Saint Francis

As a young teenager, I was intrigued with, attracted by, possibly even obsessed with Saint Francis of Assisi. I was not raised Catholic, so the canon of the saints holds no special place in me, but for some reason, St. Francis grabbed me. I read his writings, read and reread his prayers, chose him as the subject of a school report and even watched the 1960s era, hippie film (on his life) called Brother Sun, Sister Moon.

I know that St. Francis was a son of a wealthy merchant in Italy around the turn of the thirteenth century and that he gave it all up for God. He had all the money and comforts that a rich, young ruler might have. He took vows of poverty and chastity and then endured the wrath of his father. I know that he often preached to birds and small animals, and is often associated with nature and the love of creatures. What I didn't know (but learned last night via Google) that he is now the patron saint of ecology and pets. Hmmm.

Last year at milestone event, I selfishly expected some piece of jewelry from my husband. At first I was disappointed when instead of a necklace or something else I thought I deserved, he gave me a large box. Inside was a beautifully framed Prayer of St. Francis. No doubt you've heard it:

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
And where there is sadness, joy;
O Divine Master,
Grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love;
for it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning, that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

I promptly hung it on the wall of the downstairs hallway (I don't think I even read it when he gave it to me; I had read it hundreds of times before). I pass it now, several times each day.

In the materialistic mecca where we live, the wisdom in these words convicts me, it prompts me, and my prayer today is that it shatters me. St. Francis' prayer is perhaps a call to action, and in the richness of his words, there is much to be gleaned. My prayer is that my humble words might be hope and light in the midst of despair. I have no lofty goals of touching the world at large, but I do want to be an instrument of peace in the lives of those around me.

Amy & Jeremy Forever

There is a peak accessible from the trail system adjacent to our house called the "Rock" or the "Roost". It is the highest point around (if you don't count the multi-million dollar mansion they are building close by with an even better view) and when you make it up there, you can see everything. To the north, is northeastern Orange County and then the major freeway leading into the Inland Empire. To the west are the cities and then the ocean if you can see through the greyish marine layer. To the south is the burn area that came far too close to the houses last March and to the east are the hills, looking layered in the morning haze.

Weekend mornings are busy in the trails: hikers, girls walking dogs, an occasional rider on horseback and dozens of mountain bikers. And of course, there are always the joggers like me. I ran up there yesterday morning and happened to be alone for a few minutes at the peak. The 90 seconds I stood there in the breeze was my reward for the rise. I'm usually too scared of cliffs and heights to actually climp up on the rock, but I did. Silly, I know, but all I want to do is open my arms up to the wind at a height like that.

Graffitied in childish scrawl on the rock it said "Amy & Jeremy Forever". Amy & Jeremy Forever. Who wrote it? Probably Amy, given the feminine handwriting. Is she young? What did she leave behind up here, besides her proclamation to the world. The only thing I am leaving is the dusty footprints of my Asics. Does he love her just as much? Are they still together? And then, how long will even the writing on this rock last? This gets hit pretty hard in the rain (when it actually does rain) and then beaten by the wind as it whips up here from the canyons below.

I'm not sure. My reward is over and another mountain biker zig-zagging his way up is my cue to run back. Jogging back toward the house I ask myself what I leave in my own metaphoric wake. Certainly not graffiti. What is my scribble on history? Or even less grand, what is my impression on the present? Do I leave a heritage for my children, my husband, family and friends?

Almost home, I look back and see another runner or biker having his reward after a climb, his form shadowed in front of the sun. And then he's gone.

The Toddler Wears Prada

...or puffy-fluffy princess shoes. My toddler began when she was just over a year old trying on her sister's shoes (then she would put on only the right one and then walk lopsided all around the upstairs), and has since moved on to dirty flip-flops, paddock boots, and puffy-fluffy princess shoes. High heels are preferable, of course. She looks oddly grown up with her chubby, toddler feet stuffed into the front of heeled shoes with a pacifier in her mouth and a saggy diaper. Weird.

It actually seems like little girls (or all kids, really) want to grow up before their time. Hope just asked me today when she was going to go to school every day. My husband began a long exposition about how she will be going to school every day starting this September until she is eighteen, then she will work every day for the rest of her life! After the look I gave him, he conceeded that it was best to be a kid.

She said, "Yeah. Its the best days, huh?"

Agreed (did she read my blog?).

It only seems natural to want to be older, more mature, wear red toenail polish (I won't let her and I don't know why. It must be left over from a older, more fundamentalist time). It seems like they are maturing earlier and earlier (just watch a group of 10-year-olds at Wild Rivers). My girls will grow up and I can only feel that for the next 15-plus years, I am going to be living in a battle between trying to keep them young/innocent and letting them grow up/mature. Ouch.

Some of my friends are already there and I don't envy them. But here's a thought: Can a child grow up and mature, and still keep a level of innocence? Can they search for their identity, and remain true? And then subsequently, will I lose my sanity trying to keep them "young"?

I have decided not to argue about red nail polish because I am sure that just around the corner will be a much more important discussion to be had. And as for the toddler, I'm going to change that saggy diaper and laugh as she clops-clops-clops through the family room in her puffy-fluffy princess shoes.

Authentic Diplomacy

She was the girl I always wanted to be. I grew up with her thinking, "If I could only look like her, or have her eyes...". And we were friends for so many years and we laughed and sang and danced in pajamas. She even had the courage I always lacked.

Most everyone I've known in my youth has moved away, if not in geography, at least in ideals.

Last year we reconnected at an event after a couple years of silence. Still beautiful, and like me, a couple lines in the corners of her eyes. And it was comfortable. We exchanged emails, small-words and mini-promises. Diplomacy.

About six weeks later I sent her an email telling her how I had missed her and wished there was a way to have a friendship again. I told her how I had been remiss in calling her and I had allowed the relationship to lapse. I said that even if we met at Starbucks every couple of months just to catch up, that was enough for me.

Nothing.

Then the following month I get a return email. She was busy. She didn't have enough room in her life for a friendship and didn't know if she ever would. She was sorry. Coffee was even too much.

Those were the last words from her to me. And I, of course, was hurt. I understood: I was just too much work. She didn't have enough energy to point in my direction. I do understand this. The older I get the less friendships of convenience I can have. To maintain a relationship, my energy has to be deliberate and focused in the direction of that individual. It not like in high school when my friendships consisted of those people who were merely around me. Now, I must actually CHOOSE my friends.

I realized just this week that she actually vocalized the same thing I have done to others (whether deliberate or not). How many relationships have I let go and not put proper time into because the person was just "too much work" or I didn't have the energy to focus on them? My old friend just said to me the very thing I have thought about others.

She was honest. In the past I have been "diplomatic"...or is it dishonesty? I am beginning to realize that honesty is usually best, even if it hurts a little.

I respect her for that. It might be good I show a little more authenticity (mixed with some diplomacy) in my adult friendships. Thanks for the lesson! I do miss her and think of her often.

Blessings

How blessed am I? I have girls who scream their giggles from upstairs while I make dinner, no doubt tearing apart their rooms. How blessed am I?

How blessed am I? Hope grows up and loses her second front tooth.

How blessed am I? Naomi is a smurf who polishes off the last of the blue sidewalk chalk and drinks from the bubble container.

How blessed am I? I have a crazy husband who works hard to let me stay here and hear that laughter. Lord, never let me forget tonight's laughter!

How blessed am I? My husband, out-numbered and out-voted in our female house, adores me and loves the girls with his whole heart. He's a roll-around-tickle-monster every evening and a world-renowned actor most weekends as he performs a puppet show for one sleepy 5 year old girl.

Lucky? Perhaps.

Fortunate? Maybe.

Blessed? Most assuredly.

I am unwoven as I wash the dishes downstairs and begin to weep. This is it. This is how life is supposed to be.

Full Circle

If you haven't met Lisa yet, she's worth getting to know. Her creativity is so inspiring (she made this beautiful necklace for me). It seems like she has found her calling in moving with her husband and boys to the Central Coast and launching a successful business making jewelry.

I lived with her for two years during college and even then we clicked right away. I actually met her twin sister, Chrissie, first and the next year we were all roommates. She and I have been great friends too, over the years. (Here's a fact: they are identical and I have NEVER mixed them up, not even once!). I'm not really one of the sisters, but I have always felt like I belonged.

Lisa's ideas have always inspired me: she taught me how to arrange flowers in a vase and make bridal bouquets, she taught me how to drive a manual shifting car (I need to stop here and apologize to her father for ruining the transmission of her 1992 Toyota). She taught me that a person doesn't need to watch a whole movie in one sitting (it might take us a week of starting and stopping to watch one film!). Lisa has imparted to me a pinch of her keen sense of style and how to put things together to make them look great; she's a natural, as can be seen in her creations. Lisa taught me that directness isn't bad, but crucial in a friendship. She, most recently, was my inspiration to begin this blog.

Hope's middle name is Elisabeth, after Lisa's full name. I know my girls hold a special place in her heart.

Friendship evolves, grows, hits bumps, and then comes full circle again. With old friends, there is an understanding that is rich in history and never a need to prove or explain, but just share.

I love you, friend!

Familiar Road

6.25 miles this morning. Ugh.

I haven't been training for anything so 6 miles isn't easy. I pick my way along the same route I always run, up mostly and down a little to the crest of the hill, head down, still sleepy. I have run this hill for a few years now: 3 miles to the top and 3 miles back. Its so familiar to me that I know both sides of the road, I know all the streets I pass, I even know the smells of the natural sage, the not-so-natural rosemary someone has planted, and the occasional skunk. I've seen snakes, deer (alive and dead) and coyotes. I've run in 100 degree late afternoon heat and also on 40 degree early mornings. I've run with close friends, babies in strollers, but most often by myself.

It strikes me this morning as I run that there is a certain comfort in familiarity, in the well-known. Like my own bed.

We have a great bed. Nothing super extravagant, but we actually bought a nice mattress about 4 years ago when we moved into this house. Its the first time I've owned a king sized bed (our last "master" bedroom was just about the same size as our old queen bed) and we love it. Its the perfect blend of firm softness. Our sheets are nothing exciting; we are suckers for the Costco specials. But for whatever reason, Chad and I agree, our bed is the best. It is the softest, most comfortable, cool-sheet-on-your-legs feeling bed that there is. ANY hotel we ever go to is never better than our own bed.

So on my run this morning, I think about what is familiar to me: this road, my bed, my daughters' faces, and my mind settles on my husband. Out of everything, my husband and our sweet friendship and love affair is the most familiar and comfortable. Not take-for-granted comfortable, but cool-sheet-on-your-legs comfortable. Do the math: we are 32 and we've been married for 11 years. Stupid, we know (this quite possibly will be the subject of a future SERIES of blogs).

We love each other fiercely and at times argue just as fiercely. But we are home to each other.

Home Base

I am beginning to learn what some of my more experienced mom-friends already know: Summers can be busier than the school year. As I once again look toward plotting my life around the tradtional school year schedule with my soon-to-be Kindergartener, I am feeling the pinch of a summer almost gone.

At glance, someone might lump me into the category of the overscheduled mom dragging the overscheduled children from one end of the county to the other. Actually, only my Tuesdays are crazy. Between the hours of 8 am and 12 noon today, we went to a horse riding lesson, a swim lesson, and a gymnastics class. We changed clothes three times, changed shoes twice, had two snacks, ran an errand in between, squeezed out two wet braids and this was all before lunch.

Some kids can do this every day. My kids can't. My husband tells me stories about how his mother took him and his younger sister to the beach everyday, all day, all summer long. Sandy and sunburned, they'd collapse at home on the sofa, after of course, a brilliant day. Maybe it was a different time, or maybe my mother-in-law was just trying to keep my crazy husband from burning down the house from boredom. But I know my kids can't do this. Nor can they keep up the schedule of running from lesson to lesson to Wild Rivers to play dates to the market to the gym to another lesson again. Its impossible. They are each their own little wailing puddle of tears and emotion on the floor.

My kids need to touch home base regularly. There is something safe and dry and cool about home in the summer. When they walk in the door after a long morning out, any past discomfort from being strapped in carseats or strollers or any whining from having to leave the fun place we've been, it seems to disappear. They kick off their shoes, retreat to their familliar corners or the shady backyard and relax.

I truly believe that they find their comfort and sanctuary here. Daily, I feel that one of my biggest responsibilities as a mother is to provide a safe and quiet home base. They will have the rest of their lives to live in the chaos of the world.

Little Girls

Little girls have skinned knees and bruised shins in the summer. They have brown shoulders and freckled noses. Little girls have chubby toes and dirty feet from going barefoot. They have tangled hair and long red-brown braids down their backs. Little girls have blonde wispy bangs that come down too far into their eyes and stained t-shirts.

Little girls have small arms that squeeze my neck tightly. They have little voices that sigh, "Mama", when they feel safe. Little girls have strong legs that run fast, from one end of the park to the other, much too quickly for me. Little girls have dirty hands that pick weeds and bring them to my feet for safekeeping. They have happy squeals when they see a horse and rider picking their way down a trail in the afternoon.

Little girls have sleepy eyes when its still light in the early midsummer evening. Little girls have soft cheeks that smell like baby shampoo and big tears that can roll down at any moment. They have tiny hearts that love bigger than mine, and young minds that grasp huge ideas, like the beauty of God. Little girls have short words but deep prayers.

Little girls giggle and tickle each other, and are not stingy with hugs. They smile and laugh with their rosebud lips. They wail when I brush their hair but quickly forget the pain. Little girls learn new words every day and then use them over and over. They tell stories and jokes, the same ones, day after day.

Little girls have loose teeth and ones just coming in. They have raccoon marks around their eyes from swimming goggles. Their skin never shakes the scent of chlorine in July, even after a bath. Little girls are cozy in their pajamas when they settle down to watch a movie after dinner.

Even after a hard day with them, my little girls can heal my soul.

A Million Cheerios

My husband does NOT have Attention Defecit Disorder. Although, he would disagree. So would his parents, his sister, my sister, all of his former teachers, the barista at Starbucks, his Bible study guys, his co-worker, every boss he has ever had, everyone he's ever bossed, our pastor, and probably our cat as well. In fact, Chad calls his ADD "a raging case", and I think his psychiatrist also would stand behind that statement.

It is true that he was diagnosed with ADD when he was a child at a time that nobody was being diagnosed with it and a time when teachers really didn't know what it was. It is also true that he has the scattered, "loud" thought problem that characterizes those who suffer with ADD (think: 20 radio stations all blasting in your brain all at once). He has what I have labeled Million Cheerios Disease or MCD (example - if I were to spill a box of Cheerios on the ground, the thousands of little pieces would scare/frustrate Chad so much that he wouldn't know where to start. So he doesn't help with the cleanup because it would freak him out too much). It is true that medication does help him and he has faithfully taken Concerta for about 3 1/2 years (which has done wonders for our marriage, lemme tell ya). He is quite easily distracted by just about anything, with or without the meds.

I still don't think that "Attention Defecit Disorder" is the right term for what Chad has.

I would pose a new name, perhaps Hyper-focus-ism, or Selective-hearing-itis, or even the MCD that I earlier named. Chad's problem certainly is not the LACK of attention. In fact, it might just be the opposite.

Chad spends more time and ATTENTION on our family than most men I know. He lavishes love and quality interaction on our daughters daily. He spends time with Hope coloring on the floor and will endure watching Boobah with our toddler. He loves to talk to me and always wants to take me away for a quiet evening when we can be alone. He has never lacked in this. There is no defecit here. In fact, his "disorder" allows him to handle dozens of tasks at once in his job. There is no defecit here.

So I still think that my husband does not have ADD, just perhaps, MCD.

Palm Springs to Redlands

I am one of a few people I know who loves the desert in the summer. For as long as I can remember, my family has found a way to make it out to Palm Springs or Palm Desert for at least a weekend.

To survive in July or August in the desert (tips for us coastal dwellers), one must alter one's way of life.

1. Leave NOTHING meltable, warpable, spoilable, crackable in the car.

2. Learn to adjust to extreme temperatures all the time: 115F-ish outside/ 60F-ish inside in the AC (bring a sweatshirt to the movie theatre)

3. Find ways to entertain the children indoors (could I make money if I opened an INDOOR park?)

4. Sleep with the AC on (and pray the the intake is quiet)

5. Do NOTHING that requires exercise between the hours of 1 and 4pm

6. And, my personal favorite, ALWAYS wear shoes out of doors (avoid the heat during the day and the giant-winged-desert-roaches at night)

Actually, this week was really great because my family had time to reconnect. I napped with my 5 year old two afternoons in a row. I slept in the same room as my toddler and was able to hear her sweet "night-noises". I was able to spend some much-needed time with my husband and he was able to shake off work for a couple of days. I got to walk leisurely through Target and the mall with my mother, and I jogged 4 miles with my dad 4 mornings in a row.

In fact, we each were able to reconnect with one another in some significant way. It was also the longest uninterupted time Chad has spent with the girls in about 9 months.

Reconnection being my unintended theme, I began to feel the tugging to call a friend that I haven't spoken voice to voice with in over a year. Texting and letters don't count when friends need to resolve past hurts and reconnect. So on my 102 mile drive home this morning, I called her. I was nervous because I didn't know what to say. So I talked to her, from Palm Springs to past Redlands and it was good, really good. It felt amazing to reconnect and so familiar to hear her voice.

Deep and Wide

Morning in the desert starts early. There isn't any marine layer or clouds to act as a barrier between the resting earth and the sky. So the sun shines hot and early in the morning, especially in July. To run, I have to begin around sixish so I can still run in the long shadows created by the sun still coming up, even if I have to zig-zag across the street. We've been staying out here for a few days with my mom and dad.

This morning I had the chance to jog with my father. We talk and run slowly and listen to each other. I love hearing him; he always has such great ideas. It might be the only time just the two of us spend together.

My dad has taught me so many things in my 32 years: how to drive (it took me awhile, sorry Dad) and how to love reading. He's taught me how to swim the side stroke (like he's now teaching my 5 year old) and his love of camping.

But most recently my father has modeled grace to me. His grace and love for others is wide and deep. I always tell my husband that our daughters' picture of God will be seen through the lense of his fatherhood. I can rightly say that my image of God's grace (grace for all) has been in part a result of my dad's fathering.

In my adulthood I always want to be a humble student: of life, of the Lord, of others. I always want to learn new things, especially from my father. Grace has got to be the richest lesson he has taught me recently, if you don't want to count running in the shadows.

Naomi's Ducks

Naomi calls all birds "ducks". Occasionally she gets it right. The hawk flying over our yard (looking for a choice rabbit, no doubt) is a duck. The seagulls and pigeons at the beach - "ducks". "Duck!" she says when she points to a toucan at the zoo. In the picture book there really is a duck. She appropriately says, "duck".

Very simply, I have realized a mistake I often make and I might do well to learn a lesson from my toddler (didn't Jesus ask us to be like children?). I naturally categorize and put people in order like books on a library shelf. I do it, of course, without really thinking.

Kind, not kind.

Pretty, homely.

Well off, lives on a budget.

Christian, not a Christian.

Truth is, who am I to put these sorts of labels on people? Do I really know? Is it my job to really be concerned with stuff like this? In reality, each of us, no matter what our category, is an image-bearer (thanks Rob Bell), a human being who reflects the image of God. When each of us are born we bear the Creator's image with the capacity to make choices and to love. We are, in essence, all ducks.

I might to better in my daily life if I always remember to love first (DUCK!) and categorize (if even necessary) later.

Fast Friends, or Finding Your IT

Meet Buckley. Or, "Buck-a-doodle", or "The Nose", or "The White Honker" as he was known when he raced in Tijuana, Mexico and who probably understands Spanish better than English. Buckley came to live with my sister, Charity, a little over 2 years ago when she adopted him from a Greyhound rescue group called The Greyhound Pets of America (see my link). Buckley is a 5 year old, 80 pound Greyhound who ran 12 races in his career never winning.

Since then, not only has Buckley become my sister's truest companion, but Charity seems to have found her calling with the Fast Friends group. She has been volunteering for them for the past couple years on weekends, sometimes travelling to Mexico to bring up and care for a group of new dogs just coming off the racing circuit. At times these dogs are malnourished and at the very least, starved for attention and love. She has even fostered a dog she nicknamed "Mama Cass" before Cass found a permanent home.

Commited to this, Charity has found her niche in the world (aside from her paying job teaching middle school Special Education). When a person, especially someone you love, finds their IT, the thing in life that opens and widens their heart, and the IT that makes them feel and know that their talents are being used, it all just fits. The greyhound group just fits my sister.

She has even begun to sit on their Board of Directors, a big job for my little sis. I know she can do it and be successful, because this is what she loves. Way to go, Char, on finding your IT and on volunteering to make life a bit better for the dogs you love.

Finding your IT doesn't always happen. I think I've found mine (a subject for a future blog) and I pray that my kids grow up and find theirs. A "calling", a "niche", the thing that slides around your personality like a great fitting glove, the thing that makes you know that you are actually doing what you are supposed to be doing - this is your IT.

What's your IT?

County Fair

We took the girls and my parents to the Orange County Fair last night. Apart from the occasional whine from Hope, the throngs of sweaty OCers, a raging diaper rash on Naomi's bum and a strong smell wafting from the swine tents, we had an amazing time. Actually, with the fairgrounds proximity to the ocean we began to feel that cool breeze around 5 o'clock. That made it bearable.

The Fair is truly time for the all-American, self-indulgent spirit to emerge. From the microphoned motivational speakers selling their "slice & dicers" in the Hall of Products to the gigantic sausage dog and enormous BBQ turkey leg (Chad wants you all to know he did NOT eat the whole thing), the county fair is a fun (albeit stinky) cross section of America.

After a few carnival rides, a front row seat at the Pig races, a halfway climb up a $5 rock wall, an ice cream cone and a good go at roping an artifcial steer, Hope still wanted more. Her self-indulgence or the I-want-it-all-attitude (that a. is typical for most 5 year olds, and b. is what we cultivate at places like this, including Disneyland) had easily taken over. She was sticky (from sunscreen, sweat and vanilla ice cream), and had done the Fair, but I still could hear the chorus: "Can I ride the elephant?" (No, the line is too long), "Can I ride the pony?" (No, I pay good money for you to ride a horse every Tuesday), "Can I go on just one more ride?" (Actually, sweetie, I really don't have any more money).

We just can't do it all (and believe me, we do a lot!). Sometimes it takes me as a parent to put limits on fun. I really am not mean, I just know what she can handle before she melts into an emotional puddle on the floor near the ferris wheel.

As we left and I carried my almost-too-heavy 5 year old to the parking lot, she stopped asking and put her head on my shoulder. She was done and secretly happy she was going home.

Independence Day

I'm not talking about the 4th of July. Independence day in my house is every day.




Independence day was yesterday at the science museum when I let Hope run around completing the dinosaur scavenger hunt by herself. Independence day this week was Thursday when I dropped her off at her friends house to play and she didn't even say goodbye to me.





Naomi's independence day happened yesterday afternoon when she ran from the kitchen, to the yard, to the playroom, back to the kitchen just exploring the house (she picked up crayons and DIDN'T write on the wall!). Actually, most days around my house recently are "independence days". Each of my girls is beginning to assert more and more of their independence in their own ways.




Naomi is quickly moving from baby to toddler and doesn't need me like she used to. She is her own little girl, not a baby, and she runs and falls and bruises her chubby knees. Her favorite thing lately is sitting on the front porch and trying on all the shoes. She tries new food, and tries new things. Each thing she is successful at motivates her to try more. She is becoming quite independent.





Hope, headed for Kindergarten soon, is doing most things for herself now. There is no look of "baby" on her anymore, and I can begin to see in her face the young woman she will become.






I realize this is the goal. To create this "independence" in my children, at the same time attempting to create a "dependence" on God. The only way that it makes sense to me to do this is to model it in my own life. This might be a harder job than I ever thought.

Lessons from Outer Space

I used to say that "Sea Green" was my favorite Crayola color, or even "Periwinkle". Back in 1984, that was about as good as it got. And unless you have a 4 - 9 year old girl, you probably don't know that Crayola makes colors much cooler now. Try "Fern", a nice green that might actually look good on my bathroom walls, or "Almond", a strange beige color that I would have used a lot back in 4th grade (you know that color that you tried to make with orange, yellow and white?). There are also "Tumbleweed", "Wisteria", "Wild Blue Yonder" and "Outer Space" to name a few in Crayola's new rainbow.

The reason I know this is because coloring in large-sized coloring books is Hope's new favorite thing to do with me when her sister is asleep. Picture, early summer evening when her daddy works late, and its just me and her on the floor of my bedroom trying to see in the light that's fading. Its actually quite peaceful and in a way, theraputic.

About a month ago, I noticed Hope coloring INSIDE the lines. For about a year now she's had the fine motor skills, but she usually gets bored and scribbles her way done on most pictures. I asked her why she colors in the lines now (actually a big deal for an almost-Kindergartener). She nonchalantly says, "I just thought about it in my brain and decided to". She just made a choice, a decision, and did it! I haven't seen her scribble since.

I think, if only everything were this easy. In truth, many things are that easy. How many things do I procrastinate on, or sucumb to laziness or lack of discipline that in reality are as far away from me as merely thinking about it in my brain and doing it.

So, I guess that means there is nothing really keeping me from cleaning out my loft or garage, nothing standing between me calling people I haven't talked to in awhile, and nothing (except the brain-decision) that stops me getting up with the sunrise to spend time with my Savior. So, so much to learn from a 5 year old!

Personal Revolution

This is not me. This is my friend, Laurie, in Florence a few weeks ago. She is spending a month in Italy taking some classes with her university. (Can I live vicariously through her?)

But isn't this a great picture? She looks so small next to this large, deep river and the sun has already set behind the buildings. The city still glows.

It made me think that we are all small. I am small, next to the river, next to God. But I usually act big. I act big when I speak harshly to my husband or when I judge somebody before I meet them. I act big when I worry and wrongly assume that God doesn't in fact think about ME thousands of times a day. I act big when I go through my day and don't thank Him for all my blessings.

Socrates famously said that the unexamined life is not worth living. This daily blogging is actually creating some sort of smallish revolution in my own heart. It has caused me to think regularly and often about my own life, about my children and husband, about who I am next to God. I am small in this world but my hope is that I will continually be in a state of examination; I will recognize that to God, I am loved and important and big.

Delight Embodied

I have always felt connected to my name, Sarah. In Hebrew, Sarah means "princess" which has always made me feel singled out and unique. We chose Hope's name because it has significant meaning. I repeat to her that her name means "something wonderful's about to happen" and she is happy to recite this if you ask her. The meaning of Naomi (also Hebrew) in most name dictionaries is "delightful" or "beautiful".

When I brought her home from the hospital, I thought I should have named her "Joy".

She squeals with pure delight when her favorite DVD comes on, and screams with utter joy when she gets to play outside in the yard. Naomi, in her full toddler self, is unbridled joy; she embodies the word "delight".

When she was just old enough to climb up on to our sofa, Hope would comment that Nay-Nay (as she is called in our house) is "filled with joy" at her personal accomplishment. Everything is new to a 17 month old baby: airplanes, the full moon, the taste of frozen yogurt! She gallops and jumps in my living room, overflowing with this joy, that I sometimes look at with an innocent jealousy.

Naomi is truly an picture of what joy or delight in the Lord should look like: jumping and screaming for pure happiness!

Equine Love

Hope rides horses. We don't own one, but we are fortunate enough to live just outside an equestrian community. She takes lessons once a week from an amazing woman who runs a small school of horsemanship on her property. It takes us 6 minutes to drive to her house.

When Hope was just 2 1/2, she became fascinated with all things equine. She whinnied and galloped and has used every belt in my closet as some sort of bit or bridle. She's even tried to ride the cat. As I walk through our house, I stumble, kick or run into horse toys, horse lampshades, pajamas, books, legos, posters --- everything --- truly.

Most little girls like horses. I understand this. I loved horses as a little girl and had my own posters and calendars. Hope happens to be on the obsessive end of the spectrum of equine love. I think often about what draws girls to horses. I'm aware that there are books and doctoral dissertations about this link.

I think it's merely this: Hope is an emotion-driven, all-or-nothing, tears-at-the-ready normal 5 1/2 year old girl. She has no real control over her life except that which I give her. However, when she climbs up on Justin (who weighs somewhere around 25 times her weight), she is in control. And she is confident. For one hour, she is the boss! And she can direct a huge, lovable animal to do what she wants him to do. He tries to jog out of the arena back to his comfy stall, but she pulls those reins and tells Justin who is in charge. This is good for the heart of a little girl.

Today, at the end of her lesson, she runs up to me (leading her horse by the reins) and beams! She explains that she dismounted all by herself. What an accomplishment! I know that its worth it: giving her this hour that helps her to feel confident and to allows her to begin to control her own little world.

Immediate Contributions

I come with credentials. At least educational ones: Valedictorian, Magna Cum Laude for undergrad, Masters of Arts in Education with High Honors. I taught middle school Language Arts before I stopped to raise a baby. But now, what I do is mother. Oh, I also scrub toilets, apply bandaids to skinned foreheads, and pull loads of hair from all the various drains in our home. For some people, this might be unfulfilling or look like I am "stooping low" to do something so menial as being a stay-at-home mother and, forgive the archaic term a "housewife". I must be wasting my degrees.

Some might also think that this is my highest calling, to be a mother, to contribute to society through the raising of my daughters, giving to them the tools it takes for them to be sufficient contributors to society...thus the cycle goes.

I would pose that my contribution lies somewhere in between. I mother all day and all night each day of the year. This is what I do. This is my "job". But I also help my husband in our business, I volunteer at my church probably more than what is my share, and now I blog.

And of course I am pretty new to this. But, this is what I think: raising my kids as my lifelong "contribution" is supremely important, but the fruits of that endeavor won't be seen for years, I can only guess. But this blogging thing, it feels like an immediate contribution to life outside of my little home. I am connected and it feels good. I can see immediate results when someone comments or someone reads. I like that. Delayed gratification is best, however, sometimes its nice to see the fruits right now.

Kinda like when I see a scrubbed toilet glisten!

My New Phase

After a significant weight loss 7 years ago, I took up running. Or jogging. Or whatever you call a 9-minute-mile on a good day and a 10:30 on a stiff morning.

Since then I have run for various reasons and gone through countless phases in my personal quest for fitness. There was the "Spend-two-hours-a-day-in-the-gym phase", the "Why-workout-I'm-pregnant phase", and of course, everything in between. I've run one marathon, one sprint length triathlon (I think that phase was called "I'm-trying-to-prove-something"), and several half marathons (my personal favorite) over the past several years. Oh, I can't forget the "Why-run-I'll-just-indoor-cycle-5-days-a-week phase".

Why do I run now? I'm not training for anything and I usually log anywhere between 10 and 30 miles in a given week in my super hilly neighborhood. Twice a week I run with a dear friend who keeps me motivated and up early. Sometimes, I admit, I run for the calorie burn, and sometimes its just to get out of the house.

I read an article late last night in the newest "Runners' World" by Kristin Armstrong about why she runs and races. It was short and really resonated with me. She talks about how running makes her strong and beautiful, not just physically, but in a way that teaches her kids about accomplishment, finishing something and that beauty is not about fashion and image. That's why I run. It clears my head and I will always love the scent of the sage in my hills in the morning. But I also feel strong and pretty when I run, and I want to teach my girls that this is the right way to feel beautiful: being comfortable and okay with the body God's given me, but also striving to take care of it.

Everything is right in the world on a day that I run.

So, I usually don't run on Sundays, but, this morning I'm going out for 5 miles. I think it will be an 8:30 day.

Sunscreen Fingerprints

I once read something about mothering young children that said something like, "The days are long but the years are short". After the birth of my second child last year, I have tried really hard not to ever complain about much: two girls whining at the same time, smushed, brown bananas in the crevices of the highchair, or my husband working late. None of these are specific to me, I am sure, but are experienced by all moms. I keep coming back to the "years are short" idea...I know that someday, fast-forward the 15 years that will scream by, there won't be anymore cheerios stuck to the tile in the kitchen or suncreen fingerprints on my windows. And my house will be quiet. Too quiet maybe. That's why these are the best years of my life.

First Attempt

So, this is us. Of course not together, and not in one photo. How would we possibly be able to get a photo of all of us together with the baby smiling? My husband, Chad, the baby, Naomi, me and our older daughter, Hope. The three joys of my life.

And, of course, this is my first attempt at blogging. In my 32-year-old mind, there is some strange fear at the vulnerability of a blog.
No one will want to read...
It's weird being "out there" on the net...
Stuff like that.

This is us - me and my family. I'm Sarah and I stay at home with my two girls. Hope is 5 1/2 and will be going to Kindergarten in the fall. She loves to ride horses and has taught herself how to read. Naomi is 17 months and loves life. She is beginning to talk and repeats everything. My husband, Chad, is my spontaneous, ADD-fueled partner in life. He is my gift from God who grounds me and is the love of my life.