— two rooms stripped of paper
— books, toys, and furniture in family room
— kitchen cupboards full and ready for action
— many window treatments taken down. oh, what light!
— beautiful corner carved out in front of windows: antique secretary, antique cherry table, a spray of [faux] pussy willow, antique linen placemats, and a fun mix of benches and chairs gathered round
— and many, many boxes emptied.
psalm of the day: 71.
It’s 6:30.
William woke, I nursed him, Ryan and I chuckled quietly at his strong personality, then they both slipped back into sleep. Quietly, I found my warm slippers, grabbed Ryan’s sweatshirt, and padded down the carpeted hallway. The doorknob at hallway’s end opened without a sound as I made my way to the kitchen.
My second morning in this house. Our house.
The coffee routine was a bit smoother this time around; yesterday was all clumsiness and trying to remember where the spoons were. Button pushed, coffee dripping, I headed to the couch in the family room. Here, a wall of windows looks out over breathtaking views stretching to the Adirondacks — but that will be when the sun comes up. For now, there is a blanket of gray fog wrapping our house, leaving only a dim idea of where edge of woods meets our yard.
How many mornings will be spent exactly like this, in this exact spot?
We are so, so blessed.
I’ve had a ridiculously hard time putting life into words lately — as you may have guessed, given the scarcity of writing here. I figured today would be a great time to jump back in, since today is one of those days when Life hands you an obvious writing topic:
Today I turn 29.
No, really. 29 as in yesterday I was 28 — not to be confused with 29 for the 15th time because I never want to turn 30.
Last year, my birthday was celebrated with three most special fellas, an Applewood pizza, and chocolate cake from Trader Joe’s (Ryan insisted on providing the birthday dinner!) We sat in our ridiculously small dining room, and William snuggled on my lap as we ate, because he was still a pretty young little guy.
This year, I’m 2900 miles away from that dining room. As I sit here, looking at my parents’ kitchen window at the rosiness of a new sunrise, I realize it’s not just a new day, and a new year, but a new season. So much newness! Pretty exciting.
Today I’m far away from my very, very most special fella, and I miss him. It’s been a long three weeks of being apart, and I can’t wait for Thursday, when he’ll leave the beautiful West Coast and come join us for life in this quiet corner of the world.
Today I’ll try not to be too antsy about getting into our new house — even though the closing is taking weeks longer than originally projected. That happens, right? I know that in 6 months, these few weeks won’t even matter to me, because we will have settled into family life in a new home. So instead of antsiness, I’m going to just be really, really glad that I get to spend so many days with my dearest family. That I get to hear someone singing or playing in the music room almost all day long — the part I always miss the most about this crazy house!
Today I’ll ask the Lord to help me make these short vapor-like days really count. Because 29 came really fast, and it’ll be gone before I know it, just like all the other years. Because it’s easy to think, “Oh, I’ll do that, or be like that when I’m older,” and guess what? I’m older. Because as fleeting as they are, and as insignificant as they seem, these days have the ability to carry moments that change lives. My life included.
Yeah. Lord, change me.
I’ve been missing Ryan. The longer we’re married, the less I like to be apart. By the time I’m 50, we’ll be inseparable, I suppose. (I’m suddenly thinking of Up and trying not to get emotional.)
But no Ryan means a special chance to be all Mama and soak up all the little boy lovin’ I can. Jameson holds my hand lots, and William (who has a little fever and an upset tummy — sad!) wants me to hold and snuggle him lots. My very favorite, though, is bedtime, when we all three fall asleep into bed together, nestled close against each other — and then wake up and snuggle even closer for just a minute before Jameson hears his Uncle Merrick and runs away to play.
That’s all, really. I just wanted to write and remember this special week, with my two boys, sharing pillows and dreams.
I love them!
Monday night, we backed out of our driveway for the last time.
All day we’d been working so hard with the movers to load the truck, keep children out of the way, and then cleaned the house, and finally, packed suitcases with all the leftovers for our flight back east. And life had been that sort of whirlwind for days. I’d been thinking about packing, and about missing friends, and had scarcely spent a minute’s time to realize I was about to leave to many special memories.
I stepped out our front door into the dark night to drop one more stamped envelope into the mail. Lingering traces of afternoon’s warm sun scented the air — a fragrance I suddenly realized I’d grown to love. End-of-day traffic illuminated the street with red and yellow lights, and palm trees waved high above everything else, outline of black against a dusky sky.
This had been Evening for almost three years, and now it is no more.
My head fell upon a sister’s pillow last night, my boys and I nestled safely under a favorite red roof, and my mind wandered to a stuccoed bungalow far away: once home, now empty; once ours, but ours no longer. We lived life there. Baby grew to boy. We became a family of four. I hung diapers on a line hundreds of time; baked hundreds of loaves of bread; paced bedroom floor through long nights of sick babes; cuddled all together for family movie nights; celebrated Easters and Thanksgivings, birthdays and Valentines Days; hosted new faces who became good friends; laughed and cried, fought and made up, loved more and better than before. So much life.
So yes, I feel like I’m leaving part of my heart behind, but that’s not a bad thing: I poured my heart into those three years of living, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Good-bye to a wonderful season of sunshine and amazing coast lines, hip cities and easy suburban living, choo-choo trains and constant air traffic (what the boys will miss!), and regular walks to Trader Joe’s. (I was going to include wonderful new friends in that list, but I’m not saying good-bye to them. I hope they’ll be a part of this next season of life, too!)
And hello to a season yet to unfold — where Evening looks like silver moon on vast fields of snow, a new house awaits us, waiting to be filled with memories of its own, and where we look for God to use us and change us in ways we never expected.
Sometimes I am so struck by the wonderfulness of this walk with Christ. Like, wow, what a great plan!
This past Monday, we got a whole van-load of boxes, and, knowing that was the day’s plans, I mentally rolled up my sleeves and prepared for this task of packing. I reviewed my strategy, but I also gave myself a little pep talk. The house will seem like a disaster, said I to myself. The kids will get cranky at all the wrong moments. They will unpack boxes you just filled, and will rip tape off the boxes you thought were so well sealed. Those amazing little houdinis. Tempers will probably flare, and tensions will run high, and you’ll have to remember that it’s just a season, and soon it will be over. And you’ll have to work hard at kindness and patience — more so than usual.
And that’s when I was struck.
I saw, in vivid color, as though for the first time, that kindness and patience are a fruit of the Spirit — and the Spirit will still be active and moving in our lives, even during this topsy-turvy month!
I literally teared up, and my heart just burst with happiness and relief. I can have love and joy all the time.
Love, joy, peace — they are not fruits of routine, order, and a good night’s sleep.
Against such there is no law — not even the laws of chaos, exhaustion, teething babes, and tight budgets can keep the fruits of the Spirit from growing in a willing life.
Suddenly I’ve found myself murmuring to myself —
— when it’s only 9am, and two kids are crying and whining and I’m just so tired: Joy is not the fruit of rest; it’s a fruit of the Spirit.
— when I trip over the crying baby who’s trying to climb up my [moving] legs: Kindness is not the fruit of tranquility; it’s a fruit of the Spirit.
— when little hands are reaching for me, a boy is getting into trouble, a dear husband calls his need for something, and I can’t do it all at once: Peace and love are not the fruits of manageable moments; they are fruits of the Spirit.
And if that’s true, then there’s nothing about right now that makes those fruits an impossibility. In the middle of these boxes, in the midst of any tears, above and through and in all the pressures and demands, we can experience:
love. joy. peace. patience. kindness. goodness. faithfulness. gentleness. self-control.
See what I mean about the wonderfulness of it all?