Homemaker

My grandma was a member of a homemaker’s club.

I remember seeing this as a nine-year-old, in a church bulletin or a town publication or other, but I never asked her about it, unlike the time I peered up at her and said, “Grandma, were you gay when you were younger?”

She looked down at me, a bit dumbfounded.

“Well, I’m not really sure what you mean,” she said.

“Laura Ingalls Wilder was always writing about how she was happy and gay,” I said. “You’re from the Olden Days, too. So, were you gay?”

“Ohhh,” she said, now understanding. “Well, I suppose I was.”

My grandma’s house made me long for the days of home-baked bread, of sewing, of making things by hand. “Homemaker:” what did it mean?

Grandma showed us how to make monster cookies. She showed me how to make dish towels out of a flower sack. She walked around with me in her backyard, pointing out which plants in the cracks of the sidewalk were weeds, and which were trees.

She had an old Singer sewing machine, and there was a drawer that was full to the brim with buttons of all colors, shapes and sizes.

We’d bring her our artwork, and she would paste it to the walls - literally - with toothpaste.

In her dining room, there was a candy dish with jelly beans, and ample time to snitch one or two.  

My dad would bring us there on a Saturday, to the little town close to the South Dakota border where he grew up, which to us kids was a magical place. So magical that, on a day he planned to go there alone, we hid for at least an hour in the closet of the camper, hoping to stow away there with him. At Grandma’s house, we never knew who might drop by, what might be cooking, which uncle or aunt we might see.

It’s hard to say now why it was magical. Maybe because the pace was slower. Maybe because of the air of possibility the farm had - things to explore, things to make, things to learn.

My mom’s idea of cooking could be memorialized in one line: “You cook for hours, and then it’s all gone in 5 minutes!”

“Homemaker” is a word she wouldn’t be caught in the same room with.

My mom’s pride, instead, in learning how to operate the tractor, to fix the washer or dryer without needing to call someone - to change the water softener, to keep the yard clean and maintained - is what I remember.

During the summer, my mom wore a visor cap, short shorts, and pulled her hair up in a clip, and sat all day outside on the tractor. She stopped for a beer with our parish priest.

I remember her witty banter with the milkman, the garage door guy, the guy who came and sprayed our lawn. She kept up - she showed she knew as much as they did. She would not be a “helpless housewife, barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen.”

It’s hard to say what I’ve inherited of this homemaker stuff.

I saw my grandma as a cook, a baker, a sewer, the stereotypical forties housewife.

Later, I found out that she was one of the first women in the area to teach at school after her marriage. That the cooking and baking we saw her do was because we were her grandkids and she saw it as a way to spend time with us. She was a “careerwoman” in her day.

But she did all that with five kids. And was part of a homemaker’s group.

Now about a month married, I find myself thinking about the meaning of homemaker: is it a term that I am drawn to or something I shrink from?

In the past weeks, John and I have started to build our new home. We walk into it, each with expectations in the dusty corners of our subconscious minds, each with memories, overlapping shadows of the men and women in our pasts, and how we see our own vocation through the filmy lens of our parents, grandparents. We are figuring out what it is to be a husband and wife, what it is to be homemakers. We have no clue.

I see myself eager to do piles of laundry, to keep dishes in the dry rack and not on the other side, to prep the dinner we will have so that it’s ready right on time, to make sure the bed gets made every day. I crave order in all things - to pray together at night, to always fold and put away the clothes right away.

There is some compulsion in me that says “homemaker” means “perfect house.” Where did that come from? Who am I trying to please?

Yesterday I looked up from the sink and thought - while I feel satisfied by the idea of a perfect house, it doesn’t bring joy. Having all the dishes in their place, having the dinner right on time, it’s like earning a sticker for the day. But not joy. Why not?

I think it’s because “perfect house” is too much about me getting it right. It tips the scales in favor of performance, winning. It’s too much about me being the god of my little world.

Anytime I’ve experienced joy, it’s been because of a sense that God knows me so much better than I know myself. It’s been because of a realization that I’m not in control, and that’s just as it should be. It’s been a sense that I am deeply loved, not for the perfection, but for the entire sloppy conglomeration that is me. It’s a sense that my messy world, just as it is, is loved. This myth of the “perfect home” as a way to be a homemaker isn’t ringing true.

I think this time seems a particularly confusing time to be a homemaker.

But is that true? My grandma got married at age 30, around 1936. She married a farmer but prefered to teach. The war happened. Women had careers for a while, and then the men came home and wanted their jobs back, and then it was all about women being the ideal homemaker, which meant cooking, cleaning, and dressing awesomely, all with a smile on their faces.

My mom got married in 1979, a nurse who met my dad in the ICU, working alongside him. She had watched her mom wait for hours keeping supper hot for my dairy farmer grandpa, and vowed that such subservience would not be her life. She came of age during second wave feminism.

She raised 8 kids doing the dance of after school activities, keeping Hamburger Helper and Dinty Moore Stew in the pantry, being nurse/chauffeur/mechanic/teacher/secretary and much more, all in one. She was a stay-at-home mom while railing against the traditional housewife role all along.

And now there’s John and I, married in 2017. This is a time where our culture has rapidly abandoned traditional home roles. Women right now, I think, feel pressure to be perfect in their careers and at home. Meanwhile, I see more fathers sitting in on piano lessons than I ever have. We’re all tiredly fighting the encroachment of electronic devices. We’re feeling drawn to the basics, to tiny homes, to shedding all of our stuff. What does it now mean to make a home?

“Homemaker,” while having different cultural expectations at different times, has probably never been a crystal clear concept for anyone who attempted to be one personally.

But when I think about what I’d want a home to be, here’s what it is:

I’d like home to be a warm place, an inviting place. A good place to go back to. A place to rest. A joyful place.

What makes home an inviting place?

Food. I hate to say it. It’s the last thing my mom would say is important. But I think it is. Having something that smells and tastes good, something that unites you as a family, something central like family dinner, that helps create a home. Because it grants space to other important things - conversation. Sharing your day. Sharing time together.

A sense of being cared for - and this is probably where chores come in. Chores, when properly ordered, are a means to an end - the end being to show love, and to receive love. It’s a little more pleasant getting into a made bed than an unmade one. To know you have clean clothes, and knowing the rooms aren’t total disasters, brings restfulness and peacefulness. It’s important to recognize the proper "why" behind chores.

Friends. One thing John and I have both noticed is how nice it is to be able to invite friends into our new home. Outside friendships make home a good place to be. They enrich it with the gifts, experiences, and stories they bring. It’s fun to be in a place with a history of good memories.

Being a little world in itself. A family is the most basic unit of society. We should work to ensure that we have a small society that, when brought into larger society, helps make it better. That involves working hard to do the things we want to see more of in society as a whole. We need to make sure we are kind to each other. That we listen to each other. That we are honest with each other. That we help one another.

Reality. This last thing is on my mind after a week or so of attempting to create “the perfect house.” Reality is, I’m not perfect. Every single time I follow this compulsion to its natural conclusion, it leads to me feeling more distance and alienation from John and others. I think a good home life involves doing your best to be your best, but relaxing and accepting who you really are as well.

So… homemaker. Let’s see how this unfolds.

Deep Thoughts About Marriage (with 27 days to go)

It's October 1st. John and I are getting married in only 27 days!

More importantly, my sister Meghan would interject, it's her birthday tomorrow - October 2nd. October 2nd is also my sister Caitlin's wedding anniversary. When you're from a big family you share a lot of things, including calendar dates.

So, it's a big month, in other words.

I've always enjoyed asking my engaged friends how they're feeling, each step of the way, and how they knew that this person was the person they would marry, and what were the guideposts they followed? I've treasured these thoughts, questions, doubts, and revelations in each friend. It's amazing how different each story is, and how tailor-made it seems for each person.

But I've especially treasured the stories of friends who were able to strip their stories down to bare honesty - who told me that they didn't "just know," and that the decision to marry came with a lot of deliberation, messiness, and uncertainty - who told me about post-engagement jitters, the variety of ups and downs experienced while everyone around them said, "you must be so excited!"

Back in high school youth group, we took a temperament test where you'd find out that you were one of four appetizing-sounding "temperaments" - the slow and steady phlegmatic, the active and worker bee choleric, the social butterfly sanguine, or the thoughtful, worried, analytical melancholic. If you know me, you probably know that I am the last of the four :)

This being said, the journey of dating and discernment was particularly bewildering. How does someone who second guesses everything, "just know?" While the cholerics are bulldozing through life, and the sanguines knowing optimistically that it will all work out, and the phlegmatics among us are steadily walking through their commitments, we melancholics find everything, whether it is or is not, a challenge, a quest, a puzzle. And don't even mention the component perfectionism brings to it.

So, on the cusp of marriage, John (sanguine choleric, although he doesn't like to be labeled) is ready to jump in with both feet, and I am excitedly trouble-shooting in advance. As we worked with the mentor couple that our church assigned us, I asked for more charts and more homework, loving the process of pencil to paper, and John said, "We'll probably really be ready to do this homework once we're actually married."

It's kind of hard to explain how trouble-shooting and worrying can be exciting if you're not a person who likes puzzles. Every time someone says, "You must be so excited!" I tell them how I am thinking about all the potential problems that could arise and mentally working through them, and they look at me like, "Aren't you excited though...?" But it is exciting. Just like how crossword and jigsaw puzzles are exciting.

It's working through life. It's embarking on a great quest. It's that feeling you get when you're packing for a trip, and you want your backpack to have all the stuff you need so that you will arrive equipped and ready.

There are some honest things I'd like to say, firstly, so that I remember them when life looks different. Secondly, because I know there is probably somebody out there like me, somewhere, who is bewildered about discerning, or unsure of what it's "supposed to look like" when you have discerned your vocation in life. So, here's what I have.

 I never "just knew." And I also never "stopped looking."And it's not a matter of having "figured something out" that single people haven't figured out yet. These two phrases came up hundreds of times when having that conversation about "how will you know?" Everyone says them, so they must be true. You'll "just know," but you can't know before you know. And it can't possibly happen if you're looking for it, so the only way that the love of your life will know to come in is if you have reached a perfect state of not wanting or not looking, or not caring. Baloney. (At least for me).

Being analytical, there was never a moment that I looked in John's eyes and was like, "Wow, I just know he's the one for me." And I'll tell you the honest truth. I looked in about five or six other people's eyes and thought I just knew, and they are all married to other people now or happily single. So was I right then? If I were to try to spell out what makes making the choice to marry John possible, I could pin-point a few things that feel different from before, and if you're curious I would be happy to tell you.

What surprised me about becoming engaged, was how "choicy" it felt. As much as we know life isn't a Disney movie, we do tend to walk around thinking fatalistically about "the one." There is a "supposed to"-ness about it, in the way we discuss it, in the way we market it. Because God will have shown us that this is the one, we will be predestined to say yes, and set the world spinning in a certain direction.

What's different from what I expected, is how earthy it really is. I said yes when John asked me this question, and a day after, it felt very unreal, and a week after, it started feeling more real.

And now it feels like a road that is slowly building itself in a new direction, and there has been ongoing peace and joy. It's important, though, to remember that it is a choice. Everything starts out exciting: new babies. Working with a personal trainer. Piano lessons. There is a thrill that comes with newness, and a particular excitement that comes when you haven't gotten your hands dirty yet. And this is an important excitement. But (and this is why I'm thankful for taking piano lessons) - you reach days and years where it feels like a chore, when you're immersed in the hard work, and not singing the praises of the thing you have undertaken. Sometimes the only thing that keeps you going is knowing that your parents paid for lessons. Or that you promised Betsy that you would show up at the gym at 6:30am. Or that you made the choice. It takes a while - maybe a recital, maybe a moment of real joy or connection - that helps you remember again, why you decided to do it in the first place. It's helpful to know that making a choice is easier when you know it will follow this arc.

The longer our engagement has gone on, I come to the conclusion that you can't really be prepared for marriage. 

Not that it's not good to try. We took the Prepare test, that helps you see where your expectations and beliefs about marriage line up and where they don't. That helped. It really has helped to ask people what they have learned by being married. There are so many great books out there, and believe me, I tried to find them all. John and I have found some good podcasts to listen to and talk through.

But in another sense, I keep coming up against the fact that marriage is uncharted territory. You have to be in it to know it. We don't live together, and so we will have many new things to learn - comical, painful, awkward, and humbling, I'm sure. It's starting to dawn on me that it's okay that it's uncharted territory.

I have been surprised at how easily planning the wedding can eclipse the marriage. 

It was something I said I'd never do... be a wedding planner to the detriment of marriage planning. But here it is. Not that you go in thinking the wedding is more important. I doubt most couples do. What I've noticed is that sometimes, when looking at "Oh, wow, life as I know it is about to change drastically. What is about to happen?" I will turn to easier, more finite questions like, "What kind of wedding favors?" "How can I collect and store all of these addresses?" Concrete things tend to win over large, abstract things.

It's also surprising how good of a marriage preparation you can have through planning a wedding together. 

I have learned so much about John through planning details. How important it is for him to be generous with friends. How much he loves burgundy paisley. I went in thinking that marriage prep was all Prepare tests and practicing communication skills. But as we plan a big day that is, in reality, just the first of many days, I've learned that it's great ground for discussions about money, learning how to disagree and find a compromise, and learning how to talk things through. We'll need these skills in other areas of life, too, so it's wise to use this time now as an opportunity.

The biggest thing that emerges now, as we are about to be married, is a deep gratitude for the friendships and experiences that led us here. 

It was an instant hit and then it became a cliche, but I still love the song "Bless the Broken Road," because it's true.

Not just when you're getting married, but every time your life hits a milestone moment, you become aware of the stepping stones that led up to it: many painful days, joyful days, friendships that have held on through many years, friendships that were for a valuable season. Every life experience has had a value and a reason, and a way of helping shape and grow us to the next part of the journey. As John and I prepare to join our lives, it has been such a great blessing to get to know his friends and the times in his life that he went through - seasons in his life that have shaped his character and what is important to him. I am thinking, too, of the many times with friends over my single years - things people said that gave me strength, courage or wisdom when really needed, or times people shared with me when their presence was so necessary, or even the stories people have lived, that have offered me insight about life. For all of those people, and times, I am so deeply grateful.

A Week in My Stay-At-Home-Mom-Sister's Shoes

In high school, my older sister and I both had fairly well-developed plans for our lives. She hoped to be a career woman, live abroad, and maybe (maybe) get married later in life after travel and success. Two kids, maximum. I, on the other hand, wanted to get married out of college, have kids and be a stay-at-home mom.

Ironically, she ended up being the one getting married at the age of 23, settling down in Idaho, where I ended up being a "career woman" piano teacher. We used to sit and muse over each others' greener pastures - her longing for my hours of free time and opportunities to visit other countries, and me fighting back tears because I didn't know if I'd ever have children.

Thirteen years, four children and two homes later, my sister finally set a date on the calendar for her long-awaited trip to England and France. We originally planned to go together, but I had already been to the same places a few times, and actually felt a little more inclined to offer my nanny services to her kids.

So, a week ago, we swapped lives for about ten days.

In 76 days I will say goodbye to my status as a single woman and marry my fantastic, humorous, and bear-hugging fiancé, John. After a summer of running around, preparing to move, get passports, start a new school year, change a name and address, think about each and every issue that may come to pass in marriage (impossible, I know, but it doesn't hurt to try!) and try to remember the big and small day-to-day wedding, work, interpersonal and otherwise to-dos - I figured it might be a welcome stress relief to take care of my nieces and nephews, aged 10, 7, 4 and 2.5. I have always thought that it's more fun to clean up other peoples' messes, especially easy messes like laundry, dishes, etc.

My sister met me at the airport with three of the four kids. She had a few hours to brief me on a week's worth of meal plans, schedules, house rules, activities to do, nap times, etc, before embarking on her adventure. I started to feel slightly overwhelmed as her explanations of sibling dynamics began to resemble that old logic problem of how you cross a river with a goose, a wolf and something else that can't be with either one if you're not present, or something will get eaten. "It's all here in the manual," she explained, handing me a thick packet of plans.

No sooner had we arrived at the house when chaos erupted among Oldest Boy and Oldest Girl over Legos, and who was stealing whose. Baby Girl clutched my leg as I attempted to survey and redirect Oldest Boy's anger and stop Oldest Girl's tears. And this was about when my sister quietly left the house. I went to make a pot of coffee.

When my brother-in-law came home in the evening, he tactfully directed me to where the wine was, and when I cavalierly explained how excited I was to be here for my vacation, he laughed. "You will be very, very tired," he said.

I didn't totally believe him at that point. By the end of the week, when he had the day off and Grandma and Grandpa were also at the house, I decided to take a quick nap, and woke up three hours later.

Trying to tell the story of all ten days would be impossible, but I will say that some gems of wisdom and insights about the (pseudo) life of a stay-at-home mom came to me over that time. Here are a few, in no particular order:

1. Make sure to lock your bedroom door if you want to change clothes without getting walked in on. The general principle is, as soon as you leave to do something that you should rightfully do alone, you will immediately attract the company of all four kids. Even if a second ago you were yelling throughout the house trying to find them.

2. Wisdom from Youngest Boy about Oregon Trail game: "You can get measles in Oregon Trail. Diarrhea teleports you out of the game."

3. You spend your day like this: Wake up. Get one contact in your eye before Youngest Boy enters your room asking for breakfast. You try to put other contact in, only to realize that it got some kind of stinging oil on it from being in the same ziplock bag as perfume. Take contact with you and leave it on counter as you pour cereal. Attempt to rinse contact, leave on counter again as Youngest Boy asks for a spoon. Go back to contact, rinse again, until dog starts whining because hungry.

You realize you forgot to give dog his medication last night, and he has a heart condition. Feed dog hurriedly, wash hands. Go back to contact, only to find that it has disappeared. Search for contact on floor, suddenly realizing that the floor is really dirty and if not cleaned NOW, children will walk on it and then all over the rest of the house. Clean floor, and then see that Youngest Girl has an extremely dirty diaper. Clean diaper, realize that she also needs to eat breakfast. Go back to contact search. Look at the clock. Time for lunch.

4. A trip to the library seems really innocuous. Then you attempt to go, and it takes about thirty minutes to make sure everyone has gone to the bathroom, has two shoes, on the correct feet, is strapped in their seats, you have all the library books, and you also have a library card. Once there, you try to help Oldest Girl to find some of your favorite chapter books while she was your age, while Youngest Boy attempts a rickety library stool on wheels, and Youngest Girl pulls books off shelves and then screams the scream you hope she'll scream if she is ever approached by a kidnapper, but which you hope she'll never scream when you're in public with her.

5. You get to be part of many teachable moments - helping Oldest Boy pay a cashier with cash for the first time, for something he is buying with his own money. Helping Oldest Girl learn how not to be as deeply hurt by her two brothers who really, really, want to tease her. Helping Youngest Girl take some risks by learning how to swim.

6. You realize that within a thirty-minute period, you might get called "Mean Auntie," "Cool Auntie," "I love you," "When is Mommy coming home?" "Uncle Rachel" "Mom" and "Auntie Meghan."

7. You attempt to see your upcoming wedding through the eyes of your nieces and nephews by asking them some questions about what marriage means:

Q: What's a good gift for people getting married? A: Babies.

Q: What happens at a wedding? A: They have to kiss on the lips and give each other rings. You have to be older and the same size. He has to be 21 to marry you.

Q: Why do people want to get married? A: To have someone help them have kids.

8. You sit down to read a book one morning. It takes two hours to read three pages. You keep the book out just in case. A few days later, you accept that it's just not going to happen.

9. You discover that a dinner with couscous as a side will be met with great joy by kids. You'll be cleaning up the floor and the furniture for the next three days.

10. You discover 15 different hiding places for TV remotes.

11. Your brother-in-law gives you two hours off on a Sunday for some time by yourself. Where in your home habitat you would normally use this time to read or journal, you decide to call a friend because it's the first quiet time you've had in three days where you'll actually hear what she's saying.

12. You get lots and lots of cuddle and snuggle time with little kids. You realize that this is one of the best pay-offs of SAHM-ing.

13. You discover that Oldest Boy, who is prone to challenging your authority, wits, patience, etc. on a daily basis, just wants a hug from you when he can't sleep, and even though he is ten, he still likes hugs, too.

14. You realize that the most cooperative behavior from the kids is sometimes facilitated by inanimate objects, such as a to-do list "Before we go to I-jump" which is written on the whiteboard, or a wrist watch that does a little musical jingle every thirty minutes that reminds you to go to the bathroom.

15. The house may be very, very full of toys, but deep unhappiness and a spirit of famine can descend when one's brother has "my purple matchbox car!"

16. You get jingles from Disney sitcoms in your head, and they circle around in there for days.

17. You learn to prep what you hope to be a quick trip to the store with repeatedly saying, "This is going to be a fast trip. We're not buying or looking at anything. We will only look for one thing. We will be in and out as fast as possible."

18. Those "hacks" about how to organize your closets and drawers efficiently feel like a carrot dangled in front of a horse, you being the horse. You start to daydream about a day that you'll have time to organize said drawer so that its true glory may be revealed.

19. You begin to reminisce longingly about the days that you could binge-watch Netflix, and browse the non-kids shows thereon.

20. A quiet morning out on the lake, fishing, is the best thing ever! But then again, so is coming back to the house and having kids excited that you're there.

At the end of these ten days, I can say that I have a high admiration and appreciation for all my friends and sister for their stay-at-home lives. It's a joy-filled, beautiful and admirable calling, and it is tiring and challenges every piece of you, which is a beautiful thing on both a practical and philosophical level. I must say that it was nice to return to quiet coffee shop time, Netflix binges and time to read again ;)

Uncle Gum and the Fishing Trip: A Growing Up Story

Every time Uncle Lynn comes to our house he gives us a piece of gum. Meghan and I call him Uncle Gum.

Uncle Lynn wears a necklace like a girl! It’s made of gold and he calls it “Just a Chain.” One time at Uncle Lynn’s pool, Meghan fell in and we thought she was going to drown. Uncle Lynn jumped in with all of this clothes on, even his shoes!

Uncle Lynn smells spicy like Big Red, and once when I drank Dr. Pepper, I thought it tasted like  Uncle Lynn.

 I told Becca and she said, “Food can’t taste like people because then you’d be a cannibal. You have to say, ‘It tastes like Uncle Lynn smells.” So, that’s what I tell my class at preschool.

Mrs. Linneruth at preschool is going to retire. I ask Mom if that means she is going to die now, and she says no.

On the fishing trip, Uncle Lynn says that Aunt Nancy was married to a different man before him, but that man died. I asked him if that man was a bad man because he died. Uncle Lynn got kind of mad at me and then he laughed.

Sometimes on the fishing trip, Uncle Lynn can feel my tummy and tell me exactly what I ate. He is always right - how does he know?? Somehow he knew that I ate a bunch of candies called rainbow drops and lots of red licorice and two Snickers.

Uncle Lynn and Dad both have boats, but Uncle Lynn’s is cooler. It has a little glass door that you can open and close, and it has a built-in well that the fish get to swim in once they’ve been caught. Dad’s boat smells like mothballs and it’s ugly and brown. Every day I tell myself I’m going to stay with my dad in his boat so he won’t be alone and feel bad, but then Uncle Lynn’s boat calls to me and I have to go. Meghan and I both can’t help ourselves. Becca always stays with Dad.

My cousin Geoffrey is so cool, but he only likes Becca. He made up this story about Pablo Zimbabwe, and he tells us stories about him every night. He always says, “Yeh” and Becca says it’s because he’s from Washington DC.

Uncle Lynn always tells Geoffrey he has Cherokee blood,and I think that’s no fair. Why does he get to be a Cherokee? My dad has Cherokee on his jeep too. What does that mean?










We went swimming, but it was gross with leeches. I tried to not get the leeches on me, but they just couldn’t help it. We try to pull them off.

Uncle Lynn and Dad like to burn them. They bring these green things in the cabin that burn in a spiral, and that’s where they put the leeches.







Dad says we are  going to have fish stew. I look at the pot while it is cooking and I see a fish eye in there!

When Dad says I have to eat that I run away and think I might run away forever. Or, I’ll probably at least wait until everyone is sleeping.

When I see Dad and Uncle Lynn cutting up the fish, I see how beautiful and how rainbowy the fish scales are.

They would make a beautiful coat. I know how to sew now, and I think I could make a coat, or even a really nice skirt out of fish scales. Everyone will wonder how I did it. And I will make it be secret. I find a plastic bag, and then I go and collect the fish scales that all the people are leaving behind. There are a lot of flies. I put the bag in the camper for later.

Geoffrey teases me a lot and asks me why am I how I am? I tell him I was born that way. And he and Becca just laugh and laugh, and they keep repeating, "Because I was born that way!" and hooting and laughing in the mean way of laughing.

And then Becca says that they picked me up when they were on vacation once, and that’s how I’m in the family. And then, when I got in the camper, Dad said, “We picked up a weirdo.” Becca’s so mean. She makes Geoffrey laugh at me all the time and I hate it.

On the fishing trip, I was looking at a book, and then all of a sudden, everything makes sense and I can read it. It is Hop on Pop. I read Hop on Pop to everyone.

I am so proud.

When we were getting ready to go on the fishing trip, Becca made a book and on every page, she drew what she was going to wear for each day, and how she would do her hair. She probably should have planned harder because when we’re with Dad, our hair always looks like a rat’s nest. He lets it be really messy.

I notice that when Mom washes our hair she always pours the shampoo on her hand first and rubs her hands together and then puts it on our heads. When Dad does it, he just puts the shampoo right on our head. Why do they do it different?

Dad does things a little more sloppy than Mom. But he usually doesn’t get mad, so we like being with him.

Geoffrey says that when I was a baby he said I was so cute all the time, and so what happened??

There’s an old man at the store. He sells candy. There are lots of candies for one cent, and lots for five cents and some that are twenty five. Dad has a fishing trip jar and it’s full of Canadian coins. We look through it and then we fill our pockets with Canadian pennies and dimes. I take a dollar full of Canadian pennies and I count it out, one by one, for the old man, but it was  worth it because I got a candy bar.

When we’re leaving the fishing trip, we get in the camper and dad says something smells really bad. What is it? Becca follows the smell, and she finds my plastic bag full of fish scales.

Dad says, “Throw it out, Babes. How did that get in here?”

I tell Dad about my secret plan to make a beautiful coat out of fish scales, and he just laughs and laughs. Becca throws the fish scales away. I got so close to my dreams coming true. I guess I’ll have to be more sneaky next time.

Live Your Life Like a Candle in the Wind

Update: I am getting married! In a little more than six months. I would love to say, "I am marrying my best friend," but John insists that the relationship between future spouses can never be "just" a friendship because the relationship is ontologically different. We have had this debate many times with not a change of mind between us :)

But this is an aside.

Last night, after the Holy Thursday Mass, we had a Eucharistic procession around the church.

If you aren't Catholic - Holy Thursday Mass ends with Jesus being taken to prison after being betrayed by Judas. As Catholics, we believe that the Eucharist is truly the Body and Blood of Christ, and the Eucharist resides in the tabernacle of every church. When we go into a church, the red light signals that Jesus is "home." What's so distinctive about Holy Thursday, is that the priests bring the Eucharist to a new tabernacle, so that for the next days until Easter Vigil, Jesus is not away. On Holy Thursday, we get a chance to be with Jesus at his darkest hour - the night before his Crucifixion.

As we got ready to leave the church with the Eucharist, ushers handed us candles. Starting with the priest, and then the altar servers, each person passed the light from their candles on, until the whole church was lit with many little glowing lights.

And then we walked outside to join the procession.

I walked with John. The wind was not overpowering, but soon my little candle blew out. I leaned over and lit my candle from John's. A little while later, his candle went out, and I re-lit it.

As we walked around the corner in the dark, chilly night, we saw these little flames burning. Some people held their hands close to their candles, guarding the wind from blowing out the wick. Some people were much more careful than me. My candle blew out again.

I looked around, and it  was getting darker and darker as the candles of our little procession burned out.

This short procession brought home many thoughts to me. I thought about the flame itself - like the fire of my faith. Lit when I was younger, officially at baptism, but in my heart, around age sixteen. It's been through many beatings and been rolled around a lot since then. Walking outside with a candle into the dark and the wind, is kind of like walking in the world with faith. There is a lot that will test that flame.

Walking with others, holding candles - this brought to mind the many friends that have shared that faith with me through the years. Going to church together, sharing the deeper questions, or doubts, or concerns - encouraging and counseling each other on what to do. There have been times that I was stumbling or wavering, or when the "flame" of my candle was in danger of being blown extinguished, when a well-timed conversation or a friend stepped in to help ignite that candle again.

I thought of walking this journey with John, too, and how helpful it is to have a "friend" (sorry, John) to walk with, who can help me when I fall - who I can help when he falls. It was a great moment of insight about the meaning of marriage.

But then, too, was a time when both of our flames had gone out. And then, it was the flames of the other people in our procession that kept us going. Just like in marriage - we will be a small community, a "domestic church," but sometimes even we will not be enough - we need the larger community for help, encouragement, and light.

And then, there was a time when we were walking, and many flames had gone out. Some people, I noticed, were guarding their candles as if life depended on it. They weren't able to see the people who needed light - they just wanted to keep their own lit. I realized that sometimes I can be like this - so fearful that I won't have what I need, that I am slow to share what I have. To walk in the cold, dark world takes both that diligence in keeping your flame lit, and also the surrendering of that light to those who need it.

After a while, I noticed one flame - burning brightly alone. And then, I noticed that many people were drawn to this light, and went over to see if they could light their candles again.

These lonely lights are like the saints, in my mind - people who live the faith in an extraordinary way. These people have a way of drawing us back to our faith again. They give us hope. For me, some of those lights have been Dorothy Day, Mother Theresa, St. Teresa of Avila, or even St. Margaret Clitherow, or St. Thomas More. There is something so rich and beautiful about these lives, that I am drawn back to Christ through them.

As we walked, more and more people went back to reignite their flames, and then we came in view of the church again.

It was an apt reminder of what it means to be a Christian, and what it means to be one Body.