before...

before the husband and the vows and our two lives becoming one and all of the trails that our one life has taken us on,

before i knew what it meant to become a mama and all that breaking and the changing and the transforming that this name change has brought,

there was her.


born in the full bloom of august i remember taking her in my unpracticed arms and trying to hold her so that she would stop crying

and maybe like me

if even a little.


she is the one who changed me from who i was and made me something more.


she is now the only one who i willingly let call me by the name i detest, because when it comes from her, aunty kimmy doesn't sound so bad.


her mama, she's known me since i was 16 - she's known me in my crazy days and in my rebellious days and in my broken days and in the joy-filled ones too. sometimes sisterhood doesn't need blood to bond.  sometimes all it needs is two hearts that fit - because He formed them to.

she comes with my niece and nephew after his mama and sister and our two nephews leave.  a mama and sister who sacrificed many days because i thought zeruiah's day was near and they wait and they clean and they encourage and they stay even though my older three are so sick. they come during the hard days of grief and we get through them together...

and i find myself surrounded by women whose dna doesn't match mine, but whose hearts love beyond scientific things like that.


but now, they have all left.


there is a bit more room in these walls, but the extra space is loud and empty...

and if i'm honest, i may have cried in the shower this morning.


there is something so needed in the life of a mama -

and there are so many voices willing to share -

willing to pull in so many different directions.


where are those voices that pull a mama's heart straight to the Heart of God?


before zeruiah's coming and before my home became a bit more full, before the laundry was caught up and my kitchen was scrubbed, i received a book in my inbox and i loaded it onto my kindle.

i settled down to read in the quiet spaces and i found two voices that ushered me straight into the throne room of God.


circumstances can shift and change and lead you away from everyone you know. you can find yourself making a space not only for yourself, but for your family, for your little ones and it can all become overwhelming and maybe a little bit tiring.


but like the ones that come and love and then need to leave, or like the ones who He gives as friends in the unknown places - the ones who become as loved as family, or even those found in the pages of a book, the ones who have walked this road and who have gasped for air in the hard mama-moments and survived and turn around to point you back to the Source of all Strength, they trace the face of Jesus for you when you can barely lift your hands, He provides His Hope everywhere, can i just be willing to look?



she sits on my couch, the one who 11 years ago filled my arms and now the one, the last one, who filled my belly lies curled up on her lap.

time flies and i can't even imagine where all those years have gone.

and the question resonates loud, the one that seems to be whispered all around me, where are the older women? where are the older women to gently guide the young mamas to the feet of Jesus? 

she is going to need one, someday.

walking this road, this sometimes desperate road is in a sense more than walking it for myself...

it means walking it for my daughters, for my nieces, for the younger women He may bring along the way.

because it's not about turning out well-mannered, well-behaved, well-adjusted children. that could happen, and it could not...

it's about Him - about taking the joy-filled and the hard-fought and the completely shattered moments and letting Him use it all for His glory.


so, let's not do this alone, let's fight in the trenches together - let's speak words to each other that are full of grace and life and point us always and pull us in all ways straight in to the very heart of Jesus.

what to expect...

He spoke it in the quiet of the new year.  that promise of a new thing;

of a way in the wilderness and rivers in a desert.


i thought He was referencing my circumstances.

i should have known He was looking at my heart.

and it came after those 10 long months of wondering,

those 2 months of deciding it was all done,

finished,

complete.


it came in the form of that unexpected extra pink line and i sat down,

hushed,

overwhelmed,

and a tiny bit scared.


because that day had been filled with all of my failures as a mother,

frustrations and impatience coming to a head and they saw the worst of me, those 3 that want to be so close,

and that smallest one, the one whose body is deep within but whose presence i can't feel except for the green tinged moments and the overwhelming cravings for salt,

and i don't want to mess them up.

all week i've been carrying the burden of that recording playing over and over and over,

you're a failure. you're a failure as a mama. 

over and over it played until He stopped it in the dark of last night.


i walked out of the sanctuary of our church and straight into moments only He could have orchestrated ~ five women who reached out and spoke life and hope into a heart that felt as dry and wasted as it has ever felt.  and in those words, as the tears started falling and the hope started filling, i felt it ~ i felt those rivers start rushing into the places parched and dying.


when we love Him,we carry Life within us, whether we are mothers or not.  we carry the ability to speak Life into the heart of another and who knows if that is the moment that the river is released, if that new thing sparks into being.



this mother's day holds more than i expected or dreamed,

but it is filled with Life, no matter how small.

and no matter how tiny,

hope is dancing in the dark...

happy mother's day...

the making of a home, a family...

they came back this spring, as slowly as this season appeared.

one by one they began buzzing circles around small bodies and little ones would cry and i watched those wasps to see where they would go...

and they returned.

they returned to that crack in the eave of the garage...just below the peak i watched them hover around that opening.

the one that opens up into a nest so large it cracked the beams of the joists in the framing of the roof.

the exterminator had been called last fall,

he had sprayed them all dead,

and now it's all buzzing with life again.


they are a nuisance.

they are aggressive.

but they are making a home.


and maybe it's because we are waiting for that closing date, waiting to unfold boxes and fill them up full.  pack up that moving van one last time, put down roots, claim our space and make a home.

maybe it's for a million reasons that i feel slightly lost in the middle.


for all those months before we left what was, i begged Him to let us put down roots there. begged Him to change the course that seemed to be heading in only one direction and when i finally surrendered, submitted to His will, i began to ask if He would allow us to put down roots somewhere else...

and i find myself trying to reconcile the loss of one dream and the realization of another while at the same time trying to figure out where home for us is...


it hits me, as i drive in the heat of summer that has decided to arrive in april - hits me that his home and mine are no longer ours to go to...home is where we will make it, where we will choose to dig deep and grow them all up...and it ached, that thought; as families travel towards each other, plans realized and memories made and lyla sobs before bedtime prayers and i feel helpless because it all fell apart before she turned 5 and i am her mother and aren't mamas supposed to fix everything and make it all better?

where are those wounds that can be eased with a kiss?


but it's in the middle of all that chaos that has graced our home for the last 3 days, chaos of 7 children 6 years old and under.  as we open that door and welcome them in - the friend that stood beside him at our wedding 10 years ago, the friend who was his best friend before me and willingly gave up that place.  his amazing wife who has become more than his wife, but a sister to me and an aunty to my three...

and when the air here becomes a little too noisy and we all pile in and drive across town and spill out into a yard of the house that has become a home all because of the one who cares for us like a father would,

this home that has become a place to land...

it's there, when i can barely hear myself think that i hear it,

i hear the sound of family.

it doesn't look like the landscape of what we left behind at all,

barely recognizable, i can understand why i would feel lost at times...

because this?  it isn't what i had planned out for my life.


could that be the point?


my life isn't my own - it's His, fully.  completely.

and it's His journey i'm following,

what i see as detours, He sees as part of His perfect plan for my life He established since before the foundation of the world was set in place.

and this journey is just that - a moving forward towards where my real Home will be.

it's a moving towards Jesus.


that house with the closing dates and the mortgage payments and the lawn to mow?  it's a place to rest until i'm done here...i can't lose sight of that, because that is what will keep a restless heart settled.  we are always moving towards something - so let me be moving towards Him.


11 years ago today, he got down on one knee and asked me to be his wife. me - the canadian girl used to the wide and open of the prairies, and there, with him, surrounded by the mountains of idaho with snow still on the ground and us all still intact ~

i looked into his eyes and said yes.


i didn't know what He had mapped out,

i didn't know how how deeply entwined joy and pain would become.


but i did know that i would love him until i drew my last breath and follow him anywhere

and He led us both to here.


here where the air is hot in april,

here where i feel lost and found,


here where He provides the family,

and here where we are finally home.

when they fly...

unexpected, it is placed in the dark and the quiet of that space and it sits there.

and it waits.


and i don't even know it's there.


like them, all three of them.

unexpected.

placed and knit together by the Hand of God deep within me,

they waited in my dark...


and now they fly.

He gives them for just a few short years,

years that feel long and never ending.

years that hold days and hours and minutes that feel stretched long,

when really,

they fly.



i sense it,

i do.

on days where i sit on the grass out front of our door,

chat with a friend while all the children whir by;

while the sun leaves it's red mark on this skin,

i sense the quickness as their independence grows and my breath is caught in the dizzying speed of time.


and it's that small little package ~

the one he hands me as i sit in the van,

as he waits as i tear into the dark

and light comes flooding in.


and i hold it up and let it spin in the sun and i wear the truth of us around my neck.


time will move.

and they will move on.


someday,

someday soon,

my walls will be clean.

my floors, uncluttered.

the air around me, quiet.


but wrapped up in the love of their mama,

they can always,

always

find home.


so the gift, from the sweetest of friends from far away,

made by talented hands of a sister's friend,

placed in that mailbox halfway down the street...

it slowed the pace for a moment or two,

and i held it,

and it graced me...


all that beauty in this time that is spinning away.

finding quiet {and where you can find me today}...

no matter where i have lived, most friday mornings have found me sitting around my kitchen table with a friend or two and all of us sharing our hearts while the caffeine quickens sleepy minds and little ones play in the background. 

this morning is no exception...and happily, you are invited to come and sit for a bit as well. 

for less than a year, i lived next door to one of the sweetest women i have the privilege to know and call friend.  and while she moved to the completely opposite end of her country and i moved to the other of mine, our respective blogs keep us connected.

if you would like to shift positions a little, you can find me over at marissa's place writing about loss and change and helping little ones wade through those big emotions that threaten to overwhelm. (and where i actually prove i can type with capital letters...)

and here, you can spend some time with marissa as she shares her heart and thoughts on the importance of carving out moments and finding some quiet in the day - and enjoy a bit of her beautiful photography as well.

here, in this little corner opened up, it feels a bit more like home.

I pause, pen hovering over paper while a jazz tune mixes through the quiet bistro. As my pen begins to glide across the paper, it is to share this time with you—this glimpse in my week when I savour a time where my role as mama steps back just a bit.

I have learned that in my desire to intentionally and whole-heartedly mother my daughters, one of the ways that I serve them well is by stepping away to give space and thought to that which is separate yet such a part of being a mother.

As a mama, it is easy to get caught up in the noise and minor details of what young children need. It’s good to be present and constantly guiding, especially in those first years, but it is also draining. It’s easy to lose sight of who I am. I am mama and a wife, yes, but I am first a woman of God and called to follow Him. Within that comes my role as wife and mama. In finding the matching pair of socks, changing one more diaper, and kissing another scrape/bump, I tend to reverse the order and place my identity in being a mama before being a follower. In doing so, I place things on my shoulders that don’t belong there. I find myself losing my spark and the grace that I desire to model for my girls.

And so I began to intentionally carve out times of quiet within these day shared with my little ones. Taking a time of intentional quiet looks different for everyone and also varies with life stages. My daughters are young, one still being an often-nursing babe, and so my times away are brief. Whether it is an hour or two a the local bistro to enjoy a hot tea and to write, fifteen minutes to walk the freshly snowy woods on a quiet early morning with my camera, a twenty minute prayer bath with Epsom salts and lavender, or an undisturbed time of reading, I am taking time to refresh and refocus. Without fail, these times recharge me for the things to which I am presently called. I had always believed that a life of devotion needed to be kicked off by rising in the wee hours to read the Bible and to pray (along with other things). I still believe this to be a good start to the day but, with small children still waking me at all hours of the night, I succumb to sleep. I need to be realistic about my life right now and to work within it.

Whether my time is spent with pen flowing, camera clicking, reading just a few lines, or prayers being breathed through the lavender scented air, these times are essential to offering my best to my children, my husband, myself, & to Him.

About Marissa:

   As wife to Dan and mama to my three beautiful daughters, I spend most of my time learning to live well in the day to day. I write about things such as daily life, natural living, books, food and art (especially with young children) over at Confessions of a Young Mama. In my spare moments, I add handmade goodness to my little shop Chickadee Swing

when the temperature drops...

they stand tall and graceful on our kitchen table,

lost in sun and shadow, this gift unexpected calls for little hands to reach out and touch them.



she gives, because that is who she is.

even in the cold of a winter wind,

she gives.


and i pull the bundle of pussy willow sticks close,

arrange them in a mason jar and we sit in a circle around them.


have they never really ever seen them before?


i mean, they must have,

but they  look at them with a wonder that amazes me

and they each ask if they can hold a branch.


and i watch tiny hands pet those grey, tiny buds

and i watch what is dead being cradled in the hands of the living.

and it happens, as we sit all gilded and golden in the sun,

that moment that helps me see those other moments just a tad bit clearer...


it can all seem so dead;

that hope, that desire, that wish for a different outcome.


it can all have been packed up and moved away and find you sitting there wondering where in the world your life went.

it can all change so very quickly.


and the snow flies again

and the temperature drops

and you stand at the window watching it all be buried again.


but could what seems like an ending,

be only a beginning?


doesn't new life always comes from a dead seed buried deep in the dirt?


sometimes you just have to lay it down for Him to raise up new life in you.


and in those in between moments ~

the ones that leave you feeling lost and forgotten and maybe slightly disoriented;

maybe they are ones meant to strengthen and remind that He is there - always, always there,

and in the dark, you find He lets you hold the hope of spring in your hands...

~ But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body. For we who are alive are always being given over to death for Jesus' sake, so that his life may also be revealed in our mortal body. So then, death is at work in us, but life is at work in you...Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.~     

2 corinthians 4:7-12, 16-18 

when it's meant to be more than pretty...

they sit on either side of me when that sermon has been preached and the last song has been sung;

those two who are married to brothers,

those two who are so good for my heart.


we chat quickly because there are babies to be picked up and fed,

but for a few moments, hearts connect

and before we all go in separate directions, the one places a small gift in my hands.


and i don't know if she knows the depth of the gift...

that small square of yarn crocheted into knots.

the one formed in the late hours,

that rainbow of colours whispering peace into pain.

and it's in that moment,

the one where the water is squeezed out of the fibers so i can wipe down the counter, the colours all darkened by the moisture they hold, that i think of the dear ones in my life; the ones who i have been so privileged to call friend.

and it's a dish cloth,

and they aren't...

but it's more,

and they are deeper...


but He has woven, and is still weaving, into my life other lives that add colour and intricate beauty that only He could form.

like that cloth held in my hands,

friendship is meant for more than a pretty showing,

it's meant for going to those deep places that are hard,

it means absorbing the pain, the tears of another and holding tightly together to the One Who watches over it all.


it's a verse that's used often, but i can't help but feel it in my soul as i look at each knot layered on top of the other,

though one may be overpowered,

two can defend themselves.

a cord of three strands is not quickly broken.

ecclesiastes  4:12

and a friendship wrapped around the Truest Friend can remain intact regardless of distance or circumstances because it finds itself wrapped up in Him.

i stand in my kitchen, pressed up against that counter

and He touches this heart through the gift of a friend...



and i am joining in and giving thanks today...

1142* patience

1143* hands that show love

1144* ears to hear laughter

1145* grey cloud cover

1146* a kitchen all straightened up

1147* a brunch delivered

1148* "i got to help daddy today!"

1149* "mama? i was *brave*!"

1150* "you're beautiful to me"
1151*  my gramma's bible

1152* this pink sweater

1153* his blue blanket he holds close

1154* the life inside these walls

1155* busy, glorious chaos

1156* crip, cold artichoke hearts
1157* the family He keeps growing

1158* words that greet me every morning

1159* my notebook

1160* the life of dietrich bonhoeffer

1161* an unexpected hot cup of coffee

1162* sweet, sticky kisses pressed against my cheek

1163* the way the sun wraps around my kitchen

1164* the moon reflection on the windshield

1165* the shadow across elias' face caused by my hair as i hold him in the late hours

1166* a rainbow of colours knitted together

1167* yellow daises that bloomed those two weeks long

1168* women who pray for one another

believing in the middle...

it fell in great white flakes that new year's eve

2 years ago.


he pulled me up out of our fresh grief

out into the cold...

into the white.


he didn't say much,

but i don't think i did either...


too numb by the reality that now happened to be ours.



and the hour is early on this new year's eve.


finds me unable to close my eyes.


closing my eyes means opening my ears to memories of the sounds of grief falling and surrounding;

of that door opening and his voice calling my  name,

the sound of my coffee being set down,

the sound of the wailing,

the shock,

his sobs in the night,

the hush in the magnitude of what we now knew.


but two years ago,

on this very same day,

as the body of his dad was found and cut down,

as our world fell apart

and everything tilted...


the cry of a baby boy was heard.



and i didn't know it, until months after i met them,

the ones who have becomes such dear friends,

of the birthday of this little boy who elias calls out for.


that as death ushered out,

life ushered in


and even as He allowed something horrific,

He allowed something beautiful.


and how can i not say that He is good?


He is.


and i write that with tears pouring down and a heart completely broken because sometimes life seems

anything

but

good.


because sometimes the choices that another person makes are

anything

but

good.


but God is.



God

is

good.


and His goodness can be found in the wail of a newborn

or in the wail of a widow.


this season, this year is coming to a close as the evening draws near...

but His Name will never lose it's strength - it stands strong always.




and i will write it again, because i need to,




Emmanuel.

God with us.


God with you...

and with me.


and whatever this coming year holds,

whether there is more trial

or more joy,

He is there.



ringing out in the middle of memories of pain and loss and questioning,

is the joy of a little boy who has stolen my heart and reminded me that there is such beauty to be found in the midst of the sad.

so we'll walk through the grief, each moment, each step...ask Him to come near to our hurt and our sorrow and trust that He will never leave us alone.

believing that He will continue to pour life in to what suicide hollowed out

 with what started in the cry of a newborn over 2000 years ago...



happy birthday, sweet luke...

when sorrow begins to turn...

they sizzle and pop in that pot on my stove,

those onions all translucent in butter.

and i reach for that old wooden spoon,

the one that he gave to his gramma that year.


and i don't really remember what year that it was, only that it was given on a shoestring budget and a mama who got all creative.

i can picture him, with his eyes all bright and his mouth held just-that-way, holding that tool in his hand.

and he engraves his name,

burns it into the wood all soft

and over the years and the washing and the time...

he is still there.



i hold time in my hands as i cook food that nourishes,

and his name embedded in wood is embedded on my heart.


we decorate the tree and name it george,

little ones run and pull off the ornaments and cry when they can't put them back on just so.

and i think of their papa

and the christmas tree he searched out that very last year,

the second of two because the first one wasn't just right.

and how quickly it came down when he was finally found and how the passage of time doesn't diminish the mark that he left on this heart.


and tonight, mingled with the sadness is a small measure of joy...

joy that i knew him,

that i was given the chance to love him,

joy that i will see him once again.


hope.

a precious word.

a word that continues to give.


and in this season of quiet dark, where sadness could be so easy to get lost in,

His people shine like the stars around us,

drawing us into a family that share dna bought by His blood.

and our family of 5 that found ourselves here,

alone and unknown,

is growing...

and the hearts that didn't have to,

 do.


what was broken that dark december morning almost 2 years ago,

what was uprooted and displaced a little less than 11 months ago...

is finding us home,

finding us healing,

finding us trying to love well

while being found loved well.

and a season that bears the mark of great sorrow,

 continues to point me to the One Who bears the marks of Great Sacrifice...

{all family photos were taken by our mr. bob...}

when it's all wrapped up in cinnamon...

i couldn't find my mittens as i rushed out the door this evening.

the happy grey ones that keep these fingers toasty.


and while my fingers can barely bend to type out these words,

i wouldn't have traded that conversation in chilled night air for anything.



they crowded around me this morning, those three little ones with the big, big eyes...

as soon as i opened that large jar of cinnamon they were there, tangled up around my legs.

tongues start licking lips and eyes begin to twinkle and small hands clap with glee at the thought of warm cookies to fill small tummies and  pretty soon three little bottoms are plunked right on that mat laid down in front of the oven door.


His gifts are like that,

once you begin to catch a glimpse.


in the beginning moments, when life feels like it is being whipped within an inch of itself, none of it makes sense.

and sometimes, there are parts that never will this side of what we will someday know...

but He has Hands that can take every moment, every pain and joy and make something fantastic.


i think that's why i love the smell of cinnamon.

why i love watching those three press their young faces up against that glass window.

why i love standing and visiting in a backyard while the little ones run.

why i love standing out in the freezing cold and catching up with a friend who i've missed.


why i love to tap out these words with fingers just beginning to warm up...

because 23 months and 3 weeks ago my world completely shattered.

because 11 months and 3 1/2 weeks ago my life was completely uprooted.

and when i couldn't see outside of what i thought had been secure,, 


He was so faithful.


when my life became so unrecognizable that it hurt to even look at,

He remained constant.

He remained sure.


and when He said, I know in the quiet of changes emerging,

He was also asking me to trust.

they finish baking up, those snickerdoodles that make me laugh.

the smell of cinnamon wraps itself around this home.


and we give them away,

because that is what Hope, what Love, does.

and when we have given it all,

He fills us up again...

the month of here {day28}...when the words are hard to find

this post finds my heart undescribably full.

overwhelmingly so, that the words keep stopping and i keep restarting and still, still there are none that seem right.


God is so good.

there. these words are right.

because they ring with truth.


i filled up a basket this morning with one of the ways i feel most comfortable showing love.

i fill it up with food...

because He has filled up my heart.


and i wonder why He continues to show such love to someone like me?


my three run and play and laugh all afternoon here in the chill of a fading november.

i stand on the edges and watch,

overwhelmed by emotions and feelings that threaten to spill all down my cheeks...


i hold in my arms a sweet and gloriously round 2 month old baby boy.

i rock him and he sleeps close against my heart.

i look at the faces all around me, listen to the laughter, smell the good food and the question dances around the back of my mind,

why?  

i remember being so terrified when we made the decision to move.

terrified to start again 

terrified that He would forget about us.


so, it seems laughable that i question the blessing that He appears to be pouring out.


i meet her in the hallway before bible study this evening.  we walk down the hall and find 2 seats together.

that third seat sits empty beside us, as though acknowledging the absence of the one who couldn't make it.

and we listen and take notes and laugh about our lives and as we head in our own separate directions, that is when the tears begin to fall.


i remember that christmas tree last year, standing tall and bare in the corner.  the feeling of not being able to take down the decorations from the attic that were still packed away from before it all fell apart.  as though not releasing that air was the final grip i had on what was.

and that sweet friend came to the door with a bag holding precious ornaments...one for each of us and for our new home here.


He has been paving a way to here all along.

and at the end of that road, the one that led to this city in this state, He prepared the dearest hearts to welcome us in.


i sit wrapped up in a blanket pieced and sewed together by an aunt whom i love dearly and who meant it to be for my little boy.

i curl up underneath it and try to stammer out what it means to me that He would choose to heal me, us in this way.

and i can't, despite all the words above, i can't begin to describe what His wooing and proving of His Love means to this heart who still struggles to believe she's worth it.


oh, but i'm thankful.  so very, very thankful.

and i give thanks on this twenty-eighth day of this month that finds me here...and for His Love that reaches deep.

the month of here {day24}...it's in the pie

i pull down my cookbook, all ragged and worn.

pages spill out of a binding that barely hangs on.


i scan the last pages for that  recipe i love and i double each number.


i bake for a few.


it's thanksgiving here and the dough stretches thin beneath the rolling pin my grandfather made.


it rolls well, with the lard and the butter peeking through.

i lift it off a floured counter top and rest it gently in the scalloped plate;  fork holes in the bottom and fill it up with foil and weight.

it bakes in the oven while i whisk together butter and eggs and syrup and sugar.

it smells good in this kitchen.

i grate up the chocolate, toast the pecans and let it all settle together and bake up in the heat.

i bake for those faces that have filled up my heart.

i visit two homes today.

on a day where family for us is so very far away, we are welcomed in and made to feel at home.


how can one not be thankful for something amazing like this?


he walks me out to the van, mr. bob does. 

i'm almost out of gas and not sure where the nearest station to fill up is;  he hands me his phone.

take it, he says. i'll get it back when i see you next...

he gives on his birthday.

i make it to the chevron on fumes.

but he would have come if i needed help.

thankful.

we walk into a home warm and smelling good.  

and i sit near the windows with liv on my lap eating food that is indescribably good and i lean back for a moment and listen...

thankful.

we are still somewhat new here,

new enough to not have history in these city limits yet, 

but He has provided hope and families who have welcomed us in.

families to bake a pie for,

families to laugh with,

to share the heavy things with.


one of my two pie plates sits nearly empty on my counter top.

tony works all day and eats warmed up thanksgiving fare...

he pulls me onto his lap and places his head against my heart.

and we are home.

we are here,

and we are thankful.

and i give thanks on this twenty-fourth day of this month that finds us here...and the realization that there is no other place i would rather be.

the month of here {day16}...a wonderland

i sat with my back to the window this morning, bent over math pages and focused on numbers.

i didn't see the first flake fall.

or the thousandth.

until the phone rang its ring and the happiest voice on the other end asked if i had looked out the window yet.


and that friend here thought to call, thought to make sure i had seen the snow, and my first gasp of delight was a shared one with her.

there is joy in those moments.


and the little ones dropped thoughts and pencils faster than i stood up and plastered my face against the window.


the first snow fell and not-bundled-up-enough-children pushed past their happy mama and bounded out onto the grass waiting to be tucked in for the season.

it's beautiful, this evening.  the air is hushed underneath the soft covering of white.


here the snow finds me, still captivates me with it's beauty and wonder.

and my children, with faces raised to the sky dropping downy white flakes, leave imprints on my heart that time can never melt away.

and i give thanks on this sixteenth day of this month that finds me here...and for the wonder that first snowfall brings.

the month of here {day12}...and mr. bob

i sometimes wonder about the timing of things that lead up to chance meetings, or the way two lives intersect and connect.

do you?

i find myself fascinated by the befores of everyone involved, oblivious to the fact their hearts are about to grow bigger.

he didn't have to open up his heart to us.

when i think of the loss he had already experienced, it would seem reasonable that he wouldn't.

when i think of the children and grandchildren that already fill his life, 3 more small and loud ones could seem like 3 too many.

and the one who brought me daises, opens his home to us again and again and they run to him, those 3 who have lost so many.  they run to him and he opens his heart and his arms to small lives he doesn't even know have been broken.

elias, he walked around all morning, after i told them the news that we would get to see him this afternoon.  kept asking for mr. bob and his truck that is red.

and here, where we first found ourselves alone and unknown, the heart of a father and friend beckons us in.

and they play frisbee in his big ol' backyard, rake leaves and jump in piles and the smiles grow wide and they know they are loved.

here, where He keeps reminding me that we are not forgotten.  that He had set a plan in motion before it all fell apart and as the seasons change once again and the leaves flutter down around us, i hear Him deep in my soul,

[He] sets the lonely in families,

He leads forth the prisoners with singing...

psalm 68:6a

and i give thanks on this twelfth day of this month that finds me here...and for hearts that make room for each other.

the month of here {day11}...friday mornings

i learned it from her.

the gramma from scotland.

how opening up one's home opens up your heart...

gives warmth and keeps the heartbeat within these walls going.

i don't know when it happened...or how.

okay.  i *do* remember how.  i kept pestering asking them until it just became the norm.

for the almost 3 years before we left, friday mornings meant coffee and until the one moved far, far away, the 3 of us and our brood would gather in my little old kitchen and i'm pretty sure that's when my baking began to take off.

friday mornings, to me, mean friendship.

friendship that grew over time and over 2 cups of steaming coffee and that one lone pot of tea.


i thought, when my life changed, that friday mornings would too.

and for a while, it did.

until i find myself in the kitchen here with my oven heating up and my kitchen aid whirring and the coffee brewing for the two cups waiting and that lone teacup sitting for the water that is boiling...


the faces that sit around my table have changed.  the conversations are different, but the laughter?  the noise of children learning to play, learning to share, learning to be?

neither one cancels out the incredible way He has brought together dear friends there or here, but it is a gift that i don't take lightly that He continues to fill those chairs, that table, my heart when i could have said so easily to Him, nope. i'm done.  i'm done opening myself up to the possibility of pain.

and here, He has given me a reason to bake again. to fill up that pink plate again ~ the one that the dearest of friends found just for me.

and i give thanks on this eleventh day of this month that finds me here...and each friday morning that finds my house...and my heart... full.