Wake Up Right: Leaving Margin

"So wake up, wake up, wake up all you sleepers, stand up, stand up, stand up all you dreamers, hands up, hands up, hands up all believers take up your cross, carry it on."

"Wake Up" All Sons & Daughters

On the relatively calm sea-shore that is my little group of lifestyle-blogging friends, the topic of Breakfasts has been frontward in our minds. Jenny of Adonis Ephemeral  spoke on the importance of starting your day off with a proper roundhouse kick of protein and fresh produce. On Instagram, Carmel , Jenny, several other friends and I have a sort of on-going breakfast contest. Who can eat the best and brightest breakfast and post a photo of it before the others. Actually, we inspire each other to new heights of healthy breakfasts and I'm such a foodie that I honestly look eagerly for Jenny's latest wacky creation. This whole conversation has got me thinking about my morning routine and why I get up two hours before leaving for work.

To someone who is not a morning person, the idea of setting one's alarm (and responding to it) at 6:30 when one doesn't have to leave the house until 8:30 is pure madness. I know. I had this conversation on Thursday night with my sister who, God bless her, manages to wake up twenty minutes before go-time and still look fabulous walking out the door. Believe me, I tried. I tried waking up at 7:30, doing a ten-minute workout, putting myself together, eating breakfast, and leaving. I even got to work on time most mornings but I was harried in spirit. I didn't feel relaxed. I felt late. I felt like there was absolutely eight-five-million things I had forgotten to do or take or remember before leaving the house. I couldn't very well meddle with work times so I began to fiddle about with my wake-up call. The magic number revealed itself: two hours.

At first it felt like an extravagance. Two hours. Who needs two hours to get ready in the morning? But I began to realize something about myself: these two hours were a strategic move. With two hours, I have leisure time. I can wake up, check the notifications on my phone, get out of bed, and get ready without stabbing my eye with the mascara wand in my haste. I have time to take a shower or if dry shampoo is all that's called for, I can spend extra time on my eyeliner. I can choose my outfit slowly (because I always forget to pick it out the night before) and read my Bible. I head downstairs at 7:30, wide awake and feeling fresh. If the weather is amenable (and I can stand many varieties of weather), I take the dog and get out for a walk. At this time of year the briskness of the dawn hour drives me to walk even faster. In half an hour I can manage at mile and a half, which is really nothing to sneeze at. I get home with half-an-hour to spare and am able to fix myself a thoughtful breakfast and a cup of tea. Favorite breakfasts include:

cranberry-almond quinoa

hummus spread on sprouted grain toast & fruit

avocado & olive oil on sprouted grain toast

plain greek yogurt with all-fruit jelly & granola

one easy-over egg on sprouted grain toast & a kiwi

halved avocado filled with greek yogurt & bacon crumbles

something brilliant leftover from last night's dinner

sliced tomato, sliced cheese, & a handful of raw nuts

"omelette eggs": scrambled eggs with mushrooms, onion, & peppers

Meat is an awesome thing to have at breakfast, but when you live in a large family, there is usually very little of it leftover outside of pre-existing meal plans. If there is leftover chicken breast or salmon or roast, I will add that to my breakfast because I like to get protein outside of dairy sources and at work, dairy sources are the main protein option.

While I eat breakfast, I will usually finalize lesson plans or get in some reading time. By the time 8:30 rolls around, I am fully awake, in a bright mental state, and feeling ready to attack whatever the day brings me. Even if it's Monday. 

The Pros, Cons, and Laughy-Bits Of Being A Nanny

A friend recently asked me if I thought she would be a good fit for a nannying position, and whether I liked mine. The short answer to both questions is "yes," but before advising someone into a career that requires consistency, high-energy, loads of creativity, and much responsibility (you're dealing with someone's kids, not insurance policies, groceries, someone's double-shot-latte-extra-hot, car repairs, or shoe size), I gave her some general advice about what worked so well with my job: my current boss interviewed me in person, then sent me a 30-question interview to fill out at leisure with some rather deep questions. At first, I worried she might be super type-A, high-maintenance, and a pain to work for. Then I remembered that the friend I got the reference from would have brooked nothing of the sort and had loved the job. My fears mostly eased, I filled out those questions, sent them in, and have been happily working with Sharon for the last nine months. She's the most wonderful, inspiring boss I could ask to work for. She loves her kids fiercely and is a clear communicator. What I had originally perceived as control-freak actually was a healthy-minded person laying out clear expectations so that neither of us got to the ninth month and looked back with dissatisfaction. I love my job. I won't say it's for everyone. A less-skilled person my age in my field of nanny-teacher-chief-cook-and-bottle-washer might find it overwhelming. I am pooped by the end of a work week and ready for my days off, but it is incredibly rewarding.

And every position is different. If you are looking at applying for what one person calls a "nanny," you might really be in for well-paid babysitting. In the case of another good friend, she's half chauffeur, half play-mate, with a dash of housekeeper thrown in. Just as each family is different, each job will have different requirements, expectations, and situations. And these things will change depending on the age and number of kids in the family. So I'm afraid I can't advise anyone straight out that they would definitely be a good fit for that nanny job. I'd have to know a whole lot more about the given situation than I do. There are, however, a number of truths universally acknowledged by The Surrogate Mother Trade (nannies). In an effort to humorously advise other people thinking of applying for a nannying position, I've drawn up a list of pros and cons to be considered:

Your name either comes up in one long string of Not-Listening ("Miss Rachel. Miss Rachel? Miss RACHEL. MissRachelMissRachelMissRachelllllllll?") or not at all ( "Miss Daddy,""Miss Mommy," "Miss Nammaw," and a great many other names that are variations on the theme).
Your body is not your own. Or at least, I have to work super hard to make it so. They're kids. They are going to poke and prode you multiple times a day and block up doorways to make it nearly impossible for you to go through. I'm accustomed to a certain level of it with my younger siblings and am slowly coaching Lila and Sophy out of it. But really, they're going to pile into your lap during book-time and flop on your back and thighs and arms and ankles when you're anywhere close to the vicinity of the floor. your knees will develop spots from constant kneeling at toddler-level to play games and "do it again." They're also going to share their sneezes, yawns, coughs, toots, and whatever else with you. Welcome to a taste of motherhood.
Just because you have no "moves" does not mean you get out of dance parties. Seriously. When the three year old can break it down and shake it off better than you can at twenty-two, you might have serious thoughts about quitting. Sorry. The whole fun of a dance-party is to show off your prowess to the adult and have the adult show off their ridiculousness to you. I've got the ridiculousness down.
There's no filter on the opinions. "Miss Rachel, I'm really thinking that looks like a lamb." (referencing an Arctic fox I drew.) "That definitely looks more like a turtle. That looks like a lung." (Couldn't she see my elaborate pancake-batter babydoll and breaching orca?)
The parents will show up at the most awkward (for you) moments. Burned the toast? The father will appear and jovially comment on the house smelling of burnt popcorn. Child (unbeknownst to you) has transgressed, will confess first opportunity in front of mother: "I been doin' bad sings, Mommy." Spent the last half-hour with a leaf-mustache pretending to be an Italian named Fernando and chasing the girls? A parent will come out the back door to relieve you of duty just as you scream and dodge out from behind a bush.
Their particular phrases will start popping up in your speech.
"Lila, get your elbow out of my booby or get off my lap."
"I'm just takin' an eye on Sophy."
"Does anyone need to go potty before we head outside?"
"That's my booty, not yours, so stop slapping it. Slap your own booty all day if you want, but leave mine alone."
"Sophy, is your attitude having issues...?"
Doesn't matter how much you despise sports, you will be playing soccer, basketball, football (or all three) daily. I've played more sports in the past nine months than I have in my entire life, I feel. I'm actually a really good kicker, for a kindergarten-team.
You have no privacy. Really. It's your job to teach your wards that the bathroom door stays closed, preferably until the person exits or at least till you hear the sink running. Be specific. It's not water running that gives you permission to fling the doors open. It's the sink. There's a shocking difference. This is a trial-and-error lesson that seems to take eons for children to learn. Prepare to be embarrassed.

So far the rough parts. But then you have the particular joys that makes those drawbacks perfectly worth every moment. These include such things as...

You get to share in every new thing these kids learn. "Can I give you an eskimo sugars, Miss Rachel? Dey don't kiss like diss (lips puckered) because your lips would sweeze. So dey scrub noses." - or - "Hey, Miss Rachel. I drew an arrow from the killer whale to the polar bear because they eat polar bears, right?" (This kid figured out the food chain on her own. So smart.)
You get to be there for so many "firsts. At lunch today, I put a purple Hershey's kiss on Sophy's plate. She stared at it. "What is it?"
What is it? The blessed child had never had a Hershey's kiss--didn't recognize it as something even edible. I took it in hand, thinking of how her life would never be the same again, and pulled the little paper tab, unraveled the shining wrapper, and exposed the chocolate inside. Her eyes were so round and serious as she saw the explanation behind this sorcery. "Ohhhhh, Miss Rachel."
Your favorites become their favorites. I think I've single-handedly converted my girls to eating dill pickles, eating kiwi skins, dancing to the new Annie soundtrack, using expressions such as "You never can tell with bees," and "What you talkin' about, Willis?", using "divine" to describe food, reading chapter-books, singing certain book-songs in certain tunes, asking for the lipstick du jour swiped on their lips and then kissed on their hand first thing upon coming into the house.
They are always on your side. The same kiddo who beat your tail in Uno eight games in a row is thrilled to see you win one measly round with a luck Draw-Four. The one you just had to discipline will fling chubby arms around your neck and say perfectly seriously, "Miss Rachel, do you yuv me?" and then claim your lap for every book afterward. The girl who will probably grow up to be a brain surgeon or botanist listens to your explanation of an analog clock, then pensively turns back to you. "Miss Rachel, you are smart."
Everything you do and say becomes the law of the Medes and the Persians. Things you frequently tell them today will resurface when they are sixty-five. Watch them correct you when they notice the slightest bit of variance from the Way You Told It First and insistence that the way you do anything is always the best way. You might regret having started such a high-energy tradition, but you can't help but love their loyalty. So many traditions...the "pause" button. The "party" button. The "When Flushing" sign. The You-Must-Sing-To-Me-Before-I-Tell-You-A-Story deal. The "talk for that animal" game. Sticking my tongue out while cutting an onion so my mascara won't run. The movie quotes that pop up every time they say a certain phrase ("Forget about it. Big guy says move 'em, we move 'em.").
You have a chance to set a number of things straight: Pluto is a planet. The middle finger has a terribly important job: to snuggle next to your palm and keep it warm. The only version of Winnie-the-Pooh books that matter is the original text.
You have the benefit of a youthful perspective. It's a well-known fact: having children in your life keeps you young at heart. Surrounded daily by such innocence, peace, and cheerful naivete, the world seems half as scary as I've learned it to be. In their eyes, life is an adventure, everything is possible, and small kindnesses matter. It's a precious thing to have access to.

My Ragamuffin Heart

The sun is sifting down below the up-thrust of pines across the cotton field. Silver clouds stretch greyhound-shaped across a pure blue sky, trying to outstrip the dusk that will overtake them with a Midas touch and spin them into gold threads. I have spent the afternoon reading aloud a good novel to my younger sister while she practices drawing portraits. My seven year old sister, Grace, was baptized today with ten others. After church, my cousin and I went out to lunch--the cousin I scarcely see anymore, since we both took up the professional life. He paid, though he knew I didn't expect it. For dinner this evening, we have leftovers from Dad's birthday: the most delicious sort of leftovers. My trench-coat smells of adventure, or maybe it is only last night's bonfire.My sisters and I have saved our portion to eat at another bonfire tonight: sourdough bread toasted over open flames, pork tenderloin crisped over a wood fire. Perhaps my cousin will come over. Perhaps we'll have one of the Good Old Times. It's cold tonight and October is reckoning. Yesterday, I saw one of my girlhood friends and her new, velvet baby. In three short weeks my beloved older brother is marrying my best friend.

Grace abounds; overflows; caresses; shouts.

But am I content?

I wish I could say yes, without telling a lie. I am thankful for all these blessings--recounting them now, I am ashamed at the discontentment blotting this beautiful, autumn page. But if I am going to be entirely honest--and how am I to be credible if don't?--than I have to tell you that my heart is weak tonight. Tonight, my heart looks at all this and thinks, "Yes, it's very nice, but it's not what I want most." What do I want most? I hesitate to ask myself this question because I know my answer and I know the right answer, and they're not the same. Not tonight.

Tonight, what my heart wants most is a husband.

There. I said it. Be shocked if you want, or agree with me. Tell me that isn't where I will find my fulfillment. I know this. I know this deeper than deep down in my soul. But for all the knowing, it doesn't mean that I don't want it. And the reason I want it so badly, is this: my heart doubts He can do it. My heart doubts that God can overcome the details of my desires vs. current realities. My heart doubts. I've finally said it. I laugh, like Sarah, at the idea that God could do it. I tally up on burned fingers the number of ways in which I'm not good enough, pretty enough, clever enough, talented enough, attractive enough, busy enough, traveled enough, holy enough to even come close to thinking there's a chance I'll win the heart of any man, if I knew of a man whose heart I wanted to win. It isn't easy to write this here for all of you to see. I would much rather put a brave face on, be the sensible woman I usually am, and say I'm perfectly content with my admittedly beautiful life. Tonight, that's not where my heart is.

But there's this thing about hearts, a secret I learned by rote a long time ago. A secret whose import I haven't bothered to understand until now. Now I think I understand what it really means. Funny, how seven words can change from meaningless to meaning so much in an unholy moment, made holy by the revelation. "The heart is deceitful above all things." Deceitful. Lying. Cheating. Unfair. Dishonest. My heart is all these things. Tonight, my heart tells me that God can't do it. GOD. The same God who made this entire universe, who, this March, turned an unsuspecting me from unemployed to having a precious job, who has acted like the best sort of romantic and caused two of my favorite people to fall in love with each other, who has given me the gift of having a house in a quiet corner of the country where I can see the sunrises and sunsets each day and the stars like crystal-shards at night. God can't do it. Or He won't. Or can't and won't. God isn't going to do it, my heart says. It thinks it is right.

My head knows this isn't true. My head hardly ever wavers from a circumspect course. But heads can't feel and hearts can. They can hurt like hell. Hearts can throw back their heads and howl and blur away the blessing from the moments, steal the breath, beat the temples with an almost physical blow. Hearts can speak louder than any thought, and their words are poison. A head, in this situation is useless. My soul is another matter. It is quiet tonight. So quiet, I almost worry I have killed it in my perversity of spirit. Thank God that's theologically impossible. "What's up, Soul?" I wonder. "Can't you crush my heart with some grand dose of spiritual common sense? My head's on your side, but my heart's over here standing on a chair with his head thrown back, shrilling. My ears hurt. My body hurts. My heart hurts."
Still, my soul is quiet. It's a little unnerving. I go out to the front porch to breathe in the sunset, breathe out the poison, breathe in the chill air, breathe out the doubt and pain. I bring my heart, kicking, screaming, digging its fingernails like bloody half-moons into the tops of my hands. "God," I whisper. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I my heart doesn't believe you. I need you to take this and show me how to quieten it. Show me how to believe again. I am so sorry."
And then my soul lumbers to its feet at last--I feel relieved, as if I really had killed it--and puts a heavy, clumsy hand on my heart. Heart, fitful, fretful, fractious child that it is, kicks a little. Screams once or twice. Bites the hand. But the hand is calloused in the best way, accustomed to the throbbing of my deceived heart. My soul remembers, suddenly, the set of words that have fed me this weekend:

How precious is your lovingkindness,

O God!

Therefore the children of men put their trust under the shadow of Your wings.

They are abundantly satisfied with the fullness of Your house,

And You give them drink from the river of Your pleasures.

For with You is the fountain of life.

In Your light we see light.

(Psalm 36:7-8)

The clouds like greyhounds have given tongue to the dark and fall in a heap of golden glory. A long slide of silver light reaches toward where I sit on the cold bricks. My heart is still yelling like an infant, but the tantrum feels strangely futile because of my soul's hand. I taste the words of the Psalmist, say them aloud, bring the promise to my God. I have put my trust under the shadow of His wings, whatever my heart tells me to the contrary. He has promised that I will be satisfied with the fullness of His house, that I will drink from the river of His pleasures, that His fountain is life. He will keep His promises. This I know with the full fury of my soul.
Why, then, won't my heart feel it too?
Why does my heart persist in its shameful refusal to believe?
Then I realize why. Because it has withdrawn into a dark corner, wrapped a blanket of dishonesty about its shoulders. This time, the dishonesty is the very secret I just spilled: that my heart doesn't believe. In the darkness, it can't believe. It can't possibly see the light, because the only way in which it can is through the light of the one it has chosen tonight to distrust. As I whisper these words and force my heart to stand in the truth of the promise, I feel the silver of that sky slide into my soul and shore up its faith. My ears are ringing, and I realize it isn't from an increased pitch of my shrieking heart...actually, my heart is muffled by something strange: a flood of joy. It rushes and foams with the voice of many waters and I can barely hear my heart under the sound. If I look for that ridiculous, lying heart, I know it is still hammering its fallacies, trying to work its way to my steadfast soul. But my soul has been fed by the light, both figuratively and literally. My soul is in fighting trim. It feels like laughing. And just to annoy my ragamuffin heart, he leaves his hand there, just a little longer.

"When my heart is overwhelmed, lead me to the Rock that is higher than I."

To The Girl Who Has Three Lives

Dear Girl Who Has Three Lives:
     (or more):
      I know how you feel.
There's the You who works in the coffee shop or the church office or goes to college or the You who stands in her first semester as a teacher with twenty kids who are calling her "Miss So-and-So" and expecting she'll actually teach them stuff about life. Or, if you're like me, there's the You who spends the majority of the week taking care of, playing with, and teaching two precious little girls whose boundless curiosity and ceaseless energy shows you what your Mom has been doing since the birth of your older brother (times four).
There's the You who comes home tired from that other You and wants peace and quiet and a harmonious family. But there is dinner to be made and chores to keep up with and the harmonious family has gone off-key for an hour or two and life is crazy. This was the first You, and is known so well that it fits like a groove, despite its eccentricities. This You has an amazing family that misses her and she misses them and the disjointedness of lives trying to click back together while spinning in hyper-speed--your days off coinciding with their days away--and it's tough to steal moments of normalcy. But this version of You craves those moments and sometimes wonders what it would be like to return to the time when it was the only You and there was time to hang up your clothes and bother to put the bobby-pins back in their dish and that stack of To-Be-Read books was actually diminishing at a discernable pace.
Then, of course, there's the You of dreams. There's the You who, while steaming that milk, folding those invoices, making those calls, or teaching those math lessons, keeps up a secret life behind the scenes of hopes and dreams and long-term goals. For me, that's my writing. A thousand words typed at an unholy hour because every sensible, conscionable minute of normal-people is taken up by those other two Mes. This You might be pursuing music, art, publication, photography, a business, or something else. This You is usually the one who falls, by default, into disrepair because it is the more quiet You. It is sometimes shy and always willing to bend to reality. Dreams can be pushed off, tabled, quietened. This You isn't really all that perishable and if you close down the Word document for three months, the repercussions aren't what they would be if you stopped showing up to work for the same period of time or shut off communication with those dearest to you.

For each of these Yous, You could justifiably devote a whole life, in theory. But theories bend to achievement and everyone realizes we can't claim seventy-two hours for a day in which to be all three. And yet, Girl, you are trying to be all three. I am trying to be all three. Is it wrong? Is it crazy? Should you give up the dreams or the job or the family?

No.

It's not wrong, it's only a little crazy, and you should definitely not give up your dreams, your family, and the job God has placed you in (unless He shows you otherwise). One life crammed into one's head is enough to make most people overwhelmed. But to those of use who are juggling three, how can we keep sane?

I've been thinking. I am barely home these days between one thing and another and weddings. On any given Saturday, my room is covered with cast off clothing that I was too tired to put away after coming home from a fifteen-hour day. My bobby-pins never make it into the dish. I wear jeans when the weather is eighty-five because I really couldn't spare the extra eight minutes to shave my legs and heaven forbid I get in the shower and find no shampoo because when you're showering at 6:30 a.m., there's no one awake to fetch it for you. So I've been giving more thought than usual to how the Three-Lived-Girl can keep sane and it comes down to Jim Eliot:

"Wherever you are, be all there."

When you're at work, be entirely at work. When you're at home, be entirely at home. When you're working on that painting, that story, that song, that product, be one-hundred-percent there in that moment. For me, that means shutting off my 3G data on my phone at work, leaving texts till a more convenient hour when I'm blogging or writing, or lesson-planning, and leaving my phone upstairs when I'm around the house. I love technology and social media has blessed me with a covey of friends I would otherwise have never met. But technology is deceptive in that it convinces you that things have to be done RIGHT NOW. And the girl already living three lives can't afford to have them bleed into one another. If I am trying to teach math concepts to a three year-old and answer a five year  old's questions about how Indians killed buffalo and answer a Facebook message about wedding plans and reply to a comment on a blog and to text the recipe I made up for fish tacos to the sister who is making dinner because I can't be home to help because I'm headed an hour into the city to go a bible-study and I'm trying to do it ALL AT ONCE, I will crumble. I don't know about you, but I can feel it crumble. I can feel my resolve weakening, my heart becoming downcast, and my soul overwhelmed. I decided to try Jim Eliot's theory out last week and give myself completely to the tasks at hand one at a time. What I found was a sense of joy in accomplishing that one task instead of angst over the twenty-seven others left to be done. Yes, there were still twenty-seven tasks, but one can meet a single foe on level ground far easier than being dog-piled by an entire company.

Wherever you are, Girl With Three Lives, be all there. In the mornings, give one hundred percent of your attention to Jesus and focus your eyes on Him from the start. At work, give full attention to the joy of building into the lives around you. When you're home, leave the virtual world connected to a charger and play a game of Scrabble or watch an old Disney film together. When you're pursuing dreams, friends, or long-cherished goals, give it your all.

That's how we keep all the balls in the air. Focus.

"Excuse me, sir, he is a Prince!"

Would you go with me if we rolled down streets a fire? Would you hold on to me tighter as the summer sun got higher? Oh, and would it be okay if I didn't know the way?

-Josh Turner

The fun part of life is that it never turns out how you think it will. Sometimes it is just a little scary in a "I think this is good for me but it isn't my hobbit-hole" way. In the past week, I've applied to be a part-time nanny (and will be interviewing early this week), Sarah heard that she was accepted for a summer internship for Generation Joshua (meaning she'll be living in Leesburg all summer), we got our own intern/apprentice for our landscape business, I committed to a rather complex out-of-town fundraiser for our Romania Missions Trip, and I saw an old friend get married to her sweet man. (And they had homemade soft pretzels there. SOFT PRETZELS. The way to my heart is through soft pretzels.) In between these things, I have been editing my next novel, running errands and working for Dad, and trying not to freak out about scheduling. Oh. And we're down to one car for the whole entire family. I'm trying not to panic about the fact that if I DO get this job, it means that I will be thrown into the world of I Have To Get To Work And I Have No Car. Ahem. But God kind of just placed this in my lap and Mama thought I should at least step into it and see what's what.

Because sourdough toast deserves a glory-moment

I told Abigail Taylor today that I have a funny strain in my character: I like adventure and I like new challenges. But I will step forward into something and then get paralyzed with fright while I'm waiting, realizing I left my safe shore and can't touch bottom anymore and I'm not even certain if the other shore will hold weight. I'm very hobbit-like that way. About this nanny-job, I told her: "What's the worst the woman can say, 'Yes'?" But I'm trusting that if God brought this about, He'll bring me through, and if it isn't the right thing right now, He'll cut off the opportunity. Still, it's stressing me a little bit. Sheesh. I mean, I love my cozy little rut of earning no money and being a writer and not having to worry about an employer outside my Dad...even though I've often thought it'd be fun to have some sort of job. 

Anyway, that's an odd little rant. If you think to pray for me, it would be much appreciated! I realize I've been a little spacey and vague on this blog. If you have any questions about particular aspects of my life that I have forgotten to address, do, please, ask me about them and I'll do my best to update you! I've been getting a bit of reading done. My nose is currently in Jenny Freitag's work and P.G. Wodehouse: A Life in Letters which is fascinating. I love reading authors' letters...a person's letters give such great insight into who that person was, and how they viewed themselves, their work, and the world around them. It's almost better than a journal, really.

Let's see what else I can think of....oh! I saw Divergent and really enjoyed it! In my opinion, it was better than the Hunger Games movies...more hopeful, somehow. And Triss is a more relatable character than Katniss, for me. I also watched Northanger Abbey for the first time last night and--apart from a couple minor things--it was fabulous. Henry Tilney is such a chump. <3 A man who would tease me like that with a smile like that and a heart like that....eeeeeesh. And if a guy ever quotes his line to me during a dance, my heart will be gone:

"You must allow me one smirk, then we can return to being rational again."

(Incidentally, the title-quote has nothing to do with this post.) 

The Little Green Road

"Keep it secret; keep it safe."

-Gandalf

There's something precious about keeping secrets. I don't mean harmful secrets or things you really ought to tell other people, or prayer requests or your own faults or failings.

I mean things like modesty: keeping the secret of your body from everyone else but the one person God has ordained to be your spouse.

I mean beauty: "I gazed--and gazed--but little thought what wealth the show to me had brought. For oft when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood, they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude."

I mean the thousand quiet things that don't need to be told/shown/spoken in order to be enjoyed.

I mean the things that are most beautiful when kept silent:

The tremendous figure which fills the Gospels towers in this respect, as in every other, above all the thinkers who ever thought themselves tall. His pathos was natural, almost casual. The Stoics, ancient and modern, were proud of concealing their tears. He never concealed His tears; He showed them plainly on His open face at any daily sight, such as the far sight of His native city. Yet He concealed something. Solemn supermen and imperial diplomatists are proud of restraining their anger. He never restrained His anger. He flung furniture down the front steps of the Temple, and asked men how they expected to escape the damnation of Hell. Yet He restrained something. I say it with reverence; there was in that shattering personality a thread that must be called shyness. There was something that He hid from all men when He went up a mountain to pray. There was something that He covered constantly by abrupt silence or impetuous isolation. There was some one thing that was too great for God to show us when He walked upon our earth; and I have sometimes fancied that it was His mirth.” 

-G.K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy

It will seem to you that I've been in a reflective mood recently, what with the post on flirtation last time and now this, and perhaps I am. Or maybe I'm just finally finding time to write the things down that have been living in my brain, unrecognized for the longest period because my schedule has been so wacked. I'm not a huge SAVE THE EARTH person. Not at all. But in the same vein of keeping things secret, I found the perfect illustration:

I live in the countryside and there's this lovely bit of a triangle made from three different roads. The patch between the three is a secret patch of forest and I love it because it's so forgotten; nobody uses it for anything because it's too small to hunt on, it's too tangled to walk through, and I'm pretty much the only person who goes for a walk these days anyhow. On the opposite side of one of the roads, there was another patch of forest--this one rather large. And winding back into the forest was this lovely little green road that always looked like Ireland with the sun coming down, filtered through the leaves. I liked to think what sort of road it was: who took their ATV's down it to go hunting, or drove down it in their pick-ups to go fishing in one of the copperhead-infested ponds way back on Mr. Byrum's land. And someday, I told myself, I'd get brave enough to step past the No Trespassing sign and just set foot on that little green road. It was most beautiful to me because it was overlooked, unnoticed, and entirely mine. After all, when you're the only human being who cares to take walks in the country, you're bound to feel a little possessive.

The saddest thing happened...

They cleared that piece of land this past week--harvested all the pines and other trees--and my bit of Ireland is gone. Entirely gone. There's nothing secret and sacred about it. It's not even green anymore since all the equipment dragged brown pine-needles and covered its beauty over in a pall of Business. It's almost enough to make me feel like crying which is entirely silly, I know. I mean, if they planted the pines on purpose to harvest later and took the care to thin them as they were growing, then they've a right to do anything they want with them; in fact, that's good business. That's what it means to work and live in an agrarian society.

But it's not secret anymore. Someone exposed the bit of green road. It's not innocent, but ravaged. It looks like a war-zone. And worse yet, it's not mine. I don't know that piece of land anymore. It looks rakish and wretched and like the difference in Fantine between "At the End of the Day" and "I Dreamed a Dream" in Les Miserables. I hate the new look and I'm trying not to be upset and making myself drive that way and stare at the barrenness and think, "Someday it'll be secret again." Even the Triangle Bit across the road looks different because now the sun stares right in like a nosy neighbor, ferreting out any secretness it used to possess.

I guess this post doesn't have any point except that I think we're way too obsessed with moving forward and telling everything. We over-share the secret, beautiful bits about our lives and Facebook and Instagram and Twitter and even on our blogs. I love to share the beauty with you. I love it so much. I'm a huge fan of taking pictures and helping other people see the fragile beauties. It's a small way I can minister. And yet I never want to lose the wonder of knowing things not everyone in the world knows. I was the only one who cared about the little green road and so it was mine. Now it's gone and no one else will know and that's kind of a really special feeling.

Keep your innocent, pretty special-secrets; they're never going to lose value by being yours. 

Firstly, lastly, in-betweens

"In my life, there's been no one like him anywhere, anywhere..."

But despite the absence of that elusive person (no, not the Scarlet Pimpernel), life has been full of new ideas, new plans, and fun things. First off all, since posting about Maryanna's wedding, two friends have got engaged! Though all the details aren't reported yet, I think their guys may have popped the question on the exact same day - wild, isn't it? I still can't believe that Mama was totally right when she used to tell me that it would all happen at once. So, here's the short list of everything that's been going on in my life these days:

Singing: Anna, Benjamin and I bought the sheet music to Newsies and Anything Goes for Leah and Sarah so we've been pounding out jazzy NYC-style show tunes on the piano ever since. "If I need a headline, I'll make up a headline and I'll say anything I hafta. Cuz it's two for a penny, if I get too many, Weisel just makes me eat 'em afta..." There's not much that is more fun than crowding around the piano and working out parts to our favorite Broadway shows...it's such a cool thing to do with the family. Funny thing is, we four girls have worked out almost all the parts to to an all-guys' song. (Well...barring the nuns.)
And speaking of nuns, Daniel bought Sarah The Sound of Music for her birthday. We haven't seen that movie since our VHS player went out, and going back to watch it now that I'm grown was hilarious. There are so many clever lines that I never understood as a kid.

Max: "There's nothing I hate more than a thief."
Capt. VonTrapp: "Oh Max, do try to learn to love yourself."

Definitely a favorite with our family, and I watched with contentment as the younger girls fell in love with the movie just like Sarah and I did as kids. :)

Working On: With the advent of so many weddings (and expecting at least one more engagement by the end of the month!) I have realized that my days of waiting for money to find me are utterly over.

"In terms of money....we have none." -Despicable Me

 I've got to do something to pay for all these weddings I am attending/participating in, don't I? Aunt Christy and I are seriously contemplating starting up a floral-design business together. We're good at it; pooling our talents, we have enough experience; plus, we're talking about flowers here: I love flowers. So, though it's not final, I am kind of excited about the possibilities. In addition to this, I am so looking forward to announcing one more thing by the end of the week. It's nothing big, but I do have one hint for you. Two words: The Warren.

Reading: A Sweet and Bitter Providence by John Piper, Dragonwitch by Anne Elisabeth Stengl (fabulous so far...quite allegorical), Eats, Shoots, and Leaves by Lynn Truss

Waiting For: Different plans that are currently up in the air. The full proposal story from JULIA! Money-making schemes to pounce on me. Summer to finish! A letter in the mail. The next adventure.

Loving: Strawberry ice-cream; I really didn't realize how much I love real strawberry icecream till Levi insisted on having some for his birthday. New love-story right here. Kate Rusby's music. G2 pens. Reading other peoples' writing. Learning the intricate words and parts to new songs. Re-listening to the Transfer Conference messages. Summer storms! (speaking of which, my cousin took a stunner shot of lightening!)

Needing To: Get back on my shrinkage-program. Humph. Oysters. All sorts of grouchy-sounding words that mean Too Much Cake. Be purposeful in memorizing scripture; a weakness on my point. Write a letter to Grandma June. Work at making money.

So. These are the current events: God is great, I am weak, He works in me anyway, and life is beautiful. What more could I want? Hope your Monday is fabulous!

(if you'd like to follow me on instagram and see day-to-day things in pictures, you can find me as heirloomrosebud. I don't clog your feed, but you do get to see bits and pieces. :)

Since Coming Home...

I've been cooking. Kind of a lot.

I've given haircuts...

 

And received one!

I have seen Les Miserables live on stage and then prepared Abigail and Daniel to go off on their little date the next day for the same. Isn't she gorgeous?

Aw <3

I've played around with makeup-techniques a little bit, and planted our garden, and procrastinated with my writing. Oh! I've watched a little Larkrise to Candleford (it half annoys me and have pleases me so I continue to watch it until Thomas gets on my nerves one too many times), and I've listened to Cabin Pressure. Which, by the by, you simply must get your ears upon ASAP. It's a BBC radio-comedy starring Benedict Cumberbatch and John Finnemore among others, and it's a corking good show. I love it and never fail to laugh. I am especially indebted to Daniel Tate for this pleasure, btw. 

Ahhhh. Amazing radio-show. :)

Since coming home, I've also phone-banked with Americans for Prosperity, getting folks to register to vote this year, and I've watched Iron Man 3. 

So yes! All in all I've been rather busy since coming home. How about you? What have you been doing these past several weeks? :)

Life is...

Life is....

Cuddles from a baby when you're barely awake...

Coffee in the mornin'....

Trying new recipes for new situations with new people...

Spontaneous bursting-in-to-Broadway with the girls when we're supposed to be cleaning, and lending out my lipstick to Anna and Emily so they can play "Eponine and Cossette." 

Drawing elephants on my hand just because hand-elephants are cute...

Stepping out on the porch in the middle of fixing dinner just to watch the sunset.

Dabbling in paints and paper and brushes...

Wearing lace in my hair...

And putting it up soft and gentle.

Crazy cousins...

And new leather travel journals....

and forgetting which way to hold the tablet when taking a selfie...

Life is beautiful. <3

Operation Graduates Part One! :)

I guess it slipped my mind, but I haven't told you yet that Sarah and our cousin Matthew are having a double graduation on Saturday! Though the actual ceremony is being held at a church down the road, we are having a party at our house afterward, and that means rather a lot of food and preparation this week! I thought I'd take the opportunity of showing you a little more of our day-to-day family life and document the days leading up to this event with the pictures! I haven't really given you a concept of just how closely our two families work together, have I? Nope. Didn't think so. 

Let's try now.

11:00 a.m.

I clean off the kitchen counters all except for the ham which I randomly christen "Millicent." Why? Because that is a good name for a ham. Millicent is going to feature largely in our ham biscuits come Saturday, so I thought I might as well introduce her to you.

11:30

I take pictures of the counters in their cleanliness, all prepared to act as the calm before the storm.

The granite-topped pastry counter..

Ah, Millicent! You are beautiful in your sheer gown made by Saran!

On the way around the kitchen I found a leftover Avenger's napkin from Daniel's 22nd birthday. Yes. That's right. 22. What are you lookin' at?

Coffee makers at the ready in case we need caffeine...

See? Clean.

11:45

Aunt Christy brings over load of groceries, I gather my things together and realize we're missing milk for my biscuits, and Anna's missing vanilla for her's. Someone's gonna have to go over to the Walkers' to get it because two of the cousins, Jeremiah and Michael, are already headed this way with other ingredients we missed.

12:00

I volunteer and though I can drive, I choose to walk the 1/5 of a mile distance across the field. It's like 70 degrees out there, and rather a pleasant (though unseasonal) day for a walk.

Churchill goes ahead of me to convey my intentions to the Walkers.

I meet them half-way across the field where Michael shows off their ingredients, and Jeremiah looks at me skeptically. "What are *you* doing with the camera, Rachel? Isn't that Sarah and Matthew's ground?" Yeah, yeah. Well it's my blogging project! :D

They leave me to my own demise and I take a picture of Floofy-Grass just for fun.

I am met on the driveway by three of the girls, and my two newest cousins. 

"Buttons" is on the left, "Todd" on the right. Ain't they sweet? 

D'awwwwwww

While pausing to kiss Buttons, I smelled peanut butter. "That's funny," I thought. "A cat that smells like peanut butter. I shall have to remember this for the blog." And then I come inside and find myself being fed peanut-butter "buck-eye" dough by Bethany who also extended her generosity to the cat. Hence the smell. I knew my nose wasn't wrong. :P

12:15

Having got my milk and vanilla, I traipse homeward.

You can see our wood-pile covered with the plastic sheeting. *cozy*

And our clothesline. Just because everyone has one and everyone should hang up bright pink towels when they can. Bright pink Other Things too, but we won't talk about that here.

12:30

I finally begin the biscuit-making process which continues all through the afternoon. We are slotted to make 200 biscuits, but I up it to 250 because I know from experience that where there are Daniels, math calculations vary widely. 

2:00

Abby joins me in the biscuit-making venture, and I take a picture of the counter-tops now. Actually, not as bad as they could be! I think I'm a tidy cook.

I love the intense concentration when the biscuit-cutter gets sticky. 

Abby has seriously grown to be a huge help in the house! She's like a mini-Mama! <3

Mama, Leah, and Anna started on making front-porch decor....aren't these so cute? Mason Jar candle holders? These are going to run all the way up the front steps and have candles burning inside them. :)

*Smile* I liked this shot. It felt very secret.

So! That was Operation Graduates part 1! Stay tuned for the other episodes! :)