Shout for Joy! {Summer of Psalms}

Happy Monday morning to you! Last week, I sent you Cari Donaldson's way for the first of the Summer of Psalms posts. This week, it's my turn. Kristin has reached out to bloggers hither and yon and asked if they'd like to choose a psalm to share, each of us taking a turn on Monday throughout the summer. So, you get to read us pondering the psalms. But, wait, there's more!

Every week, Kristin will offer her original artwork to take away, print, frame, turn into a screensaver--enjoy! This week's art is truly something I will treasure. By the way, as I frame this one, it occurs to me that I may have framed more of Kristin's art now than I framed Michael's. And I framed a good bit of Michael's. I can't wait to see what this one creates;-). 

So, here's some art for you to have. Print it. Frame it. Share it. The Summer of Psalms Project is an effort to brighten cyberspace and give glory to God this summer through the sharing of inspired art and heartfelt thoughts and prayers. you can follow along by checking in with Kristin for a list (and I'll remind you here) as we add to the collection throughout the summer. Every week, there will be new, free, and encouraging artwork. What will you do with it? Whatever you do, share. Take a picture of how the psalms are coming to life in your spaces this summer and share it using the hashtag #summerofpsalmsproject -- let everyone shout for joy with us! 

Download Printable PDF of Psalm 65 Art

Upon first reading, this is a harvest song, plain and simple. But a little digging around, and we can understand it as an Easter song. The early Christians sang this psalm at liturgies celebrating the Resurrection. It's a beautiful praise of God's handiwork and, to me, it's an overflowing from the abundance of a grateful heart.

Clearly, all manners of praise are due to God and yet,  as I contemplate the majesty and goodness of God, I have no words at first to express His overwhelming amazingness. Those prayers of praise will be uttered, but only after I my breath is taken away by the majesty of it all. When I first read this psalm, I thought about how closely tied my family's celebration of Easter is with our time in the bluebells every year. It just happens that way--we celebrate the Resurrection in the context of glorious, bursting Virginia springtime. And every year, I walk the path in to the creek's edge. Tiny white fairy spuds line the trail, little wisps of green on the tress give a hint of rich fullness that is still to come within the next few weeks. And then, just as we near the water's edge, wave after wave of delicate blue flowers cover the forest floor. And every year, I stand there, silent, and inhale in awed wonder. 

The God who attends so carefully to the tiniest detail, the faintest blush of pink on a flower that will be blue in its fullness, is the God who hears me when the words finally come. He reveals Himself, kind and merciful, ready to answer the prayers of the children of His creation who come to Him through His Son. Pretty heady stuff.

Against the backdrop of His stunning artistry, we are so aware of our sins, of the fact that we aren't even close to worthy. But God chooses us. He brings us into communion with Him and He reveals Himself to us in the great outdoors that is both the glorious canvas of His artistry and the provision of His hands. And beyond the here and now, He has even greater riches awaiting us in heaven. 

The God strong enough to uphold the mountains? He's got this. Whatever "this" is in my life or the lives of the people I love, He's got it. My world storms around me, and oceans roar in my ears in the middle of the night; He speaks calm. He silences the Tormenter. 

Photo credit: Karoline, who loves to run after and capture sunsets with me.

I have learned to be a collector of both sunrises and sunsets. I seek them out. I capture them with a camera. I go out of my way to find them. They call to me. It is impossible for me to look at a canvas in the sky in the morning or the evening and not know the Artist who painted it. So I keep looking. The gateway into daytime is a moment to ask for His strength and His grace and clarity of His purpose for me. The gateway of the evening is a time to give thanks and to entrust my cares to Him. 

So many gifts! So many reasons to go outside and shout for joy! And every good and perfect gift is from above. He did it all. These are the works of God. And that river overflowing? It is the pouring out of the Holy Spirit on world even today, so far removed the time of the psalmist and from the time of Christ. God is still with us. He's here, softening the edges with showers of grace.

As much as I see His glory in creation, how much can His glory be in me? Can it overflow? All those places in this great world where the beauty and majesty trumpet His glory and make me want to sing for joy? He considers me His greatest creation.

Think on that a moment. Me. You. We are the greatest works of His hands. And as much as that field of flowers makes my heart leap every spring, I  make His heart leap. 

For joy.

“Thanksgiving for Earth’s Bounty
To the leader. A Psalm of David. A Song.

1 Praise is due to you,
O God, in Zion;
and to you shall vows be performed,
2 O you who answer prayer!
To you all flesh shall come.
3 When deeds of iniquity overwhelm us,
you forgive our transgressions.
4 Happy are those whom you choose and bring near
to live in your courts.
We shall be satisfied with the goodness of your house,
your holy temple.
5 By awesome deeds you answer us with deliverance,
O God of our salvation;
you are the hope of all the ends of the earth
and of the farthest seas.
6 By your[a] strength you established the mountains;
you are girded with might.
7 You silence the roaring of the seas,
the roaring of their waves,
the tumult of the peoples.
8 Those who live at earth’s farthest bounds are awed by your signs;
you make the gateways of the morning and the evening shout for joy.
9 You visit the earth and water it,
you greatly enrich it;
the river of God is full of water;
you provide the people with grain,
for so you have prepared it.
10 You water its furrows abundantly,
settling its ridges,
softening it with showers,
and blessing its growth.
11 You crown the year with your bounty;
your wagon tracks overflow with richness.
12 The pastures of the wilderness overflow,
the hills gird themselves with joy,
13 the meadows clothe themselves with flocks,
the valleys deck themselves with grain,
they shout and sing together for joy.”

— Psalm 65

raindrops on roses...

...and lavender and daylilies and dresses and hats!

My brain was tired this week. You know that feeling when you have a to-do list and time to do it, but you just can't make your mind start firing the way you want it to in order to accomplish things efficiently? Oh, that's just me? Well, whatever the case, I had a tired brain. 

I had several conversations both in person and virtually about All The Important Things.  And then PFFFT--nothing left. Sewing is such a good antidote to that.

Sewing occupies just enough brain space to keep me alert but not too much to let my brain relax a little. I made Sarah Annie a Popover Sundress and a matching bucket hat--perfect little projects to get the sewing mojo going. It's been a cool and rainy week, so pictures aren't the bright sunshiny ones I'd imagined. Still, she was thrilled with the outfit and she's very much looking forward to the return of the sun. You can't see the reverse of the bucket hat, but it's made of the same red pin dot as the yoke and ties on the sundress. 

This might be my favorite swing project ever. It wasn't the most challenging. It's not the most prayer-filled. 

But this one? Well, Sarah Annie was just so very excited about it. She said all the right "handmade" things:  

• I'm so thankful you took all that time to make it for me!
• I could never find something so special in a store.
• You're hand stitching it just for me, just like Lucy's
• You're going to make me one more dress that matches the hat, right? {Here we pause for a vote. I saw some Daysail locally. It would totally coordinate with the hat. Kristin talked sense into me at the moment, but I'm tempted to return to the store and indulge this child. Should I? I mean really; you can't script those things. Such appreciation! Then again, it's entirely possible she's playing me like a fiddle.}

I'm still readingThe Little Bookstore of Big Stone Gap: a memoir of friendship, community, and the uncommon pleasure of a good book.  It sort of reminds me of when I read The Dirty Life: A ramshackle house, a relationship, tenacity, small town. This is a mature couple, though and it's all about the books and not farming. And, well, there are lots of differences. But the similar theme is one that intrigues me: is it really possible for a couple to jump off the well-traveled road, pursue a dream, and have it all turn out well? I don't think that's a question I will answer with experience. My life just isn't on that trajectory. Maybe it's the midlife place I find myself in, but lots of women around me are talking about how they've spent the first 20 years of adulthood. And it's a mixed bag. Some are deeply satisfied. Some express regret. Some are making drastic changes in marital status or hair color or place of residence or all three. At least one wants to jump off the path and start all over. 

That's where All The Important Things come in. Is it possible to craft a life that doesn't lose sight of All The Important Things? What are the important things? What are those things that are the firm foundation of life? The things that keep the sands from shifting drastically at midlife, the things that keep us from building a house on sand at all, or--frankly--the things that cause us to move to higher ground when we recognize it wasn't built well in the first place?

I remember sitting in a bagel shop in West Springfield in August of 1990 with my baby boy. My wig was itchy in the humidity and heat. A girl a couple years younger walked past me, her hair in high ponytail with a scrunchie around it. (1990 = scrunchies) I remember thinking, Lord, please let me live long enough to wear a sweatshirt in the autumn and pull my hair into a ponytail with a scrunchie. Since I had no hair at the time, I figure I was bargaining for at least two years.

That summer and well into the fall, I didn't hope for extraordinary things. I didn't beg for time to write the Great American Novel. I didn't ask to have a huge internet platform (that might be because we were a good six years form being online, but still). I didn't want a giant house. I didn't beg for travel opportunities.  I just wanted to live to raise my baby. I wanted evening to find me standing in my kitchen, making dinners for my husband. I wanted to live to harvest the basil and then to live even longer to eat pesto from my freezer. I wanted to plant roses beside an herb garden. When I was feeling particularly audacious, I begged for more children. 

Now, it's 25 years later. I'm wearing a pony tail and sweatshirt in June. It's evening. Mike will be home on a flight later tonight. Dinner will be waiting.  My ninth child has clipped a rose from our yard and put it in a vase beside the chair where I sit writing. Its smell is fresh and lovely and kind of a miracle to me. When I was sewing this afternoon, my second daughter made me a smoothie  with mint from our garden. Later this summer, there will be pesto. The baby who ate bagels with me that morning? He's grown and married and his baby and her mama helped plant those flowers.

It's so easy to get caught up in the clarion call to do something more, be something more, go somewhere else--anywhere else. It's easy to compare and despair. It's easy to panic at midlife and regret or worry--or worry that you will regret. I know how easy it is.

When my friend Elizabeth was alive, I had a daily reminder of how very fragile our grasp on the All The Important Things is. She'd email or text and her prayer requests were simple; sometimes impossible in this life, but simple. Some days, she wanted to be able to muster the energy to sit up on one elbow in bed and turn the pages of a picture book with her little boy. Other days, she wanted to knit a few rows on a sock before sleeping. All The Important Things were crystal clear for her. 

Crystal. Clear.

Hey. look! I just wrote about Elizabeth. I wondered where those words were. Perhaps there will be more.   

What are you reading or sewing or thinking this week?

P.S. One more thing! I nearly forgot? See the book in the picture? I'm not really reading it. It came unexpectedly yesterday. I wrote it!! And then someone translated it into Polish. And now it's published. How cool is that?  Here's the thing: they sent me two. And even though my maiden name had a whole bunch of consonants and very few vowels, I don't speak or read Polish. If you know someone who would appreciate my extra copy of Polish Small Steps, would you please let me know? 

Don't Blink

As I try to overcome some of the archive obstacles that happened with my blog move, I'm using Thursday to post favorites that might otherwise have gotten lost in the move. Below is a double throwback that three people asked me to help them find last week. But, this time, there's an afterword (so we're working in three time zones here). It was serendipitous that Katie took some pictures that made me think of the last time I re-posted this one. God had a plan back then, didn't he? All is well. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

I was hanging the lining of Sarah's carseat to dry after the barfing episode and Katie wandered into the laundry room. 

"So, I guess now that it's all clean and beautiful, you'll put it away until we have another baby? Sarah hates that carseat."

And the tears spring way too easily. I lean into the dryer even though there is nothing in there. I don't want her to see.

"No, we'll put it away until we find someone who needs it. My guess is that Mommy's too old to have another baby."

"That's ridiculous. We should adopt."

She skips away to discuss Haitian adoptions with Nicky, who would really rather adopt a boy his age than a baby.

I finish hanging the rest of the items from that offensive load; the Ergo is last to find a hanger. It smells so sweet now. We have at least one more season with my little one nestled against me in this carrier. I remember one of my favorite hugs ever, right around this time last year, when Sarah was asleep in the Ergo just after Paddy won the State Cup. She was sandwiched between us. Life was perfect that day: funny, interesting teenagers; utterly engaging middle kids; twirling, dancing toddlers; and a baby asleep on my chest. My dear husband utterly delirious to be in their company. One more season of the Ergo. I know that it is unlikely that I will give it away. It will end up in my hope chest with Michael's Peter Pan costume and Stephen's and Nicky's matching gecko shirts and Katie's crocheted bunny hat. All little pieces of fabric in the quilt of our lives.

Sarah's nearly 17 months old. She gets sick riding backwards. It's time to move on to a bigger carseat. What the heck? It's a carseat. Why do I care so much?

Because I know.

I've been here before. If I blink--if I dare to blink--the tears that fill my eyes will surely run down my face.

Remember this? 

Don't Blink

For the first time in a very long time, I am neither pregnant nor mothering a baby. My "baby" is now two years old. And with a certainty that takes my breath away, I suddenly understand why wise women always told me that the time would go so quickly. To be sure, I’ve had more "baby time" than most women. My first baby will be 16 in a few days. I still think it’s over much too soon.

This column is for mothers of infants and toddlers. I am going to attempt to do something I never thought I’d do: I’m going to empathize while not in your situation. My hope is that it is all so fresh in my memory that I can have both perspective and relevance.

What you are doing, what you are living, is very difficult. It is physically exhausting. It is emotionally and spiritually challenging. An infant is dependent on you for everything. It doesn’t get much more daunting: there is another human being who needs you for his very life. Your life is not your own at all. You must answer the call (the cry) of that baby, regardless of what you have planned. This is dying to self in a very pure sense of the phrase. And you want to be with him. You ache for him. When he is not with you, a certain sense of restlessness edges its way into your consciousness, and you are not at complete peace.

If you are so blessed that you have a toddler at the same time, you wrestle with your emotions. Your former baby seems so big and, as you settle to nurse your baby and enjoy some quiet gazing time, you try desperately to push away the feeling that the great, lumbering toddler barreling her way toward you is an intruder. Your gaze shifts to her eyes, and there you see the baby she was and still is, and you know that you are being stretched in ways you never could have imagined.

This all might be challenge enough if you could just hunker down in your own home and take care of your children for the next three years; but society requires that you go out — at least into the marketplace. So you juggle nap schedules and feeding schedules and snowsuits and carseats. Just an aside about carseats: I have literally had nightmares about installing carseats. These were not dreams that I had done it wrong or that there had been some tragedy. In my dreams I am simply exhausted, struggling with getting the thing latched into the seat of the car and then getting my baby latched into the carseat. I’m fairly certain anyone else who has ever had four of these mechanical challenges lined up in her van has had similar dreams. It’s the details that overwhelm you, drain you, distract you from the nobility of it all. The devil is in the details.

You will survive. And here is the promise: if you pray your way through this time, if you implore the Lord at every turn, if you ask Him to take this day and this time and help you to give Him something beautiful, you will grow in ways unimagined. And the day will come when no one is under two years old. You will — with no one on your lap — look at your children playing contentedly together without you. And you will sigh. Maybe, like me, you will feel your arms are uncomfortably empty, and you will pray that you can hold a baby just once more. Or maybe, you will sense that you are ready to pass with your children to the next stage. 

This is the place where nearly two decades of mothering babies grants me the indulgence of sharing what I would have done differently. I would have had far fewer obligations outside my home. Now, I see that there is plenty of time for those, and that it is much simpler to pursue outside interests without a baby at my breast. I wish I’d spent a little more time just sitting with that baby instead of trying to "do it all." 

I wish I’d quieted the voices telling me that my house had to look a certain way. I look around now and I recognize that those houses that have "that look" don’t have these children. Rarely are there a perfectly-kept house and a baby and a toddler under one roof. Don’t listen to the voices that tell you that it can be done. It should not be done. I wish I hadn’t spent 16 years apologizing for the mess. Just shoot for "good enough." Cling to lower standards and higher goals. 

I wish I’d taken more pictures, shot more video and kept better journals. I console myself with the knowledge that my children have these columns to read. They’ll know at least as much about their childhoods as you do. 

I wish I could have recognized that I would not be so tired forever, that I would not be standing in the shallow end of the pool every summer for the rest of my life, that I would not always have a baby in my bed (or my bath or my lap). If I could have seen how short this season is (even if mine was relatively long), I would have savored it all the more.

And I wish I had thanked Him more. I prayed so hard. I asked for help. But I didn’t thank Him nearly enough. I didn’t thank Him often enough for the sweet smell of a newborn, for the dimples around pudgy elbows and wrists, for the softening of my heart, for the stretching of my patience, for the paradoxical simplicity of it all. A baby is a pure, innocent, beautiful embodiment of love. And his mother has the distinct privilege, the unparalleled joy, of watching love grow. Don’t blink. You’ll miss it.

*~*~*~*~*

It is 2015. Yesterday, Katie captured these moments of another baby and a beautiful young woman whom I didn't yet know when I wrote the words above. She's wearing my granddaughter in my beloved Ergo.

I do remember how hard those young mothering days can be and I can empathize. These days, we've fallen into a rhythm of multi-generational friendship and support that I could never have even imagined. Grace upon grace. And this time, I'm thanking Him all the time.

Top of the grateful list: every once in awhile I still get a turn to wear the Ergo.

There Will be Thorns

Two throwbacks this week. One today, and one Thursday. Long time readers know the way this one turned out. Still, every time I go into the garden, the thoughts below  crowd my head. Every single time.  Bless you!

I went out to the garden early this morning, mostly so my kids wouldn't see me cry. Over the last day, our family has been trying to absorb the very bad news conveyed to a good friend. Without talking too much about details--because truly they are too tender for words here--I bring to you an earnest request for prayers. For our friend, for his family, for his doctors, for all the people who love him: please pray. 

And I offer to you some perspective that hit me as I was pulling weeds amongst the lavender. 

Yesterday, before the news went from bad to very bad, I was talking to an old friend about the idealistic homeschooler I used to be. I was lamenting (more than a little) the loss of such optimism and confidence. And I was wondering aloud if perhaps I don't always choose the hard way of doing things, only to end up with the same result as people who do things the seemingly easier way.

She spoke sense to me and I put the conversation away. Mostly, my thoughts were interrupted by much more urgent matters. My thoughts were interrupted by a real life crisis, not a philosophical demon of my own making. 

Today, in the garden, while wrestling with tall grass grown up around the lavender, I thought of a remark my sister-in-law made within my earshot long ago. She told someone that we chose to homeschool because I had had cancer. At the time, I remember thinking that wasn't really true. We came at home education from a different place, a place rooted in educational theory. I very much wanted to embrace homeschooling from a pedagogical perspective. Then, not long into our journey, we learned about the spiritual benefits. But I never really thought it was about cancer. 

It sort of was, though. I truly didn't know how many days I had (none of us do) and I wanted to invest huge quantities of quality time into my marriage, and children, and family. Home education seemed the best way to do that. It was what we heard God calling us to do.

It was what was right for our family.

The reality is that my cancer experience shaped the idealistic, hopeful young mother I was. Today, my eldest child texted me from the bedside of his dearest friend and I relived those days that shaped me--shaped us. My heart broke for him. These present days are dark days, indeed. 

But his friend has grown in wisdom and stature and understanding of the Lord in a home very much like ours. And the missives this boy sends me are insistent that he serves an awesome, merciful God. Somewhere in his youth and childhood, someone got something very right. Whatever comes, he goes into this fight wearing the full armor of God. 

Sometimes, it's not readily apparent what the benefits of home education are. Particularly as children get older, it's easy to become discouraged or to second guess this grand (and often messy) experiment. It's easy to despair and to wonder at the [broken?] promises that if we just did things this way, the teenaged and college years would be a breeze. 

There in the garden, taking deep breaths of lavender to keep from sobbing, I took up the previous day's conversation with my friend. It was too easy to imagine a mother's pain as her child suffers. This young man's mother is in my constant thoughts and prayers.

Where to find the peace in what seems like like such senseless, tragic news? What to tell my children as they each offer their own version of "why?" 

In the early morning garden, my friend offered that the idealistic young girl could find peace in the reality of the here and now, only if she has grown into a wise woman who "laughs at the days to come." She said that meant that in the midst of the mess and the ugly and the sick and the pain, we know there will be joy, there will be grace. There will be eternal things to hold on to and give it all meaning and purpose.

Somehow, the idealistic young girl knew those things years ago, when in the wake of cancer, she determined to keep her young son at home a while longer and teach him how good life is. The weathered older mother prays fervently that those lessons were well learned and that now he can intimately know God's grace in the midst of tremendous sorrow.

Tomorrow will bring more news, no doubt. Tomorrow, instead of tall grass I can pull with my hands, I will have to conquer the ridiculous, prickly weeds and the blighted leaves of my beloved roses. There will be thorns, no doubt. There will be thorns. I will need the full armor of heavy gloves and pruning shears. But there will be blooms, too, and I am determined to see them, to appreciate them, and to share them with my children.

Gathering my Thoughts

Outside my window: The air conditioner in the car sometimes works and sometimes doesn't. And, sometimes, that's a real drag. But other times, we all learn how heavy the honeysuckle scent is in the air every evening in late May and early June. And if by chance, we're driving just after those frequent thunderstorms? Downright intoxicating.

Listening to: barista noises and jazz.

Clothing myself in: This new nail polish. I've never been much into nail polish, but since I can't get the scale to budge, I figured I'd let my nails grow. Nail polish is pretty toxic stuff, but this, maybe not so much?

Talking with my children about these books:  Sarah has this pile in a basket by her bed this week. We're making sure we get in our Three Books at Bedtime. She's definitely super interested in all things science right now and since we're all about planting these days, we're spending the next couple of weeks reading about flowers and gardens. So, this week, it's a flower theme:

Miss Rumphius

Sunflower Sal (Prairie Paperback Books)

Dancers in the Garden

Camille and the Sunflowers

Jack's Garden

Planting a Rainbow

Waiting for Wings

Sunflower House

Where Butterflies Grow (Picture Puffins)

The Reason for a Flower: A Book About Flowers

In my own reading: friend of mine sent me Anatomy of a Soul. I promised I'd read it. I'll get back to you on this one.

Thinking: Has social media become more unfriendly, or is it just me? Last week, it felt like every time I turned around someone wanted to argue. At one point, on Twitter (where it's ridiculously easy to be misunderstood), I protested that I didn't want to argue. She responded with, "If you don't want to argue, then don't engage." OK, then.

I don't want to argue. I really, really don't. I am so not the arguing type, even in person. I do not like conflict. Not one bit. 

Also, I find that when things like this happen online, I'm pretty good at clicking my computer closed and walking away, but then they must live in my brain because I find myself snapping at the real life people around me who have no idea why I'm cranky. Not a good thing.

Pondering: Psalm 52, Go visit Cari and see what a beautiful, free printable Kristin has made so that we can all spend the summer in the psalms. Really. Free. For you! It's gorgeous.

Carefully Cultivating Rhythm: The New Summer Schedule had a rocky start, but I sat everyone down on Thursday and really explained all the reasons it absolutely has to work. They were receptive. And I think it is honestly going to be a very good thing. We'll see how well we do when it's challenged by summer's comings and goings, but I'm very optimistic. 

Creating By Hand:  Finished the first sundress! Hooray! This week, I'm going to work on a belated birthday gift and do one more dress for Sarah before moving on to some long-awaited quilts. Oh, and this arrived Saturday. So, I might have to make it into something for me before the weekend.

Learning lessons In: Reaching out, creating community, both online and in person. 

Encouraging learning in: Spelling. I have a child who is old enough to be spelling well, but still is not. We are spending the summer working through as much of this program as we can. I have the old-fashioned, black and white version of this program. So far, my student is very receptive and, I think the word is "grateful." I think what we all want is for someone to notice our struggle and come alongside and sit awhile to help make the load lighter. When I linked for you, I looked briefly at the DVD version. I think I'll pass. As much as spelling is the issue, time with me is, too. So, side-by -side you'll find us, at 9AM Monday through Friday, for as long as it takes.

Keeping house: Every day, I list the chores that need attention that day. This is a definite change from the previous chore schedule type arrangement. So far, I think it's effective. 

Crafting in the kitchen: OK, so my lofty Whole 30 plans have been amended. I just can't eat that much animal protein. Just can't. I'm tweaking and revisiting Joel Fuhrman and reading the vegetarian section in Whole 30, because, in the end, it's about listening to one's body. My body tells me things on no uncertain terms. But it's exceptionally whiny;-). I try to listen, obey, and not whine back. 

To be fit and happy: Still no Fitbit. But, I'm working on reclaiming that morning habit. I want to get back to this place, because I know it's what I need to do. The more I move, the better. Just pushing past the inertia for now...

Giving thanks: For a really encouraging phone call with a new friend last week. I'm feeling like I can make some things happen in this space now. That's a new feeling that I kind of like a lot. 

Loving the moments: I didn't really love this moment. Actually, I kind of cried through it. But I know that when I look back on it, I will see that a legacy of love was at work. When you're the goalkeeper, there are times when you're the hero. And then there are other times. The memory of this year's State Cup final will hurt Nick for a very long time. When the game was over and he had to stand to get the runner-up medal and then to applaud the victors (who might have been taunting him), his siblings pressed into the spaces around him. Sometimes a strong arm around you steadies you in the moment when your own knees go weak at the shock and horror of a very bad 14-year-old day.  When the memory of this loss breaks his heart again in the years to come, I hope Nick will remember that he wasn't alone and there was an arm firmly around his shoulders. 

Living the Liturgy: So, I think you like the reprise of Lord, Hear Our Prayer. Yay! You keep praying my summer schedule works and I'll keep those coming every Saturday morning, so you have them for your weekend intentions. Deal?

Planning for the week ahead: More steady, ordinary days. The spring was brutal. These few weeks of every day being pretty much the same before we launch into summer comings and goings? They are just magical.

All photos kindness of Kristin Foss