This moment needs a dozen pictures or more

When you are the youngest brother of five boys, you grow accustomed to hand-me-down cleats and previously worn jerseys. You retrieve banged up baseball bats from the garage and happily play with tennis balls that already have had the fuzz beat off them. But one day, you face a seemingly insurmountable challenge. You want to play golf. 

You desperately want to play golf.

You are obsessed with golf. You talk about golf every day. All day long. There is a full set of junior clubs sitting right there in the garage, next to all the other athletic equipment you've always had right when you wanted it. But you have a problem. A big, overwhelming problem. Your big brothers are lefthanded. And you are not.

You eye your father's right-handed clubs. He's 6'4". Chances are very good that, one day, you will be very tall, too. Right now, though, those clubs are too big. And right now you want to play golf.

You hatch money-making schemes: lawn mowing, dog walking, lemonade stands. This is a maddeningly slow process. You begin to worry that the summer is slipping away and you will never have the right clubs to play golf.

And then one afternoon, you are sitting in the restaurant at your grandpa's club, just eating your french fries and gazing out longingly at the greens beyond the big picture window.

And a strange man approaches.

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Are you Nicholas? {You nod, tentatively, and wonder why this strange man is standing so close to you and why he's dragged golf clubs into the restaurant.}

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I'm Jack. I'm the golf pro here. {Um, nice to meet you?}

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Do you like these clubs? {You nod again.}DSC_0710

 

Would you want to keep them? {Who IS this dude and is he crazy? Keep them! You let yourself look at them a little harder. Whoa, those are amazing clubs!}

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Your grandpa says you can have them. {This is some sort of dream. Some sort of really, really good dream. Shake yourself a little. Those are your clubs!} 

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And that golf course just beyond the panes of glass? That's where you'll spend the week learning to play golf.

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Every little boy should have that once-in-a-lifetime perfect day that comes of a grandpa hearing his heart's desire, dreaming his dream with him, and making his fondest wish come true.

Before the Feast of St. Anne

I meant to share this post from the archives with you yesterday, so that you could begin the novena then if you liked. But the day got away from me. You can still begin the novena today and finish on the feast. I did want to post one update to the post below. I shared here how fruitful my novena to St. Anne was last year, with regard to the nitty gritty of our lives. I think that mothers are naturally considering the management of their homes and their schedules this time of year. For me, forever more, that will a St. Anne thing. I heartily encourage you to offer it all o St. Anne to bring before our Lord. 

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Sometimes, a saint finds you.

And those are very, very special times, indeed. Two years ago, around this time, St. Anne found me and I will be forever grateful.   There is no saint more dear to my heart, nor more frequently invoked by me than the grandmother of our Lord. She walks beside me, whispers in my ear, and makes sure I get my laundry done! My binder of St. Anne prayers is well-worn and nearly memorized.

July 26th, the Feast of St. Anne and St. Joachim,was a Sunday last year and it found me in a beautiful new church at the baptism of my godson, John (Marisa never did blog the day--I might have to do that for her;-). And every prayer we prayed there went to Louisiana, too, where Bryce Mitchell was being baptized.

July this year finds me taking up my binder of prayers once again, not for a pregnancy this time, just for the comfort of knowing that such a dear mother is listening and praying and interceding. Tradition teaches us what we know about St. Anne and her husband, St. Joachim. I think though, that some saints come to be known even more dearly in our prayers. It is in praying with St. Anne that I have grown to love her.

I've included here for you a copy of my favorite, now very familiar prayers. There are short daily prayers, a chaplet explanation, a litany, and two different novenas. Depending on whether you want to finish on the feast or the day before, you want to start a novena on the 17th or 18th. My St. Anne chaplet broke a few weeks ago, so I do plan to spend these days of preparation for the feast repairing it. Alice Cantrell provides a lovely illustrated tutorial here,should you want to try your hand a crafting this beautiful aid to prayer. I have found that handwork that aids our prayer are the crafts that are most treasured and beneficial in our home. We don't always bead a chaplet, of course, but decorating a vase to fill with flowers next to a saint's icon, or pouring or dipping or decorating a candle to be lit on the feast are also favorite, simple, meaningful family traditions. And sometimes, there is no craft at all.

In our family, we celebrate a name day on St. Anne's feast. There was considerable argument around our dinner table when we discussed what to name our baby girl. It was settled by giving her both names: Sarah and Anne. (To this day, two of her brothers have yet to call her "Sarah." They only call her "Annie.") My mother, Mike's mother, my stepmother, and I all share Sarah's middle name. But only Sarah Anne gets the extra "e":-). And oh, how we love to celebrate Sarah Annie!

Our family looks forward to feast days with quiet, familiar joy. As a child grows, the day takes on its own traditions because the child begins to make it his own. For instance, the Feast of St. Michael around here always smells like incense and a kahlua devil's food cake baking in the oven. That has been Michael's preference for as long as I can remember. For the longest time, we had pizza on the Feast of St. Patrick because Paddy insisted on it.

St. Anne's feast will begin for me as all days do, with the Liturgy of the Hours. I'll pray the Morning Prayer and Office of Readings by myself in the quiet of the dawn. Both prayers bring me into the celebration of the feast with the universal Church. I will light a special candle, put her statue and her icon on our little prayer desk, and make sure that the children notice when they awaken. Then, it's up and out the door. The true "feast" is the Eucharist and we are fortunate to be able to go to daily Mass on feast days, where we celebrate the feast with the community of God. Father delights our children by always, always speaking about "their" saints. Usually, there is a special blessing after Mass for the name day child, as well. And there might be donuts on the way home, too;-).

Sarah Anne is just old enough that she might be able to express her preference for dinner and dessert as is our family custom. Already the lobbying has begun as certain brothers try to persuade her that her favorite dinner resembles their favorite dinner. Almost certainly, there will be chocolate for dessert. Sarah Anne is a big fan of chocolate. 

The day will end for my sweet Sarah Annie with more of that heavenly scent, this time it's St. Anne soap and lotion (as much a treat for me as for my baby). Sweet dreams, my darling girl; your heavenly grandmother continues to be so very good to us. Blessed, we are, those of us whose name means "grace."

St. Anne prayers and devotions:

Download Prayers to St Anne

 

It's all in the noticing

Gratitude. A deep-down sense that God is good and that life is a gift. It's there for the taking. Sometimes, though it's all in the noticing. I can't notice when life is whizzing by. I can't notice when I'm so tired my eyes don't focus. Noticing happens best in the slow time.

I have to stop. Be still. And notice. 

It helps to wake up in my own room in the "kids' wing," the one with the beautiful blue walls and the ceiling fan. In the house where I'm not the most grown up grown-up of all.

There is a winding country drive, early Sunday morning, to monastery quiet nestled in the hills.

 

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The sky is so blue and the hills so green.

The church bells ring out when Mass begins and again when Our Lord is present. Bells ring, echoing off the hills, filling an early Sunday morning with the sound of pure joy.

I am sitting outside this church with a squirmy Sarah Annie. We notice a bird with a hollyberry in his beak, a butterfly flitting from flower to flower, weeds in the garden (she wants to pull - "to help the sisters). We are stilled, heads bowed at the sound of the bells.
 
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Breakfast after church. The Mudhouse Cafe. Fair trade, local, organic, friendly, cozy, small town perfect.

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A soy mocha latte that tastes more like coffee than chocolate--mocha perfection.

 
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Art for breakfast.

And then on to the orchard.

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Yep. She'll ask Grandpa for peach ice cream at 10 in the morning. And yep, she'll get it.

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It's a beautiful day. She's styling her shades. Let's get out and pick.
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Precious cargo.

{Dear, sweet man.}

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Nothing says Virginia morning like the smell of fresh peaches and the sight of crepe myrtles in the sun.

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To Mint Springs Lake, where there little girls can lie on their bellies in the sun and run their fingers through the sand.

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Just sit on the shore, toes in the water, and inhale. 

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This friendly competition did NOT end in screaming and shouting the revisiting of game rules. Mountain miracle, no doubt.

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Just a day. One day. Not a fancy vacation in a far-off land. Not a two week reservation and a ticket to ride. Just a day. Surrounded by people I love and people who love me.

In a place that never fails to remind me how loved we are by the Master Artist who created it.

Joining Ann to count blessings, except I've again lost count..

Intentional Weekend: Fields of Treasure and Jewel-Colored Glasses

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Strawberry season is long past and I just downloaded pictures from my camera. Alas, no pictures of jewel-colored jam. All good, we're moving on to blueberries and peaches.We'll have jewel-colored glasses in short order.

I do, however, have an awesome pie recipe that works well with blueberries and even peaches (add a little cinnamon). Below, I tossed a few peaches in with the strawberries. I like to play with this recipe. It's forgiving and if it doesn't quite hold together, no one ever seems to mind.

Baked Pie Shell

1 quart fresh strawberries or blueberries

1/2 cup sugar

1/2 cup water (plus some extra for the cornstarch)

3 Tbsp cornstarch

1 Tbsp lemon juice

whipped cream

 

  • For strawberry pie, fill pie shell with 3 cups strawberries. (I slice them in half.)
  • Crush 1 cup berries in pot. Add sugar and water and bring to a boil. Remove from heat.
  • Mix cornstarch with a little cold water and whisk slowly into berry mixture. Cook until clear and thickened.
  • Remove from heat. Add lemon juice.
  • For strawberry pie, pour glaze over filled pie shell. For blueberry pie, pour 3 cups blueberries into glaze and stir until coated, then pour into pie shell.
  • Chill and serve with whipped cream.

{The original recipe came from my friend Barbara who is currently experimenting further with fruit pies.}

Strawberry pie

Our two favorite farms are Hartland Orchard in Markham, Virginia and Homestead Farm (over the Potomac from Leesburg via ferry) in Poolesville, Maryland. We're in Charlottesville this weekend. Picking is good at Carter Mountain Orchard and, towards Crozet, Chiles Peach Orchard. 

Happy weekend! Go do something intentional:-)

Small Steps Together: Cocooning and Flying Free

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I have long loved early childhood. From the time I was very little, I have invested much thought and prayer into the mother of young children I feel called to be. Much to the chagrin of pretty much everyone except my husband, I even majored in early childhood in college. (Just an aside: I had enough nursing and anatomy/physiology credits to also be certified to teach health and PE. God had a plan. I grew up to educate children who, when asked to name their school, inform the general public that they attend the Foss Academy for the Athletically Inclined. But I digress.)

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I have held tightly to the promise that it's never too late to have a happy childhood. And since mine was not childish or carefree, I've set out very deliberately to create for my children what I think I might have missed and to enjoy it alongside them. Deep in my heart, my fondest wish was to be the very good mother of young children. You might say that I've dedicated my adult  life to that task.

Not too long ago, I can't remember where, I read about a woman around my age who said that she was too busy with her grown kids and teenagers to mourn the fact that her babies were growing up and there would soon be no wee ones in her house. I'm not. I'm not too busy. There are still small children in my house and they slow me, still me. I still stay with them at night as they drift off to sleep. I still sit with them at the table as they eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner, ever so slowly. I bathe them and brush their hair and braid it up before bed. I sit and rock and hold and read. I still thank God for them with every breath, much like I did the day they were born. I have plenty of time in the course of my day to be still and know that these are precious moments that will not be a part of my days in the not too distant future. 

In a way, I envy those women who blithely move along to the next stage of life and smile brightly and say, "There! That's finished. Wasn't it grand? Now what's next?" I'm not one of them. Perhaps I'm just not good at transitions. I sobbed at my high school graduation. I remember how reluctantly I traded my wedding gown for my "going away" clothes. I cried so hard when Michael left for college that I had to pull over because I couldn't see to drive. I held more tightly to each newborn than the one before. And this last one? I don't think I put her down at all for the first twelve weeks. My intimate relationships are deep and rooted and meaningful. When I live something, I feel it. 

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I know it's time.

I know because my environment cries out that it is so. My house is full to overflowing with people. Several of them are more than twice the size they were when we moved in here. Some have left and come back and brought with them more of their own stuff. We are bursting at the seams. It is time to acknowledge that we are in a new season of life and to allow my house to reflect that.

And so. I cocoon. Somehow I know that this is intense, deeply personal business and at the end I will be the same and yet, forever different. I spin a silken thread tightly around my home. My cell phone goes dead. I don't recharge it. I don't touch my laptop. I don't carry the house phone with me. I don't leave for several days. It is time to conquer all those recesses of my home that I neglected while I held babies. It is time to let go.

We need space. We no longer need a co-sleeper. Or the sheets to go with it. We don't need a swing. I begin in the basement.

We don't need three neatly labeled boxes of beautiful thick, pink, cotton clothes -- 0-3 months, 6-9 months, 9-18 months. I carefully save the christening gown, the sweet baptism booties, the first dress Karoline wore to match Katie and Mary Beth. The rest I fold into giveaway bags.  Michael takes the baby "things" to the Salvation Army on Friday.The clothes remain until Saturday morning. The Children's Center truck is due to arrive at 8 AM. After I've finished with the clothes, I cannot  stay here in this basement on Friday. I've done what I know will be the most difficult task. I also know I'm nearly suffocating.  I need to go upstairs and get some air. 

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I begin in Mike's office. This isn't really my mess or my stuff or even the stuff of children who haven't been carefully supervised. It is just the overflow of two busy adults who pile and stuff a bit too much. He doesn't use this room. It's a lovely room in the middle of the house with a bright window. I put a new sewing machine on the desk. I rearrange shelves, discarding things he no longer needs. I spend an hour or so carefully dusting his youth trophies and 25 years of sports paraphernalia. I think about this post and I know that we can (and should) share this space. I move some baskets in. My yarn, my knitting and sewing books, a few carefully folded lengths of fabric, holding place for a stash to come.

I stitch a few things in that room. And I am happy there. I am no longer knitting in my womb. But I am still creating. And it makes me happy. My arms are ever more often empty, but my hands are increasingly free for other pursuits. Still, a small voice whispers, knitting and sewing are nothing like the co-creation you've done for the last 22 years. I hush the voice. I have no idea where this is going. He is the Creator. He has written a beautiful pattern for my life. All He asks is that I knit according to His plan. Trust the pattern.

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On Saturday morning, that truck comes. I can't even watch as they load my dear boxes. My stomach clenches and my eyes fill with tears. Things. They are only things. The girls who wore those things are safe in my arms. Another mother will be blessed to hold a sweet pink cotton bundle close and nuzzle her cheeks. I descend to the basement.

Here. Here is where I must force myself to cocoon. Here is where ten years of "put this carefully in the craft room" will come back to haunt me. They have tossed at will every single time. It never recovered from the great flooring shuffle. I do pretty well with the rest of the house, but I dislike coming down to the basement and Mike rarely comes down here. So, here is where the disorder has collected. The "craft room" is a jumble of stored clothes, curriculum, craft supplies, and 25 years of family photos. It is a mess.

I am humbled by the mess. Quite literally driven to my knees. But I have spun myself into this small space and here I will stay until I can emerge beautifully.

I have banished all outside interruptions, but I have brought with me the Audible version of this book. Good thing, too, because I will benefit greatly from the message within and, frankly, I will need to hear the narrator say "You are a good mom" as often as she does. 

I see the abandoned half-finished projects, the still shrinkwrapped books, the long lingering fabric and lace. Did I miss it? Did I miss the opportunity to do the meaningful things? To be the good mom I want to be? I am nearly crushed by the weight of the money I've spent on these things and the remanants of my poor stewardship.What was I doing when this mess was being made? To be sure some of the time was sadly wasted. It is easy to berate myself for time slipped through my fingers. Cocoons are really rather nasty things.

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Determined, I clear out the clutter. I tell myself that life is not black and white. It's not all bad or all good.  I fold fabric and recognize that what I have here is the beginning of some new projects. I gather acorn caps and felt and label them and tuck them away for the fall. I make a very large stack of books to sell secondhand. I sort and sweep and remember. I see picture after picture of smiling children. I see, in those color images, time well spent. Time well filled.  Their mama always looks tired. I recognize in  those pictures that my children were happy--are happy. And I also recognize that it's been a little while now since I felt that tired. It is true that much of my time in the last twenty years, I have been filling well. I have been holding and rocking and nursing and coloring and listening and reading and giving and giving...I have been cherishing childhood. And it is a true that in a household this size, it is darn near impossible for every corner of the house to remain clean and every lesson to be carried out according to plan ,while caring well for babies and toddlers.  Messes happen.

The season just passed? The very long season? It was good and full and messy and cluttered. It was bursting-at-the-seams joyful in a way nothing ever will be again. It was also very hard work. Very, very hard work.There were utter failures and big mistakes. And there was a whole lot of good. 

This new season? I don't know yet. It's not nearly as cluttered. I have stayed in this cocoon until every corner of my home, every nook and every cranny, has been cleared of the clutter of the last season. Every poor choice, every undisciplined mess has been repurposed. Every single one. I can see my way clear to do the meaningful things. And the blessing is that there are still plenty of children in this house to do them with me.

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As I sweep the room for the last time before considering this a job well done, I see a picture that has slid under a bookshelf. It is Mike and me at our wedding rehearsal. I stare long and hard at that girl. But I stare longer at him. He is still every bit as happy as he was that night. Happier, really. Really happier. These days in this cocoon, I have been brutally honest with myself. I've held myself accountable for every transgression. I have humbled myself before God and I have confessed my sins.  I look at his image and then back at mine and I realize something very important. Whatever my failings, I have consistently been a good wife. I wonder at the ease with which this recognition comes to me. I am certain that much of it is born of his frequent words of affirmation. I know it is so because he has told me it is so. But why is it so?

Grace. 

Ours is a gracious God. It is only by His grace that I am the wife I am. And it is by His grace that I have this sense of peace about the most important relationship in my life. These children willl grow in the safe home he and I have created together. And then they will fly. Mike and I? We will be us. Always us.

I carefully put away the very last picture, turn out the light, and climb the stairs.

I've cleared out the clutter, made peace with the past. I've learned a very valuable lesson that I'm long going to be pondering in my heart. It's time to fly free.

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Small Steps focuses on humility this month. Would you share your thoughts with us, let us find you and walk with you? I'd be so grateful and so honored to have you as a companion. Please leave a link to your blog post below and then send your readers back here to see what others have said.You're welcome to post the Small Steps Together banner button also.