Walls

The walls are going up. As this process is taking place, I have suffering through deja-vu. The uncomfortable sense that things look way to small has been revisting me when I walk around the second floor. I know better by now. I have learned to patiently wait for the walls to be up completely before making a final judgment. I think, however, that it will take some beds set up in each room this time for me to be fully comfortable with the space.

For my vertigo-prone friends, you see that plank that stretches across the gap at the top of the stairs? That is the boys' attempt at a "safety rail." Unfortunately, they had little 2-foot tall people in mind when they built it.

A sermon. An analogy. And a victory.

A sermon . . .
For the past few weeks my pastor has been trying to do justice to the subject of conquering sin. Big job. His heart's desire is for his flock to understand that sin can be conquered. But that it not a mystical experience. It is, rather, a daily fight. He first read from Hebrews 12, forcefully hammering home that sin MUST be conquered. That there is no excuse for complacency. His sermon was met with some discomfort. Some members of the congregation felt like they had been slapped. But me, and my purge-happy tendencies, loved the verbal kick-in-the-pants.
This past week my pastor tried again. "I didn't want you all to come away without hope." And so he reread the passage, and proceeded to reinforce a growing conviction in my heart: To conqueur sin is to be determined to break free. It is a conscious decision, that must be followed up with actions. Easier said than done . . .

An analogy . . .
"Throw off everything that hinders..."(Hebrews 12:1) While he spoke I felt like I was cliff jumping. Can you all picture yourself at the top of a 60-foot cliff? The analogy was readily available to me, since I have had extensive experience with 60-foot cliffs. (For the less adventurous, try picturing 20 feet. Still high enough for you to get the picture.) What you feel at the very top of a lakeside cliff is a great tension between the desire to jump-- to fully submit to the pull of the water below, feeling the powerful rush of air as you fall-- and the desire to keep rock solidly beneath your feet. You can stand there for five, ten, fifteen minutes trying to will yourself to JUST JUMP.
And then you do jump. It is a moment where you bust through your wall of fear and act completely irrationally. And you fall, fall, fall---Wham! You break the surface of the water, and despite any pain that may follow from the impact, your veins are pumping with the thrill of victory and accomplishment.

So, yeah, that's how I feel about my battle with sin. Leaving the cliff is doing something about my sin. But that something takes monumental effort. That is the nature of beginnings. Just initiating some movement is incredibly hard. But once you do, the blessings become apparent, and they help sustain and encourage the forward movement. (Or downward movement, as my analogy better illustrates.)

Can you feel the tension? Does this resonate with you? When you have been strolling along comfortably in your life, and you are suddenly made aware of some sin. It tends to become more and more and more apparent. Every sermon convicts you. Every comment seems to strike you. And every glance seems accusitory. Your conscience becomes smitten more and more sharply. But as uncomfortable as all of this is, you are aware that making a change is going to be equally as uncomfortable. To do nothing, however, is to never find peace. You will always long to be nearer to God.

A victory . . .
We must jump. And the jump comes with deep deep rewards. I want to share a personal jump that has resulted in much joy. This is what my cliff ledge was composed of: lots of good books from the library, all of which I was eager to read, and all of which would have transported me to a fictionary world, serving as an escape from reality. There were episodes of the Gilmore Girls to watch, or some other television show, empty of meaningful content, but requiring passive attention. And lots of materials to help me indulge in creativity. This, to me, was a most appealing environment, filled with things I love to do. However, most notably absent, are my children and my duties to them.
This is what the jump looked like, when it came: All the books were returned to the library. The Gilmore Girls episodes have remained untouched. And the craft supplies have been religated to naptime.
The rewards have looked and sounded like this: Pillow fights, airplane rides, wrestling, giggles and glee, lots of 'I love you mommy's', a deeper friendship between my two eldest, progress in potty training, deeper God talks with my little people, and a more intimate awareness of who each of my children are. I am falling inlove with them. These rewards will surely sustain me.

And yet I know that it isn't so simple. I will have to wake every morning with fresh resolve and a determination to set aside my natural inclinations, in order that a might choose those things which are more excellent. The fact that I have revisited these ideas over and over again with you through this blog indicates my ongoing struggle. But also attests to God's unfailing attentiveness to us. He is steadfast at His potter's wheel, molding us into better likenesses of his son. The cliff will always try to root me into immobility, like a giant magnet, but because I have the power of the Spirit at my disposal, I will keep making that jump over and over again. Ever higher. Ever more rewarding.

Quick house update

There has been little to no movement on the house all winter.

A) Weather. It's TOO cold to work. The upstairs windows have been delivered, but the boys haven't been able to install them, lest they freeze themselves stiff, or lose some fingers to frostbite. And the frustrating thing is that the house will not keep the cold out until the windows are in. So the only workable space is in the basement. And working on the basemnet doesn't bring the move in date any closer.
B) Other priorities. We haven't been able to get anyone out to help. I think I was a bit naive. I assumed we would have lots of help. I figured it would be easy to get a work crew together-- a real testosterone-fest. But no. It doesn't help that Aidan has a hard time asking for help either.
C) Sickness. It's just that time of year. So even the few people that we do have available to us have been in and out of the flu or colds.

So, we aren't getting anywhere fast. And I am getting antsy. Hopefully, come spring, that will change.

A few good pictures

How low can he go?Hallelujah snowman?

Sunlit baby:

It's a girl thing:I can't get enough of flower shots. Yeah, yeah, their easy. So what?!

Cane Toads

I've been on a documentary kick. It's one of the only ways, I could think of, from which to glean tidbits of semi-useful knowledge in a short period of time. I've been learning of the one-child policy in China, the Indian Bhopal incident, a short history of the Maya, (shudder). And then came the Cane Toads . . .

The back of the box reads as follows:

A magically sustained work that is, at once, a tribute to toad resiliency and a cry to wipe the ugly little beggars off the face of the Earth. -Dallas Times Herald

I also read somewhere that if Monty Python were ever to produce a documentary, it would look a lot like this. How could I resist? I so wasn't disappointed.

Perhaps it was the fact that it was filmed in the 80's. Or perhaps it had everything to do with being an Australian-produced gem, but the entire thing had an air of the caricaturesque, (my word). At most, two minutes of serious commentary would be maintained, only to disintegrate into absurd interviews with the most zany people imaginable. For example, the film was composed of two factions: toad lovers and toad haters. The toad hating camp yielded a gentleman who proceeded to go tearing through the countryside at night spearing toads after his exotic pet cat was poisoned to death by one. Another described, in great detail, and with a severe stutter, the damage he could inflict with his piece of metal pipe. Another still, actually admitted to habitually veering back and forth across highways in order to squash as many of the toads as he could under the wheels of his VW camper. (This last was accompanied by incriminating footage.)

The pro-toad camp was composed of individuals no less amusing, if perhaps, a bit more disturbing. An elderly couple waxed and waned about the joys of sitting out in the backyard with their toads, feeding them cat food and having them hop all over their toes. While another woman recounted how her two daughter once adopted a pair of toads as pets, and would dress them in dolls clothes and throw them tea parties. "The most contented little dollies, they were-- but just SO ugly." Have I mentioned yet that these Cane Toads are roughly the size of a cat?

And I would be remiss in omitting to share the lyrics of one of the background tracks. This particular one was crooned in much the same style as a Sinatra ballad;

"If anyone could ever love a Cane Toad
It would have to be another Came Toad.
'Cause if anyone could ever love a Cane Toad
They'd have to love him warts and all."

This is a plug. If you need a laugh, or a distraction, or have nothing else to do with three-quarters of an hour, have a look: Cane Toads: An Unnatural History."

Talk to yourself. Don't allow your self to talk to you.

We all carry our sins like a burden on our backs. Depending on the season of life, different sins make themselves more evident in our hearts. Weighing us down. Demanding to be dealt with. In this season of my life, this sin is burning my heart: Self-indulgence. It's a nasty one. One that weedles it's way into every decision and interaction. One that paves the way for me to spend my day reading a good book, doing something artistic or preparing elaborate meals, rather than reading to my children, doing devotions or praying.

Can you see how slippery this particular sin can be? The world shouts out; Do what pleases you! You owe it to yourself! This seems to be directed, most often, at mom's. Society sees mothers as weary, downtrodden creatures, who are desperate to be freed from the mundane. The perfect captive audience . . . Hence, elaborate efforts to advertise spas and beauty treatments; health and fitness programs, and getaways packages. A sense of entitlement has been nurtured, so that mother's truly believe these diversions are owed to them for all of their labours.

This aside, when it comes down to it, it just feels great to indulge in what provides the most direct pleasure. I love being lost in a book. And I love concocting and savouring good food. I do not find direct gratification in building castles, or slopping paint all over a soggy piece of art paper. And so I prioritize my favourite activities, squeezing in the latter ones, as though they were on a checklist of onerous activities I must dutifully perform.

In my efforts to chip away at this iceburg of a sin, here is a nugget of wisdom I unearthed:

"I say that we must talk ourselves out of allowing "ourselves" to talk to us! Do you realize what that means? I suggest that the main trouble in this whole matter of spiritual depression, in a sense, is this, that we allow our self to talk to us instead of talking to ourself. Take those thoughts that come to you the moment you wake up in the morning. You have not originated them, but they start talking to you, they bring back the problems of yesterday. Somebody is talking you. Your self is talking to you- Martin Lloyd-Jones

My self tells me quite frequently that I am entitled to my daily pleasures. But when my mind touches down on the duties of a mother--the challenging job of playing on their level, and nurturing them-- my self also tells me: "La, la, la, la-- I don't want to think about these things right now." So, what would happen if I began to interject. If I began to cut off those thoughts with these: "I am a mother. That is an honour bestowed upon me. By who? By my God. What can I do to give him the glory in it?"

Jones points to the psalmist who wrote: "Why art thou downcast, Oh my soul? Why so disturbed within me?" (Psalm 42) The psalmist is questioning himself. If we would only evaluate our every thought, reign them in, and then slap them into shape, how would our priorities shift? The apostle Paul says it's all possible. I have no choice but to believe him. I know we are no longer slaves to sin. We CAN talk ourselves out of sin and indulgence, and onto a right path by speaking God into our hearts. Jones finishes his thoughts:

Defy yourself, and defy other people, and defy the devil and the whole world, and say as this man; "I shall yet praise Him for the help of His countenance."

This is the psalmist's endnote; "I will yet praise Him, my Saviour and my God." My heart is challenged to begin smacking my thoughts into the right gear, particularily the ones that great me when I wake up. Rather than lying in bed, indulging in the formulation of a list of all the pleasures the day holds for me, I will seek to put forth my God, and all things not-me first. In the healthiest sense do I say, it is time to start "talking to myself."

Country rink photo shoot

Oooooh! Aaaaaaaah! Snow removal. . .

Captivated.
It only took one enormous orange snow tractor, trailed by 9 multi-coloured dump trucks to do it. Even I was hooked.

Wood Stove

We have a wood stove! No upstairs windows-- but we have a wood stove! More than any other development thus far, this one has made me feel most at home in this place. I feel it is a bit premature for me to wax and wane about something with which I have little experience. But I will gladly let someone else do it:

The wood stove offers much more than warmth. It creates an atmosphere that high-tech gas logs with a press-of-the-button remote control can’t come close to achieving. The welcome smell of wood smoke (sometimes a whole roomful on damp evenings before the chimney starts drawing properly), the snap and pop from dry kindling or a misplaced cedar log, the radiating heat and even the ashes have their place in the whole ambiance of heating with wood.

Boy Scouts and old salts love wood stoves almost as much as whittling on sticks with their pocket knives. Cutting firewood in the forest, sawing logs, splitting, hauling and stacking cut wood, even hauling it from the wood pile or garage to the wood box bring a measure of pleasure.

Tinkering with the damper on the stovepipe and setting the draft control to get a long, hot, efficient burn all add up to a rewarding experience, a real throwback to bygone days of pioneers who kept the fires burning to ward off winter’s chill.

As I turn off the room light and settle back in my easy chair, I quickly get lost in the hypnotic dance of the flames flickering through the isinglass. Thoughts of inflated fuel prices and brutal windchills drift away leaving only the cozy smell of woodsmoke lingering in the air. The stove’s radiant glow warms my feet, my face and the whole room offering comforting reassurance that all is good with the world.

-Tim Sweet- WNR Magazine-

Heart Day

"What's Valentine's Day?" Caelah asked me, sometime late January.
"It's just another excuse for a party," I replied.

And it is. We don't love one another a little more on Valentine's Day. We just allow our love to be manifested in shades of red and pink for one day, and sweeten the deal with lots of chocolate. I used to love writing up Valentine's for my classmates, thoughtfully assigning each card to the most appropriate person. I can't give Patrick the one that says; I love you Valentine, because then he'll think I do love him. And I do, of course. He just can't know that.

Caelah and I worked as a team on her Valentine's this year. She helped me glue important bits where they belonged, and painstakingly signed her name 25 times. (Good thing she only has six letters to pen---I had 8!) We popped them each into an envolope with a chocolate heart, making sure that her teacher and bus driver each got one too. It was fun. But it was even more fun to look over her own stash when she got home. They were beautiful! I was thrilled to see how many were handmade.

That evening, true to my word, we had a party. Some friends and their three little munchkins arrived from across town, despite the snow blizzard and traffic, bearing beautiful tulips and chocolate cake. We all piled around our tiny kitchen table in our tiny kitchen, improvising where we had to, (we had more bums than seats, thus, temporarily employed an old wooden chest). We munched on fajitas. Chatted over the noise. And then . . . we went skating. "We are hardy folk," is the way Melissa put it. Or crazy. That's up for debate.

Four adults; two teeter-tottery girls on teeny tiny skates; two little boys, non-skaters, and disgruntled about it; and two tired toddlers were to be bundled and strapped into three different strollers. At the last minute Aidan and I decided to take remove Gabriel from the equation, after having begged a favour of my sister, who promised to keep an ear out for him while he slept. One down, 9 to go.

The skate was surprisingly smooth and comfortable heading South. The girls skittered along, Janika more gracefully than Caelah, and the stroller-bound bambinos didn't rebel. But then we turned around. The snow came at us horizontally. Right into our eyes. The children began to lose some of their cooperative spirit, and the going was slow. But we made it. And were rewarded.

Back home, there was hot cider on the stove, and chocolate cake on the table. The noise level was markedly lower upon returning, now that the kiddoes bellies were full, and their energy dampened. It was so nice to end the day warm, well fed, and in good company. A good good day. Good for the belly. Good for the heart.

Look like a full table? Now add three more adults and one more baby.

My Valentine's gift from Aidan: A hardcover book full of our wedding photos!

Food

I just wanted to invite any of you who cook to have a look at a new blog I started:

http://flavourswap.blogspot.com

I am hoping to have many, many contributors who will join me in swapping recipes, and reporting back about successes and failures. Any suggested creative culinary twists, are also welcome.
Any of you who would like to post recipes, just give me permission to add you as a contributor.

Update

It looks like our little guy is on the road to tonsil removal. Apparently the high fevers are an unhappy symptom of strep throat. And Gabriel seems to be having chronic infections. The doctor said that what we are likely in for is a year of this: Fevers, antibiotics and general misery, until CHEO deems it serious enough to operate.
So, boo for the misery ahead. But yeah for a textbook illness, rather than a mysterious ailment.
Oh, motherhood . . .
Thank you, thank you, and thank you all for the love.

Sick

We need prayer.
Gabriel is a ball of fire. We have been trying to beat back his fevers for days now, and even medicine doesn't seem to be doing it. At 2:00 a.m. I ran a cool bath, and Gabriel and I tried to bathe away the worst of the fever, but it crept back up in no time. And then the hullucinations... If any of you have ever witnessed someone in the grip of a night terror, you can attest to the unsettling nature of them. Gabriel had finally settled beside our bed, and we all drifted off. Suddenly I heard whimpering and saw him on all fours scuttling backwards across the floor. He was frantic, looking up and down and behind him. Even once we held him, he would spasm and look all around joltingly with huge eyes. I was half expecting to see something hovering in the air. We just prayed and prayed and prayed that it was only a nightmare. Eventually I had to hold him in my arms until we both fell asleep.

This would be less worrisome if it had not been re-occuring every few weeks. But it has, since Christmas. Fever and fever after fever. And having a child on fire is heart wounding. How much longer can his little brain be overheated until he suffers brain damage? Has he already? How much can a little body take? I have absolutely no faith in the medical system. We have had one clueless doctor after another stuff him with antibiotics, and refer to their prescriptions as "fishing" for a cure to his ailments. At times like these I overflow with rejoicing for a faith beyond Man.

Please pray that we can get to the bottom of this. That a competent doctor would come our way. And if not, that his body would heal on it's own. And most importantly, pray that our faith in the Great Physician would remain ever steady.

Snow days

Happy days. Cold enough for ice and snow, but not cold enough for frostbite and human hybernation. Yeah! Yesterday morning, Aidan and I got the entire brood dressed for the snow and headed outside, all before the ripe hour of 8:00 a.m. Caelah burrowed (...into an elaborate "fort" co-built during bus waits by she and daddy.) Elijah shoveled. And Gabriel sat. He seemed pleased just to be there.
We went out under the guise of "seeing Caelah off." But really, we had big plans. The moment we saw her little pink hat disappear from view on the big yellow bus, we strapped the boys into the stroller and headed to the canal for our first skate together of the season. Had Caelah known we were going skating, she never would have stepped onto that bus. These tactics will grow stale soon. She's too bright.

Perfect skating conditions: warm enough for light dressing, few people sharing the ice with us, smooth ice, and big fat snowflakes falling from the sky. The kind that land in perfect condition--tiny little ice stars clinging to our clothes. It also marked an initiation-- Gabriel's first "skate." Just another link in the chain of our canal saga. Aidan and I LOVE the place.

We courted on the ice. At the beginning, we skated hand-in-hand over and over and over again. Often, Aidan would skate backwards for ten minutes at a time so he could look me in the face as we skated, and it felt like we were dancing. We would speak about our plans and hopes between glides, and continue the chats over beer at a pub nearby, our cheeks rosy, and our hair all amess.

The canal was to be the site of our engagement. Aidan had wanted to lead me to Patterson Creek-- a tiny alcove of ice off the main canal. A perfect place. But I, not knowing his intentions, and deeply upset by the day's events, obstinately refused to go skating that evening. So he settled for a bench across from the Parliament buildings. No putting him off.

Since then, we have not lived more than four blocks from the canal. Caelah was bundled into a stroller at two weeks of age and taken onto the ice. Then came Elijah, and the push to buy a double stroller so that he too could join our skates. And now, with Gabriel, we must be more creative.
Soon, we will move away. Far beyond our comfortable four block canal radius. But we'll be back. And our little fledglings will be skating on their own, discovering the joys of ice for themselves.

Home & Whole

What a rush!
The alarm went off at 5:30 a.m on Saturday, and we simply threw the bags in the trunk and took off. The air was bitingly frigid as we got into the car, but we pushed the thought aside for the drive. I would be lying if I said it was a peaceful journey. There was no traffic, and the scenery was beautiful, but I was so nervous that I made my stomach hurt. A sense of foreboding had taken up residence in my gut. The closer we got, the higher the hills that dotted the horizon. And by the time we pulled up, I had convinced myself we were about to ski Everest.

Well, it wasn't Everest, but the rooky Ottawa girl was awed, just the same. From start to finish Tremblant was a novelty. First, the place was run like a well-lubed machine. The flow was fantastic. Even the longest lineups at the lifts were relatively quick to get through. Second, the scale. . . BIG! The main lift up to the top was called a "gondola": An enclosed capsule with two bench seats that could accommodate up to 8 people. I came to deeply appreciate this piece of ingenuity when the cold really set it. As for the slopes themselves, they seemed never-ending. Had you strung four Edelweiss runs one behind the other, they would still not have equalled the length of a Tremblant run. They took fifteen minutes to get down. I believe we only managed 8 runs over the five hours we were skiing.

The weather, unfortunately, was prohibitively coooooooooold! We did happen to go on a ridiculously cold day, but the wind that hit the top of the mountain must make even mild days chilly. We made the mistake of trying some of the runs on the North side of the mountain and had to endure a wind blasted ride up the hill on an exposed chair lift. But that's not all. I haven't mentioned the fog yet. At one point, one side of the hill was completely coverd in a dense fog that reduced visibility to perhaps five feet. We avoided those runs altogether, but it was mesmerizing to watch skiers disappear into the sunlit fog one after the other.

The scenery. . . I have been to BC, so I can't say that these were most majestic views I had every beheld, but they were breathtaking nonetheless. Obvious beauty was found in the hills themselves. Once you reach the top, you have a panoramic view of alpine hills spread a far as the eye can see. A less obvious source of beauty was the snow encrusted trees lining the slopes. The hill is riddled with snow-making machines. Much of the snow misses it's mark, coating the evergreens with a thick layer of white. Certain chairlifts swept us passed stands of heavy white pines that looked like they had been transplanted from a winter faery tale.
Despite the initial intimidation, Aidan and I held our own fairly well. Mind you, we weren't taking many risks. We did not stray from the intermediate runs at all. The few encounters we did have with a black diamond portion of trail left us on our behinds. I have no idea how people tackle powder moguls, but it is not a skill I have yet aquired. I was very impressed by my husband's skiing abilities. I trailed behind him for the most part and watched him execute tight, perfectly parallel turns. Following along, I imitated him, and actually fine-tuned my technique just by observation. I had eight fifteen minute self-instructed ski lessons, and reached the bottom a better skiier each time.

We set out for a dose of exhilaration, and found it. Now we are back to the grind with sick kids and work to do. But these things are our life. The mountains and small thrills in between are just a bonus.

Five years

Aidan and I have been married for five years now. Five years. It is incredible how much living happens in five years. "With ease," I keep saying. But I am well aware that the "ease" of which I speak is, in fact, God's hand of blessing upon us. He has granted us five years of calm seas. No trials or tribulations, only blessing. And, like a squirrel, I have been mentally storing up the memories of God's graciousness throughout these years so that I might reflect upon them, and draw from them, when harder times come upon us. It is a certainty they will.

How do two people celebrate five years of marriage? A funny concept, really, since every day marks new reasons to rejoice. The occasion, however, does offer us an excuse to do something we rarely can afford to do. Dinner out? No. Night at a hotel? No. We are going to launch ourselves down the biggest ski hill around: Tremblant. Neither of us have spent much time skiing, but we are passably able. One of my goals this winter is to learn how to get down a bunny hill on a snowboard. I have a narrow window of opportunity before another baby comes along. That will have to happen closer to home though. Tremblant is intimidating to begin with, let alone hurtling down it with both feet strapped to a board.

So, here's to five years. Think of us. Pray we arrive home exhilarated and un-concussed.

Little sinner

This creature is responsible for three consecutive nights of near complete sleep depravation. I have calcualted an average of 3 to 4 hours a night. And counting . . . Yes, he looks harmless, but really, he is trying hasten our expiration.
Gabriel is 11 months old. A teeny tiny little person. But he is already so evidently a fallen little being. Two days ago, I had my first startling taste of his capacity to sin. Baby-barnacle, I have recently dubbed him, was inhibiting my progress on lunch preparations. When I put him down on the kitchen floor, he proceeded to clench his little fists, jut out his chest, and roar in my general direction. I stopped to look his way, and he looked me in the eye, roaring again with so much force it made him tremble.
And that's not all. Once I finally retrieved him, he grabbed a fist full of my hair and yanked, emitting a growl, as if to say; "So there."
This fills me with dread. What will he become? Just a reminder to you all, our little bitty sinners need praying for. Oh, and their parents need praying for too, because the good and righteous path becomes far more difficult to navigate in a fog.

Flickering flame & Moonlit faces

I do realize that this post follows on the heels of another, which reflected upon the importance of things. But here's the thing. We just purchased a new camera, and it will certainly make things more interesting around here. My first photo: In the dark. No flash. No tripod. Beautiful. My favourite things are those that shine out of the darkness: Flickering flame & moonlit faces. These things were completely impossible to capture with the camera we had been using. Now, they stand a chance of being trapped on my lense.

Truth be told, I feel there was a wee bit of self indulgence involved. But I also feel an enormous desire to run out and capture our world in this lense, and see it reflect itself back at me so that I can learn from it.

We are thankful for what we have. And what we have will not be wasted.

Clay bowl

A man made his way across a lonely landscape. His feet were bare and caked with dust. His clothes were worn and tattered. In his arms he carried the only three items he could call his own: A bowl made of clay, a silver spoon and a rusty hunting knife. He came upon a creaky bridge, and as he crossed it, the silver spoon slipped from his grasp and was lost in the whirling water below. "Oh, my knife! Gone forever!" He continued on, holding his remaining possessions closer than before. He passed into a deep forest. It wasn't long before a monkey swooped down out of a tree and snatched his silver spoon from his hands. As the monkey disappeared in the treetops the man cried, "Oh, my spoon, lost to me also!" The bowl, he clung to with all his might, folding it into his garments so that it stayed close to his skin. However, he came to a broken wall, over which he had to climb. As he picked his way carefully across the boulders, his clay bowl slipped from his grasp and shattered on the stone. The man paused. No move he made. And then, with his head thrown back and his arms raised to the sky he hollered, "Free!." And he carried on, with a bounce in his step and his arms swinging.

I don't remember where I heard it before, or even the details of how it was told, but the essence of this parable stuck with me. The weight and responsibility of things can be so tiring. On occasion, the life of a pilgrim has appealed to me. Hold on to the ones you love, and go. . . leave everything else behind. I have never worked out the how or where of this scenario. But the idea is still exhilarating. No ties to anything but one another.
The Acts church did it. They sold everything they had and gave it to the ministry, and to support one another. In today's reality, however, love would, likely, only get you so far in this climate, and then you would either have to become dependant on social assistance, or freeze to death in the snow. What's the balance? How do we become people freed of our proverbial clay bowls?
Aidan and I spent the Lord's day with a family who is about to do just that. They, and their six boys are heading off to Africa to train up local men to become pastors. In their wake, they will leave behind everything. And I mean everything. We were taken on a tour of their empty house, and offered the last of their furniture and appliances. The boys will be allowed to fill one small suitcase apiece. No bikes, no skates, no stuffed bears.
This same family followed us to our building site later in the day, and toured our home-to-be. They loved it. Offering it high praise, and hinting that this would be the place they come on furlough. Surely the awkwardness this situation presented is evident to you. While this couple was in the midst of purging themselves of all of their wordly posessions, Aidan and I were equally as busy compiling our own.
Mercifully, it wasn't long before we were offered this little gem; "We have been greatly blessed by wealthy friends who's wealth is their ministry. Everything they own is given in hospitality and fellowship." You have much? Then give much. The more I meditate on this the more I understand. God has given us all clay bowls. Those of us who cling to our bowl until our knuckles turn white will never find peace. But those of us who hold on lightly, treating it as a thing to be passed around, will be just as the man who's own bowl slipped out of his fingers to the ground: Free.

Tradition

These are the holiday traditions that belong to me and my family:

Saint Nick's gift exchange, spent with Aidan's extended family. This involves lots of poetry, the presence of a "real" Saint Nick, (the orator of said poetry), and the result is much word garbling and laughter.

The Christmas Play: Always perfect in it's imperfection. This year, Elijah was a sheep who wanted to be lost. He tore away from the flock to get to Daddy at the far end of the sanctuary, and despite the head shepherd's best efforts, remained lost. A different end to the parable we all know.
Christmas Eve with the Van Dyk's: Rare visits with Aunt Stasia and Uncle Evan, who always come bearing great loot for the kids. Delicious Christmas bread: sticky and sweet and always polished off. An array of gourmet cheeses and tapenades. Orange peel tricks and sparking flames. Games, along with a healthy dose of family competition. (See Einstein Riddle below) And carol singing around the piano. The enjoyment of which I seem to forget from year to year, but rediscover after the first piano chord.

Einstein's Riddle

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ALBERT EINSTEIN'S RIDDLE

ARE YOU IN THE TOP 2% OF INTELLIGENT PEOPLE IN THE WORLD? SOLVE THE RIDDLE AND FIND OUT.

There are no tricks, just pure logic, so good luck and don't give up.

1. In a street there are five houses, painted five different colours.
2. In each house lives a person of different nationality
3. These five homeowners each drink a different kind of beverage, smoke different brand of cigar and keep a different pet.

THE QUESTION: WHO OWNS THE FISH?

HINTS

1. The Brit lives in a red house.
2. The Swede keeps dogs as pets.
3. The Dane drinks tea.
4. The Green house is next to, and on the left of the White house.
5. The owner of the Green house drinks coffee.
6. The person who smokes Pall Mall rears birds.
7. The owner of the Yellow house smokes Dunhill.
8. The man living in the centre house drinks milk.
9. The Norwegian lives in the first house.
10. The man who smokes Blends lives next to the one who keeps cats.
11. The man who keeps horses lives next to the man who smokes Dunhill.
12. The man who smokes Blue Master drinks beer.
13. The German smokes Prince.
14. The Norwegian lives next to the blue house.
15. The man who smokes Blends has a neighbour who drinks water.

ALBERT EINSTEIN WROTE THIS RIDDLE EARLY DURING THE 19th CENTURY. HE SAID THAT 98% OF THE WORLD POPULATION WOULD NOT BE ABLE TO SOLVE IT.

(Guess who solved it? My super smart husband did! It didn't take him long, either.)

Be on the lookout for this logo. Aidan and Colin will make a famous beer brew one of these days and it will appear in glasses just like this, maybe in their own pub! Colin made these particular glasses for us.

Christmas Night & Day: Sqeezing everyone into the Millar household for the night. This means that 11 people are divided into three bedrooms. This year the men all piled into the master bedroom at the front of the house, and accordingly slept peacefully the whole night through. The rest of us . . . attended to a crying baby and a coughing girl from 3:00 a.m until dawn. Who cares. It's just one night.

The day always begins early in our family. This year, due to sleep deprivation, we actually made it to 7:00 a.m. before getting up. We all file downstairs to bulging stockings and hot coffee. The bigger gifts are opened from youngest to oldest. A very practical arrangement, since Elijah's enthusiasm could NOT be bridled. And then comes the BIG breakfast. The menu most years is fried eggs and thick pieces of smoked ham. But I had to throw homemade waffles and whipped cream into the mix this year.

Had there actually been SNOW this year, we would have spent the day sledding or romping in the snow, but this year there was no such option. Instead, I napped for three hours, while my father upended our 30 pound turkey's boiling juices onto his foot and recieved a very bad burn. Please read his version of this tale here.

The traditional turkey meal is consumed and much appreciated. However, I have big plans for garlic and rosemary chicken one of these years. (Recipe courtesy of Jared.) And then we play games until we can fit dessert into our bellies. This year, orange cheesecake topped with blueberries, and pecan torte was available, but we were all so tired we went home before we got to it.

Boxing Day: Games day. One of Aidan's cousins began a Boxing Day tradition of filling the day with games rather than shopping. She recently stopped hosting the event, but we like the idea. So we will likely continue it in the country with snow sport, or games around the wood stove. Yeah! This year Aidan's parents treated us all to a day at the Museum of Civilization and an Omnimax movie.

New Years Eve & Day: I have enjoyed this celebration so much these past few years. One of our friends and her family would open up their country home to twenty of us or so. We would all bring a mix of food and hang out all night long. Lots of games and laughter. Often, in whiter years, the males would race across the fields on a ski-doo. And the women would talk and talk and talk. We have never established a midnight protocal. One year we sang psalms right through. Another, we stopped to pray. Another, we spoke allowed our hopes and prayers for the year. After midnight, (and beyond for some), we would spread out throughout the house and get some sleep. Bodies everywhere!

I think what has warmed my heart most about these years has been the inclusion of our children. Twenty childless youths, and our little ones, whether they cry the night away or not, have been welcomed and cuddled and loved at every turn. Makes parenting easy to know that we, and our children, are loved that much.

This year, as is often the case, the tradition had to be passed on. We will now be the hosts. With much preparation, eight of us gathered at my sister's after evening worship to enjoy a three-part fodue. Smoky bacon cheese, pork and peanut satay, and velvety chocolat, to name a few. And while we all just vegged out in our pygamas, the intimacy of the group made it the happiest place in the world to be. The roads were icy, so we all bunked down all over the house around 2:30. In the morning, we had a crepe and whipped cream breakfast, using up the extra chocolate sauce and fruit.
The holidays are over. And I know they have been a blessing when I tingle with anticipation for them to begin once more next year. Lord willing, we will have a cosy country home to offer to all the people we love next year. New traditions will be established, all firmly anchored in love and fellowship.

Home of Tomorrow

The older I get, the more aware I am of the ebb and flow of trends. Some are a cause for concern, while some are not. But all are noteworthy, because they are societal tide-markers, revealing information about the collective whole that, if studied, give some indication of what is to come. There are people out there who are paid to do just that: take note, and extrapolate. Recently, I read one such application with regards to the housing market. And apparently, in twenty years, most of us will be living on top of one another.

By 2026, the average city dweller will buy into a condominium, and remain there throughout their entire life cycle. While this idea sounded truly distasteful to me, I found that I wasn't the least bit surprised. Top priorities of the average Canadian:

• convenience and ease
  
• speed and access
  
• work and money
• self at the center
  

Condominium living would certainly appeal to people with such priorities:

A small condominium [is] suitable for the dating, clubbing and the first job season of life. Many couples will [then] pick a larger three or four bedroom condominium . . . reluctant, when kids start arriving, to abandon the liveliness of downtown and the many conveniences of condo living. Developers will [also] be offering increasingly attractive perks [such as] improved security, larger rooms and storage facilities, more built-in appliances (including more sophisticated electronic access), and more in-house services ranging from daycare centers and medical offices to beauty salons and dining clubs. . .

-John Bentley Mays. House and Home (December '06)-

As for family life:

Bedrooms will look more like hotel suites, each with it's own bathroom ...web-based audio-visual center and better sound insulation...

Just think, you too, could eat, sleep, shop, workout, receive dental care, medical care and child care within the confines of one building. A bubble-- recycled air and all. And if you don't like your kids, don't worry, they will fade into obscurity, holed-up in their bedrooms.

Of all of the joys heralded by condo-happy developers, one benefit I cannot ignore: less driving. Building up keeps more people in the core, and more cars off the highways. But I can't help but wonder if it would all level out in the end. Will there be a tangled river of vehicles streaming from underground condo lots on Friday evenings, as people flee to the countryside, redefining the terms of our current rush hour, as they go? Or, alternately, and equally dour, will people mute their longings for nature, say goodbye to fresh country air, and become content in the confines of their concrete jungle?

All this talk about the city. What about us rebels? The ones who shake the dust from our sandals and turn our backs on the city to settle in the countryside? Apparently, we will become as good as foreigners. Members of "New Villages." Tiny, self-sufficient, nation states with our own network of home-based businesses, avoiding the pain and expense of driving into the city for our needs.

Twenty years has yet to come and go, and perhaps life will remain pretty much the same, but if any of this comes to pass, making a prophet out of some man, many of you will, apparently, be taking the elevator down to have a cavity filled, and I will be designing a personal state flag, and waving it every now and then to remind you I'm here, just beyond the borders of condoland.

Fourth Birthday

Four years. Four years of being taught how to parent by a precocious, independent-minded, dancing, prancing, talk-your-ear-off, joy of a daughter. We love her so much it hurts. And it is becoming clear that she has a life brimming with love ahead of her. We gathered together all the dearest people in her life to celebrate her day. Aunty Karin's sewing handiwork: A pink hat, mitt and scarf set.

A phone call from Aunty Kate , wishing her a happy birthday from on the road.

Bowling. Six kids: Six adults. And every adult was absolutely necessary to keep chaos at bay.

Elijah's tiger mask. "Grrrrrrr."

Beautiful baby Gaby

Things I have learned:
1. Six children have more than enough energy to make for a rousing party. I am not looking forward to future experiences of parties by the dozen.
2. Afternoon parties are great. The stress of creating a huge, well orchestrated meal is lifted from your shoulders. And, instead, a hodge-podge of finger foods can be thrown together without any complimentary-taste requirements. As for the little guests, they are much happier arriving on a lunch-filled stomach, and leaving before bedtime has expired.
3. The entire present opening ritual is incredibly uncomfortable. I have always thought so, even as a kid. And now I am learning all about the awkwardness of being a parent in these situations, as the child vocalizes their very honest assessments of the gifts they receive, and the parents do damage control as best they can.
4. Take great care with the guest list. It is so easy to miss someone, or, conversely, to over do it. A fine balance that must be re-negotiated every year as the circle of important people expands and shifts.
5. In the end, pray grace upon yourself by the bucketful. And, while you're at it, pray grace upon the attendees aswell. Both will require a large measure of it in order to enjoy the experience, and come away from it whole, and unharmed. On this particular occasion I somehow managed to be careless and hurtful to atleast a handful of people. And the reality is, I am certain to do it again. The wonderful thing, however, is that the very people I unintentionally injured are the very ones that love me enough to forgive me.

It was a good day. A hard day, but some of the best ones often are.

Creativity: Mache Plate

This one was the most involved yet.
Process:

1. I used one of our dinner plates to make a ten-layered papier-mache mold. (Rub it with vaseline before you start putting the wet paper on it or it will never come off again.) To reinforce the shape, I cut out circular cardboard inserts for the middle. Once dried, I pried the mold off the plate and trimmed the edges. This took weeks and weeks and weeks.
NOTE: Mache paste: 1 part white glue to 3 parts water.
This being my first mache project, I hadn't learned how to keep it bubble-free. The plate has a bumpy surface. But it adds to the character, right?

2.When it was all dry, I used sandpaper to try and smooth out some of the rough spots.

3. Put on white primer.

4. Painted and painted and painted. I had to use opaque acrylic or I would not have been able to paint vibrant flowers on top of a black surface. It also dries quickly. A very imprtant factor when sneaking paint time in between my boys' naps.

5. Two layers of varnish. Done!

Photo Journal: December

Winter in the country. We had just a taste of the pleasures in store for us and our children during the winter months. A pile of dirt was left behind from the fill work, and has since provided us with a nice sledding hill. At a good starting run, I managed to get the sled to the tree line at the far end of the yeard. Fun!


Where we are now:
Trusses are all up. Next up: insulation and wrapping, followed by windows and doors.
Basement floor is heated. Soooo nice. You walk down the stairs and the temperature goes up by 15 degrees. I can't wait until the main floors are done.
Waiting for mortgage to be sorted and fixed into place.
New benchmarks have been reached, but for me, the end is still nowhere in sight.

Mercies

I remember stepping off the curb. And I remember a hand catching the back of my coat. One strong, sharp yank backwards. And then I remember a muddy red and white blurr pass mere centimeters from my nose as an city bus swept past me on Rideau street. I could smell the bus. Taste salt on the wake of air it belched in my face. And I have never since been at ease when one speeds by me on the street in a lurshing rush of metal and smoke.
My father says the hand that grabbed me was that of a well dressed woman who, once having saved my life, then promptly melted into the Pre-Christmas bustling mob without a word. Who was she? I don't know. Would I have lived without her attentiveness and quick reflexes. Nope. Not likely.

Mercies. We have all heard about them, read about them, experienced them. And yesterday I lived through another. My daughter plummeted through a gap in the floor of our framed home, onto a concrete floor below, with only a bump on the head to show for it. She was making her way down the newly constructed stairs of our home-in-progress when she stumbled, pitched sideways onto some light foam that had been laid across the opening to the basement stairs, and disappeared below.
I was behind her. I saw it happen. I heard her shriek. I saw her curl in on herself. Saw the blue foam snap in two. And then saw nothing. And in my head: Please. Please. Please. Please. Then she cried. And I knew she was alive, and that it was ok to breathe again.
After her grandfather tore down the steps after her, and carried her back up to us, it didn't take long for us to discover a long raised bump on her scull where she, no doubt, smacked her head on a step before she hit the concrete. No bones broken. Memory intact:

"What did Oma and Opa give you for St. Nicks?"
" A faery--no, an angel dress."

And after a bit of well deserved sniffling, she was back to munching on raisin bread and arguing with her brother. I know that God giveth and taketh away. But he chose to keep her safely within our wordly grasp this day. And I have been thanking him all day long.