from yesterday:

It’s Sunday, and we are Sabbath-ing here at the Dunphey house.

The daddy sent everyone to their beds as soon as our dinner table was cleared, and quiet reigned for a couple of hours, interrupted only by a crying 2yo who needed to finish her nap with Mama.

Rest is good, and it is a gift. Rest is different than leisure — a posture that says, I was made to work but I was also made with limitations, and so I pause despite the ongoing garden tending and inevitable entropy that never pauses. God will supply what we need.

*****

House in renovation mode for two weeks now, and the excitement over a project moving forward fills our days — but most of all, for sure, the joy of Ryan calling for a son to help, of inviting a daughter to join him on a dump run, and pouring out appreciation and affirmation on them as we gather for dinner each evening. They are all working hard, even if it’s simply by playing happily in the “den” (our small guest room-turned-living room) with the few toys Mama left out. This is an “all hands on deck” season, and isn’t that the best?

Jameson is rising to the occasion with a big project happening. He loves nothing more than donning work clothes and old ball cap in the morning and jumping right into work mode with Ryan. He’s climbing into the attic and doing small jobs unassisted, learning about electrical, helping to keep tools organized, and just generally an enthusiastic assistant who makes long and late nights more enjoyable for Ryan.

William is steady and dependable. He’ll spend several hours carrying debris out to the truck, sweeping floors, and holding lights. He cheerfully does house cleaning even if it’s not the most exciting task happening. He notices when the girls are getting needy and jumps right in to create a game for them or read to them or just keep them happy so the gears can keep turning. He does his best to stay up with his big brother but once in awhile disappears to his room, where he can be found fast asleep.

Beatrice cheerfully chips away at her school and chores and piano practice each day, doing better and better at remembering all of those things on her own. She reads voraciously and plays her favorite piano pieces incessantly, and is always always cheerful. Our spring thaw last week meant bike riding began, and she somehow managed to be the only kid to tear or stain two pairs of pants in epic crashes. She’s tender and loving and flighty.

Fiona still lives most days in her own happy little world of make believe. She has doll babies to care for and ballet classes to go to and church services to lead. Generally quiet, she will suddenly come to life at the meal table and regale the other children with stories of “dreams” she had and imaginations that grow with the telling. She is up first or second every day and “reads” her Bible stories quietly alongside me.

And Cecily — jabbering away continually and thankfully even beginning to include some English in the babbling. She loves to play with Fiona, be in the middle of all of us all the time, go places with her Daddy, and if she’s ever grumpy or sad, a clementine or two will cure her. She has officially moved out of our bedroom and joined the girls’ room in her own twin bed. It’s been a learning process, as I think she was more attached to her basket and her Mama’s proximity than my other 2 year olds. The boys, especially, dote on her continually (which probably contributes to her lack of English. Why bother? They bend over backwards to get whatever it is she’s crying for.) She loves to be the center of attention and will pull some antic at dinnertime if she feels the conversation has excluded her for too long. We all laugh all day long, thanks to her, and she’s never lacking for someone to hold or hug her.

*****

Meanwhile, I’ve passed the 30 week mark with this pregnancy. It’s flying by, partly because I’ve been feeling really good. Tired, but good. Soon, very soon, I’ll need to think seriously about names and mental preparation for labor and figuring out what we need. But for now I just try to keep up my daily stretches and walks, while enjoying the increasingly strong kicks and flutters from within.

Despite the massive disruption of washing dishes in a bathroom sink, making meals without stove or oven, and carrying laundry outside and through the garage and to the washing machine, I’m doing my best to keep the essentials in place: short moments of prayer and Bible together, math and piano and reading, systems for clean clothes and [decently!] healthy food, and most of all, attitudes of thankfulness.

Because we are so, so blessed, especially in the common things that could so easily go unappreciated:

Girls who giggle together far more often than they quibble.
Boys who are best friends.
Child laughter all the time.
Chores that get done fairly well (ha!) and cheerfully by helpful children.
Repentance and forgiveness that flow all day long.
An immoveable Rock beneath us, giving stability and peace to the ebb and flow of life.
And so much more.

all is well

Yesterday I found myself alone at home, Ryan having taken all the children to do errands (something about him that I find amazing.) I stood at the kitchen sink washing dishes, slowly making headway through a long list of to dos.

And my heart felt heavy. So heavy. Why? Oh, it could be a hundred things. Things as small as I’m so tired and will I ever not feel this way? all the way to What does it feel like to buy chocolates and Valentines for your child, only to get a phone call saying they’ve been shot and killed in a senseless act of violence?

The gamut. Sorting it out in a muddling sort of way, trying to just push through, find my footing, whisper prayers…

Then I knew what I needed to hear, and maybe you do, too. I found the video of my beautiful, beautiful boy singing words that are the essence of Good News:

Darkness fell
Into the dawn
Of Love’s light.

And I know it’s a Christmas piece, and there are poinsettias on the stage, but it’s more than just Christmas, and that’s the whole point. All is well now, today, in this moment, and it will be forevermore, because He is our Redeemer.

“Christmas is not an armisticedivinity runs much deeper than a day…”

work + rest

A year ago God used a couple of books to really speak to an area of need and defeat in my life. I was rereading my notes for months, feasting on ideas I’d always known, but that were finally penetrating and changing me from deep within. (Not that I have already attained, or am already perfected; but I press on, that I may lay hold of that for which Christ Jesus has also laid hold of me.)

This year I began a fresh Bible reading initiative — albeit a bit scattered and probably only discernible to me — but one obvious fresh start was Genesis 1. I read it slowly, stopped several times, read it again, pondered for a few days… There is so much to discover about who God is, what is in His heart, and how we were made to be right in those first few pages. So much calling and identity revealed!

This time through, I was struck by the instruction laid out for us as workers and creators, made in the image of God, following His example:

Why did God take 6 days for the work of creation? Why one element at a time, one day at a time? He could have simply spoken it all into being with a single word. He is not limited in any way. So why?

Could it be that right from the beginning, He was teaching us how to work? Was He speaking to me (and those of us who tend to be a bit too driven for our own good) about how our endeavors and tasks must fall into the proper place and time? That we do what is good for today and then sleep, calling it good (and enough, by His grace), and rising again to do the next day’s work?

That is something I felt break in my life over the past year: the sense that in order to be succeeding as homemaker, I needed to finish completely every single day, and that undone laundry, house cleaning, kitchen work, all of it, was a verdict of failure.

There is self sufficiency that is constantly trying to enslave us, and so we actively are called to enter the rest provided us through Christ.

Maybe your propensity isn’t towards laundry-pile-enslavement, but is there something today you’re laboring under, a lack of completion that whispers the condemning sentence of “failure”? We are called to work and stewardship, but also to rest and order. He gives us a day to work, and a night to rest — and in Him, we can do just that: rest.

*****

Related:

life and peace
Teaching From Rest
Every Good Endeavor

november.

November 1st.

Darkness greets me as I open my eyes, and the soft murmur of furnace faithfully warming house.

Coffee drips steadily, body slowly warming to awake as I push through today’s core work, sitting to read John and sip that warm brew, finally breaking away from the lure of Christmas shopping online to don coat and hat, and: still dark.

Clean air greets me, albeit cold. Swinging arms to fight cold, weaving on and off road to stay away from cars that don’t see me, pulling hat lower over ears: my winter morning routine has begun.

Warm breakfast from oven, candles lit. Sunlight spills glorious and bright, then just as quickly disappears in a cloud of brooding gray. At lunch we pause, listen, and then sit with mouths agape as tens, scores, a hundred or more? geese wing overhead. By late afternoon, windows are wet with drizzly rain and darkness creeps in again, already, hemming us in. Scent of pumpkin pie wafts, piano is practiced, and we grab books and gather close to one another.

I love November.

True, leaves are gone. No one schedules a trip to the Adirondacks now, as every last vestige of beauty and life has been ripped from limbs by wind and turned to mush by autumn rains. Bare gray branches stand exposed against the sky, and corn fields quiet to a soft gold. Everywhere, a palette of steel blue, chestnut brown, spun gold, faded green. It is alternatively gentle and austere, changed in an instant by the drama that unfolds moment by moment in the late autumn sky.

Our flurry of first days of school have calmed, and we have settled into how this goes. A few more weeks, and the steady routine will begin to fall apart as we anticipate and plan and create for the coming holidays. Beef stew and buttermilk biscuits, applesauce and roast chicken — these are novel again and fill not just tummies but hearts. Board games are rediscovered in the evenings, and throws and blankets don’t stay folded long between use. Favorite books are pored over, made all the more enjoyable by the flicker of firelight.

I love November.

*****

Goodbye, lovely October. You were beautiful, too.


Taken on the morning of the first frost.

Taken on a hike last week.

Taken in our backyard.

Taken on a Sunday morning just because.

slipping into september

September came…

A few weeks with a dear family — continual laughter and friendship and food. What a gift!

And then back to just us.

They love each other. So much.

We’re slipping math and workbooks into the days, but looking forward to one more special guest this week before we break out the new routines. We can’t wait to break it all out — and we’re also loving the fluidity of these weeks.

Soon.

For now, the beauty of transition.

au revoir, august

Our field is finally hayed. The wild tangle of goldenrod and Queen Ann’s Lace is gone, cut and dried and rolled into a momentary pastoral tableau that made me smile with satisfaction before it was carried away on a flatbed farm trailer.

We’re cleaning up from summer, I guess.

Crickets chirp continuously. Are they louder in August, or do I just grow more aware, knowing windows will soon close and then the world will close, too, hemmed in by snow and ice and stillness. A cicada interrupts the monotone symphony and I hush us: Listen! See! Smell! Savor it all, bottle it up, soul fed and ready for a long hibernation and an austere diet of frozen beauty.

We sit in sundresses and shorts still, soaking in sunshine, but keeping cardigans and afghans at the ready, knowing the sun will dip sooner and leave us damp and chilly, smelling autumn in the evening air.

Cupboard doors, closed, hide the shelves I’ve organized, sharpened pencils in jar, curriculum chosen after long deliberations. Fresh notebooks, new chore charts, basket of living books at the ready — but for now, tucked away. Waiting a bit longer.

The end of summer is celebrated here with cakes and presents, thanks to my August babies. Fall will be ushered in the same way, thanks to boys born under harvest moons. The signposts are everywhere, I guess is what I’m saying, and yet… I’m stubbornly, sentimentally lingering. I’m not ready, not quite, not this year. I contemplate pulling out that math program during a quiet afternoon hour but then you grab a glove to play catch and I almost sigh in relief. Yes, let’s do that. Let’s be carefree and in the moment, just for one more day. Or maybe another week? Yes. Grab a blanket and book, listen to the crickets. Let’s do that.

*****