Thursday, December 29, 2011
My funny boys
Thursday, December 15, 2011
My Grown Up Christmas List
My desk is cluttered with Christmas cards, a list of names concerning all I will one day send said cards to, books of stamps, my iPod recently charged and waiting to fill my SUV with Christmas tunes, stacks of envelopes from which I aim to extract addresses for my third attempt at an address book that will not die along with another hard drive. My kitchen sink is full of dishes, there is a cake sending out a divine smell from the oven, and my Christmas tree skirt is draped over the coffee table where I left it after vacuuming up an ornament catastrophe this morning. Only one thing is missing from my festive chaos: my manger scene.
It seems that this year I don't have time for setting up each shepherd, donkey, sheep, star, Mary, Joseph, nor the precious little one. There are garlands on the fireplace, lights on the stair, wreaths in every window, and I even have appropriately colored towels hanging on my oven door. Now this is in no wise a self inflicted guilt trip. I think that making my front door look welcoming, bright, and merry is just as soul warming as seeing my Willow Tree nativity on the bookshelf. It is simply something I notice, and I grieve.
A wise friend once told me, when we were discussing where is best to live, that we should appreciate where we are and at once mourn where we are not. A farmer should breathe deep, stretch out long, and sink his toes into the fertile earth, but never forget the many faces he will never chance to meet along the stretch of city sidewalk. The banker on Wall Street should enjoy the crispness of his tie and the artistic inspiration of architecture he walks into every day as his office, and nonetheless acknowledge the ache of tall buildings and few trees, the nameless thousands and the anonymity of it all.
I am grateful to be the mom now. I am grateful that it is my house people will enter tonight and my own cooking they will enjoy. It is incredible to me that I have become like my own mother, inviting people into a house bedecked in greenery and a gaudy Christmas tree, and that I was the one to hand my little one a spoon with chocolate batter on it. Having Christmas cards go out with my new address on them, with my husband, my children, and my own handwriting on the front. Honestly I even enjoy that I am the one that mopped the floor in preparation and hung the Christmas towel on the rack in the bathroom. The sense of satisfaction far outweighs the work. Nevertheless I mourn. I mourn that I am not the one still coming in from school and smelling the party food baking. I mourn that I am not the one to lick my mom's batter covered spoon and that I am not the one to walk into a freshly cleaned house, and not think anything of it. Mostly I mourn that I am trying to bring Christmas, when as a girl I let Christmas come to me.
I remember going to the Christmas Eve service in the back of the van, my tights pleasantly itching my legs and having to adjust my stiff pea coat as I tried to read my book by the small light above my window. I remember being ushered into the warmth of the big church by the small crowd that was my family and taking cues from mom and dad as to when we would leave, when we would get to the party, when we would go home and go to bed, when we could get up and creep down the hallway...
Jesus' miraculous coming was so simple to understand then, when I watched Him come all season, in the invisibly hard work of mom's decorating and cooking, in the even harder work (and even more invisible) of my parents providing for the many presents around the tree, in the birthday cake Aunt Ginny brought for Jesus every Christmas Eve Eve.
This month has been somewhat of a marathon, and I am starting to understand what all the older moms are talking about, "Christmas is so stressful." Yet, I take comfort in realizing I am taking my place among the millions of others-- moms, teachers, dads, grandparents, pastors, worship leaders, deacons, retail workers, movie ticket takers, who bring Christmas. It is my Hope that in this way I am learning to be like Mary, who journeyed so long and in such discomfort and with such disdain upon her shoulders by those who would call her neighbor, who would call her son Saviour. My hope is the joy that comes with bringing Christmas.
It seems that this year I don't have time for setting up each shepherd, donkey, sheep, star, Mary, Joseph, nor the precious little one. There are garlands on the fireplace, lights on the stair, wreaths in every window, and I even have appropriately colored towels hanging on my oven door. Now this is in no wise a self inflicted guilt trip. I think that making my front door look welcoming, bright, and merry is just as soul warming as seeing my Willow Tree nativity on the bookshelf. It is simply something I notice, and I grieve.
A wise friend once told me, when we were discussing where is best to live, that we should appreciate where we are and at once mourn where we are not. A farmer should breathe deep, stretch out long, and sink his toes into the fertile earth, but never forget the many faces he will never chance to meet along the stretch of city sidewalk. The banker on Wall Street should enjoy the crispness of his tie and the artistic inspiration of architecture he walks into every day as his office, and nonetheless acknowledge the ache of tall buildings and few trees, the nameless thousands and the anonymity of it all.
I am grateful to be the mom now. I am grateful that it is my house people will enter tonight and my own cooking they will enjoy. It is incredible to me that I have become like my own mother, inviting people into a house bedecked in greenery and a gaudy Christmas tree, and that I was the one to hand my little one a spoon with chocolate batter on it. Having Christmas cards go out with my new address on them, with my husband, my children, and my own handwriting on the front. Honestly I even enjoy that I am the one that mopped the floor in preparation and hung the Christmas towel on the rack in the bathroom. The sense of satisfaction far outweighs the work. Nevertheless I mourn. I mourn that I am not the one still coming in from school and smelling the party food baking. I mourn that I am not the one to lick my mom's batter covered spoon and that I am not the one to walk into a freshly cleaned house, and not think anything of it. Mostly I mourn that I am trying to bring Christmas, when as a girl I let Christmas come to me.
I remember going to the Christmas Eve service in the back of the van, my tights pleasantly itching my legs and having to adjust my stiff pea coat as I tried to read my book by the small light above my window. I remember being ushered into the warmth of the big church by the small crowd that was my family and taking cues from mom and dad as to when we would leave, when we would get to the party, when we would go home and go to bed, when we could get up and creep down the hallway...
Jesus' miraculous coming was so simple to understand then, when I watched Him come all season, in the invisibly hard work of mom's decorating and cooking, in the even harder work (and even more invisible) of my parents providing for the many presents around the tree, in the birthday cake Aunt Ginny brought for Jesus every Christmas Eve Eve.
This month has been somewhat of a marathon, and I am starting to understand what all the older moms are talking about, "Christmas is so stressful." Yet, I take comfort in realizing I am taking my place among the millions of others-- moms, teachers, dads, grandparents, pastors, worship leaders, deacons, retail workers, movie ticket takers, who bring Christmas. It is my Hope that in this way I am learning to be like Mary, who journeyed so long and in such discomfort and with such disdain upon her shoulders by those who would call her neighbor, who would call her son Saviour. My hope is the joy that comes with bringing Christmas.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Artistically Inspired.
http://southernhomentality.wordpress.com/
My friend Brooke is gifted in all things classy, homey, and delicious. Check out her blog for humble inspiration and interesting decorating trends;)
My friend Brooke is gifted in all things classy, homey, and delicious. Check out her blog for humble inspiration and interesting decorating trends;)
Monday, October 24, 2011
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Why I love Fall
Ma' boys, att Rudd Farm where we went on our first ever pumpkin patch adventure!
photo by Rachel Darst
One Fine Day
I can't believe I didn't notice them myself, but it took my friend Rachel pointing out the crunchy leaves today for me to open my eyes and see them. Cutting through the Science Center parking lot, all around us was the tapestry of brown and red and orange and gold. The colors of my home and the colors of Autumn are one and the same because this is the time of year when I finally sink into my own. With layers of sweaters and jackets and socks and jeans I feel uninhibited and comfortable. I happily leave behind the sticky film of a Southern summer and don the layers of Winter's approach. I do not mind the early nights and nose-reddening winds. Today I wore socks all day, never had to shed them, and when my little boys were snug in their beds for nap time I sat in the sunroom and listened to the wind play its familiar song on my wind chimes right outside, softly clinking pipes whose song is more familiar than a lullaby and more tranquilizing than hot buttered rum.
A good friend once said that a bass player is the one in the band that everyone forgets about, but whom if he were gone would be noticeably missed. I think that is Autumn. If not for the mosaic of colors fluttering about our heads, and the acorns that catapult down like a parachuting SWAT team this, my favorite season, would be missed. Autumn would be lost amid the hot, sensual sauciness of Summer and the blissfully bitter cold of Winter, Christmas. If not for my friend pointing it out I might have kept waiting for it to hit me over the head (which it later did in the form of an acorn careening straight out of a forty foot tall oak tree and straight onto the top of my head; I'm just glad it didn't hit the kids).
One grievance I have against North Carolina is that I have to wait so long for this beloved time of year, whereas in Maryland the Fall couldn't wait to come park itself right alongside the shiny backpacks, newly sharp pencils, and brand new Keds. In North Carolina Summer is so reluctant to release its humid tentacles that by the time the leaves start to fall they are already dead and Winter is already checking its watch, waving its number in the deli line.
Nonetheless, today the leaves did reach up and grab me by my sock-clad toe, acorns fell and I didn't miss it. I spent two perfect hours with good friends seeing all the animals, from oversized turtles who look like army tanks to the sleek tigers in whose eyes I gaze and feel unbelievably second-rate. After a sweet time together I went to the allergist for my weekly shot and crossed over a tiny river of red leaves, so shiny I'm surprised Jonathan didn't mistake them for candy. I had to look up and make sure they were actually coming from trees because they were so beautiful it seemed like a trick, as if maybe someone who longs for Fall like I do got down on hands and knees and painted them that way.
After dinner we took a walk and had to bundle the baby in a coat and blanket, and the neighbors wore down vests or zip-up jackets. And then, when I headed to meet up with friends over coffee and talk about books, I enjoyed driving down a dark road at seven-thirty pm, in a car so empty of anything but me that my thoughts could roll out of my head like a roll of wrapping ribbon, spinning out in shiny curls of red. I ordered a pumpkin spice latte and watched my two friends talk animatedly about books in their cozy sweatshirts, and then we had to rush to the car to get out of the cold when we said our goodbyes. The flavor of pumpkin and the bite of the cold followed me to my car and I'm just so glad I had my girl friends today to get me out of the house and into the leaves, under the acorns, and into the coffee shop; I came startlingly close to missing the coming of Fall.
A good friend once said that a bass player is the one in the band that everyone forgets about, but whom if he were gone would be noticeably missed. I think that is Autumn. If not for the mosaic of colors fluttering about our heads, and the acorns that catapult down like a parachuting SWAT team this, my favorite season, would be missed. Autumn would be lost amid the hot, sensual sauciness of Summer and the blissfully bitter cold of Winter, Christmas. If not for my friend pointing it out I might have kept waiting for it to hit me over the head (which it later did in the form of an acorn careening straight out of a forty foot tall oak tree and straight onto the top of my head; I'm just glad it didn't hit the kids).
One grievance I have against North Carolina is that I have to wait so long for this beloved time of year, whereas in Maryland the Fall couldn't wait to come park itself right alongside the shiny backpacks, newly sharp pencils, and brand new Keds. In North Carolina Summer is so reluctant to release its humid tentacles that by the time the leaves start to fall they are already dead and Winter is already checking its watch, waving its number in the deli line.
Nonetheless, today the leaves did reach up and grab me by my sock-clad toe, acorns fell and I didn't miss it. I spent two perfect hours with good friends seeing all the animals, from oversized turtles who look like army tanks to the sleek tigers in whose eyes I gaze and feel unbelievably second-rate. After a sweet time together I went to the allergist for my weekly shot and crossed over a tiny river of red leaves, so shiny I'm surprised Jonathan didn't mistake them for candy. I had to look up and make sure they were actually coming from trees because they were so beautiful it seemed like a trick, as if maybe someone who longs for Fall like I do got down on hands and knees and painted them that way.
After dinner we took a walk and had to bundle the baby in a coat and blanket, and the neighbors wore down vests or zip-up jackets. And then, when I headed to meet up with friends over coffee and talk about books, I enjoyed driving down a dark road at seven-thirty pm, in a car so empty of anything but me that my thoughts could roll out of my head like a roll of wrapping ribbon, spinning out in shiny curls of red. I ordered a pumpkin spice latte and watched my two friends talk animatedly about books in their cozy sweatshirts, and then we had to rush to the car to get out of the cold when we said our goodbyes. The flavor of pumpkin and the bite of the cold followed me to my car and I'm just so glad I had my girl friends today to get me out of the house and into the leaves, under the acorns, and into the coffee shop; I came startlingly close to missing the coming of Fall.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Hannah digs in
Allow me to explain the title of my blog. I love to write, in fact I sometimes wonder at the fact that I chose Spanish over English as my major. The weaving of English words exhilirates me. Both the study and the practice of writing could easily occupy hours of my day. Nonetheless, I inherited a distracted method of housekeeping from my mother. When we see something that needs doing, it is hard to walk by it. Therefore, "piddling" occupies much of my free time. I piddle from Pottery Barn.com to Pottery Barn Kids.com to OH!! Williams-Sonomahaven'tbeenthereinawhile. I piddle from unloading the dishwasher to cleaning the counters to scrubbing that goshdarn spot on the floor to OH! Ihaven'tvaccumedinaweek. I piddle catching up on emails to addressing thank you notes to OH!! canibuystampsonlinelet'slookthatup. You get the picture. The same way you felt reading those run-on words is the way I feel at the end of my kids' naptime many days, "What did I just do?"
When I sit down with the computer and commit to staring at that white screen as rapid-fire black print begins to fill it up like grass clippings shooting out from the mower and peppering the lawn I have to put the piddle-ables in life aside. It takes more tenacity than I am often willing to exhibit. Like many things in life, reluctant tenacity begets beautiful results and I always feel crisper, like walking through orange leaves on a Fall day, when I am finished writing. For this reason I owe all of you persistent readers a debt of gratitude for asking this of me, this that I love.
There has been so much to inspire me this Summer. A baby growing with always new chubby rolls, a house beginning to sigh and settle into its new identity as our home, a new church literally bursting with vitality: these are just the window trappings of a Summer I will not soon forget.
A story much better told by Clint himself, we nearly lost dear friends in a car wreck two weeks ago. I know that death is a reality always but it felt bold, as if it were a flashing sign in Times Square or written in red letters. August fourteenth, also my parents' twenty-ninth wedding anniversary, will take a long time to fade.
While seeing our friends recover from this near-tragedy was the low point, (though probably a high point in terms of seeing Jesus at work), there has been a lot of joy in our summer. As you saw in a recent post, Josh and I took the kids to Myrtle Beach back in June. A first for our family, it was hugely rewarding to go on our first real "vacation" adventure together. Complete with a trip to Urgent Care and a pneumonia scare, I would say we toughed it out and came out on top. We also spent a long weekend in sunny Fort Myers with my folks and REALLY relaxed. Golf, poolside, outlet shopping, homecooked (not by me) dinners all coalesced perfectly to energize us before we headed back to our new home for more unpacking, organizing, and settling in.
One of the sweetest things about this Summer has been seeing our friends in different contexts. The Jonkers visited us here in Greensboro for the first time since they've had children, and seeing their kids together with the Adams', Dukes, and Disneys was priceless. Friends that stick are gifts. Friends that stick and are willing to enter your world and try your life on for size, even for just a moment, are miracles.
This past weekend we left Jonathan with Marmee and Dedad and headed to Chapel Hill for the night with the Brian and Emily Disney. I'd dare say we did Franklin Street justice. When we headed out to walk around campus in a perfect summer evening breeze, the rain began to crescendo. We ducked into a bakery and bought some cupcakes. Eating that cupcake in the rain with one of my dearest friends was blissful. The night didn't end with wet baked goods however. We had scrumptious Italian in a small restaurant covered in ivy and set among old brick buildings, laughed hard with a new friend, conquered competition at the foosball table, and I personally finished the night with a chocolate martini and pizza Pokey Stix. All in all it was solid good fun.
Not every day can be July Fourth. We have had a grand fireworks show called "Life as we know it" this summer and I think now we will start to settle down. After all of these adventures I am ready to sink into a big chair with a good book and enjoy the regularity of things. Although, it may look more like being tackled on a big couch by two little rascals and Where the Wild Things Are. I'll take it.
When I sit down with the computer and commit to staring at that white screen as rapid-fire black print begins to fill it up like grass clippings shooting out from the mower and peppering the lawn I have to put the piddle-ables in life aside. It takes more tenacity than I am often willing to exhibit. Like many things in life, reluctant tenacity begets beautiful results and I always feel crisper, like walking through orange leaves on a Fall day, when I am finished writing. For this reason I owe all of you persistent readers a debt of gratitude for asking this of me, this that I love.
There has been so much to inspire me this Summer. A baby growing with always new chubby rolls, a house beginning to sigh and settle into its new identity as our home, a new church literally bursting with vitality: these are just the window trappings of a Summer I will not soon forget.
A story much better told by Clint himself, we nearly lost dear friends in a car wreck two weeks ago. I know that death is a reality always but it felt bold, as if it were a flashing sign in Times Square or written in red letters. August fourteenth, also my parents' twenty-ninth wedding anniversary, will take a long time to fade.
While seeing our friends recover from this near-tragedy was the low point, (though probably a high point in terms of seeing Jesus at work), there has been a lot of joy in our summer. As you saw in a recent post, Josh and I took the kids to Myrtle Beach back in June. A first for our family, it was hugely rewarding to go on our first real "vacation" adventure together. Complete with a trip to Urgent Care and a pneumonia scare, I would say we toughed it out and came out on top. We also spent a long weekend in sunny Fort Myers with my folks and REALLY relaxed. Golf, poolside, outlet shopping, homecooked (not by me) dinners all coalesced perfectly to energize us before we headed back to our new home for more unpacking, organizing, and settling in.
One of the sweetest things about this Summer has been seeing our friends in different contexts. The Jonkers visited us here in Greensboro for the first time since they've had children, and seeing their kids together with the Adams', Dukes, and Disneys was priceless. Friends that stick are gifts. Friends that stick and are willing to enter your world and try your life on for size, even for just a moment, are miracles.
This past weekend we left Jonathan with Marmee and Dedad and headed to Chapel Hill for the night with the Brian and Emily Disney. I'd dare say we did Franklin Street justice. When we headed out to walk around campus in a perfect summer evening breeze, the rain began to crescendo. We ducked into a bakery and bought some cupcakes. Eating that cupcake in the rain with one of my dearest friends was blissful. The night didn't end with wet baked goods however. We had scrumptious Italian in a small restaurant covered in ivy and set among old brick buildings, laughed hard with a new friend, conquered competition at the foosball table, and I personally finished the night with a chocolate martini and pizza Pokey Stix. All in all it was solid good fun.
Not every day can be July Fourth. We have had a grand fireworks show called "Life as we know it" this summer and I think now we will start to settle down. After all of these adventures I am ready to sink into a big chair with a good book and enjoy the regularity of things. Although, it may look more like being tackled on a big couch by two little rascals and Where the Wild Things Are. I'll take it.
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