::: sleep! sleep! beauty bright :::

Sleep! sleep! beauty bright,
Dreaming o'er the joys of night;
Sleep! sleep! in thy sleep
Little sorrows sit and weep.

Sweet Babe, in thy face
Soft desires I can trace,
Secret joys and secret smiles,
Little pretty infant wiles.

As thy softest limbs I feel,
Smiles as of the morning steal
O'er thy cheek, and o'er thy breast
Where thy little heart does rest.

O! the cunning wiles that creep
In thy little heart asleep.
When thy little heart does wake
Then the dreadful lightnings break,

From thy cheek and from thy eye,
O'er the youthful harvests nigh.
Infant wiles and infant smiles
Heaven and Earth of peace beguiles.

~William Blake

::: beautiful books :::

I spent a good portion of my time yesterday preparing for the upcoming school year for Sweetheart (10) and The Baby (6). Since I now have one adult child in college, one adult child leaving for voluntary service next month, and one teenage son attending a brick-and-mortar high school for the first time, I have only two daughters to do homelearning with. We'll be using Ambleside Online again, a free online curriculum that uses the philosophies of Charlotte Mason, an early 20th century educator who taught that education is an atmosphere, a discipline and a life, not just a means to getting a job or getting into college, but the formation of character. She produced a series of lectures to help parents understand how children best learn. Ambleside Online uses Mason's philosophies to guide the selection of materials.

Here's what I like about using Ambleside:

• The use of living history books as opposed to textbooks;
• The use of quality pieces of literature;
• The large amount of support and resources available;
• The focus on short lessons;
• The focus on nature study;
• The focus on art and music;
• The fact that the curriculum is free-of-charge, created by mothers who believe in the philosophies of Charlotte Mason;
• The gentle, flexible nature of Mason's approach;
  
• The belief that children are capable of understanding quality literature and beautiful language, that books don't have to be dumbed-down for children to be able to enjoy and learn from them;
• The focus on formation of character;
• The physical beauty of the books themselves.

Over the last few years since we started using Ambleside, I've been on a treasure hunt to find the books suggested in their curriculum, and I've been blessed to find so many of the books we needed for our learning journey. Fortunately for me, a book addict and lover of things vintage, many of the books in the Ambleside curriculum are physically beautiful. I've acquired them by scouring thrift stores, used-book stores, PaperBackSwap, and online booksellers. Many of them I've found for very reasonable prices, while others still elude me because of their limited availability or prohibitive prices.

This year will be the first year that we will have all of the physical books we need for the whole year. In the past, I used what I had found, borrowed some from the library, or used some of the many online books available. Because I've been collecting these books since Sweetheart was in Year One (she's in Year Five this year), and because my friend Kathy, who first introduced me to Ambleside and has always been a source of inspiration to me regarding both parenting specifically and life in general, sent me some essentials a few years ago (hers was the first package I received when we moved from the city to the thicket), and because my friend Marcella gave me the entire Charlotte Mason set, I'm fortunate to own the majority of what I need. Yesterday, I bit the bullet and used my Amazon card to purchase the last few books I didn't have, as well as Teaching Textbooks for Sweetheart. Considering that the registration fee for Monet's school year was more than the cost of all of the books PLUS the math curriculum, I feel pretty good about this year's preparations.

Because we have the majority of the books already, I made our twelve-week schedule (a customized version of one that can be found on one of the many Ambleside Yahoo groups) and we began our readings last night. The girls were attentive and excited. They both love to read, love good literature, and I know they'll be as excited as I'll be to see those books come pouring in through the mail. I'm especially excited for the arrival of Holy Experience blogger Ann Voskamp's A Child's Geography.

And I'll be excited to snuggle up on the bed, reading my old leather-bound copy of Beautiful Stories from Shakespeare and leafing through my olive-green hardbound Botsford's Handbook of Nature Studies, or seeing the girls curled up with the cat and copy of Aesop's Fables or A Child's Garden of Verses.

Here and here are the rest of the books we'll be using.

::: feels like the sun going down on me :::

"It may surprise parents who have not given much attention to the subject to discover also a code of education in the Gospels, expressly laid down by Christ. It is summed up in three commandments...Take heed that ye OFFEND not––DESPISE not––HINDER not––one of these little ones."

~Charlotte Mason

Are you out there? Because if you are, I'd love to hear your input on this one. What would it mean to "offend not, despise not, and hinder not one of these little ones?"

I am a mother frustrated by her teenage son's lack of self-motivation and self-governance. Tonight I am overwhelmingly disappointed with his ability to seek out injustices done to him, his proficiency in finding fault in others, but his habit of avoiding the responsibilities he has been given.

Simple things, really. Mom and Dad will be gone at small group for three hours. In that three-hour time frame, you will take a shower, put on your pajamas, finish your homework, pack your school bag, pack your gym bag, and set out your clean clothes for tomorrow. While we were gone, I accidentally left my cell phone in the car. Upon returning to the car, there were eight, yes EIGHT, phone calls from this boy, with messages indicating that older brother was being a jerk, that older brother was not letting him watch the DVD he wanted to watch, that older brother was still being a jerk EIGHT calls. FOUR messages. ONE frustrated mama, because when I returned home, the message-leaver hadn't done ANY of the things he'd been instructed to do, As a result, he lost the privilege of breakfast out with mom before catching the school bus.

Upon being reprimanded for his behavior, his response? "This is the kind of thing that would make me quit school," which resulted in an even stronger talking-to.

What breaks this cycle? And how does a parent interrupt such self-loathing, vindictive patterns of behavior without offending, despising or hindering the child?

My response tonight was outrage, anger and indignation.

Ephesians 4:26 says, "In your anger do not sin; Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry."

I'm not sure if I sinned in my anger tonight. I raised my voice. I expressed my deep disappointment with this boy's failure to do very clearly given, fair instructions without coercion or supervision. I became angry with the innocent in the situation.

So, yes, I suppose I did sin. And, yes, the sun is down (it was already down when I'd developed this anger), and I'm still angry.

Sometimes I wonder if I'll make it through this thing, this parenting of teenage boys, alive.

Heaven help me.

And you, dear reader, can help me, too.

I'd love to hear your feedback.

::: i hope you don't mind that i put down in words :::

When Bard was just a youngster, about six years old, she went to visit a friend of hers who shared with her a book called The Seven-Year-Old Wonder Book. She came home and told me about it. The book, written by Isabel Wyatt in 1958, inscribed "for anyone who has ever been seven years old, or is, or soon will be," follows the sixth year of young Sylvia who lives in a white cottage at the edge of a dark woods. Each entry talks about something that Sylvia experienced that day, and is followed by a story told to her at bedtime which relates to her experiences. These stories celebrate the seasons and holidays of the passing year. Each night, Sylvia pulls her Wonder-Book from under her pillow and turns it to a new page, setting it out for the Rhyme-Elves to write poetry in big, beautiful letters and painting beautiful pictures to go along with the poetry.

Since Bard was living her sixth year, and since I love journaling, she and I decided to create a Wonder-Book for her, though it would be known that I was the elf, and it would contain not only rhymes and pictures, but stories (both real and fictional) and questions and anything else I could stuff into it. Bard, too, would participate, answering the questions and drawing pictures in response to my entries. The cover was decorated with a collage of things that Bard loved and coated with Mod Podge.

The Wonder-Book sometimes went for months without any attention. As Bard got older and we both created blogs, the Wonder-Book was neglected for years. When she packed up most of her things and moved into her first college dorm, I sought out the Wonder-Book in my melancholy nostalgia, watching those years fly by with each turn of the page.

Sweetheart found me there, wandering through that sea of memories, and I realized that I'd not created a Wonder-Book for her nor The Baby. That was soon remedied, and now all of the kids have Wonder-Books of their own.

The Wonder-Book isn't a scrapbook or a photo album (there are no photographs at all, actually), but an ongoing conversation about life, happenings, seasons, emotions, dreams, disagreements, encouragments and poetry, both ours and those we admire. It's a book for a child to set on her bedside or yours, and to awake to, kind of like a coin from the tooth fairy. It's a place where a mom can share her thoughts and appreciations and apologies and a child can vent her frustration and admiration. Sometimes it's just a simple letter written in ball-point pen, sometimes a smattering of ideas dotted with stickers, and sometimes it's a full-blown art project, complete with scrapbooking markers and creative drawings.

Here are a few sample pages from the different Wonder-Books through the years.

::: oh, won't you show me the way, everyday :::

Father in heaven,
here's what I'm tired of:
measuring my days by
the next paycheck,
the next financial output,
and whether the upcoming financial infusion
will cover it.

I'm tired of my waking thoughts,
and my sleeping ones, too,
being overwhelmed by the debts I haven't paid,
and the debts that are racing toward me,
unstoppable obligations.

I need a reprieve.
I need to know that I'm settled with everyone,
and everyone is settled with me.
I need a jubilee.

I don't want welfare.
I don't want charity.
I just want a break
from the worrying
and the figuring
and the guilt
and the comparisons
and the resentment
and the fear.

So, God, how about if you
do something about this black heart of mine?
Help me to find a balance
between the want
and the need?
Fill me with the energy that I need
to do things the right way?
Point me to the tilapia,
that holds in its body the drachma
that will pay both of our debts?

Please,
give me my daily bread,
so that I can rest easy,
love easy,
laugh easy,
and share with those who
are tired, too.

::: if i leave here tomorrow, will you still remember me? :::

Around this time last year, I was waking with a terrible realization and a pain in my gut like that of someone who has experienced loss. I was weepy, unmotivated and grief-stricken. My husband was understanding. My daughters were empathetic to the point of their own grief and tears. I wasn't sure I would survive. People around me seemed puzzled.

In Bard's Wonder Book, an interactive paper journal I started for her when she was seven, I wrote the following:

Under any other circumstance, a woman whose daughter has gone after eighteen years of living at home would likely be heaped with support. If you had died, say, or gotten married, or run away, or been abducted. Actually, had I lost anyone after eighteen years, or even eighteen months--a break up or divorce or other loss--people would call me, I'd be in some kind of a support group, women from church would bring me casseroles and jello salads. But in this circumstance--"Well, gee. She's just at college!" Never mind that the house is void of her music, her laughter, her guitar, her conversation. "What's the big deal? Get over it!"

I hadn't started out grief-stricken. As a matter of fact, I was kind of blasé about the whole thing, having indulged myself in the process of getting Bard into college by making transcripts, visiting colleges, sending paperwork, talking to financial advisors, and then celebrating not only her acceptance letters, but the steady stream of scholarship awards, which was sweet vindication for this mom who had been told that home learning would ruin my child's education.

While I was gloating, I hadn't really thought about the fact that the end result of this process would be that my daughter would be leaving home.

And even had I thought that she would be leaving, once she chose a school that was only an hour away, I hadn't thought about the fact that she wouldn't be living in our house. She'd be taking her loyalty, dependability, devious sense of humor, midnight music making, and, most of all, her delightful companionship along with her.

It wasn't until a church friend asked me, just the week before we would be moving Bard to school, how I was doing.

"I'm fine!" I answered chipperly. "It's great! I think we're ready!"

To which she offhandedly replied, "When we took Jonathan to Goshen the first day of his freshman year, that was the last time he lived at home. He went on service trips for Christmas and summers, and then he got married and moved to Virginia."

Wait...what?

You mean, I thought, next week could be the last time my child lives at home? EVER?!?

And that's when the waterworks started.

At one point, it got so bad that when she simply walked into my room, I was reduced to a blubbery mass of tears.

"Mom," she chided playfully, "I feel like I'm dead! I feel like you're planning my funeral!"

Houdin, who had just ventured down the hall, strolled in, passed Bard without acknowledging her presence, embraced me with mock seriousness and hushed, "When are the calling hours?"

After taking her to her dorm that first day, going through the orientation process, and saying my goodbyes, I climbed into the car with my two younger daughters. Since Bard had packed so much stuff, and all of the family wanted to see her off, we'd driven two vehicles. But my vision was so obscured by tears, I had to pull over in the closest parking lot and let myself bawl. The girls draped their little bodies around me and joined my mourning, and we all wailed together, albeit quietly since we were in a public place not two thousand feet from Bard's dorm.

Now, before you come down too hard on me, you have to realize a couple of things:

• I never put my child on the kindergarten bus;
• I never watched her drive away after getting her license (she still isn't a driver, at 19);
• I never saw her whisked away on her first date by some strange boy.

It's not that she was sheltered or prohibited from leaving home, unsocialized or awkward. It's just that the choices we made together, the choices she made alone, never necessitated those little bits of leaving. Sure, she boarded a plane to Italy, China, and Germany, in addition to her domestic travels. But this thing? This leaving-for-college thing? That was different.

Because unlike women I've overheard sighing disdainfully in the early August school-supplies line while their children finger every impulse item on the shelf, I have never uttered the words, "I can't wait until they're back in school."

And this is because you have to realize something else, too.

I like my kids. I like my daughter. She's my friend. And I miss her when she's gone.

I'm glad she's at school, having fun, making new friends and keeping the old. It's cool that she's a course assistant this year and that she'll be starting into some of the classes for her majors. It's nifty that she used her summer-job-at-the-greenhouse money to buy a new cherry sunburst Fender Strat and a Line 6 amp and hopes to play in a band with a group of friends.

It's great that moving day went extremely well, that Houdin and the girls helped extra much and Bard's friend Grape tagged along to lend a hand, since Monet was at school and husband Bo was at work (though we did stop by for a brief hug).

It's fabulous that we got to spend moving day shopping for a new pair of Chuck Taylors (can you believe she's been wearing the same pair since her freshman year in high school?!?), eating at ChicFila, and arranging her new dorm room, a suite she'll share with five other girls.

And it's cool that I'll put the finishing touches on cleaning her room today, and it will stay clean in between visits.

But it'll be awfully quiet around here without her midnight music, her insane sense of humor, and her great companionship.

When you like your own child enough to miss them when they're gone, I do believe that's a good thing.

::: made the bus in seconds flat :::

I was pretty much a dead woman until I realized that the annoying "blat, blat, blat" crashing through the wall of my dreams was the persistent nagging of the alarm clock. I forced my eyes open, tried in vain to see the blue numbers, then flopped back down.

"What time is it?" I asked my husband Bo, who sleeps closest to the clock and had just succeeded in shutting it up.
"Muttermuttermutter," he muttered.
"What?"
"Muttermuttermutter!" he remuttered.
"I'm sorry," I tried to say this very gently, "but I didn't understand you," though I kind of thought I did understand him, in some strange way, and I didn't like what I thought he said.
"mmmmmMMMMMGHrzZZ! I said, 'It's SiiiiiiX. Twentyyyyyyyy. TwooooooooooooOOOOOoooo!'"
"What?!?" Now, in case you think me an idiot, I heard him that time. The final "what" was a rhetorical question, because it wasn't what I was expecting to hear. It wasn't at all what I wanted to hear.

I jumped out of bed, ran down the stairs (which is pretty hard to do, considering that it's usually necessary to have access to one's ability to see in order to run down stairs with any measure of success), hollering (or at least muttering incoherently in a slightly loud voice), and shook Monet awake.

All of this because the alarm had been changed.

Because, see, Bo's morning hours change depending on what his job duties are that day. And even though we have two alarms on our clock, we seem to only use one. And while I had set the alarm to wake up at 5:45 to get Monet up, allow him time to get dressed, eat breakfast, gather his soccer things, and drive to the bus stop, Bo had re-set the alarm for 6:20 in order to give himself enough time to get clothes on and leave for work.

In other words, we were going to be late.

For Monet's second day of school. Second. Day. What kind of mother lets her son be late for the bus on his second day of school?

Who's late for their second day of anything?

Monet was a good sport. When I shook his sleeping body and screamed into his sleeping ears, he awoke, jumped into his clothes, and let me shove a bagel and some grapes into his mouth. His school and gym had been packed the night before. I threw him into the car--no dragging a comb across his head or a brush across his teeth--and sped like a demon to the bus stop, approaching the parking lot three minutes before the scheduled pick-up time.

Where the bus was waiting.

I pushed Monet out of the speeding car, propelling him toward the exiting bus where he grabbed the front crossing arm and held on for dear life.

Okay, he leaped out of the moving car directly onto the bus stairs.

Okay, I brought the car to a complete, albeit abrupt, stop, and he quickly opened the door and ran to the stationary bus, receiving a polite "hello" from the smiling bus driver.

Fortunately for us, the bus route was changed, and Monet's is now the first stop on the route. The driver was waiting for some other students, so someone else was making him wait. Not us.

Today, I bought the boy a travel toothbrush, hairbrush and some Clif Bars and shoved them in his backpack, just in case.

And I set the second alarm.

::: first day :::

He couldn't sleep last night.
His allergies were bothering him this morning.
But he was ready nonetheless.
His button-down shirt and khakis were laid out,
And his soccer gear was packed,
And he got a good breakfast
of scrambled sour-cream eggs,
whole wheat toast
and cold watermelon.
So what if he had to go find another pair of socks
because he couldn't find the pair he'd found
last night?
So what if he forgot to brush his teeth
because he was busy making sure that
his hair wasn't sticking up?
We arrived at the stop on time,
a big, empty parking lot,
and we had a bit of conversation,
and he was nervous, unlike last night.
We watched the minutes tick by.
6:40.
6:41.
6:42.
"There it is."
"Is that it for sure?"
"Yep."
"Uh oh. He's stopping over there. Run!"
A quick goodbye shout,
a mental hug and kiss,
and his foot lands on that first
black treaded step.
He's on the bus now.

::: it's a school night :::

A load of laundry is tumbling in the dryer. The alarm clocks are set for 5:45 a.m. A shower will be taken, bedtime snack consumed, lunch packed. Then, there will be teeth brushed, tucking in and prayers, and maybe, if we're lucky, some sleep.

Life is about to change.

This hot mid-August brings with it new experiences for the Thicket Dweller household, and I'm not all that sure that I'm ready for them.

But ready or not, here they come.

Tomorrow morning, fourteen-year-old Monet will, for the first time, board a school bus and bump along into a brand new chapter of his life--high school. After fourteen years of learning at home and all around, he will be adding a new set of teachers, a new schedule, new bedtime and morning routines. He's excited. I'm excited.

And a little bit scared.

Will he be ready? Will he pay attention? Will he be organized and responsible? Will other students be kind to him? Will the lunches be okay?

His first experience with this new school has been two weeks of practice with the junior varsity soccer team which, for Monet, has done it's share of socking him. His body, a little soft from too much computer time and not enough running around, has had a really hard time adjusting to the new rigors that a team sport requires, and he has come home from two-a-day practices dog-tired and more than a little discouraged.

But he has stuck with it, in spite of threats to the contrary, and his coaches have been patient and encouraging as he lopes slowly around the track during laps, sometimes even loping along with him.

And the day after he spends his first day in school, nineteen-year-old Bard will return to college to begin her sophomore year as a course assistant for the college experience class, helping the incoming students get acclimated to college life. She's excited, and I'm excited for her, but I'm not all that thrilled that the summer has flown by so fast. There was so much more I wanted to do with her during break! Tonight, she and Bo are out shopping for a new electric guitar for her year at school, purchased with the money she made working at the greenhouse this summer. This in lieu of a car. Wise move, in my opinion. Guitars get better mileage, the insurance is cheaper, and there's very little maintenance.

As if that's not enough, in September, eighteen-year-old Houdin will begin training for a ten-month term of voluntary service in northwestern Africa. It was too painful for me to write about my grief when Bard started college. The period between July and September 2008 is conspicuously empty. And she was only going to be an hour away! Though I know that this leaving is a good thing, that he will grow and learn so much, that, if he stayed, we would be at each other daily, I'll miss him terribly and will undoubtedly bawl upon his departure.

And while I'll have two delightful young girls at home, going through Ambleside's years one and five with me, and my husband will be by my side, and our home will be full of laughter and learning, I'm wary knowing that bits of my heart will be scattered all over the world.

So, while, as a homelearner, I never thought I'd hear myself say this, I have to enforce some bedtime rules, because tonight's a school night. It makes me a little sad that this bohemian household will be tamed a bit by outside forces.

But maybe it's just what we need.

::: an august midnight :::

by Thomas Hardy

I

A shaded lamp and a waving blind,
And the beat of a clock from a distant floor:
On this scene enter--winged, horned, and spined -
A longlegs, a moth, and a dumbledore;
While 'mid my page there idly stands
A sleepy fly, that rubs its hands . . .

II

Thus meet we five, in this still place,
At this point of time, at this point in space.
- My guests parade my new-penned ink,
Or bang at the lamp-glass, whirl, and sink.
"God's humblest, they!" I muse. Yet why?
They know Earth-secrets that know not I. 

::: scenes from a graduation party :::

::: from my front porch looking in :::

This little heart is breaking because the neighbor girl came to the yard but didn't want to play with her. She wanted to play with the older sister instead. And I could see that sad face, but, even more, I could see those golden rays playing with her amazing curls. I was in the yard, working to make my front walkway acceptable for Houdin's graduation ceremony and party on Sunday, and I looked up to see this. So, being the cruel (and dirt-covered) mother that I am, I hurried her up to my room to retrieve the camera. "Go! Go! Before I lose my light!" And off she went.

Shouldn't there be a smile on that lovely face? Isn't it amazing what lack of companionship, hope deferred, can do?

If only we could see how much the Son loves us, how He lights us up, even when we're distraught, how His love caresses us until we're practically glowing.
Then maybe when others don't love us, it wouldn't hurt quite so much.

::: seizing double :::

I recently read that you can reduce the number of chewing surface cavities you get by chewing on a stick of celery after your meals, which removes trapped food and helps saliva neutralize acids that cause tooth decay. I mentioned this to my husband, Bo, saying that it makes sense that 14 year-old Monet has so many chewing-surface cavities. We never eat celery!

"I like celery," Bo said.

19 years of marriage, and this, I never knew.

And as Bard was reading this, she said, "You didn't know that Dad liked celery? I like celery."

So while wandering in and around the produce department of my local grocer, I remembered that fact and reached out to score myself a bundle of crunchy greenness, plopped it into the cart, and reached for a second. I had to stop myself. It was a struggle, really. Not a physical struggle, no, but a mental struggle.

Why?

Because I'm afflicted with a terrible disorder. I seem to only be able to purchase things in twos.

I have no idea how this habit started or what my reasoning has been, if there has been any. But I remember discovering it for the first time.

I was standing in line at Stuff*Mart, placing my items on the conveyor, adding up my purchases in my head, when I became aware, through another strange habit of mine which is counting things, that I seemed to be bothered if I placed just one of something on the belt. One bottle of vitamins or one lampshade or one copy of Nacho Libre should be enough, if that's all I need, right? So why did it seem that the majority of my cart's contents came in multiples? And not in threes, or fives, or sevens, but always in twos. If there was one pound of butter, there was a second. One loaf of bread...two. One bottle of shampoo, one can of beans, one bag of rice? Yep, always a second one.

Now, to be fair to my slightly obsessive self, I do have a large family. With five kids in the house and usually one or two guests, plus a husband and a dad, we obviously go through more food, and more toilet paper, and more, well, more everything than a lot of people I know. But please. Who really *needs* two jugs of Tiki Torch fuel?

And also to be fair, it's often cheaper to buy two smaller containers of an item than the "family size." Have you ever noticed that? That family sizes can actually be more per ounce than the smaller ones? And that it changes, so you have to stay on your toes? Shame on those marketers. Shame, shame, shame.

So I've been trying to reform. I don't need double. I don't need double. and I certainly don't need to PAY double. While at the store today, I resisted the urge to toss in two boxes of allergy medicine. I chose three bottles of soda, in three different flavors. One bag of ice. With lots and lots of individual ice cubes inside the bag. I won't even attempt to count those. And even though I struggled in front of bargain bakery rack, I put back the fourth petite loaf of La Brea Roasted Chopped Garlic bread, leaving me with an odd number that only looks good in certain types of architecture.

From now on, I'll try to buy in twos only when absolutely necessary. Like in the case of pant legs. And Reese Cups. And pounds of baby swiss cheese. And extra-large glazed donuts from the local bakery. And strawberry rhubarb fry pies. And anything on clearance sale.

And Tiki Torch fuel.

::: are you watching? :::

There's an incredible display in the sky tonight. We're cuddling up on the trampoline under a mound of blankets to stare at the dark canvas filled with pinpoints of light. Every few minutes, if you were within earshot, you'd hear us gasping and, if it weren't so dark, you'd see us pointing at the quickly disappearing tail of a darting meteor.

Can you go out now? Can you watch them shatter the darkness? Can you watch them skip across the deep blue sea of the atmosphere?

Then do it!

Image from here.

Mastering the Art of Midnight Cooking

It was a long day of soccer practice, piano lessons, cleaning to prepare for the upcoming graduation party of Houdin, and, as if we weren't busy enough, a service planning meeting at church. Sometime during the day, I decided that it would all end with loveliness, so on the way to our meeting, I implored of my husband to not begin any lengthy discussions, to not bring up new topics, to cut to the chase, and I would do the same. I didn't want to sound short or bossy, but I knew I had to tell the other meeting attendees up front that we really needed to leave by 8:30. And I was pretty serious about it. I'm afraid I may have pushed the meeting on a bit--so I guess I was bossy in spite of my best mediocre attempts not to be.

And when we finished our meeting at 8:26, I think I actually hooted with glee.

My husband and I were going to go home, rush our two eldest and our young friend Lemony into the car (the two younglings were at a friend's house for the night), stop long enough to transfer Monet from another soccer parent's minivan to ours, and head north to the Medium Sized City for a 9:55 p.m. showing of Julie and Julia. My dear husband, who had awoken at 5:30 a.m. and would have to be to work at 7:00 a.m. the following morning, was completely game. We even scraped up enough money in this economically depressed month to pay for all of our tickets, the elder children chipping in all that they had. And when we got there? It was bargain Tuesday. $4.25 for tickets. Bonus!

No popcorn. No milk duds. Straight to the theater we strode, because I knew that, waiting at home for us, was a fresh batch of pesto and some crusty bread.

Bad idea.

See, the film was just packed full, as might be expected, of incredibly mouthwatering foods. They walked by amazing foods. They talked about amazing foods. They ate amazing foods. And we, hungry and amazed, watched helplessly, drooling, oohing and ahhing. Loudly. We were, by some miracle (maybe that it was the 9:55 p.m. showing) the only people in the theater, giving us the freedom to laugh loudly, discuss the food, and make slyly disparaging comments about the film's antagonists.

Meryl Streep was, as you've heard, amazingly incredible. Stanley Tucci was adorable. My only regret was that I had not been Julie Powell, had not stood in a moment of quiet desperation and committed an act of psychotic cooking bloggery. I could have done it (as everyone says). It could have been me. And, just like Powell's character in the film, I would have loved Julia, and I would have believed that Julia loved me, in spite of any evidence to the contrary.

I had decided that the day would end in loveliness, and I got my way. Julie and Julia was delightful, even with its flaws (my middle child got half-way through the film before he realized that the parallel stories were taking place during different decades..and he's a pretty bright kid). I found myself with the perfect opportunity to practice my very limited, very sad excuse for French. I nudged my daughter in the row ahead of me when Julie visited Julia's Cambridge, Massachusetts kitchen at the Smithsonian, because I, too, had been there just a short month and a half before. And after the film was over, as we were driving the long trip back home to my Little Village just after midnight, I was taking a mental inventory of what ingredients were scattered around my kitchen at home. My hope was to crack open my thrifted copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking and duplicate, albeit more successfully, the poached egg scene in the film. I'd never poached an egg. I've never liked eggs.

Alas, it was not to be. My copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking is Volume 2, which doesn't contain the egg-poaching pages.

But my eyes landed on a recipe that featured eggplant, and, as luck would have it, I'd just plucked a few nice eggplants from my garden and a few more from the farmer's market just that morning, so I gathered all of the ingredients (can you believe I actually had scallions in my kitchen? I rarely have scallions in my kitchen! But there they were, as was everything else, and so, at 1:00 a.m., my husband, kids and Lemony were eating pesto and peeling eggplant as I made the sauce and chopped the tomatoes.

This dish is supposed to be eaten cold, but I just couldn't wait. I'd already lost my husband, who had finally staggered off to bed, and Monet, who couldn't stay up any longer due to an impending early-morning soccer practice (they're doing two-a-days this week), so as soon as I folded the tomato/basil/garlic sauce into the simmered/sauteed eggplant, I was ready to eat. Houdin heaped it onto a piece of crusty bread, but I just scooped it into a dish and grabbed a fork. Delicious.

A small dish was set aside and refrigerated so that I can see what it's "supposed" to taste like once it's chilled.

With just a few short hours left of this morning before I have to rise and begin another day, I'm heading to bed, garlic on my breath, dreaming of my next meal.

::: ann voskamp :::

If you've not visited Ann Voskamp's blog, Holy Experience, who offers "just a bit of listening, laundry, liturgy... life," you really must. Her word pictures are touching and poetic, and her pictures, worth so much more than a thousand words, are an elegant and beautiful compliment to her craft. Today's post is so touching, I had to read it twice.

Enjoy.

Readily and Freely

I know that sometimes, when people see a verse from the Bible posted on a blog, they skip right over it. Some people are just turned off by Bible verses--even Christians--but do me a favor. Read this one. Because sometimes, I think it's a very good thing that everyone, both followers of Christ and those of other faiths, know and understand the things that Christians are supposed to do.

These passages are taken from The Amplified Bible.

²⁹Let no foul or polluting language, nor evil word nor unwholesome or worthless talk [ever] come out of your mouth, but only such [speech] as is good and beneficial to the spiritual progress of others, as is fitting to the need and the occasion, that it may be a blessing and give grace (God's favor) to those who hear it.

³¹Let all bitterness and indignation and wrath (passion, rage, bad temper) and resentment (anger, animosity) and quarreling (brawling, clamor, contention) and slander (evil-speaking, abusive or blasphemous language) be banished from you, with all malice (spite, ill will, or baseness of any kind).

³²And become useful and helpful and kind to one another, tenderhearted (compassionate, understanding, loving-hearted), forgiving one another [readily and freely], as God in Christ forgave you.

Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?

One of my little side hobbies is to do videography for weddings. While I'm at the event, I just can't help snapping a few stills, though the bride always has an awesome photographer of her own.
This evening, I took some shots at the rehearsal dinner in preparation for tomorrow's wedding. What a beautiful couple who chose a beautiful setting, the tree farm of a family friend. Mary's parents will play a lap dulcimer piece and part of Whitman's Song of the Open Road will be read during the ceremony.

Mon enfant! I give you my hand!

I give you my love, more precious than money,

I give you myself, before preaching or law;

Will you give me yourself?

Will you come travel with me?

Shall we stick by each other

as long as we live?

Your Thoughts on Healthcare Reform?

I've been reading through the bill on the proposed health care reform and I'd like to know what your respectful, educated opinion is on single-payer health care.

Thoughts?

The Whole Law=One Precept

pre·cept: \ˈprē-ˌsept\noun

Etymology:

Middle English, from Anglo-French, from Latin praeceptum, from neuter of praeceptus, past participle of praecipere to take beforehand, instruct, from prae- + capere to take — more at heave

Date:

14th century

1 : a command or principle intended especially as a general rule of action
2 : an order issued by legally constituted authority to a subordinate official.

Leviticus 19:18
Do not seek revenge or bear a grudge against one of your people, but love your neighbor as yourself. I am the LORD.

Matthew 5:43
"You have heard that it was said, 'Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be sons of your Father in heaven.

Matthew 19:19
Jesus replied, " 'Do not murder, do not commit adultery, do not steal, do not give false testimony, honor your father and mother,' and 'love your neighbor as yourself.' "

Matthew 22:39
And the second is like it: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.'

Mark 12:31
The second is this: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' There is no commandment greater than these."

Mark 12:33
To love him with all your heart, with all your understanding and with all your strength, and to love your neighbor as yourself is more important than all burnt offerings and sacrifices.

Luke 10:27
He answered: " 'Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind' ; and, 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' "

Romans 13:9
The commandments, "Do not commit adultery," "Do not murder," "Do not steal," "Do not covet," and whatever other commandment there may be, are summed up in this one rule: "Love your neighbor as yourself."

James 2:8
If you really keep the royal law found in Scripture, "Love your neighbor as yourself," you are doing right.

Galatians 5:14
The entire law is summed up in this one precept [see definition above]: "Love your neighbor as yourself."

Download a copy of the poster above by clicking on the image or going to The Plow.

::: admonition (ad-mə-ˈni-shən) noun: gentle or friendly reproof :::

"Does it strike anyone else that much of christian parenting wisdom conforms to the kingdom of the sword rather than the kingdom of the cross?"

~Tonia at Study in Brown

I know you're all going to think I'm nuts, and that's okay, because I think I'm nuts, too. But I'm going to let you in on a little secret.

I think God is doing something amazing in the hearts of his people.

I really mean this. I do believe that the world is about to turn, and I'm one of the lucky human beings to be ON it when this happens.

Because, see, for years I've had a really hard time talking to other Christians about parenting, because what the experts in the field of Christian parenting advice seem to be bent on putting out the message that love must be tough, that training up a child has to involve physical force, that all of those things Jesus said about love and forgiveness and mercy and grace? That wasn't meant for children, just for strangers, neighbors (even if you don't like them) and enemies.

So when I started feeling very convicted about the idea of punishing my children with a belt, rod, switch or hand, I tentatively began talking to other people, both believers and non-believers about my thoughts, and when I discussed this with believers, you would have thought that I was considering giving up my faith to follow Marilyn Manson or drink cyanide laced Flavor-Aid.

There were, however, a couple of people who talked with me about my questions in a rational, conversational tone. There was no anger or fear in their voices.

When I brought up the oft-repeated argument that we are to use the "rod" on our children, she gently reminded me that the rod was used for sheep, was used by the shepherd to guide the sheep.

"If the shepherd hit the sheep with the rod, what do you think the sheep would do the next time they saw the shepherd coming with that rod?"
"They'd run from it," I answered.
"And that would be terrible for the shepherd, right? Because, you know, how can you guide someone with something that scares the tar out of them?"

And this made sense to me.

It's funny how people take that one tiny verse in the Bible, that one little place in Proverbs, and they hold on to that as a mantra. Why not hold onto the verse before it that says, "Much food is in the tilled land of the poor, but there are those who are destroyed because of injustice," and fight for that cause? Or obsess about the one that says, 'Throughout the generations to come you are to make tassels on the corners of your garments, with a blue cord on each tassel?" Why not commit yourself to that verse?

Or why not hold onto the one in Colossians (3:21) that says, "Do not provoke or irritate or fret your children [do not be hard on them or harass them], lest they become discouraged and sullen and morose and feel inferior and frustrated. [Do not break their spirit.]"

Or the one in Ephesians (6:4) that says, "Do not irritate and provoke your children to anger [do not exasperate them to resentment], but rear them [tenderly] in the training and discipline and the counsel and admonition of the Lord."

It's the same thing Jesus did with so many of the other laws we were bound to Before Christ. It's like all of the teachings that Jesus took and turned upside-down. While others were teaching the ethic of reciprocity with words like, "Do not to your neighbor what you would take ill from him," Jesus was taking it a step further by saying, "Whatever you desire that others would do to and for you, even so do also to and for them, for this is (sums up) the Law and the Prophets [emphasis mine]." Don't just avoid doing what you wouldn't want done to you. Think about what you would want and do it. Because, in a nutshell, that's what the spirit of the Law and Prophets was really getting at.

So, we have this line in Proverbs that says, "A refusal to correct is a refusal to love; love your children by disciplining them," which is not at all untrue, but after we're reunited with God through Jesus, we get, "Take them by the hand and lead them in the way of the Master." In other words, let's get to the heart of the problem before there is a problem. Let's be proactive instead of reactive. Let's use our hands to hold theirs, to lead them gently in the right direction.

Because, honestly? That's what I need the most work on. I know how to be reactive. I know how to lose my patience. I know how to anger and exasperate my children pretty well. I'd like to say that rearing them tenderly is what comes naturally to me, and I think, at the center of it all, it does, but then fear and selfishness creep in, and I find myself forcing my will, filling with pride, demanding my way. I think this kind of parenting, the kind I stumbled into motherhood being taught by well-meaning Christians, has done great damage to me, and to my relationship with my children. Particularly with my sons, who need to not feel inferior and frustrated. Because when they feel exasperated? Lord knows we both feel exasperated.

It's a good thing that people are beginning to see and teach another way. Women like Tonia are beginning to question and speak, are realizing that we like the quick, simple idea of punishment because we are not patient. Men like Shane Claiborne and Greg Boyd are bringing another way to the forefront of discussion, a way of service and peace on a more global level, not just with our children, but with all human beings, a way of doing the things that Jesus truly taught, that paradoxical, upside-down way that the world finds foolish but that leads to the spread of the Kingdom. Writings by John Howard Yoder are leaking into the mainstream. And people are resonating with it.

I'm learning more about servanthood than I've ever cared to learn by bumping into these folks as I wander around this thing called "life."

And I'm finding that a lot of other people are learning about it, too, talking about it, and putting it into practice. People are really beginning to actually read and apply what Jesus taught. There are more people beginning to reject the world's way and enter into a more narrow way.

And I think that's the amazing thing that God is doing in the hearts of his people.

Go to Bed

Life is too short to sleep on low thread-count sheets. ~Leah Stussy

My younger kids might as well not even have beds. Somewhere in the course of their lives, they've decided that bedrooms are overrated and every night, I find that they have migrated from their respective rooms, their respective comfy lofts or bunks, to the couches in what we call our Big Room. I can make whatever pleas, threats, bargains I like, but they somehow still end up here, all three of them.

And while you can't see it very well in this photo, they will also all end up on the same couch. See The Baby and Sweetheart on one end? See Monet's jeans jutting out from the other direction (that's the other thing. Why can't he wear pajamas like the rest of us? Do all fourteen-year-old boys wear the same clothes for days at a time unless they are pried from their kicking, screaming bodies?) We have two couches down there, see, a long one and a love seat, both scored at My Favorite Thrift Store for a song, and they're in pretty good shape (much better shape than the white one we'd picked up from freecycle which started out fine but ended up with us sitting on the floor), but I'm afraid these children are going to wear the fabric off of this one before I can even think about looking for another set.

And, as you can see, Pippin the cat must be wherever the girls are sleeping, If they happen to shut the door to wherever they choose to lay their heads, Pip will howl like the wind and cry like a rainstorm until I allow her communion with her children once again.

As for me, I'll take my own bed, thank you, and I'm so cruel as to not allow any animals to sleep with me.

Do your children sleep in weird places?