Glorious Autumn

There are times when I lay on the floor of my bedroom, curled up in a patch of sunlight, half delirious with the brightness of fall leaves and half suffocated by the suffering world around me.

There are days when I spend hours outside in glorious autumn, planting bulbs, brown, egg-shaped personifications of hope.

There are 43 autumns behind me now, lived out in Alaska, California, England, Oregon and Washington. Yet every single autumn I am surprised by the beauty of this world.

I have spent 43 years watching God move in my life, seeing His goodness, testifying to His grace. Yet every single time He shows up I am surprised by His love.

Last night I said goodnight to the kids at the bottom of the stairs, I turned and quickly walked through the dark office to get to my own much desired bed. My mind was on Saturday's dress fitting for the Nutcracker. Obviously absorbing. The next thing I knew something slammed into me. Hard. I flew back several feet and landed flat on my back with a force that brought a scream and sob simultaneously.  I was stunned and in pain.

After Dave got me to my feet (ah I could still use my legs, good sign) I realized that I had run into the half open door. The solid wood had pushed my glasses into my now swollen eye and propelled me backwards with the same force I had been moving forward. I had walked into a door...don't only old people do things like that? My tailbone took the brunt of it and is now officially elderly.

God has this same effect on me. I move through life swiftly, thinking, planning, organizing my days, and I run into the God of the universe. Sometimes He stops me gently, and sometimes He's a door in the dark. Sometimes I lay on my back longer than I need to, insensible to what's going on. Other times, I'm up and thankful for the direction, for the halt. Maybe, like last night, I hobble to bed wry and bruised and humble. 

But the overwhelming fact is God shows up. He cares enough about our lives and our circumstances to interact with us. He is unpredictable, yet consistently faithful. 

Tonight, the rain rolls down the windows of my home. The trees drip leaves of red and yellow. Avonlea plays the piano and sings and a gray cat walks into my room. I am again overwhelmed by the beauty of life. But the heights reflect the depths and I also think of the suffering of the world, of people I love, and of my own burdens and I lift them up to God. I remember that I am not an exception. This good God who shows up and guides and helps me will also be present in the lives of those in need. 

To live hope is to take a prayer, an action, a word and bury it, bulb-like, in the hard ground; to revel in the glory of autumn is to prepare for the beauty of spring .

Glory Pursues

Day by day life rolls along.
A lilting song.
A shout of laughter.
A child's cry.
A near disaster.

This loud learning process never ends.
Or it ends only to begin again. Immediately.

Nevertheless.
In the fall, the glory pursues me.
The loveliness grabs me aggressively and I lean into it, lover-like.

In the arms of this radiance,
I realize afresh how far I am from where I want to be.
But I see also, how far I've come and how I'm covered in grace.

My life is a song that I am desperately trying to sing
before the words wrinkle into silence.

Nevertheless.
In the silence, I can hear the leaves fall.
And they sound like the footsteps of glory,
Pursuing.

Romance

The good news is I'm not walking into walls anymore when I try to go upstairs in the dark.

We are still moving in. Who knew it would take 6 months and many bruises? Not this little optimistic Eskimo. I thought I could do it in a week. Or so.

Dave started to help me put pictures up last weekend. You would think that after having 6 months to ponder where those pictures should go we'd be able to slap them up in a jiffy. I have made some bad calls.

Take the Lady of Shallot for instance. I love her. I thought I would love her in my bathroom.

But it kind of looks like she's trying to peek.

I'm not Lancelot and don't find this flattering. Or comfortable.

In other news...I went to pick the kids up at camp in July and came home with a puppy. Some women impulse buy shoes, I bring home pets. Pets that will someday be LARGE.

 But she's not large right now. She is the yummiest bear of a baby and her name is Pearl. The way I babble at her and cuddle her is proof that I should have had more children.

Two weeks ago we went peach picking. It was highly romantic. Almost as romantic as having the Lady of Shallot watch you take a bath.

Of course we couldn't eat the entire 26 pounds of peaches that we picked so we mixed them up with blackberries and made fruit leather.

Here is the peach/blackberry fruit leather before it went into the dryer. Doesn't it look like a big hearted swan??? I found this extraordinary and very romantic. Also possibly prophetic although I haven't figured out how.

Last week we went on our last summer outing as a family. We explored Fort Vancouver. It seemed symbolic (I think symbolism is romantic) that we step into the past before we step into the future.

Our future is this: Avonlea is a Senior and graduates this June. Grant started public high school. Rowan and Rose keep me busy as 4th and 5th graders at opposite ends of the education spectrum. Rowan wants to know everything because he wants to be President of the United States as soon as he turns 30. He eats up everything I can feed him mentally and asks questions that keep Google and I tight. Rose on the other hand has no ambition except to be a ballerina missionary. When questioned further she will tell you she wants to dance for Africans. But in general it's best NOT to question her further.

(She wrote a poem the other night that said "the moon is sining, all the stars sin together". She meant shine. She asked me if I wanted her to illustrate the poem. NO. No thank you dear, go practice your ballet.)

Dave and I's future is always together....for the romantic moments and the not-so-romantic moments. For the puppies and the starry nights (whether sinning or not)  and the morning fog. For the four lives that bind us so closely to each other and our God. For pumpkin patches and huckleberry picking and laughter.

A future built on a mountain of memories and a foundation of love.
So we welcome fall, I have a tingly feeling that it is going to be very romantic.

Braving the Mosquitoes

I once read in a book a scenario where a young man longs for Venice. When his dream is finally realized and he is cascading down liquid streets in a gondola...he is nearly eaten alive by mosquitoes.

I cocked my head, golden-retriever fashion, when I read this at the ripe age of 20. Was it sarcasm or cynicism? I have learned some in the last 20 years and I don't think it was either. I think it was just life. Just this side of Heaven. Just a longing for a garden pre-fall.

I remembered this little book tidbit last week when my head was throbbing. My whole entire life I have dreamed of having a grand piano. When I realized that we needed a piano at the cottage so the kids could practice while they're up there, I had a GREAT idea, which I sprung on Dave when we were driving up to the cottage. Why not buy a grand piano for our house and move the upright piano to the cottage. Win/win. Dave tried to tell me that we could save our backs and our bank account by getting a keyboard for the cottage, at which point I broke into tears. "But I've always wanted a grand piano," sob. My strength is obviously subtlety. My good, dear husband turned the car around and drove to the piano store.

And the piano came. Glossy and black and beautiful and loud. Yes, loud. Loud as in I can hear nothing else but piano. All day. I am learning to read lips. Loud as in Rose's piano teacher gave her an Indian war song to play and I hear the drum-like chords pounding in my head for long hours into the night. Loud as in, I break a sweat at the thought of Christmas music.

The kids love to practice on it, and I smile wry at the realization of this dream. If I could hear anything at all, besides Indian chords, I'm pretty sure I'd hear mosquitoes.

As I've mentioned in a previous post, Grant is 13 with a vengeance. I noticed the other day when we had friends over that he didn't participate in the sword fighting. Asked about it later he replied, "I tried to keep the warrior in." I have spent whole Bible studies learning how to make my son a warrior. I have read several books on raising a knight. But the mosquitoes are hungry these days and for goodness sakes keep.the.warrior.in. Let your warrior mature before he comes out to defend the innocent.

Rose and I home schooling together is another gondola moment complete with whining, bloodsucking insects. I love this child. I love home schooling. But something goes wrong when I try to combine the two. When Avonlea and Grant were little I used to ring a bell to begin school. They would come running down the stairs yelling, "Yay! School! What are we doing today mommy!!" (Completely legit here). This no longer happens. Rosy and I resemble wrestlers circling each other in the ring. I try to take her over her flashcards and she listens for "voices" which tell her the answers, giving math the atmosphere of a séance. The "voices" are more often wrong than not and I begin to lose my patience with the "voices". Why couldn't the "voices" belong to people who were good at math? Yesterday during flashcards as I inhaled deeply trying to keep calm and loving, Rose put her hand on my arm and said, "It's worth it mom." Mosquitoes galore in that moment.

Sometimes I can believe the idea that this life is all mosquitoes. But it's not. I actually made it to Venice. (Literally and figuratively) I love my family, my friends, my home. I love my God. There is beauty all around me. It's a little bit different than I imagined it would be, but that's what Heaven is for. It's foolish to think that life should be perfect, because if it were, what in the world would I laugh at?

And although it's humbling to hear it from my eight year old, Rose is right. It's totally worth it.

PS Rose passed "Little Indian Brave" and is on to "Beaded Moccasins".
I'm pushing for politically correct piano books.

The Stories Together

I've been amazingly blessed with car time this fall.
Inevitably Rose starts off this time with, "Tell me a story Mommy."
It is not a request.
So a few weeks ago, I decided to turn the tables.
As soon as I heard her seat belt click into place, I said, "Tell me a story Rosy."
Silence indicated that she was contemplating this turn of events.
"All my stories are your stories Mommy."
And I blinked hard, because she was correct. All the stories she has heard and lived have been with me. Everything that has happened so far in her short life, has happened with me. I love that.

So here is our last month in pictures. All the stories we've lived together.

The frogs that my three younger children consider family.

The "all boy" camping trip out to an island for Rowan's 9th birthday.

Campsite!

Brothers!!
Dave's Aunt and Uncle gifted us this boat this spring. So sweet!

Pensive Grant

Eager Rowan

Picking pears at the cottage.

Rowan asked for a pair of overalls and a push lawn mower for his birthday.

The boy's dam and the resulting pond

The kids made themselves breakfast down on the island.

Rowan had to get creative with where to put the pears!

This fall has been a beautiful reminder that the stories we are making right now, will be retold to other little children someday. So I can laugh at the odd, embarrassing, silly things my children (not to mention their parents) do, because someday.....those very things will make a great story.

Gliding and Sliding into Winter

It's been snowing intermittently for two days.
Dave's home from work and public school children throng the streets.
It's the perfect opportunity for me to post the pictures of us sliding and gliding into winter.

Dave bought us all kayaks this summer to use on the lake up near the cottage. We had several family adventures on them in the glorious days of fall.

A month later when we went up to the cottage we traded our kayaks for ice skates!

And today, the sleds go whizzing past on the white streets.
To my husband, this kinetic energy is what winter is all about.
To me, all this movement is part of the great dance of seasons. A rollicking, infectious performance choreographed by our artistic God. Whether I'm kayaking or ice skating or sipping tea in front of the fire, I am thoroughly entertained.