then die."

Translation: "Sweet mercy, stranger, I'm depressed and tired and completely depleted and you have the audacity to not only NOT help me but to ask something of me. You stink. God bless you. Off you go."

But Elijah persists because God has something wonderful planned. And every day that she gives first, her oil is never dry and her flour is always available. It's not steak and potatoes, but it's something. It's daily bread. Simple, daily bread.

So in the midst of this stretching time God suggested to me, "Hey Em... You know that fledgling business you have? Sweet Mercy Design? I want you to give the profits from some of those calendars to children." I quieted my threadbare heart and said, "Okay, fine. I'll do it." And then, amazingly, $300 came in for these children. I marveled.

I don't understand why my fantastic husband with a stellar resume is not being offered goo-gobs of jobs at his choosing, but I do know this: God is faithful to his children. So Dan and I take the flour and oil paste of our day, link arms with gaze toward God and throw some coffee down our throats for good measure. We don't have the heart to think two, three, four or six months down the road, but we do have enough for today. And for that we are thankful.

We arm our minds with encouragement from Scripture and this simple truth: God loves us.

May God quiet your fears this Christmas season. May He show you how great His love is for you. May He overwhelm you with His peace... the kind of peace that doesn't make any sense in the midst of the storm. And may He grant you the daily bread so that you may live.

Shalom.

Brilliant Hour

It's two o'clock in the morning.

I'm supposed to be sleeping, but my mind is still racing from the past 4 hours I spent in a local emergency room.

Before I continue: I'm fine, Mom. Don't call.

Arriving at the E.R. at 10pm, I honestly thought I would be the only one there. But there was a mass of humanity at that hour that I did not expect.

There was "punched in the face" guy who insisted on calling all his loved ones even though his swollen lips could barely speak a word. A lot of drama with that one.

There was "I love chasing my toddler" woman ... whose little one ran away from her at least 20 times, laughing all the while. The slowness to her steps betrayed her tiredness of the game.

There was "marijuana shirt" girl.

There was "I will do anything to help my son" man.

There were two bajillion people with the flu there and I did my best to stand in a corner far, far away from all of them.

I tried my best to shun the very, very cliché and overly trying-to-be-art hanging on the walls. Call me snobby, but it was hideous and I think it was intentionally so: They don't want us loitering, after all. 

I did have the opportunity to answer the ever-prickly "Do you work" question. "Yes," I said sweetly, "I'm a stay at home mom." And the lady registering my information gave me that knowing look of respect; I can only imagine she has two little ones at home pulling her hair out.

And, as luck would have it, all my killer symptoms seemed to disappear when the doctor entered the room. He did his best to make my condition look worse than it was, but at the end of the day, I can pop a few pills to make them, hopefully, disappear.

I distinctly remember him asking, "On a scale of 1 to 10, how much pain are you experiencing?"
"I would say... a 'four,'" I told him frankly.
He wasn't amused. "A four? You don't need to be worried about that level of pain."
"Yes," I said, "but I need to save the 'ten' for childbirth-type pain."
He smiled at that one. I was happy to amuse this midnight doctor; it will help to quell the pain of the doctor bill later.
"But I was funny," I will tell my husband as he furrows his brow at the hospital bill.

I was a little humiliated because the symptom that I thought was going to lead me into surgery tonight turned out to be far less evil than anticipated. I quieted my pride and thanked God that it was so.  The doctor gave it a "grown up" sounding name and some official paperwork with a script to make me feel less like a whiny patient.

At the end of the day, I saw humanity. And I prayed for them. I prayed for the teenage boy groaning. I prayed for the weary parents running after their toddlers. I thanked God that I didn't have to bring my own entertainment, aka- "Eve." And while I didn't like the mauve-flavored artwork in room 21, I did enjoy the wallpaper, so I focused on that instead.

All in all, a good night.

Now: Good night.

Reflections

I don't know why I subscribe to magazines.

They are so tantalizing with their glossy pages and perfect images and drama free cooking. The people look shinier and the food looks yummier. I enter that world and get lost in the beauty of it all.

But I know it's fake. I know about the lighting tricks and the makeup artists. I've seen those special articles about how they Photoshop someone to make them look more amazing than they are in real life.

I still have that annoying ache in my heart for perfection.

Recently I had this revelation about how I perceived my home. I was shooting away on my Canon camera when I saw a reflection of my dining room in a mirror. Just a reflection. It was fleeting, but in that moment I saw color and light and beauty and I thought, "Wow, that sure is a happy house." And then I had to laugh because I made that and I didn't even know it.

When I was studying fine art in college, our art teacher had us play tricks on the left side of our brain in order to let the right side of our brain engage. Apparently the left side of the brain is known for logic and math; it's also very bossy and dominant. In order to get into "right brain" mode, we would often "deactivate" the left side of the brain.

One way to do this is to draw the negative space. The negative space is the space in between objects. In order to draw the chair above, for example, one would focus on the white space in between the rungs instead of the wooden chair. In this way, the left side of the brain couldn't take over and say, "That is a chair." The right side of the brain would reply, "We're not drawing a chair. We're drawing interesting shapes around that object which you call a 'chair.'" The most important reason for this is to draw the object in perspective and in proportion. It works; believe me. The drawing is much more accurate when you draw this way.

So when I was snapping away happily on my camera the other day, I realized that by seeing my life through a mirror image, I was much more happy with what I saw. It took some of the negativity away. I was able to see the "in between" space. It helped me see things from a perspective I hadn't seen before.

Have you ever had a day where you're totally irritated with, say, your children... and then you pop them in the car and look at them in the rear view mirror and think, "Aw, how cute. I'm so lucky"? Same concept.

So put down your Better Homes or Food Network magazines. Grab a mirror. Look at the world anew. You'll be amazed.

Bacon Goodness

Last night as I was preparing dinner, I discovered that
BACON + NEEDY PRESCHOOLER + FACEBOOKING MOMMA= amazing light effect.

Here's how this evening went down: It was 4pm. The sun was beginning its ridiculously early descent into the horizon, spilling sharp shards of light across the walls. My blond haired preschooler, previously known as "Eve",  turned into a Gremlin like she does every day at 4pm, demanding dinner and snacks and cookies and treats.

I mentally linked arms with all the other mothers of the world enduring the witching hour. To the uninitiated, the "witching hour" is the period of time when supernatural creatures have their greatest power. So by default when you refuse to give food, undivided attention or cookies to someone who is less than 6 years of age, they will use their power and it will most certainly be used AGAINST you.

I didn't have any wine that night. A single glass of wine is usually my "go to" comfort of choice to drown out the unnecessary squalling of my wee one. A little wine helps with the Little Whine. Go ahead, laugh.

But there was no wine to be had.

So I made bacon.

I didn't make bacon to replace the wine, but if I may say, chomping happily on a smoked meat during witching hour produces some really amazing endorphins... ESPECIALLY if you tell your children, "No, you may not have any bacon," and then hypocritically sneak some yourself. It's an adrenaline rush.

My smaller counterpart, however, would not be distracted from her original mission: to create an "anti-ambiance"...

... so I fled to go Facebooking in the office.

I should not have fled because... because I left some bacon on the stovetop and had forgotten how quickly that thin sliced meat likes to char. Happily Facebooking for a few minutes, I stopped suddenly. My "mommysense" was tingling... THE BACON! I bolted out of the office and entered a smoky fog in my kitchen. My fire alarm began to chirp and then squeal as if I stepped on its tail.

When the smoke died down and the alarm silenced, I saw this scene. (See photo.) "Am I in heaven?" I thought. But then I saw the pile of laundry and knew that I wasn't. Stripes of sun flirted with bacon fog. My humble Christmas tree took on an aura of other-worldliness. I swear I heard "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" but then I realized that the only heralding in my house was coming from a spry almost-4 year old.

I smiled, took some pics and fed the squaller. I gave her bread. She quieted down and I redeemed the evening by making the rest of the packaged bacon into a perfect golden brown.

All was right in the world.

Not Math

Dear Morgan,

You love drawing, writing stories and playing "store" with your sister.
But you hate math.

You love showing compassion to people, decorating your room with art and listening to music.
As long as it isn't math.

Even though you rock the reading at school and act clowny at home, nothing can change your mind.
About math.

I know that right now it makes no sense to you. From your vantage point, there is nothing emotional or creative about mathematics. But hear me out. You're going to want to know this when:

Some guy asks you out to coffee and you're not sure if he's paying or not. When he whips out a bill that is greater or smaller than the amount, you'll get an idea. That's math.

When a sleepy-eyed cashier doesn't see that the item you bought was actually on sale, you can kindly and deftly bring it to their attention.

When you're counting the days to Christmas. Or homecoming. Or graduation.

When you make your first cake all by yourself (from scratch). Half cups of sugar. Whole cups of flour. That's math. It's also science, but let's just focus on the math part.

When you decide to start a little cottage industry business. And suddenly your twinkly, swirly, sparkly dream needs addition and multiplication in order to make the best decision for your business to grow... Well, there's math again.

There are times when you will have the ability to use math, but you shouldn't.

When you are up in the night nursing your newborn and your bleary eyes see 2:13AM blinking on the digital clock, it's okay to take note, but it won't make you feel better to calculate how many hours of sleep you might get. Plus, it's spotty at best. Don't do the math then.

When you see a friend in need who asks for a couple bucks, just give it to them. Don't expect it back. It's best to keep your friendship.

When your heart is broken because of all the hours you have sunk into a project or a person or a thought that didn't work at all like you expected. Math really won't help there, either.

Here's what I predict: One magical day, all your strengths and weaknesses are going to bond together such that you won't even KNOW which ones are your strengths and weaknesses anymore. You'll be so adept at math and science and art and friend-making that you'll have to scratch your head to remember WHY you hated math in the first place.

And on that day, I want you to call me from your spaceship phone. As you count the stars and galaxies. As you count the beautiful friends surrounding you. And as you count the miles from home, I want you to smile and tell me, "Mom, I don't hate math."

The View from Here

When you go to a public place and don't know where you are, it's always a relief to see a large, backlit map in the middle of said public place and that little red triangle which reads "You are Here".

It doesn't say "You are lost."
It doesn't say "You really messed up."
It doesn't even say, "Are you really going to wear that?"

It simply lets you know, "You are here."

Unemployment is a lot like that sticker. There is a vague feeling of unrest, always checking the map to see where we're supposed to be headed. And when we repeatedly ask God, "Where are we going?" the answer is often, "You are here."

There are several rules to unemployment. Nobody tells you these rules; you have to figure them out on your own.

1. Every day is Monday. And every day is Friday.
Every day feels like a combination of studying for a big exam and having an enormous, unplanned day-long vacation. Exams are okay when you know that there is a semester's end in sight. And vacays are more fun when you feel a sense of control. For instance: Knowing that you actually planned the vacation for a set period of time and knowing that your employer was paying for that vacation. But when each day feels like both, it's okay to feel confused. That's natural.

2. It's Important to Have Goals.
It may not seem like much, but if you let your sense of enthusiasm atrophy,  you're bound to look flabby during interviews. So do things that drive you. Do day long projects for which you can only eat lunch in 5 minutes because you're SO busy. Clean an entire basement. Read the longest novel you can find, the one you usually use as a door stop during summer winds. Do something-- anything-- to remind yourself what it feels like to be employed, to be busy. That way, when you arrive at an interview there will be a flush of life pulsing through your face showing yourself to be healthy, motivated and strong.

3. Face the Worst, Hope for the Best.
I have a friend who says that when you face the very worst that can happen and realize that God is STILL there, there is no place for fear. So face the worst. Think about it. Have a rough plan. But then lift all your cares to God, being thankful for his love for you. God loves to give good gifts to his children.

Do not worry about tomorrow. Worry does not improve you or your situation. If you feel fear creeping into your mind, remind yourself of the prayer that Jesus taught us, the one which told us to ask for our daily bread. We do not live in tomorrows, only todays.

Then smile. After all, "You are here."

Ode to Age

Somewhere in life... probably when I turned 35, I decided that I didn't need to fight for significance anymore.

I didn't need to fight to be prettiest. Or smartest. Or most funny. Or most talented designer. Or most domestic.

I just said, "Enough."

I took an inventory of what was important to me, of what made my colors sing strongest.

I embraced my strengths and weaknesses.
I laid down my weapons of anger and said, "Well, others may choose that path, but not me." I took hate's energy and started sewing aprons and potholders. Hate became joy. And color.

I acknowledged my losses, my unknown babies, and I fought for joy in their name. There's no better way to honor the life of a loved one than to live as brilliantly as possible.

I stopped thinking "What will people think" and I just said, "I want to do this, to put this color here, to make this shape, to say this word. I want to be this person."

The path has been kind of winding... I thought I wanted to sew but then I realized that what I really enjoyed was being around beautiful fabric designs and beautiful people. Bold designs. Pure designs. Kind people. True people.

I don't want to be the person who puts down other designers. I want to be encouraging and real. Truthful and celebratory. God knows how thirsty this world is for truth and kindness and life-giving colors.

So I do it. I delight. And I'm thankful for my fellow journey takers.

Beautiful Redemption

I am one of those people who always cringes when people tell you WHY you should be happy because your life is SO MUCH BETTER than... and then they describe a very tragic story about someone and you're supposed to feel bad about being ungrateful. When the point of the story is tragedy, it leaves no room for redemption.

Those stories have never made me feel gratitude or lead me to happiness. And it makes me feel badly for the person who is the subject of the story... as if their life is not able to be touched by beauty and redemption, as if they are not allowed to see beauty because circumstances have dictated it.

"Sorry, someone told a sad story about you and now you will always be defined by that story. No joy for you."

Sorry, you have a disease. Now that disease is on your business card, passed around for all to see.
Sorry, you can't have babies. Everything in your life will be barren now.
Sorry, you have been abandoned. Tattoo "lonely" on your forehead.

Hogwash.

Rubbish.

Untruth.

For years, I had long accepted the titles of
"Emily whose parents are divorced" and
"Emily whose womb is uncooperative"...
but I never found those titles to stick to me because God has a redemptive plan in my life.

Recently I have been quite sick, have relinquished control of my daughter's learning disability and am trying to emotionally support a husband who went to work happily 3 weeks ago and came home unemployed due to a massive reduction in force at his office.
My old ways want to say, "C'mon. Be a victim. Wear the suffering."

But God says something different. He says he wants to lavish gifts on me even more than my earthly parents. He says that he can turn ashes into beauty. 

What does this redemption look like? For me, I like to design.

I'm working on 12 designs to be a calendar for my fledgling company, Sweet Mercy Design. I had hoped to have been working on these designs for 8 months. But life became more complicated than expected. I have 6 weeks to complete this work.

My spare time is little and yet God's Spirit is stirring the waters of creativity in me such that I can hardly drive or run or speak or cook without seeing designs everywhere around me, spilling into my dreams and rendering me almost intoxicated on beauty.

When I stop to measure the responsibilities around me I hear God's voice say, "When has worry ever improved you?" and I say, "Never, not ever" and He says, "Design, child! Design!" and so I do.

He pulls me up again and again by His Spirit and says, "Emily, there is beauty still. Do not be defined by these ugly things. My fingerprint is everywhere. Find beauty there."

I shun the ugly. I pursue the beautiful. And I lean on the truth.

________________________________________

Matthew 7:11 " If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!"
 
Isaiah 61:1-3 "The Spirit of the Lord is on me... to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.

Enter the Story

Dear Daughters,

I am now 38 years old. By the time you read this, I will be much older. And by the time it really penetrates your heart... well... that's up to you and if you listen to the experiences in your life.

Over the past years I have found that there are certain people in my life who have become extra close friends. Each friendship began with an introduction, often awkward. "Hello my name is..." followed by sweet inquiries from where one came. Maybe talk of a favorite restaurant. Most relationships will dwindle and stay at the pleasant "Hello, how are you?" stage. Don't despair...if we're honest, our hearts can't hold hundreds of close friendships anyway.

But the ones who rise to the surface... the friendships that steal our hearts from the ordinary... those are the ones worth noting.

I have done a rough inventory of my friendships. It sounds mathematical and cold, I know. But stay with me.

When I consider the friends who have truly penetrated my life, they are the ones who have stopped talking about themselves and started asking questions of me. And they are the ones of whom I want to ask questions as well. I want to live vicariously through their vacation stories and get misty eyed over the birth of their children. I want to laugh at their idiosyncrasies and have them tease me about mine.

They are the ones who listen. Who don't just "hear" my story about getting my child to sleep and then volley back information about themselves. No, they are the ones who set aside their storehouse of knowledge, tell the left side of their brain to "hush" a minute and ask great questions. Questions about feelings and moments. And then... then they respond with great facial expressions and hearty laughs and quiet pauses.

In essence, they enter the story.

I can't tell you how important it is to enter the story of life.

In fact, if you meet people in life who don't have a lot of friends, I challenge you to see how they communicate, to see if they allow themselves to enter into the minds and shoes of another person while that person tells a memory. If they're eager to quip a story back, it's clear that they're not living in the moment or reading the pages.

Here's how you know when you're entering the story: You feel it. You listen to the details and immerse yourself in their memory. You offer "you must have felt elated" or "wow, that must have hurt."

Your closest friends will want to enter your story. And you will want to enter theirs. It won't be a burden. As you become closer, you'll get to the point where you will anticipate their reaction to something and laugh at it. I can't tell you how many times I have found myself in a curious situation and thought, "Sweet mercy, this is ridiculous and hilarious. I cannot wait to tell my friend about it."

The reason that entering the story is so special and important, precious daughters, is because it will help you to know yourself and to get beyond yourself at the same time. Finding a friend who is willing to be a mirror, to reflect your fears or joys and show you other facets of something you believe to be true... that is very valuable.

Sometimes it will hurt to enter the story. In fact, during one period of my life where my womb wouldn't cooperate with bringing a baby into the world, I found myself unable to celebrate the pregnancies of my friends. It utterly paralyzed me. If these people are truly your friends, grace will cover.

Conversely, when you have a cheerleader in your life who encourages you during life's difficulties, sheds some light on the gray areas and bursts with excitement at your achievements, well, congratulations, they are a friend worth keeping.

Some of my favorite friends are my husband and my mother. I'm so grateful to both of them for making my story richer and more truthful.

I'm not sure who these friends will be for you. I see inklings of who they could be.


With some practice, I'm hoping you'll consider me one of that number.

I have been married twelve years now. And while that may seem to be a drop in the bucket compared to, say, my grandparents, it's still something worth noting.

During weddings, star-struck brides and grooms often leaves scraps of paper in pews or on reception tables asking their guests for them marital advice.

The advice ranges from

"Don't sweat the small stuff"

to

"Do one sweet thing for each other every week"

 My personal favorite is: "You can't be naked and angry at the same time" and I make sure to always write this because it is funny and truthful.

When my daughters *hopefully* marry one day, I intend to give them this advice, however:
"Speak kindly and sincerely to one another."

While our dozen years of matrimony hardly makes us experts, I will say that over that span of time, Dan has shown me how to communicate.

We don't yell in our house.

Let me qualify: We spouses don't yell at each other. I bark at the children on occasion and they return the favor. But spouse yelling matches don't occur in our house because Dan Dykstra declared it so when we were first married.

I know because I tried to yell at him when we were newly married and he calmly said, "We don't do that in our house, Emily."  *Gulp*

Those manners that we learned as children... "Please", "Thank you", "Pardon me"... They go far in marriage.

If I am in Dan's way in the kitchen, he'll say things like, "Excuse me, hon."

If a spouse is unaware that they are standing in a busy hallway, the other one will lightly touch the back of the other and say, "Pardon me."

I'm pleased as punch that my three year old has begun to say "pardon me" as she barrels through people. It's a step in the right direction.

I don't have a magic wand as to what marriages work and how they do so and why some turn out great and others disintegrate.

But I do know that Dan is a gift to me. A precious gift. And God willing, I will always treat him as one.

'Mater Matters

A pile of years ago, I stood in a hallway with Dan Dykstra at Calvin College. I was immensely smitten with him and hung on virtually every word he said.

"I never eat tomatoes until summer," he said. Actually he pontificated. Dan had an entire argument set against eating tomatoes that were stripped from maturing, labeled as "tomatoes" (since you couldn't tell by their peachy-pink color) and sold to unsuspecting, or uncaring, institutions.

He gave me this monologue as we stood in front of the cafeteria. I remember.

I remember because every March when I plan my garden, I make sure to include at least 6 tomato plants in order to satisfy his Calvin College speech to me. And because I love to see his eyes get big when we cut into a really red-ripe Big Beef.

Each year I make selections for my garden in the late winter. I buy seeds and map out how I want to arrange them. I don't create the layout because I am organized. The layout is necessary because I need to make sure that at least 6 tomatoes plants have room. I also do it because it helps me press through the cold, unfeeling, un-tomato months.

At the first sign of spring, I go to my local home improvement store and scan it for plants. "They're not here, yet, ma'am...," they'll explain, "Next week." I continue to drop in to the store which smells of potting soil and mulch samples, anxious for the plants to arrive.

Almost overnight an army of plants appear in the store. They're small, green, scrappy and uninspiring. It takes a bit of hope to see how such a fledgling plant will overcome its weed-like appearance and become a wonderful, productive vegetation. I read the plastic informational stakes they stick in each plant. Each year I hope for one that will produce tomatoes in June, but no such luck. Slow, steady growth is required.

The yellow flowers transform into pale green orbs which begin to blush before they turn fiery red.

Picking a tomato off the plant is immensely satisfying. When a ripe tomato catches my eye, I slide my hand under its heavy weight. I pull slightly to see if it is ready to yield. I twist it gently and feel its warmth fall into my palm. I bring it inside to the kitchen and set it on the sill of my window.

I don't like cold tomatoes. Warm tomatoes are juicier and richer.

When you eat a tomato-laden sandwich, there are certain unsaid rules. First, the moment is somewhat holy because these harvests from summer are so special. Talking isn't necessary.

Second, if you do try to talk while eating a sandwich, it won't be pretty. You can't hide the juices when you eat them. They soak in the bread of crusty sandwiches, they drip pale coral colored juice down your fingers. If you chomp into them properly, there is no room for Emily Post; manners are futile in this situation.
In fact, one might say that if a person invites you to eat a summer-ripe tomato sandwich with them, they must feel awfully comfortable with you. It's not a "first date" meal, as Dan would say. Other food that fall in the "non-first-date-meal" category are baby back ribs, s'mores and candy apples.

This afternoon, Dan and I came home from church and slapped together some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for our girls. Our daughters don't share our affinity for tomatoes, so no tomato sandwiches for them.

We toasted some crusty bread. We don't need to talk when we make these sandwiches. Twelve years of marriage does that to a couple.

We cut the tomatoes and Dan put coarse cracked pepper on them. He assembled the sandwiches and waited outside on our patio with the food. We eat together. To be honest, however, Dan has already made a sandwich a few minutes earlier, swallowed it whole, probably felt guilty (or hungry) and made another.

Even so, he waited.

We ate. We relished in summer. We sat back, satisfied, knowing that summer tomatoes are still coming.

Ode to August

I'm immersed in summer.

Schedules are loose. Only a suggestion, really.

We rely on energy levels and weather to tell us what to do that day.

It's a respite from the sounds of school bells.

We eat lunch at a different time each day. But we start each day the same: with quietness, reading, coffee and conversation. 6:30am coffee and conversation. Beautiful.

I shun things that look like paperwork. I laugh at the intricacies of insurance companies. I play their game for now. I only vaguely remember the harried season of school days just 2 months ago.

Friends are eager for their children to be in school. But this is Chicago. We need to soak in every last pool day and sun-drenched morning. We need to resist looking at winter coats in catalogs. Pretend we live on an island. A very, very hot island. Winter is never coming. It is only warm every day.

It's time to quiet the mind before fall returns. Unplug.

Five Things, Four Ways

Things I Do Well:
- Play "taco" with Eve... I hold her in my arms, legs on one side, head on the other and let her bum drop down so she is the shape of a taco. Then I ask her what she wants on her taco "Cheese, hamburgers, lollipops" as I pretend to put on ingredients and then chomp her up.
- Laugh at Morgan's jokes. She's hilarious. She's almost as funny as Dan.
- Connect emotionally. It oozes from me. Can't be helped. It irritates some people. :)
- Make cookies. 
- Have coffee with Dan in the morning. He's a joy to listen to.

Things I Don't Do Well:
- Exercise with regularity. *sigh*
- Plan laundry, cleaning and dinner making. I don't like schedules but I need them. So I flounder.
- Read. I SHOULD read more, but don't.
- Watch TV.
- High levels of details. I like to be simpler.

Things That Make Me Sad:
- How the sam heck am I going to lose these last 10 pounds?
- When I get mad at people for doing small, selfish things. It seems I can handle big, ugly things in life better than small, vain, irritating things.
- Rotten veggies in my fridge. :( Sorry, veggies.
- When I think badly about myself; Most of this has come from being a stay at home mom. Chaos does not make me feel successful. Or loving. Or smart.
- When people like to be victims in life. No matter what you say or do, victims love to be unhappy and to be hurt. I don't get it.

Things That Make Me Feel Happy:
- When I start the day trusting God for how the hours will unfold.
- When I make a pie.
- When I kick butt in my workout.
- When I finish something. Like my design collection. Or iron Dan's shirts. I love doing both.
- When a friend says something to build me up.

From Maryland

I just returned from a two week visit to Maryland.

There is nothing, absolutely nothing wrong with living in Chicagoland. It's perfectly wonderful. I can enjoy rural or urban life easily. I can get my groceries from at least 6 stores. Our school district is very good. But when your heart longs for another place, you'll find yourself saying bad things about certain situations, even if they are good.

For example: 
Last summer my family had a delightful vacation to South Haven, Michigan. I love beach towns. I grew up working at the beach. It's in my blood. At one point I remember telling my daughters, "This is a lake. It has no waves. It's not a real beach. One day I'll show you an ocean."

Yes, that was a direct stab at landlocked midwest. I love where I live here in Chicagoland. But try as it might to woo me, I am an east coast girl at heart.

Another factor in my visit was probably my parents' divorce. Even two years after the closing of that chapter, I find myself trying to cobble together some understanding of what just happened. Of how a loving, tight family became a scattered tribe. I still can't fully swallow the word "divorce"; it hangs in my throat like a broken Dorito.

I went back to Maryland to show my children an ocean, to remind myself where I came from, to eat picnic food with my really great family, and to celebrate the "new normal" of a life where parents have two different homes.

I didn't tell my children about my agenda.
I told my 8 year old that we were visiting family.
I told my 3 year old that we were going to the beach. She hopped right into the car.

I can't fully explain what happened in Maryland, but somehow the air and the food and the laughter of all the people I saw filled my cup.

I had a wonderful time with my dad at the Chesapeake Bay, where a scant half dozen children ran in and out of the house, wood screen door slamming, as they played in water and got stung by jellyfish. The laughter was thick, the mothers who watched them were tired and my dad, who went by the name "Captain Mike" took the children on rafts and boat rides and even offered a kayaking lesson.

I saw my friend Lauren who made me immediately jealous that she has gotten more beautiful over the past 10 years. Her eyes became bluer and her laugh became richer. We had forgotten the years between us.


I saw my friend Patti, who was one my marriage mentors. She said a great deal of wisdom in the few hours I was with her. She encouraged me as a mother with her gracious words. She smiled on my 3 year old who cried for nearly 20 minutes when we arrived. And since Patti's children (a bit older) are gracious and accomplished, confident and transparent, I saw how her words became, well, people. Amazing people.

I listened to my friend Rheba's journey in life with illness. And how she refuses to let it hold her down.

I watched my Dad's side of the family as they scooped up my children, made them laugh, let them share their feelings and told them family stories.

I delighted as my husband and daughters saw how my Mom's side of the family requires the dessert table to be almost bigger than the entree table. I watched as my daughters were effortlessly brought into the fold, laughing with relatives they just met as if they knew them all their life.

And then...we had Hawaiian shaved ice at Brian and Renee's house. Get this: They have a shaved ice machine in their basement. They bought it after they honeymooned in Hawaii. It rained most of the time they were there, so they ate shaved ice the whole time to enjoy the time. Essentially they redeemed a bad vacation into kitschy fun and now... now they're hooked on shaved ice and spreading the word to their 3 darling children and anyone else who will try it. 

I ate crabs. Eve says they are "berry ouchy" and also "gross" but at least she saw them.

I tried fried Oreos and fried Twinkies on the Ocean City, Maryland boardwalk.
I won't eat friend Oreos again, but I dream of the Twinkies.

We drove home the long way so I could try Jeni's Splendid Ice Creams. Food became art. I tried Lavender ice cream. Lavender! It tasted like a spring day. My husband, who is selfless and kind, was eyeing my Chocolate Cayenne ice cream with big, big eyes. "Go ahead, have it," I told him. "You sure?" he said, spoon ready.

My heart is full.
The scale in my bathroom is unkind.
My memories are refreshed.

I came home tired, but renewed, knowing who I was.

Of Numbers and Letters

To my Daughters:

In the course of life you will be assigned buckets of numbers.

You have your social security numbers.
Bank account numbers.
Birthdates.
Birth weights.
IQ.
School ID numbers.


There's your age and your income and your phone numbers. You'll see numbers whiz past your life like the digits on the gasoline pump, rising and flying and growing.

Everywhere you go, people will ask you for your credit card number. You, in turn, will grant them your credit card number in exchange for more numbers.


Friends will ask you for numbers in order to determine what time to meet you for coffee. You'll exchange phone numbers and clock numbers ("Is 3pm okay?") in order to meet.


There's nothing wrong with numbers in and of themselves. For all I know one of you might become an accountant and numbers will be your livelihood. I'm not discounting the importance of numbers.

But I will say this: If you feel that your name-- you know the one that I carefully selected with your father?-- If your name starts to become erased and the letters in your name begin to become replaced with grade point averages or income levels, then you'll know that numbers are ruling your life.


Your name was given to you at birth. Whether you like your name or not doesn't matter. What DOES matter is that the letters that make up your name reflect what you do, who you are and what choices you make. When your friends string together that special combination of letters that forms your name and they smile upon hearing it, then you know you're on the right path.


I'm not sure why numbers win so often. Within minutes people can size others up by their weight, their income level and their material possessions. Perhaps it's easier to get to know someone by adding numbers or subtracting numbers rather than getting to know the person. I'm just not sure.

I do know that when I let my life be defined by riches, I felt impoverished in soul. And when I let God take my income to places I'd never considered before, I was glad of heart. This is one reason I am a stay at home mother. You two enrich my life more than all the acclaim I could receive in a corporate setting.



When you meet a new person and they introduce themselves to you, repeat their name three times in your head. Say it out loud to them as well. Say, "Wow, Lisa, it's so nice to meet you." And then as your friendship grows, watch how they make a simple arrangement of letters turn into a life, into choices... hopefully good ones.


If someone wants to compete numerically with you, disqualify yourself as soon as possible.
It's never worth it.
Not for respect.
Not for money.
Not for boys or friends or things.
Nothing.

Do not be ashamed of the numbers in your life.
Don't be ashamed of weight. Don't ever talk badly about your body.
Even after giving birth. Scratch that-- ESPECIALLY after giving birth.
Don't be ashamed of your height. You are both going to be taller than me. Hold your head high.
Any number that is associated with you, beam brighter than those digits.


Become more than numbers.
Be letters.
Be yourself.

Diary of a Mother

I am in the thick of motherhood.
And every single one of my other friends with young children can relate to the term "thick".

I'm not saying this to receive praise or pity. It just is.

And so I don't forget what the "thick" looks like, I'll document it so I remember.
This is not to make me sound important or whiny or busy or incredible. It just is.

It. Just. Is.

Yesterday woke up with great plans to do sewing with Morgan (who had a day off).
Woke up darling, crazy-haired Eve. Love her hugs.
Marveled at how beautiful Morgan is, especially her beautiful heart.
Said goodbye to wonderful mother and father in law who visited for the weekend.
Wished they could stay.
Folded laundry with children. Talked with them. Talked at them.
Eve went upstairs and took all the clean washclothes she could find, put them in a sink and filled them with water. Left them there. Then she took liquid soap and "fed" my plant.
I found them when I was supposed to be off for the gym.
Don't leave wet things around; we have a moth problem and moths like moist things... I think.
Eve wets pants. Convince Eve she needs to have her pants changed. Bribe Eve. Commit to fully potty training her after the MOPS Garage Sale. Commit! Commit!
Now we're off to the gym.
Really enjoyed Morgan's conversation. Something about how people who are in game shows who don't win should get Starbucks gift cards. Her idea. We don't even watch game shows. (?)
Went to gym. Enjoyed new Katie Herzig songs while I worked out. Still trying to get back in the swing of working out since the car collision/whiplash thing.
Went to McDs to get lemonade for children. "We only serve Strawberry Lemonade, ma'am... the icy kind."
Me, baptizing new car in Strawberry Lemonade sludge as I divide it for children. Note to self: Bad idea. Very bad idea.
Off to Lowes to buy plants for our veggie garden. Girls picked some beauties.
Came home to plant garden. After 2 minutes of starting said venture, daughter #1 immediately declares "I hate summer. I hate bugs" and bails on mission. We have a chat and start over.
Eve is in need of a pants change again but is happily playing at the water table.
Water table= Best investment ever.
Girls go inside for "quiet time" and I call back insurance guy. Who needs me to call medical billing. Then insurance guy again. Then medical billing again. Insurance guy recommends hiring attorney.
My brain begins to vomit about needing mulch in yard, needing to mow yard, need fence repaired, need to wear orthodontic retainer, need to fix A/C unit and many other things.
Blue eyed, wild haired child invites me to play on swingset. I go to second level of playset with her, grimace at the one piece of rotting wood and draw with her. I have her sit in my lap and feel her wispy hair tickle my chin. We're drawing. I'm happy. I'm happy to hold her in my lap for a little while. Such a treasure. She goes to collect more treasures and bring them up. "Don't leave, Mommy," she warns. I don't leave. I don't want to go in the house. The phone keeps ringing. I'm safe here.
We have leftovers for dinner.
We marvel at the funny little floppy headed baby robins in our pergola. That mother must be exhausted from feeding them.
Dan and I put the children in bed and head into bed at 8:30.
I dream of living on a desert island with my family.
Oh yeah, do sewing with Morgan some day.
Love my family.

Communicator 2000

Today I am showing you my brand new, never been seen "Eve Communicator 2000." It's made of chipboard, Velcro® and pictures which I printed at home and "laminated" by covering them with lots of tape.

Very fancy schmancy.

The "Eve Communicator" is one strategy (among many) that we're using to help our daughter understand what she needs to do. She's often looking into outer space or running aimlessly around the house. The only time we REALLY get her attention without the use of strategies is when we say "LOLLIPOP!" which causes her to run with great haste to us.



So here's how it works. When I need Eve to get ready to go on errands, I show her the socks, shoes and car images. I say, "Eve, FIRST we are going to get socks. NEXT we are going to get shoes. THEN we will get in the car."

I have printed other images which I can also use to show her the order of what we're doing and what to expect next.

She's not jazzed about errands, but the communicating device has been somewhat helpful. And at this point, I don't even care that it looks like something that belongs in the recycling bin, I'm just glad to communicate clearer with Eve and see her respond.

This morning, for example, I dropped her off at the gym. I showed her the socks, shoes and car images. It took some time, but she did follow through.

You know, sometimes being a parent means taking a page out of God's plan, shedding our skin and becoming someone else. It means remembering that in order to communicate with others, sometimes it helps to get in their shoes, learn their language, get inside their schedule and their head.

In this case, it means that I should be listening to the big blue eyed girl who keeps asking, "Wan build tower, Mom? Wan build tower?" and then building a tower 17 times and watching the little girl dance with glee when she knocks it down every single time.

I'm not doing it because it's my cup of tea.

I'm doing it because she is mine.

Mommy Manifesto

"Excuse me, Mrs. Dykstra... Are you missing any income as a result of this car collision?"

"I'm a stay-at-home-Mom."

"Okay, good."

_____________________________________

I take the emotional temperature of my family; when they need to rest, I try to provide that.

I listen to the coughs of my children at night and pray for them.

I recognize the abilities and inabilities of my children and push them to their appropriate success limits.

I shed the negativity of this world on a daily basis and direct the gaze of my children to the good in life.

I let my children express their personalities as much as I am able; their rooms are full of murals and mayhem.

I don't listen to the evening news. I declare dance parties when evenings start to become humdrum.

I pray for my friends making sure to leave room for my home team.

I cry at every TV show that shows a birth story, remembering that being a mother has been the most significant thing that has ever happened to me.

I continue to design with all my might, recognizing that my designs brought healing to my life and might offer the same to someone else.

I dance the delicate line of knowing when to save my family money and when it's best to loosen the purse strings so that they can enjoy something special.

I refuse to serve yucky food.

I choose my battles every day, taking care that no one gets caught in the cross fire. Battles about fashion have decreased 99% since my eldest was born.

I have set aside my aspirations for a magazine-ready photo shoot of my home. Nothing matches anymore and most of my worldly possessions are sticky, broken or lost.

My heart takes flight when my 8 year old tells me about a boy; I pray that she'll always feel carefree enough to tell me about this.

My three year old pushes me to the limits of my own selfish core; she is the reason I am graying. She is also the reason that I can't stop loving and dancing and giving and living.

I save my energy for the most important people in my life; I shun drama queens because they cost too much energy.

I still can't figure out the propensity of midwest women to just "grin and bear" life. But I'm trying to fit in as best I can.

Wooing the most handsome and funny man in the world is one of my best accomplishments.

I pretend like the tall grasses of the midwest are ocean waves; I'm acutely aware that I am and always will be a transplant to the midwest.

There are always 12 thoughts running in my mind at any given time. I struggle to be "present" in any situation.

I don't receive an income for any of my work but feel compelled to do what I'm doing for the health of my family. I don't care if women are working in or outside the home; they know in their hearts if what they are doing is best for their family.

I never say I'm JUST a stay at home mother because the word "JUST" diminishes the value of a person by 97%.

So, no, I haven't lost any income.

Motherhood: It's the best job I was never hired for.

Kryptonite

In which I speak of my Kryptonite.

Life is very busy lately. We were averaging 2-3 medical appointments a week to clear up some recurring issues with my health and Eve's health.

And as any mother of young children knows, there are enough joys and duties to fill one's day without the doctor visits. I'm eager to get these health issues cleared up.

And then, of all things, last week an individual rear-ended us while we were stopped for an ambulance. I have to laugh when I think of the irony in that statement.

In any case, as soon as the truck hit us and I heard the terrible "crunch" sound of cars colliding, I immediately thought, "Ugh. Insurance forms and phone calls." (Is that weird that that was my FIRST thought?)

Eve doesn't remember the collision. If she could remember the day better, she would tell you that she got a lot of gum that day and toys. To be fair, I didn't MEAN to give her an entire pack of gum to eat, but I was talking with the officer and she found it in my purse. Three year olds crack me up with their resourcefulness. The toys were meant for another time but I knew the hours in the emergency room would be better spent if she was distracted.

The point of all this is that my mind is completely full of insurance jargon and feeding the faces of my family  and just living life.

And yet...

...while I take a few minutes to sit down at my computer, my mind goes THERE.

"There" is the evil that my mind goes to when it has no rein of thought. It starts innocently enough. My mind says, "I wonder how so and so is doing..." and then, if uncontrolled, it starts to think of someone who hurt me or someone who is complicated or a negative situation. It's always negative.

I steer my thoughts back to what I WANT it to think, a bit ashamed that my thoughts don't naturally go there. Actually, I'm very ashamed of my negativity. I have so many friends who seem to naturally ooze happiness from their pores; my happiness is baked to my specifications. It's often not there unless I put it there. It's the cross of being an artist, I think: being sensitive often means being negative.

I'm amazed that my full heart would want to dwell on something so small and negative and hurtful. Life is SO much more than that.

There are some situations in life that will never be resolved. If I keep thinking on them, my brain will fry. In order to reboot my mind, I need it to think on other things. Here's what I do:

1. I work on my design work. I take a page from the LionChaser's Manifesto and I "criticize by creating." My current design collection has taken about a year to create and I don't plan on stopping anytime soon. :)

2. I enjoy something new, especially if its artistic.
A new book. A new magazine. New music. I need my mind to see beauty in life.

3. I call a friend and see how their life is. I need to get out of my mind and my problems and think of others.

4. I go ape.
No really... I started making these "ooo-OOOO--OOOO" sounds like a chimp and I chase my three year old. She loves it and I forget what I was thinking about. It's win-win.

At the end of the day, I look to the Bible. It has something to say about my thought life:
"Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things."

It's my Kryptonite: negative thoughts.  But it won't be my undoing.

I Love You, I Hate You

Dear Designs,

I love you.

I hate you.

You energize me AND wear me out.

You are my third child.

I need you to hush so that I can appreciate you.

Your needs are being met. Slowly, but still, they're being met.

Don't rush creation.
If you rush, it will show up in harried marks and cliché color combos.

Your colors are chosen.

Your forms are being perfected.

Your destiny remains to be determined.

But that's okay.

Just hush and be.

You're almost there.

-Emily

Easter Joy

During the Christian season of lent, I typically dismiss any type of fasting that many Christians observe. Some of my friends give up their favorite dessert. Some of my friends forsake entertainment.

For me, giving up, say, chocolate would be like giving up oxygen. Plus, it seems like laying down one's desires for sugar doesn't compare to Jesus laying down His very life.

But this lenten season was different.

Our new pastor at church invited us to read chunks of the gospels during this time. It was amazing. I had new eyes. I read stories about Jesus that meant something anew to me.
The way Jesus invited himself over for dinner at a creepy tax-collector's house.
The way He took care of one small, unimportant woman, recognizing her in the crowd, healing her from her flow of blood of 12 years.
And then, the way he spoke the hard truth:
"You must pick up your cross DAILY and follow me."

If there's one thing I've come to realize as a Christ follower, it's that when Jesus speaks a spiritual truth in the gospels and then it stirs in your heart incessantly, that means that God wants you to let it be planted in your life in order for growth to occur.
It also means He wants you to do it right now. Pronto.
Don't look for spiritual places. Grow right now where you are.
In your office cubicle where you report to a prickly boss.
At the restaurant where you work and never seem to find respect.
As a stay at home mother when the fruit you see is not there because it is long term.

It was clear: My "daily cross" was at home. And I knew what it was.

Each day was an exercise in futility. The coffee was never strong enough to overcome my threadbare body and soul. My gym membership only temporarily masked my signs of tiredness. All support figures in my life were unavailable. Each day I was running at a pace which can only be sustained by humans in short sprints, not long marathons. But I didn't know how to get off the cycle.

At the heart of my tiredness was a person. A very special, darling person: my three year old daughter, Eve. She is dimples and smiles and has mastered the art of boundary-line drawing with her very simple and loudly-spoken use of the word "NO". She is a typical three year old.

And yet, somehow, our sweet Eve is in not typical because a cadre of medical people have determined that she is in need of some therapy to help her communicate and accept instructions from other people. She is in "la la" land and refuses to come out.

So, every day, her momma uses all sorts of techniques to try to urge her little girl out of "Eve World" and into the world of the community.
I am filling boxes with things like cups and beans and rice.
I'm making soap water for her to play in.
I'm reading her books.
I'm reading books ABOUT her special behavior.
There's a lot of time-outs and other discipline.
A lot of little girl screams.
A mountain of tantrums.

As hard as it is for a mother to say this, I realized that my precious daughter's behavior had become my cross.

When I think of the cross, I think of death.
Of something so big it crushes you.
I don't think of dimples and pig tails.

So this lenten season, I gave up any regular use of Facebook, the place where I tell all my troubles. I replaced it with Scripture and prayer.

I'd like to tell you that I had some high and holy moments, but the first two weeks were brutal.
I'd read Scripture. I'd weep. I'd smile. I'd meditate on Jesus.
Then Eve would wake up.
"Good morning, honey," followed by 12 hours of, um, "behavior modification."
I wanted to Facebook my frustrations. But no.
Quietness instead. Prayer. And some good, old-fashioned self control.

By week four I wasn't craving Facebook anymore. I loved the quiet place in my mind. I needed quiet. I needed to BE quiet.

The lenten season was a lot of work. A bit of suffering, yes. But mostly a lot of cleansing.

When Easter Sunday arrived, I didn't jump on Facebook right away. I waited. And when I did, my quiet mind could only offer these words "Easter joy."

My difficulties are still present, but so is Jesus.
We can do this.

Wax String Fun!

The Days Are Just Packed... With Fun!

This is a pretty normal state of beauty for my precious Eve. She loves to live life and doesn't have time for anything considered "clothing" or "hygiene"... We love her!

The girls love to collect worms.

Morgan loves to play ladderball with Dan. She has her "game face" on.

Morgan is making a glass paperweight at a glass blowing place in Alabama!

Eve sleeps with ear muffs on her head. She really does.

The In Between Hour

It's 2pm and it's the time of day that is the precious hour or so when Eve is "resting" and Morgan is not yet home from school. When Morgan comes home, I love to ask her about her day and help her with homework and feed her a cookie. And when Eve is "resting", she is really just storing energy for the last part of the day, which most women call the witching hour.

So in the time frame before then, I am a bit paralyzed. I know how precious this time is. I know I could fold laundry (*yawn*), iron Dan's shirts (*ugh*), start dinner (not a half bad idea) or rest. And those are just four ideas of the 179 that are dancing in my head. Somewhere in there is a notion that I should be outside because it is 70 brillliant degrees outside and it is March. In Chicago. It's a March miracle is what it is.

It's anyone's guess what I'll do. :)

Not on Facebook

Here's what a Facebook post looks like when you're not on FB. I kind of like not being on the FB grid... but these posts sound lame in a blog:

Eve: "Mom? I love, I love..."

Me, smiling at Eve...

Eve: "I love Daddy."

Facebook Fasting

Observations on Week 2 of "No Facebook"...

I'm seeing the pattern of when I use Facebook.

Something crazy happens in our house. No one is around to see it.
I Facebook it.

Something awful happens in our house. I'm the only adult to see it.
Facebook again.

Something lovely.
Something terrifying.
Something maddening.
Something heart warming.

Facebook, Facebook, Facebook.

In fact, when I first go to my computer in the morning to check my email (*yawn, mostly boring...) my fingers automatically want to type the url for Facebook. It's almost like I have trigger fingers for it.

I don't think Facebook is bad. I really don't. In fact, it has provided me with a wealth of friendly connections and kept me in touch with adults, which is a treasure to a stay at home Mom.

What I don't like about Facebook is how it sneaks in the crevices of my mind and edges quietness out of my mind. There's something special about being able to hold something close to my heart, ruminate on it and be able to share it with others later.

I miss Facebook, but I don't miss the way I think when I'm on Facebook. I like thinking complete thoughts and letting those thoughts sink in. I like thinking in paragraph form, instead of snippets. I like thinking in big, broad strokes instead of having my thoughts perforated by, "Oh, this would be a riot on Facebook. I should share it."

Facebook fragments my thinking.

Ultimately I want to learn to be more quiet in my heart and to hear God's voice.

Have I been successful so far? Well, I've been more quiet in my mind but I haven't heard God's voice in the awe-inspiring way that I expected. I've been reading chapters of the Bible, chunks at a time and find myself marveling at the humanity of Jesus, the way He has such compassion on the woman who had been bleeding for 12 years... I cry almost every time. I love Jesus for not rushing around and being, forgive the term, "GODzilla". He took time for people, all sorts of people.

In the midst of reading these chapters I can honestly say that I would have loved to have been able to have met the flesh and blood Jesus of the Bible. I would have loved to have met Him on the road, have Him see right through my insecurities, my vanity, my efforts, my heart and say, "Em, let's have dinner."

I can honestly say that not until recently have I ever wanted to meet Jesus. I've been terrified.

But now I see things differently. I see His gentleness. I see how He told the Pharisees to go suck on a lemon (essentially) since they hated how He healed people on the Sabbath.

I love Jesus' heart.

So, no, I haven't had any spiritual nudgings of "go this way, do that" except to realize that when I sit down, put aside my fragmented thoughts and look into Jesus' life, I see a man who could only have been God.

Come to think of it, that's right where I'm supposed to be.