I Sure Do Like This Picture

I don't know what they're talking about.
But I sure do like this picture.

I am a Daddy's Girl. Still. My father always wanted a daughter: he used to say he'd picked out a name when he was 15 years old - the name I bear today. When I was a bit rotund with terrible skin and awkward social skills, my dad would tell me I was beautiful...his perfect gem. When I was stumped by a life problem, he'd sit with me and say, "The answer awaits us. Let's find it." When I came down the stairs wearing that homecoming dress he so despised, he folded down his newspaper and grunted, "Like a ring in a pig's snout is a beautiful woman who shows no discretion." (My introduction to Proverbs, by the way).

My father taught me to be a thinker. To be gracious with my manners and generous with everything I had. To remember that "keeping a civil tongue in my mouth" doesn't mean I don't say what I think, but saying what I think should never keep me from being a lady.

We buried that man this year.

But his memory lives on.
In snapshots like this, I recall him as a gift.
Now she has her gift, too.

I look at this picture.
Look at this man.
How could I have ever dreamed this extraordinary daughter I once carried small and frail would know this exceptional man...and call him Daddy? This man who talks with her, holds her, protects her and calls her beautiful. Who leads without crushing, guides without doing...whose still, small whispers dominate even the loudest shouts telling her she can't. Won't. Isn't able.

I am a Daddy's Girl.
As is she.

I had a superb father.
As does she.
Better, even.

I don't know what they're talking about.
But I sure do like this picture.

Thankful 5

We are a family of 5.

I always thought we'd be a family of 4.

But I'm so thankful and beyond blessed that God had a better plan.
Which is, of course, always the way.

What made you most thankful this Thanksgiving? Many items fill my list: for indoor plumbing, hot water heaters, and refrigerators that hold food for anytime my belly growls. For coffee with creamer and clothes in size 6; for slipper socks and fountain pens, email, and my wedding ring. For a job that fulfills and the best husband by my side - I am truly thankful.


But of all that - most - I am thankful for this 5.

HUH?!

As Facebook Friends already know, I'm working to eradicate this one-word retort from my language base. Yet, pressing "delete" on a lifetime of lazily grunting my way through exchanges I either didn't hear or failed to understand is not so easily done.

And I find there are, unequivocally, those circumstances that just need this little but powerful quip lest I revert to harsher language and so tarnish the very base I'm attempting to polish.

You don't know what I mean?

Well, then, by all means: let me give you an example.

Sister Wives on TLC.

I could recount the shudders that traverse my body at even the thought of multiple marriages but, besides that, (and I love that Craig pointed this out first) whatever in the world makes this guy so darn alluring?! I could rant about gender or rave about unequal roles, but what would be the point?

So, instead, I'll recommission an oldie but goody standby to sufficiently say it all:

HUH?!

Family...All the Way Around

Last month, we headed to the Colorado Pumpkin Patch. Thanks to Groupon, our entire family enjoyed an afternoon of fun for a mere 14 bucks. Not too shabby!

Despite the prior week's off-and-on weather hovering between dank and bleak, we cut out of work and school early (tsk, tsk...shame!) to meet our treasured friends, the Zitzmann's. With our total 8 kiddos in tow, you'd think we'd be overwhelmed; but we actually have a rhythm to the whole system now. So we're a pro unit - sized 12 all.

You can usually tell the two fams apart with their dark hair and our light. But Ben and John are the exceptions: with their blond locks and baby blues, they're honorary Covak's.

And, of course, they've got their partners in the midst of the controlled chaos since each of our three has a closely-aged match in the Zitzmann clan...like Elijah and John Thomas. And Ally and Grace.

They all took turns barreling down the hay ride...
(of course, Grace looks like she's on a horse).

While Judd took a more "lay back and close my eyes" approach - proving that just about EVERYTHING kids do shows the quirks of their personalities.
They petted bunnies and goats (shout-out here for the gallon jugs of hand sanitizer).

      

Then they climbed the hay pyramid for this grand shot.

(What's with the peace signs, anyway? Is this the universal gesture of "I don't know what else could possibly exhibit more weird-dom in a snapshot?")

While the bigger kids sampled the fall fun, our littlest troop member, Jake, hung out on his Daddy's back...and chirped not ONE sound the whole afternoon. Which is, as an aside, exactly what I'd do if you plugged me with a Nuk and hauled me around in the warm rays...but I'd boast less style than Jakers, of course, because as the binkie says, he makes being cute look easy.

I took tons of pictures that day and was probably thoroughly annoying: a detail Grace graciously pointed out to me at one point on the hay ride. But I cannot regret my pesty pursuit when I look at these marvelous images and recall the crisp mountain air amidst the backdrop of fall colors and a day spent with dear friends.

How else could I have gotten these marvelous shots???

  

  

  
 

Without pause, I tell you Zee and I shamelessly coveted this property we espied in the distance during the hay ride. We spiraled through all sorts of wild machinations as to how we could ever afford it...and then relented, resolving ourselves to the notion that coveting may be as good as it ever gets.

But, then, that's family, isn't it? That group of kin - whether by blood or bond - with whom you whimsically imagine life, joyously share memory, and unabashedly embrace relationship.

The day was a blessing.
A memory.
Of family...all the way around.

On Page 446

That's where I am on this never-ending manuscript. It's from Random House's subsidiary, Guideposts Publishing, and (more specifically) from their Christian fiction department.

Now, I actually think that, like most genres, there are gems to surely be found in this genre. I've even read one or two. But this is a compilation of novels from the same author that Guideposts is now serializing - and I've taken part in editing two of them. So I can heartily tell you: this stuff ain't that grand. (I feel confident in airing this since I've noted neither the title nor the author and, as a rule, bosses aren't allowed into the private life, you know?).

Anyhow, this is the dregs of copyediting.

But, as my high school friend, Jessica, noted on Facebook: this ain't a bad way to spend a day. Or to make a living, I'd add. (Thanks, Jess, for the perspective). And I'm really not complaining about the job, per se, so much as this particularly LONG (644 pages) manuscript of not all that great composition. It's a reminder, really, of what I often tell students who confide they'd like to be published writers.

Which is also my key point:
Don't write to publish. It just ain't as glamorous as you might think. And, besides, you shouldn't want to be published; at least, not for the sake of being published. If you're really a writer, it's not what you do - it's who you are. Publishing the craft, then, becomes secondary to actually crafting the written word into an expression of communicative art.

If you fail to truly grasp this concept, you'll likely be stymied by a publisher politely declining your word...500 times over. And if that doesn't work, there's always me.
On the other side of the galleys. Posting a blog about your never-ending but less than scintillating and even less brilliantly-written manuscript.

While I'm stuck on page 446.

Crack Me Up

While Elijah was at basketball practice with Daddy, and Judd was enjoying a new episode of Curious George, Grace sat at the kitchen bar, reading aloud to me while I prepared dinner.

Her current book is Time Stops for No Mouse; she was happily jaunting down the rhetorical path of Chapter 45 when she stumbled upon this tongue twister:

"She eyed his neatly tailored robin's egg blue flannel suit, his egg yolk yellow button down shirt, his bow tie printed with tiny locomotives and his natty brown oxfords."

First of all, what in the WORLD is this little guy wearing???

Second (and best) was Grace's reaction to attempting to read this monstrosity of missing hyphens. And I quote: "Wow...that is surely a sentence. I mean, yea on the description, but no on this overall look."

Crack.
Me.
Up.

Pretty Good at Drinkin' Beer

Oh, if this were the simplest life could be....

"I wasn't born for diggin deep holes
I'm not made for pavin long roads
I ain't cut out to climb high line poles
But I'm pretty good at drinkin beer

I'm not the type to work in a bank
I'm no good at slappin on things
Don't have a knack for makin motors crank, no
But I'm pretty good at drinkin beer

I ain't much for mowin thick grass
I'm too slow for workin' too fast
I don't do windows so honey don't ask
But I'm pretty good at drinkin' beer

A go getter maybe I'm not
I'm not known for doin' a lot
But I do my best work when the weather's hot
I'm pretty good at drinkin' beer."

Lyrics from "Pretty Good at Drinkin' Beer"
(writer Troy Jones)

In the Last 10 Minutes

It's the last 10 minutes that gets me most in trouble.

When I've got that tiny window after I'm ready to go but before it's time to walk out the door, I know I'm in big trouble. In that 10 minutes, I tap my toe and think of even one task I can accomplish...in just 10 minutes.

Or three tasks in 5, 3, and 2 minutes.

Or four tasks in...well, you get the math, right?

I know, I know!!! The best approach is just to leave early, right? I mean, am I not ready to don the shoes, scoop up the kid, and hit the road?

Nay, nay I say!

For what will I do when I arrive where I'm going early? I imagine this to be a waste of time for, surely you know, when I am early, there will most certainly never be a traffic accident or weather delays or a forgotten sippy or shopping list. Because those happenings only occur when I'm the blur streaking across the home and roads just trying to make it to my destination. When I'm early - make no mistake - I'll find myself sitting somewhere. Doing nothing. But waiting. And thinking of what I could have done with my last 10 minutes.

But then that last 10 minutes gets me in trouble - for the task that should take three minutes turns out to minimally need 15...and then Mama's grouchy because (Type A shudder) that task is left undone and waiting for my immediate attention upon return.

So what can I do? How can I solve?

Yep, you got it: the answer is always the same for us task-oriented, Type A, thinking introverts...let it go! I've taken to making sure my pocket Bible is always in my satchel (thank you, Amy C, for this gift- its magic never ends, to be sure) and a notepad of paper is at the ready (so I can update my lists, new or old).

But here's the best part: I'm learning to bask in a toddler conversation. Or check out a sinking sun. Or compose a letter to my husband's grandmother. Or just stop and think - which is, most definitely, one of my favorite pastimes anyway - who says it had to be at the end of my day, in the quiet of my bedroom or shadows of the parlor?

In short, I'm taking the last 10 minutes to breathe. To dwell. To be.

It's the best I can accomplish.

In the last 10 minutes.

I Just Laugh Along

From Elijah's joke book:

"What do you call someone who keeps on talking when no one is listening?
A teacher!"

At this point in every semester - with a mere 4 weeks to go - I cannot tell you how much I relate.

The short of it?
I am this joke.

So I just laugh along.

Our Three Blessings

are ages 9, 7, and 2.

Grace will be 10 in about a month, and I find myself relishing all the more this kind of shot: one with them all laughing, nestled together in a moment of sibling bliss.

I can see each one's personality and even how unique connections exist between their pairings: how the eldest automatically covers and encases the younger; how the baby laughs in the embrace of his brother's strength and his sister's care; how our middle is the center of wisdom and a decidedly lackadaisical merriment for life - which is exactly the combination he needs.



I see the bond between a brother and his nearly 8-year senior sister - part caretaker, part protector...always friend.

Will they be this close even as they live entirely different life phases?
Will he always know her sacrifice so graciously offered (usually, that is) just to see him healthy and happy?



And when they're 64, will these brothers still rush to clasp onto one another after an hour, a day, a month, or even a year spent apart?

Will Elijah always hear his baby brother's gleeful cry of "Buuuuubbbbaaaaa!" as he runs full-speed into his arms as a declaration of "You are my brother, faithful and true - where have you been?"

These are reminders of my deepest hopes. They are only two-fold for, of all the other possibilities...of stumblings or thrivings, victories or defeat...I remain unafraid.

I hope only that they'd know their Maker and love Him, and
so then love one another fiercely.
Always.

Then this mother will have arrived.

The Better Way to Go

The soul is long-spirited. I am unsure - and unabashedly content to be so - of what depths of depravity would actually break the human spirit. Yet, I know such breakings exist.

Watching the morning news today, I listened to the jury's comments in the Petit trial after rendering their verdict yesterday, to their...well, I don't know what to call it other than devotion...to sole survivor, husband, and father William Petit.

This case captured my attention immediately because of its worst-case scenario component: in the dark of the night, when they were least guarded and most vulnerable, men stormed the Petit's home, imprisoned them, assaulted them, and ultimately murdered them - save one. The details of the mother and the daughters' (ages 17 and 11) plights are particularly gruesome, and I don't wish to repeat them. But they suffered in front of William, a ploy meant to enrage and permanently scar him.

Yet, he survives still.

He is upright. And walking. And talking. And he sat in that courtroom with his mother and his in-laws for every day of that trial, looking at these perpetrators of evil upon his three most precious gifts.

What devotion would that take?

Enough that an entire jury claims they found their strength - to look at graphic autopsy photos, to listen in eerie detail to such heinous crimes - and still follow the letter of the law.

I don't know what deep forces would cause my own river of life and spirit to run dry - nor do I ever wish it to be tested. Some journeys are simply best left not taken. But, watching this man, I can't help but agree with these jurors: to forge ahead, refusing slavery to hate and revenge in favor of faith, hope, and justice seems the harder way to go.

The better way to go.

And I sincerely pray for peace.
Peace for them all.

Make Him a Great Boy

In light of Elijah's upcoming birthday, I've spent time looking through an old journal, one containing the days immediately preceding and following his birth - just to revisit my thoughts and feelings as we prepared to welcome our second child.

Of course, we didn't know we were having a son because we never find out. But oh, when he arrived! If it be your blessing in life to have a son, then you know it is rich with promise, ripe with awakening: it's knowing there will come a day when he'll stop being yours and start being another's, that he'll grow to lead and protect and guard his world...and that you'll have had the profound gift of playing a part in growing that warrior, leader, guardian, and friend.

In that vein, here's some similarly impactive thoughts I came across in said journal pages recorded just after the birth of our middle child...theme of sons all!

If you can keep your wits about you while all others are losing theirs and blaming you, the world will be yours and everything in it - what's more, you'll be a man, my son.
-Rudyard Kipling

Build me a son, O Lord, who will be strong enough to now when he is weak and brave enough to face himself when he is afraid, one who will be proud and unbending in honest defeat and humble and gentle in victory.
-Douglas MacArthur

God had one son on earth without sin, but never one without suffering.
-St. Augustine

You don't raise heroes, you raise sons. And if you treat them like sons, they'll turn out to be heroes, even if it's just in your own eyes.
-Walter M. Schirra, Sr.

Don't wait to make your son a great man - make him a great boy.
-Unknown

I must study politics and war that my sons may have liberty to study
mathematics and philosophy.
-John Adams

Of all the animals, the boy is the most unmanageable.
-Plato

Clever father, clever daughter; clever mother, clever son.
-Russian proverb

A Single Day of Incline

This has been a hard, hard year with our first-born son. Sparing all the details, its enough to say this:

in all ways imaginable, we have been battling the best of how God's made Elijah in the worst ways possible.

Which means we face insolence in place of its better kin of audacity and bravery. Or moodiness in place of a sensitivity for deep feelings.

Which also means he has been fast to say what cuts to the quick and to push far in excess of our boundaries of reasonable.

But here's the barest truth I can give:
I love my first-born son. I am honored to say - especially in light of the many ways I encounter my failure - he is making me a better mother, better wife, better human being.

What a gift!

I try not to dwell on the hardest days, those that feel as if I'm on a never-receding, mountainous incline, for I know that if it were easy I'd surely be doing it wrong. Rather, I focus on the result of any day I get with that precious little boy: interminable love.

I grew him. Gave him life. Bled for him. And would do so again. In fact, parenting - whether for father or mother - is often like a never-completing birth: though the life is now outside of us, it never seems so far away from our hearts that we are ever free of it...and so we learn to give life in new ways. Every day. And in this profound way, he is always my joy.

Today, Elijah Amos turns 7. I celebrate being on this journey with him - sometimes as an adversary to his basest will, yes, but never so much so that I stop being his mommy...

who loves him audaciously. Bravely. And with a sensitivity to his deepest feelings.

Elijah, you are truly a gift from above - and I'd trade not a single day of incline, my love, for you are - without doubt or exception - singularly worth it.

Happy Birthday.

Falling For It

I love this quote:

Delicious
autumn!  My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly
about the earth seeking the successive autumns.  ~George Eliot

It's exactly how I feel about the temps dipping, colors turning, breath puffing, sweater wearing change that comes every October.

It's when I can take photos of this from my backyard patio...





and decorate the house and front porch



in the oranges, reds, and golds of an autumn sunset.

It's the time when I bake pumpkin everything.

And herald the months of comfort food and friends.

It is, undoubtedly, delicious.

I Let It Go

I'm task oriented. Goal-driven. This is an excellent trait when taking exams, completing errands, or running multiple miles. This is not an excellent trait when attempting to balance the moments of relationship with the press of an agenda.

Craig knows this about me. Accepts it. Challenges it. Tailors it. And why not? Heaven knows I need the help from those I actually value more than any task anywhere, anytime! If not for them (and, I hope, my own decidedly necessary attempts at self-control), I'd bury my life under relentless lists never seeing the bold lights of relationship's day.

Our anniversary getaway brought just such an occasion, and I can honestly say, "I let it go."

In honor of the impending recollection of our nuptials, we decided to run far, far away, boldly going to unexplored lands of culture, sophistication, superior intellect, and refined society....

Okay, not really.
We actually went to Denver and had a burger.

But it was a REALLY good burger (and we also made an overnighter/next-dayer out of it). Knowing our date was approaching and having volunteered to handle all our planning this year, I was a bit at a loss for a restaurant idea. We've done the high-heels and suit reservation - a few times, in fact - but we just end up wondering why we did it: me with my sore feet and Craig with his belly still empty (sprigs of parsley and one potato just don't seem to cut it with him...go figure!)

Then, on the Thursday before we left, we caught an episode of Man v Food on the Travel Channel where Denver was the featured city - and included a ditty on Duffy's Cherry Crickert.

Located in Cherry Creek, we surmised locals generally refer to it as "The Cherry Cricket" or its even more affectionate surname, "Cricket." The premise is simple: pick your base of one of three types of burgers (1/2 lb. beef, 1/4 lb. beef, or turkey). Then choose from an array of toppings, individually priced, to satiate your salivating palate. Options range from peanut butter, to egg (fixed any way you like it), to avocado, and BBQ sauce. You can split a traditional basket of fries or go the "Frings" avenue - a happy combo of their famous onion rings and fries. They also boast 22 beers on tap and over 82 brands bottled.

I actually heard a choir of angels for, as I recently read on the label of Steve's latest beer offering: "Good people drink good beer." Thanks for the insight, Hunter S. Thompson.

By the way, the Sam Adams Cherry Wheat on draught came highly recommended. After partaking, I give it another happy "Yea".

We sat outside beneath the falling golden leaves of a corner tree as the sun sank and foot traffic grew. It was, in a word, lovely.

Then I remembered I left my camera in the car.

"How long do you think it'd take me to jog back and get it?" I asked my sweet.

The "Aha!", though slow in coming, wasn't gentle in its arrival, either. It rather pelted me up side the head with a pointy toe to remind me this:

Forget about documenting the moment if it means you're not actually living in it.

Or put another way...

Let the task go.
Just be with the one you love.

After informing Craig of my mental epiphany, he chuckled and quipped, "You're just gonna' let it go, eh?"

And let it go I did - though I confess I expressed to Craig that failing to have my own shot of the famous spinning sign was irksome, at best.

So we enjoyed our vittles and brew and walked hand-in-hand down through the quaint university district and on to our car only to find our course brought us back.

To the restaurant.
To it storefront, to be exact.
Where we were summarily stuck in a short traffic pause.
Right in front of the famous spinning sign.
Which was - oh, joy!!! - just long enough for me to get my coveted shot....

...and to savor how He cares about the "Big Littles" of everyday life -
like letting it go to see what He gives.

5113 Days

Yesterday, Craig and I marked 14 years of marriage.

(Yes, our marriage's birthday is also Halloween and, no, that was not happenstance. Really, is anything with the Covaks happenstance?)

This morning, without any real forethought, I suddenly wondered, "How many days have Craig and I been joined?" Thanks to Calendar.com, I now know the answer: 5113 (as of yesterday). Now, 14 years is cause to shake a tail feather, but 5113 days - that's a journey!

And I wouldn't change a single one. In fact, despite those that have bent us to the ground, I celebrate every one for, truly - beyond ridiculous romantic ramblings or syrupy sentimentalizing - they are a brilliant story filled with chapters on grief, joy, bliss, wisdom, and love. Lots of love. No, I wouldn't change a single one.

Not.
One.

We see our marriage as a testament to who we were, who we are, and who we are yet to be: not merely as two people living as one, but as one marriage representing God, Who is surely the Savior of who we were, the Maker of who we are, and the Planner of who we are yet to be.

Each year, I reflect on our wedding vows, remembering sweetly the miracle of that day.
We wrote those lines together - the best gift we've ever given one to the other because, every day, we recall
how we choose our promises.
Together.
And how we're giving them life.
Together.

And we remember,
most assuredly and truly,
that we have been blessed.

For 5113 days.