A Letter to a Dreamer

Dear Aspiring Home-Maker:

You're brave. Not many women today think staying at the house and making a home for your family is a big enough deal to be a dream.

Some do, but they're a little shy about declaring it.

I don't know why. Maybe they think it's a waste of a college education (as if it doesn't take a whole lot of intelligence to shape the next generation). Maybe they think others will think they're lazy (but if they were lazy, it would be smarter to hire a maid). Maybe it's a hold-over from the feminist "liberation" of women that gave women the option to be anything they want to be (as long as they don't want to be a home-maker).

You'll get called a number of different things.

"Stay-at-home mom" (as if you're never going to leave the four walls).
"House wife" (who wants to be married to a house?).
"Home-maker" (lofty, but I prefer "domestic engineer"!).

You'll get a number of different responses when you answer the question, "So, what do you do?"

Thankfully, I've never encountered outright derision. I'm hoping that was left back in the 1990's. Maybe it wasn't. Not sure what I'll do if I come across it.
I have, however, gotten the ambiguous, "It's nice your husband makes enough that you can stay home." I'm not sure what to do with that, exactly. I mean, it sounds like they're implying we're wealthy; compared to Africa, most of Asia, and South America, we are, but then, so are they; compared to the average American's idea of wealthy . . . ? I've seen people with much larger houses and newer cars complain about not being able to live on one income. You can't wait until you have enough to stay at home - you have to learn to make what you have be enough. I usually end up just saying, "Yes, I'm very thankful he does."
And then there are the congratulators, the ones who give me kudos and make me feel strong and counter-cultural. But then I feel like I'm misleading them. I'm not giving up a dream and putting a career on hold for the sake of my child(ren): this is my dream. This is what I've always wanted to do. I went to college and headed for a career, and, yes, if God hadn't given me a husband just then, I would probably have my master's by now.

But that wasn't my dream. This is.

Be brave, my sisters who share this dream. Let it be your dream. Be the shining light for someone else who wishes they could dream of making a home for their family.

It's so worth it.

Sincerely,
Me
Domestic Engineer

I Must Be a Mom

Why?

Because . . .

I describe sleeping in four-hour increments as a "good night's rest."
The phrases "That was a good burp," and "You can do it! Fill that diaper!" have crossed my lips more times than I care to know.
Bodily excretions - even flying ones - no longer phase me.
I am more likely to catch vomit in my hand and then be pleased so little hit the carpet than be grossed out by it.
I lost my heart at the same time I lost my mind.
I eat like there is a deadline - because there usually is.
I am never so happy as when N finally goes to sleep . . . except when she wakes again.
My living room looks remarkably tidy when it is not clotted with waiting laundry baskets.
I am beginning to realize the virtues of a "mom hair cut."
I spend hours staring at one little face and it never gets old.
I smile when I see a crusty patch of dried drool on my chest because it marks the spot where my daughter slept.
People are extremely understanding when I arrive late or early with an explanation beginning, "The baby . . . "
I feel that knowing look come into my eyes when women start whipping out labor stories.
I speak in a high-pitched voice and refer to myself in the third person . . . a lot.
An exceptionally productive day means the dishes and laundry got done and I have a plan for supper.
I think the morning sunlight streaming through my bedroom window is put to shame by the brilliance of one little girl's smile.

Christmas Lights

Hooray for Christmas decorations!

They are undoubtedly my favorite of all my home decor items. I love to decorate for Christmas!

But, of all the Christmas paraphernalia, mini white Christmas lights are my favorite.

After decorating this year, I had to sheepishly ask my husband to help me move the piano so I could plug in another extension cord, so I could spread out the five strings of white lights that I currently had on a single extension cord. I know, not the best idea to be loading them all on one like that, and, yes, I got that incredulous, husbandly look that says, "My wife may be losing it," but they are so pretty! I have them twisted into a wreath and twining through a rustic basket of pinecones and peeking through lettering in a little tin box that reads, "Peace on Earth." They're peaceful and bright and cheerful and cozy.

They wouldn't be nearly as nice in the middle of the summer.

The weather pulls us outside then, and the sun shines brightly through the windows nearly all our waking hours.

But in the winter, oh ho!, the winter is perfect for decorating with light. As we cuddle in for a dark, Midwestern evening, those little points of light are enough to gently brighten an entire room.

I don't think it's an accident that we use lights to make our homes ready to celebrate the nativity of our Lord. John 1:4 says that the life He brought was light. Light shines best in the dark. What a dark world He came to save:

the people were oppressed, conquered by a ruthless, godless emperor; that nation was stretching its tentacles of control into every corner of the known world, creating one world empire, and allowing no place to hide; taxes were oppressive; infants were slaughtered at a whim; regional rulers were suspicious and groped for power; pleasure was king, and those who refrained were eyed suspiciously; human life was cheap.

It sounds a bit like a world I know today.

Maybe all these crises and issues of the last century are not as original as we think.

Maybe all our panic over controversies and emergencies should be put on pause to give us a little time to reflect on His light.

For surely, the light that pierced the darkness in that stable in the shadows of Bethlehem in the depths of Israel in the blackness of the Roman Empire still shines brightly today. Indeed, it is multiplied exponentially in the Spirit-filled Church He left behind on earth!

John 1:5 says, "The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it." Another way to read this is "the darkness has not understood it." We should be the most misunderstood people on the face of the earth. In a world of deep despair, self-gratification, and false worship, Christianity does not make sense. We die to live, lose to gain, glory in suffering, have peace in chaos, and hope in an unseen reward. 

We look like madmen, yet we claim to have the cure for what is wrong with the world:

Wholeness for the broken;

Healing for the sick;

Light for the darkness.

Feeling Kist

Life circumstances are such lately that I have been able to witness anew what it means to see God's provision. I believe the math goes something like this:
Need + Prayer = Opportunity

I am so used to finagling things to work out - I need something, so I find it on sale, on line, whatever. Well, with adjusting to a home mortgage, I'm learning that I can't always just go out and buy something. (Wouldn't my husband be glad to read those words!)

I mean, God doesn't want to bother with the little affairs of running a household, right? Sure, He cares how I spend my time, that I have a Bible time, that I pray, that I treat my husband well, etc., etc. But how much does He really get down into the inanities of the workings of my life?

Well, I'm learning in a whole new way that He delights to give us good things. Think of that! God isn't all about taking things away from us; He gets excited when He gets to bless us! I've probably taken away a lot of His opportunities to bless me by my ability to go get what I want/need. (Now there's a sobering thought.)

One way I saw this was in my desire for a simple little kitchen tool. Being a newly-wed, there are still a few gaps in my household equipment, and one that was noticeable was an old-fashioned Kitchmajig. My mom had one, and I had used it often for cooking, and I was missing it.

So, I found it on Amazon! Hooray! But, for some reason, I could never justify adding it to my order.

So I went without.

I had thought about it on and off for awhile when, one weekend, I was perusing the city garage sales. Wouldn't you know it, in a box of free kitchen items lay a humble kitchmajig.

I praised God for that funny little blessing.

I don't know that I even thought to ask Him for one.

Another time, I was wishing for a good Dutch broom. We were cleaning out our shed on the back of our property with a simple lonely broom, and I couldn't help think how much easier it would be with a push broom.

Later, I was downtown in the hardware store. The clearance tables beckoned, and I happened to notice a small version of a push broom leaning against it. I shrugged and figured it wouldn't hurt to check the price tag . . . and I think God must have laughed at my expression when I read the word "FREE"!

It turned out that the broom head had been laying around the store for a while, and they had a regular broom that had broken, so they took the stick from the latter and stuck it with the former, and - bada bing, bada boom - God had a broom for me.

Okay, so they're stupid little things. But every time I use my kitchamajig, and especially every time I see that little Dutch broom, I thank God for caring about my petty little needs and wants and for stooping down from His throne to surprise me with His generous abundance.

Turkey Wrastlin'

We are hosting Thanksgiving at our very own home this year. My parents and some friends and relatives will be present, and I am having a blast planning and prepping! I keep feeling like I am four years old again, playing house with my sister, pulling Mom in to sample our “supper” on plastic dishes with plastic spoons and – if we were really getting into it – real, actual water poured from a plastic tea pot into plastic cups.

Now, I’ve never cooked a turkey, and everyone knows that Thanksgiving needs a turkey.

My experience in that arena of cookery includes watching my dad prepare a turkey and reading the how-to page from a Google search on the topic. But when I hauled the fifteen-pound, semi-frozen bird from my fridge into the kitchen sink to begin ministrations upon it, I was only partially daunted.

I originally planned to just bake the fowl – the KISS principle for my original foray into this art. But then I found a page online about dry-brining a turkey. That sounds easy enough, I thought, and the plan got just a little more elaborate.

Back in my kitchen, having freed it from its plastic jacket, I stared down the naked bird. Pull out the neck and giblets, the website had said.

Ok.

The first hiccup came in the form of a metal band holding the ankles (do turkeys have ankle? It was the part of the legs where the ankles would be) together. I pushed and pulled and pried and prodded.

No dice.

I thought about calling my husband for help. But he had a cold, so I didn’t want him to have to get too close to the cooking. But it would be thoroughly baked after all, and it’s not like I need to worry about the turkey catching it! I smiled at the thought.

But I decided that I could – I would – conquer this beast.

Finally, as the bird slipped and slid around the sink, as the band weakened or as I got the right leverage, I bent it enough to force one leg out and then the other.

Victory!

I reached into the carcass, giving a tug to what looked like a neck. It didn’t move. Gingerly moving further in, trying to keep my shirt sleeve raw-bird-free, I pried around it with my fingers, loosening what was still frozen until the bird stood before me empty.

I rinsed him (her?) until he was nearly guaranteed to be the best-rinsed bird served up this Thursday and laid him in his final resting place foil pan.

Loosening the skin was surprisingly easy, and I felt masterfully culinary-ish as I administered the salt and spices per the recipe’s recommendations.

Having been thoroughly conquered, he now awaits baking in my fridge, getting (the recipe claims) marinated in the spices and tenderized by the salt.

We’ll see come Thursday.

Anyway, when I was standing by my sink, yanking and tugging and prying and becoming altogether too familiar with a partially frozen fowl, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for turkeys, what with getting bumped off and their neck shoved in strange places.

I guess the moral is that if you absolutely have nothing else to be grateful for this Thanksgiving, I have one for you: be thankful you’re not a turkey!

The Joys of Homemaking

Well, we have been settling into our new house!

Unpacking didn't take long, but every now and then I find a box of items in a closet that need an official home. My husband and I are settling into a routine of sorts, filled with work, dishes, cooking, cleaning, making little changes and fixes, etc., etc.

Dave Ramsey would be proud of our budget meetings. Money issues scare the starch out of me, so my favorite plan of attack is avoidance; but the ominous "M" on the calendar's last Tuesday of each month keeps us accountable, and I am finding out that things are much less stressful when we know how much is coming in and when/where it's going out. Still, I have had to adjust to a new way of thinking of money - I used to deal with it in terms of tens of dollars. Seventy dollars for groceries, twelve dollars for my monthly share of our family phone plan, forty dollars for a school text book . . . now, however, money tends to leave in hundreds, whether it is for groceries, insurance, mortgage payments, house bills, and on and on.

Living in town hasn't had a steep adjustment curve, and the folks here have been so kind. We have felt so welcomed by our neighbors - I especially enjoy chatting across the lawn when a neighbor and I are both outside at the same time.

Having our own home makes us feel so rich - and aren't we? Sure, things might be tight and we save for what we want, but to have four walls around us that have our name on them . . . it's just cozy. I marvel at all God provides. As Thanksgiving draws near, I become more and more grateful for the refuge we have found in this place - a place of healing from yesterday, of hope for tomorrow, and always, always of gratitude for today.

The Perils of Homemaking

I nearly killed Louis last week.

We've had our handsome, black and white, six-month-old kitten about a month now. I've delighted in (most of) his antics, welcoming the company of another living creature while my husband is at work all day. I've reveled in him as only a cat-lover, long denied the presence of a feline, can.

He's soft-spoken for a cat, barely letting a person know if they're standing on his tail. As cats go, he's very much a people-lover. He keeps us laughing with his unique set of curiosities and fears. (The day I brought a slinky home, he was scared like you wouldn't believe as it clattered its way down our flight of wooden steps!) But the other day, curiosity very nearly killed the cat.

It was laundry day and I was bustling about trying to get through it all. I had had some interruptions and was trying to get the laundry all dried before evening church programs.

Louis had exhibited interest in the dryer before, and one time I even had to remove him from its interior before starting the next load on its way to drying. This time, I noticed him put his paws up on the front and sniff inside, but I thought nothing of it and soon forgot in the midst of rotating laundry.

I had the load of whites drying and was loading darks into the washer when I thought I heard a child's cry. I stopped the washer so I could hear better, and I listened but didn't hear anything, so I went back to my laundry. I grabbed my swimming suit and wanted a laundry bag for it and remembered that they were both in the dryer with the load of delicates.

Yanking open the dryer door, horror landed hard on my chest when I realized Louis's hind end was sticking out from under the damp clothes.

If you're a lover of cats, or if you dislike witnessing the suffering of another creature, or if you have a modicum of compassion about you, you may begin to imagine the panic that rose within me as I frantically pulled the clothes away from him and as he gave a pitiful meow. I spied blood spots on the clothes and could only hope I hadn't inadvertantly used up all nine of his kitty lives!

He was dizzy and warm, so he stretched out a while with his belly on the cool concrete floor. A bit of a bloody lip seemed to explain the spotted laundry, and in a matter of minutes, he seemed to collect himself.

My trauma, however, lasted much longer.

With every blood spot I found, I shuddered and scrubbed it clean with renewed penance. That night, I couldn't close my eyes without seeing him lying all thrown about in the dryer, and I didn't get any sleep until I went and got him and had him sleep on my lap.

Maybe someday, I'll be able to look back on this and laugh, but please, please, please don't tease me about it yet.

Ever.

Who knew homemaking could be so perilous?

A Butter-Lover's Dream

Do you know what this is?

This, my friends, is a fresh muffin with baby butter.

What is baby butter, you ask?

It is butter that hasn't quite gotten past the cream stage yet.

We recently found a source for raw milk. 4% milk fat. Mmmm.

So today, I ventured into the realm of home-made butter. I used a recipe I found online and gave it a go! From two gallons of raw milk, I skimmed off enough cream to make about 1/2 cup of butter (one stick). But it was easy! I think I skimmed too much milk or thin cream in with my thick cream, so it took a long time to beat into submission, but I just let it do its thing while I worked on the muffins.

Let me tell you, it is going to be hard to go back after this!

One Month

We just passed the one month mark in our marriage. How strange to think that we will only count up - never down - again in our relationship. But it is a good sort of strange!

A few firsts to have come about in our first month:

• my first chance to completely organize a home (the kitchen was especially fun . . . the rest is still in progress). A bit overwhelming at times, but worth it in the end.
• my first prolonged experience at menu planning. My cooking has generally met with success, but it has also included . . .
• my first major misjudgment on cooking time. The chicken didn't thaw as quickly as I thought it would, which meant it didn't cook as quickly as I thought it would, which meant that our main course consisted of squash and bread and apple crisp, with baked chicken for dessert.
• my first school loan payments. Yippee.
• our first budget (which didn't crash and burn as badly as we thought it would, yet I learned how quickly unexpected expenses like to raise their ugly heads!).
• our first time inviting people to our home!

Thankfully, this list doesn't include our first fight; we took care of that a while ago! :) Seriously though, there is a sort of relief to not have that looming overhead.

Something God has been impressing upon me lately is the blessing of my own insufficiency. During college, I could keep my chin above the water, and people generally believed that I was doing so with ease. I sometimes floundered and panicked, but overall I found the ability to pull myself up by my proverbial bootstraps and stay on the successful side of the grading process. I could make myself look good and get the credit for it, too. But this homemaker thing is different.

A couple weeks ago, I felt overwhelmed by all the new responsibilities. I would get up in the mornings and go at it and not feel like I had really gotten anywhere by the time I laid down at night. In homemaking, there is no deadline when you don't have to think about that project anymore. There is no final test when you can leave that topic behind forever. There is no last day in the semester and the promise of a final grade that pulls you through like a light at the end of the tunnel. Instead, dishes are constantly needing washing, the floor seems to grow dirt by itself, dirty laundry regenerates, and don't you know that nothing cleans itself! The clean socks have been in that basket in my living room for days and they still haven't figured out how to find their match!

Yet, this time of finding myself fundamentally lacking is also a blessing.

If I have everything in hand, where is room for God to work?
If I am successful at all I do, what has God done for me?
If I am wrapped up in my work and busy acing this wife/homemaker thing, how has God moved in my life?

When I can't do it and can't keep up and can't find the strength, I get to see God.

He works when I can't anymore.
He acts on my behalf when am unable to do it myself.
He moves and displays His strength when my strength is gone.

You know, I cannot figure out why I run myself ragged so often trying to prove myself. It is more fun to get to see God in all His grace and power, after all.

Is my stubbornness/determination coming between me and my experience of God's majesty?

Does God care about housework?
I think so.

And I am trying to learn to fall to my knees more quickly rather than flailing to keep my feet under me. After all, which is more important to me: the power of Christ or my stupid pride?

Is the key to success in the Christian life admitting to being an utter failure? (Hmm, that echoes the beatitudes.)

I'll gladly wave my white flag if it means that He gets the control and the glory in my life.

Although, I'm fresh out of white flags. Maybe one of these socks will do.

A Day in the Life of a New Wife

As a couple approaches matrimony, people delight in telling them how humbling marriage is. I heard it often enough that I could nod sagely every time I heard it, with a conspiratorial smile because I was "in the know" about how my selfishness and sinfulness was about to be revealed in a whole new way after I said "I do."

But marriage is humbling in other ways. No one bothered to mention them.

Take last Thursday for instance.

I needed inspiration for supper preparation and so had asked my darling hubby what would tickle his palate. His response was "Meatloaf!"  

Excellent, I mused. I can use Mom's recipe - I know that one is tasty - and it will feel homey for me.

"What would you like on the side?" his excellent wife pressed further.

"Something cold," he replied with a smile.

Something cold? I thought. What is a "cold" side? I am used to hot potato dishes, baked beans, steamed vegetables, etc., etc., adorning the sides of our dinner plates. I am prepared for the struggle to time them all exactly so they are finished at the same time and able to be served up hot together. WHY would someone want a nice hot dish served cold???

So, I asked him what he meant.

"How about creamy pea salad?"

First of all, I don't eat pea salad.

Second of all, my mother doesn't make pea salad.

Third of all, I don't know how to make pea salad.

So I smile and send him off to work and set about finding a recipe from the all-wise Bing for creamy pea salad.

I found a recipe - one with ingredients that I mostly already had and that sounded agreeable - and set out to make it.

First, I hopped in his truck to do a little grocery shopping in order to fill in the gaps in my pantry. I couldn't find the lever to make the seat slide forward, so I just sat forward in the seat, leaned against the seat belt, pointed my toe, and managed to work the gas and break pedals somewhat comfortably . . . at least without being a menace to traffic.

I rolled into the little local grocery and set about making my purchases for my home-cooked meal for my hubby. As I strolled leisurely down the aisles, I saw the bread rack.

I make my own bread, was the snobbish thought which likes to echo through my head.

You are almost out of bread, was the impish thought in return.

Look, there's even some bakery bread. That can't be as bad as the factory stuff. You don't have the time or fresh flour for your own right now, and making bread with regular flour is a sad concession in itself.

Yes, I could rationalize it, so I sheepishly tucked some store-bought, bakery-made bread into my cart and tried to look nonchalant.

I got back home and put away my groceries feeling very much like a real homemaker. The bread went into the freezer and the rest of the groceries found homes in my cupboards.

Next task: creamy pea salad.

Required: a hard-boiled egg.

Hard-boiled egg? A hard-boiled egg? I don't eat hard-boiled eggs. I don't make hard-boiled eggs. How am I supposed to hard-boil an egg?

Back to Bing I went, feeling less and less competent as a cook than I had in years.

Eureka! Bing pulled through, and I made a few extra eggs to keep in the fridge, just in case the hubby likes to eat them. Good, back on track to being competent in the kitchen.

The salad slid together, and I even had to admit it was good. The meatloaf roasted, and it tasted like home.

I admitted to the new husband that his new wife had bought bread, which he happily forgave, and I glowingly enjoyed his praises over my culinary efforts.

So, it turned out well (better than well, actually!); but the next time you start waxing eloquent about marriage's humbling qualities, stop and make sure the couple you're talking to knows that it isn't just humbling as it pertains to sin and redemption.

Oh, no.

Once you start realizing that there are real, reasonable people out there that eat the food you always snub in the potluck line, you just might be serving up a cold side of humble pie.