A clean home is a peaceful home

I awake to this scene:

My open concept living area, littered with clots of dirt hauled in by our puppy, books , books, and more books lined as a trail to the kitchen. The kitchen counters covered in coffee mugs, unsorted mail, a half eaten bowl of stale popcorn, two dead moths (ew!), and a cobweb on my windowsill. The highchair tray has yesterday's (or two day's ago?) remains of breakfast crusted on, and there are dirty socks under the table.

This is humbling and embarrassing to write, declaring to all of you that I am possibly the world's worst housekeeper.

I am a trail-leaver, always leaving this and that behind me. With me, stuff rarely finds a home, other than the kitchen counters or an unoccupied nook in our desk.

My personality is a dueling portrait of perfectionism and chaos. What to do when I can't seem to keep clean yet melt down over every mess?

My solution is to learn to keep a tidy, organized, and clean home. Learn. This must be learned, as it is anything but natural for me. Yet now, with two little ones and a growing heart for hospitality, I see this need written in red.

So I am setting an action plan of learning and doing, cleaning and maintaining a tidy and guest-ready home. Even with two babies and a puppy. (I'm beginning to sweat a bit . . .)

Why is this so important to me? Consider the scene I presented earlier. Starting my day in a home that is not only unpleasant to be in but is also hindering anything productive from happening in my day to come is not a good thing. Time is limited. I desire to spend time reading with Rafferty, going on a prayer walk over this mountain land, baking apple-spice cookies, and writing.

When my home is orderly, I can breathe deep, quiet my heart, and have peaceful, intentional days. When my home is dirty, untidy, and unorganized, I feel pressure to get it clean quickly, overwhelmed by the clutter, and frazzled. Frazzled leads to stressed in a quick beat, stress leads to short tempers, complaining attitudes, and unsettled, chaotic home.

I believe the home is of great value. I want our home to be a Christ dwelling refuge for my children, as well as for my husband and myself, and anyone who walks through our door. I want beauty, reflective of God's image, to be clearly seen in this atmosphere. And that is truly what I am set to do; I want to build an atmosphere fit for seeing Christ and the beauty he brings to a home.

Mess distracts. A clean home can enhance the atmosphere, bringing life and peace.

I am working on plans for how to make this happen, searching for tips and how-to's. I will keep you posted with what I am learning and how I am setting this plan into action on a practical level!

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Afternoon rescue: chocolate kefir

--Rafferty sporting his choco-goatee

Have you tried making milk kefir? It is easy, inexpensive, delicious, diverse, and full of wonderful probiotics! I have been making milk kefir for the past few months and am thrilled with the results. I use it in baking recipes as well as fruit and spinach smoothies. Kefir is similar to yogurt, only it has a thinner consistency and may taste a bit more sour. Delicious.

Today I hit the dreaded afternoon wall that can only be conquered with a nap, a cup o' joe, or my personal favorite: chocolate. I had a cold cup of kefir in the fridge and decided to try a twist on chocolate milk.

I mixed the cup of kefir, a tablespoon of dark chocolate cocoa powder, and honey to taste. A few pulses in the blender, and voila! Rich, tangy, and slightly sweet chocolate kefir! Rafferty loved the chocolatey treat too.

Sometimes it is the simple things that can really brighten up your afternoon.

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Identity Issues as Image-bearers.

An often overwhelming struggle: Who am I? Where do I fit it? What is my true personality?

I can not make the assumption of this struggle for all ladies, but I can speak for myself. And I know these questions plagued me like the backache that won't quit, pulsing pain, for years on end. Identity was what I wanted named, marked in bold italics on my birth certificate, no guess work or figuring out required.

The early teen years . . . ew. These years I battled hard to take who I was, blend it with who I wanted to be, and make sense of it all in the process. I was a leader, an extrovert when in groups, a non-conformist, yet a pleaser. How did this all fit together? Was it my environment shaping me, or God, or was it both?

This I witnessed recently: fifteen young women sitting in a circle. They have only known one another for a few short hours. Already, these girls paired off into like groups. In threes and fours I found them, the sporty girls, the fashion-forward beauties, the ones possessing shy and sweet spirits.

I sat amazed, seeing how naturally our personalities spring forth, often displayed by our clothes, but certainly met without disguise through honest conversation. We are often drawn magnetically to those like ourselves . There we are comfortable and can say, ah, this is known and understood. Perhaps those over there may misunderstand me. Is there much worse in life than being misunderstood? Can't everyone else see the real me, my God-written self, bubbling over this shell of a body? Personality! Individual! Myself!

If only I could identify myself accurately, seeing this person not first as a box filled by personality-test or social status or life achievement, but as simple image-bearer.

Yes, that's it! I, this sometimes hippie/poser/mom/artist/wanna-be/misunderstood/pleaser/achiever/goal-getter/desperate to fit in/ lost seeker, is not all this, but an image-bearer of a creative, personal God!

I have read a lot of the written works of saint-woman Edith Schaffer this year. She writes often of this Personality God, the Creator creative, allowing us, image-bearers, to be creative personalities each our own.

Conforming to the image of Christ does not strip me of my personality. Personal God gave me this gift, not to be strived for and re-designed according to my own insecurities. Leaving sin and perversity, conforming to the Creator. The strive to fit just this certain way is futile, I want to be as He made me. The more I conform to his likeness, the more of my true self will come forth. Identity battles cannot abide with true Christ- light reflection.

Beholding my sisters in Christ as image-bearers, why stay with those only like myself? Risking being misunderstood, I hope to seek out personalities different than my own. There, I will see other lights of Creator God. Unfamiliar, perhaps. But beautiful!

The struggle for identity, I have found, is looking inward, rather than upward. Wearing a visor of self-centeredness, living pressure to perfect this me, instead of living word most important: reflection. Reflecting Personal God, Creator God, Holy God.

We bear the image of the Creator!

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Life Lessons from my 17-month-old

Sometimes I wonder who is learning more about life right now, me or my seventeen month old son? Rafferty sees the world as his to conquer. He is learning new words, including primary colors, the names of his cousins, and foods. Yesterday's words: thunder and kombucha. Today's learning project: legos.

Oh boy.

We bought him a small pack of the challenging toys, hoping to stimulate our big boy into problem solving. This new purchase has thrown our son into a love-hate relationship with America's favorite building block. He clearly loves the legos, as they are the first thing his chubby hobbit feet run to out of the crib. He also apparently hates the impossible game as he has now learned to grunt in frustration even before reaching for one.

I know he is still young to figure this type of toy out on his own, so I sit and help the sausage fingers line up the holes and make a match. Over. And over. And over . . . and over.

My son, "The Thinker", as my dad calls him, dresses his face with the most concentrated of expressions, and he is determined. I tell him amidst each frustrated screech, "it is okay to struggle, you can do it." His look in response resembles doubt and he signs please for some help. Another cycle of over and overs and "There! You did it!". He claps and is the conquerer of the world as he set out to be.

I don't desire to conquer the world, so much as to simply stick with my own hard stuff, put on my most concentrated face and keep going to completion.

Even as I doubt my ability to accomplish much, the nearly much of life isn't the fullness I crave. I want to finish what I set out to do, the little things building the bigger. I speak of struggle to my baby, yet I flee from it myself, be it mental pursuits, household battles, spiritual harvests, or taking on the post-baby fat held on by too many late night sweets.

Perfection, my ever lurking enemy, tells me I must never fail (the Liar whispers that failure marks me unlovable). This is not realistic or encouraging. I simply pray for the maturity and discernment to know which learning projects I should pursue, and finish what I have started. The best choice at times may be to put aside what I started, if my priorities are not being met, but I shudder at becoming the woman who cuts loose all efforts because I have sweat on my brow. Rewards come with the sweat.

Learning to stack legos is a little thing, but this battle of struggle to success is a mountain at seventeen months! Thank you, baby boy, for teaching your mommy. I look forward to my next lesson.

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This is Today.

Dustin hits snooze three times. I finally obey, not by my own good sense, but because Cosy is hungry, demanding food.

Sipping coffee, we sit on our comfortable living room furniture, watching the cotton candy clouds spread thin over the mountains. Last night’s rain had brought in a cool morning and we are cuddled with blankets and baby girl. She coos louder today than we have yet heard, and we each read our own Bible and study.

Rafferty is up with loud “Hey!” exclamation, so sweet. His “bear hug” onesie hugging his belly tight and he sucks his paci with all his might. Oh, that paci. He plays, we read and sipped coffee, then breakfast. Soaked porridge with blueberries from “Nourishing Traditions”, starting our day with nourishment to our bodies. I think we shouldn’t pray for breakfast to bless our bodies if we know it isn’t truly nourishing. We can pray in good conscience, here.

The bananas I bought yesterday have vanished. Not in the pantry, the car, the fridge... I bought two bunches all gone.

Dustin closes himself into his office to work, I place Cosy in the crib as Rafferty and I play and pick up in his room. We read from his picture Bible for twenty minutes, he holding my arms tight and sitting in my lap. I think he is hearing the Word of God.

We do his flash cards, body part vocabulary, and he signs for “more” after the first run-through.

A beautiful day to play on the porch, watch hummingbirds, skip morning naps (Rafferty is becoming a one-nap-a-dayer), and try our first brew of kombucha. It is sweet and fizzy and dances on our tongues and makes Rafferty snort and cough. He “mmmm’s” and sips on.

I take everything off our kitchen counters so they can be professionally measured for the new counters to be put in soon. Our friend installs our new dryer (hallelujah! ) as I occupy Rafferty to stay out of everyone’s way. He still finds a way to run up to the counter man and shout “hey!” over and over. The man ignores him completely, setting a very awkward scene for me, who’s child is oblivious to the fact that not every adult is fascinated by him. Cosy screams for the awake time too drawn out and I think wow, this is hard with two under two. I’d better write this down before I forget this moment.

Lunch is leftovers and spinach cooked with butter and salt (a happy new discovery for son) followed by a welcomed nap for Gifts 1 and 2.

I take this time to gather a bunch of wildflowers to grace our table. I stick a daisy in my ear, then remove it after the second bug dares to come too close. I see a prehistoric looking lizard and think to capture it as a pet for Rafferty. I toss a bowl over it then thinking what do I do with this creepy thing, now? I let it go free. It just sits there, staring at me with dinosaur glare.

Dinner is prepped with chicken legs marinating in lemon and garlic with olive oil. I read “L’Abri”, by Edith Schaffer, hopeful to glean wisdom for building community for our own semester program here in Pagosa. Baby girl awake, nurse, spit up, coo, nurse some more. Wash diapers, fold laundry, do dishes, think didn’t I just do the dishes?, write five more thankful moments on the counting list, even the cheerful print on the hanging dishtowel, and see blessing after blessing.

Just an ordinary day. But is any day ordinary when we are alive in Chirst and living with children miracles and feeling those feelings of “this is so so good”? I am tired and have many hours left . . . but I’ll gladly welcome each one.

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Media on Motherhood

Dustin and I were excited to finally enjoy a movie together. We had decided on Disney’s Secretariat, a family film about a famous racehorse and his housewife owner. We were let down by the acting and undeveloped plot line (it paled in comparison to Seabiscuit), and I left the couch that night bothered as if a pesky fly had managed its way in my ear. The movie had had a message. The message was true to today’s common view on motherhood, womanhood, and the significance of it all.

Without spoiling the movie’s entire story for you (I wouldn’t recommend it, anyway), allow me to lay the scene:

Housewife and mother of four, Penny, had just lost her mother. Her dementia ailed father and family horse farm was left for her to manage. Penny’s childhood love for racing horses was rekindled while she managed the farm, and she decided to raise up a winning racehorse just born. The horse farm, located in Virginia, kept Penny a far distance from her husband and children, who lived in Denver. The story of horse training, cunning business skills, and the usual ups and downs that make up a movie continued, but I couldn’t help but be overwhelmed with the “hidden” message running through the script.

Penny was depicted as one to be held in the ultimate esteem. Her choice to sacrifice three years of raising her children for a horse was heroic. She would proclaim, that like a racehorse, she had to run, race, and win.

In one bothersome seen, she was home for the weekend talking with her obviously neglected husband. An eavesdropping teenager heard her mother reflect on all of the sacrifices she’d made to have a family, now just having to go forward what was in her to do. This same teenage daughter was throwing herself into the world of hippies, an impressed upon adolescent, in desperate need of a steady mother’s influence.

Just as you thought that maybe Penny’s desire to win was motivated by love for her ailing father, we were reminded of her personal desire to win and have her own way in this world.

The Penny-praise acclimated when her husband, who had “taken sides against her” throughout the film, came around and tenderly shared with her that she had shown her daughter’s what it means to be a real woman.

I gasped.

A real woman? To abandon your husband and children for three years to chase after your own desires? To be so dissatisfied with the daily duties of being a housewife, that you willingly trade the hearts of your children for momentary gain?

In the film (based on a true story) her four children remained unscathed by her neglect. Her hippie daughter followed her heart’s desires, which is pronounced right above all. The film even declares that Penny lived “happily ever after”.

The fly in my ear, the question I couldn’t ignore was, would Penny have been less of a real woman had she chosen to stay devoted to her family alone? Would her steadfastness to her commitment as a housewife been insignificant, making her life trivial and forgettable?

There is tremendous value in womanhood and motherhood. It is with sadness I see our culture, often through media, contort motherhood into a job for the week, boring, and uninspired. God has designed motherhood for the strong, adventurous, and creative! Media tells us it is a real woman who aspires to something greater, God gives us opportunities to serve wholeheartedly, hard work and life abundant, for His glory and the lasting benefit of our children.

I understand there are those who are unable to be home with their children, stuck in jobs for pay check’s sake. But choosing our own ambitions over guiding and investing? As mothers, we have opportunities to incorporate our passions into our homes and everyday lives. Must we be taken away from our families to pursue the “could-haves” and “would-have-been’s-if-it-weren’t-for-these-inconvenient-kids”?

Oh, Media! See the significance of a mother!

...They (mothers) have been maligned, goaded, blamed, and ridiculed in recent years, but most have stood their ground. Quietly and confidently they have continued to love and nourish their children and prepare them for a life of service to God and to mankind. There is no more important assignment on the face of the earth...

-Dr. James Dobson, his book dedication to mothers in “Parenting Isn’t For Cowards”

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Yelling Fever

There are certain things I can't stand.

I can't stand should-have-been-amazing movies now unwatchable because of the never ending swearing.

I hate cold food, that was intended to be served hot.

I am sickened by my overgrown cuticles.

I loathe flossing.

But one thing I truly despise is hearing parents yelling at their children. I am not referring to life saving screams of "Watch out!" before little feet hit the car bound pavement. Or the life training rebukes in raised tones of "You do not speak to me in that manor, young lady." (Thank you, Dad.)

The yelling, that as you listen and watch the scene, you can see the child's face fall in despair.

I had managed an outing with my two kidos this past week to Hobby Lobby for craft inspiration and time passing. Cosette asleep in the Becco carrier and Rafferty sitting in the cart's seat, pointing endlessly at the lights and exclaiming long "ooooohhhhhh"'s. As we weaved in and out of each craft filled aisle, we heard an angry mom letting out steam.

Her words were as follows:

"Knock it off!"

"You are driving me crazy, stop it!"

"Shut up, I'm talking!"

"Leave it. Move! Move!"

This continued for several minutes. All I heard from the small child were cries of "Mommy!". When our paths crossed in an aisle, I saw the little boy standing, arms stretched out to his mother, desperately wanting to be comforted. He may as well have been crying to a wall. He was clearly not going to be embraced by this woman.

What impacted me the most was my fifteen month old son reacting to these despairing words. He would turn his head to find the sound with each exclamation and frown, understanding something was not right.

I do not know if this woman was having the worst day of her life. I do not know if her son has been misbehaving, or maybe his presence alone was just too much. But I do know that his face was pleading for attention and comfort.

I am learning (having two babies in thirteen months will help one learn) how hard patience can be to come by. Self control seems a mythical super power, certainly not something attainable by me, in this impossible situation. Yet knowing how our Heavenly Father views children, my children, I am given what I need to close my mouth and open my arms.

How easy it is to yell and tear down in times of stress. How life giving instead, to hold tight and instruct. Comfort first, then speak truth. God meets us when we need comfort, disciplines us in love, and is everlasting arms held fast. May I reflect these attributes to my own children so they may grow knowing His character.

Psalm 145:8

The LORD is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and rich in love

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