Monday Confession

Last night I was standing in the kitchen at midnight eating ice cream and peanut butter, an indulgence I rarely allow myself these days. 

While standing there, I found myself thinking about how we sometimes talk about heaven being a place with mansions God has prepared and streets paved in gold.

And my confession is that I've never wanted that; those descriptors have never appealed to me.

Truth is, I think I'd feel out of place there.

Do you want to know what heaven is, to me?

Long walks in fall, when the trees are golden everywhere.

Passages from books that make me laugh and cry.

Being with the people I love most in this world.

Christmas carols.

Staring at the sky late at night.

Laughing so hard it hurts.
The comfort of familiarity and the smell of lilacs.

The peace, security, love, and steadiness of God; He is the truest friend, and an unfailing one.

Birth and death and the tangible holiness and sacred love that accompany these times of transition.

Delicious food. 

Big trees and evening light.

Morning birds.

Warm homes.

Mountain solace.

Meaningful friendships and connections with other people.

The journey and profound privilege of being a mother.

The sound and smell of wind, especially at night when it's cooler and you want to go out to walk in it.

Music.

Reading with my kids.

A really good run, when my body feels strong and light.

Curling up by the fire on my front room floor while watching thick snow fall outside.

Babies and love and growth and learning.

Letters and traditions and candles in the dark.

Holiday smells and hymns and happy memories and the gifts others bring to the table.

My joy is found in so many simple things like these.

And I can't help but hope that there's a version of heaven up there for someone like me. 

20 Times

When Claire and I got home from dropping off the kids at school this morning, we were still in our pajamas. We wrapped ourselves in blankets on the couch to read for a while. Claire picked up the first book she wanted to read and said that she love-love-love-love-love-love-loves it. (She said “love” so many times.) 

And then, I guess to summarize, she said:

“I love it 20 times.”

Which brings me to this: October is back again. 

There are leaves on the streets and the smell of autumn is here: crisp and changing, brown and earthy.

The tops of the tomatoes are dead with frost and it’s time to pull everything out. 

The mornings and evenings are crisp, sometimes downright cold. 

I’m looking forward to making a batch of apple butter on the stove, filling my house with the scent of cinnamon and cloves. 

I bought spring bulbs to put in the ground so we can enjoy a bunch of beautiful happiness in six months when tulips carpet my small flower bed in front.

We’ve started burning fires, and there’s a sparkly spider and little witch hat on the mantle to show some October spirit. 

That’s all fine and good, and I love it all. 

But when I’m outside these days, I can’t stop staring. You’d think I have never seen golden trees before. But they are my absolute favorite. 

And every time and every day, I am—figuratively, and often literally—stopped in my tracks. Over and over...and over.

It was cool on Saturday when I woke up, and a bit breezy outside. I put my shoes on and went running. I saw sunlight filtering through a tree close to my house that never can decide, every year, if her leaves should be yellow or red. So she is both, and beautiful. And when the morning sun catches her, she is something to behold. 

Seeing her lit my heart right up. 

Life! Joy! Light!

And I know that this autumn will be over in just a minute.

But here’s the thing:

I love it 20 times.

Easter Sunday

This Holy Week has been a time of reflecting with my tribe. 

Each day as we've read accounts of what happened on those same days anciently, we've filled our "Easter baskets" with tokens of remembrance: a leaf for Palm Sunday (which Claire holds and waves back and forth saying, "Hosanna! Hosanna!"); 

a temple picture that reminds us of Jesus teaching us to prize what is sacred; the piece of red cloth to remind us that He taught about the second coming during that last week---testifying that this wasn't the end, that His work spanned all time, and that He would eventually come again clothed in red; a coin because Judas agreed to betray Christ for 30 pieces of silver; a sacrament cup to remember the atonement and that it is personal; a nail to remind us of that first Good Friday and the crucifixion; 

a little Book of Mormon to remind us that, when in the spirit world, Christ organized missionary efforts so that everyone could share joy; and finally, a blossom for the resurrection, symbolizing that life returns, that death holds no eternal finality---and that ALL sorrow and ALL of the ways we feel broken are bound up and healed in Him. 

(Easter baskets!)

I know Jesus lives. 

No words can adequately articulate the feelings of my heart today, but I am so very grateful.  

(the boys in their Easter ties from their baskets -- and I LOVE! Isaiah's long hair)

(the girls and I sporting matching sandals -- Mia has wanted some ever since I got mine a couple of years ago, so the girls got them in their baskets)

Christ's light, His example, and His love make all the difference, every day, for me. 

(Egg dyeing)

 

(Homemade carrot cake with vanilla bean ice cream)

I am grateful for the peace that only He can give. 

(the flowering cherry in my front yard is killing it right now)

He is my greatest gift. 

Dance Sesh

Saturday night.

I got home. 

Kids got home.

And I had an itch to dance.

Benj turned the deck lights on.

French doors opened.

We turned the tunes up loud...and danced.

Hard.

For a long time.

Isaiah let loose like I've never seen him and it was totally, absolutely, completely, 100% delightful.

We reeled each other in, came up with goofy moves across the floor.

He was cracking me up.

We sang along.

We danced together, and alone.

Isaiah took this blurry pic of Mia and I, singing along to Walk the Moon's song, right in mid-phrase:

"SHUT UP AND DANCE WITH ME!"

It was so, so good.

All the feels.

Pocket of Joy

When I walked upstairs this morning, it was to blue skies and sunshine.

One of the things I love most about my little house is all of its windows.

I opened the curtains and light came spilling in.

And then, I noticed that my red geranium on the table, the same one I stuck on my father's grave last year, was opening a new bloom.

I saw the hint of it the other day, little clusters about to open.

But that red wasn't there last night.

The whole thing---the light, the new flower, the sky---felt auspicious to me, and I noticed it immediately.

It felt, somehow, like a good luck whisper---as though I'm about to round a bend and find a road beckoning with light and hope and happiness and joy. 

Then, as I was going to blow dry my hair, I overheard Claire at the kitchen table saying to Mia, "I have to get this thing situated," followed by, "I just have to situate this," and her vocabulary usage kind of made my day, too.

And when I walked out onto the deck, the girls came out and went running in the sunshine, soaking in the 50-something-degree temp and I heard Mia yell, 

"This is AMAZING!"

And it really is.

We can all feel it.

So, me? 

I just found a pocket of joy, and I'm gonna ride this wave all day and let my heart soar in that flight.

And you?

Whoever you are, and wherever you are:

I hope you're finding your happy, too.

Wicked Sweet Hair

Some things just make you happy,

like this.

And someday, years from now, I'll remember that there was a season in my life where I woke up almost every day to one (or both!) of them in my bed.

My beautiful girls.

Sing If You Want To

The last couple of days I've been listening to Eric Church while running.

And even though I've been loving "Record Year" and "Like a Wrecking Ball" and "Broke Record" and "Like Jesus Does" (and others!), when I was almost home today, I listened to "Three Year Old."

And if you've never heard the song, it talks about stuff you learn from a three-year-old---like "use every crayon color that you've got" and "walking barefoot through the mud will knock the rust right off your soul" and "when you're wrong, you should just say so."

And even though I no longer have a three-year-old in my house, it made me start thinking about things I've learned from my people, about the things my children have taught me in the last couple of weeks, even.

Accept it with grace.

Just a week ago, I was getting ready to give Mia a shot of insulin.  And I can't remember what we were talking about, standing there in the kitchen. But as I was going to put the needle in her arm, I remember saying something like this:

"You know, I'm sure there are days where you wish you didn't have diabetes; where, if you could trade it, you'd choose to not have it."

And without even skipping a beat, she just kind of shrugged and said,

"Ehh...you get what you get."

And that was that.

There was not even the slightest hint of self pity or complaint. Just totally okay and strong with what she's been handed. 

Her example inspires me to accept hard things with grace.  

Step up.

(This is Isaiah purposefully getting his geek on. And it makes me laugh.)

My kids were in a bad car accident with their dad a week and a half ago. And I witnessed something that touched me in the aftermath. When I arrived at the scene of the accident, I stepped inside the ambulance to find my children sitting there together. All of them were emotional and scared. A couple of them had blood on their shirts. My little gal's lip was cut, and the other one's neck had abrasion from the seat belt. Benj was particularly upset, and I looked down to see his brother sitting there, holding his hand. And when we got home? He went into man-of-the-house mode, all on his own.
Even though he was also scared and hurting, he was worried about getting the bags in out of the car. He helped his brother get dressed after I'd washed him to get the blood off of his neck and head. He was trying to comfort his sister who was crying. And when Benj was trying to eat some food and began to cry yet another time, Isaiah's eyes filled with tears and he walked around the table to his brother and began trying to physically comfort him again by rubbing his arm. And I thought about that today, the way I was touched by his leadership, assessment of a situation, and compassion.
Watching him teaches me:
Lead out. Look around. Help out. Step up. Be compassionate.

Live with emotion.

This guy, man. Whatever he is feeling, you know it. And he'll tell you. 

If he's angry, his face (and voice!) says it. 

If he's sad, tears come easily and fill his eyes, and he wants to talk to you about it. 

If he's happy, no amount of dampering can suppress his joy. 

And when he's wondering or asking big questions or has a doubt?

He's not afraid to expose that vulnerability.  

And as I think about it, you know what he teaches me? 

To live with emotion, to honor your heart, to choose to love big and love hard, to be honest about what you're feeling, to show it, to live it. And yes, it may mean that you're going to get hurt, but that pain is evidence that you're living, right?

Sing if you want to.

Just today, after my run, I was in the kitchen talking to Mia. And both of us started to laugh because we could hear Claire, 

solo, down in the girls' room, singing.  

She went from singing "Alleluia" from "All Creatures of Our God and King" to "You may always ROCK IT" (think "We will, we will, ROCK YOU") in less than a minute.

Whether she's singing about Jesus or requesting Justin Timberlake, this girl finds the joy. I can learn about honoring who I am by watching her, cuz we can only be who we are. And I love that this little woman is comfortable in her own skin; she's confident and real and deliberate. And she sings if she wants to.

So...that's my list for today.

Accept it with grace.

Step up.

Live with emotion.

And?

Sing if you want to.

I live with amazing people; 

don't you agree?

So Worth It

On the night before her birthday a couple of weeks ago, Claire made me laugh out loud.

We had climbed into my bed, she and I, and I was asking her what she knew about the day she was born.  

She recollected, wrongly, that she was born in the hospital.

To prompt her in the right direction, I asked her where I was when she came out of me.  

Her: "In the bathtub."

Me: "I was in the bathtub. That's true."

And then, she surprised me and I started to laugh when she offered up this little gem:

"You were like, '(Grunt)...it's SO HARD to get out this baby!'"

The grunt was accompanied by a funny, uncomfortable, grimacing expression on her face.

After I stopped laughing, I told her that's kind of how it went down---
that it was pretty painful.

But I also told her 

she was worth it.

  

So worth it.

And this picture is blurry, but it's from four years ago today, when she was just new.

She's much bigger now, and she's a bucket of sass and joy, 

but I love her so.

Books and Gardening

Oh hey, blog.

I've missed you, but I've been out of steam too many nights when I've finally had time to post anything.

I'm coming back, though.

I'm marathon training right now, and when I got home on Friday night from my 17.5 mile run, my neighbor had tilled my garden for me.

Bless him.

When I woke up on Saturday morning, there was a wholelotta work waiting out there in the yard.

I went out and mowed lawns and then spent the remainder of the afternoon planting my garden.

Rain threatened some of the time, dark clouds and thunder in the distance, and I caught the occasional drop on my arm.  I ignored it and put cherry tomatoes and tomatillos in the ground anyway.

I planted Lemon Boys (don't you love the rich yellow of lemon boys?) and a Cherokee Purple (hello, purple tomato!), some Big Beef, Celebrity, and Super Fantastics.

(And let me just say...they better be Super Fantastic.)

I planted every color of bell pepper: red, gold, orange, and green.

Had to plant an Anaheim chile and a couple of hot pepper plants for salsa or burgers or quesadillas or pepper jelly or spicy ranch for salads and tacos.

I separated skinny strands of Walla Walla onions and red onions, folding the dirt over them, propping them up as best I could from both sides with my hands.

Planting a zucchini and straightneck yellow squash is tradition, and I had to add butternut squash cuz it's so yummy, a couple cantaloupes, and some jack o' lantern pumpkins.  I lined the back of the garden with sweet corn.

Somewhere around the middle of the plot, I hoed a couple rows and carefully spaced beets and beans, and let me just say this: there is something about the planting seeds bit that always seems to feel like I'm gambling.  It's as though I'm scattering them with some hope and a prayer.  It's kind of miraculous to me that they come up, every year---cuz every year I wonder if they will.

But in my mind's eye, I look forward to peeling and roasting those beets with some olive oil and sea salt and pepper, and seeing their deep purple red juice ooze beautifully onto my white dinner plate.  

(But who am I kidding...it's the taste I'm crazy about.)

And you know what, this gardening bit reminds me of this passage that the kids and I read a while back.  We recently finished reading The Lord of the Rings trilogy, something I never read as a child.  And this passage moved me enough that I wrote it down to keep for thinking about, because I love it so much.

"...it is not our part to master all the tides of the world, but to do what is in us for the succour of those years wherein we are set, uprooting the evil in the fields that we know, so that those who live after may have clean earth to till.  What weather they shall have is not ours to rule."

I love that, maybe because it resonates so much with the idea of living in the present of your simple life and doing what you can: for you, for those you love, and for those you're blessed to know.  The idea of focusing on tilling your own little plot of earth---and life.  

And then, as a final note, I planted some cucumbers, too.

And since we're talking about books, I have to quote another section from a new book I'm reading.  I honestly don't remember the last time I read something that made me laugh out loud as frequently as this book is.  

I'm that woman that's in a quiet house at night once the kids are asleep, tucked into the warmth of my bed, delightfully chewing pebble ice, and interrupting the silence by bursting-out-loud laughing.

It's this lovely memoir about a guy restoring his 1951 International Harvester, and he likes to garden.  Apparently there's also a love story coming, too, but I haven't gotten to that bit yet.

Anyway.

The other night I was reading about where he was ordering seeds from a seed catalog and has this dilemma about cucumbers.  

(Note: I always debate about cucumbers.)

And he started the whole cucumber commentary by saying this:

"Ain't no such thing as a cucumber.  You've got your Sweet Slice Hybrid.  Your Fanfare.  The Ashley.  The Marketmore, the Cool Breeze, the County Fair Hybrid, the Orient Express, and the Sweet Success.  The Diva. ...Over sixteen variations on a cucumber in the space of a single page."

Oh my gosh.  I totally get this.  I really do.  

(#totallyresonatedwithme)

But then, he had to throw in this humorous bit, and it cracked me right up.

"The seed catalogs promote several varieties of 'burpless' cucumbers.  I have yet to find one promoted as 'burp-ish.'  This is flatly a missed marketing opportunity.  Among my rural and roughneck acquaintances are no small number of folks who not only savor the art of eructation, they cultivate it.  There are guys on the fire department capable of melisma.  I have seen a woman throw her head back beneath the Jamboree Days beer tent and let loose a burp so resonant polka dancers were moved to applause.  I know men longing to belch a full-length version of 'Free Bird.'  Beer works, but it impairs your ability to play air guitar.  There are people out here who would go out of their way to plant row on row of Burp-Mor Hybrids, County Fair Honkers, and Belching Divas."

Wow.

What does one really say about that?

(the garden, and Claire's hair #forthewin)

Nothing.

You laugh, people, and that's all.

In any case, once I got those cucumbers in (Straight Eights, if you were wondering), I planted sweet basil and cilantro and rosemary in my herb planter on the deck.  Watered my lemon thyme that came back from last year.

And I'd be lying if told you that I haven't been admiring the hands-in-the-dirt work from the past week: 

the food that's started in the garden, along with zinnias in the flower bed, and several pots full of geraniums, spilling over with fuschia.

Ahhh summer, I can feel you coming on.

A Perfect Day

You know, once in a while, you're granted a perfect day.  

And I guess there are different perfects.  Sometimes it's the perfect where you want to shout in joy.

Other times, it is as though you are wrapped in peace, in quiet gratitude, joy and awareness.

Such was Sunday.

The morning dawned with sunshine.

We got to church, and I found my heart full -- from reflections, from the text of the music, from the beauty of faith, from sharing with people I love and the community I feel there.

I came home and shared a precious moment with one of my sons -- one of those moments you hold close in your heart, and all you can feel is gratitude and peace and joy and faith, brimming, and budding.  We both sat in the school room in tears.

After making scratch spaghetti sauce, I sat on the deck in the sunshine and eventually, about 5:00, we headed to the cemetery to walk.  It was quiet, the sun's lengthening shadows stretching across the lawns, shining brightly on some gravestones and casting shadows elsewhere.  

And it was there.

I walked along, watching Benji kick a ball all the way around the mile loop, alternately throwing it up into the air.  Sometimes it came my way and I kicked it and he'd go running.  

I watched Isaiah, swinging the arrow that he found up the canyon the other day, walking up on ledges, singing and making noises to himself.

I watched Mia push the stroller, regardless of whether Claire was in it.  She'd get in briefly, but then get out to stroll again, holding my hand, and I held her for a brief spell, too.  

I was caught up in the beauty of it -- of the quiet, the evening, the way everyone was just enjoying time together, and it was so peaceful.  I don't know how else to articulate it.

I guess I felt aware of time.

The beauty of that glorious hour.

And as I walked with them, 

it felt quiet in my heart.

And I keep looking at this photo that we asked someone to take of us and feeling happy:

these two boys who are fast gaining on me, and soon I'll be the one that's shorter, 

these boys that now offer me glimpses of the men they're going to become.

And it's crazy.  And also awesome.

I don't know how else to say it except that I can sense their masculinity.

And then there's the small one, ever the ham.  Her zest for life is contagious, and this photo of her is absolutely perfect.  

It's her.  

100%.

And on my left, there's this beautiful girl.  

I keep looking at her smile here -- so genuine and full.

She's such a beautiful person.

We came home and had warm spaghetti and then read The Lord of the Rings (we're on the third and final book -- almost there!).  

After I'd finished cleaning up, this kid came upstairs and sat down next to me on the couch.  We admired his toothless mouth, 

 and then cracked ourselves up (literally bursting out loud laughing) as we took funny selfies.

 And after they were in bed, I got to talk with an old friend, read, and write for a bit.

My house was quiet, candles and low lights and beautiful music.

Life is a series of things you tuck away in your heart,

and I'm grateful for these little bits and pieces I'm collecting.