making home

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Mulligatawny Soup — a comforting favorite!

Did you know that “homemaker” isn’t just a placeholder on an application for people whose lives are so lame they don’t leave home? It actually is an occupation — and more, it’s a calling. Homes, in fact, don’t just happen; they are made, and someone has to do that making. It is a gender specific calling for the wise woman who will give herself to the task. It is a calling that fosters the building of people, of families, and of culture. It is way more than a placeholder.

This atmosphere that we’re called to cultivate (first in our own souls, and then by extension in our domain) will look unique in each home. Isn’t that beautiful? I love the many expressions of God’s Kingdom that erupt in the earth as homes are established to His glory. Because I am the homemaker here, our signs of “home culture” may look a lot like reading aloud together, listening to classical music in the morning and classic jazz in the evening, ethnic food and Dutch oven meals, flowers in the summer and candles in the winter, and pretty things here and there. That’s me. But I remember a friend’s home from my childhood, a place of incredible joy and warmth and togetherness — full of mountains of mismatched tupperware dishes that we took turns washing our way through (because there was always, always at least one visitor), loud laughing and boisterous play, and an evening of fun looked like making candy and pulling the sticky ropes halfway across the kitchen in our buttered hands. I don’t remember a single candle or any bouquets, but I remember knowing that my friend wanted to be home with her family more than anywhere else in the world.

The expressions will differ, but the mandate remains the same for women throughout time and the world over: to build a place where people find the flavor of heaven, and where souls are ministered to through their physical needs. Our five senses absorb life, and as homemakers, we touch hearts through the sounds and scents and scenes and food (don’t forget the food!) we provide.

Some things won’t differ. All of the above things, in and of themselves, are so empty. Even Miles Davis is a clanging cymbal if there isn’t love, I guess you could say. First and foremost, there is Jesus. He has a culture that doesn’t bend, no matter where or when it’s being expressed. The Kingdom of Heaven is righteousness, peace, and joy. Our homes need to be places where right living is upheld and repentance is a well-learned skill; where peaceful living and peaceable living mean turning from worry and stress, and saying a hard NO to strife in our relationships; and where joy is sought and cultivated. Those things aren’t natural for any of us, but they are for the Holy Spirit, and He has come to make His home in us. We don’t have to settle for less, although those things will be a lifelong pursuit.

We establish those gospel things as non-negotiables, but then we allow the talents, giftings, and tastes of ourselves (and our husbands) to shape the form it all takes.

It’s a worthwhile task. Nations are shaped right here in our kitchens.

Some places to get started:

The Little Book of Hygge — a totally secular book, but with lots of practical ideas for how to cultivate a sense of being present, and making home a place of enjoyment.

The Hidden Art of Homemaking — a classic that I just love. She touches on every aspect of home, the biblical importance of what we do, and lots of practical ideas for how to do it.

The Life Giving Home — if the previous title is a bit dated for your taste, this book says many of the same things in a more updated setting.

The Little House books — because honestly, Ma is my hero. She makes home and hygge in a dugout on the side of a hill. Ladies, we can do this!

a purposeful home

In August, I made an impulse purchase. I judged a book by it’s fabulous cover and bought it. This week, it made its way to the family room, where I’ve been perusing its contents (while nestled under an afghan, sometimes by candlelight, because of course.)

It’s that time of year. My kids say lots of great things, but something William said a few months ago made my heart happy: “My favorite time of year is winter, because it gets dark early and there are candles and music and we’re all together.” This from my boy who is out playing football as often as possible. Who knew the regular rituals I’ve attempted to create, in order to craft “homey” out of a time that could just be cold and dull, were making a clear impression on him.

Of course, that freshly inspired me. It’s not always easy, being all together indoors from 4pm on, keeping hearts and hands occupied, trying to convince myself to not just send us all to bed because it’s pitch black, after all. It helps to remember that the quiet music or the fun board game or even the “everyone get a book and sit quietly at the fire until I say” is doing more than just keeping us sane; it’s making memories. It’s making home.

Back to the book: hygge is a Danish word and concept, and so here you’ll find the makings of the unusually happy Danish culture (according to statistics.) Lighting, food, furnishings, friends… all of the elements that add to a slow, cozy enjoyment of the moment — especially the dark ones.

But I couldn’t help but think, as I read with a pink-cheeked baby sleeping in the crook of my arm, that I didn’t see all that much about babies. About making this culture for others enjoyment. I did a quick check, and sure enough, the Danes seem to be missing something crucial.


And not just Denmark; it is an overarching problem in many countries.

This made me sad, but it also was a very powerful reminder: candles, warm bread, an emphasis on friendship over productivity, and sheepskin on every surface rings a bit hollow if it’s all feeding a need for my happiness. That just can’t be the point. And I know: toddlers knock candles over, kids grimace at the slow-cooked stew, your favorite afghan is in the wash because someone escaped the table with banana hands, and late night game nights with friends are tough when the baby needs to be nursed to sleep. This investment costs something.

But home is meant to be created as an investment in the next generation. That’s the whole point: homes as a safe, welcoming place of ministry.

This is a good reminder for me. Home is a tool, the end to the means — not the end in itself.

new baby.

“Don’t you see that children are God’s best gift?
the fruit of the womb His generous legacy?”

And in the midst of school starting and birthday celebrating, weather cooling and leaves falling, we found out a new baby is coming.

four sisters
Me with my three also-expecting sisters

Some of the first joys have been the other children’s responses, especially Beatrice. She is so very excited, and also so very thoughtful toward me. Another joy is the provision of a new midwife to our area.

Most of all, looking around at the five faces who gather at our table for each meal (and who all follow me around all day long!) and trying to fathom how blessed we are to have these gifts in our lives. Five people God has used me to usher into the world, and now another soul to love and be blessed by.


A short walk last month

Of course the front end brings with it the immediate challenge to give and be stretched, as I balance upset stomach with need for food NOW, and the non-stop waves of exhaustion that bring my days to a screeching halt, sometimes only a few hours in. Life is pared down to most needful (which ends up still being a lot these days, I’m finding) and so school isn’t fun and flashy. Just basic. Diligence is the name of the game. Autumn is slipping by and I’m not out there, walking down leaf-strewn trails and seeking new adventure with my brood each afternoon. Silly, but that’s hard for me, and an opportunity to say firmly to my soul, “Another year. The kids are fine just playing in the yard, and you’re saying YES to a whole new person.” It’s worth the loss of a few tromps in the woods. More than worth it.


Naptime with Cecily

So here we are, already 1/4 of the way through a season of expectation that will culminate in the arrival of Baby #6 next May. I am so, so thankful.



Mornings are mostly still “mine”, with quiet time, walk, and exercise. Sometimes it all goes downhill from there, but I so enjoy the start of the day!


Pretty little girls!


Afternoon snack and read aloud — a [mostly] daily highlight.


Ten weeks. That’s a pro-level bump. Ha!

over a decade with my baby.

There was a birthday celebrated in September that must be recorded: my eldest, Jameson.

He was just born, wasn’t he?, and yet no. There is over a decade’s worth of memories crammed into the treasure chest of my heart.

He is growing. He is tall, yes, but he is growing. A quieter heart, a new confidence, the incredible perception and awareness he’s always had growing into wisdom. He’s still just a boy, but this older boy I’m just sort of observing and marveling at.

I can’t believe how much my heart is just wrapped up in him. My beautiful boy.

I blinked, and suddenly, we’re here:


First morning as an 11yo, drinking coffee and chatting with Cecily, who just adores him.


Perfect freckles.

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.

*****

memories

Mid August.

The sun changes, the air cools each night. And the scent. I love the subtle changes of scent as summer blossoms, then matures into autumn.

Nostalgia.

As this 30-foot long row of hydrangea bursts into bloom, its powdery scent filling the yard and wafting through open windows into the kitchen, I’m taken back to my Augusts of expectation, nine months pregnant with Beatrice, and then Fiona. I hear the bees buzzing, morning till night, in these sun-drenched blooms and am transported to those days of waiting, anticipating, and finally of bringing a swaddled newborn outside to see the hydrangeas for themselves.

On this day six years ago, I awoke still pregnant, overdue for the first time in my life, and I started to know what hope deferred felt like in a physical manifestation.

I listened to bees buzz and smelled the hayed fields and Queen Ann’s lace and brought in new bouquets of hydrangea, and waited.

This morning it all comes back to me. And I know the best is yet to come, but these memories — they are my most precious treasures.