To My Mother

Dear Mama,

I think of you often as I go about my day with John, James and Henry. When I tell them little jokes I remember how you used to tell us “What did Tarzan say when he saw the elephants coming over the hill? ‘Oh look. Here come the elephants over the hill!’” When I drive over the back county roads here in Minnesota, I remember how you used to drive a little faster over the back roads near the Farm just so we could get that thrilling little roller coaster feel when we went over a hill. Sometimes the boys will ask me for treats at the store, and every fifth time I’ll say yes and think about how you used to let Tim and I split a package of Little Debby chocolate cupcakes with the white cream filling when we were out shopping with you.

John and I have been reading Farmer Boy together before bed, and I remember at our house on Michael Avenue when you would read Little House in the Big Woods to me before bed – Chapter 8, The Dance at Grandpa’s is still my favorite. James told me he wanted to get a dog and a kitty cat the other day, and I told him we would when we move to the country.

I realize that so many of the things you taught me – to work hard, to not complain, to be cheerful in the tasks God has placed before me – are all lessons I find myself working to instill in the boys every day.

So you see, you are very much part of who I am and, no doubt, who John, James and Henry will one day be.

We Call This Friday Good

The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That questions the distempered part;
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer’s art
Resolving the enigma of the fever chart. 

Our only health is the disease
If we obey the dying nurse
Whose constant care is not to please
But to remind of our, and Adam’s curse,
And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse. 

The whole earth is our hospital
Endowed by the ruined millionaire,
Wherein, if we do well, we shall
Die of the absolute paternal care
That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere. 

The chill ascends from feet to knees,
The fever sings in mental wires.
If to be warmed, then I must freeze
And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars. 

The dripping blood our only drink,
The bloody flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood—
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.

- T.S. Eliot, from Four Quartets

Maundy Thursday

A Maundy Thursday reflection:

But the worst day of all was when it hit me that Jesus’ own most fervent prayer was refused: “Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless not my will, but thine, be done.” I must have read that verse or heard it a hundred times before without seeing or hearing. Maybe I didn’t want to see it. But then one day I saw it. It just knocked me in the head. This, I thought, is what is meant by “thy will be done” in the Lord’s Prayer, which I had prayed time and again without thinking about it. It means that your will and God’s will may not be the same. It means there’s a good possibility that you won’t get what you pray for. It means that in spite of your prayers you are going to suffer. It means you may be crucified.

After Jesus’ terrible prayer at Gethsemane, an angel came to Him and gave Him strength, but did not remove the cup.

Before that time I may have had my doubts about public prayers, but I had listened to them complacently enough, even when they were for the football team. I had prayed my own private prayers complacently enough, asking for things I wanted, even though I knew well already that a lot of things I wanted I was not going to get, no matter how much I prayed for them. (Though I hadn’t got around to thinking about it, I already knew that I had been glad to have some things I had got that I had never thought to want, let alone pray for.) But now I was unsure what it would be proper to pray for, or how to pray for it. After you have said “thy will be done,” what more can be said? And where do you find the strength to pray “thy will be done” after you see what it means?

- Jayber Crow, in Wendell Berry’s Jayber Crow (via Ash Wednesday)

Photo Friday

From March 2012

The TARDIS and Doctor Who. We’re certifiable nerds now.

Wash on Monday

Ten years ago I did laundry about once every three weeks (which, yes, means I had at least 20+ pairs of underwear that I wore in increasingly levels of skanky-ness as the bottom of the pile neared). Buying clothes was more of a fun day out at the mall than an exercise in organization and frugality. Today, between kid’s clothes, baby clothes, adult clothes, cloth diapers, towels and sheets, I do it almost every day. It’s far from my least favorite household chore (hello, bathroom cleaning) but not exactly infused with domestic glory. And our local children’s consignment sale is coming up in about a month, which means I need to block out about four hours (no joke) to devote to going through the clothes, shoes, jackets and swim suits that we have, and make a list of what we need for the summer.

All that to say, this struck home today.

Laundry is a work of providential care; mending is restorative or healing; ironing is an act of perfecting. Even so seemingly nontranscendent an act as putting clothing away can be a gesture of memory or of hope. We put laundry away in drawers and closets in the expectation that another day or season will come when we need these things again. We pack away baby clothes… We save articles of clothing that belonged to a loved one who has died…

Alongside all of this, of course, lies the reality of clothing as a simple necessity and the act of clothing others as a work of mercy. Pople have bodies, and our bodies need clothes. Our households thus need routines and practices that provide for these needs and for the needs of the house itself; routines rooted in the recognition that… as we do such work, we are engaged in the essentials of life in the body and life in community.

from Keeping House: The Litany of Everyday Life by Margaret Kim Peterson

Ash Wednesday

Some people think that the season of Lent and the ashes of Ash Wednesday are all about reminding us that we are small. After all, we are about to put ashes and dust on our foreheads, and repeat the phrase, “remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” For some, remembering we are dust is about remembering all the ways we’ve acted like dirt, and try again to act like the spirit of God. While repentance is a good thing, and confessing our sins and receiving God’s forgiving grace is an important part of remembering that we are small, these dusty ashes upon your foreheads are not about calling you a dirtbag. They are about reminding you that you are a human being, created by God from the dust the earth. In Genesis 2, God created human beings by scooping up the rich, dark soil, adamah in Hebrew, and (whoosh) blowing life into it. You are of the earth. You are made of the stuff of this world. Like everything else in this world, you will live and you will die this one precious life, in this one fragile body, and then that lifeless body will return again to dust. Among all other creatures and lives, surrounded by all the dirt of the earth, each one of us is one tiny speck in the vast universe. We are so very small.

But that’s not all. Whenever we remember we are dust, whenever we remember that we are adamah, made of clay, we also have to remember what else we are made of. What other ingredient, apart from the earth, comprises humanity at the dawn of creation? (Whoosh) The breath of God. You are dirt and to dirt you shall return, but you are also the breath of God, and to God you shall return. Inside of you dwells the spark of the Almighty God, the power of God’s spirit animates your life. You are filled with the power to love, to give, to serve, to rejoice, to overcome, to hope, to be transformed. Even more, you can transform the world around you by your work and your love, your witness and your welcome, your peace-making and your graciousness. The eternal breath of God breathes in you. You are great.

Every Ash Wednesday, we remember what it is to be human, to be made from dust and the breath of God. The opposing contradictions of great and small, known and unknown, clarity and mystery, life and death—they all are reconciled in each and every human life. We are indeed ambassadors of reconciliation. When our lives reflect our true nature, we are simultaneously reflecting the transient beauty of the world and the eternal beauty of God.

From The Someday Book; full post here.

Personalized Classroom Valentines

I’m under the weather today and while letting the Internet black hole of doom distract me from my swollen sinuses I discovered a great deal from Minted.com offering a $25 credit if you create a new account with a referral link. I love stationary so I created the account and started poking around. Probably the most unique thing I found were these personalized classroom Valentine’s Day cards:

From January 2012

From January 2012

So basically at the end of the day, you can get 45 cards for $2 after using the $25 credit and free shipping code BEMINE35.

Happy Thursday! (And thanks for the tip, Money Saving Mom!)

EDITED TO ADD: I started to place my first order and realized the free shipping coupon only works if you are ordering $35 worth of product so the deal isn’t as great as I originally thought. Shipping is $7.95 so you’re looking at a $10 total cost.

EDITED AGAIN TO ADD: Just got this email from Minted:

“BEMINE35 has been replaced with CUPID35, and the minimum order is now $50 for this offer. Similarly, the new minimum order for a Refer-A-Friend program is $50.”