300 days of beauty, days 83-86 {Jenny Lake}

Oh, how I love our family adventures. Four days by this gorgeous lake~the sweet life.

 

She captured a fairy...

on the value of re-reading for the refreshment of your soul...

"No book is really worth reading at the age of ten which is not equally--and often far more worth reading at the age of fifty and beyond."  C.S. Lewis

If C.S. Lewis said it, it must be true. One hardly need convince me that good [fiction] literature feeds the soul and the best books are worth reading again and again. I never leave home without a book at my fingertips or a book recommendation on my tongue.

Over the years I have found what I call ‘soul books’--kindred spirits that I read yearly, seasonally, and simply when I need a comfort read. Not all books reach this status, but I have quite a few on my list. Books by Robin Jones Gunn, Francine Rivers, Lisa Wingate and Louisa May Alcott to name a few. What I’ve seen over many years of reading and re-reading is backed up by Louisa May Alcott: "Some books are so familiar that reading them is like being home again."

When I pick up one of these books to read again, I often times expect a sentimental road trip or a brainless read. But instead, I “always find a new book” as C.S. Lewis put it. My life experiences have changed. I am older, a different phase of life, and these books speak to me in a completely different way than when I was a teenager, a college student, young single, young married, young mom, and the life phases parade on.

For example, take Harry Potter. Not to douse Harry Potter fandom but I hated the fifth book. I felt agitated during the entire book and at the end I was simple ticked off. [Vague spoilers coming in droves]

Harry was nothing short of angsty, brooding and irritating. I wanted to shake him and say, “Get it together, man!”

A key (and favorite) character is murdered. I wanted to give J.K. Rowling a piece of my mind, “Lay off the death, and lay off Harry! I’m trying to enjoy reading this book!”

I re-read the series again about 10 years later with my son. In ten years much had changed for me. I had three kids. I had lost my dad and several other family members in tragic and unexpected circumstances. I had walked through a situation of stinging betrayal unlike I had ever experienced.

I read through the fifth book of Harry Potter and I cried...often. The characters are in terrifying and uncertain times. Many have died, friendships have been betrayed. And I understand Harry. Losing so much breeds a certain amount of anger and fear that cannot be dismissed with trite words or even personal desire. Instead of shaking him, I think “I get you, Harry. I get you.”

Even the character who dies in the end affected my heart in a different way. A bit angry, yes, but mostly a sad resignation. I get it, this extreme loss— unfair, senseless, confusing, part of life.

New to me was my connection to Molly Weasley, the spunky and endearing mom in the book series. Molly Weasley had always been so strong and fearless and determined. In this book, the characters are living in a time of great danger and extreme stress. Although, Molly Weasley is walking with courage and hope, she is not immune to the mounting effects of fear and stress. There is a scene where she is battling a boggart [harmless creatures who take the form of what you most fear]. This boggart becomes, in succession, the corpses of her husband, her children, and Harry, whom she loves as a son. She can’t fight it. Harry finds her sobbing and dispatches the creature. I was sobbing by the end of the scene. I have battled that fear. I have felt completely paralyzed. Watching her I empathize, but also evaluate how I react to my fears and how I deal with stress.

"In great literature, I become a thousand different men but still remain myself." C.S. Lewis

And what would a blog post on re-reading popular and classic pieces of literature be without mention of Jane Austen? Not much of anything to be sure. Pride and Prejudice had always topped my list, followed closely by Sense and Sensibility and Persuasion. Mansfield Park and Northanger Abbey came next and Emma sat at the bottom. Emma was my most disliked heroine. Flawed. Irritating. Arrogant. Manipulative. "I judge you, Emma. I judge you."

Life has a way of humbling your soul. In a good way. When I read Emma now, I relate to her. Her flaws breed hope in my heart. Her failings and weakness allow me to examine my own. Her triumphs and ultimate heart change bring tears to my eyes (not totally surprising, I cry a lot…). Her transformation is painful to watch or read, but the reality is that change is painful especially in our own hearts. The hope comes from seeing that transformation is possible. There is nothing encouraging in perfection. As Jane Austen states in a letter to her niece,"Pictures of perfection, as you know, make me sick and wicked."  

Reading gives me the opportunity to view my life as Ebenezer Scrooge does in A Christmas Carol. A clearer lens, an outside perspective. Re-reading books gives me that same experience, but more so, because I can see how my life has changed. I can trace my change in heart and perspective. I can see where I have erred and where I have triumphed. As C.S. Lewis said, “Literature irrigates the deserts that our lives have become.”

Our lives need fresh water. Which book will you re-read first?

my love-hate relationship with summer (plus 300 days of beauty, days 65-82)

summer garden beauty

I confess, I sometimes feel that I hate summer. I also confess that I wrote most of this over one month ago and then disappeared down the rabbit hole that summer schedules tend to be. I've never like Alice In Wonderland.

Each year I walk through the same diagnostic state, evaluating why summer is so very challenging. Several reasons: the randomness of summer activities and options, constant people (I do like people, but need time alone too...), and kids who suddenly see unlimited potential in every moment, every day.

I can be random and spontaneous, but my brain cannot keep track of the amount of outings and appointments that are so far above our normal level. I would consider myself a social introvert—I love people, but need “hermit days” to rest and recharge, which summer does not oblige. And my adorable, wonderful kids, whom I love to death, ask me 50,000 questions before 10 in the morning and have a hard time accepting that fun cannot be 24/7. Real life still exists. I wish Mary Poppins were a real person, but she is not. The house does not clean itself.

I began the summer ridiculously overwhelmed. Burned out from the year, transitioning to summer—like being on a pot-holed highway and hitting a rocky, washed out dirt road. Now (in a flash) I have arrived in August. And I would say that we have lived in a happy-exhausted-flurried-blur of summer scenes. Family, friends, neighbors, food, laughter, pool days, books, gardens, parks, rivers, walks, hikes, bike rides, iced coffees and ice cream cones.

We've had good days, hard days and the messy beautiful sprinkled and scattered throughout. I have not settled down to write in this space, but have been capturing beauty in each day through my camera lens and my phone (Instagram is wonderful, but may have killed my blog...). I also have decided to declare the first three week of June “no man's land”; not belonging to spring or summer, a time to plan, rest, and see what we want our summer to be. I realize not everyone has this flexibility. I can choose my summer because we homeschool, others cannot. However, I think a space with no pressure or expectations, even if just for a week is a sweet gift for a weary heart and frenetic pace of life.

In spite of the layout of my schedule, I've grabbed my moments. Time to be still. Time to savor. Time to breathe. Summer and I have come to a generally peaceful truce. We still have adventures ahead as we plow through August. I'm thankful (and still tired). And I may or may not have been dreaming of winter yesterday...

Here's snapshots of our summer beauty:

swim team, swim meets, and pool days

laughter--meaning she had the grocery store laughing. She has found unique ways to hitch rides in the grocery store since birth. I think I may have finally given up fighting it.

summer sunsets--I know, right? Breath-taking.

My kitchen has looked like this...often. Filters make it look almost artistic. There is a beauty in letting go. This is where we were for awhile and it's okay.

breakfast parfaits and morning devotionals...I do like lazy summer mornings...

river vistas and time with family...the Missouri River...

Costco date with my girl who LOVES hotdogs!

mini-bagels and cream cheese--I kid you not that we have mostly survived on these...devouring bags upon bags and tubs of cream cheese (cooking is at a minimum in the summer)

lots of reading...we read wherever we go... #ohtheplacesweread

visits to my hometown to be with family

when "pop and pizza" place settings look artistic--more than that, this evening was spent with my brother and parents with conversation and laughter (and lots of pizza!)

when my daughter uses the steam from my coffee to warm her hands in the morning...still makes me smile... "It's SOOO toasty warm!"

lots of tree-climbing--all of my kids use the trees to have a quiet space for their hearts...

paddle-boating--laughter and LOTS of geese (geese not shown...;-))

when Jack and Jill went up a hill...cousin time

water balloon baseball...no need for the catcher, D hit nearly EVERY ONE...

I love windmills.

my dad...[on finding beauty in the broken]

 

Today we celebrate Father's Day. My focus is on my husband and how so very thankful I am for how amazing a dad he is to our kids. They have no idea how lucky they are. Next I turn my focus to other men in my life~my brother, my step-dad, uncles, and other "father-figure" men who have loved me, mentored me and built into my life. Thankful.

My dad is sometimes an afterthought. He has been gone for almost 10 years. Before he passed away, I can remember the internal struggle of buying a Father's Day card. I wanted to mean the words written on the inside. This sounds harsh and unfeeling, but it was reality. I loved my dad very much, but his story was not what is should have been or could have been.

I wrote the words below last year, but they seemed appropriate for today. Amidst the broken and shattered, God still bestowed beauty...

 
We've had a lot of "Mayberry days" recently. For me, this means a simple day, a day spent "sitting on my front porch drinking iced cold Cherry Coke" (or iced tea although I do love Cherry Coke). I love the Rascal Flatts song, I run to it. I love country music (most) and old-fashioned simplicity where progress and productivity are set aside and I read a book while my kids sketch chalk designs on the sidewalk and dance in the front yard. I like the Mayberry ideal. It doesn't hurt that our neighbors down the street have chickens in their backyard--clucks echo off the surrounding houses, birds twitter, a dog barks, and I can almost ignore a siren in the background.
 
Mayberry and country things in general also remind me of my dad. Music from Willie Nelson, Kenny Rogers and the Oak Ridge Boys were melodies of my childhood soundtrack. We played Elvira at his memorial service. We knew he'd appreciate it. We always laughed at this song and loved the Oak Ridge Boy with the deepest bass voice in the history of the world. No joke! (The video I linked to is quite hilarious, the "boys" are...aged;-)).
 
All things cowboy and country bring back those memories...the good ones. Bittersweet is still sweet. I'm no cowgirl. I'm legitimately citified, but I have fond childhood and adult memories of county fairs, state fairs, stock shows, and rodeos. Part of my love is simply the small town America atmosphere felt at county fairs. Life seems simpler, purer, pointing back to my Mayberry ideal. 
 
Until I was eight or nine, if you asked me what my dad did for a living, I would have told you without hesitation that he was a cowboy. This was my dad's answer to me when I asked him this question. I was young, and I believed every word. He had the props to back it up. Cowboy hat, countless pairs of cowboy boots, and his twangy country music was gospel. I told kids at school this "fact" and was quickly called a liar, but I held fast in my resolve.
 
As much as Old Spice aftershave, these country things bore his essence. I remember him with a smile, a poignant sweetness. I have many very hard and bitter memories. I've even gotten rid of possessions in my house because every time I saw them, I would face a memory I wished long forgotten. The most unsuspecting items would transport me to a scene, like immersing myself in Dumbledore's pensieve.
 
But at rodeos and county fairs and on front porches, I can bask in memory of a dad that I haven't seen in a long time. Wheat fields as far as the eye can see bring comfort. I can feel what he was supposed to be, what he was at his best. It's not to say that he was a different man who shed his struggles during these times, it's more symbolic. He was country born and bred. Growing up on a farm in Western Nebraska with three brothers his life brimmed with possibility, talent, charisma and hope. We all make choices, he made his, and it's not how good stories end.
 
I know that small-town life does not mean that life is easy. Life is not. But the memories remain pure to me. The antics of boys on a Nebraska farm, the walking up hill both ways to town (he had a car by the way), Coke in glass bottles at the local store...these stories I love. I pair them with my childhood watercolor memories of wearing my white cowgirl hat, accented with a purple feather, as I tagged along with my dad at the stock show, climbing into the back of his car cringing at the country twang, seeing his many pairs of boots lined up on the floor in my parents' bedroom (proof of his profession), and pots of his famous "ranch-hand" chili simmering on the stove.
 

Several years ago, I went to a rodeo with my in-laws. It was there I realized the sweetness of these memories. But as with mourning, something sweet can be a double-edged sword. I often don't think about my dad, I can avoid it. But good memories bring back the sting of loss. What could've been but wasn't. And suddenly I missed him painfully. I couldn't keep back the tears. I wanted to stay because the memories were good, but at the same time I just wanted to escape because I could do nothing to change the reality that my dad was gone.  I loved it and I hated it.
 
In spite of the loss, I'm thankful for these memories. I still love county fairs. I'm not quite sure how I feel about attending rodeos, sometimes it's easier to love them from a distance. Country music I now love for me and not just because of my dad, something we share. I don't know that my kids love country music, but it will be in their childhood soundtrack also. And this makes me smile.
 
And I'm thankful for my Mayberry days, where life feels peaceful and simple even if just for an afternoon.

300 days of beauty, days 52-64 [kaleidoscope]

I know, I know, I disappeared. I've been known to do that from time to time. May vortex, time spent in hospitals, general life exhaustion, and I can even blame it on the rain (which has fallen in exorbitantly copious amounts...I don't know if I can use all of those words together, but anyway...).

So this evening as I prepare to travel once again, I am determined to display a fraction of the last several weeks. All from my phone (couldn't find the cord to download from my camera...sigh), all from my ordinary life. A kaleidoscope.

And as a side note, the half-marathon I had been training for has been downgraded to a 10k. I know that sounds much like hurricane terminology, but the prospect of running a half-marathon was starting to feel much like a category 5 storm. The training was worth it, but this was not the season. I would like to try again, but for this weekend, I will enjoy running a 10k with my brother, spending a weekend in Chicago, and seeing a much-beloved cousin.



Alright, now for the parade of randomness...

My son is training for a 10k and asked to go on a run with a stop at the store. Not his usual request, but I agreed. He ran to the store just to buy me a honeycrisp apple because it was National Teacher Appreciation Day. He came back, panting and sweaty and placed this on the table next to me. I nearly cried I was so very touched.

We studied geography by taste-testing single source chocolate from different countries around the world. We savored it and will continue this study over the next couple weeks. LOVE.

I never tire of these gorgeous blossoms. They survived far longer than I thought they would.

We read on the front porch ALL DAY. The weather has been cruddy, so we relished this day.

A GORGEOUS tranquil evening and a date with my husband. We walked and talked for miles through our city, along our trails.

I was sick, so so sick. My sweet friend dropped these supplies off for me. I'm rich in friends, no doubt.

Back to the front porch and sweet Belle looking through her picture Bible. She loves Moses and Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego.

We hadn't had the best day, this daughter and I, but in the evening, this is what I found written on her mug of tea. We don't have to be perfect, we can't be. We can give love and grace and mercy to one another even in the messy times.

Love my girl's window art, especially against the rain splattered backdrop and the newly unfurled spring leaves.

Again, the front porch...I sip coffee, eat breakfast, and read out there most every morning (weather permitting).

The zoo is always fun. Belle was on a mission to sketch flamingos on this zoo trip.

And tonight...my husband was helping with all sorts or "to-do" items. I'm exhausted after being gone most of the week and spending much time at the hospital and in a car. I'm chugging through one item after another and he writes this for me. A cup of warm tea and truth. What can be better for my very weary heart that desperately needs rest?

Prayer, peace, and a pile of laundry

It started with a basket of laundry. My seven-year-old had been given the arduous task (in her mind) of folding a basket of towels. I was working nearby when I glanced over at my girl. Mid-fold, she had dropped her head and silent tears were coursing down her cheeks.

This sweet girl of mine is known for her spontaneous tear displays. Their size, velocity and volume rival any Hollywood actress. She sometimes grabs a bowl to catch them so she can make tear soup (I'm not joking). She possesses a tender heart and a dramatic spirit. Although we are not hardened to her tears, we are usually not overly concerned either.

However, at this moment I sensed something deeper in her heart than a dislike of chores or superficial concerns. I knelt beside her and pulled her into my arms. When I asked why she was crying, she sobbed as the words poured out.

“I miss Abby! I miss her so much. I haven't seen her forever. I want her to be safe. I wish things could go back to the way they used to be. I want her to be okay. Mom, I want her to be safe!”

Abby. One of her favorite people in the world. She has grown up with Abby. Abby has loved on her since we brought her home. Abby was one of the first names she learned outside of our family.

As I continued to hold her and rub her back, I longed to make it better, but I knew I couldn't. I wish I could, I wish I knew everything was going to be okay. I can only entrust Abby to Jesus and point my kids to do the same.

Her torrent of tears subsided and she returned to folding her pile of towels. I stayed nearby, working at the kitchen table with my back to her. Moments later, my tender-hearted girl was sobbing again in earnest. She was lying face down on a large floor pillow, hugging our dog like a stuffed animal. I began to rise from my chair, but stopped when I picked out the words coming from her mouth.

“Please God, please! Please, God! Please! Please God!”

She was pleading for Abby. Now I was crying. Tears rolled steadily down my cheeks. I sat transfixed, silently watching the scene before me.

In what was probably less than a minute, she sat up, released the dog (we have a very tolerant dog), and let out a deep breath. She looked toward me and asked, “Mom, can I listen to Colin [Buchanan]?”

“Um, yes, that's fine.”

I knew I had witnessed a profound moment. We pray for Abby and her whole family often, but it doesn't always seem like she's engaged. On this occasion, I had not told her to pray. It was her and her God. I watched her grieve, I grieved with her. And then I saw her grief push her to plead and petition the One who is trustworthy to receive and be a balm for the deepest cries of her heart. What struck me most was the peace I watched her receive. I could visibly see the shift in her demeanor and spirit. Her heart was at rest.

I had witnessed the truth and power of these words: “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Philippians 4:6,7

I love these verses. I might even name them as my favorite. How often do I experience this peace? I pour out my requests, fears, heartaches with abandon but often forfeit my peace, forfeit my rest in God. My habit seems to be pray, cry, plead, then worry, fret, worry.

I'm not implying a sort of magic formula. Follow these steps and never struggle again—a method in which it is possible to release cares and not be bothered again. It's continual, this giving over of our anxiety and fears. Life if tough—a battle to the core.

This day, watching my girl, a young believer in age and faith release her heartbreak and receive undeniable peace, I was amazed, humbled, and convicted. I wondered if I had lost that child-like faith. Raw. Genuine. Full of trust.

“And let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, to which indeed you were called in one body. And be thankful.” Colossians 3:15 ESV

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.” Matthew 11:28-29 ESV

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid.” John 14:27 ESV

These words should be more than cheery proverbial mash, carry more weight than an inane fortune cookie. Today, as I wrestle through much that burdens my mind and heart, I can't shake the scene set in my living room amid unfolded towels and an unsuspecting dog. What my daughter experienced, peace surpassing understanding, is for me too. Every day. Every moment. And I want it.

300 days of beauty, day 51 [faithful]

I did survive the hut trip. I came back sleep deprived and filthy and not quite ready to start a new week. Right now I categorize it as a unique and valuable experience. There was much laughter and much quiet time to read and reflect, beautiful vistas, and again, more exhaustion than I could handle. It didn't help that my husband left for a business trip at 3 a.m.-ish Monday morning. But, I have beautiful pictures to share...still on my camera.

My sweet grandma is in the hospital and I will be headed to see her tomorrow. I'm looking forward to some time with her. I love her a lot. 

Life doesn't stop, and the last several weeks have been a blur. Tonight, I'm working on a writing project, icing my knee from running, and watching North and South, which I love.

Tonight, I'm thankful that God is faithful. I feel that I'm not functioning well and I have much on my mind, but He is faithful in the daily everything that I face.

And I'm thankful that our spring blizzard didn't take down (literally and figuratively) my beloved cherry blossom trees. It's the little things.