Here is the long and disjointed post of our family Christmas vacation.  Photos are not in proper order.  (Xanga & I having issues.) I have decided that some people ’have it’ when it comes to photography and others don’t.  I am the latter, but I still post pictures.  Text may be hard to follow here too.  But I am recording a memory before it is forgotten.

I’m sure that I’ve said this before, probably after our last long family trip:

Anticipation of something special and the memories thereafter are often better than The Thing itself.

You will find this especially true of traveling over 4000 miles with 8 people in a crowded suburban in the wintertime. (Forgive me for how blithely I throw around those terms to make you say wow. 4000 miles, 82 hours in a vehicle, 7 days on the road. I’m afraid you’ve heard all of the above from me on Facebook.)

Wanderlust: I have it bad. Often when we drive somewhere far at night and we’re getting close to home and everyone is all cozy and quiet and I know that getting home means rousing the children and taking them into the bright lights and brushing teeth and changing clothes I just want to keep driving into the darkness. Or sometimes when I go to town on a sunny day with the huge bright world beckoning, I just want to keep driving and forget cooking and messy houses and plants that need to be watered. Distant places call my name. I would drink fancy coffee in Paris, hike Switzerland, dream in Ireland, weave through traffic in Beijing, and visit friends in Chile. (Though dreams like this don’t look too pretty beside my more lofty ones of feeding the homeless in NYC or the hungry of Ethiopia, which are also a huge part of my imaginations.)

So the drive to Missouri this Christmas fed that Peachey part of me that gets restless. Dan likes to travel too. He’s just the best guy for packing it all in (don’t know how he does it), getting behind the wheel, and driving for hours, all the while staying very good-humored.

For days before I stew and pack and shine shoes. And no matter how far ahead I start, there’s always a 2 a.m. night in there somewhere finishing up the loose ends. Snow pants and gloves, skates and passports, snacks and toys, Cds and underwear, toothpaste and deodorant….. Goodness. It takes a lot of stuff. And finally we are ready.

 

Day 1 was good. Everyone cheerfully ate their sandwiches at lunch, slept when they were tired, and (kind of) got along.

My parents moved to southern Alberta a few years ago, so the 12 hour trip straight south is familiar to us. I used to think the prairies were ugly, but Calgary and south have a beauty that’s indescribable. Drive into the sunset with the mountains etched against the plains and you’ll know what I mean. I took pictures of a southern Alberta sunset, but they were all blurry. Then we were at Grandma’s cozy house, where she invited all the family living nearby and those visiting for her chicken enchiladas. We talked and laughed together. And the next morning she made us coffee as we got our things together .

 

We crossed the border into Montana and met friends in Great Falls for breakfast. Judith is one of my favorite cousins. She & her husband have been through a lot of trauma and grief in the last few years and still they shine. More talking and laughing. And a few tears. A short, sweet visit with very special people. Even though four adults and ten children created quite a lot of noise and mess, it was a worthwhile two hours.

 

 

Day 2 began late and never ended. Alec criticized all the country we saw. The troops got weary of being rounded up and herded into the restrooms where they had to “go” on demand. I’d hiss at Liesl as she tried to look under the stall next door in the restroom. And she got the biggest bang out of trying every soap dispenser and hand dryer or towel holder. We’d buy gum at gas stations and someone was always complaining about someone else chewing sloppily. No one felt like eating the snacks we’d packed, but nothing else looked good either. Montana and Wyoming seemed endless.

 

At midnight we were driving along through Wyoming, getting close to Nebraska. Did you know there is a town in Wyoming called Chugwater? I was driving and in two hours I passed two trucks. It was that dark and quiet on December 24^th. I ate chili lime sunflower seeds and M & Ms to stay awake till my mouth was white and my tongue was raw. At 1:00 a.m. Alec and Victoria were poring over the atlas with a flashlight, laughing at the populations of large towns in the Northwest Territories: 897 people, 1042 people. One time when there is no bedtime is when you are driving straight through to some faraway place. Live it up, people!

The craziest things seem funny when you’re tired. Dan has a thing for chocolate milk. He buys it by the litre when we travel. Bryant whispered to Alec in the darkness, “You know, Dad really likes chocolate milk, eh?” And Alec whispered back, “Shhh. Don’t tell him.” How we laughed.

We drove. And drove. And drove. Nebraska is a very. long. state.

The golden sunshine and neat farmland was so welcome the next morning. We combed our tired hair at a truck stop in York. In one place Andre was complaining repeatedly of hunger and we were far from food. Bryant said, “Okay, there’s a tree. I’ll get out and make some spruce tea for you.” And later, “I’ll shoot a cow for you to eat, Andre.“

Very tired, Dan looked out at the cows in the fields and said, “I wish I was a cow and could just sit and chew my cud.”

Overheard:

Andre to Alec: “You’re a pain in the belly.”

Liesl: Mom, I have a belly ache. Can I have some candy?

Andre to silence Alec’s bossiness: “Yes, your highnest.”

　

We ate baked potatoes and frostys at Wendy’s near Lincoln, Nebraska. And then we drove. And drove. And drove. Those last few hours before Seymour, MO, were almost unbearable. Bryant’s statement after too much driving was, “This country has gone mad.” The toys we’d packed had long lost their appeal, the story Cds were worn out. Or Dan & I couldn’t bear to hear another one and said no. Sometimes you just gotta sit back, relax, and be miserable. At one point I noticed Bryant’s glasses were so cloudy that I wondered how he could see a thing. Liesl got some orange Blurp in her hair, Blurp being one of the dollar store items I’d bought to pass the time. It was kind of like silly putty, but more moist and like melted cheese in consistency. ( I know. Sometimes I’m not so wise.)

We FINALLY arrived at the house of my sister Linda and her husband Steve at 5 p.m. on Christmas eve. Pure wonderfulness. It is there that we ate many good things, showered in lovely showers, and relaxed on cozy couches. It is there that talked late at night, drank coffee, read, cut firewood and played the construction game. (Well, the guys did the firewood and the game. Linda and I did laundry and dishes.) Victoria and her cousin Veronica set up a little café in Steve’s library and played restaurant for hours. We went shopping at an Amish store where Natalia bought a keychain of plastic swans just like the ones we used to love in Belleville, PA, when I was a girl. At other shops in the little town of Seymour I couldn’t believe the friendliness of the locals. They’d drawl, “Now just look at those darling girls. How are you, Honey?” And the store clerks were so open and friendly. Western Canadians are polite but reserved by comparison.

I have always loved the Ozarks, with its round hills, big trees, and wood smoke smell.

 

There’s just nothing like a sister. And having growing girls together is so much fun.

 

After four days in Missouri, we were off to Hayward, Wisconsin, which is one long day. That was the day that everyone got hotdogs in Iowa at 3 p.m., Dan spilled chocolate milk all over the floor on the driver’s side (very unlike my careful husband), and I drank part of a pumpkin spice cappuccino. That was the day when I left my camera at the home of an old friend that we stopped to see for just a few minutes. L

Traveling is educational . There is ample time to discuss geography, maps, industry, and farming methods. Another thing that was fun was discussing people and life with the older children while the little ones slept. I think having a car full of teenagers will be a party.

Dan’s family in Wisconsin knows how to put on a good welcome. And they always treat us like royalty when we come so far to see them. It is with the Martins that we sing and play piano and eat many, many good things. The children went skating and sledding, played hard with the cousins, and were showered with presents and love. How sweet to drink coffee with Kim & Margie in Margie’s cozy living room. How good to go to church at Northwoods and see old friends like Ruthie Mast and Beth and Sharon and Katie. How fun to actually talk to one of my favorite bloggers, the great Linda Hershey. (Linda, <if you read this> Dan & I were talking about you later and he describes you as regal. You are. I am amazed that someone so slim and tiny can be regal, but it describes you well.)  We love Wisconsin–still kind of home to Dan, a place of good memories of teaching days for me, and always a happy place for the chidlren. 

(Lack of pictures from Wisconsin? Forgotten camera.)

 

 

  And then the 3-day New Year’s weekend was over. On Monday morning before we headed for home I went out for coffee with Audrey Kilmer Miller. I knew her when she was 13 and Dan taught her in high school. The year I taught school in her community I boarded next door to her family and we had some great times. Always lots of talk and lots of laughter with ‘Aug’. Anyway, I hadn’t seen much of her since she was about 18, but since we got reacquainted online in the last few years, it was so much fun to get together. We talked a mile a minute and the hour went way too fast. We discussed people a lot….bloggers mostly. J She looks as young and smiley as ever.

And then it was Minnesota. Then North Dakota, with a lovely hotel and water park, where the children got their promised swim. We drove into a North Dakota sunset too. I ran into a Target in Minot and noticed that almost everyone wore cowboy boots. No kidding. I’d hear a clicking sound and be prepared to see a lady in high heels and it was a man in boots.

On to Saskatchewan. There is something about the Canadian prairies that gets to me. It’s a love/hate thing. This is the silly ditty we made up as we drove through Saskatchewan. (to the tune of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame”)

Take me out to the prairie,

Let me touch the big sky.

Let me gaze across fields of wheat,

Long lines of bins and red barns so neat

(Saskatchewan does have lovely barns.)

Let me dream, dream, dream of good harvests,

Neighbors and coffee and snow.

Take me out to the peace of the prairie,

Let wild winds blow.

(I know the last two lines are a paradox. But that’s the feel of the prairie. The peace and the wildness. The love and the hate.)

We drove through Moosejaw and Findlater in Saskatchewan.

And in the city of Saskatoon we spent the night at the comfortable home of my sister Alta and her husband Dennis. They have a 7 year old named Rebecca and a 2 year old named Lucas who came from China just 6 months ago. It was lovely to relax in their clean and tastefully decorated house and eat Alta’s Christmas cookies and talk about family. Andre had such a good time there that he said the next morning on the way out: “I want to stay fo-eva at Dennis and Alta’s place.”

Forgotten camera=no pictures. L Here is one of Dennis and Alta from Facebook.

 

It was one more 12 hour day home. And we made it through.   No landscape looked as good as the forest/farmland combination of our own sweet northcentral Alberta.  No people looked as kind as the members of Bay Tree Mennonite Church.  Thank You, good and gracious Father.   We’re so grateful for opportunities to go. The Memories are sweet.  And it’s so good to be Home.

 

　

　

　

　

　

　

Last night the tears that had been pricking at my eyelids all afternoon broke into a torrent for a few moments. I was scrubbing listlessly at a very greasy frypan after supper, soon after Tori cautiously asked me if I’m still taking my depression medicine. It didn’t matter that we just had a wonderful (but exhausting) Christmas vacation trip. It didn’t matter that the weather was mild and that we have more than enough to eat and wear. It didn’t matter that Dan is the kindest husband in the world and that Jesus Christ is all I need.

Sometimes fatigue and hormones and peanut shells all over the floor and whining 4 year olds and batteries for broken remote control toys and lost receipts and stained tights and people fighting cancer and broken relationships (that you’re trying to help mend but seem to be failing at) just get the best of you.

It didn’t help to check in online after being gone for two weeks. Why couldn’t I be decluttering like elizabethmarie and taking photos like Michelle and sewing like April and baking beautiful things like Kathy and being witty like Jenny (I mean Jeanette) and Andrea? Instead all I seemed to do was wash 33 loads of clothes (or something like that) and move piles of clutter from one spot to another.

I tried really hard to kick the bad mood all day. But it came lurking back every time.

So I cried for a bit. And then my eyes caught this faded and grease-stained memorial card. It’s the one that’s on the kitchen windowsill beside the miniature Norman Rockwell coffee can that someone gave me years ago and I still haven’t opened.

 

It was oddly comforting to remember him. The sweet brother of mine who died almost four years ago when he lost his battle against a brain tumor. A man so young and so vivid and so robust, larger than life. He was known for his laugh and his wholesome hard work and his love of nature and elderly people and children. Especially children.

You know what? Kevin was good at washing dishes, but he never has to scrub a greasy frypan again. He doesn’t have to fight the cold and the ice and the winter darkness anymore. In heaven the glass shines endlessly with no greasy fingerprints to goof it up. The gloves don’t ever get holes in them. I imagine that peanut shells are magically whisked away when you eat them and the remote controls never break and the batteries never die. The plants don’t shed faded leaves. You don’t have to unpack your clothes after vacation. Chocolate doesn’t make you fat. You aren’t embarrassed to be losing your hair when you’re only 27 and there are no stacks of receipts to sort through in which the one you’re really needing is missing. A trip to see the grandparents doesn’t take 30 hours. You don’t have to start battling the bulge when you get close to 40. Relationships are never strained. And cancer is no more.

I miss him so very much. My heart still twists at those dates: May 21, 1980-March 7, 2008. But I don’t wish him back. (well.  Maybe I do.  But for his sake I don’t.)  He’s won the race. And I intend to as well. Which is why I finished washing that greasy frypan and went on to clean the toilets, give the houseplants some TLC, and read Mercer Mayer to the littlest 3.

Yes. He’s a winner all right. A winner who made it Home.

*************************************************************************************

Speaking of heaven: We were listening to a song about it the other day that said, “I’m going home, where dreams become reality”. Bryant’s take was: “And what about nightmares?”

**************************************************************************************

And from our house today:

I am amazed at how much better of a Christian I can be with the house clean. It doesn’t matter that it’s just a lick and promise cleaning. (Wherever did “lick & promise” originate anyway?) I feel 1001 times better than I did last night. Vacuumed floors and clean sinks make life brighter.

The laid-back little guy in this house said to me today: “Mom, I WISH dat all my tractors (of which he has many) were ‘mote control. Then I wouldn’t have to push dem awound all the time. I wish my excavators were ‘mote control too.”

Natalia was helping me clean the porch this morning and Bryant came in with manure on his boots. “Mom, I guess the men do the dirty jobs and the women clean up,” she said. So wise she is at 5. I know that’s a stereotyped Mennonite farm wife statement. But she knows what she’s about. In his defense, Dan is a very neat person about things like boots and clothes and showers. His dad & mom taught him well.

Dan weaned the calves today, which is always sad for me.  Those poor mommies bawling for their babies, udders full of milk.  I am not a good farm woman.

One thing I don’t like about blogging is that I feel responsible to keep this blog from getting stale. My neighbor lady friend told me before we left for Christmas that I’m a slacker because she hadn’t read anything new here for a while. I want to write about our big trip, all 8 of us tumbling out of our suburban at 10 p.m. and buying beef jerky and sunflower seeds at Kum n Go….Liesl’s fascination with every soap dispenser and hand dryer in the many public restrooms we saw in traveling 4000 plus miles….Nebraska sunrises….wood smoke and coffee in the Ozarks…and roasted turkey with garnishes in Wisconsin. And people, warm & interesting. I hope I find the time.

Here is a photo from Christmas program night.

I have every reason to live, to fight, to win.

The past week was not a stellar one.

I feel its mark in the TIRED I feel tonight.

The sad thing is, one of the few goals of my week was to send all my Christmas letters and photos. And I’ve just touched the tip of that big job on this Saturday night.

Another goal was to potty train Liesl, who is 2 and 1/2. Because I had the mother I did, I usually start with that project at about 18 months. And five out of six of our children were trained before they turned two. I kind of thought that was one thing I had down pat. Liesl was given by God to humble me. I can’t tell you how many times I wiped pee out of the carpet this week. Putting them in cloth underwear has always worked before. But Liesl again defies my 3rd attempt at this momentous job. And I wonder: Should I give up again or keep plowing on? The candy I buy for rewards for her gets eaten by all the others. 

This was the week where Dan & I had a disagreement about whether Tori is old enough to go out and babysit for other families. My big family where we all-did-our-own-thing and our parents let-go-young versus his smaller and more careful-of-detail family has caused us more than one argument. And I wonder why I can’t just be quiet and accepting of his views. I’m so sorry, Love. Thanks for forgiving me. (Again.)

The computers have viruses. Bad ones. Expensive ones. I wish Canada had socialized care for computer health.

I’ve always looked scary when I wake up in the morning because of my frizzy hair and dark circled eyes. But you should see GREY frizzy hair and eyes belonging to someone who got up four times to try to soothe scared children or change the very wet baby when the power was off all night long.

I just don’t feel like a very awesome wife or mom tonight.

My thankful list on the counter has halted. Sorry, Ann Voskamp. Sorry, Father God.

I am trying to practice the presence of God, but it’s not coming easily either. Sorry, Greg Boyd. Forgive me, Lord.

Even with all the good teaching I’ve had I find myself grouching as I sweep up peas and dog hair from the floor. (Yeah. That little stray we call Patty comes into the house when it’s cold. Imagine that.) I’m tired of scrubbing mashed potatoes from the backs of chairs.

I ate too many M & M’s this week. I didn’t exercise because the roads were icy and it wasn’t very nice for walking. And I don’t know how to do aerobics and don’t have a treadmill.  And I’m definitely not brave enough for Curves.

This week I compared and despaired over the fact that when some people don’t have something to say, they graciously don’t say it.  Others of us still say SOMETHING, even when there is nothing to say.

And because no post of mine is complete without a rant on the social media dilemma, I must add that I had an extra bad week for being too addicted to the computer one moment and being ready to throw it out into the icy driveway the next. Because I get tired of trying to write and be original and not use cliches. And sometimes I just want to forget the whole nine yards and use every cliche in the book and write a post in no time flat. And I wonder what I am doing here and is this inspiring anyone and who cares if we had salmon for supper and I don’t feel like commenting, even though that was an excellent post. And I really want to enter those extra good giveaways but that all takes time and I should be addressing envelopes anyway. (This paragraph probably won’t make sense to you unless you are a blogger and even then it probably doesn’t make sense.)

Ah yes. I feel far from exceptional.

But.

It was me who took the dollar store fishing rod apart with the screw driver three times in one day for my 4 year old because the string kept getting twisted up.

It was I who mothered this good looking but sometimes difficult almost 14 year old.

It was yours truly who cooked this big salmon for supper and got rave reviews from the family.  I baked dozens of cookies and 4 loaves of banana bread.  I emptied the kitchen trash 199 times–or something like that.

It was this unexceptional woman who let the 9 year old make a big mess with paper mache to create a pinata. It was she who bought candy and party favors to fill it. And she who invited the little neighbor boys over to help the other little kids in her house bash it all up like you do with pinatas.

filling the pinata with goodies^^^

I think these things look like wasp’s nests ^^^　

Bryant and his finished painted product ^^^

blindfolding the pinata hitter in our messy basement^^^^

 

And it was the same unexceptional one who muscled the couches into place to make a house for the little refugees to eat their pinata candies inside.

It was the frizzy one who got out the old train set that felt like new because it had so long been forgotten.

And the same who made paper snowflakes till her fingers had blisters on them. (Just because snowflakes are so much fun.)

 

It was she who spent an afternoon with a friend and finally put baby pictures in the photo albums of the four youngest children, who now spend happy times poring over their less than artful scrapbooks.

She made tea for the neighbor who stopped by on her way home from town.

And she took chocolate to another friend.

She doesn’t tell you these things to make herself look good. Because she knows better than that.

She tells you these things to help you see that even though you may feel ugly and frizzy and dark under the eyes,

there is someone/Someone who loves you

and depends on you

and forgives you.

And even though you might have been sharp with your tone when scolding your children last week, and maybe you’re 8 years behind on scrapbooking their photos–or maybe you don’t scrapbook at all

you probably read them stories

and gave them their cereal

and cooked them a meal or two or ten

and wiped their noses and faces and other things.

And even though you are unexceptional and unoriginal and cliched

you can make tea and listen with your heart and take someone a chocolate bar.

And as my friend Andrea says in her post about unsolicited advice which I really love:

　

When I love my kids like I should, when I’m living a
disciplined lifestyle, when I try a new discipline technique and it actually works, then I feel like I’ve
found the key to successful living.
Sometimes those weeks happen to me, and while it’s very fun, it doesn’t really
breed brokenness. Usually it starts to bug me when other people gripe about their
lives. I want to yell “just do what I do;
and it will all turn out A-OK.” Then I get a stinky
week again, and I realize that I am at the receiving end of both wonderful
weeks and stinky weeks.

Here is the link for the rest of her post:

http://writersblock02.xanga.com/756917465/my-unsolicited-advice/

And as Philip Yancey or Max Lucado (or somebody) says, “God loves us as just as we are but too much to let us stay that way.”

And I am SO grateful for that kind of grace.

And now it is Sunday evening:

So tonight after a wonderful Sunday lunch with friends,

and too much cheesecake and coffee (but what a blessed time) with the Rolla Baptist ladies at their gala Christmas dinner which I was nervous all week about attending,

I am looking forward to a fresh week. (If this caffeine high leaves soon.)  I don’t want to frustrate that amazing grace.

What did you do wrong last week?

What did you do right?

Are you grateful for grace–that grace which breeds brokenness?

P.S.  I hope I didn’t make anyone uncomfortable with my last post.  That was soo not my intention.  Feel free to tell me my many mistakes in writing, but I’m not planning to do the same for you. 

Last night’s popcorn is swept up.  Second load of laundry is washing.  Mr. Fred the Piano Tuner is downstairs banging around in an unmelodious way.  The littles are eating chips and carrots while they watch him.  He is one of the tallest men I have ever seen.  He wears those old black rubbers that my dad used to wear.  I didn’t notice them when he came, but I did notice when we got downstairs that he had left his shoes on and I thought, “How bold of a Canadian professional to enter our house with his shoes on on a wet day.  Then I went to the porch and saw his rubbers.  And I know you didn’t need to know that piece of information.

 

I’m hoping to address lots of Christmas letter envelopes today. 

 

When I don’t like my last blog post I always feel in a rush to cover it up with a new one.  But I can’t seem to quite wrap up the one I’m working on:  Dreams, Whims, and Reality.  Maybe soon.

 

So today for fun I’m going to talk about spelling and grammar.

 

I always loved spelling in school.  It was a breeze.  If I got anything wrong on a test it was a huge deal to me.  Probably worthy of tears.  (Yes, I was that kind of a student. L)

I was also very fond of our Pathway Publishers vocabulary workbooks.  I tried to see how many words & meanings I could get right without ever using the dictionary.  Most of my class hated our 8^th grade Abeka grammar book, but I secretly adored it. 

 

Yes I’ve always loved words.

 

But the older I get the more I realize I don’t know.  And when I try to write, I get really hung up on grammatical issues.

 

I’m embarrassed with how often someone uses a word that I don’t know the meaning of.

 

Recently Dan & I had an argument about the proper use of ‘who’ and ‘whom’.  The children even got involved.  I googled all kinds of things and came up realizing that I was in the wrong.  And I still don’t know if I know the rule and could follow it properly every time.

 

So while the improper use of

“your” and “you’re”

and“then” and “than”

and misuse of the three forms of “there”

and incorrectly used “it’s” or “its”

and “Yeah” used for hurray instead of yes

make me cringe inwardly,

I get stuck on placement of the e’s and a’s in “separate” and “desperate”(and those letters shouldn’t have apostrophes with them because they’re not in ownership of anything, right?!)

And “weird” still throws me for a silly loop, though I think I have it down pat again right now.

 

 I’m also ashamed at how the old books that I plowed through when I was 15 that I actually enjoyed once I got into them are just BeYoND my foggy mother mind lately.  I admit that I read them to prove that I was smart, but now it’s easier to read blogs and I don’t care about proving to anyone that I’m smart.  Because they’d soon find out otherwise.

 

And you know, something like being a good speller really has little to do with intelligence.  I have a brother in law who reads and writes incredible stuff about history and studies Greek.  And dear Steve is a deplorable speller. 

 

So I don’t judge someone who misuses words like I used to, even though I might flinch inside.  Because I might be the next one who/whom/that someone laughs at.  And I recently read an old post of mine in which I used the word “pardoxes”.  How hideous.

 

What words do you get hung up on?  I only scratched the surface of mine, but that’s as far as I can think at the moment.  And the dryer just buzzed.

“It turns out we are not exceptional.  Along with most people we live and die in mediocrity.”  -Gregory A. Boyd-

I hate coming up with blog post titles.  They always sound cheesy or ill fitting. No matter what.

edit:  While I’m harping on things of this nature, may I just say that I can overlook spelling and grammar mistakes, but my pet peeve is quotes posted on places like Facebook with no credit given to their original creator.  I read and think, “Did this person actually come up with this or not?”  This is different than me using one of Lisa Troyer or Dorcas Smucker’s witticisms without remembering that it’s theirs because I liked it so much that it became my own.   :)

And my sister just informed me that on a recent post I used ‘flare’ instead of ‘flair’.  More hideousness.  I will not rest till I have edited that one.

This afternoon I was trying to be disciplined.  I took a half-hour break from cleaning house because I wanted to answer your comments on my last post.  I was telling Becky that yes….I DO remember that dress! And Audrey R.– it’s pear-shaped figures and going grey early for me as well.  And Jessica, I LOVED your words on how to relate to my daughter when it comes to fashion.  And Amy– you are always wise and I think you must be like your lovely little white-haired mom.  And other things to the rest of you.  I was just wrapping it up and by mistake I hit someone’s username instead of ‘reply’ and lost every one of my replies to you.  And then I realized that I had forgotten to put my roast in the oven and felt quite angry with myself.  And it looked too daunting to start over.

But heartfelt thanks.  I loved the thoughts and the tips–and your hearts. You know what?   Once I kind of tried to write about beauty and once I tried to write about fashion.  Those two posts probably had the most views of any on this little blog of mine.  And that tells me that as ladies (and maybe especially as conservative ladies) these topics grab our attention.  We want to discuss them and come to peace about our place in the scheme of things.  I want to add some really great links here yet on these subjects from Christy and Jenny, two of my favorite bloggers.  (I hope you guys don’t find me getting all familiar with your names annoying.  I just feel goofy typing out usernames all the time.)  These posts and comments are worth the read when you find the time.  In case you haven’t noticed I still haven’t learned how to link without doing it the long way:

Part one:http://twofus-1.xanga.com/716130707/beauty-femininityand-me/

Part two:http://twofus-1.xanga.com/716570612/more-on-beauty/

AND

http://baileyandme2.com/2011/06/05/aging-gracefully/#commentlist

http://baileyandme2.com/2011/06/14/aging-gracefully-revisited/

 

(I just have to say that I hope if you ever meet me you won’t be disappointed in my lack of fashion.  I am plain and simple.  I have a big nose.  And style is such a personal thing.  What one thinks is beautiful another thinks is ugly.  So there.)

I get a rush from hitting the “Post” button on a post I’ve worked on for a while.  And who doesn’t love comments? But the other day after my fashion spiel I went for a long walk on a grey November afternoon with my brown coat and my blue dress and blue-green sweats and grey and pink tennis shoes and blue-green ear muffs (the kind that no one but Dan’s sister Monica and me wear anymore) and as usual I was second-guessing what I’d written, wondering who might read it and think ill of this fickle pastor’s wife up north.  And I was wondering whether “Love not the world, neither the THINGS that are in the world” applies to boots and sweaters. 

And then of course it got deeper and I was asking God why for so long I have been reaching for the invisible Him.  Maybe you’ve noticed that I don’t often get very spiritual here.  Well, I’ve had trust issues with God for what feels like forever.  And while others speak glowingly of feeling loved and rejoiced and sang over by God, I sit quietly in the corner hoping no one asks me too deep of questions about my relationship with my Maker.  While it sometimes feels like everyone else is getting fed from the Word, I read and feel like weeping at the seeming paradoxes I find in the beautiful but sometimes damning words of Scripture. 

It’s not that I don’t see Him.  He is everywhere from the vast landcape outside of my kitchen window to the smile of my baby to the warmth of Dan in the bed beside me to the geraniums blooming in my sunroom to the affirming words of friends.  But there is always this relationship that seems beyond my reach.  And I just know I don’t love Him like David or Paul did.  Often I pray for just one little word from Him and feel nothing.  But as the November wind blew and the oil patch guys drove by in their white pickups and left a smell of cigarette smoke in the air (I’m not kidding) I thought of (I want to say “God gave me”, but why does that sound presumptuous?) those good, good words in Micah 6:8

“He haths showed thee, O man what is good…….

                     And what doth the Lord require of thee…..

                             But to do justly

                                 And to love mercy

                                   And to walk humbly with thy God.”

And I realize (AgaiN!) that it’s so much more simple than we make it. 

*******************************************************************************************

Dan & I took a quick trip to town after school the other night.  I love having children old enough to stay home alone. Victoria was left with instructions for making hamburger gravy to eat over leftover mashed potatoes for supper.  As darkness started to fall and it was 5:15 and we were hungry and it was just Us Two in the busy little city of Dawson Creek, we decided to eat out at the last minute.  And sometimes just sitting together and eating poutine (french fries with melted cheese curds and gravy–sounds bad but is so very good) and drinking decaf and watching hockey at White Spot is all it takes to make you feel cocooned in love and ready to face the demands of parenting and church and life.

*********************************************************************************************

We have revival meetings scheduled at church this week.  I’m looking forward to them.  But having a minister around for a week always frightens me a little.  There is food to think of.  And the noise in this haphazard and harum-scarum place to try to tame.  This is the place where I couldn’t find the lid for the Caesar dressing last night because Andre was calmly licking it out.  And it’s here where the children roar around the table pushing each other in chairs and use me as I open the oven door to check my breadsticks as the stoplight.  It is here that there was a fight over who has the biggest big toe yesterday.  And it’s here  that we use “coloringfood” (foodcoloring) in our playdough and clip our nails with “nailfinger” clippers.  It is here that breakfasts can be very grouchy.  These were my observances of my family this week as I was thinking about guests.  But then again:  Victoria says, “I like having company.  Everyone behaves better while they’re here.”

Have a good weekend.

Walk humbly today.

 Warning: This post is

A) Long!!

B) Strange. (especially if you are not a Mennonite or Mennonite background person.)

C) My side of the story.

D) Written in little fits and starts that do not make it very understandable.

E) Full of relative terms like “conservative/liberal/plain/fancy”.

F) Full of too many words in “quotes”.

And I’ve been working on this bit of writing for a long time. I have this crazy need to post it and in the words of smilesbymiles “put myself out there and leave my soul wandering around in such vulnerable places for everyone to poke at.” I don’t really know why. Because I hate conflict, love peace, love my plain friends, love my cutting-edge of fashion friends, love my don’t-care-at-all friends, and don’t know much of anything about anything.

I am a conservative Mennonite lady in dress. Whether I am one at heart is for me to know and you to find out. I wear a veil and a cape dress. I don’t wear makeup or dye my hair. My necklines are high and my hemlines are low.

Since I was just a little girl I’ve thought a lot about clothes and shoes. Mom used to get boxes of clothes down from the attic when we grew out of the ones we were wearing. I remember dreading those times of trying on dresses for the upcoming school year or trip. A lot of them were hand me downs and some of them weren’t very nice. I was the eighth of 10 children and the 5th of 6 girls. Some of those old double knit dresses were nasty greys and browns and I wanted pink and yellow ones. I particularly remember a pair of black tie shoes that were pointed in the toes. Of course Mom thought they were just fine for me. I remember trying to convince her that they didn’t fit me, but of course she knew better. I think that was when I was 6. I also remember a new burgundy dress in first grade that I loved. It almost made up for the pointy shoes.

When I was about twelve my sister Twila sewed new matching dresses for my little sister and I. They were pink with flowers all over them and the material was the new single-knit fabric. It was light and beautiful. Twila put lots of gathers in our sleeves, bands on the collar and sleeve ends that she stitched down at regular intervals to scallop them, and elastic waists, which were the newest rage. This sister was always pushing the lines. Mom frowned a bit over those fancy dresses. I remember wearing mine with guilty fear that I was hurting her feelings. But Mom soon agreed with the growing masses of Mennonite ladies that elastic waist dresses were modest and easy.

An excerpt from my diary at 13 years old when we were on a trip to Belleville, PA, to visit Dad’s family:

“I have such a big shoe problem. This morning I wore my high-heeled shoes and some off-black stockings to Beth-El. I felt kinda out of place because they don’t wear high heels–the young girls, that is. This evening we went to the Holdeman chruch I wore my cream-colored knee socks and flat grey shoes. And there they wore dark stockings and high-heeled shoes. What a LIFE!!”

And another place:

“I wouldn’t mind going to the June meetings at Stirling if I could get some new shoes and a really nice sweater. I always feel like people think those shoes are WAY too grown up for me. Those things shouldn’t matter, but they DO when you’re around Oregon girls!” (You see, the Oregon girls would be in Stirling for the June meetings too.)

A little later in my growing up years there seemed to be a bit more freedom with dresses and how we made them. We agonized long and hard over how to ‘do the neck’ or make the sleeve ends on our dresses. I gazed in admiration at the puffy sleeves of the fancier girls and our sleeves started taking more and more fabric as we added as many gathers as we could.

It was one thing to attend Maranatha Bible School and be among the plainest girls there. It was there that I borrowed dresses from my friends and didn’t wear the dark nylons that were required of me at home. It was quite another thing to attend Ozark Bible School in Missouri (as it was called back in the day) and be one of the fancier girls who had to make special solid color dresses to fit the standard there. Can you guess where I felt more popular? {Fickle 17 year old.}

I do not obsess as I once did over hairdos and clothes. I no longer remember what every single person wore to every single occasion and I sometimes worry on Sunday morning that I’m wearing the same dress that I did last Sunday. But I still *think* I would have made a good fashion consultant if  that had been God’s will for my life. Because I *think* I know what looks good and what doesn’t. I love to dress up to go grocery shopping. This does not mean that I always like the way I look. For instance, this scarf is all wrong with this dress.

 

 In the method of colorblocking, as this post shows: http://baileyandme2.com/2011/10/29/guest-posting-today-shelley-smucker/#commentlist, I should have been brave and worn my lime-green dress with the aqua scarf. And the scarf should be tied differently. (I really wanted to just steal a few photos off of this post, but is that considered a crime?) Also, the short sweater does nothing for my figure.

 

 Appearance does matter. A lot. If we are going to be stared at because we look different, I hope we can at least look nice. Now I know that “nice” is about as relative as “liberal” or “modest”. I also realize that a huge percentage of how we come across is our demeanor. Maybe someone’s initial stare tells you that they think you’re part of a strange cult. But your smile, your kindness, and your open face should soon tell them otherwise. When we go out as a family, I like us to look neat and well cared for. Mind you, I will discover dirty jackets at the last minute and decide we have to wear them anyway. And the pop will spill and the chocolate will smudge and the tights will get  holes in the toes and the rooster tails will stand tall.  But I hope we have a general appearance of neatness. (And by all means, veil and covering wearing ladies, keep your whites white and your blacks clean.) 

 If appearance didn’t matter, why would we all find it easier to act nicer when we feel like we’re looking good?

While the days of black nylons are gratefully over for me , I  don’t find myself pursuing a lot of “extras” in my clothing. Probably because 1) I am not a great seamstress and those extra ruffles on the skirt look hard to do. 2) What would Mom think?  3) I don’t really care about being known as the most stylish lady at church.  Because sometimes those people make others feel insecure and 4) Dan is not a trendy person and would be unimpressed. He is one of the most non-judgmental people I know.  But he does not have to have the latest and the best car or tractor. I admire this in him, so I *try to* be okay with his lack of enthusiasm for my latest fashion whim. And I have given up begging him to order me to dye my hair so that I can feel justified in doing it. He says absent things like “I like your grey” and “What would be your reason?”

When I see in Victoria (who is 12) the same fastidiousness that I had/have about clothes and everything being just right, it keeps me in check a little too. We both want to be beautiful, she and I. But I see all the more the truth of the beauty of the heart being our first goal. And in some way, perhaps me dyeing my hair or wearing makeup could give her the message that I’m not okay with how God made me. (And believe me, I’ve struggled long and hard to accept some of His choices for me.) If I’m not okay with these things, will it be right for her to alter her face or her figure someday? I know. I know. This could be carried entirely too far. (and over half of you think I’ve done so already) We would never shave or get braces or style our hair if we wanted to take this thought to total completion. I think every Christian woman probably has a standard she sets for herself in how far she goes with these issues.

Here are some of my thoughts on fashion/modesty:

Be sensitive to what the people around you consider appropriate dress. Don’t flaunt your freedom where it will offend someone. That’s Biblical. I may be plainer than most of you reading this, but to some of my friends and relatives, I am liberal. I have no desire to make a spectacle of myself when I am with a group of more conservative people. I like to quietly blend in as well as I can.

Don’t judge a person by how they dress. I have a sister-in-law who once wore a veil and no longer does who has taught me more about submission by her beautiful spirit than 50 veiled ladies who berate their husbands. That plainly dressed lady who visits your church may have a spirit and fire in her (a good kind) that draws you to her, even though you first thought her strict and unexciting. That lady whose modesty is a different standard than what I was taught may have a lot to teach me about controlling my tongue or meaningful prayer or contentment or loving Jesus without limits.

I feel sad about this: On one end there is disdain for that plain dress and that plain music and that rigid lifestyle. I’m getting rid of it all. Free me from the bondage. (People often have valid reasons for feeling this way.)

One the other end there’s the plain folks disdaining with horror that freedom, that immodesty, that music, that lifestyle, that person. Often with reasons here too.

Why can’t we embrace the good and forget the bad and accept people for who they are and see where they’re heading and what we can learn from them and quietly leave what we DON’T want to model in them?

One of my friends who has a sweet, modest spirit and wears jeans told me that she can’t bring herself to shop in the dress department of a store because the skimpy styles freak her out. So while we Mennonite ladies may think of our dresses as the modest option, she feels much better in her jeans.

(And on a side note, we have ALL strayed far from the days when showing our wrists and ankles was immodesty.)

Other Random and Totally Unrelated Thoughts on Fashion:

1) Ever since we married I have been working on teaching Dan that grey and brown/tan do not match. He looks very nice in grey with his black hair, so he has several grey shirts. And I’m quite partial to khaki, so there are always a few pairs of tan pants in his closet as well.

But just lately I realize that grey and brown must match, neutral colors that they both are. In fact, they seem to be in vogue this fall.

　(Photos shamelessly stolen from Jenny Miller Kauffman’s pinterest page. She doesn’t read this blog, so she will never know of the theft. )

And here is #madisonsmom2‘s  family. Don’t you just love their flower pins? And their grey and brown? I hope it’s ok that I stole this, Shannon.

 

And you know how it goes. At first it doesn’t look good to you, but the more you see it the more you get used to it. And after a while it starts to look nice. Kind of like the hair pulled straight down on Mennonite girls nowadays (that is, if I’m not behind already). And wedge heels following pointy ones. And straight sleeves instead of puffs. And the voluptously puffed hair and baggy sweaters of my Bible school days. All styles that we once thought ugly, but got used to, somehow. And then they go out of style as quickly as they came in and our daughters hoot at photos of us in our huge glasses and the way their dad used to have no sideburns. As a teenager, I would not have been seen with a sweater that hung out below my jacket. It rated right up there with having your slip sticking out. Now layering is the essence of cuteness. (or it was the last time I noticed)

2) I have a blue denim shirt that I have been wearing for about 4 years. It is my worn friend on a cold morning, not bulky like a sweater, just that extra layer that I need when the west wind blows through the bay window that was never quite tight. I wear a dress every day and my dresses don’t have long sleeves, but the denim shirt is for that day when you need long sleeves. It nicely covered my growing tummy when I was pregnant. I miss it on the days when I need to wash it. My dear denim is now worn at the elbows and frayed at the sleeves, but I dread giving it up. I will not patch it, but I will wear it till it dies.

3) Scarves, shoes, sweaters, and boots are my weakness. I can’t go into a store without checking out the scarf racks. I’m not talking winter scarves here, though I admire them as well. I mean the soft and the silky, the bold and the boring, the floral and the striped, the crocheted and the plaid. I finger them and think about whether I’d have a dress or sweater that would match them or complement them. Seldom do I buy. And when I have, it’s the boring ones–brown, crocheted black (my favorite), white, and teale. And just tonight: purple.  Because I often wear a print dress, the interesting fabrics are usually too overwhelming with my clothes. Or so I imagine them to be.

4) I recently started to comb my hair “straight down”. (Ha.)

And also in the hair department:

Head & Shoulders Smooth and Silky shampoo promises to smooth my dry frizzy hair.

Herbal Essences Body Envy volumizing conditioner with a fusion of passion flower sunrise & pearl (whatever that is) says that “its ok to be a little full of yourself when you see the lusciously bouncy body you’ll have with this light conditioner. It keeps you lifted with soft, manageable locks.”

Herbal Essences Totally Twisted shampoo for Curls and Waves with a fusion of wild cherry twist and jewel orchid causes “waves that cascade and curls that swirl.”

My bottle of Grey Away promises to naturally restore hair to its original color in 2 to 3 weeks.

LIARS. All of them.

The frizz won’t be tamed, my hair bun is still tiny even though it has been volumized, the waves are anything but manageable, and the grey is still grey.

(But when I get to heaven I will ask Jesus for a head of thick, luscious, shiny waves. Dry scalp & grey gone forever.)

4) Way back when, the girls from southern Alberta  were tanned from working outdoors, wore pretty dresses, and could catch and bat a mean ball in the softball games. I remember going to the city shopping with them and getting whistles…only because I was with the Stirling girls. One of my friends there told me that they were shoe shopping one day and went into a store where the salesman stared long at their white tennis shoes, dark hose, and white ankle socks, and said, “You know–those shoes really don’t go with your dresses.” And how right he was.

5) I was once told that my Catholic (turned {liberal} Mennonite) brother-in-law Dennis said that my youngest sister Linda and I always looked like we stepped out of a (conservative) Mennonite fashion catalogue. Obviously, he hadn’t met many girls of the same persuasion yet. We were not the classiest dressers of our day.  Not at all.  My hair never would puff.  But for a time the little compliment felt quite sweet.

6) One time when I was with a group of youth on street meetings in Chicago a well-dressed lady challenged me with why the fellows in our group could so easily fit into the crowd and we girls looked so different from everyone else. When I stumblingly told her that we’re not forced into this lifestyle and it’s our choice to dress as we do, she shook her finger at me and said, “Well, you’d better think seriously about that decision!” I do think that men who expect ‘their’ women to dress very plainly had better be extra careful in guarding their hearts and eyes and admiration from those who flaunt what their wives & daughters are not allowed to do.

7) And I wonder how Sarah in the Bible (who was so ravishingly beautiful that foreign kings wanted her) dressed. What made Esther lovely? Or Bathsheba? Do you think these ladies followed the fashion of the day? Did they obsess over the latest style of veil or what colors complemented each other? Did Rachel always have wider, more stylish belts on her tunic than Leah? Were the strappier sandals considered more beautiful?

8) As winter comes on and my skin gets its grey/white look I would happily go for a little makeup to help me look brighter and not feel guilty about it if I were in a different situation. I would happily buy the lovely skirt I see at Value Village instead of sewing a new cape dress. But. I can choose to look at the standard I follow as ugly bondage, or I can embrace it and say, “This is who I dare to be and I’m not ashamed of it.” I can admire and appreciate the taste that someone else shows in the way they dress. (like Rachel here: http://foreveranoatneygirl-n2hisown.xanga.com/756468120/weekend-in-numbers/ I am not really in her crowd, so I’m a little nervous to post this, but I hope she doesn’t mind if I show you her fashion sense. She is the girl in the black and white photo looking at a book. So pretty and feminine.  And here is another example of her style: 

 

{I hope all this thievery is acceptable. )

I can also learn from older women who are soft and beautiful and kind in their demeanor and dress.

9) I said that I like to dress up, but then there are the days that I wear my horrid pink crocs to pick up my children at school and dash into the post office on the way home for the mail. And then I am that messy-haired Mennonite lady with the red dress, old jacket, and pink crocs. (shaking head at myself in disgust) And you just never know who you might meet where, you know!

10)  I realize that most of our Mennonite fashion doesn’t  even register on the general run of people’s fashion radar.  So be it. I guess.

I don’t have a good way of wrapping this up, except to say: Respect & appreciate the value of each other as women. Accept the church group where you are and be beautiful in the ways you know to be. And don’t be showing your cleavage around my man.

(And after reading and rereading this, I feel like I sound like I know a lot about what looks right and what’s in style. I don’t. And I could say that I don’t care, but that wouldn’t be true. But I ‘m becoming okay with being little Mennonite me.)

Dress with Care.

                      Dress with Grace.

                                                     Dress with Modesty.

                    Dress for Jesus Christ.

We have a big, scarred kitchen table that is on loan to us from my generous big brother.  It easily seats our family of 8 and I like to leave it big so that when we have an extra person or two around we don’t have to get out more leaves.  It is one of those wonderful tables that stretches out to seat 20-30 people and when Mom & Dad built the house we now live in they specially designed it that a huge table can extend beyond the kitchen and into the livingroom when necessary.  I love this table!! I love to stretch it long, put a nice tablecloth on it, and have my children set it with pretty china.  I love to serve a big meal and then have the coffee and dessert, while the children run to play and the adults put their feet up on the empty chairs and we talk and laugh.

How often when we are just having an ordinary meal I think of how incredibly blessed I am when I look around at 6 beautiful children and one strong, kind man.  They might fight and eat impolitely and complain about the pumpkin soup and say that no one passes them a thing.  But they know too that we are blessed.  The food might not be exciting, but it’s plentiful.  And not every family eats three meals a day together at the same table.

But sometimes this table is not my friend. Sometimes the extra space at the end of it loads up with S.T.U.F.F. so high that I can’t bear the thought of tackling the mess.

So it is at 10 a.m. on this Thursday morning.

Yesterday I had to make an unplanned trip to town after school.  We had Bible study later that evening.  The boys cooked the potatoes and the sauerkraut with hotdogs I’d prepared (and burned both royally, bless their hearts).  Dan came in and helped them mash potatoes and feed the little ones.  Then they all went to shower.  Victoria and I rushed home from town at 6:45, ate a bit of burned food, helped clean up supper mess, and got the little ones dressed after Dan put them quickly through the bathtub.  Alec washed up his burned dishes (bless his heart) and Bryant put away most of the groceries.  We were five minutes late to Bible study.

Fast-forward to this morning.  The house is upside-down.

On the table is my box of letters and photos I was going through earlier this week in preparation for 2011 Christmas cards.  There is also a mixer from mashing last night’s potatoes, various children’s books, a bowl of apples, a battery, and  the sprinkler that I brought in to put in the garage when I was cleaning up outside for snow yesterday.  (Andre started using it for a gun.)  Also on the table is the pair of socks Victoria bought yesteday, cupcake papers from grocery shopping, ponytail holders and clips that I bought for the little girls yesterday and that they took out to admire this morning, a toy cell phone, a bag of dollar store items that never got put away, and the socks and rulers for the Operation Christmas Child boxes that the children are putting together today at school for children of poorer countries. (These got mistakenly left behind this morning.)  I am ashamed to say that the crackers the children snacked on yesterday are still on the table, as well as my diary and the cereal and a few dishes that didn’t get put away from breakfast yet.  I don’t know why there is a jar of Cheezwhiz here.  And my little notebook laptop also reigns amidst the clutter, open to Facebook, where I checked briefly this morning.  And how could I forget the pencil sharpener and jar of pens and scissors from Natalia’s latest drawing episode?

I sound proud of the mess.  I am not.  And my quick post, with many interruptions(?), is taking 30 minutes of the time that I should have devoted to clearing off this table.  I’ve been wanting to do a Facebook post for a long time asking people to write the time of day and what’s on their table.  But I got too long-winded for Facebook.  So here it is.  Humor me by writing the time of day and what graces your table.  If it is a bouquet of flowers and a lace tablecloth, it will give me a moment of joy to visualize it.  If it is peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and chocolate milk I will smile.   I hope that whatever it is, it is a much nicer scene than mine.  And in 20 minutes from now I hope that mine is a totally new story.  While I am at it, maybe I will clear the photos &  other stuff off of my too-full fridge behind it and rearrange the vitamins on the top of it into something of beauty.  But how? Maybe put them into a wicker  basket or something.  Which I don’t have.

Have a beautiful day, my friends.  My work is cut out for me.  It’s written in stone all over this disaster of a house.  But I WILL be an overcomer.  Despite the lingering smell of burnt sauerkraut.

 

 

Today so far I’ve combed Victoria’s hair, drank (or would that be “drunk”?) a glass of water, made half the bed, made a piece of toast that I couldn’t eat, and looked at a photography blog and livingroom drapes online. I also googled “dizzy spells” and stared at the finger marks on the newly painted wall above the couch.

Every time I move a few feet from the couch the world rocks around me. It started at 4 this morning when I turned over in bed and felt like I would fall out of it. 

Thankfully there is nothing that absolutely has to be done at the moment. Kiddies are happily watching Berenstain Bears on youtube and variations of The Duck Song on the livingroom floor. They are appalled at their freedom to do so as long as they please.  For lunch they are eating cranberry white chocolate chip cookies.

I started to facebook about it. But then that felt so very small. It looks like I want 20 comments saying “praying for you” and “get better soon, Luci”.

You know. There’s that little photo that’s been making its rounds that says, “If you have a problem, face it. Don’t Facebook it.” I (mostly) agree with it.

So yeah. It’s not fun to hear someone’s aches and pains in a public place. And heart problems have better outlets than Facebook, to be sure.

But. Misery does love company.

And I wouldn’t mind if you’d say a prayer for me if you think of it.

I don’t know what’s causing this. I keep trying to get up and see if it has passed, but then the nausea comes and I lie as still as I can again.

We have monthly school cleaning this afternoon and music practice tonight for the memorial service of a dear elderly friend tomorrow. I want to get better.

And while I’m here anyway, I need to say how much you guys (as we would incorrectly say up here in the sticks) brighten my life. I know I stress a lot over my place in the scheme of things online here. But when I think of the color you add to my world I realize what I would miss without you. I love you all.

-from a sincere heart, Luci-

It’s time to replace the Carrot Lovers with something new.  And I get lonesome for my blog when I haven’t posted in a while.  Kind of like I miss my sister Linda in Missouri when a whole week has gone by without a phonecall between us.

But

I don’t know how to gather my scattered thoughts together and blog properly. I’ve been rehashing this whole Facebook/blogging thing again, asking myself why I do it and what better things I could do with the time I spend here if I quit. The recent changes on  Facebook annoyed me (though how dare I complain, really)  and now there is hype about lack of privacy there, which worries me a little and sometimes a lot. Some of my good friends online have disappeared or are seldom seen. Some have gone to Google +.   I think that some of the bloggers are busy on Pinterest. Still others are just gone. And I miss them.

And the pertinent question in it all? Will I be comfortable with my children spending as much time online as I do?  So far I tell them that I waited till I was 35 to join any kind of social networking and I expect the same from them.  But that won’t always work.  {Smile.}  (Not that it does now either.)

And so the love/hate saga with me and my little online life winds on.  How can something seem so good and fulfilling one moment and so empty & useless the next?  Is it because I’m not using it properly?  Why can I not learn to be more scheduled and disciplined with my time?  And WHY do I have to keep circling back to this subject so often?  I’m sorry.

I wonder at my need to share my take on life with everybody and his brother. I want to go deep, be spiritual, inspire someone. Most of all I want to lift Jesus high. But I realize more and more that I write for my own therapy & fun. It’s an outlet for all those mom-thoughts that yatter away in my brain. They used to stay there and simmer. Now I put them out where there is usually someone who relates to them or gives advice.  And I think that’s a good thing.  But sometimes it feels small and self-centered.

And so…always there is that war for balance. There is that precious Time that I long to use in a wise way. There is LIFEhappening all around me, life that I want to embrace and enjoy.

I could say a lot more. But it’s late. And the topic is too heavy for right now.

So I’ll post a few pictures of happy around here:

I just wish my bedhead looked this cute:

 

　

Tonight I went for a walk at sunset.  On the way back it was getting dark and the northern lights were shining in odd tints of green.  So beautiful.  There is no way that I would try capturing them with my camera.  But they are awesome.  GOD is awesome.

My parents were here to visit last week from Lethbridge, Alberta, which is only 12 hours south of us.  Notice the emphasis on only.  My mom has the gift of gab.  She can make conversation with anyone anywhere.  I love this trait of hers.  She is also a masterful storyteller.  Here she is regaling the children with tales of her years of growing up and going to market. 

Her own mom used to bake 40 cakes and 120 pies a week with her five little girls to raise.  And when you get Mom started on their pioneer days to the west, be ready for some entertainment. 

Dad helped me clean up some flowerbeds and the trailing vine on our porch. He also dug the last of the carrots for us.  My dad is a gentle, peace-loving man who sees the good in everyone and reads incessantly.

I hung jeans and towels on the line today with my winter coat on.  I could have used gloves and a toque as well.  But the sun was shining.  And it hasn’t snowed yet.  And my house plants make me glad.

Below:   Bedtime.  Dan and five-sixth of the children listen to Straight No Chaser sing “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.”

Check out the song right here:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=41tgOaFXTWU  It is so much fun.

Please excuse the shameless showing off on my part.  Here is Liesl singing a song for you:

This second song is mostly for my sister Alta, whose family likes Raffi as much as we do.  Liesl sings Baby Beluga here.  And since I am feeling so full of links tonight I’ll post the lyrics and the original Raffi video as well.  Bear with me.  You don’t have to listen to it.  Of course.

Below:  Patty the Stray has become part of the family.

And the burning thoughts of my evening, kind of all intertwined with blogs I read and people I admire and my own place in the scheme of things:

Most of the pairs of shoes in this house come from Walmart.

I hardly know what Etsy and Anthropologie are. Except that the sweaters at Anthropologie cost $228. And a scarf I liked on Etsy was $62.

We usually eat at McDonalds when we eat fast food.

I have never been to Red Lobster or even Olive Garden.

I am afraid of Pinterest.

It makes me feel guilty to buy a $5 Starbucks coffee.

Some weekends I spotwash my kitchen floor instead of mopping the whole thing.

Andre sometimes wears the clothes he wore all day to bed and then wears them again the next day.

Are we rednecks?  Or just cheap?  And why do I share senseless pieces of information like this?

8888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888

Here is a very good post on social media:  http://thegypsymama.com/2011/10/on-resisting-the-itch-of-social-media/

The best words here?  “He must become greater.  I must become less.”

There’s a photo of intertwined carrots that keeps circulating on Facebook.  It reminds me of one I took a few years ago.  

“You lovely orange thing, you.  Let’s dance for the dills, shall we?” 

That was in the fall of 2009.  Two years later, life, dirt, and kids have taken their toll.  Slim Orange One has put on a few pounds, but The Mister still loves and embraces her, children clinging to her skirts and all.

 

You need to eat a crunchy Alberta carrot.  They are the sweetest thing you ever tasted.