::Russell Cousins::

Too good to be true. . .

::Leonid Afremov::

I've been finding bursts of renewed inspiration for beauty and art lately. This man is one of those masters of colour and movement. The neat thing is he doesn't use any brushes. He uses scrapers to create his paintings, which is why there are chunky layers of colour. Fantastic.

 

{Source: ::www.afremov.com::}

::The Book Thief::

'm always years behind. But I get there eventually. What a book. My heart's all rung-out.

Death: "I am haunted by humans."

::Purse Tags::

 

his year's birthday gifts: purse tags. That's what I used mine for anyways. The inspiration came from the tiny butterfly mirrors. I found them, loved them, bought them, then didn't use them. I think they are meant to put in lockers or on walls in a cluster. But I decided they would be useful for the discrete art of checking ones teeth for green bits in public. 

HOW TO:

::Wisp of Whimsy::

::Caelah::

::Tethered::

"When you first arrive at the hospital, they often hook you up to an I.V. At first, the only thing running through your veins is saline water. No medicine. But the preparatory work has been done. Just in case something goes wrong. That's how it should be in the church. We should do the preparatory work with one another so that the groundwork of relationship has been established. In case something goes wrong." ~Jonathan Watt 

I've been walking around this week with visions of us all held close to one another by I.V lines. Tethered. Forced to deal with false-assumptions and hurts and misunderstandings by virtue of our proximity. And I like it.

::Old beat-up wood::

ld, beat-up wood is a personal favourite. One of my greatest misgivings about building new was that we would be working with new materials. But, given time, I've found ways of making the place look older than it is. More wizened. When I stumbled across an old wood pallet behind the garage, for example. I remembered seeing this:

And we got to work. It was really muddy, and huge & ungainly. But we wrestled it into shape by prying off certain board and replacing them in structurally-sound places. And up it went onto our bathroom wall. It was so fun to collect narrow-enough items to perch on the "shelves."

You know what this means, don't you? I will be decking out our whole house in wood pallets now. 

::Garden facelift::

I've said it before. I am not good with green things. So, that's why our garden looked like this:

Notice the sagging upper level? The lack of pruning and the generally sad composition? Thankfully, my Mom is my gardening cheerleader. She came for the day yesterday and we got some serious work done. I almost cried halfway through, when it seemed impossible, but she encouraged me to keep going. There is now the beginnings of a garden I could learn to love. . . if I didn't kill all the plants in the moving process, that is.

::Brayden::

::Collecting my Kids::

When I read, I read to be swept away. If the characters are rich in depth, I'm in. That's why I've never been one for manuals, textbooks, How-To's or anything of the sort. Bleck. So I really shocked myself when I went and read an entire book of secular psychology from cover to cover. I was propelled forward by the importance of the message:

We have to remember that children are in need of being oriented and we [parents] are their best resource, whether they know it or not. The more we orient them in terms of time and space, people and happenings, meaning and circumstance, uniqueness and significance, the more inclined they will be to keep us close. We must not wait for their confused look but assume our position in their life as guide and interpreter. ~p.231

I first heard of the book "Hold Onto Your Kids" {by Gordan Neufeld}, during a CAS training session. I flipped through and read that:

Our children are not manageable, teachable or maturing because they no longer take their cues from us. The result is that children are being brought up by immature persons who cannot possibly guide them to maturity. They are being brought up by each other.  ~p.6

And I thought, really, isn't this a God story? We were created to be oriented to our Creator, revolving around Him in an endless dance of satisfaction and completeness. But we lowered our eyes from the Glory, and our gaze was help by some little shiny bobble that slowly captivated us and held us enthralled. . . And kept us stunted.

What's being dealt with here is misplaced affections and bonds. Specifically, the why's and how's of the loss of our children to peer-oriented lives. The entire structure of society is now set up to weaken, and even sever the hold parents once had on their children. Kids are now being raised by other kids because attachment abhors a void.

Often I read these things and react a lot like that Pharisee. Thank you so much God, that this is in no way relevant to me. But this book offered little shining windows of warning and encouragement. My heart latched onto a particular tidbit concerning false assumptions. One of them being that the bonds with our kids only need to be diligently nurtured for the first few years to make them strong and permanent. But how can this be true when God, the ultimate parent, makes promises to always be near. He, the ever-present One actively lifted our gaze to Him. Constantly sweeping us into fellowship with his gathering-wings.

The author s term "collecting," to describe the repeated gathering-in of our kids. We "collect" babies by making faces until the smile. We "collect" toddlers by reading them stories and teaching them their letters, applauding and cheering when they finally understand. But as our kids grow older, it can all start to unravel. In a society where independence is valued, we seem to want our kids to grow up really quick. We spend less time "collecting" them, so eyes meet eyes, and smiles encourage smiles. And, often without being conscious we are doing so, we are teaching them to make it on their own.

Most of us see don't see it slipping away, I think. One day our little one is waiting for the bus with his arms wrapped tight around our neck. The next, he hops off the bus with a cheerful 'hello' and flies past to find his bike. Then comes the day he lets himself in the door, puts away his stuff on his own and quietly settles into home without you.

I've been reminded to "collect" my little people under my mama-wings in the smallest moment. Moments I have been letting go by. Collect them in the morning before they even set feet on stair. Gather them around until their groggy eyes really see me, so we can tackle the day together. Hair tussles and sleep-warmed hugs. Collect them at each meal by sitting down, no matter how many dishes need to be done so I can meet the eyes of every single one until they can no longer contain the story of their day, and it burbles out between bites from eager lips. Collect them when they return to me from being under someone else's wings. Make sure they know that the hollow place that had opened up in me when they stepped out the door was just made whole again when small arms went round my waist.

And to the mother whose child may already be untethered. Lost.

We can make is as easy as possible for the "lost" children to return and as difficult as possible for the competition to hold on to them. . . The more defiant-- the more they are indicating their need to be reclaimed. . . " ~p. 232

God is a lost-gatherer. And He never rests or sleeps while the lost are still lost. Therein is deep, deep hope. Therein is the strength to keep wings outstretched to our restless chicks so they always turn back for home.

::Trim::

Must every child feel compelled to secretly attempt hairdressing?
Annorah's new hair style is brought to you by Isaiah and his trusty purple scissors. He really went for it. Right to the scalp in some parts. I am doing the best I can with what's left. Every morning Norah's scampered into our bed petting her hair; "Do I still look like a boy?"

::Not too much::

Thinking a lot about this verse lately.

. . .   give me neither poverty nor riches,
    but give me only my daily bread.

Otherwise, I may have too much and disown you
    and say, ‘Who is the Lord?’
Or I may become poor and steal,
    and so dishonor the name of my God.

~Proverbs 30: 8,9~

::Lime Poppy Seed Cake::

This is one of the first cakes I learned how to bake, back when I was first married. It's a tea-sipping cake. The recipe calls for fresh berries on top, but I prefer to drizzle it with a citrus glaze.

::Lime Poppy Seed Cake::

::Blessable::

How sad it is when people only hear about God's blessing, but never experience it, because they are not in the place where God can bless them." ~Warren Wiersbe "Be Committed"

Naomi was in the fields of Moab when she heard that the famine had lifted in her homeland. This was a welcome shift in circumstances for her. She'd lost her husband and sons, and she wanted to go home. She packed up her possessions and started down the road to a place of blessing-- a nation sheltered under the wings of God's covenant. But we soon learn that that there was no blessing waiting for her there. Not because the land was no longer God's. Not because her neighbours didn't call out greetings. Not because she "was empty," and had nothing left-- her daughter was close at her side. But because her heart and mind weren't open to receiving the blessing of what she had. Somewhere along the way, from the graves of her men to the borders of Bethlehem, she had allowed her heart to become encased in bitterness. A hard shell to crack, that Mara.

Ruth was a different sort, altogether. If Naomi was making a trek towards circumstantial blessing, than Ruth was walking away from it. Worldy-speaking, Ruth was removing herself from the benefits of being accepted in her own culture and family, to a place where she was not welcome. Moab, God's "washpot," had a blighted history with Israel. She knew that she was walking into a land that would likely offer her no husband, or inheritence, or kindness. But she was wide open to the blessing of simply belonging to Naomi's God. He was enough for her. This was a girl who was completely and utterly blessable.

My mom has always said I am my own worst enemy. I know it's true. I often strip myself of the contentment that's available to me in heaps. But there is a fresh fire in me to put all that behind and walk in the warmth of blessing. God was enough for Ruth. Him alone. Imagine a life lived that way? No more dashed expectations, or loneliness, or injured pride, or yearnings for more of who knows what. Full. To the brim. With the blessing of Him.

::The edible rainbow::

Gabriel brought home an assignment from school last week. It was called the Rainbow Project. It was about colours, pure and simple. The kids had to create a rainbow out of anything at all, as long as they wrote out each colour in French. I left it until the day before, of course. And maybe I was tired that day. Didn't feel like hauling out all the crafty bits. But I decided we should throw open the fridge and make a rainbow out of food.

 We were defeated by blue. Couldn't write on blueberries. . .

::Offending Beets::

Beets and I have come to a recent understanding. I tolerate their earthy, foreign taste for the sake of those all-important antioxidants, but I juice them and drink 'em down quick. Clearly, they don't feature in any of my dinner menus. This partly explains why my daughter reacted the way she did this weekend. But, only partly. The rest can only by chalked up to the Fall.

The girls were staying at our friends' home while we were away. They are beet-eating types. (You know, the types who will outlive us all.) As the beets were being chopped up for a salad, Norah was offered a sample. I've worked hard to train my kids to never turn anything down before they've tried it at least once. Annorah dutifully took the beet. I mean, they're really pretty and pink, just the thing to catch a girl's eye. But apparently, after just one little nibble she, rather conspicuously, made her way over to where her two year-old friend was sitting and popped the offending bit down the front of her shirt. It's particularly funny because the actual garbage was right next to her. It's almost like she mistook the two.

It was one of those times where something had to be said. Like; "Norah, you can't just go around stuffing beets down people's shirts," but, giggling around the words of a rebuke sort of defeats the purpose. Besides, Norah's little friend is no worse for wear. Apart from the little pink stain still remaining on her belly.

::Opening the floodgates::

Aidan and I hope to become foster parents within the next month or so. I have waited to put this in print because the process is riddled with uncertainties, and undefined time-lines. We're nearly at the finish line-- or, more accurately, the starting line-- so I'm opening the floodgates of communal prayer.

We are in the midst of completing a lengthy checklist that stands between us and our first child. The list has been the hardest hoop we've had to go through. By a mile. Training and home visits have been nothing but a wisdom-deepening blessing. But the list. . .

Some of the items have included police checks, full physicals (ugh!), detailed reference checks, locks on cabinets, railings installed, purchasing equipment with valid expiration dates, water tests and on and on it goes.

Our outstanding to-do's are dragging our enormous dogs to the Vet for expensive shots. A last railing has to be installed. The unfinished part of our porch needs to be blocked off. And I have yet to track down a mattress that properly fits the new crib we bought.

Along the way, we have been walking and talking with God with our palms up. It's all so big and unknown. I have asked Him to provide whatever we need, because we just don't have the means of acquiring any of it ourselves. He has been so faithful. One of the gifts He gave us was this:
Twelve seats. We were aiming for nine. Makes me wonder what kind of expansion He has planned for our family. Admittedly, the vastness of the task and the vehicle intimidate. But encouragement continues to come. We found this on the back of the van when we took it home:

::Needtobreathe::

We are off to Toronto to see these guys in concert. Have a lovely weekend! (And to those who have taken our littles under wing while we are away, bless you!)

::Jephthah's Daughter::

I'd only ever heard the story told one way: Her dad makes a stupid vow. She dies because of it. Jephthah the rash. Jephthah the daughter-slayer. He's never been a favourite. But the Bible's a funny thing. You wade in one day, smile at the guppies, and think you've seen it all. But the next time toes touch water you're in deep over your head staring at the vastness beside, above, below, wondering if there is a bottom at all. I'm not so sure about this man anymore. This Jephthah.

Faith. That thing we want so badly to find on our resume someday, but secretly fear will possibly only make it in as a footnote. He had lots. God says so. Jephthah made the shortlist. Read his story again. Set aside the monster lens and see: He offered his enemies Truth before the sword. He did not hide from his duty to mete out justice, in the wake of predecessors who placated with flattery. He was faithful to his God. Even when the pain of it brought face to dust. So when I read about the man, when I read those impossible words; that he said the thing in his doorway would burn, I am not so sure. . .

The man was a bastard, let's be clear.
Fatherless in the eyes of his kin.
I think I was in the double digits when I was first soberly aware of the predetermination of place. That I had absolutely no say in how, where and when I came to be. I simply wasn't. And then I was. Born into the place that was waiting to be filled by me. Jephthah's dad broke covenant with a woman of ill-repute. He was born nine months later, (more or less). He didn't ask to be, but he was. And he was born right into nowhere. Because no one would have a bastard.

And so one could argue that, when Jephthah was chased from Gilead, the place he was born, he was chased from nowhere at all, because you'd rather have to belong to a place to leave it, wouldn't you say? Hated child of a hated woman. Unwanted.

When the men who chased him off begged him to come back, he didn't buy himself a Welcome mat. No, no. He knew that being needed wasn't the same thing as being wanted. At all. And every useful person becomes less useful at some point. And, when they were through needing him, he'd still be a bastard. A less useful bastard. Yeah, he'd keep his boots laced.

It comes as no surprise that the man was a bit obsessed with the idea of house & home. Even though he was 'raised up' by God to be a leader of his people, he had a hard time grasping that he was, in fact, somebody. From somewhere. He may have been offered a place, but he didn't feel that he could sit by the fire and cozy in until that place had walls he could touch, and a title he could sound on his tongue, and grandbaby-cheeks he could stroke. He figured it was about time he do something about that.

And he did know of an excellent home Builder he could negotiate with.

That vow he made. The one we've all come to hate. I think he made it with those ghosts inside of him: the walls, the title, the babies. Things hoped for but not yet seen. "God, build me a house of my own, and I'll give you the very first thing." But when the first thing turned out to be his last thing, his only thing, he bent and bowed low in grief. Daughter.

Oh.

How quickly we forget. We are tent-dwellers. The most solid masonry will crumble at the first note of the trumpet. When he comes. To make us our home out of the ashes of what we built ourselves. Already, God's House encompasses. We are within it and just because we can't run our finger tips along eternal stone, or slide our feet along golden paths just yet, it doesn't mean it isn't so.

Jephthah forgot. And his daughter: his one thing. His hope. His house-foundation. She was taken. Her life was taken, yes. But not by fire. It was taken to serve. I believe she was devoted to God's temple. Offered up as a sacrifice to live out her days untouched. Pure. In the doorway of God's house.

Daughter. Never wife.
"I will go," she said. But she paved the mountains with tears. She had her own ghosts inside, you see: Husband's hand on rounded stomach as she bent over the dough, kneading her joy into shape. "Mother," meeting her ear like a song. A place among the other women at the river, scrubbing away stains on tiny clothes.
When she danced through that doorway, their little place of belonging was ripped in half.

"Oh, daughter! You have made me low!" He said into the dust.
Dear one. Only one. Doorway-dancer.
I gambled for a house and lost my home.

Oh, but he was always home.
He didn't see it at first.
But we know he sees it know: ". . . and they buried him in Gilead."
He closed his eyes on nowhere, and opened them on home.

::Lemon Crinkles::

Thank you Alanna for bringing these sunshiney morsels into my life. We used this recipe, but there are thousands out there.

:: Ditch Jumping & Treehouses & Marshmallow Roasting::

At Aunty Sarah's this weekend: