Late Bloomers

 

 *Twila, you were the first to comment and you won the book giveaway. Does that ever happen? Well, it did!*

 I love to see nature wake up in the spring. Tiny buds and shoots, seedlings and dew. New life springing from slumber.

Speaking of slumber, have you heard about the "early wake up" movement? There's an enterprise afoot in the domestic blog world aimed at motivating the mom-masses to add more value to their day by getting up before the rest of the household. This is so you can, ostensibly, get more things done and maybe have some quality time to yourself. I think this is a great idea if you are a naturally inclined morning person, but for us night owls it just won't work. It's merely chopping one end of the blanket off and sewing it back on the other end. If I'm getting up at 5 in the morning, it better be to milk a cow or run from a house fire. Also, if your family is like mine, then getting up at 6 means everyone is up and following you around by 6:05.

Oh, I know some unfortunate souls have husbands who leave for work at dawn and school start times that are alarmingly early so they have to do this. But I don't. I can be a moonflower.

Not to point fingers, but it reminds me of many of the one-size-fits-all solutions floating around in the domestisphere. I once read an article that promised to help you, as a busy mother, find more time to write. It made me anxious for a second because I was hoping she found a loophole in the universe and, aided by a time machine, was going to tell me how to get more hours out of my day. That is the only way I could find more time to write, and frankly the extra time probably wouldn't go towards writing. It would go towards flossing my teeth or eating chocolate or something else important.

After reading half a dozen tips which are already part of my routine, it came down to the big one: The writer has her husband watch the kids for four hours one night a week, while she takes the laptop and absconds into the cloistered security of a Starbucks. And that, THAT, was really how she found time to write. Four uninterrupted hours of quiet, courtesy of her spouse.

I imagined what the conversation would look like if I informed The Mister that I needed a few hours of alone time in the evening at a coffee shop. Well, I tried to imagine, but such a conversation would require just a little too much imagination.

"Would you mind being me for a few hours while I hole up in a cafe with the computer? It's important. I need to write a blog post. A dozen people are counting on me. No, really. I'll be back by ten. Thanks."

I'd like to propose a counter-movement which is synced harmoniously to the natural rhythms of us late night bloomers. One where we shamelessly stay up late after everyone has gone to bed and do whatever we want to get more out of our day. Mop the floor. Read the news headlines. Play solitaire. Embrace the pervasive and soothing quiet of a word at sleep.

From time to time I'll issue a cheer. "Who woke up to perfectly clean floors this morning? Who went to sleep when the clock said a.m.? Who is going to need an espresso as big as their head to get going today?" That's my movement. Those are my people. We'll bloom where we're planted, and when it suits us.

A ranunculus from my garden. An early spring bloomer.

Book Review and Giveaway: The Scent of Water: Grace for Every Kind of Broken

This book is over due. Way over due. This book was one of only two non-baby books I read during my pregnancy in 2011. It was a gift from the publisher in exchange for a review, and I quickly plowed through it, mesmerized, then promptly got too sick to write the review. But I never forgot the book, because it was magnificent. An engaging and important work of non-fiction. Allow me to make amends.

You are transported to a world where some form of enslavement exists in myriad ways, vivid and awful, a landscape of abused young women. Naomi Zacharias takes you on a harsh journey of redemption as she tells the story of women surviving violence, imprisonment, and prostitution. Her dark portrayals of at-risk women and children are also hopeful because of the international initiative she helps run which is aimed at helping these vulnerable victims. You can't help but cheer these women on, all of them. The ones in ministry visiting run down orphanages, the women trying to escape human trafficking, the ones who fail and the ones who actually do make it and change their lives. Admiringly, it's not always about fixing people either. Zacharias writes:

I came to offer something, to fix something. Instead, a woman I had just met accepted me into her country and her life, kneeled down, and washed my feet.

The places in the book were very interesting to me. Iraq, Pakistan, India, the Netherlands, and places I'd never heard of before because who ever hears about the red light district of Mumbai? In every place the reader meets women and young victims, survivors and sisters. The story of Annie, a prostitute in Holland was most thought provoking to me as she was trafficked into a situation where, because of the legality of the sex trade, she was permanently enslaved. A stark reminder that just because something is legal, doesn't mean it is right or without horrifying repercussions. In fact, it sometimes makes it worse.

The book has relatable moments for every woman: The responsibility of each woman is to find the particularity of her calling...In this way, every life is ultimately an individual adventure of finding her place in God's plan. To surrender that is to surrender who you are.

I have a copy of this book to give away. Leave a comment if you would like to entered and I will draw a name in one week.

Little Things That Matter

There was this family that the Deacon's wife felt sorry for, she of the discerning eye and generous heart. Their broken fence reminded her of the old unheated farm house that she grew up in, and how everything always seemed to be in ill repair as her poor family struggled under a father who could never provide adequately for his many children. Mrs. Deacon remembered all too well what it was like to sleep on the floor in front of the stove on the coldest nights, huddled together with her siblings. It seemed like such a little thing at the time.

On days when Mrs. Deacon worked her job at a market stand, she would often bring leftover food that had gone unsold to the Grateful family, hoping to be a small blessing where so much must be needed. Mrs. Grateful would meet her at the door with her three preschoolers, and thank Mrs. Deacon for thinking of them. It's the little things, she thought with satisfaction. She remembered what it was like to be a busy young mother, and how there was never enough hands or hours in the day to get everything done.

 It came to be known in the church that there was a great need among the brotherhood. A man in the community had become suddenly ill, and required expensive medication. Their savings exhausted, and prognosis poor, a special collection would be taken to help see this man and his wife through the storm. The Deacon would be visiting each family who could make a contribution. That afternoon at dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Grateful discussed the need. Mr. Grateful said he would check their books and see what could be done for the ailing man. After all, they had been putting away a little here and there.

Two weeks later, Mr. Deacon sat at his desk having just counted out a substantial donation from his fellow church members. Mrs. Deacon was in the kitchen preparing supper, and saw her husband resting in the chair.

"Was there a good collection?" she inquired.
"Yes, very good. I think this will really help with the medication cost, and maybe pay a few doctor bills, too."

Mr. Deacon sat contemplating his next words, uncertain how much to share with his wife about such a private church matter. He decided to tell Mrs. Deacon the surprising news that over half of the money in the collection came from one family. The Grateful's. That was no little thing.

Three miles away, Mrs. Grateful was home cleaning out the refrigerator.

"We have so much food in here." Mrs. Grateful felt guilty about any waste, but consoled herself with the knowledge that at least they had plenty to eat, a warm house, and few worries. Sure, there were a few things that needed done about the place, but that wasn't as important right now as spending time with her children and helping others, like that poor neighborhood man with the many doctor bills. Mrs. Grateful thought for a moment that perhaps the next time Mrs. Deacon dropped by with some leftovers from the market, she could redirect them to the sick man and his wife. She could even add a couple loaves of her own bread. Every little bit helps.

 I watched these little acts of faith unfold at a place I'll call Anonymous Valley Mennonite Church, but little things can make a difference anywhere. A wise man once said, "Whoever can be trusted with very little can also be trusted with much, and whoever is dishonest with very little will also be dishonest with much."

Changing Skies and Fresh Coats

It's all Martha Stewart's fault.

Or maybe just inspired by her.

Let me start at the beginning.

When we first purchased The Compound, back in its mini-pound stage with creaky floors and crooked walls, we knew a remodel would be in our immediate future. Not quite the tear-down and rebuild-while-living-in-it job it turned out to be, but that it was going to need some attention. It's most redeeming features were largely external; some nice trees, and brand new shutters in a colonial blue color that was a perfect compliment to the flat horizon and enormous blue sky that enveloped us on all sides.

We thought about how we wanted to shape the house, how it should look. It was, and is, tiny. I couldn't understand why God gave us such a tiny house until the baby arrived to show me. That sounds strange, but now that our Duckling has grown into an active Little Mister, with his mini tool belt full of plastic wrenches and hammers, I couldn't keep up with one more square foot. It would just be one more dirty square foot that I would agonize about never having time to clean. Like that dirty spot behind the sofa you know about, even though no one else does. You think about it and it grates. What, it doesn't? Well good for you, you're one up on me.

I had picked out the perfect pallete of colors to paint our walls and trim. Something from a special Martha Stewart collection of paint colors. We bought one gallon of something called "Cake stand blue" to experiment with, and promptly lost it in storage as walls were torn down and the weeks turned into years. Can you imagine a more perfect name for a color? Oh, I'll find that paint can someday, you wait.

Now, when the time came to really paint, I pulled out the swatch and drove to the Big Box Hardware store to make the buy, only to discover a lot has changed in five years. Martha is a fickle franchise, and she left that store years ago and her colors were permanently retired. Now what? Days were spent taking my aged Martha Stewart color card to different stores in order to come up with the best possible match. This is what life had come to, driving around holding up a paper with an inch of color on it, trying to capture what I loved most about being here, trying to capture all the light and goodness with just the barest,  hint of a delicate blue. I examined colors called "Daylight" and "Robin's Egg" and "Snowcap" and of course, "Sky".


 A lot has changed in five years. I feel growth on the horizon and have been thinking about changing the name of my blog. Not only am I no longer working as a librarian, I can't even get to the library. Much to my shame, I don't even get much reading done. It feels time for a fresh coat of paint around here. So, I'm considering a name change for my blog, and am open to suggestions.

Meanwhile, there are still walls to paint, and cabinets being built, toy screwdrivers in the laundry, and pies to bake. It's our own color swatch, and it can't be matched.

Farm Show

The Mister wanted to take in not one, but both of the Pennsylvania state farm shows which run concurrently in two separate cities about twenty-five miles apart. We decided Lancaster would be home base for this two day trip, and made accommodations in Ephrata. This way, we could squeeze in a little visiting and I could shop at my favorite department store and book shop.

We do some farming on the side, but before you get images of dairy cows and produce, you should know that our crop is timber. The Mister manages his family's wood lot and does forestry type things that I don't fully understand, but certainly know more about today than when I married him.

It's been a mild winter so far, my favorite kind of winter. Still, it's cold. The kind of cold that makes me wonder what kind of people once built and lived in the old stone houses that dot the countryside. Houses constructed hundreds of years ago, without insulation and modern heating. Were those hearty souls perpetually huddled around a fire? I read once that most of the human existence has been a struggle for warmth, and I believe it.

From the quiet comfort of the car I don't mind seeing picturesque patches of snow dotting the ground and smoke emanating from historic chimneys. I appreciate the beauty of candles glowing in every window after dusk and bare branches against a gray sky. It's the history that gives a PA winter its warmth.

Come along with me...

I couldn't resist trying to capture these sunbeams shining through the clouds. There's something magical about sunbeams illuminating a landscape, like a spotlight from God. 
 


 We visited a furniture store, and on the way out I noticed this Amish school house. All was quiet, though I'm sure class was in session. 



 This friendly horse wanted to say hello. I always think I can tell a well-loved horse by how friendly it is to strangers. 

 The farm show in Harrisburg was enormous and packed with people. It resembled more of a state fair than an agriculture trade show. Square dancing, fair food, souvenirs for sale, and plenty of animals. Before I knew it, we were surrounded by show cows and immersed in a world of animal pageantry I never imagined.

"Look at that chicken. It has long curly feathers." An exploded down pillow with a beak eyed me with suspicion.
"It must be a mess when it gets dirty."
"Dirty? It probably gets professionally groomed."

Someone had a good time at the farm show getting their hands on animals.

The Keystone show in York was, The Mister informed me, for serious farmers. There was no fooling around. No square dancers, nor show chickens. It was vendors hawking their wares and having deep discussions on water treatment systems for cattle and cover crops. The Mister got serious about trailer equipment and wood pulp machinery, while I collected free pens and ate expensive mediocre french fries for lunch. Since there were no animals, I watched other stroller-pushing farm-type moms. After spending the morning surrounded by the latest in crop harvesting technology, it wasn't long before we were driving back to a place where the newest cutting edge combines sat parked in barns next to two hundred year old homes filled with ancient traditions and agricultural legacies underscored by quiet, hard working people.

I had been thinking about 1 Thessalonians 4:11;  And that ye study to be quiet, and to do your own business, and to work with your own hands, as we commanded you;

Live quietly, mind your own business and work with your hands.  A timeless farming ethic for us all, to be used by everyone no matter what our occupation. I find it soothing that we are offered this undemanding and realistic goal for our lives. What a great thought to start the new year.

Picture Day

Remember picture day? Of course you do. It was the day your family hauled you off to a generic studio at a department store for a family picture to send Aunt Verna. Maybe you got your picture taken in school. If you were like my family, someone snapped an informal picture of your family at a wedding, and your growth spurt which created a too-short dress that didn't quite cover your knee socks was preserved for all time.

Let me start off by saying that I don't know how any family with more than three members manages to get out the door in one unified, pleasant-looking swoop for a photo session. It was hard enough to find a photographer, plan a date and time, select and press clothing, and make sure it coincided with a hair cut for The Mister. But then to have to get us all dressed and neat looking, out of the house with minimal fuss, and arrive at our destination unwrinkled and fresh, well, we won't be doing this too often. In the past, when I would receive a family photo with, say, some sane looking couple and their five, seven, or nine children, I would just think something along the lines of they got together for a lovely picture. How nice.

Now, I think something like, they must have had sixteen personal assistants, a military strategist, and a mission statement. How nice. I have a whole new appreciation for seventy percent of the pictures on our fridge.

It was important to me to have a few good current pictures of Duckling since all of his one-year birthday pictures were terrible, and he moves faster than my camera shutter, like a caffeine fueled kangaroo. Hiring a professional seemed like the only thing I could do at this point, so I found a lady who specializes in quality pictures that are also affordable. It's part of her philosophy, and I really like that concept.

"I scheduled a family portrait shoot for next Monday..."
"What? Why can't we just get someone we know to take our picture?"
"Oh, and who would that be?"
"Well, my Uncle Bob has a camera and takes some pictures."
"Yes, well, Uncle Bob's skills aren't what they used to be since he turned ninety, and his camera is perpetually set on the landscape setting. It's hard to communicate to him that it makes me look extra-wide since he keeps his hearing aid turned off."

The photographer had a delightful little Christmas scene set up in her studio, a decorated tree and these adorable vintage toys. She even had a little red Radio Flyer tricycle just like the one that I rode as a young girl.Unfortunately, as we awkwardly huddled on the hard floor in an unnatural pose in front of decorations that would be alien in our home, we exuded a sense of discomfort and most of those pictures did not make the cut. 

Someone isn't ready for their close up.

 Right around this time, Duckling was suffering from a perpetual cold and an increase of unsettling behavior. Not only was smiling not on his agenda, but outright frowns were the order of the day. By the time we moved the session outdoors, we found ourselves chasing him down as he attempted to run away from his crazy smiling parents. He was probably going to join the circus as That Baby Who Frowns A Lot. 

.

An hour later we exhaled and picture day was a wrap, preserved for all time. The fruits of my pressing, spraying, and motivational speeches had been digitized. Around the holidays, some loved one, somewhere, opened an envelope from us and thought...

                             ...they got together for a lovely picture. How nice.

The Gift

This Christmas will be a memorable one for us. Our little duckling is walking and babbling, and into more things than ever before. I think this year we'll really enjoy the season in a whole new way. We do a simple Christmas, minimal decorations, gifts for children, and a tradition of making unplanned memories. Christmas here smells like apples and baked sugar, and look like pine cones, greenery with hints of tiny lights, and a string of cards.

Both of the photos of decorations in this post were taken at my local farmer's market, which is decorated beautifully for the season.

Recently, a conversation I was having online with a group of women jogged my memory about a special Christmas story that I've never told anyone. I've only ever written one Christmas story, but that was more of a family history story and not so much a personal one. The one I was prompted to tell recently was personal, and made a deep impression on me as a child. 

It was during the years when we lived on the old farm property at the edge of the woods, the place where we lived the longest. Our neighbor was a miserable old man, such a stereotype, but oh, he was the grumpiest. He had a wife of great endurance who had a front row seat to his many temper tantrums, the kind of which all the neighbors could hear and that seemed to echo throughout the fields and forests. You could even hear him stomp his feet during the yelling. If I told you his last name, you would just about fall off your chair because it is the kind of name that dooms someone to a life of distress, such as the one he appeared to live. It was Panic. Mister Panic.

Mr. Panic had no friends in the neighborhood, a foul temperament and an unruly dog that bit children. As our family was his nearest neighbor, he reserved a special ire for us, a front that was both noisy and antagonistic. I was too young to remember, but for years I heard the story of the time he called the fire department on us for having a barbecue. We had no idea why a fireman with an axe was standing on our front doorstep while we innocently flipped burgers over a small charcoal grill. It was that kind of nonsense which we put up with for years. We got along best we could, ignored his childish vents, and turned the other cheek.

One Christmas morning, after we had breakfast and had opened gifts, my father went outside for a moment and came back with an amazing story. Mr. Panic had caught him out by the street and with a tear in his eye, shook my dad's hand, wished him a Merry Christmas and told him what a nice family he thought we were. I'm sure my mouth opened wide in awe, because it never occurred to my young mind that a bad person could have a change of heart like that. It was inconsistent, wildly absurd in my limited experience. If Mr. Panic could become nice, well, anything could happen.

  
I rarely tell this story, but I never forgot it. Our neighbor gave us a gift that morning, the kind that you take every where, but isn't heavy to carry with you. You never out grow it, it doesn't take up any space, and you can share it with others. It's the best kind of gift. 

Think about it.