A New Look for Nap Time

First night in new beds

 Their eyes dance when they walk in the room, unsure what to study first. Small one stands on tiptoes trying to kiss the owls. Big one jumps and squeals: G-een bed! Pointed to the footboard: Ooh, my letter! She owns all "G's." They sit sideways, toes together, hands held, bouncing with excitement.

This might be our best project yet. We've made more complicated things, but never have we constructed more harmoniously. Plenty of artsy, painting work for me; plenty of power tool, woodwork for him. We finished just under $50 with furniture we really need. That's right, two beds for $30!!

The headboard and footboard are scrapped doors, abandoned to the overwhelming church set construction pile. Old doors are furniture genius. For $20 or less at a salvage yard or Habitat Restore, you can pick up solid, reclaimed wood. These had the bonus of really neat hardware, seen better here.

Growing Together

The giggling started before daylight this morning. The soft squeal of a baby fully awake and ready to explore the quiet house. I illuminate my phone, 5:30. Around the screen glow, I see small one peeking around the corner of the bed, blanket pressed to cheek, smiling around her finger.

She giggles again and throws arms wide, run walking to arms she knows are waiting. I scoop her up, pressing foreheads close.

Not yet, Sissy Bug. Back to bed. Oh, I don't want to. Let's sneak downstairs while Daddy and big one sleep on. Cuddle under a lofty blanket. Pretend she's staying newborn and snuggly and I'm her favorite forever.

Tough parenting is putting your grinning toddler back in bed and shutting the door. She's still comprehending this rail-less bed, freedom and responsibility. Must stay the course.

Breaking Bread

Monday is bread baking day. Weekends always see the loaf nibbled to the heel. Monday morning, no leftovers because I don't cook Sunday. DH takes peanut butter and jelly, nostalgic lunch deserving a paper bag. By Monday afternoon, we always need bread.

Humanity is built on bread. Hand-ground pea flour "horse bread" to Sister Shubert's yeast rolls. Baked carbs are for the top of the food chain.

A gluten free diet merely means different expectations for bread. I make dense loaves that only need one slice per sandwich and stick to ribs. No crumbly rice bread for us.

My recipe journal - allows recipes to evolve

Un-posted Projects

The MacBook, trusty grad school purchase, came to a grinding halt this week. I watched it lag, ignored its complaints Your startup disc is full. PLEASE, for the love of Steve, delete some files! and like the overworked Sewell horse, it finally dropped to its knees, unable even to run applications thanks to the burden of my photo library.

The beauty in my computer's darkest hour: I couldn't blog during the craftiest week of my entire life. I appliqued a tragically librarian sweater, made a hooded hippo towel, and built, painted and created decals for two toddler beds. All those bragging rights and no computer.

Painting a reclaimed door turned head board and dreaming up the amazing post I would write if I could, a verse from the sermon on the mount floated between brush strokes:

Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the Earth. Matthew 3:5

The January blog revival wasn't on impulse. I prayed and labored under the idea of once again tackling a project that had turned on me twice. Blogging feeds my salivating pride.

Head bowed, I asked the Lord to block my posts if I could not write encouragement based from a humble heart. Meekness. Grace. Work done in the light that others might give glory to God. Not my brain. Not my sense of humor. Not my crafting or cooking or cute kids or any other lesser thing.

God blocked solid, obvious, complete, saving me from myself. Thank You! You search my heart and know my profound weakness. In omniscient wisdom, You establish my footsteps.

Practicing Hard Joy

This week is hard joy. Truth tested. I won't recite my tale of woe. It's much like any other series of simultaneous frustrations that culminate in a tired family finding grace a hard practice.

Joy must be tested. Hope must be unseen. Otherwise, how do I know where joy and hope come from? Do I have joy in the Lord or in His easy gifts? Is my hope in God's goodness or in my comfort?

In small group, we tossed around the tired, yet always appropriate question: Why do bad things happen to good people (to my cynical brain: why do good things happen to bad people)? That's an entire blog in itself. Not for today. What was said that stuck: God gives hard to chip away the sinful, self-loving parts so Christ shines through.

That's my week. God showered me with truth in January, opened up His word and poured blessings. February He asks: Did it stick? Was sin removed that Christ might reign?

Heavenly seeds fell, but on what soil?

Rocky soil? One joyous week of God's word, happy sprouts quickly shriveled and gone. A lesson that should have blessed my whole life withering from lack of care.

Weedy ground? Cares of life, overspent, over tired, crying baby, illness. God's true and beautiful word choked out by everything else screaming for my attention.

Rich soil? Accept truth and encourage growth through meditation. Recite memory verses through the migraine. Practice grace at end of failed nap time. Force roots deep and grounded.

Where does my joy come from?

Gwennan's Potty Chart - Stickers mark accidents verse successes. A chart for my parental goals. If I fail, does my joy fail? Am I worshipping Jesus or "successful Christian parenting"?