To See Beyond

C. has a chronic auto-immune disease that routinely messes his business up.

He's had spells where we dealt with it weekly, and spells where I had to be reminded that he was "sick". But the past five months have arguably been the worse. And it just so happens that the "worse" has coincided with a change in insurances. And it just so happens that the change in insurances coincided with our move to the Betty Draper rental.

So while I spend too much of my life holding my baby's hand while he gets poked with needles, and while I spend Sunday morning in bed with my favorite six year old answering questions like, "Why did God give me this sickness?", I feel peace rest light upon us.

When a sick day becomes a sicker night and we land before dawn in a room with an adjustable bed and a snap-up gown, I can almost touch the truth.


All those months ago, when we didn't understand and we struggled to find a different course, telling ourselves in the dark, "We could still live here on the farm. Maybe we were wrong. We'll just stay. We can still afford it", God knew all about the hairpin curve two miles up.

This is the way He loves us. He loves us right now and in the future. He loves our health and our bruised-tender IV sites. He loves our heart for His mission. He loves to release us from the dangerous, illusory grip of  smoke-and-mirrors wealth, and sometimes, kind doctors and confusing insurance powerhouses hold that freedom bell while we do the clanging.

I'm so thankful tonight for gifts that I might not have recognized two years back. I'm heart-broken for the sadness that rests so small and alone on the other side of the hanging curtain. I'm exhausted to my core and praying that Calvin and Daddy sleep well in that noisy room.  

God, drip your presence and your truth straight into his veins. Speak to all your boys while they rest tonight.

Important Wisdom from the Week

1. If you pride yourself for being a weirdo, people will start to believe you. You will regret, for a moment, the time that you copped to owning a T-shirt emblazoned with the Periodic Table of the Elements, pretended to buy eyeglasses from 1982, and bragged about being a bonafide rodent magnet. Then you'll reconsider reconsidering and just continue to rock that weirdness because it's really all you've got.

2. When your dear, sweet child screams from across the room, "Hey, Mom! My bottom smells like shrimp!", it might be wise to carve out a more regimented bathing schedule.

3. If you make the mistake of mentioning to your child within thirty days of Valentines Day, "I wish they made feetie pajamas for big people!", and your husband is in ear-shot, there is a high likelihood that he will bequeath to you, with much secrecy and hype and displaced fervor, a pair of adult feetie pajamas. They will be pink and there will be a hood with a draw-string. They will appear to be roughly eight feet long and will resemble the bunny suit seen along Main Street near the "We Buy Gold!" place. The relative width of your husband's eyes as you pull the suit from the box (yes, there will be a box) will tell you that he believes this is the gift of the ages, but you will feel a tiny bit mad on the inside, like the time your great aunt gave you an Operation Desert Storm t-shirt in 1996. You will know that part of the fault lies with you, but you will also know deep within your heart that it could not possibly be good for your marriage or your general moral and well-being to ever don the pink bunny suit. Even if it's true that yes, you do often complain of being cold in the evenings. In the end, you will err on the side of truth and your husband will box them up with much understanding and a tiny twinge of shame and you will love him even more than you did the day before. Also, you will make a pact with yourself to weigh more carefully all future statements regarding fleece zip-ups.

Beautifully Rooted :: Telling the Truth

Super excited to tell you that I'm an official contributor to a brand new site called Beautifully Rooted.

It's the brainchild of Rachel Reeves and Heather Hamilton, so you can bet it's stylish and quirky and all flushed with love.

I find myself gravitating toward people with open hearts, these days. I like real and flawed and grace washed. I like a little messy, some grit along with the gleam, and I find it all there. It's a community for me and for you where we'll be challenged to slow down, take notice, bask in what already is, create as an offering. 



A couple of weeks ago, clawing for sleep that stayed just out of reach, I bared my soul and my heart and all of my weird, neurotic fears and failures to God. It was different from most of the prayers I pray and now there's just no going back.

I wrote about it here.

Is This What Tracy Chapman Meant?

Last Friday Cory and I headed out for an adventure of the Rockford, IL persuasion. We left at 7pm. It's a four hour drive. And we hadn't even had dinner yet.

No worries. I couldn't wait to click that seat belt. A 4-hour drive with no kid-chatter? Sign me the heck up.

He had a fast car. And I had a plan to get us outta here. We wouldn't have to drive too far. Just cross the border and into the city.

Of Rockford.

Oh, and his car isn't really fast. It's a 1995 Pontiac Sunfire with the windshield wipers stuck straight up.

But whatever.

Exactly 1.5 hours into the trip, we hit a snow storm so fierce that the wipers went momentarily horizontal. I don't know if I've told you this before, but I'm increasingly skittish about the Toll Road. Toll Road + snow + gale force winds + truckers blowing past us like we're strolling the shoulder with two walkers and false teeth? I'm done.

We pulled over and went looking for a hotel.

Cory ran in to the first one we found. A Hilton Something-or-other. Mid-grade. Nice-ish. 100 big ones for a night. He ran back out and called a Best Western, which clocked in at fifteen dollars less. He reported that both had a free continental breakfast, and we set out to save fifteen bucks.

But we had trouble finding it and I suddenly became so astonishingly tired that I didn't think I could drive one more mile, so we turned around and went back to Paris Hilton.

We got a luggage cart and loaded up 2 duffel bags, one pair of boots, one camera bag, one purse, two loose apples, a magazines and a box of Quaker Oatmeal Squares cereal - maple flavored.

On the way in, the wind stretched my cheeks back like in the movies. I don't know which movies, but I remember seeing it before.

Inside, Cory pulled out his credit card just as I caught a large, looming sign. "Breakfast served 7 a.m. - 10:00 a.m. $7.95 per person."

Me (whispering): The breakfast isn't free.
Him: Oh, it isn't?
Him (looking at the lady about to swipe his card): Is the breakfast free?
Lady: No, it's $7.95 per person. Full omelette bar, fresh waffles, fresh frui-"
Him: I'm sorry, I think we're going to head on up the road.
Lady: Oh??? (awkward pause) Sorry. (hands back the credit card)

Let me say, there's no graceful exit when all of your crap is on their cart.

We headed back out to the storm and I don't know what I was thinking, but I immediately jumped back into the passenger seat. I leapt, really. I didn't move a solitary item from the cart to the car. It didn't even cross my mind.

Cory noticed, though.

The Best Western was... drab. A tinge depressing. We watched a little Fox News, a little Chelsea, a little House Hunters. We fell asleep spread eagle on our own personal Queen size beds. Don't hate. It's a personal kind of luxury to have all my toes hanging off the edges of the bed.

Somewhere around 4 a.m. we woke to the sound of a crying baby.

Cory: You have GOT to be kidding me.

Next day, I realized I had no hair conditioner. No hair styling product.

I did, however, still have the two loose apples.

Incidentally, the BW doesn't offer complimentary hair conditioner.

I would be greeting my friends with flattened hair. Flatter'n flat.

I threw it in a wet ponytail and we headed out for our highly prioritized free continental breakfast.

Only there was none.

The food was gone. And it was only 8:30.

Cory kindly pointed out the lack of food to the lady with the dark brown lip liner. She glared at him. "I just re-filled it FIVE minutes ago."

And that was the end of that.

But at least the storm had cleared.

If I ever own a steel plant, I'm painting it aqua and I will only allow red and yellow trains to carry my cargo.

A few hours later, I was face-to-face with this beauty. I used to stock plastic shoes with her in the Meijer shoe department, about eighteen thousand years ago.

We looked like this, only we were usually wearing red button-down smocks and Mollie was always with us. (Hey, Mol! Wish you were there.)

Now we're actual ladies and we wear cardigans and hold babies and fry bacon.


And we both married boys named Cory.

Hey, look! It's The Corys! That's what we called them - The Corys. Don't they look happy together? They're real techy and smart. I love The Corys. Some more than others.


Sarah accompanied me to Courtney's book signing for A Sweethaven Summer.

 I was so proud. And she looked so pretty! And my hair was so. dang. flat.

Also, I just decided: I'll not be wearing my scarf like that, moving forward. I'll stick with my traditional multi-loop. It looks too chokey. Like I'm hiding something.

Later that night Sarah and I hit up the town with The Corys for a fireside dinner and beverages. Then we headed to Dixon, IL for Courtney's book release partay.

 But first? A trip to Ronald Reagan's statue. How could we not? We couldn't not, that's how.

The party was quite swanky in a little art gallery. I wanted to buy an oil painting of a cow face, but I didn't have an extra $270 with me.

And the punch.

I've never fancied myself much of a punch girl. Until that night. It was cranberry juice on crack. It had floating apple slices. I drank four cups.

I wish you could at least see it. It's hiding right there behind me and the Fancy Author.

Courtney was a superstar. People came in droves and I felt simultaneously proud of my friend and  jittery-jealous that I couldn't shove all of her admirers out the back door so we could sit at a tiny table and talk for an hour or two. And drink punch.

Ah well, we'll always have Dallas.

 This here? Well. We smiled for a picture (see above) then I said, "Now just get some candids."

Cory: Candids?
Me: Yeah. We don't want a bunch of posed shots. Just get some candids.
Cory: But you're just....sitting on a couch. Talking.

So then we started pretending to be candid. And then we got to laughing and all of our chins came out and Sarah started waving her hand like a laughing grandma and I scrunched up my nose because it was so dang funny. And Cory got the shot.

In hindsight, I may have romanticized the whole "candid" idea. But I sure was happy.

That's the kind of weekend it was.

A Little Extra Love

So, yo. It's V-day.

People, I just love this pretend holiday. I just do. I have no idea. Nothing particularly grand has ever come my way on this day. And yet, the love.

I stayed up until the wee hours last night making wonky Valentines for the kids and stuffing my face with salsa whilst visiting with Coach Taylor and Mrs. Coach.

Mindy Riggins. She slays me. I mean, she plays her role so well that I'm not convinced that she's even an actress. I'm thinking it might be like one of those Joe Schmo things where she thinks she's on a reality show but really she's surrounded by actors who seem to know an awful lot about her life.

Where's her Emmy? That's what I want to know.

I lured the big kids out a little early for a "surprise" breakfast, which was really a random tablecloth on the big table, a single lit votive, heart-shaped peanut butter toast with yogurt and a pack of football cards/bracelet that looks eerily like a hair-tie.

Before long, the morning dissolved (evolved?) into a lot of mess-making and scrap-cutting. Ruby and Silas made assorted "crafts" while I got busy with my project: chocolate truffles.

I boxed them up and we headed out for local delivery.

I wanted to text a picture to all of my non-local friends, but it almost seemed malicious or taunting, so I refrained.

I had two on my lunch break, along with a handful of raspberries. Happy Valentine's Day to moi!

Calvin returned from school and yet another candy explosion ensued.


Man, I miss Lik-A-Stix. Such a classic.

Calvin promptly chomped up the stick then looked at his bowl of psychedelic sugar with a mix of confusion and regret.

Homeboy's always been good at problem-solving. 
 

The rest of the afternoon was playdough (I present Siley's birssday cake!), a few minor casualties, laundry, Legos, spaghetti, baths and more shark trivia than I ever cared to know.

It was a good day and I'm inclined to give at least partial credit to Cupid. I walked around feeling sunny and grateful and more than a little sorry to see it end.

Please tell me you celebrated in some small way. Please tell me you did. Even if you didn't.

Much love to you, Loves,
FPFG

Plan B

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

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