Renderings

3,282 Miles Away

2012-01-26T14:36:00.001-07:00

It's twice the size of Texas. If you really want to get right down to it, it's bigger than even the entire 22 smallest states in the Union. There, you will find places where 24 is the collective hours of continuous dark. And light. Its land is pocked with volcanoes; it also boasts hold of half the nation's glaciers. It is inhabited. But one mustn't forget it is untamed.

It is, as you see, a study of contradictions. Yet, its simplicity confounds. Baffles. Hypnotizes.

It is called The Last Frontier.
We once hailed it "Home"...3,282 miles away.

Not much bothers Alaska. It runs on its own time. In its own way. Like the most stubborn child, it cannot be hemmed by staunch structure, and pressing it only fences it further in. Life ticks along differently there, defined more in terms of light and dark, less in dusky shades of gray. It is, in fact, far less complex than typicals think.

Of one factor's impact, though, you may be certain: Mother Nature- aka Elohim (the Creator God) - moves and shifts and molds that land quite unlike any other. Glaciers snail forward, mere inches over weeks-come-years; the air snaps crisp before it ripples to supple summer. It is hard. It is gaping. It is steady. It is perfection.

And here's how I know.

My friend, Marita, posted these. Locals snapped them.

In case you didn't know, there's a solar storm happening. Which, here in Colorado, doesn't mean much. But in the land of the midnight sun, the sky is ablaze with the paints of God.

Now, I love Colorado. I know He has us here.

But, as they say, I left my heart in Alaska.

And that is where it stays.

3,282 miles away.

Thanks...to You

2012-01-19T17:04:00.000-07:00

Today has been a good day.
I needed a good day.

I'm talkin' a really, really, good day: the kind that promotes the blatant and unapologetic use of copious amounts of deadwood to accentuate how really good it actually was.

Of the many splendors of this day, I made not one. Not in any way, by any stretch of my hand, did I create the good. Which left me sopping up the gravy of a day I didn't imagine, certainly didn't create, and undoubtedly don't deserve.

It was a Pilates class, a dress exchange, and an appointment with a horse. It was escalators in a mall and a voice in the mail. It was a thank you note, a stranger, and seven of the most delightful digits on the number line. It was the voice at the end of 0936, moonlight in 9-8 time, and a reminder that it is You.

It is always You.

Today has been a good day.
I needed a good day.

So, thanks...
to You.

But I Don't Think So

2012-01-18T16:11:00.000-07:00

Family time a few nights ago included Horton Hears a Who - the movie, not the book - because the kiddos love it. Also because it was an I-Spied $4.95 quickie purchase at Target. Hey: expect more, pay less.

The first time we saw it, not long after its dvd release, I hit two peaks of giggles. The first was this scene. It's Grace's favorite. She erupts into full-fledged belly-laughs every time she sees it. I reckon it's the combination of ponies, rainbows, and pooping butterflies. I could be wrong. But I don't think so.

The second was this scene. From the second Horton sees the bridge, I get him. Nay, I become him. I can recall every step of how I've played this out. And I've learned a few things are true about me.

I've heard the "whoosh" of air as he grasps his - er, gaping - dilemma, and I've thought, "Oh, yes. I've seen this bridge before." I, too, have muttered, "This looks kind of...precarious" while tunneling mine eyes over an impossibly plummeting chasm. (Doubt)

I'm the thinker who has posited, "Of course I can do this. Obviously, others have done this...considered I'd be doing this, too...clearly, I can conquer this." (Hubris)

I have taken a first tentative step. Testing. Assessing. Measuring. Weighing. (Mistrust) When the ricketiest planks give way I, too, have quipped an "Eh! Looks like insert observation here." (Criticism) Rather than changing my method, though, I ~~sensibly choose to get off the bridge altogether~~ force my way ahead with a new, carefully pontificated plan of ~~logical~~ foolhardy attack. (Stubborn)

Because my learning curve is so ~~shallow~~ steep, I decide that I can still think my way out of my predicament. (Just plain dumb) I mean, after all, it's only a bridge! (Clueless) I deduce my best tactic is to simply push through, much like the proverbial bull in a china shop, since if at first one doesn't succeed, one must (with great gusto, yes?) try, try again. (Myopic)

So, as my tipping toes leave a wake of devastation, I traipse cheerily along never lifting my eyes from the horizon of success. (Ridiculously obtuse).

And then - Hack my legs and call me stumpy! - I make it.
Only to fall.
Before I realize I haven't, in fact, fallen at all.
I've been saved.
By some unseen source?

I rather doubt it. No, I suspect that, regardless of my doubt, my hubris, my mistrust, and my criticism; in spite of being stubborn, cluless, myopic, ridiculously obtuse, and (let us not forget) just plain dumb...

   He saves me.
       Every time.
          Alllllll the time.

Which leaves me wiping my brow, acknowledging His grace, and admitting, "Phew! That could have been a disaster!"

Rather makes me feel like I'm living in a world where everyone's a pony, and they all eat rainbows and poop butterflies.

I could be wrong.

But I don't think so.

New(s) To Me

2012-01-11T15:03:00.002-07:00

It doesn't happen often. Big stretches sometimes between happenings, actually.

Then? Bang.

I'll encounter what's "new to me." You may already know. Course, if it's new to me and old to you, it means you didn't let me in on the fun...so poo on you.

Then again, if I assumed you knew and didn't dish, then it'd be poo on me. Big stamp of "No thanks" on that one. So, let me introduce Rosie Thomas. Or reintroduce you. Or give you an opportunity to quip, "Yeah. Remove the rock. You're missing out."

So, Google her. Bing it. Shout Yahoo! Boat along the Amazon. Just get her stuff. If you're all about the voice, hers is the stuff of soul meets lucence comin' round the musical bend.

I'm bettin' you'll find her all the more compelling when after you listen to her tunes, you discover she talks like this.

Yeah, that was new(s) to me.
Uh, too.

On A Good Day

2012-01-09T14:33:00.001-07:00

On a good day, love isn't an emotion. That's right. I said it. Because it isn't. Or at least, it's not solely one. On a good day, it's a choice. It's pushed, pulled, and pressed by emotion, sure. But the line between nonsense and commitment is never more clearly demarcated than in the trenches of choice.

Which explains why our culture is so bent on falling in love - which is, not surprisingly, fast followed by falling out of love. Perhaps it also explains why we're so captivated by marriages lasting less time than the sell by date on a box of crackers.

Then again, it might also explain our fascination of the relationships that beat the odds. The ones that defy the capricious waters of affection to find firm ground on choice. A stand. A bit of self-control and (shudder to consider) maybe even some self-sacrifice, too.

Yeah, those are the ones the hate-bookies loathe. They're complicated. They're depleting. And they don't want for grim. They're also commendable. Satisfying. Revitalizing. They are worth it.

Here's one of mine.

We started out great. Then we derailed. Now we're back on track. Because we choose to be. Laying aside emotions leaves a door open and, when His time is just right, you might find what you're looking for has come back through it again.

This is my brother, Tim. He turns 39 today. And I celebrate that. I want him to feel hope and renewal and love and all manners of joy. Funny how choice uncorks the bottle of emotions while the topsy-truvy of emotion so rarely leads to fixed decision.

Or maybe I'm too much of a thinker. Maybe the whole thing is c*^%. But there will always be relationships, bent or broken, that need a little re-considering: I know I have a few. And if the stick of the choosing keeps the door ajar - even if it's just a miniscule crack - well, that might be just enough to let His love pour through.

On a good day.

Not Uncommonly So

2012-01-06T22:45:00.001-07:00

Superpowers astound me. Leave me wishing I had one. Which is to say, I dig them. They're like silent background music that rushes suddenly to the fore when the overriding dialogue hushes. Which is to say, you don't notice them until you're lookin' for 'em. I don't know why, or when, or even quite how...but, at some point, I started seeing superpowers.

Not the bit-by-a-lab-spider-and-now-have-suction-cups-for-fingers type, but the other kind. You know the ones. Like that peculiar mojo that some folk have to do what otherwise shouldn't make sense: those voices that sooth to the point of tingles or humors that tickle to the height of mania or insights that reveal to the just-right edge of light. They're the markers of the "he can fix anything" or the "she'll know just what to do". They're the ups of dark days and the downs of free falling, and they are uncommonly rare.

Or are they?

Because, if they are, they sure do turn up the strangest places.
Why, on Christmas night, one reared up at my kitchen table!

It came in the form of my mother-in-law who is, arguably, a super-somethin' all in herself. Indeed, she boasts a few "supers" - one of which is the uncanny ability to go into a hobby shop and come out with the best game you've never heard of. Examples, you say? Well, there was this one.

Not to be bested by the kids' favorite, of course.

Or her current find sittin' pretty in 1st place atop the pecking order.

Playing it produced these candids.

(Yeah, that says what you think it says.)

Yes, Mom's superpower brought the game. But the evening had its own brand of peculiar mojo: one night, impossible to repeat ergo uncommon and (aha!) rare.

Except it wasn't.

Sure, the memories are one-in-a-brain's-billion, but the emotion wasn't. The sentiments weren't. The safety that fostered both certainly isn't.

Maybe family is its own kind of superpower; the "up" that coaxes the silly (crossed and boogers come to mind) from even the most serious. Or the "down" that cushions the ridiculous (um, there was that episode of required foot smelling) from ever feeling...well, ridiculous.

And, if that's truly the case, then we have all at least one power hailing from the super column - if not by kin then by kind. If not in family, then through friend.

Rare?
Maybe.
But I think perhaps not uncommonly so.

Gut Unclenched

2012-01-01T21:58:00.000-07:00

The phrase "Happy New Year" can make my gut clench with a pang not grotesquely unlike when I'm hiking a high ravine...and the dropoff to certain death is just one pee-wrenching sneeze away. Not so my reaction to "Merry Christmas" or even to its somewhat-snobby counterpart, "Happy" Christmas, from across the pond. Somehow, those sentiments expressed outside the shopping mall, in line at the bank, or read dozens of time across Facebook dump me in a shade of bliss, prompt more of a "Yes! Yes, I think it shall be!" reaction, rendered (at least in my mind) with a crisp and pert British accent.

But that pesky "Happy New Year!" Yeeeee-ah, that one prompts some inner-hives. Again with the gut-clench thing. How come?

Oh, I think it's because the new year is the opposite, really, of the one-day-express Christmas wish. One day I figure I can handle. Despite the horrendous one-days my life has spouted so far, I find myself convinced that such a day will be peaceful. Sentimental. Celebratory.

But a spread of 365? All together? Plated into segments of unpredictable 24 hour servings rarely, if ever published, on a menu with prices?! I mean, come on! At least let me know how much any given day is gonna' cost me!

Course, that's not how it works. At all. But my clenching gut wishes it were. When I was 20 - meh, not so much. That whole invincibility factor extinguished all fear...and good sense, I might add. At 35, I know better because I've seen more. Lived more. Survived far, far more than even the worst I thought would've happened by 35.

Immediately he spoke to them and said, "Take courage! It is I. Don't be afraid." Then he climbed into the boat with them, and the wind died down. They were completely amazed...
Mark 6:51

And then I remember: I haven't seen the worst possible. By any stretch. I learned that there are more than few folks out there who totally think I suck. And suck - being one of those key words I rarely use except for when I really, most exceptionally think they apply (like now) - aptly describes. I also realized that there are a few more who think I'm pretty okay...which I'll gladly grab and hang on my heart mantle any day. I discovered that I can be and am, in fact, fitter now than in my 20's - despite new melodies of grinds and pops in the knees and fingers. I accepted that it's okay to say, "Aw, *^&*$#% it!" when the situation fits and, by extension, no longer feel the need to hoard the burdens of others on shoulders never meant to carry them in the first place.

"Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”"
Matthew 11:28-30 ESV

Oh, don't mistake my wax rhapsodic as a replacement for the gut clench: it's still there. I suspect it will always reside, the cotton-looped price tag dangling from my antique of experience - a costly and ever-present reminder in any currency I value. Yet, I don't fear the clench. I don't worry it. And, rather like the pain of labor (not coincidentally, I'd imagine), I do not fight against it. It simply washes over me, runs through me, cutting and jibing and taking what it must.

Because then it will be over.

The sun of January 1st will set afore the sun of January 2nd rises.

You see, January 2nd is his birthday.

And just about every ounce of hope and promise and glory and goodness mine eyes have seen have been whilst standing sqaurely to the left of this man.

"And it came to pass, when he had made an end of speaking unto Saul, that the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul.
And Saul took him that day, and would let him go no more home to his father's house.
Then Jonathan and David made a covenant, because he loved him as his own soul."
1 Samuel 18:1-3 New King James Version

It is a reminder come a'shouting at a time my heart must hear.

Suddenly, 365 plates of 24 hour days don't seem too shabby.

Menu folded.

Prices optional.

Gut unclenched.

All Year Through

2011-12-31T14:59:00.002-07:00

Charles Dickens is one of my favorite writers. Hold back your ~~hollas of agreement~~ groans of disgust to hear me out. Yeah, he was a wee bit droll and - here, here - some of his longest paragraphs are about as desirous as a crocodile in your swimming hole. Nevertheless, the man knew how to tell a person's story. And stories - yours, mine, and ours - are just about my favorite beguilements on this planet o'mine.

Which is what most readers of the classics know. The rest of you just don't care. Which is just dandy because that's not my only point. (You wish). Nah, here's the kicker: Dickens had a thing for Christmas. If you've seen A Christmas Carol, then you already know he wrote about it. He also tidbitted the occassional interview with it, too. And, thanks to the handy internet, I didn't have to pull out my grad school books to find some of those very literary vittles. Thank you, Quote Garden (fave, fave, fave).

I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year.

Happy, happy Christmas, that can win us back to the delusions of our childish days; that can recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth; that can transport the sailor and the traveller, thousands of miles away, back to his own fire-side and his quiet home! ~ The Pickwick Papers

By far, though, this is the one that plays the sentimental chord on my heartstings:

I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round, as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys.

Emphasis added. Because I love that last part. A writer with a skilled pen captured the nugget that slips easiest through my searching fingers...and comes up with the truth that unites in lieu of divides on Christmas Eve and Morn.

It yums the festive up in families - mine included, for sure - so we can celebrate the traditions of the season. Like attending service on the Eve with my mother-in-law, Sandy, and standing for flash after flash (thanks, Kim!), until you get the one.

Or eating our annual family dinner out, opening all our presents, and then picking up Mom again for "midnight" mass...a relic from my own childhood alive in present day.

It's in the belly-laughs of the boys' "gut bumps" in their Eve jammies

and relishing the smells (new leather!), sights (an "It's Gross!" section), and subjects (Habba-who?) of Elijah's new Bible.

Along the way, we can't forget the rock stars in our lives - like Uncle Tim. They all wanted pictures with his gifts to them...rather like getting a backstage pass or autograph at the concert, I s'pose.

When we intersect on this journey, I find that Dickens is right. Again. Our hearts really do open: whether closed by the scars of pains long-carried or wounds and hurts only just buried, we catch a draft of hope here and there. We pause and breathe and remember the best of what we have rather than the worst of what we've lost.

For me, I see them

and how only they can make this "us".

Seems to me, we could all remember a bit more intentionally that the folks to your left and right, before and behind, aren't just the schlubs rubbing you the wrong way or - flip the coin - the bests of the bestests, arms entwined with yours. We're all fellow passengers on a journey to the grave, and life is short -
if I can get that into my heart, maybe I'll find it even easier to carry the Christmas spirit...
all year through.

That Was You

2011-12-21T14:25:00.001-07:00

11. What's so great about 11?

Yeah, if you don't care - I get it.
And I normally wouldn't, either.
Except that, today, I do.

Because it's the 11th year since she came.
And made contact.

And a family.

And a dream come true.

In these pictures, I see the first time she held Aunt Jessi's hand; the first time she met her Nana and nuzzled her cheek - as she still does today.

I regard the way she engages the world with her simple approach of love mixed with authenticity peppered with gentle compassion and quickness to giggle at all manners of humor.

If children are hope for the future, then our "ahead" will surely be better than what lays "behind" for I have met few so abidingly pleased with the white-bread, everyday pleasures of a life spent simply living.

She has grown from baby to little girl

to young woman bloomed.

She is a sister twice over.

Part artist...

part dreamer...

...if you opened her mind, horses would stampede out.

She is an in-the-flesh reason we know blessings exist.
The first in every category we'll face together.
Our original "you and me" come to make "us".

Perfect? No.
Polished? Maybe.
Paramount? Definitely.

What's so great about 11? The Story of Grace: much in the same way she made numbers 1-10 equally brilliant. Because she's perfect and ever-pleasing and without any flaw to force constraint, not so much.

But because she came.

And made contact.

And a family.

And a dream come true.

Yes, Gracie.

That was you.

No witing About tmountains

2011-12-14T11:45:00.001-07:00

Ahhh, Christmas cards. What say you on the subject? If taking a multiple-choice test, would your answer most likely be:

A. Strangely curious fabrications of life and joy mailed solely to propagate falsities at Christmas?
    B. Mildly irritating notions on what can be labeled interesting, but products of the festive season
      nonetheless
C. Enjoyable ditties on lives you love near, far, and in-between. Sure, why not?
D. A critical imparting of soul juice for the celebration of friendship and family. Absolutely - how
        can you not?!

Well, depending on your letter option, you're somewhere between a craven Eboneezer or a candy-coma'd Cratchit. Wherever you fall, reflect on this: it's an option, not a requirement. It's a gift to receive, not a curse to begrudge. It's an opportunity to love and laugh - and maybe get a pretty good story, too.

This is our card this year. It's got a story. I mean, other than the one written on it.

What's the short of the long?

There is no witing about tmountains.

The long of the long? I found a great deal that would, essentially, take a nickel from my pocket for each print. Yeee-aH: sold! I fast found this template and plucked it from the bed of options because it let me use some candids rather than a full family pic. Why not the full fam? Well, it's a whole other story involving hair and clothes and meltdown possibilities- mine, not theirs - so I'll spare you the brutals. Suffice to say, my happy equation that day was candids + letter space = done deal.

Course my joy took the fast way downhill. I open the template. I place the photos. And I begin to write our ditty...in 4.5 point cruel even to the biggest, buggiest, micro-vision eyes on God's green earth. I zoomed, I widened, I got glasses. I squinted, I scrunched, I groused. I gave up.

And now there's two typos. TWO! Yes, yes: I could give it up.
Let it go.
   Roast some chestnuts over an open fire.
     Put a partridge in my pear tree.
        But I cannot. Why?
          Um, because I'm book smart, street stupid:
            have we not met?

What's that mean? Future post, for sure. Summarily, it's a keen intelligence capable of recalling volumes of data but lacking any singular ability to often apply it common-sensically. Yeah. That's me. To an "A" - for Anal-retentive.

It bears no surprise, then, that while complaining to my treasured friend, Amy, badmouthing and blundering the bits for a good 10 minutes, Amy (I did call her treasured, yeah?) calmly...but with that quake of "Seriously, Candy, you really are prone to missing the simple, aren't you?") quips, "Why didn't you copy it, paste it into Word so you could see it?"

Well, oBviously, the answer is this:

Because there would then be no witing about tmountains.

Which could make for one sad card

...except that it turns out to be a pretty good story.

The Numbers 101

2011-12-07T15:32:00.000-07:00

I've been crabby lately. Grouchy groucherooski. Grumpster. Cranky lady.

You can tell I'm crabby because I'm resorting to these biting, annoyingly syrupy......ugh, they're so gross, I don't even know what they are. Which must mean they're epithets on the tombstone of wherever my happy place went and died.

Yet, I shan't be deterred: annoying can die and happy places can be resurrected. And, after a day of rest at home (fully!), I'm just about up to par. There are a few juicy tidbits that have helped along the way: receiving what I'm about to share is but one. It boarded my Happy Boat in blog post form some weeks ago, and I only just read it thoroughly. It's about students. And teaching. And writing. And the perils of teaching students "writing". But, if you've never taught high school or college freshman English, never fear: this is pert dern close to what you'd encounter if you ever had ventured into the depths of writing despair usually preceded by the numbers 101.

Have a giggle - syrup and epithets safe - on me.

The 25 Funnniest Analogies (Collected by High School Teachers)

Update: Tens of thousands of readers have found this post and hundreds of you have commented. A few have said that these analogies were actually taken from other sources and were not written by high school kids at all. Now, we have a link that ends the debate. These analogies are the winning entries in a 1999 Washington Post humor contest, and there are more than 25. Please look at the comments sent August 3, 2008 by “Jiffer” to get to the complete list and the names of the authors.

Original Post: I have to share these “funniest analogies” with you. They came in an e-mail from my sister. She got them from a cousin, who got them from a friend, who got them from… so they are circulating around. My apologies if you have already seen them.
The e-mail says they are taken from actual high school essays and collected by English teachers across the country for their own amusement. Some of these kids may have bright futures as humor writers. What do you think?

1. Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a ThighMaster.

2. His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.

3. He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.

4. She grew on him like she was a colony of E. Coli, and he was room-temperature Canadian beef.

5. She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.

6. Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.

7. He was as tall as a six-foot, three-inch tree.

8. The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife’s infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM machine.

9. The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn’t.

10. McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup.

11. From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you’re on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 p.m. instead of 7:30.

12. Her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair after a sneeze.

13. The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.

14. Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.

15. They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan’s teeth.

16. John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.

17. He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant, and she was the East River.

18. Even in his last years, Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long it had rusted shut.

19. Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.

20. The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.

21. The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.

22. He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame, maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.

23. The ballerina rose gracefully en Pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.

24. It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.

25. He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.

30 Days of Thankful

2011-11-29T12:01:00.000-07:00

Each year for the last three, I've purposed every day of November to faithfully carve time on Facebook to write one entry. It's quite the important entry, I dare say, because it's shaped my entire month - one 24 hour chunk at a time.

I hear the murmurs in increased numbers - the plaintive melodies decrying FB's lack of merriment, of honesty, of good 'ol kindness even. Okay. I see that. But I offer this in retort to said decriers: You do realize, do you not, that the networkers et al - NOT the actual network - are the guilty offenders? Because, see, the network's not alive: it's nothing without the content we put in it, post on it, spread through it. And - yes, yes - we can hide some posters, limit our feed exposure, or flat out unfriend, if you're really interested in spreading your point. But, then again, few people accompany their unfriend with any feasible explanation. So, here's the rub for you....

Why not change the content we post? Better choose what we spread? How about we claim Facebook for the beauty it can offer rather than the crud it can spew? (I suddenly feel a bit like Amy Madigan's character, Annie, at the PTA meeting on banning books..."Come on! Come on! Let's see those hands!" Yeah, think it. Post it. See it for fun.)

So, come October, I start compiling my list of 30 - which isn't a lot when you see your life through the lens of thankful, I note. I think of who matters deeply; what's changed me; which nouns fill my happy place of want; which nouns faithfully fill my treasured column of need. I reflect and pray and smile quite a bit actually because, in the end, I'm left with nothing but a cup running over...nothing but love.

So, come November, I practice what I preach. Some were on the list...some strolled in just by being.

Either way, it's good to contemplate your content. To contemplate your life. It's even better for the soul. Well, my soul, anyways. And just maybe yours, too.Which doesn't have to happen solely in the eleventh month.

Thankful is funny like that:

it's cool any month of the year, like a superpower that never runs out of juice.

So here's my contribution to the good juice...in the order I posted my thankful's.

For stacks of essays waiting to be graded that remind me teaching is who I am, not just what I do...I am truly thankful.

For a treasured friend - a necessary part of my core - whose quiet strength and Godly perspective signifies Comfort to all whom she loves...for Amy Roek Cunningham, I am truly thankful. Love you.

For 9 pounds 9 ounces of miniature Craig who has grown into 4 feet of his own soul-blessing self...I am gloriously thankful. Happy Birthday, Elijah: you will always be my best reminder to laugh hard and live big. I love you.

For words - long and short, skinny and tall, juicy and dry, clean and...not - for the way they are alive and fail only when they should: I am thankful for words.

For the "A-Ha!" moment that lights my students' faces when they get it, do it, and like it once they're done...for that singular moment of superb connection, I am thankful.

For the moments that have defined me and for the grace that made them sacred...I am blessedly thankful.

For a day to celebrate the birth of my friend who represents depths of loyalty and devotion I can only aspire to reach...for my hysterically insightful Jessi Chavez, I am beyond thankful.

(Here's to one that's true every year. Of course.) For indoor plumbing - and the creature comforts it so faithfully provides through cold, infirmity, and dark of night...I am blissfully thankful.

For having had the extraordinary opportunity to live in The Last Frontier, where all that is most beautiful remains still untouched...and called Alaska - I am an awe-inspired thankful.

For pumpkin. For bread, coffee, creamer, muffins, cheesecake, candles, lotions, and even the big ol' orbs we place on the stoop...for pumpkin, my scents are delightfully thankful.

For your bravery, your resilience, your valiant belief in duty before self and God above all...you are my daddy, my friends, and my beloved Craig most of all...for my freedom, I am humbly thankful.

For the Chai Spice walls of a cozy parlor awash in the glow of afternoon sunshine...and a Kindle to go along with it...I am thankful.

Because I woke this morning with his arm around me and listened to him breathing beside me...for the presence of my soul mate Craig, saturating every day of life until it's just the right side of dream come true - I am ever thankful.

For 4'11'" of golden locks, dimpled cheeks, artist's hands, blue-green eyes, and the warmest heart of compassion I've ever encountered...for my only begotten beauty-girl, Grace Abigail, my mothering heart is thankful.

For my Someone, my Peach, my reminder that wisdom isn't separate from humor and all that glitters really IS golden...Michelle Rice Zitzmann, there aren't words for the depth of thankful I am for you. Love you.

For lists that get trumped and goals that get traded in favor of what's better, grander, more beautiful than any I'd imagined...for learning to yield my Type A to His "Type Perfect", I am infinitely thankful.

For a warm bed to climb into come night's fall; for a roof that shelters the heart as much as it does the home; for a full pantry, a cool fridge, clothes that fit, and soap that cleans...for having everything I need more than than everything I want, I am thankful.

For coffee - all kinds; and its packaging - cups or mugs or paper carriers; and its smell - nutty, sweet, slightly bitter; and its warmth - through my hands, across my lips, down my tummy...for my sensory love affair with coffee, my taste buds are thankful.

Gettin' this one in under the wire: for the simple pleasure of cuddling with Elijah beneath a fuzzy blanket, belly-laughing-until-tears watching old The Cosby Show episodes...my merry heart is thankful.

For the gift of knowing and being known, for counting people as gifts and realizing, "They see me and let me seem them, too...no hiding required" - for the gift of acceptance, my friendship meter is thankful.

For Good Wife dates with Jill Singleton Bailey including decaf, pumpkin pie, pajamas (for me), and delightful chats on solving life's great puzzles...the plot of the show among them - for a 30 second drive to hang with one of the smartest, wittiest gals I know, I am thankful.

For my last name: a tangible gift my husband gave to say I belong to him. It's a reminder of legacy and of love. It's alliterative (and that's just cool) AND, even after 15 years, I never tire of being called "Mrs. Covak"...for a name far greater than mere signature, I am thankful.

For our house - more than walls and paint and windows, it's a dream we built together with sacrifice and faith, stitched together by three hands intertwined...His, Craig's, and mine. We've brought our babies home to this house, watched them take their first steps here and, one day, will watch them walk out of it to build their own homes. For the realization that a house loved becomes a home where your story begins, I am thankful.

For the perspective of joy: realizing I have a blessed life is rarely based solely on circumstances and always based on perspective. When I see through eyes of love and peace, I don't see circumstances...I see the bounty of the good life. And I am blessed. For the perspective of joy, my happy heart is thankful...and hoping yours is, too!

For the Day After traditions: halls are decked, leftovers consumed, carols a playin', and pizza is gettin' eaten. Welcome Holidays!

For beer. That's right - beer. For blondes and pales and schillings and every seasonal there is. For the foam and the hops and the finishes, too. For the pilsner, the stein, the pint, and the weizen...for all the fashions in which beer arrives to please the the palate, I am thankful. (No belching, please.)

For LG 47, boys, girls, men, women - Christ the center of all: you are a rich group who make me laugh and think and feel and DO better and bigger than without you...for Steve, Michelle, Jessica, David, Lynne, Micah, Becca, KJ, and Craig, my never-alone heart is thankful.

For my second-favorite lefty who's all giggles and smiles...until he's not; who lives life all in and teaches me what it means to love with heart wide open, especially when he says, "I love you, Mommy" about 50 times a day - for my miracle Judsen Ames, my smile is surely thankful.

For the unexpected gifts that rearrange moments, days, and even years of my life: for every one from snow days to drop-in guests, from marriage proposals to sticks with two lines, my life has been full of rearranging...and I am thankful for it.

(And, to be posted tomorrow….) For the memories of what made me then, the adventures carving me now, and the dreams and hopes deferred for tomorrow…for His promise of “the best is yet to come”, I am eternally thankful.

33% Bliss

2011-11-22T10:45:00.000-07:00

The months between October and January are a marathon, not a sprint.

For lots of us. Let's get real: for MOST of us.
In a world where "different" is the new "same", the quest of getting-through-holidays-with-festive-zing-intact is the uniting thread that might - gasp! - actually get us through the holidays with festive zing intact. Radical, I know.

In our house, the race gun fires come October 31st - for you, this may be because, Hark!, it's Halloween. For us, too. But it's also our anniversary: add an Elijah's birthday chaser mixed with a shake of Thanksgiving, a stir of Gracie's birthday, a splash of Christmas, and top with a two-olived pick of New Year's and Craig's birthday, and you've got one heck of a marathon martini.

Wait. Was that entire analogy centered on liquor?
Well, that was entirely ~~on purpose~~.
        I mean, ~~subconscious~~.
                I mean, accidental.

Like you, we're also paying the bills, cleaning the house, hitting the gym, cheering the kids, scheduling the meetings, gassing the car, shopping the stores, and...well...living the glamorous life.

So who has time for blogging? Well, sadly, I haven't prioritized it...though other rock-stars have maintained the pace (props, people. Props). And who pays the price?
We-ellllllllll....me.
       I mean, us.
           All right, I mean you.

Because you've got the sandwich post that throws the first third of the leg at you all at once...I like to think of it as 33% Bliss.

Apologies in advance.


Grace and her friend, Ally, had a piano recital just before Halloween. It was themed. How can you tell?

This year, the Covak's became the Scooby Gang...complete with Scooby, Velma (seriously, Grace hardly looks like Grace, right?) and Shaggy.


LOVE! Thanks, Zitzmann's for taking it in our absence!

Not afraid to be eclectic: our traditional Halloween with the Z's found us lost in the land of Mystery Gang/Zombie Sweet Witch/Ahoy, Matey!/American Werewolf in Colorado...makes a heart happy, this shot.


Look at his little body! Cute.

And, as always, we marked the Pumpkin-palooza with painting (yeah, we don't carve...WAY too much work for Momma and Daddy). Each kiddo gets his own and her own wee gourd, and then we all paint a panel on the family pumpkin.

Here are the "fruits" of their labor.

2 more 33% Bliss's to go!

Redefine Disgusting

2011-11-16T16:14:00.002-07:00

Life is all well and good until chunks of vomit are cascading down your underpants.

What?!!!!???

A truer statement may never have passed my lips. Or echoed from my keyboard.

You're speaking metaphorically, right? Like a euphemism, right? Like letting the curses fly when it doesn't go your way? Something like, "Oops, I forgot to stamp that card...chunks of vomit cascading down my underpants!"?

Yeah. No. I mean, one minute I'm talking to Grace's teacher in the back of the gymnasium before the curtain rises (Did I mention Grace was a pirate? Tried out for the play and everything? Been memorizing her lines since August?). Next minute, Judsen's sounding all panicky, like he's the first to spy the white horse riding on the horizon cloud. Then I hear, "My tummy doesn't feel goooood."

Oh crap. I know where this is going.

With teacher still talking and concern sharply peaking, I ask, "Do you feel like you're going to be s --"

And then, yes. Yes he was. Like a hose. Aimed right at my chest. Curled into it, if you really want to know the horrors. Then, as I was moving like I, too, had seen the apocalyptic horsemen, he did it again. And, just as I hailed Elijah to go get Daddy - quickly - he did it again. And again. And, just for good measure, one more time. All before we made it the bathroom.

Um.

Ew.

Yes. Yes it was. After finally getting him to the toilet, up he chucked twice more. Outside the women's room, I could hear Grace's teacher telling Craig, "Just go in. Go in! It's all right." Of course, when Craig came 'round the corner, he was a most exceptional shade of green. I don't think he thought it was all right. Wife covered in vomit traipsing its way steadily south. No, not all right at all. But still he passed the near-useless (not his fault) brown school paper towels like a motorized arm on the "just to help you scrape off the chunks" conveyor belt of mercy.

Yeah, that simile isn't helping the "ew" factor.

Yes. Yes I know. When the last retch had ceased, I wrapped the boy in my sodden jacket - yeah, I did type sodden - and told Craig to stay for Gracie while I headed home with the hurler (and I don't mean the throwing kind). By now, the ~~spooge~~ (um, didn't know how to spell it, so Googled it. Turns out, that's NOT what that word means. Triple ew.) vomit has oozed a path down the v-neck (how often do I wear a v-neck...come ON!), over the belly, and well into the underpants.

Wow.

I'm just incredibly disgusted by this whole post.

Yes. Yes I am, too. Try motherhood. It'll redefine disgusting every time.

And, while you're basking in the merry land of pondering, here's another tittle worth excogitating:

Life is all well and good until chunks of vomit are cascading down your underpants.

But Colorado

2011-11-16T15:24:00.000-07:00

Colorado is beautiful country. Grant you, it's no Alaska - but it's got it's own brand of spit and shine. So, whenever we've the chance to get away, if only for a few days, we pack up the clan and head out to some as-yet unexplored nook of the Centennial state.

Our latest trip was especially notable, though, because of the absence of what otherwise makes for a busy trip: our three children! In honor of our 15th trip around the sun, we headed to High Country for some days away from the normal grind.

I love High Country: most recently, I wrote about it's beauty on our annual summer trip to Dillon.But, this year, we headed even higher to mountain views yet seen...in Winter Park. Neither Craig nor I had been, and if ever there was an occasion to embark on a new adventure together...

The drive was beyond words (but, since this is a blog, after all, I'll give it a whirl). The best one-worder I can contrive is crystalline. They'd just had a massive dump of snow and, being as how they're ski country in the off-off season (think winter's answer to a western Ghost Town), it was absurdly quiet. Silent, even...much like I'd imagine it would be inside the glass of a snow globe.
And when I say we were in the mountains, I mean we were in the mountains.

That's the Continental Divide below. (In case you're not familiar, the CD is the line of demarcation running north-south that separates water flow between the Atlantic and Pacific. Rain or snow runoff to the east heads towards the Atlantic; to the east, the Pacific.) And, considering you can't be just anywhere to see it, it's pretty cool when you actually do.

There's nothing more breathtaking on the initial stretch than this shot.

Because, until you see it, you're climbing in elevation all gradual like...until boom...Hello, Rockies!

Along the way, we ran across these...my pictorial homage to the Colorado brand of mountain humor.


That's a moose beneath the sheeting and a watermill starring as Jack. Yeah. We shame our landmarks here.

Like Alaska, you can't let Colorado's snow or cold or otherwise challenging weather snafus hold you back: you'll only become a sad hermit if you do. Besides, why else do we have cocoa and toddies if not for nipped noses and tingly toes? So, lest we surrender to Old Man Winter, we spent an afternoon on this gorgeous hike. Think the forest scenes in Narnia when first they leave the wardrobe and you've just about got it.

We hiked about four miles to the sound of Adams Falls...

Agh! A rare glimpse of me...and just me...I really do appear in photos without my friends or family...I think.

Until we came upon this.

And heard this.

Yeah.
You heard it right.
Nothin' but the water.
Absurdly quiet.

Crystalline.
Like the inside of a snow globe.

But Colorado.

In The Last 365

2011-11-03T15:01:00.001-06:00

Today is our son, Elijah's, 8th birthday.

8 (!).

It's hard to believe - and even harder to imagine I'll be making that same statement for the next, oh...say....every year until I die.

In 2009, I wrote a post entitled "The Story of Elijah" that tells you everything you need to know about the quality of this gem we get to call son. And, truth be told, I could write a similar entry for every year we get to have him. But, this year more than ever, I've seen our little man grow. Change. Become more of his best while shedding his worst.

In so many ways, Elijah is my hardest child - the one I struggle to understand the most, usually because he's the child I'm like the least. Yet, he's also the child who's taught me the most about my own best...and worst...and inspired me to tip my own scales in the same way he's tipping his. He makes me laugh just by laughing himself. And it is he, more than any other worldly influence the last 365, who has awakened me to the joys of living each moment - in that moment - as a singularly delicious "just as it is".

I've looked before at my first-born son and seen possibility; glorious potential; a promise of greatness to come. Then, somewhere along the way, I cleared my lens to see the presence of glorious potential, the arrival of promises once to come...and he is beautiful.

And that's just in the last 365.

See for yourself.

Happy Birthday, sweet boy.

Seconds of Happy

2011-11-01T10:12:00.001-06:00

Yesterday, Craig and I marked 15 years of marriage together.

According to CalendarHome.com, that's 5478 days,131,472 hours, 7,888,320 minutes, and 473,299,200 seconds of story - chapter by chapter - written one memory at a time. Thanks to the beauty of blogging, I can look back to this date in 2009 and 2010 and reflect on what I felt then - which is better than the best gift because I am instantly back to a reflection frozen in time...and I find my sentiments stretch now further into the deep.

You know, we ask ourselves a great many questions about marriage today: Do we talk enough? Save enough? Spend time together? Spend time apart? Are we attracted to each other - as friends, as companions, as lovers? Are we in love? Are we even happy?

Culturally, we've never chased after the elusive concept of happiness more than we do (arguably) today. In the face of dwindling 401K's and swelling debts, diminished jobs and increased global warming, less everyday joys and more long-term burdens, we just don't feel happy. At least, not all that often. But what is happy, anyway? I mean, I'm happy when Judsen tells me he loves me - for no reason at all. I'm happy when my coffee's hot and when I don't have to make dinner. I'm happy when there's a card in the mail, addressed solely to me. And I'm happy when I wake in the morning and listen to Craig beside me...just breathing.

Like "love" and "awesome", "happy" has become one of the most overstated words in American use, so much so that we're left wondering exactly what it means at all. But when I go back to its roots, its original connotation of an in-the-moment, blissful awareness of making contact with that soul-spot now contented by an instant's happening....well, then, I think of my husband, my companion, my best friend, and my lover.

And I find that I am truly happy.

473,299, 200...201...202...203...seconds of happy.

With the best seconds yet to come.

At The Crux

2011-10-23T13:02:00.000-06:00

If I had to wrap it into one; to sum it all up; to get to the heart of it.
To find what's at the crux...
these are the words that would rise.

"Do the next, good, right, honest thing.

Keep it simple.

I am responsible for the stitch, not the whole pattern.

Turn the outcome over to God."

~Ashley Judd, All That Is Bitter and Sweet

The Door Latch

2011-10-14T13:43:00.000-06:00

I was thinking lately of how many idioms we have using the door as metaphor. Can you come up with a few? Yeah, me too.

"Bar the door, Katy!" (I don't know what that one means, either)
Falling through the trap door
Beat a path to your door
Door-to-door
Get your foot in the door
Dead as a door-nail
Go back door

And let us not forget the door's most famous euphemism: When one door closes, another opens.

Seems we Americans like our doors...as long as they're gleaming red with polished brass handles, sturdy knockers, beveled glass panes and very - and I mean VERY well-oiled hinges.

I'm reading a memoir about an author's varied, heart-wrenching-and-elating adventures as an ambassador with Population Services International, with which she works to improve Public Health on a global scale. As is always the case with memoir, the reader must enter into a dual willingness: to become - however temporarily - a part of the writer's world while also distinctly separating enough from it to actually consider it. After all, one gets quite little from a life story they become rather than experience.

Needless to say, then, I find myself pulling back from some of her messages and leaning toward others. But there is one - and really JUST one - that grabbed me by the intellectual, and perhaps, emotional collar and held with the grip of human compassion - a tight-fisted advocate, to be sure. What was it? Americans are privileged. And we don't know it. Can't know it. Not really. Because, like reading a fine memoir, you can't experience it if you are it. We are Americans: we don't know any different. Nor do we know any better, actually, but not for the reasons non-Americans think: we're not ignorant or proud or self-centered. At least not all of us, and not all of the time. What we are is, quite simply, what we are. And, for as good as we've got it, there's little better with which to compare.

So what's the point? Let us not stop there! Let's go further! Do more. See more. Go bigger. However, whenever, we can. Let us not stand on the threshold of our contented door and look to the world, near and far, and say, "I am privileged. I have enough. There is nothing better beyond my door." If we do, we are then living - trapped - by our doors...our gleaming red, polished brass handled, glass beveled, oily hinged doors.

Ralph Waldo Emerson writes, "Men live on the brink of myteries and harmonies into which they never enter. And with their hand on the door latch, they die outside."

Whatever view your porch offers, THERE is your place of impact. THERE is your place of purpose. THERE is your place of mystery and harmony, waiting for discovery. THERE is your way to live.

Being privileged, you know, is not a crime.

Leaving your hand on the door latch is.

Thanks For That Moment

2011-10-13T09:35:00.000-06:00

In recent weeks - well, more like months, now that I think on it - I've been purposefully redirecting how I apply the label "important" in my life. I know, I know: sounds like hooey. Yet, with complete candor, I can tell you that it is far better to let the little die before it overtakes the life of the big. I am freer. Happier. And, quite frankly, more likable (I hope). And heaven knows I need all the help I can get in that area!

Before this endeavor to heart-change, I would have heard a little jeer from Grace last night. I might have even chuckled. But, distracted by the little overtaking the big, I wouldn't have been able to dwell on it. Savor it. And laugh uproariously in the middle of a parking lot while standing amidst the happy gaggle of gigglers laughing along with me.

Being in the moment, I couldn't take a picture of the moment. Still, my heart snapped the frame and stored it fast within the happy vault...to be retrieved on days when the work seems big, the result quite small, and faith smaller still.

So, what did she say? Yeah, I'd be asking that, too. If you're thinking it was profound or otherwise markedly deep in any capacity, you're mistaken. She was simply admiring her new boots (complete with horseshoes embellished on the soles, which makes them Grace's version of shoe nirvana) and noticed they were a bit wider in the leg grip than she might prefer. But, with a shrug and lopsided grin, she summed, "Oh well. Choosers can't be skimpy pickers."

Yeah, that was it.
Not all that funny?
Try living in the small, striving to appreciate each moment for the beauty it simply is.
Yep.
It's funnier then.

"You mean, 'beggars can't be choosy.'"
"Huh? Well, I guess so. If that's the way it's supposed to go." Pause for a beat. "But I think my way is better."

Yes, Grace. I think your way is better, too.

Thanks for that moment.

A Legacy I'm All For

2011-10-06T15:17:00.002-06:00

You don't raise a hero, you raise a son.

And if you treat him like a son,

he'll turn out to be a hero,

Even if it's just in the eyes of his child.

Tuesday evening was parent-teacher conference night for team C&C. Both went well, but it was a moment we spent with Elijah's teacher, Kate, that marked the highlight for me. E's class completed a worksheet which answered the question of "Who is your hero?" Kate pulled our son's worksheet from her file folder telling us she teared up when she read it.

And then I did, too.

There is no one in this world - and I mean...In. This. World. - that I admire and esteem more than my husband. He is, to my grown-up heart, the very best of what a man can be.

It would seem our son's little-boy heart agrees.

You don't raise a hero, you raise a son.

And if you treat him like a son,

he'll turn out to be a hero,

Even if it's just in the eyes of his child.

That's a legacy I'm all for.

What He Actually Said Was...

2011-10-05T13:12:00.000-06:00

Whatever our peculiar phrasing, we daily rebuke statements with: "What you should have said was..." Think about it. Isn't that what we mean, for instance, when our children are thirsty and, holding their cups heavenward like plastic mimics of Dickensian lore, puff, "I need a drink." But, unlike Oliver Twist, their wide eyes brook no mention of "please". So what do we reply? "Say please!"

Yep, that's a "What you should have said was..." moment. And, lest we forget our more overt tendencies, I point out that I, upon occasion and in particular response to disrespect or forceful tongue, quip, "Excuse me? Are you speaking to me?!" Which is a double whammy of "What you should have said was..." and "How you should have said that was..."

This introspection whorled especially in the mind's eye on a particular Wednesday weeks past. Wednesdays (for now) being our most manic evening, I gave specific instructions to the lads and lass to complete homework and prepare themselves for soccer practice (E), running (G), and baggage claim (which is what Judd becomes in the midst of his older siblings' activities on such fine days...poor boy). I even bulleted Elijah's steps for him lest he become distracted (which never happens, no) and find himself horribly late and frazzled (a wild fancy, for sure).

Yet, when I ascended the stairs at 4:30 to round up the wee ones for our 4:45 departure, Elijah scurried from his room wearing superhero undies and shrugging into a soccer jersey (the wrong one).

"Where is your practice jersey, son? And your socks? And your cleats? Well, and your pants, for that matter?"

But no worries for, at that precise moment, Grace emerges from her bedroom calmly running a brush through her locks as if she'd no care in the world.

"Are you in your running clothes? Do you have your water bottle? What do you mean you can't get your hair smooth?" (Are you familiar with the Girl World issue of smooth ponytails?)

And, in the coup de grace of Hump Day Blowup, Judd emerges...no shoes, no socks but plenty of sticky substance about the face.

What did they say? Don't know. It was spoken in a flurry of jibberish amid frenzied finger-pointing to which I could only field-goal my arms in surrender and announce, "Van! NOW!"

With Judd's face scoured and Grace's hair sufficiently smoothed, I thought I'd made it. 4:40 - Not too bad, I congratulate myself.

Yeah. Obligatory back-pat came way too soon, for it was only then that I snagged the back of Elijah's jersey (the right one this time), pointed to his feet and cried, "You're not wearing any shoes!"

"Um, what shoes should I wear?"
Um, are you kidding me?
"Well, how about your brand new cleats?"
"Oh, are those for soccer?"
Breathe.
"Yes. Where are they?"
"I dunno," he says. Calmly. Shrugging his shoulders.
Breathe.
"Well, let's find them and get them on your feet."

Which we did. While we boarded the Silver Bullet, my effort to breathe was fast reaching reaching fever pitch. In. Out. Look at clock.

Okay: 4:47. We can still make it. And I can do this. It's a teaching opportunity. Let's discuss teamwork. Responsibilities. Reading a clock.

And so it was as we merged our way north to the field, and so it continued for a few less-than-blessed miles of lectures on such topics as these. To which the children nodded and "hmmm-mmm"-ed and "uh-huh"-ed, all airs of recalcitrance emptied stretches back. I calmly voiced to Elijah, most pointedly, that we were all adjusting our schedules expressly to allow for his soccer schedule, and would it not be prudent to extend himself a touch more to make said adjustments all the easier?

To which he replied.
Slowly.
Softly.
And with much chagrin.

Now, what he should have said was, "Sure, Mommy. You're totally right. I can do that. I see that time's tight on these days and - You bet! - I can pitch in more by, like, say, having shoes on - or even knowing what shoes those are. No problem!"

But, in an ever-present reminder that parenting is nothing short of God's daily bulletin that we are not in control - not of time or bullet lists or smooth hair or sticky faces or superhero undies or soccer cleats or even the raucous, belly-hollowing bliss of the perfect heart-swelling ride...

what he actually said was, "Um, I'm not wearing any pants."

Intimidation Isn't a Sonnet

2011-10-04T10:05:00.001-06:00

One of my Fave 5 this fall (and the two before it) is The Good Wife. (If you don't know about the Fave 5, check out the concept here). As is the case with most statements of faves, the first question that comes to mind is "Why do you like it?" The characters are captivating, the plots are crafty, and the subtext is off the map of merely good.

But it's the writing, folks. The writing is what gets me every time. Every. Time.

And this is some goo-oood (!) writing. If the hostage-taker of scripters held his prize Parker 51 to my throat, I'd be forced to choose their pithy one-to-three liners as their secret to rhetorical success. They define erudite and, as key player Diane voiced just Sunday, they "class they joint up." Yeah-huh.

Case in point: last week's episode brought the British to American turf. While the trivia of tweens - US and UK, that is - was entertaining (there were mentions of crumpets and shiny distractions...and who knew the diff between barrister and solicitor was such a red-coat hot button?), it was the peeing contest between Will (sigh) and guest barrister James Thrush (Eddie Izzard) that tickled my linguistic ribs the most.

Check out this monologue...and the rapier response to it:

James: I am not the England of Big Ben and bobbies. I am not the England of doilies and
            cucumber sandwiches. I’m the England of football hooligans and Jack the Ripper. And this England
            don’t play nice. And they don’t play fair. And they don’t ever stop.

Will: (sigh)
           Here’s some advice, Mr. Thrush. When you want to intimidate someone, don’t use so many
           words. Intimidation isn’t a sonnet.

Intimidation isn't a sonnet.

The Good Wife.

Badass.

The Fiery Colors of Living

2011-09-26T10:35:00.000-06:00

We sat last night on our patio with the 47 family, captured in Colorado's near perfect net of crisp mountain air and warm autumn colors. It occurred to me, sitting there, that those cantaloupes, sages, burnt embers, and goldenrods of our backyard grove wouldn't be there tomorrow. Not precisely. Not the same hues. By morning - heck, even by nightfall - leaves will have fallen, wind-shaken by the same breeze chilling our skin the same way it was chilling the remaining foliage into still deeper shades before they, too, drifted away to places unknown.

Instantly, the mind vault pulls James 4:14 from its depths: "Yet you do not know what tomorrow will bring. What is your life? For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes." (ESV) Rather gives new meaning to the sentiment "Here today, gone tomorrow", yes?

But in what way is that not true? I mean, what moment can we possibly recapture? I can't go back to the whimsy of childhood or time travel to the beach at the moment I whispered "I will." I can't relive the first time Craig said he loved me; the first moment each of our children took breath or slip inside the second we knew our other's ceased. Nor, truthfully, would I want to. We must capture it in the now because it's the now that gives it worth: the reliving is just the memory's shallow grave of event without the emotion that first made it alive.

Last night, it may have been the season's finery rushing me to reflection, but it was the people that made that moment alive. It was my beloved to my left or my Zee diagonally across. It was her guy to her right and two other of the best couples I know surrounding. It was the loved ones absent yet fondly included. It was the presence of friendship and the life it brings to that - and every - moment.

In this season of my life, I am changing. I know that I am changing. Awareness of it puts butterflies in my stomach and weight upon my chest. I am learning, among other truths, that I need to live more fully in the moment. To refrain from analysis and worry and too-close inspection of what would otherwise simply be. Recently, on Facebook, my status read, "If you want to be happy, be." (Thanks, Leo Tolstoy: that sentiment's way easier to grab than War and Peace.)

I'm going for the moment these days. I'm getting better at being.

I'm finding rest.

Ease. Peace.

In the moment.

In the being.

In the fiery colors of living.

Touché

2011-09-22T16:44:00.001-06:00

If you are a man and reading this, buck against the need to scornfully disregard this warning...and stop.

Stop reading.

Stop reading.

Stop reading.

Or you'll likely be sorry.

Warning complete.

Yesterday, it was that oh-so-awe-inspiring yearly occasion of female medical responsibility we so early-1800's-ish call the "annual." (Or, for the about half of you following this blog who'll favor the reference, I paid a visit to Dr. Weary).

But, alas (and thank the good God above), this post is not about that. Or, not precisely anyway.

If your burgeoning memory remains intact enough, you'll recall the renderings of my last post, "Go Big", reflected on looking at the everyday "Wherever, Whatever"'s with as much intentionality and total presence as I can muster. On the eve after its writing, I was sitting in the study pondering just that sentiment with my oh-so-clever (did you know that about him?) husband. Now, you may not realize that I did not, in fact, marry him merely for his body, his heart, his soul, or his character. Nay, nay I say.

It was the wit. The wit. The wit. The wit.
The.
Wit.
Next to loyalty, it's my favorite trait.
(Necessary aside.
Hang on with me. )

Upon the conclusion of a not-too-bad-for-a-Tuesday-evening exchange, our chat moved towards more practical matters; namely, what our next days held. Craig shared his to-do list and I, in my less than ecstatic droll, remarked, "Tomorrow, I have to go and have a speculum shoved into my vagina."

(Yeah, if you're a guy, and you just read that, I offer no apologies. I told you, didn't I? Didn't I?!)

And with what did my caustically witty husband - fist pump and hearty grin in merry accompaniment - reply?

"Go Big."

Wit.

Go Big

2011-09-19T15:38:00.000-06:00

I love my job.

I'm not speaking of the one that's hour-marked by loads of laundry, bags of groceries, floors of sweeping, bills of paying, buckets of organizing, menus of cooking, errands of running.....BIIIIIGGGG inhale.

Because I do, in fact, love that job.

But I'm also a teacher. Which is more than a job. When you can say your job isn't just what you do, but who you are - well, you're living the working man's dream. Or woman's. Whatever.

I remembered why I love my job last Saturday: with one student completing a writing task and two others waiting with their queries, I spared a moment to (internally) shout: "I LOVE MY JOB!" Challenging young minds to think - to actually consider with their frontal lobes the surroundings they call the world - until I see their eyes widen, heads lift, and shoulder rise...well, that supersonics past what I do to become affixed in the firmament of who I am.

In that little moment, I felt big.

Big in what I do.

Big in who I am.

In how I want to be.

We credit Confucius with the original observation, but the variant that follows has become its own rendering: "Wherever you go, there you are."

So be there.

Completely.

Unabashedly.

Full throttle.

Whether it's a job, a relationship, a phase, a conversation, a drive, or a longneck coated in frost...

Relish it.

Prize it.

Live in the little, revel in the much...but whatever you do...

Go Big.

Leave the Hunting to the Remote Control

2011-09-13T11:21:00.000-06:00

I'm often reminded of how our society wants the "not" more than the "have". While it seems especially prevalent in women (though, then again, perhaps we're the only ones either bold or scarred enough to voice it - tough to know), it would seem it's a bit of the American Way to crave what's missing. We ruthlessly straighten curls, but dole out fortunes to curl the straight. 4 bedrooms is bested by 5; nevermind that we've only two people in residence. In the name of a good deal, we'll spend an extra $10 to save $5. And our assortments of friends, hobbies, travels, and treasures must alter with the seasons lest we fall prey to stagnancy and repetition. Perhaps Seinfeld summarized it best: In recounting his struggle for control of the remote with his gal Friday, Jerry notes, "It's the problem of the hunter and the nester. She finds a channel and is content to watch what's on. I, on the other hand, am only interested in what else is on."

I totally relate.

But the pitfall here seems as obvious as a freefalling stone - with an equally jarring impact. If you fail to find joy in living fulfilled with precisely what you have, more will never be enough. Not a new sentiment. Nor a particularly profound one, I'm afraid. But I'm reminded of its truth nevertheless.

Perhaps we pick apart our friendships, laying them bare to a slow death. Or fail to ever find even a glimmer of hope in the daily sojourn of our profession. Maybe we can't see our children beyond the haze of our financial, emotional, and physical drains...even if we only acknowledge the blindness in our innermost depths.

Whatever the tension we build between have and have not, it is dissolved by the application of a basic truth: godliness with contentment is great gain (1 Tim. 6:6). Though the passage relates specifically to the trappings of greed, I suggest the principal equally applies to relationships, jobs, children, conversations...whatever. If the quest of the heart is more, more, more, it cannot seek have, have, have: it's too overwhelmed by the circuits of the former to even sense the surge of the latter.

It may very well be that I'm a hunter by nature, a nester by goal. Still, in matters of the heart - in all matters of the heart - I want to chase contentment or, better still, let contentment catch me in the mad spinning of the world. Likely, then, I'll have unearthed the great gain and joyfully embrace the best "more" there is to be found...

And leave the hunting to the remote control.

Winter Hibernation

2011-09-06T15:30:00.001-06:00

It has been a season of retreat in my heart and mind of late. It always seems to be this way right around this time of year: like clockwork proffering a tick I can't resist, I feel called to withdraw a bit. From pace. From people. From blog (obviously). From the busy and the full in favor of the quiet and the less.

Maybe it's brought on by the departure of summer and the impending arrival of fall: after all, the endless barbeque's, road trips, house parties, sleepovers, campout's, beers and burgers must end sometime. When they do, I find myself asking...Detox anyone?

Without a doubt, we spend a never-to-be-disclosed-publicly (for shame!) log of hours cleansing our body of chemical toxins and water weight; purging our houses of clutter; ridding our inbox of junk; and freeing our schedules of meetings and to-do's. But it's a discipline lit by the spark of choice that challenges us to reconsider and redecorate the rooms of our relationships.

So much of life is burgeoning with folk. We have jobs and bosses and landlords and neighbors and students and teachers and traffic all around. There is, without a doubt, no way we can exist outside of people and still operate within the world. Withdrawing now and again doesn't strike me as without profit, then. Like a good re-do, we need the fresh paint of prioritization and the new fixtures of life and laughter. We need to ask ourselves, "Where am I going? What am I doing? What matters most...and who do I want to journey with to get there?" Or, as the psalmist reminds, I must remind myself just what prize holds the focus of my eye: "You will make known to me the path of life; In Your presence is fullness of joy; In Your right hand there are pleasures forever." (Ps. 16:11, NAS)

Such answers get me back on track with a new vitality. A refreshed joy. They leave me re-centered, redecorated, and ready to re-embrace the busy and full.

Just in time for winter hibernation.

Life With Each Other

2011-08-19T11:07:00.000-06:00

In a close second to lover, "companion" was one of Craig's three most important aspects of marriage. An easy prospect to consider; harder if your personality differences bring new meaning to the catch phrase "Venus and Mars". But, for nearly 17 years of courtship and marriage, we've figured out ways to make it work.

The secret? Want to be with the one you love. Then be with them. In whatever way you can, every time you can. And reap the whirlwind of reward.

TV and music have been two of our "every way, every time" hallmarks. He'll watch Jane Austen and History Channel if I watch comedy and sports. Know what I discovered along the way? Craig often knows better than I what I'll actually enjoy watching...and he picks the shows with the best music. Case in point: Friday Night Lights.

I could write an entire post just about the nature of this show: its critical acclaim but hard-to-niche following; its wandering trek from network to network in search of just one more season; or how its faithful viewers trekked right along with it...until the recent series finale. Craig was one such trekker; certainly, more than one DVR, Hulu queue, and Amazon loader has seen the Friday Night Lights logo and geared up for multiple Plays - first, his. Then, mine. When we sat down to watch the finale entitled "Always", we found ourselves curled up, silent, waiting (as most finales have you) for the final frame to begin.

And then came the music.

When those final frames began, it was against the backdrop of this song by Delta Spirit. I say these to you: iTunes. Amazon. eMusic. Find it. Buy it. Listen to it. Repeatedly. As always, here are the lyrics for your persual:

Devil Knows You're Dead

And the sun shine warm upon your face
May the rains fall soft upon your field
Until the day we meet again

And the roof that hangs over your head
Find you shelter from the storm

Before the devil knows you're dead
May you be in heaven, my friend

May good luck find you at your worst
And bad love lose you at your best
May your days be rich and full of wealth
And your nights be long when you need rest

And the roof that hangs over your head
Find you shelter from the storm

Before the devil knows you're dead
May you be in heaven, my friend

And the road, may it rise to meet your feet
And be downhill all the way to your door
May the grass below be green and the sky above be blue
May it be so forever more

And the roof that hangs over your head
Find you shelter from the storm

Before the devil knows you're dead
May you be in heaven, my friend

I've listened to it 50 times if I've listened to it once. Every time sheds new light on someone I think about, someone I love. For that matter, it sheds light on saying goodbye. Saying "Until I see you again." Saying, "Be well. Be blessed. Be rich."

The rewards of companionship with my husband are many. And profound. And gifts. But they aren't all supernatural and abstract. Sometimes, they are the simple gift of a song found in a television show watched simply because he liked it.

And because I like him.

A lot.

So I watch.

And discover He's got something for me, too.

Like music I listen to again and again.

Like music that Craig sits and listens to with me...again and again.

Because he's my companion.

Like I'm his.

Sharing the simplest gifts.

To discover we're living the biggest one He's got...life with each other.

A Word Fairy Tale

2011-08-12T10:20:00.000-06:00

Here's today's Word Fairy Tale.

Once upon a time, there lay undiscovered in The Land of Quirky Linguistics a treasure trove of tids and bits only the slightly nerdy level of word-interested would appreciate. The wealth of oddities was abundant and heady, but one zany offering outshone the other jewels. The word was "mondegreen", and its meaning was....

Yeah, I don't know, either.

But the blog "the hot word" from Dictionary.com does! Yes, yes I know: I'm a nut for this page. As long-time readers already know, it is one of my favorite indulgences - so much so, in fact, I refer to it as one You Really Ought to Know. Have I mentioned there's so much more than just the word of the day, flashcards for your mobile, or captivating quotes to ponder? Well, now I have. Check out their blog list. And, since you're there anyway, why not pick through their What's New? column where other samplings of The Land of Quirky Linguistics (like words most misspelled, slang most bizarre, and phobias most "feared") reside?

But, for now, sate your curiosity - Whatever. You know you're totally wondering. - with this oddity. There is, in fact, a word "mondegreen." It does, in fact, have a narrow meaning. And, I'd wager a guess, you've committed this little musical foible: I know I have.

Just another example of "Huh. Didn't know that. Not necessarily critical that I didn't know that. But I find I rather like making friends with a little something/someone others folks haven't quite gotten around to meeting yet. It's quirky. And different."

Kind of like reading a Word Fairy Tale.

The Center of the Party

2011-08-09T14:58:00.000-06:00

To complete the trifecta of process posts, here's another to consider.

Our return trip from Iowa had us carrying parcels of all sorts from my mom who stores up the goodies and then saves a bundle on shipping when we depart with them in tow. So, the back of the van had pots and pans; toys; arts and crafts supplies; books; and dishes.

Good dishes.
Neat dishes.
They're red and black.

And trendy and cool. Which I am neither so, of course, I should have dishes that are, right?

What's that got to do with process? Well, to make the perfect shelving system for my new serving set, a wee bit of rearranging had to be done. With Craig's astute input (yep, he's the go-to on all manners of decorating), I came up with this.

The formals on the right of the kitchen, closest to the formal dining room.

The casual colors on the left of the kitchen, close to the casual bench seating.

I know, I know. The excitement over such an organizing coup is arguably much. But, then again, organization that leads to simplifying my life brings me joy, indeed.

Now you'll know where to look when next you stop for a bite.Or look for a mug. Or need a cold drink of water.

Or, for those friends far, far, faaaarrr away...why not celebrate anal retention - even (or especially, maybe) if it's someone else's dishes at the center of the party?

Where Your Story Begins

2011-08-06T11:47:00.002-06:00

In keeping with the theme of processes describing personality, here's another to chew on.

Literally.

Since camping always means roasting marshmallows and hot dogs, we couldn't leave them out on our "faux-campout", either. But this process turned out to be one of the most hysterical of the night as our campers attempted to get their yummies done just right.

On a stick.

Over flames.

They started with the basics

and quickly set to work on the cookin' side of things.

But, when, you're a golden-browned, slightly this side of squishy kind of marshmallow guy this

is not the result you're looking for...which results in the picture-perfect moment of spitting char flakes.

Judsen felt it strongly necessary to bun his own hot dog since we so cruelly disallowed him the opportunity to place himself anywhere near the open flames of a burning pit. (Horribly mean of us, I know).

And when he got it just right....

The look was pure glee.

He ate two.

Yes.

Two.

By the time the meal was over, tummies were rounder and grins bigger...

... just in time for sunset and a few rounds of Red Light, Green Light (which somehow became much funnier when Mommy played, too).

It was a day of processes that afforded golden opportunities to study and observe our children simply by dwelling with them in the moments that make memories.

It wasn't without work on our parts, sure. But what's a little sweat if you're carving out the tablets on which their their tales of home are written?

Someday, we hope they remember these tales and great love and devotion floods their very hearts. We pray they recall our devotion as it was and will always be: true and steady and standing the test of time.

Me thinks that would make a great story.

And, after all...

home is where your story begins.

Raising Them

2011-08-04T15:28:00.000-06:00

Seems the theme of last weekend was "process". Everything's a process: really, if we think about it, our lives are comprised of batches of hours consumed by processes. Sometimes we call them routines (we brush our teeth, wash our faces, select our clothes, fill our coffee mugs to head out the door for work), but processes they still are - steps we take from spot A to reach our goal of spot B.

The processes we like tell as much about us as the processes we don't: my dearest Jessi and I, for example, both like to iron. My friend, Nic, has the most exact process of making her morning cup of coffee - it makes me laugh every time. Let's face it - we're quirky folk! And processes give us an outlet of expression as well as a vehicle to get it done.

But when you introduce the wee ones into any given process...well, now you're really gonna' find out what you're made of. Last Friday, we had planned to set out on a camping adventure with dear friends when an unexpected family commitment took them suddenly out of town. Though Craig and I considered going alone, it fast occurred to us: Why go through the drive and the work of a tent site when we've got the backyard?

It didn't hurt the Schedule of Fun that it was also the last weekend before Back to School arrived, and we determined to say goodbye to summer with a cap of great memories...and a process or two.

So, after surprising the kids with a trip to Kung Fu Panda 2, we headed home - and announced, "Let's go camping!" Shazam! They were shouting and fist-pumping and great joy was to be had in the kingdom. And so began the process. (Btw, thanks to Micah and Becca for loaning the outdoor room for 10!)

First Step: Working as a team to unroll tarp and tent. So far so good.

Then came malleting the stakes...

Erecting the poles...

Tying and staking the finishing touches...

And - kaboom! - the process was complete!

Now, I don't know exactly how long it took (enough for Craig to work up a good sweat, but not so long we all fell apart...that math is up to you). All three of the kiddos helped fully in steps of the process while Daddy led them all.
Which then came to the "bestest" part of all - loading their room in the tent with all the necessary supplies. Which meant, from the adult perspective, assortments equaling nearly a third of their rooms but, to the kiddos, the mere necessities needed to make it a home.

For this scenario? Whatever brought them joy made us happy, too.

See?! The process was worth it: we worked as a team for a common fun without friction or failure - my definition of success, indeed! But, most of all, I'm reminded of the following truths:

When you introduce the wee ones into any given process...well, now you're really gonna' find out what you're made of.

Turns out, we're made of fun without friction or failure. Which is pretty good.

Know what else? As our children age, we discover (at least for the most part) that we enjoy a life of processes with them, realizing that every tent or movie or Back to School Day are single processes in the biggest process of all...

raising them.

The First Day

2011-08-02T10:00:00.000-06:00

We've bagged the supplies; packed the lunch; met the teachers; and X'd off the laaaaast day on the calendar.

The big day is finally here!

Off I walked our beautiful 5th grader...

and our handsome 2nd grader...

who remind of all that's fresh and good and filled with hope and life.

It's a new school year, and oh the places they'll go!

Hard to believe that just one short year ago, they looked like this:

Which only proves the old adage that time flies fast before they fly away for good.

It was the same one-block walk to the same one-story building: the routine is one we know well.

We saw familiar faces and met a few new ones, too.

We waved to some neighbors and dodged one or two sprinklers.

Really, it's no different than it's always been...except that it was.

The kiddos are different. Bigger. Older.

One step closer to growing up and going on - a bittersweet future still a bit away.

But each year's First Day reminds me to treasure all the more the one we're in right now.

The Here. The Now.

And all the good that is...

The First Day.

Rooster to a Hen

2011-08-01T13:57:00.001-06:00

This summer has been one of childhood introductions - namely ours to theirs. Most of the "Howdy-Do's" have been at the hand of Netflix, actually - aka The Streamer of Everything That Was Old is New Again.

Flipping through the option icons first brought me across MacGyver - and I was instantly certain that, Elijah being Elijah, this would be his new must-see tv. I was right.

The rest of the sweltering weeks have been leg-warmered and Mr. Pibb'd with conversations on the finer lights of growing up 80s. Much to my sometimes delight and always surprise, they've been digging it: from Michael Jackson to Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, it would seem discovering the era of our Wonder Years is akin to looking at as-yet undiscovered evidence of the "Ooooo-kay...but what were you thinking?"

But the walk down memory lane hasn't been entirely without yellow bricks for me, either. Some of what I remember not getting at all is downright funny to me now. Case in point: while the kiddos were elsewhere playing, 9 to 5 was on Netflix in the background. Remember that one? I let Grace tune in to the very beginning where she confusedly remarked, "I don't think you can talk to women like that. I mean, that just seems mean. And inappropriate! Doesn't he have a wife?"

(Reason number 1,345,689 why I love that girl.)

I tried to explain that the 80s were a different time for women altogether, particularly in the workforce. So, after our brief exchange, off she goes before this fantastic scene rolled. In it, Doralee (played by Dolly Parton) discovers her boss has been spreading rumors she's his mistress. And she says....

"I’ve got a gun out there in my purse and up to now I’ve been forgiving and forgetting because of the way I was brought up but I’ll tell you one thing, if you ever say another word about or make another indecent proposal, I’m gonna get that gun of mine and change you from a rooster to a hen with one shot! Don’t think I can’t do it!"

Rooster to a hen.

Noooooooowwwww I get it.

No wonder all my mom's working friends loved that line.

Perhaps there's more to learn through the 80s than I thought.

My Schedule Tells Me So

2011-08-01T10:16:00.000-06:00

Today's schedule is already halfway complete...and it's 9:48 am.

8:30 Day begins with phone conversation from the resplendent Zee.

8:50 Literacy Testing for E

(with the oh-so-fabulous Kate Motley as his 2nd grade teacher...proof - along with beer- that God loves

me and wants me to be happy).

9:30 Piano lesson for G

(we love our Amy A...come to think of it, that's two back-to-back appointments with most excellent

women - an extra heap of icing on my cake? Yes, please!)

Aside: The fruits of a great neighborhood mean that we get to walk to school AND to piano lessons on a

brilliant sunny day with not a cloud in the sky!

9:45 Attempt to meet new neighbor's wife. Again. Failed. Again. I think I can. I think I can. I think I....

9:48 Jot a quick blog.

10:00 Pick up G

From there, it's a stop at Lowe's; a swimming lesson for the wee one; lunch; moving dressers to the newly combined boys' room (yeah-huh! Post to come.); back to the school for Meet the Teachers this afternoon; dinner; early to bed BECAUSE.....

it is back to school tomorrow.

Which is really what prompted this post: not so much to convey how my schedule volume is as abundant as every other out there but rather to point out that, at least for this household, summer is O-V-E-R over.

Over!

Yes, fall is officially here.

For my schedule tells me so.

The Smile Speaks for Itself

2011-07-21T15:58:00.001-06:00

I do not know whom she will marry.
Or the name of the street she'll call home.
Not the mountains she'll conquer or the hills she'll traverse.

Really, I know very little of precisely who this lovely little girl will grow to be.

But of two truths, I'm certain:
she will know her Maker. And she will always love the creatures He makes.

She woos them.
Or they woo her: one can never clearly espy the difference.

This time, I got it on film.

Step 1: Spot them from afar.

Step 2: Bribe their territorial mother.

Clooooser.

Clooooooooooser.

Got 'em!

The smile speaks for itself.

Epilogue: The girl who tried this same approach moments later was flogged by the territorial mother. Just sayin'.

Beautiful Just the Same

2011-07-21T15:32:00.001-06:00

Vacation is a strange neither here nor there portal that brandishes a considerable effect on the soul: it requires you to be. Usually not where you want, how you want, or when you want, granted: but, ironically, no matter how you map it or plan it to an early grave, the very "free nature" of vacation muscles you into simply being.

It comes as little surprise to me, then, that I can't remember entirely every time we stopped for gas on our road trip...but I remember how that gas powered the Silver Bullet while we shed tears of joy laughing at Elijah inquiring, "Um, did that guy singing just say he farted?" (The lyric is "She got too close so I fought it." But in Elijah's world, he heard...yeah. Funny, right?)

It comes as little surprise to me, then, that I don't care if my derriere is in the shot (at least not for myself: to you, I extend an earnest apology): I love this

because it's a moment captured of me mothering my tiniest son. It's simple. And endearing. And I don't know what that looks like because, well, I'm the one doing it and I don't have eyes outside my body. (Don't tell said tiniest son, though.) Someday, this boy will tower over me. But I'll have this picture to remember my last begotten blessing was once my tiny gift - and, in the heart, always will be, no matter his height.

It also comes as little surprise to me that my honey snapped this one since it's quintessentially me:

Even in the midst of eye-popping mountains, Aspens, and Evergreens, I must stop and check the time (being back before our designated 45-minute time slot expires is essential, dontchaknow?) But you know what else is me? The woman changed by four beautiful hearts who remind me to stop and preserve this sensory delight.

The early 20-something too focused on a task, not yet broadened and deepened by The Love of Four would have paid little to no mind. But, seriously, just look at it.

Want to hear it?

Uh-huh.

I really do have that!

Here ya go.

And let me not forget to mention the least surprise of all: that the escaping moments of vacation push me faster - deeper - into a freefall of love for her.

And him.

Or them.

They enlighten me to what is beautiful around me...

beside me...

Touching me.

And coming to life from within me.

These moments are of what the heart is made.

Not perfect.

But beautiful just the same.

When You Go

2011-07-18T14:20:00.001-06:00

C.S. Lewis wrote, "No book is really worth reading at the age of ten which is not equally – and often far more – worth reading at the age of fifty and beyond." Of course, he also wrote, "A children's story that can only be enjoyed by children is not a good children's story in the slightest."

I imagine it's a rare production of the written word that satisfies both such requirements.

But I'd say The Potter 7 fits the bill.

Last night, in a parade of well-orchestrated plans about which I'll spare you the details, Zee and I hit the Cineplex for The Deathly Hallows, Part 2. At this point in our lives, such a date must be greatly wanted (by us) and then heavily supported (by Steve and Craig). But, when we get them, they are an oh-so-good treat.

Watching the film actually felt (Dare I confess?) a bit like history in the making. Grace was a wee babe when first I entered the hallowed halls of Hogwarts; first explored the sundries of Diagon Alley; imbibed my first mug of butterbeer; and painted the skies on my first Nimbus 2000. Now you allege I wasn't actually there, I know. But, when you encounter such a spectacular writer as J.K. Rowling, you truly enter the world - her world...a magical envelope containing bravery, sacrifice, destiny, and secrets enshrouded within the choices that define us all - the ones that cost us the most.

And I got to see it with this dear friend.

Which made it all the better. You really should go see it with your Ron. Or your Hermione. Or your Gryffindors even. Because we're all a little bit of Harry Potter, with our longings to do what's right in the face of it all going so wrong. We all want to have our loyals standing tall beside us, vowing never to leave us in the face of our greatest fears. We all want to fight the good fight...and win it in the end.

If you have those someones, then go with them.

Then you'll enter the world, too.

And discover a bit of history while you're at it.

As the gal next to me expressed to her friends, "That was the last first time we'll see a Harry Potter movie in the theater." True that. But you don't have to leave all of the world of wizardry and magic behind.

You can always take your Ron's and Hermione's with you when you go.

I Am, Among Men...

2011-07-17T14:26:00.001-06:00

A visiting pastor shared this as part of his sermon at church today. Found in the pocket of a Confederate soldier at the close of The Civil War, perhaps you've heard it, read it, or caught it skirting some conversation you've had in the past. To my great chagrin, I have never encountered it - a fact neither here nor there in relating its simple but poignant message.

In any event, I found it moving.

Convicting.

Reminding.

And oh, so true.

I asked God for strength, that I might achieve;
I was made weak, that I might learn to humbly obey.
I asked for health, that I might do greater things;
I was given infirmity, that I might do better things.
I asked for riches, that I might be happy;
I was given poverty, that I might be wise.
I asked for power, that I might have the praise of men;
I was given weakness, that I might feel the need of God.
I asked for all things that I might enjoy life;
I was given life, that I might enjoy all things.
I got nothing I asked for but everything I had hoped for.
Almost despite myself, my unspoken prayers were answered.
I am, among men, most richly blessed.

About Yours, Too

2011-07-13T13:52:00.000-06:00

After spending restorative, relaxing, edifying six days in High Country with the four best things He's ever given me, I can tell you - unequivocally - this is true.

And I hope you feel the same about yours, too.

Dinner of Champions

2011-07-12T19:29:00.000-06:00

In Iowa, this was a dinner.

And I don't feel badly about it.

Not one bit.

Happy Summer Vacation!

235

2011-07-04T08:52:00.000-06:00

Aaron Sorkin is a good writer.

Say what?

Why would I start a 4th of July entry with that statement? Because he's the chief writer of the expertly-tweaked cadence of The West Wing (seasons 1-3) and American President. As such, he wrote the following excerpt from that movie, one of my favorites about our country.

America isn't easy. America is advanced citizenship. You gotta want it bad, 'cause it's gonna put up a fight. It's gonna say "You want free speech? Let's see you acknowledge a man whose words make your blood boil, who's standing center stage and advocating at the top of his lungs that which you would spend a lifetime opposing at the top of yours. You want to claim this land as the land of the free? Then the symbol of your country can't just be a flag; the symbol also has to be one of its citizens exercising his right to burn that flag in protest. Show me that, defend that, celebrate that in your classrooms. Then, you can stand up and sing about the "land of the free".

No, America isn't easy. But it's worth it...by far. My FB status today reads, "America, 235 years ago, you were an experiment. A daring dream. A defining hope. Today, you are the reason I can choose my husband, buy property, vote, and celebrate a God-given right to pursue life and happiness. Happy Birthday: you are the land of the free and the home of the brave." This is true. Startling. But true.

240 years ago, there was no United States of America. I was considered property, to be bartered and bargained for additional land holdings or advantageous family mergers. I would have had no money, little or no education, and should the arranged husband take the notion, he could abscond with my children - who would have been my only light and hope in an otherwise shadowy existence. And, though it took some solid decades for our country to grant me full freedom from such snares, it did. The fact that the time is enumerated in generations rather than centuries is more impressive and less dejecting, if you want the truth. Nations existing six times as long still aren't there yet and, if their tenets of priority and purpose are any indication, they never will be.

You have to want America. But she'll give you way more back than you'll ever give to her.

I am a patriot.

I am proud to be an American.

I am proud of our troops who promote democracy and freedom, here and abroad.

My heart is reverent toward those who've died for the idea, laid down life for the cause.

So Happy Birthday, America.

You are not perfect, but you are brave.

You are the stuff of dreams and the land of opportunity.

You are the impossible made real...one nation, under God, indivisible.

You are free.

For 235.

Never Really Ends

2011-07-01T11:01:00.000-06:00

In A Place to Grow, I tossed a few renderings on midwestern upbringing, which seemed to be a bit of a theme for me this trip. Each time we return to Iowa, I scoop up a new marble of reflection on the differences between big city life and what amounts to country rhythm, at least in comparison. I think we usually stick with what's familiar when offering a thumbs-up but, this time, I saw more pluses for the Heartland.

"Such as?" you say??

Well, the pace for one. Here, most everyone's gong or coming in lieu of just sitting - which is more what you schedule, less how you live. There, porches are for swings and fireflies; cutoffs and sweet tea - which you can actually order at a restaurant, by the way. Here, if you want sweet tea, they bring you the fountain stuff and direct you to the Sweet-n-Low on the table. Uh, not the same...at all.

Or how about the pride? Now and again, I'll catch a mention of a youth's big endeavor on the local midday news. Conversely, The Quad City Times has a section every Sunday announcing engagements, 25th wedding anniversaries, and weddings. Whole columns in the daily run are devoted to scholarship recipients and 4-H ribbon winners, proving that there really is something to gain by keeping it small - especially since, in a 450K populated city, those posts would be a newspaper in themselves.

And, pray, do not get me started on how much cheaper it is to live there: a gallon milk, dozen eggs, 1/2 gallon of ice cream, and a pound of fresh-sliced spiral ham (um, can I even get that at my deli counter?) for the same price as three boxes of cereal here? My wallet does a happy dance!

Small (or at least smaller) town living is still going strong: if big cities are the wings of industry and technology, small towns are the roots that got them there. And it's good to know impromptu drop-bys and fellas who still open all your doors, tipping their baseball caps still exist in our beloved midwest corners of the earth because, seriously, those are long-forgotten traditions in these necks of the woods.

I'm proud of midwestern roots and even prouder to know great people who still live there, farming for near povertous wages in a lifestyle few city folk would understand. Now, I love where I live, and the people here are their own kind of marvelous - but who says you can't go home? It's always there, reminding you of history and childhood, and the things that made you you.

So if it's the South, the North, the East or the West...or somewhere far and abroad... give a nod to your homeland, your very own heart-land, if you will:

after all, home is where your story begins...and never really ends.

To Take Along, Too

2011-06-27T10:18:00.002-06:00

After the rigors (and rewards) of discovering Just What I Needed, it was off to High Country.

Aside: Did you know the term designates the area of land laying above the piedmont but below the timberline? And what's a piedmont, you ask? Don't know. But I'm smitten with the term "High Country" anyway because a sojourn to Summit County always include an interlude from sanity into the bliss of a Rocky Mountain High. Or, in 60's terms, I dig it.

This year, we sold our outgrew-it timeshare; but, since not traversing to the "Got Oxygen?" altitude of circa 14K feet was a no-go, I set out to find a gem in Dillon. What I hunted up led to this shot Zitz took from our back balcony deck.

I brandished a similar shot to my brother while visiting in Iowa. His snappy comeback? "Hate you."
Well, I'd not fall in love with me either if this was dangled in front of my living-in-IA face (no offense, home state...it's hard to compare).

We trekked up with the Zitzmann's and our collective 8 children to take over our two adjoining condos for a few days of summer fun. Catching a getaway with this treasured family isn't a novel concept since we've hit a few over the years, but this was our first longer-term overnighters endeavor. In dating terms, I'd guess it'd be akin to the first trip away together. And, let me tell ya, coordinating 8 kids, 4 adults, 5 meals, and all the sundries related, is no small feat. But "fun" emerged as the label of the day, and good times (and good memories) were made by all.

We hit Keystone Village to feed the giant rainbow trout and geese on the lake.

Judd's hands looked like this most of the morning, accompanied with a rather urgent, "Need more food! Need more food!" Of course, he fed them one kernel at a time.

We also did a week bit of hiking along Sapphire Point where we emptied the bag of sunflower seeds - a local favorite that's one of those "might be outside recommendations but the rangers smile on it anyway" scenarios.

From toddlerhood, Grace had a way with the four-legged variety of friends...then along came Elijah showing the same zing for fur and wing.

But this was our first experience watching Judd render the same mojo. Their personalities are so different from one another - it's a joy to see a not-too -shabby commonality bloom between them.

Off the beaten path (but starting in a paved parking lot, go figure), the hiking path leads to this grand shot...one you've seen each year if you've been a Renderings reader for a while.

We even snagged a shot of just the two of us on "the rock" - aka the spot where everyone takes their Christmas card picture. I don't recall having one like this since before Gracie. Thanks, Zitz.

And, to make the outing perfect, Elijah took my hand while we hiked along a stretch together...

...which is another marking of a faithful Rendering reader - you know how I love snapshots of my kiddos' hands and feet. Someone asked why last week: I posted on FB that it was because, one day when they're big, they'll be reminders of how they once were so small.

No trip to the Point would be complete without this annual shot:

I've been taking it since Elijah was a wee one - I could line them up in a row to see the age progression of Big Daddy and Little Bebes. Love that.

Before we knew it, it was time to begin the next leg of vacay - the 900+ miles to Iowa.

This year, I was determined to remember to grab this view heading down and out.

I'm always a bit wistful at this point, with the miles of High Country stretching behind rather than ahead.

But my spirits lift knowing it's not a one-time wonder, but a place we can escape to time and again.

Which makes me sad for out-of-state visitors, but glad I live where I do...

and that we have friends-like-family to take along, too.

Knee Deep

2011-06-25T19:22:00.000-06:00

We've been on vacation for 11 days.
I checked email twice.
I turned on my cell phone once.
We ate out almost every day...and I cleaned up after meals just twice. Twice. (!!!!)

We drove 1800 miles.
Stayed in two hotel rooms.
And went swimming 6 times.

Throw Ups: 0
Colds, Fevers, Ague, Plague, Massive Infection, or Otherwise Disastrous Health Episodes: 0
Major meltdowns and/or blowups, adults or children oriented: 0
Laughs out loud: 10, 000

There were friends we missed; events we RSVP'd "nay".
Facebook, Gmail, Voicemail, and the post all carried on without us.

But, for 11 days with family and friends, we ran away from the real world.
Lived knee deep in the waters of one kind of Never Never Land.

It was my own kind of paradise.

"Knee Deep"
Zac Brown Band

Gonna put the the world away for a minute
Pretend I don't live in it
Sunshine gonna wash my blues away

Had sweet love but I lost it
She got too close so I fought her
Now I'm lost in the world trying to find me a better way

Wishing I was knee deep in the water somewhere
Got the blue sky breeze and it don't seem fair
Only worry in the world is the tide gonna reach my chair
Sunrise there's a fire in the sky
Never been so happy
Never felt so high
And I think I might have found me my own kind of paradise

Wrote a note said be back in a minute
Bought a boat and I sailed off in it
Don't think anybody gonna miss me anyway

Mind on a permanent vacation
The ocean is my only medication
Wishing my condition ain't ever gonna go away

Cause now im knee deep in the water somewhere
Got the blue sky breeze blowing wind through my hair
[ From: http://www.elyrics.net/read/z/zac-brown-band-lyrics/knee-deep-lyrics.html ]
Only worry in the world is the tide gonna reach my chair
Sunrise there's a fire in the sky
Never been so happy
Never felt so high
And I think I might have found me my own kind of paradise

This champagne shore washing over me
It's a sweet sweet life living by the salty sea
One day you could be as lost as me
Change you're geography
Maybe you might be

Knee deep in the water somewhere
Got the blue sky breeze blowing wind through my hair
Only worry in the world is the tide gonna reach my chair
Sunrise there's a fire in the sky
Never been so happy
Never felt so high
And I think I might have found me my own kind of paradise

Come on in the water it's nice
Find yourself a little slice
Grab a backpack of lies
You never know until you try
When you lose yourself
You find the key to paradise

A Place to Grow

2011-06-15T21:27:00.000-06:00

It seems there are always a few bits of sublime which escape from the trappings of a midwestern girl's mind - and are recollected quite swiftly, I discovered today, through a drive down a highway in the Heartland...

...where it's green. And lush. Think resplendent, sun-kissed tops of trees trunked far longer than the generations of farmers tilling around them. These groves aren't the tall and proud of California or the pungent pricklies of Colorado; rather, these are the gnarly old men of the forestry retirement village, knotted with age but medaled with valor shown in the tales they tell of old.

...where it's moist. Yeah, on the blades of grass. In the molecules of air. And within every pore of skin.
They call it humidity: I call it a cruel sense of atmospheric humor.

...where it's smelly. Because of the soybean plants. And the cow pies. And the pig pens.
But it's not all foul: there's also the smell of fresh-cut grass and wildflowers and generally unadulterated, non-city, "desmogged" midwest tipped with tinges of sun tea and thunderstorms.

...where it's friendly. Five people...in a row...said, "Excuse me" for reasons I've yet to explain: I find myself heady, nevertheless, after the experience with comparatively utopian social behavior. Don't even ask me to comprehend the foreign craziness that lurks behind the random "Good morning"s thrown at me: good-manner overload! (Sorry, Colorado: you are lacking on this one).

...where it's history. It's my town - "where I was born, where I was raised, where I keep all my yesterdays" - and where I'm shoring up a few more with the next generation...like catching fireflies for the first time tonight.

In the weeks following, you'll be forced to endure an onslaught of photos documenting these very renderings but, in the meantime, I'll be pondering how the sublime really isn't when it shows you how you've changed, evolved, gotten bigger and (maybe) grown up, too.

Cuz I'm in I.O.W.A.

And it's "A Place to Grow".

Says It All

2011-06-13T17:51:00.000-06:00

This lady is good.

A good, good, good, good gem.

More than that, I simply have no words.

Which, for me, says it all.

Me and Zee

Just What I Needed

2011-06-12T07:20:00.000-06:00

Disclaimer: This one's a wee windy, but I found I had so much to say. So I'm throwing in the grace chips and asking you to hang on with me. Also, high-five to all the pics contributors since I took nary a one.)

This week's time found its biggest filler in Vanguard's annual VBB (Vacation Bible Blast). This was my 11th year to serve arm-in-arm with some truly fantastic men and women who, despite knowing most of them for more than a decade, never cease to amaze me with the depths of their willingness to reach the hearts of children. I'm so thankful for every heart that taught, nurtured, and (yes, even) corrected my three children this week: they are the better and deeper for it.

Every other year, this team of leaders (championed and headed by Ellen G) creates our very own week's worth of curriculum (usually written by Miss Mandy, whom you most recently read about for her efforts to promote The Adventure Project...holla, M!). This was an off-year so, in my mind anyway, a bit of a lighter year as we used some standardized material themed "Big Apple Adventure". And so went the way of the set designers, t-shirt makers, craft creators, and snack stylings: New York City merged with teaching kiddos to connect faith and life...with great memories and deeper understanding of a most-excellent Father. (Check out the pics at the end to see for yourself).

But here's the nugget for this post, the one "a-ha" that hits me across the forehead every year. Yes, every year (I'm a forgetful learner in some circles, people). The kids don't care if the iron-on won't stick or if their cookies are generic or name-brand. They don't think twice about the length of their name-tag cord or if the design of registration tables is line-flow friendly. They certainly don't consider the hours of labor it takes to iron those labels, collect those cookies, cord those name tags or arrange those tables. No, they just want to sing. And dance. And jump up and down while they scream out the lyrics to "Our God is Greater."

This is why, every year, when I stand at the back of the auditorium and watch circa 200 little hands and feet and faces do just that...tears stream down the face. Because, see, I'm not all that kid-oriented. Or, at least, I'd hadn't always been. But then I became a mother. I know, now, that's made me far more kid-oriented than I could have ever conjured on my own. It's opened my eyes to the truth that our communities, our cities, our nation, and our world are not in our long-term hands but in theirs. (Which makes those possessing such a heart outside of motherhood all the more inspiring).

That heart relished my daughter leading on the worship team this year: listened to her tell me how she felt closer to God doing that (tears right now coming down the face). Which reminded me this week:

I'm living a privilege.

My whole life is a privilege. It's hardly perfect, certainly not without hardships and struggles. But realizing you're living a privilege isn't about absence of difficulty: it's about the bigger picture of gift, of breathing in and out in the midst of more than you ever dreamed you could have. It's seeing the hardships of life as part of the privilege, as part of the adventure.

Which makes me want to sing and dance and jump up and down

while I shout out the lyrics to "Our Great is Greater."

So, thanks, VBB for the heart-check.

It was just what I needed.

(l) Now that's he's 3, this marked Judsen's first year participating (he's with his buddy, Boston). His teacher, Miss Melissa, provided an ideal inauguration...thanks, lady!
(r) Grace and her worship team cohort, Devon)

(r) With Miss Eileen, children's leader extraordinairre.

Brooklyn house: Grace watching the Drama skit

The Worship Team (there's Miss Mandy on the right)

Brooklyn House...with Elijah in the blue shirt center

This One's a Gem

2011-06-11T17:02:00.000-06:00

I have a special term of endearment for quality women I have the privilege of knowing: I call them gems.

Yesterday, this gem turned 24.

The Lovely 47 got together for dinner, destination her choice. Not fancy enough for ya?

Well, we bought her dinner (some dates don't even do that, I remind you).

And I made her a purse. Because she's trendy and cool like friends in their almost-mid 20s often are. It'll be the perfect date accessory.

Of course, it will likely accompany her on a date with this bag's owner...Miss Becca - because she had a birthday just recently and finally received her purse, too.

Yes, yes: I know it's cheesy. Still, I can't help but love that two of the
perfectly-gifted pleasures of my life now have perfectly-paired purses to sport.

Smile.

Sooooo, the food was good...

and the company, as always, was even better. Which seems fancy enough to me...really, to us all.

The Lovely 47 (l-r: Becca, Lynne, Jess, Michelle "Zee", me)

Because celebrating the day God sent this gal to earth was the best of all.

Cuz she's hysterical. And a giver above and beyond your best, broadest definition of the term. She's a spigot of genuine love and authenticity. With striking eyes that truly are a window to her soul. And what a soul you are, you gorgeous friend.

You remind me why I came up with the term of endearment in the first place.

Because, seriously, folks....

this one's a gem.

You Might Find They Make You Happy

2011-06-09T06:59:00.000-06:00

Well more than a year ago, I wrote an entry entitled "'Happy' Is Just a Word" where I reflected on the literal meaning of the word "happy". I also gave a shout-out for some of my fave entries in the book 14,000 things to be happy about by Barbara Ann Kipfer.

I'm still reading this book. (said in dry tone)

But I can't help it! It's the text I grab when I've got two minutes (and I mean that precisely) and just want to be happy. To think about happy. To be thankful for what makes me happy. And with 14,000 items, I can't imagine one could ever actually complete the book given that, by the time you reach your 50th bullet, you can't remember the last 45.

So, in the continuing spirit of summer fun, here are some new entries for your consideration:

the piping of a piccolo (because that's what I played in high school marching band)
no-turning back solutions
fresh clean sheets and blankets on the bed
fog: technically nothing but a cloud in contact with the earth
a stream-of-consciousness list
reading all night and sleeping all morning
having someone request the pleasure of a dance
"More Isn't Always Better"
closing your eyes and breathing in
a seasonal collage of pictures of your house

And, just as before, I'd add that some of my own give me some further grins:

the smell of each of my children when I hug them after they wake
the smile of a good friend who's listening to you struggle to connect with someone else...while she knows exactly what you mean
that the first gift Craig gave me in marriage was his name
"the greatest thing is simply to love and to be loved in return"
writing paper with my last name engraved at the bottom in the drawer alongside thank-you cards boasting the script "craig candice grace elijah judsen"
fountain pens with purple ink and fine nibs
the exact right amount of creamer in my morning coffee
cool breezes on a hot day
the love of a good man...whom I also call husband

Think of some of your own....maybe even write them down. Make a list of 14,000 of your own.

You may find they make you happy.

The Prettiest Picture of All

2011-06-07T20:13:00.000-06:00

"The Lovely 47" is what my sweet friend, Becca, calls the group of us gals in Life Group 47.

Our church expresses care, community, and connection to one another through the medium of Life Groups which are, essentially, little pods of families you can join across city, age, gender, and family demographics with the hope of finding smaller, more intimate relationships within a larger family of believers.

If you love family, then you love this concept.

And it's hard because (is there a mockingbird in here?) relationship is hard. But this group of fantastic women bless me just by letting me know them; they are unequivocal proof that an investment of love made through the gesture of friendship yields only monumental rewards.

(l-r, me, Zee, Becca, Lynn, Jessica)

Into their lives, I am welcomed to come inside and sit for a spell. Within their families, I find example and sacrifice beyond self. In their company, I find wisdom, insight, perspective, spunk, bouts of hysterical giggles, gentility, encouragement, silly candor, and spontaneous hugs with love galore. We are meandering the cobblestone roads of life together...and I am loving our journey.

Recently, we spent our Mother's Day evening getting pedicures then sipping wine and margaritas over some yummy eats.

As you can see, our toes were gorgeous...

...but the way we bring His light out of one another...

...while sharing a few laughs along the way...

...well, that's the prettiest picture of all.

If You See It As a Home

2011-06-05T09:22:00.001-06:00

We are well into the frenzy of warm-weather activities and, in common with the theme of my last few posts, summertime calls for giving some much-deserved attention to the eaves and ells we call a house. Because the heightened temps better support the outside musts a house demands, summer is the season of grass, garden, and glistening glass galore...which explains why, in the last two weeks alone, I've reseeded, fertilized, and conditioned the front and backyards, planted new bushes, and had the entire outside (and some of the inside) windows polished and gleamed to a sparkling shine. (And, though it didn't fit into my alliterative "g" pattern, the entirety of the upstairs carpeting has been soaped and sucked to a like-new buff. There's nothing like making fists with your toes in newly cleaned carpet, you know).

Why all the fuss?

We used to have a tradition of celebrating our house's birthday. I adopted the practice from a friend of long ago who'd raised her children into adulthood and who, with reflection and contemplation, graciously shared with a group of us the practices she found made a real difference in the dynamic of her home. Amidst some of her sillier ones like Upside Down Day on April 1st or serving Green Eggs and Ham on St. Patrick's, the house birthday party had a heartfelt impact on me. What better way to reserve time for reminiscing our fondest memories of a year gone by in the place where our stories begin?

Then Judsen came along, a mere two days before the house did three years prior. Now, I love butter-cream cake and singing Happy Birthday but, seriously, one can only take so much beehive whirlwinds in the space of 48 hours. So now I'm pondering how to remake that tradition...and one way is to get the entire Team Covak involved in giving back to the structure that gives us so much. So the kids weed and water, plant and prune while Craig primes the mower, spreads the corn gluten, and lays strips of new sod. Together, in the big and small, inside and out, we say thanks to God for the gift of this house...and learn some work ethic in between.

In a downturned American economy and with global crises raging worldwide, we are blessed to have a beautiful home warming us in winter and cooling us in summer. We've a French-style fridge housing healthy morsels and a washing machine and dryer to clean our coverings. Each of our children have their own room filled with pictures and toys and trinkets of adventures past. Pictures hang on the walls and books stand on the shelves while friends flood the front door and gather 'round the table. A good life flows from a home that, without these abundant gifts, would merely be a house.

That's why I fuss. Why I pour into its care: because this house is more that eaves and ells. It's our home, one in which we'll see our children come to age - it's the nest they'll one day leave. And I want to see it standing, proud and loved, decades from now, knowing that we preserved it not because it was an investment, or an address, or a slip in the postal boxes. But because we loved it. Loved our family in it.

Because it is possible to love a house...if you see it as a home.

It's Summertime!

2011-06-02T09:10:00.000-06:00

I know summer has officially begun for a number of reasons:

It's finally warm here. And the statistic that the Springs sees 330 days of sunshine per year is seeming a bit truer these days.
No more twice-daily walks to school twice, early-morning choir practices, lunchbox menus, and endless paperwork to sign.
My morning cup of coffee is taller, sipped longer, and enjoyed outside because of #1 and #2.
My stack of paperbacks has grown from 0 to 12 overnight. Taxes paid for our public library are my favorite investment.
My Kindle is locked and loaded with a Queue just waiting to be devoured on a road trip.

But let us not forget the biggest signpost on the road to summer: the songs!

I love music...truly love it. Yet, it's during the summer that I most link music to mood. I listen to it more. I sing it more. I put it on in random places more often and take more of an effort to enjoy it with the kids. This, I've surmised, is likely because (much like my reading) my listening tastes bend toward fun and ridiculous which lends itself more easily to equally fun and ridiculous behavior.

Prior to the age of Facebook, you might never know this about me...unless you were woefully trapped in my kitchen, my car, my backyard or stuck running alongside me on the street. Outside of these circumstances, the world was largely safe from my lyrical renderings. Now the status update bar querying, "What's on Your Mind?" seems the perfect place to post the eclectic and often giddy phrasings from some of my summer faves - as they come to ear.

Post some of your own! I know I'll be watching to discover some tunes heretofore overlooked while I get a sense of what your day, your hour, your moment is yielding.

It's fun!

It's ridiculous!

It's Summertime!

Just In Time for Summer

2011-06-01T13:03:00.001-06:00

.So refreshing.

Six inches shorter.

Just in time for summer.

The Hard Seem Easy

2011-05-31T12:19:00.001-06:00

I've said it before, but it's worth noting again: friendship is hard. Not the fake kind; the hello's and howareya's of the hallways at work and play, but the "I'm stuck on the side of the road" and "My head's just above the water line" kind. The ones that will hold your hand when you're blind with fear and fatigue or render the loudest shout when you finally make that goal.

You gotta' want it. Want it bad. And the one you want to have it with has to want it. Want it bad.

When you've found that match, when that formula yields gold, you must hold on to it no matter the price: of this, I can proudly testify.

Which gives days such as this one all the more purpose to party: today is one of my "formula-gold" friend's birthdays.

I don't rightfully know if I could count all the times I've mentioned her on this blog, but my mind's eye and my heart's door can open entire albums of memories and laughs and tears and wins and, yes, even some losses. But she's been with me through thick and thin; I've been with her through sour and sweet. She's one I'll know until I leave this land for heaven's greener pastures. And today is her birthday.

Happy Birthday, sweet Bee. There are no words for the great gift of you in my life.

I can only thank Him for bringing you into it.

You make the hard seem easy...and this, the pictures show.

There Ya Went

2011-05-30T18:34:00.000-06:00

Well There Ya Go, Cari P! You're our #40!

And welcome cheers go out to Jenni, too!

Keep on following, visitors!

I sincerely thank you, every one.

The Way of the Winds

2011-05-30T18:27:00.000-06:00

In the last approximately 45 hours spent awake, two-thirds of that has found me outside.

And let me tell 'ya: It. Is. Windy.

Saturday morning, we headed to some friends' house to tackle some landscaping projects. When was the last time you got to enjoy serving someone else in a big way solely for the reward of knowing you blessed them?
(Confession time: Ok, ok...we ate scrumptious BBQ after our labor. But we would have done it for nothing. Honestly.) Then came the cool of the passing clouds to dip the mercury and cool the day.

Sunday we basked in the calm of "The Day Before Memorial Day BBQ" at another friend's house. The wind was brisk but refreshing; the company eclectic but inviting. We ate good food, met new people, and sat in the shade of a giant evergreen. Win, win, win.

Today, the kids and I hit the front and back yards for some grass mowing, dandelion digging, edge trimming, bush watering, and new patio set-enjoying. Judsen kept exclaiming, "I blow away! I blow away!" Yep, those gusts of 54 mph could almost do it. Yet, the winds were warm and a welcome visitor when you're baking under the sun scooping out irksome weeds.

Bottom line? You just can't beat the crisp mountain air with the backdrop of snow-sugared Pikes Peak to accompany the necessary tending any land demands. I find I'm less irritated and more celebratory when I scope the picture with that lens...and it makes the cold beers and Dairy Queen dipped cones all the more pleasing when the bitter taste of weather woes go the way of the very winds which brought the troubles to begin with.

So There Ya Go

2011-05-29T19:47:00.001-06:00

The "Followers" feature is my favorite Blogger has to offer...hands down.

While I'd prefer the powers-that-be had titled it less like a cult member ledger and more like a "Hey, why not keep in touch this way?", I suppose they'd say my way was far too many words. And they'd be right.

So Followers it is.

And this blog has 39 of 'em. 39 fantastically following, forwarding, Facebooking folks all reading the musings.

But, lately, I've been having more and more conversations beginning with the likes of "I saw on your blog the other day..." or "I read your post about..." or "I loved that you wrote about..." and, sometimes, you so graciously remark on FB after following the link from there.

So, I ask...why not come along? Let me see your face and know you're out there so, when next I see you, I can spare you the life back story and cut straight to the "Did you read the one where...?" and tell ya how it ends.

If you're wondering if it's complicated - it's not too bad. If you're wondering if it's more convenient - it is. If you're wondering if it costs anything - it doesn't. AND you'd get to be #40....which is 1 more than 39 and 39 more than 1.

So there ya go.

I'm Blessed to Know a Few

2011-05-28T16:41:00.000-06:00

Recently, my buddy, Amy A, remarked that I sure do know a lot of quality ladies in a wide range of quality areas. Whether because it came up in such an off-guard context or because she caught me in a rare moment of contemplating nothing but space, the thought struck me particularly hard.

And it is a true statement.

One gal who falls into the category I call "Just Get Happy Standing Next to Her" is Mandy Houle. She's a wife, mother, at-home teacher, daughter, granddaughter, pastor-past, and (the piez de resistance) a blogger! This exceptional lady has a heart bigger than big...mightier than the mightiest, and she loves Jesus deeply. So, when the ripe-but-not-wilting age of 30 came a knockin', she (not surprisingly) found herself having a little somethin' to say about inspiring others to reach beyond their borders. So she wrote about it and titled it "30 on 30 for 30".

And introduced me to The Adventure Project.

Now, here's the thing: if you've any kind of heart in any way under any mantle of care for the world outside your front door, you should take a look. I know some of my readers don't share my life belief of calling Jesus Christ your Lord and Savior. Some of you come at Truth from a different angle or from no angle at all. This is one of those non-profits that exists outside the bounds of religion or theology or customs or traditions to, as the co-founders Becky Straw and Jody Landers most simply explain, "believe we can end extreme poverty in our lifetime by reinventing how we give. Ways that spur economic opportunity, promote dignity, & save lives."

Check it out...read their vision, see about getting involved.

The click costs you nothing.

Not clicking, could cost someone everything.

And it's been my experience that what inspires Mandy is, in fact, inspiring.

Don't be surprised if the quest leaves you wondering aloud, "Now, do I have a friend like Candice's Mandy?" If you do, go hug their neck. If you don't....

well, apparently, you need only to hang a bit with me.

Seems I'm blessed to know a few.

Strikes Me As Interesting...

2011-05-26T09:50:00.000-06:00

...which could indicate any number of wide and varied eccentricities in the global culture is about to follow.

Nevertheless, one of the banner teases on today's msn.com screen reads, "Secret Government Code Names." Now, as a quick aside, if the government's trying to keep these a secret, they can all heave a collective "Ugh" groan because, well, they've failed if the info's posted on msn.

Anyway, the link leads offers an overview of "who" presidents and their families eventually become and how. But this is the follow-up that struck me as interesting.

Check out the Secret Service code names for Obama (his Scotland Yard moniker takes the cake), both Bushes, Carter (my personal most-liked), and even Reagan.

A skosh reminiscent of call signs when Craig was still in the AF. Proving that names - of any sort or reason - have purpose and meaning.

Which strikes me as interesting.

What An Example

2011-05-25T14:05:00.003-06:00

The Saturday past was busy. Hectic. A run-around constituting big energy and even bigger coordination. It was taxing and crazy and borderline mayhem.

Or, that's what I thought it would be when I focused on how it looked on paper.

But the Saturday past was actually edifying. Fulfilling. A come-together celebrating big successes and even bigger love. It was satisfying and inspiring and soul-deep gratifying.

That's what I reflected on when I focused solely on what it felt like to my heart.

What an example it was of all He's given me.

We started the morning early, as we often do on Saturdays. Usually, I'm heading out to teach my standard all-morning class, but having the semester off has left room for Elijah to play flag football - and have everyone in attendance. Nana (Craig's mom, Sandy) does such exceptional grand-mothering duty: she never missed a game. And Grace and Judsen cheered from the sidelines, too: there's nothing more heartwarming than hearing the wee-est one say to his brother, "Goooooooo Bubbaaaaaaa!" What an example of a pure heart reflecting pure love.

This week was particularly special, though, because it was his last game of the season. He played great: yanking a flag, spiraling a pass, and snagging a great catch for a 10-yard run. But the cherry on his football sundae was that his friend (and ours), KJ, came to see him play. This is his buddy; you know, that way cool single guy who relates to kids incredibly well with a heart that's for fun and play more than homework and chores. (And don't we all need a buddy like that?) What an example of making a gesture to show, really show, someone he matters.

It was also his game to get his medal. His fantastic coach took a different tack than most, though; other coaches kind of hand the medals out willy-nilly. Coach Jeff gave each boy his own medal individually and offered encouragement and praise one-on-one in front of his teammates: Elijah's kudos were about his work ethic, being an all-around player, and having the heart of "I don't care how you use me, Coach. Just put me in the game." What an example of what it looks like to get off the bench for the love of it rather than the "win" of it. And what an example of seeing someone recognize that - and value it deeply.

It was a fast turnaround as we headed off to Grace's piano recital....with KJ still in tow. What an honorary member of Team Covak: he surrendered his Saturday morning to the hustle and bustle of another family's kiddos' big moments - and he loved every minute! What an example of loving family beyond yourself.

Grace played "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring" and did just beautifully. What an example of honing a talent for the love of it rather than the mere work of it...and showing that to the world absent of any pretension or arrogance.

And, to top it all off, the world was ending that afternoon. (Since I'm writing this, it obviously did not....what an example of a bunch of idiots.) Mom treated us with an offer to have "The Last Lunch" because hey, if the world's ending anyway, you may as well close it with good food and superb family!

I see more each day how exceptionally blessed I am: I seek that perspective. Crave it. Savor it. Because not every day looks like this.

(notice E's proudly sporting his medal)

Not every day has these fine folks pouring love into our babies.

(that's KJ with the kids)

(that's Gracie's piano teacher, Amy)

In my mind, every day may not be all smiles and giggles, may not be marked with the big triumphs where I feel it's so satisfyingly worth it.
In my mind, every day may not be the one I say, "This was a great day!"

But, in my heart, every day looks just like this one:

Of all He's given me...
what an example.

Still to Come

2011-05-20T19:42:00.001-06:00

Almost two weeks after the fact, I'm writing down some Mother's Day thoughts.
Yep, delinquent.
But let not my tardiness reflect any negativity of the day, though: it really was fantastic.

And, in a sticky-note for the heart, I reflected on just how lovely these passing years as a mommy are because, irrefutably, my babies are faster and faster becoming babies less and less. Still, there's such joy in my life as I relish the years of knowing there will be no more infants - only celebrating each new rite of passage, each great conversation that comes with the fruit of age.

I suppose "bittersweet" aptly describes the departure of the wee years in favor of their older counterparts. And, since we cannot stop the tick of the clock, what can we do but see the bliss in growing up? In looking ahead to great stories yet to be told?

That's what I ponder when I look at this shot:

Or this one.

Or even in the funny moments of this one.

(Well, it's real life, people.)

When the boys are taller than I and my girl becomes a bride; when degrees and mortgages become their normal and The Twilight Years become mine...will I look at these shots and feel then what I feel now? Will I remember how exceptional these moments are?

Will I forget that legacy started before me...

(thanks, Mom, for giving me Craig)

but doesn't end with me, either?

By far, mothering is the greatest privilege I'll have on this earth.
It's one I never imagined I'd pursue, let alone have in such abundance.

So, yeah, the years are passing quickly.
But the preciousness of my children's youths aren't contained in a number or a date.
They are emblazoned on their mother's heart...in carvings of memories spent treasuring gaps from missing teeth and holes in the knees of jeans. Of field trips and road trips, bunk beds and camp-outs. Of report cards and carpet picnics or tuck-ins and ticklings and the "Boos!" of chores.

These are some hard years. Some great years. But there's so much more to come.

I'm so thankful I'm their Mommy.
And I know the best is still to come.

That Just Sounds Good

2011-05-17T17:34:00.000-06:00

With vacation in our sights at less than a month away - no, I haven't computed it to days quite yet. Yet. - I'm feeling the pull of detachment.

You know...that heady allure of checking out from the melee that is the everyday life called yours, mine, and ours? (Btw, the definition of melee is generally regarded to connote a fight within close quarters, totally disorganized and usually fairly aggressive in nature).

That's right...I'm talking about wrestling the 16 hours you're awake for control of your sanity and life longevity.

I was talking with Zee on the phone yesterday about leeching...the kind where the details and tidbits of the here and there end up depleting you to no lesser degree than the giant asteroids hurtling toward your longitude and latitude at any given present.

Now, I like my life: don't get me wrong. But, sometimes, the promise of the check-out doesn't just mean you're leaving the grocery aisles...sometimes, it means you're leaving the entire store of your hour-by-hour reality.

And, boys and girls...that just sounds good.

But the gifts aren't bad either...

2011-05-15T20:01:00.000-06:00

Okay, I'm reposting this one because, like so many other Blogger subscribers I know, an entry has mysteriously dissipated into cyber air. But, since my entries are also what I bind into volumes for personal keepsakes, I'm publishing it...again.
Sorry for the headache...let's give Blogger our collective sigh of, "Ugh. You really wear me slick sometimes."

Happy, happy. Joy, joy.

Complete with a purple (fave color!) case, screen guard (forget about it, sticky children's fingers) and a reading light...so I don't keep the giver up at night anymore.

Been wanting one for a while: sayonara, backpacks of books on road trips!

Bee bought me dinner (um, hello love language); Jessica bought me a mug that perfectly matches the other two in my love mug stash (hey, did you do that on purpose?); and Micah & Becca created this gorgeous addition to said mug stash:

(both sides were necessary: the writing was just too cool)

And let us not overlook the bottom:

The girls set me up with some Amazon cash for loading that Kindle, and Zee passed on what has (endearingly) become our Life Group Girls Gift Giver...why do I love this bag so much? I dunno, but it's the bomb.

So 35 was about the day.
And the heart within that day.

This entry's more about the stuff of the day.
Which had a perfect heart behind it.
And I'd pick the heart every day and twice on Sunday, never doubt.

But the gifts aren't bad, either.

About the Stash

2011-05-13T13:08:00.000-06:00

In my kitchen, I have tall cabinets.
They were customized.
Because they're so tall.

But I'm 5'1".
And, apparently, not that great at math.

So I keep a stash of mugs in a cabinet to the left of the refrigerator.
On a shelf low enough for me to reach.
These mugs are located across the kitchen from the "guest" vessels.
Which are placed a shelf higher and intended for use by one-time-ish guests who may come and go for a party or dinner event.

But the love mugs are special.
They're all gifts - offerings from a variety of givers living in the "I'm the cream of the human excellency crop" category - that I've hoarded away.
To be used by me and Craig...and any other treasured guest who knows that there is even such a thing as the love mugs.

Yeah, it's kind of become an urban legend at the Covak house.

Those who've heard about it (but, of course, never mentioned to me that they've heard about it) count my direction to the love mug stash after a request for coffee or tea as the ultimate symbol of "Ooo, ooo, I'm in!"

At others' homes, I know this acceptance is marked by helping clean the after-dinner dishes or the allowance of feet upon the coffee table, shoes inside the house, clothing from the closet, or coffee from the pot.

Me?

I've got the Love Mug stash.

I've been referring to it in the last few posts.
So, it occurred to me you may not know.

About the meaning of a love mug.
Or about the stash.

35

2011-05-12T13:27:00.000-06:00

On May 3rd, I turned 35.

I don't mind being another year older; birthdays are a reminder to consider and embrace the good, the blessings. In fact, the "big number" birthdays (the ones on the 5's) prompt me to reflect even more on the myriad of ways I want to be better. Do better. But also to remind me of what I've kicked in the teeth; how I've said "No, thanks" to the junk and "Hel-lo, good lookin!'" to the opportunities.

35 is a big number birthday. And it was one of the best ever.

I started the day with cards: the first from my sweet son and daughter who burst into my bedroom caroling tidings for a merry day.

E drew us walking hand-in-hand. Grace drew my favorite animal: yep, it's free-hand.

Wow! to both of these...they started my day perfectly.

At my bedside, my traveling husband had left a love letter.
And my beautiful friend, Amy, timed her card to arrive for my birthday: so I tore into it the morning of...to find a Bux card inside. Drink with Aim...yeaaaaa! (Miss you sweet friend: SC doesn't know how lucky it is!

There's nothing quite like getting mail in your box, just for you, just because you're special. No bill attached. No "reply by" deadline. Just a love note.
Now that's a gift.

(the Hot Tamales are from Zee...my fave candy. Good with honey-wheat pretzels, btw)

My mom phoned first thing (I thanked her for bringing me into the world). Zee called to sing me "Happy Birthday" and was quickly tailed by Bee...I so love the friends who love you so deeply they're actually silly. Silly! And every lyric held joy. Big smile.

Then I hit the gym. Every May 3rd- whether it's a regularly-scheduled sweat-it-out, burn-it-up day or not, I strap those sneakers on. One of my fave instructors taught my fave weights class; every year, she whispers this beautiful bday prayer wish dear to her family - it taps the tear faucet every time. Got the birthday song - hip style - and worked out next to another beloved Amy...whose shoulder blades literally held me up at the end (what??!! It's ok, Amy gets it, don't ya' lady?)

At home, I checked the FB wall...where 113 messages found their way to my heart. Wow. As usual, I thanked each and every one because, put quite simply, why would I not? Thanks again to all who took a moment (through voicemail, email, FB, or card) to express a wish, a prayer, a memory, a thought of goodness...my ticker treasures every line.

Then it was a quiet time and cuddling with Judd before Mom came to Nana-sit...so I could meet the gals for some comida y margaritas! Thankfully, Bee and I shared the Daily Special...three sips was E-nough...Holy Triple Sec! (or was it the Peach Schnapps? Or the tequila?)

(from left) Jessica, Zee, and Bee

Along with another gem, Becca, these ladies closed the day with a blessing, a reminder of how I'm never alone but am fully understood...and treasured just as I am. No return receipt required. None desired.

These gals are the steady kind. They'll last forever, if you'll let 'em. Through thick and thin. Up and down. Stinky and perfume. Skinny and...well...post-baby. I admire them. I'm better with them than without them.

And they are a sample of others I'm blessed to know and mark in the same category - even though they live states and states away.

How, dear Father, did my pockets end up so full? How is it possible that my cup runs over so completely, so steadfastly?

Only You could provide all I need for all the life I need it...and leave me to relish it, celebrating the much I have in the year You've planned as

35.

A Week in Review

2011-05-11T12:25:00.001-06:00

Last week is a happy black hole. I know, I know - usually the idiom "black hole" is a less-than-friendly metaphor for a treacherous foray into the abyss of yuck. For me, the black hole shows just how greatly I was blessed and busy and full and loved: it all went so quickly, so fully, I whipped through it in a blur.

The worst part? Craig being gone. Definitely. Always.

The best part? Well, the next few entries will cover that. But the overview is this: I've discovered a great recipe for a happy life (for me) is just 4 simple words...

balance
moderation
perspective
faith

I saw all of these last week when I...

stood in the blustering Colorado winds (again) to watch my son run plays at football practice - and saw him turn and smile at my presence the whole time.
celebrated a birthday with no less than the best folks on the planet - near and far- eating, drinking, laughing, and sending sentiments of love and warmth...some from miles away (future post).
savored store-bought cake - because my mother-in-law knows there's nothing in my world quite like butter-cream frosting. Love that...and her.
opened my door to my most-wished gift: a Kindle. Delivered on the actual day. By my husband. While he was in Nebraska. That's some superb planning (future post).
chaperoned E's field trip to the zoo and "hurrayed" when he took my hand and said, "Mommy, you MUST sit by me on the bus!"
welcomed my husband home with a home-cooked meal and hugs galore, praising God for his safety after flying on the day after such a tumultuous event in our nation's history (he flew out on May 2nd, the day after bin Laden's death).
unwrapped the best gifts a girl could ask for - and found love inside each box (future post).

Until the posts appear, I sign off with just one thought:

the older I get, the more balance, moderation, perspective, and faith I want to have.
The more I have, the more I realize I am loved.
That we all matter, one to another.
That we are rich in gifts that far transcend this world.

I realize I am happy...proven by my week in review.

Candidly

2011-05-02T13:03:00.000-06:00

When I take pictures, they're meh. You know, fairly posed. Nothing to see here.
I've got great subjects, though, so I might come out of the developing (aka digital window) with this in tow:

Or this: Or this:

But when Craig takes pictures...well, they're much better than meh. He just snaps and snaps without much thought to the matter except to wait for a moment. An expression. A whisper in time. Then he clicks and clicks and clicks some more.

Until he gets shots like these...

...to mark the memories of hugs and giggles and hunting a few eggs in between.

Then it's back to the ho-hum when the lens finds me again...

...proving that Easter photos, much like life, offer turn out best when you capture the moment.

Candidly.

I Sat in the Sun With a Winner...Again

2011-04-30T14:18:00.000-06:00

Today, I Sat in the Sun With a Winner.
Again.
As we've done many times before.

But, every time I leave this winner, I think, "That was our best time!"
To her, I hear myself saying, "I know just what you mean!" again and again.

Today, we talked about text and narrative arcs
and gushed over our mutual love of the genre "memoir".
We spoke of mothering and marriage and what's ahead for the summer.
Of MLA, APA, and who-the-heck-can-figure-out-Chicago.
Of classrooms and churches and all types of friends.

But the best was just dwelling.
Thanking God for how He sent her to me...in the most unusual of ways.
And pondering how each of us should have this type of friend...
even if you find He's sent you just one.
Because mornings spent like this one create memories that linger...

if you find that you Sat in the Sun With a Winner.

In An Ideal World

2011-04-28T08:43:00.001-06:00

When I grow old and my children grow up, they will get married and buy a house.

Hopefully, it's a big house. A nice house. One where they pick the tile and countertops, flooring, and fixtures. Where they paint the perfect color on their textured walls and maybe even match their drapes to their pillows.

And the backyard - now THAT will be a marvel indeed. It will be an outdoor living mecca of food and drink and good company, a little island of glee separate from the world where I can sit in a chaise with a crisp bottled beer and watch the grandbabies scamper about.

Yes, when I enter their homes, I shall sigh with delight for them, proud of how hard they've studied through college, found their match, and settled into domestic bliss.

Then I will jump on their couches and throw all the pillows on the floor.
I will rub peanut butter on my hands and then stroke them up and down those perfectly coordinated silk drapes.
I shall turn over the reading chairs and
empty all the dvd's (or whatever device they'll have in 2025) and add my fingerprints to their collective scratches.
Carrying huge plastic toys upstairs will be no burden of excess for I shall simply drag them along the wall, stripping the paint to the bare base.
I will swing on their banisters, toss their neatly-folded laundry from wicker baskets, scatter crumbs about the counters and every inch of their floors, and always forget to turn out any and every light I turn on inside their gorgeous domicile.
And, at the end of the day, I won't understand why in the world they should complain if there's pee on the toilet seat or toothpaste spurting within the drawer or dirty dishes shoved in far corners of rooms...

I shall simply say, "Seriously! It doesn't have to be a perfect house, does it?"

Then I'll wink and remind them of our ire swappings from their childhood...
and remark that, especially in matters of destruction it would seem,
what you sow, so you too shall reap.

But that would only happen in an ideal world.
Snicker.

A Tick of the Clock

2011-04-27T16:15:00.001-06:00

On April 17th, Judsen Ames turned three.

3.
(!)

Birthdays make any mother reflect, to remember the nine months spent growing a baby who's slowly becoming a man. The time with our sons is short...I'm determined to squeeze every drop of joy out of the experience before Father Time wipes their slate of boyhood.

And Judd's the baby.
The last boy to reflect upon.

He wasn't our biggest baby... he missed E's record by just three ounces.

(me @ 8 months. Ack: pregnancy does NOT agree with me!)
But he arrived with the most personality of any our babies...and a perfect blend of his brother and sister.

(a really fantastic picture of my beloved, btw)

Now, from sleeping

to discovering

to eating and grinning

while growing and growing and growing some more...

his little body is catching up to his great big, funny heart.

And our blessing? Getting to come along for the ride,
one tick of the clock at a time.

Cold Cut...Part Deux

2011-04-26T09:35:00.000-06:00

Because, with the way I feel today, I might as well use the words I once found so exceedingly perfect...

and say them again.

Word.

2011-04-15T08:11:00.000-06:00

My title says it all.

Let the Picture Speak for Itself

2011-04-14T14:39:00.000-06:00

We were just going to dinner.
But we were honoring a friend.

So we got dressed up.
And remembered to take a picture.

The older I get, the more words I learn.
Because I love words, I suppose.
But the older I get, the less those words can describe the depths of my love for this man.
Probably because I love him more.
Because I love him most.

So I won't try today.

I'll let the picture speak for itself.

The Sum of All Fears

2011-04-13T16:10:00.000-06:00

"Why, you may take the most gallant sailor, the most intrepid airman or the most audacious soldier, put them at a table together - what do you get?
The sum of all their fears."
~ Winston Churchill

Powerful: I first encountered this quotation in the 8th grade when I read Tom Clancy's The Sum of All Fears with my dad. Its gravitas lies in how easily one can substitute the military categories for just about any other conjured...and the last line still rings true.

Lately, it seems that so many I care for are hanging on by the knot at the end of their "funk" rope (thanks, FDR) and they've nothing left in their arsenal but one small yet powerful weapon:
hope in the face of their fears.

People are just people.
Doing their best, not because of their fear.
But in spite of it.
And that's a struggle we all share.

Which is why it seems not coincidental that Winston Churchill also said,
"If you're going through hell, keep going."

When I Get the Bucks Back

2011-04-13T15:55:00.000-06:00

I'm all about Costco. Not Sam's. Costco.

Warning: This can divide or unite the Tribe of Warehouse Shoppers. Breathe deeply, if necessary.

When we lived in Alaska, warehouse shopping was a way of life for most - the cost of milk alone would pay for your membership twofold. In fact, most residents of the Last Frontier hold two club memberships: one to Costco, and one to Sam's. Ironically, we were military then so the commissary was our primary stop...but, oh my, how times have changed.

The advantages of membership are plenty, but some are bigger than others:

I get some bucks back for my spending.
They issue coupons for their items.
Generics are excellent and nearly always cheaper.
The bakery is absurdly delicious! (Hmmmm....which one doesn't belong?)

As you can see, where shopping is concerned, I'm cash driven.

Anyhow, they have one more policy that makes my "I'm on a budget, people!" heart go pitter-pat: they price adjust. Like Target. But bigger...as all things are in the warehouse world.

A month ago, we bought a Norton package. For 50 bucks. Craig saw it went on sale online. So I took my receipt back.

And left with 25 more dollars in my pocket than when I came -
which I promptly spent on a birthday gift for a friend, a new shirt for Elijah, a "You're 3!!!" present for Judsen, and a $5 lunch for me and that same tot.

See...I can make a buck stretch. With coupons. And sales. And time spent.

Especially when I get the bucks back.

I Like My Odds

2011-04-08T16:32:00.000-06:00

I'm at a point in life where I'm more interested in letting it go than hanging on to it.

I'm warmed to know so many of my friends from high school are married to the loves of their lives.

I'm excited that Blue Bell ice cream really is pretty good - it wasn't just spin.

I'm proud of those I'm proud of...and they know who they are. I tell them every chance I get while I'm wondering how I got so blessed to find them.

I'm happy to be in love and happier still to know it's real.

I'm far more intoxicated by the praises of life than by the complaints against it.

I'm less for random emotion and more for solid thinking. (Okay, that's not new. But still important.)

I'm celebrating a friend at a party tonight. Just because she was born.

And I spent the afternoon playing with my youngest son and marveling at his tiny body which, to him, could leap a tall building.

If all of life were a Facebook wall, I'd be hitting Like way more than Dislike.

I have found perspective.

Which wasn't all that hard to do actually.

It's holding on to it that's the challenge.

But if my progress so far is any indication...
well...
I like my odds.

Ten Dollar Box of Doughnuts

2011-04-07T15:13:00.000-06:00

Here are just two of the many seriously-raucous lingual licks Urban Dictionary readers offer as definitions of Spring Break:

A week where all the dumb kids go to Cancun and all the level headed people get to relax.

A week in which one does not wear pants.

As a former collegian, I relate to these definitions.
(I said relate, people, not represent.)

I mean, I went to Iowa State...how could you not?
(If you don't know what I mean, Bing Veisha. Then dumb kids and no pants will take on a whole new meaning.)

These days, Spring Break looks far different from behind the specs of a 34-year old. The Happy Dance of no early lectures, two-hour exams, finals, and book buys has been replaced by a new dance centered around just one question: "What will we do to fill two weeks? And how can that remind me of what I'm fighting for?"

Usually, we take a family getaway - one during Spring and one during Fall. But, with so much going on this summer, we decided to breathe a bit this March. Instead, we took a mini-staycation (and you know how we love those!), we hit the Y for pool-play, and spent a day in Denver...because what's the point of living a mere hour from the Mile-High if you never seize the chance to breathe shallower?

We started the day in Lone Tree - the nearest port to dock for some sugary delectables of doughnut delight.

First came the hats (too soon, they won't find these cool anymore
so pictures were a must).

Then came the caviar of fat and sugar...

So. So. So. Good.
I even brewed a coffee to take with me in my go-carrier...because what's the point of a morsel without its brew?

Apparently, Judd eats his Kreme's like his cake...icing first.

My "quick, figure it out" skills reached a new level when stir sticks became impromptu knives. Hey, it worked. And makes for quirky art.

Always reminds me of what I'm fighting for...

and why they're worth our time.
Our love.
Our unfailing devotion.

And a ten dollar box of doughnuts.

Just to Be Clear

2011-04-05T13:58:00.000-06:00

Just to be clear, I didn't write this.
But I wish I had.

Monday's word of the day on Urban Dictionary (LOVE!) was...

Fauxpology

When a person makes it sound like they are apologizing when, in fact,
they are just shifting the blame or using twisted logic to argue their
way out of responsibility for their actions.

Noun. Who's verb form usually begins with, "Well, I'm sorry you think that's true, but..."

If you have no idea to what this definition is referring, you're a hermit.
Or a toddler pre-language.
Or serially guilty of this particular offense.

Regardless, it's rude. And small. And tacky.
Let's not do it.

Just to Be Clear.

For One More Year

2011-04-05T13:32:00.000-06:00

Last night, Jess and KJ came over to watch the final game of March Madness 2011 (which Grace pointedly remarked is finishing...in April. Love that little mind.)

In any case, I seemed to remember writing about the NCAA tourney last year...
and pulled that excerpt up.
Re-read it.
And found that it's truer today than it ever has been.

So, I'm doing a first: I'm re-posting a blog entry.

Or, rather, re-linking it...as we say goodbye to March Madness.

For one more year.

Duly Noted

2011-04-01T13:33:00.000-06:00

Daily, weekly, monthly.
Or moment by moment.
I've never known heroism to be faceless.

By the nature of their gravitas, the men, women, and even children who supersede the norms of self-sacrifice haves faces heralding honor in the face of fear.

No matter your stance, political or otherwise, on the state of nuclear power, there is irrefutable fact of radiation leakage in Japan.

And this article reports on the faces of the heroes confronting it.

Let their acts of courage - and they price they'll likely pay - be duly noted.

Not What It's Cracked Up to Be

2011-03-31T16:39:00.000-06:00

Sometimes, your eyes see that which they cannot avoid.

That sounds profound and spiritual, and I suppose it is...or at least can be. We see our flaws, our failings. Our dreams and the achieving of them. Our friends. Our foes. And, every now and then, we see what we weren't looking for...revelation isn't always what it's cracked up to be.

I took the kids to Chick-Fil-A today to cash in their library freebies from the reading program.
Last summer.
(Thank you, Chick, for honoring expired coupons. Again and again).

The boys were playing while Grace and I were chatting at our table when a guy standing not two feet from me (I exaggerate not) stood up.

Lifted his shirt.
Exposed his drooping jeans and underwear.

And all that they are supposed to cover.
Eww.

Sometimes, your eyes see that which they cannot avoid.

And maybe it's not as spiritual when it happens at Chick-Fil-A...
But it's still not what it's "cracked" up to be.

If You Forced Me

2011-03-29T11:34:00.000-06:00

If you forced me to pick just one novel and proclaim it my favorite...well, that would surely bring me pain. But, if forced, it'd be Pride and Prejudice. Every day and twice on Sunday.

And now Grace is discovering the magic literati reverently refer to as "Austen".
My generational gift to her...may it long live and thrive...
in the mind of a reader
and in the heart of a lady.

[Caption]

With Great Honor

2011-03-01T17:41:00.000-07:00

This was my Facebook status today.

Pick battles big enough to matter, small enough to win. ~Jonathan Kozel

So applicable to my life this season. As every day amounts to a battle against the
ever-draining sands in the hourglass, prioritization matters more to my sanity than ever before. Does it seem to you, as it does to me, that all the tickers of time I once reserved for "old timers" suddenly mark me? An expression like, "Where has this year gone?" and needing to do math to recall my age have become part of my everyday routine.

Or how about this: My dearest Zee recently recounted that, as she reviewed some work-related documents, she realized one gal's birth date was later than her wedding date...meaning Zee got married before the lass was even born - EGADS!!

Yes, the travels of Old Man Time hearkens this paradigm, if it does nothing else: life really does pass us by...seemingly while we're standing watching the clock waiting for the next big thing to happen. (Or as John Lennon put it, life is what happens while we're busy making other plans).

So, I count that which matters most as (surprise) actually mattering most.

And I choose those battles.
And, if I can't win it, I try to let it go.
And if, as a friend from high school posted on that status today, I must ask,
"What if one has no choice?",
I can only hope my response to him will prevail:

Then fight to the finish with great honor.

Loved His Writing Today

2011-02-25T11:44:00.000-07:00

It has been a WEEK! If life were really a grindstone, then my nose this week would be a nub (and based on the size of my schnoz, that's saying somethin'!). Last night, I sat with my husband and just had a good cry.

Ever need one of those? (Guys, I don't know what the parallel is for you...but let it never be said that I don't think you're entirely entitled to a good cry, too).

Weeks like these, nay - months like these - are the fieldstones of soul construction: you either prevail or perish, really. For me, success comes but one way: perspective. And heaps of perspective arrived on my doorstep yesterday.

But here's just one I'll share, one that especially lifted my spirits and reminded me: like a stalwart marker of life's most precious gifts, the sentiments of a child's heart can calm even the most tumultuous waters of life.

Thanks, Jamie (Elijah's first grade teacher and blog reader) for passing this email on:

Oh so today in writing we were using our vocab
words to make our writing more interesting. Here are the words:
concentrate, share, trust, splendid, concerned, member, fortunate. Here
is what E wrote:

I am really happy when I can concentrate on spelling so that I can be splendid at it.
I trust my friends when I share my toys.
I get concerned when my family gets sick.

I am fortunate to be a member of the Covak family.

Loved his writing today!!!!!!

Me, too, Jamie.
Me, too.

My Here and Now

2011-02-23T09:03:00.000-07:00

"If I had portal..."

Did you know this is the beginning of most of my favorite sentences?

If I had a portal to South Carolina, I'd watch House with Amy, drinking a margarita while crunching on chips and "Who is Kaiser Salsa?"

If I had a portal to Alaska, I'd be watching It Happened One Night with Jessi, drinking caramel lattes, and gorging on chocolate and Moose's Tooth pizza.

If I had a portal to my childhood, I'd say, "Sustain. You make it in the end."

If I had a portal to college, I'd say, "You're right to choose Him. He is far better than your best mind could imagine."

If I had a portal to my wedding day, I'd say, "Memorize its beauty...and know the best is yet to come."

If I had a portal to heaven, I'd sit on my dad's knee.

And if I had a portal to the future, I'd close it.

I already have all the wishes of those portals.
I am blessed such connections have even existed.
Blessed generously.
Beyond measure.

So I don't need to see what's next.
I've got the best story already.
I've got my here and now.