Full of Good Things

On Sunday Mornings, at the end of our worship service, we receive the benediction. A blessing. I often hold out my hands in a posture of receptivity. If my fingers are not tightly cupped together, Bud will reach over and squeeze them together, whispering, "Don't let any of the blessing slip through!"

Yesterday, while Bud was picking out ukelele chords in class and Wombles was spinning wildly on some playground contraption, I stood talking with other mothers of young musician/playground reveler types. One of these women is due quite soon to add a fourth child to their family--and she was wishing aloud for just the right reply to those comments one tends to hear in public when one is pregnant with three children in two. Perhaps you don't know those comments. Perhaps you've made them. In any case, a common one is, "You sure have your hands full."

To this one I always responded, "Yes! Full of good things."

Well, I haven't been pregnant for nearly two years, and I yet I find myself using this phrase in modified form all of the time. Our days are full--"but full of good things!" My schedule is full--perhaps overflowing--"but full of good things!" And it is true. And I rejoice in the old and in the new: hosting our community group for weekly dinner and study; teaching Spanish; homeschooling; doing life with friends at our weekly supper swap; joining the liturgy team at church; and being mom to two public-school students this year, as well. These are all good things.

And yet other parts of life are falling through the cracks, literally slipping through the fingers of these hands that are overflowing.Thank-you notes written and never mailed, phone calls never made, conversations never enjoyed (or struggled through). Bills paid late. Car keys lost. And so, as good as good is, we know we need to make some changes. We won't have time for THAT conversation until mid-December; I'll let you know.

Another thing falling through the cracks is time to think, reflect, and consider. Hence this blog post, scrawled initially via spiral-bound notebook with a sharp Ticonderoga while I finish off Wednesday night's enchiladas. As it turns out, there are only 24 hours in a day; trying to squeeze out more by staying up late doesn't actually work (*news flash*). I just wake up tired. I recently explained to someone that if time were money, we would be living hand-to-mouth (but remember! So many good things). Upon closer inspection, however, I find I am frittering some away on the mental dietary equivalent of Tic-Tacs and peanut butter cups. Arguably tasty, but not healthy enough to warrant the expense.

I am not even going to go back and count metaphors in this post. What I mean is that as we get ready for Advent, I will be walking away from Facebook. And I will be checking e-mail much less frequently. I would love to be in touch, though...maybe we could talk on the phone. Or you could stop by!

When you do, I may be scraping crayon off of the table or folding laundry, practicing Italian or bribing my kids to please, PLEASE find my car keys...but I hope to be holding what good things I can carefully, fingers tightly together so as not to let any goodness drip through.

Tuesday

I had a super productive day on Tuesday. Nutmeg slept pretty much the entire time Wombles was at school, which meant I had almost three hours of get-it-done time. I even blogged!

And apparently deleted it. Oh, well. I'm not letting it get me down! Here are some photos that capture a small slice of our fall.

 Pixie has joined a soccer team. It's fun, and even though it is consuming more of our Saturdays than I'm comfortable with there IS something lovely about being forced to sit in the Santa Barbara sunshine and do nothing except chat, feel the breeze, and watch the sweeties run around.

I have not yet gotten a photo of Bud playing soccer, but I have managed to find a photo of him in his soccer uniform:

Preaching. He built this pulpit himself and delivered Isaiah 23 (and 24, and 25...) straight-up. He even invited someone from church to come and hear him preach. She remembered. And came last week. He was thrilled.

Wombles had a birthday. And turned five. More on that later.

He had friends over for a crazy water party.

 Nutmeg and her buddy A. got to play together at the park. On this day they were ridiculously proud that they could climb onto the table and run around in circles all by themselves. They are pretty cute together, even if much of their play involves running and screeching at each other.

Please don't judge her hairdo. It was an accident. But yes, I have started wearing jams and Reebok high-tops...why do you ask?

Nutmeg has in fact gotten so good at climbing that several times this fall she has been able to climb up onto the table before I've realized. Several glasses have paid the price:

Never at a good time. On this particular day I finished getting kids ready for school, took them there and came home before I even thought about cleaning this up. I'm becoming a master of the sidestep even as I yearn to face life head-on.

Hope you are well: enjoying crisp air, sunshine, and smiles from people who truly know you.

Warmly,
H

First Day of School!

Well, we have finished our summer and started school with lots of "firsts." Pixie and Bud are in public school, Wombles is doing a charter school/homeschool combination, and everyone is loving it. As Wombles says to anyone who asks, Nutmeg is "wreaking havoc."

All three of my school-age children had their first day of school on the same day. Talk about an emotional time!

He's growing up so fast! And he looks so much like Bud, no?

My beautiful fourth grader

Nutmeg wouldn't get out of his shot!

 All of them are loving it, and I am confident the new routine will be good for all of us...this year, anyway.

Happy September!

The Gang's All Here!

The MacK's rolled in last night in time for dinner.  Let the crazy cool cousin time begin!

Grace in Your Heart and Flowers in Your Hair

Tonight, we all went over to St. Michael's to a concert in the park. In case you didn't know, St. Michael's is "The town that fooled the British." If you actually click through to read the short story of just how that happened during the War of 1812, you will see both the gazebo where the musicians played and the cannon that Pixie, Bud and Wombles pretended to fire tonight. Repeatedly.

They played with these cannons when we were here two years ago, and I'm afraid they are probably the highlight of St. Michael's for the kids.

Anyway, tonight one of Grandma and Boppy's former Fellows and his new wife were playing. The Southern folk music was haunting and beautiful; incredibly evocative. And as they played and I sat on the grass, I looked around and this is what I saw:

And this is what I did:

And then Pixie saw and wanted to learn. Balm to my heart, as you may know if you've my post from the 12th of this month. Oh, the clover chains.

She figured it out. She made me a crown.

And she said, "I wish we had these back in California." I just hugged her tight.

 I sat and listened to the bittersweet music, which was the perfect soundtrack for the evening I had walked into with no stories, no connections on the horizon...and watched as our gracious Lord wove this evening into the longer story he's been telling me and will keep on telling. That he not only knows those things that are good-for-me-but-hard; he knows exactly what sweetnesses speak to my soul, and he gives them freely as gifts.


 Nutmeg danced.

 My daughters and I and Grandma, we wore clover jewelry tonight.

We all had Grace in our hearts, and flowers in our hair.

 

And my heart? It just plain overflowed. But in the process it may have stretched out just a little bit first.

We are Here!

We made it peacefully to Boppy and Grandma's last night, with a stop for dinner at Chick-fil-A (Aaahhhh....). Already we have settled in to a new rhythm and a slower pace (I'll leave you to imagine the comparative chaos of four jetlagged children with a large house to explore. While those stresses are present, it's not the flavor of the time).

For tonight, I'll share pictures of our day. I will note that although J's parents didn't raise him here, they did spend time here in his younger days--enough time for him to have great stories about harvesting oysters!--and Boppy and Grandma brought toys with them across the country, so Nutmeg was walking around today shaking a maraca that J played with as a child. (Aaahhhhh...)

 

 Nutmeg discovering the joy of air conditioning through a floor vent

 

 I got to read and pray under that tree this afternoon. Plans to repeat!

 Nutmeg screeched for joy every time Ginger-the-Cat was near.

Bud caught his first frog (or toad). It was hard for him to say goodbye. Maybe we'll see him again tomorrow? Preferably OUTSIDE.

 We took an afternoon walk down the pier to retrieve the crab trap:

"We who are about to be your dinner salute you."

 See that handsome man smiling? We met fifteen years ago today. I am so grateful.

 Room to Roam. So beautiful. So peaceful. So glorious.

The three big kids staked claims to beds in a perfect-for-them room

 

Pixie's clothes are in the wardrobe, and her desk is neatly arranged...

With Nite-nite on her pillow!!!

 

That's right, we have Nite-nite again! After their longest separation ever, Pixie recovered Nite-nite at school the afternoon before we left. My friend S. prayed we would find it and within an hour, a student overheard Pixie asking an adult about him; the student led Pixie to her classroom, where NN had been camping out since he had been retrieved from the gazebo the week before. We are all thrilled to have him home...or wherever we are. :) After the past couple of months I am already feeling the change of pace and delighting in it. And not even worrying about how long it may last.

Heading East...

We are headed back to the East Coast for a while. I have been excited and trepidatious (yes: a word) about our trip. Not so much the logistically, although yesterday was surely a Psalm 103 Monday. No, I have big hopes for this trip. Its length alone presents a tempting canvas for all sorts of possibilities. Being me, however, the hopes come wrapped in a twin-pack with fear that it will disappoint.

So it was fun to talk on Sunday with a Southerner about the colors of the South. How when I first see the green of the trees it is as though my eyes physiologically don't know quite what to do; the green is not the green of my adopted home. It is a simple and profound indicator of how varied "normal" can be. Green should be green--but it isn't. There are certain cones in my eyes that only activate in places where kudzu grows. Anyway, this fellow Southerner knew exactly what I meant.

 Even as we enjoyed the discovery of shared experience, I wondered whether I would be sharing it with anyone else in my family as we headed East this week. The palette of my heart is a jumble of tints and hues unfamiliar to my children. The shapes of the leaves, the smell of the dust, the calls of the birds and even the buzz of swarming mosquitoes which formed the landscape of my childhood are markedly different from the building blocks of theirs. Will they even know what to do when they see a lightning bug?

The day before my green interaction with the South Carolinian, J and I went to a wedding. At dinner afterward we were seated with one another and otherwise mostly strangers. Small talk is not my strong suit and as I floundered, I recalled having read an author who asserted that he could find at least one shared interest with anyone if he tried. With that in mind, I asked our table whether anyone was a native Southern Californian (true story: I once asked someone with an English accent the same question). This time, though, there was a native in our midst: and with roots three generations deep. As soon as I exclaimed over the roots, though, someone else at our table pooh-poohed the idea of roots and declared them meaningless. Although I disagreed, I let that one pass: the speaker was using a foreign tongue (English) with a thick accent, and had clearly been dug up and replanted more drastically than I have been.

But I am not ready to say that roots don't matter. And as we head back toward cicadas, red dirt and the frosty, dark interiors of my childhood summers (air conditioning blasting, eyes not yet adjusted from the brilliance outside) I am elated and anxious.  I want this trip to make deep impressions on the hearts and bodies of these children of ours. The idea of those four finding my homeland foreign is almost unspeakably sad. So we go, and I am determined to immerse them: in the hot humidity whose best salve is sweet tea; in the waiting...waiting... for a fish to bite on a hot afternoon; in the voices and faces of their cousins and grandmothers, and of my cousins and grandmothers; in the running over hill and behind tree with the thrill and wonder of knowing that four generations' worth of shared blood have gone before, doing the same over the same turf.

And yet I know that I cannot make this language and music their own. That takes time as this culture tells time, in the sitting and telling stories and the sipping and the dealing of another hand. So I know as we run from one treat to another that they will not learn on this trip what it means to be so bored-and-yet-not-bored lazing on the hot clover that they make not only necklaces, but bracelets and rings and crowns from the blossoms as well.

The roots that make one a native here will not be their own. As I grieve that, I have hope that each taste they receive of the flavors, scents and palette will increase their enjoyment of them: that this will feel strangely like home, even as they are planted in southern Californian soil. And I hope that they will grow up with a sense of place and a longing for home that will better educate their hearts in the business of longing for their true and eventual Home, the aroma and radiance of which simultaneously makes all roots here seem shallow and yet beautifies them by parallel.

And so as the plane now begins its descent, my eyes strain for the green they've not seen for twelve months and thirteen days. And my heart longs for home. I have a feeling that I'll still be longing well after the trip is over. And that is not a bad thing, nor meaningless: a heritage worth passing on.