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The air is downright chilly in the mornings and evening soccer practices yield to cool darkness. Autumn is upon us. I’m a big fan of weather, an embracer of the change of seasons. And of all the seasons, I love autumn best. This year, though, I find myself wishing it wouldn’t arrive so quickly. Time just seems to slip through my fingers these days. Autumn comes and with it, the close of the year will soon be upon us. Hurry, hurry. We race on. I’m not ready to let this year go.
Where can we find more time? Amidst the bustle of it all — the super-fast debit card self-checkout that eliminates the need to count out change and chat with the cashier about what I plan to bake with those chocolate chips and the can of pumpkin; the E-Z Pass that eliminates a smile and a “Have a nice day” with the man in the tollbooth; the automated checkout at the library that means we won’t chat stories with the children’s librarian — we are hustling through time. It feels so frantic. We feel so frantic.
Last week, our dryer was broken. In a family of 11, when the dryer breaks, we all get pretty creative about places to hang clothes. Our homeowner’s association prohibits clotheslines, preferring the aesthetic of efficient dryers trapped inside stuffy laundry rooms to the messy beauty of linens blowing wild in the breeze. Go figure.
We hung clothes from portable soccer goals and relished the warm windiness of the day. For the few days of our inconvenience, I was not-so-secretly enjoying being “forced” to stand in the sunshine and shake out clean laundry. It was terribly inefficient, made the chore much more time-consuming, and would likely become wearisome over time. But in the moment, it was a golden opportunity to relish the moment, to linger long instead of tossing clothes inside the drum while looking ahead to the next thing to do.
The day we got the dryer fixed, the dishwasher decided it was no longer communicating with the water source. Admittedly I grumbled a bit before I resigned myself to filling my sink with warm, soapy bubbles. Surveying my “help,” I decided it was probably easier to wash dishes by myself than to coach my reluctant dishwashers through this new way of tackling the typical Tuesday night table set for eight. Or 10.
Here’s what you can’t do while washing dishes by hand: You can’t get distracted by your smartphone. You can’t wander out of the room when a child keeps adding to a longwinded, very detailed, not-even-remotely true story. You can’t quickly go check the laundry. Or your email. You have to stand there, hands in the warm suds, and be fully present in the moment. It doesn’t much feel like time is slipping through your fingers.
Where’s the slow in life? Can we seek it, find it, perhaps even create it? Can we deliberately pull into the slow lane sometimes? Can we embrace the wait time? Take a few extra moments to pay in cash and count out exact change, looking the cashier in the eye and sharing a warm word or two? Can we breathe more deeply, park a little further away and enjoy the walk? Can we plunge into the sink full of bubbles and invite someone we love to pull up a stool and chat while we rinse away the hurry with the dirt?
When we do, we catch moments that glisten like soapsuds in the early evening light across the sink. And time swishes warmth around us instead of swirling forcefully down the drain.
This morning, Katie and I made a disheartening discovery in the sewing room. She has outgrown my fabric stash. That is, nearly none of the fabric I have stashed was cut in lengths long enough to work for her fall clothes. Furthermore, she’s outgrown all but one of my Oliver + S patterns. I had the one pattern that fits traced and ready to go, but she couldn’t find two fabrics that would work for her.
So, did what we all do in times of sewing distress. I got on Facebook and asked for advice. There, Jennifer suggested the Lisette patterns. I have one of those in her (gulp—really?) size. Jen mentioned that she had a similar, but different pattern and a very similarly sized daughter. We decided to go for it together. Sew along! A couple other friends are joining us. It’s all very informal. I don’t even have fabric yet.
I’m sewing this one. Jen is sewing this one.
My friend Kathy has asked me about choosing fabric. Since Katie and I had some fabric shopping to do this morning, I kept Kathy in mind and tried to take note of my steps. In dase you’re wondering, here’s my fabric shopping strategy:
I spent a whole lot of time on sewing blogs back when I first started to sew. I got a sene of different designers and what to expect. Those are my go-tos when I’m looking for something new. They’re also where I check in periodically to see what’s new. All those blogs used to be safely bookmarked on my Google Reader. No more. I don’t read online much at all these days, so I’m sort of out of practice but I’m going to try to reconstruct the list. Here’s a brief list and I’m certain I’m excluding someone.
That list is what is represented on my shelves.
Sometimes, the designers have shops and I buy there. Anna Maria Horner is one I usually purchase in her shop, because I love her ribbons and patterns and other goodies and I’ll buy those at the same time.
I have hit some great Heather Bailey sales. Anna Maria Horner is on my very short regular blog reading list even when I’m not shopping fabric.
Outside of designers shops, or when I want to buy from more than one designer, my first stop is the Fat Quarter Shop. There are two reasons for this. (1) They are blog sponsors and no other fabric store wanted a spot here. I like to dance with the one who brung me. (2) They have incredibly excellent customer service. From answering questions to notifying when something is in to packaging to cutting to just plain getting it right—they’re top notch.
Other places I go:
Hawthorne Threads: I like that they offer coordinating color suggestions—nice design feature. I feel like their selection is different from the Fat Quarter Shop.
Pink Chalk Fabrics: Another with topnotch customer service and good sales/bargains.
A word about Fabric.com. They have a design wall feature where you can browse and pin fabrics to a wall so that you can see how they all go together. It’s a great feature. They have the worst customer service ever and after countless wrong orders, I won’t go back. Though their prices are better, the mistakes end up being costly.
The designers listed above usually put out a collection of fabrics, maybe in two different colorways, once or twice a year. The prints are intended to coordinate with each other. Frequently, I’ll find that a designer’s style conveys across collections, too. For instance, I stashed some Heather Bailey back when Karoline was a baby seven years ago. It’s sitting on my ironing board with what’s left from Katie’s Heather Bailey Easter dress a year and a half ago and I am certain the two will find themselves together on a garment this fall.
Usually, I just play with this, sometimes obsessively. I’ll go to the Fat Quarter Shop and fill my cart and delete and add and delete and add until I have combinations I like. Usually, if I’m shopping to stash fabric (to take advantage of a sale), I buy in 1 yard lengths. I’m rethinking that as the girls grow. This is all a huge learning process for me.
I’ve learned the hard way to never let a fabric line get more than six months old while I wait for a sale. I’ve missed some good ones biding my time.
Kathy, I hope this helps a little. At least, it might provide a starting place for your own rabbit trail through sewing blogs.
This week, I’ve been tracing and cutting and measuring and ordering. It’s been a ridiculously stressful week and this morning, when Katie handed me her pointe shoes to sew and I felt my heart rate drop as I threaded the machine, I promised myself that I will make time for myself in the sewing room today. I’ll update as I go on Instagram.
Not much reading happening, outside of necessary reads for my kids. But the time of year and the state of my heart have directed towards the bookshelf, where I’ve stored a gift from Tripp Curtis. Barbara’s last book. I couldn’t read it when he sent it.
Now, though, I would love to have these conversations with her and I’m grateful that her words are here with us even when she no longer is. So Raising God First Kids in a Me First World is my slow read these days.
So tell me: what are you reading? What are you sewing? And how do you shop for fabric? Surely, we can all help Kathy come up with a strategy.
And one more thing? I wrote this post last night in soccer parking lot. There's no wi-fi there, so that left a lot of linking to do this morning. Now that I've finished linking, I'm looking at my mail and my Facebook messages. Both Elizabeth DeHority and Shawn Kuykendell are in urgent need of prayer today. Please light a candle with us?
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We all noticed it the year Patrick was fourteen. It seemed like overnight, but really, it wasn't. It was the whole fourteenth year. And my husband turned gray.
It wasn't all Patrick, of course. That was the year of the fragile pregnancy and the fragile baby, and the college athlete who spent too much time on the bench. And then there was Patrick.
Gray hair.
This has been my year to turn gray. My friend the stylist is out on maternity leave. My hair was long overdue for a cut, making me crazy, curls more out of control as they lose color. I couldn't wait for her to return (and I have a hunch she won't), so I went to see the lady who cut my hair last year. To remind her of how it is supposed to be cut, I showed her a picture from the wedding.
"Oh my goodness! It's turned so gray!"
Is this how they get people to beg for color to go with their cut? No, thanks. I work too hard to keep color and chemicals out of my food to pay someone to allow it to seep into my scalp. If it's going to be gray, it's going to be gray. And apparently, it's going to be gray.
It's not Patrick, this time. Well, there is that dang bench in college again, but no one thinks that will last long. He's discouraged, but he's just building character.
There are other things this time around, things that pull on a mama's heart. And things that make her hair turn gray. She wonders, remembers, that it's not all turning out the way we thought it would.
Way back when we thought life was black and white and there were no shades of gray...
Now? Now there's gray. There is the benefit of experience. It stands in the gap where once stood the confidence (and naivete?) of youth.
And my problems? They are decidedly first world problems. In the morning, as I pull gray hairs from between my fingers and ask if perhaps today could be calm for my children, my neighbors, and my friends, my husband reminds me that life is hard. Really hard. Gently, he pointed to the idea that when it's hard, there are children and young adults who look to our home for refuge. They call this home. And I didn't give birth to all of them.
Life is hard and we are called to be Christ to one another in the midst of the hard.
Later in the day, a friend reminds me that children are starving, wars are waging, young fathers are dying of AIDS. All a world away in a place that is not at all first world. That's hard life, she says. I am chagrined. And silenced.
The question burns though, all day, as I answer text messages and call in resources and troubleshoot and cry and pray and wait and worry on the behalf of people in my here and now: Is it somehow less when we suffer in the first world? Do those who suffer the pains of affluence--who know exactly how far their disease has progressed because they can afford a CT scan after they've drunk horrid yellow radioactive dye; those who struggle away from home for the first time because they've been afforded an education and tuition to university; those who wonder about paying the bills of a middle class lifestyle because suddenly costs will rise and income will decrease--is their suffering less worthy of my time and attention than the suffering across the ocean?
St. Therese wanted to be a missionary to foreign lands. Instead, God called her to the cloister. Still, the Church calls Therese of Lisieux the patron of missions. Why? She shares the patronage with the great Jesuit missionary, St. Francis Xavier. His spiritual principle was, to “love those people to whom we are sent and to make ourselves loved by them.”
St.Therese never left the cloister, never. Her motto? “To love Jesus and to make him loved.” She lived this mission wholeheartedly: “Just as a torrent, throwing itself with impetuosity into the ocean, drags after it everything it encounters in its passage, in the same way, Jesus, the soul who plunges into the shoreless ocean of your love draws with her all the treasures she possesses. Lord, You know it, I have no other treasures than the souls it has pleased You to unite to mine; it is You who entrusted these treasures to me.”
To other people He has entrusted populations of impoverished natives of foreign lands.
Me? He has sent me to a small town in the shadow of Washington, DC. He knows this small circle in suburbia is all that I can manage. I'm sure He's wondering at how poorly I "manage" even that some days. Then again, He has numbered every gray hair on my head. Nothing surprises Him.
Mothers are mostly little and hidden. St. Therese had great apostolic zeal, yet it wasn't until after her death that the example of her life, the simplicity of her spirituality, and the intercession of her spirit, made her an apostle to the nations.
St. Therese is a good patron for mothers at home, particularly mothers at home who might occasionally be distracted by the proliferation of blog posts and books that urge them to move beyond their "comfortable selfishness" to evangelize and bring comfort to the remote corners of the world.
Go! By all means, whatever it takes, if it is God's call, go.
It's not always God's call. Sometimes He calls us to quiet witness in our homes and communities. Sometimes He calls us to remain little and hidden in our domestic monasteries, nurturing the few souls in our spheres of influence. Loving them as unto the Lord. We can't bring healing to the impoverished masses huddled in their obvious suffering. We can't know what it feels like to fill the bellies and bind the wounds of the poor on foreign soil. Instead, we trust that giving a sippy cup of water to the least of these in our own kitchens is still doing His work.
Vatican II defined missionary activity in these terms: “The special end of this missionary activity is the evangelization and the implantation of the Church among peoples or groups in which it has not yet taken root.” By golly, I assure you, that work is not yet finished in my home:-). At first it seemed so black and white, but really, this mission is colored in shades of gray. A woman can feed them, clothe them, educate them, comfort them, but in this culture, she is not guaranteed that they will stay close to God all their lives. The thing about the first world? There is a myriad of shiny things with which the devil can distract. The mission field is physically comfortable and spiritually very, very dangerous. It is one that requires the constant care and attention of the missionary, lest they are all blinded by the gray.
I'm not a very good multi-tasker. The task at home is quite enough. I cannot serve soup in Africa. Right now, I cannot even seek the suffering in the cities close to my home. I'm just a mom in the suburbs, ladling chowder at my dining room table. And my hair is turning gray.
Now. Here. This is where I'm called.
This is where I pray He finds me, offering hope, serving unconditional love, and counting gifts. I'm giving until I've nothing left to give. I have to trust His grace to fill in the large gaps I've left when I feebly offer these days of relative comfort. I have to hope it is indeed enough.
Click here for the Recipe for Chubby Hubby Bars because someone in your household is probably in need of them;-)
About the photos: I have two friends who periodically encourage me to try to learn my camera and look at life through its lens. Independent of each other, they are firm believers that I am a very good candidate for this kind of Joy School. Today, I was a willing student of said school.
Late update: as I was uploading pictures, I was watching Paddy play. And there was this:
I find myself:
::noticing God's glory
The trees are just beginning to turn. Autumn is so beautiful in Virginia. I’m determined to read the camera manual and try to capture it this year. For today, though, it's old pictures from my phone. I beg your pardon.
::listening to
soccer practice.
::clothing myself in
old jeans and lightweight sweater. It was nippy today; I actually wore a denim jacket out this morning.
::talking with my children about these DVDs
we just finished Mark Hart’s T3 Matthew: Thy Kingdom Come. Now, all of us are watching Fr. Barron’s Catholicism. I’m taking notes as we go and we’re talking and talking about it. Absolutely, positively highly recommended for almost all ages. Sarah (nearly 5) didn’t catch the whole thing, but Karoline (nearly 7) definitely did. I kept wishing Christian were at home, because I know he would have appreciated both production quality and content.
::thinking and thinking
about the economy. And health care. How’s that for a deviation on the norm ‘round these parts? Mike and I have a definite, firm “date night” planned because we need to look carefully at the health care that we like and see how it compares much less affordable health care that we will be compelled to purchase on October 1.
::pondering prayerfully
“There are also all sorts of things in our spiritual life where a thing has to be killed and broken, in order that it may then become bright, and strong, and splendid.” –C. S. Lewis.
::carefully cultivating rhythm
Last week stunk. No sweet way to put it; it just stunk. It was one of those weeks when every time I popped back up, determined not to let yuck get the upper hand, I got splatted with more yuck. Stinky yuck. And that always messes with my rhythm. In the end, though, it’s usually rhythm I find first on my way back from mucking through the yuck. So that’s goal: yuck mucking. And that’s about as specific as the complaining is going to get here because I’m still not into blog whining.
::creating by hand
No kidding. My girls need some shirts. Binge sewing to begin Tuesday morning.
::learning lessons in
eating habits and whether it’s all worth it. I’ve been working pretty dang hard on diet this year. Last week, amidst the yuck, I had a doctor’s appointment. Essentially, my doctor looked at my chart when I called for a routine refill of thyroid meds and said she wouldn’t do it unless she laid eyes on me. Something about not having been to the doctor since January 2011. The plan was just say hey and draw thyroid labs. Once I got there though, she ran as many blood tests as she could. All of which conjured up a significant and utterly disproportionate post-cancer PTSD.
Lo and behold, the results came in and I learned that I’m one of the small percentage of people whose lipid profile puts her in the “able to reverse heart disease” range. Extraordinarily good news from the lab. Pat on the back from the doctor. Who knew? Now I do.
And I’m ever more resolved to eat mindfully.
::encouraging learning
Homeschooling high school is hard work. That is all. See above whining policy.
::begging prayers
for the lonely, depressed, and afraid.
for all the intentions of our prayer community.
And yes, for that intention I was keeping quiet; it’s still very close to my heartJ
::keeping house
They say fall cleaning is even more important than spring cleaning because you’re going to spend the coming months all closed up in the house. To that end, I’m trying to work some heavy-duty cleaning into the schedule. Like rhythm, clean gives me a sense of control 9however false that may be), roots me, and offers a cheerful perspective. Clean is a good thing.
::crafting in the kitchen
I feel like I’ve been grocery shopping uncontrollably lately. Seems like every time I turn around, we need one more thing and then I go and come back with lots more. I’ve resolved to eat from pantry and fridge for the next two weeks, with the exception of the Farmer’s Market on Saturday. Speaking of the market, it was much smaller last weekend. Much, much smaller. Makes me so sad.
::loving the moments
when they all work together to make a tent village of sheets and blankets in the living room and when I tell them to clean it up and they protest, saying Daddy promised to watch Monday Night Football in the tents with them. Alrighty then. They can—and did—have fund with that.
::giving thanks
for the body of Christ and friends who will read your texts and love on your kids and then find other people to love on your kids—all from a couple of states away.
living the liturgy
We began the St. Therese novena on Monday. I like to start this novena on the Feast of St. Padre Pio and finish on the Feast of St. Therese. It’s not too late! Join us?
::planning for the week ahead
Mike will go to Charlottesville tonight. I’ll watch Paddy’s match from here, streaming on my computer. Thank goodness for streaming games!
Patrick called last night to tell me Zach was coming home for the weekend. Paddy isn’t coming home (he’s going to Syracuse), but Zach needs a breakJ.
We have our annual birthday tea planned for Friday with my friend Megan and her daughter. They’re going to school this year and Megan is working up at the parish. I miss them. I’m looking very forward to catching up.
I might try to buzz up to Harrisonburg to see Christian.
Lots of soccer this weekend. All local.
I'm Elizabeth. I'm a happy wife and the mother of nine children. I grab grace with both hands and write to encourage myself and others to seize and nurture the joy of every day. I blog here with my daughter, Mary Beth, a wholehearted young lady on the brink of adulthood.
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