That Kitchen

I told you all a while ago that I was organizing my closed porch/kitchen/pantry/entry. Complete with before pictures. Well, I did it. The dishes were arranged and the cookbook mess irradicated. Room was created for all the boxes of goods my mom brings. A box was filled with items for charity. I should have taken a picture then, because. . .

Since then I went organizing crazy trying to find my sweeper bags, but never did and had real issues with my vacuum cleaner. Suffice to say the cleared and beautified counter space now hold the new purged items waiting for the picture to document their purging. (Proof of their condition for taxes next year.) In addition and because we don't have a garage, the kitchen has gained functionality as a parts restoration area.

The current project is the thorough cleaning of valve covers from a Ford engine that Chris bought off of eBay. The dirt stayed in the basement, or rather was washed down the laundry tub drain (maybe that was the cause of the trip to Lowes before any more laundry could be done.) The kitchen sink is being used for the finer work of filing and sanding the dirt and corrosion off of every surface of each valve cover. Chris has been at it a while.

Because of the new function of the kitchen sink, the kitchen/pantry/entry/closed porch area has acquired new things to store. Namely, the old, dirty, and corroded valve covers and the cleaning paraphernalia that goes with such a project. That includes various files, all sorts of sandpaper in a multitude of grits, and a dremel. And for comparison purposes another pair of valve covers bought new from eBay.

Where, you ask, does all of this new stuff find itself. Well, I answer, that is simple. The four valve covers sit in the window sills. The files and sandpaper go in an empty flowerpot, supposedly, and the then full flowerpot sits on the microwave, supposedly. (Usually the sandpaper dries on the sink and the flowerpot and files sit on the counter. Why would I ever want to go out to eat?!) And the dremel--I dream of the day it returns to the basement.

All that to say, there are no after photos of a beautifully organized entry/kitchen/pantry/closed porch area. But when my mom comes to visit this weekend and brings a box of goodies (I know you will, Mom.) I am prepared with space to place said goodies. And for anyone else who visits--the valve covers are unique planters and valuable pieces of automotive artwork anyone would be proud to display on their windowsills.

I Did It

I made my first lunch/playdate date! Next Tuesday at 11:00ish. Oh, the cleaning. This is a new mom all the new mom worries about germs. Oh the cleaning! And what am I making for lunch? What good dilemma to have!

Guilt

We live in a neighborhood struggling, in time it could go either way. In our plans this is a temporary situation. When our house in Michigan sells, we have the choice of where we will live and raise our families. We can stay here in this neighborhood, for if "good" people never come to "bad" neighborhoods the neighborhoods never change. (That isn't to say that our neighborhood is populated by bad people. There are many people working very hard to change the reputation of our neighborhood.) We could buy land and build our house, for being self-sufficient seems a good goal. We could move into any number of other neighborhoods, paying a little more or a lot more than houses in this neighborhood.

I am not trying to make a decision here in this post but illustrating that we have the choice of where to live. And that is not a place some find themselves. For some this is the neighborhood they can live in. For some walking to the library is how they can get there. For some the choices are few. And for some the choices are non existent.

So today, as Abigail and I ate lunch, I felt guilty for driving home from the library and being in the midst of finishing lunch while my neighbor was still carrying her two-year old home from the library. Granted they did stop to pick up lunch on the way, but the temperature still hovers around 20 degrees. Oh, how I am blessed. What am I to do with the blessedness?

For the Love of Cleaning

Making Grammy Proud

Neat Site

I just found this while "Stumbling" around cyberspace. Very cool in a way my hubby would get a kick out of. For you my love.

As Heard in Church

Last week we had a special missions conference at our church. On Tuesday we had a potluck dinner and the whole family went. Chris, Abigail, and I sat with, thankfully, the owners of the elephant figurines decorating the table. And they didn't mind that Abigail couldn't keep her hands off of them even feeding them some of her pizza. We did bring cars for her to play with during the missionary's presentation time.

She did a great job, playing quietly and using me as a jungle gym for the presentation. Afterward though it was time for a prayer. She doesn't sit well during our pastor's prayers for some reason. I think it is the length of time she can't bear. But anyway, the prayer started. She moved to her seat and drove a car an arm's length on the table. Louder than I thought possible. I leaned over stopped the drive and told her that she couldn't touch the cars till the prayer was over. Simple enough don't you think.

Then one little pointer finger stuck out from a little fist while two little eyes dared me to demand obedience. What are you going to do about it here? was practically screamed at me. I dare you to spank me during a prayer at CHURCH, Momma? I know I heard it. She didn't actually speak it but I know I heard it louder than the prayer I was beginning to pray was over. The little hand moved slowly across the emptiness of table and poised above the car.

Abigail, no car. I whispered.
She paused. I breathed a sigh of relief. . .

. . . too soon!

The little finger dropped and the arm pushed that little car across the table. The little eyes asked Who do you think you are? You're not the boss of me!

So there I was in the middle of a prayer in a fellowship hall/church gym being called out. Not my plan for a nice missionary supporting evening getting to know people in a new church. What was I to do! I can't tell you it was following the rule of good parenting--be consistent, follow-through--or if it was my pride smarting, but we exited the room quickly and quietly. I found an empty room where the results of a spanking would not interrupt the pastor's prayer. And we started our pre-spank talk she in a little chair and I on the floor in front of her,

Me: Abigail, Mommy told you not to touch the car. Did you obey, Mommy?
Abigail: Well. . . uhhmm. . . actuawy. . . I sorry, Mommy. . . .
She leaned forward with her arms open for a hug. All done. . . OK. . . Hugs.

What's a Momma to do? I ask you! I smiled at my little one.

We agreed to no more cars and no more sitting alone. And went back to the hall. This momma got wise and waited till the prayer, still the same prayer and no it wasn't popcorn, ended.

Purpose

Spring fever has hit me. Maybe it was being confined to the house for two weeks with illness, maybe it was the sun shining brightly yesterday, maybe it was the snow that sat in utter stillness on the branches of the holly bush for a day. Whatever the reason I have have begun waiting anxiously for crocuses popping their heads out of the winter-weary grass, for daffodils pointing their cups heavenward, tiny little suns looking at the source of their life, for fat robins bouncing along the ground.

And not just the weather change that comes with spring, but I am hungry for a spring in my own life. A renewal, a rebirth, a redefinition of purpose in this new place. A place to call our own with yellow walls and places to put our stuff, with the stability to dream and to work and to change the four walls surrounding our family. I am ready to direct this springtime energy into something life-giving. But what, what is my purpose here in this place?

It was easy when I was working for someone other than my family and my God to define a purpose. That purpose was laid out in my job description and by way of performance reviews I also knew how I was doing in accomplishing that purpose. I am finding it much more difficult to give my purpose words when I stay home and take care of husband, child, and home without the people-connection in our neighborhood and church to know where I fit.

I understand that the Westminster Confession states that a person's purpose is to "Know God and enjoy Him forever." It seems so simple and so basic--know and enjoy God. It seems so freeing--no list of shoulds and shouldn'ts just know and enjoy God. And somehow I feel dubious, like it is too easy and too simple. Somewhere I grew accustomed and comfortable and safe with the lists.

I am curious though. I wonder how does knowing and enjoying God fall into changing diapers and doing dishes and cleaning toilets? What do you think? How do you bring the blessedness and glory of God to bear on the mundane chores of the everyday?

My Calm Man

Last night I was sweeping the floor. After weeks of looking for my sweeper bags and never finding them only to go buy some, I finally had the 10 minutes I needed to sweep the floor. I should mention that weeks ago I was angry with my sweeper for not sucking up the dirt I ran it over. I assumed it was a full sweeper bag, so I got rid of the full bag and the saga began.

As I was saying, last night I was sweeping. We have wood floors so the task is usually pretty quick. I noticed that in the foyer the little winter rocks that came in on our shoes were not being picked up as easily as I remember. And in the living room I noticed that the machine didn't sound as loud as I remember. I could hear Abigail stomping and screaming in frustration over the voice of the vacuum. Then in the dining room I had to remove the floor piece and get the crayon papers and random fuzz with the hose. Needless to say I was becoming frustrated. But I would never ever stomp and scream in my frustration. Not me! I am above that.

So I drug the sweeper through the dining room, through the living room where incidentally Abigail was still frustrated and taking it out on her doll, and through the foyer. Finally we arrived in the kitchen with dried bits of shredded cheese under the table. I asked Chris to check on Abigail and by the time he solved her problem and came back to the kitchen I was stomping and screaming at the vacuum cleaner. Threatening to blow it up and talking about how very worthless this very expensive appliance was. I stopped just short of banging the hose and hard floor attachment off the floor.

Chris because of his deep affection for me and not for the salvation of the sweeper proceeded to take it apart to figure out just how this machine wasn't working. Finally he determined that the hose was clogged. Perhaps now is a good time to mention that I have a vacuum theory: if it fits in the hose it should go to the bag. As Chris began filling the hose with water to try to flush the offending mass out, I became more than a little worried racking my brain for what I could possibly have sucked up that could cause this problem. We filled and drained slowly. We filled and nothing happened until the hose burped. Out came water mixed with a largish linguine noodle and a small hairball. We filled and out came some leaves and yarn and fuzz. Nothing that could cause this problem, but enough that with every expulsion I got the look. You know the one that says "What were you thinking?" We filled the hose and it puked this time. One little thing, the culprit, the lid to a hairspray bottle. With that the hose was clean and I had to honestly answer the look. "I think if it is trash and fits in the nozzle it should go into the bag."

Chris just shook his head and gently reminded me to be careful and pay attention to what I am expecting the sweeper to swallow. Maybe he has given up. Whatever the case I must admit that I've got quite a man.

Nothing to Say

I keep feeling these last few days that I have nothing to say. This feeling is exacerbated by the fact that my back hurts in the weirdest way, and that I haven't actually completed a full task this week. I am more than a little discombobulated.

I have a list of things in my head, piles of toys on the floor, dishes in the sink, laundry in the drier, and floors that haven't been swept in an embarrassingly long time. Most days these tasks while annoying don't bother me, but today the incompleteness of it all, and the promise that tomorrow some of those same tasks will return, leaves me empty of spirit--no words, no order, no movement. Still. . . not in the heart at peace way but in the creepy music should begin to play something isn't right sort of way.

Yet as I type somewhere in all this nothingness I am reminded that I am incomplete. That these incomplete tasks are here to draw me to Him. That in my work to complete these things, I am joining with Him in the work of finishing the good work in me.

It doesn't make me any more excited to get to the dishes, but truth spoken into the stillness moves it from eerie and creepy to peaceful and safe. I can stop trying to grope my way out and just be in that kind of stillness.

I've noticed. . .

• when I exercise, I am more likely to shave my legs.
• non-anti-antiperspirant organic deodorant can't stand up to exercise. But I will continue using it because I exercise alone in my basement (just as I like it) and exercising tends to keep me shaving.
• sunny days in the middle of February inspire me even if the temperature promises to keep me inside.
• I love houses with big windows!
• it is way too easy to take a great man for granted.
• it is easier to be patient with and expect less from children who aren't my own.
• a plan is good, but better if I can scrap it.
• I never know how dirty my toilet is till I'm prepared to reject lunch face forward. El yucko!
• neighborhood kids in Uniontown will take things that aren't theirs just like neighborhood kids in Benton Harbor will take things that aren't theirs.
• there is always a post in my favorites that speaks to me. Today it is at Cheaper by the Half Dozen.
• I am unhappy with my feeder as I receive posts a day late. Does anyone else have this problem?
• when the heads-up is given that our rental may come up for sale I find all sorts of reasons we should not stay here. Before the heads-up was given the idea of staying was easier to consider. The house hasn't changed; the situation has.
• little girls with runny noses should have their hair in a pony tail to alleviate horrific screaming when brushing said hair.

Snow Day

Yesterday it got to the balmy high of 21 degrees. Today we woke to snow, though not this much. And this afternoon it can't decide whether to rain or to snow. Perfect day for soup, M&Ms and a good dose of Cars under covers.

Ice Cream Epiphany

So this weekend we were invited to our neighbor's daughters' birthday party. One girl turned 12 the other 2. Abigail and their little one play together and we enjoy the time we have spent with our friends. We were looking forward to the party and Abigail couldn't stop thinking about it since we got her friend a gift. We have on occasion met various members of their extended family and knew they lived in this neighborhood for a long time.

The party was at a bowling alley in the next town. It was a fun drive in a direction we had yet to take. When we got to the party, I quickly realized that I didn't know many people at all and everyone else knew each other. I don't like situations like that when I am reminded that I am an outsider wanting to be an insider. I realize that I am far more like the teenager I thought I had left behind than I like to admit.

Anyway, what did I do? I offer to help. My answer to any situation where I feel uncomfortable. Offer to help. That way I don't have to try to engage others in conversation; I'm too busy being helpful. Until I was scooping ice cream to accompany the cake, I didn't know why I always offer. I am worth attending, worth the invitation when I am helping and, of course, it is a way to hide from others. (I have a new compassion for men asking women on a date--always the risk of being rejected. It takes a toll.)

Sitting here writing I am reminded that though a heart of service is high on God's priority list, it is a heart delighting in serving others, not in using a virtue to escape relationship with others and find our worth apart from Him. For God's call is first to "Come." and find yourself in Him. Then the call is to "Go." and invite others to "Come."

What about you? Did anyone have their own epiphanies this weekend? What have you learned about yourself or the Lord or yourself and the Lord recently?

Veggie Tales

With no TV one would expect that Abigail has little access to the Veggie Tale crew. One would be wrong! We do have a tiny 13-incher that allows us to watch videos and Chris to play a few games. But the key is not the 13 inch TV, rather it is the portable DVD player we bought to make the drives in from Michigan easier.

Most of our "Bob a Mato" movies are on DVD. There is one though "Where's God When I'm Scared?" that is a video. Abigail asks for it daily. Spends most of it nervous. And talks about it for a week. Something like this:

JR sared?
Yes, but he learned God will take care of him.
Cwy Danel bwions (cry Daniel lions.)
Yes, Daniel cried in the lions' den and God took care of him.
Repeat--six times.

Today she asked for "Cwy Danel bwions!" Why, why would she ask?!? What could possibly motivate me to say, "Yes."? I ask you. Would you say, "Yes."?

I think we will be going a different route today, maybe "Death, Destruction, and Mayhem--The Last Days." That won't be scary. That won't create a week's worth of worry amounting to hours of fussing at the prospect of bed. No, really, I'm leaning toward Cars.

For your viewing pleasure.

Dead Branches

At our house (yes, still our house) in Michigan, we had what I am pretty sure is a "Henry Lauder's Walking Stick." It was a bush that specialized in bizarrely gnarled and crooked growth. I loved it and found it fascinating. Early one summer while I was pruning away the suckers, I found a branch that had either died and broken off or had broken off and then went the way of all severed branches. Viewing myself quite fortunate, I promptly knocked off the dirt and spider webs and placed it in a vase on my mantle. There it sat for over a year admired by all, or at least my mother and mother-in-law. My mom while helping us get ready to move took some branches home with her. My mother-in-law inherited the branch formerly on our mantle. And I cut a few of my own. I patiently waited till the leaves became crunchy, removed them, and found homes in our new house for these crooked, dead-branch sculptures.

This morning while I was reading my Bible and watching the sunlight begin to filter through the clouds touching our neighborhood and finally the gray-green of the holly bush, I couldn't help but compare. The holly is strong and flexible. The branch in a vase behind the couch is brittle and fragile. The holly stretches and grows. The branch collects spider webs and loses pieces of itself when dusted. The holly supports and shelters birds and at times is rewarded in pretty messy ways. The branch suspends glass bulbs as fragile and brittle as itself but for all its effort is never rewarded messy or otherwise. The holly is in the open where great joy and great messes happen. The branch is sheltered; it doesn't feel either the joy or the mess.

The comparisons could go on and on, but I heard God speak then. Reminding me again that He is the gardener and I am His plant. I have been uprooted. I have been transplanted. The light patterns and soil are different here. The plants in this garden like to stay in their boundaries. The are more structured and a little less inviting. I am injured in this process; I am timid and I prefer to be the the invitee instead of the inviter. Despite the differences in this new garden, the Gardener is the same and I remain His. Ever mindful of my choice, in the early morning the question is asked. "Will you be transplanted here to grow, stretch, support, and live in the open, or will you let this hurt make you fragile, and brittle, a shadow of what I have for you?"

I don't like questions like that, especially in places of self-pity. I want to call out to the other plants that they are not doing as they should. For they should make me feel welcome. But the light patterns and the soil are different here. I know that my roots need to grow outward into this new soil and my branches grow toward the Son, but I fear the messes, and I whimper back to God, "I want to be the invitee!"

There isn't an answer. I don't actually need one. I know what I must do. And I start listing the things I can invite others to, the things I can bring to this garden. I think sitting behind someone's couch suspending glass bulbs and gathering cobwebs would be easier. Ahhh, but think of the songs you miss without the birds (and the messes).

Potty Talk

The conversation:

Mommy: Do you think you should learn to pee in the potty?
Abigail: (oh so coyly) Noooa.
Mommy: Do you plan to wear diapers forever?
Abigail: (in same tone) Maaaaybe.

Declaring War

Today I make my declaration of war.

Against: Disorganization.

The Purpose:
I want to know where our stuff is! I want to stop wasting time looking for something instead of reading a good book. I want to stop spending money on things I think we have but can't find. I want to walk on the treadmill without sorting the piles around me and planning the organization. (I'm weird; I like the treadmill.) I want to invite other families to our home and have a place for the children to play. Not the living room. I want to protect Abigail from becoming a disorganized person.

The Plan:
A floor a day. Four days. Purge, place and move on. Decorate and label (There will be no excuses!) the storage later. Paper plates and slow cooking. Other chores will have to wait.

Don't worry, I won't torment you with before-and-afters. Well, probably not.

Kitchen Clean-Up

The Organizing Junkie a plan to help us get organized. Take a room a month and organize some aspect of it. This month it is the kitchen. Overall I am happy with the placement of my stuff in this rental house kitchen. (Read: Hopefully we won't be here too long and I am not willing to do anything requiring too much effort to change what I am not happy with.) The one exception is the porch converted to kitchen.

Seriously the oven and pantry is in what was once a porch. Other than the fact that no oven should be separated from the rest of the kitchen by a wall. I haven't found a good system for organizing the cabinets that count as pantry space.

So here are a few pictures today. Notice the boxes sitting in front of the door. By the end of February, I want to have those boxes cleaned out and the stuff in the cabinets organized so that when my mom brings me for home-canned goodies, they don't sit in a box in the way.

If you are wondering how this makes me more like the holly I am aspiring to be, I have it figured out. First that holly is quite structured and in its structure it becomes welcoming. I, on the other hand, have boxes of canned goods and good dishes sitting in my pantry/closed porch/kitchen. When I have random boxes of stuff without a home, I am less than welcoming to those around me. What about you? How are you becoming more like the holly or the birds?