In which these are a few random links for your time-wasting pleasure

• In line with my recent post about housekeeping (or the lack thereof, if we're being honest), I found that A Holy Experience recently wrote about the same thing. But much more beautifully and poetically than I ever could. So there you go.
• Kingdom Grace is in the midst of a challenge to the traditional Calvin acronym for the doctrines of grace of TULIP with one much more in line with my own theology and thinking: BEERS. (And yes, please.) I've never overly identified with Armenianism either. But TULIP? Man, that just doesn't speak Jesus to me. I have grappled with it for years, to be truthful, because so many people much smarter than I am live by this axiom. But after the years, I had to walk away and say "No. That's not the God I serve." So this really resonated with me, giving me legs to stand on a bit as it were even as I don't agree with all of this either. I'm looking forward to the conclusion this week.

From Total Depravity to Broken Eikons

From Unconditional Election to Eternal Purpose

From Limited Atonement to Extravagant Atonement

From Irresistible Grace to Response to Grace

• A synchroblog about sexuality went through the blogosphere last week. I have my own opinions on the issue but I did like Brian McLaren's response from a pastoral heart. It seemed compassionate. Nothing excludes us.
• It's Farmers Market season again! Woo hoo! Our market is on Thursdays at Tipperary Park down by City Hall. But if you're in BC, click here to find yours.

Off into another week!

In which someone is 9 months old already

This is my baby. His name is Joseph Arthur. We call him Joseph, Joe, Joey, Curly Bear, Captain Wonderful, Small Boy, Buddy, Wee Laddie and Snuggle Bug.



And isn't he beautiful?




These days:

• He yells. A lot. When he's happy or mad or wants something, he just yells. It can be a little disconcerting for people when we're on the phone. They hear a baby yelling and say "Oh, you're busy! I'll call you back." And I nonchalantly say "Oh, that's just Joe. He's just perched at the toy box yelling in delight. Really, he's fine." and just keep talking.
• He is a snuggle bug. I've never seen a kid so snuggly. He would be happy if he could live in the sling and in my bed or on my lap. Or with Brian. He loves to sleep with Brian. They are Saturday afternoon nap buddies.
• He's got dimples everywhere. Two in each elbow, a plethora on his bum, in his knees and creases in his thighs. He's pudgy and delightful. I love to just hold his thights in my mouth.
• He hardly ever cries. I don't think he's cries much since birth to be honest. He's a happy go-lucky laddie with a deep well of happiness.
• When he laughs, it's this unexpected little gurgle followed by a "heh heh heh heh." Brian and Anne can really get him going. I have to resort to tickling.
• He has just learned to wave. He turns his hand towards himself and moves just his fingers like "come here" all together. He is learning to wave his whole arm while doing it. So when we go to the store or to the park, he perches on the edge of his stroller, leaning all the way out. As soon as he catches someone's eye, he waves and waggles his fingers and grins. Then all the ladies at the Safeway call him a Big Flirt.
• Speaking of grins, he's got a mouthful of teeth! 8 already, if you can believe it.
• He hates food. I was worried about it but not so much anymore. My mother really put my mind at ease by reminding me that I didn't eat solids until I was 13 months (sickness related but still). And after doing some research, it's pretty normal. So we're just dialing it back again. And we'll try again later.
• He hates to sleep. Honestly, if I didn't make it happen, he'd never sleep. And probablly still be pretty happy about it. We ran into a rough patch because I wasn't nursing him much during the day (trying to get him hungry enough to eat food) so then he'd nurse ALL THE NIGHT LONG. I was shattered. So I stopped that nonsense (again, thank you Jesus for the advice of my mother) and just nursed him as much as he liked during the day. Which is a lot. (He's a big boy.) And sure enough, he was only up once that night for a feed. Anne still loves her nap and would sleep every day for three hours if I let her. Him? It's a battle and even when I win, he's glorious in defeat.
• He's 21 pounds. *faint*
• And his hair is starting to curl!
• He's sweaty. I love this about him. Whenever he has a big sleep, he wakes up all damp and curly-haired, red-faced and sweaty. He smells like such a boy.
• He absolutely adores his sister. He thinks she hung the moon. It's like wrestle-mania in here some days. They do everything together. A favourite pastime these days are Splash Parties in the Bathtub. Oh, they have a time. And I get just as wet as they do.
• He went right from crawling to standing up with furniture to now walking all over the furniture.
• He knows his name.
• He says "Mum" all the live long day.
• He is learning the word "hi" right now.
• He is a very fast crawler.
• He loves to make noise. I don't know if this is a boy thing or what but whatever is in his hand is being whacked with all his strength against the floor. If it's in his hand, it's for banging. And that's that.
• His favourite toys are the Princess Magic Party Bus and the Princess Tea Set. My sister is determined to get him some boy toys.
• He's obsessed with the bathtub. Whenever I can't find him (which isn't often....I live in 800 sq ft, remember?) he's always perched in the bathroom, clinging to the side of the tub. I think he just wants to get back in because this kid loves his bathtime.
• Speaking of which, lately he's taken to howling at me while I'm showering. Which isn't exactly empowering. I mean, I know that my figure has changed since having two tinies but that is hardly necessary.
• He's a joy.
• He seems like he's taking his time growing up. I have to confess that I love his clinginess. My sister, my cousins, even my doctor have all told me that boys are like this. They have this reputation of being independent but it's not true. They are slower to grow away from their mothers. They nurse more intensely and longer. They want to co-sleep. They want to be close. They want to be held. They take longer to walk. And I'm rather happy about that. Anne grew up so fast. She's all legs and arms and chatter. I cherish my nights spent with Joseph, the heft of him on my right hip, his hand tangled in my hair as he hollers his delight.
  
  
  
  

In which it wasn't me! a Not Me Monday post

Welcome to Not Me! Monday!

This blog carnival was created by MckMama. You can head over to her blog to read what she and everyone else have not been doing this week.

There is nothing quite so humbling as being the parent of the nearly-three-year-old having a melt-down in Aisle 10 at the Walmart, is there?

Or so I've been told.

Because my child certainly wasn't the one that burst into tears and kept sobbing loudly that she really really really really really needed a piece of cheese RIGHT NOW, MUMMY! while her mother hissed at her to "be quiet!" And even if it was my kid, I wasn't the mother that saw everyone looking at her in disdain, silently grading her as a parent, and barely beat down the urge to yell "Oh, like you've NEVER been here, right????" I'm not someone with urges to yell at people in public and have a meltdown myself to rival a nearly-three-year-olds. Just because people are looking at me funny.

I've so conquered any people pleasing tendencies in myself that it doesn't bother me at all, actually. I could care less what the strangers at the Walmart think about me and my brood. I don't burn with humiliation when it's my turn to be That Mother at the Grocery Store with That Child.

I did not buy string cheese at the grocery store. For myself. That stuff will kill you.

Then I didn't suddenly long for a grey cubicle at a credit union because going back to work suddenly seemed so much easier.

I am certainly not sitting here, blogging and reading and eating string cheese (that stuff will kill you), while the entire kitchen stares me down. The Kitchen That Looks Like a Grilled Cheese Bomb went off doesn't ever exist in my house.

And for that matter, all of my laundry is done.

And my washrooms are clean.

It's not my son that eats in a high chair covered in duct tape to keep all the stuffing in the chair and OUT of his mouth.

It's not my son that would evidently prefer to eat stuffing from the high chair rather than the delicious, organic, homemade, pureed with love baby food that his long-suffering mother makes for him.

It's not my daughter that likes to wear my knee-high black boots in nothing but her underwear and a lifejacket. And a fire helmet.

I was not the mother that sent her daughter off to the hair dressers with just her Dad. You'd like to think that telling him "Just get them to trim up her ends and bangs while you're there" is enough. Because everyone knows Daddys ought not be in charge of policing young hairdressers. And your daughter certainly didn't come home with a little boy's hair, including layers - SHORT LAYERS - of her baby fine blonde hair that takes forever to grow.

That poor woman. Hope her daughter likes baretttes.

In which I meet a Jesus-y guy at the bookstore once or twice

Unless you live under a rock, you've likely heard of The Shack by William P. Young. If you haven't read it yourself, you've likely seen it on the shelves at Chapters or seen it listed on Amazon or The Globe's bestsellers lists.




I read the book more than two years ago when it first came out. A very dear friend of mine told me about it. When I ordered it, a couple in Edmonton mailed it to me from their garage. That's because it was self-published and no one, anywhere, actually carried it yet. Since then, the little self-published fable/novel/book has become a global phenomenon, as much for the controversy it's elicited as for its message itself, it seems.



It's funny to hear people talk about it because it's an old friend of mine by now. I feel protective of it and even protective of the author now.

When I read the book, it messed with me. Every subsequent reading has messed with me a bit more. It is one of those subversive books that get in under your skin and your vocabulary, your prayers and your perceptions.



I then bought about ten more of them and just mailed them to friends.

But I don't really care about the controversy. I'm rather over preachers yelling in general. Seems like some people enjoy pointing fingers and nit-picking all of their minute details of theology/doctrine like its an expedition but I am not one of them. I have seen bookstores with it shelved in the fiction section. I have seen bookstores with it shelved in the theology section. And others that refuse to sell it at all. Some call it dangerous. Others call it miraculous. Some claim it's changed their life. And others warn the strangest things and tell people not to read it, preferring to censor the lives of others.

Personally, I loved it.

But even if I had had some qualms, they would have been put to rest by my personal encounters with Paul Young. And that's what the story I wanted to tell today. He's the most Jesus-y guy I've met in a long time. If all of those that point fingers and wring their hands and wail that he is the anti-Christ could spent just 20 minutes with him, like I had the privilege of doing, they'd see his heart.

And that man loves Jesus. He carries a peace about him. And the humility of the man speaks of a deep relationship and reliance on Papa (which is his tender name for God which I've adopted in my own prayer life. Somehow that word makes a big difference in HOW I pray. A whole other post, no doubt.).

He was doing book signing in Abbotsford, of all places, back in late 2007. I guess his sister and her family all live near there. (I lived in Abbotsford for a year and that is where the rest of my family lives - it's about an hour away from Vancouver in the Fraser Valley).

Anyway, he was at the local bookstore so my Mum and I went to meet him and get an autograph. He ended up spending about 20 or 30 minutes with us. It wasn't terribly busy but steady. So I certainly felt bad for those behind us but he didn't seem to mind.

He's rather short but so intelligent and kind. Really, he's just like what you'd expect a guy that wrote a book like that to be like. Warm, generous, inclusive. We talked about our favourite parts of the book and why it mattered.

He was so funny, he was almost talking about the book like someone else wrote it. I commented on that and he said "Are you kidding? I feel like I had very little to do with this. Papa just brought me along for the ride!" And this was long before the bestseller lists.

He also opened up about how he wrote it for his kids and that it's actually a combination of two stories. The part "in" the shack was loosely based on his own experiences over 11 years but the death of Missy and that storyline was actually related to the loss of his niece. And his sister that was there was "Missy's" mother.

I told him how my friends (hi, secret girls!) and I were introduced to the book by Tez in Australia and that we were all giving it away now and it was changing our lives. He said he just thinks that's the coolest thing. Because there was no marketing budget for it and yet it's just going on.

I mentioned how much I loved the time with Jesus on the dock and even the dedication at the beginning to his kids.

He said the biggest thing he was trying to communicate with his kids and now the world is that God is not angry.

We also talked about how Papa is represented as an African-American woman. He asked me if it was hard to imagine her that way but I honestly had to say it wasn't hard. I have always had an easy time seeing God as both male and female, father and mother. So I embraced it easily and loved it actually.

We also talked about my name. It was kind of funny because we were there to meet him but he asked us all of the questions, seeming to really want to get to know us. He said he'd always loved the name Sarah because of the covenantal name change in Genesis. He mentioned that he'd heard once that since the "ha" or "ah" is the strongest syllable of Yahweh, it has always been indicative of the breath of the spirit, the Holy Spirit. So when God renamed Abram to AbrAHam and Sarai to SarAH, it was to show that they carried the breath of God. I almost started to cry in the store (no small feat).

He was just so warm and generous with his time. He also asked me to email him as my mum had mentioned I was a writer as well. He wanted to stop by and see my blog. I just shrugged it off like he was being nice but then when we were leaving the store, he came over again and said "Now don't forget. Send me your stuff." Very nice of him to remember, no?

He hugged us both at the end. He felt like a friend which was weird since we'd just met him.

Here's what he wrote in my book:

Sarah: Breath of love and life and deepest longings! "If anything matters...everything maters!" - Paul

Now fast forward six more months. He's back in Abbotsford. My mother had lost her book on a plane and so went to buy another one and waited in line for an hour to have him sign it again at the bookstore.

While in the line, she met and talked to a few other folks that were, themselves, total God-encounters. They read favourite paragraphs to each other and cried in the middle of the store, causing other people to come over and buy the book.

Anyway, it had been months since we met him that night. And he's on a busy speaking schedule across the USA and Canada, even all over the world, so no doubt has met thousands of people.

But when my mum walked up to the table, his eyes lit up. He said, "Joan! It's great to see you again! Is your daughter here too?" He TOTALLY REMEMBERED US! He even told her he liked her new haircut. They had another great chat before she left. We're just so amazed by how humble and easy-going he is. He is also a real "Bible-guy" - you mention something and he has a reference and scripture right on the tip of his tongue, effortlessly weaving scripture into the conversation but without being weird about it.


Anyway, now it's been another two years since those two meetings. And it's still going on. The criticisms of him and his book continue. But after watching him again, recently, on The Hour with George Strombolopoulous (who is among the best in the biz, in my opinion), I was reminded of these meetings.

Watch this fabulous interview below about the long, strange trip of the book.






I should probably write a bit more about the book itself. Why I love it, why it matters, why it's important, why it's revolutionary. But I won't.

I will say though that I read in a magazine recently that the biggest problem with the modern western church is literalism. And I think that's the same problem with this book. People approach it literally and they miss the forest for the trees.

I'll finish with a beautiful sentence from the book, now inscribed in my own copy: "If anything matters, everything matters."

In which it was never between you and them anyway

Anyway

People are unreasonable, illogical, and self-centered.
Love them anyway.

If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish ulterior motives.
Be kind anyway.

If you are successful, you will win some false friends and true enemies.
Succeed anyway.

The good you do today will be forgotten tomorrow.
Be good anyway.

Honesty and frankness will make you vulnerable.
Be honest and frank anyway.

What you spend years building may be destroyed overnight.
Build anyway.

People need help but may attack you if you try to help them.
Help them anyway.

In the final analysis, it is between you and God.
It was never between you and them anyway.

(emphasis mine)

(H/T Wayne at Lifestream)

In which I am living moment to moment

When the year started, I chose a word. I meant that word to be something that I held close to me, all year long, a heart-string around my finger to remind me.

And that word was moments. I thought I needed a reminder that these are the moments that I will have to remember someday. And that I needed to remain present, fully present, in each moment of my life. So I wrapped this word around me and embarked.

I couldn't have known how providential that choice was to become.

Because, in this season of my life, like most mothers, I am living moment to moment.

There are moments when I feel like all that I will do for the rest of my life is look after children. The monotony of it feels endless sometimes. The selflessness that it demands of me is refining. The give and give and give some more can sometimes leave me wondering "When will it be my turn?" Did I go to university to spend the rest of my life changing diapers, soothing, doling out Cheerios and having pureed carrots spat in my face?

I have moments when I'm tired, frustrated, selfish, guilty and bored.

And then there are moments when I feel reborn. There are moments when I feel like I'm on a speeding train and this precious time of my life is going way too fast for my liking. Most of my moments feel like they glowing from within, a light so fierce that all of me that is gross and selfish is being melted away. I am full of joy, happiness that the world would never understand. I think that this is a gift, a precious gift, and I am trying to wring just a few more moments out of the day.

Moments when I breathe deeply. I hold my son closer to my breast. My daughter runs her fingers through my hair. She wants one more story and then another and then another. We sit in the grass and watch the clouds. Joseph's eyes light up in the morning and he crows out "Mumma! Mumma!" and then Anne fingers my earrings at bedtime and whispers "I weally, weally love you." Another day already over. The whispered prayers at bedtime. The rocking chair times in the night while the rest of the city sleeps. The tiny rituals that just yesterday felt monotonous and today, bring comfort. The warmth of these moments have warmed the coldest parts of my heart, turning my heart of stone to a heart of flesh again. Moments when I feel like I can hardly breathe around the swell of gratitude.

I have moments when I'm truly alive, full of love, grateful, bright and beautiful.

This awareness has given me the gift of being fully present in my own life, instead of just a spectator. I think it's not so much that I am more present as much as it is that I have invited and welcomed His Presence into every aspect of my life.

In which I become vulnerable about my shorts

I'm still in the process of copying-and-pasting all of my old blogs/comments over to the new site. I'm up to Joseph's birth last September. Only four more years to go. *eye roll* And I'm not feeling very inspired today since I still have a wicked headache from that Sumo-Crow and my leg is still throbbing. So nothing new today. I'm still working on a couple of items about the whole "Can God Be Trusted" thing as well as some Iran things. But my head isn't quite in that space.

But I did come across this old favourite which, surprisingly, my cousin even requested as repost. So enjoy!

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

Here's the thing. My legs touch at the top.

Yes. I will admit to this evident deformity. My legs have ALWAYS touched at the top. Even when I was 7 years old and frightfully skinny, my legs touched at the top. It's a family thing. So I know it's not just a weight thing. My thighs just touch at the top.

Okay?

Whoever designed shorts obviously never had thighs. They were obviously not a woman. They were obviously not shaped like anything other than 12-year-old boy.

In the summertime people seem to quite enjoy wearing shorts. After all, it's hot and they don't have to go to work every day. So I put on my shorts and go out into the world. Even though I know that I will have to face what millions of other women NOT shaped like referenced 12-year-old boys do.

The Sneaky Crotch Pull-Down.

You know. You're walking along in your little shorts and they start to creep up.

"Oh, no," you think. "My shorts are creeping up in the middle. Ack. It feels bunchy. I have a bunchy crotch. OH MY WORD. Can people see it? Is everyone looking? Is this going to be on Perez Hilton later?"

So you try to surreptitiously shake one leg to the side, hoping that the shorts will just fall out nicely. But no. It's really there. So now your shorts are all bunched up to your crotch and you're shaking your leg like Thumper trying to dislodge them. It's quite subtle.

And that's when a pack of supermodels about age 18 walk by. With their little shorts and stick-thin legs that have never seen a pair of shorts with an inseam longer than 3 inches and can't fathom a time when their legs may actually touch at the top.

Not that I'm bitter.

Now you're faced with a dilemma. Do you stop and pull down the bunchiness? Do you stride past like "Hey, what bunchy crotch? I think a bunchy crotch is quite appealing. And I'm good-looking and skinny too." Do you sit on the sidewalk and cry? Do you swear off shorts until the end of time and resort to skirts for the rest of your life?

So usually we resort to The Sneaky Crotch Pull Down. You sneakily try to pull the centre of your shorts down. You're walking, just hanging out. You glance over nonchalantly at nothing but are trying to look preoccupied and like you aren't even aware of this situation.

And just ever so casually reach down and yank the crotch of your shorts back down to where they should be. Shake a leg and then keep walking.

Be warned though. Every time I have attempted this maneuver, when I raised my eyes, someone was making eye contact with me as if to say "What the heck was that?" To which I usually glare back the message "Oh, like you've never had pull down the crotch of your shorts before?"

And then I go buy three skirts at Winners.

In which I am bested by the crow

I got up this morning, determined to do it. I was going to go for a walk. And to go for a walk EVERY MORNING FROM NOW ON.

You see, I talked to my friend, Sarah, last night. She has two children almost the exact same age as mine. And she is doing a half marathon this weekend.

I'll pause and let that sink in for a moment.

I was positively pea green. Not just that she can, you know, run for any distance at all but also that she made the time for herself. I thought to myself: That's it. I'm taking some time.

Because the truth is that having tiny children can be physically exhausting. And I sometimes forget to eat. And when I do it, it's hardly nutritious. And I feel so fat and tired some days that I am thankful that all of my hobbies - like reading and writing and knitting - involve sitting on my rear end.

By the time, I went to bed that night, I was excited. After all, I was going to get up every morning to go for a walk in Queen's Park! I was going to get up before the tinies and take the morning thirty minutes for myself! And then, somehow, this was going to melt off the reluctant 15 lbs I can't seem to lose (read: won't actually do anything to lose) and even firm my abs! My abs! I was going to be tan and svelte! I was going to be peaceful and centred all day because I had my 30 minute walk in the morning! I was going to pray the entire time! I was going to enjoy nature! I was going to be all Michelle Obama and set the example for my children that sanity for a mother is important!

Oh, I had me some plans.

So this morning, I woke up at 6:30. I looked over Joseph to Brian and said "I think I'll go for a walk this morning." Bless him, he didn't even blink in surprise. Just said "be back by 7:30 so I can get to work, babe." And then rolled over with Joseph.

I put on my runners and my yoga pants. I grabbed my sports bra which I have had since I had to collect aerobic points at ORU. We're talkin' a ten year old sports bra pre-tinies-and-breastfeeding here. And away I went.

As I hit the stairs outside of our building, I was jubilant. The birds were singing! The day was cool! I was going to get skinny! I was going to have time to reflect and pray before the day started!

And then I fell down the entire flight of cement stairs.

Whump! Thump! Ouch! Ow! DAMMIT! DAMMIT! DAMMIT!

By the time, I landed at the bottom, I was convinced every bone in my body was broken. I sat in defeat on the stairs and mournfully inspected my limbs. Huge scrapes on my forearms. Chunks of skin hanging off my calves. Blood pooling in my socks.

No! I thought! Not today! I will not be stopped! I will DO THIS!

It was very moving.

Maybe Kate Winslet could play me in the movie.

I gingerly stepped on my feet, testing my ankles. They were sore and twisted but I could manage a slow walk. And I slowly walked and limped over to the park, determined to recapture my moment.

I walked around the park. I tried to focus. I prayed .... a bit. It went something like "Oh, Father....it's so good to be here with you...wait, is that dog off his leash? I HATE WHEN DOGS ARE OFF THEIR LEASH! Can they smell blood? Honestly. People can be so.....wait....where was I? Oh, Yes. Jesus. So. I am seeking you this morning, Papa. My soul is yearning for you still....Okaaaaaaay....someone over there needs to put a bra on!...." And so on. My mind and heart were like a pack of 3 year olds at a birthday party post-cake-and-ice-cream-and-chocolate-and-a-clown-and-a-petting-zoo.

As I rounded the last side of the park, I heard a crow start to scream.

I hate crows.

This crow was screaming at me.

It followed me for a few moments, screaming and flapping from the enormous evergreens along the path.

And then it swooped.

Zooooooooooooooooom! just past my head. I shrieked and clapped my hands on my head.

DAMMIT!

The crow kept screaming. I looked up and couldn't see a nest anywhere. What the heck?

And then it did it again.

WHUMP!

AND THAT CROW BODY SLAMMED ME ON THE HEAD!

I stumbled forward and landed on my damaged knees. The crow was coming at me again and I hurriedly crawled and heaved myself across the street. The crow followed me. I tried to jog. My sports bra protested. My ankle was screaming at me. I half-dragged, half-walked myself down the street away from the homicidal fowl and made it home.

I walked in the door and Brian took one look at me - bleeding from every limb, scraped, limping, hair askew from being whumped by a mean bird - and said mildly "How did it go?"

FAN-tastic.

In which those boys are much too much

(h/t Adventures in Babywearing for this delightful video.)

In which my tinies have an amazing Daddy

Brian holding Annie, just hours old.





Brian holding Joseph, just a day after he helped deliver him.






Growing up in this house, my tinies are learning every day.


For instance, from their father they are learning....

• It is impossible to put on a pair of sunglasses without saying "Where we're going....we don't need....roads."
  
• When you are tall, your feet will stick out of every single bed. Even California King beds. So even though you sleep in just your underwear (TMI?), you will put on a pair of heavy wool soccer socks that stretch all the way up your calves every night. And your wife will make fun of you for it. Every. Night.
  
• When saying the word "fantastic", make sure you put the full emphasis on the first syllable. Example: FAN-tastic.
  
• Nothing makes a kid laugh harder than their Dad dancing in the living room to Veggie Tales tunes. Especiallly when he "does the pony."
  
• It is always appropriate to grab a full handful of your spouse's ass and say "Now that's goooooooooood."


• Everyone feels better after a hug and a kiss.


• You are a Husker fan. Period.


• When you leave for work in the morning, make sure you make time for good bye kisses. Because small girls will want to stand in the apartment hallway in their jammies, crouched down like their Dad and chat for a bit before you leave. And when you say "Bye, sweetie", she'll stand up, wrap her arms around your neck, give you an enormous smack on the lips and say "Big hugs first!" just like you do.

• When his children are doing something beautiful or really just there, a true father makes eye contact with the wife of his youth, touches his heart with his hand and says, "Sarah Lynn, oh, those children you've given me...."


• Splash parties are allowed.


• It's always a good time to go to Canadian Tire.


• Doing something yourself is more fun than hiring someone to do it for you.


• No one will ever love them like their Daddy loves them.


• And because of that, these tinies have a beautifully true picture in their hearts of just how much their heavenly Father loves them. Because if their Papa Bear loves them this much, then, gracious, how much more does Jesus love them? And they will learn to be so thankful for a Daddy that opened the way of their heart towards Love.

In which I am seeking advice on feeding

You all know I'm a raving mad lactivist. Evidently my son is as well.

My son hates food.

I'm a little in shock about the whole thing. He's nearly 9 months old and is positively refusing EVERYTHING but breast milk.

I dutifully tried to feed him at 6 months. He refused.
I tried two weeks later. He pitched a royal fit.
I tried five different kind of baby cereal. He refused them all.
I tried sweet potatoes. He sealed his lips and shook his head.
I tried carrots. He spat them in my face.
I tried banana. PHHHHHHPT! Back in my face.
I then tried all of those things in different forms again - roasted, pureed, steamed, organic, non-organic, baked and smashed. Hated it, hated it, hated it all.
I took breaks for weeks then tried again. I skipped feedings to ensure he'd be good and hungry. And he still spits it out or refuses to open his mouth.

So now here he is.



He's fat and happy. He's healthy as a horse and his little belly hangs over his diaper most adorably. He has hit every milestone early. He's got 8 teeth. He sits up. He picks things up with his fingers. He pulls up on the furniture, for pity's sake. He's ready to eat.

But. He. Hates. Food.

He only wants breast milk - and lots of it.


When did your kids start eating food? And what else can I try? And is this normal?

In which I share a few links

• This may be one of the greatest posts I've read this year. Bring it.


• Stepping Into the Violence by Jonathan Brink. I've come to really like Jonathan's writings. His topics are bang-on and I appreciate his perspective. The more I follow Jesus, the more I have come to the conclusion that the Kingdom of God is built on an insanely intentional grace. No matter what we do, God is able to transcend our brokenness and see our dignity, our worth and our true identity


• Why we need mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, daughters and sons.


• The TED Commandments for Speakers. Now if only everyone had to read them....


• First three chapters are already available for Don Miller's forthcoming book, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years.


• The point is Jesus.


• You can join Ann Voskamp's Thousand Gifts. I did.


• An interesting conversation going on in the blogosphere about emergents that are disappointed with the Emerging Church, particularly at Julie Clawson's blog. And as usual, good response from Jonathan Brink as well.


• While we were in Omaha, we missed hearing Michael Pollan speak in Vancouver. Our grocery delivery company, Spud, hosted the authour of In Defense of Food. Great "food for thought." Particularly like his three rules: Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.


• If you've ever thought that spanking isn't necessarily a good way to raise your kids but felt ostracized in the evangelical community, you're not alone. Great conversation going on over at The Mommy Revolution. And since "spanking" searches are currently the number one way that people are finding my blog, I thought I'd direct you there. :-)


• Going for a walk can restore your soul.


• We all need margin in our lives.


• I love me some iced coffee. And since I don't want to break the bank for Starbucks this summer, Small Notebook's entry about making a great iced coffee at home is right on time.


• this has me rather horrified. And thankful that we didn't circumcise Joseph.


• If one more person tells me I need to listen to Mr. Great Preacher's podcast, I may throw up. And not just because of this.


• What was Jesus really like?

And yes, it's random. Sorry about that.

In which I am making a list of the gifts #1

Ann Voskamp is one of my favourite reads. If I had to pare my Reader down to just five bloggers, she'd be in it. She writes beautifully but her soul, her perspective is just lovely. We're totally different - she's a gentle, homeschooling, farm-dwelling mama of six living in a small community of Dutch Reformers. And me? Not so much. But oh, my soul, everytime I read her posts, my heart gets a bit deeper, a bit brighter.

As the moments slip down the hour glass of time, I am scratching down the
gifts---just as they happen, as they arrive, as they are unwrapped---that He has
given that make my life grace, the daily graces that He gives in an infinite
number of ways, that stir me.

"...windmills lazying in twilight's last
breeze.... soft wool sweaters with turtle neck collars.... the faint smell of
cattle and straw...."

I am seeing things I have never seen before,
atuned and aware of this constant, endless stream of gifts from His hand. I am
one waking from slumber....from the stupor of indifference and ignorance. I have
sight, fresh and keen---the world is new and full of His gifts.

Too
often I miss Him, oblivious, blind. I don't see all the good things that He is
giving me, gracing me with, brushing my life with. True, He is everywhere,
always. But maybe, before The Gift List, I thought of Him as further off, not so
close. When I started to see all the things that I love bestowed upon me, I
started to see Him as near, present, everywhere, showering me with good things.
Seeing the things I love all around me gives me eyes to see that I am loved,
that He loves me.

It is happening to me as John Milton wrote: "Gratitude
bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies, those
transcendent moments of awe that change forever how we experience life and the
world."

Everyday epiphanies everywhere, indeed: gifts....Grace.

"... the smell of the florist’s... the sound of kernels of corn
streaming, tinkling.... leaves floating in puddles..." Just writing them down as
they happen.

Yet my list is different than another's for a reason: God
has made me uniquely me. The Gift List is about gratitude... but it is more. It
is about what defines me and my own personal identity. Reflecting on The
Thousand Gifts List... "...cracking open a new book... pushing children on the
swing.... old men looking at cards in the stationery aisle..." I am thankful for
the things on it, yes, but I am also thankful that He has given the gift of me;
that God made me who I am and I am one who sees and experiences the world in a
way uniquely her own. The Thousand Gifts list is about the gifts Abba gives this
child every day... and, ultimately, about the very gift of self, life as I know
it.

George MacDonald wrote, "No gift unrecognized as coming from God is
at its own best...when in all gifts we find Him, then in Him we shall find all things."

She is in the midst of building a list of a Thousand Gifts. And has invited participation. So I am. I am going to practice gratitude, as I mentioned earlier. And this is a fine way to do it.

So here is my first one.

1. My soul is thankful for these tinies. They are healing and refining me, bringing out the best and worst in me, drawing me closer to Jesus. Oh, they have taught me of love love love love.

In which I am praying for Iran

...it is both hard and joyful to see. You may oppress your people
for a period of time, but in the long run you cannot quench the human spirit for
freedom. We were born to be free. God created us to be
free.

Read the rest of Eugene Cho's article here.


I love this image. May the women rise up though the men turn back.

In which I am remembering how much I hated that book

Instead of my favourite books (which I write about a lot), I thought we'd take a break.



Here are the books I hated.

1. The Excellent Wife - this was one I actually chucked into the street. My neighbour was mowing the lawn and saw me fire it out the door. I hollered that it was a terrible book and I'd dispose of it properly later. I think he did it for me because when I finally relented and went to clean up, it was gone.

2. Babywise also including the whole "Growing Kids God's Way" materials. When I'm at the bookstore and I see them displayed, I actually try to hide them.

3. Christian fiction Amish books. Seriously. Aren't we about done with the books about the Quakers?

4. The Sisterchicks books. A lot of women I knew raved about them. So I picked up a couple from the library. At least I didn't spend money on them. *shudder* But I'll never get those couple of hours back.

5. Why We're Not Emergent: By Two Guys Who Should Be I have my own critiques of the Emerging Church and so was interested to read this. But I found it loveless, harsh and deliberately misleading. To be honest, I hate most "critique" type books though. I hate when someone publishes a book just to say the other guy is doing it wrong.


What about you? What are the books you've hated?

In which it is a weekend in review

We just had a very lazy weekend. And oh, how necessary it was for my soul.

On Friday night, we went to my parents' house to watch the Stanley Cup finals with my family. That marks two meals in a week that my parents have lovingly provided for me and for which I didn't even bring a salad.

I know - I'm spoiled.

After the Penguins won (woo hoo!), we were all cheering like mad. Annie jumped up and down in front of Papa's big screen TV and hollered "Yay, Calgary Flames! I can't believe you did it!"

*blink*

All righty then. Hopefully the child has the gift of the prophetic.

---

Joseph has been having a hard time sleeping since we left Omaha. So we stayed home to make sure he napped well in the morning. We lazed about and yours truly even got to sleep in, thanks to Bri. We then spent the morning wandering through our neighbourhood because it is garage sale season and I am on the hunt for a Cinderella DVD. (No luck so far.)

We wended our way up to the high street and enjoyed the best poutine and Montreal smoked meat sandwiches this side of Quebec.

And people say Canada doesn't have fine cuisine. Look at that. French fries with gravy AND cheese curds.

And what's a lazy Saturday without ice cream cones that melt too fast?

---

On Sunday, we skipped church. It has been so long since we had nothing to do on a weekend that we just stayed on that wavelength. We packed up the tinies and went to Fort Langley which is now my new favourite spot to spend a day. The day was beautiful - warm and breezy.

We spent most of our time at the old CN Railroad station at Fort Langley.

It's the original building for the Fort Langley stop and is so much fun.

If you can't see it, this old plaque reads "The Best Safety Device Known is a Careful Man." Which just made my day.

Anne kept asking if this train was friends with Thomas (as in, Thomas the Tank Engine, for those of you without preschoolers).

We finished off with a walk through the town and a mousie cookie for Anne.

Then we drove the long way home, using backroads, listening to music. We held hands and talked quietly while the tinies snored in the backseat.

And when we got home, Brian did all of the laundry.

Yes.

It was a perfect day.

In which it is Super Target vs. me

Over the past few years, you know that I've been on a bit of a journey towards a simpler way of life. I'm still learning that Being Busy does not equal Being Spiritual/Important. In fact, the act of making space in my life has become a sacred thing.
Part of that has meant letting go of our western mindset that more is always better. And if it's on sale, even better. I've learned to let go of shopping as recreation and therapy, to stop spending money and live within my means. I am learning the impact of my financial choices even beyond myself.

I've rejected consumerism and materialism, greed and selfish gratification. I live very simply now and I like it. No television and no cable. No video games. No movies. No cell phone. We cook at home. A small home we can afford. We live on a cash budget for the most part. We have no debt with the exception of our mortgage. We have one vehicle. We made these decisions because of our values.

We strive to honour God with our spending, showing our allegiance even in this area.

But here's the thing: we have become more generous through these decisions because now our money isn't earmarked for stupid debt. We give more than a tenth of our income away. We support homeless shelters, an African girl that has fallen victim to AIDS, a boy in India, Mercy Ministries and our local church.

We have learned to be givers, not consumers.

But then I went to the Super Target while we were in Omaha.

You see, Super Target has always been my downfall. When we lived in the States, I think I went to Target twice a week. I'd go through the doors with my latte and just browse. (Which sounds so luxurious now that I have two tinies....to just get a coffee and browse slowly. That idea alone almost makes me groan with pleasure and longing.)

I rarely left without spending money. I nickle and dimed through the Target. I have resisted the urge to tally up how much I must have spent over weeks of $40 here and there. I probably could have fed a small village in African for a year.

As we moved and moved and moved again and then again, I got tired of packing up all the crap. We reduced and donated and then did it over again. I grew to hate that Target clearance stuff. Honestly. Vases? Who needs more vases? And fake flowers. And picture frames! Dear Jesus, save us from it all but especially those of us that keep buying more picture frames. Merona clothes, Mossimo flip flops, coffee mugs and placemats.

I thought I had a handle on my Target obsession. I thought that I had dominated the addiction a bit more every time I carried another box to the Salvation Army for donation.

Clearly, I was mistaken.

And then, when we were in Omaha, I went back.

Ooooo!

Shiny things!

Lipstick!

Flip flops!

T shirts for $3!

Rugs!

Towels!

Sheets!

Toys!

Stationary!

Books!

Books!

Books!

My friends, I fell into a vat of discounter merchandise.

I figured that if one t-shirt for Anne was good, then three must be better. I tried on skirts and figured hey, it was $7.99 so who cares if it didn't fit perfectly? I know I said I wanted only to buy fair trade and ethically BUT THESE SHOES ARE JUST $24.99. I hit the book section and added another ten pounds to my return-trip suitcase. I loaded up my cart. Willy-nilly, I tossed items in if they had any appeal for me at all.

Because, as everyone knows, CRAP IS CHEAP IN THE USA!

God bless America.

After a bit of time, I realised I had forgotten the items I had come to get in the first place: a gift for my sister-in-law's wedding shower and some food items for my other sister-in-law who was hosting. I went to the registry and got down to business.

As I paced around looking for the exact shade of the towel that Kim wanted, I looked at the full cart.

How much is enough?

That quickly, the Holy Spirit showed up in the Target. I was reminded of a book I read earlier this year by Will Samson called "Enough: Contentment in an Age of Excess." It's a brilliant book about finding contentment and letting go of consumerism as the people of Christ. He uses the metaphor of the Eucharist (Communion or the Lord's Supper, depending on your background) to show that we can live in today with enough. It's compelling and beautiful without the guilt trip. Basically, we need to move from consuming to being consumed, consumed by the God that we serve, seeing Him and what we have as enough.

And I realised afresh that I have enough.

What do I need? I didn't need the clothes. I didn't need the cute notepaper. I didn't need all the stuff from the dollar bin. Joseph didn't need all of those clothes and neither did Anne. We didn't have the money for these things either. Did I need debt? Nope.

I slowly went through the cart and returned most of the items. (I'm not made of wood, people. I still bought some crap.)

There are a million reasons why living simply is beautiful - for the earth, for humanity, for our souls, for our wallets. After all, would we be in this economic mess if we had lived within our means?

Samson wrote about practices to help:

• Practice the presence of God
• Practice the belief in enough
• Practice gratitude
• Practice celebration
• Practice giving.

I didn't see binging on the $1 bin at Target as part of that list.

It's an ongoing journey, isn't it? Maybe I hadn't conquered this after all. Maybe all I lacked was opportunity. My heart is still open.

But I met God at the Super Target. Not in a transcendent Road to Damascus way. But in a gentle reminder that He is enough. I am whole. I don't need this. I need to lead my life in a way that shows that I trust God, that I live with peace, that I am born for more than this and I am more than the sum of what I purchase.

May today there by peace within.
May you trust God that you are exactly where you are meant to be.

May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith.
May you use those gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you.
May you be content knowing you are a child of God.
Let this presence settle into your bones, and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love. It is there for each and every one of you.
~ St. Teresa of Avila (from the final chapter of "Enough.")

In which this is why the storm doesn't scare

My children sleep with their legs tucked like frogs
and their mouths pulled into suck-shape,
as if the womb and the breast
weren’t imagined galaxies ago,
as if there were good memories
from the pink skin-lights,
the daddy booms, the spicy
thai peppers and the rumbles thereafter.

They yield to blanket silk,
curl tight within, and dream,
drift at sea and storms don’t wake.

Far away, above and below,
inside the cup of the most inside ear,
I am singing.

By Amber at The Run-a-Muck

In which I check the Bucket List

It's been 6 months or so since I last checked my Bucket List. I have crossed a few more items off! Woo hoo! One of the more special ones to me was to witness the birth of my beautiful niece, Addison. My sister is a rock star. I much prefer giving birth to watching.

Just to be clear, I haven't actually, you know, seen the movie "Bucket List" but I gather that the general idea is to write a list of things you absolutely want/need to do before you 'kick the bucket'.

So that's what I call it. And here is mine:

• Celebrate a 50 year anniversary with my husband.
  
• Raise my children to love God and love people above all else.
  
• Be an ordinary radical by loving God and loving people myself.
  
• Travel to all ten provinces and at least one territory in Canada.
  
  
  
  • British Columbia
    
  • Yukon, NWT or Nunavut
    
  • Alberta
    
  • Saskatchewan
    
  • Manitoba
    
  • Ontario
    
  • Quebec
    
  • Newfoundland/Labrador
    
  • New Brunswick
    
  • Nova Scotia
    
  • Prince Edward Island
  
  
• Take the train acros Canada
  
• Be in New York City over Christmas to see the Rockefeller Tree and even celebrate New Years in Times Square. And see a Broadway play.
  
• Take the boat out to Niagara Falls.
  
• Stay the night at the Banff Springs Hotel.
  
• Travel to these countries (layovers don't count!):
  
  
  
  • UK (England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales)
    
  • Mexico
    
  • France - eiffel, louvre etc.
    
  • Spain
    
  • Russia
    
  • South Africa
    
  • Kenya
    
  • Morocco - casablanca
    
  • Afghanistan
    
  • India
    
  • New Zealand
    
  • Egypt
    
  • Israel
    
  • Italy
    
  • Vatican City
    
  • Japan
    
  • Austria - symphony and cafe sachar
    
  • Australia - great barrier reef, tez
    
  • Belize
    
  • Guatemala
    
  • Germany
    
  • Poland
    
  • Brazil
    
  • Cuba - smoke a cigar in Havana
    
  • China
    
  • Thailand - Bangkok
    
  • Vietnam
  
  
• Visit these continents: Africa, Asia, North America, South America, Europe and Australia
  
• Swim in these oceans: Atlantic, Pacific and Indian.
  
• Sunbathe topless on the Mediterranean.
  
• Graduate from university.
  
• Live in another country.
  
• Get married.
  
• Have kids.
  
• Go on a spring break ski trip
  
• Go to New Orleans and drink cafe au lait in a street cafe
  
• Swim in the Gulf of Mexico
  
• See the Grand Canyon
  
• See Bryce Canyon
  
• Sleep in a hostel in Europe
  
• Attend Eucharist at an Anglican cathedral
  
• Go on an Alaskan cruise.
  
• Backpack Europe with Brian.
  
• Live in England for at least a year together.
  
• Learn to speak French fluently again.
  
• Attend a war protest.
  
• Own a deep freeze.
  
• Be on a disaster relief team.
  
• Go winter camping and sleep outside in an igloo.
  
• Attend a candlelight vigil.
  
• Follow the church calender for an entire year
  
• Start a church with fellow believers.
  
• See U2 in concert. - Can't strike it yet but I have tickets for October!
  
• Snowboard at Whistler.
  
• Go on a safari.
  
• Learn to knit.
  
• Learn to bake bread.
  
• Grow my own herbs.
  
• Make a quilt out of my children's "keepsake" clothes.
  
• Make a scrapbook of Anne's first year.
  
• Make a scrapbook of Joseph's first year.
  
• Knit a sweater and actually wear it.
  
• Work at a soup kitchen at Christmas.
  
• Volunteer at Mercy Ministries.
  
• Act in a local play.
  
• Participate in a book club.
  
• Teach my kids how to skate, swim, water-ski and ride bikes.
  
• See the northern lights.
  
• Attend a surf school in Tofino.
  
• Go on a trip with my sister - just the two of us - to somewhere exotic.
  
• Have another baby - either biologically or through adoption.
  
• Watch a baby being born (someone other than myself!).
  
• Go on a dog sled ride.
  
• Write a book.
  
• Write a book of poetry.
  
• Publish them - and self-publish doesn't count!
  
• Go on a three-day canoe trip with my husband.
  
• Go on a wine tour.
  
• Take a class in photography.
  
• Have a red front door.
  
• Grow a vegetable garden and actually eat the food from it.

Why don't you do it as well?

If you do, post the link in your comments so that we can all read your Bucket List.

In which we visit Cedar Rapids

Brian's mother is the middle child of fifteen.

Yep - she's #8, seven ahead and seven behind her. And it was a three bedroom house.

I'll just give you a minute to let that settle in.

She was raised on a farm just outside of a town called Cedar Rapids in Nebraska. Her parents were staunch Catholics but well, you probably already knew that by the headcount.

Cedar Rapids still exists. It's one of the many dying towns across the Heartland of the USA and Canada. In 2000, the Census showed a population of 407. It looks like about half that now.

The town is aging. Not much activity going on these days. The schools are closing and the kids are getting bussed to county schools. And then those kids pack and move to the big cities of Omaha or Regina or Billings. The farms are owned by big business now. The town can't keep too many business afloat. There are a few that stick around, caring for their parents or lured by life in a small town three hours even from Omaha.

But slowly, even the oldest families are disappearing leaving in their wake empty houses on quiet Main Streets.

The only restaurant still open is the bar. Also called the Country Inn. It's where you meet to have a pint (75 cents!) and a burger. Brian's Grandma still heads down there to meet people like a few of her daughters and play a version of rummy or gin. They watch the news on the TV and drink a Pepsi. When we arrived, I felt out of place, dropped into a dying town as an obvious city girl, not "from around these parts."

This was confirmed when my mother in law, Leona, ordered Fried Gizzards.

I tried one. I did. I put it in my mouth but it bounced against my teeth and then I realised I was practically trying to chew deep-fried cartilege and gave up.

Anne and I went for a walk.

Every single car that passed us - there were about 5 - slowed, inspected us (Joseph stayed at the bar with Brian and The Aunts) and then waved. Anne was in her glory; she already waves at every car that passes.

The town was filled with empty houses. The streets were desolate and wide.

This is the old elementary school, long closed. It just stands empty at the end of the main street. It's occaisionally used as a haunted house around Halloween.

And this is Grandma, the tiny woman that raised 15 children and buried 4 others at birth. She was pregnant or nursing for nearly 22 years. When I get tired, I think of her sometimes.

And then I stop whining.

---

You can always spot the occupied houses by the loyal fans.

I saw Herbie the Husker everywhere.