The Husband

I've noticed a trend among female bloggers to refer to their husbands by some sort of nickname. Take, for example, Ree Drummond (aka The Pioneer Woman), who is married to "Marlboro Man." And then there is Ann Voskamp over at A Holy Experience, happily married to her "Farmer Husband." I've read of women married to "The Captain," and I've read of women married to "The Man."

So it's got me to thinking. Am I supposed to give my own husband a name? I've always just referred to him as Jamie. Except for a brief period when I called him Farm Boy because I needed him to fetch me a pitcher. And the other time when he was Lightning because I was Sonora and we entertained village children in Mexico. But that was a really, really long time ago. Forget I ever mentioned it.

Anyway, my husband is in the video business. So what does a woman call a man who spends most of his time either behind a camera, editing at the computer or laying out storyboards? How about . . . "Video Guy?" Or perhaps "Film Fellow?" Maybe it should be "Mr. Movie" or "Man of Action?"

Ooooh, I know: The Director. Sounds impressive. Very imposing and prestigious.

What d'ya think?

All right, Mr. DeMille. I'm ready for my close-up.

Dancing Shadows

The longer the kids are cooped up, the more creative they get. Of course I don't want them to remain cooped up in an attempt to foster more creativity, it's just an observation. In fact, we just might make it out of the house in the next day or two (as long as I can keep my own sniffles at bay . . .).

But the kids are finally healthy and have recently discovered a new diversion. The other day, in an attempt to do something mathematical with a rather contrary five-year-old, I pulled out the overhead projector. (You know you're a homeschool mom when your last thoughts before drifting off to sleep are, "Ooooooh! Overhead! That will be fun!")

So out it came, along with the pattern blocks. She was thrilled with the idea of seeing her patterns projected onto the living room wall. I had been keenly aware of the fact that there is still absolutely no artwork on that particular wall in our home. But maybe that's not such a bad thing for now. Hexagons and triangles, parallelograms and squares danced shadows across the void, projecting the visions of my child's mind.

Aidan was sick the day I pulled out the projector, so he wasn't aware of the new activity. Poor thing -- the next morning, when he was himself again, he saw it sitting in the living room and asked, "Was I gone yesterday?" I reminded him that he had spent the day on the couch. The light of recollection dawned, and he merrily plopped down in front of the screen to create.

The kids have continued to create for the last few days. At first they followed very basic quilt-like patterns, adhering to pattern block "rules." That is, the shapes fit nicely together, lying flat on the surface.

Today, however, Aidan realized that he could think outside of the box. He proved that what appears on the glass screen might look a bit unconventional -- blocks stacked and askew. But when projected by the light, it is transformed into a work of art. And that's how he made people.



But not just any people. Rolfe and Liesl people. Dancing. With a telegram.



That's my boy.

All Along

This morning while sitting at my desk, I leaned over to pull a book from a bag on the floor. I stopped. What was that? I could just barely detect faint strains of . . . music. It didn't take long for me to realize that my head was right next to the CD player. (My powers of deduction are really quite astonishing.)

I usually keep the classical music station playing in the school room during the day. At times I'm forced to turn it down. If a child starts practicing the piano or smackin' away at the snare, down goes Mozart. That must have happened yesterday. Only I never turned it all the way off. Just down. And it had been playing all along.

If we listen carefully -- oh, so carefully -- we'll hear it. The faintest strains will gain strength and momentum as our ears learn to detect the music. We'll tune out the distracting, discordant din and focus on the beauty. And we'll realize that it's been there all along.

Childhood Idyll by Adolphe-William Bouguereau 1900

I Love You More

She always said, "I love you more than you love me." We laughed and argued back, "No, Mommy! I love you more than you love me!" The volley continued until she trumped us with the final, "I loved you . . . before you were born . . . ." And that settled it. She always won. But never was a victory so precious to the "defeated." We knew we were loved.

I've grown since then, and now the volley continues with my own children. They insist that they love me more. Aidan tries to prove his point with an impressive boast: "I love you an infinity and ninety-nine!" Drew helps him out by defining a googolplex. Bethie relents and says, "Oh, Mommy . . . ." And Avery insists that she loves me more because she cries for me. I answer back, grinning, with the challenge, "Well, I cry for you, too . . . ."

She thinks I'm being silly. But she doesn't understand.

She doesn't understand that I really do cry for her. I cry tears of joy for the beauty in her. I cry tears of agony for the trials she must face. I cry tears of anger over the conflicts we experience and then I cry tears of frustration over the war I must wage to defeat my own selfishness.



But I also cry tears of thanksgiving. Because I know that there is One who loves her even more. This same One who trumps all because He loved me . . . before I was born. He wins the game every time. He, the triumphant King, holds her tenderly in the palm of His hand and calls her by name. And He does the same for me.

She and I, we sit together in our Father's presence, both loved more than we could ever imagine. Beyond infinity and ninety-nine, beyond a googolplex, beyond a ba-zillion. We are always loved . . . more.

Let Me Count the Ways

I've been housebound for nine days now. Well, I suppose I did run down the street to get the mail on Saturday. And I did drop Drew off at his percussion class last week. But that doesn't count. For the most part, we've canceled lessons, invitations and events to tend fevers, coughs and sniffles.

The funny thing is, it wasn't until last night that I realized I hadn't gone out (for real) for over a week. Now if a mother of four can stay in one spot for a week and not notice, she's either delusional . . . or blessed.

I choose to think of myself as blessed.

It is a blessing to look at one's surroundings and see beauty, no matter how much laundry is piled up or how many legos are scattered across the floor. Now don't get me wrong. This isn't always an automatic reaction. Far too frequently, I fall into the trap of not seeing the beauty. And I miss out on the blessing.

God has infinite treasure to bestow . . . . Blind as we are,
we hinder God and stop the current of His graces.
(Brother Lawrence, The Practice of the Presence of God)

I don't want to spend my days missing the blessings. I don't want to fester in stagnancy when the current of His graces is so close at hand. So I pray that my heart might focus on the beauty.

When I see the watercolors and the brushes and the newspaper all over the kitchen table, my first instinct is to cringe. But as I bring my little one to the sink and wash the colors from her pink hands, I choose to focus on that moment: I hold that hand -- that hand that won't be so tiny for long -- and I wash away the mess. I force the smudges, the mess, the ugly -- that in me which fails to see beauty -- I wash it down the drain. I kiss the paint-smeared forehead, knowing that I've just taken part in a blessed, holy moment. Again.

So even though I might be hanging out at home for a few more days, I will continue to look for beauty. Perhaps put a little twist on Elizabeth Barrett Browning's words: "How does He love me? Let me count the ways . . . ."

*little hands stroking my face
*Drew's first youth group retreat
*Avery baptizing herself while taking a bath
*exchanging emails when I'm housebound (especially with my mom and sister who agree to the challenge of sending only correspondence that rhymes. This week we moved on to haiku. Please feel free to join in.)
*fevers dropping
*a friend who shares Scripture: Isaiah 55
*words of joy!
*hot soup on a cold winter day
*foggy mornings
*sisters sharing a stack of library books
*reading with Bethie over a cup of tea
*Aidan's paper airplanes
*steady work -- God's faithfulness!
*sunshine after endless rain
*rearranging furniture
*hearing the front door, knowing he's home
*surprise hugs and kisses from my Aidan

I will tell of the kindness of the Lord,
the deeds for which He is to be praised . . .
yes, the many good things He has done.
Isaiah 63:7