9/27/2009
9/23/2009
9/19/2009
Contented
It would be odd if the thought of a new baby had not crossed my mind lately. Carolyn has just passed her first birthday, and with its passing people began to ask when she might have siblings. Also, several friends are deep in the throes of parenting joy, either having given birth in the past month, expecting to do so in the coming weeks, or traveling to get their newly-adopted kiddos. It's beautiful to see.
Listening to two new-made mothers-of-two delight in their doubled progeny, I keep searching for something I'm not feeling. When I finally put my finger on it, I realize that I'm not wistful. There's no anxious anticipation to be in their shoes, no impatience to "catch up," no envy. Funny, I think. It's not what I would have predicted. Certainly, we'd like another baby and pray that God holds that in store for us; it's not that we want no more. Certainly, we would be unequivocally thrilled if another baby were on the way now; it's not a concern with timing. Why not wistful for that peculiar happiness that comes with the anticipation and arrival of a new child?
I've been musing about this unexpected calm here and there, turning it about in my mind. The only answer I find is a simple contentment. There is so much bliss is watching our one little girl, so many moments of enjoyment with her budding personality--how can I be discontent? Just as my friends would be wrong to waste time bemoaning their now-divided attention, I would be wrong to waste this season bemoaning the singularity of my child. It is good to be grateful for the gifts of God in whatever season we find ourselves. And, though we must often purpose ourselves to be content, I am enormously grateful for the very station of being content. It is no less a grace and a blessing of God for being a state we may choose.
Lest you wonder, this is no rebuttal or response to anyone, merely observations of my musings. Just as I am gladdened by my friends' elation with their circumstances, I know they rejoice in my cheerful satisfaction with my own. May it be an encouragement to you in your own season! Praise God for the beauty and uniqueness of our lives!
Listening to two new-made mothers-of-two delight in their doubled progeny, I keep searching for something I'm not feeling. When I finally put my finger on it, I realize that I'm not wistful. There's no anxious anticipation to be in their shoes, no impatience to "catch up," no envy. Funny, I think. It's not what I would have predicted. Certainly, we'd like another baby and pray that God holds that in store for us; it's not that we want no more. Certainly, we would be unequivocally thrilled if another baby were on the way now; it's not a concern with timing. Why not wistful for that peculiar happiness that comes with the anticipation and arrival of a new child?
I've been musing about this unexpected calm here and there, turning it about in my mind. The only answer I find is a simple contentment. There is so much bliss is watching our one little girl, so many moments of enjoyment with her budding personality--how can I be discontent? Just as my friends would be wrong to waste time bemoaning their now-divided attention, I would be wrong to waste this season bemoaning the singularity of my child. It is good to be grateful for the gifts of God in whatever season we find ourselves. And, though we must often purpose ourselves to be content, I am enormously grateful for the very station of being content. It is no less a grace and a blessing of God for being a state we may choose.
Lest you wonder, this is no rebuttal or response to anyone, merely observations of my musings. Just as I am gladdened by my friends' elation with their circumstances, I know they rejoice in my cheerful satisfaction with my own. May it be an encouragement to you in your own season! Praise God for the beauty and uniqueness of our lives!
9/15/2009
Quote of the Day
A right by definition requires nothing of anyone else except that they do nothing to infringe upon that right.from this response to the "everyone deserves health care" platitudes
9/11/2009
New Features
I've added both an RSS Feed and an E-mail Subscription option in the sidebar, if you prefer not to visit the blog directly.
9/10/2009
A Good Democrat
It's rare that I cite a liberal article, for the simple and obvious reason that I generally disagree with them. However, this Camille Paglia editorial making the blog rounds is an excellent piece. I take issue with the idea that regulating (or, better, outlawing) abortion is any more an example of government overreach than outlawing murder, but that is my sole major complaint (which is not to say that I would necessarily sign my name to every other statement, of course).
My favorite quote?
My favorite quote?
It was as if Democrats live in a utopian dream world, divorced from the daily demands and realities of organization and management.. . .except that I think I might replace "Democrats" with "politicians in general."
9/07/2009
Oh, The Drama!
I think this is a great summation of a responsible conservative (and Christian) attitude toward President Obama's speech tomorrow.
9/06/2009
Change of Venue
We've decided to make a change. Henceforth, all family updates--which means all pictures of Carolyn--will be posted at a new blog. I've already transferred my entire blog archive there, and all posts deemed private will soon be deleted from this blog. Larkspur Lane will survive as the primary blog for my ramblings and as my blog face to the blogging world . . .albeit with far less traffic, no doubt! This way, family pictures and personal information will be more restricted and I need not worry about how wide an audience visits here, linking from my comments on other blogs, etc. Though we are not currently limiting viewership of the family blog to approved readers, please do not pass on the new blog address to strangers without checking with us first. I will be sending out a mass e-mail with the new blog address. If you do not receive it, please let me know!
9/04/2009
Recommended Review
I can't actually recommend the book, since I haven't read it, but the review of this book about a less segregated (age, not race, People) way of doing youth ministry sounds interesting.
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
7/22/2009
One Step at a Time
Last night, Carolyn took one teensy little hands-free step. The first move to independence! Just now, Carolyn kept hold of my hand long enough to totter a couple steps away to something she wanted, then she grabbed another handhold and moved on. It seemed symbolic. We have these babies in our homes for some years, carrying them and their needs. Then, gradually, if we do our job right, they learn to walk, then run, on their own. They race off into life, not needing our hand-holding to keep them upright.
A couple parents with older children than I, in the context of other conversations, have intimated that I cannot now comprehend the difficulty and sense of loss that will accompany Carolyn leaving the nest. I know they are right. My relationship with my daughter is young; in the years to come, it will acquire many layers and facets that I can only imagine now.
Nevertheless, another part of me insists, "But this is the job." It is what we do, this pouring everything into another for 20 years so that they may leave us. While many enter a career for life, or for a specified time until they move up or out of their own accord, the job description of motherhood is this. Mothers--like missionaries, so it is said--work themselves out of a job.
There is a sense, of course, in which children always hold their parents' hands. Currently, when Carolyn is entranced with interests of her own, I'm still supposed to stay in the room. When I disappear, she is jerked from her play to the all-consuming question of "Where is Mommy?" Security is a necessary prerequisite for constructive risk-taking; my proximity allows her the freedom to pursue her own devices. Likewise, as she grows up, I want my steadfastness to be the anchor that allows her to explore. Because I am always the safe haven she can return to if things go badly, she need not worry about sticking her neck out a bit. And, by God's grace, it will be because of the compass and charts we give her that she finally leaves the harbor and sails straight on her own path.
It is right and good that Carolyn one day leave our home, whatever mourning that brings with it. Until then, I'll enjoy the time we have and her sweet dependence on us. Because last night, when she took that tiny first independent step? It was straight toward her daddy's waiting arms.
A couple parents with older children than I, in the context of other conversations, have intimated that I cannot now comprehend the difficulty and sense of loss that will accompany Carolyn leaving the nest. I know they are right. My relationship with my daughter is young; in the years to come, it will acquire many layers and facets that I can only imagine now.
Nevertheless, another part of me insists, "But this is the job." It is what we do, this pouring everything into another for 20 years so that they may leave us. While many enter a career for life, or for a specified time until they move up or out of their own accord, the job description of motherhood is this. Mothers--like missionaries, so it is said--work themselves out of a job.
There is a sense, of course, in which children always hold their parents' hands. Currently, when Carolyn is entranced with interests of her own, I'm still supposed to stay in the room. When I disappear, she is jerked from her play to the all-consuming question of "Where is Mommy?" Security is a necessary prerequisite for constructive risk-taking; my proximity allows her the freedom to pursue her own devices. Likewise, as she grows up, I want my steadfastness to be the anchor that allows her to explore. Because I am always the safe haven she can return to if things go badly, she need not worry about sticking her neck out a bit. And, by God's grace, it will be because of the compass and charts we give her that she finally leaves the harbor and sails straight on her own path.
It is right and good that Carolyn one day leave our home, whatever mourning that brings with it. Until then, I'll enjoy the time we have and her sweet dependence on us. Because last night, when she took that tiny first independent step? It was straight toward her daddy's waiting arms.
Quote of the Day
I liked this quote I found at Femina:
Weak faith will as surely land the Christian in heaven as strong faith; but the weak, doubting Christian is not like to have so pleasant a voyage thither as another with strong faith. Though all in the ship come safe to shore, yet he that is all the way seasick hath not so comfortable a voyage as he that is strong and healthful.
William Gurnall, The Christian in Complete Armour
*An Addendum
to this post
Speaking of missionaries, some of those who knew me before college have to wonder if I fell off that wagon. Beginning somewhere around age 5, I spent 15 years dogmatically (and vocally) sure I would one day enter the foreign mission field. Some thought the plan a waste of my gifts. (I doubt they consider homemaker an improvement.) But I longed for the mission field with the certainty of divine calling--a certainty that waned in college as my understanding of faith, missions, and callings changed. My father once wisely counseled that my future plans could change and it would be okay to let them. Though it cost me some doubt and a good amount of pride (After all, in evangelical circles a call to missions is generally revered as the highest calling one can have.), I finally pursued this new calling to with all the passion of the old one. (My transitional goal, teaching, was always tied up in my larger goal--first an opportunity for mission work abroad, then a mission at home, and finally a purposeful means of income until I could be a homemaker.) Seven years down that road, five into its fulfillment, I have no regrets.
It's funny, really. I am determinedly ambitious. Having excelled in an academic setting in high school and college, it seemed natural for me to continue that through at least a Master's degree. But why spend all the time and money with no intention of using it? Mothers don't get a higher salary or more promotions because they have extra letters after their name. Education, certainly, is an admirable goal regardless of profession. . .but degrees and education are not inextricably linked. It was difficult at first to give up the idea of academic accolades. But ambition should not be limited to academia any more than to professional careers. I still pursue higher education--without the unwanted required courses, papers, and exams. I am still determinedly ambitious, yet my ambitions now revolve around hearth and home, and they are every bit as daunting as any academic ambition I ever conceived. As G.K. Chesterton wrote of huswifery and motherhood, "How can it be a large career to tell other people's children about the Rule of Three, and a small career to tell one's own children about the universe? How can it be broad to be the same thing to everyone, and narrow to be everything to someone? No; a woman's function is laborious, but because it is gigantic, not because it is minute. I will pity Mrs. Jones for the hugeness of her task; I will never pity her for its smallness." To love and give and teach and labor in order to help that which is dear to you need you no longer--"hugeness of her task" indeed.
There are moments when I am impatient for more of that "hugeness" to trickle down--for the days when I can teach Carolyn to read and write and bake and sew. After all, ambition and patience are not natural companions. Then I remember that those exciting days will bring new difficulties of their own--parenting decisions more difficult than whether or not to let the baby cry in her crib for a few minutes. And then I am doubly thankful for the simple joys and simple problems of babyhood.
Speaking of missionaries, some of those who knew me before college have to wonder if I fell off that wagon. Beginning somewhere around age 5, I spent 15 years dogmatically (and vocally) sure I would one day enter the foreign mission field. Some thought the plan a waste of my gifts. (I doubt they consider homemaker an improvement.) But I longed for the mission field with the certainty of divine calling--a certainty that waned in college as my understanding of faith, missions, and callings changed. My father once wisely counseled that my future plans could change and it would be okay to let them. Though it cost me some doubt and a good amount of pride (After all, in evangelical circles a call to missions is generally revered as the highest calling one can have.), I finally pursued this new calling to with all the passion of the old one. (My transitional goal, teaching, was always tied up in my larger goal--first an opportunity for mission work abroad, then a mission at home, and finally a purposeful means of income until I could be a homemaker.) Seven years down that road, five into its fulfillment, I have no regrets.
It's funny, really. I am determinedly ambitious. Having excelled in an academic setting in high school and college, it seemed natural for me to continue that through at least a Master's degree. But why spend all the time and money with no intention of using it? Mothers don't get a higher salary or more promotions because they have extra letters after their name. Education, certainly, is an admirable goal regardless of profession. . .but degrees and education are not inextricably linked. It was difficult at first to give up the idea of academic accolades. But ambition should not be limited to academia any more than to professional careers. I still pursue higher education--without the unwanted required courses, papers, and exams. I am still determinedly ambitious, yet my ambitions now revolve around hearth and home, and they are every bit as daunting as any academic ambition I ever conceived. As G.K. Chesterton wrote of huswifery and motherhood, "How can it be a large career to tell other people's children about the Rule of Three, and a small career to tell one's own children about the universe? How can it be broad to be the same thing to everyone, and narrow to be everything to someone? No; a woman's function is laborious, but because it is gigantic, not because it is minute. I will pity Mrs. Jones for the hugeness of her task; I will never pity her for its smallness." To love and give and teach and labor in order to help that which is dear to you need you no longer--"hugeness of her task" indeed.
There are moments when I am impatient for more of that "hugeness" to trickle down--for the days when I can teach Carolyn to read and write and bake and sew. After all, ambition and patience are not natural companions. Then I remember that those exciting days will bring new difficulties of their own--parenting decisions more difficult than whether or not to let the baby cry in her crib for a few minutes. And then I am doubly thankful for the simple joys and simple problems of babyhood.
7/14/2009
Because It's Funny
This, off the Pop-Tart box:
If you can't read the caption, it says, "It's hard to learn when you've got cinnamon for brains."
If you can't read the caption, it says, "It's hard to learn when you've got cinnamon for brains."
6/22/2009
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