Hats

Date

Chic purple wool and blonde curls frame the chocolate-stained face, looking small above the edge of the wooden table. Lilah and I are on a date. As her reward for memorizing Psalm 121, I'm taking her out for hot chocolate and a treat. Memorizing is a daily pre-breakfast duty which she usually counts as a privilege, a time when she sits on my lap and repeats phrases after me, sometimes copying my inflections, sometimes coming up with her own sing-song. Maybe she doesn't understand all the words now (though her insightful questions sometimes reveal that she understands more than I would have guessed), but what treasures she is tucking away for the rest of her life.

So, on a snowy Wednesday afternoon after Kita, Lilah and I put our boots and coats on and set out. In the landing outside our apartment door, she turns to me with arms outstretched, a sparkly smile, and an unmistakable, unspoken request: carry me? Quite irresistible. I scoop her up and bring those twinkling, trusting eyes right up next to mine. Last night's snow has freshened and softened the world, and I am primed to slow down and enjoy the charm. "Come on, we're going for a sleigh ride," Lilah sings. "Can you sing that song to me?" We sing "Jingle Bells" together as I carry her across the street to the little bakery.

Together, we examine the case. Lilah decides on "chocolate cake with cherries;" I order a small hot chocolate, a cappuccino, and one piece of cake with two forks. While we wait for our treats to arrive, we talk about Grandpa's arrival on Saturday, Lilah's day at Kita, and pigs. "Can you read me the story of the three little pigs?" Lilah asks. So I begin to tell her the story, her face growing serious and still as she looses herself in the world of busily building pigs and a hungry wolf. Just when the first pig finishes building his house, our order arrives. Lilah requests the story to be put on hold.

The hot chocolate is a bit too hot, so we turn to the cake. I cut Lilah's half into bite-sized pieces and she chomps away as if the cake might disappear like Cinderella's ball gown and carriage. "Can I try your cake?" she asks. "I think it tastes the same as yours," I tell her. She also wants to know why only men have hair on their chins and not ladies.

The cake is gone, and Lilah remembers the pigs. So I finish the story while her hot chocolate arrives at the perfect gulping temperature. She gulps and we talk about the pigs, the decorative bolts on the table, and the snow. "One pig's name is Chinny-Chin-Chint," Lilah tells me. "What are the other pigs named?"

"I think one is Wilbur," I began.

"And," Lilah looks out the large picture window for inspiration, "Cinderglop!"

We head back across the snowy street, hand in hand. Lilah is Chinny-Chin-Chint, and I am Cinderglop. It has been less than an hour since we left home, but the moments have been like pearls on a necklace instead of a handful of pebbles. Thanks for helping me take delight, Lilah.

Festive

Last night we had our "family" Christmas celebration. We planned to get pizza from the restaurant across the street, but when we found out (at six) that it was closed, we made a spontaneous decision to go out to eat. It took us a few minutes to round up coats, hats, gloves, and gifts, and then a few more minutes to get into the van (the sliding doors freeze shut in cold weather), but eventually we were on our way to a nearby Italian restaurant. It was quiet on a Monday night, and we had one corner of the place to ourselves. We settled in to enjoy bread and olives, color, and chat while we waited for our food to come. The pizza and pasta were yummy, and everyone enjoyed their dinner. Heather and I each took a break from dinner to take a girl downstairs to the bathroom, and Cole kept signing "more" and putting away another piece of pizza. When we were finished eating, we brought out the gifts. I gave Claire two nightgowns for her birthday.

And all the kids got new Mützen (hats):

Heather helped to pay for my Christmas trip home, and she and the kids picked out some charming wooden German Christmas ornaments for me. Claire was exceedingly excited about the surprise for me, and almost as delighted for me to open my gift as she was to open hers.

Today was cookie baking day. I discovered that I miss filling a whole day with baking. As I organized my recipes and stocked the counters with flour, sugar, chocolate, and butter, I had a bit of a Le Panier throw-back -- and I liked it. I'm not sure that I really miss making 200 Bûche de Noël, baking eight or ten hours a day, five days a week, but there are parts of the job I miss. Sometimes when I do home baking projects I feel like I'm done before I've really started baking in earnest. Not so today!

Of course, falling snow and Christmas music and the smells of chocolate and caramel and baking sugar and butter might make even the Grinch perky. And how about a little boy, dancing to the Christmas music, wanting you to stop and clap, and announcing "hot!" (as he carefully climbs onto the stool to see what's on the stove) "loud!" (in reference to the KitchenAid), and "nummy!" (regarding the whole affair). Lilah says, "We're going to have dessert tonight, I fink so." Might be a good idea, Lilah.

Questions, Answers

"Julie, does God speak to you?" Claire broke the silence to ask me on Sunday afternoon. She had a stomachache, and was resting on my bed, looking at books, while I sat in my chair and journaled. "Yes, He does," I told her, delighted her interest, "but not in the same way that I hear you speaking to me." Her questions of late have been deeper than, "Why is it snowing?" or "When is my birthday?" She has also asked this week, "Julie, is there real magic?" and "Can God do anything?"

Heather and I have had some thought-provoking conversations recently as well, about praying with both boldness and humility. In my small group when we gather in Pedro's living room, our prayers are a jumble of Portuguese, German, and English, but there is a fervency that often moves me to tears - personal, passionate, and specific prayers are raised for one another. I listened to a sermon this afternoon that Eric preached at CPC last Sunday -- he preached from John 14:12-14: "You may ask for anything in my name, and I will do it."

Eric pointed out that looking at the whole of Scripture, it is obvious that not every prayer is answered just as we expect it should be (Jesus in the garden, Paul's thorn in the flesh). Yet, he maintained that the cry of a heart that is open before God is always answered. The answer may be completely unrecognizable to us as being a response to our petition, but perhaps in the end, we will see that our original request has been answered after all.

I am praying about what I should do next. I told Claire, "Sometimes God speaks to me very clearly. Like when I heard that your family needed someone to stay with them, God spoke to me and I knew He wanted me to come here." Sometimes the answer does not come knocking on my door, but I must seek it out. I trust that as much as I want to be where God wants me, so much more does He want me to be in His perfect way.

We Munchkins

At the dinner table tonight ---
Claire: Are you tired, Mommy?
Heather: A little.
Claire: Is it because of we, Mommy? Because of we munchkins?

In the living room, Claire and Lilah are playing some version of house. It is nighttime; they lie still beneath their blankets. Then, Lilah announces:
Morning time! Okay, and now we do memorizing. Trust in the Lord with all your heart! The sun will not strike you by day, nor the moon nor night. He who keeps you will not be slumbered!

Sometimes, at bedtime, we have a train to the girls' bedroom where we have story and prayer time. "This Little Light of Mine" is the usual soundtrack for the bedtime train; the girls like to get on our backs and Cole marches in front, chiming in when we get to the verse about hiding our lights. "Hide it under a bushel - No!" He keeps up a steady "No! No! No! No!" till the end of the song.

Christmas Time

Condensation on the outside of my window has frozen into an ice sheath, entombing me in my room. This morning, I could see through the ice to a scarf of snow, wedged into the corner at the bottom of the window frame. When I found a window I could see through, I looked out to a light and steady snow drifting down on perhaps five inches already blanketing the world: the first snow of the year.

So, I bought a ticket to go home for Christmas after all. When Grandma e-mailed me and said I would be the only one of her and Bud's grandkids not at the wedding, and was there any way I could come, and maybe they could help to pay for the ticket, I changed my plans for a German Christmas and bought a ticket to head back to Seattle for two weeks. I am happy and at home here, but there is definitely a special excitement reserved for being home for Christmas.

On Saturday afternoon, we bundled up in layers and hats and scarves and ventured out to the Christmas market at Schloss Charlottenburg. We had to wake Claire up from a deep sleep, and a bit of residual crankiness from being woken up turned to grave distress and claims of a stomach ache when we reached the market. Cole was quiet and still in the stroller until Heather bought a little bag of Quark Bällchen (sort of like doughnut holes) for us to share -- then he went from eager and insistent to happily chomping to demanding more. We looked at ornaments, lighted paper stars, jewelry, knitted goods, wooden toys, and pottery; we smelled Glühwein and Raclette; the girls shouted with delight at the colored lights washing over the palace front in waves and patterns. Lilah was happy in Heather's arms, and Cole was quiet in the front of the stroller, but Claire was hanging out of the backseat of the stroller trolling out her list of complaints. Finally, we decided to swing by the carousel for the kids and then head home.

I know it's a little dark, but maybe if you enlarge the photo you can make out what they are saying ---

Claire: I may have *said* I have a stomach ache, but what I really meant was that your choice of activities was not my cup of tea. This is more like it!

Heather: I'm getting dizzy, but trying to smile nicely in case this photo turns out to be a family heirloom.

Cole: First they stuck me on this thing all by myself. Then Mommy finally got on here with me, but to tell you the truth, it still isn't all that much fun. 

Lilah: La-la-la, life is great!

One afternoon this week, Heather and the girls assembled a gingerbread house. 

 It is still sitting on the counter, but it is a much-petted, sniffed, and beloved decoration, and I'm not sure how long it will evade being eaten. Cole just says, "Nummy, nummy!" with his best sparkly-dimple smile.

Last night if you were standing on Ringstrasse looking up at our windows, you would have seen two women busy with a ladder, swinging garland, and a brightly lit paper star. After the kids were in bed I brewed a pot of Good Earth tea (thanks to Mary for sending two bags over with me for a special winter treat!) and Heather turned on the Christmas music and we wrapped garland around the bare curtain rods and draped it over door frames and the hutch; she hung a big German paper star in front of the window and we accented with balls and bows and lights. Heather says Christmas decorating (or decorating of any kind) isn't her favorite activity, but I think even she had a little fun last night.

Today on the way home from Kita, Lilah said in a forlorn and injured voice, "Julie, why aren't you talking to me?"
I said, "I am talking to you! Ask me a question."
"Julie, is it still Thanksgiving?"
Claire informed her that it was NOT Thanksgiving anymore. We talked about how it is now winter (maybe not quite by the calendar, but I think winter is an appropriate name for the season we're now in), and Lilah said, "Or, we can call it Christmas time."

Yes, I think that's definitely what it is.

Thanksgiving

I opened the door of my bedroom on Friday morning to the smell of turkey working holiday magic in the hallway. Heather and I had stuffed and salted the bird and tucked him in the oven the night before for our Friday evening Thanksgiving celebration, and now the smell confirmed that the slow roast was indeed in process.

We had invited many friends and families to our celebratory feast, but it was hard to find people who were willing and free. By the time the doorbell was ringing and the turkey was coming out of the oven, our numbers had settled at five children and five adults. Before we could eat, there was that jolly moment of steam and sizzle: I pulled the turkey out of the oven, temperature checked and approved, to unstuff and carve (I felt like Dad as I sliced into the breast, dug out stuffing, popped off the leg and fingered the dark meat onto the platter, but no one came to reach over my shoulder and snitch bits of crunchy skin). Taline poured the drippings from the turkey so Heather could make the gravy, and then washed whatever dishes she could find. We found serving dishes and spoons, reheated the sweet potatoes when Denise arrived with them in tow, sliced Karen's cornbread, and tasted and re-tasted spoonfuls of potatoes and gravy.

The kids (4 and under) ate in the kitchen and then went to the playroom to frolic (under the watchful eye of Zoey, a 10-year-old neighbor who came over to help with the little ones)vwhile the five women joined around the white linen and china in the dining room. We hailed from the US, Germany, and Brazil, but all alike reveled in moist turkey, savory stuffing, creamy sweet potatoes with crunchy brown sugar-pecan topping, cranberry chutney, gravy, mashed potatoes, green salad, cornbread. We got better acquainted with one another and shared stories of God's faithfulness and lingered while the candles burned low.

Then, all at once, the children emerged, people started looking at watches, and we knew it must be time for pie! The kitchen was a hub of activity as we looked for counter space to pile with more dishes and packaged leftovers for freezer, fridge, and for sending home with our friends. When the coffee was ready, Heather dished narrow slices of apple and pumpkin pie for each of us and topped them with freshly whipped cream.

Heather read Psalm 100 as the prelude to our dessert, and it was the perfect last bite for the day. Karen and Taline left to catch their buses, and Heather offered to take Denise and her two children home so they wouldn't have to take the long U-Bahn trip home when it was already late for the little ones. I tucked our own little ones into bed; it was almost 10 by the time their lights were off, and I think they were all quite ready for sleep. In the kitchen again, I turned on Andrew Peterson and enjoyed making sense out of the chaos there, setting all to rights. Heather returned home and joined me, and when the dishwasher was running and the crystal glasses turned upside down to dry on a dishtowel and the table was shiny and empty, we, too, were ready for bed.

Deutsch

What is it about a dimpled little boy coming towards you at full tilt, a small plastic goblet in his hand, pinky extended as he crows, "Tea! Tea! Tea!" and holds the cup out to you? Even a girl who is tired from trying to make her very English brain work in German can smile at that.

Today was the second day of German class, and while it's easy for me to keep up with the teacher and comprehend what she is saying since I've had lots of opportunities to get familiar with the language (and I am starting with the most basic course), it does require some effort to sit in a room and hear only German for four hours. I do think it is fascinating to get to know my sixteen classmates who hail from France, Italy, Kosovo, Lithuania, Australia, Turkey, Portugal/Angola, Japan, Poland, Kenya, Senegal, Chile, America, the Philippines, Iran, and Pakistan. (Don't be too amazed that I can rattle off this list after only two days together. You don't know how many times we've asked and answered the questions, "Wie heisst du?" and "Wo kommst du?")

At home this afternoon, I left behind the cultural experiences and got into more familiar (and definitely very American) territory: baking pies for Thanksgiving! With flecks of snow in the cold air outside our big window and Twila Paris singing to us in our cozy kitchen, and many willing baker's helpers, Heather and I enjoyed mixing and rolling and slicing, and now four pies -- two pumpkin and two apple -- are looking luscious on our counter.

Besides eating pies, I am also looking forward to Christmas markets, and mailing a large and delightful box of Christmas cheer home, and those moments when three children converge on me at once in an all-around snuggle, and coffee with Emily at a charming cafe tomorrow afternoon, and a Brazilian brunch on Sunday with friends from my small group. My list of thankfuls this year is not going to be easy to contain. "Praise the LORD, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits."

Scarecrows

Berlin to Cinque Terre and Back

My mind is clearing from an afternoon nap; outside the sky's relentless grey holds steady. Heather and Claire are out for swimming lessons and grocery shopping, and it's naptime for the other children, that sweet space of midday solitude. There is no whiff of loneliness in the silence of naptime, because slumbering companionship lurks in the corners, and you know that soon the house will be joyously awake again. The rarity of the quiet time makes it a jewel you are unlikely to resent or fritter away.

After tucking Lilah into her crib, I sat at the kitchen table while the last of Heather's pumpkin bread and muffins baked, the swish of the dishwasher a productive and companionable backdrop along with Sara Groves and the smell of spicy fall baking. I finished a chocolate bar and "Dancing at the Rascal Fair" (a novel of homesteading in Montana; the characters linger in my mind, at the end of all their dreams and decisions and daily routine a tinge of melancholy, a hint of rainbow).

My own tinge of melancholy came at six o'clock this morning when I hugged Mom goodbye at the Tegel airport. You look forward to something and then you're living it and then it is over, a memory. Well, these special ten days with my mom are worth remembering and giving thanks to God for. She joined my routine here for a few days -- we did some sightseeing in Berlin, went on a family outing to a charming cafe and a little farm, walked to the grocery store, ran my route along the canal, ate family meals around the cozy kitchen table, sat on the floor with the kids playing and snuggling and laughing, discussed and shared ideas with Heather. On Saturday night we went to my small group together and were both richly blessed by the worship, Pedro's words of insight from Matthew 5, an open-hearted prayer time, and fellowship over a meal.

Then on Sunday morning, Heather drove us to the airport so we could catch our plane to Milan. From there, we rented a car and drove through low, leaky clouds across flat, industrial Italy to the coast, where we began our journey along the countless tunnels and bridges cutting a path through the mountainous terrain that is home to the Cinque Terre. As we approached, we exited off the Autostrada and began winding our way along one-lane roads that hugged the contours of the hills and valleys instead of cutting through and jumping across. Up and down, back and forth, slowing to read the blue signs marking forks in the road, we slowly made our way to Corniglia.

We had three full days to enjoy having no particular agenda but no lack of new things to explore, either. 

We climbed thousands of stairs,

explored all five villages by trail and train,

enjoyed the views by rain,

and reveled in a sunny day on the Mediterranean coast.

Daily trips to the tiny grocery store next door were a highlight, and we feasted on pesto, pasta, pancetta, eggplant, onions, tomatoes, crusty bread, olive oil, Pecorino cheese, garbanzo beans. As we walked, or in bed at night, we prayed together. Dusk falls early in November, chasing us back to our room to cook dinner, knit, and read in bed. Early on Thursday morning (as in 2:00AM early), we roused ourselves, loaded the rental car in the empty piazza, and set out along the windy trail of road leading back out of the Cinque Terre region. We enjoyed one more day in Berlin together, playing with the kids, walking to the store, and having tea at the cafe across the street before Mom's departure early this morning. May I begin with Thanksgiving a week early: thank you, Father, for these special days together and for sweet friendship with my mother.

November Monday

The sky was grey, but it was too dark for me to see that yet. The bus rumbled by. It was six o'clock, and I was just waking up on a Monday morning. Then I heard noises from the next room.

Lilah's voice, whining and pouting: "No, I don't want to stay in bed!" Footsteps. Claire appeared, a shadow in my doorway.

"Julie, Lilah won't stay in bed. Can we get up now and play in our room?" I got out of bed and sent them both back into their beds for another half hour, and snuggled back under my covers too. At 6:30 I got up and dressed and then told the girls they could get up and play in their room. Then I went down to the kitchen to make a cup of tea; while I was boiling the water I heard a commotion down the hall. It was Lilah again, screaming, "No! No! No!" I didn't hurry; I knew Claire was tormenting Lilah and Lilah was responding like a self-absorbed victim and I didn't know what I was going to say to them. I beseeched the Lord for wisdom, trusted that He would put the words in my mouth, and headed towards the ugly noise.

When I entered the room, they both became still and silent. I took a hand in each of mine and asked the girls what was going on. No answer. Finally, Lilah said that Claire was bothering her, and Claire reluctantly confessed that she had been trying to catch Lilah. We have had so many discussions about appropriate ways to interact with each other: Think about what might make the other one happy. If Lilah makes a request, listen to her. If you are unhappy with what Claire is doing, ask her to stop in a sweet voice and then you can come to Julie if you need to. I knew they knew that what they had been doing was wrong. So I punished both of them, and hugged them in their pink pajamas, and prayed for God's ways to sink into their hearts.

Then I was hoping to have a few minutes in my room to read the Word and journal. Lilah wanted to stay with me, and I told her she could but she would have to be quiet. She skipped into my room ahead of me and knocked over a water bottle I had set on the floor by my chair. Claire wanted Lilah to stay with her and wanted to know why I wouldn't make Lilah stay in the bedroom with Claire. Lilah wanted a doll; Claire didn't want her to have it. Lilah read a book on my footstool, full of questions and comments. Claire came in and sat beside me, watching me write in my journal with intense fascination. I told her I was writing to God, kind of like praying. "Does everyone ask God to forgive them?" she asked me.

"No," I answered.

"Why not?"

"Well, some people don't think they have done anything wrong. Or they don't want to have to obey God; instead they want to do what they want to do."

"But some people ask God to forgive them."

"Yes," I told her.

"Like you!"

"Well, yes," I answered again.

"Do you always ask God to forgive you?" Claire asked me.

"Well, yes."

"Why?"

"Because I want to please God; because I like it when everything is good between us."

The girls played, chattered, and finally (after many reminders from me that they were free to be in my room or in theirs, but if they chose my room they needed to be quiet) scampered across the hall to their room. Then there was a shriek. Claire announced the nature of the dismal tragedy: "Uh-oh! Julie! There's an animal in our room!" Lilah whimpered and shrieked again.

"It's okay," I called out. "It's just an insect."

Then I heard them talking to it, claiming it as their little baby, and giggling about how it tickled them when it walked on their hands. Claire came in with the large beetle on her hand and proudly displayed it to me, then confessed, "I don't know what to do with it." So I led her to the window and we put it outside.

"When are we eating breakfast? Can we get dressed now?" Claire asked.

I still hadn't read from the Bible, so I told her I would be ready in about five minutes. She decided to get dressed on her own. But as I was closing my journal and reaching for the Bible, my elbow knocked my mug of tea, sloshing the last bit all over my hip, chair, and the floor. I wiped up, changed my clothes, and told Claire, who had asked again, that I would be ready to help them finish dressing and feed them breakfast very soon. I asked her to be quiet in the hall since Cole was still sleeping, but when I went into the bathroom to wash my face and fix my hair (while quoting a Psalm, since I still hadn't read the Bible), I heard him chattering in his crib. So, I finished getting ready in a hurry (without getting very far on the Psalm), got Cole up, and finally went to the girls. They were soon dressed, and we went to the kitchen to memorize Psalms and eat toast with honey.

Cole still hadn't finished eating, but the girls were done so I took them to the bathroom to fix their hair. Just as we were finishing up, I heard noises in the kitchen; it sounded like the high chair scooting across the floor. I ran down the hall and saw Cole, down from his high chair, coming out the kitchen door in his bib and sticky hands, holding his empty bowl. I could hardly blame him for feeling the need to take his care into his own hands, as he had been rather abandoned. I washed him and took off his bib and loaded the last dishes in the dishwasher.

Then I went to the playroom to find the girls. "Time to go potty and then put your shoes on!" I told the them.

"Oh, we were just starting to play something really fun!" Claire told me. "Why is it always time to go when we start to play something?" I didn't mention that they hadn't exactly taken advantage of their opportunities for free play that morning.

We got to Kita right at 9:00 after a rainy drive in the morning traffic. I remembered on the way that Lilah had sport (gym) today and I was supposed to send gym clothes with her; oh well. Cole and I came home and started some laundry and headed out again into the drizzle to pick up a few things at the grocery store. It wasn't pouring down rain, so it was nice to be outside. At home, I put away the groceries and made some pumpkin chocolate chip cookies for my friend Emily who is coming over tonight and for Heather's homecoming tomorrow. The pumpkin chocolate chip cookies I've had before were soft and chewy . . . these ones spread to lacy wafers in the oven, and when I tried to slide them off the cookie sheet, the edges shattered and sent crumbs skittering across the counter, but they were so soft that they folded in half when I lifted them. (Warning: There are hazards in the wonderful world of Internet baking.) I baked the rest of the dough in a pan and hoped they would be more successful as bars. Cole didn't want to eat his lunch, but his verdict on the cookies was "nummy, nummy" and "noo noo noo" (more; said in a desperate tone of voice with eyebrows puckered into a beseeching peak and fingertips coming together over and over in the sign for "more").

Matthew West sang to my as I worked in the kitchen this morning

I'm tired and empty, this life is relentless
It weakens my knees and breaks down my defenses
It's wearing me down and I'm desperate to hear from you.

Stop the world I wanna get out
I need to escape away from this crowd
Just to hear you speak to me.

There was part of me that related to the song. Yes, it's good to have quiet moments sometimes. But this is the life He has called me to -- God is speaking to me in the tea spills and discipline sessions and conversations about repentance. May I have ears to hear.

Pumpkin Day

This morning while I was lying in bed (the girls woke up at 5:00, and I didn't think we really needed to start the day then, so I told them it was not yet morning and snuggled back under my covers to doze and pray and think about the day), I decided that today would be Pumpkin Day.

When the girls came in later (at 6:30, at which time I told them yes, it could now be Morning), they wanted to know if there was church today. "Then what day is it?" Claire asked when I said no. "It's Pumpkin Day!" I told them. I explained that we would go to the pumpkin store, buy a pumpkin or two, come home and chop it open, scoop out and roast the seeds, bake the pumpkin, and make pumpkin muffins. Claire was jumping up and down with excitement, and it always delights me to see how full of wonder the children are, so I was happy too.

After a hearty breakfast of oatmeal with grated apples, we all got dressed and trooped down the stairs to get the stroller and the girls' bikes. It was not very cold out, and though the puddles reminded us that it had been raining, it was dry while we were out, so it was the perfect time to get some fresh air. The Pumpkin Store (aka Alnatura) supplied us with two lovely squash, chosen by Claire and Lilah. At home, I chopped them open and the girls dug into them with spoons and fingers, attempting to clean out the seeds and pulp. Cole glared at me indignantly when I tried to keep him from digging in.

We drank hot fruit punch, ate lunch, and the kids settled in for naps and quiet times. Pumpkin day continued for me: I tossed the seeds with olive oil and salt and shoved them in the oven, then scraped the cooked flesh out of the skin and heaped it into a bowl. After an hour, I went to get Claire so she could help me make the muffins. She is becoming an expert dumper and mixer, and soon the thick batter was scooped into the tins and ready for the oven. She played in the kitchen and snacked on copious quantities of roasted pumpkin seeds while I pureed the rest of the pumpkin and portioned it into bags for the freezer. Lilah joined us, rosy and wispy and sucking her wrist, and we all sampled the muffins.

Then it was time for a break from pumpkin: the dough was ready for our pigs-in-a-blanket dinner. The girls helped me roll the hot dogs into their blankets and put them on the trays. They got out playdough and I got out knitting, and we worked together at the kitchen table. I finally went to get Cole up after three hours had passed, and he tried out the playdough but wasn't so enamored with it. They trickled down the hall to play; I kept knitting, enjoying the music and the fruits of our labors piling up on the counters and scenting the air. I called home to let Dad and Mom know I was praying for them as they embarked on their Marriage Encounter weekend and had a sweet, short chat with them while I cut up some veggies to go with our little piggies.

Everyone enjoyed pigs in a blanket, and Halloween candy, and then they scattered to dress up one more time and give the baby doll one more feeding before bed time while I did the last dishes for the day and munched on a pumpkin muffin.

It was a happy day. I hope tomorrow can live up to Pumpkin Day!

New Nightgowns (with bonus views of Giraffey and Big sister)

Kennst du Gott?

"Do they know God?" Claire has been asking this question about friends, teachers, and strangers. It's hard to say "no" since we can't see everyone's heart, but often it seems like the answer is most likely no. "Why not?" Claire asks. Why not, indeed. And why don't I ask those questions more often, and seek the answers more fervently?

On a less serious note, on the way home from Kita today Claire and I had this conversation. (I think it stems from conversations we've had about Claire's cough; she wants to know why she has a cough, and Heather has told her that sometimes when the weather gets cold in the Fall people get a little sick. But then, of course, she had another question at the ready: "Does Julie have a cough? Why not?" Well, this week I lost my voice, which apparently counted as a cough in Claire's mind. And so . . .)
C: Does everyone have a cough now?
J: What do you mean, everyone in the world?
C: Does everyone in Germany have a cough?
J: No.
C: Why not?
J: Why would they?
C: Do some people -- are some people too lazy to eat?
J: No - what? - Do you think eating makes people cough?
C: No, but sometimes you choke and the food comes into your mouth.
J: True, but that doesn't really mean you have a cough.
C: (coughs) Oh.

Forest

Every night after dinner, when it's dark outside, if we close the doors to the dining room and living room and turn out all the lights, we are in a Forest.

Usually we don't go in till the kids are in their jammies and ready for bed. Then, with anticipation, we run down the hall, turning off lights and closing doors as we go, making sure everyone gets inside the Forest before we close the doors.

"Yay, we're in the Forest now!!" Claire exclaims, jumping up and down. Cole careens across the forest floor, and you can tell even in the dark that he's grinning. "I'm Snow White!" Lilah says. "And I'm the mommy cat, and Cole is the daddy cat, and mommy, you're the big sister cat, and Claire is the baby cat."

"Yes!" says Claire. "And let's play that it's nighttime now and we go to bed and then Julie won't wake up!"

We "meow" and crawl our way to the big bed in the playroom, Cole also playing a convincing cat. Everyone flops on the bed in slumber, but no sooner do we shut our eyes then someone announces, "It's morning time!"

Claire and Cole are the most energetic wakers. "Julie, Julie! Morning time! Julie, Julie!" They pat my back, bounce on the bed, go nose-to-nose with me. I snore on, and on. Then, with a cry, I spring up, awake, and everyone laughs and we collapse in a cat-pile on the bed. Mommy makes porridge for our breakfast, and we scarf down our portions. "Nighttime again!" Claire announces, and we all go back to sleep.

Or maybe I sit on the rug in the living room and the kids shoot down the slide in the dining room and come racing by me to see if I can catch them. I grab one giggling child after another and give each one a tickle or a squeeze; it's not hard to catch someone who is desperate to be caught.

Then it's time to go to our real beds, and Forest is over for another day, but when evening falls again, if we turn the lights off and close the doors, we will find the Forest waiting for us.

Delight

The last evening Melanie was here, we spent the evening chatting together on the couch, drinking tea, eating Spekulatius (spiced buttery cookies), and talking about child training and walking with Jesus and other light topics.

One thing we talked about -- really, a kind of sermon I gave to Melanie from things I have heard my mom say -- was enjoying your children. Instead of seeing them as a duty, or something to fit in between the truly important things on your schedule, or someone to endure until you can spend time with someone who is actually interesting, see their care as not only a worthwhile job but a great delight. See them as friends to enjoy, not charges with needs to meet and character flaws to train out and questions to answer.

As I woke the next morning, I realized the sermon was for me, too. I also fall into the habit of seeing these children as little heaps of need and duty and unpolished diamond instead of little people. On Friday, I had all three children to myself for the morning. Lilah had been asking for another carriage ride (one day when she and Cole were home, I took them to the grocery store in the stroller. She was wearing her Tinkerbell dress and didn't think that fairies rode in strollers, so I told her it was a carriage. She was delighted the whole time and has been talking about it since), so I loaded her and Cole into the "carriage" and Claire hopped eagerly onto her bike. We rolled down the sidewalk, cold grey fall sky overhead, to the natural foods store by the train station. I picked up a few things I needed plus fresh bread for lunch and cookies for dessert; Claire pushed a child-sized cart around the store and was thrilled that I was actually putting groceries into her cart.

On the way home the carriage riders enjoyed the scenery and Claire whizzed ahead on her bike, careful to wait for me at each street crossing. We stopped at the playground for a few minutes, but it was kind of cold and soon we were all ready to go inside. I said, "Let's have tea when we get inside!" The girls thought this was a grand idea and swarmed onto the bench in the kitchen to watch the tea-making process. They didn't want to leave their steaming mugs, so I brought a book to the kitchen table and we read together while we waited for our tea to cool and then as we sipped (or gulped) it. It was still a little early, but everyone seemed to be hungry, so lunch was next. I sliced the fresh bakery bread and took orders: meat and cheese or peanut butter and jam? Claire asked me, after a quiet moment of happy munching at the lunch table, what I was thinking. "I'm thinking how glad I am to be sitting here eating lunch with the three of you!"

"Really? Were you really thinking that?" After sandwiches and fruit, we enjoyed our cookies and Cole went down for a nap. As I was coming from his bed, I heard Lilah screaming and surmised that the girls weren't playing so well together. (Claire bosses and teases; Lilah screams at every hint of provocation; both are selfish and cling to their own way. How to clear these altercations from the bottom up?) I sent them to separate rooms to play alone while I finished cleaning up the kitchen and prayed for their hearts, then went to speak with each of them. They were both responsive to my words, and I was so glad they played happily together for an hour before their quiet times. They ended up coloring in the kitchen; I quizzed myself on German flashcards while they colored, and Claire repeated the German words after me (probably improving my pronunciation).

Then it was nap time for Lilah and quiet time for Claire; they went to their rooms cheerfully and settled down with giraffe and Legos, respectively. I enjoy quiet time, too, as a time to read or e-mail or nap. But when it was time to let Claire out of her room, I wasn't sorry to see her again, either. She brought a puzzle into my room and soon I joined her on the floor to work with her; the other children trickled in from their naps and Cole sat on my other side playing with some blocks while Lilah danced in and out in her dress-up clothes.


I interrupted writing this post today to let Lilah and Cole swarm over me in my chair. Cole just wanted to sit with me and have my attention; Lilah wanted help dressing a little doll and then she wanted to fix my hair. They trust me, they want to spend time with me, they greet me with exuberance when I get back from a run or when we get up in the morning. They are my friends.

From the World of the Wee Ones

Last night as I turned out the light for the girls, Lilah asked me to snuggle her. So I pulled her blankets up around her chin and lay down beside her, my arm circling her. "Oh Julie, I love you so much!" she said in her sing-song voice. Claire wanted to be snuggled too, after I made her blankets flat. And then Lilah made her final request. They like it when I say,

"Goodnight! Sleep tight! Don't let the bedbugs bite!
If they do, beat them black and blue
with a purple polka-dotted tennis shoe." 

So, Lilah asked for their favorite goodnight rhyme. "Julie, can you say 'don't let the bunk beds bite?'"

One day last week, I took the girls to Kita (preschool). I pulled the car to the side of the road to park, giving it gas to make it up onto the curb and then hitting the brake to avoid running into a tree.
"Why did you hit the brake?" Claire asked.
"So I wouldn't hit the tree," I told her.
"Why?"
"Because it wouldn't be good if I hit the tree."
"Oh. Would the tree fall down then?"

This morning we were playing with Legos, building a house. Cole was helping by making refreshments in the playroom kitchen and bringing us drinks and snacks. I toyed around with the bricks, off-setting them so they looked like stairs. "Oh!" said Lilah. "Is that a care stace?" I told her that yes, it was a staircase. "Oh, a case stair."

The girls were coloring at the kitchen table when I walked into the room.
"Julie's naughty," Lilah announced.
"No, she isn't!" Claire defended me. "Julie, are you naughty?"
"I don't think I'm naughty right now, but sometimes I am naughty," I told the girls.
Lilah restated her case. "You were naughty last week, but now you're not naughty."

Visitors!

Coloring in pajamas on Saturday morning while waiting for breakfast:

Familie Hausser on top of the Reichstag (German government building):

Sight-seeing buddies Joshua and Cole have a break from their strollers on the steps of the Berliner Dom:

Melanie among the 2711 bricks of the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe (that's the number of pages in the Talmud, in case you're wondering):

Fall Update

From a sunny fall trip to Domäne Dahlem, a nearby farm and farmer's market.

And, the latest news:
Lilah is potty-trained! One day she seemed unconcerned with accidents and bothered by trips to the toilet; the next she was calling down the hall as she ran to the toilet, "I have to go potty!" Until the chocolate chips in the cup by the toilet were gone, she had to go quite often, but now the cup is empty and she keeps track of her needs and gets herself to the bathroom whenever it's time. "Now I'm really a big kid!" she says proudly. Cole thinks it looks like fun too, and often follows us down the hall saying, "Gaby, gaby," (potty, potty). In the bathroom, he slides his hands on his thighs like he's trying to pull down his pants and squats on the wall next to the toilet. No recorded successes yet in his case.

Our kitchen is labeled "die Küche" and we also have "der Kühlschrank" and "der Mikrowelle;" Heather has been encouraging me to study her flash cards and help her review the parts of the body. So far it feels like I still have a long way to go, but I am eager to put in some effort and make a little progress. At least when the repairman came this morning to fix "die Waschbecken" (the bathroom sink) I was able to pick out enough of his words to know when to nod my head and feel reasonably confident that I wasn't being dishonest or foolish. 


And I love running in the fall. The leaves are colored and different every day and crunchy on the sidewalk, the air is fresh and cool, and it's the perfect time to pray.

Sacred

Rod Dreher wrote a book about politics in which the main point is that living life is a sacrament, which he defines as "a physical thing--an object or an action--through which holiness is transmitted. . . . Being good is not something you do because it works; being good is something you do because it's the right thing to do, even if it costs you. . . . Everyday things, occurrences, and exchanges provide an opportunity to encounter ultimate reality--even, if you like, divinity."

He's talking about "Crunchy Cons" -- conservatives who hearken back to the original meaning of the word; I think a lot of what he has to say refers to Christians who believe they are creatures in a world formed and governed by God.

So, if there is a God who is defining the rules and ordaining our days, what is beyond the scope of His reign?

The oma with her flowers on the S-Bahn last night who beams a sincere and personal smile at me every time our eyes meet and bids me farewell when I got off the train?

The sweet little girl who perches on the toilet and grins up at me with a light in her eyes as she hears a tinkle, telling me, "I go pee-pee!" and then sings as she gets dressed, "My underwear is dry!"?

A twenty-three-year-old English girl who invites me to her flat for tea and hopes I will stay for her housewarming party later that night, sharing her vision for working with a ministry for students in Berlin as we eat a piece of her flatmate's delicious chocolate red wine cake?

An affectionate toddler who tumbles all over me while I am sitting on the floor, practicing his kissing and dimples, then lies on the rug alongside my legs and falls asleep?

Three children who swarm me as I cut up vegetables for dinner, begging for just one more slice of red pepper, cucumber, or carrot until I laugh and let them demolish a mountain of fresh, raw "begetables?"

An eager baker who proudly mixed flour and spices, eggs and oil and apples, and then everything together for apple muffins? After the dishes were done, we sat on stools on either side of the oven, having a big girl chat while we waited for the timer to go off, the littles happy in the playroom. 

Eric Irwin mentioned in a recent e-mail to his church one of the results of knowing your own sinfulness and receiving God's gift of life:

You become loving. Your self-consciousness or shyness, your irritation at
how long the line is, your indifference to "lesser" people, your obsession
with your all-important agenda: there has been a great reverse and now the
world is filled with potential objects of God's affection. God is love, he
indwells you, you are loving. Now the world is a target-rich environment;
fire at will.

There is no one, no moment, which is not sacred; fire at will. 

An Overdue Photo

Here is what Cinderella and Snow White are looking like these days.

Dress-Up

In her floor-length Snow White dress, Lilah gets inspired to great heights of beauty and sophistication. She slowly promenaded down the wide hall yesterday afternoon, holding the skirt out at the sides and announcing, "Look at this beautiful girl having her wedding!" Overcome with the emotion of the moment, she said to me, "Julie, my heart is full of love."

Claire was apparently also inspired by this display:
 "Lilah, you are a treasure. You are God's treasure."

Lilah was unimpressed. "I'm not a treasure. I'm a girl."

Claire: "No, you are God's treasure."

Lilah: "Julie, is I a treasure? Is I?"

Julie: "Girls can be treasures. You are a girl, but you are also a treasure."

Lilah: "I don't want to be a treasure."

Routine

We're still working out our fall routine -- who takes the girls to preschool, who picks them up, how the afternoons go. But during the morning when the girls are at preschool and Heather is at language school, it's just Cole and me. He follows me around, understands and obeys almost everything I say, and delights in life.

If I'm sitting on the floor making cards, he comes in with some blocks and builds towers, weaseling his way into my lap for a snuggle with a most triumphant look on his face and then puckering up his poochy lips to plant a big kiss right on my own.

If I'm reading or journaling or writing e-mails on the couch, he usually comes out with some dishes from the play kitchen and wants me to smack my lips over them. Sometimes he just climbs up to sit beside me or to lay his head in my lap while he sucks his favorite two fingers.

He also loves the give and take of conversation, although the content isn't too complex. Perhaps we would exchange several "hi"s or "hello"s back and forth, or maybe just copy each other's tongue-clicking noises. Here you can see some of his first steps when we were in Maryland, and also some of our activities during the past few days:

In the mornings, Lilah and I have been working on memorizing some verses together. She sits on my lap and looks at a picture for the verse while she repeats the phrases after me. "Trust in the Lord . . . with all your heart . . . and do not lean . . . on your own understanding." I love to see the Word soaking in to her open mind.

Lilah has also been working on potty training. Or rather, Heather and I have been working on potty training Lilah. So far she's not opposed to the idea, but doesn't really see the need to put forth any effort. She usually doesn't tell us she's wet until we take her into the bathroom. "Oh, my underwear is wet," she will tell us. Hmm, why yes it is. When we ask her where she wet, she can usually tell us. "On the couch," or "On the bed." We keep rehearsing the routine for if she has to go potty: tell Mommy or Julie and go in the toilet! Hopefully at some point it will sink into that open mind.

Buongy-Buongy and the Pumpkin Patch

On the way home from our morning at a pumpkin patch outside of Berlin on Saturday, Lilah awoke from a nap and said, "I'm going to tell Buongy-Buongy about the pumpkin patch." (I'm not sure of the correct spelling of Buongy-Buongy - the sound is something between "Bungy" and "Bongy", but he is a dearly beloved giraffe, clutched while Lilah sucks her wrist for the ultimate in comfort and security.)

Later, at home, I heard a conversation down the hall: "We went to a pumpkin patch today. We seed pumpkins!" Claire added, "And some pumpkins were white!" Then Lilah again: "Buongy-Buongy, why are you sad? Mommy, Buongy-Buongy is sad because he wanted to go to the pumpkin patch!" Poor Buongy-Buongy. You'll be glad to know that Buongy-Buongy was in attendance at the ball held later in the living room with Tinkerbell the ballerina and Cinderella, and he even got to dance with the prince. (What can I say? Tinkerbell the ballerina-fairy waved her wand over me and I turned into one.)

Speaking of Cinderella, she appeared in my room this afternoon wanting to know if quiet time was over, in her blue shimmery dress of course, but also with a scarf around her head in a snarl of hair and knots and a pair of tights -- excuse me, an apron -- tied around her waist. I'm sorry to report that no photograph was taken, so you'll just have to use your imagination, which probably won't do the real thing justice.

Jet Lag

At 10:30 last night, I was sleeping soundly, having been exhausted when I turned out my light at 10:00 since the fatigue of trans-Atlantic travel still hadn't worn off. The previous night, our first at home, all three children had woken several times, generally not coinciding with each other. Once awake, I had a hard time going back to sleep and ended up reading for an hour and a half in the wee hours of the morning. I was hoping the second night would be a sleep-through night.

"Mommy! Mommy? Mommy! Mom-ME!!" I woke slowly, gradually aware that Lilah was crying in the next room, sobbing in fact, yelling for her mother in a voice that was going from pathetic to angry and demanding. I lay awake, cozy under the covers, for a moment. Nope, the wailing was definitely not subsiding. So I padded through the cold house to Lilah's crib, laid my hand on her back, and said, "It's nighttime, Lilah. Time for sleeping. We're all snuggled up in our beds, just like you. Mommy is sleeping too." She lay back down and I covered her up and went to bed. Sleep came harder, but I did go back to sleep before the next alarm.

"I have a poopy diaper. Julie, I have a poopy diaper. Julie, I have a poopy diaper! Ju-LIE!" (angry now, every word a reprimand to the response-less world) "I have a poopy diaPER!!" In a lighter sleep, I woke up at the first call this time, but I guess I hoped the problem would resolve itself, because I still didn't hop right out of bed. Of course the diaper needed to be changed, so I did get out of bed, opened her door to let her know she could stop sobbing and yelling, and hunted for wipes and a diaper in the dark, quiet house. Back in Lilah's room, I turned on the light and popped her out of the  crib and down on the rug. I opened her diaper and there was nothing to see. "Lilah, there is no poopy diaper. You should not have said that; it was a lie, and it was naughty." I sympathized with her confused body clock, but there was nothing about this experience I wanted to encourage, so I scooped her back in the crib, told her to go to sleep, and left.

Back in bed, wide awake. A few minutes after 11:00. I didn't want to read and prolong the adjustment to the Berlin time zone, so I lay still, eyes closed, praying, thinking, looking for sleep. Whimpers came from the next room, but no more outbursts. For a while. "Mommy, I want the door closed a little bit." (Which means open a crack.) Repeated, growing fiercer. How to stop the wailing and keep it from happening again? While I pondered this, Heather got up and went to Lilah. A little conversation, including a statement from Lilah that was probably more true than all of her other excuses: "Mommy, I'm not tired!" Quiet again, aside from whimpers. I think I may have gone back to sleep, but around midnight Lilah thought of something else. It took me a few minutes to decipher it through the sobs. "I have a runny nose, Mommy. Mommy, I have a runny nose." This was not hard for me to believe, but my stock of sympathy was at an alarming low. Surprisingly, the crying stopped after only a few repetitions. Then I heard little footsteps in the hall. Voices, in Heather's room, one so quiet I couldn't make out the words, the other caught between sobs. Lilah must have escaped the crib. Big footsteps back to Lilah's room, then all was quiet.

Did I go back to sleep? I think so. Around 1:00, the next call came. Out of new excuses, Lilah used a repeat: "Mommy, I have a poopy diaper." Louder, adding in sobs and changing from a notification to a demand. I swung my legs out of bed. If this was another false alarm, I was not going to be happy. (Then again, if it was a justified alarm, I wasn't going to be that happy, either.) I went and checked the diaper, found it to be as Lilah had stated, and went on the hunt in Claire's room for another diaper. Lilah perked right up as I worked in her bright bedroom. "Julie, does Cinderella never sleep in her own house?" I did not want this to be a pleasant experience for Lilah, so I answered briskly, "I don't know." As I put her back in the crib, she said, "When will it be morning?" I told her it wouldn't be for a while, and turned off the light. "Goodnight," I said, hoping I wouldn't be saying it again in another twenty-five minutes.

The next disturbance was Claire, but she went to Heather's room and was sent back to her room with minimal crying. I was sound asleep and woke only briefly for her show. Cole apparently wailed for a while, but I never heard it. I woke around 7:00 this morning, happy to see a cold, sunny fall morning, but mostly happy to have been asleep!

A Cat Eating Cake Like a Pig

"Draw a picture of a cat eating cake like a pig."

It was hard to hear Peter's quiet whisper as he sat snug on my lap during the sermon in church this morning, but I did catch "pig" and drew one for him.

"No, draw a cat eating cake like a pig."

I tried. I'm not sure quite what that looks like, much less how to render it in ballpoint pen with my level of skill, but I think Peter was satisfied.

"Draw a boy in a bathtub."

I started with the bathtub, then begin drawing the  boy's head and arms.

"No, boy not in bathtub! Cat in bathtub, eating cake!" (excited whisper, but still very quiet)

Suddenly, the light came on and I realized that Peter's ideas weren't coming from a hyperactive imagination, but rather from a book I had read to him last week: "The Cat in the Hat." I had to draw the cat in the bathtub eating cake, the boy outside the bathtub turning off the water, lots of snow outside the window, and the girl outside looking in. And other cats with other hats, and the big cat beating the bed with the broom. And then I turned the paper over and started drawing something else, fearing that after one reading of the book Peter would be able to remember every image and want me to replicate each one!

Jewel

The pre-dawn sky looked clear, and the air coming in the open window at the foot of my bed was not very cold. Peter's sleep breathing rose and fell from the bed across my room. I watched him for a while, a dark shape in the morning dimness of my room, stirring as his sleep lightened with the end of the night. I got up and started making noise in the room; he stirred more frequently and then suddenly, he was awake, rubbing his eyes and saying, "How 'bout you go downstairs, get book, we read story." I snuggled him, read to him, and snuggled and chatted some more. As the rest of the family passed by in the hall, each one peeked in the open door and was enchanted by Peter, smiling good morning to him and also to me. His imagination took flight and we made up silly stories together. Finally, I said we should probably go downstairs to get him dressed.

He was going to the quiz with Papa and Nana and Uncle John, so he had to hurry to get ready and eat his heaping bowl of "moatmeal" (oatmeal) with nectarines and pears. We gathered around the table and ate together, then Heidi and I went out to the driveway in our pjs to wave goodbye to the quizzers. Back inside, we dressed, cleaned the kitchen, and fed Lucy when she woke up. The sun was in full force outside, and when we let the dogs out the frisk of the morning enchanted them and they ran off into the woods. Hands dripping with dishwater, I kept going out onto the deck to shout, "Sophie! Rosie!" The air was cool but mild, and the blue of the sky was bright and unmarred. I felt frisky, too! I told Heidi if we waited they usually returned, and the dogs did not disappoint me.

After the cleaning, feeding, and dressing jobs were done, I made caramel whipped cream to frost a ginger cake for a church baby shower, spreading it in smooth, chunky swipes across the top and drizzling more caramel over the finished cake. I tucked it in the fridge on its glass plate, and then Heidi and I both worked on sewing projects. Lucy wandered around our table in her pink and green plaid jumper, exploring the sewing cords and baskets, carrying her favorite toy cup and fork, reading, and holding up her hands to come up for a snuggle with Mama or Aunt Julie.

At 10:30, it was time to leave for the shower. We turned off the sewing machine, gathered gifts and cake, and loaded into Heidi's car. As a girl, a shower signaled Special Occasion to me, and I retain a lingering sense of privilege and excitement when I am invited to one. I enjoyed the beautiful details of the party, and the fun of time with many dear ladies and girls from the church, and the generosity of the gifts showered on Karen and her soon-to-come baby girl. Heidi, Lucy, and I were among the last to leave. Heidi and I had sister chats on the way home, and Lucy started her delayed nap (after she was caught eating an envelope she found in my purse, which she was rifling through from her car seat).

Heidi carried the sleeping Lucy upstairs to finish her nap at our house; then she loaded up her things (sewing supplies, overnight bag) and went home to catch up on some housewifely jobs until it was time to come back and pick up Peter after his day at the quiz and Lucy after her nap. After a busy and social week, I was suddenly alone in a sunny house with a sleeping baby; I decided to open my window and curl up on my own bed for a few minutes. Refreshed, I went back downstairs to sew and delighted in adding ribbons and lace as the finishing touches to my project. Lucy slept on; the quizzers hadn't returned home yet.

I puttered amiably: cleaned up my sewing machine and all the little threads and implements scattered on table and ironing board, replaced the table cloth, set the table, soaked the dogs' food, checked on Lucy, walked out on the deck barefoot to breath in the sweet air. The grandmas arrived from the quiz, and before they were inside, Mom, Dad, John, and Peter followed them in the driveway. We were just inside when Heidi drove up to get her children, who were both sleeping -- Lucy upstairs, Peter in his car seat. Suddenly all was a buzz of activity: Mom was adding peas and parsley to the soup in the crockpot; Grandma was mixing her salad; Heidi waking her children (and then mothering her tired boy, who started crying the moment he saw her for no apparent reason); John was feeding the dogs. When the dust settled, we ladled hot lentil soup into our bowls and gathered around the table with the grandmas, filling our bodies with nutrients and our souls with the sight and presence of each other. We finished with Grandma Jane's chocolate cake and Dad's coffee. The grandmas left to make their long drive home, and we were a foursome.

Our activities were diverse: listening to an old Imperials song (Grandma had randomly started singing it when a phrase someone said triggered her memory and then Dad wanted to find it); doing the dishes; prepping for John's birthday dinner tomorrow; browsing website building and tracking info with Dad; having a girl chat on the couch. But we were together. And we still had some party left in us, which translated to downloading a "Leave it to Beaver" episode, chatting in the living room, and a rousing set of Boggle matches serenaded by classical music.

And then, shortly after ten, it was time to head towards bed to get ready for the day tomorrow. Mom called Sophie, wanting to zip her into her kennel for the night; Sophie bounded out from under table with so little thought for her surroundings that a dining room chair banged to the hardwood floor behind her. We secured dogs and doors and headed up the stairs, calling the last questions and thoughts from the day to each other down the hall, and then saying our goodnights.

In the midst of the rain, clouds, and shivery mornings of September, a clear, warm day: a jewel.

Cascade Pass: Memorable Moments

As Dad, Mom, and I climbed the switchbacks to Cascade Pass, we wondered if John would be waiting for us at the top. He was hiking out from his summer home in Stehekin to meet us for a few days in the wilderness together. The thought of seeing his friendly face spurred our steps, and when we heard a whistle that sounded like an imitation of Dad's, there was excitement among us. Then, he appeared around the next switchback, grinning and carefree with a bear tooth around his neck. He offered to take a pack (several times, until Mom finally obliged him) and hugged us and led us up the mountain as he told us stories and news of his life. 

At Cascade Pass

 One afternoon, sunny and showery by turns, we had returned from our short day hike to Horseshoe Basin and John stirred up the coals left from the morning's fire. We dried brush-wetted pant legs, boots, and socks by the fire and then Dad and John set out to catch some brook trout. Mom and I sat on stumps and logs by the fire and journaled and read. To keep from getting stiff, we gathered fuel and broke the branches over our knees to feed the fire or, when the rain revved up, hunched under our raincoats and tried to protect our books from the drops so we could keep reading. The boys came back happy and hungry with four beautiful fish strung on a green alder twig. The fish rested in the creek until we had roasted our potatoes in the fire; then we fried them with oil and garlic on foil over hot coals and ate our dinner with great delight.

View from Horseshoe Basin

Though the weather on Friday was foggy and misty, we decided to start up Sahalie Arm and see what views could be found there. The hillside was vivid with verdant flora, and everything wore dewdrop jewelry. The mountains drifted in and out of fog and clouds. Mist turned to rain which turned to ice bits. We tucked heads into hats and hoods and hands into gloves and pockets and took it all in.

On Sahalie Arm

The third night, John and I set up our tarp very low to the ground so it could be as wide as possible (so we could be as dry as possible, which we knew from our experiences on the previous two nights was not a given). At the peak, and at the high end, it was perhaps 18" off the ground; it was quite a snake-slither to get in and out. Rain spattered and dumped on our siltarp much of the night. I mostly slept and was mostly warm, but my feet were a little chilly and I was thinking about the little Hotties I knew John had in his pack (which also happened to be his pillow). One time when I heard him stirring, I asked, "Is it close to morning?" The sleeping bag-encased collection of lumps that was John mobilized and hands and head emerged. He patted around for flashlight, then looked for his watch. "It seems like it's getting lighter," he said. "Oh. It's 12:30. Why is my sleeping bag so wet?" Then, "Ralphie?" he said, using my pet nickname. "Do you want a little Hottie?" Since it was only 12:30, yes, I did want a little Hottie or two. He fished them out of his pack, opened and shook them for me.  I tucked them into my socks. The raindrops surged louder, and we burrowed into our bags and slept again. An hour later, the sky was definitely light and he looked at his watch again when we heard Mom and Dad stirring under their tarp. "I must have been looking at the wrong time zone," John said, pushing a few buttons. "Oh, it's now 6:30."

Warming up & drying out on the last morning

As we packed up camp on the last morning, I heard a whistle above us. John had already headed out on his fifteen mile hike back into Stehekin, and I looked up to the main trail above Pelton Basin, where we had camped. There was a tiny figure, flashing through the brush. "Goodbye, John!" I called up to him.

Climbing out of Pelton Basin towards Cascade Pass

Smoothies

Peter came running in ahead of his family on Sunday night -- they called to see if they could come over to hang out with us, and showed up on our porch about half an hour later. After our greetings, Peter thought maybe I would watch the screen saver on the computer with him, but I had another idea: making smoothies for dinner together. When I made the suggestion, he changed directions mid-run and made a beeline for the kitchen, where I gave him a seat on the counter beside the blender. He unwrapped frozen bananas, dumped in bags of pineapple chunks, and fished frozen strawberries out of the bag, giving his fingers a good licking in between each fruit to avoid cross-contamination. Then I cut open plums and peaches and he took the pits out. His rule of thumb for the plums was for every pit he removed, he got to tear off a little corner of fruit for a snack; the rest went into the blender. He has a slight fear of blenders, so he cozied up to the wall when I was ready to turn it on, but he remained courageous enough to stay on the counter. Once it was blended, of course we had to taste it! Peter thought it was good, but he really needed another little taste to do his job right.

After we finished our popcorn and smoothies ("copcorn and soothies"), Peter played on the couch for a bit and then it was bath time. When he was all clean, he had yet another plan: "We go downstairs, you read Peter story for bedtime. No Bible here, you read Peter story." I told him we actually DID have Bibles here, just not the one that he usually reads at bedtime. So he found one of our Bible story books on the shelf and took it to an empty rocking chair. "We sit here all-gether," he said, climbing in and scooting over to one side. I wedged myself in beside him and, snuggled close, we read two stories. He was still, listening, taking in every picture and word; I was still, too, taking in every bit of this dear, eager boy.

Family

Wednesday night, my first night home, Mom and Tim and I went over to Aaron and Heidi's after dinner, just because we could. When we started up the walk, Peter appeared in the big picture window, standing on the couch; anticipation showed in his clenched hands, scrunched shoulders, and sparkly grin. Lucy was visible just behind him, as usual more calm and reserved. I dashed up the steps and knocked on the door so Peter would come and open it. Then I took him, sturdy and solid, in my arms. He was full of eager questions and news doled out in his stilted sentences. "You called in German?" he asked. I said I was also called "Julie" in German. "No, you called Tante Julie in German!"

Tim took me out to breakfast on Thursday morning, our only day of overlap at home together before he left for school. He drove me to the Fall City Grill and lingered with me over a hearty breakfast, sharing some stories of his summer (most notably the Bear Hunt Story), encouraging me to start a bakery, talking about ideas for his future.

Aaron and Heidi came over with the kids on Thursday night in honor of Tim's last night at home; we played a game and ate popsicles and laughed together. Peter and Lucy spent the night, and I loved hearing his hearty snoring when I went into my room to go to bed. In the morning, I was down the hall when he woke up. "Mama, Peter get up?" When I went in to answer his sweet call, he sat up and adjusted the pillows and told me his plan: "You get book off shelf, you read Peter story!" Mom and I took turns running and watching Peter and Lucy (feeding them oatmeal, dressing them, answering Peter's questions, snuggling Lucy) and then drove them to the blueberry farm to meet Heidi. When we asked Peter what we would do at the blueberry farm, he had two good ideas: Pick and neat [eat]!

He was an independent and cheerful little picker, and often we would call to him and hear his little voice from several rows away. "Yes? I almost to end!"

Lucy was a good sport in the Ergo, but towards the end the blueberries we popped into her mouth weren't making up for the branches switching her in the face, and she was ready to get down. We have been enjoying a handful of fresh blueberries with most of our meals since Friday morning: in salad with chicken and curry dressing; with nectarines and yogurt on granola; sprinkled over gingerbread and lemon sauce.

This morning at breakfast Dad, Mom and I talked about issues of the heart. There were even a few tears, and I loved how we were soft and open to receive the Word from Daily Light as Dad read to us, and how earnestly we prayed together.

Today Mom and I spent lots of time in the kitchen and browsing cookbooks. Our big project was getting the food ready for our four day hike starting next Wednesday; then we did some menu planning for a couple of company meals coming up in the next few weeks. The sink was emptied of dishes many times; we had the dehydrator, the flour mill, and all manner of pots and pans out; we chopped and measured and toasted and baked. I love all the flavors and textures and possibilities -- the creativity; I love that we can make something we have to do (eating) into a delight; mostly I loved being together with Mom and working and playing and sharing and laughing together.

Evening Swim

On a hot evening in Cheverly, we decide to go to the pool for splashing and dinner. There are six kids in the house, so we are busy running up and down the stairs looking for children and their suits, and getting them matched up, and then finding sandals and towels and and pool bag. Lilah has to be woken up from her nap and is crying intermittently without reason. Molly is going to get pizza with Max (1.5), and Phillip is still at work, so Heather and I herd the remaining five children down the street towards the pool. Jackson (7) is pushing Cole in the stroller and also trying to stay ahead of Audrey (5) and Claire. Heather is weighed down with Lilah, who is still waking up and regaining her sunny equilibrium. I try to keep Jackson from ejecting Cole out of his seat as he flies over curbs, and direct the girls back onto the sidewalk. The pool is only two blocks away, so we make it without our group loosing cohesion. We wait in line, and snake through the dressing rooms, and head down the steps to the kid's pool, a large circle of water about ten inches deep. Some friends of Heather's meet us there; they have a toddler and an infant, so between their little runner and ours, conversation is jerky and there are many unfinished threads.

Jackson, don't run and splash in the kid's pool.

(So you're defending your dissertation on Monday, Paul?)

Yes, Lilah, I see that you are swimming!

(Do you think it's easier to adopt or have natural children, now that you've done both?)

I'm sorry you got splashed, Audrey; that happens sometimes in the pool.

(So how big is the house you're looking at buying?)

If you're cold you can get out of the water, Claire.

That gate isn't latched; there goes Liam!

Lilah comes to feed me with a wet pebble, which she drops down my shirt, and to paint my feet, and  to water my legs. I take the girls over to the big pool so we can do "motorboat," a silly spinning-in-circles water game I introduced them to in the lakes in Berlin, which my daddy used to play with me. Audrey, out of the pool, plays with her towel and watches her shadow, crisply cast by the setting sun on the smooth cement. "Look Audrey," I tell her. "Your shadow is so tall! It's taller than your daddy!"

"No!" she tells me. "My daddy is so tall -- he would be all the way to that fence!"

Claire bounces over, huddled into her wet towel. "Can I get warm with you?" she asks, and burrows into my lap.

Then we see Molly and Phillip: pizza has arrived. We lead the kids up the stairs and they sit at the picnic tables, puddles swelling under their benches as they choose between cheese and pepperoni. Cole quietly puts away three pieces, painting his dimpled cheeks with pizza sauce. We say goodbye to the friends who had come to visit with Heather. The pizza disappears and the group drains back down to the pool.

"Look! Julie! The sky is pink!" Lilah runs over to hold my hands while she heralds this news to me, each word emphasized by her eager wonder. The sun is behind the trees; the evening is cooler now. The girls want to do motorboat again, but I don't want to get back in the water. Cole is fussy; Phillip takes him to the big pool and gives him a change of scenery and some one-on-one attention.

And then: bedtime! We traipse out of the pool, up the stairs, through the dressing room, across the parking lot. Phillip and the boys walk home, Max and Cole in the stroller, towel-robed Jackson running along beside. The girls pile into the car and Molly drives us home. At home everyone is changed and read to. I take Cole into his room and he tucks his head into the crook of my neck while I snuggle him, pray for him, speak love to him. Then he reaches for his mattress and lies down to suck his two middle fingers, and I sail his blanket down and it comes to rest over his quiet little body.