Test

I am your test. You are my test.

I was recently tested by a man whose chip was bigger than his shoulder. Exasperated. Shaming. Difficult. I don't care much for these bullying personality types, and I've encountered them before over the years, sadly more so in women.

When he said to me, "I wasn't supposed to be here today, but I switched days with (G). You're lucky," I knew it was a God appointment. I knew it was a test. (And, in the moment, I didn't feel so lucky. I would have much more preferred working with (G), but God picked this guy.) I quieted to see what would happen next. Apparently, the circumstance was a test for him, outside of his experience and comfort--which only increased the size of his boasting and chip. Inside me, a simmering discomfort. I studied the lesson. This was growth for me too. I could walk out or endure. I could respond in frustration or patience.

I am your test. You are my test.

My dad once walked into a bank wearing a stained undershirt and muddy jeans (I smile because this is how I often remember him.). He stood in the lobby of the bank, and no one acknowledged him. He walked out. He wanted the acknowledgement. He wanted to test someone. He walked into another bank, same day, same clothes. A worker acknowledged him with friendliness and respect, and he replied, "Today's your lucky day. You just got my business." They had several years' banking relationship, and he followed her from branch to branch.

Did she realize he was her test? In hindsight, I realize, at times, he was my test. And at times I was his test. How we each answered conflicts said much about our hearts.

I learned a lot about this chippy guy sitting across from him. I learned about myself as well. When he asked me what I do for a living, completely unrelated to the business at hand, I opened my mouth several times, and nothing came out. Finally, I stuttered, "I, uh, um, I ... I homeschool my kids. That's what I do. I homeschool my kids."

"Oh," he said flatly, and turned back to his task. At that moment, his response felt like a past army of bus stop moms who snubbed their noses at us, who mocked us behind our backs, of every person who questioned me about why my kids weren't in school, even the employee at Walmart who asked, "You think that will mess her up?"

I am your test. You are my test.

Today, I think about the tests... the catalyst ... the response. And it's got to be not about another's choice (that's their test!). I have to be concerned about my response. I am only accountable for that.

When a woman looks back at your full arms and smiles as she lets (and watches) the door close in your face; when a community laughs at the decapitated lawn ornament they put on your property; when a person makes a declaration of solidarity and fails to uphold it; when someone you trust(ed) looks you in the eyes and lies to your face--these are responses to situations, choices made. (Talking with Shane about things, and it's these individual choices that build and influence future actions, over time forming character and legacy. A choice is one more piece of a story. What story will our lives tell?)

Isn't there more? To choose from grace, grudge, shame, forgiveness, betrayal, patience, hostility, love, fidelity, protection or harm. It's harder when the terms feel hidden or veiled by circumstance. It lets more than one person down when one chooses poorly, on purpose.

How I respond in the face of (those things)--that's my answer too. When Jesus says, "Love your neighbor. Bless and pray for your enemy." My choice is my answer to his commands.

I am your test. You are my test. 

My kids. My neighbors. My relatives. The community of Christ. The community at large. Parry or volley. How you respond is your test. How I respond is my test.

And still counting (11,592-11,617)

the sounds of spring peepers
warm days
bare feet in the grass
feeders full for the birds

foggy lows
talks with my sister
laughter to tears
the forward motion of things
the ladies at knit group

being remembered
circular needles
a celebratory meal at Red Robin
burnin' love burgers
read alouds with Erin

a scarf by Lanie
deep feelings of joy
ancient history
big mugs of Cranberry Blood Orange tea
a hot wood stove

plans on the calendar
family games
a March focus
the kind folks at the eye doctor
her glasses on order

a waggy, old hound
tests

Day story

February

Outside my window, dappled sunlight, my kids in shorts, birdsong, warmth. It's a warm day before it cools down and rains. So happy to be home. Can I slow time a little longer?

Giving thanks for wrapping up ends--my dad's taxes, his house. And thankful for powersheets and reading and thinking on things that matter. Last year I was spread too thin. This year must be different. My health tells me. My heart tells me. It must be different. Wrote out goals for months/weeks/days. Little by little, making progress--aligning yeses with what matters so that there's time for read alouds and fun activities and knitting with my kids, for visits at the table and making space for new friends and experiences. I've said no to busyness so that I can say yes to a smaller audience.

In the school room, lights off. My kids are outside today jumping rope and making obstacle courses and enjoying a spring teaser. Tomorrow is the perfect day for fires and studies and closeness. Today there is space for them to run free. Thankful for this wonderland. Thankful to school on icy days so we can enjoy warm days.

From the kitchen, lots of veggies because nutrition and health are a main focus. A March month already planned with meals. Thankful for margin in my life so that I can think on tending to my family.

I am joyful. Coming out of a too long season of grief and mourning. Today I am joyful. Sunshine and warmth. Contentment. I think long on story. I hold this gladness close. Joyful and grateful and the gratitude grows and the joy grows: for laundry days and clean bathrooms; for hand holding walks with Lanie and read alouds with Erin; for new friends; for knitting; for true friends; for even the hard things, the wounding things, so grateful because they were not the end of me, but the making of me.

I don't want to forget when they walk inside breathless and thirsty. Like when they were little. Savor. Savoring the days.

Around the house, deep in a school year and preparing for summer and beyond. Lots of library books on Instantpot and immunity and health, on crochet and de-stressing. Book piles by the couch, on the tables. I love books.

I am hearing birds at the feeder, my kids' conversations, construction sounds nearby. I am hearing life.

A view of my favorite things:

likely to be a two dog, two cat household. How did that happen?

Coz

seed stitch

love

ice day

sweet!

Violet with Lanie

eye spy Erin

cocoa and games

grateful for everything about this place, home, sweet home

At the table, last week, celebrating a February poetry tea and Valentine's Day. Next week, a friend for lunch, and I am so thankful.

And still counting (11,567-11,591)

a letter
an offer
a kindred home seeker
a contract
an answered prayer

Valentines with my kids
a good visit with my sister
hearts on the table
Violet, the cat at the nursing home
a tea and talk at the table with Jackie

her fun at a party
gluten-free foods
Spanish 2 textbooks in the mail!
a book of poetry
Erin's rendition of Paul Revere's Ride by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

the seed stitch
Suzanne
another piece of the Green Ember stories
stories that call to the heart
birds at the feeders

her little pigtails
glimpses of the little girl in her face
a slow Sunday, home
game nights together
hot cocoa in little mugs

her hair! that face!

getting ready for poetry tea with Jackie

Valentine's Day breakfast with the kids

Savor--not many years of this left

Violet the cat at the nursing home

exhilaration in the garden--warm temps, the stone walkway

perhaps the last of the season's snows?

wonderland, woodland in snow

mini mugs and hot cocoa like dessert

hound dog

games at the table

I'm so very thankful for the people in my life, an answered prayer for new friendships too in Jackie and Marietta; so thankful for the good days with my sister and the provision for her care; I'm thankful to homeschool my kids, that they hold on to these experiences to take them forward into their futures; I'm thankful for cuddles on the couch and laughter during Spanish lessons; I'm thankful for piano music in the rooms and her eagerness to double up on subjects; I'm thankful for honest talks and lots of hugs. I'm so keenly aware of how fast it goes, the emptying of the childhood jar of marbles, the weeks turning to years, with more behind us than ahead. I'm so very thankful for how close our family is.

Whatever is lovely

I was sitting with Erin last night, finishing up another book by S.D. Smith in the Green Ember collection (LOVE!). She was recalling a feeling (that this warmer weather spell had cast) and telling me how there was something about it that reminded her of the old house but it was here too--the wide opening of the windows in spring all throughout the house and how I would clean everything, it all just made her feel so good. She said it just felt right.

I look forward to it too--windows wide, warmth and freshness, clean slates. We had a taste of that the other day when temps got into seventy. I grabbed a rake anyway, despite snow in the forecast and no way to mulch the leaves, but I started anyway to rake the leaves from a nearby flower bed. Last year, I didn't even finish spreading the mulch mountain. The weeds were overgrown in most of the garden beds. Most things untended in the crisis of other responsibilities. I lost a whole year. (I lost so much.)

I look out across the property. I imagine the rumble of the tractor. I inhale the future fragrance of the field. I absorb the blue in the skies and my heart swells. I look to the garden, deep in leaves, and I know where the stone walkway lies buried.

wonderland

We'll have been here seven years in August. Thank you, God.

***

Erin remembered a time when she and Lanie stuck a sign at the back door to remove shoes before entering.

Linda came in that night telling me, "I took my shoes off."

I nodded, not really understanding, not knowing my kids put a sign on the door. We don't require shoes off in this house. Our floors are hard and cold. I often wear shoes around the house myself.

At evening's end, I walked her out to see the sign on the door--childish scrawl.

"You guys!" I exclaimed.

But last night, Erin told me the rest of the story. How she and Lanie put snow inside of Linda's shoes. Oh. My. Gosh.

How I was trying to create an atmosphere of welcome and inclusion, and my kids were pranking our guest!

How I wished I could call Linda and tell her--and apologize! (I wish I could call her anyway.)

"It was Lanie's idea!" Erin ratted.

"You did it too!" I said.

"There's still a piece of tape on the door from that sign that didn't come off. It makes me remember it," Erin mused.

But I don't want her to forget--those Friday night dinners in all the seasons, flowers in a vase, wine in a glass, feasting at the table, the long talks afterwards, warm-weather walks around the yard, music in the rooms, the evening's end and the goodbyes and see you's. Don't forget that part. How Friday night was about hospitality and hearts and celebrating life together ... it was about inclusion and welcome and safety and love. It was about connection and belonging.

Everything happens around a table.

***

Wegmans had tulips for sale last week. I bought some and put them in a red pitcher.

from last week's poetry tea/luncheon

(I want to be myself again.)

And still counting (11,528-11,566)

Oh! Lunch with Anita!
a knit night with a friend
and a table full of experience!

a meet up with another mom for murder mystery activities
sitting tucked away with her talking about the real meaty things of life
and how we could do that, unashamed
a baby blanket that I've started over no less than twenty times
a house on the market!

lots of showing requests!
awareness of setting boundaries
friends' prayers that we'd escape the flu
and friends who get it that sharing flu is not cool
elderberry gummy bears

thick yogurt
a yes to a tea!
and a tea date on the calendar
10k step days
mall walking with Marshall's Mom

this time at home with my kids
trying new things
foggy days
warm fires
heart songs on the radio

66 Books
amigurumi
crochet kits in the mail
poetry in the mail
a wee one's healthy heartbeat!

oh, the pictures!
a fiesta salad
laughter late with Shane
Lori's better days
a friend who remembered Lanie's wish list

and the woman who was giving away an electric guitar
an electric guitar for my girl
spicy guacamole
good tea
tulips in a red pitcher

 trees robed in ice

Behind the scenes

Lanie and I sat on the couch drinking smoothies with big, glass straws. (For smoothie: blueberries, coconut milk, frozen bananas, spinach aka princess flakes.)

"Erin makes me go upstairs with her at night and walk her into your bathroom because she doesn't like the dark," she told me.

I nodded.

"Last night she talked to me for half an hour! I lost half an hour of reading time," she smiled. Then, "Then she looked in the mirror and her eyes got big," (Lanie impersonated), "and she exclaimed, 'You guys didn't tell me there was chocolate on my face!' (Lanie laughed) It was on her chin and the side of her face too!"

I smiled. That kiddo seems to always have evidence on her of what she's been up to.

"Then we did cartwheels," she concluded.

"In my room?!" I asked.

"Yes!" she laughed. And laughed. I shook my head.

***

My life is a mix of rhyme and alliteration and fun with words.

"Oooh! There's more smoothie! Can I have it?" she asked.

"No," I said, pointing downstairs to where Shane was working out. "Save it for Daddy."

"Aww!" she pouted walking away.

"You already had yours brim to the rim!" I said.

"Brim to the rim!" Erin echoed.

"Brim to the rim!" Lanie said. "I'm going to use that. And fifty-eleven."

"What's fifty-eleven?" Erin asked.

It was language my dad would use that stuck with me. I think Mark Twain also used similar expressions in his writing.

"It means a lot," Lanie explained.

We were knitting yesterday and I started the blanket over for truly the fifty-eleventh time in two weeks. Lanie liked the term.

***

At a women's knit recently, the more experienced knitters were talking about all kinds of yarn festivals. A surge in me, a want to call my dad and tell him about the festivals, because it would be fun to do that with him. But he is not, and if he were, he would not have anyway. I made notes to myself about the names and dates, and looked forward to taking my kids to festivals and trying new things and enjoying my time with them.

I feel a sadness over his choices. But that story is over.

He never knew the delight my kids had running through his yard, climbing the tree in his front yard, playing in his basement, loving on his cats. He never got to experience that company at his table, the joy of gifting and sharing generously, of walking through time together. Shane and I often comment on this, he missed out and he missed big--did he even know? His bank account and rooms hoarded and full, but his heart?

I knit into that blanket, starting it fifty-eleven times, and fifty-twelve if need be. I'm getting really good at starting over, I told Lanie--instead of choosing frustration. It is a labor of love to gift into the future--his story is not mine.

I struggle between wistful what-if and wanting to forget him almost entirely.

On, on.

And still counting (11,506-11,527)

home days
a library fun night with the kids
meeting another homeschool family
texts with friends
dates on the calendar

a night out with my man
a great burger
weekend coffee with my man
laughter
my kids' fun time out

meaningful, honest talks with Lanie
opportunities to tell her how much being a wife, mom, and homeschooler mean to me
joy in the journey
listing week
talks with Lori over the phone

learning the seed stitch
a text with Stephanie
a Sunday snowshower
fire in the wood stove
home, sweet home

playing a game at the table, all of us
cocoa in mini mugs

Six more weeks

It's Friday, and the store was eerily empty before a Super Bowl weekend. Shoppers sniffling and coughing. Flu season is here. We bought rotisserie chicken and extra vitamin D gummies. Orange juice too, and other things to last the next week or two.

On the drive home, I spotted that large house and smiled big at the sight of smoke rising from its chimney. I couldn't wait to get home and start my own fire. And I smiled to think of someone at this house at the bend, stoking and warming by flames, inhaling the delicious smoke scent, listening to the crackle and pop. Oh, I smiled.

I started a fire and loaded enough wasabi on my sushi to offend my senses. We were a snacky bunch, and ohsoglad to be home together. Ohsoglad this afternoon was a home one, by a fire, reading out loud, double serving of hot tea, lazy cat cleaning and snoozing nearby.

On the radio, an announcer mentioned six more weeks by the groundhog's proclamation. When has spring ever truly come early? It's always six more weeks of winter. And I say, bring it. Bring the winds. Bring the cold. Bring the barren vista. Bring the snow.

A recent time with Lanie and I said to her, "I think winter is my favorite season." It surprised me. And she surprised me with, "It's my favorite too." How did we end up winter people? I loved fall. She loved warmth. But this year, and maybe forever, winter is my favorite.

Morning sunrises through the woods because the trees are bereft of foliage. The cold calls the heat to hum, and I carry in armloads of wood--these yard arms, stronger because of winter. I'm closed up this month for a season, leaving Facebook behind most days now, enjoying the imagery of Instagram, and passing by here to dust cobwebs and give thanks. A library bag bursts with books. Our table overflows with watercolor art. I pick up knitting needles, and I think long on legacy. There is music in this rhythm--tuck ... wrap ... slide ... again. Knitting. It is a perfect winter sport. It is a meditation. It is a heart song. It connects me to a past, and it calls me to a future.

"I'll be really good at this one day and make blankets for your babies," I told Lanie. She smiled.

Six more weeks, and I welcome it still, this guest. Stay long, winter. Join us by the fire for afternoon tea. When it's so cold outside, I'm thankful I have a warm place, a saved seat, a hot mugga, and people to share this life with.