The Story of Grace

Craig and I married young - or what I now consider to be young. I suppose, intellectually, I knew that 20 (me) and 23 (Craig) was a tad early in years to make such a profound commitment, but I didn't invest much time in considering it beyond that point. But our age did impact one critical decision: because we were young (among other reasons), we chose to wait a while before having children.

We agreed we'd reconsider that choice at the 3-year mark in our marriage. But, when that time came, we were at opposite sides of the junction: I was ready to have children and Craig was not. Whammy. I had just finished my undergraduate degree and thought it was finally emotionally, physically, spiritually, and professionally a prime time for makin' babies. Craig simply wasn't prepared in any of those avenues to make the commitment a child would bring. And boy was I mad. Mad! Yes, it may sound petty, but that's the truth of the matter. How come I had to conceive, carry, and birth the baby, but with his resounding "no," Craig got to decide the issue? I felt like my husband had garnered control of the one aspect of my femininity I deemed most my own: the ability to bear children. Of course, that was not at all Craig's intention and, through prayer and concentration on the big picture, I learned to daily tell God that Craig mattered more to me than any other dream. Any. Other. Dream. And I'd rather have him and a healthy marriage than any plan or purpose I harbored. Of course, that all sounds so mature and spiritually evolved, right? Well, let me tell you: like most final products, the end truth has lots of shine. But the amount of poop it took to get there wasn't pretty. At all.

So life went on. About 8 months passed. We were happy. Content. Then one morning, in classic Craig fashion, he woke up, turned to me, yawned, and said, "I'm ready to have a baby. Do you still want to have one?"

Yet, circumstances delayed us when we learned Craig, who was a lieutenant in the Air Force at the time, had been tagged for a 90 day TDY to Bogota, Columbia. We said goodbye at the Anchorage airport on the Eve of the Millenium (yeah, that was brutal), and committed we'd start trying for a baby upon his return. My nurse practitioner - along with everyone else who suddenly had opinions regarding our fertility - told us we should reasonably expect 6-8 months would pass before we became pregnant...after all, as Deb (my np) explained, "Pregnancy is sticky business. You've gotta give it time and space." Sticky business, indeed. That still cracks me up.

Craig returned home on March 26th amidst the hustle and bustle of mid-terms and taxes and talk of extending his deployment. It is stressful and overwhelming - as any military spouse will tell you - when your trooper comes home because, though you're thrilled for his safe return and overjoyed to be reunited, you also have to readjust to sharing a home, a schedule, an emotional upheaval, and...well...a body. So let's just say nothing about the timing was right to conceive.

I'll spare the details here and suffice to say that, when nature still didn't take its course after three weeks, we took a pregnancy test. Negative. So I called my doctor thinking something was seriously wrong. I still chuckle when I remember her response: "If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, it's a duck. Come in for a blood test." That night, we were having dinner with close friends, and we'd agreed to meet there. I walked into the house, and everyone was staring at me with these grins to rival the Cheshire Cat. Craig asked, "Have you checked messages on our machine?" Um, no. He told me I should retrieve them and, when I did, Deb's voice was on the line, singsonging, "I know something you don't know."

When I reached her at 7 the next morning, she told me, "Honey, you're 5 weeks pregnant." But how could this be? my uninformed, ain't never had a baby, don't know nothin' mind queried. Craig's only been home three weeks! Deb spun her wheel using the dates I gave her and immediately bubbled into hysterics. What!? What was so funny? "You conceived on March 26th!" Friends in AK still tease us about that. I called Craig at work, stunned to tell him our news. He put the receiver down, and I heard him shout to the entire floor, "I'm a dad!"

Grace was born on December 21st. She was 10 days late. We tried to induce four different ways, none of which were completely effective. Finally, after 36 hours of labor and two more pushing, Gracie decided she wasn't going to camp out in my tummy for the rest of her days, after all, and came into this world at 9:02 pm weighing 8.10 and measuring 21" long. She's our smallest baby, but has the biggest heart. She's sassy and effervescent, and blow-your-mind smart. And she's proof that God's timing is all that matters: it trumps every other agenda, schedule, and plot to circumvent Him it encounters. In short, she came when she was meant to be.

In the 4.5 years we waited to have children, we heard the following question often: "When are you going to have kids already?" To which we'd smile and politely respond, "Not today." When I was finally the one asking that question, Craig's reply was the same. It wasn't time. I may not have liked that answer, but I learned to trust it in the end. I see now that God was speaking to Craig, telling him to lead his wife into the season God had prepared. It wasn't time. It wasn't today. And you can't circumvent God's timing.

But when the right day came, we welcomed our only daughter. We celebrated here then as we celebrate her now, 9 year later. When Craig tells her the story of her birth, he always finishes with, "And I saw you come out, and I held you. You looked right at me. And you took my breath away." Every now and then, I'll peek into her room at bedtime or catch them sitting on a swing outside or see them holding hands as they walk down the street, and I'll hear Craig turn to Grace and say, "You still take my breath away." There are no words to describe her smile in return.

That's my favorite part of the story of Grace.

He Is Tradition

Some would say they grew up without traditions. I'm convinced we all grew up with traditions: the problem is that we don't label our recurring recollections as such. Instead, we see them in clippings - segmented, cataloged happenings that were caught in the shafts of light we call memory. But if we take a step back and try to loop those segments into a running reel of childhood film, we'd see that some of them are, in fact, traditions that visited us time and again. Certainly, they may not all be happy. But they're probably not all bad, either. And good or bad, they're valuable. They've marked us as who we are, stamped us in some recognizable if not irresistable way.

My brother recently posted on his Facebook wall, "Reflecting on the memories of Christmases past. Some good. Some not so good. Ah, the balance of life." I like his summation not only because its succinctly accurate, but also because it prompted the realization that, though we shared the Christmases of our childhood and all the traditions they entailed, our sense of good and not so good may not be the same. This only goes to show how the components of our childhood -- and the traditions entrenched within them -- are individual and personal like tattoos of the same shape from a different artist's hand.

Some of my childhood traditions I practice today and, in light of the approaching Christmas holiday, I find myself recalling most those surrounding the season of giving. I recall how my mom and I decorated the house the day after Thanksgiving while my brother and dad went deer hunting: my family, which began with just me and my husband, deck the halls and dress the tree the day after Thanksgiving. The only hunting I do is for the best deals on Black Friday: however, I do liken some radicals' behaviors to the crazy wildlife rabidly lurking in the backwoods. As a child, we opened presents on Christmas Eve, not Day, and went to midnight mass in the brittle Midwestern cold. And, point of interest, Craig's family did the same. We still open presents on the Eve, stockings on the Day, and I still hold back the giant, post hectic-day yawns and go to 10:30 pm mass with my mother-in-law. I'm sure you could recite similar lists of memories past and present.

But new life has also made way for new traditions - which is as it should be. As we've had children, we've made room for their joys and imaginations: we build gingerbread houses and frost sugar cookies.  Candy canes go in dark chocolate cocoa and the musical tinklings of snow globes herald bedtimes in bedrooms. There's mistletoe at the front door and a jingly snowman on the back, and one candlelight flickers in every window facing front. And we read Luke throughout December, teaching the story of Christ's birth anew to each little one who asks, "What is Christmas about?" We see Grace and Elijah telling the story to Judsen now,  and we quietly contemplate the blessing of the best tradition of all: family.

Family is the tradition that weaves the tatters of our memories together, whether they be whimsical or bittersweet; raw or raucous; mundane or miraculous. Family is what forms us, whether yours is two or 20 or 200 in number. God isn't keeping stats: He's storing tears in bottles with thoughts that outnumber the sand. That's family. He's family...the best Family of all with the best Father there is. He's the New Year, Easter, Independence Day, and Thanksgiving. He offers fresh starts and new births: He sets us free and inspires gratitude.

And He is Christmas. He is family. He is tradition.

(left, Gingerbread House 2009. Right, wraparound banister's garland)

 

And, this year, it was Elijah's turn to put the angel atop the tree. By the way...Craig made that angel as a gift for me our first Christmas married. Yep, tradition.

30 Days of Thankful

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.

We Remember. Let's Roll.

(Originally posted September 11, 2010)

It does seem fitting that perhaps the most tragic day in our nation's modern history shares its digits with the nationally recognized code for emergency distress - distressed was certainly how I felt in the aftermath of that event.

In the summer of 2001, we'd just moved to the Springs with Grace in tow, just a mere 7 months after her birth. We were staying with Craig's mom and I had just gotten an unusually cranky infant back to sleep when, bleary eyed, I decide to give up the effort at sleep and head upstairs for coffee. I entered the living room to find my mother-in-law already up - and sitting in the living room with the tv on...an unusual workday routine for her. I opened my mouth to ask what was up, but then couldn't tear my eyes from the images on the screen. With her face in her hands, Mom turned to me and said bleakly, "I think a plane flew into the World Trade Center."

So we watched. And waited - with increasing scores of Americans worldwide, tuning in instantly as word rapidly spread. On that couch, sitting next to Mom, silence seemingly hanging thick everywhere, we watched the second plane careening into the second tower - and could only gasp in shock and then weep in despair as it hit its mark.

Last year, we began the process of educating our two oldest children about the events of that day. We explain to them this was a day of passing - passing of dreams and of hopes and securities and, yes, certainly of life. We tell them Satan started that day, but God finished it: we illuminate that truth with stories regaling the heroism of police, firefighters, emergency responders, and everyday passersby, giving their lives to save others. We remind them that heroes lived - and died - in two other places, as well. We explain the Pentagon. And I've told them the story of Flight 93, in as much detail as is yearly appropriate. I tell them of the anthem, "Let's Roll" and how it was the favorite of Todd Beamer who, against all odds and in the face of almost-certain death, gathered flight attendants, a wrestler, a businessman, a teacher, a coach, and a ragamuffin band of other agents to stand against their hijackers...and, in giving their lives, they spared every one of those at The White House or Capitol or some other vital mark.


We do not fill our children with hate for the souls at the controls of those four planes or for any of the master planners, for that matter; though, we certainly tell them that the want to hate is understandable and, perhaps, even practical. Yet, we saw how big the souls of mankind can be that day. We saw acts of goodness heretofore only imagined in the face of such agony. We saw good conquer evil, if only in the aftermath. And, in the end, what else can we teach them? For we do not want them to hate as we are hated, but to love in spite of it.

Because the aftermath is sometimes the only chance we've got to answer the call of 911.

And we remember.
And we roll.

911

It does seem fitting that perhaps the most tragic day in our nation's modern history shares its digits with the nationally recognized code for emergency distress - distressed was certainly how I felt in the aftermath of that event.

In the summer of 2001, we'd just moved to the Springs with Grace in tow, just a mere 7 months after her birth. We were staying with Craig's mom and I had just gotten an unusually cranky infant back to sleep when, bleary eyed, I decide to give up the effort at sleep and head upstairs for coffee. I entered the living room to find my mother-in-law already up - and sitting in the living room with the tv on...an unusual workday routine for her. I opened my mouth to ask what was up, but then couldn't tear my eyes from the images on the screen. With her face in her hands, Mom turned to me and said bleakly, "I think a plane flew into the World Trade Center."

So we watched. And waited - with increasing scores of Americans worldwide, tuning in instantly as word rapidly spread. On that couch, sitting next to Mom, silence seemingly hanging thick everywhere, we watched the second plane careening into the second tower - and could only gasp in shock and then weep in despair as it hit its mark.

Last year, we began the process of educating our two oldest children about the events of that day. We explain to them this was a day of passing - passing of dreams and of hopes and securities and, yes, certainly of life. We tell them Satan started that day, but God finished it: we illuminate that truth with stories regaling the heroism of police, firefighters, emergency responders, and everyday passersby, giving their lives to save others. We remind them that heroes lived - and died - in two other places, as well. We explain the Pentagon. And I've told them the story of Flight 93, in as much detail as is yearly appropriate. I tell them of the anthem, "Let's Roll" and how it was the favorite of Todd Beamer who, against all odds and in the face of almost-certain death, gathered flight attendants, a wrestler, a businessman, a teacher, a coach, and a ragamuffin band of other agents to stand against their hijackers...and, in giving their lives, they spared every one of those at The White House or Capitol or some other vital mark.

We do not fill our children with hate for the souls at the controls of those four planes or for any of the master planners, for that matter; though, we certainly tell them that the want to hate is understandable and, perhaps, even practical. Yet, we saw how big the souls of mankind can be that day. We saw acts of goodness heretofore only imagined in the face of such agony. We saw good conquer evil, if only in the aftermath. And, in the end, what else can we teach them? For we do not want them to hate as we are hated, but to love in spite of it.

Because the aftermath is sometimes the only chance we've got to answer the call of 911.

And we remember.

The Story of Elijah

On November 3, 2003, at 7:32 pm, Elijah Amos Covak came into the world. He weighed 9 pounds, 9 ounces (and was even a skosh early, mind you) and measured 21 1/2" long. His name means "Jehovah is God" and "I was borne and carried." He is Craig's first born son. And he looks just like his father. Yes, JUST like him. There is a story behind that, too.
Grace was not yet 2, and I was having a conversation with Craig's grandmother at a kitchen table. Her only son, Larry (Craig's dad), passed away from cancer at age 48. Her husband also died - also from cancer - just about a year before that. Can you imagine? Talk about left in the world without the men God gave you...
Well, she commented that each one of her three grandsons reminded her in some way of her departed son, and she treasured every one. But, she said, her eyes brimming with tears, there were certain ways that Craig made her feel like her son still walked amongst us. "Why is that?" I asked, curiosity certainly peaked. "Because," she retold, "he IS his father in the soft tone of his voice, in how he half smiles like only he knows a secret...even in the way he holds his fork. I can close my eyes, and there is my son, alive in my grandson...a gift from God above."
This story had great impact on me in many, many ways. But, particularly, I felt it emblazen an imprint on my very soul about my own yet-to-be-born son. I knew I wanted that same story, if for no other reason than because I wanted to know that, somewhere, a son born to Craig by my body would walk the Earth long after he departs it...and that son would leave some indelible mark behind.
So, when we became pregnant with our second child, I related this story again to Craig and told him I was going to pray for a son. I told him I would ask God for a son with blond curly hair. I would ask Him to form this son with Craig's eyes, nose, and mouth. I requested that He create this child to appear so much in the image of his father that people would even remark on the likeness of their hands. But nine long months passed before I could see if God answered my prayers.
Since we don't find out who we're having (nope, not for any of them), we held our breaths as the final portion of the C-section was performed (yes, C-section. That's a story for another entry). And Dr. Weary - who knew this story and so was as anxious as us to discover what God had done - held our baby up and announced, "You guys, it's a BOY!" And Craig kissed my forehead and stood to meet his first-born Covak son. He stepped away from my view to cut the cord and then to wash Elijah and note all the important measuring, washing, and inspecting. As Dr. Weary stapled away, Craig returned, then, to my side and leaned down close, pulled away his mask and whispered, "He looks just like me." And I cried.
I knew that God, in the midst of war and famine and genocide and lack of pretty much everything in this world, had first heard and then ordered those prayers to come to pass. Of all the singular moments in my life, NEVER do I remember feeling God make me feel so implicitly, devastatingly, uniquely important to Him.
And I got that son for whom I prayed.
And years later, on a dark night, alone in our bed while my children slept next to me, I held Elijah's 4-yr-old hand. Craig was in the hospital in a critical state, and we didn't know if he would live or die. But I held that hand, and I remembered this story, and I looked down at my son's hand and saw a miniature of my husband's. For the first time, perhaps, I truly understood the importance of Helen's story. And I was comforted. God reminded me, sure and strong, that my first gift was indeed my son's father, for whom I never even knew how to pray...I just knew I wanted him.
So every November 3rd, I remember that story, and I tell it to my son. And I remind him that he was borne and carried, and that I am proud to have done this for this precious son.

And I point to his heart, and I say, "You must leave a mark, my son. Let that mark be your namesake: let it be that you tell the world, 'Jehovah is God.'"

A God's Girls Bunny

We go to a mid-week Wednesday night service at our church. This semester, Craig and I are leading a couples small group while Grace and Elijah attend their respective kids' groups. (No, we don't leave Judsen at home alone but  he's in with the wee ones and so has no stories to share...at least, not one's he can tell us.)

Grace's group is called "God's Girls."

At the mere mention of this class, Grace claps her hands and squeals with delight...much how some other little girls regard the Jonas brothers or pierced belly buttons, I suppose...so I ain't complainin'. The class is comprised of 2nd and 3rd grade girls with curriculum with the aim of memorizing key pieces of Scripture regarding a variety of themes from service to character to love and obedience. Her teacher, "Miss Mandy," is a gem, for sure: her heart for girls in this stage of life is absolutely remarkable, and Grace's growth reflects that passion. She has a special tote bag that she got to decorate which she now uses to carry her Bible and book to class. There, she does a craft and/or exercise that promotes the verse(s) for the lesson that week; of course, her favorite part is getting to do all that with Miss Mandy and the other girls. Now, in her second year of the group, she tells me that her favorite part is the same favorite she had when she began: getting to offer requests to a buddy and then pray together for their requests.

So, Grace's last lesson involved this craft: we affectionately call it her "God's Girls Bunny."

With Easter around the corner, the craft mirrored the resurrection story (the bunny goes in and out of its burrow just like Jesus went in and out of the tomb). So, Grace brushed melted butter on her bunny,

then baked him up 

while she told me about the story and shared the tasty bread with her brothers.

A good class, great experiences, and one of the greatest teachers a parent could ask for...thanks for the God's Girls Group, Miss Mandy - you are pouring into one of this family's three most precious commodities.

What Makes It Our Home?

I mentioned in Month of Love that we try to love on our house. To us, this frame sitting on Quiet Pond Place is more than four walls and some stucco. We are intentional people by our design, so no detail of this house is without purpose. Forethought. That's best reflected in this element in our entry hall:

Home - not the building called a house, but the family and memories within it - is where your story begins. In a world gone crazy with rough and tumble, we are determined to make this house the most soul-changing, smile-making home it can be.

So, you can see how important it would be, then, to us to make this home beautiful in every way. A key way I do that is to change the house with the seasons. This keeps it from becoming stale and, really, don't we all change our wardrobe and accessories throughout the year? Why not a house, too? Now, I confess: this idea is not original to me. It's not even specific to me. But the beauty is that it looks specific to each house. My friend and mentor, Marita, taught me this by example when Craig and I were first married and lived in Alaska. When you enter the Shipman's home, it positively shouts grace and peace. Obviously, the decor alone doesn't accomplish that feat - the hearts and souls of the ones inside it do that - but the love poured from them into the ambiance of their home, I learned, accentuates their authentic selves. This family is also why we entertain so much. Their leading by living accounts for the myriad of new families we welcome to our home and why dinner is not just an appointment, but an event. (Thanks, Scott and Marita, for being so stellar.) 

So here's a "pict-folio" of how we love the house that changes with us to continually be our home.

Three key components: the seasonally-changing cloth dinner napkins, the "snack jug" that feeds all the hungry with an ever-varied cache of goodies, and our welcome chalkboard to mark the day or celebrate the arrival of dinner guests...Grace is in charge of the art. Wonder why.

Two sconces at the entry arch are filled with different picks to flow with the seasons' colors and textures. Here's what's in there now - winter.

Our accent wall in the parlor showcases the current portraits of the three gifts we treasure most. As they change, so does it...to remind us they're growing and there will never be a day like today again. Best seize it, then.

The upstairs hall spotlights our favorite black and whites...mixed in with some treasured memories that take a turn up there, as well. The wedding picture of my hands pinning Craig's boutonniere always stays as does my prized silhouettes of my pregnancy with Elijah (thanks, Tosha). Otherwise, we hang what we need to remember most at the time.

Our study hallway also changes with the seasons: sometimes these frames hold collections of leaves; sometimes pictures I shot of fireworks near our annual 4th of July vacation spot; sometimes pressed flowers from the yard or snow scenes. Here's today's collection. (Thanks, Kendall).

And don't forget the closeup: I love how the mirror creates texture and interest in this piece.

And this sums up the mantra of the house as a whole. Many of my ideas are my own, but some come from excellent friends who become a part of our home when I incorporate their expressions of selves. In the end, we have a house that feels warm to us. That inhabits His presence. That welcomes all into it. However you do it, I hope you're inspired to do it. It's how we make a house our home.

The Story of Judsen

We can't explain Baby Judd. Yes, we do, in fact, know how babies are made. We have, in fact, had three of them. So we can, for sure, explain the biology of the process. Yet, we still can't explain Baby Judd.

Deciding to have a third child was a 2 1/2 year process for us that began with a two-sentence simple exchange...that created a great deal of tension. It went like this:

"I want to have another one."

"I don't."

Not rocket science, no. But the reverberations of the impasse sent us into orbit nonetheless.

We're not the first couple to reach this fork in the road, and I'm sure we won't be the last. But, boy...those were some tough conversations over 28 months.

Then Craig got sick. God changed his heart. Changed mine. And #3 was soon on the way.

Then our baby died.

We grieved. We were broken.
We were done.

Then when the miscarriage didn't progress, we were stumped. Now He seemed especially cruel. What was God doing? We opted to "let nature takes its course," which meant a potential 6-week progress; our doctor advised us to do our best to resume life (in all areas, if you know what I mean) and wait through the process. We went to Alaska...no way were we canceling that trip because our most beloved Jessi was marrying the love of her life. In returning to where our marriage began, we learned a thing or two - most importantly, I let the pain and anger of our child's passing go. But something physically was still wrong.

Upon our return home, I phoned my physician who ordered a blood test...and then immediately called that evening.
Me: "Covaks!"
Dr. W: "Hello. Ummmmm....you're pregnant. Over the top pregnant. As in checked it twice myself pregnant."
Me: Silence.
Dr. W: "Hello?"
Me: "Uhhhhh...."

So 9 months later, this little boy who shouldn't have been...well, was. 21" and 9 pounds 6 ozs of blond hair and blue eyes. Thick hands like Daddy's. Ears that stick out like mine (the only child who has 'em, btw). He's silly like Elijah and uber-smart like Grace. 

He's full of love: he'll "give you fist" or blow you a kiss or wrap little arms around you and just squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. 

He's a charmer and a flirt and, if you let him, he'll bring you to side of things in 3 seconds flat.
He's our last-born child. A gift. Then...and now.

All babies are miracles. 

All are made by God.

Their entire existence is somewhat mystical. 

But this one...this Covak...just can't be explained. And when our hearts closed to more children...even to the possibility...God sent Judsen to open our hearts again. To change our minds. To remind us that He is, indeed, the author and perfecter of life...whether you're ready to see it or not. 

That's the story of Judsen.

How to Guard a Heart

Above all else, guard your heart for it is the wellspring of life. Proverbs 4:23

The thing is, when you're a little girl, you don't know much about the heart. Which isn't to say you don't have feelings: little girls are surely aware enough of those to express them in all sorts of manners...streaming tears, stamping feet, pouting lips, and toothy grins all come to mind. But they don't know much about from whence those emotions come.
They just live.
And wonder.
And later, maybe, worry.

The thing is, when you're a little girl, you don't know much about guarding the heart. Seems to follow if you don't know much about the heart, I'd say. And what's all this talk of "the wellspring of life"? Can an unguarded heart lead to death? What, then, becomes of the befuddled lass who knows little of the heart and even less about guarding it?
She just lives.
And wonders.
And, perhaps, worries.

Well, not if you've got one of these...

       
  to teach you about this...

 

so you never end up like that.

If these are the times that try men's souls (thank you, Mr. Paine), they must be the days of absolute peril for women's hearts. Each generation seems less sure of the ins and outs of love and value and self-worth - probably because the rules of the game seem to change with each turn of daughter-become-mother.

And maybe that's where we get it most wrong. Perhaps mothers can't teach the lesson their own hearts are wearing on torn, mended, and torn again sleeves. Perhaps it be the fathers - who maybe have done some tearing of their own - who see most fully.
Teach most effectively.
Guard most rigorously.

Recently, Grace got dressed up for a date with her father, a Daddy-Daughter Dance to be exact.

 
Amidst great excitement, she painted her nails. And curled her hair. And buckled her first pair of fancy-heeled shoes.

Her earrings were dangly, her lips just a bit glossed.
She felt grand, I think - a child-turned princess escorted to a ball.

But her "date" wasn't a perfect prince: neither was he a warted toad.

You know, the stuff of the real-life heart is rarely so simple as streaks of black or ribbons of white. We are all flawed, broken, mending, and growing...men included.

So, if you're taking lessons about the heart, why not from a teacher who loves you the most? One who's flawed, true, but nonetheless captivated by your authentic beauty.
That particular curve of your jaw.
Or the way you hold your pen.
Or your giggle when he makes you laugh; your frown when he 
     makes you mad.
How he watches you so intently when you tell him your story.
And reminds you to continue when all within you longs to stop.

The thing is, this little girl is learning about her heart from the one  showing her how to guard it...one giggle, frown, glance, and reminder...one dance...at a time.
Incidentally, he's also the same one showing her Him: the Father
    who gave her a heart in the first place.

So she can live.
And wonder.
Without worry.
And hopefully a bit less harm.

For a little girl, the heart is risky business, a perilous journey of rise and fall, win and lose.

But this business of learning and guarding: well, maybe that's not so bad.

Especially if the lessons come by dancing with her Daddy.

When You Go

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.

Click

The sound of a camera's click has often held a heavy dose of the proverbial love/hate relationship. When I was a kid, my mom and a camera usually meant smiling when I didn't feel like it or pausing play with the gift I most wanted for a snapshot I didn't want at all. Of course, now that I have those memories locked in time forever, I'm thankful she pushed the point.

As I got older, especially those teen years, I began to see pictures as a pseudo-documentary of puberty's cruel joke on females. I was reminded of this stage recently when I went with a friend as she shopped for her homecoming dress: for teenage girls, the thighs are routinely too large, breasts too small, legs too short, and hair too dark. Like your thighs, breasts, legs, and hair? No worries: the list of anatomical errors is long enough, we're bound to find something that peeves you. When I was 15, I saw a body too short for boys, hair too straight and ordinary for commenting, and a nose that looked suspiciously like a pointed weapon. Now, I see an athletic frame, honey-toned hair that requires little effort, and the nose...well, the nose is what it is. And I ain't gettin' it fixed.

Pictures show that about us, I think: those aspects of us that once bothered us but matter little now. They also capture the memories of the best group of gals on that trip you took long ago. Or document the tiny newborn hands that escape your memory five years later. Or spotlight the perfect kiss, the ideal day, or those jeans that you never knew made you look so skinny!

But when my kids get their pictures updated, I love the sound of that click. I can't keep them little forever: I don't know that I want to keep them little forever: there's too much good stuff left to live. But portraits let me look again and again on that gorgeous one, two, three...eight...nine year old face as it grows each year. I see the teeth that have fallen out and the new ones grown into their places. I see the new freckles on Gracie's nose and how much Elijah's hands really look just like Craig's. In 20 years, I'll still see how Judsen's ears stick out from his head, just like mine. And just like my dad's. And when my dad leaves for Home, I'll see him in those ears.

Yes, yes, I hope to have the real-life versions of those portraits all my life to look upon and grin and remember. But those ears won't stay the little templates they are now. Grace will someday have all her adult teeth and, with each passing year, I'm reminded of just how fast that will happen. And Elijah's hands will one day be just as big as Craig's...maybe bigger...and I won't be able to fit them inside mine then like I can now.

But portraits help me remember all of that now.

And when the time came when it was possible we'd never take another family portrait with Craig in it, I vowed I'd capture that unit, too. So we hang that portrait above a sign in our house that says, "Home is where your story begins."

But, of course, only one word really tells the best story.

Click.