Oh, the lazy days of summer. They feel packed, even though not much happens. Does that make sense? I think the slower pace I expect makes "less happening" still feel like "too much happening."
This week I'm celebrating the joy of an unexpected -- and better -- solution to a dilemma.
I planned to tithe this week. My original plan was to spend it at church as a Vacation Bible School leader.
Well, with the lazy pace of summer, I didn't manage to sign up to help at VBS, and the requests for helpers eventually stopped coming.
Great! I thought. I'll tithe my week in a way I prefer. I'll write up those interviews I'm supposed to be doing for Intervarsity. No offense, kids, but VBS is exhausting. Exhilarating but exhausting. And ours is 9am until 2pm. Plus, if I'm going to get serious about writing, I need to get serious about making myself write every day.
As VBS got closer, I grew more excited about a whole week of writing, every day from 9am to 2pm.
Then, two Sundays ago, another call went out. The church needed a few more leaders. Would anyone out there be willing to serve?
I sighed. There goes my great plans. I thought about not responding, but knew I must. Tithing my week meant doing God's work where ever He wanted, not where ever I wanted. His week, His choice. So I emailed the VBS leader and asked if she still needed help.
Now here's the cool part: she needed someone to help with crafts on Wednesday and Thursday, the days the other leader wasn't available. How perfect! How affirming! This week, I was able to participate in the excitement of VBS on two full (exhausting) days and to write the other three days.
Well, sort of write. My stubborn heart still refuses to sit still for the hard stuff, so my writing time was also laundry time, email checking time, packing for trips time, errand time, etc. All the same, more writing was done that would have happened if the kids had been home.
This unexpected solution serves as a reminder of God's ways of answering our problems. He isn't limited to the solutions we see. He can give more than we can possibly ask or imagine.
Friday, July 20, 2012
Wednesday, July 04, 2012
Day 30: Well-Timed Rain
I woke up early to water my fern garden, because it's been hot and dry here for days. It was already being watered by a gentle rainshower that lasted at least 1 hour. Perfect! Instead of watering, I had a quiet hour of reading and responding to emails.
Monday, July 02, 2012
Day 29: All Sorts of Fireworks
A big town near us hosts fireworks on a Thursday night before Independence Day to save money, so we've already seen our annual pyrotechnical display, though the 4th of July is two days away.
Fireworks seem a little silly to the adult in me, who knows how much those gaudy explosions cost. But the adult in me also values nostalgia and tradition -- I love that Americans publicly gather for mutual awe. It is sweet. And it really does inspire awe (once you shush the adult in you that keeps grumbling about literally burning money). Each year the display amazes with its power and color and variety. For Husband and I, we're watching for something new. This year it was fireworks that exploded in fountains and then each "drip" of the fountain blossomed into a mini-firework partway down the sky. Last year it was fireworks that resembled cascading waterfalls. A few years ago, it was a new orange-colored firework we didn't remember seeing in earlier shows. Best, of course, is hearing your children ooh and aah. Motormouth Huckle kept a running commentary about each firework -- types he liked best; how this one compared to the last; thoughts about seeing fireworks from an airplane. I love to hear his thoughts. Sally doesn't need her ears covered any more, as she did when younger. She would sit on my lap and I would help her guard against those cannon-like booms (not against her brother's half-hour discussion). Now she has her own chair in our row and doesn't cover her ears and thinks her own thoughts, including thoughts about how much she doesn't like the loud booms.
This year, my favorite light display wasn't in the sky; or, at least, it was barely in the sky. This year, we chose not to sit with the crowd on the lawn of the local high school. Instead, we parked at the township building separated from the high school by a cornfield. The location was quiet, only a dozen other families, most quiet crowd-avoiders like us. Dusk fell. It was dark enough that the kids asked, "NOW will they start? Isn't it time? Could it be any minute now?". It was still too light for the fireworks. We faced east, looking over the cornfield toward the high school on one side and a dark line of trees on the other. There was nothing special about the cornfield, and yet I now rank it among the most amazing sights I have ever seen. Just above the knee-high stalks were more fireflies than I have ever seen all together. In the quiet of the evening, in the dusk of the day, the field sparkled, like a crop of star spangles ripe for Independence Day. The glows were not random flits in all directions, as on our lawn. Rather, the thousands of flickers were uniform in height, skimming the tops of the cornstalks as if tethered by stems, and were synchronized in direction, with each light ascending. I don't know why the fireflies only lit their ascents and not their descents, but the result was lovely. No booms, just a field where the works of fire were small and natural and more beautiful than my words can describe.
I have added this image to my mind's collection of memorable settings, like William Wordsworth describes in his poem Daffodils. It sits beside a favorite memory of the first snowfall in a redwood forest -- craning my head to see the treetops in a sky full of large, lazy snowflakes, drifting white against the still dark needles, silently filling a woods that has stood for a thousand years. When I am old and sitting in a nursing home, perhaps I'll find the words to describe these experiences.
Fireworks seem a little silly to the adult in me, who knows how much those gaudy explosions cost. But the adult in me also values nostalgia and tradition -- I love that Americans publicly gather for mutual awe. It is sweet. And it really does inspire awe (once you shush the adult in you that keeps grumbling about literally burning money). Each year the display amazes with its power and color and variety. For Husband and I, we're watching for something new. This year it was fireworks that exploded in fountains and then each "drip" of the fountain blossomed into a mini-firework partway down the sky. Last year it was fireworks that resembled cascading waterfalls. A few years ago, it was a new orange-colored firework we didn't remember seeing in earlier shows. Best, of course, is hearing your children ooh and aah. Motormouth Huckle kept a running commentary about each firework -- types he liked best; how this one compared to the last; thoughts about seeing fireworks from an airplane. I love to hear his thoughts. Sally doesn't need her ears covered any more, as she did when younger. She would sit on my lap and I would help her guard against those cannon-like booms (not against her brother's half-hour discussion). Now she has her own chair in our row and doesn't cover her ears and thinks her own thoughts, including thoughts about how much she doesn't like the loud booms.
This year, my favorite light display wasn't in the sky; or, at least, it was barely in the sky. This year, we chose not to sit with the crowd on the lawn of the local high school. Instead, we parked at the township building separated from the high school by a cornfield. The location was quiet, only a dozen other families, most quiet crowd-avoiders like us. Dusk fell. It was dark enough that the kids asked, "NOW will they start? Isn't it time? Could it be any minute now?". It was still too light for the fireworks. We faced east, looking over the cornfield toward the high school on one side and a dark line of trees on the other. There was nothing special about the cornfield, and yet I now rank it among the most amazing sights I have ever seen. Just above the knee-high stalks were more fireflies than I have ever seen all together. In the quiet of the evening, in the dusk of the day, the field sparkled, like a crop of star spangles ripe for Independence Day. The glows were not random flits in all directions, as on our lawn. Rather, the thousands of flickers were uniform in height, skimming the tops of the cornstalks as if tethered by stems, and were synchronized in direction, with each light ascending. I don't know why the fireflies only lit their ascents and not their descents, but the result was lovely. No booms, just a field where the works of fire were small and natural and more beautiful than my words can describe.
I have added this image to my mind's collection of memorable settings, like William Wordsworth describes in his poem Daffodils. It sits beside a favorite memory of the first snowfall in a redwood forest -- craning my head to see the treetops in a sky full of large, lazy snowflakes, drifting white against the still dark needles, silently filling a woods that has stood for a thousand years. When I am old and sitting in a nursing home, perhaps I'll find the words to describe these experiences.
Day 28: Library Reading Program
The first days off school were days of bickering. The kids complain during the school year of not having enough free time; then, when they hit the motherlode of free time in June, they squander it arguing.
I prayed for peace in my household.
The library reading program was the answer to my prayer. Not only do my kids love reading, they love getting rewarded for something they consider normal behavior, ie, reading. The day we signed up for the library reading program was the day Huckle and Sally switched from 3 hours per day bickering to 3 hours per day with book glued to their faces.
Peace. Quiet. In fact, sometimes it's hard to get them unstuck from their books. Both are devouring Hardy Boys mysteries. Sally started by reading the first chapter and then skipping to the end. Then, after seeing the formula long enough, she realized she can handle the inevitable kidnappings and thefts. It's all part of the genre. So now she plows straight through them., like her play-by-the-rules brother who would never peek at the ending.
A week into the reading program was enough to restore balance in their time. They are no longer racing through books to earn little bouncy balls and other toys. But they also are bickering less, as if they've remembered how to spend their lazy summers and even -- sometimes -- enjoy each other's company. This morning they started a board game and made it a full hour without fighting.
Maybe summer wouldn't be as argument-filled as it began. Joy!
I prayed for peace in my household.
The library reading program was the answer to my prayer. Not only do my kids love reading, they love getting rewarded for something they consider normal behavior, ie, reading. The day we signed up for the library reading program was the day Huckle and Sally switched from 3 hours per day bickering to 3 hours per day with book glued to their faces.
Peace. Quiet. In fact, sometimes it's hard to get them unstuck from their books. Both are devouring Hardy Boys mysteries. Sally started by reading the first chapter and then skipping to the end. Then, after seeing the formula long enough, she realized she can handle the inevitable kidnappings and thefts. It's all part of the genre. So now she plows straight through them., like her play-by-the-rules brother who would never peek at the ending.
A week into the reading program was enough to restore balance in their time. They are no longer racing through books to earn little bouncy balls and other toys. But they also are bickering less, as if they've remembered how to spend their lazy summers and even -- sometimes -- enjoy each other's company. This morning they started a board game and made it a full hour without fighting.
Maybe summer wouldn't be as argument-filled as it began. Joy!
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