needle & thREAD: stuck

There was a lot of goodby-ing happening here this week.

#christiangoestocollege

#cousinsgotocollege

#hilarygoestocollege

Lots of people left in a house (that suddenly feels bigger) to cuddle and comfort and eat ice cream out of the carton with.

And there was a whole lot of lesson planning.

Alas, there was no actual sewing.

I did make a decision. I washed and dried some fabric. I pushed the planning books aside on the table. I cut out the pattern and set about to pin it. Before pinning I read the directions, hated them, wished Oliver + S made patterns for adults, consulted every sewing book on my shelf and every pattern stashed to see if there were something else for me to sew for me, and then decided to just go ahead and conquer the Lisette pattern.

When I pinned it, I realized I didn't have enough fabric. So, I washed and dried different fabric from the stash. As I was pinning that I read on the pattern piece that the finished bust measurement of the smallest size on this pattern is 4 inches larger than my actual bust measurement. Tell me, ladies, is this too much ease? Should I buy a smaller pattern? I'm stuck until you advise.

I'm still reading an advanced copy of Hands Free Mama's new book. Good reading, but I keep finding myself putting down the book to go find and do something with my kids;-)

What are you reading and sewing this week? 

I am eager to hear!

  Or are you embroidering? Pulling a needle with thread through lovely fabric to make life more beautiful somehow? Would you share with us just a single photo (or more) and a brief description of what you're up to? Will you tell us about what you're reading, also? Would you talk sewing and books with us? I'd love that so much.

    Make sure the link you submit is to the URL of your blog post or your specific Flickr photo and not your main blog URL or Flickr Photostream. Please be sure and link to your current needle and theREAD post below in the comments, and not a needle and theREAD post from a previous week. If you don't have a blog, please post a photo to the needle & thREAD group at Flickr. 

       Include a link back to this post in your blog post or on your flickr photo page so that others who may want to join the needle and thREAD fun can find us! Feel free to grab a button here (in one of several colors) so that you can use the button to link:-).

Cease Driving

{{I apologize in advance for the length of the post. You did ask;-)}}

“I can’t do this.”

    It was the first thought in my brain that morning. The first thought before I mentally scanned my day. The first thought before morning prayer. The very first thought.

    I cannot do this.

    I didn’t know precisely what “this” was. I hadn’t even fully wakened enough to know what day it was. I just knew that whatever “this” was on this day, it was beyond me. I’d walked a long road to get to that morning. I remember the last weekend before our eldest, Michael, had his first soccer game. I knew—as much as one can know without really knowing—that life as I knew it was about to change. It began slowly enough, to be sure: a couple of practices in the neighborhood and a game every week. Michael was nearly four years older than his next brother, so we maintained that pace for a few years, even finding ample time to add Little League baseball to the mix.

    We moved when he was nearly 8. I was pregnant with Mary Beth, my fourth. We moved into one of the first houses in a new town. There was no local soccer. There was no local baseball. I found myself in the car, driving away from our new town in order to provide opportunities for Michael to play. Christian started playing, then Patrick. I was loading babies and toddlers into the car and driving all over the place, including back to the town from which we’d moved. I almost always allotted 45 minutes to an hour of drive time each way. I live in one of the most heavily congested suburban areas in the country. We drove; it’s what we did.

      It didn’t take long to learn that our children are athletically gifted. We sought the best opportunities and they sought us as well. And we always made our decision about a team or a club in light of what they could offer our child, always figuring that we’d work out the logistics.

     When Mary Beth started dancing, we used the same paradigm. At first, the dance commute wasn’t too bad. But as the area grew, that particular drive took on nightmarish traffic snarls. It wasn’t far to go, but it could easily take an hour to get home. In the car with a crying baby or cranky toddler.

    Five years ago, Nicholas and Stephen joined teams in McLean. Without traffic, on a perfect day, my GPS tells me that the field is 40 minutes away. But we usually traveled during rush hour and we tried to avoid the tolls as much as possible. It’s longer. Always longer. They sometimes practiced back to back at the same fields, but not always. And we could usually work out a way to get them there four to six days a week. Almost always. But never without much stress on my end.

    Mike’s father helped in the beginning, until he began to fail and couldn’t make the drive. Michael helped when he was home, but he mostly away at school. Patrick helped the first part of last year when he was on his way to DC (well over an hour each way) to practice. And Christian helped All. The. Time. Christian, who hates to drive as much as I do, helped and helped, and helped. It’s no small irony that Christian was sitting at Nick’s practice when JMU called and told him he’d been offered admission for this fall. With that phone call, he was liberated from driving in northern Virginia.

    We made some wonderful friends in McLean. Last year, Nick’s practices were from 4:30-6:00. Stephen’s were from 8:30-10:00. That’s a whole lot of hanging out in another town time. Frequently, I’d drop the boys at my friend Robin’s house early in the afternoon and then come back home so I could be with the girls at their afternoon activities. This meant I had to wrap up our schooling by 1:00 or so three or four days a week. Robin is a homeschooler and the theoretical plan was for the boys to work at her house, but it rarely worked out that way. They’d go, hang out, play, talk to Robin and her husband Kenneth for hours on end. Robin would feed them dinner and get them to training and they’d wait at her house until Mike picked them up on his way home from work (if he was in town). It’s a system that worked on paper. The paper doesn’t show how much they loved Robin’s family and how much her family loved them. It doesn’t show the other deep bonds formed with families in McLean over the course of five years. It doesn’t show how we loved welcoming babies into Becca’s family and how much we appreciated Brian’s kindnesses. The paper just shows a convoluted “system.”

    Leaving. I was always, always leaving town. In the seventeen years we’ve lived here, I’ve always been leaving. For many years, there was no church here for us. We had to leave. The homeschool co-op was the next town over. Soccer. Baseball. Dance. The library. The only thing that was local was basketball. I always loved basketball season, in no small part because practices were very close and Saturday mornings found me on the bleachers with a friend and neighbor. Other than basketball, though, I was gone. My friends were not local; they were in McLean. Or Herndon. Or Fairfax. And I never really felt “at home” in my town. Seventeen years and I didn’t feel settled.

    In the spring of 2012, Mary Beth was the first to come to her senses. The pressure of commuting and the ill-fitting dance school became more than she could bear. She cried out in the insanity and even though it was very, very late in the dance season, we moved her. To a studio that is five minutes from my house without breaking any traffic laws. Last fall, we let the little girls join her.

    Since Karoline and Sarah were much younger than any of our other children when first they began an activity, I was determined to be there during there classes. We finagled all the driving to and from McLean. The boys were leaving our house around 1:30 some days and I was driving home from Stephen’s training as late as 10:45 some nights. Running. Racing. Striving to fit it all in. When I was at the dance studio, though, I sat. I talked to my neighbors. I had time to make friends. It began to dawn on me that most people connect this way.

    Cease striving.

    Wait! What? Did God just say, “Cease driving?”

    Maybe he did. Stephen was first to change clubs. He lost in the State Cup semi finals to a team in our county. Yep. While we were driving all over tarnation, our county was building good soccer right in our backyard. Stephen’s team was falling apart (this is a phenomenon not uncommon in teams just before the high school years). Most of his friends were leaving to play in a county even further from our home. He was offered a coveted spot on a team that is ranked #1 in the country as I write. His friendships in McLean are deep and lasting, I believe. I know we’ll have to work at maintaining them, but this kid is intensely loyal. Those friends are friends for life.

    I had no intention of moving Nick. Nick was the starting goalie on the State Cup Champion team. He had wonderful friends on that team and so did we. But then there was that morning. The “I can’t do this” morning. And somehow, it all started to fall away. Even though we were well past tryout season, Nick was invited to try out for the team in his age group in Stephen’s new club. I dropped the girls at dance and drove him to the tryout. It took me 7 minutes. I sat with a book while he played. Mary Beth called. Karoline was crying in the background. She never cries. It was clear she was sick (or something). I was there 7 minutes later. If I’d been in McLean, I would have been frantically calling. Could someone at home go get her? Could someone come to McLean to get Nick so I could go get her (it would take me nearly an hour to get to her)? Could Nick stay at someone’s house? In the moments it took me to get from Nicholas to Karoline, I understood what was fueling my anxiety. It was just the steady fear that comes with having no margin. No room for something to come up.

    The reality is that I’ve struggled with fullblown anxiety since last fall. I always have to work to keep anxiety at bay, but since last fall, I’ve been losing the war. Let’s see, last fall: There was the home renovation, Patrick’s final high school semester, planning for Michael’s wedding, a very intense semester for Christian that required hours and hours of my full time and attention, and there was this crazy commuting. I kept striving.

    It is mid-August as I write. This week, I’ve driven pastoral roads to arrive at Nick’s practice. Today, I’m sitting in the parking lot while Nicholas trains. I hope and pray that when practice is over, he walks off the field chatting with his teammates. It’s never good to leave the field alone when you’re twelve. I hope I haven’t wrecked his life because I woke up one morning and recognized that I was in over my head.

    The last of my three big boys to leave will leave home for new horizons this afternoon. All the girls are dancing locally. All the boys at home are playing soccer locally. There will be no pressing college deadlines, at least for this semester. I made a last minute decision not to enroll Mary Beth for dual credit classes. I just need a break from our community college and its incessant demands. Christian’s last year there squeezed every ounce of energy from me. On the morning that I decided not to enroll her, I took Mary Beth with me grocery shopping instead. On the way, we discussed the list her youth minister asked her make. We chatted about this post and that and how I’d write that list if I were her age. All in all, time well spent. At the grocery store, we ran into an old friend. She is the lovely woman in whose home Michael bloomed during high school. She was his art teacher, his best friend’s mother, his Confirmation sponsor. Big hugs. Smiles. And the announcement that she’s going to host art again in that warm, beautiful house. Would Mary Beth and Stephen and Nick like to come? I could answer enthusiastically in the affirmative. There was time in the margin.

    On the way home from the grocery store, the phone rang. It was my friend Leah. Leah and I were pregnant together for the first time back in 1988. We go way back to lazy days of walking babies a couple miles to the park every afternoon because we didn’t have a car. She told me she’d been offered a new job. She’s to be the manager of the brand new library in my town. I admit that I cried.

    It was as if God Himself said, “You need margin and you need community. I knew this about you before you did and I’ve already moved mountains to provide it so that you barely have to leave home.” I’ve spent the last couple of days planning for the academic year. I do so knowing that there will be at least three extra hours in every day. It is rather amazing what this knowledge has done for my creativity in planning. There is still anxiety. I worry about Nick, who left so much in McLean and who is shy and slow to make friends. But Nicholas noticed this summer that our home had a revolving door in front. In and out and in and out went girls of every age from the dance studio. And he noted that he’s never had friends in and out of our house. We were willing to drive to McLean up to six days a week, but rarely did someone drive to us. We all want our house to be the place where friends gather and we are all hopeful that the season for that begins now.

    It’s been nearly 13 years since I had “only” six children at home. It was the year Nicholas was born. I still remember looking at those six gathered around the Christmas tree the day we brought him home. I remember thinking six children was the perfect number. Of course, perfect for us turned out to be nine and God would gift us with soft pink bundles at the end of the line. Nine children at home pushed me to my limit. There is no denying it. The morning I knew I could not do it, I was broken open, flat out spent, poured empty of everything I had. That was the morning I genuinely ceased striving. I surrendered. God had a better plan, a better idea than all my carefully color-coded calendar contortions. And I am resting in Him for the first time in a very long time.

Hope in the Morning

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The day began with Mike vlounteering to take Nick to soccer on his way to work. Soccer is absolutely not on Mike's way to the office, but he was being really sweet and I took him up on it. The coach always gets there 15 minutes early so Mike planned to drop Nick and dash to work. 

I gave him the address (all these fields are new to us since we've just switched leagues), and off they went.

To the wrong field.

I had given him the address of the field where Stephen trains tomorrow. Go me! I'd looked up all my travel desitinations before the week began...

They got there eventually. Mike apologized on my behalf.

And then he called me and spoke sweet, unmerited words of grace.

It seems like a very good morning to unplug, refill pots of watercolor, and paint some hope into the week ahead.

Christian leaves tomorrow. I'll be back in this space on Wednesday.

My prayer for each of you is for someone to speak grace into your day.

Okra, you are truly lovely!

    

    On a whim, I planted okra last spring. Katie and I have a fondness for it. I don't think anyone else is a big fan. I planted four plants and they've done beautifully. We always have enough pods ripe at the same time to fix a light lunch for the two of us. 

Every Saturday, I buy okra from my favorite farmer at the market. It's a luxury to have enough okra to fix a proper side dish for the family. When I stop to think about it, I recognize that most of them barely touch it, so I'm pretty much just cooking okra for Katie and me to enjoy as leftovers.

    I'd never seen okra grow before this season. I was happily astonished by its stunning flowers. Even if you aren't a fan of the "slime," or the fuzz, you have to admit, okra blossoms are beautiful and those pods make pretty cute floral-stars when sliced. 

    I think fried okra comes to mind for most people, but I'm not a big fan of things breaded and fried. Mary Beth tinkered with okra and tomatoes a few weeks ago and came up with this recipe. It takes polenta to delicious places.

• 36 okra pods, cut into 1/2 inch pieces with bottoms and tips discarded
• 4-6 full sized tomatoes, diced
• 6 green onions, thinly sliced
• 1 tube of premade polenta, cut into 1/2 inch thickness 
• 2 tablespoons of Italian seasoning
• 6 tablespoons of olive oil
• salt and pepper, to taste

1. Heat your skillet with 2 tablespoons of olive oil. Season okra with salt and pepper.
2. Add okra to your skillet, frying it until it's just brown. Remove from the skillet and set aside.
3. Next add another 2 tablespoons of olive oil to your skillet and add your tomatoes and green onions. Cook until carmelized. Add Italian seasoning. Remove the tomatoes and green onions from the skillet, cover them, and set aside.
4. Wipe out your skillet so there are no tomato juices left. Fry the polenta in the remaining olive oil until brown and crispy. About 3-5 minutes each side.
5. Remove polenta, top with browned okra and tomato mixture. Add more salt and pepper as needed.

{this moment}

This is my husband Mike, with our friend,Brian. We all went to high school together. Brian was the best man in our wedding. He's Nicholas' godfather. He's the kind of friend who sticks closer than a brother.

Mike and Brian were on the USS Ronald Reagan this week for this moment:

This is Chris, taking command of an aircraft carrier. Chris went to high school with us, too. And I'm blessed to call Chris' high school sweetheart (now his wife), Shelley, my dear friend. Chris was in our wedding, too and Mike was in his. That was the first wedding Michael, a tiny infant, ever attended.

So there they were, all of them in San Diego celebrating something that seems so surreal to me. I had hoped to go, to make another California trip like last year's, but it was not to be. Instead, Mike went and took pictures and told me all about it. While they all heralded the milestone, I moved through my daily round, remembering.  I remembered being about 15 on a rowboat on Lake Accotink with these guys (and I remember getting perilously close to the waterfall--ahem).  I remembered my father drilling Chris at my dining room table before his Naval Academy admissions interviews. I remember when Chris and Brian heard they were "in" at the Naval Academy. And I remembered all the moments we've treasured in the last thirty years. These are moments you can't imagine when all your friends are scattering from your small town high school to colleges far and wide. You think it's all over forever. 

But it's not.

Genuine friendship? Endures and grows.

Moment by moment.