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
Earlier, on that cold walk through the night to the student flat where a group of us were meeting for a DVD, there were questions about peanut butter (isnât that what Americans eat?), and secret smiles, and I thought he must be very young.
I was in Scotland.
The world was green, and there were castles, and though I could hardly understand a word of what he said, my red-haired Scottish loon from the village on the sea,
on the pages of my journal I swore I could marry that boy.
And, more to my amazement than anyone elseâs, I did.
We moved to Scotland, and life began.
It began. It didnât end.
Not like the movies or the books, where it ends with âI do.â
No, that was the beginning.
And I went to teaching and he went to working. And meals were cooked, and floors were swept, and a baby came. And although it happened, every few months, that Iâd pinch myself and wonder how little me ever ended up there, in the Highlands of Scotland, most of the time it was just life.
And while life was happening, it also happenedâas it happens to us all, I thinkâthat somewhere between the tenth time washing the dishes and the hundredth time making the bed, between the hundredth night up with a crying baby and the thousandth time wiping a toddlerâs face, that I began to wonder.
I wondered if this was right.
Because this was not how happily ever after was supposed to go.
Castles and Scottish mist aside, I wasnât supposed to be tired all of the time, and the housework wasnât supposed to take so long. I wasnât supposed to get lonely, and we werenât, no we werenât supposed find within our hearts such moments of hate that with our words and our eyes and a turning of our backs we would wound each other. Leave each other bruised, starved, and with our very hands widen the cavern between ourselves and God and between each other.
And yet we did.
And the days were dark.
We could have walked, either one of us, in search of our real life. Our real fairy tale. And though we didn’t feel it, we chose to believe it when we heard that the grass is always greener where you water it.
And even yellow grass, or even brown and dry, can become green. But youâve got to water it every day.
Even when it’s the last thing you want to do.
And you can try to be happy with it just being all right, or so-so, but Iâve got to ask you, like I asked myself, donât you want the very best?
More than anything, I love to talk of those first days.
The first dance. The first giggle. The first time I dared to touch his shoulder with my head.
Because I know I must remember who he is. Who he really is, deep insideâthat boy I first met.
Weâre the same people, he and I, deep, deep inside.
Oh, sometimes weâre both still so angry, weâd like to do a whole lot more than spit. And it takes a whole lot more than a little grace to make it through.
But love is not self-seeking.
And real love gets a little less sleep, a little less time for what we want, a little less of what we most love to eat, to make the other person happy. To give them joy. To make them strong.
Never underestimate the power of a smile. The power of a kind word.
Like water to grass, they are spring rain to the soul.
No, life doesnât end with âI do.â That is where it begins.
For you and your Mr. Darcy.
For me and mine.
Avonlea x
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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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We sat across from each other at the table for two. Busy Friday night hum. Instruments and speakers toted past as a band set up for a live show. Between us, two gluten-free Greek pizzas, lavender drinks, and so much to say.
We met on Valentine’s Day, age eight. Instant friendship. From then on, we were sisters–she, and I, and her twin sister, and her cousin. Four kindred spirits. Through the rest of childhood and the teenage years, we shared it all. Our secrets. Our dreams for the future. Our clothes. We blushed over boys. Cried hard tears on each other’s shoulders over heart-breaks and family drama. Made plans for many more adventures together.
Then early adulthood, and choices were made. And we went our separate ways. I moved to Scotland. With an ocean between us for years, it wasn’t hard to grow apart. That, and we each had our demons to fight.But then I returned, back to the USA. We saw each other once, twice, then several times. And with each meeting came more trusting, more sharing of the parts of our stories we’d missed.
And as we sat in that noisy restaurant last Friday night, we spoke again of the particulars of our lives. Of our mistakes, our regrets, and how we’d grown. She said something nice about my house. I smiled dreamily as she spoke of her daughter–something I’ve never had. And it occurred to us both–occurred to us that we can never see our own life as it looks from the outside. Did you hear that? Other people will naturally and unknowingly take what they see on social media, what they know of your possessions and your family, and the personality you portray in public, and for better or worse, will construct a movie-trailer-like idea of your life. And this, they will think, it what it must be like to be you. And we, in turn, do the same for them.
We look at other women, and so often we see only what she has that I don’t. That child. That house. That career. That husband. That body. That confidence. And we think because she has some of those things that we don’t, she must be happy. She must feel complete. It’s easy to miss the in-between bits. The hurts and the struggles. The tedious times. The longings each of us have. The depth of each human soul.
It’s easy to forget all that. Easy to forget that others are praying for what we already have. That we, ourselves, once prayed for the many blessings we now enjoy. So today, instead of comparing your life to the false picture you’ve concocted of someone else’s life, let your mind dwell on the many blessings in your own life. For comparison is nothing but a thief of joy.
Avonlea xo
For more inspiration, bookishness, and mad stories of life homeschooling 4 wee men,
I saw them through the window. It wasn’t my moment, but I froze anyway. Watched. Not that it was deep grief I saw. Nor even great joy. Just a needing of one another. A finding of peace and delight in the one who had, for so many years, been there for you.
And so like there was nothing else in the world more important, there on the driveway, with leaves scattered around, she laid a grey head against his chest. He, still towering above her, wrapped his arms around. And gently, gently, he rocked.
Three years, we came and went as neighbors. And it’s hard to hide from those living so close the truest state of affairs. That is, we could maybe hide a lot of bad, but it would take something a whole lot more to pretend a lot of good. To just sit there on your front porch sipping iced tea with lemon, pretending you both wanted to be there together, if in fact, you did not.
And it’s not that either one pretended perfection. We heard the stories many times–around a bonfire, our faces lit orange in the night. Or in one of our living rooms, clutching cups of coffee that would keep us up all night. Or on their front porch when they asked us to join them, which they often did.
He would get to telling stories, and she would chip in. And his voice carried, sing-song like, rising here, dipping there, as the story rolled on. So yes, we heard it all. About the early days of their marriage, when he was trucking and she was left alone with her worry, trying to raise their two boys. About his swearing and rough-and-tumble ways before he came to the cross.
Last month we were invited to help them celebrate their Golden–married fifty years! There in the township hall basement we gathered, their family and those of us blessed enough to be called friends.
I set my boys at a table, with vanilla cake and foamy punch, and circled round the room. Talked to her granddaughters (five of them, and she’s a boymom, too!). Looked at every photo. At her wedding dress displayed in the center of the room. And there, just beside it on the table–the place of honor in the room–the book I’d seen open on his lap, turned to this . . .
And just below it, this . . .
They’d neither one claim that every one of those fifty years was an easy one. What they would both make clear is that God stepped into their lives, changed them, and has been leading them ever since.
What they’d tell you, as they’ve told me, is that when you seek to follow the Lord, you may stumble, but you can never be on the wrong path. And that when one person does what’s best for the other, a marriage can survive. If both people do what’s best for the other, the marriage can thrive.
I woke smiling. Basking in the sunlight I could feel on my eyelids and in the merry sound of a little bird’s song.
The snow had melted, the sky was blue. Surely we’d put the days of cold and darkness behind us and spring was here. But, oh, not so! Winter is putting up a terrific final fight here in Midwestern USA, and we are living in a snow globe once again.
But I haven’t lost heart, for it will at last be defeated, and until it does, I have every excuse to boil the kettle, slip my feet into my slippers, and curl up with my book.
I’m back in Mitford, do you know it? Have you met Cynthia and Father Tim? They seem real enough that I feel I should introduce them, but then I do have a subconscious way of disbelieving that many of my favourite characters were, in fact, made up. Fictional. Didn’t ever actually exist.
I find myself wondering if they could still be alive . . . or their children or grandchildren at the very least. Maybe a few more greats in there if you’re talking Elizabeth Bennet or Jane Eyre. But Anne Shirley, yes, she and Gilbert could easily have some grandchildren still living. Maybe even children, at a push. I think Rilla was in her early teens during the first World War.
But this character–what to say of them? What to say to convince you that if you haven’t ever visited Mitford, then you really, really should?
I was disbelieving myself, in the beginning. Had a hard time thinking I could ever so adore a book whose hero was a 60-something-year-old Episcopalian priest. But I’ve grown to love him. Him, and the woman he woos, and the people they love and live out life with in their little mountain town.
In the lives of these individuals you will find most of the tragedy and pain you would encounter almost anywhere in this world. There, written across the pages in black and white. And yet the characters are not left abandoned to a cold and self-seeking world. They have each other. And through the actions and words of Father Tim–keen gardener, Wordsworth quoter, reluctant jogger–they are reminded that they also have God.
There are days I’d like to stop by the rectory. Sit by the fire. Ask Cynthia to see her latest watercolor. Rest my body and soul as I sip a cup of sweet Southern iced tea.
I’d like to see these two in action. These two love-birds who go on picnics, and surprise each other with presents, and go walking in the rain. These two who pray together–the prayer that never fails–and though they may themselves be struggling, still seek to shine light into each other’s lives time and time again.
And I’d like to hear her say it. Hear Cynthia tell Father Tim what she loves. And hear him ask back, “What don’t you love?” Because she’s ever so good at saying it. Ever so good at NOT complaining, but instead putting into words her delight in every good and perfect gift, no matter how small. Rain on a summer evening. Sleeping an extra three minutes. An unexpected email from a friend. Why not give thanks for it all?
Complaints come tumbling out so easily, spreading discouragement to all those who hear. So I’m trying to remember to say it–to give thanks out loud for every gift, every glimpse of beauty, no matter how small.Â
The movement leaves me dizzy, for fast was never a speed that Iâve done well. Though words can come fast (from my lips or from my fingers), my moving and living, Iâve always done slow.
And itâs caused me problems, a little more than once, all my ponderings and perhapses. For time is sovereign in this world of ours, and doesnât often leave room for the extras. The smelling of roses, the sighing over music, the browsing of books. And so while I start out ambling through my day like a Sunday driver, I end up racing half panic -stricken to make up for lost time and reach this or that place when I’m supposed to be there.
No, life doesnât give us time enough for wonder. No, not enough time at all. Not like I thought it would be, those days before my real children came, when I poured over Victorian homemaker’s guides, all those black and white photos of ringletted children sprawled out on quilts to watch the clouds pass by, or gathered round the fire while their mother darned their stockings and read from Grimmâs Fairy Tales.
While we have our moments, our moments of creativity and laughter and peace, it seems to me that every day is more like a race. A mad rush to cross off my list, and get through the cycle I completed just the day before (with a few things extra, if I’m lucky).
Itâs a mad rush, a frenzy, and the movement leaves me dizzy. For all day, every day, I move things. Move crumbs from tables and high chairs, from countertops and floors. Move clothes from hamper to washing machine, from washing machine to dryer, from dryer to drawer. Move dishes from dishwasher to cupboards, from cupboards to table, and back again. And the toys, oh the toys!
I move people, too. In and out of cribs and high chairs, pajamas and nappies, car seats and prams. The boys, they move, too. Round me in circles at times, trailing behind them their tears, their bickering, their shouts, till I feel like they’ve bound me and I might just crash.
And Iâm running and Iâm rushing, taking glances at my list, hardly stopping it seems at times, to eat or drink, let alone to wonder. Ponder. Enjoy.
Through the blinding light of these last few daysâthe unhindered light of the winter sun glaring off mountains of snowâIâve tried to stand back and look. To breathe deeply and untangle the movement, the activity, and the noise. To find beauty, find truth, and remind myself why I do what I do. Where weâre headed, and why I dared to bring these little lives into the world.
For what is the point of making our home look peaceful and beautiful, if peace and beauty are not found in our hearts? And how can I ever find the strength to have patience in those moments of chaos, or have serenity, or joy, or wonder enough to pour out on my children, if I do not first take time to let myself be filled?
I donât often have hours. For though Iâd like it otherwise, busyness is the call of motherhood. But Iâve learned the importance of taking a few minutesâeven five or tenâto feel Godâs arms around me, listen to his voice, and ask his Spirit to fill me with his strength, his stillness, his truth.
Without him I so often end up on a merry-go-round of movement, my head spinning, and my day feeling as fractured as a mirror broken into a thousand colored shards, and I cannot think straight enough to put back the pieces.
And so that alarm gets set. A few moments to myself. I’m tired, yes, but those twenty minutes of quiet, just me and God, will make all the difference for the rest of my day.
I asked some friends to help me by sharing their favourite morning readings. Some are my favourites, too, and the others, I look forward to reading. A few are also available on CD, for drives in the car or mountains of laundry that need folded or ironed! As I said, I haven’t read them all, and so cannot comment on each one, but I’d SO love to hear your thoughts on ones you’ve read–or suggestions for more! Most can be purchased on christianbook.com
One Minute With God by Kathy Hardee
The Book Lover’s Devotional from Barbour Publishing
Running Into Water â by Angela Blycker
Jesus Calling by Sarah Young
Jesus Today by Sarah Young
Jesus Lives by Sarah Young
One Thousand Gifts DevotionalJournal by Ann Voskamp
Near Unto God by Abraham Kuyper
Morning and Evening by Charles H. Spurgeon
Because He Loves Me by Elyse Kirkpatrick
Comforts from the Cross by Elyse Kirkpatrick
My Utmost for His Highest by Oswald Chambers
Surrender: The Heart God Controls by Nancy Leigh DeMoss
Hinds Feet on High Places by Hannah Hurnard
Crazy Love – Overwhelmed by a Relentless God by Francis Chan
Forgotten God – Reversing Our Tragic Neglect of the Holy Spirit by Francis Chan
Reading the Biblewith the Damned by Bob Ekland
Expository Thoughtson the Gospels by J.C. Ryle
Fifty Reasons Why Jesus Came to Die by John Piper
Pierced by the Word by John Piper
Life as a Vapor by John Piper
Seeing and Savoring Jesus Christ by John Piper
The Great Work of the Gospel by John Ensor
Streams in the Desert by L.B. Cowman
The Precious Things of God by Octavius Winslow
Spiritual Depression by D. Martin Lloyd-Jones
He is There and He is Not Silent by Francis A. Schaeffer
Let the word of Christ richly dwell within you, with all wisdom teaching and admonishing one another with psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing with thankfulness in your hearts to God. And whatever you do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks through Him to God the Father.
A Dozen Cosies to Warm Your Heart & Your Hands and  Bless Your Week . . .
Spread a blanket and have a picnic lunch inside. Or a candlelit picnic at night when the children are abed?
Buy a bouquet of fresh flowers and divide them up in jars around your house. Don’t forget your bathroom and your bedside table. And don’t forget to give them a smell. Â
Rake some leaves and jump in the pile. Go in and warm your hands and your soul with some tea.
4. Bake something with cinnamon. Apple pie?
5. Go for a walk and pray until your nose and cheeks are red. Then go in and warm up with some tea.
6. Watch Anne of Green Gables and laugh and sigh when Anne is âin the depths of despair.â
happy little sigh 