8/18/2009
The Day's Reading
. . .a worthwhile read at Doug Wilson's blog, with many snippets of wisdom punctuated by the occasional comic comment. I highly recommend it.
8/17/2009
Be Careful What You Wish For
A week or two ago, I was thinking rather wistfully that Carolyn really didn't like to be rocked. She's never really been a "rock me to sleep" baby. When she was really little, you could sometimes rock her to sleep, but it's never been the norm.
Well, last week, she was really fussy one night. She kept crying like she didn't feel good, and nothing was calming her down. Kevin finally sat in the rocking chair with her, and eventually rocked her to sleep. She was adorable, sprawled out across his chest, one leg sticking out across his legs and one tucked up next to his stomach. It was a precious moment.
One of many.
For now, Carolyn has apparently decided that the only way she wants to go to sleep is in the rocking chair. Most naps and nights, unless she falls asleep nursing, we're rocking her for a while, though not always until she goes to sleep.
It would be easy to be somewhat frustrated with this new turn of events, but I know that it is a season that will pass all too quickly. So I've purposed to treasure these days, however many there are, when my little girl wants to snuggle into my shoulder and drift off to sleep in the rocking chair. Sometimes, you get what you wish for. Enjoy it.
Well, last week, she was really fussy one night. She kept crying like she didn't feel good, and nothing was calming her down. Kevin finally sat in the rocking chair with her, and eventually rocked her to sleep. She was adorable, sprawled out across his chest, one leg sticking out across his legs and one tucked up next to his stomach. It was a precious moment.
One of many.
For now, Carolyn has apparently decided that the only way she wants to go to sleep is in the rocking chair. Most naps and nights, unless she falls asleep nursing, we're rocking her for a while, though not always until she goes to sleep.
It would be easy to be somewhat frustrated with this new turn of events, but I know that it is a season that will pass all too quickly. So I've purposed to treasure these days, however many there are, when my little girl wants to snuggle into my shoulder and drift off to sleep in the rocking chair. Sometimes, you get what you wish for. Enjoy it.
Scents
Horatio, Michael, Tony, Grissom--they're all fond of saying that scent is the sense most closely tied to memory. (I actually learned this in school, but I thought the TV drama reference would give it more credibility.) Last year, I wrote here about the hands of a housewife, thoughts inspired by the food smells that cling to my skin after cooking. Though it seems--and is--commonplace, I intended the references as true compliments. There is more beauty and worthiness in the hard-working hands of our mothers than in the lily-white (or, now, sun-kissed bronze) paws of all the actresses and models Hollywood can procure.
Lately (at least, if you don't count this weekend), it seems that I've been cooking more often and cooking more consistently. It's not like I've ever only cooked occasionally, so I'm not sure why I think this. . .maybe because I've been cooking breakfast several times a week, or because we've eaten out slightly less often of late. At any rate, it seems that my kitchen is constantly in use. Consequently, my house always smells like food. When I come in the front door--or, more frequently, when I come up from the basement--the scent of breakfast waiting to be eaten, lunch heating, last night's dinner, or freshly baked bread for the coming month greets me cheerfully. It always reminds me of my grandmothers' houses. I'm not sure why this is. My mom cooked, too, so it's not like I only associate home-cooked meals with my grandparents. Perhaps it's the age of our house--the smells of fresh food are intermingled with that peculiar staying quality of the air in a house that's been around for almost a hundred years. Actually, I think this house is a good bit older than either of my grandparents' homes. Perhaps it's just that my kitchen looks like it stepped out of a magazine from my grandmas' early-married years. Or perhaps it's the dichotomy of scents--the switch from our unfinished, dusty basement to the brightly lit, warm kitchen. Both my grandmothers have laundry rooms more or less off the kitchen that are concrete-floored areas just before you go outside (our basement has a walk-out exit, also), while my mother has an indoor, tiled utility room. In any case, I relish the likeness that rushes to mind every time I come up from the washer.
Lately (at least, if you don't count this weekend), it seems that I've been cooking more often and cooking more consistently. It's not like I've ever only cooked occasionally, so I'm not sure why I think this. . .maybe because I've been cooking breakfast several times a week, or because we've eaten out slightly less often of late. At any rate, it seems that my kitchen is constantly in use. Consequently, my house always smells like food. When I come in the front door--or, more frequently, when I come up from the basement--the scent of breakfast waiting to be eaten, lunch heating, last night's dinner, or freshly baked bread for the coming month greets me cheerfully. It always reminds me of my grandmothers' houses. I'm not sure why this is. My mom cooked, too, so it's not like I only associate home-cooked meals with my grandparents. Perhaps it's the age of our house--the smells of fresh food are intermingled with that peculiar staying quality of the air in a house that's been around for almost a hundred years. Actually, I think this house is a good bit older than either of my grandparents' homes. Perhaps it's just that my kitchen looks like it stepped out of a magazine from my grandmas' early-married years. Or perhaps it's the dichotomy of scents--the switch from our unfinished, dusty basement to the brightly lit, warm kitchen. Both my grandmothers have laundry rooms more or less off the kitchen that are concrete-floored areas just before you go outside (our basement has a walk-out exit, also), while my mother has an indoor, tiled utility room. In any case, I relish the likeness that rushes to mind every time I come up from the washer.
8/13/2009
Small Miracles
Today, Carolyn discovered that her nesting cups nest. It's the first time I've seen her put one inside another, study it, take it out, and put it back. It's amazing to watch someone grasp those simple concepts we take for granted.
Oh, the Great, Great Love of Jesus
Do you believe God loves you?
Do you truly believe God loves you?
Does God put up with you, tolerate your whining, sigh at your continued sinfulness, while he regards you with the fondness one might have for a rowdy puppy?
Or does He love you?
Do you truly believe God loves you?
Does God put up with you, tolerate your whining, sigh at your continued sinfulness, while he regards you with the fondness one might have for a rowdy puppy?
Or does He love you?
On that day they will say to Jerusalem,It's easy to have an image of God as generally looking down in disapproval for our many misdeeds--disapproval we surely merit. Yet that is not a Biblical image of God. He looks down on those under Christ's blood as righteous and rejoices over us. I think of how I enthuse over Carolyn, for no reason at all but that she is and I love her. Some days I am giddy with joy, just because she is here. That is love. And God loves you.
"Do not fear, O Zion;
do not let your hands hang limp.
The LORD your God is with you,
he is mighty to save.
He will take great delight in you,
he will quiet you with his love,
he will rejoice over you with singing."
Zephaniah 3:16-17
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