Your Mama, Part 1.

As Mother’s Day approaches, we should all be prepared to do something.

Not just because Hallmark or This Chickadee is telling us to, but because we want to.

Love our mamas. 

With this special holiday on the horizon, I think we can be bothered to take more than one day to honor the women in our lives who birthed/raised/guided/provided for us, or maybe plain ol’ took us in. Everyone has a unique story (and I would love to hear them all), but my hope is that there is a woman who has assumed a mothering role in one way or another in your life to focus some love on this week.

When I look at the faces of women who have joined the ranks of motherhood, I swell of respect and admiration as well as fill with fear at the prospect one day.  To me, it is a miracle any parent survives raising children (which is a whole ‘nother post), but mothers especially have my heart. 

What they give.  How they guide.  The love.

Perhaps it is due to my own loving and fantastic mother who deserves her due shout out (in Part 2).  I see her now as remarkable, a truth that I had a loose grasp of growing up but I now hold tight and close.  And I would love to say that she is one-of-a-kind (which is true, in part- there is definitely no other Robyn), but mothers everywhere deserve an outpouring of love and admiration for who they are.  Yes, in theory this would happen all the time and “who the heck needs a holiday to remind them to love their mom?”  Unfortunately, probably a lot of people.

So I’m just trying to help.  Our homework is to appreciate the woman who brought us into this world, has probably threatened to take us out of it, and is our one and only mom [This sentence carefully crafted for mother-child situations everywhere, from close to distant].  Hopefully appreciation can flow, but if not, I pray the effort is there and we can find ways to make it known on Sunday and beyond. 

Source: toppics.mooo.com via Aronson on Pinterest

Adding to our family.

So remember this little houseguest?

Well, we took her in once more while my parents were out of town and, um, decided we didn’t want to give her back (as if their home werent 10 times more luxurious for this feline, but whatever. We’re welfish like that and I just wanted to keep her).  After a quick pow-wow in the backyard with the husband amongst the chickens, we decided to add to our family.  My husband’s condition? She doesnt get to sleep with us.  This is totally a rule I can live with.  And she doesnt seem to mind. 

Other times of the day, however, she just can’t help but shout her presence and need for y0ur lap as soon as you walk in the door/walk in the room/are sitting down to pee.  And no amount of “trust me, zoya, it would be better for all involved if you just took a breath and waited one hot sec” will deter her.

Currently, I am typing with one hand, which gives your tricep a surprising workout (No? Just me?) as she is lying all over my left arm after climbing into my lap with furvor because I came home. [We're all pretty lucky I am not too lazy to capitalize.   The English major in me will never die.]

She does force me to slow down, this little lap lover.  At least a few times a day she gets all ramped up and I drop what I’m doing in order to sit with her for a few minutes and just listen to her purr.  It’s actually quite nice.  I really do treasure the time considering she is a fairly old lady and could go at any time.  I consider her violent meow every few hours a good sign, that she’s not left us for kitty heaven still got it. 

So that is the new member of our family- an elderly cat named Zoya.  And we couldn’t be more pleased.

Anything new with you?

Apparently I only post on Fridays.

That’s not intentional.

But really, with my new little mini-job in the mornings, the proverbial ball is rolling when I get home and back to my computer to face other writing projects.  I have then missed my blogging window.  So friday morning, when I can really sit with my coffee and read the words of some other lovely blogging friends, I am inspired. 

And I miss my voice.

Do I still have one?  Is anyone still listening?  Does it matter? 

So I’m just going through one of those ebbs lately, trying to get back to a good rhythm. 

What I have to say, how to say it, and when to harness that. 

While I’m still figuring it out, I thank you for hanging with me, I promise that I want to be back and more consistent, and in the meantime I want to leave you with something you cannot go one more day without: a chicken picture.

Love.

My dad and a chicken.

Man Look Friday.

I know you might be wondering where the heck I am.

Or maybe you’re not.  But balancing life these days has been enjoyable and this content blogger just hasn’t been stepping outside of real life long enough to post about it.  And I think that’s okay.

But on this Friday, I couldn’t resist sharing some laughter with you.

One seriously underestimated television  show is The King of Queens.
Or, perhaps more likely, our limited cable only lends itself to minimal options between the hours of…ever.
BUT.
Kevin James is a genius, always makes me laugh out loud, and as I was folding laundry the other night I figured EVERYONE HAD TO SEE THIS.
Because it HAPPENS TO ME ALL THE TIME.

I can relate to being a tour guide, but I think it must be better than being consistently lost in your own home.

Good Friday indeed.

Today is Good Friday.  I always liked that it was cloudy on Good Friday, at least in Seattle.  I vaguely remember growing up with my mom telling me that it seemed appropriate. A reflection of what the day represents.

Now, rain on Easter, which also happens in Seattle, is a different story.  I could never figure that one out.

I don’t have incredibly profound words to say today.  This is one of those days where words on this blog fail to capture the meaning of today, so it makes it hard to try. I have never really written about Good Friday and Easter, probably because I feel too many things to put them down in any coherent way. Really, I came on here to just share with you in Good Friday. It is overwhelming, what today represents and the gravity of Calvary.  When I think about Christ’s hands and feet on the cross, the thorns on his head, the anger, hate, and fear being spat at him from all directions, I feel so small yet so special at the same time it’s insane.  Maybe one day, I will craft my emotions onto the page, but that day is not today.

We are going to a Good Friday service this evening that we are excited about.  Yes, today has to go on a bit business as usual  while we steal any moment we can to take in what the day signifies, but we hope to be in church tonight, immersed in remembrance and reverence.

This is when Christ saved the world.

³⁷ Then Jesus uttered another loud cry and breathed his last. ³⁸ And the curtain in the sanctuary of the Temple was torn in two, from top to bottom.

³⁹ When the Roman officer who stood facing him saw how he had died, he exclaimed, “This man truly was the Son of God!”

Mark 15: 37-39

 

Source: google.com via Lyn on Pinterest

Lucy, you have some esplainin’ to do…

Blog years are like dog years.  Every week you ignore your blog is seven weeks of blog years and it feels every. bit of it.

Where have I been?  Well, I’d like to say that I was on a European vacation or finally travelling for my book tour, but that would be lying (and for every lie you tell on your blog…oh, nevermind). 

Really, I was on a roll a few weeks back, racking up the posts and scheduling the dickens out of this puppy and then I just…stopped.  I’m not quite sure why.  I think I was trying to edit a photo and just got technologically tired. I had some living of life to do without wondering, “should this go on the blog?”  Turns out I may have hit my max with posting and the past few weeks have been spent on a hiatus from documenting my days. 

Oh- and I also got a new part-time job and was under the thumb of a heinous writing project that made me want to cry in the corner of my closet on a daily basis.  Contributing factors? Maybe.

So, all that said, I want to turn your attention away from my blogging negligence and invite you over to The Tiny Twig for a look into the life of a woman who would never have deserted you, Ruth Bell Graham.  Honestly, she was such a delight to learn and write about and I want to be just like her when I grow up, which is why I am currently digging into her biography mentioned here and loving every page. 

And if you’re new here from Hayley’s lovely site- welcome!  I’m sorry we’re starting out like this, with me coming back from the social media dead and all.  I hope you stick around and make yourself comfortable.  I would offer you a cup of tea if I could, but alas- it must be figurative.  Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy.

Happy Friday, everyone.  This chickadee missed you. 

Slow-cooked meat and Jon Acuff.

Here’s the truth: I love my Crock Pot.

I believe it is one of the best inventions ever, right after the  timer on a coffee pot.  It’s like cooking, but not really.

And because we are making a delicious slow-cook pot roast (for the third time in as many weeks) for our Alaska parents tonight, my husband woke me up with this excerpt from the hilarious Jon Acuff’s Stuff Christians Like.

Crock Pots- A Love Letter

“Dear Crock Pot,

Is there anything your circle of goodness can’t deliver?  Any bounty of deliciousness you are incapable of providing?  Any warm embrace of bubbly food delightfulness you are unwilling to share?

I say no.

But you don’t come around as often as you used to.  We’re all trying to live a little healthier.  We’re eating fewer dishes that look like macaroni, cheese,  and beef got into a street fight. When I go to potlucks, I can’t find you among the plates of organically grown seaweed burgers.  I look.  Oh, I promise you I look.

But you remain elusive. 

No miniature hotdogs swimming in mysterious red sauce.  No unidentifiable stew that is the color of Burnt Sienna crayons. 

Somewhere you sit alone in cabinet, instead of in your rightful place of honor.  You’re so forgiving, too.  We can just throw something in you and completely forget about cooking all day. 

Even if that meal spends an hour too long in your hot belly, it’s okay.  You won’t burn it.  You won’t hurt it.  Your love is tender.  You always give, you never take away. 

If there were a dish Hall of Fame, I would nominate you. 

If there were an NCAA-type tournament for cookware, I would pick you to win my bracket. 

If Mt. Rushmore had room for an additional American hero, your rotund face would sing from the mountains.

I love you, Crock Pot.

Forever yours,

Jonathan

As the delicious smell of pot roast wafts through my house today, my love for my Crock Pot will only grow.  Just like my love for Jon Acuff.*

*Seriously, read this book or visit his blog.  It’ll delight you. And by linking him everywhere, you have no excuse not to and hopefully I will be left alone for quoting a significant chunk of his brilliance (flattery just might get me everywhere). 

Lest I forget.

On bad crabby graceless certain days, there is a host of things I wish I could change about my husband.

I assign him new qualities and behaviors according to my will.

 I’m talking about the thoughts I don’t even know I’m thinking when he’s doing something I wouldn’t do or saying something I wouldn’t say. 

It’s the thoughts you think after being with someone awhile.  When the list you first made when you were dating…

He’s cute.

He makes me laugh.

He loves Jesus.

He’s tall.

He loves milk.

Source: betsywhite.com via Natalie on Pinterest

 

 

…is eclipsed by the everyday. We bear witness to each other’s good, bad, and ugly.  We do the life dance.  We weigh and measure.  The list turns into… 

Is it a big deal? 

Can I let this one go? 

 That can happen A LOT throughout the day in your own head. 

You get to this comfortable place with each other that sometimes means that the negative thoughts win.  Life feels like it moves too fast to try a little harder to think about the good qualities. 

“He knows I love him.”

 But that’s not enough.

 So, I now give you Some Reasons I Love My Husband That Don’t Occur To Me as Often as They Should:

•  He is awesome with kids.  I can’t wait until we have our own and I’m the one asking him, “How the H do I do this?”
• The man always opens my door.  And pulls out my chair.  And helps me with my coat.  His mama raised him right and chivalry is not dead in this house.  [And, naturally, this is another reason I can’t wait to have kids with him.  If we have boys, he’ll teach them right and by example.  If we have girls, they can SEE what they’re waiting for.]
• He looks SO GOOD with a fresh haircut, some stubble, and that one sweater.  Gets me every. Time. 
• He cuts the onions.  Being as they are my kryptonite, he volunteers every time to slice and dice those orbs of death.  I can’t thank him enough.
• He works REALLY hard.  He keeps it in balance with the rest of life, for which I am also grateful, but I admire his focus and ethic (even though sometimes I feel like a slacker). 
• When we were first married and automatically picked sides of the bed to sleep on, he eventually told me that he chose the most logical side in the event of bad guys- he is now closest to the door with a ginormous club and dangerous flashlight within arm’s reach.  So watch out, bad guys, or you’ll get a bat to the face.
• He bakes bread.  Loves to.  Need I say more?
• He has completely embraced being the spiritual head of this household.  Almost to an obnoxious degree (can I say that?).  Even when we are both ravenous for dinner and I would be fine shooting some thank-yous up to Jesus mid-bite, he deliberately grabs my hand and takes his time with giving grace.  I’m always grateful.  He prays when I don’t think to and gives praise to the Lord when I am too caught up in the moment.  He takes his role seriously and no matter what you think about “wives submitting to their husbands,” I would follow him anywhere because he is following Him. 

Source: drcatherinesoldtimeytonic.tumblr.com via Natalie on Pinterest

 

[P.S. I picture Kenny & I this way when we're older, swaying to Margaret Whiting's "Time After Time."  It'll happen.]

Just some things.  The list could go down to my shoes.  Maybe make a list of your own today.  When there is so much we could be bogged down by in the world, in life, I’m thinking about these things today.  And feeling blessed.

It’s pouring.

“A pouring into is needed for a pouring out.”

I may have just made that up, but the essence is true. 

I’ve been involved in a lot of church things lately.  Without looking, they’ve racked up and filled most of the week.  I love this, of course, and feel blessed for the opportunities, but it’s felt a bit overwhelming now and again.

Kenny and I recently joined a small group through our church.  He and I have led groups galore, but haven’t been in one since our premarital group so I signed us up.  That’s when we met Ron and Nancy. 

Sweetest. People. On. Earth.

They’re a middle-aged couple with kids in college and the warmest personalities in existence.  [Heres's something you should know about me: I have an incredible soft spot in my heart for older people.  Kind, gentle, genuine- gets me every time.  I find them so precious, it's embarrassing. When I meet someone of the older variety and I'm melting, you'd know it.  I believe my hand always goes to my heart as I lean forward a little bit in an "awwwww"-like manner, my eyebrows knitting together and my lips folding in on themselves as if I just stumbled upon puppies and kittens sleeping in shoes.  Okay, maybe not THAT extreme, 'cause that's pretty darn adorable. But close.

It's everything I can do not to hug them.  While Ron and Nancy are by no means elderly, they are precious nonetheless and I do, in fact, want to hug them. *hand goes to heart*]

The other night, when most of the group had fallen ill, Ron still wanted to meet with Kenny and I.  He was up for  getting coffee, dessert, drinks, whatever.  He bought us hot chocolate.  And we all chatted.

Source: talkchowplayhouse.com via Natalie on Pinterest

 

Afterward, I told Kenny that he had to be the nicest, most sincere and kind-hearted leader on the planet.  He didn’t have to do that.  He asked us our story, he told us his.  He wanted to know more about our faith, where God had really made Himself known in our lives.  He shared the same.  He overflowed with pride about his family and shared his heart, how he felt truly blessed to have amazing children and love his job. He smiled a lot, the wide and friendly kind that pushed up his glasses.   

Without even knowing how much, he truly poured into us. I took it all in.  After giving this Land’s End-clad leader a hug goodbye, I left the coffee shop full.  We had just been given valuable time with someone who didn’t give it a second thought.  Even though he most likely had plenty of other ways to spend is evening, he pursued us.  He offered.  He volunteered.  He poured.

“I want to be like that,” I thought.  “I want to be a pourer.”

It reminded me what pouring looked like- no strings, no inconvenience, willingness.  And I thought about how to be poured into- being present, responsive, open. 

I’ll be working on both and in the meantime, feeling grateful for such good examples, Ron and Nancy.  *hand goes to heart*

Signs.

I’ve been praying a lot.

I like it.  Turns out all of the time I’ve spent looking to myself for answers and guidance has gotten me nowhere.  Weird.  *bashful shrug*  Prayer it is.

It’s especially awesome when you’re right in the middle of talking to God, most likely asking Him for something (as we usually do) and He gives it.  Right there.  No, not a pony.  Nothing like that.  Something smaller. Something you really have to look for. 

He does answer.

Kenny and I were exploring some houses this weekend.  We were walking around some property when Kenny calls me over to this little playhouse and points out a tiny bird he assumes just landed at his feet.  The little chickadee (I swear that’s what it looked like) was huffing and puffing and clearly in distress.  It didn’t fly away when Kenny leaned down to touch it, pick it up, or lightly atttempt to put its haggard-looking wing back in its place (which didn’t work). 

Source: loucindy.tumblr.com via Natalie on Pinterest

 

I didn’t like this.  Something was wrong.

We walked around a bit more and I just kept thinking that I wanted it to fly away.  To be okay.  “Do you take little wild birds to the animal hospital? I think I saw it on TV…is there an animal hospital nearby? I could look on my phone…”  And so went my inner dialogue while we kept walking. 

Of course, I made my way back to sad bird. And I prayed.  I asked for a sign of what to do.  Did God expect me to gather it up in my coat and do what I could to find it help?  Did it even really need help?  I couldn’t just walk away not knowing.  Should I just let it be because this is how things go in the life of a little bird in a random yard? The Circle of Life and all.  I just wanted to know.

Kenny came back over and we tried giving it some water.  It wasn’t thirsty.  So, we decided to leave.  There as nothing else for us to do. But first, we prayed.  And as Kenny spoke the words, the bird began to hop.  Hop hop hop.  And before he could say “amen,” the little bird up and flew away.

Oh, the joy. I turned to Kenny and exclaimed, “I prayed for that!  I just wanted a sign, to know what to do!  And it flew away!”  It was one of those moments- the kind you need to remember when your other prayers seem unanswered or everything’s going all wrong.  He hears you. Kneeling in the grass, huddled around an anxious bird, He was listening. Maybe you think that the bird caught its breath, had enough of me in its face, and took off.  But really- my heart was full, knowing that God cares about me, the chickadee, and everything else great and small. 

And I was encouraged.