Nat's Buzz

Happy Mother’s Day!… a little late. If you know me, you know I’m well acquainted with being late. In fact, it took me a while, but I finally figured out the true meaning behind Mother’s Day which I’m sure many mothers have discovered long before me… better late than never. You see, my first Mother’s Day was in 2002 when I was about 6 months pregnant with Alice. When that significant Sunday morning rolled around, I felt like I had joined an elite club and that I was entitled to some type of special treatment because of my soaring hormones and protruding abdomen – maybe a nice dinner out (preferably without kids once they were born), a bouquet of flowers, etc. The majority of Mother’s Days since and including 2002 have passed without such special treatment, and I soon learned that it was better for me not to expect these things to come from my husband mainly because they didn’t. I don’t blame him and am not trying to put him down. Gift giving is NOT his love language for those of you who buy into that trend of thinking, which I do—lucky for him. (This also makes the gifts that I do get from him very special!) In fact, Daniel would claim that with regard to his own mom and childhood, Mother’s Day went by relatively unobserved. So – let’s be real here – why should I expect a 26yr old habit to die just because I became a mother? (For those of you starting to feel sorry for Daniel’s mother, from what I can tell, her Mother’s Day celebration has evolved as her kids have grown older and have come by their own independent financial means.) As for me, I learned not to expect gifts or cards, but to relish Daniel’s words when he tells me I’m the best mother for our kids and also to enjoy the yearly excuse to eat out some random Sunday after Mother’s Day with kids in tow telling Daniel “you owe me one” with a knowing smile, to which he quickly agrees. It works for us.

However, over the course of this past year, my perspective on Mother’s Day shifted when I read about a mother who decided Mother’s Day wasn’t about celebrating herself – expecting special treatment or accolades, but it was about celebrating the fact that she is a mother, which meant celebrating her kids. In fact, for Mother’s Day this particular mom’s tradition was writing each of her kids a letter about the past year – putting the spotlight on her children, not herself. For without her children, she obviously would not be a mother.

This Mother’s Day I decided to adopt her way of thinking – going against how Hallmark and FTD would like me to regard the holiday. Instead of spending the day feeling like I should be celebrated for my hard work and dedication as a mother, I decided to celebrate the fact that I am a mother in a world where there are many women who desperately long to be mothers but cannot due to a host of unfortunate and seemingly unfair reasons. Thus I decided to celebrate my motherhood and the joy it brings me. I did this by spending the Saturday morning prior to Mother’s Day devoted to my children.

The first item for the morning was to express our appreciation of Daniel’s mother. We drove to a nearby store “bright and early” (Ok so it was almost 10a by the time we got there…. this is what I mean about being late), and Alice picked out a basket of yellow begonias which we delivered to Grandma’s front porch on the way to my grade school’s annual auction. Once at the auction, the playground was the first stop, and there we found the playhouse I used to play in during recess when I was Alice’s age, a mere 27 years ago. (I can’t believe it’s still there! Nostalgia rush like none other!) After wearing out the playground, we slid down the huge blow-up slide for 25cents a ride – can’t beat that! Next we headed inside where I watched the kids play carnival games such as plinko and ring toss, the kind of game where everyone is a winner. (While we can debate the merits of what this teaches our children, one morning of “everyone is a winner” is not going to spoil their sense of fairness or self esteem for the rest of their lives.) Face painting was next. Fireworks for Alice, and Ian got a moon with stars. (I couldn’t believe how still he sat – unbelievable!) And finally, if you must know how I celebrated me, I treated myself to my second chocolate milkshake in less than 24hours time. (I did have a significant amount of help on the milkshake from my small boy.)

And in the midst of all this excitement and activity, I enjoyed being Mom… kissing a boo-boo at the store, holding tiny, sticky hands while walking through the crowd, lifting my small boy up to the water fountain, putting shoes back on after the bouncy slide, finding the potty ASAP, opening ice pops and other delicious prizes for watering mouths and excited eyes, wearing the stickers that Alice wanted to share, holding my boy on my lap, and then carrying him when his legs where just too tired to walk anymore.

But as I think about it more, I celebrate Mother’s Day every evening when I climb into my Ian-boy’s bed. I sing him two songs while he puts his little arm around my neck as I lay beside him, and he holds me tight. “No, don’t sing Jesus Loves Me,” he tells me every night because he knows I leave the room after that song, so I stay a little longer, snuggling next to him. I don’t need cards or flowers or expensive dinners out to tell me I’m loved; I hear it every night. Happy Motherhood to me! I’m so blessed!

If you’re a mother, I hope you enjoyed the day – not because someone showered you with flowers, cards or chocolate, but because you have the privilege of being a mother.

Welcome Alice

Newborn Ian

Dear Alicia,

I thought of you today (again) when Alice got off the bus. She was so excited to show me her “human body” that she couldn’t contain herself. “Let’s go home, Mom!” she begged me instead of wanting to play with her neighbor bus-mate like she usually wants to do each day. In the end, I’m usually the one dragging her away when it’s time to say good bye.

“I want to show you my body!!” she told me again and again at the bus stop interrupting my brief conversation with my fellow bus stop mom. Alice has been learning about the human body at school, complete with having her own body traced on paper and glueing a paper brain, stomach, lungs, ribcage, etc onto the traced body. She’s been telling me about each part they talk about and has been so excited to bring her paper body home.

I said good bye to my neighbor and told Alice we could leave. She ran ahead of me, and I do mean “ran,” very uncharacteristic of her. What a picture she made – her loose hair flying in the wind, unzipped sweatshirt tails flapping, her backpack that is too big for her 33lb real body bouncing wildly from side to side, and of course the icing on the cake were the white tights tucked inside the green rain boots that Daniel and I thought were too cute not to buy even though they weren’t 100% practical. (Alicia, you would like them. I think they might have been something you would have bought for her.) My heart filled with so much love, so much pride, so much hope for her future that I thought I was going to cry right in the middle of the street. I wanted to remember that moment for the rest of my life – so innocent and carefree. When we got to the house, I even asked Alice if I could go inside and get the camera to take a picture of her running, but she didn’t want to – had to show me that paper body pronto.

But in the instant that I thought I was about to explode with love for my daughter, I also had the realization, no… the intense terror, that she could be taken from me. How could I—if I ever had to—go on without this living, breathing part of me that I call my daughter, flesh of my flesh? And in the next instant, I pictured your own mom savoring similar moments from your life. There are quite a few pivotal as well as “mundane” moments I was privileged to share during 12 years of knowing you; however what about the memories Grace has of you running around in your “green rain boots,” the day-to-day moments of pure, innocent sweetness from your childhood that conjure up an enormity of feelings?

another rain boot memory

As April 28^th draws closer, I had written 2 pieces recently about you and how this past year has changed so many lives forever, but I haven’t been at peace with them, haven’t wanted to publish them – not now anyway. My words on paper felt like useless drivel, unable to portray the weight of this past year, and many times sounding selfish. As I have been saying since last April to persons who feel like they need to say something to help me get through this, there really are no words. No words to adequately portray a mother’s anguish, a father’s grief, a husband’s sorrow, a sister’s heartache, a brother’s pain.

What I have felt at peace about sharing with you is the song that I have been singing—needed to sing—for the past few weeks. You’ll know it, I’m sure. And while not every line fits, I feel like it says more than I could ever say at this point in time. My prayer has been that the family you left behind could all find some comfort  In The Arms Of an Angel, whoever that may be for each of us, as I hope you have too.

Missing and missing you so,

Natalie

So Easter has come and gone, and yes I am thoroughly enjoying chocolate once again. Several people asked me if I was eating chocolate at 12:01am Easter morning, to which I have to answer “no” only because one year I overdid my end of Lent celebration and ended up with a killer migraine the next day – enough to make me think twice about any radical chocolate indulgence on Easter day or even during the first week or two afterwards.

I did figure out 2 things since the beginning of Lent that may be changing – or even ending – my chocolate detox… forever. First off, instead of ingesting high amounts of chocolate, I learned that I simply find non-chocolate, sugar-loaded substitutes. This year’s substitute was Reese’s pieces, which are ridiculously expensive and super easy to eat a lot of… believe me, I know. Another great substitute was rice krispie treats. I learned that I can eat 1/5 of a 9X13 pan of rice krispie treats in less than 5 minutes without flinching, not an accomplishment I’m overly proud of; but it did strengthen my long standing, although untested, theory that I could easily eat an entire 9X13in pan of these gooey bits of heaven in a day.

The second bit of information that may change my chocolate detox forever came when Daniel found this life-changing, guilt eliminating NPR article about the health benefits of chocolate. (Yes, I know dark chocolate is supposed to have excellent health benefits – wish I liked it more.) The basic premise of the article Daniel found was that people who regularly eat chocolate (doesn’t matter which kind – dark, milk or white!!) 5 times a week appear to have higher metabolisms than people who do not. Daniel sent me the link to this article with about 3 weeks left of Lent, and I was ready to throw in the towel and start eating chocolate that very night. I certainly didn’t want to sabotage my metabolism, which I’ve always thought to be relatively high. Alas, Daniel was relentless that I was not allowed to end my detox… not even when I begged him to let me eat a brownie at 7pm the night before Easter, so I did go the full time without consuming chocolate.

Some of the first flowers I found this spring.

But as I alluded to in an earlier post, my chocolate detox is really more about my health and not about a religious experience. However I did decide to do something for Lent that was motivated by hoping to experience a slower pace of life – siding toward the spiritual side of life. I decided to use our bike trailer which converts to a double jogging stroller to take Alice to school in order to observe the first signs of spring which I most likely would have missed speeding by in our station wagon. My intentions were good, however there were definitely issues I was not anticipating, and I only ran Alice to school a total of 16 times out of the 28 opportunities that I had to do so. My list of excuses included weather (mostly wind), morning activities running later than I anticipated, exhaustion, lack of motivation, and busy roads/feeling unsafe – especially on Fridays, seemed to be higher traffic days.

Ready to go!

In fact, since the roads we travel to school are particularly busy that time of day, I felt like I spent more time watching traffic than I did watching wildlife – pretty much defeating the purpose of my commitment. One particularly scary day was the Monday after St. Patrick’s Day. I’m pretty sure there were several people on the road still feeling the effects from the weekend celebration as there were a high percentage of cars crossing over the white line, coming onto the shoulder that day. When I’m running solo, I feel somewhat agile – like I could jump over a guardrail instead of getting crushed between an oncoming tractor trailer crossing over the white line and said guardrail if I had to. However, when you’ve got a 100lb, 3foot wide stroller, there’s not much you can do to remove it from a situation such as the one mentioned above. Thus I spent more and more of my run/walk in the grass and on peoples’ lawns and driveways waiting for big trucks to pass us than on the road as the days went by. I also realized I was losing some of my endurance that I had built up since this run was only 2.2miles round trip and of course we stopped halfway through that to drop Alice at the school doors and many times wandered over to the construction site near the school to watch the earth movers do their thing – much to Ian’s delight. But all this stopping and gawking significantly dropped my heart rate for almost 20 minutes making me feel like I still needed to put in a full workout when I got home – ugh.

All that said, I actually do feel like I spent a decent amount of time watching spring emerge this year, just not when I thought I would have. I noticed it more around our house than I have in years past. Maybe it was because spring came earlier this year than most years or maybe because this was the first year I actually planted peas and lettuce, which meant more time outside getting my garden ready. Whatever it was – it has been a gorgeous… and of course it continues. While I most likely will not be running the kids to school on a regular basis anymore due to the heavy traffic and the less than stellar workout,  I’ll continue to watch intently as the season unfolds its beauty all around us. Hope you enjoy it too!

Emerging peas

A few weeks later

Long awaited

Another spring favorite - photograph by Daniel

If I have to scrub one more pot, fold one more piece of laundry, or pull one more weed, I think I’m going to lose it. I may pack up the kids, drop them with my parents, and drive – for a long time. If you want to join me, you’re welcome.

It’s been a strange couple of days (or weeks?) here at the Miller house, mostly because I have always loved being a SAHM; and these feelings of wanting something different are completely baffling. It’s not that I want a permanent change. I don’t want to “do” something other than the monotonous, thankless job that I have. (Ok, a few more “thank yous” would be nice – I’m hoping they’ll come when the kids move out and realize how good they had it. Pretty much like I did when I was left standing on the porch of Daniel and my first apartment at LeTourneau Univ. in TX, watching the tail lights of our parents’ vehicles… realizing how much my mom did for me… but I digress.) I honestly wouldn’t trade my current job for a million dollars, especially if it meant an office job or customer care – not my cup of tea. (Quick aside – I’m NOT bashing those of you who enjoy an office job. Just as your job isn’t my dream job; my job probably isn’t your dream job either. Nor am I trying to start debate between SAHMs and working moms. I support each mom out there doing this thing we call life and realize that means different dreams for each woman.)

Before I got married, I remember my mom telling me that she got bored doing the same old housework routine again… and again… and again. On rough days, she would ask me or my siblings what we wanted for supper because nothing piqued her appetite. She had made it all so many times. (After making spaghetti at least 300 times like she would have done by the time I was 18yrs old, there wasn’t much thrill in making it one more time.) I’ve thought about mom’s dilemma a lot over the years mainly because I hadn’t experienced her feelings during my 9 years of marriage, and I wondered if I – like probably every other SAHM – was destined to reach the point of boredom as well. However, I was hopeful I wouldn’t because I am a person who thrives on routine and monotony. From the time I was age 5 until I walked down the aisle at the age of 22, I liked to pack eggs – a seriously repetitive job for those of you who never had the delightful experience. Daniel would tell you it’s one of the “boring-est” jobs ever. Over the years, I enjoyed the monotony of stacking and moving millions upon millions of eggs. Another example – I cross stitched a winter scene that was made up of 52,000 little Xs, and someday I’m excited to complete the spring, summer and fall scenes which are just as involved… just a tiny bit monotonous.

52,000 little Xs

So when I found myself in desperation serving supper from a box while asking Daniel what he wanted for dinner the next evening all while fervently hoping that pot-scrubbing-fairies were, in fact, real – in addition to daydreaming about “exotic” places like Sequoia National Park, I started wondering who I had become. Where did the monotony-loving-girl that I know go?

Then I realized – she’s still in there. I still want to hang up every piece of wash and pull every weed (at least until July when I pretend they don’t exist because one can only weed for so long without visiting Crazytown). But there is something else I’m longing for – adventure. For me, adventure is something physically or mentally challenging and usually nonpermanent (sorry – moving to Africa is just plain scary). Adventure is conquering Knife’s Edge on Mount Katahdin, a backpacking trip, or running a half marathon. Pretty much anyway I can use up the ridiculous amounts of energy that build up from doing the same ol’ same ol’, day in and day out.

Where's Waldo... or Natalie ? In 2007 I went on my first backpacking trip with 5 men including Daniel to California and Utah. Quite an adventure! This is Emerald Lake in Sequoia National Park.

This past Thursday we got an email from “Sheraton Salt Lake City Hotel” with the subject of the email confirming a reservation in UT. I just about fell off my seat when I saw it in the inbox. I thought maybe Daniel had lost his marbles and booked a get-away after listening to me whine about my current state of mind. (I say “lost his marbles” because we’re saving up for a house project right now, and big trips aren’t on the agenda.) Alas, I was saddened (although not surprised) when I realized this was an error – either Mr. Mettman gave the wrong email address or we were spammed.

And then on Friday, I did something I’ve done regularly since Alice’s birth (although not during this school year due to half day kindergarten schedule) that shifted my entire outlook. I visited my parents (and no, I didn’t drop the kids and drive away). I forgot about the mulching that wasn’t finished, the community meal I’m supposed to be planning, and the carpets that desperately need!! vacuumed; and I just was. I reveled in my children’s excitement of being with their grandparents. I read books to the kids. I drank Swiss iced tea – a staple from my egg packing days, ingesting its serious amounts of sugar and caffeine with abandonment. I spent several hours talking with my mom and sometimes my dad about nothing, and everything – the past, present and future all rolled into one unending conversation. The day slipped by so quickly.

When we arrived home, much to my flabbergastation (yes, I made it up), Daniel had completed a huge part of the mulching project that was overwhelming me. I felt so refreshed that I decided to start the endeavor of dyeing Easter eggs with the kids even though it was nearing bedtime. While watching Ian’s excitement and wonder grow during his first time dyeing eggs, I was reminded of how grateful I am to experience so many of my kids’ firsts each day alongside them.

While the day did not include the euphoria of climbing a mountain or finishing a half marathon, it reached deep within and soothed my spirit, reminding me to slow down and enjoy this job that I wouldn’t trade for anything. And because I’m not going to let my dream of adventure fade, it will come at the right time. I can count on that – like the rising and setting of the sun and the never ending piles of laundry that are my favorite household chore.

Thanks to Daniel for suggesting the title of this post. "Wanderlust", which I didn't know was a word, is defined by wikipedia as "a strong desire for or impulse to hike, wander or travel and explore the world."

Cleaning brings out the worst in me. Do you see this desk? Isn’t it about enough to drive you crazy? If you don’t see it – look harder, maybe it’ll pop out at you like it does to me. Well if you haven’t figured out what is so offensive about this desk, here is the letter I composed to Daniel the other day while I was dusting pictured desk.

Dear Mr. Miller,

You may (or may not) have noticed that the two Lindt 85% cacao bars that have been sitting on your desk since 2006 are no longer present. I have delivered them to household chef with instructions to put daily allotments into your lunches until they are GONE. If you wish to eat them in their entirety, the chef has been instructed to let that occur. However, if they reappear on your desk, I will dispose of them without consulting you.

Sincerely,
Housekeeping

Ok, ok – so I had to chuckle at the ridiculousness of my letter (and at some of Daniel’s as well – yes, these candy bars are at least 5 years old), and my first instinct was to run to the computer, type up my letter and post it on fb. I thought a few people might get a good laugh. Daniel may or may not laugh, but he would most likely be good-natured about it and admit that 5 years is a long time. But instead I kept cleaning and pondered these 2 candy bars and my oversized reaction to them.

The bars are quite small, sit unobtrusively underneath Daniel’s binoculars, are usually neatly stacked, don’t tempt me because they are dark chocolate; so why do they drive me bananas when I dust? Maybe I’m jealous of Daniel’s self control. Who else do I know that could leave 2 tempting snacks on his desk for 5 years? (Actually, my Dad might be able to – but that’s beside the point.) Definitely!!! not me! I’d be happy if they lasted 5 days. Or maybe I’m a little hurt because the bars were a gift to Daniel from me and don’t appear to be appreciated. Maybe I’m upset because a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away before kids, lawn work and house repairs – and around the time those candy bars were gifted, I recall Daniel telling me that he would clean his office. That hasn’t happened even though I thoroughly understand the reasons why.

So I continued to stew while I vacuumed the office; and as I opened the door leading to the rest of the basement, the view was heart-stopping. My desk/scrap booking/catch-all project center of the house was the vision that made me want to sit and weep. Here I was getting upset over 2 measly candy bars when not more than 15ft away is the hurricane of a mess that I am responsible for. Of course I have my own reasons why this mess is so… immense – some of which I think are somewhat legit (small rambunctious boy), others which most likely are not. But the mess really doesn’t matter (other than the fact that it needs serious help!), I contemplated my attitude toward the 2 candy bars while I sit in my own pile of clutter. Thankfully I could see the overwhelming irony of it, took a minute to reposition my thinker, and went about my day without another thought of the candy bars (and was later motivated to find my desk’s surface so I could save face by posting this picture).

Too many times we’re quick to smugly point out the ramifications of the “messes” other people create – from not disciplining one’s children to overspending to overeating. We all have pet peeves that irritate us about other people, and we’re quick to think – “So glad I don’t have that problem” when we never stop and think “What is my problem?”. Maybe the problem is casting our expectations on someone else… expecting that someone else would eat his candy bar within 5 yrs—like I would. Expecting that someone would discipline, spend money, drive, work, talk, express love, etc, etc like I do. Many times we pat ourselves on the back and feel sorry for the messy person because her life would be so much better if she would just do it our way.

Daniel and I used to watch Dr. Phil on a somewhat religious basis (pre-kid era). After months of watching, we figured out that we enjoyed the hour’s worth of entertainment because we came away thinking “Man, so glad my life isn’t that screwed up,” and we felt better about ourselves. These thoughts obviously didn’t hurt any of the good doctor’s guests; however when you have those thoughts about the people you interact with (even if you don’t actually say it), you exude that attitude from within. Believe me, I’ve felt it from others – just like you have too. It’s not endearing or attractive.

Instead of getting hung up on someone else’s mess, let’s start making life a little easier on each other and possibly expect less from others, and more from ourselves – more awareness of our own messes, more compassion, more patience, more grace. Maybe we will see that the people we consider “messy” have more to offer us than we ever thought possible.

Small rambunctious boy was under strict instructions to keep the wagon in the basement while I cleaned up my desk. Obviously that did not happen.

Since I was inspired to cleanup, we started another project.

Looks and feels much better than it had. Sorry - no before shot.

The 1/2 finished project I found while cleaning up my mess.

I made myself finish my kusudama flower ball before publishing this post. I generally enjoy repetitious activity, but this one got a little tedious for even me.

A picture from my backyard - just because I always anticipate the forsythia blooming. Must be my love of yellow flowers.

Dear Alicia,

It’s another Thursday; I’m back from choir – yay! for adult interaction and using my brain. I’ve decided there’s a reason why Ralph picked Handel’s “Solomon” to sing this spring (and Vivaldi’s “Gloria” this past Christmas). He’s been telling everyone it’s to please Marian since it’s her favorite piece (yup, she’s still playing the piano/organ), but I know better. Ralph has never told me this, but I’m pretty sure we’re singing a piece I really have no interest in and no liking for because otherwise he knew I would be bawling my way through every practice (same with Vivaldi). Embarrassing myself every Thursday evening until Ralph (or whomever Ralph would appoint) would finally ask me to move to the back where I wouldn’t be a disruption.

But maybe he knew he couldn’t ask me to move to the back because I would only be a sorrier mess there – I’m certain of it. I tried sitting in the back once or twice during the fall practices – that was not a good idea. It brought back so many memories of you; I couldn’t concentrate at all. I’m not even sure I actually sang during those practices. We used to sit in the back row – the 2 of us, and as “quietly” as we could (ok, so maybe we got a few “shushes” from an unnamed bass) laugh our heads off the entire time. This fall, there was no one to talk about the week with, no one to laugh with, no one to make sarcastic remarks with, no one to say “Word” with – our favorite saying. So I’ve permanently placed myself in the front, where it’s easier to sing the songs that haven’t touched my soul yet. But that doesn’t mean I don’t look at the back row longingly.

While making Christmas cookies this past December I listened to Rutter’s “Mass of the Children” and nearly had a break down in the middle of the kitchen. (Yes, those chocolate covered peanut butter ritz were extra salty this year.) Rutter’s mass moves me like almost no other piece (Faure’s Requiem is a close second) so beautiful – just like you and your voice that I miss. You loved this piece when we sang it together as part of the children’s choir – your clear, lovely voice rang out just as sweet as those dear children. (Was that the Christmas concert when we sat behind the bass soloist and practically swooned from his heavenly cologne?) Your favorite part of the work was the middle section of Agnus Dei when we sang…

One of your favorite flowers

“Little lamb, who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life and bid thee feed,
By the stream and o’er the mead.
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly bright,
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice:
Little lamb, who made thee?
Doest thou know who made thee?”

As I think about it again “Gave thee such a tender voice, making all the vales rejoice,” we were singing about you, such a sweet little lamb. I just didn’t know it at the time.

Singing comes hard for me now – not just at choir, but at home, in the car, at church – those times when a song moves me the “wrong” way and my eyes get that familiar sting in them. If I could sing on autopilot, it would be so much easier. But as Daniel has heard me say since we were dating, music is about words for me in most cases (and a great percussion mix in other cases). The other Sunday we sang a song before I was to play piano for the children’s choir, and the words hit too close to home  - I couldn’t sing it. Had I tried, I would have been left with tears streaming down my face and no sound coming from my mouth – all of 2 minutes before I was supposed to play in front of 150+ people (thankfully the people were watching the kids and not the pianist).

Other people who have lost loved ones tell me singing is hard for them too, so I know I’m not alone in this. Sometimes it makes me crazy though – I’d like to be able to sing normally without fighting all the emotion. So glad I’ve had Vivaldi’s “Gloria” and Handel’s “Solomon” to practice that on Thursday nights. If you see tears, it’s for a reason other than emoting from the heart. Hoping by next spring I’ll be ready to sing Faure’s Requeim, which is on the agenda (applause and cheers!); but I have my doubts. Maybe if I stand in the back row and bury my head in my music no one will notice the red-faced, nose-blowing soprano who isn’t singing.

Missing you, Little Lamb. Save me a space in the choir – in the back row. I’m looking forward to it – my tears will be tears of joy.

Love,
Natalie

Christmas is officially over in our house… a few months late. After several days of “listening to” the kids begging me to let them take the ornaments off my 12inch forever green (fake) Christmas tree that has graced the top of our refrigerator since mid-December, I finally let them de-ornament the lovely 14 year old tree. Once the tree was away, I couldn’t stop and gleefully collected my sparse winter decorations from the rest of the house, the same decorations that had been so hard for me to put up in December. Fall and winter were hard on me this year, which is not the norm for me but I know others experience this almost every year. January/early February brought about new lows and dark spaces that I had never experienced before and don’t care to go back to either. It is only now as I’m emerging from that darkness that I realize how dark it really was. But I also promised you something in January – that I would publish the piece that I wrote/read at the longest night service in November. I have such a love-hate relationship with this piece that I can hardly stand to read/edit it any more. So as part of my spring cleaning, I’m going to get it out of my mind and off my hard drive. Then maybe I will feel like spring decorating. (Keep in mind this was written in November so the timeline is according to then and also that I was addressing a group of people.)

It stares at me from my closet. Silently it taunts me every time the door is opened, reminding me how quickly life can change. For the past 7 months, I’ve wondered what I should do with it. Today I decided. I remove the offending item and march it down to the basement to the crate of unwanted things. Things that will eventually go to the Re-use it shop. Or maybe Goodwill is a better fit for my closet item since that was where our history together began. Maybe by returning it to the beginning of our journey, I can somehow turn back the hands of time… I would do just about anything if that were an option. As I throw it in the bin alongside the motley assortment of cast off items, I expect to hear a thunderous “BOOM,” as if it landed bearing the weight of the worst day of my life. I pause, waiting for it; but I can barely hear the rustle of the fabric as it slips into the crate. I don’t know why, but I’m covered with goosebumps as I return upstairs; and I do feel a bit lighter having made this decision.

About 8 months ago I was dress shopping, hoping to change up my summer wardrobe. I bought 3 dresses, one was black and white. I intended that one to be debuted on a random date night with Daniel – that was not to be. Before there was even a possibility for a date night, just three short weeks after I bought it, I wore it to Alicia’s memorial service. I remember looking into my closet the morning of the service and thinking that I didn’t want to wear all black. Shouldn’t we at least be thankful she’s in heaven with Jesus? Aren’t we supposed to “rejoice” that she is in a better place? White (or any color other than black) is a sign of our belief – a value passed on by my family. Looking back, I almost laugh at my thought process that morning. The shock must have knocked the fashion sense out of my head. How I’ve felt anything and everything but thankful in the wake of Alicia’s absence. Since then I have not been able to put that dress back on and shudder at the thought of doing so. I see it hanging in my closet each Sunday and am reminded of the horrific event that has changed our family’s history. The only place I ever wore it was to the memorial service, and thus all I have to associate with it. Not even my frugal Lancaster county upbringing can convince me that giving away this dress which I only wore once is a poor monetary investment.

If only removing the pain that our family deals with was as easy as discarding that dress. Even now as I write about it, I can’t help but wipe the tears from my eyes. Many of you know this pain well – deep loss – a loved one, a relationship, health, expectations of the future unfulfilled. It threatens to swallow us up, that we may never come back to the surface again. Many days we wonder how we can go on, how we will bear this burden. Where will the energy come from to walk this road without that which we hoped for the most? We flounder and sink. But after a while, we begin to take steps – learning to be patient with ourselves… and others. Learning to let ourselves grieve as we need to. Learning that the energy required to walk will come, but there might not be any left for other things. And after a long time of walking through the abyss, we do begin to surface. In our surfacing, we begin to notice others – we especially notice the pain of others because we know it so well ourselves. We’ve been there. We’ve lived there. We’ve walked hand-in-hand with it. We have a new ability to recognize it. We have a new way to relate to those around us who are also hurting deeply. Isn’t that one of the reasons we came tonight – to relate to those around us who are also hurting deeply? They know. They understand when others cannot.

There are many things I’m learning since Alicia’s death. I’m learning to be more thankful, for every day and every moment. I’m learning to celebrate even the mundane things of life. I’m learning to be more intentional in my interactions with others – living like this could be my last time relating to another. But the thing that I value the most by having to work through this is that I’m learning to be more compassionate with others. I’m learning to feel their pain as my own. It is my hope that in the grief and loss that has brought us here tonight, that we do not turn inward. But rather we use some of the things we’ve learned to truly reach out to others in love and understanding… and therein lies the hope and possibility that something good can come from overwhelming loss.

For those of you who didn’t visit the grocery store today or turn on the news, just a reminder that today is Fat Tuesday. For many people in my area this means eating fausnaughts until the heart is content – or possibly in cardiac arrest. For me Fat Tuesday does not mean 4am trips to the bakery. More than likely you’ll find me trying to figure out how to finish up the last bit of Valentine’s Day chocolate. Almost every year I give up chocolate for Lent…not because I have any religious conviction about it. No, there is nothing “holy” about the next 40 chocolate-less days. I do this mostly because I hear my mother’s voice ringing in my head – “With all the chocolate you eat, you’re going to lose your gall bladder by the time you’re current year of life+1 year.” Thanks for caring mom.

 
Yes, I admit it – I am a chocaholic. For those of you who aren’t and for the few of you who don’t even like chocolate, let me enlighten you – chocolate absolutely has the power to addict. If chocolate had the same effect on the body as alcohol does, I’d be under the table by noon each day. By the time we’re through the holidays (during which time I  consume more than my  daily pre-holiday allotment of chocolate) and past Valentine’s day (another great excuse to indulge), I begin to feel like the liquid flowing through my veins probably resembles chocolate syrup more than it does blood. My body longs for detox, even though my brain really does not embrace this idea at all. Lent offers the perfect reason/accountability system to put myself through detox – otherwise, I’m sure I never would. It’s a lot easier to pass up the chocolate dessert at someone’s house or at a restaurant by simply saying, “I gave up chocolate for Lent.” This is acceptable – even in non-religious circles. To say, “I’m in chocolate detox” at any other given time of the year isn’t quite as acceptable – nor am I sure I could actually do that if I didn’t have Daniel holding me captive to my “Lent” commitment.

Speaking of Daniel, I have spent the day dreading hearing the cry of agony from the office where he will read this post. (Sorry babe, once again – the chocolate has to go.) My man was under the impression I have something else in mind  for Lent, which I do (more on that later) – but will also be adding my yearly detox into the mix. I do feel sorry for him and the kids during detox. Of course they feel the effects of a chocolate-less house (and the effects of a mom/wife in withdrawal). Although I do stock a few chocolate candy bars and plain M&Ms which do not appeal to me, I do not bake anything with chocolate in it – including using chocolate chips, which is an automatic addition to almost everything I usually make– pumpkin bread, apple cake, cherry cobbler, etc. Essentially the four of us go through detox to varying degrees.

Obviously, it’s no surprise that I have been scheming for the past several days as to how to finish out the chocolate in the house by midnight, so that there won’t be any to tempt me tomorrow morning. My plans have worked out pretty well. For lunch today, the kids and I finished the pb brownies, which were amazing if I do say so myself. I finished the last of the dove truffles my mom gave me for Valentine’s day – one single truffle savored after Ian was in bed for nap. But I was still stuck with a large bag of Hershey kisses that I had gotten last week when I took snack to share with the women’s group at my church. The women didn’t do the best job of cleaning them up for me, leaving me with well over half the bag, which usually wouldn’t be a problem. But it was this week. And then lo and behold, I noticed a recipe on the back of the kisses bag for mousse. Exactly what I need to use up 36 kisses – ok, so I threw in a little more. (You can never have too much chocolate.) I cannot wait to taste this tonight. This was a little more work than I usually like to put into a dessert for such little end product. If I were to do it over again, I would double the batch. However, if you think about the nutritional “value” of this dessert, it’s probably best we’ll only be having it one night. For everyone else out there getting ready for detox (or doing something more legitimate for Lent), good luck! For those of you not giving up chocolate for the next 40 days and hoping to use up some of those hershey kisses that were intended for peanut blossoms you never had time to make in December, here’s the link for the recipe. Chocolate Kisses Mousse

Disclaimer: Daniel read this one and said it’s pretty intense. Proceed with caution.

This year, our family is vacationing at the beach in June. While I am! looking forward to this vacation (Family – don’t get upset by the next statement), I’m not overly excited about the beach. My beach experience in a nutshell – the gritty, burning sand… the baking, eye-squinting sun… the itchy, stinging water… hours of wondering when and where to use the bathroom and dehydration for trying to avoid going at all… fun times (insert sarcasm). I do enjoy reading a good book while listening to the waves and the movement of the never-ceasing wind. But all I have to do is think about a bright, sunny day with the sun reflecting off the sand, and I can feel my skin turning pink… nay, lobster red. I watch everyone else apply SPF 15 every 6 hrs while I slather on my ridiculously protectant SPF 55 every hour and still end up with some rebel body part fried to a crisp. Three summers ago Daniel and I went to the beach. I stayed under an umbrella and wore a t-shirt and pants overtop of my swimming suit the entire first day. Yup – you guessed it, as red as can be on day #1. And so I’ve been plagued my entire life with seriously uncomfortable sunburns almost every single beach trip – not fun.

Must-Have beach gear

Along with the daunting inevitable sunburn, the beach experience leaves me pondering other things… things I am not. I am not a woman with sunkissed skin (obviously); elegant wind-blown hair; long, thin legs; or any (much less – lots of) cleavage – the desirable beach traits for most women. Daniel recently talked of a woman he finds so beautiful he can barely stand to look at her. I’m in total agreement with his assessment and reaction to this woman’s appearance, but maybe more because I see my own beauty flaws yelling at me from every angle of her beauty, something I tend to see at the beach as well. I’m generally not so superficial as to count my worth by my looks; however for some reason my brain went a little haywire as I thought about the beach goddess that I am not. While I’ve been trying for over 2 weeks to put these thoughts to rest without embarrassing myself by publishing them, for whatever reason, my brain and heart aren’t co-operating with that idea. So here goes…

I am not a wonder wife, a super mom, or an awesome friend. I don’t have a career, don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, and didn’t earn more than $200 in 2011. I’m not a diligent card sender, a great gift giver, nor am I gifted with the perfect words of encouragement or overflowing with hospitality. I’m not a cook – by almost any measure of the word, a pastry chef, an extreme couponer, a master gardener, an accomplished photographer, or an outstanding musician. I do not sell anything on etsy or turn trash into treasure. I cannot make my own curtains, use power tools, draw a picture to save my life, decorate, or dress fashionably. All the mom-types gaining popularity – tiger mom, organic/make-it-from-scratch-mom, homeschool mom, large-family mom, home-party-independent-business mom – nope, not me.

And yet I long to be almost all these things – or at least one of those things to a note-worthy degree. (I’m certainly not putting you down if you fall into any of the above categories – I esteem and would love to emulate you.) In a society where we are what we do, what we produce, and how we look, how do I measure up when my daily worth would appear to be wiping noses and bottoms all day?

I’m not fishing for compliments here. My point is more what I think about myself – not what others think about me, although it’s apparent I’m measuring myself by what others think is worthy. Don’t most people have these thoughts from time to time, stacking ourselves up against each other to see who is the tallest? Some may say my thoughts are immature – there will always be someone else better than I am at X, Y & Z – no matter how much of my life I devote to X, Y & Z. I agree whole-heartedly with this observation. So the goal becomes not to fall into the trap of comparing myself to others; but it still leaves me wondering if my value is actually wiping body parts and cleaning up the house.

Then during a recent conversation with a friend, I had an “aha moment.” My friend stated that when she dies, she wishes to be remembered for her love of God and people. Plain and simple, yet profound. How many times have I heard this in some form or another and yet glossed over it? The incredible value of living a life of love is not something society values highly. No one introduces himself as “Mr. Smith, Lover of People.” And yet don’t we look to Mother Theresa and her legacy of love as a shining example of a lover of people. How much value was her life, her actions, her words? When I leave this world, almost no one will remember what I was or wasn’t; but to have loved so much that I leave behind lives forever changed because of love is something of insurmountable worth.

Even though Valentine’s Day won’t come around again for another 364 days, I will continue to live a sincere life of love and try to forget about all the things that I am not. May I be remembered as a lover of God and people.

My valentines over the years

“I want to live my whole life like that. I want to love with much more abandon and stop waiting for others to love me first.” ~J. Eldridge

Dear Alicia,

It’s been a while since I’ve written, but you’re never far from my mind. In fact I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately as I decided to celebrate my birthday Alicia-style. Ok, so it wasn’t exactly Alicia-style; it was Natalie-style-heavily-influenced-by-Alicia-spirit. I had planned to celebrate my birthday “big” this year in honor of your own love of celebrating. This idea was confirmed even more as I heard multiple people tell me recently that celebrating brings more to life than we really understand. Also, Daniel and I talked with friends about Jesus’ first miracle – turning water into wine at a party. Wine for those who were already well-sloshed to continue partying when he could have said “You already had so much you don’t even know the stuff I just made is the good stuff. Why bother?”

Maybe, Alicia, you understood more about God’s idea of celebrating life than I do. And as I think about your life now – a perpetual party in the sky (possibly?), I hope you can see some glimpses of heaven here on earth as you watch us from afar. And so I set a date to celebrate – really celebrate – my birthday this year, something I rarely do intentionaly beyond going out to eat with Daniel (although I always enjoy that too!). That date was January 21^st.

However, my plans began to fade as I realized I wanted to keep my sister’s kids so she could have some much needed time alone, and January 21^st became the date that seemed to work best. How was I going to celebrate while attending to the needs of 5 small children? I pondered this and came up with alternative dates – none of which suited my taste. Alicia, you may be privy to such information already, but Becky will have another appointment with the transplant surgeon the day before my birthday. All the news concerning her health lately has been dismal; while I try to hope this appointment may have a different report, I wanted to be able to celebrate easily and attentively– not in the aftermath of more bad news, trying to hide my tears and quiet my raging thoughts.

And then Alice got sick, a chest cold. Obviously Becky was not going to send her kids to my house with Alice running a fever of 102 and coughing incessantly. So I put my plan back into action, even though it meant mysteriously making Daniel stop at the grocery store on our way to my in-law’s house and throwing together my favorite breakfast at 11:30pm Friday night.

The day did not go as smoothly as I had planned. I had hoped to go running, play games with Alice and spend a large amount of the afternoon scrap booking. It snowed instead- no run. I awoke to a beautiful, pure white blanket covering the ground. I tried to imagine you had ordered it for me – sent down to remind me of beauty. The first real snow of the season is always so breath taking.

Alice was too sick to play games with her temperature at 104. I longed to have my little girl back, to see her smile and hear her breathe easily. We read instead, book after book after book until I thought I would go crazy. I celebrated when she ate a cup of yogurt instead of my birthday cake. My nursing and outloud-reading duties filled the overwhelming majority of the afternoon leaving me less than an hour to pull out my scrap booking. I almost didn’t bother.

A single phone call sent me into another cloud of self-pity. Our family vacation which I had been put in charge of planning and had done so by spending hours researching and agonizing over was changed to a totally different venue by a 20minute conversation. All my hard work gone up in smoke. (I know, I know – no use crying over spilled milk. I am glad the new location will be easier on the pocketbook and offers some amenities my plan did not – very excited about the nearby park.)

The icing on the cake, if you’ll excuse the expression, was an argument between Daniel and I over a movie (of all things) we watched after the kids were in bed. Hollywood – you drive me bananas! and so does the need to analyze every movie we watch because we rarely agree on the analysis.

By the end of the night, I was feeling so sorry for myself, I didn’t even want to eat my birthday cake. Then I stepped outside to put a can in the recycle bin and breathed the clean, crisp air; and it hit me – all the things I have to celebrate, my little bit of heaven right here on earth. And so these are the glimpses of heaven I had today. Maybe you saw them too and hoped I would live my day big, just like you loved doing.

I love you, Alicia. I miss you. But rock on, girl – can’t wait for the ultimate party with you.

Natalie

The reason for the mysterious stop at the grocery store.

One of my favorite breakfasts - monkey bread

A few moments of fun before regressing.

How she spent most of the day

Some me time

A sampling of the books for the day

My kind of birthday cake

Tomorrow's fun - a $75 meal for $21. Daniel and I will have a yummy time.