A Thrill of Hope

Preparing our house for Christmas has always been my favorite thing. When I was a little girl, I stood on chairs to hang lights around my room. I hung mini ornaments on a mini little tree while blasting Trans-Siberian Orchestra and The Carpenters. My mom and I always put up our family's tree the day after Thanksgiving and not a minute later.

Now that I'm a mom, I've been more intentional with how we celebrate and decorate each holiday, especially Christmas. I want my girls to understand that each holiday is set aside to focus on a different aspect of the Gospel. We have hot chocolate and watch Christmas movies and give gifts like most families this time of year. The world tells us that this is a season of giving, family, tradition, and fun. I agree; it is all of those things...and so much more.

Our family chooses to focus on Advent during December each year. The Gospel of Jesus is good and relevant every second of every day, but this is the special time each year that the church puts extra thought into the time when God himself came into the world in the most vulnerable way. It's the time when we consider a world before Jesus, before His teachings, before He earned the salvation of His people through His death.

Oh, how weary the world must have been, knowing that they could do nothing to be reconciled back to God. There was no way out of the brokenness and mess of a life apart from God. There was no escape from the burden of the Law, no way to please God.

But God, being so rich in mercy, sent hope into the world. What a thrill it must have been for that handful of people who knew His identity and the role He was going to play in healing the world.

It wasn't a grand entrace, with fireworks and parades and headlines.

It was quiet, as quiet as a sigh for those who knew.

Finally, He's here. This long-expected Jesus. The one who will make peace between God and His creation.

This Christmas season, remind yourself and those around you of the Gospel with the songs you sing, the decorations you hang, the gifts you give, and the words you say.

I pray that you who are weary this Christmas will feel the thrill of hope that only Jesus can bring.

Read All the Books

Last week, I got some much needed #momtime. Two full hours out of the house in broad daylight with no agenda. Heavenly. A necessary coping mechanism for this introverted mama.

And where does a frugal introverted mama go during mom time on the cusp of the holiday shopping/eating season?

The library.

I can't believe there's a place in every city that one can go to choose any books, audiobooks, CDs, and DVDs available and take them home as long as one promises to bring them back. That's all it takes! Your word! What a wonderful world.

Before I had children, I was an avid reader. Now that my girls are a little bigger and are sleeping through the night, I'm getting so much more reading done than I did during that extended newborn/two-under-two season. Living three blocks from the library makes it almost mandatory to consume books.

During this visit to Free Book Mecca, I chose a few magazines and several books from my Goodreads "to-read" shelf (make an account and be my friend, please) and settled into a cozy nook in the back. Two hours later, I was caught up on all of the Relevant news from the month, equipped with Practical Homeschooling ideas and techniques, and loaded down with this haul.

Here are my thoughts on what I brought home:

Wild by Cheryl Strayed
This one has been floating around for a bit, so I thought I'd give it a try. I was really interested in the concept of a woman (anyone, really) traveling over 1,000 miles alone on foot. I couldn't imagine how that would feel and what would drive someone to think that was a good idea. As she described her childhood, her relationship with her mother, and her downward spiral after her mother's death, I started to take on her melancholy mood myself, and that did nothing for my mothering abilities. I finally put the book down for good after a rendezvous with her heroine-addicted ex-boyfriend and nonchalant abortion. I might pick this one up again someday, but it's definitely not the right time in my life to read it.

Dear Mr. Knightley by Katherine Reay
Finally, I have found it. The elusive non-cheesy, intelligent Christian fiction book that doesn't have a single Amish/Prairie character (no offense, it's just not my bag). I read this one in about 9 hours, during which time I also cooked and ate dinner, taught a poetry class, and completed a full bedtime routine with my family. It made me want to read the classics and foster all the babies.

The Good Neighbor Cookbook

This was one I skimmed. I love the concept of loving people through meals, so it made it into my library bag. There weren't any recipes that stood out to me, though, so I didn't spend much time with it. This would be great for someone wanting to hone their hospitality gift.

The Paris Wife by Paula McLain
Oh, what can I say about this heartbreaking story? Just that. It broke my heart. This historical fiction book was based on the true story of Ernest Hemingway and his first wife as he tried to make a name for himself in the literary world while living among the Lost Generation (the Fitzgeralds, Gertrude Stein, James Joyce, et al.) in 1920's Paris. It's opened up a whole new genre for me: fiction stories based on memoirs, journals, and autobiographies. Apparently, it's a big deal.

Have you read any of these? Leave your thoughts in the comments!

I'm so glad to have the freedom to read again! Here's a peek at my book load for this week.

School Time Update 9/5/15

I've been dreaming of a few rearrangements in our home.

Correction: I've been dreaming of commandeering MisterKidd's large office for homeschool and offering him the smaller extra bedroom for an office. My 34 inch pupil and I have been feeling cramped whilst doing our studies recently, and how much room does a man really need to read books and prepare sermons? Is he doing vibrant interpretive dances to Itsy Bitsy Spider daily?

No.

I've had his blessing to make this switch for a while, but paint has not been a priority at budget-making time in the past few months. But last weekend, I managed to squeeze out a little of my birthday money for a gallon of Bistro White. On Monday afternoon, I rolled the first strip of paint on the wall.

Then I woke up, and it was Friday.

I had painted, heaved furniture, moved hundreds of books unstairs and down, and made countless trips to Lowe's throughout the week. Most of the work was done during nap time, in the evenings after MisterKidd came home, and at night after everyone was in bed. For most of the week, I was a zombie covered in Bistro White and La Fonda Blue, pausing only to hug my Littles who called "Mama!" from beyond the gate at the top of the stairs.

**This is where I would have put a picture of Kip holding a piece of cardboard with "LaFawnduh" written on it. Google it and laugh with me.

This morning, I put the finishing touches on the room, snapped a few pictures, then begged Big Girl to come and do some school work (which isn't hard). She is mildly impressed with the new arrangement, which is all I can ask of a two year old. I, however, am over the moon with it all. It is dreamy, and I find myself sneaking down there to just sit at my desk and look around, arrange the trays on her tot school shelves, and text another picture to my mom.

So, without any further rambling, here is our just-moved-into, freshly painted school room.

And some amazing and sturdy trays I found at the Dollar General for $1.

If you'd like to know where I got something or how I use it, I'd love to share! Enjoy!

The Rink

The small town MisterKidd and I grew up in had one form of entertainment, one venue that brought the kids of the community together and kept them off the streets. You know, Main Street gets busy around 5.

The last remaining sentiment from the 80's was a mediocre skating rink near the edge of town. It was run by the same person who opened it when it was "all the rage" in the decades before, Mr. Carl.

Oh, how the butterflies would swarm as my mom and dad dropped me off at the door of the orange-and-yellow-striped building with $5 for entry, skates, and a coke. The excitement of seeing my friends away from school, the way my flare leg jeans draped over my roller skates, and the thrill of zooming across the black-lit floor as Britney Spears played overhead was almost too much for a 10 year old on a Friday night. The only things that could cap that feeling were winning a slap bracelet in "musical skates" and holding hands with that bushy haired boy during the couples skate.

Cloud Nine. That's the only way to describe the feeling of my sweaty hand in his, maneuvering around the rink to Savage Garden on one of the last skates of the night. This beautiful boy in the KISS t-shirt was sweeping me off my feet as we dodged and weaved. There were other couples, but we were alone on the floor as we rounded each corner, hoping the song would play forever.

But alas, Mr. Carl would break our euphoria over the loudspeaker with these words: "All Skate, Everybody Skate, All Skate." With this, those who hadn't been blessed with a deep and lasting middle school romance were allowed to join us. After a few more loops, the lights were turned on, the music was turned off. We handed in our skates and were ushered into the night.

The Swing

MisterKidd and I have been together for a long time, by the world's standard. Although we've been married for less than 5 years, our journey started long before that, long before most people even know.

In the year two thousand, a bushy haired boy who was at least six inches shorter than me began walking with me on the way back from Gifted and Talented in the afternoons. I'm sure he was attracted by my ice green eyeshadow and the 12 butterfly clips I used to keep my bob in a ponytail. Who could resist?

I won't pretend to remember what we talked about. Probably Power Rangers and AR books and the like. He was the cool kid and the class clown, and he was largely considered to be the most eligible bachelor in the 4th grade (yes, you can be all of those things in a class of 40 kids). I was quiet and bookish with plenty of friends, but none of the male variety. Any boy who wasn't Leonardo DiCaprio was lame, that is until I was flashed a crooked smile by him. I was smitten.

After several of these walks, this boy began spending quite a bit of time with me on the playground. He invented a swing technique on my behalf called "the underdog." He stood in the back of the swings, pushing my friend and me back and forth, higher and higher until we were high enough that he could give one of us a good shove, running through the push and underneath us as we soared. It was pure bliss.

It was during one of these recess rituals that I received the greatest compliment to date. After performing several underdogs, this boy loudly and boldly proclaimed that I was much lighter than my friend, therefore easier to push. These words were music; never had I heard such sweet talk from a member of the opposite gender.

With this slightly backward comment, he had stolen my heart. His chivalrous manner of escorting me from GT and his commitment to me on the playground was enough for me to dedicate all of 5th grade to his happiness.

The Blog-iversary

This time last year, my plate was full. Not just "a small helping of each dish" full, but "a third trip to the buffet" full. We had a 19 month old and a newborn, and we were settling into our house after a crazy home buying experience. My brain needed a drain, an outlet for all of those thoughts, so I opened a Blogger account.

I wrote about 5 posts before I finally got the courage to publish them. Letting friends, family, acquaintances, and strangers into the mind of an introvert causes said introvert to, well, invert a little. After proofing each draft a million few times, sharing them with MisterKidd, and then proofing them once more, I finally clicked "publish" and sent some pieces of my heart onto the 'net.

On September 1st, I started this blogging experience. It's been a pretty fun way to get some things off my chest, share some things I'm learning about life (like this and this), and basically type out all of the things I tell my mom everyday on her drive home from work.

I recently read "Black Heels to Tractor Wheels," the love story of my culinary hero, The Pioneer Woman, and her husband. As I read, I was reminded of when MisterKidd and I began dating almost a decade ago when I could not even drive yet. All of those butterflies and first moments and band t-shirts that smelled like baseball practice came back as I read her story, and I thought, "how nice that she can go back and read this anytime he does any number of unspeakable things that husbands often do."

After reading this book, I've been tossing around the idea of typing up some of our adventures from the last nine years together. I jotted down some possible ideas and ended up with 53 type worthy anecdotes, give or take 10 more that I may remember along the way. I thought maybe, just maybe, our kids would be interested in why they have life and breath and existence someday, and we may not be around to tell them when that time comes.

So, as a service to our children, and so I can recall the feeling of riding down the backroads in a white Ford Ranger next to a scrawny jock listening to Switchfoot, and in celebration of my Blog-iversary, I will begin to chronicle the story of falling in love (and then out of love, then in again) with my main squeeze.

I hope to share one story each week, maybe more or less, depending on how many lemons I'm making into lemonade at the time. So get ready for a year (or more) of mundane teenage happenings, huge mistakes, moments of pure bliss, and the beginning of a life together.

Thank you to everyone who's been following along for the last year. I'm honored that you let me into your mind, even if it's only to pass the time waiting for the microwave to beep.

One Year

Today marks one year in our house. It's also Harry Potter's birthday. That says something, I think.

I've been reflecting a lot in the last few days about this time last year. Looking back, it just seems like a blur of **feelings. We were negotiating with the homeowners, going through the process of applying for a loan and a grant, packing up our things only to have the closing date moved (and then moved again), and then dealing with some unexpected problems with the house, all with a toddler and a newborn in tow.

But God, being rich in mercy and love and all of the good things for his children, had told us to go. I knew it the minute I walked into the house for the first time: this is my home. In the moment I stepped out of the rain and through the front door with my little family, God put in me the strongest urge to pursue this house. (Or maybe it was a strong urge to be out of the rain mixed with postpartum feelings. Who knows.)

We hadn't looked at any other houses. We weren't even "in the market." It was just a thing that we did one day. But when I crossed the threshold, I knew God's will for us as I had only a handful of other times in our marriage. This was the place where MisterKidd and I would raise our girls, build their character, and teach them as we walk by the way. I saw us painting and repairing and changing everything together as we weren't able to in our rental. I saw us on the back porch drinking coffee as our girls played in the yard.

This strong sense of God's will sustained me through the grueling home buying process. But I made the mistake of sharing it with MisterKidd, and he used it against me exactly one year ago yesterday, when I was ready to run away from my whole life and tried to talk him out buying the house. I'd like to say my faith never wavered, but it did there for a minute. I'm glad I had the other half of my soul to remind me of what I knew was true.

One year later, I am able to take the good, forgive the bad, and love my home as I knew I could on that first day. I am so thankful for all of the people who worked with us in that home buying season by helping us move, watching our girls, bringing us food, cleaning our rental, driving us to another town to buy a new fridge, ripping up old flooring and putting down new, painting an entire level in 36 hours, and sending love and well wishes and prayers on our behalf. I do not forget you as I think of this time.

This process was sanctifying, as is any endeavor of God's calling. I hope I look more like him on this side of it, one year later.

**To catch a glimpse of those feelings, read this angst-filled post, in which I was so bold as to compare my struggles with those of the Israelites.