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.