::: i'll be coming home :::

One of my favorite memories as a child is returning home from camp to find that my mother had lovingly redecorated my home, removing the beloved but outgrown Scooby Doo wallpaper, cleaning and organizing, and installing a new corkboard wall to see me into my teen years. The Baby and Sweetheart have spent the last three weeks away with their grandparents, aunts and uncles in far-off Illinois, and while they were gone, spurred on by this contest, Bo and I played remodeling fairies, painting, cleaning, organizing and redecorating. Using paint we already had, elements from around the house, some bed frames we'd had in storage that we put a fresh coat of paint on, a gallon of floor paint from Lowe's, an inexpensive area rug, some fun finds from My Favorite Thrift Store, and a whole lot of elbow grease, we spent those three weeks creating a new, cleaner, less cluttered environment for the girls. All said and done, the whole project cost less than $75. I'm expecting them to pull into the driveway with Grandma and Grandpa any minute. I can't wait to see what they think!

::: will you come back to me, will you come back to me, baby, baby :::

It's been three whole weeks since I said goodbye to my two youngest daughters, and tomorrow morning I will alter my normal Friday schedule of volunteering at My Favorite Thrift Store to welcome them back home. I'm so excited because I have a wonderful surprise for them which we will call The Big Project that Bo and I have been working on for the past three weeks! What is it? What is is? you ask. Well, you'll have to tune in tomorrow to find out. I can't risk spoiling the surprise, now, can I? Plus, I'm not done yet.

It's been a strange experience for me here without children during the day. Is it okay to say that I've enjoyed it? I have. There. I said it. I mean, after nineteen years of homeschooling children, and never, EVER, EH.VER. being alone in my house for more than a few hours, it's been a good time for me to experiment with what I will want to do when the little peeps spread their wings and flit their little tailfeathers goodbye.

And what do I want to do?

I have no idea.

Here's what I spent a lot of time doing these past three weeks:

The Big Project (to be fair, that took up most of my time);
Eating a lot of fast food;
Checking my facebook;
Reading tweets;
Wandering from room to room trying to figure out what I should do that would be the best use of my time;
Eating Oreos;
Reading books for two upcoming book reviews;
Alternating between avoiding The Big Project and panicking about The Big Project;
Driving.

That last one just kills me. I think I spend more time in the car than I spend sleeping and eating put together. I'm thinking about doing something that will allow me to have my license revoked so that I don't have to ever get behind the wheel again. My grandmother never did learn to drive. She allowed people to take her where she wanted to go, or she walked. Wise woman. Of course, if I depended on people to take me to the grocery store and the hair salon, I'd probably starve to death with dreadlocks.

Okay. I've been avoiding The Big Project for fifteen minutes now. Time to get back at it.

Hey, by the way, if you're out there, would you mind leaving a comment? It's not necessary, you know, and it's not like my self-worth depends on it or anything, but it would be, you know, kind of nice. That's all.

And with that....

::: there's a muddy road ahead :::

One of the things that bothers me about our culture is how we can sometimes be presented with a thought or piece of information that sounds like it's just burgeoning with wisdom, but, when truly analyzed, the message is actually quite false. We find this in films and music, especially, but also in writing.

Earlier this week, I was leafing through one of our local newspapers and came across the "religion" section in which there was 1/4 page public service ad showing a pair of shoes lying beside a closed door. Below the photograph was this piece of writing:

"In some homes, it is a tradition to leave your shoes at the door so the traces of the outdoors don't get tracked throughout the house. Floors stay cleaner as slippered or bare feet tread silently about. This week, as you approach your house of worship, enter God's house with happiness, don't bring the outside in. Leave your cares behind...deposit them at the door."

I can see how this piece could seem to offer a bit of wisdom, and, as a mother, I certainly appreciate the idea of a clean floor, but after reading this, my immediate reaction was, "Wait. Leave your cares behind? That's not right."

I mean, when we go through our week, that span of time between Sunday mornings, our shoes take us through all kinds of terrain. Some of it is rocky. Some of it is slippery. Some of it, yes, is even muddy. Sometimes we might even find ourselves wishing we were in someone else's shoes.

But to arrive at church and leave those shoes at the door? Even with my motherly desire for clean carpet, I have to disagree.

When we enter into our house of worship, we find family, family who has also walked for a week through the rocks, slime and mud, and when we gather together, we shouldn't leave all of that at the door, pretending we have no cares or concerns. Instead, we should bring it all in, all of the cares of the outside world, all of the dirt and grime and muddiness we've gathered, and let our church family help us bring it to the foot of the cross, let them help us knock that mud free of our shoes and come away clean, ready to step back into the world and face another week.

::: a letter to my angry son :::

Dear Son,

I'm not sure whose fault it is that we keep having these stupid arguments. I'm not sure it matters who's at fault. All I know is that I don't like it, and being upset with you, or you being upset with me, completely rips my heart out.

The truth is that I'm just as confused about this whole school thing as you are. Most of what you're doing on a daily basis goes completely against my educational philosophies, my hopes and aspirations for you as a person, as a whole person.  But those are ideals, and who's to say they're worth anything? Some days I believe in them. Some days I feel like a failure.

Someone told me recently that anger is a manifestation of fear. When I remember that, I remember that I think it's true. I get angry with you because I'm afraid I'm failing you, or I'm afraid that I'm doing the wrong thing, or I'm afraid I'm making bad choices. When faced with the decision to help you with your homework or make you do it on your own, I become paralyzed. All of these thoughts go screaming through my brain; If I help him, is that doing him a disservice? How am I supposed to know what his teacher wants? What does it mean when he says he doesn't understand? Why am I teaching these concepts at home--isn't that what's he spends the whole day in school for? Does any of this really matter? I mean, really. When is he going to have to know what happened to the Donner Party? How will that apply to his life, unless he becomes a contestant on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?

But then I think about the struggles we were having here at home, how I was putting so much energy into getting you to do your lessons that I wasn't giving enough attention to the girls and their lessons. So much of the problem stemmed from your stubbornness, your unwillingness to simply do the work set in front of you and your insistence of doing whatever you could to get out of the work instead of just doing the work. Why? Why do you do that? Wouldn't it be better, more peaceful, if you would just trust that the people who are teaching you love you and want you to succeed? Wouldn't you feel better about yourself if you were using your energy to do your best work instead of using that energy to get out of work?

I guess you come by that honestly, though. I often feel so overwhelmed that I don't want to even try to complete a task, no matter how necessary it is. So I understand. And then, after I lose my patience with you, I think about that, and I think, "Man, I could have handled that a little better." But I also think, "Man, he could have handled that better." It's a two-way street, see? And I'm not a child psychologist or an educational expert. I'm just a mom. I'm a confused, frustrated, heartbroken mom, and I'm just trying to get through this thing, too, with the minimal amount of damage to either of us.

Because I just want to save the relationship. I don't want you to remember your teens years as the years your mom hated you (because I don't) or that you hated your mom (because I hope you don't), and I don't like this stress. If I could do it and would know that it was okay, I'd pull you out of school and let you stay home and create roblox universes all day long. If God would wake me up in the middle of the night and say, "Yeah. That. Go ahead and do that. It will all work out just fine. Trust me. I have a plan for that boy." It would just be nice, God, if you would clue me in on that plan so I could help out a little bit. Right now, I feel like a loser of a mom, and you're not really helping so much, you know?

It certainly doesn't help that you're getting a nice amount of exposure to the F word from your classmates during the school day, or that a good portion of your classes are spent dealing with difficult kids who bring cell phones to school and mouth off to teachers. But did I really expect any differently, just because you're going to a Christian school? Well, yeah. Actually, I did. I expected a higher standard of behavior from the students, and I guess I expected an educational philosophy that's much more like mine.

Maybe I'm just in a bad mood. Maybe I need to back off for a little while. What I want right now is just to go hug you and do your homework for you and make everything better again. But that won't make things better.

I'm afraid, when it comes down to it, that you have a few lessons to learn about responsibility and perseverance and paying attention and taking pride in your work. You can only get to those by getting through what you're going through now. I can't hand them to you. You have to go get them yourself.

I'll be here when you've decided to move forward.

I love you,

Mom

::: glass of milk :::

I'm painting your bed

with strokes of white,

covering over what's chewed,

and chipping

and imperfect.

A new coat, Glass of Milk,

on the headboard

and the footboard.

I'm painting your bed,

on the porch, in the breeze,

forcing myself into the cracks

that were neglected

that were missed before.

I try to avoid painting

the porch rail,

the spiderwebs.

I'm painting your bed

while you're away for a time,

forming relationships with others,

distant from our home

but not from my heart.

When you return,

you'll rest in clean sheets

with a cat at your feet.

I'm painting your bed

and it's hard for me,

because I have good ideas

which are often started

but not finished.

And so I force myself

to accomplish this thing

before you come back to sleep.

:: love without inquiry :::

Our job is to love others without stopping to inquire whether or not they are worthy.
That is not our business and, in fact, it is nobody's business.
What we are asked to do is to love, and this love itself will render both ourselves and our neighbors worthy if anything can.

~Thomas Merton (1915 - 1968)

I have a stack of Thomas Merton books that I have yet to read, but this quote that I found at one of my favorite daily reads, Quiet Life, has me inching my way closer to them. I do have quite a collection of to-be-reads on my nightstand. And in my purse. And on my shelves. And on the kitchen counter. 

Buying books is one of my many weaknesses. When I'm in a thrift store, used book store or yard sale, they call to me. I usually find at least one that is going to either complete or change my life, and into the shopping cart or bag or basket or under the arm it goes. Sometimes I know right off the bat that I'm not going to read it, that I just like the look or feel or smell of it. Sometimes I get very excited and I read the first three chapters before I misplace it or lose interest or another book comes along. And sometimes I do get all the way through. But if I don't even turn the first page, I don't feel badly about buying a book. First of all, I look at it this way: it's kind of like rescuing an orphaned cat; I know that I can give it a good home, adore it, parcel off a comfy place for it to rest, and that will give us both a warm feeling. Secondly, I consider books a very inexpensive decorating tool. What looks more interesting than a wall of books, a stack of books, a book in your hand? What empty shabby chic bird cage or glass urn full of white Christmas lights could I buy that would ooze with as much potential? Because, while I love antique furniture, and ironstone dishes, and porcelain tubs, and blue glass, and old lamps, and just about anything made of real wood, vintage books are fashioned of stuff which actually tells you their story, sometimes in more ways than the story itself.

For instance, when my children and nieces and nephews turn six, I try to make sure they get a copy of Now We Are Six by A.A. Milne. When Sweetheart was a turning six, I happened upon two copies of this book, one in a mediocre antique store (you can find bookish surprises everywhere, so I never assume there's nothing!). In the inside cover was lettered the inscription, "Happy Birthday, Jack! Now you are six! With love from Mother and Daddy" and it was dated 1936. So I know now that this book was purchased for Jack on his 6th birthday in 1936. Fun thing is, my nephew's name is Jack, so while he was yet a toddler, I tucked this book onto my writing desk shelf and, miracle of miracles, remembered to pull it out, add my own, "Happy Birthday, Jack!" inscription, and send it to him for his sixth birthday!

I recently became a blogger reviewer for Thomas Nelson Publishers, which is great because I get advanced copies of excellent books, but it's also a challenge because I have a deadline, and that can pose a problem for a highly distracted, slow reader like this gal. It kinda makes me break out in a sweat, but I think I can handle it.

What really makes me break out in a sweat, though, is when someone loans me a book! I gave up on borrowing books from the library long ago, because I'm pretty bad about returning things I've borrowed (remember that when you consider lending me your last copy of...well, just of anything), so when someone loans me a book, I enter into this kind of tug of war with myself. Accept the book and then just give it back a week later, unread? Accept the book and put it on my nightstand where it becomes lost in a pile of other hopeful thinking? Accept the book and lose it forever?

If I had learned anything from my nature, I would simply tell the lender kindly, "No, thank you. Being given a book to borrow is kind of like an arranged marriage for me. My heart's simply not in it, and I'm afraid it won't get the attention it deserves. It will all end in tears, to be sure."

That's why I don't post a list of what I'm currently reading. It would be a huge list, and it would rarely change. As a matter of fact, I have a friend who talked me into joining GoodReads, and I'm ashamed every time I see her name pop into my inbox with a new update. She reads circles around me! Book after book after book, fiction, non-fiction. One or two a week! And as much as I'd like to say that I have a good excuse, I have children and a husband and a busy life, even when I've been virtually childless for three weeks, I've not managed to reduce my reading pile.

Perhaps I should work harder on applying my love without inquiry to people as I do to books. It's what I've been commanded to do, right? Even those difficult people who chew me out, make me feel like poo, then drop out of my life or pretend like nothing ever happened? How hard would it be to tuck those relationships under my arm and bring them home, give them a nice, sturdy shelf on which to rest, and revisit them as I'm able, as I'm called to them? Maybe I need to crack some of the older ones, the neglected ones, open, see what kind of history they have, what stories and lessons are there to be shown to me, to marvel at their illustrations and dog-ear their pages with my attention, to make notes in their margins. Not to borrow those friendships to be returned another day, to be penalized for their loss, but to accept them for keeps, to treasure them and look at them as my life's best adornments, digesting every word, even if the endings are not how I would like them to be.

Perhaps then I would be rendered worthy.

::: i like less than half of you half as well as you deserve :::

I'm becoming a hobbit.

Minus the hairy feet. 

I'm not sure if this is a medical condition or a sign of old age, but every day, I find that I'm more and more happy just staying home and being alone.

It's not that I don't like people.

Okay, yes it is.

But not always! There are some people I can tolerate being around. And there are some I actually like a lot! But there are those few darn people who make it pretty doggone hard to keep oneself from being a mistrustful misanthrope, and it's those people who make me break out in hives when I hear their ringtone on my cell phone, or send me hiding in my closet when there's a knock on the door.

There are people I truly like, though, but I find myself less and less inclined to just hang out with them, even though they've done nothing wrong and they're very fine people with no visible signs of wanting to devour my soul. There are simply more days that I'd like to be alone, or with my husband and kids, than out socializing and schmoozing. Part of it is fear of judgment. Part of it is the avoidance of banal small talk.

But part of it is my own failure to meet my expectations of myself.

I fantasize a lot. I dream of being well-liked, or well-known, or well-achieved. I plan amazing things and become delusional about their success. I devise grandiose schemes and wonder why I'm disappointed when they don't work out. I like the thought of perfection. I like the thought of success. I want an amazing garden, and an amazing house, and amazing kids, and an amazing marriage. Heck, I'd settle for an amazing blog! But when it comes right down to it, I don't really have the tools necessary to achieve greatness, like discipline and money and talent.

That can be a problem for someone like me. 

See, if I'm not living up to my own standards, which are pretty flippin' high, how do I think that other people are going to accept me, or, even more desirable, admire me, like me? And when I think someone's just on the verge of liking me, I can't handle the impending criticism that I just know is hanging on the very tip of their tongue. I don't need to hear how my storage container cupboard isn't as organized as it could be, or how I could keep my recipes in a binder instead of in a kitchen drawer, or how I'd be able to save more money of I used more beans and rice, or how my dogs are scaring the deer away or how I sabotaged the family event by showing up late or how I borrowed the electric skillet and it wasn't as clean as it should have been when I returned it. And since I've had my share of people chewing me out for being inadequate or being suspicious of my intentions, regardless of how hard I tried, I kind of seize up, feel like the trying itself is completely futile. When what I thought was my best wasn't good enough for others, or when I don't feel that I'm doing my best regardless of what others tell me, the very best plan I can come up with is to just hole myself up at home and avoid the rest of the great big ugly world and all of its crazy inhabitants.

That's the plan for today.

I stayed home from church. I'm not going to the grocery store. I won't set foot in a restaurant. I don't plan on leaving my room much. My biggest goal for the day will be to put food in my mouth and fold a pile of underwear. Today, my DVD player is my friend. My bed is my habitat. Neither delusion nor grandeur will be a part of my plan.

See? Don't attempt much and disappointment is nearly impossible.

Now, that's not how I generally live my life, but, for today, it's what I need.

Or at least it's what I'm doing.

::: autumn :::

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees,
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds.
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,
Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,
Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life
Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,
And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,
Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down
By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees
The golden robin moves. The purple finch,
That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds,
A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle,
And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud
From cottage roofs the warbling blue-bird sings,
And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke,
Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.

::: houdin's commissioning :::

::: a trip to lititz :::

On Sunday, Bo and I drove to Mt. Joy, PA to take Houdin to his training for his trip to Africa. Because the commissioning ceremony was over at 9:30 that night, I had decided to make reservations in nearby Lititz, PA so that Bo and I could take a mini-vacation. We stayed at the historic General Sutter Inn which was unique and very affordable. Here are a few quick shots from our stay.

The General Sutter Inn


The streets of Lititz



The Fountain on Main Street



My Candy Horoscope at The Wilbur Chocolate Co.



Cool chandeliers at Cherry Acres,  a shop in Lititz that sells furniture made from salvaged barn wood.

Bo's Lunch: Chili con Chocolate at Cafe Chocolate.

My lunch: Vegetable Curry



Another Lititz Street. This is in front of the General Sutter Inn.


The Cherry Acres storefront.

 

There are some sweet resale shops in Lititz. I loved this little vanity set.



We took a tour of Julius Sturgis Pretzels.

::: someone stop this train :::

These days, with life moving at top speed, I have to remind myself that this moving forward, this leap from one day to the next, is God's design. He had a reason for creating the tempo of our lives the way He did. While I was home today alone, feeling very strange about the fact that my kids are growing and changing and are currently scattered all over the country, this song by John Mayer leaked out of my iTunes and into my brain. While my flesh tells me that I want to stop this train, that I don't like the bags under my eyes and the gray in my hair and the steady decrease in energy, my spirit tells me that it's good that this train is moving forward.

No, I'm not color blind
I know the world is black and white
Try to keep an open mind but...
I just can't sleep on this tonight


Stop this train I want to get off and go home again
I can't take the speed it's moving in
I know I can't
But honestly won't someone stop this train


Don't know how else to say it, don't want to see my parents go
One generation's length away
From fighting life out on my own


Stop this train
I want to get off and go home again
I can't take the speed it's moving in
I know I can't but honestly won't someone stop this train


So scared of getting older
I'm only good at being young
So I play the numbers game to find a way to say that life has just begun
Had a talk with my old man
Said help me understand
He said turn 68, you'll renegotiate
Don't stop this train
Don't for a minute change the place you're in
Don't think I couldn't ever understand
I tried my hand
John, honestly we'll never stop this train


Once in a while when it's good
It'll feel like it should
And they're all still around
And you're still safe and sound
And you don't miss a thing
'til you cry when you're driving away in the dark.


Singing stop this train I want to get off and go home again
I can't take this speed it's moving in
I know I can't
Cause now I see I'll never stop this train

John Mayer

::: we'll dress him up warmly and we'll send him to school :::

Well, here I am, going on Day 3 of having two children who've left home, Bard away at college and Houdin at training for his year-long trip to Africa. Did I really just write that? Is my son going to *live* in Africa for a year?

Wow.

I was once accused of being "provincial," and, while I don't think I am, it's still pretty amazing to me when my kids leave the country, considering that the only country I've ever gone to is Canada. So, yeah, I'm pretty excited about it, but I'm also nervous.

But even more than that, I find it so strange to be without two of my arms. This week has been especially strange since I have no children in my home during the day. I know I keep saying that, but it's like, Oh. My. Gosh. This house is SO weird without kids hopping all over the place!

And I'd like to say that it's cleaner, but it's not. I've been spending so much time running around that I haven't really had any time to clean, and that was one of my top priorities. Maybe tomorrow, huh? I guess other things are just more important.

I met with Monet's math teacher, counselor and tutor today about his difficulty with math and his general assimilation into the school environment. I felt pretty good about the meeting, and I felt good about his participation in tonight's soccer game, but after having a good talk with him on the way home from soccer, I'm more frustrated with the way other kids are behaving. I had thought, naively, perhaps, that the adjustment into this school would be easier because it's a Mennonite school, and there would be a strong focus on care and compassion. Unfortunately, some of the kids, particularly some of the Mennonite kids, are pretty disappointing to me. Monet shared with me tonight that when they're on the soccer bus, he sits alone because the other kids don't want to sit with him. One kid told him he couldn't sit in the empty seat next to him, and one kid actually asked someone else to trade places with Monet so he wouldn't have to sit with him. Monet told me that he feels like he has to apologize to the other kids when there's nowhere else to sit and he has to sit next to someone. He feels like he has to *apologize* to them for them having to sit next to him! The best advice I could come up with was to tell him to find something to do that he could do alone, like reading a book or playing with his iPod. But he didn't have his iPod tonight on the soccer bus, he said, because he let one of the other kids play with it on the way home. It made me want to hug him, but it made me want to cry. He would never think of treating someone the way these kids are treating him, and he's even going so far as to share with them one of his prized possessions. I don't really understand what they find so repulsive about him. He's smart, he's talented, and he's funny. I suppose it's because he has struggled with math and soccer, and so he's one of the weak ones, the low man on the totem. I pray that he finds a friend who will accept and appreciate him for who he is. Doesn't everyone deserve that?

I guess the comfort comes in the knowledge that people make fun of what they don't understand. I guess right now, Monet isn't even human to these kids, doesn't even have feelings, because they don't know him. Part of me wants them to know him, and part of me thinks, "Wow. You don't really deserve this boy's friendship." Today, one of the kids I had thought was going to be a friend, walked by Monet's locker and called him a failure. Monet said it was a joke, that the boy was only kidding, but why kid like that? Why? And since this is a boy on Monet's soccer team, doesn't that kind of defeat the purpose of team sports?

And I suppose that's another reason I'm feeling frustrated. Monet *chose* to play soccer. He's only one of 32 boys in the whole school who have chosen to play soccer this season. It's been a hard adjustment for him, but he has stuck with it, and he's improving. He wanted to quit, but in the end, he chose to stick with it. He goes to every practice, every game, and sits through the varsity games, too. And yet he would be less ridiculed had he chosen not to play a sport at all. It's almost like there's a kind of humiliation and punishment that comes from putting in the effort. If you're not good enough, the message seems to be, don't even try. We don't want you.

But he's continuing on, and I'm proud of him for it.

I wish human beings would just learn to behave, to be kind to one another, and to treat other people with the same respect with which they'd like to be treated. You'd think that, in a Christian school, a school of Monet's own denomination, that wouldn't be too much to ask.

Let's hope it's not.

::: honey & jam :::

The talented Hannah at honey & jam will wow you with her beautiful photos. Hannah is a 19-year-old homeschool graduate who mashed her loves of photography and baking together to create a scrumdiliumciosis blog. If you go and visit her now, you'll find that she's hosting a generous giveaway--a $40 gift card to King Arthur Flour. Even though I'm minimizing MY chances of scoring that card by sharing this little tidbit with you, I'm doing it anyway because I think you'll like her that much, and how can I keep something so great all to myself?

Go visit her blog and enter that contest. I'll be here when you get back.

*Photo by Hannah.

::: wouldn't you give your hand to a friend? :::

If you know my boy, Monet, send him a note or give him a call today to encourage him. He has had a hard time transitioning from home education to private school. His class is a small one, and a close-knit one, from what I understand, and considering that he's not very outgoing or talkative, I think he's having a hard time breaking in to the circle. He's having a rough time of math class, though he's certainly making improvements, and he claims to hate English and History. Soccer is hard for him, too, but he's sticking with that, too, and making improvements.

I get frustrated with school kids sometimes. Tonight at the soccer game, I was a little disappointed by the way some of the kids were making fun of and laughing at other kids, and the hyper-focus on the boyfriend/girlfriend thing, and the borderline foul language and sexist comments (in a socially conscious Christian school). I was also frustrated by how much value was assigned to success in sports over success in other areas of life. Monet is an excellent artist, but there's no art class for the freshmen this year. None of the administration seems bothered by this, but I wonder how they would react if I told them that there was no soccer/tennis/baseball/basketball for their child's year.

I want Monet to succeed, and I want him to make friends, and I want him to be healthy, but moreover, I want him to be happy and to serve God fully and with a pure, humble heart. While I'm hoping he can gain the tools he needs to do that while attending this school, I'm a little worried that he won't, that he'll be pulled under the current of the unhealthy trends of his peers and be swept away from the gifts that God has given to him because there's no value being assigned to it by his peers and mentors.

So, if you think about it, give him a call or drop him a note today.

::: la la la la pennsylvania :::

Tomorrow.
5:00 AM.
A six and a half hour drive.
A day of orientation and commissioning.
And at the end of the day?
After we've been oriented
and he's been commissioned?
We leave.
And he stays.
Thanksgiving
will bring him home again,
but only for a week.
Long enough to pack for Africa.
Long enough to get a few more vaccines
shot into his body.
And then we stay.
And he leaves.
To another country.
To another continent.
To a year away.
He'll leave 18,
and come back 19.
So much,
so very much
can happen
in a year.
It will creep by
in the blink of an eye,
and July will be
here before we
even realize that September has left us.
He'll go away from this cold,
into that heat,
and come back to this heat.
A whole year of summer.
Six and a half hours.
Such a long
long,
long
drive.

::: people, get ready :::

It's been a busy few days for the Thicket Dweller household, and it's only going to get busier.

We're preparing for Houdin to leave for training for his eight-month trip to western Africa. This past week has been spent gathering last-minute stuff and organizing fundraisers. This Saturday, we'll be running a lunch stand at a local real estate auction and all of the proceeds will go to Houdin's trip, which is a good thing because it's costing more than I had thought it would. While many people have been very generous, there are so many expenses that I hadn't anticipated; his oral vaccinations aren't covered by our insurance; the health department charges $35 for a "travel consultation" before they can give him his Yellow Fever vaccine; he needs a winter coat before his training begins; we didn't have a camera suitable for him to travel with; he desperately needed a haircut; and, and, and....

It's hard to believe that he'll be leaving in just two days, and that we won't see him until Thanksgiving. A short visit, then he'll be off to Africa for eight. whole. months.

Am I ready for this?

Sometimes the best thing to do when you're feeling anxious is to focus on someone else, so here's a prayer for all of you who have children who are starting their first year of school, or their last, or their first year of college, or their last, or they're going away on service projects, or missions trips, or into the military. May you be filled with total peace. May all of the fear and anxiety and pressure and stress just melt away, and may you be left with a sense of wonder, gratitude, joy and strength.

And you can do the same for me.

::: at midnight :::

Dogs are barking.
Drums are beating.
Piano is pounding.
Fan is blowing.
Laundry is waiting.
I am stressing.
I am stressing.
I am stressing.

School is frustrating.
Homework is baffling.
Sunday's approaching;
Houdin will be leaving.
Laundry is waiting.
I am stressing.
I am stressing.
I am stressing.

Book is inspiring.
God is amazing.
Life is so challenging.
Morning is coming.
Bus will be waiting.
I am stretching.
I am stretching.
I am stretching.

::: thicket dweller and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad morning :::

It's 6:33 a.m.

How can the day suck already?

I'll tell you how--when you're the mother of children who feel that they're failing.

Late last night, before bed, after Monet was sound asleep, I signed on to Edline, the school's academic tracking system. It's a system that has great potential, except that I keep believing that the teachers are actually using it, so if I sign on and find that there's no homework or class notes for Monet, I believe there's actually no homework or class notes. It doesn't occur to me that a school system would set up, maintain, and point parents to a system that some of the teachers use and some of them don't.

Apparently, however, when it's time to put up weekly progress reports, they do.

And Monet is failing History.

HISTORY!

How can a person FAIL History? Math, I can understand. English? Not in this house, buddy. But HISTORY?

One of my biggest pet peeves in life is that someone would make history boring, would give a kid a list of names and dates and measure their success in the class by whether or not they can memorize them. That is totally not what history is about. History is US! It's the story of where we came from, what mistakes have been made, what successes have been celebrated. It's about human beings, and triumph, and tragedy, and passion, and drive, and LIFE. How can a person hate History? How can a person fail History?

Well, I'll tell you one way a person can hate it. If, like I did, they have a History teacher who was only there because he was the boys' basketball coach and you couldn't be a basketball coach unless you taught a class, so he taught History, and he didn't care about it, and he leered at the high school girls, and he was totally and completely boring. Completely.

Now, here's my son, and I'm thinking, "Heck, it's twenty-five years later. Surely they've made some advancements in the training of History teachers," but then I log on to this sometimes used, sometimes not Edline and I see that he's not just failing, but he's REALLY failing. So, while he's dead asleep, I pull out his five-subject binder and flip to the History tab. Page after page after page of photocopied worksheets with fact upon fact and obscure name upon obscure name that they're supposed to define and identify.

He's only been in class for THREE WEEKS! Each of these people listed lived an ENTIRE LIFE! How in the world can you cover one whole sheet of names, one whole sheet of lives in THREE WEEKS? How can you absorb that, let alone CARE about them?

I guess this is the Charlotte Mason in me coming out. I don't understand the need to cram a bunch of facts into a kid that he won't remember, won't care about, when you can spend some good quality time on a few key things and really give them a passion for them.

It doesn't help that, when we were trying to make the decision to send Monet to this small private school, people assured us that he'd do fine. People have been assuring us all along the way that he'll get plenty of help, that he'll succeed, that the staff won't let him fail. And in spite of my worries and concerns and careful questions and requests for extra help and extra patience, he's struggling in Math, he doesn't like English (be still my HEART!), and he's failing in History.

Sigh.

Then here's me, carefully composing two e-mails--one to the Math teacher and one to the History teacher--asking what we can do to help Monet succeed, and when I press "send," I find that Edline has "logged me out" because my account had been "inactive" for a period of time. Writing, I think, is an activity. It's pretty active. No logout warning, no autosave. Two carefully composed e-mails...gone.

So I'm feeling pretty upset about this, right, when I read a note on facebook from my college-aged daughter, who apparently bombed at an improv and didn't make it into her school's production of Into the Woods, which she really, really, really wanted, and who's feeling like a failure in her Media Production class, and I find that she's really struggling right now, that she's really feeling down and rejected and pretty much like a failure, and, as I read the things she's upset about, I wonder how much of it I planted in that head of hers--her need to be funny, her need to hide her emotions, her need for perfection.

Then I start beating myself up, and I wonder, "Why didn't I plant confidence? Why didn't I plant resilience? And God! Why didn't I plant the need for God?!?"

And so here it is, 6:49 a.m., and it's a sucky day already.

So I'm going back to bed, and I hope when I wake up, the new day won't be as sucky.

But then I remember that I have an appointment today to have an ultrasound done on my apparently failing gall bladder. Today.

9/9/09 at 9:00 a.m.

I could use a lift, God, okay?

::: all by myself :::

How quiet it is, save the sound of Houdin banging out "Do You Realize" on the piano. The weekend wedding and travel to Indiana/Illinois is over, the girls are staying with their Illinois relatives for three weeks, Bard is back to college, and Monet is at high school. Houdin is an only child for a week, and then he's off to training to spend 8 months in Africa as part of a service and missions project. There's plenty to do here--three wedding videos to finish editing, church stuff to organize, Houdin's packing and preparation to do, funds to raise, books to read and review, pickles and sauerkraut to make, laundry to wash, maybe even a bedroom or two to paint--but for now, I'm just gathering my thoughts, absorbing this strange phenomenon. Never have I been alone in my house for more than a half-hour. Wow. Isn't that hard to believe? That I could have an entire day, uninterrupted, to write, edit, clean, watch a movie, nap? I'm excited, yet I'm also unsure how I feel about it. After years and years of wondering what it would be like to be alone in a house, to clean something and have it stay clean, to complete a sentence or a thought, I'll have a taste of it for two whole weeks, and it makes me wonder what life without children at home will be like.

For those who have children leave home, what was the transition like for you? I'm especially interested in hearing from women who were home with their children, and if you were homelearners, all the better. Was the process difficult? What surprised you? Did you find yourself with more time of your own, or did it get quickly filled? Did you go to work? Start volunteering full-time?

After this three weeks, my two little girls will be home again, and we'll back into our Ambleside schedule.

But, for now, I'll enjoy my venture into daytime solitude.

::: now my feet won't touch the ground :::

The weekend was a beautiful one; visits with loved ones, hugs from nieces and nephews, lots of music and dancing and laughing, and a beautiful bride and a handsome groom.

My little sister, who is actually Bo's little sister, who often comments on this blog as Lil Sis, married her sweetheart, Bishop, on Saturday. The outdoor wedding was blessed with a beautiful day, a group of loving people in attendance, Bo and his brother playing Coldplay's "Now My Feet Won't Touch the Ground" on lap dulcimer and guitar, and a whole host of laughing (and, occasionally, crying) children. At one point, the sing-songy serenade of the ice cream truck floated through the park, children and adults flocking to get a cool, sweet treat.

It was such an honor to be a part of Lil Sis's wedding, to do one of the things that I love best, which is to snap photos here and there and take a bit of video. Every time I would point my camera at Lil Sis, that funny little five-year-old girl peeked through her veil, reminding me just how quickly life skitters by.

Lil Sis's groom is so patient and enduring, with a great sense of humor and a no-nonsense approach to relationships. He tells it like it is without being demeaning or angry, and I appreciate that so much about him, about that man who doesn't let the wool be pulled over his eyes and continues to state what he believes. "You have ideals," his new father-in-law said, and it seems that it's true.

The two of them are iron sharpening iron, and they, along with Lil Sis's little girl RJ, are going to do amazing things as a family.

::: if i get there before you do, i'll cut a hole and pull you through :::

How do you like to go up in a swing,
Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
Ever a child can do!

Up in the air and over the wall,
Till I can see so wide,
Rivers and trees and cattle and all
Over the countryside—

Till I look down on the garden green,
Down on the roof so brown—
Up in the air I go flying again,
Up in the air and down!

~Robert Louis Stevenson

This is one of the girls' favorite poems, and when we read daily from The Child's Garden of Verses, this one is almost always read. The older children sang a version of it for choir.

Isn't swinging one of those simple, lovely things that makes childhood grand? One of my favorite memories is of my dad pushing me on my little metal swingset in the back yard, me soaring, he loudly singing, "Swing lo, sweet cherry-ought. Comin' for to carry me home." I can remember how I would rush to the swingset at the school next to my aunt's house, even into my teens, when my friend and I would pump our feet to the rhythm of our own voices singing The Steve Miller Band's Fly Like an Eagle.

It's great fun as a child. But somewhere along the line, we decide, or someone tells us, that we're too old for it, and then, when we want to return to it, our bottoms are too big for the seats, or our feet drag on the ground. But if we can get past those parts, it's still a simple, lovely thing to do.

And swinging in sync with a friend? Ah. Magical, isn't it?

I loved watching Sweetheart, The Baby, and their friend Lydia fly through the air, giggling, trying to slow down and speed up to match each other's flight. And even the competition that took place was interesting to watch. The synchronized swinging almost became an obsession with some, and a non-issue with others, and for those some who took it seriously, the fact that no one would sync with her was a great insult to her psyche.

Life is like that. There are things I take way to seriously, and someone might be able to say to me that it's no big deal, that I should just shrug it off, that it doesn't really matter anyway. But that doesn't erase my human emotions, my desire for relationship, my confusion when someone I love, or someone I try to love, rejects me, deals with me callously, or misunderstands my intentions. Why does it matter? Why does it bother me so? Why, when people who love me, people who really know me, people I respect and admire, tell me to forget about it, shrug it off, can't I do so?

I must not be the only one. I was listening to a repeat show on This American Life, an NPR radio program that I download as a podcast each week. This week's theme was The Kindness of Strangers. In it, Brett Leveridge tells the story of his experience of standing on a subway platform. A stranger, which, of course, means someone Brett doesn't even know, probably someone that no one waiting on the subway knows, meanders along the platform, and chooses people as if choosing players for a kickball game: "You're in. You're out. You can stay. You have to leave." But it wasn't like the people who were told they had to go left. They just ignored this strange person. Not Brett, though. For some reason, as the guy approached Brett, all he could think about was how he hoped the guy would approve of him. A guy he didn't even know. A total stranger.

So if, as humans, it matters to us that a total stranger approves of us, how much more important must it be that someone we know, someone who at least in modicum knows us, rejects us?

This is why, I believe, the person of Christ is so compelling. He was, and is, what we long to be. Perfect. Without sin. Blameless. And we long so much for that perfection and blamelessness, for that relationship and acceptance, that it's almost unbearable when someone rejects us for reasons we can't fully understand, even if it's a person we don't particularly like. Even if it's a person we can't really stand at all.

But here was Jesus, and, yeah, like I said. Perfect. Without sin. Blameless. And still, He had enemies. He was despised and rejected. Those He loved denied Him, betrayed Him, doubted Him. What must that have felt like for Him, who didn't just feel He hadn't done anything wrong. He really hadn't done anything wrong!

And so I know that, with all of my flaws and failures, I can't expect to be unconditionally loved by anyone but God, but this feeling of swinging so high, of laughing and and feeling that weightlessness, and laughing, and then falling and scooping so low, and reaching out my hand to sync with someone who chooses to keep theirs death-gripped tightly on the chains, pumping their feet so that they can rise higher and higher and higher than I, is always a bit of a shock to me. Hey, I think, wasn't this supposed to be fun?

And on the worst of days, I just want to jump off of the swing altogether.

My son told me recently that it takes seven positive comments to counteract one negative one. Seven. For every. single. negative. So if you get totally chewed out by someone, told in every way how you've failed, what a loser and terrible person you are, just imagine how much encouraging and building up your loved ones have to do to cancel out what that one uncaring, selfish, unthinking person did.

Wow.

No wonder it's so hard to love. It takes persistence, doesn't it? We have to keep undoing all that's been done, not just by us, but by others, too.

I guess that's why I want to be the one who swings next to you, who, when you reach out your hand for someone to sync with, grabs that hand and sticks right next to you, keeping time with your rhythm, no matter how high or low you go.

Sometimes I'm up, sometimes I'm down
Coming for to carry me home
But still my soul feels heavenly bound
Coming for to carry me home

The brightest day that I can say
Coming for to carry me home
When Jesus washed my sins away,
Coming for to carry me home.

::: little things mean a lot :::

Blow me a kiss from across the room
Say I look nice when I'm not
Touch my hair as you pass my chair
Little things mean a lot.

Do you ever find yourself so tickled by some simple thing that you stop to look at it, to admire it, to see if it's just as gorgeous as you remembered it was, over and over again? Sometimes it's the perfect pumpkin pie you crafted with your own hands, complete with little cutout crust pumpkins and leaves dotting its deliciously orange-brown surface. Sometimes it's a small oak writing desk that you didn't think you could afford but you bought (and still use today) when your mother-in-law gave you money from the bonus check she hadn't been expecting. Sometimes it's a stack of vintage school books--Halliburton and Herriot and Hillyer--that came in the mail and you placed just so on your little white nightstand. Sometimes it's your children sleeping while the eastern sun streams through their windows, which is no simple thing, but still, it can make you stop and take a second peek. And a third.

Give me your arm as we cross the street
Call me at six on the dot
A line a day when you're far away
Little things mean a lot

And sometimes it's that gorgeous yellow glass lamp with the faux oil-rubbed brass feet that you saw at Your Favorite Thrift Store last week but were too strapped for cash to pay the six dollars that was stamped on the sticky yellow price tag. But, oh happy day, when you went back on half-price day, the half-price tag just happened to be yellow, and the lamp with the yellow tag just happened to still be there!

Don't have to buy me diamonds or pearls
Champagne, sables, and such
I never cared much for diamonds and pearls
'cause honestly, honey, they just cost money

But even for three dollars, you stood and deliberated, "Do I really *need* another lamp?" and "Where will I put it?" even though you knew that it matched the colors of your piano room so well. So, with some encouragement from your young daughter, you bought it, and you found just the right lampshade for it, and you took it home. And you immediately saw where it should live out the rest of its bright lampy days. Oh, yes. On the dry-brushed green thrift store stand right by the front door. And when you plug it in, OH JOY! you find that it has a little bulb in the yellow glass base, too, and it makes the perfect hall nightlight when the base is lit all alone, which you can do, which is another special little surprise.

Give me a hand when I've lost the way
Give me your shoulder to cry on
Whether the day is bright or gray
Give me your heart to rely on

And you find yourself returning to it, just to admire it again, and asking family members how they like it. And they tell you. Again. That they still like it. And you even find yourself taking photos of it. And posting them on your blog. And writing about it. You actually sit at your little oak writing desk at 12:36 AM and write about your yellow glass lamp.

Send me the warmth of a secret smile

To show me you haven't forgot
For now and forever, that's always and ever
Honey, little things mean a lot

It's those little things, though, isn't it? Those little things, doggone it, are the things that help us through the big things, like financial worry and boys in high school and family problems and sons going to Africa and health concerns and that big, scary thing called The Future. If it weren't for those little things, life would get pretty darn hard to handle sometimes.

Thank you, God for that lamp, and for all things, both big and little.

But, today, especially for the little things.

Honey, little things mean a lot.

::: line 'em up, line 'em all up :::

I'm working on a way to be more organized with the girls' daily lessons, and, in an effort to do that, I came up with this form. As you can see, there's no times listed, because I can be a clock watcher if I'm not careful, so instead of being a slave to that, we just go through our lessons and complete what needs doing, regardless of how long or short it takes.


This page was created in Pages. If you'd like a copy, e-mail me at todayslessons AT gmail DOT com and I'll send you the file.

::: neighbors :::

by Rudyard Kipling

The man that is open of heart to his neighbour,
And stops to consider his likes and dislikes,
His blood shall be wholesome whatever his labour,
His luck shall be with him whatever he strikes.
The Splendour of Morning shall duly possess him,
That he may not be sad at the falling of eve.
And, when he has done with mere living--God bless him!--
A many shall sigh, and one Woman shall grieve!

But he that is costive of soul toward his fellow,
Through the ways, and the works, and the woes of this life,
Him food shall not fatten, him drink shall not mellow;
And his innards shall brew him perpetual strife.
His eye shall be blind to God's Glory above him;
His ear shall be deaf to Earth's Laughter around;
His Friends and his Club and his Dog shall not love him;
And his Widow shall skip when he goes underground!

Kipling is our poet for this term of Ambleside. While I love his work, whether it's prose or poetry, some of it is a little too wordy and laden with obscure historical and cultural references for my fifth and first year girls. This was one piece that we could all enjoy, and the message is quite clear, also.