Tasting the Senses.

There are some things that the senses just can't capture enough to fully absorb in.  Like eating a jambon and fromage crepe at the base of the Eiffel Tower on a bench over looking the Seine basking in the intensity of Paris with the one that you love. Then mooring down the river with the cooling mid-spring air, after listening to the celestial sounds of choirs singing Ave Marie with clarity, echoing through the Notre Dame.  Or evoking violin and cello, oboe, flute, and base while all bursting through the scene, casting glory over the gardens, an orchestra playing through Versailles, growing with green.

Then catching the first, second, and third glimpse of the Alps from the back of a steamliner with the colors of spring assaulting in the foreground, the sound of water and motors mixing in the air, and hot tea steaming in your hand.  Stark beauty taking breath away, Lake Geneva in background and bright poppys bursting in the fore, swimming beneath the Swiss Alps, fullness abounding more.  A thousand years of castle, encroached by only cameras and crowds, still it proclaims dignity against the Alps of majesty.

To gathering the goodness and intensity of so many sights, sounds, smells, colors, people, and joy as you guide your little "half-pint" car through winding roads of the Lubernon in France... this is the excruciating burst of the fullness of frolicking France.  Munching on slices of baguettes with cheesed meat amidst the side of flowing rivers and years-greened waterwheels, with antiques and motorcycles and window boxes filled with pinks and purples and yellows all the while sitting stationary in Isle de Surge, now this is abundance.  Or stick-shifting up screaming roads to Gorge, at that clenching first sight of the city amidst the mountainside, proclaiming for years its history and strength, then finding sweetly soft shops of feminine nestled within the walls like caverns.  Then the senses collide with gnarled and smooth red clay, like canyons formed in earthy valleys to contrast the length and rows of green after green, Roussallain shocks the valley of to-be lavender with its terra cotta display.

From the quaint and quiet of the Provence to the bursting streets of Cannes, life swarming like bees of riches and wealth, the drips of honey marked in sails and yachts and little white-peaked tents filling the harbor -- the film festival alive and moving, rushing with black-clad men wearing Ray-bans, peons snapping red-carpet photos, and flags from every nation finding wind to slap against the sky.  The hustle is a constant load of pushing and pulling, traffic yanking at streets and waves swiftly drawing at sand as the Sea grasps it own attention to strike against furry.  Matched with boats bobbling in the harbor is Monte Carlo, bolted together to prepare for the Grand Prix, Rolls Royce parked at the marina,  pit crew prepped for speed. Then Lamborghini and Ferrari and Alfa Romeo and Bentley march up the landscape, valeted at the Casino and money displayed for all to see.

Nice is pebbled beaches, rocky with ankle-cracking wanderers skipping rocks and kissing, and ducking from the anxiousness of trains and tall structures and traffic lights like a delta to the Sea.  It's small lights at the dusk of day in Old Town, the protection of the harbor and taste of red wine blurred with salmon and crustini, the basil and pasta with bacon and cheese. Nice wakes morning with sunlight gliding through curtains to white blankets and soft linens and a warm cup of tea, nestled in quiet with love and  breakfast, served eggs and granola and jams and coffee.  Pool-side conversations, mandarine and oranges and lemons growing, delight springing forward, captive by viewing the Mediterranean Sea.

Then ocean finds blue, fierce with tension, fullness to capture angst against rocks; there old fishing boats loiter and all senses crash at the whole of the Sea.  The oranges find yellow and arches find floral and five little towns spring like joy, splashing along the Sea.  The buildings boast hope in color, bright paint shouting like children at play.  Then terraced cobbled pathways link the entrys, displaying oils and lemons and hydrangeas and tourist, the city crowds during the day.  Rockied pathways rope the Cinque Terras, mountains sharp to ocean, colors and vines intertwine contrast with latte and gelatto and pizza and calzone, all enraptured by the great abundance of the day. Then night calms with beach-watching and waves crashing, house wine toasted to gnocci and shrimp to the end of a perfect day.

Venice finds quaint meeting water, romance with orchestras yielding its display.  Frothing with people and cappichino, it's alleys alive during day.  Masks form and glitter marking, flowered window boxes mark the way, Murano glass and Prada windows, a jubilee for all to see.  Long boats troll through Venice, ongoers enchanted by, eating sliced pizza and gelato, bridges and canals pictures taken by. Thin boats slice the sidewalks and grand churchs grow from the Sea, the Hilton Stuckly glimmers with prawns on plates to eat.

Europe tastes the senses -- from France to Swiss to Italy.  Brilliant poppys to bacon pesto to morning near the Sea.  Beyond the music singing, from mountains to the cities, is love filling thee.

Europe: Funny Things.

I would be remiss if I only captured the art of Europe, and not the funny things on this twelve day Europe adventure on the marraige train...  Like the fact we ate a meal of randomness like potato salad at a truck stop got stuck in our little car on the sixth story of a parking garage, only 5 minutes from where we picked the little half-pint car up, unable to get out or get the ticket to let us free!  Lol!  Or the time we saw this crazy old guy peeing in the middle of the busiest park in Cannes because half-way through his business, the door slide wide up, and there he stood, with nothing between him, and us, and the whole public!  Or the old couple half-naked on the beach, him dressed like he could go to our church, but then standing in a collar and sweater with a foot tucked ready to put on his jeans and only whittie-tighties and tall man-legs with too many inches between!  Then add our nasty picnic on the train, meant to be in Luxumeberg park but throwing on our train trays and everything rotting the worst smell ever -- so embarrassing is Muenster cheese!  Then there's the fact we at a place called Milwaukee  seriously -- a burger and fries for Mark and ground chicken lump for me, not exactly what we'd plan for lake-side Geneva, but it was the only place open before seven, so in went we!  And the time we hid like stowaways one leg of the train, simultaneously sending a wink and a prayer and holding our air for Levanto air -- not to mention the fine from the train before!  We laugh about stupid Foxity bus tour, where I fell asleep from so many boring circles and stuck on an open bus just wishing I could pee.  And how heavy our frick'n packs are and the fact that we wake up with a waddle from sore legs and backs and ankles toes. Dang it.  Or the B&B with separate side bed remotes to lift our legs or backs or both, propped up in hilarity.  And that we are sure we are the only backpackers who have hiked through Venice and stayed at the Hilton Stuckly, not to mention I was wearing a dress and ballet shoes with my 30 pound pack and two hands full...   Its pretty hilarious, and ridiculously fun and funny traveling with your life partner, gathering silly and stupid memories, like mementos along our marriage train.  :-)

A Spare Key.

"I can’t fold my arms 
and simultaneously reach out 
for my Savior."  

~ Katie Davis 

When I met Mark, I had a house key in the hands of Melissa, another one given to Trish, a third to a friend from church, and a fourth sitting in the drawer for whoever else may need one.  My friend Lindsay had moved in for the month of August, and I had laid the table for ten, using every chair I could find and piling them around my table with white plates and candles and dinner ready to be spread.

Within weeks of dating, a fifth key was in Mark's hand and my table served for another seating of ten, and between those weeks were multiple conversations with friends on couches and chairs with tea or cookies or ice cream or anything that could be served, by means of food or love.

I remember Mark asking about why people had keys to my house, and me feeling gospel-convicted about homes and money and life and love and space and probably parading my reply in more emotion and words than he ever anticipated.

Because that is how I feel.

I feel we are given home to offer a space.  To let friends stay in bedrooms filled with clutter or furniture, air mattresses or beds, and offer them warm breakfast in the morning.  Or leave the door unlocked so the traveling friend can swing by on their way home and grab reprieve.  Or invite someone from church into intimate life, by way of the couch and a cup of tea.  There is joy in this opening, in the inviting people in.

My favorite memories in this house are where I (or now we) have welcomed in guests or strangers and simply offered what we had -- our home.  It finds Kara at my table with goat cheese ravioli and vodka sauce and our hearts sprawled like the napkins on our lap.  It finds Kendra and Daniel playing Ticket to Ride for the ninth time, fondue still dipping with chocolate drizzling.  It has Katherine and Matthew here while I was away in Michigan, a space for their marriage to share.  It finds Trish and Blair and Judy at Soup night, and countless conversations over tea to follow.  It finds James playing Fishbowl and Diane pregnant in the chair, or Blye forking eggs with Megan over biscuits.  It finds Kate and Clara in the bedroom, Amy eating Krusteaz at the table, or Laura drinking Pino in a chair.  It finds Abby baking cookies, Gordon with chocolate cake, or a neighbor's dog settled for TV.  From Bloom Brunches to pizza nights to Breakfast Club to sharing the morning sink, this home has shared its space with Love.

When we offer what we have, what God has given us, the blessing of our time and space and kitchens and home, we offer what the Lord has bestowed upon us.  When we let people on our air mattresses or in our empty beds or on our wooden chairs or fluffed within our couches, we give them what God has said was good.  It's the place, the space, the peace we offer, which starts in our hearts, and can be shared in our home.

The opening quote captured this image, reminding me of Proverbs, "She opens her arms to the poor and extends her hands to the needy"  (Proverbs 31:10).  For with opening our arms to our Savior, we open our arms to his people.  So I am rejoicing in the reminding -- to pour an extra cup for tea, and always keep a spare key.

~~~
Quote taken from  http://kissesfromkatie.blogspot.com/   on April 23, 2013

To Grow Fruit.

My second grade play was a skew of seven year old children, all bumped together trying to sing and recite and stay upright on the bleachers in the old gymnasium, full of parents and grandparents watching on cold metal chairs.  I remember very little of it, but I remember I had one line, and it was the closing line, the important line.  So I memorized and memorized and memorized my line to make sure I had it right, and that I could deliver it slowly, correctly, proudly.  So I could speak with great pomp and circumstance and let my quiet little heart say what it had been rehearsing for weeks:

"The fruits of the Spirit are: 

love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, 

faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control."  

Galatians 5:22-23

Over the years, this Scripture has stuck with me and never had I needed to memorize it again.  My little Byron Center Christian School play had trained me in the Word, etched it on my mind, and embedded it in my heart.  And all these years later it continues to come to the forefront of my mind.

Over the past few weeks I've had this Scripture, this calling, this emotion, this Truth lingering within me.   It's been mulling....

And as you read, I pray it mulls over and in you.  I pray its words work like Hebrews 4:2 speaks:  "the word of God is alive and active.  Sharper than any double-edged sword.  It penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart."

I've known women who seem to elude Galatians 5:22-23 through every word and motion.  Who emulate patience and goodness.  Who know and live self-control.

Today, scan your heart with these words.  Plant them deeply in the soil of your soul that the Spirit may do good work amidst your branches.  That He may reveal and prune, in order to grow fruit from the seeds of his Scripture.

 

Women Friends

I liked this...  Its  a video from Sarah Mae and Sally Clarkson...

Desperate Chapter 2

Makes me think of my mom's quote:  "You'll love your husband, but you'll need your girlfriends."

March In My Heart.

It is March in my heart right now.  Like March in the soil, March in the sky, March in the season.  I feel the brightness awaken of the tips of summer -- noons of nice weather, daffodils brought to raise, and trees blossomed with white rounds.  I feel the cold luster of winter -- the dreary clouds, the deaded bushes, and the early dark of night.  I feel the sway of days, undetermined by any sense of normal, flowing up to warmth and beauty as quickly as the dash down to chilled and dragging.

It is March in my heart right now.  No sense of norm, little equilibrium to keep balance.  Each day is new and present, but changing always, from sloshy to sunny.  Promises lay among the ground, like hydrangeas darkened black yet showing growth of green, like deaded tree springs finding blooms in bundles, like tulip leafs stretching through.  They are yet to be full alive, fully awakened, but are yet discerned, noticed, promising.

With each day, I am taught to abide in my heart right now, to trust his promises and remain faithful.  Whether the morning brings birds singing, the March sign that May will come, or misty rain, the foretelling of April showers, renewal is here and promises are present.  The rain feels like saddness or loneliness or barren spaces of time, at times.  But I know its making a fresh the soil in my heart and in my life, preparing it as fertile for new growth to come.

It's March in my heart right now.  A mixture of staying quiet against the harsh of winters season, or preparing for joy in bulbs reaching for growth, or feeling sunshine color my skin like dreams in brushstrokes begun painted.  It's March in my heart right now.

... And Carry On.

A phrase has become popular on T-shirts, bumper stickers, posters, and general lingo:

I think a Biblical context, a human context, a life context needs to be discussed on this phrase.  It is interesting, as my friend and I discussed, at the world's opinion of this phrase.  It has been elevated, highlighted, posted, and pursued. Keeping calm seems the ultra goal.

But, did God create us to keep calm?

Did God, Jesus, aspire to keep calm?

We were discussing life and dating and us and our personalities.  Her insight was so interesting that I had to marvel and rethink it, and then compare the worldly view with what we know to be True.  She talked about guys and the way they talk about girls they are interested in or dating, and the ultimate phrase, the way they seem to be proud of the girl, the style they want from her is, "Yeah, she's really chill... She's easy to be with... She's laid back..."

But, if God wanted us all to be only a subset of emotions, only peaceful or "whatever" all the time, would he have then created our diversity in emotion, our inflection in responses, our capacity to feel and react so differently?  This does not mean to give full rights to our emotions, or be ruled by them, or say that all are good.  I do think there is importance and call to guide ourselves by the fruits of the spirit, including self-control.  However, I think heed needs to be given to the "all-sufficient calm" we are told to strive for.

Most posters, T-shirts, and signs with this phrase include a crown at the top.  The princess mark.  The alter-ego we are told we should wish to wear since we are children, little girls.  So then, does the phrase insinuated that to earn royalty and esteem and princess-ship, than we are to always be laid back, give little thought, and have a sense of "whatever" about life?

I beg to differ.

I see, I know, a God who takes everything personally.  Who wages war against his people when injustice was wrought.  Who lead kings and armies with strength and stamina.  Who quiets his people with his love but also rejoices over them with singing.  He is a God with strength like a mighty fortress, with wrath that burned against entire cities (Sodom and Gomorra), who's love is as fiercely jealous as it is beautifully devoted.  Jesus threw tables over in conviction, devoted intention to disciples, and stood up to Sadducees.  He divides the sheep from the goats daily, and has promised his love as much as a day of judgement. My God spoke in whispers as well as whales, pursued the barren as intensely as the prostitute.

This is my God.

He is not calm.  He is everything on the spectrum.  He is invigorating, he is life-giving.  He is joyful, he is just.  He is angry, he is saddened.  He is pursuing, he is purposeful.  He is silent, he is roaring.

To "keep calm and carry on" contradicts who my Savior is, and in some instances, who I am called to be.  To "keep calm and carry on" is to ignore the orphan, to by-pass the widow.  To "keep calm and carry on" is to shrug through life without dancing or crying or screaming or laughing.  To "keep calm and carry on" is to have a life without conviction, to have a day without a vision, to have a heart without calling.

God doesn't ask us all to be even-keeled, or all to be dramatic.  But he does ask us to live a life worthy of His calling.  In this, he leads us with conviction of his Truth, the chaos of community, and the mission of his gospel that to carry on.

Cooking Club.

It started as "Soup Sisters"  then turned "Casserole Night" and tonight was "Spanish Food."  In my mind, now its become this little club that weaves all good things together -- conversation, Christ, and cooking.  It's four of us women, all pursuing Jesus and life.  Around the table, that is beautiful.

I met Blair at a park Judy invited me to, and she happened to know Trish from a small group at church. I met Trish on a couch and we swapped life and hearts and eventually spaces in each other's weddings. Trish met Judy at a dinner table on a women's retreat.  Judy met Blair, with talks of missions and their daughters.  I taught with Judy, heard her prayers with my roommate, nannied with her, and lived in the same building. And all three of the ladies husbands go to the same seminary.  Each of the four had intertwined stories but separate relationships, and I figured, hoped, prayed as a four we would blend. So in January, we sat down to supper.

This first meeting was Soup.  Judy's "nanny mom" Sara had a soup exchange with friends and Judy relayed the idea.  I pondered the concept and built upon it.  Each of us made a pot:  Trish with her famous chicken noodle, Judy with an Indian soup, Blair with sweet potato chili, and me with white chicken chili.  Our pots were mammoth, but so were our hearts.  So we came with left over containers, and left with those full as well as our hearts.  We sipped soup and shared conversation and talked about life and missions and children and parenting and godliness and schools.  Mark walked in at 9:33 and we were still bantering away, tasting fresh bread and talking like school girls.

February brought Trish's.  Casserole night spread through her kitchen.  Blair's chicken dumplings, Judy's enchiladas, my Smokie Link Casserole, and Trish's chicken 'n rice.  We sat at her cozy round table and smelled candles and forked salad and told stories.  Blair posed the question:  how you knew you wanted to marry your husband, and the chatter began!  Each said ours would be short, but once we shared the length grew, as did our excitement and renewed love for our men.  The stories made us laugh, prod questions, and poke for more.  When Andrew walked in amidst our giggles, silence was quick and we laughed with smirk!  At lunch the next day sat Andrew with leftovers, and Micah with his.  I sent Mark with his in a lunch packed, and ate mine too, and Trish called the next day to laugh over the whole joy of lefties!

Tonight was Spanish night, in honor of Judy.  Her table was set with perfectly made placements by her hand, and lemon spiked the water.  We filled our plates, and talked of Spain.  I savored her raisien-carrot-cinnamon-pear-chicken dish, and was proud of my Viva Madrid Spanish Chicken served on Blair's Spanish rice.  Judy's guest Natalyia platted eggs with tuna filling and eggplant smattered with garlic mayo and tomato.  Judy's gazpacho chilled in my side bowl, and Trish's churros dipped in chocolate finished it off.  We ate with thoughts and dreams and callings in mind, sharing in the plans of Judy and Natalyia's mission in Spain, and our connected stories of being there.  I questioned all the ladies about their "what I don't do" list and read from Shauna Niequist about the "home team".  We talked about friendships and life and seasons and love.  And I didn't want to leave.

I'm sitting here now wishing so much from these friends, for these friends.  These cooking club, conversation, Christ-followers who share in my life once a month at dinner night, and still often too throughout the week.  I know very soon, all three ladies will spread and fly, and I will find myself here wishing for them.  But right now I am thankful to bloom where we're planted, and grow roots with them and dig deep and make life real and full and tasty, whether spicy, salty, or sweet.  They meet with me once a month, and in that, we create space at the table, which honors the table of the King.

Busy Season.

It's busy season.  For Mark.  Brutal hours.  Laboring efforts.  Long days.  No weekends.

My husband is amazing.  On all levels.  I don't know how he does it.  I don't know how is brain still works at the hours he's working, how his body doesn't fall over at the amount of sleep he's getting, or how his texts and lips aren't full of complaining after the rigor he's demanded.  And, somehow, in the midst of all of that, he makes such effort to still communicate, still care, still listen, still encourage, me.  The man is wonderful.  I absolutely love him and can't brag enough over him.

But, this little post is about the "others" in my life.  Those who have filled in the spots of Mark's absense and taken me on like a Spiritual Sister, coming and walking side by side, with, and through busy season with me.  Its incredible.  Seriously, incredible.  I think when I look back on busy season, I'll remember long hours and lots of worrying to care over my husband, but I hope I remember each person who has found a spot for me under their wing, in their car, or at their table.

I'll think of Judy who lets me drop by whether she's home or nannying, and fills spots of listening and caring and talking through jobs and dreams and missions and mommy-life and Jesus.  I'll think of her openness and acceptance and love and ability and availability to share time with me.

I'll think of Amy who brings Dunkers on a tray with tea to the porch of windows, the couches beneath us but our hearts filled within us.  I'll think of Gordon on the Upwards basketball court and third grade boys running around and Amy and I yelling and the little cheerleader pom-poming.  I'll think of lobster rolls at the market and her Milwaukee people and dinners at the table and talking at the bar while she baked.  I'll think of the Mexican train game at night and Gordon laughing and all of us chatting.  And good breakfasts and dinners and soups and life.

I'll think of Melissa who meets me at movies and lets me "supervise" while she's crafty.  I'll think of piano benches and spread candles and nights at the Lawsons and hugs and times to just sit and be.

I'll think of Kara who sends texts and shares wine and prayers as if they are one in the same.  Who makes space in her life to bring me and food to the table, and relax and linger for moments and simply share in that ability to be.

I'll think of Trish who throws on tennis shoes for S.O.S. walks at the park, or calls on the drives to work, or offers to sit on a Friday Eve.  I'll think of her book arriving in the mail, and her body and soul besides me at Sunday morning Study.  I'll think of Sleepy Poet and bookends and silver mirrors and searching through gorges of antiques.  I'll think of her friendship and remember her "I love you!" sent so often in smiles through texts.

I'll think of WLT and these church women who have shepherded and prayed and guided me through hard spots and choices and courage.  I'll think of their offers to sit on their couches, play with their children, join their study, or plan a day of things in Charlotte to see.  I'll think of them caring and writing and asking and coming beside me.

I'll think of Sheree and how she sits on my couch while we share tea.  I'll think of her texts and how she remembers and how her friendship so strengthens me.  I'll think of her pursuing and emailing and caring, and being such a light and spark to me.  I'll think of how God knew I needed her, and how she has gripped his love and call and grace, and how she is one with such a gift to just "be."

I'll think of phone calls from Kate and Kate, and offers to simply fill time from Kelsey.  I'll think of the "covered" card with the umbrella of love from Heidi and know prayers have been lifted and sheltered.  I'll think of working out at the ROC and women who have come to know my name and care about me.

I'll think of Mark's mom. For prayers and moments of sanity.  For listening through tears about nannying, and offering time and insight whenever I needed it.  I'll think of her encouragement and wisdom, and things like Matt's windshield wipers making me laugh.  I'll think about her always picking up phone calls for endless time or quick opportunity.   I'll think of shopping for broaches in Greensboro, and really understanding that yes, there is the Thrill of the Hunt.  I'll think of Sleepy Poet and packing for Florida, and never questioning how good God could be to me in giving me her.  And then I'll think of Mark and I'll smile and brag and love him even more.

And so when I sit and think and look at Busy Season.  I'll feel the void of my husband, and the earnest I feel to walk with him and encourage him.  I'll think of wanting to strengthen him and offer him reprive.  I'll think of sharing texts and pictures and verses and mornings.  And I'll think about how much I love this wonderful man.

But I'll also think of, must think of, need to think of, the women in my life who have taken time to care and shelter over me.  And in this, they are Jesus to me.

900 Square Feet.

900 Square Feet.

I can't help but feel this story over and over again.

Because it feels refreshing, it feels valuable, it feels encouraging, it feels like real life, and real memories, and real truth.

There are days all I see is big houses and expensive cars and boutique clothes and think I've got to run and chase after the dream.  I think that's the accomplishment, that's the mission, that's the goal.  And if only we could get there, we'd have room for everything we need.

But the Lord put rest in my heart with a conversation with a friend.  She's in her fifties, children grown, with a well-established home in an elite neighborhood of Charlotte.  She and her husband have "arrived," have "made it."  And our conversation flowed to their early years, intertwined with Mark and I's ambitions and worries and work.

But the Lord smiled upon us with her story.  900 Square Feet.  It was the size of their first house, lived in for ten years, raising their children there, until they were 7 and 4.  A boy and a girl, sharing a bedroom.  A little tiny space, crowded but full with their memories.  Her husband worked and worked, struggling to feel like he was getting ahead.  And it wasn't until he was 35 that he did, and they moved. But for ten years they had 900 square feet of children and love and toys sprawled and blankets dragged and tears shed and meals made.

I think of them now, with a few other women I've talked to lately, who have lived in small spaces, with children sharing bedrooms, and yet have full lives.  And I think of years that children shared spaces, and toys had no rooms but boxes and kitchens were cornered and tight. Yet the food was cooked with care, beds tidied with comfort, books read on the couches.  And I think of our home, a beautiful space that we rest in, and am thankful.  Because memories are made in the house, no matter the size or splendor.  Their made at the Lawsons table, Heidi's canning counter, Trish's kitchen.  Places where love is served.

So no matter if the home is 900, 1400, or 4000 square feet, it is who we are with and how we live that life that honors, blesses, and serves those in it.