ORDINARY

3: the regular or customary condition or course of things

Yesterday was a perfectly ordinary day.   It started with a brief morning walk and included mundane tasks like laundry, grocery shopping and changing the sheets on beds.  But it also offered an unhurried span of time to teach and learn, to listen to classical music over lunch, to go for a walk and collect colorful autumn leaves.  The day left me grateful and reminded me why I like homeschooling.  It's been easy to forget the blessings of homeschooling while moving - there has been so much to do that teaching has felt like one more burden to bear.  It didn't feel that way yesterday: it felt like a gift.

In the church calendar we are in the thick of Ordinary Time - that space between Pentecost and Advent when we live out the lessons learned from Christ's birth, the light we see during Epiphany, the things we lose and gain during Lent and Easter.  For me, this is the most challenging time in the church calendar.  There's none of the waiting with bated breath for the birth of the Christ child, none of the daily reminders of Lent to remember my faith by doing or not doing something.  Apparently, I can live my faith life quite well in 40 day increments.  It's when I'm expected to carry on for several months uninterrupted that I long for something to pull me out of the ordinary and shake me up a bit.

Yet I believe our faith is best lived ordinarily.  What we do during our ordinary moments speaks volumes about who we are and what our hearts are tuned to.  When I look back on my life, I want the ebb and flow of my everyday actions to be what people remember - not a few peaks and valleys where I was at my best or worst.  I want my ordinary life to be a worthy offering, not an afterthought.

As we walked together yesterday afternoon gathering leaves, I told B and K what A shared with me two years ago when she took botany: when a leaf changes colors in the fall, it's not becoming that color for the first time.  The color we see is actually the color the leaf has been all along, it's just been masked by chlorophyll.  I told them I think our lives are like that, too.  That when we are dying (as the autumn leaves are), we get to see what we're really made of - what vibrant colors lie just beneath the surface.

The truth of it is that we are all, minute by minute, dying.  And these ordinary days do reveal something about the colors that compose us.  The way I buy bagels because they are A's favorite thing for breakfast? A color of who I am as a mom.  The blessings I've written for their bedrooms?  They show you my heart for my daughters and our home.  The sharp tone of voice I use with my children when I am mentally or physically exhausted?  Also telling you who I am, showing one of the veins running through this particular leaf.

I'd like to imagine that, unlike leaves, we don't have to wait until the very end to see the vibrancy of our beings.  If I'm willing to let go of who I think I am and embrace what I see revealed of myself through my heart and actions, I'll get glimpses of gold, bronze, magenta, russet.

I want to embrace the sacredness of the ordinary.  I think that means seeing all of the things I do - whether sweeping a floor, wiping down a counter or teaching how to write an equation - as both an offering from me to God and an opportunity for me to see myself more clearly.  I want to not resist the ordinary for its supposed dullness, but embrace it for the way it offers me opportunity to work out exactly who I am and what I am meant to be doing.

I want my one ordinary life to be extraordinary not because of what I do, but because of the way I inhabit it, the way I see it and claim it for what it is.

SEIZE

2 a : to take possession of

Fall is slipping through my fingers and today I decided to seize the day instead of just letting it wash over me.  Our fall break was a world tour (according to my 10 year old) that took us from Nashville to Milwaukee to Nashville to Memphis to southern Alabama and back to Nashville.  I had my oil changed the day before our trip started and in ten days' time we had driven nearly 3,000 miles.  This travel brought many fun, enlightening and loving moments, but it left us (especially me) tired.  We returned home two weeks ago today and I feel like I'm still recovering.

My approach to recovery last week was to try to take it slow.  I crafted a lighter week of school work for A and B, both to help them readjust and to give me a bit more time to catch up on laundry, grocery shopping and cleaning.

That worked fairly well, but I simply was not able to do all that I wanted during October.  I wrote very little.  We missed Cheekwood's scarecrows altogether (which nearly broke my heart).  And we didn't take a single long, aimless fall walk to collect leaves, acorns and memories.

Today was a grey day.  It rained all day yesterday and the sun waited until noon to make a significant appearance.  I did not let that stop us.  We did one math lesson this morning and headed out for a walk at a state park about 30 minutes from our home.  It was just what we needed.

A friend and her daughters joined us.  While we chatted about compromise in marriage, how to rest in the midst of a full life and supper clubs, our daughters scampered over trees, waded into mud, dashed, dawdled and strolled.

I can't go back and change our October into a month that went according to my plan.  And I can't guarantee that November will bring less surprises.  What I can do is seize the days I'm given, make the effort to be fully present within those days and hold each moment loosely in my hands, grateful for what stays and only briefly grieving what slips away.

More than ever before, I am longing for Advent's arrival here in our home, in our lives.  Last year was the first time I grasped that we don't just wait for Christmas during Advent.  We wait for Christ.  We await his return.  By that definition of Advent, I'm already assuming the posture of that season.  I'm trying to find time to listen, time to sit quietly, time to still my soul.  I'm inconsistent in these pursuits, but they help me settle myself into my life and seize the opportunities I'm given.

Pictures from today's walk, courtesy of 10 year old photographer B:

DISTANCE

5 b : capacity to observe dispassionately

We are currently in Wisconsin visiting family.  Our drive here is a long one.  Google maps will tell you it takes 10 hours.  The reality is that it's nearly impossible to make it in 10 hours.  I think in my 20 years of marriage and courtship, J and I have made the drive in under 10 hours only once - and that drive concluded in the wee hours of the morning, taking us through Chicago around 2 AM.  That's just about the only way to get through Chicago quickly - do it when everyone else is asleep.

My children are champion travelers and for this trip I spent some serious prep time doing my best to ensure a stress free drive time.  Each girl got a box packed with markers, pens, colored pencils, a new journal, stickers and a pencil sharpener.  They also got a bag with more sugar than they are normally allowed in a week's time.  Additional travel tools? Library books, Playaways, a few math worksheets, two Pillow Pets and one Snuggie.

One advantage of such a long trip is that there's time to think.  Plenty of it, in fact.  On the drive north on Thursday, I was looking at some of Southern Illinois' fall foliage.  (I know it was Southern Illinois because there aren't (m)any trees in Central or Northern Illinois.)  I saw a gorgeous line of trees from a distance and kept my eye trained on one tree as we got closer.  I noticed something.  The beauty of fall trees is a cumulative thing.  One fall leaf, even one fall tree, is not all that beautiful.  You might find the occasional exception, but fall's beauty is really seen best from a distance.  As I noticed this, I got a flash of a truth much bigger.  I think God sees our lives the way I see the fall trees.

The bible talks about God's ways not being our ways and his thoughts not our thoughts.  I've often fallen back on that when I go through a difficult time or when I see others walk through difficulty, but I've never grasped the concept in such a graphic way.  Those ugly leaves on the tree of my life?  They aren't ugly when seen alongside hundreds of other leaves and the trees representing the lives of others around me.  Or maybe they are still ugly - nothing will change that - but their individual disfigurement ends up being less important when seen alongside everything else.

This was a comfort.  Everywhere I turn lately, I seen pain.  I have friends, family members and acquaintances who are variously watching family members die, walking with those they love through illness, struggling through the loss of a job, recovering from surgery and receiving cancer diagnoses.  Not one of these circumstances is OK with me.  Each and every one hurts my heart.  I long for a day when mothers do not outlive their children, a day when there is no pain that needs management, a day when we all know - not just rationally, but with our whole being - that we are loved not for what we do but for who we are.  I long for a day when we are not faced with saying good-bye to those we love.

I'll be honest: I want to be able to see the beauty now.  I want a distance that I will never have in this lifetime.  I don't know why people I know and love are walking through the valley of the shadow of death.  I don't know why and I don't know how to comfort or console them.  I have no words of wisdom to offer, no scripture references that explain it all away.  Because the truth is that there is pain and there is hurt and there is ugliness in this world of ours.  I don't know why.  I'll probably never know why.  And a glimpse of an idea that momentary troubles (that don't feel momentary at all) are leaves that manage to make something beautiful isn't much to cling to right now.  But it's all that I have, so I'm offering it humbly to you, just in case you're walking through your own valley right now.

AUTUMN

: the season between summer and winter comprising in the northern hemisphere usually the months of September, October, and November or as reckoned astronomically extending from the September equinox to the December solstice

There are many things I love about autumn:  cooler temperatures, football, wearing boots, making soups, drinking hot tea, pumpkins, apples.  I also love what it heralds:  Halloween, Thanksgiving, Advent and Christmas.  While Halloween doesn't particularly excite me, Thanksgiving, Advent and Christmas are some of my favorite times of year.  I love the way thankfulness and looking back on a year of things to give thanks for ushers in the hushed anticipation of Advent, the waiting to celebrate our savior's birth and the waiting for his return.

Our lives have a rhythm to them, but each year our family continues to evolve.  I'd love nothing more than for fall Saturdays to be about pumpkin pancakes, raking leaves, reading books, watching football and smelling chili simmering on the stove.

Instead, our Saturdays are packed full with ballet classes, art classes and Nutcracker rehearsals.  I had somehow forgotten in the two years since A last danced in The Nutcracker just how time consuming it is.  Starting in October, she essentially dances all day on Saturdays, with an hour or two lunch break.  Mornings are for instructional classes at her regular studio near our home and afternoons are spent learning how to be a Native American Soldier (her role in this year's performance) at a studio across town.

I'm thankful A has the opportunity to participate in a ballet performed by professionals and run by a professional organization.  She has learned a great deal from previous participation and she will gladly sacrifice whatever time necessary to do it again.  Truth be told, she does not even see it as a sacrifice.

Yet I choose the word sacrifice intentionally.  The things I give up seem petty to list: time to curl up with a book on Saturday afternoons, weekend days spent at home rather than in the car, lazy days.  But I am learning a lot about myself through the Enneagram study and I recently heard Richard Rohr (on the CDs we listen to) talk about how people of my type are the most frequently occurring type in undeveloped countries.  He said when you visit Africa, you're struck by the fact that almost everyone is a 9.  Sadly, I do not live in one of those countries.  I don't live in a culture that encourages - or allows - moving at your own pace.

A friend in this study keeps reminding our group that the point of the Enneagram is to learn compassion - on ourselves and others.  So I am trying to accept that part of what is wearying about this fall is simply that I live in a world that is not set up for someone like me.  Frankly, that's a good reminder no matter your Enneagram type.  None of us are made for this world.  None of us are permanent residents here.  It is good and right that we should long for autumn to be a season that ushers in the ultimate Advent of God's kingdom come.

But how to live in the here and now?  The solution is not to give up on living our lives here - whether our lives be in their own spring, summer, fall or winter.  I think the answer lies - seemingly simply - in living in the present.  I don't mean that glibly.  I mean being fully present and not wishing away October Saturdays for January Saturdays that are colder, but less cluttered with activities.  I mean not dreaming wistfully about the good old days before Saturday ballet even existed for our family.

Tonight's dinner provided a good opportunity to practice the discipline of staying present.  J called 5ish to tell me he was heading south (away from home) for an afterwork meeting.  While he indicated he would likely be home at a normal time, I was doubtful.  I proceeded to cook our dinner of apple and pear pork tenderloin, carrot souffle, brown rice and edamame.  When everything was ready, the four of us (minus J) sat down to eat.  It felt like a lovely fall meal.  The girls were delightful.  This was their first encounter with edamame, so I'd given them very small portions.  A & B both went back for seconds.  Their willingness to try the food I put before them made the effort of cooking their dinner feel more than worth it.

Here's the thing: I could have been upset that J missed dinner with us.  He had a work event last night.  I have a contemplative prayer group tomorrow night.  But I didn't let disappointment rob me of the now.  I rested in the moment of dinner at the table with my daughters happily gathered around me.

I do love that autumn points us to what comes next.  But I want to learn to savor what it offers in and of itself.

REST

: repose, sleep; specifically : a bodily state characterized by minimal functional and metabolic activities

For the first time in the seven years that we've been a family of five, our entire family caught the same virus, one after the other.  The sickness started two weeks ago and first made its way to J.  K came next and missed two days of school with a fever.  Before long, A had a sore throat and I wasn't far behind.  I had hoped B would escape unscathed, but it was not to be.  Even strong-willed, strong-bodied B came down with it.  

Here's what I've learned: rest when you need to rest.

On Saturday, A danced (sore throat and all) in her ballet school's fundraiser.  I was there as a table host, hoping that adrenaline would get us both through the morning.  It did.  We then ate soup for lunch and crawled into bed with books.  Sunday found us much the same: we were napping by mid-morning while the rest of our family went to church and hung out with nephews.  By Sunday evening, we were on the mend, but B wasn't feeling well.  She ended up sleeping 14 hours and didn't awake until after 10 Monday morning.

Given that A and I were mostly feeling better by the end of day Sunday, I could have pushed through and had school (at least with A) on Monday.  Instead, I called it a sick day and we all three took the day off.  Healthy K was carted to school and then we rested.  We read.  We watched one documentary on Egypt and then I napped while they watched two more tv shows for fun.  (What's a sick day without a few tv shows?!)

It has taken me a while to learn that illness is your body's way of telling you to slow down and take a breath.  Perhaps this seems obvious to many of you.  If so, be thankful you've learned this lesson.  Years ago, I would push through at work, taking over the counter cold medicines and not missing so much as an hour of work.  I saw sickness - and my body itself - as something to endure, something that should be put into submission.  It took a while, but I finally learned that was no way to heal.  If I keep going like I'm not sick, I stay sick far longer.  Likewise, treating my body like something that is merely worth tolerating is not the solution.  As I've learned to listen to my body, I've found it is often wiser than my mind.  My body knows when I need to rest, when I can push and when to do what needs to be done.

I grew up with great ambivalence about my body.  Looking back, I think two main things conspired to make this the case: I went through puberty fairly early and my body rounded out before it lengthened out, resulting in a pudgy 4th and 5th grader.  I also didn't play any sports in middle school or high school.  I'm not a natural athlete and I let my insecurity about my body (a holdover from late elementary school) dictate what I would and wouldn't do.  Rather than persevere and learn a sport - any sport - I opted out.  It's only been in my 30s that I've learned my body can do some things.  I'm still woefully uncoordinated, but my recent morning runs have reminded me that I like to run.  I don't run fast.  I don't run with other people.  I don't ever hope to compete.  But the act of climbing out of bed, pulling on clothes and heading out the door to a sleeping world is the most pleasant way to wake up.  I love the time alone, the quiet of watching my neighborhood wake up around me and the feeling that my body is more than something I lug around to get my soul from place to place.  My body is worth being thankful for.

Both the return of outdoor running to my routine and my recent cold have reminded me that my body and soul need rest.  I've been trying to be open to change - trying to let go of behavior patterns that are ingrained, but not helpful.  I've discovered that change is hard work.  And hard work means rest should follow.  I need rest.  I suspect we all need rest, but I'm perhaps just more attuned to this need.  So the next time I get a cold, I'll take the Zicam in hopes of avoiding the full blown yuck of it.  If that doesn't work, I'm grabbing a cup of hot tea, finding a good book and taking a sick day. Rest is good for me - body and soul.

CHANGE

1 a : to make different in some particular : alter

I read a friend's blog post recently that featured the most beautiful trees.  There were yellow leaved trees, trees of vibrant red, a barren tree with green moss - trees in the midst of changing from one season to another.  As I read her words and looked at the images she'd chosen, I wondered why I can embrace the change of seasons, but fight change in so many other areas of my life.

I love the change of seasons, most especially the change from summer to fall.  Fall heralds good things: warm soups bubbling on the stove, cups of hot tea sipped with friends, curling up under a blanket with a good book, an afternoon spent watching football, Thanksgiving with family and friends.  I love fall for its differences from summer.  I love that it brings routine back into our life after the lazy days of summer.  I love that I can stop wearing sandals and switch to boots.  I love the movement from tomato tart to butternut squash lasagna.  I love the alterations fall makes to our lives.

So why can't I embrace change in other areas?  Why can't I rejoice that the addition of one daughter to my homeschooling crew has required not just increased patience, but an entirely new plan?  Why can't I be thankful for the hours spent nursing a sick child back to health?  Why can't I be content to vacuum the dining room floor, knowing that my daughters have taken on sweeping, mopping and other chores that used to be mine?

In part, I think it's harder to embrace change in these other ways because I lack a knowledge that I have with the seasons.  I can relax into the change from summer to autumn precisely because I know that autumn will not last forever.  I celebrate its vibrant colors and cool breezes because I know they will all too quickly give way to bare tree limbs and a wind that bites.  But these other changes? They scare me because I don't know how long they will last.  I can't get past my fear to enjoy their momentary presence because I fear they are the new normal - that my life will be this way forever.

In short, I do not embrace change because I have too little faith.  Too little faith that the good, bad and hard things in my life are all for one season.  I may not know the length of the season, but surely I've lived long enough to have seen that all things in this life are fleeting.  Why not rush past the hard things, but sit in them and learn from them?  Why can't I treasure the good times instead of trying to lock them into my memory, into my very bones, so that I can pull them back up when they disappear before my very eyes?

I've been trying to be more sensitive.  More sensitive to and aware of my own emotions.  More sensitive to the need to speak, instead of always listening.  More sensitive to a call to act instead of merely watching.  Today I realized I've been trying so hard to change that I'm not allowing my spirit to rest.  Yes, I need to do more than just think.  Yes, I need to act.  But I also need to take care of myself in order to do these other things.  I've been so busy trying to embrace change that I haven't tried to accept who I am.  I've just been trying to change - to ease along the transformation.

It doesn't really work that way.  A tree doesn't decide when it's time to change from green to gold.  It doesn't decide when it's time to shed the gold and wait for spring's buds, either.  It's just a tree.  I'd like to one day know myself well enough to just be.  To allow change to happen without fear, anxiety, trepidation.  To just be.

BOOTS

1 : a fitted covering (as of leather or rubber) for the foot and usually reaching above the ankle

I love boots.

Much to my relief, this Sunday it was finally cool enough for me to wear footwear that wasn't sandals.  Saturday night, J and I went to Vanderbilt's season opening football game.  Thankfully, it was an evening game.  Even so, it was hot, humid and airless outside.  I wore supportive flip-flops, but flip-flips are still flip-flops, so the support was minimal. My feet were killing me by the time we got home.  Not from the walking, per se, but from how hot my feet were for the entire evening.  As we went to bed, I was hopeful the promised rain would arrive, bringing the temps from the 100s to the 80s - and bringing boots back into my footwear repertoire.

The rain arrived as predicted and I wore a white skirt, grey shirt and my favorite blue suede cowboy boots to church.  As J and I walked from the parking lot to the sanctuary, I remarked that I was so glad to be able to wear boots again.  "Are they more comfortable for your feet and legs because they're more supportive?" he asked in an attempt to understand.   "Yes, but it's more than that," I replied.  "They make me feel more confident, more protected - both physically and psychologically."  "Hmmm," he mumbled diplomatically.

I realize it may sound a bit crazy that boots make me feel more confident and more protected, but it's true.  In my Enneagram study, I did this week's reading for our discussion, then jumped ahead several chapters to read about type nine.  Several passages in this chapter have brought tears to my eyes.  One such passage:

NINEs have none of the defense mechanisms at their disposal that the other eight types use to try to protect their inner self from the assaults of the world outside... This defenselessness means that almost everything that approaches NINEs from the outside world is exhausting and draining.

Maybe it was having recently read this passage that made me realize that boots aren't just a fashion preference for me - they're armor.  I have to walk slower in most of the boots I own - either because they have heels or because they don't allow my ankle to bend the way other shoes do.  This can be challenging for me since I generally like to be able to slip in and out of places, unnoticed if I wish.  This side of me isn't compatible with wearing boots, but maybe my preference for them comes from a nearly hidden inner knowledge that even when I don't want to be noticed, everyone needs someone to pay attention to them.

Lots of people wear armor of some sort.  Starched shirts, ties and suits?  Armor.  Make-up?  War paint.  Short skirts, tight shirts?  A way to deflect people from knowing who you are by keeping them preoccupied with how you look.  I don't think it's inherently wrong to wear clothing (or boots) that protect you from the world - literally or metaphorically.  But I do think it's helpful to realize why we choose what we choose.

If I'm counting on boots to protect me from what people say about me, to give me defense against attacks on my inner self, to distract people from my face by making them look at my feet, I'm not really growing and maturing, am I?  Because what I really need to do is acknowledge that I'm weak - that I don't have the inner resources I need to get through life.  And then seek those resources through prayer instead of through a good pair of Ariats.

Not that I'm giving up the Ariats, mind you.

STRUCTURE

1: mode of building, construction, or organization; arrangement of parts, elements, or constituents

I learned on Sunday that allergen free incense still yields a quick headache, watery eyes and a sore throat for me in less than ten minutes (or should I say less than two hymns, which is about what I lasted?)  I also learned that I can still spend time with God in the arbor on a Sunday morning when the incense even from the narthex becomes too much.


As I sat on a bench, sipping coffee, I looked at trees in various stages of nakedness.  Some clung to their leaves, wearing coats of gold, orange and ruby.  Others had given up autumn's cloaks for the exposure of their limbs to winter.  All made visible something the trees of summer hide well - their structure, that which holds them up, holds them together and makes foliage itself possible.

In this way, trees are like us.  When we're saplings, we are all arms and legs, sprouting in every direction, with little thought to what form we will eventually take.  Like trees whose limbs shoot from them overnight, we go through our own spring amazed at all life has to offer.  My daughters have no idea whether they are sturdy oaks, long limbed pines or flowing willows.  (OK, they're unlikely to be long-limbed anything given their parentage, but you get my meaning.)  What they do know is that their job is to grow.  So they grow with abandon: trying new experiences, meeting new friends, learning new things.  The pruning that life brings they accept, sometimes with more grace than others.  (B has recently admitted that the only way she learns a lesson is the hard way - a difficult truth, but truth nonetheless.)


When spring gives way to fall, the growth slows a bit.  The flowers give way to leaves, their more sedate cousins.  And during summer, we hardly see trees for what they really are.  They're all green, all blending in to do their job - provide shade.  I think I'm in the summer of life now, much as I look forward to fall.  Because I feel like I'm all about my jobs right now - whether that's cooking, keeping our house orderly, schooling one child, raising three of them.  I blend in with all of the other women out there doing the very same things.  And I wonder how much you can see what I'm made of when I'm covered up with all of these leaves of responsibility.  Because in the summer of our lives, we're so very busy that there's little time for the glorious burst of color that fall brings, or the evidence that begins to show exactly what supports that big tall tree.

But if I don't take care during this busy summer season of my life to prune, to feed the parts that matter, to reach for the brightest light and not be satisfied with what trickles down to the undergrowth, if I don't do those things now, whatever will I look like come fall?  What structure will be left of me when I get to be me, instead of mom all the time?  When even K is off to college, what structure will hold me up?  I won't have the same day-to-day responsibilities then that I have now.  I'll theoretically have more time to be and have fewer demands on my time to do.


As I sat on that bench on Sunday, it occurred to me that I truly look forward to the autumn of my life.  I long for that riot of color, the shedding of things I don't need, the preparation for winter's rest.  But here I sit in the summer, when I should be bearing fruit or providing shade.  I don't want to wish away my time with my children or my husband.  I want to live in the moment and enjoy life right where I am.  So, like B, I'll continue to learn lessons (many the hard way) and I'll try to graciously submit to the necessary pruning so that when glimpses of my structure are seen, it will show the things that really matter - the Savior, not the sinner.

SABBATH

3. any special day of prayer or rest resembling the Sabbath.
4. (sometimes lowercase) a period of rest.

Sometimes a sabbath day of rest doesn’t fall on a Sunday. Today felt like a sabbath for me even though it held no formal worship, no refraining from certain activities, no feasting. What it did contain was a quiet morning, time to read my current novel, time to talk to a loved one, work on an early Christmas present, a walk alone with my middle daughter (who actually held my hand during the walk!), a bit of quiet reflection spent on my Bible study, a roasted chicken and football on TV. It might not sound like your sabbath, but it was exactly what my soul needed.

 
My husband actually attended the Vanderbilt game alone tonight because when I wanted to stay home and just relax, the girls all wanted to stay here, too. They spent their evening eating dinner outside, sitting on the sidewalk chatting, playing together and then reading Halloween books aloud together. Their own sabbath, perhaps.

One reason this day felt like a sabbath was that it had a rhythm of my choosing.  The only two time commitments were either handled by J (driving A to serve with a group) or skipped out on (the Vandy game).  It's not that I didn't do some work (the word sabbath derives from the Hebrew word shabbath, which means "to rest from labor"): I spent time on a computer project, prepared and roasted a chicken, then made broth for tomorrow's chicken noodle soup.  But the pace was slow, the activities were pleasant and I find myself feeling rested at the end of a day instead of exhausted.

The interesting part of all of this is that experiencing a sabbath rest requires that I do something in order to rest.  Several things, in fact.  It requires that I know I need rest, that I choose to meet this need and that I say no to other good things in order to get the rest.  This may sound easy, but if you've ever attempted to observe a regular sabbath, you will know it is no easy task in this world we live in.  We are encouraged to do more, make more, consume more, but we are never encouraged to rest more.

A few years ago I read Mark Buchanan's The Rest of God.  I loved the straightforward approach Buchanan took to explaining the various components of sabbath, followed by practical suggestions for how to take steps towards sabbath in your own life.    A few concepts have stuck with me in the years since I last read the book:  I try to refrain from housework on Sundays (although I still cook) and I try to make sure we eat dessert on Sunday (it being a feast day).  Everything else he said?  I don't think I retained it.  I certainly didn't apply it.

But every now and then my soul cries out for some sabbath rest.  From where I sit, I can see another book about sabbath on our library bookshelf.  I need to make time to read it when I finish the novel in progress.  And I need to remember the way a sabbath can make me feel - the way I feel right now: content, satisfied, rested.  Because sabbath was designed as a gift from God to us.  A gift that was not meant to sit unopened.

PERFECT

4: entirely without any flaws, defects, or shortcomings

The girls and I went to one of our favorite places yesterday - Cheekwood Botanical Gardens.  I realized at fall break last year that Cheekwood is a wonderful place for my children to roam.  It combines several things we all love: art, nature, great picnic spots and a laid back attitude.  This visit was to be a bit different.  We were joining a group of home school parents for a self guided tour of the Chihuly exhibit.  My girls and I have seen this exhibit several times, but we were planning to go over fall break to see it one more time before the exhibit closes.  I thought it would be fun for B and K to meet some of A's home school friends and I thought A would enjoy exploring Cheekwood with new friends.

It went mostly according to plan.  The very large group pretty much immediately split up into several smaller groups.  My girls and some others enjoyed using water colors on coffee filters to create their very own versions of Chihuly's macchia sculptures.  I love to watch all of  my daughters create, but B is especially gifted in this.  She always comes up with her very own way to do things and others (ahem, me) often end up copying her style (though I tend to have less success).

K was immediately happy on this field trip. One of her ballet class friends was a part of this group and she immediately included K with her other friends and made her feel happy and included.  Likewise, A spent a good portion of the day hanging out with friends from her tutorial program.

And then there's B.  My nine year old middle child who simply must do everything her own way, who must chart her own course and live her life her way.  At one point, she came up beside me and said, "I don't think anyone who is home schooled likes me."  It just about broke my heart.  This comment came close on the heels of B complaining to me that the other children where telling her what she should and shouldn't do - something she hates, whether adults or children do the telling.

I share this to remind myself and others that no day in this life is never perfect.  Yesterday was a wonderful day.  Our morning started slow, with pancakes for breakfast and plenty of time in our pajamas before readying for Cheekwood.  Cheekwood itself was a blast - we enjoyed hopping from one glass installation to another, seeing our favorites but not stressing about seeing all of them.  We snacked, we sketched, we rested, we walked the sculpture trail just the four of us.  We laid on the grass, looked at floating glass sculptures and just enjoyed the day sinking into evening.

But it still wasn't the perfect day.  My girls fought with each other.  B felt wounded.  I was impatient.

Last year at fall break the four of us went to Cheekwood.  I realized then that our family is in a sweet season - K is old enough to go anywhere without a stroller, I never carry a diaper bag, no one naps (except me), yet our eldest daughter is still young enough to enjoy being with us.  We're in a window that may close at any moment.  So I'm trying to savor this season while it lasts. But in the midst of the savoring, I have to remember that perfection just isn't on the agenda.  Even with daughters who enjoy each other's company and are wonderfully unique individuals, there will be parenting challenges that leave me reeling, exhausted and without words.

I suppose this is how it's supposed to be.  If we could ever achieve the perfect day, we wouldn't have that ache for the life to come.  We might actually be satisfied here.  So I guess my girls are just doing their part to make sure I don't fall into complacency.  As for me, I'll keep trying to take the good with the bad and not let the failures and mishaps of life overshadow the loveliness of a day spent walking in the autumn sun, seeing beautiful art and hanging out with my three favorite girls.

BREATHE

3. to pause, as for breath; take rest

Ten year old A finished her fall production Saturday evening and I feel like I can finally breathe for a bit.  This is the first time she's done a fall production - normally her ballet school has only a spring recital.  She absolutely adored being in The Little Engine that Could (what ten year old girl wouldn't want to be Tinker Belle?), but I'm personally happy for a bit of a breather.  Happily, the end of A's production coincided with a week off from choir practice for B, leaving us with a Sunday completely free of obligations.  So how do I fill a day free of obligations?  With blessings instead of duties:

I slept in until 8:30ish, 
my husband ran out to buy me a pumpkin chocolate chip bagel for breakfast, 
the sermon really touched a nerve and illuminate a lesson I've been puzzling over, 
I enjoyed a lunch made by my husband, 
our family spent an afternoon at the pumpkin patch and 
enjoyed an evening with our nephew.

Not bad.  Not bad at all.  In fact, it was like a breath of fresh air.  Now I feel like fall break can truly begin.

LEAVES

1. one of the expanded, usually green organs borne by the stem of a plant.
4. leaves collectively; foliage.

On a recent walk, A shared a fact that was new to me: When leaves change colors in the fall, the color they become is the color they really are.  When we see them all the same color (green), it's because of chlorophyll, not because that's their true color.  I gasped when she told me this.  How beautiful!  I have no idea whether this is scientifically accurate or not, but I'm going with it, if only because it's a great metaphor for life.

When I wrote in the early days of 2010 that this year's word would be change, I had no idea what I was getting myself in to.  There has been change aplenty and I see no signs that this is drawing to a close.  On the contrary, I feel like I am one of those leaves, about to be stripped of my chlorophyll.  Sounds glorious and maybe even a tad romantic, doesn't it?  Maybe, but it doesn't feel that way.  I know how to be a green leaf, one that blends in with all of the other leaves nearby.  I don't know how to be a bold gold leaf, a flaming burgundy one, a leaf being what it was made to be, not just what was required of it to blend in.

When  A told me about leaves and their real colors, I told her that's how people are, too - not just me, but all of us.  Sin is our chlorophyll and it masks who we're created to be.  It makes us all blend in with each other, unable to see one face from another, one gift from another.  I've always loved fall - for its beauty and for all that it heralds: cooler weather, the arrival of Thanksgiving and the way that holiday prepares our hearts for Advent.  Now, I'll have another thing to love - with fear and trembling - about autumn: how it reminds us all of the call to shed our masks like chlorophyll and boldly live as changed people.

All Photos: Fall Leaves at Shelby Park

FALL BREAK

Today is the first day of fall break. Here's what I hope fall break will bring for us:

Scones
Breakfast (and lunch) in our pajamas
Books
Fun Outings
Family Time
Books
Hot chocolate
Art making
Cuddling under blankets
Shared TV (esp. So You Think You Can Dance recordings)
Friend Time
Craft Time
Cooking Together
Library Time
Hot Tea
Books

We're well on our way if today is any indication, as we have done nearly all of these things in one day. It's just what we all needed... and I'm looking forward to having a lot more of it in the next ten days.