Purpose 2019

Definition of purpose from Merriam-Webster

1a : something set up as an object or end to be attained : intention

b : resolution, determination

2 : a subject under discussion or an action in course of execution

on purpose

: by intent : intentionally

purpose

verb

purposed; purposing

Definition of purpose (Entry 2 of 2)

transitive verb

: to propose as an aim to oneself

Synonyms: Noun

aim, ambition, aspiration, bourne (also bourn), design, dream, end, goal, idea, ideal, intent, intention, mark, meaning, object, objective, plan, point, pretension, target, thing

Synonyms: Verb

aim, allow [chiefly Southern & Midland], aspire, calculate, contemplate, design, go [chiefly Southern & Midland], intend, look, mean, meditate, plan, propose, purport

***

Ok, 2019. I've got some time to make up. About 48 years, to be exact.

By the end of 2018, or rather, by the end of forty-eight years, I was really tired of chasing dead-end relationships. And tired of chasing. It's exhausting.

"Stop expecting those to hold space for you who never really have. Place a boundary around them if it is causing you heartache. Bless and release. Not everyone can come with you where you're going. Hold tight to those who are showing up for you." From Often Ambitious cofounder Lindsey Plevyak. 

These words were freedom over frustration.

I got really serious about discerning relationships that were life giving and those that were life stifling. I made margin for several people I don't normally see, and realized soon why it is I don't normally see them: they don't show up.

Bah. Boo. Bah.

I've been working on 2019 goals. Scheduling time to work on myself. Scheduling time to be at home. Scheduling space for the ones who show up.

I'm excited for a new year. I am excited to live in purpose, on purpose.

I remember his words, "We can be anything we want to be."

How I love that man.

Happy New Year!

And still counting (12,946-13,031)

What a year. Good. Bad. Ugly. Freeing. Restoring. A gift.

I handled some hard responsibilities this year. Cried a lot (a lot, a lot, a lot) of tears. Cried some more. Learned things. Grew from them. Was changed by them. I'm finishing this year world's away from how it started.

Thankful, thankful.

Powersheets 2018
66 Books
Angela
Amilcar
Melanie

a buyer who loved his house as much as I loved mine
a sale
a runaway hound
a puppy
worsening vision

a deer on my bumper
forced days home
a last celebration
her telling heart
the lawyer's table

a glass of red
an end
a beginning
weight loss
running

yoga
progress
books in the mail
this wonderland
Sofia

Sherry
Becky
Denise
Marshall's Mom
Anita

Sandy
a trip
a grandson
a ropes course
a rock wall

a goal, met
another goal, met
a Viking heritage
a Viking ship
special friends

a new church
new vision
new clothes
new life
Thanksgiving

a fleece pullover
Christmas cards in the mail
puppy toys on the floor
lunches with friends
cancellations from others

fire in the wood stove
new perspective
Tracey
the heartache
the heartbreak

the tears
the growth
His presence
my guy
the friends who cheered

the ones who didn't
peanut butter blossoms
good coffee
good neighbors
another year on 66 Books (hello, 2019)

new writers
returning writers
a new reading plan
the quiet after Christmas
hats for my head

slippers
mantle lights
a handy man
restoration
the woods in winter

kids who want to stay kids
home, sweet home
peace
podcasts
step goals, met

God's provision
God's protection
God's presence
God's purpose
God's peace

Powersheets 2019

2018--death and resurrection

January: got my dad's house prepped for sale; set down some goals; tried to carve out some home time with the kids; Nella ran away and was found

February: tea parties; snow days; a house contract

March: got Ruth; got wise

April: decided I wasn't getting anywhere significantly with my goals; got running shoes; put myself on my priority list for real

May: started running; hit a deer; vision got worse; Lanie got a merit scholarship for piano lessons

June: started calorie counting; started yoga; started losing weight

July: kept on

August: became a grandmother; prepped for a new school year; (world shattered)

September: back to school; co-op; piano; started living; lost 25 pounds; went places together as a family

October: took a trip to see our people; Vikings; Beowulf; genetic testing; sweet 16; lost 30 pounds; cataract surgery; felt the love of friends

November: healing; lost 35 pounds; Thanksgiving; grasping new joy and holding tight

December: gratitude; new rhythms; laid down new goals; celebrated our life and the people who chose to stay in it

Seek

1 : to resort to : go to

2a : to go in search of : look for

b : to try to discover

3 : to ask for : request seeks advice

4 : to try to acquire or gain : aim at seek fame

5 : to make an attempt : try —used with to and an infinitive

synonyms: chase, forage, hunt, look up, pursue, quest, search, shop

I don't know what I hoped to find this year. A word from the Lord. Direction. Maybe because of the stress and noise this year, I didn't recognize its work around me the way I have in the past with other words: community, wholehearted, service. 

Seek was quiet in the noise, until it was loud in the silence. The slamming shut of sound in August's discovery. And then it was there, where it was all along, and maybe it was all I needed.

Seek the Kingdom of God above all else, and live righteously, and he will give you everything you need. Matthew 6:33, NLT

Seek God's kingdom above all else. 

Live righteously.

He's got this.

Keep your eyes on Jesus. Do the right thing. He will take care of the rest.

I know that I was looking for truth this year, answers to things that were keeping me stuck in grief. I didn't get those answers. But I got the truth. It changed everything. It changed me. It was just enough glimpse, enough to show me that if I kept looking back, I'd stay stuck. And if I brought that along with me into the future, it would be to my further grief. 

God has revealed things like that to me in the past. Just enough. To show me what he'd been protecting me from. (Thank you, God, for protecting me. Thank you for showing me just enough so that I can move on. Thank you for helping me to see what are distractions from purpose and a kingdom focus.)

Seek broke me. It buried me. It planted me. It grew me. 

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a huge crowd of witnesses to the life of faith, let us strip off every weight that slows us down, especially the sin that so easily trips us up. And let us run with endurance the race God has set before us. ² We do this by keeping our eyes on Jesus, the champion who initiates and perfects our faith. Because of the joy awaiting him, he endured the cross, disregarding its shame. Now he is seated in the place of honor beside God’s throne. ³ Think of all the hostility he endured from sinful people; then you won’t become weary and give up. Hebrews 12:1-3, NLT.

And still counting ... (12,919-12,945)

cancelled plans
applesauce bread for my kids and me

margin made for friends from the past
Kristine
Jackie and Vivi
a red dress for Christmas
time together

a full calendar for 66 Books
gifts for neighbors
and a special gift from a neighbor
Jackie's text with the bald eagles
yoga

a full fridge
heat from the woodstoves
a hat for my head
cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning
the little lights from Aldi along the fireplace mantles

a lovely Christmas home, together
an afternoon nap on the couch
books to read
fleece pullovers
dogs with bows

Christmas Eve nachos
ice cream in the freezer
that man of mine
a new church
family

Christmas service

Christmas Eve book reads

this guy keeping the fires going

Christmas Eve book reads

their first Christmas with Caden

grand love, that smile!

fully grateful

Remember well

Shavasana one night, and I was trying to restore balance in a busy season. We were stretched out on our mats, and she guided us beginning at the little toe, and moving across our foot and up one side of the body. I listened to her prompts and focused my attention where she directed us, and suddenly in my mind, I'm sitting in that space between the store front and the ovens, the room where the cakes were iced and the donuts fulled and trayed. It is Christmas time and I'm with the One Who Loves Me at the bakery Christmas party. I'm sitting on a five gallon bucket of icing, like it's a chair in the space, and there's eggnog and merriment, and I'm telling jokes to anyone who will listen. I was eight or nine years old. It was Christmas time, and I was happy.

***

We attended a Christmas service at a new church this year. I was so acutely aware that we weren't at the church we had spent at least ten years, but it was ok being someplace new. Some neighbors go there and I recognized many other families. The message was probably one of the best I had heard, as so many are often geared toward people who are far from God or have never heard of Jesus. And this was also part that message, but part reminder to me: you fit here. 

Introductions on the stage and telling of Christmas memories. One guitar player a father, and his daughter on keyboard and vocals, and her husband on another instrument (I don't remember which), and she shared a memory of family and cousins and Christmas and caroling, how they ended their time together singing "Silent Night." I imagined this musical family, a large family, a place of welcome and celebration, and how they spoke of paper plates reinforced to bear the weight of all the food and feasting.

(Didn't my heart wonder in that moment? That those memories could be real. And at the end of the day, I'm still thinking of how blessed they were and are, to share a table of generations and love. And I am reminded of my own emptiness.)

We ended the service holding candles (with real fire), singing "Silent Night." 

***

I took an evening walk with Shane tonight while the kids manned the kitchen and made dinner. He and I walked in the growing dusk and appreciated the lights and glow from nearby neighboring houses.

"Next year, I really am going to get a lighted wreath and put lights on bushes. And I might get tiny evergreens to flank the doorways," I said. I imagined wrapping the cherry tree trunk and limbs in white lights. I am so often ambitious. Lanie will be seventeen. It would be a first year ever of decorating outside. But I am new, and starting over is freeing and foreign. I have so much time to reclaim.

As we finished a pass down a street, a truck pulls up at our friend's home, and guests step out holding gifts in hand. I was wistful watching this anticipation of gift giving, of friend or family, of a gathering at a table.

***

I wore a red dress to church today.

"You are not a red person," Erin commented.

"I wasn't a red person," I agreed. "But today, I am." And maybe more days too.

***

The pastor was going to talk about Jesus and his other name, Immanuel, and broke for a moment to encourage us to share another name or nickname we went by as a kid. A woman turned around to face me and said, "I was called Kate."

I smiled.

"My dad called me Chopper," I told her. I don't know how I got that name.

***

Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and we'll spend the evening, the four of us, like we have in the past, eating Christmas Eve nachos. I got us our own copy of "It's a Wonderful Life," to my delight and Shane's dismay.

Christmas day, we'll wake to cinnamon rolls and Christmas music in the rooms, and there will be fires in the woodstoves and we'll set the table for a family feast of duck with Chinese 5 spice, for Erin--Brazilian cheese rolls, and for Lanie--mac and cheese. I'm going to try a flan in the Instant Pot. 

***

"I look at her face and I feel sad for her," I told Kristine. I looked with sadness at the January image of me, the me who didn't know what this year would hold. And even I want to abandon her.

January 2018

It is too much.

I can't forget the first forty-eight, as much as I would like to, but maybe I can remember well.

December 2018

Reflection of 2018

Well, 2018, along with some gifts for Christmas, I'm wrapping you up too.

Every year I like to do a look back reflection from a questionnaire I got years ago from blogger Jamie Martin, of the Simple Homeschool fame. I've been doing this a long time, and I've discovered something when it comes to Most Valuable Relationships--Mean People are quite possibly the biggest catalysts for growth, rivaled only by their nemeses: Super Awesome People.

I want to take a moment to publicly and broadly thank all the Mean People who've sat at my table. If you weren't sandpaper against my soul, you wouldn't have roughed and sloughed off the places that needed smoothing. Oh, just when you thought you left me for dead, the Samaritans came along, picked me up, fed me, clothed me, sheltered me, checked on me.

Sillies. Good always wins.

So to publicly and broadly thank all the Super Awesome People: THANK YOU! Really and truly. While Team Mean has shown me what bitterness, anger, hatred, complaining, contempt, and jealousy can do to a heart, the Super Awesome People have shown me the power of inclusion, love, acceptance, gratitude, joy, service and humility.

And now, a bloggy brief look at the whirlwind death and resurrection of self in 2018.

It was a full year. I hustled responsibilities. I worked myself toward the grave until God supernaturally intervened and worsened my eye sight and flooded our region with what seemed like an excessively rainy season. And to keep my butt home, a deer made itself a target for my front bumper. And then, a couple of months later, I died.

But wait, there's more.

I am finishing off 2018 a completely different person than the one who started. And that is all God's goodness and grace.

8. A favorite read: Walking with God by John Eldredge.

15. The most enjoyable part of my work: tending my home and homeschool.

16. The most challenging part of my work: being fully present and not letting outside issues distract me from life now.

18. Best use of time: mercilessly wrestling balance in my life. It took the form of running, yoga, meal planning and preparation, podcasts, family trips, and margin for happiness.

What's really crazy is how I felt guilty for taking time for myself and making my own happiness a priority. My husband and kids got to be part of the journey, and so did friends who respected my boundaries. The ones who didn't respect boundaries were the most put off by my change and progress. There were also people who were not encouraging as changes took place, and that left me a little sad. I'm reminded it has more to do with what is in their hearts than the extent or quality of my own achievements.

Life observations from around the internet to ponder with your coffee and cookies:

"Your circle should want to see you win. Your circle should clap loudly when you have good news. If not, get a new circle."

"Pay close attention to the people who don't clap when you win."

"It's the people NOT LIKING your pictures who are paying the most attention."

Merriest wishes to you this Christmas and best hopes for your happiness in 2019.

And still counting ... (12,892-12,918)

a foggy start
a task completed and behind
the exhale
laughing on walks

tissues at the counter
her vulnerability
and a safe place for voicing my own
that song
peppermint patties in the freezer

the fullness of a finished run
a fleece pullover
a hot cherry pit bag
peppermint meringues
podcasts on a walk

a cheery call from the hospitality house
Olivea's hug
the best mashed potatoes
a basket of chocolates and lights
mini mugs to gift away

acrobats
a holiday performance out with the family
twinkling lights
a Sunday afternoon with Rebecca and Abi
kids laughing over cocoa

hot fires
books to read
Ruth

Day story

December 2018

Outside my window, it's completely dark. The temperatures are in the twenties. Heat is humming. My neighbor leaves his holiday lights on through the night, and it is a wonderful sight. Hello, December.

Giving thanks for festive seasons and celebrations. December was transformed when I birthed Erin. A month that always represented darkness suddenly became full of lights. I have a friend whose birthday is in December, and she loves sharing the season with Jesus and Christmas. It's a month-long celebration. Erin feels that way too. Thankful for a season of lights and sparkle and sweetness. It's all the hygge.

In the school room, advent readings and Robin Hood; fires in the wood stove, and bits of hygge to go along. I love the lights along the mantle. I love the warmth of browns in this room. Today, an abbreviated schedule to celebrate my girl.

From the kitchen, mint ice cream is softening on the counter. I'm getting ready to make her ice cream cake, and Erin is all about mint (Lanie loves lemon). She has requested, on this day, her birthday, to sleep in as late as she wants (funny, because she's my late sleeper EVERY day). And then we'll begin the day with heart waffles and maple syrup. Wasn't December made for this? A hot breakfast, a sweet syrup, a celebration?

I am pulled into this moment. I don't know when it started, but my kids' birthdays sometimes take on the preparations of a full blown feast. Lanie talks of what cake she'd like on her next birthday, or what lunch. This day is full of feasting. All the best stories have a feast. We just left Robin Hood's feast in Sherwood Forest, and soon we are beginning to enter the winter feast of Sir Gawain. But today, we are feasting here on a menu selected by a middler: pizza for dinner. 

I don't want to forget twelve. She's turning twelve today, and as I hugged her last night, she was taller in my arms, and her personality takes on new edges, and I wondered, "Where did eleven go?" It was all the same 365 of any year, but why do I feel like I missed it? (It's because I did. It's because I was so consumed with the tasks and the worry and the stress and the busyness. I was filling up the days with all [the other their] tasks, and trying to keep up with my own, that I missed the very wonderful of what is right under my roof.) I held her in my arms, eleven for the last, and wished I could go back to ten and live it over and be present. I missed eleven. Lord, help me to be here for twelve.

Around the house, holiday lights. Practicing hygge. Christmas music. Humming heat. Mantles bright. I filled in the grid with a smattering of commitments, and I hold my hand in halt against the tipping point between full and overflowing. After two years of hustle, empty blocks are a salve. I want to slow and enjoy this small break between an end and a beginning. I want to leave margin for opportunity.

I am hearing Ruth scamper through the school room, playing. Puppies know how to play. They entertain themselves if they can't engage their humans.
 
A view of my favorite things:

bright mantles

pie for a recent breakfast

winter sunrises

baking with a friend

eleven, a last

humming

schmutt

hound

At the table, tonight, pizza and warm lights and festivities and ice cream cake. Celebration. Life. Happy birthday, Erin. xoxo

And still counting ... (12,867-12,891)

a stunner sunrise on a morning run
66 Books
good tutors
Marshall's Mom

girls baking Christmas cookies
holiday vibes
a warm fleece pullover
a balaclava for cold weather running
podcasts that bring me to tears

a soundtrack
gold bowls that hold prayers
yoga
a warm mug of creamy coffee in my hands
hygge lights

Ruth
cancelled spaces
hot fires in the wood stoves
Christmas music in the house
Advent readings

Robin Hood
medieval history and literature
her love of science and math
our thirteen years of cayenne colored couches
eyesight

health

And still counting ... (12,853-12,866)

for science, piano and math tutors
little lights of hygge
heat from the wood stoves

a hug with Olivea
a pumpkin roll that turned out lovely for her
a tea with Rebecca
and the unexpected uncovering in our conversation
a day cracked open for thought

worship in church
communion
66 Books
yeses confirmed
friend visits on the calendar

yoga

Whatever befall

These are the photos, that when I see them, I see through them.

This was in 2016 when we went out to get ornaments. This is before we found out Shane's mom had died. We found out later that evening. When I see this picture, I know we are getting ornaments. But more so, I remember it as the day Jane died.

There is a picture I have of Erin and me, our shadows stretched out long ahead of us. We were on a morning walk in January 2017. The day my dad died. I already knew he was gone when we went for the walk and when I took that photo. Every time I see that picture, I associate it with his death.

This was a June day cherry picking at a neighbor's house. We were walking back home, and Lanie was ahead of me. This day seemed so charged, or maybe that's how I see it now in hindsight. It was the day my niece was killed.

This was on August 10, 2018. It was a day so much came to light, and a day that either was turned upside down or right side up. But it was the last day of life as I knew it. It was the day I died, but I didn't know it yet. This picture represents an end, and a beginning.

A very good friend and I were talking about ends, and she knew I was still stuck in the stun. I told her that I felt that not just a chapter of my life was over, but that the whole book ended. She said to me, "When you finish a book, you don't leave it open on the counter on the last page and keep re-reading it. You close the book and put it on the shelf."

Another friend and I discussed friendships and insecurities, and after she left I spent the day processing what our words brought to the surface. About a painful time that everything I believed to be or hoped could be true wasn't, and that it wasn't just a time, but all time. (All time.) And when that truth was revealed, a book was closed, not just a chapter. I'm still trying to accept it.

Shane said it looks like I'd been crying. I had been. And I was trying to muster up all the strength to move on. Queue Big Smile.

This year was an end and a beginning. I don't leave it unchanged. In fact, I hardly resemble the woman I was when this year started (but I still think that that woman was a rockstar, considering all she was trying to keep going. I'd go back in time and hug her big time if I could.).

January: 35 pounds more and a lifetime ago

October: past goal, still going, worth every effort

I'll be finishing out the year here, but I'm not sure if I'll keep this blog going. Eleven years is a good run. Thanks for reading.

On, on.

And still counting ... (12820-12,852)

a window framed in white lights
candlelight in the room
festive, fun turkey place mats, gifted
a platter of fruits, nuts, cheeses and crackers for snacking
warmth from the wood stoves
music

the nudge to look on a shelf
old favorite recipes, found
sweet potato bake with marshmallows (Linda's favorite)
a good stuffing
a dining room table, suited to size

Haircut and color!

Erin was ducking down. A room with a view.

the sky!

Love this guy.

Game on with my favorites!

board games at the table
a clean house
Denise
an audition for Lanie
and an acceptance next semester for her!

a wonderful opportunity for Lanie
good podcasts
morning walks
packages in the mail
Dave's offer

mild temperatures
morning coffee with Lanie
freedom
ornament shopping
the viking ornament

weekend naps
the wood rack, stacked for the week
blazers on sale
cuddles with Erin
Ruth

a year that is ending way better than it started
good lessons

Ornament

Every year on or around Black Friday, we go to a local nursery that sells all things Christmas: trees, wreaths, lights, ornaments. They have large and small fake trees decorated by themes. We've done this since Zach was a little boy, and now Lanie is sixteen, so that's been a lot of years.

Each year we pick out an ornament each. For the kids, their collection will be boxed up one day to take to their homes for their first trees. Some years we pick an ornament that is symbolic of something special that year--one year I got a foxhound ornament in honor of Nella coming into our family. Sometimes, it's just an ornament we happen to like--like the year of the sock monkey.

This year I had a mission in mind. I was looking for something to represent this year. This year was full of change, and I still am in shock of all the things that have happened, now a second year of unimaginable change. I mused over things I could get to represent 2018: a scale, a running shoe, an eyeball, a black rescue mutt. I looked over all the displays and even on the sporty tree, the shoe didn't really seem like a running shoe.

"Maybe I'll find a viking ornament!" I jokingly mused out loud, striking out on my initial searches.

Of all the things.

Of all the things.

Of all the things.

Not even twenty feet from my muttering, a viking ornament.

Thank you, God. I thought I would have had better success with a running shoe or a black mutt. But the viking ornament--it's darling. And perfect.

Here's to viking spirit, and changes, and challenges. Here's to tears and heartache and heart searching and seeking. Here's to standing up again and again and refusing to be bound by wounds and the shackles cast by others. Here's to a DNA test with just enough viking, telling me that just enough is still enough.

It wouldn't be Thanksgiving without it

We sat around the table and talked, and there was candlelight and framed window white light. I wondered out loud about things that (we) associate with Thanksgiving, foods that make the holiday, and the foods we wouldn't miss (I picked turkey; I really only eat it on Thanksgiving, but I could easily choose ham, chicken, or a lasagna in its place!).

This year, we planned to eat our meal a little later. I put off a lot of the preparation until noon, and then began. This year's soup was an Apple and Brie with Bacon and Pumpkin Seeds variation of butternut soup from Half-Baked Harvest. Denise and I decided, as the only soup eaters at the table, that compared to former years' favorites, it didn't quite meet our expectation (so I'll likely choose between Martha Stewart's Butternut Bisque or a spicy Bacon, Chipotle, Corn Chowder that leaves us all a little teary and sniffly).

To everyone's great delight, Denise peeled the potatoes for the mash and the bake (I usually leave skins on just because I don't like peeling potatoes, so my mashed potatoes have skins in them), and I began to look for the sweet potato bake recipe. I couldn't find it in my current book of recipes. I looked in the pantry at some books I had shelved, and my notebooks weren't there. I was about to go back upstairs empty handed when the nudge came and told me to look on the bookshelves where I put old curricula. I almost dismissed it, but experience has told me too often that the nudge is holy and not to be dismissed. I looked. And there were my kitchen notebooks.

Thanks, God. Thanks for the nudge and thanks for being here with us for Thanksgiving. Thanks for the beautiful music and the recipes and the atmosphere and the peace. Thanks for games and full bellies and grace.

We took out two leaves from the table and I took away the extra seating. But still, I missed Linda. And still, I thought of my sister. More, though, I was thankful for the people who were at my table and in my life. (Oh, and I knew Linda would be here if she could.)

When I posed the challenge of filling in the blank: It wouldn't be Thanksgiving without ___this food____", I chose the sweet potato bake. For me, Thanksgiving is all about potatoes and pie.

In honor of and love for Linda:

Brown Sugar-Glazed Sweet Potatoes with Marshmallows

Serves 8

4 lbs sweet potatoes, peeled and cut into 1-inch pieces
1/2 cup brown sugar
5 tablespoons butter
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
a pinch of ground ginger (I leave this out)

2 cups mini marshmallows
1/2 cup sliced almonds (I leave this out too)

Preheat oven to 375. Arrange potatoes in a 13x9x2-inch glass baking dish. Combine sugar, butter, cinnamon, salt, nutmeg, and ginger in a saucepan over medium heat. Bring to a boil, stirring until sugar dissolves. Pour over potatoes and toss to coat. Cover dish tightly with foil. Bake 50 minutes. Uncover, stir and bake 20 additional minutes so that the syrup thickens. Top with marshmallows and broil till marshmallows are lightly browned. Watch everyone go back for second servings, and smile, knowing that you found a favorite, and that it wouldn't be Thanksgiving without it.

And still counting ... (12,795-12,819)

an audition scheduled with a new instructor
a snowy day
a morning walk before the weather changed
hot chocolate
two fires
Gothic cathedrals

Ruth in the snow
how she sped like a bullet
how she caught snowballs
how she followed Erin everywhere
how she carried along the big stick

Denise's yes to Thanksgiving
a cheery shout out from the hospitality house
35 lbs gone
texts with Becky
a night to watch a friend's theater performance

pumpkin muffins for a bestie
that she took one with her to eat after her surgery
cozy fires
weekend naps
a walk with Shane

the biggest bag of mini marshmallows
Ann's offer to drive in the snow
a cancelled day for snow
the black fleece pullover--so warm!

Thanksgiving dishes

For most of my adult life, Thanksgiving has been my favorite holiday. I love to cook, even though it's hit or miss how a recipe turns out. I love having people at my table for a meal and conversation. I love the potential memory making magic of a special time we revisit year after year. Tradition.

A good number of years ago, I bought Thanksgiving dishes for my favorite holiday. I have always hosted Thanksgiving. I put heartfelt thought into assembling a menu, every year finding a new thing that would replace something else, but having very favorite anchor foods: turkey, Emeril Lagasse's sausage stuffing, Miss Linda's favorite sweet potatoes that was a recipe from a college friend (Ann), mashed potatoes for Shane, pie. I also had soup (which Shane thinks is the strangest thing, and he's not a big fan of soup besides. And I still fondly remember going out one year, the night before Thanksgiving, and scoring my very favorite turkey teacups on clearance at Home Goods. I bought them all--the last five.) and some kind of salad or other vegetable I'd try out. (One year I had roasted zucchini and red onions when his mom spent the day with us. But otherwise, I don't really remember many vegetable sides.)

I always wanted the holiday to be perfect. I wanted it to be perfect for the people at my table the way I experienced the same kind of perfection when I was a special guest for an occasion at someone else's house--like the friend who had the coffee pods in a basket and made up hot, buttery monkey bread; another who had an evening cookout complete with backyard tire swing and a tray of goodness for marshmallow toasting; back even farther in time to when I was in college and 80-year-old Omi invited me for a homemade dinner at her house and pulled out her very best dishes for it. These people fed my heart with the love and beauty they brought to the table.

I always wanted the holiday to be perfect for the people who sat a my table. As much as I wanted the turkey to turn out, it didn't really matter as long as people felt full and loved. And if they went back for seconds, that often filled me with the biggest satisfaction of love given and received. (Honestly, as I look back on all the years with new vision, I see the memories so differently. A contrast between what I wanted and what was. I am such a dreamer. What it was was far from what I hoped, and I would grasp for the spin and want to make it beautiful.)

I had these Thanksgiving dishes I pulled out only for Thanksgiving and my larger-than-life dreams that every effort was going into creating memory-worthy experiences. It's almost as if Norman Rockwell spoke into my mind, "There will be laughter and abundance and merriment and it will be beautiful and captured and live in the hearts of your guests forevermore. Can you picture it?"

I wanted to give that gift. The gift of feeling seen and loved. (And now I know, I wanted to receive that gift, of feeling seen and loved; the "well done" from a father that validated my worth.)

Sometimes I think my efforts were received with scrutiny, and her voice still reminds me with its judgment and contempt, "Everything has to be perfect for Courtney." She didn't get it. I wanted it perfect for her. I wanted it perfect for him. I wanted it perfect for them. Many years I cried after they left. I sometimes even cried before they came, from a fear that it would never live up to the potential I wanted it to be. And every year I geared up and braced, armored in hope. I realize that as much as I wanted to create a beautiful memory for them, I wanted something too. We only got together with them three times a year. I wanted it to matter. (I wanted to matter.)

Next week is Thanksgiving. My dad is still dead. Linda is still gone. And Lori ... I have no words. I already bought our very little turkey breast. I already made up our menu. And last night I thought about the Thanksgiving dishes in the pantry. They seem so tied to the past.

"What do I do with the Thanksgiving dishes?" I asked Shane.

"I was always worried I'd break one," he remembered.

This year, we are taking the leaves out of the dining room table. This year, I can set down my armor in safety; at ease, soldier. This year, the atmosphere will be ripe with hygge, food and warmth. This year, I will set the table and be part of the memories and there will be laughter and abundance and merriment--because I already know: I am loved.

And still counting (12,776-12,794)

leaves off the patio
nightly walks with Lanie
coffee in the morning
Shane
my kids' laughter after eight

that she's reading Phantom of the Opera
food in the fridge
clothes that fit
a warm coat
medicine for my eye

a chat with Carol whose family prayed for "the walking girl"
soup on the stove (Carrot, Parsnip and Garlic soup)
fire in the wood stove
delicious heat
a chat with the pastor who checked in on me after surgery

Marshall's Mom
pumpkin brownies with maple cream cheese frosting
the crunch of leaves underfoot
my family
this day

And still counting ... (12,748-12,775)

healing
sunrises through the woods
warm blankets

potato soup
maple butter
Denise, who just happened to be at Wegmans and brought me some things
French green beans
coffee

neighborhood tricks and treats
and neighbors who have special treats just for us
one week of antibiotics completed, woohoo!
a visit with Joe, Steph and Caden
mild temperatures for a first walk

a neighbor who passed by and hugged me and prayed for me
how November looks through my new lens
kids who shared some of the chocolates with me
a doctor who asks good questions
jeans that fit

Anita
museums with the family
how the botanic gardens smelled
beautiful skies
Ruth

a night walk with Lanie
cataracts
and all the good things that came from that diagnosis
packages in the mail
a surgeon's "no restrictions"

November

No more glasses

touring with these fine folks

And still counting ... (12,712-12,747)

the low flying geese
the sound their wings made cutting through the air
grass cut
yard debris hauled away

prayers from friends
phone calls
well wishes
a dinner Thursday night
Denise, who'd spend her day off awaiting my call

Joanne's hug and prayers over me
a family photo

66 Books
Becky P
Michi
Sandy

a nurse who is a Christian, who hugged me and prayed with me
her tears
a sister in Christ next to me when I needed family
lunch and dinner help from Denise
that she put my slippers on my feet for me

four days of rest
the rallying help of my people
a first walk--to the mailbox and back
a first day out--for dog toys, gauze, vitamins, Persian cukes and gf bread
running into Michi at the store

a card in the mail from my church
trunk or treat and the community vibe from our church
the embrace of all things new (church, family, heart, purpose)
all the help from Shane and the kids with Ruth
a sunrise through the woods

coffee
the very big sunglasses from the doctor
an eye patch
medicine for my eyes
healing

vision

The things you cannot see

Family photo 2018

This is a family picture I took the day before my cataract surgery. This was one of the better ones, considering I was working with a breezy day; I was running back and forth to the camera to turn on the timer; the sun was setting in our line of sight; Shane just got home from work; and I was on edge because I was about to have surgery and I felt like I had a million things minus one to do.

I didn't get the floors mopped.
I didn't get the Halloween costumes.
I didn't prep the flour blend.
I didn't get the Persian cucumbers, the dog's squeaky ball, or a long-sleeved shirt.
I felt like I wasn't as ready as I should be before going in to surgery, and I had reached a point of acceptance, or maybe resignation, that it's just what it is: I can bring my best, or my best under duress, but I can't always do it all. (But I try.)

These days leading up to surgery felt full and empty. I felt edgy at times, but desperately wanted to be peaceful and present. Time went fast. It went slow. And I shouldn't have watched a video on cataract surgery on an actual eye--instant sweaty palms and nausea. It was an obvious confirmation to me, that while I can handle a turkey or chicken from the store--even a frog dissection, being a literature major was the best choice for me, and not an eye surgeon. (You're welcome.)

I wanted a family picture because it's been years since we got one together. Because I'm one pound shy of a thirty-five pound weight loss this year, and I don't feel a connection to the me in the years of photos before May. Because, being honest, if anything went wrong with the surgery, I wanted my kids to have a photo of us all together (this from the me of film age, and photographs in my growing-up house were rare. I have one picture of my mom and me when I was in college.). Because I don't know what my eye is going to look like, or what my vision would be like when this is over, and I was hoping to get a picture done to order Christmas cards.

This is the family picture you see, and we are all trying to smile again as I run back and forth in the wind to the camera to reset the timer--and I still kept leaning my head the wrong way.You can look at this picture and think a lot of things--good or snarky about it.

But what you don't see is this: a mom's bravery and a mom's fear; the rush of wanting to get it all done, and the failure of not meeting my own expectations; a fight for my own health (physically, spiritually, emotionally); a string of losses, and I still am trying to make peace with the latest one.

What you don't know until now: the day of the surgery, I had a quick goodbye with the kids that morning because Lanie was off to math and Erin slept in and Shane and I sat in traffic a long time and were a few minutes late to my appointment and he wasn't allowed past the waiting room to sit with me--our kiss and goodbye quick, rushed. I had a nurse who I braved up to ask, "Are you a Christian?" And she said yes, and I hugged her and she HUGGED ME BACK HARD and we prayed together and I thanked God for sending me a sister to be with me that day. That at some point during the operation, I woke wide up and started bragging on my Viking blood--all 7/10's of a percent of it (#vikingspirit). That I came home and Denise came over soon after and spent her day off sitting on the couch with me for eight hours, helping get dinner heated and served, putting my slippers on my feet. That Becky fed us with a yummy taco soup and brownies. That Lanie slept with me in the living room and let Ruth out in the middle of the night (I slept on the couch so I wouldn't have to maneuver the stairs in the middle of the night, and because the upstairs heat is on and dries out my eyes really badly, which I didn't want to deal with after surgery).

I'm so grateful for all the prayers surrounding me yesterday and today. For friends (and Tracey!) who texted and called and showed up. For the God-arranged sister who prayed for me in the pre-op room. For the Fellow who called last night to check on me after the surgery and confirmed and laughed with me about my Viking heritage talk. She said they hear all kinds of things from people coming out of anesthesia. I'm glad my chatter gave them a chuckle. I certainly had a laugh over it too. I'm glad to come home to my kids' hugs and kisses and a dog that hasn't left my side and a husband who has to help me with unmentionables and said, "So this is what the future looks like (old age)?"

Yes. God willing. It looks like this--family that loves and helps; friends who show up; a sovereign God; love.

When I see that photo of us, I see more than you see. But maybe now, you have the vision to see it too.