Holy Week, more or less

Holy Week came and went, and we are still walking {hobbling, in my broken-footed state} around in a catatonic state, humbled and grateful and all the things good church makes you but also {mostly?} exhausted.  Nathan works at a church and we have young children and I was doing Holy Week things at home and at church on top of regular work and life and a broken foot, so, I think the exhaustion was to be expected.

The Internet In All Its Glory has moved on from Holy Week, because this is 2016 and everything moves fast.  Ten years ago one could write a blog post a week after an event and consider it timely, but not today, no; it is mostly short-form social media and even where it is long-form writing it is the day-of or at worst the day-after.

And then there's me and this sweet little bloggity.

I still haven't blogged about things that happened almost three years ago that I truly meant to record in this little family space of ours.  So you won't be surprised if I'm sitting down to share a few glimpses of our Lent and Holy Week now, will you?

{our Resurrection Garden}

{a Maundy Thursday foot washing}

{the making of the hot cross buns, with little helping hands adding the raisins}

{the coffee beans, earned through small daily sacrifices noticed by Mama, and transformed into jelly beans on Easter}

{the Easter baskets}

{at church on Sunday morning}

{feasting and general festivity with friends}

Easter Sunday was a full day, and we ended up postponing our usual plastic egg hunt for the girls to another day, so a couple of days later, when it was particularly sunny and nice out, we had an egg hunt in the yard.  They wanted to wear their Easter dresses again!

 We hope you are having a joyful Eastertide!

a broken foot for Holy Week

In our household, I've spent the last nine years growing accustomed to hearing the phrase: “You weren’t being careful enough!” on a regular basis.  I know that this is more a symptom of Nathan's love for me than a criticism; the slightest accident on my part causes his fearful side to rear its head with utterances of cautionary advice.

Anytime anything happens – a twisted ankle, a slip on ice, a dropped bowl in the kitchen, a stubbed toe, a broken glass – this happens when one isn’t being careful. Nathan has made it his mission in life to teach me this underlying life principle, to write it on our doorposts and engrave it on our hearts and all that.

It’s true that I’ve been known to mindlessly wash dishes without focusing every ounce of my attention on the task at hand – now the faucet goes on to just the right level of water flow, now the dish in my right hand; now transfer weight for a moment to my left hand while I get a squirt of soap; back to the right hand, and so forth.

It’s also true that sometimes when I’m walking I’m thinking about other things than which foot is on the ground, which foot is in midair for a moment, and the precise angle at which I expect my metatarsals to graze the floor next.

So perhaps the man has a point.

Over the years he’s learned to decrease the cautionary words of advice, however well-intentioned they may be, and increase the empathy levels.  So, when I texted him on Friday to tell him I had tripped outside, dropped the baby (she's okay, thank goodness!), and injured the top of my foot, which was rapidly turning blue and swelling to the size of a golf ball, I received in response: “Oh baby!  Are you ok?” followed almost immediately by a phone call.  And not once in said phone call did he admonish me to be more careful where, when, and in what fashion I stepped with my right foot when walking out-of-doors. 

On Saturday afternoon, when I still couldn't put any weight on my foot without pain, that empathetic husband of mine drove me to an urgent care clinic where, after an hour of waiting, taking my temperature, asking me a series of inane questions unrelated to the obvious problem at hand, they finally did an x-ray and diagnosed me with a broken fifth metatarsal.  

Going into Holy Week seems like such a dreadful time to break one's foot.  

I can stump around the house slowly and painfully, to be sure, but the going is slow, the stairs are nearly impossible, and worst of all: no driving for the foreseeable future.  

I have things to do!  Holy Week menus to make and groceries to buy!  Easter plans to put into place!  Spring cleaning to be done!  Small children to care for!  Laundry to do, places to go, commitments to keep!  

Compounding the matter at hand, poor Ree was running a temperature today and wanted nothing but Mama snuggles and catnaps all day long.

And I found myself thinking that perhaps Holy Week is exactly the right time to break one's foot, after all.  

It's slowed me down to a childlike pace where I truly have no choice but to stop and let the little children come.

My every step is uncomfortable, to be sure, but can that even compare with the steps we remember this week: the slow and steady uphill steps of a man who carried his own cross?

A small broken bone in my foot?  The whole world is broken, and that is why he came.  Why he entered the world, lived among and loved the broken people, and finally, said, "This is my body, broken for you."

My broken foot will mend in time, but immeasurably greater is the truth that all the brokenness has already been overcome, and it is that celebration of resurrection wholeness that I limp towards at the close of this Holy Week.  

always and everywhere to give thanks

"Can you find your happy heart?"

"Can you ask me that again using your strong voice?"

"How can I help you be more cheerful?"

These are the oft-repeated phrases in our household as I try to minimize the toddler whining and complaining.  Truth be told, she's a pretty happy kid, but like all toddlers, she has her moments where she needs some help finding a cheerful attitude.

At the end of a long day of modeling cheerfulness {and sometimes failing at it myself}, I've realized that it is easy to lose my own "happy heart" and "strong voice" as soon as I get my kids to bed.  It's all too easy to let my husband be the one who then hears all the stresses of the day as I change as quickly as possible from my skirt and top into sweat pants and begin to vent the frustrations of my day.

The baby's naps were too short and she was cranky.

The toddler threw tantrums.

I didn't get a moment to myself.

My back hurts from carrying these children.

The house is a wreck and I don't know how that's even possible since I feel like I was cleaning all day.

My work teaching or gigging today didn't feel gratifying.

I didn't get any time to practice the music I needed to practice or do the work I needed to do.

It's a reality -- some days really are tough.  This morning, for example, the kids woke up bright and early following a night where the baby had woken seven times over the course of the night, including a lengthy period of crying between 1:00 and 5:00 am and a poopy diaper needing to be changed.  Just a couple of hours after all that, I was stumbling out of bed, wiping hands and noses and bottoms with bleary eyes as the day got underway.  I made Nell just the breakfast she requested (blueberries and oatmeal), only to have her wail about it not being what she wanted.  Marie refused to take a morning nap, and was subsequently inconsolable and needed to be held constantly as I went about our morning tasks.  Leaning over the bathroom sink to rinse a child's hands, that spot on the lower left of my back that had been threatening me with telltale twinges for the past couple of days suddenly snapped, sending me into a spasm of pain.  And finally, unbelievably enough, when I went to blow dry my bangs, my hair dryer caught fire.  Visible flames erupting inside the plastic housing, the horrible stench of burning plastic filling the house, panic in my heart as I ran and threw the burning device out the front door into the cold snowy outdoors.

And that was all before 8:30 am.

During long hours at home with young children, it can seem as though my husband's job in the city must be nothing but glamorous.  I mean, he commutes on a train, during which time no one touches him or yells at him and he can read without being disturbed!  Sometimes he even has lunch meetings with colleagues and gets to eat out!  He dresses nicely for work, and rarely finds boogers smeared on his shoulder or spit-up down his back.  The whole scenario can seem tantalizing.  I'll trade you, babe.  You stay home and try to keep the small humans alive and well-rested and well-behaved.  I'll go to work!  No problem!

But his work is hard, too, and his days are long, and he deals with stresses as real -- or probably more so -- as the ones I face at home and in my own work.

At the end of the day, we're both guilty of greeting each other with, "I'm SO tired," "What a LONG day," "I didn't get anything done," "I feel like I've been hit by a truck," or "What's the point of it all?"

Where are our happy hearts?

So recently, I've been trying to focus on tempering the complaints and the tales of difficulty and woe, and instead, texting a cute and happy picture of the kids or a positive greeting.  Meeting the news that he'll be home late an extra night this week with a cheery, "No problem!  We're doing great!"  Answering, "How was your day?" with specific stories of good times before I tell of any of the frustrating ones.

Because we do have many good times and happy moments.

The difficult moments are real, and sometimes you need to tell someone who will listen supportively and offer encouragement or advice.  But I'm trying to be cognizant of what kind of overall picture I'm painting to those closest to me if they are the ones I go to first to vent or complain.

In church this morning, I was reminded by the familiar words of the liturgy we hear every week that "It is right, and a good and joyful thing, always and everywhere to give thanks...", and today it gave me pause as I somehow heard it with fresh ears.

I have much to be thankful for, and ought to be giving thanks with a happy heart, always and everywhere.  Even on days when my hair dryer catches fire.

Today my entire house smelled of burnt plastic, but it was also a day when my toddler sat at the piano and sang, "Jesus Loves Me," accompanying herself with carefully chosen notes played with small dimpled fingers, the late afternoon sunlight filtering across the piano and lighting her small face.  And today, I can choose to dwell on the beautiful moments of life, both in my thoughts and in my conversations with others.

Advent, Days 7-24

Yeah, remember when I was blogging about what we did for each day of Advent?

Let's see, where did I leave off?

We had gotten a tree!

Well, in the remaining days of Advent...

We put lights on the tree.

We decorated the tree.

We set up the nativity.

We made theeee most delicious gingerbread pancakes imaginable, and wondered why people bother making pancakes that aren't gingerbread.

We also made gingerbread boys and girls.

And I introduced Nell to the art of dunking a cookie in a glass {or mug, as the case may be} of milk.  She approved.

Then we made grain-free cranberry muffins one morning... because things can be Christmassy and delicious without being all sugar and white flour, right?



We read all the Christmas story sections in the Jesus Storybook Bible.

We sang Christmas carols with Daddy at the piano.

And Christmas Eve came, and we went to church, and made cardamom bread, and put Baby Jesus in the manger.

When I write down the little activities and look over the photographs, it seems quite nice.  

We had an Advent wreath with beautiful beeswax candles.  We sang "Once In Royal David's City" and "See Amid the Winter's Snow" every night at bedtime, and Nell grew to ask for them by name and sang along with some of the words.  Every morning she was just as excited as the day before to open the day's box in the Advent calendar.  She would take out the slip of paper and pretend to read it, "Today, we...." and trail off as she waited for me to tell her what fun awaited.  We read all the children's Christmas books in the house, and Nell became fond of proclaiming at random intervals throughout the day, "Don't be afwaid!  The angel say dat, wight, Mama?"

The reality of it was much more stressful, as I suppose everyone's December is.  There was one day I recall in particular, a day with a long rehearsal in Boston all morning and a concert in New Hampshire in the evening and the usual rushing around in between that life with children requires, and on that day, I blessed Nell for not actually knowing how to read yet, and looked at that slip of paper and told her something quite different than what was written down.  Our "special activity" for the day involved the Starbucks drive-through.  I'm sorry.  

It was a busy, crazy, very full month.  We all had colds at least once, we didn't sleep enough, and the season of Advent felt, to me, generally lacking in the sort of peaceful family coziness I had longed for.  I cried to Nathan about it on at least one occasion, swore that next year we'd have to take fewer gigs and attend fewer events and plan fewer events of our own and work less and spend more time in those Christmassy pajamas we didn't actually even have, but ought to.

{Well, Marie had a pair, and they were glorious, making me wish for a pair of my own, too.}

Still, when all is said and done, I hope Nell remembers it -- if she remembers any of it -- the way I remember the Christmases of my childhood, where somehow the flickering lights of candles and Christmas trees made everything oh, so beautiful.

And now, since Advent is like, so last year, I shall publish this post and be done with it.

Musings From Christmas Eve

Holidays can be strange if you're married to someone who works in a church (or if you are someone who works in a church, of course).  Nathan was gone all day Christmas Eve, and not home until hours after the girls' bedtimes, so there was no Daddy Reads The Christmas Story or Daddy Lights The Christ Candle or Daddy Helps You Put Baby Jesus In The Manger; instead it was a long day of Mommy Takes Everyone To The Doctor And Wrangles Toddler And Baby Through A Few Last-Minute Errands In The Rain And Everyone Cries A Little.  So it goes.

Nell cried because she wanted cheese for breakfast, and we weren't having cheese for breakfast.  Marie cried because she refuses to sleep these days, or at least, not for more than 45 minutes at a time.

And me?  I cried because the antique iron bed I'd found at a yard sale, the one we'd had sandblasted and painted a beautiful glossy white for Nell for Christmas, the one we'd set up in secret the night before... it suddenly didn't seem like enough.  Thank you, social media, for allowing me to know that other mothers don't just give 'Big Girl Beds' for Christmas, they give entire 'Big Girl Rooms' or 'Big Boy Rooms,' with curtains and rugs and wall hangings and everything all Pinteresty and just so.



I was giving my daughter a bed frame that didn't even have a mattress yet.

It felt like not enough.

I felt like not enough.

* * *

By evening, I wiped away my tears and took the girls to the Christmas Eve service, dressed in sweet Christmas dresses sent to them from their Aunt Emily.  By the time I had them dressed and ready to go, the baby changed and nursed and the toddler pottied and coated and shoed (shod?) and all that, I barely had time to brush my hair, much less dampen and blow-dry it as I had planned to.  I didn't put any makeup on.  And I threw on a corduroy skirt and a sweater that would be easy to nurse in, and out the door we went.

Once at church, I looked around at a sea of reds and greens and holiday plaids, silks and satins and hair bows, and I suddenly felt... well, kind of stupid.  My outfit barely matched.  It might be passable for an ordinary day, but Christmas Eve?  Couldn't I have managed better?  Damp from the rain, I sat in the pew miserably thinking not about the babe in the manger, but about myself.  I wasn't dressed nicely enough for Christmas Eve.  Once again that day, I wasn't enough.

And then it hit me.  How could I be sitting there and missing the point of it all, on Christmas Eve of all days?

My corduroy skirt and thrift store cardigan wasn't enough.

But a silk dress wouldn't have been enough, either.

My face without a trace of makeup wasn't enough.

But perfectly-applied Christmassy red lipstick wouldn't have been enough, either.

My two-year-old smacking her baby sister's curious hand away just as we knelt to receive communion, well, that was hardly enough.

But the sisterly kisses and hand-holding in more peaceful moments wasn't enough, either.

Even small girls -- blurry or not -- in matching Christmas dresses isn't enough.



Even snowflake tights with a ruffle on the bum isn't enough.

{hard to believe, but probably true.}

* * *

How could I have missed it, and at Christmas, of all times?

A bed without a mattress as a Christmas gift for my daughter?

Not good enough.

And yet, the message of Christmas is that somehow, a manger with nothing but straw was good enough.

And now our efforts, meager as they may be, are enough.

Because he came and made it so.

* * *

Mild He lays His glory by,

Born that man no more may die.

Born to raise the sons of earth,

Born to give them second birth.

Hark! the herald angels sing,

"Glory to the newborn King!"

Advent, Days 5 & 6 {a concert, St. Nicholas' Day, and a tree}

Nell eagerly climbs up on a chair and stands on tippy toes to open the day's little door on the Advent calendar each morning.  Friday's slip of paper read: "Today we get to go to a Christmas concert!"

A local orchestra {one with which I have played dozens of concerts over the past few years} was doing a 4:00 pm children's Christmas program, and we had decided it would be quite fun for all four of us to attend a concert together, rather than the usual for us of shuffling kids between the two of us while one or the other of us plays a gig here or there.  I wasn't playing this concert, and Nathan was able to take the time to go, so I got everyone ready, picked up Nathan from the train station after his work day, and we headed to Lexington.

The girls wore their matching Christmas dresses from Aunt Emily!

Unfortunately, trying to get a cute picture of two wiggly little girls at the same time is nearly impossible.

Evidence of the impossibility... these were the best of about twelve attempts:

Nell really enjoyed the concert.  She nearly danced out of my lap with joyous enthusiasm during some of the songs.

When we got home, we enjoyed a pizza dinner and then the all-important activity of putting out her shoes for St. Nicholas.

Which brings us to Saturday's Advent activities...

It was St. Nicholas' Day!

Wait on the stairs until Daddy is here, too...

Did St. Nicholas come?  Let's open the door and see!

St. Nicholas brought us some little Christmas books!  What presence of mind he must have had to put those items inside the storm door so they didn't get wet in the rain!

Outside on the front steps, two little pairs of shoes had chocolate coins in them.  And a pomegranate, too -- however did that St. Nicholas know how much Nell loves them?

Later that morning, we read the book about St. Nicholas.  He lived a long time ago.

"Do you think it was really St. Nicholas that brought you chocolate and fruit and books, or was it Mommy and Daddy pretending and being generous like St. Nicholas was?"

"It was Mommy!"

The Advent calendar for Saturday declared the day's activity to be getting a Christmas tree, so naturally, it had to be done that day -- despite torrential rain and the fact that Daddy didn't get home from work (yes, working on a Saturday!) until dinner time.

We bundled the girls up and headed off to select our tree.  Poor Miss Marie screamed the whole way there, but calmed down once I lifted her from her seat and zipped her up into my jacket.

 

Daddy selected a tree while I tried to keep the kids out of the downpour under a tarp, watching from a wet distance.

Both girls screamed all the way home; Nell because Daddy had forgotten to help her put her hands into her pockets after buckling her in, and Marie because tired tired tired someone please nurse me and put me to bed.

Things were bad, and I was thinking, "The moral of the story is, don't ever try to do anything fun with your kids. Ever. Ever."

But then Nell danced in circles with a pink balloon she had gotten at a party earlier in the day while Daddy and Uncle Andrew carried the tree in, and she oohed and ahhed over it, and I nearly forgot all the screaming.

We all survived with the fortitude to tackle the rest of Advent's activities.  Like getting that tree decorated.