Whither thou goest

I've kept quiet about some of our reality lately-- partly because I don't want this to become a space of endless negativity, and partly because I have not truly processed all of the hows and whys that I find myself swimming in quite well enough to put them into words.But  here it is: through no fault of his own, Mr. Blandings will find himself unemployed quite soon. His boss is resigning as of Friday, May 31, leaving my husband-- and his co-workers-- at the mercy of an incoming individual with an eye towards change. That means that Monday, June 3rd, we are expecting a quiet dinner. The kind where the children chew slowly and cheerfully offer to refill glasses that are still half full. The kind where Dad pushes his plate away and picks up his Bible for study time and we all lean close, not exhaling, waiting to see whether we should laugh or cry.

Mr. Blandings has applied for 50 jobs since February. Yes-- 50 jobs. Nearly every night, he has cheerfully led our family activities until each of the children is in bed. Board games, sing-a-longs, movie night, soccer on the back hill, read-a-louds, then baths and goodnight kisses. Then, as Reuven and I settle in to nurse and knit, he opens his laptop and sets to work weeding through possibilities, sending out resumes, and cashing in on contacts.

It's soul-eating work, this. More often than not, I kiss his furrowed brow and slip off to bed while he is still deciphering the latest batch of job listings. Are the hours this company expects compatible with raising a family? Would this job bring me joy or frustration? Will the vacation options here allow me to travel to Nepal regularly? Hours later, when I feel him join Reuven and me in bed, his body is still tense and I can almost feel his mind grinding over the events, the options, the oh-my-goodness-what-is-happening-in-our-lives-now.

Thankfully, God has been faithful in answering my most desperate prayer. While it makes the most sense to be praying for a specific opportunity, my heart has been burdened that my husband should first and foremost see fruit from his work. You see, I trust wholeheartedly that God has a job waiting for Mr. Blandings. And while it is looking more and more like it may be something so outside of what either of us would choose for our family (because let's be honest, were it up to us, we'd already be in Nepal), I have no doubt that it is a good, and it will prosper both our family and the kingdom of God. But oh, the labor to get there. The endless parade of searching, of feeling like a slab of meat being set out for inspection by panel after panel of faceless recruiters whose form rejections cut off yet another hopeful arrow thrown into the air of speculation.

So my prayer has been that God would offer Mr. Blandings feedback. Phone calls, interviews, doors that prove that he is an accomplished man worthy of consideration. The Lord has been gracious in this request. So far, six interviews have been held. Three of those jobs have already gone to other people. One is for a position that would be a fine transition, but not a permanent solution.

Which leaves two. Two positions. Two opportunities. In reality, two roads forking away from the life we know now. I have no idea why, but I fully expect Mr. Blandings to be offered one of these jobs. One would move us into the faster-paced, more corporate world of Western Washington. The other would drop us deep in the heart of Eastern Washington's quiet farmland. Both would require moving. Both require starting over, to some degree.

Night and day. Opposite worlds. As Mr. Blandings told the children yesterday at dinner, "Guys, either way, life changes here. Either way. There is no staying the same. That ship has sailed."

I have no idea what God's plan is here. I feel--once again-- like I am sitting at His mercy, waiting for His word, unable to move or not move. Truthfully, I could not make this call if I wanted to. There is simply too much at stake.

So I comfort my children. I encourage my husband. I celebrate birthdays. I tend a garden I do not expect to harvest. I look to the Lord and surrender. Whither thou goest, there I follow.

The win

And the winners are ...

They pointed out the sign during our weekly library trip. 

"It's a video contest. The whole two-county library system! You enter a book trailer for a chance to win $150," Atticus told me eagerly. Film, you see, has become his thing--so much so that the tiny flip camera we bought a few years back has become an extension of his hand.

"Do it," I suggested.

Mr. Blandings went a step further.

"It's a school assignment," he decreed. "You two work together. Write the script. Storyboard it. The whole deal. Start to finish. You have one week."

So they did. For one solid week, everything besides math was pushed aside for these two to make way for this one delight-driven project. It was consuming. Fun. Laborious. Thrilling. Nerve wracking. I watched them work from afar, waiting until the premier to see what they'd been up to in their creative frenzy.

When the end result debuted, I was impressed. Not shabby for two kids, a $100 camera, and some pre-installed movie making software. But who knows what the competition is bringing to the table, I thought. Let's be prepared for disappointment.

Lo and behold, they won.

Yet another reason why homeschooling teens is, in my opinion, awesome.

Meanwhile ...

Jo has finished her Doula Skills Workshop and is concentrating on fulfilling the certification requirements.

Reuven is rolling!

Oli is learning conversation skills by making animals interact.

Seven has a cold. Again. 

Logan blasted through the second set of Critical Thinking Skills workbooks I got for him this year. I'm glad he likes them, but whoa, are they pricey!

Mani is loving the warmer weather.

Atticus becomes an official teenager in less than a month. And, oh, yes -- he got a haircut.

Stained

Please tell me I'm not the only mother who's had this moment:

It's Sunday morning, five minutes before you have to leave for church. As you're collecting snacks, kids, diapers, a sippy cup, a blanket, and ohmygosh I almost left the house in my slippers, you notice it.

That one kid-- you know, that one-- is wearing high waters. Stained high waters. And clearly, his shirt is just a bit too tight. Which could almost be ignored ... were it not for the missing button.

Did I mention the whole family is going to lunch with perspective missionary partners after service?

No?

Ahem.

Tell me you've had that moment, or something like it. And tell me that in that same moment, your husband looked at you and asked, "Uh, does he have anything that fits?"

Sigh.

This was me Sunday before last, gazing at my sweet, doe-eyed Logan, who just didn't get what all the fuss was about. In the eyes of a 10 year-old boy, he was perfectly presentable. Fancy, even. 

Two days and $157 later, I had overhauled Logan's wardrobe. Because his body is so different than Atticus', hand-me-downs don't work in this instance. Goodwill, Value Village, Old Navy, and Target had all been consulted. Men's pants, 29x29. Check. Men's shorts, 29 inch waist. Check. Men's shirts, size medium. Check. Men's shoes, size 9.5. Check. 

It's been lovely, this past week and a half, to see such a neat, tidy version of Logan. Clean, crisp shorts. Neat, colorful shirts. So fresh and well, un-Logan like.

And then, this morning--

I pulled Logan's new khaki shorts from the dryer. The ones I had to buy brand-new from Old Navy. The ones that cost as much as the ones we'd buy for Mr. Blandings, even on sale.

And there, right across the seat, was a massive, unmistakable grass stain.

I sighed. I bit my tongue.

Then I crept upstairs and nabbed a fresh pair of shorts and a nice new polo shirt, and I hid them in my closet. Because, by golly, I won't tell a boy not to play outside, or to paint, or to muck about with clay or any other messy stuff.

But I also need to have him somewhat presentable sometimes, right?

Seems like a compromise to me.

Little learners

Too big for the baby bed ...

Seven is two and a half.

A toddler, yes. But more and more a preschooler. Every day she spots a letter or number and asks, "What does that say?" She pretends with her babies and animals and big brothers, and it is real pretend play-- the kind where things must be just right, where reality must be as closely mirrored as possible. Unless, of course, she's pretending to be something with no basis in reality whatsoever. In that case, anything goes.

Because she is, still, a toddler.

I'm so, so looking forward to homeschooling this child. Her personality, her passion, and her curiosity make me eye the Sonlight cores that have been patiently waiting in our school room with longing. To revisit so many old friends with a child already so hungry for the adventures that she finds between the pages of books will be a pleasure. She is the perfect candidate for a Sonight education. She loves to be read to, remembers every detail of every story, and asks questions about everything. Her enthusiasm, I know, will carry wiggly, wily, non-stop Mani along, and even inspire dreamy little Oli to pause and drink in what he can take of the tales.

I look at my three little ones and imagine the afternoon when Seven turns to Mani and says, "Let's play New Toes for Tia." Then I picture the day I realize that Reuven knows all the countries of Eastern Europe but cannot tie his shoes, or that Oli learns about the Civil War just because it was part of a story we read together as a family.

I look ahead and look backward at the same time. Haven't I been here before? Oh, yes, I have. Those memories are, I think, what makes the anticipation of the coming season that much sweeter. The days of Logan fiddling with Legos while I read The Great Wheel, the afternoons where Jo poked grass seeds into pots of squishy soil, the mornings with Atticus on my lap as we paged through the Egermeier Bible .... those were precious times that I hold dear to my heart-- and times that have set the stage for all of the things that have come after. The fast-forward track to midwifery. The love of music. The passion for science. The desire to pilot planes.

Mani will be five in June, Seven is two and a half, Oli six. Reuven is still a four month-old nursling. I remember so well the magic of these days-- when it was Jo who was five, and Atticus and Logan were sweet little tagalongs at three and one. I remember the idyll of those first read-alouds, the stress of worrying over whether or not I was neglecting my baby by spending so much time aiming above his head, the juggling of adding in more purposeful learning activities alongside laundry and cooking and check-ups at the doctor. I recall the rush of saying it out loud: "We're homeschooling." "She's homeschooled." "Actually, we homeschool." 

They were heady days, to be sure.

This time around, I am not incorporating something new into our family routine. Oli, Mani, and Seven have enjoyed "table time" since they were old enough to occupy the bouncy seat that has been perpetually perched on the end of our dining room table for the last 5 years or so. They have sung Bible songs nearly every weekday morning since they could manage to lisp, "Da B-Y-G-I'm me!" (Mani's first attempts at "The B-I-B-L-E."). They adore story time, be it with silly rhyming tales or coffee-table spreads of African lions. They paint, they model with wax, they look forward to sunny days when they can be rabbits and foxes on the back hill.

So, really, they're already homeschooled--by my definition at least.  But soon, they'll be ready for something entirely new to them. Something that won't feel like "school" at all, but which will expand their repertoire of imagination, excite them with glimpses into the bigger world, and ignite in them a greater love of God's creation.

I am thrilled to throw open the doors yet again for a new set of learners, even as I help my older kids find their way towards their callings. Ah, what beautifully full days!

The privilege and the burden

Whenever the world is rocked by shocking atrocity-- which happens, it seems, all too often-- I find myself drawn not just to the comfort of my family and home, but also to the knowledge that I am doing something.

With every diaper I change, every smile I offer, every question I answer, every book I recommend, every good habit I encourage, every meal I serve, every story I tell, every hurt I soothe, every song I sing, every choice I explain, I am doing something of infinite, eternal value. 

I am a peace activist. A teacher. A nurse. A judge. A mentor. A discipler of such varied arts as one person can possibly muster. I am the one who points out the wrongs and applauds the rights. I am the champion of justice, the voice of reason, and the hero of the underdog. 

I nurture the minds, bodies, and spirits of children who will impact the future of this world with their passions, talents, and gifts. I multiply my own gifts to this world exponentially with every little person entrusted to me. It is a privilege, yes. But it is a burden as well.

Because the future, clearly, needs people of purpose, people of love, and people whose faith leads them to gentleness. Until Jesus returns, it is our job to lead children to this water. We cannot, of course, make them drink. But we can offer it up, model it, and make it irresistible.

We can do something. Simply being a mother ... that, I think is the most powerful thing.

One step at a time

Jo, the baby whisperer.

Of course, she's been reaching for adulthood since she took her first step. Since she said her first word. Since she took her first breath.

But tomorrow, the footprints get a little bit clearer on the path God marked "Jo" before time began.

Tomorrow, she begins training to become a birth doula, with an eye towards serving as a midwife.

Oh, delicious irony: my least worn child, the one who slept in a crib in another room at 4 weeks, the baby I abruptly weaned at 13 months, my disposable diaper wearing, ramen munching baby ... a doula.

For so many years, it was animals, animals, animals. And then, one day, all of that sweetness and nurturing just clicked over. The dream of being a vet slowly receded, and in its place there was this: the simple desire to be part of the beautiful, amazing process of birth. The desire to comfort and assist. The desire to witness life's first breath.

And so, tomorrow, she begins. One more step ...