And this is what you can tell them over Valentine’s dinner đ
Opening her eyes again, and seeing her husband’s face across the table, she leaned forward to give it a pat on the cheek, and sat down to supper, declaring it to be the best face in the world.
Melt butter in a large saucepan over low heat. And the onion and cook till soft but not brown, then add the potato, parsnip, and vegetable stock/broth. Bring to the boil and then add the beetroot, cooking for a further 15 minutes. Don’t overcook, as the beetroot will go from a lovely deep pink to a red color. When the vegetables are tender, remove from heat and puree with a stick blender (or blender) until the soup is smooth, but with a few lumps. Stir in the cream, sour cream, and horseradish mix and season with salt and black pepper. Exquisite!
*Recipe adapted from Delicious Soups by Belinda Williams
Everywhere, there were walls. Day by day, they’d grown up around us till every house and shop and school and road had its own borders, its own barriers. Keeping things out, keeping them in. Walls, running all over this frozen land. Walls made of snow. Not that the barriers were intentional, when we all went out with our shovels, blowers, and plows. But the walls came anyway, as we made a path from door to car, from car to sidewalk, from sidewalk to road. But at our house, we also had a path. A path between our neighbours’ house and our own.
Not that we’d used it often, that imaginary gateway, that break in the wall. No, not in such a winter when the snowfall set records and people had to shovel their roofs so they wouldn’t collapse under the weight, and icicles hung like thick stalactites from gutters, and the painful wind and cold brought tears to your eyes and chapped hands and cheeks and lips. No, not in such a winter.
But then there came a day, one soft and snowy Sunday, when we did. Church had been canceled after an ice storm left thousands without power. So we were home, the day before us a little lonely and uncertain and unfilled. But then there came a knock.
I shuffled to the mud room in my slippers, found the tall frame of our neighbour filling the glass door. Expecting him to ask John’s help with the snow or maybe something to do with frozen pipes, I reached for the handle, hoping all was well.
“We’re not going anywhere today, and neither are you,” he said. “We’ve got a ham in the oven and we’re hoping you’ll come over and help us eat it.”
Well, such an invitation! Such a welcome invitation on such a silent, snowy day.
And so we put on our boots, didn’t bother with coats, and filled the silence with our chatter as we walked that path, that break in the wall of snow, and into our neighbours’ large kitchen.
We stayed for hours. And I couldn’t tell you what it meant to sit round their table, surrounded by photos of their grandchildren and a collection of Eiffel Towers. But it was more than the ham and potatoes and veg that we ate while we talked and laughed. More than the tea and cookies and jello that came next. More than the stories from days past, told with such animation that we laughed over till our sides hurt. More than our neighbours themselves, who had begun as kind strangers and turned into friends.
It was the sum of it all that filled us that day, warmed us from the inside out, made us feel that winter was the most wonderful of seasons because it had brought us together–could bring us close to other family and friends–before spring came and the world opened up and let us sprawl out, warm in the sun but far from each other.
March is nearly upon us, but the temperatures are still frigid, and until the warmth comes to melt the mountains of snow and banish the walls, we will have winter. And for as long as it lasts, for all those long Saturday afternoons and black winter nights, I’ll be searching for ways to warm our home, to warm the hearts of our friends. With big pots of chili, and spontaneous tea parties with plates of shortbread taken from the rations John’s parents bring.
And that is the best way to not just survive winter, but love it.
It is said that good fences make good neighbours, and I agree. Good fences, good walls, they make good neighbours–but only when there is a gate.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And there is quite a different sort of conversation around a fire than there is in the shadow of a beech tree…. [F]our dry logs have in them all the circumstance necessary to a conversation of four or five hours, with chestnuts on the plate and a jug of wine between the legs. Yes, let us love winter, for it is the spring of genius.
~Pietro Aretino, translated from Italian
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nature looks dead in winter because her life is gathered into her heart. She withers the plant down to the root that she may grow it up again fairer and stronger. She calls her family together within her inmost home to prepare them for being scattered abroad upon the face of the earth.
~Hugh Macmillan, “Rejuvenescence,” The Ministry of Nature, 1871
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Avonlea xo
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Homemaking Inspiration from Literature
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is better, far better, than a tidy house with no cake . . .
But for a home thatâs truly beautiful
you must begin with the air,
the very air,
and the words that float across it.
The words that find their way
to the ears,
to the hearts,
to the souls
of our children,
of our spouses,
of our friends.
What does it matter how clean,
how coordinated,
how stylish a home,
and who could care about granite countertops,
wooden floors,
chevron-patterned cushions,
organized drawers,
if the words we fling at each other
across our air
are like poison darts,
causing stinging little wounds
that fester and bleed,
leaving us and our loved ones
with a little less hope,
a little less faith,
a little less joy?
A freshly baked cake and the lovely smell it brings does make a home inviting, but the words with which we choose to fill our air have more power, far more power than we could ever know, to bring beauty and life
to our homes
and the people in them
than any piece of furniture, any article of clothing, any lovely smell
ever could.
Avonlea x
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Usually it was fish and chips that they offered to bring. Crispy battered haddock and thick-cut fries doused with vinegar and a sprinkling of salt, picked up from the Chippy on their way over.
Iâd start to tidy, but would remind myself not to worry too much. Just a quick wipe of the bathrooms, and a fresh hand towel (one of my personal hospitality must-doâs) would suffice.
There wasnât much point in frantically scooping Lego into toy bins or straightening out the sofa cushions. Our friends did, after all, have three little boys whoâd be joining our two (at that time), and I knew I could expect the five of them to make quick work of emptying the wicker toy basket and turning the sofa into a pirate ship.
After the ketchup-soaked fish and chip papers had been cleared away and the children were in the other room hard at play, the adults would gather round the dining room table, within ear shot of the littles in case someone got a bump, or there was a lesson on sharing that needed to be learned.
Thereâd be coffee then, or tea, and some little nibbles, and the stresses of life would dissipate as we talked and shared, the fire crackling at our backs. Theyâd stay past bedtime, but we didnât mind.
They were our last-minute friends. The spontaneous ones. And we loved it.
We loved it, and it went both ways.
I remember phoning once, on our way home from a day of picnicking and wading in the rock pools of St Andrews. And we were invited to âteaâ (the evening meal in many parts of Scotland).
There were probably toys everywhere. Crumbs on the floor. Â Some sprinkles on the toilet seat. But I donât remember.
I remember the lamb chops smothered in curry paste, the homemade sweet potato chips sprinkled with salt and hot pepper seeds. I remember Maryâs smile. I remember there was cake.
Later on, Mary and I nursed cups of milky tea beside the patio doors while the men took the children into the cool autumn air to play on the trampoline. Two tired mamas, we talked, we laughed, we shared our hearts so that the other knew how to pray. We felt stronger. We knew love.
You see, a mama doesnât mind it. Not one little bit.
Doesnât mind balancing her cup of tea as she picks her way over the minefield of toys to make her way to your couch.
Doesnât mind grabbing a wad of toilet roll to wipe sprinkles from your toilet seat.
Has selective vision when it comes to the pile of dishes in your sink.
She didnât come to inspect your house. She didnât come to give you extra work.
She came for the friendship. The laughter.
She came to see you.
Friendship and laughter bring sanity. Clarity. Helps us see that most of the chaos is normal, and weâre not the only ones going through it all.
God made us that way. To bear one another’s burdens. To celebrate together.
And I have to remind myself of this often–
that my desire is to bless, not impress.Â
Thatlaughter is made brighter, tears are made lighter when thereâs cake.
Cake, and of course, a hot cup of tea.
And so even if you are a tired mama, donât let this stop you from letting others into your house, especially if they are a tired mama, too.
Read If You Know A Tired Mama (how to love her) Part 1 & Part 2
Avonlea x
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She came one night with a raw chicken. I knew she’d be staying a while. And I welcomed her into the quiet of our little stone house.
John was away in London. Or Edinburgh, perhaps. And even with the woods and the beaches to walk, the days and nights grew long, just Baby and me.
Soon the oven warmed the kitchen, and the smells spread through the house. And she sat with me while I fed and changed him. Spoke with me, listened, like she’d nowhere else to go.
And when Baby was down, and our bellies were full, she sat a bit longer just to chat.
A few months on and we were headed south, leaving Inverness for the hills of Perthshire,
and she came back.
She and another friend, as if it were nothing.
They came with boxes, newspapers, and bags, and within a few days the house was wrapped and packed, and it was nothing I could have done on my own, not me and Baby, who climbed in and out of boxes, unpacking what I’d packed.
And I was grateful, oh so grateful, for their help.
But it was more than the job, of course, more than helping me move house.
It was also their time, their laughter, their there-ness
that spoke volumes to my tired mama heart.Â
Saying that, I loved the help.
Acts of service is a love language I so appreciate and understand.Â
But not every mama loves someone showing up with a dust rag and a mop.
An offer to help clean her house can make her feel inadequate. Like she’s failed as a homemaker and it’s clear to all the world that she’s drowning in laundry and dust. Â
So if you know a tired mama and you really want to love her,Â
first find out what kind of love* speaks to her tired mama heart.Â
If it’s Acts of Service, an offer to fold her laundry, wipe down the high chair, or wash her dishes will have her heart skip a happy little beat. And if you sit and chat with her while you do it, while she feeds the baby, she’ll appreciate it even more. Have a bit more time? Offer to sit with the children while she grocery shops solo. The sacrifice of your time and hard work will make her feel cared for more than anything else.
If it’s Quality Time, bring some muffins, just spend time with her, chaos and all. Or if you can, whisk her out for coffee and a chat. Or offer to join her on a trip to the park with the children. What this mama craves is your active presence. It doesn’t matter what you’re doing, she just wants to see you and to build your friendship, whatever you do together.
If it’s Words of Affirmation, this mama needs encouragement, truth, and peace spoken into her life. Compliment her on her strengths, and what she’s doing right as a mother and wife. Tell her how you value her friendship. Remind her of God’s love for her, His child. If you can’t tell her in person, call or send a card.
If it’s Gifts, this mama would love you to turn up with a pot of soup and a loaf of bread. A bag of clothes that your little one has outgrown. A new diaper bag to replace hers, which is so worn out. Anything to let her know you were thinking of her. She probably wouldn’t turn down a gift certificate to her favourite restaurant or spa, but the price is not the issue. She’ll just be delighted to know you were thinking of her, whatever gift you bring.
If it’s Phyisical Touch, what this mama might need more anything else is a hug.
Being the mama (or daddy!) of little ones is not an easy task. Not a nine-to-five kind of job. It begins from the time we open our eyelids to the time we lay down our weary heads (and often continues through the night as well). We long to raise our children to be rich in faith, love, and good works, but such important work can seem overwhelming when running on such a little bit of sleep. So if there’s a tired mama in your life, find a way to help herbe the faithful wife and mama she so longs to be by showing her love in a way that will strengthen her and help her run strong.
Avonlea x
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Going from a big church to a small one is akin to moving from bustling New York City to the village of Avonlea on Prince Edward Island. Or so it seemed to me. After moving from Scotland, we spent our first 8 years in America at a mega-church. We loved the cookies and the coffee with flavored creamer pods. The choo-choo train in the nursery. The worship band. And how easily we could apply the teaching to our lives. But after 8 years of striving to find a steady small group, and volunteering weekly in Sunday School, we still hadn’t found our people. We made friends, but American life is busy, and distance made actually seeing those friends a problem. We longed for nearby friends. You know,kindred spirits. Friends you call last minute to join you for a walk in the woods, or a cup of tea on the porch. Friends who know you . . . and love you anyway.
Then Covid came, and our church closed. For quite some time. More than ever, we ached to share life with friends. So we started attending a small church. And fell in love. Here’s why . . .
1. Friendship – Some churches have the population of a small country. You could go months without speaking to anyone. Spend years giving a cheery smile and answering “Great! You?” when asked how you’re doing, even if you’re dying inside. At least that’s how it was for us. In some ways, it’s easier. But if you long for a place where you’re noticed, wanted, known, try a tiny church . . . Shortly after starting at our little church, we met two families who wonderfully, surprisingly, almost instantly, became an intimate part of our lives. Sarah and her husband and children, who live locally. And Ann and her husband and children, who were here for a year of aviation training before heading for the mission field. At first it was the children running circles together and playing tag in the church lawn, while the adults made small talk. But small talk at church quickly turned to invitations to Sunday lunch, then time together during the week.
“If one member suffers, all suffer together; if one member is honored, all rejoice together.”
– I Corinthians 12:26
2.Breaking Bread – In case you’re wondering, Church Picnics, Ice Cream Socials, and Pot Lucks are still going strong in many small churches. And yes, you might find meatloaf, casseroles, and Jello salad, if you’re lucky. But invitations for Sunday lunch or Saturday cook-outs are also not extinct. And we know eating together is about a lot more than putting food in our mouths. It’s about sharing our joys and burdens. Lightening each other’s loads with a listening ear and a hug . . . We “broke bread” with our new friends in the church hall, drinking hot cocoa after a drive to see the frozen waves of Lake Michigan. At picnic tables, before a hike in the woods to see the first green haze of spring. Under the stars, roasting s’mores and watching fireworks. On the porch, sipping coffee and talking about marriage, our children, the tough lessons God was teaching us. True friendships were built, and trust too, over refills of coffee and wiping our children’s sticky popsicle hands. With trust came the ability to speak honestly, bare our souls, and lift each other up. Life is so much sweeter when you don’t eat–or hurt, or laugh–alone.
“breaking bread from house to house, they were taking their meals together with gladness and sincerity of heart.”
– Acts 2:46
3. Finding Your Place – Big churches run on an army of volunteers, and we were blessed by the loving hands that served in our big church. But in a large congregation it can be intimidating to offer your services as a musician, Sunday School teacher, or small group leader, especially if you don’t consider yourself a semi-professional, or at least really cool. With our busy lives, having all the slots filled might feel like a good thing. But it also deprives us and our children the opportunity to serve . . . We soon found how useful we could all be at our little church, and what a blessing it was to serve alongside others. At Christmas we drove to the homes of those who couldn’t get out, singing carols and leaving cookies. In the spring my oldest sons and I cleaned the church windows while the two little boys helped the pastor heap mulch around newly planted petunias. On hot summer days, we hung out together at church with Sarah, Ann, and the pastor’s wife, crunching celery sticks and creating a Wild West town for Vacation Bible School. I started buying flavored creamer for Sunday morning coffee, and Sarah brought red and pink zinnias from her garden to brighten the women’s Sunday School. My oldest started to play cello for “special music.” The younger ones sang on stage and made cards to give out. And yes, the church needed cleaning, bulletins needed handed out, and people needed shown to their seats. No one did everything, but everyone did something. Our children learned that they, too, are a valuable part of the church family, and have something worth contributing to bless others. It’s so precious to know you belong.
“Spur one another on to love and good works.“
–Hebrews 10:24
If you find yourself in-between churches, or feeling alone, get connected to a truth-teaching local church. Yes, you could slip in and out without speaking to anyone–but this might be a challenge! Always choose to take this as friendly curiosity and a desire to welcome you in. For you are wanted, you are valued, you are needed. If you’re already part of a small church, make sure you warmly welcome newcomers in the warmest kind of way. Jesus would want you to.
Avonlea x
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March now, and so time to bring out my Daffodil needlepoint cushion that I bought my first year in Scotland. Time to replace my heart wreath on the porch with my Easter one. Time to purchase a hyacinth and marvel again as I watch it bloom. Little things that bring me joy, give my boys an appreciation for the passings seasons, and bring a bit of beauty to my home.
Beauty. That’s what my little corner of the Internet is supposed to be about. Opening our eyes to beautiful things–everyday, in the world around us. And I haven’t stopped looking, though I’ve been hibernating this winter, as much as I possibly could. The pause has done me good. I’ve been grateful for Arctic temps that meant canceled activities and an excuse to stay in. Grateful for the glorious sharp white light and blue winter skies that are so unusual for my state. Grateful just to rest.
But resting is not often simply resting, but often thinking, too. And I’ve asked myself again about this beauty and what it really means. And I know that beauty is more than a Pinterest-perfect home or wardrobe. More than an appreciation for nature. More than adventure, or being organized, or a success. Real beauty only exists in the external when it reflects the internal. Beauty, in its essence, is love.
And so with the beautifying of my space comes the desire to lavish beauty on others. To welcome them to my home (or make my own family feel welcome here!). A space where they, themselves, are made to feel more beautiful because of how they are loved and served here. Loved and made to feel accepted and valued no matter what they’re wearing or what car they parked in my garage. Loved enough to be served a scrumptious feast on my best dishes–or enough to have pizza ordered so I can sit with them on the couch while they speak, whichever way is loving them best.
We do not always have to bring others into our home to bring them beauty. We can take it to them with a genuine smile, with a hug or warm handshake, with our focused attention as we ask about their life.
I’m reminded of a scene in Catherine Marshall’s book, Christy, when she visits the humble home of mountain woman Fairlight Spencer–“in a chipped cup she had put trillium and violets . . . ‘the very first,’ she told us, and unself-consciously reached out slender fingers to caress the flowers.” Next came gingerbread, and roasted chestnuts, and dulcimer music. The surroundings were humble, and the company could have been called that, too. But because there was yearning for the good and beautiful, and a desire to share it with their guests, the Spencer family lifted Christy’s heart.
And that’s what real beauty–in our homes or on our faces–will do. It does not seek to invoke jealousy in others. It does not make them feel less. Instead it invites them into the beauty, makes them feel part of it. Gives them glimpses of the Author of beauty. Glimpses of His love.
May you find many a small violet or beam of sunshine to make you pause and smile this springtime. May the beauty you see bring you peace and make you both feel, and long to share, our Father’s love.
Avonlea x
For more inspiration, bookishness, and mad stories of life homeschooling 4 wee men,
And I had been crying that day. Leaning against the countertop in the kitchen and sobbing it all out while the boys played in the next room.
The oldest came in but I didnât stop.
âWhy are you crying, Mummy?â Tender little heart of the firstborn child.
And so I told him.
âIâm sorry.â Sad little smile of sympathy, then off he goes to play.
It had been the best part of four hours. A good stretch of my day. Finding the words, getting them out. Fonts and photos chosen and arranged. And I was close, so close, to pushing the button. Sharing the post. But then some crazy glitch in my computer, and in a second it was gone. Crazier still, the site hadnât, as it usually does, been auto-saving every two minutes. And so it was gone. My post. My day.
After a call to John, a few more tears of despair, a few frantic attempts to get it all back, I gave up. Gave in. There was nothing to be done.
The sun was shining. Setting the snow to sparkling like ten million diamonds sprinkled on the smooth dips and hills of our backyard. A little gift–and nothing to be sniffed at–for us and this frozen, grey tundra weâve been calling home.
The sun was shining and so after a few more tears I whisked up Mr. Waddlesworth by his portly 1-year-old middle, his legs sticking out behind me like two pink stumps, called the other boys, and announced, âWeâre going sledding.â
And so from the oak chest in the mudroom, one of the few pieces of furniture we brought with us from Scotland, I began to toss out the snow gear. Wrap up my boys up like marshmallow men. Though my heart wasnât in it, we were going to go.
And when we were all nearly ready, he said it, in his sing-songy three-year-old voice.
âThis is a happy day,â he said, âbecause Jesus loves us.â
Thatâs just what he said, and I hugged him for it.
Thatâs just what he said, and I wanted to cry.
And that wasnât all, from my wise little General. My black-olive eye boy, my precious gift.
Just as I zipped up my own coat, he put up his red-mittened thumb and said, âGreat jacket, Mummy.â
Thatâs just what he said, and my heart had to melt, for the generous gift of their words, my boys. For their sympathy, their compliments, their declaration of truth.
Not that itâs always the case. The General was born with the fight in him. My passionate soul who loves to wrestle and throws his blocks more than heâll ever build a thing. And my oldest, well, heâs prone to sulking. Tender heart that canât bear for a thing to go wrong. And Mr. Waddlesworthâs had an obsession recently with scattering cereal (whole boxes at times), and he spends the rest of his days crying as he tries to climb my legs.
And it doesnât take much, sometimes. Just one foam sword fight too many. That second spilled drink that I have to clean up. The crunch of cereal under my slipper. Thatâs all it takes sometimes, and my nerves are undone. Â Anger boiling up inside me like baking soda tossed in vinegar. Because life isnât easy, and in a torrent of words and frustration many syllables too high, theyâre all going to hear about it, my little souls. My little men.
Because isnât it my right to vocalize my dissatisfactionâwith what I have, with how Iâve been treated, with all that went wrong with my day? To tell anyone who asks, or anyone I can make to listen, all that is wrong with my world?
I do let myself believe it. Yes, sometimes I do. I speak and act as if my words will leave my listeners unruffled, unaffected, unchanged. That I can somehow pour upon them the greyness of my worries and my woes about my job and my house, my children and my spouse, and expect to leave them feeling inspired, encouraged, beaming with light.
But that is not, of course, the case.
What those words do is drag their hearts right down.
For our words are not invisible, not neutral particles that vanish like the wind. They are like music, whose melody and lyrics sway our very moods and actions, and stay long years in our minds and hearts.
And when we complain, when we shout, when we voice our dissatisfaction, or bring to the attention of others something that is negative or out of place, we bring these sorrows, this discontentment, this darkness to the forefront of their minds.
And God, of course, calls us to a different way.
He asks that we speak about, think about, all we are thankful for, all that is right.
whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable â if anything is excellent or praiseworthy â think about such things.
~Philippians 4:8
When itâs convenient and Iâm felling well. Â Kind, thankful words.
When itâs inconvenient and Iâm not. Kind, thankful words.
On that day last week they taught me, my little men, the immense, the incredible, the significant power of our words.
Not that Iâm there yet. Not that itâs easy. But it is a worthy goal, and worth the effort to seek to bring true beauty to our homes and lives. To bless others, and teach our children to bless.
For beautiful eyes, look for the good in others; for beautiful lips, speak only words of kindness; and for poise, walk with the knowledge that you are never alone.
For more breathtaking pics of Great Britain, inspiring quotes from our favourite authors, & peeks into the daily life of a boymum looking for beauty in the everyday things in life, find Avonlea on
âPretend youâre eating with the Queen,â sheâd say, my mother, in those preschool years when my sisters and I would gather around the table for our lunch of cottage cheese and tinned pineapple rings. Oh, and we knew something of the Queen, over in her castle in England, and of Princess Diana and all her lovely clothes. I owned copies of them, after all. Paper copies, which fit neatly onto my Princess Diana paper doll.Â
And so when sheâd say it, our minds were filled with pictures of a royal banquet at Buckingham Palace. And my sisters and I made sure to keep our elbows off the table, chew with our mouths closed, and always say âPlease pass,â instead of stretching for something out of reach.
But they werenât quite enough, those lessons in manners. Didnât quite do the trick when, sixteen years later, I found myself dining with real royaltyâwell, they were only 42nd in line for the throne, as I was told. But for this young American, that came close enough.
I arrived by train. My friend was there to greet me, and as we climbed into the car and whizzed down the single track road towards his family home, I felt as though I were being driven to another world. Through the maze of green hedgerows that towered around us, I caught glimpses of thatched cottages and gently rolling fields. Â The sky grew smaller as the hedgerows grew taller. And in the next couple of days, I would grow smaller, too.Â
âMy mother is hosting a dinner party,â he said, my friend, âand you should probably apologize for arriving in the middle of it.â
Wide-eyed, I assented, and when we arrived at the most ancient of large cottages that his family called home, I found his parents and six of their friends gathered around a table (which was really a 400-year-old door) for a casual four-course summer evening meal.Â
I dutifully apologized, was met with murmured acceptances of that apology, and was then seated to the left of his mother.Â
The meal could have gone worse, I suppose, if Iâd tried to make it so, though I made a small disaster of the affair quite well without even having to try.Â
And what did I do that was so very wrong?
I could have laughed a little quieter, eaten a little less, declined the cheese course. But I did not.Â
And when the man to my left made a comment about the side-by-side American style refrigerator that my friendâs family had just purchased, followed by the statement that everything in America is large, I could have smiled demurely and said something diplomatic like, âPerhaps that is so, but bigger does not always mean better.â But I did not.Â
And when, for the first time in my life, my nose started to bleed, I could have quietly slipped from the table into the other room until it stopped. But as I had a proper handkerchief with me, I decided to use that to dab at my nose, thinking the bleeding would soon stop. But it did not, and I waited until the elderly man who sat across from me looked at me with a measure of horror before I decided to slip away.Â
But there is more.Â
Manners are a sensitive awareness of the feelings of others. If you have that awareness, you have good manners, no matter which fork you use. Â
â Emily Post
The next day I awoke to find my hosts in the garden wearing their wellies, having just returned from a countryside stroll with their King Charles spaniel. I was offered some strawberries from a large basket on the kitchen door-table and asked how I had slept.
The main activity of the day was watching my friend play cricket, that most English of games. I sat with his parents to watch the match, where we could look down at the local castle and admire how brilliantly the menâs white cricket uniforms stood out against the green.
âDo you ride?â I was asked.Â
I had taken horseback riding lessons, but as it had been a few years, I replied with an honest, âNo.â
His parents looked thoroughly unimpressed.Â
And later on back at the house, as I sat beside the enormous inglenook fireplace while my friend watched a football match on the telly, I was asked, âAnd what do your parents do?â
It was all a bit too much like that scene in Pride and Prejudice when Elizabeth Bennett visits Rosings Park and is interrogated by Lady Catherine De Bourgh. âDo you play and sing?â and âDo you draw?â and all the rest.Â
I cringe as I remember the humiliation I endured, though I didnât realize I was enduring it at the time.
I sigh as I recall the golden English June sunlight that bathed those few days, illuminating the green of the fields and pouring through the windows of that old house.
I laugh at the shock I must have given my friendâs family, especially when I imagine the fear they must have felt that he would fall in love with me and that they would have to welcome me into the family.
And what I wouldnât give to go back and re-do the visit. Not to deny who I wasâthe great-granddaughter of poor immigrants who chose to make America their homeâbut to present myself with more of the discretion, thoughtfulness, and self-respect that I now possess. But that was then, and this is now, and had the visit gone differently, I wouldnât have been left with such a fine story to tell.
The smell of rain as dusk fell. We bumped along the gravel road, windows down, past the old barn. From the house, a row of smiles along the porch as they raised their hands farewell.
Weâd spent the last of a warm autumn day there.
A birthday celebration.
Pumpkin cake, and coffee, and the smell of cinnamon candles.
Pushing the boys on the tire swing.
Gazing out across corn fields.
Watching a wool blanket on the wash line stir in the breeze.
Ideas flew. Memories, too.
Laughter bouncing over all.
And it breathed peace on me.
The space, and the home, and the people inside.
Peace, because there, I can just beâunfiltered. Because if things were good, full saturated colors, I could say it. And theyâd all say how happy they were for me. And no one would think I was boasting . . . because if things were greyscale bad, I could say that, too. And I would. And all their good and bad, theyâd say it to me, too.
Peace, because there, I am enough. Peace, because people like these people would make anyone feel enoughâand not just enough, but wanted. Valued as they are.
Yet earlier in the day I saw a friendâs face fall as she shared how her sonâs friends had all joined a new soccer league without bothering to tell her. She and her son thought they were âin,â but turns out they were not. And they are new to this place, the family, and it was such a struggle to call a strange place home. And neighbors and schoolmates could have made that all different, but in their busyness, and the fun they were having with each other, they did not.
Oh, how fun it looks at the center of it all. Where things are happening, and people are pretty and smart. Where marriages, and outfits, and landscaping all seem together. Filter-perfect images of a seemingly perfect life. And if youâre perfect enough then they might let you âin,â because being a Christian, or being a human is somehow not enough.
But we see through it, yes, we see itâwhen eyes glance to the side, looking for someone more important than you to speak with. Someone they could better benefit from. When they glance you up and down and you know youâre not quite right. When the smile is with the mouth but not the heart.
So they can have âin,â if they want it, for I know what they miss. Judging books by their covers is never wise. And when filter-perfect is all youâve got, how can you have peace, knowing that if they catch you unfilteredâsee you for who you really areâyou just might be âout,â too.
Yes, too many of the best friends come with wrinkled skin, or old cars, or hurt. And those who have known hurt, and broken, and ugly, can turn out to be the ones we love most. They have the strongest arms to lean on. The best wisdom to share. And though beauty or riches may be theirs, they will not point it out. Will not flaunt it. Rather, they see it as something to share.
Itâs hard for me, too. Proud one that I can be. Ashamed one, fearing in my deepest heart that someone will catch me unfilteredâsee a corner of my house, a piece of my wardrobe, a glimpse of my marriage that will reveal me as the flawed person that I am. But though I know I will not click with everyone, let me yet be the one who can live unfiltered enough with my home, and my smile, and my time, that for the length of my interaction with each person, I can make them feel seen. Feel enough. Feel loved.
happy little sigh 