tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-335537072024-03-23T12:13:09.254-06:00A Path Made StraightElise @A Path Made Straighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01457659796611169345noreply@blogger.comBlogger615125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33553707.post-36154747642789648602015-04-03T12:26:00.000-06:002015-04-03T15:10:58.632-06:00Because He is Good: Thoughts on a Crippled LentEvery Lent, for almost seven years, we've laid out the wreath. And then nightly during the forty days we've lit the candle, read the Word, sung repentance, and prayed forgiveness.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">{<i>image and wreath found <a href="http://joywares.com/products/cradle-to-cross-wreath" target="_blank">here</a></i>}</span></div>
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This Lent, though, it seemed grief was too near. <br />
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I laid out the wreath; fit the pieces together, set a candle in the first hole, and placed the carved wooden figure of Jesus carrying His cross right next to it.<br />
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But truthfully, I only lit the candle once, and that was just to take it from clean wick to burnt... you know, so it wouldn't <i>look</i> like it had never been lit. Every few days, in walking by, I remember. And I count, move the candle, slide Jesus a few steps closer to Golgotha, my heart a swirling storm of grief. And silence.<br />
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Like Zechariah, who <a href="https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Luke+1%3A13-22&version=ESV" target="_blank">didn't believe the promise that foretold God With Us</a>, my mouth was closed, and I, who always seem to have the words (if not the time to write them...) was suddenly struck wordless.<br />
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Because she slipped into our home in December, and flew away to His in January.<br />
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My husband's sister, fifteen years his senior, was put on hospice in November for gastroparesis, a complication from chemotherapy treatments she received for breast cancer almost ten years ago; in short, her stomach was paralyzed, and gradually, while in our home, her small intestine failed as well.<br />
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She starved to death. <br />
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Four breathtaking weeks. That's how long she was with us- and yet it seemed like months. From the relentless heights of her need to the howling depths of her pain time moved as if anchored, the sea drag of suffering slowing the minutes to an agonizing crawl. <br />
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One morning she forgot reality altogether and nearly crawled up her bedroom wall to escape the police who were coming to arrest her for trying to "break in"; they would not be stopped, and she could not be convinced otherwise. It began at 4:30 on a morning my husband had wakened with a fever. For hours, he lay weakly on the floor and prayed as I gently pressed her shoulders back to the pillow every time she gathered her five-foot-eight, sixty pound frame to leap from the bed. We wept with her, reassured her, sang hymns and quoted scripture, but it wasn't until I told her that her baby brother was right then talking to the Authorities that she quieted. And when he stood and braced himself on the bed rails and leaned to whisper, <i>Someone has taken your place. You don't have to be afraid anymore! And you don't have to break in... just walk. He'll meet you there, </i>she asked, <i>Are you sure? How do you know?</i> And we told her we were sure, and because He said so, and then she fell asleep.<br />
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A week and a half later, she slipped into a coma and at 3:30 the next morning, she walked with Jesus into her rest.<br />
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The only part of this story that I've felt freed to speak of has been in the sharing of God's goodness to us in that time. How I'd never completely understood that our portion is lovingly <i>given</i> to us by Him, not merely <i>allowed, </i>until this sister came to live and die with us. Through her time with us she came to know this fellow sufferer, Jesus, in a way she never had, and the pain of a lifetime of illness, abuse, loneliness and fear melted away to reveal a beautiful, hopeful smile that rejoiced in His goodness to her in bringing her Home. It is a beautiful, cyclical reminder, this, that <i>He is good; so although this portion is ugly, and trying, and I am tested beyond what I think I can bear, I will open my hands to take it, because He is good.</i><br />
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My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. <span style="font-size: x-small;">(Psalm 73:26)
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I find it perfectly fitting that today of all days, His Good Friday, He's opened my mouth to finally let the words flow and tell the rest of the story. <br />
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And although I've only had the strength this Lent to move the candle another few spaces and slide the figurine of our suffering Savior closer to His death, I am reminded through even these spare actions that the glorious announcement of His birth and the ultimate good news of His resurrection were still tempered with the sobering event of His death.<br />
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In the aftermath of Janet's passing, I had thought perhaps I shouldn't be mourning so, when He has conquered death and we have a promise of New Life.<br />
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But death is still, and always will be, tragic. Because it just wasn't meant to be.<br />
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So I've let the tears fall. When I come across one of her belongings that was left behind, I am grieved, for I know how much she loved life. I allow the sadness of being witness to her final days of agonizing struggle to wash over me more often, because her death was tragic and painful and I know it grieves Him, too.<br />
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But there is Hope. <br />
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And as I kneaded the dough for Hot Cross Buns this morning with Eliana nearby, her hands plunged deep in soapy dishwater, she said, <i>I mean really, Mama, Good Friday? Why do we call it that, when it's the day that Jesus died?</i><br />
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And I felt a breaking in my heart as I answered, <i>Because, if He hadn't...</i><br />
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<i><br /></i>So on this Good Friday I bear witness to the goodness of the Lord in my life, and now I will bear witness for Janet's life, as well. The grief is near, but He is nearer.<br />
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And limping to the finish line of Lent? It's kind of the point.<br />
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May the blessing of a sorrowful Lent that breaks against a victorious Easter be upon you, kind friends!Elise @A Path Made Straighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01457659796611169345noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33553707.post-76510235299019288252014-11-14T19:00:00.000-07:002014-11-24T23:19:06.843-07:00The Last Night {Treasuring}I thought last night was The Night.<br />
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The Last Night.<br />
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Evangeline and I settled into the pillows; she clutched her lovey and whispered, <i>Dark!</i> as I adjusted my shirt. <i>Yes, it's dark, isn't it?</i> I joined the nightly ritual and we touched foreheads and giggled before she settled back to nurse.<br />
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And one minute later, she pulled away and said, <i>Nigh-nigh</i>.<br />
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I jumped, startled. And then I repeated it back to her, <i>Do you want to go nigh-nigh?</i> and she nodded and pulled away further to sit up and so I began to sing.<br />
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<i>Be near me, Lord Jesus,</i><br />
<i>I ask thee to stay,</i><br />
<i>Close by me and guide me,</i><br />
<i>All through the day...</i><br />
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I walked to her crib, a mere two feet away from our bed and she, back-lit from the nearby nightlight, smiled and lunged for her cozy blankets and I kissed her and tucked her in and rubbed her back a moment longer.<br />
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<i>Love you, Vangielou, </i>I whispered, and walked out of the room.<br />
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And as I tidied the living room, a sense of loss made me think, <i>This. This is one of the reasons it can be so hard when a baby begins to wean herself- you never know when it's the last time!</i><br />
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The night before, I'd settled into those same pillows and Evangeline had latched on, and I'd picked up my Kindle and read <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Womans-Guide-Raising-Large-Family-ebook/dp/B001S2R8MM/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&sr=8-1&qid=1416005812" target="_blank">a few chapters</a> while she nursed. I'm sure I stroked her soft hair and touched her constantly-moving hand as she playfully tugged on my chin and shirt, but I'm not sure I looked at her. I looked at the words on the Kindle page and not her.<br />
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Since she was born, I've spent many middle-of-the-night nursings in prayer. It has been a precious gift; sometimes I slept, but more often than not the Lord brought to mind so much that needed covering, and I am grateful for the blessing of those dark, sweet hours. <br />
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But now we're down to morning and evening feedings, and they're really not feedings anymore, are they? Her nutrition comes from the food she eats all day, but as for me, well, I'm Comfort, and she needs that, too, but in a different way.<br />
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<i>But now the evening nursings are over,</i> I sighed as I placed the last toy in a bin and turned out the dining room light, wishing I wasn't home alone with the two youngest, longing for the company of my wise husband and his listening ear. <i>If I'd known last night was the last, I'd have treasured it more.</i><br />
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And then I heard it over the baby monitor. <br />
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Crying. And the soft word repeated over and over, <i>Nurse? Nurse.... nurse.</i><br />
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So, it wasn't the last night. And I slipped in and pulled back the curtain and held out my arms, and we settled in and she nursed till she was fully comforted, and woke me early this morning to nurse again.<br />
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But you can bet that I'm going to begin treating these two nursings a day as though they could be her last... we're locking eyes, I'm kissing fingers, I'm praying over her and my other children and my husband and our home...<br />
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Grateful for every moment.Elise @A Path Made Straighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01457659796611169345noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33553707.post-2234220385398054032014-08-14T12:31:00.000-06:002014-08-14T12:34:01.341-06:00Death, Be Not Proud<br />
<i>Death, be not proud, though some have called thee</i><br />
<i>Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;</i><br />
<i>For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow</i><br />
<i>Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.</i><br />
<i>From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,</i><br />
<i>Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,</i><br />
<i>And soonest our best men with thee do go,</i><br />
<i>Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.</i><br />
<i>Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,</i><br />
<i>And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,</i><br />
<i>And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well</i><br />
<i>And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?</i><br />
<i>One short sleep past, we wake eternally</i><br />
<i>And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.</i> ~John Donne<br />
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We finish this week with heavy hearts brought low with news of death from around this world. And the enemy of our souls would have us despair, thinking the end of laughter or even a religious presence in a country means the Beginning of the End of Everything.<br />
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Oh, it is not so. Sin birthed in the garden and died on the cross and He lives and moves and breathes today as always and ever to bring us all to Him.<br />
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So laugh. Seek it and find it and let it bubble up from your belly. Worship, if only in your heart, and silent. Hope beckons and Peace fills and Psalm 27:13, for goodness' sake.<br />
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And to set on repeat this weekend? Audrey Assad's <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ID7dmCiAgw">exquisite rendering</a> of Donne's sonnet...<br />
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God be with you, friends.Elise @A Path Made Straighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01457659796611169345noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33553707.post-30404193743735556512014-07-28T11:05:00.000-06:002014-08-01T09:19:59.196-06:00Children's Book Monday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0385753314/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0385753314&linkCode=as2&tag=apatelis-20&linkId=6PM7IMQZNT3IT7J6%22%3EA%20Gift%20for%20Mama%3C/a%3E%3Cimg%20src=%22http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=apatelis-20&l=as2&o=1&a=0385753314%22%20width=%221%22%20height=%221%22%20border=%220%22%20alt=%22%22%20style=%22border:none%20!important;%20margin:0px%20!important;%22%20/%3E">A Gift for Mama</a></div>
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by Linda Ravin Lodding</div>
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illustrated by Alison Jay</div>
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Every once in awhile (all too rarely, it seems) a new children's book comes along that has the feel of a classic, and this is one of them. Not only do the beautifully colored illustrations have an old feel to them (due to the artist's method of using alkyd paint covered with crackle varnish), but the story itself, with the author's use of famous artists, musicians, writers and nobility as side characters, appeals to the senses of a child even as it brings a smile to their faces with the sweetness of a little boy, on a mission to get the perfect gift for his mama's birthday.</div>
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As morning bells ring out over Vienna, Oskar sets out with only a single coin. He sees beauty everywhere, but decides rather quickly to purchase a beautiful yellow rose, only he is not the only one captured by its' beauty; the artist, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gustav_Klimt">Gustav Klimt</a> (although we do not find out who exactly he is until a note from the author at the end of the book), decides he must include it in his next painting, and so Oskar trades the rose for a beautiful horsehair paintbrush. </div>
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As Oskar attempts over and over to make his way home with a gift for Mama, he is continually stopped by people with need, or who are simply captured by his traded gifts. We encounter Felix Salten (<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/067166607X/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=067166607X&linkCode=as2&tag=apatelis-20&linkId=NSO3MWTP5XRUPORA%22%3EBambi:%20A%20Life%20in%20the%20Woods%3C/a%3E%3Cimg%20src=%22http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=apatelis-20&l=as2&o=1&a=067166607X%22%20width=%221%22%20height=%221%22%20border=%220%22%20alt=%22%22%20style=%22border:none%20!important;%20margin:0px%20!important;%22%20/%3E">Bambi</a>), <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Johann_Strauss_II">Johann Strauss II</a>, and the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Empress_Elisabeth_of_Austria">Empress Sisi</a>, all who are touched in some way by Oskar's willingness to share his gifts. And when he finally reaches his mama at the door, what he has ended up with as a gift for her is really the perfect one anyway.</div>
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*Funny aside: I have to tell you, at one point Oskar has traded for a book (from Felix Salten), but when a carriage carrying the Empress Sisi is trapped in some mud, the coachman grabs the book from Oskar and tosses it under the wheel to give it some traction. This action elicited an audible gasp of dismay from the three of us reading along, and Gideon said, "Use your own book!", and Eliana countered with, "No! Never throw a book on the ground!" ~smile~</div>
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The author has actually lived in Vienna, and her love for the beautiful city is evident as she ponders her own memories of strolling under the arches of the Hofburg Palace, passing the Opera house, and lingering in front of Demel's coffeehouse, all of which contributed to this story that brings to life a little boy, <i>"darting through the old town, encountering the famous nineteenth-century artists, musicians, writers and nobility."</i></div>
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The work of Alison Jay has been long-adored by the Hooper family; a favorite that she both wrote and illustrated is a wordless story about the sea titled <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1782850422/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1782850422&linkCode=as2&tag=apatelis-20&linkId=FBELVI35PQK76GTX%22%3EOut%20of%20the%20Blue%3C/a%3E%3Cimg%20src=%22http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=apatelis-20&l=as2&o=1&a=1782850422%22%20width=%221%22%20height=%221%22%20border=%220%22%20alt=%22%22%20style=%22border:none%20!important;%20margin:0px%20!important;%22%20/%3E">Out of the Blue</a>. </i>Her signature use of crackle varnishing is a pleasant accompaniment to the comical story, and the border pictures are always a favorite around here.</div>
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I hope your library has this new (but old-feeling) favorite! Happy reading!</div>
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<br />Elise @A Path Made Straighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01457659796611169345noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33553707.post-82971824973050696312014-07-11T07:59:00.003-06:002014-07-11T07:59:49.194-06:00{this moment}<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Linking this week's (<i>first ice cream cone</i>) moment to <a href="http://www.soulemama.com/soulemama/2014/07/this-moment-1.html">Soulemama.</a></div>
<br />Elise @A Path Made Straighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01457659796611169345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33553707.post-84952116300778532332014-06-21T10:01:00.003-06:002014-06-22T16:29:18.872-06:00Every Second Counts {Yielding}<div style="text-align: justify;">
My early morning quiet time has been... not so quiet lately. There's a sweet toddler with a beautiful smile that wakens with me and interrupts my reading and prayer time with piles of books plopped into my lap. And when I reach for her and we pull the afghan around our shoulders, she leans back and sighs contentedly.<br />
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I've given up feeling like I've a right to alone time because, you see, just today we finished our tenth year of home schooling. And that little boy who first toddled to me with books and then I taught to read and do his sums? He's entering the tenth grade. And there's also a seventh grader, and a third grader, and a first grader, and it all just moves so very, very quickly.<br />
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So if I've learned anything at all these past ten years, it's that Evangeline won't always be an early riser. And some day, I'll have taught her to read by herself, too. And then she'll out-sum me and out-sleep me and probably outrun me and I can have all the quiet time I want.<br />
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But for now? I read a paragraph to myself and a book to her. I read another line to myself and then head up the search for a favorite baby doll. And when Quiet Time is over and the hour has come to waken the rest of my children, I help her fold her hands and we pray over the day together. Because every. second. counts.
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">See how loved she is? Gideon and Eliana are even better at cherishing every second.</span></i></div>
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Elise @A Path Made Straighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01457659796611169345noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33553707.post-53725341967770209612014-06-09T08:20:00.001-06:002014-09-17T21:36:05.507-06:00Children's Book Monday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0803724780/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0803724780&linkCode=as2&tag=apatelis-20&linkId=NUCS4NE2XVF7JTB7%22%3EKatie%27s%20Wish%3C/a%3E%3Cimg%20src=%22http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=apatelis-20&l=as2&o=1&a=0803724780%22%20width=%221%22%20height=%221%22%20border=%220%22%20alt=%22%22%20style=%22border:none%20!important;%20margin:0px%20!important;%22">Katie's Wish</a></div>
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by Barbara Shook Hazen</div>
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illustrated by Emily Arnold McCully</div>
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I know I'm not the only one. We've all, young and old, made a reckless wish at some point in our lives. But do you remember if your wish, whispered in haste and sometimes anger, seemed to come true? Perhaps you can recall the agony of wondering if what followed was all your fault...</div>
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In Ireland, a little girl named Katie is tired of plain-boiled potatoes. They weren't the way Mam made them- lashed with milk, onion bits, and knobs of butter. But her mam is dead and her da has left to make a way for them in America and she always seems to say the wrong thing. When she mutters, "<i>I wish they'd </i><i>go away,</i>"after Grand Da asks the blessing for the meal, she can't take those words back. </div>
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We know how it happened overnight. </div>
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<i>One day the potatoes were firm and fine. The next they were mushy and covered with black spots.</i></div>
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As the rot spreads quickly through the countryside, Katie tries to be extra good, gathering berries and grass to help their meals stretch further. She accompanies Grand Da to sell the pig, and in town, they see children begging. Grannie becomes ill, and even though the Americans send shiploads of corn, Grand Da declares, "<i>It's like spitting on a house to put out the fire!</i>"</div>
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Woven with traditional Irish phrases and painted in soft, dusky watercolors, the story of how Katie makes her way to America carrying her terrible secret is a moving and sometimes difficult tale to read. My mama heart longed for Katie's mam to be with her, to coax the pain out of her, to speak truth. My children and I solemnly gazed at the pictures of the crowded ship, filled with sick and crying children and their weary parents.</div>
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But when at last, at a warm table in America covered by a mountain of mashed potatoes with onion bits, lashings of milk, and a knob of butter, in a tumble of tears, Katie confesses her reckless wish...</div>
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<i>"Nay," Katie's da said, holding her heart-close. "Believe me, your words weren't wicked. Nor can words make bad things happen. None of it was your doing.</i></div>
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<i>Eat, Katie lass, and know how big you are loved."</i></div>
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Happy reading!</div>
<br />Elise @A Path Made Straighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01457659796611169345noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33553707.post-86139587315095829382014-05-26T06:30:00.000-06:002014-05-26T06:30:02.780-06:00Children's Book Monday {Baby Book Edition}Well, <a href="http://mamahooper.blogspot.com/search/label/to%20read#.U4JIWfldXZk">it's no surprise</a> that Evangeline loves books.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgAdVB_hiT-AShFdk1mwEjPJ8x89cJqRvrReRmASS9AvbiZVd7nH9Ukn-4lt2alfNWjHlhMiKVMuaAwAMYTKWEh7mos8M0mrh8xtazsigdiIaGlPnj9TiB0gSFBvmfk91O1Gvf/s1600/reading.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgAdVB_hiT-AShFdk1mwEjPJ8x89cJqRvrReRmASS9AvbiZVd7nH9Ukn-4lt2alfNWjHlhMiKVMuaAwAMYTKWEh7mos8M0mrh8xtazsigdiIaGlPnj9TiB0gSFBvmfk91O1Gvf/s1600/reading.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(Favorite corner of the living room.)</i></span></div>
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Books really began to capture her when she was about six months old; we would pull her onto our laps and open up a story and she would lean forward and look, top to bottom, left to right, taking in everything on the pages. Sometimes, she would begin to turn a page and then suddenly stop and look again, as if she'd missed something the first time. (Or if we began to turn before she was ready, look out! Slap! Her little hand came down on the page to keep us from turning.)</div>
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And I think one of my favorite things to see is Gideon, if his sister gets hurt or is sad, sitting down with a book and patting his lap; Evangeline smiles big through her tears and crawls or walks right over to him, snuggling contentedly into his folded legs. He "reads" it to her (almost perfectly, for he knows almost all of these stories by heart!), and all is well for a few more minutes. :) </div>
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Truthfully, the foundation of Evangeline's book basket is made up of favorites that have been tried and tested with each of our children- some are even the original copies; chewed-up corners, scribbled pages and all. Some <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Foot-Book-Seusss-Opposites/dp/0679882804">Dr</a>. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mr-Brown-Can-Moo-You/dp/0679882820/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1401048093&sr=1-1&keywords=mr+brown+can+moo+can+you+board+book">Seuss</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Old-Bright-Early-Board-Books/dp/0679886303/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1401048116&sr=1-1&keywords=old+hat+new+hat+board+book">Stan and Jan Berenstain</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Were-Going-Classic-Board-Books/dp/0689815816/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1401048131&sr=1-1&keywords=going+on+a+bear+hunt">Helen </a><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Say-Goodnight-Oxenbury-Board-Books/dp/0689819870/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1401048151&sr=1-1&keywords=say+goodnight+helen+oxenbury">Oxenbury</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Brown-Bear-What-You-See/dp/0805047905/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1401048168&sr=1-1&keywords=brown+bear+brown+bear+what+do+you+see+board+book">Eric</a> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Polar-Bear-What-You-Hear/dp/0805053883/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1401048189&sr=1-1&keywords=polar+bear+polar+bear+what+do+you+hear">Carle</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Runaway-Bunny-Margaret-Wise-Brown/dp/0061074292/ref=sr_1_1_title_2_boa?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1401048249&sr=1-1&keywords=runaway+bunny+board+book">Margaret </a><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Goodnight-Moon-Margaret-Wise-Brown/dp/0694003611/ref=sr_1_1_title_0_main?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1401048276&sr=1-1&keywords=goodnight+moon">Wise Brown</a>, etc. Familiar, yes?</div>
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Well, this time around Evangeline has fallen in love with some new (to me!) books, and I'd love to share them with you here.</div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Gyo-Fujikawa/e/B001HD0A54/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1401048717&sr=1-2-ent">Gyo Fujikawa</a>. Anything by Gyo Fujikawa. If this author is old news to you, I apologize, but perhaps my recent discovery has to do with the way these sweet books evoke a fuzzy warmth and quiet that Evangeline especially responds to.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEAmGJc-DPg6NS2OJp3AvGVSmnT121aMY6yB9wNy8vymcpDyuAJiKwF3aKoinedSoVh25RTWbGfxNasUsfrdkbPBClznZ_kexeD69IU4-hNQdW-qmvpa9pbLRT3scIrVlXcgsg/s1600/baby+animals.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEAmGJc-DPg6NS2OJp3AvGVSmnT121aMY6yB9wNy8vymcpDyuAJiKwF3aKoinedSoVh25RTWbGfxNasUsfrdkbPBClznZ_kexeD69IU4-hNQdW-qmvpa9pbLRT3scIrVlXcgsg/s1600/baby+animals.jpg" height="200" width="102" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFDr1NpAIncPnJxScFOPelRSFwXQsAV4yn9xIItIMjvtQv7Wj1tQby13DDrVbOtMdE27d4OdU2ttbo2pmMvKpDkbD-yOGz2QavJbq4sbbz8cDlkOU73czzezhuiC9yj-S4V03Q/s1600/babies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFDr1NpAIncPnJxScFOPelRSFwXQsAV4yn9xIItIMjvtQv7Wj1tQby13DDrVbOtMdE27d4OdU2ttbo2pmMvKpDkbD-yOGz2QavJbq4sbbz8cDlkOU73czzezhuiC9yj-S4V03Q/s1600/babies.jpg" height="200" width="103" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1tTO_Em5sOGEVdAMaJbvkMkqDhVwYPWBIHp4ZaCh8RTPLfHoEOus3hIDeZ9du69iEIqZoFGKOcyyW8ar7s2RPJJeN-CkkgmeTRL5tprZsHWLrBB63r5T02zvMs78TKocMTEvY/s1600/ten-little-babies-gyo-fujikawa-book-cover-art.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1tTO_Em5sOGEVdAMaJbvkMkqDhVwYPWBIHp4ZaCh8RTPLfHoEOus3hIDeZ9du69iEIqZoFGKOcyyW8ar7s2RPJJeN-CkkgmeTRL5tprZsHWLrBB63r5T02zvMs78TKocMTEvY/s1600/ten-little-babies-gyo-fujikawa-book-cover-art.jpg" height="200" width="103" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaEda7Xr0Nnd2OL_YYlqEWKoPKKvyZswYSlDT8cLwW84ilbycX3Mb2hhKey5htk4myUK8AZzOxTS6-0y6Cgi-ZEw9jwetx9ljao4v1LJLWeh027ej-VlpgURUAAFmWy5Y3wNqQ/s1600/Sleepy+Time.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaEda7Xr0Nnd2OL_YYlqEWKoPKKvyZswYSlDT8cLwW84ilbycX3Mb2hhKey5htk4myUK8AZzOxTS6-0y6Cgi-ZEw9jwetx9ljao4v1LJLWeh027ej-VlpgURUAAFmWy5Y3wNqQ/s1600/Sleepy+Time.jpg" height="200" width="184" /></a></div>
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She also adores <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Fujikawas-Little-Library-Mini-Collection/dp/1402785666/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1401048717&sr=1-1&keywords=gyo+fujikawa">this little four-book set</a>, and I adore their size; perfect for tucking into the diaper bag and holding in a highchair or car seat.</div>
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Fujikawa's artwork is so precious; full of babies and animals, children climbing trees and reenacting nursery rhymes, loving each other and sometimes being naughty... so much on every page to enjoy! And reading <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sleepy-Time-Gyo-Fujikawa/dp/1402768206/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1401050429&sr=8-1&keywords=sleepy+time+gyo">Sleepy Time</a>, Evangeline's favorite bedtime book, helped her learn what sound an owl makes: <i>Ooo, ooo!</i> she earnestly hoots with each sighting.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiK3zxIXPhRc5Wt04yCusqQ-jvv5LHm9wPZtiyPoGUUSNazbs0mLcM_DgvbULsEAf62uiVtrfgIGxdgOrlB9XyTwE0dBYoLzrxwkBsvs-Ei9eWYbog5JcGV5H-E465UoBv0UlB/s1600/big-red-barn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiK3zxIXPhRc5Wt04yCusqQ-jvv5LHm9wPZtiyPoGUUSNazbs0mLcM_DgvbULsEAf62uiVtrfgIGxdgOrlB9XyTwE0dBYoLzrxwkBsvs-Ei9eWYbog5JcGV5H-E465UoBv0UlB/s1600/big-red-barn.jpg" height="200" width="172" /></a></div>
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So, of course when the gently lilting rhyme of the incomparable <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Margaret-Wise-Brown/e/B000AQ1NIM/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1401050489&sr=8-2-ent">Margaret Wise Brow</a>n (Goodnight Moon, The Runaway Bunny, etc.) is matched with the colorful line drawings of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Felicia-Bond/e/B001IU0O9I/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_6?qid=1401050516&sr=8-6">Felicia Bond</a> (If You Give a Mouse a Cookie), the book immediately becomes a treasure. If the amount of times Evangeline chooses this book to be read backtobacktoback is any indication, toddlers love it. It has the perfect mix of descriptive prose with matching illustrations, and it comes to a conclusion so softly that I find myself whispering the last four pages or so. Another excellent bedtime story.</div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Morning-Golden-Sturdy-Shape-Books/dp/0307122719/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1401049479&sr=1-1&keywords=good+morning+book">My Good Morning Book</a> and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Goodnight-Book-Golden-Sturdy-Shape/dp/0307122581/ref=pd_sim_b_1?ie=UTF8&refRID=1RE0XT6HSVGZXHS500KH">My Goodnight Book</a> are two precious (out-of-print but still easy to find!) stories to begin your day, fill your day, and end it. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=dp_byline_sr_book_1?ie=UTF8&field-author=Eloise+Wilkin&search-alias=books&text=Eloise+Wilkin&sort=relevancerank">Eloise Wilkin</a>, another author/illustrator I'm sure you are familiar with, described the simplicity of children's days beautifully in her prose, and displayed it perfectly in her art. Again, so much to see on every page; here Evangeline signs "bird" for a robin in the garden; and there she laughs as mama bathes the baby (baths are her favorite!). </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWlReMrqvZ0_gNZjH2R993-sonnPvyEKVhTruu4Co9_YwBn53BWFksWrxoq6IMPoycpmnDAgu_v3j0zYeSN51H6_lpZpOeBGeNo1r1oD522QFi4m-erdhqSrnbh3CcPiUZT3cJ/s1600/goodnight+book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWlReMrqvZ0_gNZjH2R993-sonnPvyEKVhTruu4Co9_YwBn53BWFksWrxoq6IMPoycpmnDAgu_v3j0zYeSN51H6_lpZpOeBGeNo1r1oD522QFi4m-erdhqSrnbh3CcPiUZT3cJ/s1600/goodnight+book.jpg" height="400" width="373" /></a></div>
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Oh, mamas (and daddies!), are you reading aloud to your children? Never underestimate the powerful influence reading aloud holds; your voice, combined with excellent storytelling, will not only create matchless memories for your children but it will work wonders for their language and grammar skills. </div>
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And don't be too caught up in matching their ages to the reading level of a book- the previous reviews are for Evangeline's favorite books in her basket, but she sits happily with us at the dinner table while I read aloud from Nesbit's <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Story-Treasure-Seekers-Edith-Nesbit-ebook/dp/B0082ZBXSI/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&sr=8-1&qid=1401050004">The Story of the Treasure Seekers</a></i> (free for Kindle and such an excellent story!), and crawls around playing quietly while Kevin reads to Eliana and Gideon from <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Hobbit-Illustrated-J-R-R-Tolkien/dp/0544174224/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&qid=1401050114&sr=8-4&keywords=the+hobbit">The Hobbit</a></i>. The beloved voice of a parent is soothing to every child. (For an excellent podcast that has ministered to my mama's heart so much this past year on this very subject, listen <a href="http://amongstlovelythings.com/1/">here</a>: an absolutely wonderful use of an hour of your time while you fix supper or fold laundry.)</div>
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Happy reading!</div>
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<i>(No affiliate links- just sharing what we love!)</i></div>
Elise @A Path Made Straighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01457659796611169345noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33553707.post-5318803378442755172014-05-23T15:49:00.000-06:002014-05-23T15:50:39.474-06:00{this moment}<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Linking this week's (<i>Eliana says it isn't *work* when we do it together</i>) moment to <a href="http://soulemama.com/">Soulemama. </a></span></div>
<br />Elise @A Path Made Straighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01457659796611169345noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33553707.post-38017026091446232152014-05-20T22:56:00.000-06:002014-05-21T12:02:04.846-06:00Braving the Ticks (or, For Love of a Little Boy)<div style="text-align: justify;">
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There's no one home but Gideon, the baby, and me. And we're deliciously close to bedtime so I'd planned to read stories on the comfy couch with my two little ones nestled close to me, smoothly coasting through the next hour with minimal effort; the only sort of ending to this kind of day that I even have the energy for.</div>
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But his pale blue eyes look so earnestly into mine as he leans into the baby on my hip and tugs her toes. <i>Can we go to the woods, Mama?</i></div>
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And I feel that toe-tug all the way to my heart-strings and because I've been listening more for Him of late I hear the Holy Spirit's gentle whisper of <i>Go. Say yes,</i> and so I do.</div>
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But it isn't until I've slipped shoes on my feet and a jacket on the baby and tucked her into the backpack, and we head out the back door and over the dike and into the woods that I remember.</div>
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It's tick season. <i>It's yucky tick season. </i></div>
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Every year, when mid-spring arrives, so do the ticks. Our dog brings them into our yard, our boys bring them back from their romps in the woods, and so my skin positively crawls when I step out to hang laundry on the line. We check and double check before we step in the house and we STILL find them from time to time, behind an ear or on a scalp.</div>
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And I stop in my tracks and wonder how we will make our way to the river through bushes and branches that are surely teeming with ticks, me without a visual of the defenseless baby on my back, Gideon with naught but a staff and a smile to ward off the nasty little creatures, and <i>why, oh why did I say yes to this?</i></div>
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But he beckons me with his blue and I take one step towards The Next Good Thing, whispering a prayer to that (lovingly) pesky Holy Spirit that he will honor my <i>Yes</i> and protect us, and help me to Be Here Now with my boy and soon, we're through the woods and at the water's edge.</div>
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He hands me rocks (one can't expect a thirty-six year old mama with a baby on her back to be able to bend over much, you know?) and I throw them into the water for our silly puppy to chase. The baby shrieks and Gideon tells stories and I deeply breathe the fresh air and I know. <i>I could have missed this. How could I have missed this?</i></div>
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And it's not a precious or dreamy statement in the slightest, but I'd brave a million ticks for him. </div>
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Any time. Any place.</div>
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p.s. We did not bring home any ticks that day. <br />
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But p.p.s. We have a Cup of Ticks by the back door. Filled with rubbing alcohol and dead ticks pulled from our dog and a child or two who carried one home over the last week . I walk right past that Cup of Ticks numerous times a day and stand in my bare feet to swing the baby and hang the laundry. </div>
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I am <i>rocking</i> tick season. Because, what else can I do? It's all for love. <br />
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Elise @A Path Made Straighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01457659796611169345noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33553707.post-25602974310915718122014-05-19T14:13:00.000-06:002014-08-01T09:23:40.348-06:00Children's Book Monday<div style="text-align: justify;">
So, it's definitely spring, right? The Polar Vortex has ended? Around here, there is a full clothesline to show for the bright, breezy weather and a large garden space is being prepped by a third tilling. It's been warm enough to finally paint the trim on our house, and Eliana's Garden is fixing to be weeded and filled with rose bushes and wildflower seeds. Windows flung open? Check. Grilled food back on the menu? Check. All sorts of Spring Books filling up our shelves? Double-check.</div>
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And this one is at the top of our favorites stack. In this week's delicious little story, (that takes place almost entirely underground!) a perfect marriage is made between prose, artwork, education and warmth. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5R2kDddz_h__O5jEgvG_Ik7sDpf3cux64xpDi1ShfsbZyWx-zBY38_1Q2x2KmOz5jN2nC1U2MpmSr9fU7NVS9SkQfTQjdPlMjgzj3YFGlinJJuZrsNXlmyTIw4NirXtC-sM4i/s1600/in+my+dreams.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5R2kDddz_h__O5jEgvG_Ik7sDpf3cux64xpDi1ShfsbZyWx-zBY38_1Q2x2KmOz5jN2nC1U2MpmSr9fU7NVS9SkQfTQjdPlMjgzj3YFGlinJJuZrsNXlmyTIw4NirXtC-sM4i/s1600/in+my+dreams.jpg" height="200" width="155" /></a></div>
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/%3Ca%20href=%22http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/073582259X/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=073582259X&linkCode=as2&tag=apatelis-20&linkId=LOQ42Y23P6FBQ2OB%22%3EIn%20My%20Dreams%20I%20Can%20Fly%3C/a%3E%3Cimg%20src=%22http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=apatelis-20&l=as2&o=1&a=073582259X%22%20width=%221%22%20height=%221%22%20border=%220%22%20alt=%22%22%20style=%22border:none%20!important;%20margin:0px%20!important;%22%20/%3E">In My Dreams I Can Fly</a><br />
by Eveline Hasler<br />
illustrated by Käthi Bhend<br />
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<i>"Above the ground</i></div>
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<i>a strong wind was blowing</i></div>
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<i>the leaves from the trees.</i></div>
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<i>Fall had arrived.</i></div>
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<i>Below the ground,</i></div>
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<i>five friends were getting ready</i></div>
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<i>for the long, cold winter ahead:</i></div>
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<i>a grub,</i></div>
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<i>two worms, </i></div>
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<i>a beetle,</i></div>
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<i>and a caterpillar.</i></div>
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<i>Their homes were connected by tunnels."</i></div>
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And with that, we are visually pulled into a world below the world... instantly, your child wants to connect each creature with its' home, so you must pause here, and let their fingers trace the lines from friend to home. Above the winding tunnels and holes is a blowing landscape of golden leaves, evoking a feeling of warmth from the protected dirt below. </div>
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The relationship between friends is described alongside full-page drawings of each nest; roots and pebbles, dirt and tunnels inhabited by busy ants. In the grub's home, every third evening, they play cards together among the roots. As winter approaches, the worms proudly show their friends the bits of leaves and nuts for food that are scattered about their home, which is lit by lanterns. The beetle is not worried, for he has <i>"tasty morsels"</i> hidden under his bed. (Here, your five-year-old might cry out, "Hey, you're not supposed to <i>put </i>things under your bed!")</div>
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And when the caterpillar leads her friend through the tunnels to show what she's done to prepare for winter, they are amazed at the beautiful colors and woven threads that shine from her walls. From her woven bed, she tells them that she doesn't need food. Only dreams.</div>
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And then, the grub shares his dream...</div>
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<i>"I dream every night too...</i></div>
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<i>In my dreams, I can fly."</i></div>
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As winter unfolds and spring winds begin to blow, the friends learn secrets about each other as their little homes below the ground begin to warm up. The grub finds a bulb cracked open that he has saved for food, and the caterpillar no longer responds to their calls; all they find is a tightly woven, empty ball lying in her bed of gossamer threads. But when the friends gather together on that saddest of all days, a miracle happens...</div>
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First published in Switzerland and translated into English the following year, this story has a simplicity of words that beautifully compliments the intricately detailed pictures. Never underestimate the ability of your children to appreciate highly detailed illustrations- they want to pore over the pictures while you read and sometimes? The simpler the prose, the more magnificent the drawings, the more delight and inspiration can take flight. Ask me how I know. :)</div>
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Happy reading!</div>
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p.s.- I just did a quick search of my <a href="http://mamahooper.blogspot.com/search/label/to%20read#.U3pkaPldXZk">archives</a>, and it would appear that I've written over 125 book reviews for Children's Book Monday?!? What?? Goodness. I really love reading to my children. And I love to share that delight with you! So as I'm working to get back to a normal rhythm of posting, feel free to peruse the archives to help build your library lists. I love the thought of some of these precious gems being read by you to your children!</div>
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<br />Elise @A Path Made Straighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01457659796611169345noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33553707.post-71636148605918971032014-05-16T14:52:00.000-06:002014-05-16T15:00:19.873-06:00{this moment}<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlWahiPFvklwR2rem9Bqlz_JxTTZH1CUQuIQ97idnwPYQ-9vXV3uWdLT7-oC7aiXj5z7d6q8aV_b71KqdvHYf_3M5Vjdw0K7edp5pXh4bH5VHj7hnBD-6ZUoZUxZT_HlrUuEZ4/s1600/moment.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlWahiPFvklwR2rem9Bqlz_JxTTZH1CUQuIQ97idnwPYQ-9vXV3uWdLT7-oC7aiXj5z7d6q8aV_b71KqdvHYf_3M5Vjdw0K7edp5pXh4bH5VHj7hnBD-6ZUoZUxZT_HlrUuEZ4/s1600/moment.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Linking this week's <i>(it helps if you BOTH open your mouth wide) </i>moment to <a href="http://www.soulemama.com/soulemama/2014/05/this-moment-2.html">Soulemama</a>.</span></div>
<br />Elise @A Path Made Straighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01457659796611169345noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33553707.post-81358544440646750042014-05-13T23:18:00.002-06:002014-05-13T23:59:01.752-06:00Be Here Now<div style="text-align: justify;">
Hey there, mamas. I thought of you tonight.</div>
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Because I crawled around the living room floor, tossing plastic food into a basket, setting the toy bin upright and returning baby dolls and blocks and rattles to its depths. I re-stacked the baby books, largest to smallest, and put all the dining room chairs back around the table, their destiny as forming the wall of a giant playpen fulfilled. Until tomorrow.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_mhgBhZ0N5rQ5aSTFIXbYztU_5t3ntX9BhrLSf_BuVOrUfHwAiP2Foya_FbnJtMCJKoUpjsoDZS_zPjgpjtu-66MK1MpCfXI3c_ddzzrhzMEbe4lyj7kwn0kg4d2cu7UALg0k/s1600/playpen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_mhgBhZ0N5rQ5aSTFIXbYztU_5t3ntX9BhrLSf_BuVOrUfHwAiP2Foya_FbnJtMCJKoUpjsoDZS_zPjgpjtu-66MK1MpCfXI3c_ddzzrhzMEbe4lyj7kwn0kg4d2cu7UALg0k/s1600/playpen.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
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I sorted socks and switched laundry from the washer to the dryer and started a new load of darks, even though I've already done two today (thank you, river and woods behind my house). I eyed the menu on the fridge and wrinkled my nose because I've already used up the fun, easy recipes this month and the remaining meals take more work and imagination. </div>
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I hugged and kissed all the children in their beds and scrubbed marker from the dining room table and ran another sinkful of soapy water for the evening snack dishes. Bedtime seems a distant dream, but it's coming. And I'll need to rise once to nurse a fat baby girl, even though I neglected to feed myself a time or two today. </div>
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And when the alarm softly plays at six thirty a.m., I will begin praying from my pillow because I . can't. move.</div>
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Oh, sweet mamas, are you ever pressed into your pillow by the weight of a repetitive day ahead? Same old toy clean-ups. Same old overflowing laundry baskets and empty snack containers and piles of school books and dirty diapers and bickering children and bottomless stomachs and muddy shoe prints (oh, please let that be just mud...) and... and...</div>
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Well.</div>
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To be honest, when I thought of you tonight as I crawled around the living room, I smiled to think that I'm not the only mama doing the same things all day, every day. <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I1MQaHQgqrY&feature=kp">Setting up the pins for knocking them down</a></i>. It doesn't matter what our position is in this life, we're all setting up pins for knocking them down. I truly believe it matters very much <i>how</i> we set them up, and how we react to the knocking down.</div>
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There is an exquisite beauty in this repetition. And there is simply no way around it; when one's life is full of the care of young souls, certain things must happen every. single. day. Bellies must be fed. Clothes must be cleaned. Character must be shaped. Love tanks <i>must</i> be filled.</div>
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And I <i>could </i>just leave the living room set up as a giant playpen with baby toys everywhere, because that beautiful girl will wake in the morning or from her naps and crawl happily to her things to play by dumping it all out anyway, right? But I'd rather put it all away, bring order to the room. Every nap, and every bedtime. It's a changing of the hours, a gentle movement into the next good thing. Same goes for sorting socks, I expect. And preparing meals. This rhythm- it's a gift to our families; order and routine are lifelines for children, and it's how they know what's coming next. It's how <i>I</i> know what's coming next.</div>
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(Some days, that <i>sameness? </i>It's all too much, and we need to shake things up. Eat dinner out, do school work in the back yard (or not at all- shh.). Maybe a morning <i>and</i> afternoon Quiet Time? Ignore the laundry for a day, and take a walk (or five) instead.)</div>
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But sisters, we were made to do this, by a good God who greatly values our role as a foundation of society. To <i>be here now</i>. Bring order, fill tummies, kiss owies. (And by the way, isn't "bring order" a much nicer way of saying, "clean poop from carpet", or "pick up ten jillion tiny pieces of paper from the five-year-old's scissors practice so the baby doesn't find them and eat them all"? I think so.)</div>
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So mamas, tonight when your head is sinking heavily into the pillow? So's mine. And I'm praying for you. I'm praying for us all, that tomorrow when the alarm or the baby's cry or the chirping birds wake us, we are not pressed into our pillow by the weight of the day, but smiling as we rise with the <i>hope </i>of it.</div>
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Let's set those pins up with style! They're gonna get knocked down anyway, we might as well give it all we've got.</div>
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Love you.</div>
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P.S. - Pillow prayers? Sometimes they're all I get before the day begins, and I cannot tell you how much they help. Because <a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Psalm%2034:4">Psalm 34:4</a>.</div>
Elise @A Path Made Straighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01457659796611169345noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33553707.post-25297138106606323952014-05-11T21:59:00.001-06:002014-08-01T09:24:44.782-06:00Children's Book Monday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnkB-wDogwWa_73kdmlI_Dl4WV3C0RyGMgaTECUX8CfcMpT2-n2HGiLf2md7Neja4WxkZ8XMnJUL1bkcW9i-sKp9vqDEexHUCR9HNRR_gTU_z9Wn4qhFIpS4PXaqBNPWbks0Uj/s1600/once_upon_memory_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnkB-wDogwWa_73kdmlI_Dl4WV3C0RyGMgaTECUX8CfcMpT2-n2HGiLf2md7Neja4WxkZ8XMnJUL1bkcW9i-sKp9vqDEexHUCR9HNRR_gTU_z9Wn4qhFIpS4PXaqBNPWbks0Uj/s320/once_upon_memory_m.jpg" /></a></div>
Around our house, when Gideon is sent to choose several stories for a quiet read before bed, he has that five-year-old boy habit of choosing the same three each time. The content? Silly. Or action-packed. Or silly AND action-packed.<br />
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So the rule is: choose one story he hasn't heard yet, along with two favorites. (In a shelf of fifty-plus library books, this is not difficult.)<br />
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However, much to his mama's delight, he has chosen this one several times as a comfortable favorite, and oh, friends, it is so warmly evocative!<br />
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/%3Ca%20href=%22http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0316208167/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=0316208167&linkCode=as2&tag=apatelis-20&linkId=IBWFMU5OQ3GK6MNV%22%3EOnce%20Upon%20a%20Memory%3C/a%3E%3Cimg%20src=%22http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=apatelis-20&l=as2&o=1&a=0316208167%22%20width=%221%22%20height=%221%22%20border=%220%22%20alt=%22%22%20style=%22border:none%20!important;%20margin:0px%20!important;%22%20/%3E">Once Upon a Memory</a><br />
by Nina Laden<br />
illustrated by Renata Liwska<br />
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In softly rhyming couplets, the author weaves questions into a little boy's world...<br />
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<i>Does a <b>feather</b> remember it once was a bird?</i><br />
<i>Does a <b>book</b> remember it once was a word?</i><br />
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As a feather floats into his playroom, he bends to pick it up, his mind's eye envisioning a barbershop for birds in a soft, warm hole, feathers from a "trim" being swept away. His hands smooth the pages of a book while he imagines a bookshop, patronized by the soft stuffed animals of his playroom tea party.<br />
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Gideon's breathing quiets as he leans in closer to examine the softly sketched and colored pages.<br />
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<i>Does <b>work </b>remember it once was play?</i><br />
<i>Does <b>night</b> remember it once was day?</i><br />
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In one scene, the little boy rakes leaves into a scraggly pile; across the page, happy raccoons leap into a full pile of bronzed leaves. (And here, Mama catches her breath, too, for she has a bad habit of valuing work more than play.) <br />
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There is a cyclical repetition to the story; the author calls the couplets "origin questions", prompting children to question the origins of their inanimate surroundings; islands, statues, gardens... and leading to questions about even the origins of feelings and people:<br />
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<i>Does <b>love</b> remember it once was new?</i><br />
<i>Does a <b>family</b> remember it once was two?</i><br />
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I am completely in awe of this kind of writing; simple, spare words leading to deeply moving, absolutely profound observations.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgLt8N2sSmvc5lxea0a730Hev4mJVzuOvQP7C4R2uSLeBNVF5CwxMR-AwZX8vdm3-XQm8Ax-Bl0YOVwmWRgxbLrbijxfY6ldNcb_uJBMXwnIgH3CrgyU8EqaZCzmcq1kqYGPkm/s1600/OnceUponAMemory_lastspread-for_Chelsea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgLt8N2sSmvc5lxea0a730Hev4mJVzuOvQP7C4R2uSLeBNVF5CwxMR-AwZX8vdm3-XQm8Ax-Bl0YOVwmWRgxbLrbijxfY6ldNcb_uJBMXwnIgH3CrgyU8EqaZCzmcq1kqYGPkm/s1600/OnceUponAMemory_lastspread-for_Chelsea.jpg" height="388" width="640" /></a></div>
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So, needless to say, this book keeps hopping into our library bags each month- but I'm determined to make sure other families get to enjoy it next! Perhaps instead it will hop onto our wishlist. I hope you will look for it, too- I believe it will bless and inspire you as it captures the hearts and imaginations of your children!<br />
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Happy reading!</div>
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(p.s.- Don't miss the almost-hidden page at the end- the author and illustrator share some of their favorite memories as a prompt for you and your little ones to remember yours!)</div>
Elise @A Path Made Straighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01457659796611169345noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33553707.post-48630827150260720542013-12-24T13:05:00.000-07:002013-12-24T13:05:08.036-07:00Merry Christmas!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRCzv-fKLNSRm2tUlkXAOpWvr4BQJMuNXZMhewJbRTci7_BbnCX5aPedgoHi3TWFNa7WD43s06sxnLrJnrbwHFbzmNee6jWDXM8mFkPB8pnYth0ZtiUnBOoge6UR7W4RCj4ttJ/s1600/family+pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRCzv-fKLNSRm2tUlkXAOpWvr4BQJMuNXZMhewJbRTci7_BbnCX5aPedgoHi3TWFNa7WD43s06sxnLrJnrbwHFbzmNee6jWDXM8mFkPB8pnYth0ZtiUnBOoge6UR7W4RCj4ttJ/s640/family+pic.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Love,</div>
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The Hoopers</div>
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Kevin, Elise, Corban, Micah, Eliana, Gideon, and Evangeline Faire</div>
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::Isaiah 9:2-7::</div>
<br />Elise @A Path Made Straighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01457659796611169345noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33553707.post-85621300202166420962013-08-02T12:15:00.000-06:002013-08-02T12:18:28.447-06:00{this moment}<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPkf9z9m2aHpkS7dvrQ9JInOJrgKQtdUVJNtGXpmohMxaWElaAK0hnOtgQ455ZJxhwC7kBplU-eEUNYvY40CJyvJpDZuQOHOHa8loXtrFtwY8KkO4l0e2CtMz6SR-i_RD38ntO/s1600/thumb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPkf9z9m2aHpkS7dvrQ9JInOJrgKQtdUVJNtGXpmohMxaWElaAK0hnOtgQ455ZJxhwC7kBplU-eEUNYvY40CJyvJpDZuQOHOHa8loXtrFtwY8KkO4l0e2CtMz6SR-i_RD38ntO/s640/thumb.jpg" /></a></div>
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<i>Linking this week's (thumb discovery) moment to <a href="http://www.soulemama.com/soulemama/2013/08/this-moment.html">Soulemama</a>.</i></div>
Elise @A Path Made Straighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01457659796611169345noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33553707.post-62634077153151545622013-05-03T08:20:00.005-06:002013-05-03T08:27:35.352-06:00{this moment}<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSmP36qfzAtleJBevkqfJl0BqG-_oZDkaoAdNF5CVdHsTsesom9OXrlS1-OKsbYCW4hZJ9VywyaKR17m2L69Z8M8NzxC4O5ozUlUEg03MqdQNg7F514NVd6ZT6dPzFLyUQYRcB/s1600/april+26,+2013+026.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSmP36qfzAtleJBevkqfJl0BqG-_oZDkaoAdNF5CVdHsTsesom9OXrlS1-OKsbYCW4hZJ9VywyaKR17m2L69Z8M8NzxC4O5ozUlUEg03MqdQNg7F514NVd6ZT6dPzFLyUQYRcB/s640/april+26,+2013+026.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Linking this week's (sister's got it all under control) moment to <a href="http://www.soulemama.com/">Soulemama</a>.</div>
<br />Elise @A Path Made Straighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01457659796611169345noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33553707.post-69918068271694661832013-04-25T22:18:00.004-06:002013-04-25T22:18:31.373-06:00{this moment}<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvW3JxMih3Zmxt2UkHtEvG2Iv-r2hz228b-_wKqV246ouud8kL40jzH5ulKgrRc1jfGrWCiE14W7ba5mHtAltCdrc-UpuAzhu1TGG8DDQZD39bJH_H1cYvZ_VTqaqso36iuwmK/s1600/Evangeline+Faire+April+16,+20131.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvW3JxMih3Zmxt2UkHtEvG2Iv-r2hz228b-_wKqV246ouud8kL40jzH5ulKgrRc1jfGrWCiE14W7ba5mHtAltCdrc-UpuAzhu1TGG8DDQZD39bJH_H1cYvZ_VTqaqso36iuwmK/s640/Evangeline+Faire+April+16,+20131.jpg" width="494" /></a></div>
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Evangeline Faire</div>
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April 16, 2013</div>
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8 pounds, 11 ounces</div>
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Pure. bliss.</div>
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We are ever grateful.</div>
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{linking this magical moment to <a href="http://soulemama.com/">Soulemama</a>.)</div>
<br />Elise @A Path Made Straighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01457659796611169345noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33553707.post-38511175232575354662013-01-25T08:23:00.000-07:002013-01-25T08:23:17.343-07:00{this moment}<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSYjnb6h1ksxchzESoKF95mBTUrnBf8wRWUouPcQH4wJjr1cal97oopmDLJSSIv0PssTpj35Nszm1nQ5wVt-hFpPf_F65cm66YnUbs0v0OHKc-YVVEky9m0t2tA94bjloDy_H3/s1600/sunday+aft+nap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSYjnb6h1ksxchzESoKF95mBTUrnBf8wRWUouPcQH4wJjr1cal97oopmDLJSSIv0PssTpj35Nszm1nQ5wVt-hFpPf_F65cm66YnUbs0v0OHKc-YVVEky9m0t2tA94bjloDy_H3/s640/sunday+aft+nap.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Linking this week's {Sunday afternoon nap} moment to <a href="http://soulemama.com/">Soulemama</a>.</div>
<br />Elise @A Path Made Straighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01457659796611169345noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33553707.post-83760496591073494842013-01-23T20:33:00.000-07:002013-01-23T20:33:41.935-07:00Dance of the Servants<div style="text-align: justify;">
I only mention it once.</div>
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<i>I need to clean the bathrooms this afternoon...</i> I breathe it, seemingly to myself, but I'm moving ever so slowly today so I move on to other things and decide to <i>just</i> <i>see</i> about it later.</div>
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But she hears me.</div>
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And while I'm clearing the table from lunch and my sons begin to wash the dishes, she clambers to the top of the washing machine and collects the cleaning bucket from the cabinet, filling it with fresh rags and every little thing one might need to clean bathrooms used by mostly boys... spray bottle full of vinegar; small container of homemade soap scrub for the sink and tub; cut-up sponges to fit her smaller hands...</div>
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And it isn't until she hops down and the telltale thump registers in my brain that <i>Yes, I did say I needed to clean the bathrooms, and, oh dear, I must have said it aloud</i>, that I breathe a deep, third-trimester breath and smile at her as I gather bleach and broom.</div>
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How could I think she would ever forget our sweet tradition?</div>
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<i>Come, Cinderella, we must do our very best to finish before the ball tonight! Oh, I do hope we'll be allowed to go...</i></div>
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She giggles and skips ahead of me down the hall. <i>Yes, Arabella, I'm sure we will- but we must finish before stepmother returns!</i></div>
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And the tradition continues while she sits on the counter and wipes the mirror, and I ask her from hands and knees at the base of the toilet, <i>How will you change Mother's old-fashioned gown to be suitable for tonight?</i></div>
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I sneak side glances as I scrub, trade looking at brownish-yellow gunk for just a peek at blonde tendrils falling into her eyes, pink fingertips holding the rag that's resting in her lap now; she's pondering.
<i>Well, I think the ruffles must go. And since Mother was married when she wore it, it IS off-the-shoulder, so I must add some straps to make it 'popriate.</i></div>
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I hide a smile, though it reflects back at me from the basin. <i>It sounds lovely, sister! I think I will polish her old brooch, and maybe the earrings, too. They've been stored away for ever so long,</i> I say.
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And she sprays and I scrub and she wipes and I lumber in and out to start washer loads of towels and we giggle as we stand on the edge of the tub to unhook the shower curtain and all the while we are sisters, taking joy in our work for the reward of an imaginary ball.
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It's the dance of a servant, this.</div>
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I'd chosen long ago not to complain aloud about some of my least-favorite duties, seeing how her green eyes followed and mimicked my every move (and emotion, and word, and body posture...), and as a result my Cinderella cannot wait to assist me in them. My heart still resists, and I always find ways to put those horrid duties off, but her joy and eagerness pull me along till the job is done and I am always, <i>always</i> thankful.</div>
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And now she's shifting in and out of character, murmuring dreamily of future days with her coming baby sister; how they'll sketch in the woods, or sew by the wood stove. She steps back from shiny sink and places fists on her slim hips: <i>Why, the time positively flew, Arabella!</i></div>
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And I, heavy on hands and knees, weary face in the muck, swollen fingers in the mire... find my heart dancing.</div>
Elise @A Path Made Straighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01457659796611169345noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33553707.post-40885504153081261432012-11-02T07:46:00.002-06:002012-11-02T07:46:23.481-06:00{this moment}<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHUEY23vfwl_ONa2vYOniR36gJH4hhUsKUM8kqtn6Y8vfIkADF-NmunNF1PPkAkAwc6_hBL38SSwjWXg9cAVyd9uFMccfW-yKv4zbYRZXGEvTUmm6A9kT3VqRklbWqIT74z_tX/s1600/love+note.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHUEY23vfwl_ONa2vYOniR36gJH4hhUsKUM8kqtn6Y8vfIkADF-NmunNF1PPkAkAwc6_hBL38SSwjWXg9cAVyd9uFMccfW-yKv4zbYRZXGEvTUmm6A9kT3VqRklbWqIT74z_tX/s640/love+note.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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linking this (perfect ending to a sick day) moment to <a href="http://www.soulemama.com/">Soulemama</a>.</div>
<br />Elise @A Path Made Straighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01457659796611169345noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33553707.post-52619908350564424582012-10-17T20:27:00.001-06:002012-10-17T20:27:48.064-06:00{pretty, happy, funny, real}<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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{pretty}</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxbBug-_k8M_p4D8UJ21lKZN02MFmXXajt8GyTYLiKHnPIV9zPD6wSoeVOdmcAGiSqYWtAHmAvRDjt2DaOkliVbbhtfbTJJU9MgqqVtH3f43IbgmWXIZ84K83ACHAgnnl8awRL/s1600/braids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxbBug-_k8M_p4D8UJ21lKZN02MFmXXajt8GyTYLiKHnPIV9zPD6wSoeVOdmcAGiSqYWtAHmAvRDjt2DaOkliVbbhtfbTJJU9MgqqVtH3f43IbgmWXIZ84K83ACHAgnnl8awRL/s640/braids.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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The braids of my youngest sister, who held my sweetly braided daughter on a recent hay ride. They took my breath away.</div>
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{happy}</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZw3IEhkoTj2EXCZXC3XMjBTEOthf_zj2BNivqPqfGkh0hgZm_PlK-MmZrU6DO5_5bQHc6hXDvSIlpPMGBfnWh0CnGB_omoV-NtyS789bx_Ivj2DELJyo4pHb9pcuNrz2NIDN4/s1600/scrabble.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZw3IEhkoTj2EXCZXC3XMjBTEOthf_zj2BNivqPqfGkh0hgZm_PlK-MmZrU6DO5_5bQHc6hXDvSIlpPMGBfnWh0CnGB_omoV-NtyS789bx_Ivj2DELJyo4pHb9pcuNrz2NIDN4/s640/scrabble.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Scrabble, Pandora, and my honey, by candlelight. He always wins, and I never mind.</div>
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{funny}</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicLA46JA9fUaPiH29ytKCBfRZqKc60V6PpLAYnv81n6X9zT9VQZhpWVXeIXTgiZSW3s-buX7H0T_xQXhpJwVIvV84NE6Gfpb3JrZ_dcDGHoy6_4tdXklBjGTGRI95c-xzO54ZZ/s1600/local+deer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicLA46JA9fUaPiH29ytKCBfRZqKc60V6PpLAYnv81n6X9zT9VQZhpWVXeIXTgiZSW3s-buX7H0T_xQXhpJwVIvV84NE6Gfpb3JrZ_dcDGHoy6_4tdXklBjGTGRI95c-xzO54ZZ/s640/local+deer.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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This sweet local deer loves to visit our little neighborhood. Here she is on the church lawn next door, wearing her red ribbon proudly, though if she knew it was to protect her from hunters, perhaps she would not look so serene.</div>
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{real}</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJkl249sWeoGmtlqcehGVHug1eyTN_w_Az1NHFAWQuJYsMID3CxBVqvVQVIvM6pRw3RFsF8RZuX-Ghd4UTv8gxMJvPXNeuerTVmXmXpZmlu21ZtxZ5E4uXUy6IBQKbn_ONjqoa/s1600/counting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJkl249sWeoGmtlqcehGVHug1eyTN_w_Az1NHFAWQuJYsMID3CxBVqvVQVIvM6pRw3RFsF8RZuX-Ghd4UTv8gxMJvPXNeuerTVmXmXpZmlu21ZtxZ5E4uXUy6IBQKbn_ONjqoa/s640/counting.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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This one is two-fold. In my tiny (but cozy) (and dishwasher-less) kitchen, I place as many reminders as possible to <i>be in the moment</i>. The print on the wall, the scriptures ever before me, and to the right out of sight is another framed print of the fruits of the Spirit. Look a little closer and you'll also see...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7JM4MweU7QlNfWmpFY80APk0HA5XuZ_UC2tzE25j6mH-lbvg53ig6AKbXbbLaH9bDJzdqh9-WzMtggJa4gmZ_gkpJJbVON-1dT4iWGlpBZpfNbswNNBMBLJxxEAdW_n0ifn1Z/s1600/counting2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7JM4MweU7QlNfWmpFY80APk0HA5XuZ_UC2tzE25j6mH-lbvg53ig6AKbXbbLaH9bDJzdqh9-WzMtggJa4gmZ_gkpJJbVON-1dT4iWGlpBZpfNbswNNBMBLJxxEAdW_n0ifn1Z/s640/counting2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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...the counting of the gifts. <a href="http://www.aholyexperience.com/">Ann's</a> prompts make me work hard at finding the gifts as I stand there, hands plunged deep in suds, back aching as I shift my weight from side to side, a boy-man to my right emptying the dish drain and talking my ear off about electrons or his puppy or how he wants me to cut the sleeves off of the too-small camouflage shirt so he can complete his soldier outfit.</div>
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On second thought, perhaps it isn't so hard...</div>
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(Find Ann's gratitude calendar <a href="http://www.aholyexperience.com/2012/10/the-therapy-that-calms-the-heart/">here</a>? And be prompted daily to count with us?)</div>
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<left><a href="http://www.ourmothersdaughters.blogspot.com/" target="_blank" title="Like Mother, Like Daughter"><img alt="round button chicken" height="75" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5308/5609751923_b38935def8_s.jpg" width="75" /></a>
</left>Elise @A Path Made Straighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01457659796611169345noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33553707.post-10648717866874015412012-10-05T07:54:00.004-06:002012-10-05T07:54:59.375-06:00{this moment}<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNG59hON1Ks-bKzr1xPHQEXEjT-pa_F4-cpGgGfwYVYIRTIEaqFBf5qDHwXJe73JJ9EbxJQZC3VEZW6mfsUB85i3paDLbyVuDz49QNHgVJ82OcoDVFDDqpoG7wzewzBUSYe1Mf/s1600/special+dance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNG59hON1Ks-bKzr1xPHQEXEjT-pa_F4-cpGgGfwYVYIRTIEaqFBf5qDHwXJe73JJ9EbxJQZC3VEZW6mfsUB85i3paDLbyVuDz49QNHgVJ82OcoDVFDDqpoG7wzewzBUSYe1Mf/s640/special+dance.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<i>Linking this week's (special dance) moment to <a href="http://www.soulemama.com/">Soulemama</a>.</i></div>
<br />Elise @A Path Made Straighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01457659796611169345noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33553707.post-18301718234666971402012-10-04T09:48:00.002-06:002012-10-04T09:49:01.050-06:00Nature's Secret<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqtLU2-n3XzpZV1Gc3tl_EB1SfUsmzNMynmGQT1LRrNanCg9b3VQbJTSyXT0rRAy_Xjg0UH7doFk0eDY_GKw7F-F3D2hCdQ8OYP06V-9jbEE17WMswfQgHLCQLWOnS9iExDFY9/s1600/copywork.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqtLU2-n3XzpZV1Gc3tl_EB1SfUsmzNMynmGQT1LRrNanCg9b3VQbJTSyXT0rRAy_Xjg0UH7doFk0eDY_GKw7F-F3D2hCdQ8OYP06V-9jbEE17WMswfQgHLCQLWOnS9iExDFY9/s640/copywork.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Adopt the pace of nature:</i></div>
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<i>Her secret is patience.</i></div>
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~Ralph Waldo Emerson</div>
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First week of school over here. Trying to remember nature's secret; pausing in my flurry, waiting in my hurry...</div>
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...it's a beautiful life.</div>
Elise @A Path Made Straighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01457659796611169345noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33553707.post-50630055955071021012012-10-02T17:55:00.000-06:002012-10-02T17:55:39.967-06:00Evening Dance<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(Preparing supper tonight and swaying to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D7nZVtZFE0A">Fernando</a> and remembering...how quickly the days ebb and flow...)</span></i><br />
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The oven timer beeps but the music calls me first.</div>
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I peek around the corner to see if my usual partner is coming to dance, but she is engrossed in her colored pencils and new found joy in the precision and care it takes to color in the weaving on Cinderella's basket one. section. at. a. time.</div>
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So he sees me first, from his perch by the fireplace, and shifts from fat diaper to hands and knees and tucks his chin into his chest and crawls, quickly but carefully in his tentative I'm-new-at-this way.</div>
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And I can see his cheeks puff out and I know he's smiling.</div>
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Flash of baby teeth and sparkle of drool and he rests on my hip, his fingers pinching my underarm familiarly. We sway, he reaching out one hand to bounce it to the rhythm and my hand raised high in praise for <i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D7nZVtZFE0A">this good day...</a></i></div>
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And the music plays on so we squeeze tighter and begin to spin. He leans his head on mine and I turn my face to inhale that spot on his temple that makes my eyes roll back in my head and he gets a new grip on my hair and we twirl, breathless and tangled and I never want to stop. Never want to let go.</div>
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Because if I do, he'll be off to build forts and hit baseballs and take giant trash cans to the curb and divide numbers that make my head hurt and ride his bike too far for me to watch...</div>
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But the song ends, and we lock eyes. He grins, and I breathe <i>Love you, G.</i></div>
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Beeping reenters my consciousness and I remember chicken browning in the oven and potatoes boiling on the stove and the dance is over.</div>
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I release my hair from his fingers and inhale once more and kiss open lips just learning how to show love like that and set him down at my feet.</div>
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And he crawls away.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>sweet memory reposted from the archives</i></span></div>
Elise @A Path Made Straighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01457659796611169345noreply@blogger.com5