In which it is the first Sunday of Advent

Today marks the start of the season of Advent. I'll madly dig through our Christmas boxes to find those candles. We'll light them. We'll pray. We'll reflect. We'll read Scripture. We'll begin this season of waiting.

We followed Advent for the first time in our lives last year. It was deeply meaningful for us and so we will be participating again this year. It was a new experience and we cobbled together our own traditions, as good little postmoderns will do, finding the sacred in the mundane.

Advent reminds me that it is for God alone that my soul, in silence, waits. Truly my hope is in him. He alone is my rock and my salvation, my stronghold, so that I shall not be shaken.

In the midst of my life - privileged, beautiful, joyous and full of love even during bouts of The Crazy Times - I can't forget that my trust is always in him, that I pour my heart out before him for God is my refuge.We are all like a fleeting breath but steadfast, unfailing love is only in God.

No wonder the cry of the church during this season is "Even so, come, Lord Jesus!"

This is a season of watchfulness
We watch and wait for the One who heard our cries and entered the suffering of our world
We expect new light to shine as the season of joy approaches.

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I found inspiration and beauty today in a few different places. I couldn't help wanting to point you in their direction for a read.

Julie Clawson on why women understand waiting. This will ring very true for any woman who has given birth, I'm sure.

Claudia Mair Burney on letting go of legalism and her own expectations for the marathon of Advent.

And finally, Pete Rollins posted about the BBC report on an impetuous soldier from WW2 who snuck in and out of Auschwitz several times to report on the conditions inside. It's stunning and connects with the message of Advent, I think.

_____________________________________________

If you're interested in participating, we are following the Advent readings put out by Regent College (where Brian is completing his Masters) called The Cradle and The Crown.

Are you participating in Advent? What do you do that is meaningful for your family? Any suggestions for us?

In which her two little toothies get me every time

This is my sister's daughter, Addison. Oh, and my sister. I didn't mean to forget Amanda. It's just that I see those two little toothies and, well, I can't help it. It's like there isn't anyone else in the room.

I'm here tonight, at their house, baby sitting her. She is a dream of a baby. She's tiny and delicate. After Big Joe, she is as light as a feather to me. Her little head is tiny, her hands are tiny, everything about her is dainty. She's built like her grandmothers and not her Auntie.

My tinies adore Addy. They love when she comes over. She can seem a bit overwhelmed by them but even that is lovely. She doesn't shriek or scream. Rather, her eyes well up with unshed tears and she just sits there, looking devestated, like an old matinee leading lady. She channels Ingrid Bergman at 7 months.


She is the spit-and-image of her Dad, Adam. Even her EARS are the exact same as his. But she has a delicious dimple in her left cheek, just like my sister, which gives her a lopsided smile that makes my heart sing.


Already her heart and her personality remind me so much of her mother. It's a funny thing to think that she is my sister's baby. That my baby sister somehow carried and gave birth to her. That she is nursing her and caring for her, pureeing baby food and developing opinions on sleeping and discipline.


She's an amazing mother.


I guess we must be grown-up now. Or something.

In which I review "Same Kind of Different As Me" and "What Difference Do It Make?"

Even with all of the unpacking craziness, I managed to read two books in a couple of days. And it's because I couldn't put them down. You need to read these books.

The books are written by Ron Hall and Denver Moore with Lynn Vincent. It's a true story of the unlikely friendship between Ron and Denver. Ron is a (very) wealthy Texas art dealer. Denver is a former modern day slave/homeless man. Their friendship forms the foundation of the story but it's much more than just "rich guy changes the life of a homeless guy". It's honest and raw. There is tragedy and misunderstandings. There is an authenticity to their story about race and faith, death and love, community and social justice.

One of my issues with most books marketed as "Christian" is that they tend to deal with perfect people. They are written by perfect people and the biggest problems they have are how to deal with mean people. But with Denver and Ron, they are honest about even their own failings and prejudices. They don't seem interested in coming off as having it all together.

Then "What Difference Do it Make?" is a follow-up, meant to fill in the gaps, answer questions that were generated and share how their story has travelled further than they ever expected. I can be rather skeptical about sequels but this was just as fascinating.

I found the passages by Ron about his relationship with his father in particular riveting, conflicted and full of love.

But what I most appreciated about these books is that they didn't stop there. They challenged me about my own prejudices, my own thoughts, my own pursuit of community, friendship and even social justice.

Is it really helping when you show up to dish up a Christmas meal once a year? Or are we willing to have friendship? They mentioned one idea: What if every community of believers/church would embrace one homeless person - for life?

(I purchased "Same Kind of Different" myself. I received "What Difference Do It Make?" from the publisher for a review but there was no compensation.)

In which this is for today

Outside my window....there is an entire forest of trees. It's been raining for days now and it smells like dying bark and fresh rain. It's beautiful. And best of all, it's quiet.

I am thinking...about schooling these days. I decided to keep Anne out of preschool this year. Not sure what to do about next year. Or kindergarten. I've done some minor reading lately about education but need to talk to a few non-traditional learners and public schoolers and get a better idea of what I think. Any opinions on schooling? Or books I should be reading?

I am thankful for....my family. My beautiful, loud, sloppy, learning, precious and wise family all together in this lovely new home. I'm thankful that we are making memories in this place already.

From the kitchen....Oh, my word. Can we talk? My friend, Gina, posted the most amazing tortilla soup recipe yesterday. I decided to try it for supper (which shows how brave I am...it's always a gamble to give Brian a bowl of soup for supper). And it was the best thing - so tasty, so filling - we'd had in a while. We both had two bowls, Joseph gobbled his and even Anne ate some. (If you knew my non-eater, you would understand the momentous occasion.) And then I had a bowl for lunch again today. And I'm having another bowl at supper. (I've asked her to post it on her blog so I can send you there. So check back later for the recipe.) Oh, and we made an apple-cranberry crisp this morning. Few things make me as happy as the smell of baking apples and cinnamon.

I am wearing....black leggings, an olive green cotton skirt and a black long t-shirt. And my sock monkey slippers.

I am creating....a little red wool sweater for Joseph for Christmas.

I am going....nowhere. And I couldn't be happier about it. My in-laws were here for a week and just left yesterday. We feel tired and the tinies are needing some routine back in their lives. It's going to be a quiet day.

I am reading...."What Difference Do It Make?" by Ron Hall and Denver Moore. It's the sequel to "Same Kind of Different As Me" which was a phenomenal book. A true story about a wealthy art dealer and a modern slave/homeless man who become deep friends as a result of one woman's commitment to justice. Beautiful story without any gloss over the hard bits. Neither one of these men seem too interested in coming off as a smarty-pants. Rather they are very authentic and honest even about their prejudices. It was refreshing.

I am hoping....that I will have enough time to make all of the presents that I need to make in time for Christmas. And that some magical team of elves will show up at our house to finish all of the drywall work and painting in the basement so that Brian can rest and I can unpack the rest of our stuff.

I am hearing....CBC Radio 2 Drive's Great Canadian Song Quest. I love CBC Radio 2 on the best of days, especially Drive with Rich Terfry at the end of the day. But they are holding this amazing program/contest right now. They asked for nominations of iconic Canadian places. Then narrowed it down to a few. Then held a contest for nominations of Canadian singer-songwriters to write songs about those places. Then selected the artists. So each of those artists was given a place that was chosen and asked to write a song about it. Now all 13 songs have been written and now I'm obsessed with them. Good music.

Around the house....we have a never-ending list of things to do. We're both tired. It's tempting to just leave it as-is for a while. But the over-achieving freakishness won't relent and we are still at it.

One of my favorite things....my sister called me at 7:40 this morning to inform me she was coming over for a chat and what did I want from Starbucks? We spent the morning, (me in my jammies and unbrushed hair), drinking coffee, laughing, playing with the pile of babies and generally chatting. Then she left. And that is a big reason why we moved out from the city. So my sister could be the rock star that she is.

A few plans for the rest of the week...lots of work to do. Lots of cleaning. Dry wall repairs. Painting. Scrubbing. Unpacking. And then more unpacking. Little inclination to do anything other than hang out, watch movies and knit.

A picture to share...

(Joseph with my mother-in-law, Leona. The tinies adore their Grandma and Grandpa from "Om'ha".)

(And yes, Brian and his mother are identical.)

(H/T to Ali Edwards for the idea.)

In which we need to calm our hearts

For some reason, when my tinies are all wound up, I press my hand to their chest and quietly say "Calm your heart."

I don't know why I do it. I've never heard or seen anyone else do it. I don't remember when it started but it's been since Anne was a toddler. But whenever she or Joseph seem overwhelmed, whiny or just plain ornery, my words are always to calm their heart. I can't get through to them when they are in a tizzy. So the first thing I do is try to remove the angst and frustration, so their panic needs to go.

The other night, we had a houseful of people. My in-laws were in town, my auntie was here, my parents and our family. There were presents and it was getting late; both of the tinies were falling into an abyss of overstimulation and whining. Anne started to lose her composure, melting into a puddle of unmet preschooler expectations. I took her to her room and was quite upset. After all, we had a house full of people! What would they think of this behaviour? Honestly!

She looked up at me and said, with a sob-hiccup, "Mummy, would you tell me to calm my heart?"

I placed my hand on her chest and did just that. She took a shaky breath and said, "I need my heart to be calm."

Later that night, she kept getting out of bed. The reasons became more and more fantastical - I need water and this doll baby is keeping me up and my band-aid wants a friend - when I, very sternly with my Mummy-Means-Business-Voice marched her back to bed. She burrowed into her sheets. Asked for kisses. And then she said, "Mum, my heart is not calm. Will you pray with me?"

So I did. We prayed together. She took a big breath and said, "That calmed my heart right down. I think I can sleep now."

And she did. All night long.

In which it is for the seasons

Baby, it's cold outside.

The wind is whipping my hair

against my face.

The tip of your nose is red.

My hands aren't young anymore

but they are tucked into

your pockets.

Baby, it's raining outside

and there are flowers appearing

everywhere I look.

You are humming under your breath,

I am keeping step with you.

We are far away from where we started.

Baby, its hot outside.

The sun is in my eyes and

I don't wear bikinis anymore.

Our babies are in the water,

their eyes are bluer

than the sky.

My blood is running slow

and thick, kisses are languid

and warm.

Baby, the leaves are red and orange.

Another year passes and it's 10 years now

since we started

but somehow

we haven't run out of ways to make each other

laugh.

The cotton sheets are worn

and our mattress has a valley in the centre

where we meet every night.

In which it is time to face the truth

We have a 19-year-old babysitter. She watches the tinies on Monday and Friday afternoons while I work for Mercy. She's a very sweet girl and reminds me of several girls that were in the youth group that Brian pastored for a season. She's bright, sweet, genuine and intelligent. Most of the time.

Scene: We're in the car. I'm driving her home at the end of the day. We're chatting.

Me: So did you get to do anything fun this week? Or was it all studying?

Her: Actually, we went to a midnight movie last night. We saw that new movie, "New Moon." Have you heard of it?

Me (thinking): Gracious providence. I don't exactly live under a rock. Of course, I've heard of it! (out loud) Yes, I believe so. Was it everything you hoped and dreamed?

Her: Yep. But it was, like weird. Not the movie. Just the experience.

Me: What about it was so weird?

Her: Well, it was full of, like, older ladies. Like seriously. They were totally in their 30s.

Me (laughing): That is crazy.

*pause*

Me (thinking): Wait a tic. I'm 30. That's me. I'm one of the crazy ladies. I'm an older lady now?

Her: I mean, my friend and I were all "We should go get our knitting if we're hanging out with the seniors!" Right? (laughing)

Me (laughing): Totally!

Me (thinking): Wait a tic. I KNIT. And I'm in my 30s now. I'm the grown-up driving her home after her babysitting job. OH MY GOD......SHE THINKS I'M OLD!

In which I have the fever

I saw a little baby - brand new little freshie - today at the Starbucks. She smelled divine.

I tried to remember that I am exhausted.

I tried to remember that I am run off my feet.

I tried to remember that my tummy has not recovered from the last tiny.

I tried to remember that I was up 3 times last with my 14 month old.

I tried to remember potty training.

I tried to remember how swollen I was with my last pregnancy, how tired I was then.

I tried to remember giving birth in a parkade.

I tried to remember stitches in places where stitches aught not to be.

I tried to remember the fact that my husband is feeling like two is a good place to stop.

I tried to remember all of these things.

Then I remembered this:

(Me and Anne, just hours after her birth 18 August 2006)

(Me and Joseph, just hours after his birth 25 September 2008)

And that's it.

People. I want to have another baby.

I NEED another baby.

This is not good.

In which this is what I believe

Shane Claiborne has profoundly shaped much of my theology, practices and priorities these past few years. His book "The Irresistible Revolution" was life-changing. He is a radical Christian and doesn't mind calling BS on much of what passes for Christianity these days. Like most prophets, he ruffles many a feather. His commitment to the ways of Jesus challenges and inspires me.

He recently wrote a letter for Esquire, at their request, to non-believers.

I want to invite you to consider that maybe the televangelists and street preachers are wrong — and that God really is love. Maybe the fruits of the Spirit really are beautiful things like peace, patience, kindness, joy, love, goodness, and not the ugly things that have come to characterize religion, or politics, for that matter. (If there is anything I have learned from liberals and conservatives, it's that you can have great answers and still be mean... and that just as important as being right is being nice.)

The Bible that I read says that God did not send Jesus to condemn the world but to save it... it was because "God so loved the world." That is the God I know, and I long for others to know. I did not choose to devote my life to Jesus because I was scared to death of hell or because I wanted crowns in heaven... but because he is good. For those of you who are on a sincere spiritual journey, I hope that you do not reject Christ because of Christians. We have always been a messed-up bunch, and somehow God has survived the embarrassing things we do in His name. At the core of our "Gospel" is the message that Jesus came "not [for] the healthy... but the sick." And if you choose Jesus, may it not be simply because of a fear of hell or hope for mansions in heaven.

In which I still love my stuff

(My granny's teacup with a rose from her garden.)

I know it's not cool to love your stuff as much as I love my stuff. We're supposed to be above that, beyond that, laying up treasures in heaven and all that. We're supposed to be able to say, 'If my house burned down, I would fine.' But the truth is that if my house burned to the ground (assuming we all made it out first, of course), I would grab the first-year scrapbook/journal I made for each of my tinies. And then I would be inconsolable.

Because the truth is that I love my stuff.

Don't get me wrong. I've come a long way. I've embraced a simpler way of life.

We have done so much purging as a result of living in a small urban space for the last few years that we were left with only the things we really loved. The things that I have are there because they are beautiful to me or they are useful or someone that I loved is connected with it.

I'm a Canadian kid, as most of you know. I grew up not only in a young country but in the youngest part of that young country (and yes, Pierre Trudeau is all kinds of wrong to most of us westerners.). And I didn't grow up in traditional churches, practicing the rituals or praying the liturgy. We didn't follow the church calendar. I didn't live in communities that had any old architecture. A lot of my life has been spent in the new world, among people, buildings, communities and cities that were the fine young things. We were inventing ourselves, shed of the establishment. A lot of people seek out Canada because of this very newness, this freedom from the weight of tradition.

And for some reason, my soul has always longed for the old.

I've been drawn to it for as long as I can remember. I want the old stories. I want to know my past and the thread of memory for my parents. I wrote letters to my granny, listened to the stories of my aunts and uncles, tucking them away in my marrow. I dreamed, not of beaches in Hawaii, but old cathedrals in Scotland or castles on moors. I read literature from years ago, long before I had any business reading, let alone understanding, Jane Eyre. My dream houses are at least 70 years old, original features intact. And my soul has been satisfied, somehow, in church traditions that aren't my own. I have found myself spending hours in liturgy, in stories of the church, in the oldest churches in western Canada, breathing and worshipping in the air heavy with incense and candle wax. Some part of me needs it. I don't fully understand it but there it is. I have found my time spent observing Advent, like we did last year, more meaningful than almost any other Christmas celebration I've partaken of over the years.

So in my home, I have the things that mean something to me. Now that we are in this new place, I am able to surround myself with the familiar again. My grandmother's teacups, a few things from my parents, things we bought on our honeymoon, to name a few.

I am discovering that my soul is finds rest in

handmade over commercial,

slow over fast,

quiet over loud,

old over new.

This tracing of the line of time is meaningful for me because now, everywhere I look, I don't see a bunch of crap. I see my story.

And I see a bigger story still unfolding.

In which we can always wander because we can always come home

Anne emerges from her room, glowing, and says, I love my new house, Mummy.

I say, that's great. Time to get in the car, we have to go to the Walmart. (I'm in the 'burbs now. It's a prerequisite for admittance that you go to the Walmart now and again.) Normally, she loves the Walmart.

But this time?

I'm not feeling so good, Mum, she says with a wrinkle on her brow. I think I just need to stay home in my new house. You go ahead though. I'll just stay here. I love my new house.

Anne, we'll be home in an hour, I say. We'll always be coming home.

Oh. Then I guess I can go, she says. We can go anywhere you want. As long as I get to come home, Mum.

Wise girl.

In which nothing is new under the sun

Let nothing upset you,
let nothing startle you.
All things pass;
God does not change.
Patience wins all it seeks.
Whoever has God lacks nothing:
God alone is enough.

~ St. Teresa of Avila (via Ragamuffin Diva)

In which this is some random linkage

Happy reading this weekend!

We are (hopefully) (FINALLY) moving into the house this weekend. So enjoy a months' worth of articles and videos. See you on the flip side.

• If you haven't discovered it yet, go look at My Parents Were Awesome. It makes me feel so happy. And my parents better be careful...I foresee a raid on the photo albums and a scanner session ahead.
• The value of being old school. A great read on releasing yourself from technology (says the blogger) and embracing times of unplugged rest from The Creative Mama.
• "Whenever I groan within myself and think how hard it is to keep writing about love in these times of tension and strife which may, at any moment, become for us all a time of terror, I think to myself: What else is the world interested in? What else do we all want, each one of us, except to love and be loved, in our families, in our work, in all our relationships? God is Love. Love casts out fear. Even the most ardent revolutionist, seeking to change the world, to overturn the tables of the money changers, is trying to make a world where it is easier for people to love, to stand in that relationship to each other…There can never be enough of it." - Dorothy Day (via The Apple Cider Mill)
• We are long past Thanksgiving here. But I spotted this fun idea and thought it might be nice to do with the tinies next year. For you Americans with Thanksgiving still ahead....
• Fantastic article from Andrew Jones at Tall Skinny Kiwi about not being a Calvinist. I resonated with much of this as we remain hold outs to Calvinism and Reformed theology.
• Julie Clawson had an interesting take on the new wave of traditionalists in church. So many want us to re-embrace traditions. But what about those of us that didn't come out of that? What about those of us that don't identify, in the past or now, with these faith traditions? It doesn't mean our traditions are useless. Nor do you need tradition for a vibrant faith. Good conversation in the comments as well.
• If you wonder why the religious leaders hated Jesus back in the day, check out this painting for a modern representation. How many of our church leaders would have a beef with this? Fascinating.
• I loved this...so creative and so true.

• A lovely and true post about Motherhood from The Extraordinary Ordinary.
• Carlos Whittaker at Ragamuffin Soul is a creative and this video about taking care of his kids made my day.

In which I look out the window

When I have what I am now referring to as a Bleach Headache, my husband is chasing me around with a soapy, disgusting dust pan of someone else's hair, my clothes stinketh and we uncover yet another pile of dirt and slime, I have begun to do this.

I look out my bedroom window.

And you know what I see?

This.

And do you know what I hear?

Nothing.

It's quiet. It's still. There is a bit of a creek that I can hear trickling past, behind the fence.

It smells fresh and untouched. It smells exactly like living in a forest would smell. Since it's autumn and its damp, there is the smell of dying fir and decaying leaves, the beautiful smells of wet bark and fresh air.

We live right on the edge of town now. Coming from a busy urban community to the edge of a quiet town is a big adjustment in many ways. But the quiet? That's an easy one. We have no neighbours on two sides of us.

Just outside of our community of townhomes is nothing but farmland surrounded by the mountains.

The house? It's getting cleaner. I am finding that I love this house so much, it aches. I can feel a family home coming on. And we are moving in on Sunday.

And really, look outside. It's so worth it.

In which I am keeping the faith

My grandfather was just a kid from the prairies when he went away to war.

He was shot on a hill in a pre-dawn raid. 

He fell to the ground and laid there while everyone around him rushed past. 

Laid in the mud while it rained.

And he bled from his thigh, unsure if he would live or die, desperate for help.

A buddy of his pulled him to safety that day.

He told us once that he'd never been so afraid in his life as he was that day 

on that hill, alone, 

surrounded by the sounds of his friends running, screaming, 

falling and dying in the dark.

He came home. 

War is a complex thing. As a Christian, I abhor war and seek peace.  But I am and will always be incredibly thankful for the sacrifices made 

by our "greatest generations" right through the years to our military and their families, serving in Afghanistan, fighting new wars.

May they know how deeply we grieve with them,  pray for them and for peace. 

May they all come home.

I am so proud - and so blessed - to be Canadian. I will not break faith with them.

Lest we forget.

In which we are completely GROSSED OUT

The Top 10 Grossest Items I've Cleaned in Our "New" House

*I do have pictures but I'm sparing you the details.

10. The spray tanner over-spray. All over the walls. And the doors. And the door frames. And the shower.

I thought that the lino was white squares with brown flecks. Turns out, it's just white.

Someone must have been as orange as Chris Tomlin up in here.

9. The doors and door frames. It looks like someone took a bath in newsprint and then wiped themselves all over the doors. And then threw up on them.

This was the point when my mother began to rant about "WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO SOCIETY?" and "LET ME TELL YOU HOW TO BE A GOOD MOTHER! KEEP YOUR HOUSE CLEAN! FOR THE LOVE OF HEAVEN, WHAT IS WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE?"

8. In the little boy's room, right where a nightstand was, I discovered that they drank a lot of orange pop. Because the entire wall was coated in syrupy dried orange pop. And it stank.

Pretty sure I'll never drink orange pop again in my life.

7. The cabinets in the washroom. There has been overspill of most of the shampoos and other washroom items. So it's hardened. For 15 years.

Should it require a putty knife and a scraper to get your washroom cabinets clean? Because it does in my house.

6. The inside of the refrigerator freezer. Someone spilled all of the condiments...probably 10 years ago. And they have just sat and hardened there. It is actually piled in some spots.

5. The carpet in the basement. Not only is it torn and frayed in all places. Not only is it stained. It is, in fact, covered with garbage. Used lollypop sticks, to name one.

4. The dining room wall. Right next to where they kept their budgies.

Yes, birds.

BIRDS.

And the wall was covered with bird crap.

This was the point when my sister entertained us with her rant about "WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO SOCIETY!"

3. Underneath the stove. There was actually a small village of germs under there, complete with a mayor in a tall stovepipe hat that blinked at the light. "What's that? Bleach? RUN FOR YOUR LIVES, CITIZENS!"

2. Underneath the refrigerator. There was an 8cm tall layer of dust, used-to-be-frozen-veggies, sparkles(!), and slime. Just slime.

1. Brian wins this one. I was cleaning the main washroom and noticed that, um, it didn't drain. Just a back up of dirty water. So my sister and I informed him that we had read the bestselling book "Things Your Husband Is Required To Do, And Yes, It's The Law." (We also informed him that it is written in a dialect only women can understand. So they just have to trust us. We'll tell them what's in it.) Brave man, away he went. And then he started to laugh. So we went in to see the damage. And there it was.

I still shudder to recall it.

An entire dust pan piled - PILED - with slimy hair. It was the size of an enormous rodent. It was 15 years of soapy gross hair. SOMEONE ELSE'S HAIR. We retched and shrieked and freaked out accordingly.

That's when Brian decided it would be a good idea to chase us with the dust pan.

In which I am grateful in my bones

There is a serious lack of deep, introspective writing in my life these days.

Why?

Because I am making lists of everything that I need to do/clean in our new place. That doesn't lend itself to poetry. Unless you are Ann Voskamp, in which case, everything you write is poetry, likely even your grocery list. I am sure that once I am well-rested, I will have time to write again. Right now, not so much. My prayer life right now pretty much consists of the words "Thank you" and "Help" (a la Anne Lamott).

(One day soon, I'm sure I'll have a thought that doesn't consist of taking care of babies or moving house. One day...)

(Perhaps, one day soon, I will also surrender my ongoing love affair with ellipses. I don't see it coming anytime soon. But one can dream. (Right?))

Thank you so much for all of your support and well-wishes. We have been overwhelmed by people offering to help, offering threats of violence and justice (tempting...) and just generally having our backs. We have been so blessed by generous people, including my family, just truly stepping up. It reminds me again that we, as a family, are a foretaste of God's way of doing things, God's way of life. Because in just a few days, we've been given a brand new washer-and-dryer. Anonymously, as far as I know, from someone in our church; they wanted to give and just gave. And then we received a gift of new carpets for our home. And our credit union gave us a patio set. And a buddy of Brian's is going to give us a free carpet clean with an industrial cleaner. Which amazed and blessed us beyond our dreams.

Part of the reason for my laments was that we simply don't have the money to do much work in the house. Water and soap is cheap but other things - like baseboards, replacing stoves, washers, dryers, carpets - cost money that we don't have. the nice thing is that Brian's skills as a carpenter and general handyman extraordinaire (buddy is a wonder) mean we get contractor prices and his labour is pretty cheap. And now, we see our community and our families supporting us, not only with their resources but also with their prayers.

We are blessed.

We are also grateful. Thankful to our bones for this house, the space, the friends and family that will fill it. We feel thankful that we're even able to buy a home, to raise our tinies in a good community, surrounded by their family and friends. Thankful that we can clean it, that we can fix it, that we can live in it together.

We are so very blessed.

So all that to say, I'm finding my feet again. I'm still a little overwhelmed and in my selfish moments, feel like losing patience may actually be a great benefit to me. But I am continually brought back to centre by this truth - it's a small thing really. And it's all one step at a time. And before I know it, we'll be settled, you'll be there with a cuppa tea and a smile on your face, the tinies will be sleeping (IN THEIR OWN ROOMS! In their beds!) and we can have a good yak, a good cry, a good laugh, and a good time.

Together.

In which we are homeowners again

The paperwork is complete and we are officially homeowners again. I would use an exclamation point but I fear that they have all been sucked out of me.

Yes, it's true. Even my punctuation is exhausted.

We were very excited to get our keys today, excited to show it to our babies and to my family. But when we arrived there, it was a bit of a letdown. We had viewed the property but now that their stuff was out? It was filthy. It was gross. It was beyond smelly and disgusting. There was damage to every wall. The light fixtures were missing. The closet doors were gone. The carpets were thoroughly ruined. There were mothballs (the old poisonous kind) scattered. There was smoke damage to the ceilings and walls from an abandoned candle, the remnants of the wax dripped all over the mantle. The refrigerator had had every condiment dumped out and the mess had been left to harden. Drywall is very damaged. And the water to the washrooms wasn't working. We discovered that the pipes had been cut.

Evidently the finish work is driving Brian, my poor carpenter husband, bonkers. The previous owners clearly watched too much Trading Space and decided that DIY is the way to go. The hardwood floors are a disaster and the baseboards gave him a migraine. It's poorly done, to say the least.

We knew when we bought that house that we were starting at zero. It needed paint and a clean. We knew that. But we took a more run-down house because we wanted as much space as we could get for our money. And it looks like we got that. The bones of the house are okay. It's just that we aren't starting at zero like we imagined, it's more like negative seven. It's not the end of the world, it's nothing that a little "elbow grease and faith" (as my Aunt Nancy says) couldn't fix. But it was, I confess, a bit of a shock and a letdown. I was so excited to be going to our house for the first time and so to see this was rather disappointing.

We wanted to move in this week. I think that may be overly optimistic. Good thing is that we are taking advantage of my parents hospitality and have taken over their basement. The tinies are thrilled to be at Granny and Papa's so all is well.

It's ours. And we can do this. We can fix it. We can clean it. We can be patient while we do it.

Right?

In which I am experiencing a thousand gifts (105 - 126)

105. Anne of Abbotsford

106. The smile on her face, getting to run through leaves,

no playground equipment in sight.

107. Her deep and abiding love of dressing herself.

108. The learning to be okay with pink tights with hearts on them, paired with runners, a brown skirt and a navy blue shirt/dress splattered with hearts. She loves it. So I love it.

109. The sound of her laughter.

110. She never tires of her games of chase with her dad, in the lengthening shadows of fall.

111. The pumpkin hat, knit by me.

112. His big meaty paws. Nothing dainty about this boy.

113. His screams of delight.

114. His funny Learning to Walk steps, straight-legged and unsteady.

115. His blue eyes, stop me in my tracks, so like my mother's eyes.

116. He still yearns to be held, yearns to hold.

117. He, obligingly, isn't growing up too quickly.

118. The crunch of leaves under my feet.

119. The smell of dying leaves, the decay of nature,

the feeling that it is all starting to go to sleep.

120. The moment, afterwards, when you realise that you captured

something with your camera

that you hadn't intended.

She looks alight, like Joan of Arc, hearing a Voice

only she can hear.

121. The smell of water, our own lake of shining waters,

surrounded by colours we can't even bear.

In the distance, smoky and still, snow-covered

mysterious, the mountains rise around us.

122. The coolness off the water.

123. Early twilight, winter on its way.

124. Gathering sticks and leaves,

floating them on the water.

Watching their eyes light up with the new discovery

"Wood floats!"

and feeling like I just witnessed a miracle.

125. Beauty, beauty, beauty.

Everywhere, in each corner of the house,

each view of the eyes,

surrounded on all sides, with

beauty.

126. And a day off,

our Sabbath,

just to rest in it.

In which I cross another one off the Bucket List

It definitely deserved to be on the Bucket List.

I danced all night, cried a bit,

smiled until my face hurt

and left with my heart full.