Remembering the Fallen

Gazing at Gettysburg monuments -- Our eldest son's suggestion

after we explained what Memorial Day represented. 

Papa Bear in the lead.

The Puddle Dance

A brief break for silliness. 

A thunderstorm rolled in during supper time.  Water gushed down side streets. Wind whipped the pansies, a thrash of purple. It was a humdinger.

The storm quickly ended and I surprised my six-year old with the idea of jumping in puddles. Thrilled, we decked him out in my black galoshes and went off in search of a good splash.

We spied some whoppers at the doctor's parking lot up the street. What a JOY it was to watch this energetic child dance and I mean dance in pools of gray water. Charcoal-colored slosh.

I was reminded of our sermon discussion on Sunday about times of transition, that period of waiting in between trial and tribulation. Confusion. Sadness. Not knowing what comes next, but realizing there is purpose.

The storms will batter through. We will stand in puddles, waiting for more black clouds and pelts of rain or the dawn of the sun piercing the darkness.  I watch my son and only hope I can remember to dance while waiting.

Shades of Scarlet

Scaling Scarlet Walls: Anatomy of a Poppy

Poppies blush against my front fence. They greet passersby with their scarlet wave. My son asks, "What are they?" as we examine their deep middles, insect-like. Fuzzy. They are different than the daffodil yellow trumpets or bright tulips closed tight. Spring air twists their thin stems and pedal flames dance. I marvel at their bright beauty. This shade of scarlet.

A powerful color. The color of lips and blood and rubies and fire. The color of a cord that saved a family. Rahab and the spies. A sign of salvation. This shade of scarlet.

“Now then, please swear to me by the Lord that you will show kindness to my family, because I have shown kindness to you. Give me a sure sign that you will spare the lives of my father and mother, my brothers and sisters, and all who belong to them—and that you will save us from death...Now the men had said to her, “This oath you made us swear will not be binding on us unless, when we enter the land, you have tied this scarlet cord in the window through which you let us down, and unless you have brought your father and mother, your brothers and all your family into your house.” “Agreed,” she replied. “Let it be as you say.” So she sent them away, and they departed. And she tied the scarlet cord in the window.” 
-Joshua 2: 12-13, 17-18, 21

The Coffee Project

We honeymooned in Italy. Young love wandering through a dream of gondola glamour swayed back and forth by the rock of the canal. We tossed coins in the blues of the Trevi Fountain. Neptune and his horses of the sea standing watch. Marble guardians. We pilgrimaged through Vatican halls to reach the cavern cool interior of the Sistine Chapel and stargazed at frescos in the sky, where Old Testament splendor met New Testament glory. Not to mention the food. We ate our way through Venice, Florence and Rome. 

Fast forward a decade or so. We're coming up on 12 years at the close of May. Memory Lane is reopened for the anniversary season and we linger over those unforgettable moments. One practice in particular we've continued since our Italian wanderings is the removal of milk from our coffee cup. The Italian way is about dark, rich, strong coffee. BOLD roast. We've skipped the cream all these years and developed an appreciation for a feisty flavor. 

A number of years ago our church introduced a program called the Coffee Project through Equal Exchange. This is a fair trade organization that partners with communities through its Interfaith Program. Through the Coffee Project, members of congregations can enjoy coffee, tea and chocolate and small-scale farmers can enjoy a fair price to enable their communities to invest in health care, education, and agricultural improvements. 

I purchase my coffee by the case now (Equal Exchange style) and never fail to inhale deep every time I open a fresh bag. Dark and bold. The Italian way. 

http://www.equalexchange.coop/interfaith-program

Sweet Sundays

Sometimes, we just need to get a little messy.

The Angry Planet

The Angry Cracked Planet is displayed on a vintage
1957 National Geographic Society map of The Heavens.

I picked the boys up from school and finally brought in the paper mache planet that had been orbiting the back seat. My six-year old, Ewan, had been very proud of his handy work. He elaborated on each layer -- paper, then glue, then paint, then paper, then glue...

We arrived home and casually laid the red sphere on the coffee table caught up in the dog's greeting and shouts to find daddy. In the meantime, my two-year old (Asher) zeroed in on what looked like a basketball. Red? Orange? What's the difference when you're still learning your colors? He proceeds to dribble the "ball." There's not a lot of bounce to paper mache. Crack. Crackkkkk.

Ewan rounds the corner from the bathroom, bellows out an "Ashhhherr" and turns beet red with shaking fists at his sides. Asher launches into a fit of tears at the sight of this angry outburst and Ewan launches into a fit of tears at the sight of his damaged planet. I squat in the middle of the wailing. The roar of the waterfall. Overwhelmed, I would like to cry to, but refrain.

After many hugs, discussion on anger management, forgiveness and somehow icecream worked its way into the conversation, we circle back to the wounded red mass I'm still cradling. How did that go again?

Paper, then glue, then paint, then...

Sweet & Salty

I found the land of lollipops. Sugar swirled tight. Rainbows rolled round. We drove past this lovely shop one Saturday morning and I all but tucked and rolled out of the car.

Willy Wonka, look out. Candy of every shape and size wrapped in iridescent ribbon of hummingbird beauty. We painstakingly made our selections (my husband even found chocolate-covered bacon!) and loaded back into the car. Despite just having breakfast, I unwrapped our treats in my lap. No time like the present. I settled on caramels dressed in dark chocolate, trimmed in gray sea salt sprinkles. It wasn't chocolate. It was an experience. The gritty salt hit my tongue in contrast with the creamy sweet. Without the salt, there was no taste bud symphony.

It was not long after our sweet excursion that this very spice popped up at the sermon pulpit. Pastor John remarked at the uses of salt. People were paid in salt. The word "salary" was even derived from the word and world of salt. A precious commodity, it was also used to preserve food. Yet, there was one more quality he referenced. Salt was used to mix into the earth to produce better fruit. Yield a better crop. Grow big FAT avocados (at least in my mind). He challenged the congregation to mix into the world and influence others to bring out the fullest flavor. The fullest. After all, a sprinkle of salt makes all the difference.

"You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled by men." - Matthew 5:13

Moments on Mother's Day

My "baby" with a hyacinth bouquet gift. 

Bourbon Bbq Cherry Chicken from
my amateur gourmet chef-artist husband. 

Smores with my eldest. Complete with dark chocolate.

Fern frond beauty. My gift of
fresh plants for the shade of the garden. 

One of many Mother's Day cards.
My hair is perfect. 

A Waffle-like World

Why can't everything be as wonderful as waffles? And, to really top those beauties off -- they're multigrain. Organic even. Mmhhhhmmm. I'm filled to sweet fullness and it's half healthy.

We trekked our pack to a favorite cafe nestled beside a chic neighborhood on Saturday morning. The hip locals made way for us as we edged in the crowded doorway. We didn't quite understand all of the fashion or footwear, but we went for the waffles.

The plate took a bit of a beating as my little guys lunged and plunged forks into the goodness of berries soaking in syrup. A blueberry swamp. I was not as enthusiastic and eyed them from the sidelines.

My attitude/ego/confidence had taken a bit of a beating of its own the night before as I wrecked our sporty little volvo into a fortress of an SUV.  As you can see, mine looked more like the moat. Sigh.

Fortunately, no one was hurt. The fortress was basically blemish-free and I had a lot of explaining to do for my dear husband. Why can't everything be as wonderful as waffles?

But I suppose, there is always a burnt batch once in awhile. Tough edges singed black. Lessons to be learned.

The evening it happened, my toddler asked me for a hug from his crib as I moved toward his door. Arms open. Big blue eyes. I held him close and he snuggled me near. I soaked him in and thanked God I had not taken this from someone or lost it myself. Lessons to be learned. My sad heart took its time to say "thank you" for this difficult lesson, but a blessing in disguise (or outright) I believe it will be.