My sense of things, second ed.

I taste black english breakfast tea.

I listen to my little girl offer her stuffed friends and dolls ice cream.

I feel like I wish my spirit was stronger.

I see vibrant green leaves against a grey, gloomy sky.

I smell the old, heavy, floral perfume my grandmother gave to me that we sprayed in the room just to see what it would be like.

The examined heart

Audrey was invited to a birthday party for her little friend today. We had chosen a perfect gift for the birthday girl just a few days ago. But this morning, I found Audrey walking around the house with a shopping bag asking what else we can give to Mei Mei. She had filled it with her own hair barettes, ribbons, animal cards, finger puppets...some of her little treasures.

"What else would Mei Mei like, Mama?"

"We bought her something already, Audrey. That will be enough."

"No, Mama, Mei Mei is special. She needs a special present. She will love these things."

She continued to fill her little bag. She presented these trinkets to her friend with little fanfare and true joy.

This evening, I told her that she was so nice to give some of her special things to Mei Mei.

"You have a kind heart, Audrey."

"No, Mama, sometimes my heart is unkind. I need Jesus to help me."

Her humility penetrates my own selfish heart. Her knowledge of her sin, her deep need of Jesus, that only his Spirit in us brings real kindness. Do I know so well what is true?

My sense of things, first ed.

I taste handmade raspberry chocolate fudge from Z. Cioccolato in North Beach.

I listen to bon iver, for emma forever ago.

I feel cold (which is sort of rare and enjoyable in Northern California) mellowed by a soft, hand-knitted blanket from our friend.

I see boxes of old things leaving my house, leaving blank places for new chapters of life to fill.

I am about to smell some muffins cooking in my oven.

Inspired by similar posts by Nicole at the Habit of Being.

The story of Christmas past

"Mary kept all these things to herself, holding them dear, deep within herself." from a paraphrase of Luke 2 in The Message

Some of the things I treasure from my Christmas --

My little girl asking over and over again to be lifted to see the lovely German Christmas pyramid in a shoppe window we often pass to look at "her little Lord Jesus."

How she called the twinkle lights in the neighbors' yards "honeybugs".

The simple little Christmas eve service at my church decorated with discarded strands of Christmas lights and filled with the sounds of two friends making lovely music.

Making glistening lemon sandwich cookies with Audrey for our friends.

A mid-December feast filled with warmth and good conversation with people who have grown very dear to me.

Wrapping and cleaning late into the night, night after night, with my husband

Now she is three

Three years ago at this time, I was settling into a pancake breakfast at the hospital, and this sweet little girl, just three hours old, was putting smiles on all the faces that saw her. Today she is a big girl who wanted me to hide her birthday presents and give her clues so that she could find them. And she still puts smiles on our faces. Happy birthday, Audrey.

Happy Thanksgiving

So much to say thank you for: a constant and patient husband, a little daughter, a naughty but dear cat, a merciful God, truth-speaking friends, some very good books, some very beautiful pictures....

I made this roasted pumpkin fondue from the November 2008 issue of Gourmet for Halloween, but if I were preparing a Thanksgiving feast, I would start with this. And perhaps end there. Oh, well, there would be my mom's pumpkin pie, too. Because it is the very best dessert I have ever had.

Instead, I am going to feast with my family - my parents, my aunties and their families, and my Granddaddy. Being together with people who are so dear to me.

Happy Thanksgiving, to those of you who read along.

All other ground is sinking sand

This evening I learned that something I particularly love is going away. A gift given to me a time of emptiness. I knew I treasured it, but I was suprised when my eyes welled with tears. Certainty is not promised us. Water and rest on a journey are to be enjoyed and then memories of them packed up as reminders of provision. We go on. Another place of plenty will be given again when we need it. We go on without the certainty in peace because we trust. Not in the provision, but in the provider. So, I travel on with a remembrance of sustanance to tuck away in my heart. Knowing I will have enough.