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.

Snapshots

Who is the biggest?

Upon entering the dining room where the girls were working on a princess project, I overheard an interesting and rather heretical comment. "God and Snow White are the same."

I felt this kind of imaginary play warranted correction. "No, they are not."

"Oh, we thought we could pretend that God was a princess." Lilah had made the original comment, but Claire now came to her defense.

"No, God is much bigger than princesses. He made princesses."

"But we thought we could pretend."

"Well, it's actually not good to pretend things about God that aren't true."

"Oh. God and Jesus are the biggest. But, giraffes have really long necks."

Tip, tip, tip!

Noticing a wild (out of control; destructive to property and the happiness of others) streak in Lilah this morning, I kept her in my room for a time while the general mayhem continued without us just outside my door. She was so jazzed that even the Cinderella book wasn't keeping her occupied, so I suggested looking at pictures on my computer. We looked at a bunch from my time in Berlin thus far, and she would say, looking at a picture of herself, "Oh, we went there!" She also liked naming people and what they were doing. Then I was showing her some photos of me with my family. She finally expressed her confusion at seeing me in all these pictures with unfamiliar people, in unfamiliar places. "Are you there, Julie?" she asked, pointing at the screen. As if to say, "How can you be there and also here?" She asked her question a few times, unsatisfied with my answer that I was there and now I am here. "I want you always to be here," she said. Then she had an idea. "I'm going into the computer to be with you! Tip, tip, tip," she said, stepping across the screen with her fingers. "Now I'm with you, Julah!"

The Girls

In Old Alexandria today: Iris, Lilah, Julie, Claire

The girls and I have had the last couple of evenings to ourselves (along with our dear boy Cole, of course, commonly known as "Baby"), and I like the girls. The mommies have gone out for dinner and shopping and various Mommy Pursuits, leaving us to our own devices. Tonight, after a happy scrub in the bathtub, they scurried to my room, where, after a precedent of one night, they have learned that we have story time. We all pile against the pillow and read two stories together, and I soak in the feel of their trust and affection in their sleep-heavy heads, piled against my shoulders and arms.

Before bedtime, I was working on something in my room and the kids were playing happily together. Claire came racing through, the other two girls and chaos trailing in her wake. After trying to jump on the bed and dancing around the tiny room, she grabbed my towel off its hook on the wall and was about to start dragging it across the floor; I snatched it back and hooked her in my arms, speaking sharply to her about her tendency to act without giving the least thought to what she was doing. I know she didn't intend any mischief; she simply was wild to Do something and didn't give a particle of thought to what it was as long as there was action involved. The rebuke was more because she had interrupted my happy little project than because I truly believed she needed to be reprimanded. The sharpness certainly was uncalled for. After her bath, as I cradled her chin in my hand, scrubbing her teeth, my earlier actions rose up before me and I knew I needed to apologize to her. So, as I brushed, I asked her to forgive me. She readily, even eagerly nodded her head, freely giving forgiveness.

And she is learning lessons too: after I tucked her into bed, she appeared in my doorway. She's not supposed to get out of bed, but I listened to what she had to say before sending her back. "Um, Julie, do you think you could look for my tights [special pink tights she always sleeps with which we couldn't find at bedtime tonight], after you're done with this [waving her hand at the project spread out in front of me], and if you find them, you could bring them down to me?" I said yes and before I could send her there, she disappeared back to bed. She had asked politely, gone to bed without being asked even though the tights were still missing, and she even allowed that my project could take precedence over her needs. A small thing, perhaps, but the little evidences of "considering others as better than herself" made my heart thrill.

Iris asked me, as I was tucking her in, if I would go to my church tomorrow. "My church is too far away," I told her. "I'm going to your church!" She was still puzzled.
"But why?" she asked.
Me: "Because I'm visiting you! So I'm going to your church."
I: "But why aren't you going to your church?"
Me: "It's very far away."
I: "How far?"
Me: "About three thousand miles."
I: "Whoa. I thought maybe it was thirty-hundred miles."
Me: "Nope, three thousand, so pretty far. So, I'm going to church with YOU!"
I: "Are you going to my class with me??"
Me: "No, I think I'm a little too big for that."
I: "It's for fours and fives."
Me: "Yep, I'm too big."
I: "And Wade's class is for sixes and sevens."
Me: "I'm too big for that too."
I: "And then we have eights and nines."
Me: "I'm too big for that, too. Do you have one for twenty-eights?"
I: "Twenty-eight! Is that how old you are?"
Me: "Yep."
I: "Are you still a kid?"
Me: "Is twenty-eight still a kid?"
I: "I think it is."
Me: "Then I guess I am."
I: "Is Mommy older than you? I forget -- I don't know how old she is."
Me: "Yes, Mommy is older."
I: "And Daddy is older than her, so that means he's older than you too. So Daddy is the biggest, and Mommy is the middle one, and you are the littlest."
Me: "Yep! Goodnight, Iris."

Closer to Home

In an old house in Arlington

That was(n't) covered with vines

Lived five eager children

Who couldn't form a straight line to save their lives.

(Who knows why I got inspired by the Madeline books when I sat down to write this post. Perhaps this is indicative of how many children's books I've been reading.)

I'm experiencing the culture shock of leaving Germany. (I understand what people are saying here -- everyone! And the waiter brings the check to my table without me asking. The stoplights don't turn yellow before they turn green. I haven't seen a single cobblestone.) And also the shock of still feeling like a bit of a foreigner in my own country. It's more humid, intellectual, formal, and quaint here than in my rugged Northwest corner of the US.

The delights of the past days have included: the plane wheels touching down at the Washington Dulles airport -- even better, the moment the last of our fourteen pieces (including suitcases, purses, a car seat, and three children) were settled for the "final" time in our home for the week. We are staying with gracious and friendly Matt and Jan and their children Wade (also known as "Wave" if you're two and have blonde pigtails) and Iris in their 1922 house which they moved into a week and a half ago.

Eager and honest discussions on the best book of the year (contestants: Malcom Gladwell's "Outliers," Abraham Verghese's "Cutting for Stone," Leif Enger's "Peace Like a River," Diane Ackerman's "The Zookeeper's Wife," God's "Bible"), in vitro fertilization, how bold to be with non-Christians, God's will and our knowledge of it, and the eating habits of children.

Reading with five-year-old Iris on the couch today, and experiencing her sense of wonder as we discussed the captivating illustrations on each page.

Cole's first steps, taken with purposefulness and giddy delight his first day on American soil. Crawling continues to be the preferred means of actual transportation, but walking is definitely a favorite pastime and an intriguing challenge, usually accompanied by outrageous giggles.

An outing to D.C. this morning where I saw many of the sights (monuments, museums, and federal buildings) from the car window and took a closer look at the National History Museum and the sculpture garden.

Lilah:

 
I could close with Madeline's tidy story ending: "And that is all -- there's nothing more," but it would be quite faulty in this instance. There is much more, but that is all for this blog, and all for this girl for this day. 

Cole

If I wink at Cole, he winks back with both eyes (which is a common German habit; maybe it's due to the fact that his seventeen months of life have been spent entirely in Deutschland). 

If I ask him, "Do you want to walk?" he puts up his hands to hang onto my fingers and pulls himself to a standing position, then wobbles up and down the hall, grasping my fingers. Sometimes he lets go with one hand to test his bravery and skill.

If I pull a shirt over his head, he always greets me with a huge grin and a silly giggle when I pop the neck hole over his face; he considers getting dressed every morning a hilarious game of peek-a-boo.  If he's crabby when I start with the shirt, pulling it over his face always evokes a magical transformation from indignant or grouchy to dimpled and goofy. If I forget to play the game, he always reminds me by craning his neck to see if I'm delighted to see him again.

And, if you let him out of your sight, he's most likely to find some mischief to get into. A favorite activity is climbing onto the bench seat around the kitchen table, from which he can reach the sink, the dish drainer, and whatever may be on the counter. Technology is another big draw: telephones, computers, cords. Otherwise, he's probably just working on de-organizing -- pulling books off the shelf, toys out of the bins in the playroom, papers and tidbits off the table in the entryway. One day I found him with his feet in one toy bin and his hands desperately gripping the bin above, stuck in an awkward position and unable to figure out how to push in the bin above or extricate himself from the one below.


But all that mischief does wear the lad out; this morning in church he fell asleep on my lap for most of the service, waking up groggily at the last song to snuggle his sweaty head against my shoulder and suck his two favorite fingers.

Saturday Morning

I had planned to go for a run this morning, but I woke to a smooth grey sky and a settled rain. I can go running in the rain, and even enjoy it if it's not too cold, but it's harder to get motivated to go out, and this morning I propped up the pillows in bed, beside the open window letting in the gentle whisper of rain and the superbly fresh air, and I pulled out my journal. I wrote about what I've been reading and watching and thinking, and enjoyed the quiet moments to process. Eventually I heard the household coming to life, little feet pattering up and down the hall outside my door.

Then I thought I heard the feet stop outside my door, and as I watched, the door handle twitched once, twice, then swung low enough to disengage the latch. Four delicate fingers appeared, gripping the edge of the door; it swung open just enough to admit Cinderella, in a blue ball gown dragging on the floor and gaping open at the waist. A blue crocheted hat perched on yellow hair that draped across Lilah's blue eyes and sunny smile. She ran over to give me a hug. "Julie!" she exclaimed. Then she disappeared, and I heard her footsteps in the hall and her entrance into the kitchen, where she announced, "Mommy, Julie's awake!"

Quiet rainy morning, farewell. Sunshiney children, hello!

Animals and Walking, Naughty and Pottery

"Look, I have an animal!" Claire ran across the hardwood floor, her feet slapping with each step, her forefinger rigid and her eyes fixed on a point on that finger. "It's -- it's a ladybug!"

"Is I gonna get naughty?" Lilah asks often, usually if her sister is in trouble of some sort. We hope not, Lilah, we hope not. "But it's okay!" she will reassure us cheerfully after she has complained in dire tones of something that has happened -- milk spilled on her dress, Cole knocked over, sandal falling off.

Cole is racking up the miles with his walker, careening up and down the long, wide hall and doing laps through the living room. He is delighted with every new accomplishment, with every new place he finds he can clamber up to.

And in case you were wondering, this is how Jane and I look as S-Bahn riding tourists.

 
Heather and I took a trip to Poland yesterday and enjoyed both the time together and the trip very much. The purpose was to go to Polish pottery stores, and Boleslawiec is the place where it's made, so that was our destination. The GPS took us to the town, and then we followed our sometimes-directionally-challenged noses to the pottery stores crowding the streets. Most of them are on the outskirts of the town proper; on industrial streets next to factories and vacant lots, marked with signs painted with "Ceramika" and garish representations of the famous pottery, we entered perhaps ten of these shops, every shelf brimming with blue-rimmed plates, bowls, casseroles, pie plates, pitchers, mugs, and rolling pins, and pottery displays often spilling out onto the floors. We didn't buy much before lunch; we checked out a few stores and kept thinking we had to see everything before we made our decisions. Then we got too hungry to decide anything, and drove into the town center to find a restaurant. Across from the town hall, we found a cafe that served Polish food; two full plates plus a side of traditional Polish pierogies was only twelve Euros. A bakery provided some treats for the road in exchange for a bit of zloty (Polish currency) change I had from one of my purchases. Next stop: more pottery shops! We had seen enough to start having a feel for what we liked and what was a good price, and had given our eyes a palate cleanser from the Polish polka dots while we ate in the cobblestone square. So, we began to make our purchases in earnest; the backseat filled up with paper-wrapped lumps. Around five, we were coming to the end of our day, both by choice and also because the stores were closing (one lady didn't want to ring up our selections because it was past closing time, but Heather convinced her that she wanted our money). We stopped at one last string of stores on our way out of town, but they were all closed, so we set the GPS for home and headed for the Polish highway. We finished listening to a session on "Life and Counseling" with David Powlison, and then continued our varied conversation, hitting on topics from church leadership to marriage to feminism to our upcoming trip to America. It's a gift to be living with a friend for these months in Berlin. The drive home took only two hours (the westbound road in Poland was much better than the east), and the sound of the apartment door unlocking brought little bundles of wild delight racing to the entryway. The children took turns hugging us and telling us bits from their day; there was a phone call for Heather; Grandpa was just getting ready to tell the girls their bedtime story. Back to the bustle of home!

Jane Marie

My feet are up and glad to be there after two full and lovely days of walking with my cousin Jane, who is visiting Berlin for a few days. Friday we drove to Potsdam (the former royal retreat city, just outside of Berlin) and walked around the downtown, the Dutch Quarter, and Park Sanssouci (home of several palaces and endless gardens).

Lunch in the Dutch Quarter

Park Sanssouci

Today we hopped on the S-1 into Berlin and saw churches, a fabulous Saturday market, famous statues and buildings, interesting stores . . . 

Heidelbeeren Kasekuchen (Blueberry Cheesecake) with Italian Cappuccino

(yes, it was as huge and as scrumptious as it looks, maybe more so on both counts!)

Jane & the Berlin Wall

It's been great to have a touring companion, and also to spend some time with my cousin Jane. Tomorrow we'll go to church, and she might make another trek into the city to go to the Pergamon. Early Monday morning, she'll head out to Brussels and then back to Seattle.

Older and older

I have learned a new rule regarding birthday cake: every time you eat the leftovers, even if it's no longer your birthday, you get to have the birthday song sung in your honor again! Claire and Lilah faithfully reminded us and led out as we enjoyed my birthday cake for the days following my birthday, and last night when the kids and I were finishing the last sliver, Lilah again wanted to sing. I was home alone with the kids, so Claire and Lilah sang a duet. After they finished, Claire said, "Wow, it seems like you're getting like Grandpa -- older and older!" (I guess I gain a year every time they sing the song.) I made another cake today using cherries from the tree in the garden, and the girls are excited to try it. Lilah says, "Now we can sing the birthday song to you again!"

Story

I recently listened to a lecture on the life-shaping power of story and since have been pondering again the medium God chose to make truth known to us: words, and essentially, a story. "In the beginning" -- sounds like the start of a story. The big story of creation, fall, and redemption, and all the smaller stories that fit into that bigger one, are what shape my worldview (and lecturer Daniel Taylor argues that everyone's worldview is shaped by a Master Story). And it is our privilege, Taylor points out, to be both characters in God's story and also storytellers.

Then Heather and I were discussing on our run this morning ideas of conflict (how can you have a good story without conflict? and what will our story format be in Heaven, where there is no sin?) and resolution (how can you resolve in a way that leaves the reader/listener satisfied and hopeful, yet is realistic for this side of heaven?).

Reading Psalm 111 this morning, I realized that the writer was encouraging us to tell God's story: the works of the Lord are great, glorious, majestic, powerful, faithful, and just, and we should ponder and remember them. The kernel of this story is that "he provided redemption for his people; he ordained his covenant forever."

What does it look like to be a faithful storyteller?

I like . . .

. . . lying on my tummy on the trampoline after cavorting wildly with Claire and Lilah. They both climb aboard my back and begin to fix my hair. I enter fully into the moment: dove coos and church bells fill my ears; pink flowers growing alongside the trampoline press their faces into the net, and yellow ones smile from across the yard; the girls' hands are gentle, their voices happy and eager; the sun is warm and mild on my back and my bare feet. "It's your wedding," says Lilah as she spreads my hair across my back. "No, she already had a wedding," says Claire, and then adds, "Oh, yes, but this is her next wedding."

. . . getting caught in the rain on my run. I leave in the mist, deciding to go on a new route which I think will be a bit longer. I follow familiar streets to the canal, then turn left instead of right to run along the canal path. I emerge back onto the streets, away from the cover of the trees lining the canal, and the rain starts to come down hard. It is not very cold, and soon I am drenched and happy. Even though I miss my turn so my new route is even longer than I expected, I come home delighted and refreshed.

. . . making Cole grin. Sometimes I just catch his eye as he rides along in the stroller, and then toss him a big smile; sometimes I let him sit on my lap and spread my arms wide, then listen to him giggle as he waits for them to come dashing in and lock him in an embrace.

. . . looking down into Lilah's trusting, blue eyes, flanked by blond curly pigtails, while she says, "I want to carry you." I scoop her up or squat down so she can scramble onto my back, and all her sweet and silly confidences pour right into my ear as we travel on together.

We've had many adventures since I last posted, including many trips to lovely parks with Heather's dad. 

Heather & me in Potsdam:

Claire riding her bike at Britzer Garten:

The three kids scrambling together:

Grandpa & his granddaughters:

And then yesterday we had a birthday celebration. Besides cards, gifts, and phone calls from home (starting at 6:00AM!), Heather also worked hard to make it a special day for me. She asked me earlier about my favorite foods and e-mailed Heidi to ask for a recipe for Dutch Babies, which we had for breakfast with powdered sugar, maple syrup, and blueberries. The pan was licked clean! Heather's dad sweetly volunteered to watch the kids so Heather and I could have a day downtown. We rode the S-Bahn and went to church at the Berliner Dom (beautiful church building, not such an inspirational service). Then we walked to a nearby flea market and examined the wares: jewelry, art, handmade things, touristy trinkets. It reminded me a little of the stalls at Pike Place. Then we had lunch at a little cafe off of Gendarmenmarkt, a beautiful square in the city.

We rode the train home, and had a couple of quiet afternoon hours. Heather made Asian grilled chicken with peanut sauce, served with orzo salad and veggies.

Then Heather brought out the cake (which the girls had been long awaiting), and after singing and blowing out candles, we all enjoyed a slice or two. I opened gifts I'd been storing up in my room as they came in the mail.

Heather gave me an orchid for my room and a ticket to a concert next Sunday evening. She and I are going with a friend of hers and another girl; her dad will still be here to watch the kids. I felt exceedingly blessed by all those who went out of their way to make it a special day!

And, to close, two stories from my friends Claire and Lilah:
Claire and I were counting the candles on my birthday cake. There were seven, and I said, "Do you know how many people are in my family?" She started pointing around the table at her sister, brother, and mommy and counting. She also told me recently, "You didn't use to have kids, but you have kids now!" 

"What are we having for dinner?" asked Lilah this afternoon. "Proby mac 'n' cheese, I fink so." Of course, Lilah, just like whenever you ask what time it is, you always correct us and say, "It's firty-eight-nine-o'clock."