Flower Patch Farmgirl

Plan B

2012-02-13T13:44:00.000-05:00

Cory and I were gone all weekend. It was duh-vine. It was also strange at turns, but you'll have that when we're involved.

We got home last night and only had eyes for the smallish people in flannel and feetie pojammies, so I planned to wait and tell you about our adventure today.

But now it's today and the camera (along with photos) is with Cory in Indy, so it's going to have to wait even longer because it just wouldn't be fair to tell the stories without the pictures. I know you understand.

The good news is, I always have a back-up plan.

The bad news is, my back-up plan is usually brussels sprouts.

Cross my heart, I don't know what's gotten into me. I really don't. All I know is, one day I was a normal girl and the next? I was a brussels sprouts fanatic. The more I eat them, the more I want them. They are the methamphetamine of the farmers' market.

I regret to inform you that this is a picture of my Last Supper, or my Last Lunch, as it were. This is the meal that broke my 14 year streak. It looks pretty good, but does it look like something you'd like to experience twice? I didn't think so. Especially when you add a blood orange to the mix.

I'm still so ashamed to admit that I caramelized these puppies whilst Cory was just one room away, all green and clammy.

It is mean to cook brussels sprouts when someone in the house has a stomach bug. I didn't know. You have to remember that at this point, I was still clutching my Title.

The following day, having lost my innocence along with all of my electrolytes, I was mortified by my actions. I did eighteen Hail Mary's and flogged myself.

Also, of course, I puked, which was its own sort of punishment.

This is what the kids ate that day. I might be a weirdo, but I don't feed them a plate full of pickled beets and brussels sprouts for lunch.

They only wish they could be so lucky.

(Oh, and those are mini corn-dogs. FYI.)

But if you want to know how to caramelize some sprouts, and I'm sure you do, I'm here to tell you.
1) Steam them for 3 min. (stove-top or microwave)
2) Let them cool, then cut in half.
3) Heat olive oil in pan on medium heat. (I set my burner to number 5)
4) Place sprouts cut-side down in pan and do. not. move them.
5) Once the cut sides are nice and golden brown (not burnt!) they are done.
6) Squeeze generously with lemon juice and sprinkle with salt.

Amen.

Oh, and one more thing. A winner!

Beth: My favorite way to spend a summer evening is to hang out in our backyard around our fire pit...so I'm pretty easy to please!

Beth, you just won a copy of A Sweethaven Summer, by Courtney Walsh. Email me with your address and I'll get it out to you.

Love Letters to the Underloved and Magazine Hearts

2012-02-09T22:55:00.002-05:00

I finally hung my make-shift Valentine's Day banner over the weekend. It consists of white sewing thread strung between the woebegotten hardware from ruffly curtains gone by and last year's punched magazine hearts.

It took me two weeks to get the gumption to stop staring at the pile of hearts on my desk and do something about 'em.

Can we all just agree that when taping paper scraps to thread becomes too daunting, the mojo has officially left the building?

I don't even know if that last sentence makes sense and I'm too tired to look twice.

Dang you, runaway mojo.

Aren't they pretty, though?

They'll be up for a while. Mark my words.

Siley helped me hang them. He calls them my "pretty lightswitch".

Love that baby boy, but don't tell him I said that or he'll scream, "I not a baby! I a good boy!"

You know what else I love? Top Gun. The movie. You know you love it, too. We're watching it right now on one of those sorry, "so, it's come to this" tv channels. All the bad words are bleeped out.

"Son, your ego's writing checks that your body can't cash."

Oh, if you only knew how many times I've seen this movie. And I don't even like re-seeing movies.

I hope to high heaven that every last one of you takes the time to slap some magazine hearts across your kitchen window. I promise, it will cure what ills you. Or at least part of it.

It can help you forget that you just wiped poop off of three surfaces, one of which was the bottoms of tiny feet. 7 doctor's appointments in one week? But a distant memory. The worst dinner you've ever made in the history of your culinary life? Fuggetaboutit.

String 'em up. Tell me I'm wrong.

I have one more thing and it's the very best thing, which is why I saved it for last. My friend Amy put together The. Coolest. Thing ever in honor of this, the Month de Amor (just made that up, betcha couldn't tell).

It's called Love Letters to the Underloved. I was honored to contribute a letter to adoptive mamas. The e-zine is so gorgeous and the truth inside will split your heart at the seams.

Open publication - Free publishing - More encouragement

A Sweethaven Summer :: Fiction Giveaway

2012-02-08T21:38:00.002-05:00

If there's one thing I love in life, it's getting lost in a paperback novel. I love knowing it's there, waiting for me at the top of the stack on my night-stand. If it's really good, I toss it in my big ol' bag when I run out for an errand. (I like to pretend that I'm one of those moms who might find herself with a quiet moment to read.)

I love heading in to bed early and propping myself up. I like turning the pages with fingertips smelling faintly of orange peel. I like a cup of tea beside me, with a spoon to clank around.

I've got this down to a science, people.

In Junior High, I used to stay up until three in the morning and read two teen romances. It bugged me that the girls were always so pretty. I wanted to read one sometime where she was just average and still landed square-jawed Todd. Regardless, I read on, feeling so cool when my older brother came home after curfew only to find me wide awake...sitting on my bed...reading.

Looking back, he never seemed all that impressed. "Dude, my little sister is so cool! She stays home every Saturday night and reads!"

I think you understand all of my points, the main one being that I was born not to party, not to be wild, not to run, but to read. Jealous much?

Here's something that I didn't realize until very recently. Reading a novel written by a friend is a brand new kind of awesome.

My friend Courtney Walsh just released her debut novel, A Sweethaven Summer. People. It's such a fun read. It's beachy and Summery. It's transportive. The ideal prescription for mid-February gloom and despair. It redeemed a recent slow stretch of cooped-up, too-cold, get-me-the-heck-out-of-here days, and for that I will be forever grateful.

What I loved second-most was the story of friendships that transcend years and hurts. Aren't we all suckers for that? What I love third-most was the undercurrent of food. Give me some sweet tea and carrot cake, Adele. Fourth most? The cute boy, Luke. Fifth? The nostalgia. Sixth? The suspense.

Here's what I kinda hated the most: Courtney is so dang good at weaving together a story. She makes it look easy and I know it's not. I wanted answers and she had me trapped between racing to find them and slowing down to ride the train. I wanted to climb into her noggin' and take a good look around, really see how it worked. (Hey Court? Wanna write my book for me? Pleaseandthankyou.)

What I loved most of all was getting a window-seat into the soul of my friend. I loved hearing her laugh during the funny parts and seeing her quirks in her characters. I loved being amazed (but not surprised) by her ability to pick me right up and take me to that cute little lake-side town.

Homegirl carries a full-size bottle of creamer in her purse and magic up in her brain.

But don't just take my word for it.

You can buy your own copy of A Sweethaven Summer here, here, or here. (It'll be available for Kindle, soon, Sherry!)

And if you leave a comment, I'll enter you in a giveaway to win a copy. Tell me about your favorite summer memory from childhood or your nerdiest way of spending a Saturday night in the 8th grade or just tell me your name. I'm not here to complicate life.

I'll draw a winner on Sunday evening. And remember, you can comment even if you don't have a blog. Just be sure to leave your email address in the comment!

Right Smack Dab

2012-02-06T22:11:00.000-05:00

The day was drippy, foggy, soggy, brown. There's just not much pretty happening in February, at least not at first glance.

Lately I feel like I'm way down deep in the middle, that steep crack between everything that I've been and all that I might want to be. I crave a slow-down. I want more meaningful time with my family, more date nights on the couch with the guacamole bowl in the middle. I want the grip of obligations to loosen, let me breathe. At the very same time, I'm starving for some action. I'm clamoring for the stretched out days when nine o'clock pm feels like its own kind of beginning.

I want to stay at home and never leave. I want to drive all night just to show up somewhere new. I want to cook a feast from scratch and eat out just because I can. I'm beat-up sweatpants and skinny cords; a stack of novels and reality TV.

I blame the month.

It's not that I dislike February. It's got Valentine's day, after all. But isn't it obvious to you and me and the postman and the bus driver that it's really little more than a bridge? I sweeps us out of December's gift wrap, it rescues us from the clutches of January's solemn vow to do some cardio and stop eating pie before bed. For that, we are thankful. But here we are, and what it feels like is stuck. It fits like a stall. We see Spring up ahead, the collective melting-off of Winter's edge. But we're not quite there.

It's hard, the here. It's no accident that February is the shortest month. We can only take so much Middle.

So what's the solution? How do we grab her by the ears and claim her as our own, as something we can love, something we might even revel in a bit? How do we hunt down her charms and burn them into our hearts?

First thing, we re-frame our expectations. February will never be June or October. She doesn't look so hot in short-shorts and she's fiercely allergic to burning leaves. Let's let her off the hook. She doesn't have to enrapture us like the other months do. She's got her own appeal and she's ready to show off.

Next? We stir together all of her almosts and not quites. We sift in some antsy and crack the shell of lazy. We bake it just long enough to see that we've got here is the best of every dang thing, topped with red sugared hearts.

We can waste away the grayest day and know that tomorrow will be perfect for getting things done and wearing lip-gloss while we do it. We can spend hours with American Idol and a heart-shaped paper punch and not suffer a single lick of guilty.

Can we do it? I'll try if you do. Maybe we'll both notice that the drear takes a wild turn for the romantic, moody haze of a life well-loved.

10 Loves Lately (2) (Make that 11)

2012-02-05T22:12:00.002-05:00

1} I am a passionate, loyal admirer of the Converse One Star collection at Target. There's something about it that reels me in all the live-long day. Maybe it makes me feel sporty. Maybe I like the way they blur the line between "normal attire" and "bathrobe". Maybe I like all the gray. The fleece. The stripes. Maybe I just like every ding dang thing about it.

Love this.

2} Periwinkle Jazz Etsy shop.
Over five months ago I walked into the local All Things Handmade and Vintage Bazaar and stopped dead in my tracks when I came upon rows of vintage hankie bloomers, strung up drip-dry style. I wanted to unclip every last pair, take them home, and stuff Ruby into them. Heck, I wanted to stuff my own bad self into them.

Do you happen to have a baby in your life? She needs them like I need salsa and a 2-hour massage.

Lucky for me, the mastermind behind Periwinkle Jazz also sells adorable skirts, so I scored one for my favorite 5 year old.

Unlucky for me, there was nothing for big people. Though I think I did ask her if she does custom orders. Jessica? I'm totally serious. I will hook. you. up. with some skirt orders. I'm so ferreal.

3}Total Care floss.
What can I say? My dentist once referred to me as The Dental Goddess. I have never let my mom forget about it. And yes, it is pathetic that I'm so proud. And yes, it is even more pathetic that I brag to my mom about it.

Years later I spent all of our wedding cash on a root canal at one of those scammy "emergency" dentists because I had brushed so fervently and so viciously that my gumline receded to a disastrous level.

Years later, I was told by a real dentist that a receding gumline should really never be treated with a root canal.

I still sort of want to egg the guy's car. Also? He snapped at me for humming to myself while he scraped out my tooth guts. Jerkface.

Oh, but the floss! I almost forgot I was here to talk about the floss.

It's brilliant. It's the Escalade of the flosses. It's springy and groovy. It glides in and then expands via nuclear fusion or some kind of other-wordly science and it cleans the heck out of your teefs.

In closing, it's only fair to admit that I haven't been to the dentist in over a year. I'm actually kinda scared of dentists now. We both know who shoulders the blame for that.

4} Date night/Holiday hair

I would go on a date with Cory every single week if I could. It's one of my very favorite things to do. The end.

And the Holiday hair? Well, it just doesn't quit ruling the school. I've seen and heard horror stories from several of you who have tried it for yourself and I'm so very sorry. But I'm also a little bit smug, because it works for me and that just never happens.

5} Hot and Sour Soup. What do they put in this stuff? I don't know what's in it and I don't really even know how to explain what it tastes like, but I do know that I am a believer. It lives up to it's name - hot and sour. You know Mama likes the tangy foods. Throw in some mushrooms and tofu and Heaven knows what else? You own me.

6} Korte Acres Lotion Bar
My friend Stephanie gave this to me. It's molded into the cutest honey bee-embossed disc and housed in a round tin. Admit it, we're all suckers for cute packaging. I keep it on my night stand and rub down the claws before bed. I always feel very avant-garde and sophisticated. I also feel quite mother-of-the-earth. It's a win-win. And it smells good. (Mine is Love Spell).

7} Lunch meetings. Speaking of Stephanie. I do very much enjoy the occasional Important Lunch Meeting. Mine happen on Saturdays, lately. They preserve my sanity. Steph and I talked decorating and Bachelor and FNL and big dreams and unwieldy children and vacations and unfortunate misunderstandings. We ate two baskets of tortilla chips. We asked the hostess to take our picture on the way out the door.

8} "This is my command - be strong and courageous! Do not be afraid or discouraged. For the Lord your God is with you wherever you go." Joshua 1:9 NLT

9} Wakarusa Dollar General Store. This weekend alone, I urgently needed generic Midol and mild chili beans. When I arrived, the store was closed. The weird part was, it should have been open. The weirder part was, in place of the regular "closed" sign they had a raggedy piece of notebook paper slapped cockeyed on the door with "closed" handwritten all chickenscratchy-like. I thought about calling the cops. It seemed like I once saw an episode of Dateline Mystery where a store was robbed and the employees were held in the back against their will while a slap-dash closed sign kept PMSing moms/chili chefs at bay.

As it turns out, our joint was shut down. By the actual people who shut places down. Like, forever.

I felt sad about the DG. I still do.

This goes out to the DG and all of the friendly faces who rang up my generic Midol, trash bags, chili beans, and Dr. Pepper over the years:

I guess I thought you'd be here forever
Another illusion I chose to create
You don't know what you got until it's gone
And I found out just a little too late

I was acting as if you were lucky to have me
Doin' you a favor I hardly knew you were there
But then you were gone and it all was wrong
Had no idea how much I cared

Now being without you
Takes a lot of getting used to
Should learn to live with it
But I don't want to

Being without you
Is all a big mistake
Instead of getting easier
It's the hardest thing to take
I'm addicted to you babe
You're a hard habit to break

10}Found Magazine blog. Sarah told me about this a couple of weeks ago and it immediately sucked me in for an entire nap-time. It's funny and dear. Sometimes, it's just plain wrong. But you'll have to check it out for yourself.

11} Cover Girl Simply Ageless Eye Corrector concealer, #230.
True story: I look like the killer from Scream without concealer. This stuff helps.

The Land of the Living :: Volume III

2012-02-02T22:17:00.002-05:00

I think I knew all along, in spite of those pesky fears that snaked around my ankles, that this was where we would be. It was what we just kept coming back to, this neighborhood with the two houses for sale.

So Cory put in a few more calls and for a week or so there was nothing but static. But one random evening our call was returned and we got the rest of the story, which was that the entire block is owned by La Casa. Those crumbling-down houses up the hill would eventually be torn apart and carted off, then rebuilt from the bottom up.

The goal, the whole purpose behind what La Casa is doing is to take a forlorn, mostly-forgotten neighborhood and pull it back up to its feet. They call it Neighborhood Revitalization. I call it Neighborhood Redemption.

Having been/being a girl who was/is forlorn and broken-down, mostly-forgotten and scarred by mistakes, I know the potential for redemption when I see it.

The La Casa guy said they were hoping for a stable family to be a part of what they were doing in its early stages. I don't know if they are praying people, but their hope was answered with our prayer. God was guiding us right where we needed to be.

And that's the rock-bottom truth of it all. This move has always been more about what we needed than what anyone else needed. We never set out to solve anyone's problems. We know that God doesn't let willing hands remain empty for long, we have seen that first-hand. We're sure He'll put us to work. But all the while, He'll be working on our own foolish hearts and I can't begin to imagine who or what He'll use to exact that work.

The stupidest part about the whole blasted thing is that I momentarily balked (internally) about a new house. It didn't make a lick of sense. I've never been a new-house kind of girl.

God does everything backwards a lot of the time. That's something that I'm learning. He creates us with certain things in our hearts and then He nudges us toward something entirely different. I don't call it a test. He's got better things to do than pass around final exams and tally them all up. I think He just wants to show us something new - a revelation, a shiny-new possibility. He shakes the dust off our feet and gets us all riled up. We're left shaking our heads, but not in a bad way, more of a "life is insane and I love it" way.

I gathered pretty quickly that I'd be a Class A loser if I inside-whined too much about a new house. We'll figure it out. It'll be fun! A new adventure.

The house will be ready this Summer. We'll move in, settle in, get our bearings. The kids will start school a few blocks down in the Fall.

That's something people around here have trouble with - the school thing. When you happen to live in one of the most desireable school districts in the area, people are slow to understand why you would choose to move your family out. A typical response to finding out we're moving to Goshen is, "But your kids will still go to school here, right?"

This is at the root of everything, because there was a time when I might have thought the same thing. There was a time when I believed having your kids in the best, "safest" school should be the top priority. I don't think that anymore. I'm tired of this elite idea that one thing is so much better than another.

I understand the pull toward what feels most comfortable. I understand the deep desire to keep my children sheltered and protected. But what I feel even stronger is the hope that my kids will learn very early that God goes with them. He goes. With them. Everywhere they are, there He is. I want them to be around kids who are like them and unlike them and every variation in between. I want them to see beauty in every face and to feel their faith grow as they relate to the world around them with each new day.

It took me thirty-four years to start to understand some of this. My hope is that they won't waste as much time getting around to the truth.

My kids won't automatically go down the pipes because the new school doesn't test as well as the old school. They won't lose their faith because more kids don't believe the way they do. I wish I could say that I came to these conclusions overnight, but I didn't. They came slow and painful over the course of months, even years. It hurt to realize that some of the things I hinged my faith on were false.

All of these steps, all of the wrestling and the arguing and the "I'll do this God, but I won't do that", they have been part of our journey. He prepared us, always, for what came next. He reeled our hearts toward exactly where they needed to be and He planted joy and excitement way down deep.

So maybe God is upside-down and maybe He's totally nuts, but He sure is kind and His mercy makes me cry.

This life, this adventure? I wouldn't wish a moment away. Thank you for playing along while I write it down here. I want to remember all of it. I want to remember the fear and the doubts, because that's what makes the Glory beam down ever-brighter.

**

A sweet reader sent this quote tonight, just as I was sitting down to type. I love it so much. Thanks, Mindy.

“And the only life worth living is the scandalous one: scandalous love, offensive mercy, foolish faith.”

The Land of the Living :: Volume II

2012-02-01T21:08:00.001-05:00

Our farmhouse sold back in September and in no time flat, we were way behind in finding what came next. It took nearly 18 months for us to find a buyer, and all along, we resisted the urge to window shop for something new. We didn't want to get attached. Besides, the market was saturated. We knew it wouldn't be a problem.

Within the week of the sale, we were out with our realtor. We'd always felt drawn to Goshen, but we didn't really know why. So she took us around. In one afternoon, we toured four beautiful homes with hardwood floors and wrap-around porches. We rumbled down the cutest brick street in town and the yards all looked so tidy and fenced. Inside, I could imagine the possibilities. The moldings were thick and the windows were charming. There was a butler's pantry. Our would-be neighbors were college professors and bankers. It was walking distance to the coolest coffee shop around.

We drove away from the last showing in the rain and I felt hollow inside. Cory's first pick was my last, and vise versa. For the first time in our history, we weren't meeting right in the middle, together.

But mostly, it just didn't feel right. That's my surest indicator, my trusty "feels right" gauge. It didn't seem to me that we sold everything we loved best to move to a manicured back yard on a brick street.

A few rainy blocks down, I saw the most gorgeous home. Kelly green, to boot. It was for sale. How the heck did we miss it? I didn't even notice the rumbling sound of brick under my wheels.

There was a sign for La Casa in the yard. I knew only enough to know that it was "a program" and that we probably didn't qualify. But we called anyway and learned two important facts. 1) We did qualify (most people do) and 2) The green house was already sale-pending.

I went to dinner with a friend and Cory sent me antsy texts that we were "on to something". La Casa had just landed on our radar. We felt a rush of breeze as the curtain pulled back a little.

It turns out, the green house was an anomaly. It was displaced. Most of the La Casa homes were over on the other side of the tracks. That felt right, somehow. Peace swept down and settled around the cracks and we hoped hard that night that things would make even more sense in the morning.

They didn't.

Silas and I followed the directions under gray skies and the further we drove, the more real it got. It wrestled with what I knew was true - that we were headed to a neighborhood that would never be in a magazine, or even the town paper. I kept driving north, resisting the urge to turn it around and drive back to the shiny hardwoods. Maybe we were wrong all along and that's where we were supposed to be. Maybe I was just in a bad mood yesterday.

The houses on the block were mostly vacant, crumbling down to the foundations, windows busted out. There were two La Casa homes, one a new-build and one a remodel. Both were nice. Neither had a yard. How do you raise kids without a yard? That may have been when I started to cry. I can't remember now.

Here's the thing I need you to know: It's not about the neighborhood, really. It could be so much worse. It could be a whole lot better. It's not inner city. It ain't the Projects. It's not about the broken glass or the trees. What it's about is the fear. It's about fear of letting go, fear of trying something new, fear of people not understanding, fear that maybe we're altogether wrong. It's fear that your good kids might be good because of all the room and the air and the public school Bible class on Tuesdays. It's fear that the neighbors won't like you and your old friends might forget you.

That fear creeps up on its own. It doesn't need an invitation. It can take something a little unsettling and turn it into a nightmare. I hear what many of you are saying, that it's not so bad after all, and I understand.

But what I also know is that when I stood on acre 6 with all of my flowers and the orchard and the swing-set and the barns, when I cooked in the kitchen we built ourselves, I knew that I never wanted to be anywhere else. I knew I had been blessed with a dream and I could never have imagined handing it back over and walking away, down a street with no lamp-posts, without a clear idea of why.

We're not going to start a ministry. We have no immediate plans to round up a Bible study or canvass the neighborhood. We aren't going there to rescue our neighbors or teach them a particular truth.

We're just going. We're going to live among them, be their neighbors and let them be ours. That's the beginning and end of the story. It's a short read.

So maybe that's the biggest thing I've learned so far, that it's not about the why or the where. It's about the Yes. It's about not wanting to walk around slightly ill from the knowing that we didn't go when we were supposed to. It's about kicking fear in the teeth and shrugging off the nay-sayers like a bad sweater.

This thing that we're doing? It doesn't make a whole lot of sense tonight just like it didn't back on that September morning when I called Cory and told him I just couldn't do it, I couldn't live without a yard. (I'm not sure what I would have used as a scapegoat in the presence of yards, but I know I would have come up with something.)

I drove out of the neighborhood then all the way out of town. I took us back to that one place that felt safe and I tried to forget that its days were numbered. We were back to square one and time was running out, but I was confident that God had something for us. It was just a matter of finding it.

The Land of the Living :: Volume I

2012-01-31T10:25:00.000-05:00

Each day that begins and ends brings us closer to the day we'll pack up all of our books and dishes and shirts and Legos and move a bit further down the road.

What should have been June might now be July and I'm doing my very best to keep the inner cynic in check, because what I'm thinking on a good day is, "They'll never be done by July." On a drearier day, it's more, "This is never going to happen. Never."

There's a thing inside me that feels so much better when I hold the timeline in my own two hands. I've been reluctant to talk about all of this, because what if I'm wrong? What if we're hours away from the rug being yanked out?

As you already know, I hate being wrong. It's embarrassing. But I'm learning. I'm learning that publicly tip-toeing to the edge of the cliff brings a unique brand of exhilaration. It's possible that I'll be wrong, that I'll have to recant. It seems like it wouldn't be the end of the world after all.

So this is our street. If you walk a few blocks further down, you'll come to the school where the kids will attend.

I've gotta tell you, it looked a bit less depressing back in August. Once the leaves fell and everything got all washed up in gray, the latent doubts came back with a vengeance.

This isn't the life I had pictured for my kids. Or me. I pictured us sitting under shade trees in the back yard, bare-feet explorers. We'd harvest cherry tomatoes and cook them up for dinner, far away from the threat of poverty or crime. Far away from anyone at all. We'd sit on the porch at night and almost never think about brokenness. It wouldn't cross our minds. Come night, we'd sleep with the doors unlocked.

I pictured it all so clearly, the colors fully saturated, because I lived it for four years. Four years isn't a long time, in the scheme of things, but it's plenty long enough to remind me for years to come of all that we lost.

I wonder what life will be like after we climb inside these photos with the cracked up streets and the houses that give me the creeps. I'd be lying if I said I never felt a little scared. People tell us with their eyes that it's dangerous. They dance their way around it - what if this is the beginning of the end for your kids? There are drugs over there. There are gangs. The neighbors might not speak English and who will Calvin play with after school?

I hear it all but I feel it even louder, because most of their words aren't spent in breath. Most of their words fall silent in the deep space between their question and our answer. That's what most people want from us, a tidy explanation. We don't really have one, at least not one that can be said in two clipped soundbites with a wink and a smile. Many seem to want reassurance that just because we're doing something stupid, they won't have to.

So the best I can do is this: God sent us over there. He directed our hearts in a way that was impossible to ignore. He woke us up to the basic truth that this was an option, and we would have never gotten there on our own. This kind of life wasn't on our radar two years ago. Back then, it might have been me with my eyebrows knit together in the middle, saying all I needed to say in a pause that was a beat too long. You're making a big mistake.

When I picture Jesus these days, I picture Him in Gap jeans and a flannel. His hair is longish. His boots are old. I see Him going to places like these, and places that make this look like Vacation Bible School. He keeps company with those who mourn. He likes talking to people who don't have all the answers. He goes to where life runs thick and dark and he brings the light. His compass points to the place that is the most dangerous, the least comfortable. Why did I ever think my compass should be any different?

So what we'll do is follow Him there. He leads. We follow. He's more than enough light for all that gray.

Yet I am confident I will see the Lord's goodness while I am here in the land of the living.
Psalm 27:13

Come Help

2012-01-29T22:49:00.002-05:00

I never stop being amazed by the crazy-cool ways God chooses to use His people if they are just willing to say Yes. He created us, He knows us, He speaks to us. He made us with a purpose and a mission imprinted onto our hearts and He gave us everything we need to carry out His plan.

That's some kind of excitement, right there, because the possibilities are endless.

My friend Lindsay recently became connected with a local teen named Madison. Madison started a non-profit organization called Lily's Closet which provides trendy, like-new clothing *for free* to local teenage girls living in poverty. These girls are often broken and hurting in many ways. But also? They want to look cute. Through Lily's Closet they are given the opportunity to "shop" with a personal shopper who will also make sure they know about God's mad love for them and pray with them on their way out the door.

We believe that in meeting a physical need of clothes that these girls have, we are able to meet the much greater spiritual need these girls may have. God has a huge heart for these girls and absolutely moves mountains for them! This is a huge opportunity we have to reach out to broken, hurting girls in our very own community! - From the Lily's Closet facebook page

This is big, loud, think-outside-the-box, age be danged, crazy God love happening. It's being poured out from Madison's hands and feet. Don't you want to be a part of that? I know I do.

Lindsay reached out to Madison, asking what her tangible needs are for getting her vision up and running.The answer? Hanger covers.

It just so happens that Lindsay is one fierce seamstress. She can sew a hanger cover with her eyes closed. But she can't sew 1000 of them.

Which brings me to me. And you.

There are two opportunities to help.

1} Meet us this Thursday (February 2) at the Nappanee Public Library from 6:30 - 8:30pm. If you are a seamstress, bring your machine. If you are like me, come and cut fabric and iron.We need your hands!

2} For those of you who want to help but are not local (Northern Indiana), make some covers and send them to us! To make 25 covers you will need 6 yards of unbleached muslin fabric. A complete supply list, step-by-step tutorial, and downloadable pattern can be found right here. Or, you can email 402CenterStreet@gmail.com and Lindsay will email or snail-mail the pattern directly to you.

Update :: For those of you who have inquired, we will set the deadline for March 1st. You can send all finished hanger covers to Nappanee Public Library 157 N. Main St. Nappanee, IN 46550, attn: Lindsay. Also, Lindsay is checking with Madison regarding those of you who would like to send clothing. Will keep you posted!

I'm so thankful for the opportunity to be a part of something much greater than myself, and I hope you'll come along, too. Plus, hello? It would be fun to cut some fabric with you in person.

Leave a comment or shoot me an email if you can help in either way.

You're the bomb, you know.

xo,
FPFG

On Convalescing

2012-01-27T21:52:00.001-05:00

I'm here again, buried under blankets on the couch. Did you notice how I very casually implied in last night's post that I was under the weather? So polite, I am.

'Cause I'll be honest, what I really wanted to say is that 1) I was bitten by a rogue stomach bug from H-E-double hockey sticks (as Haven would say - at least to us). 2) Said rogue stomach bug ended my fourteen year reign as queen of the non-pukers. I was booted from the throne. Only...I was booted to the throne. The irony is not lost on me.

Aren't you glad I didn't tell you all of that last night? Who wants to read about puke? No one, that's who.

But really, that fourteen year thing. It hurts.

I truly believed my body, through a personal history of food poisoning and sheer strength of will, had adapted itself to eliminate the need for something so...distasteful. I was so proud. And now, here I am, with Cory and all the commoners. What a fall from grace.

Is this how Kim Kardashian feels right now?

I have a new recipe I want to share with you, but it will have to wait a few days. Right now I'm still on a stringent diet of cinnamon toast, applesauce, hot tea and 7-Up.

And chips and salsa.

It couldn't be helped. I was craving something salty and plain tortilla chips seemed innocent enough. But then Ruby heard me crunching and she wanted in on the action. And she wanted "the sauce". Yeah baby, Mama wants the sauce, too.

So I poured myself a little bowl.

See, conventional wisdom says that the ideal post-flu meal is chicken noodle soup. But what happens when chicken noodle soup is the very thing that was...uh...dispelled?

I'm a good wife. I made a giant batch of homemade chicken noodle soup for Cory during his convalescence. It was my best batch yet. I had seconds. Sue me. I followed it with a blood orange for a late night snack.

Chicken noodle soup and an orange made me deathly ill. There's no end to the irony.

For now, I'm feeling mostly better, but don't tell Cory. He's being extra doting and attentive and I plan to milk my convalescence for as long as possible. I think it might recuse me from doing dishes tonight.

Recuse. I don't believe I've ever blogged that word before.

What if the stomach flu made me smarter? I'll keep you posted.

In closing, I have 3 burning comments. I know they're no longer timely, but maybe you'll bear with me. I'm still quite terribly sick, after all. (cough cough)

1. What caused Jessica Biel to wear a dress to the Golden Globes that appeared to give her a third, lace boob? How does this sort of thing happen in Hollywood? She's so pretty, that Jessica Biel. I enjoy the look of her mouth. And I don't care one bit if that sounds creepy. If you're reading this, Jessica Biel, don't feel bad. These things happen and we actually like it when we see that you're just like the rest of us in a very toothsome, Golden Globes-presenting, Justin Timberlake-marrying kind of way.

2. Why in the world did Bradley Cooper look so terrified when he was presenting? #stagefrightfever

3. Why was everyone up in Elton John's grill?

4. Why was everyone up in George Clooney's grill?

5. Why did Angelina Jolie wear a dress that was the exact inverse of my Senior Prom dress?

6. Why didn't she pair hers with dyed-to-match red shoes and red nylons like I did?

7. Doesn't she know how sexy bright red sheer stockings truly are?

8. Why isn't Brad Pitt cute anymore?

9. Why does Zoey Deschanel always look so cute, no matter what?

10. Charlize Theron? Why? Just why?

11. Why do I love Jessica Chastain so much even though I barefly know her?

12. Again with the barefly.

13. Do all the "hot" starlets envy Tina Fey? They should.

I could go on and on. But I'm getting weaker by the minute. Time to dial up salsa delivery and hunker down with season 5 of Friday Night Lights. The clock is ticking, you know... Come tomorrow I'll be up to my elbows again in dishes and personal hygiene and meal prep. So for tonight? I shamelessly convalesce.

Clinging Through the Grit

2012-01-26T21:48:00.000-05:00

I'm in a unique time of dependence on God. I need more. I mutter and plead at the strangest times and He probably thinks I'm a little bit neurotic. Maybe He laughs and His eyes get sparkly and He thinks, "Girl, get a grip. It's fine! I've got this." I'm happy to entertain, because He's here. I'm sure of it.

Could this be an unexpected by-product of all the upheaval and uncertainty and this-world-foolishness of the past four months? Because, honestly? I thought the big life lessons would start rumbling in when we hit phase two (catch up here and here.) This was supposed to be my easy-does-it faux vacation, a stretch of serenity and rest before things started to get dirty. We would be calm and ready then, for whatever comes next.

So can God reach down and show us something new about Himself in a clogged toilet and the stomach flu and kitchen carpet? Can we be teachable in the doubt and wondering and in all the times when we believe that we've really had enough?

Every time I think I've got it down, it starts to make even more sense. It sinks a little deeper: This is the day. The one we're already in. The one that finds us buried on the couch under the down comforter for eight straight hours. The one that stretches months longer than we would have chosen.

There are lessons here. Opportunities now.

So maybe I'm repeating myself. It happens. But today, I'm thankful for the rescuing in all the ridiculous parts of life that don't look holy at first-glance.

Why I Almost Never Talk on the Dang Phone

2012-01-25T13:21:00.002-05:00

The scene: It's 4:33 p.m. I'm sitting on my living room floor, folding laundry. In the kitchen, there are sprouts to be brusseled for a 5:20 departure to book club where I am expected/feared to have brussels sprouts in hand. Calvin and Ruby are watching Clifford. Silas is being a quasi-maniac of sorts. My phone rings. It's Courtney, the same Courtney I've been playing phone tag with for two weeks. I take a deep breath, and I answer.

FPFG: Hayyyy! (said unintentionally in a slightly gehetto manner)
CW: Well, helloooooo! (said in a faux Seinfeldish accent)
CW: Is this a bad time? Are you busy?
FPFG: (in a loud whisper) Silas, no-no! You may not hit Ruby with a chair.
CW: (waiting nicely)
FPFG: Oh, uh, no! I'm not busy! I mean.... (long pause) well, just my normal kind of busy.
FPFG: (loud whisper) Silas, STOP.
FPFG: Sorry! Sheesh.
Silas: Where my Chawels?
FPFG: Sorry, Courtney. Hang on. Charles is in the bathroom, Siley. Go get him.

For the next 1.5 minutes, we chatted as though we had not a care in the world.

Right in the middle of Courtney's very important, very dramatic, quite stressful story regarding the release of her debut novel, I realize that I haven't seen Silas or heard Silas for almost TWO minutes.

Fear grips my innards. I run to the bathroom to find my child very casually lathering his hair. With lotion. He stares up at me and just keeps lathering. As thought it's completely acceptable and possibly even appreciated. It does not cross his mind to attempt to look guilty.

I'm trying my best to listen to Courtney's story. I fail and she catches on.

CW: Do you want to call me back?
FPFG: I'm so sorry. And what about the brussels sprouts, dangit? I'll call you back. sorrybye.

I throw Ruby's shower cap on his head, call Courtney back and man my post at the stove where I saute the heck out of the sprouts while we speed-talk for ten minutes. It is loaves-and-fishes miraculous that he keeps the shower cap on until Cory arrives home to rescue us all.

We are out the door at precisely 5:20.(ish)

Selah.

*Do you think it sends a mixed signal to video something and giggle then say "Yeah, that's not good"? Me either thanks. Also, my favorite part is where Ruby strolls through on a different sort of mission and casually touches his hair, not reacting in ANY way, because this sort of thing happens all. the. time. #immunetothecrazy

Hometown Quirky: Exhibit A

2012-01-23T13:08:00.000-05:00

I've talked a lot about my hometown. But maybe I've been a bit unclear: it's quirky. It becomes more obvious with each year that passes.

My non-local friends think "Pleasant Hill" sounds so storybook. It says something about the townsfolk that most of us just call it P. Hill.

Take the laundry mat. It's been there since the days of Methuselah. At first glance, it looks pretty run-of-the-mill.

But then you start to wonder, why is there a vintage, side-ways cash register at the wash station?

And then you get the overwhelming urge to rush home and clean out your attic and your junk drawers.

And then you get a little dizzy. Claustrophobic, even.

So you sidle up to the vending machines, where things take a turn for the bleak.

Yes, there are some peanut butter crackers and trail mix. But what troubles you most is the Lady Speed Stick and the envelope of country gravy. The box of instant pudding doesn't exactly help matters.

You can do a wash, grab dinner, and clean yourself up all in one convenient stop!

Lord have mercy.

I think P. Hill has earned the honor of being the setting in a novel. Kenny and Becky would be right at home, and so would I.

Also, Lucille Linder. She'd be at home, too.

Tell us something quirky about *your* hometown. We're all ears.

*Holly - Please note that Lucille is not chained or restrained in any manner. She's simply choosing to appeal to our sympathies when she could be running wild in the pasture. :)

Ten Loves Lately

2012-01-21T21:57:00.002-05:00

1} Dove Bliss dark chocolates.

2} The February issue of Lucky magazine. There's just something about it that makes me feel like maybe all hope is not lost in my closet and in my head. Plus it's not smutty.

3} Midnight in Paris. Owen Wilson's schmuck-schtick worked here. I adore Rachel McAdams. The whole story was quirky and endearing. And the setting! And the score! And her wardrobe! I even gained some valuable writing advice that I'll probably never take. Three cheers for Woody Allen!

4} T his line of hair products. a) you can buy them at the grocery store. on sale. b) they smell good. c) they make me feel like I have an actual regimen of sorts, and that just never happens.

5} My denim shirt. It snaps. I'll be honest, it is fun to rip those snaps open at the end of the day. It makes me feel so alive! But mostly, I love that a) I bought it years ago for $16.99 at American Eagle. b) the sleeves are long enough. c) it goes with just about everything.

Last Sunday I wore it with my very favorite skirt from over 10 years back. The skirt has the texture and density of a throw rug. I like to call it my horse blanket skirt. I have no explanation for my claw. I truly do not. I cropped my head out of this shot because I looked like a raggedy wildebeest. You wouldn't blame me if you saw it.

Do you blame me? Well, I blame the wind. And my lack of prep time. Sunday mornings will do that to a girl.

(I feel inclined to note that every single part of this outfit (except the boots) is at least three years old. The skirt and belt are ancient relics from the days when I got up every morning, blow-dried my hair, put on mascara, and drove to a job. The life lesson here? Go to your closet and put things together that you have never imagined. It will probably work. I was just struck yesterday with the inspiration to pair my navy gingham button down with my aqua cable-knit vest. Stay tuned.)

Later that night, I wore the shirt with my glazed pecan cords and a pink belt my sister gave me, circa 1998. It's so wrong, it's right. Or at least that's what I tell myself.

The very next day, I wore the exact same outfit. I surely did.

I just really love that shirt, man.

6} Veggie bowl from Chipotle. Free guac! Score. And they now offer brown rice. Dou. Ble. Score.

7} My slipper boots. And no, my feet are not actually that big.

8}

If I stand, let me stand on the promise that you will pull me through.
And if I can't, let me fall on the grace that first brought me to you.
If I sing, let me sing for the joy that has born in me this song.
And if I weep, let it be as a man who is longing for his home. - If I Stand, Rich Mullens

Rich Mullens. He was a poet to his core and his poetry just happens to be the kind that makes me feel like my soul took a big gulp of the best kind of air. It clears my head, his poetry.

9} My fleece sheets. They are like sleeping in a cloud. A really warm cloud. (TJ Maxx)

10} All of youn's. I'm still getting the kindest, most sincere emails and comments. Your gratitude and goodness humble me. I cannot thank you enough.

What are you digging these days?

My Bliss for Now

2012-01-19T21:29:00.000-05:00

We woke up to snow. The really swirly, blustery kind.

This can be a good or bad thing. Today? Way, way good. We had nowhere to be. We require at least one Home Day per week. This was it, baby.

Ruby spent the morning in her gymnastics leotard. I spent mine in all fleece, all the time.

Before long, we were in a state of utter disarray.

And there was nuttin' good for lunch.

About lunch: I'm getting pickier and pickier about it. I can roll with the punches, but I really prefer not to. I'm good with a turkey sandwich. Left-overs. Etc... We had none of the above. The kids were going to have chicken nuggets with a sickening amount of ketchup. I just couldn't bear it.

So I fed them, then put some soup on for Mama while Silas finger-painted with his yogurt.

As the soup simmered, I decided that a grilled Muenster and avocado sandwich would be the perfect companion. But I was afraid that the kids might somehow know that grilled Muenster and avocado trumps frozen nuggets. It was a risk I wasn't willing to take. So I waited.

It was all rather accidental.

But the closer we got to nap-time, the more badly I needed to take myself out to lunch.

I used proper dishes and sat at the table. Not the desk. Not the couch. The plastic fold-up table. Because I'm worth it. (said in my best L'Oreal spokesmodel voice-over) I ignored the unfolded laundry and the books strewn across the floor and the hanging upside-down doll.

On a lark, I grabbed My Father's Daughter off the library pile and settled in.

I have a strange fascination with Gwyneth. She somehow comes across as both friend-next-door and snob-o-rama. Won't the real Gwynnie P. please stand up? Please stand up?

I'm intrigued by her past relationships. I remember when I was in college and she had her cool-as-snot short hair and Brad Pitt proclaimed her his "angel". That seems like it could be a little intimidating for any/all following suitors. Hold on, I'll ask Cory.

FPFG: Honey, would you be intimidated if Brad Pitt once called me "his angel" in a magazine interview?
CMB: (laughs)
FPFG: Ferreal.
CMB: Nope.
FPFG: Nope?
CMB: Why would he say that?
FPFG: IF I DATED HIM BACK IN THE DAY AND HE SAID THAT. WOULD IT BE WEIRD?
CMB: Ohhhh!
FPFG: So?
CMB: I would expect him to say that if he dated you.

I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried, people. Not the weird confused part or the really sweet part.

I still think it would be weird though. I'm sticking to it. What say you, Ben Affleck? (I'm not ashamed to say it: I own Bounce on dvd.) Luke Wilson? (I like the guy. I just do. He's down-homey.)

Remember the pink Ralph Lauren Oscar gown that she rocked sans unnecessary uh... padding. I gotta tell you, I was endeared.

But then there was the whole BFF with Madonna thing. And the fake British accent thing. And the Shallow Hal thing.

I was torn.

Am torn.

Until round about 1:10 today.

I liked her book. She loves food and she's passionate about feeding her family well. She seemed really normal and mostly relatable and I liked all of her white shirts and yes, she's got very toned arms and now, I'm happy to report to her and you and the rest of the world that I am her new secret, pretend BFF!

Step off, Madonna.

I did have one concern, and it's important. She never, ever, not a single time, mentioned her husband, Chris. This is not good, Gwynnie. Not good at all. Why can't he be a "heart of your artichoke", along with Apple and Mosey? There's room for one more. Right? Hasn't he written songs for you? Didn't he rap about your boobs when you were pregnant??

(They are still together - right? Have I somehow missed an important link on the chain of her love life? Yes, I could Google it. But I trust you more.)

Anyway, Gwyn. We can discuss this further the next time you have me over for your warm tuna nicoise salad.

Mario Batali writes in the forward of her book:

And when the food, and its preparation, becomes so much more than mere nourishment, when it becomes entertainment and folly and libidinal pleasure all rolled into one thing? At that point every meal, every snack, every shared moment of sustenance can be a celebration.

Sitting there clanking my spoon against the bowl in the relative peace and quiet of that solitary hour, I couldn't have possibly agreed more. Except about the libidinal pleasure part, because that's just taking the food thing too far.

:: :: :: ::

FPFG's Quick-Lunch Soup
Saute garlic and chopped onion in a little warm olive oil.
Add some chicken stock or broth and one can of Italian diced tomatoes.
Throw in some dried basil and oregano and black pepper.
Bring to a boil and add some pasta. The bow-ties are prettier, I'm not gonna lie.
Cook until pasta is soft (I overdid it a bit today) then add a can of rinsed Canellini beans.
Top with grated parm.

I prefer to throw in something green like fresh spinach, zucchini, kale, etc... But desperate times call for desperate quick-lunch soup. It was still very good.

We Can Be Alright

2012-01-18T21:42:00.001-05:00

The bad news is, I've gained 87 pretend pounds today from all of the pretend banana bread, banana cake, cream cheese frosting, banana muffins, chocolate chip cookies, crack bark, chips and salsa and margaritas you sent. One friend sent me a pretend banana, because it's all she could muster (cracked me up). And one friend sent me REAL Peace Tea! Huzz.

I'm all jacked up on pretend potassium over here.

I did cry a time or two, and I blame you for that. It was a collective outpouring of tears - the cummulative effect of allayall'zes kindness.

Being prone to over-thinking as I am, I feared for a moment that it was all too much. I shared to ease my own mind and maybe yours. I thought the sharing was the help. I somehow didn't expect to feel so much big, bad love from so many corners. I mean - I know you're awesome in every way. I should have known. I was probably just too blue to remember.

Anyway, thank you one million times over. Thank you for making me feel less troll-like and for not texting me numbers for psychiatrists or referring me to the Dr. Phil website.

I just partook of my much-belated Christmas dinner with Sarah. I had a New York strip (medium) and caramelized brussels sprouts with loaded mashed potatoes. And tomato kalamata bruschetta for appetizer.

Maybe food does help. Maybe so.

My eyeballs burned all through dinner and I wanted to rest my head on the seat of the booth. Sarah wouldn't have cared. But I was there, dadgummit. I went out and cleared my head. I howled at the moon (so to speak) with my best mate Missy Higgins. I laughed too hard - something about Sarah informing me that we were scandalously hussy-ish in high school, and by hussy-ish, I mean that we secretly pined for multiple boys at the same time. As I told her, we had no choice. We had to keep many irons in the fire, because who knew when someone might actually bite? No one ever really did. At least not for a long time. And when they did? Well, they were jerks. I'm sorry to say it.

Be honest, are you more concerned about me than ever? Are you finding me unstable? I understand. I do. I wondered myself.

But then I remembered that we are allowed our bad days, man. We're also allowed a hearty boomerang. Tomorrow's a crap shoot. It could go either way and that's okay. Because right now - in my eyeliner and my skinny jeans, I feel like I just might survive.

So know that you're not alone in the crazy. Know. It.

But when a glazed brussels sprout hits you in the face, I hope you'll see it for what it is. I hope you'll grab on to it and...eat it. Duh. But then I also hope you'll hold it up to the light and dance around with it a little. I hope you'll hold it to your heart and notice that it helps.

Admittedly, holding tiny cabbages to one's bosom feels slightly awkward. Push through.

One more thing: Yesterday after the Great Toilet Melt-Down Ruby came out dressed in this.

I'm not gonna lie. I laughed. I said, "Ruby!......."

She smiled kinda shy and it broke my heart clean through because I realized she wasn't trying to entertain me. Sister was dead serious. She said, "I really like matching."

Then the clincher, "I wanted to match like this so you would know how much I love you."

Just slay me now. Go on ahead.

She marched around like this all day and do you know what? I felt the love.

Now what I really want to know is this: What was your bright-shiniest boomerang moment today? What was your bosom brussel? I promise it was there, somewhere. Find it and spill it.

All my light for you tonight,

FPFG

Sharing the Hard

2012-01-17T22:47:00.002-05:00

{For You. And You.}

In my mind lives a mental list of cards I want to send and emails I should return. I'd like to read a big stack of books. I'd like to be a better friend. I'd really like to get caught up with Liz Lemon - I miss her. I think about all of these things, all throughout the day, but when it comes to this - a quiet house - I'm just done. Altogether, in every way.

On Saturday I may have had a panic attack. It's possible. True, I have weirdo health issues that have made random chest pain a part of my life, but this time was different. I stood alone in my living room while my heart thumped out of my chest. I felt like Pepe Le Pew when he sees his skunk crush - I could swear the imprint of my heart was pushing out through my ribcage. I thought, This can't be a panic attack. I don't panic. But the longer my heart thumped, the more I remembered that my life has become a fight to survive. And I never thought I would say that. I am on my game every split second of every single day because it's not optional. I worry that everyone else is drowning in the wake. I worry that I've lost my mind.

And somehow, a lot of the time, I do it with a smile. This is the part that scares me.

I'm not smiling because I'm fake or clueless or Pollyanna. I'm smiling because I have found that life is better when it's mostly seen as a gift and I go down with the ship if I stop smiling for too long. I'm smiling because all of this crazy has become all I know.

If there were an Olympics for griping and self-pity, then I'd take the bronze. You might as well just know that. And if you're inclined not to believe me, I'll get you Cory's number. But I like to think that the scales of my life tip in the favor of the smiles. It makes me feel sane to believe that and sane is good, or at least as far as I can recall.

Then I remember how I burst into quasi-inconsolable tears this morning when the toilet clogged while Cory is out of town. I saw no possibility that the world was right or good in light of the clogged toilet. I tried to unclog it. I almost vomited. (*Important side-note: my mortal fear in life is clogged drains of all kinds. Clogged toilets give me nightmares and the shakes.)

Ruby sat by me and rubbed my back while I cried. My instinct was I should be hiding, but even clearer was the voice telling me that I don't ever want Ruby to feel like she has to hide. I want her to know that it's okay to feel all of these things. I sat there and cried and I thought of all of the women whose husbands are deployed right now. They probably save their emotional breakdowns for more important things. I wanted to bake them some banana bread and spritz some perfume on their hair. I thought of all of the moms dealing with the same kid stuff I'm dealing with and I wanted to march into their homes and demand that they go take a nap while I hold down the fort.

My muddied-up heart started to see that this is one reason we feel pain. It makes us human. It connects us. We remember the bruises and we recognize them on the hearts of others. I'll take empathy over sympathy any day.

I don't know when this season of my life will pass, but I do know that it will. In the meantime, I'll scratch and claw for some sanity. I'll daydream about getting out to do something fun, all the while knowing that there's no way in heck I'll have the energy to actually do it. I'll pray that my friends don't give up on me. I'll cut myself some slack, dang it.

If you know anything about me, or if you know enough to imagine certain things about me, or if you recognize yourself in me, then you can imagine what it feels like to blow my own cover. Please, I beg of you, do not nicely suggest that I might be depressed or that I should seek the counsel of a professional. Number one: Maybe I am. I don't think so, but it's probably too early to tell. I'll keep you posted. Number two: If I have to seek the counsel of one more professional right now I might show up naked and raging with troll hair and a wild look in my eyes. It could be the very thing that throws me over the edge.

What you can do is send your prayers my way. Or even better, find someone around you who needs help and go help her. Give her the benefit of the doubt or a manicure. Something. Then tell me about it. I like those kinds of stories.

As for you, if you're feeling beaten-down by a very small person, if your brain requires so much daytime vigilance that it revolts entirely at 8pm, if you are sick to death of calls from doctors reminding you that your kid has a serious, costly illness, if you're still not sure where you'll be living in June, if you're so dang tired that you cannot sleep at night, if you believe that you will never finish your stupid book, if you very quietly cuss at your carpeted kitchen sometimes, if plungers make you cry, if you're feeling misunderstood or judged, if you're tired of guessing and failing and grasping, if your husband brought you flowers yesterday because it really is that dire, if you're feeling left behind and maybe just a smidgen crazy (like really, truly crazy), please know that I am right here with you.

I'll bake you a pretend loaf of banana bread if you'll do the same for me.

One Word :: Seek

2012-01-16T21:48:00.003-05:00

I tried to make myself believe this year that I didn't need a resolution and that I didn't even need a word. You know the ones - the "pick one word and focus on it all year long" ones. I figured I had enough to focus on. I didn't need one more word.

Also, I purposely like to jump off band-wagons. It's a long-standing inclination of mine.

The problem is, I just really like words. I like love them. I love the way I can fit them together in a way that tells myself how I feel about an important thing. I love that I can butcher them up at will and they still take my calls the next day.

At first I thought my word was "Surrender", because I've still got a lot of crap I need to let go of.

But on further review, the choice was obvious. Seek.

It's phase two of surrender, or at least it is for me. I feel like I've taken up surrender over the past year in the very same way I took up the saxophone in fifth grade. I picked it up and started practicing, but mostly I kept it in its case. I lugged that blasted thing home most days just for the sake of doing it, because it was expected. Of course, the real expectation was not to haul it to and from school every day. I was supposed to pull it out, dust it off and really get to know it. I was supposed to fall in love with it. Instead of falling in love, I did just enough to do well. I missed the possibility of a sweeping affair.

At first letting go of things and ideas and the house of my dreams felt like a lynching. But then it started to feel exhilarating. And now it feels lost, somedays. How does that happen in the span of a year?

I think I'm just hauling it around. I think I'm saying, "Alright God. Come and find me. Send people my way. Give me some great ideas. I'll hook it up." I'm lugging it around and yeah, it's still cumbersome enough to make me feel like I'm doing something. But it's heavy and I don't like the way it bangs against my knees. I'd rather save myself the trouble, some days.

Surrender only gets you so far when all it is is a willingness, a good girl thing to say and think and believe. It's the slightly edgier cousin to "I'd go...but I'm not called." Surrender is giving - not just saying that I'm willing to give. It's active, not passive.

So now I look all around and I still see people with the capacity to smash me open and drain me out. They're out there. They're around town, even if they're not landing conveniently on my doorstep.

If I give a rip - and I do - I'll find them. I'll hunt them the heck down. I'll pull surrender out of the box and play it.

Meanwhile...

I'd like to seek the heart of God more. I'd like to go there first, for a change.

I'd like to stalk the little glimmery bits hidden in what have been long stretches of hard, gray days.

I know for sure that when I go looking for things, I almost always find them.

So here I am. I'm looking.

Broken Beauty

2012-01-13T20:37:00.000-05:00

A few weeks back, Cory and I went on a double-date with Sarah and Rick. This was our first true double, and that's just a crying shame.

You already know that Sarah and I go way back (here and here, for starters.) But it's really more than that.

When I was sixteen, I was rolled out of my high-school on an ambulance stretcher, very sure I was having a heart attack. I wasn't. But when I finally made it home that day, so tired of being the sick kid with the weird problems, feeling all embarrassed and still a little scared, hers was the number I dialed. She was what I needed. I wanted her to pray for me that day, because I believed all the way down that her prayers were always answered.

She has been my antidote to many of life's thrashings. She listened through the sludge of dumb mistakes until she heard my broken heart and then she kept on loving it.

She remembers my celebrity crushes better than I do. She knows the books I'll love most. She understands when I cancel our Christmas dinner on account of cramps and a bad attitude.

Two decades ago, she rumbled into my life in the passenger seat of a beat-up burgundy van packed full of who-knows-what. (I never bothered to investigate.)

Her dad was the driver. He looked like a renegade and spoke in a whisper.

He dropped her off at church and sometimes I rode back home with them, the three of us squeezed in together, along with everything else.

We'd thunder down the lane, hop out near the barn and walk in to a home where I always felt right.
It was warm inside, smelling like bacon and the kerosene heater. We spent hours upstairs talking about boys and reading magazine tips on eyeshadow and zit remedies.

The years rolled on and I kept my grip on Sarah, who kept her grip on me. Things changed all around us and they just kept changing. They never stopped. Choices were made and hearts were shattered and stitched back. Love bloomed wild. Jobs were landed. We held the slick keys of our first real freedom.

Then one night a phone call reeled me from a dream and it was her, just two buildings down. She said her dad had been in an accident. He was gone.

Our voices were small that night, in the car. Her heart was broken and the part of mine that was her broke with it. We drove back home to Ohio, on streets lined with sleeping houses. In the quiet, in the dark, we tried to force ourselves to feel what had happened. For me it was hard. It was too pitch black to make sense. It was too much change, too much sad, and I didn't know what to do, so I did what we had both always done; I stayed the same for her.

I think about her dad more often than she knows. I think about his ponytail and his wind-burned cheeks. I wish I hadn't been sixteen back then, because sixteen doesn't make room for the dad who drives the beat up van. It doesn't make room for the mom cooking dinner at the table.

I want to tell my Sixteen to notice that he's an artist and his art is right there, right in the barn that I walked past without another notion.

I want to tell Sixteen that someday, she'll care about his art. She'll see for herself the piercing beauty in junk redemption.

I think of him bending low, hoisting up, hauling out the things that everyone else had long given up on. I picture him smiling on the inside over what they were all too blind to see.

He made a home for broken things. He loved them into something exquisite and new.

Maybe he knew his own brokenness well enough to recognize it in a shard of pottery or a splinter of wood. Maybe I know mine well enough to recognize it in him.

*all photos courtesy of cmb

Current Snapshot

2012-01-12T20:35:00.002-05:00

Today's been a mixed bag. It began with a fitful night's sleep where the last dream I remember involved me putting molding paste in my short, spiky hair.

I woke up with an inexplicable urge to clothe myself in various argyles.

From there I dodged fitful smalls, got schooled in a game of Memory, was poked in the eye, and cleaned out the fridge for left-overs night.

But the very best news? My tiniest, wiriest Homeslice peed in the potty. Twice. Here's what I'll say about that: There are people who will tell you until they are blue in the face that you shouldn't force potty training. They'll say that you should wait until he's ready. That if he's wigged out over it, he's definitely not ready. Well, we played that game two months ago until I threw up my hands and convinced myself that I'm an unfit mother, unable to carry out something so significant.

Then yesterday I rallied. I said, "Silas, I'm done playing that game."

And he said, "I play a game! I. PLAY. A. GAAAAAAAAAAAAAME!" And he glared at me a little.

Then I remembered my audience and said something along the lines of, "Get your hiney into the bathroom. Stat."

He was mostly ambivalent. He held out for hours then produced two drops and how is that even possible? Well, it is.

Today when I escorted him to bathroom he screeched and wailed as though he was being carried to his certain doom. He seemed a little scared, if I'm being honest. I wavered, but only for a nanosecond. Then I wrangled him into tiny Elmowears and plastic pants ("I no like the klastics!"). I made him sit on that danged potty seat and I wasn't mad, but happy might be a stretch.

Then he peed a little.

And later he peed a lot.

And then he told me how much he likes underwear and topped the whole thing off with "You make me happy."

"Say cheese!"

(his camera/subway ticket from South Korea)

So here we have a bright, shiny, extra-silver lining. I'm reminding myself that tomorrow holds no guarantees. But tonight, I might just sleep less fitfully. Maybe.

Meanwhile, I came across one of these random surveys here (thanks, Bethany!) and thought I'd fling my hat into the ring because 1) I love reading them and 2) It fits my current brain capacity.

current guilty pleasure: Daily's peach margarita and Sarah's back issues of Glamour
current nail color: Say what??
current playlist: Leeland - The Great Awakening "Arise and shine shake yourself from the dust God is calling us to go."
current read: When Helping Hurts, Sacrilege, Second Hand Heart,
current drink: Lipton Green Tea Superfruit with Red Goji and Raspberry
current food: Chicken tortilla soup with avocado
current favorite show: Damages
current wish list: a vintage red, metal Radio Flyer wagon
current needs: more patience
current triumphs: see above
current bane of my existence: Lainey Courtland
current celebrity crush: Ryan Gosling and/or Daniel Craig
current indulgence: Sonia Kashuk No. 4 bergamot candle circa 2007 that I'm just now burning and it smells so slammin' good and why did I wait so long? Also, this.
current blessing: 2 Thessalonians 1:11b
current outfit: brown cords, gray argyle sweater, white T, turquoise argyle socks, fuchsia house slippers
current excitement: A pending trip to Rockford
current mood: antsy
current link: I'm newly obsessed with Jen Hatmaker's blog and can't wait to get my mitts on her new book. For now, read this and this.

Does anyone want to play along? Please play along. Please scratch my nosy itch. Be my reality tv. I'll crunch my chips to the tune of you. You're way funnier than the Kardiashians, after all, and far less crazy than the Bachelorettes. (Leave your link in the comments.)

Nighty-o!

Dinner and a Book

2012-01-10T23:03:00.001-05:00

My mind is a world that few would ever dare trespass. In a matter of seconds, it can shift from pondering the plights of humanity or the important questions of faith to "What the heck is for dinner?"

So tonight, I welcome you into the Gravitron that is my brain. There's often no up or down. It spins fast and furious and you may feel like you're being pinned to the wall against your will or better judgment. Also, there might be the lingering scent of fair food or other fried delicacies. There are no carnies there, at least none that I'm aware of.

(Scratch that last part. I just remembered I've got Kenny and Becky in there somewhere...)

Earlier today I realized that Calvin's perfect attendance Fazoli's coupon expires tomorrow, so I chucked my previously planned dinner for the dream of 3 greasy breadsticks and the promise of spaghetti with tomato sauce.

I'm a girl who loves food in almost all forms, and that includes the fast ones. I like to think that it grounds me, somehow. True, I might live in a 1950's housewife's dream home and yes, I might have invented the world's most fantastic hairdo, but at the end of the day, I'll take a burrito supreme, a hard shell taco supreme and a fountain Pepsi. Extra mild sauce.

The only problem with my spaghetti fantasy is that I forgot that Calvin is the Homebody of the Century. I was so excited to tell him the plan. I was all, "Psst! I have a secret! We're going to Fazoli's tonight so you can get your free kids meal!"

Calvin: Uh, can we go tomorrow?
Me: Nope.
Calvin: I know! What about this weekend?!
Me: It expires tomorrow. It's gotta be today. Help a sister out here. I need butter on my fingers in a bad, bad way.
Calvin: I want to just stay home.
Me: Why?
Calvin: Because we haven't been home in a lot of days.
(Editor's Note: We had our book club dinner last night, so by "a lot of days", he means exactly one day.)

So here's what we ate, our previously scheduled, briefly canceled, ultimately delicous meal. And it was a newbie.

Exhibit A) My new favorite salad.

Thinly slice chicory lettuce and a granny smith apple. Add toasted walnuts and canellini beans. Whisk together 3 T olive oil, 1 T cider vinegar, 1 tsp. dijon mustard, one minced clove of garlic, 1/2 tsp. dried tarragon, 1/4 tsp. salt and 1/4 tsp. pepper. Toss it all up. Throw some gorgonzola on the side, because it's impossible to photograph if you dump it on top.

I found the recipe in this months BH&G and modified it a little. I will eat it for the next two days, or until I'm all outta beans, whichever comes first.

Exhibit B) Butternut Squash Risotto also from the Jan. BH&G.

My first attempt at risotto last year was a miserable, dismal failure. Despite Martha's claims, you really can't make risotto with long grain rice. Unless you are her. I think I got Punk'ed.

The arborio rice made all the difference and if there were left-overs, I promise you I would put this computer down and go serve myself up another bowl at 10:39 in the pea-em. It was that good. I called it "cheesy rice" and the kids couldn't shove it in their mouths fast enough. God bless you, Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, for teaching the youth of America that neon yellow-orange food is a good thing.

Overall, 2 thumbs way up, all around.

Now, the book. My appetite for reading is trumped only by my appetite for acidic foods and my appetite for wearing yoga pants in public. In all of my writing over the past year, my reading has taken a back-back seat. But times are a'changing. I've started a few new books and I'm making a list of books to come, but there are a few that just stay with me, like a secret wish or a trusty sidekick. My Gravitron comes back to them again and again. Radical is one of them.

Our possessions can be deadly. They can be subtly deadly...That's why Jesus said it's hard for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God...The reality is, most of us in our culture and in the American church simply don't believe Jesus or Paul on this one. We just don't believe that our wealth can be a barrier to entering the kingdom of God. We are fine with thinking of affluence, comfort, and material possessions as blessings. But they cannot be barriers. We think the way the world thinks - that wealth is always to our advantage. But Jesus is saying the exact opposite. Radical - David Platt

Chew on that.

Thoughts? Reactions? Hit me.

We've got sauerkraut, sausage and pickled beets on the menu tomorrow. Who's coming over?

Peace Out, Party People,
FPFG

A Face For Radio

2012-01-08T22:42:00.005-05:00

This year, part of our Christmas gift to our kids was a trip to the Shedd Aquarium in Chicago. Uncle Landon and Aunt Lori pitched in, too.

Truth be told, the gift was Cory's idea. And it just so happens that he is a full-on freak when it comes to ocean life. You do the math.

Calvin's a pretty big fan though, too. He took his almanac so he could "study" on the way.

We put on our bravest face and brought Siley along. It stuns even me to see that he really is growing. He's learning. Progress is slower than frozen honey at times, but I'll take it any way it comes. He did a fantastic job at the aquarium, though he was there more to push those informational buttons than to actually look at the fish. Whatevs.

{Love Bug}

Homeboy loves to mug for the camera. He asked Daddy to take his picture then immediately dropped to his knees. It was a very well-thought-out pose. He clearly had this one planned for a while, and he pulled it off, if I do say so.

As for the ocean life: Why are fish so dang freakish looking? It's the lips that do me in. And the bug eyes.

And the binocular noses.

But mostly, it's the lips. The whole mouth region, really.

She's not so bad...

There was one fish that reminded me of my favorite pin striped shirts. He screamed J Crew. The rest of them weren't pageant winners, that's for darn sure.

Haven's gonna love this picture.

(Do you love it, Havis?)

It's one of my all-time favorites in the history of the new world. We were waiting for the aquatic show to begin. We were literally on the edge of our seats. Don't we look positively enraptured? I wish I knew what Haven was saying right then. Probably, "I'm ferreal!" or something like that.

When the much-anticipated show finally started, it was 75% "This is how we train the fish" and 25% "Watch these dolphins do synchronized tricks!"

Seriously, know your audience, Shedd. Hundreds of pre-schoolers don't give a hoot about the trainers. No offense. Also, I don't really give a hoot. I just want to see fish do tricks. Lots of flips and tricks and the blowing of water out of blow-holes. And maybe it's true that dolphins aren't fish. And maybe it's true that I should have taken the opportunity to actually learn something.

But at the end of the day, that's why I have Calvin.

:: DON'T DO IT! ::

The jellies were captivating. Don't even call them jelly fish. Don't even. Cause we totally know better, now. We'll be all, "Oh no you di'int! Jellies are not fish. They don't have bones, hearts, or a brain. They move with the currents. They are both simple and complex, Haters."

(Holy cow, I did learn something!)

Upon review, it was the penguins that Ruby and I loved best, all barrel-bodied and quick-stepping. Calvin picked "touching the sea star" and "the pretend submarine" and the sharks. Cory holds closest to his heart the sea turtle. Silas loved the buttons. I have no earthly clue what Haven liked best, but she did seem fond of the many strategically-placed benches.

There was something for everyone and we saw a ton in just a few hours. But what I really love the most is that we all did it together. We did it a little crazy and a lot happy. We were cranky a time or two. We were hungry and funny. There may or may not have been some barfing involved.

It wasn't perfect, but it was perfectly us.

*All photos courtesy of CMB.

Patty Hewes Made Me Do It :: And Winners! ::

2012-01-06T21:28:00.003-05:00

Cory and I got one kidless evening while we were in Ohio for Christmas. Where would you go if you had one free night? Would you go to Muncie, Indiana?

We would.

We would leave a family Christmas gathering at 9pm, hop in the van, drive for 40 minutes in the exact opposite direction we were supposed to be driving in, turn around, never.stop.talking, and land in Muncie at Cory's brother and sister-in-law's house at approximately 11:30.

We would then just barely say hello, run into the guest room and change into something with a draw-string, grab large bowls of salsa, a bag of chips, and a glass of root beer and sit down to watch Damages.

We would watch 3 episodes, stagger in to bed somewhere around 2 a.m., then wake up at 10 and stagger right back to the couch for 3 more episodes.

We would stop only long enough to order Mexican take-out (and then we would stop again after I fling my entire salsa bowl onto the light-colored carpet during a particularly intense scene in the finale.)

Then, once we wrapped season 1, we would talk in really fast voices about things like, "What did that meannnnn?" "Why did she do that?" "You really can't trust ANYONE!"

Because you really can't. Not when you work for Patty Hewes. "You were warned." Ha ha. (Inside joke. Do you feel left out? Well then, watch the dang show.)

We would run in, throw our toothbrush back into the bag that we shouldn't have even bothered bringing, and we would fly back out the door at exactly 2 pm.

Some of us might still be in our pojammies. (Cory's exact words: "It's like you're going out of your way to look ridiculous.")

Take it up with Patty, Hater.

In summary: Best 14.5 hours evah.

Sidenote: Cory sprung for this extra-tall Peace Tea for me on the way home. A literal peace offering? Maybe. If you know him, you know he's not the peace-symbol kind of guy, but this was purportedly the only tea at the podunk gas station. Of course I wasn't fit for public display, so I took his word for it.

People. Razzleberry Peace Tea is now the elixir that cures my every ill. Except I can't find it anywhere around here. But if I could, I'd drink it every day and twice on Sunday.

But you aren't here to hear my tea propaganda.

What you want are the winners. Fine.

1. Lee. "Hmmmmmmmmm, my best birthday gift was one of those that you swear you NEVER want to receive as a gift- a carpet cleaner... Hubby had heard me say I wanted one, and took it upon himself to acutally listen and get it. At first I was like, "Oh, um, thanks..." BUT, and there is a but, when I used it I was thrilled that my carpets cleaned up so well. Then I cleaned everything! I know, lame, but true!! PICK ME!!!"

2. Dee. "My best birthday present ever was going to Washington, D.C. to visit my litter sister after her successful kidney transplant. Who could ask for anything better. I was able to spend five more precious years with my little sister as the result of this transplant."

3. Scooper. "I am so IN! This looks amazing and I'm just now at a place where I think I'd have the time to do this. I'm so glad you shared this opportunity with us. My best birthday present? I honestly don't know. But one of my most special and memorable presents was 6 years ago on Valentine's Day. It was an awful time in my life. Awful. Tragic, actually. I'd browsed a local boutique in a feeble effort at escapism and found the loveliest BCBG jacket. Though on sale, it was still seriously pricey. I'd mentioned it in passing to my mom because I'd seen the jacket on a What Not to Wear? episode we'd watched together. She bought it for me. It's one of those things I'll never part with. : "

4. Amy. "hmmm...i can't think of a fantastic b-day present so i am gonna cheat a little. two years ago my husband got me tickets to see Pearl Jam in Chicago for mother's day!! best.present.ever. I so want to take Jeanne's class, just love her!"

5. Teresa. "Oh, how exciting! I am beyond obsessed with Jeanne's mixed media art....the vintage girls with the most awesome quotes ever - swoon! I love every single one of them and visit them often in her Etsy store. That girl has amazing talent, for sure. Sign me up, Farmgirl!"

Congratulations, Artsy-Pants Sisters! Hit me up (shannandmartin@gmail.com) for the details. And pinky swear that you'll tell us all about what you learn.

Home Day

2012-01-05T22:37:00.001-05:00

Our Christmas break has flown by. All I know is, one minute I'm saying to myself, "Christmas is over and we still have two weeks of vacation! and the next minute, I'm sitting here in my favorite sweatshirt wondering what the heck happened.

Today was our one day. Our day of lovely nothingness.

We started planning yesterday and I found myself looking forward to it as much as the rest of 'em.

We stayed in our pojammies (as Silas would say) for most of the day and when we did officially get dressed, there were rules: no zippers, no rigid seams, no shoes.

Calvin is the homebodiest of all. He rivals me, and I'm legendary.

While we're on the topic of him, what exactly do you make of his hair? It needs its own zip-code.

And how do you feel about my inclination to post pictures of half-eaten oatmeal?

Pin that, suckers!

And now, a word on oatmeal.

I don't love it, but I really like it. But only if it's the real kind. No quick oats. Well, okay, maybe on school days. But on Home Days, it's got to be the good stuff. We boil it up, stir in vanilla and cinnamon, then drop a few chocolate chips on top and sprinkle with coconut. The chips melt and you stir it all together and it's heavenly.

Or at least that's what they tell me. I wouldn't really know, because I'm not a coconut freakazoid like they are. I had mine with a quarter cup of vanilla honey Greek yogurt and two fitsfuls of fiddies. (The blackberry farmers are still going gangbusters. $0.50/box again this week! Shazam.)

Why am I still talking about oatmeal when I could be talking about her?

Ruby River. She makes me laugh. She sings most of the day. Today she drew a giraffe munching on a tree and I've gotta say, I was way impressed. She's free and easy and every way of loveable. She also lost one ballet slipper and melted down so hard that she left an actual puddle of slobber on her bedroom floor.

And then 5 minutes later she was singing again.

This guy? Well. He sure is cute, isn't he?

He spent his day like this: "I don't want it meal!" (I'd rather not eat oatmeal for breakfast.)

"I don't want it milk! (I love milk, but I love disagreeing even more.)

"I don't want it corn-on-cob!" (I'm not hip to your corn, Lady.)

"I don't like a salad! I don't like it noodle! I don't want it apple slice!"

He had a major beef with food today. All of it.

But speaking of food, this is my new very favorite breakfast. Jiffy waffles with chopped up frozen peaches thrown into the batter. A little driz. A few more fiddies. You have no idea.

I wish for your sake and even more for my own that this post had a point. Sometimes, you've just got to let a Home Day lie. It won't be fenced in. It defies explanation. It's lazy and slow and cozy and crazy. It's what we like best.

How did you spend your day? More importantly, did it include any harsh seams that you'd like to talk about?

*Tomorrow evening I'm drawing the winners for the Jeanne Oliver Creatively Made e-course giveaway! You've still got time.*

V-Day

2012-01-04T21:07:00.000-05:00

A curious thing happened just a couple of hours ago. I was minding my own business, perusing Pinterest (I was supposed to be looking up this recipe), snickering to myself about all of the fitness pins (New Year panic alert!), when I stumbled upon this pin.

Cross my heart, it gave me a homesick feeling.

And I don't even like Chex mix.

It's official: I'm homesick for Valentine's Day.

It's official: I've lost my ever-loving mind.

Something about the pink with the red. I could smell Valentine's day coming nearer. I felt that achy, stomach-pit joy feeling. It can't be explained or proven. You'll just have to take my word for it.

I have a distinct feeling that my V-day celebration will be different this year, mostly because all of my craft supplies and most of my inspiration are currently stacked 3 copy-paper boxes high in the basement.

Or maybe I'll surprise us all.

But just in case my instincts are right, consider this my official announcement that the season of Love is upon us. Cupids, take your posts! Let us all buy at least two packages of those woeful paper doilies that everyone forgets until February! Let us make heart-shaped pancakes! Let us get lost in piles of fiery-hued crayon shavings! Let us unearth our blessed heart punch!

Here are a few of my previous homages to The Singular Day of Warm Winter Swoonery.

The magazine heart garland.

Martha's crayon-shaving hearts.

The newspaper heart wreath.

And let us not forget, the ill-fated grapefruit garland.

This is why I love you, people. You put up with my nonsense. You make me feel, at least once a year, like a craft-nut.

If you have any interesting, exciting, horrifying or amusing Valentine's stories, I'd love to hear them.

{You still have time to enter the Jeanne Oliver Creatively Made e-course giveaway!}