the perfect christmas photo

as i sit down to compose this year’s Christmas letter i am not sure we will have a  picture to include.  WHAT?  is that possible?  is that even permissible?  at this point in early december one hasn’t been taken and i can’t see one being orchestrated in the near future.   mind you, i had plans.   my photo genius brother-in-law was coming to georgia for thanksgiving last week and i had pictured all seven of us in coordinated outfits with a backdrop of gorgeous fall leaves.   except, we got the flu.  and then it rained.   even if i could have propped us all up indoors, bella was so sick she had wiped a patch raw from her nose to cheek.  i couldn’t very well include our newest family member with a red nose and a redder slash across her face.  so i set my sights on this next weekend.   but alas, that is now out of the question as well.  last night after climbing into my bed in the wee hours of morning, bella promptly fell right back out, smacking the nightstand on her way down.    she woke with an impressive shiner.  nope, can’t photograph that one either!   oh good grief!  i spent this morning sad about bella's eye and arguing a bit with God.  “but this is a BIG year God.   this is the year we adopted.  this is the year of bringing home bella.   this is the year we went from six to seven.  i was planning on the perfect photo declaring all of this to our friends and family.  i had a vision.  i had a dream.  i had outfits already selected!”   perhaps you are not quite so extreme.  i, however, have come to terms with the fact that i am a complete sucker for those norman-rockwellian-scenes.  i will go to great lengths for the Picture Perfect...great lengths to recreate charming vignettes of idealism.   but, let’s face it, this is not life.   none of us live this way.  even those of us who might pretend, we still get the flu, have runny noses, and wake up on rainy days with shiners.   there is something about Christmas though which evokes in us a stronger than normal desire to capture beauty and comfort and joy.    i have always loved the song Silent Night.    i used it over and over again as a lullaby for my children.  and when i nursed newborn babies at 3am it was silent and it certainly seemed at times even holy.   but now with five children running amuck there is absolutely nothing silent about our home….and it goes without saying, we are quite far from holy.  i head to bed most nights stepping over someone’s dirty underwear or for that matter, clean, makes no difference.   from my own bed, i often find it necessary to scrape off a few crumbs from the children and a lot of laundry - dumped there in hopes it would magically make it to drawers.    i grew up on daily doses of The Brady Bunch and always liked the part at the end of the show when Carol and Mike would sit in bed – he always in a clean robe and she in a lovely blue gown – and they would lightly discuss the day’s events and their silly, six children.  now i realize rick and i have one less child, but regardless, this is just not Reality TV my friends. i don't believe i ever saw a pile of mismatched socks on the corner of their well appointed bedding.  i believe that even back at the age of nine, i was set up for grave disappointment.   we know this isn’t how it really works.  i don’t wear lovely gowns and we are often too tired to prattle on about our five darling mischief makers.   our pillows are not plumped and pristine…they are often, in fact, missing – absconded and used somewhere in the house for a fort or something.  our sheets are not smooth or heavily starched and folded. oftentimes i find buried in them some little person’s random sock or a candy wrapper.  (just for the record, we don’t actually allow our children to climb in our bed and eat candy - i have no idea how this all happens).     anyway, i know you get what i am saying.  our lives are messy and full of all sorts of unholy things.  we can’t always capture The Perfect because the truth is we are living knee deep in The Imperfect.   I have right now on my refrigerator door the verse, "every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows." (~ james 1:17).   i am not, for one minute, going to suggest altering any of God’s wording in the Bible.  i am only saying i believe we might need to rethink the word “perfect.”    i am the one who messes up this verse.  my version of perfect often gets in the way of the truly good gifts.   the noses which run and the sheets with the crumbs….well THESE are good and perfect gifts.  They Are!   i don’t always see them as such.  but that’s my issue.  well, actually, i’d still like to blame it on the Brady Family.  i know, however,  it is my imperfect and unholy heart which isn’t always able to grasp the goodness of the mess around me.  as a mother and as a wife and and as a woman i have hopes to improve on my own heart’s imperfections.  and trust me, my hope has little to do with myself.  i, alone, am utterly hopeless.    i know it is a process.  there is a refinement needed…which is sometimes painful and hot, but all the time necessary.  and so today i look ahead to this season of beauty and though we have no beautiful photo and no card ordered and no immediate plans of accomplishing this task….we have hope.  we have Great Hope that in all our imperfections we have a God who loves us enough to give us Great Gifts.   gifts which might not make it to the glossy pages of Better Homes and Gardens, but which He brings to the tables and hallways and bedrooms of our own dirty homes.   and so tonight, though i will not climb into bed wearing a lovely blue gown, i will climb into it wearing a heart closer to Him and holding a hope which is beautiful because of Him.  the mcnatt family may or may not be photographed this year.  but Christmas has nothing to do with our family photo. the only picture needed is of that perfect babe in bethlehem lying in an imperfect manger.

listening to a hero

i was supposed to be directing light cues and sound cues and stage cues.  but instead of calling cues, i was doing my best to hold back tears.    i had spent the day prior in rehearsal for our school's annual veteran's day program.  i had obsessed over really important things like the placement of choir risers and the positioning of the color guard flags.  i stayed up late the night before retyping my director's script making sure every detail was in place.  every entrance and exit was exact and clear.  i woke up early and made a list of the items i needed to address before we could adequately honor our guest veterans. while driving my children to the program that morning i told them a little bit about the speaker and firmly instructed them to listen carefully.  i hadn't once thought about my own need to listen.
after a morning of rushing around, 9:30 came and the lights were dimmed and the bugle began to blow and i was still only focused on how the show looked and sounded.  i hadn't really taken any time to stop and think about how it felt.  i clearly hadn't stopped long enough to remember what it meant.   so i guess i was a bit unprepared as i sat listening to our speaker, marine corporal, edgar harrell.  i half listened for the first few minutes and without knowing it i found myself quickly drawn in.  and for a short time i stopped looking ahead in my script and i started digesting his words. word by word.  image by image.  on the stage before me stood a man who had gone to serve our country in war times.  he had gone to serve on a ship and  had ended up floating in an ocean for four days watching his friends and fellow solidiers die of dehydration, despair and horrific shark attacks.  edgar harrell was one of only a small handful of solidiers to survive the torpedo bombing and sinking of the U.S.S. Indianapolis in WWII.  and he was with us today to share his story.  to share his story with community members, with fellow veterans and with a bunch of school aged children dressed in their school uniform best.   he relayed the story piece by piece...there was a matter-of-factness to his telling, but underneath his calm words it was easy to sense the deep emotion.  we could only sit there and imagine as he described losing man after man, day after day, shark attack after shark attack.  just the thought of it stole my breath.  but even 65 years later edgar harrell spoke of this event with specific pictures rolling across his memory...pictures which, i am sure, will never fade.   he spoke of the little things which buoyed him up during these four days adrift:  a rain cloud, a lifeboat, a few rotten potatoes, a friend's words.   i removed my headset and closed my script for a few minutes and i sat and i listened.  i had no choice.  if  we missed every cue and messed up every remaining part of the program it would still be okay.  we would survive. this program wasn't about cues and scripts, it was about truth and honor.  this man standing before me was a survivor and how dare i not give him my full and undivided attention as he relayed his story.  why is it so easy to get caught up in the drama of directing life that we easily miss the opportunities of great blessing.  we lose the chance to honor true heroes.  we don't take the time to listen to real survivors.  i often pat myself on the back at the end of the day and declare myself a survivor.  i've even used that phrase recently when asked,  "how's it going now that you have five children?"  i casually replied,  "oh, we're surviving."  surviving.  really?  how shameful for me to flippantly toss around such a word.  as i sat absorbing this veteran's dramatic story i realized i don't know the first thing about surviving.
edgar harrell came today to share not only his story of survival, but to share his faith in his Great Rescuer.  he spoke candidly about the time these men had to pray before abandoning ship.  the time to pray while floating lost at sea.  the time to pray as they prepared for their own imminent death.   at one point in his talk he said, "there are times to pray and then there are times to pray....and there IS a difference."  this man knows the difference.  he stared into the face of his own mortality and he watched as God spared his life.  what a blessing for our school, for our veterans, for our children to hear these words from a hero.  from a real survivor.
before leaving the building i marched my two youngest up to edgar harrell's book signing table.  i wanted them to shake this man's hand.  i wanted them to tell him, "thank you."  bella hardly speaks english, but she sputtered out her version of gratitude.  connor shook mr. harrell's hand firmly.  he was honored.  my son was proud.  as we drove home, i asked connor what he thought.  he was quick to tell me he had listened carefully and then he went on to say,  "mom, his story was amazing.  he is a hero."  and i thought...yes, connor, he is.  and i was so glad i had listened.

sunshine and strappy sandals

i was supposed to be shopping for a floor length gown and sparkly shoes. i had been given a purchasing license from my husband.  go.  buy.  have fun.  not that i am in the least bit deprived, but this doesn't exactly happen all the time.  today though,  i was given that extra special blessing... that wonderful all clear. today i had a credit card in my wallet, a sitter at my house and a couple of extra hours to myself.   how glorious for any woman.  but instead of waltzing through the door of our local mega mall,  this afternoon found me sitting on a bench.  i had taken a detour.  i was sitting on a simple bench in the sunshine.  i couldn't help myself.  it was that kind of day.  the sky was perfect blue.  the leaves were glazed in gold.  the sun, warm on my skin.  strangely enough, the mall became not the least bit tempting - yes, you read that correctly.  nothing was going to lure me from my park bench.  nothing was going to entice me...not even the sophistication and serenity of a formal dress shop.  i had woken this morning with fingers itching to touch sequins and silk.  i had planned out my course, gassed up the car and written down instructions for the sitter.  i was going.  i was all set and ready to ramble irresponsibly into my own personal fashion fairytale.   my goal:  to find the perfect evening gown for a gala we'd be attending next month in california.  let me make it clear.  shopping for evening gowns and strappy sandals is not an every day event for this mother of five.   it is not even an every year event.  my shopping trips usually have more to do with notebook paper, knee socks and sticks of butter. 
but then there was this day.  this perfect fall day.  and i just knew i had to sit down and visit with it - for at least a short while.  as a mother of many i never have more than a short while. a short while can look like an extra hour here or there...or it might just look like an extra 30 seconds.  regardless, i have learned to make the most of it.  i usually run in a number of different directions as fast as any 40-something old woman can run.  i probably drive too fast and multi-task too much.  my list is typically longer than it should be and my goals are greater than need be.  but i am a mother.  i am a busy mother.  even my cell phone knows it.  go ahead and call.  it would be highly unlikely for me to answer it -  i hardly ever do.  if you call,  you'll hear my daughter's message sing out, "hi,  this is my mom's cellphone.  jody is not here right now. so please leave a message for our very busy mom."  how awful!  as i type i am struck with the complete and incredible awfulness of my message.  who wants to leave a message for a very busy mom?  oh, yeah, mrs. very-busy mom....when you get to it...when you have a minute...when you take a moment ...when the planets align and the heavens declare...would you maybe listen to my measely little message?  oh...i am thinking i am going to have to change that greeting ASAP.  that message isn't even necessary,  i am sure my i-am-on-a-mission-aurra continually wafts off my rushing, harried self.  again, how awful.   i am completely convicted on how this must read to others.  who in the world does she think she is?   honestly, i don't  think. and i know you've already guessed the reason why - i am too busy to think.  and that is a shame.  the truth of it is, we are all too busy.  and if we're not, we're usually feeling like we should be. like we're missing something.  but more and more i am convinced it is our busy-ness which is causing us to miss things.  miss connections with our children.  miss beauty.  miss birthdays. miss meals.  miss moments.
so back to my sunny park bench. there i sat.  i wondered if this was only my first step to becoming the bag lady on the park bench conversing with pigeons.  perhaps many of these women were once overcommitted, overwrought, over-the-top mothers.  maybe this was only a foreshadowing of what was, indeed, to come.  i nibbled on that thought a moment and then quickly gobbled it whole.  so be it.  i was going to spend a little time on my little bench and enjoy a lot of sunshine. and if a future of pigeon conversations and too many bags was the result, that too,  was okay.  i knew without a doubt this sunshine would add more sparkle to my soul than the most sequined and shimmering pair of high heels i could find.  anywhere.  there would be plenty of cloudy shopping days.  i'd have to remember to save my bags.

rocking chairs and front porches

my last entry in this particular blog?...oh that would be january.  january to june.  seems to be the story and pace of our lives.  i have to wonder, have i had no opportunity to be still in these past six months or so.  it seems not.  but we all know that is just not true.  i have rested. i have relaxed.  i have slept.  and i have even sat and stared at the wall...well...maybe not the wall.  but i cannot pretend that i have been completely void of a few extra minutes.  it is also clear that i am not usually at a loss for words.  there has been plenty to say.  plenty of which to write.   i have composed countless blog posts in my head.  i have had no shortage of topics, thoughts and ideas.  but... perhaps a more honest perspective is i have been missing some motivation.  maybe missing the inclination.  i know there will be a time in life where i will have some extra hours which stretch out ahead of me.  there will be some unaccounted for minutes in my day where no one needs a bath or tissue or a meal.   at least i think there will be a time like this.  truth be told...i am Counting On It.

 lately i have  had a strange attraction to front porches and rockers.  i haven't met a rocker resting on a front porch that i haven't liked.  i find them all inviting...all appealing...even friendly.  i cannot walk near a porch without feeling an extreme sense of beckoning. these rockers and porches are a tiny taste of a simpler, gentler, slower dance.  in the midst of my middle-aged rush, i long for those words.  those ideas.  i fully embrace my days of chasing children and containing chaos, but i have a spirit which requires dreams.  it requires time to dream.  it requires a place to dream.  as a mother of many, i have found it more than challenging to dream in my day to day. in fact, i have found it very challenging to even think.  i have become the mother who, in desperation, tells her children, "stop, and let me think!"  at the age of 22,  i would have bet money on me never muttering such an awful phrase.  but now, i must.   i am so seldom idle.   and idle can be so very good.  in fact, idle is necessary.  perhaps i'll feel differently when my hair is gray and my nest is empty.  perhaps then i will become more cautious...more skeptical...more wary.  i might resist the urge to sit and rock for a while. knowing that the "while" could be too long.  but right now...oh  my.  i find rockers and porches better than ice cream on a summer evening.   i am charmed with the thought of a quiet front porch.  i am entranced with the feeling of an evening breeze and the sound of distant crickets.  i have even found myself photographing porches and rockers.  i study angles and colors and lighting as if i was commissioned on some great work of art...or at least paid for a magazine spread.  neither of which is remotely true. but nonetheless, i consider carefully each shot.   someday i will have a photograph of me rocking gently in one of those chairs.  someday.  someday i will sit and  i will write and i will write and i will write....or i will stare at the sea or the sky or even at that wall.  and i will be still.

still waters

i am only in the first week of my being still blog and already i have failed.  miserably.  i was rushing this morning.  hurrying.  late for an appointment.  late because i had, at the last minute, decided that i did, indeed, have time to paint a shelf which i wanted to hang in our guest room.  this shelf had been sitting in storage for almost two years.  but today was the day that i felt compelled to pull it out and begin painting.  why?  i have no earthly idea.  i came across it while putting away some Christmas decorations and within minutes had a paint tarp laid out and a can of eggshell paint open.  this is just how it goes some days. i am sure there is a name for this disorder.  but, let's not go there...just yet.   it is the same disorder which made me wake up yesterday and decide it to be the perfect day for tackling julia child's boef bourgionon.   seriously, i was completely okay with making sloppy joes for dinner, until i came across julia's recipe lying crumpled in the bottom of my purse.  the recipe, however, had only been in my possession two weeks, much better than the shelf of two years.  still, what is that all about?  am i really so lacking in focus. can i not plan seven days of a dinner menu and stick to it?  can i not schedule an appointment without a can of paint interfering?  yikes.  it is probably the same disorder which allows me to walk upstairs to retrieve a sweater only to end up hanging curtains.  recently, i headed to the garage fridge for a can of coke and ended up reorganizing my husband's tool box.  i ask, just how does one go from coke to tools? should i happen to travel down the basement in search of a puzzle, i might very well end up playing a game of pool or sewing throw pillows.  one never can tell with a disorder like mine.  perhaps i can attribute it to the rigors of motherhood.   that  would make me feel at least a tiny bit better.  i am not sure though if even that relieves me of any responsibility. 
i had made a vow last year to do less in an hour than i thought possible.  seriously.  less.  it really was a good idea in theory. i realize in most workplaces, the goal is to do more in each hour.  to improve productivity and increase output.  but, perhaps they don't suffer from my disease.  since having children, my thinking has been to run into one more store.  shop for one more item.  stop by one more stop.   plant one more plant. ah-ha!...i think i've settled on an appropriate name:  this is the disorder of onemore.  i suffer from full blown onemorism.  i am a self-diagnosed onemoristic.    if there are 5 minutes before the start of carpool line at connor's school, i really don't have to run to the gas station, the dry cleaners and the flower market.  i really might be late if i think i can accomplish all of that in just 300 minutes.  but, for those of us that suffer with this strange and urgent disorder, 300 minutes sounds like an awful long time to just be sitting in the car waiting for the school bell to ring.  if you really want to see evidence of this issue, come with me to the doctor's office. it has nothing to do with what happens in the doctor's office.  it is what happens out in the waiting room.  you really wouldn't believe what i have been known to bring along.  in the case that i could have 10 minutes to kill before they call my name,  i am determined to be prepared.  there will be no downtime for this busy mom.  there will be no mindless, mind-numbing thumbing through woman's day or glamour.  there will be no simple chit-chat with the other waiting room waiters.  oh no.   there are always coupons to clip, files to organize, pictures to scrapbook, checkbooks to balance, esssays to edit, sweaters to knit, origame birds to create.  oh, yes...you think i am kidding.  just ask my kids.  having a tooth pulled or a shot given doesn't come close to the horror of having a mom like me in the waiting room.  recently, i considered purchasing a rolling suitcase, just for our visits to the various healthcare providers around town.  it would be necessary for the wheels to be well made.  state of the art design.  because you know we will be the family running recklessly into the waiting room.  running in late, because of course,  i just happened to find a two year old shelf and a can of eggshell white paint. and i had time.
so i write this today, confessing my failure.  my being still blog was sort of my new year's resolution (jody style).  i had high hopes.  i know it is important and even necessary.  i want my children to learn the art of being still.  being quiet.  being alone. being at peace.  i want them to know how to rest.  that is something our culture and our lifestyle doesn't teach well.  that is something i don't do well... in this past year, God has especially convicted me of my busy-ness.  He has spelled it out for me.  He has, more than once, put the writing on the wall.  with four children and a 5th one on her way, we will always be busy.  we have chosen that kind of life.  but, that does not excuse us from reckless-busy.  it does not support haphazard-busy.  it in no way promotes careless, unintentional-busy.  the prophet isaiah tries to tell the people of jerusalem that they are spinning their wheels with unimportant, insignificant to-do lists...
  

"for it is: do and do, and do and do,

rule on rule, rule on rule;

a little here, a little there..."

they choose, however, to shut their ears.  they call his words non-sense.  though they do sound a little
dr. suess-ish, these are the words from the Lord.  words of instruction.  words of warning.  when the people mock him and resist his instruction, the next phrase is, "very well, then..."  oh, boy.  you just know it is not going to be good when God or His prophet says, "very well, then."   i remember hearing that phrase from my grandmother's lips as a child.  it never meant good things were coming.  in this case, isaiah, is simply saying, if you are going to go about doing your own thing.  if you are going to ignore and mock the Lord, well...then...you will reap the consequence of that decision.  can you just see this wise, white- bearded man in his dignified robes washing his hands of these hard-headed people and their stupidity?  i can picture the shrug of his shoulders as he walks away thinking, it's your funeral, guys...i tried.  before he completely exits the city walls, though, isaiah turns around and says, oh, by the way, jerusalemites...one last thing:

 "this is the resting place, let the weary rest;

and this is the place of repose ---

but they would not listen.

so then, the word of the Lord to them will become:

do and do, do and do

rule on rule, rule on rule;

a little here, a little there --

(here's the kicker)....

so that they will go and fall backward,

be injured and snared

and captured."  ~ isaiah 28 

don't those words just make you want to duck? crouch? cringe?  take cover?  those final words just scream "very well, then."  don't they?   fall backward, injured, snared, captured.  those are neither promising nor comforting words.  none of them sound good to my ears.  but i am just as guilty as these stubborn people of jerusalem.  i can easily wake up on any given morning and worship at the feet of my to-do list.  in the middle of my quiet time, i am guilty of doodling reminders in my journal about incredibly (not) important things that have to be accomplished.  my mind wanders when i pray.  the first thoughts of my morning are often about What is ahead of me that day, not Who is ahead of me every day.   my husband has even caught me in the middle of church using my bulletin as my own personal spreadsheet of activities.  Jesus tells us, "this is the resting place, let the weary rest; and this is the place of repose."  He couldn't be clearer.  This is the Place.  "he who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will REST in the shadow of the almighty....He will cover you with His feathers, and under His wings you will find refuge." psalm 91.   psalm 23 reads, "He makes me lie down in green pastures... He will lead me beside still waters...."

        In the shelter.

                    In the shadow.

                                 Under His wings.

                                                In green pastures.

                                                                Beside still waters.

                                                                               This is the Place.

so, today i failed. i admit it.  i suffered once again from an ugly bout of onemoreism and it made me rushed and late and slightly frantic.  i found no shelter, no shadow, no green pastures.  and as i raced across the chattahoochee river, i am certain that didn't count as "walking beside still waters."  but, here's the thing:  i know these places exist and i know my Lord is already there.  He calls me and He will continue to call me.  He does not wash His hands of me.  He does not shrug His shoulders and walk away from my foolishness.  He continues to beckon.  He continues to invite.  He is not asking me to paint shelves or pick up dry cleaning.  He doesn't really care if i make dinner out of a can or out of a french cookbook.  He does not judge me by the number of coupons i clip or the number of pages which i write. He doesn't want me to accomplish One More Thing.  He wants me to desire only One Thing:  to walk beside still waters.

                   

only trying to be still...

being still.  i know some of you have just read that title and are thinking, are you kidding me jody? you know the whirlwind of my existence.  you know the well choreographed dance i do daily to keep a family of six in step with its schedule.  you know i do it to myself and am much to blame for the breathless, even reckless,  pace we keep.  i might attempt to persuade you that i am just saying no to almost everything.  that i really am slowing it all down.  i really am serious about downsizing, delegating, purging, prioritzing. and i really am.   the truth of the matter is that even if i do all of the above, i still have a bunch of children and unless i choose to send them all off to a new england boarding school, there really is only so much cutting back i can do. even if we were to send them merrily on their way,  i would then be quite busy working three jobs to pay for it. i suppose we could have been more conservative and responsible on the front side and gone with the 2.5 kid thing.  but we didn't and so our life proves to be anything but still. but that is exactly why i have chosen this title.  it is a reminder.  it is a goal.  it is something to which i boldly aspire.  it is perhaps inconceivable in many ways, but i have always been drawn to the not likely. bottom line.  it is my blog and i can name it anything i so choose.  so there. be still.
    actually i was inspired this summer when i came across it in the woods.  yes, the woods.  we were spending father's day weekend at an amazing retreat called serenbe.  serenbe, by the way, gets it's name from the words be serene. how lovely is that?  i spoke at length with the man who developed this oasis.  he shared with me the story of how this tiny dream came to be.  20 some years later he has this unbelievable operation, but he is still pouring orange juice for his guests and is happy to chat.   anyway, we were at serenbe and walking through the most beautiful thicket of woods.  we had just finished a family dinner and were in search of an elusive waterfall.  we came across a simple bench resting underneath a canopy of dense trees.  below and just in front of the bench was a large sign set down into the ground.  on it, i read the following:
be still and know that I am God.
be still and know.
be still.
be.
it was brilliant. "be still and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth."  ~ psalm 46:10.  i have always loved that verse. but to see it in that place.  at the foot of a plain, wooden bench, underneath a covering of dark green, beside a quiet stream at dusk.  i was completely taken. i was ready to lie down upon this sign and hug it fiercely to me.  it was a good thing my more reserved children and husband were with  me.  who knows.
     i am not often very still. i am not very good at it.  not at all.  i spend oodles of time in motion, running hither and yon.  i occasionally grieve the fact that my neighbors see only the dust and tail lights of my gigantic SUV traveling in and out of my driveway all day long.  i counted one day.  i left my house 14 separate times.  my father would have insisted that if i had been better organized i could have reduced this number by at least half.  he may be right on most things, but i am certain, each of the 14 necessary exits was critically timed.  it is true...i come and i go.  things in motion tend to stay in motion.  things at rest tend to stay at rest.  i am a walking, running, breathing, and sometimes panting example of this scientific theory.  so, though some of you may shake your heads at my title.  i am completely okay with that.  i will still invite you to come and sit and read.  i will still share my busy thoughts.  i will still aspire to rest.  i will still encourage you to rest.
    the photos along the sidebar are things i have captured because their beauty spoke quietly to my soul.  if nothing else, they caused me to pause.  to stop.  to be still.  even if it was just for a moment.  just long enough for the click of my camera.  even that momentary stopping is at least a starting point on my journey to stillness.   the quotes and verses are words much more eloquent than my own.  many of them have been penned messily into my journal.  i am glad to have found a calm place to share them. laugh with me, if you will, but my all means, be still. 

synonyms of still: 

 hushed, motionless, peaceful,

   placid, quiet, quiescent, tranquil, 

   undisturbed, calm, gentle, meek, mild, modest,

  passive, patient, silent.

no place like home

dorothy and her ruby slippers knew it. even as she and her trio of new found friends bounced along the yellow brick road, she was wise to the fact. well before she was introduced to glenda and her glitzy red shoes, she was certain. maybe a tornado or two and a few flying monkeys helped cement her belief, but deep down she always knew, there's no place like home. it has been the subject material of countless songs. if i could retrieve the exact number i am sure the figure would be staggering. everyone from bing crosby to the foo fighters has sung about it.  even though it can be so different for each of us, we all know exactly how it is intended to feel. we have volumes of norman rockwell paintings cataloged in our heads. we know what it is supposed to sound like, smell like, look like. often it doesn't. i had to get over that idea years ago. there are no perfect people living in perfect homes. well, except for those flattened characters in the pages of decorating magazines. as a young girl i would spend countless hours pouring over better homes and gardens cutting out pictures of perfection. even the name suggests something better. something more.  something perfect.  i had a shoebox underneath my bed, not full of teen idols and pop stars, but full of pictures of gardens and kitchens and bedrooms. when most girls plastered their walls and locker doors with tiger beat photos of sean cassidy, i was already familiar with chintz and faux finishes. okay, so now you know. yet another admission of strange wiring. sigh. anyway, that was the birth of my domestic ideal. i would most certainly say that my parents encouraged this interest. they both have a somewhat saavy sense for the aesthetic. dad worked in people's homes all the time. mom found her artistic bend in the world of antiques. i have never seen two people get so excited about lead glass doors or 12 inches of crown molding. we were the family that would drive around at Christmas time and rate our neighbor's lighting displays. terrible, i know. recently i have heard my own children use words like tacky and cheesy. oh. ouch. i am quite sure that is not the Christmas tradition i wish to pass down. however, i will take this moment to say that candles in the windows, fresh greenery and white lights do wonders for any house come the month of december. and...(if i might add), those blow up thingys in front yards- though scoring big points with the under ten crowd - do detract a bit from the picturesque quality of our front scapes. okay. enough of that. i sound snobbish and certainly don't intend to as i am trying to tell you about a most non-snobbish thing: home. though i still spend countless hours and exert a ridiculous amount of energy on our abode, i have to say, it is a little different lately. i believe it is one of the reasons God has given us four children with plans to add one more to our already bulging nest. children have this uncanny ability to keep us humble and dirty. they have this indescribable aptitude for scribbling upon the pristine. perfect example: last year's holiday home tour. we had agreed to show our house on a (very simple) neighborhood home tour raising money for a local charity. i had worked for weeks pulling the place together. i whipped up as much christmas decorating design magic as any mother of four could muster. the day of the event was no exception. i pulled out all the stops. chopping down greenery from my yard with wild abandon. simmering cloves and cinnamon on the stovetop. sweeping. polishing. pruning. trimming. rearranging. oh yeah, i was in full modus operandi. decorating diva unleashed. no one messed with me. hours before the event began, my husband, in a moment of brilliance (and fear), packed the children into the family SUV and escaped my frenzy. i was delighted. i had the place to myself. with 134 minutes to go...it would be dazzling! i was certain: there IS no place like home. girls, you know of what i write. don't deny it. there is nothing quite like having our homes to ourselves. we revel in the quietness and order of a still and perfectly empty house. complete bliss. alright, back to the story... so there i was standing in my kitchen, the lady of the manor, the queen of the castle, graciously greeting my guests. "oh yes, come in. i welcome you. perhaps a glass of sparkling punch? oh thank you. thank you. yes, that is the smell of wonderful things baking. yes, you are too kind," i blushed and billowed under their compliments. it was at that moment, when my house was brimming with admirers, that the family SUV returned. i could hear the rumble of them well before the front door even opened. i could sense the menacing presence of their carnival like aura before even laying eyes on the foursome. within minutes of them entering my palace -i mean house- IT occured. a kindly, older gentleman standing in my kitchen picked up a piece of a brownie he believed someone had dropped. he helpfully scooped it up in his most delicate hand and began to walk toward me. it was like something out of a horror film. our noses simultaneously winced and our eyes locked. we both new immediately what he held gently in his fingers was no brownie. we could smell it well before we could verbalize what it was. at that same moment other guests standing in my oh-so-festive kitchen began also to wrinkle their noses and look around suspiciously. i could see the massacre unfolding before me, shoes were checked and comments exchanged. someone - my 11 year old son, to be exact - had tracked in dog doo-doo. so much for the simmering cloves and cinnamon. they were instantly trumped. a search ensued and the culprit was uncovered. he had already traveled miles within the house. he was flash gordon with dog doo-doo on his shoes. his obvious goal to hit every flooring surface in our three level home. he left nothing unscathed with this horrific scent. the christmas decorations quickly lost their luster. the greenery seemed not quite so fresh. my haughty shoulders slumped as i followed the massive trail of filth around the house. i believe my home looked like one of those cut out pictures in the shoebox beneath my bed for exactly ten minutes. that was it. that was all the perfect i was going to get. a year later i can chuckle over this most unfortunate encounter with humility. in retrospect, i am always thankful when a dose of perspective crashes into my reality. i am not saying i like it. i still cannot look that neighbor in the eyes without some trace of embarrassment. but truth be told, i wouldn't give up the dog that left the mess or the boy that tracked it in. not for one minute. our home is not about holiday home tours....it is not about magazine picture perfection. it is about four messy kids, an occasionally messy dad, and a mom who wouldn't trade them in for all the quiet, clean and simmering cloves in the world. as we grow closer to adding our baby bella, i know things will only get messier. but messy can take on its own form of beauty. i am pretty sure no one wants to photograph it for their magazine pages, but that's okay.  life is about so much more than living in a shoebox underneath a little girl's bed. our home, i assure you, has more to do with dirty tennis shoes than it does with ruby slippers. regardless of what covers our feet, there is, indeed, no place like home.

morning light

there is a time of day when the morning light shines through the windows of my house and it looks particularly dirty. the smudges on the glass panes seem smudgier and the spots on the berber carpet are clearly more pronounced. dust particles the size of cottonballs can be seen floating through the air. do you know this time of day? please put to rest my domestic insecurities and tell me your house also manifests a little filth come the unforgiving rays of those early hours.  in the twilight of evening everything can seem so unmarred. so flawless. but with the direct injection of morning light... voila...dirt! i would much rather host an evening soiree than a mid-morning coffee in my home. an entirely different level of cleaning is required. shafts of light are a good thing. a pretty thing. even a poetic thing.  but not necessarily flattering to a house occupied by 6 humans and 5 animals. i am rather fond of the granite in our kitchen, partly because i like the organic quality and natural color scheme, but mostly because it is an excellent source of camouflage for our syrup-stickied, jelly-smeared, cheet-o-ridden lifestyle. connor can color off the lines of his paper...and it is okay. my coffee cup can slosh carelessly over the sides and all is well. rice krispies can escape from their bowl and it is just fine. it is not just fine because it is clean. it is just fine because i cannot see it.  a-ha! that is the trick to survival of the dirtiest 101. sweep it under the rug, kick it under the bed, heave it quickly into a closet, coax it into a corner, slam it into a bulging drawer. THAT, my friends, is the secret of serenity.  i have even been known to hide things in my oven. a second oven in the kitchen for dirty dish storage is certainly a good idea while entertaining. a good idea until an unsuspecting friend decides to warm up her cheese dip.  i am not talking complete subterfuge here. i will most willingly admit my tricks. my shortcuts. my clever angles. there is no sense of false pretense in my housekeeping. come on over, i will openly share my shameful areas...well, most of them, that is. there once was a day when i might not have been so transparent. i have experienced the embarrassment of a dinner guest opening up the wrong closet. the hazardous closet. the closet where everything, including the never used bowling ball, came dangerously tumbling out.  she was completely gracious.  i was completely mortified. lately my refrigerator is an acute source of shame. i just can't seem to get to it. things sit. grow moldy. achieve unprecedented levels of grossness. i remember being slightly disgusted with my own mother and her refrigerator. back when i was young and perfect and childless.  i remember finding containers and wondering to myself how does this even happen? i have seen glimpses of that same look on my own daughter's teenaged face. she has not yet verbalized it, but i can read her thoughts, and it is only a matter of a few more hormones before she will vent her amazement and disgust. this is our own female circle of life.  how crazy that it includes a refrigerator.
so what is this writing really about? dirty things? hidden things? the things we ignore? yes, probably all of that and then some. it is most definitely about those shafts of light. it is about the sunshine that can stream through the windows of our lives exposing the floating dust particles; revealing those smudges and stains. i am not saying that we WANT to see them. i am only writing that it is a necessary part in our growth. actually, it is pretty safe to say, all of us love the sunshine.  most of us have that cat like nature which finds unbelieveable comfort in curling up in a stream of warmth - as long as we keep our eyes closed, that is.  i, for one, am happy to shut my eyes and pretend, every now and then. oh, as a mother of four, i have gotten downright good at mastering the whole look-the-other-way thing. i have yet to use my convection oven correctly, but i can certainly manage a little escapism.  i regularly can't seem to find the grocery list i started or the car keys i just had, but i am well aware of all the mind-numbing exits available.  you chuckle, because you, too, know. i am not writing that a little avoidance is entirely a bad thing.  in fact, i believe that God has even given some of us dreamers an extra dose of it. it is what allows us to revel in the smell of good coffee, notice the tiny buds on spring trees, appreciate the color of a weathered blue shutter.  but, just as there is that specific time of morning when the sun streams through my dirty windows, God also has specific times for revealing the filthy corners of our lives.  matthew, mark and luke all repeat the words of Jesus, "for whatever is hidden is meant to be disclosed, and whatever is concealed is meant to be brought out into the open." He asks, "do you bring in a lamp to put it under a bowl or a bed?  see, He is clearly addressing women here. He knows we are masters at manipulating our lighting. remember blanche, from tenessee williams', a streetcar named desire? in addition to having some really ugly corners she wished to hide, she was aging quickly and incredibly vain. what did she do? she covered all of her lamps with rose colored cloth. she darkened the corners.  she softened her wrinkles and sagging skin. or so she thought. don't we do that same thing in our lives? Jesus is telling us to take those lamps out from underneath the cloths, the bowls, the beds. He says, "instead, don't you put it on its stand?" the love and power of Jesus will not be revealed in our lives if we do not let His Light Shine On In. that will mean at times, throwing wide open the shutters and welcoming the harsh, brutal and revealing light. we may wince. we may blush. we may swallow hard. but we will eventually experience the warmth and growth and clean that only He, The Light of the World, can bring.

undecking day

as the holidays come to a close, we have one more mcnatt family tradition to squeeze in. i call it "undecking day." it is the day when the entire family pitches in to undeck our halls of all that accumulated Christmas stuff. because i insist on real greenery in my merry making it is literally a time to even undeck the halls of boughs of holly. fa-la-la-la-mess! nature and her needles everywhere. with two live trees in our house and real garland draped across every conceivable surface, we will live with an army of pine well into spring. last year, in one of my more resourceful moments, i employed the use of my handy leaf blower inside the house. a good idea, but i would suggest two points of caution: 1. use only electric - the gasoline smell is entirely different indoors - and. 2. don't for one minute entertain the idea of a 12 year old boy-or any boy, for that matter-assisting with this. other than those two things, and a minor mishap with a lamp, it really was brilliantly fast and efficient.

sappy sentimentalist that i am, i do prove true to form and become a little depressed with the arrival of this day. between the singing of auld lang syne and the removal of the candles from our front windows, a spirit of melancholy often settles around me like a thin blanket. this is true. with the extinction of the tree and garland lights, our house seems a bit darker, even a bit duller. the metallic ribbon is wound back onto spools, the glass ornaments carefully wrapped in december's newspaper and the santa clauses tucked securely back into their bulging crates. no longer welcoming, the tired and fire-hazardous wreath is dismissed from our front door and our home is stripped of festivity and prepared for routine and normalcy once again. the house quietly whispers, "time to get on." it is time to rest from celebrations and time to re-enter the world of our responsibilities. time for the sugar plums to stop dancing in our heads and time for all of us (okay, me) to start exercising in the gym.
and though i will miss staring into the christmas tree lights at the close of each evening, i am on board with this transformation. it is time. i once had a conversation with one of my children - really can't remember just who it was - about why having Christmas all year long wouldn't be such a good thing. this child - whoever it was - never quite bought my argument. but it is true. a year long Christmas would eventually lose its sparkle and most assuredly be the demise of most mothers. in plain terms, it would kill us. all this magic making and wish fulfilling comes with a cost. funny thing, we don't even get full credit. i remember one of the kids saying to me years ago, "why are you so tired mom? doesn't santa claus do all the work?" so far, that is the best argument i have come across for spilling the beans on santa. so, it is not without some sense of relief that i wisk my family into this day of undecking.
i am always delighted when shopping in target right after the holidays (please refrain from asking why in the world i am even in target after the holidays). have you noticed the colossal display of bins and crates come december 26th? the exhausted elves must work all of Christmas night transforming those must-have-last-minute-items and the all-important-stocking-stuffers into storage units of every size, shape and color. the organizer in me gets kind of excited when i pause at this aisle. really. i know that is weird to admit, but it just oozes order and control. i find myself breathless and a bit weak in the knees as i consider the countless possibilities just waiting within the messy walls of my home. i even dreamt once of my storage room lined with perfectly matching, evenly spaced, and expertly labled crates. "oh, you are looking for that beaded reindeer?" i say to my storage room visitor. "yes, here it is," i reply, efficiently consulting my Christmas clipboard and color-coded flowchart, "3rd box to the left." oh the things of which we mother's dream! such fantasy. such unbridled passion for plans and process...for peace. should i even admit how excited a well appointed kitchen drawer or an alphabetized game closet can make me? i can hardly continue to write...
anyway, back to undecking day: i will include pictures from last year's grand event. we do our best to make it fun. in true new year's spirit we embrace Out With the Old... we re-organize and re-order. and there is something in that which brings a tiny piece of peace to our otherwise chaotic home. i have come dangerously close to writing a post-holiday Christmas carol with the line, "a place for everything and everything in its place." that is definitely something which would bring Joy To The (my) World! but tell me when did the restoration of our homes and bodies go from cliche to demanding. excerising regularly. organizing everything. eating next to nothing. and this just days after surviving the whirling dervish of december. with the changing of the calendar year, i, admittidly, will succumb to my passion for the gigantic clear crates from target, bringing half a dozen home. in the midst of my good intentions and fruitless search for my label maker, the children will, most likely, pilfer these bins for their own irregular practices. they will be turned over for a tea party table, or manipulated into a vehicle for pulling one another wildly around the house...the lids will become war shields or sleds and will, undoubtedly, break before they make it to my capricious storage room shelves.
so january 2nd or 3rd or 4th will arrive. a little darker. a little duller. a little cleaner. the fray of transition will eventually subside. we will reclaim our homes and renew our resolutions. we will stop eating so recklessly and begin sleeping more regularly. like it or not, we will resume our routines. and we will know there are seasons for merry and bright and their are seasons for quiet and right. there is a time to deck and a time to undeck. and for that we are thankful. i will, most assuredly, continue to find pine needles in april and i am certain at least one Christmas ornament will, at some point, roll out from underneath the couch. and when it does, i will happily march to the basement, throw open wide the storage room door and toss it into the anarchy and jumble of a lidless, plastic bin resting precariously on an unlabled shelf. and i will make plans to organize it all... sometime in july.

all things new

out with the old... and in with the new. really? is that truly what we seek come december 31st? why is it that on new year's eve we are so drawn to the words old and new. endings and beginnings. not just drawn to them, but mesmerized by the sound of them. no matter how practical our nature, we find ourselves cast under the spell of their newsprint promise. we spend our final days of the year chewing upon these words as if they were our very own verbal cud. turning them over in our mouths and minds and eagerly spitting them out at each other in agreement. it seems the older i get, the more this holds true. perhaps i am just closer to old and the desire for new grows more and more desperate - a theory which we can debate another time. in a generation which can barely stand still long enough to ponder anything, we, in a mass collaborative effort, rebel for just one reflective moment at the stroke of midnight. as if this midnight has something to do with it. as if this midnight holds the power to change a lavish stagecoach back into a pumpkin and return a princess to her peasant girl status. as if there is a fairy godmother holding the Great Treasured Clock of All Time in her fantastical hands. as if she is listening intently to our reflections and regrets and resolutions. as if this grandmotherly fairy and her sage, accomplice, Father Time, plot secretly together for our good. this stroke of midnight is nothing if not a stroke of genius. if we could shake the wishes from our heads and the cliches from our writing, we would know deeply the power of this moment is a mere fairytale. but then again, perhaps we are all, on occasion, in need of a little fairytale. we have, afterall, created an entire holiday explicitly for this purpose. we make much of it. we have teams of people designing cocktail napkins and matching party hats. noisemakers are tested in quiet rooms and champagne is bottled and labled with the celebratory year. cheese dip and sparklers, and even sparkly clothing combine together for this one enchanted evening.

i know this desire quite well. i am a girl with an extraordinary embrace for fairytales. i, too, can fall effortlessly into the hypnotic lull of a good story. i have, on more than one occasion, wept simply because the final chapter in a captivating novel, has come to a close. friends and family, alike, have dubbed me as a girl wearing rose-colored glasses...a girl who views things with bright eyes. i am certain i've crossed paths with a critic or two wishing to dunk my ponytailed head in a good dose of reality. but i also wish that with a quick scribble on a list, i might change old habits, create healthy ones and thus improve the line of my horizon. i would like to believe that with some exceptional resolve, a resolute spirit and a large glass of champagne i will begin afresh. anew. aright. oh, friends, that sounds not only delightful, it sounds downright necessary. don't we all deserve this chance regardless of our past year, our past mistakes, our past failures. our past... in general.
funny that most of us spend our days fighting with this elusive friend, this thing called Time. there's either never enough or perhaps, for some of us, too much. regardless, most of us tend to contentiously argue our way through it. and yet, it is the thing in which we are quite willing to place great trust come the year's end. do we seriously believe that a date on a calendar is worthy of our fear and trembling? the truth is, we are desperately in need of The New. we all, each one of us, are created to shed the old. it is how we are made. it is a beautiful thing. a necessary thing. it is a need woven so deeply within us, we cannot ignore it for very long. it will resurface, if only every new year's eve. it will. no one can escape this need to peel off the layers of our onion-skinned selves. but, undoubtedly, we look to the wrong things. we look to the fairytale and all the actors and devices she employs. we look to these things and find as believable as they seem when the curtain is up and the lights are on, they fade away by the show's final call. they present themselves in glitter and glory and keep us distracted from our very need. they keep us searching on the glossy surface. keep us rummaging through the glitter...and missing the truth. our glitter-ful hands will, ultimately, be left clutching only dust. our distractions will drown us in the weight of their shimmer.
this new year's eve, enjoy the glitter. enjoy the sparkle and the sparklers. flirt with Father Time and befriend your fairy godmother. but know that these things will pass. their wisdom and their glory and their glitter will crumble. the champagne bubbles will flatten, the sequins will loosen, and the noisemakers will (hopefully) quiet. know this.
know also, it is the simple, quiet Jesus who comes wearing nothing sparkly, who comes with no fireworks to announce His presence, who comes to bring The New. He needs no oversized disco ball or gigantic peach to drop when He declares His do-overs. He chants no clever bibbidi-bobbidi-boo, but, He has promised, "I make all things new." His dusty, rough carpenter's hands do not wield a fairy wand, but they do hold the answer to our new beginnings...our fresh start. He came as a newborn babe and was laid in a most un-glitzy manger. there was no glitter or gold to be found anywhere in that lowly stable. the sheep most certainly did not shimmer and no one danced in the streets of bethlehem. the only ball that dropped was joseph's failure to call ahead for a room. and yet, this simple babe, held in His hand the very power to send out the old and bring in the new. though often inconceivable and unbelievably miraculous, i assure you, it is not a fairytale.

"therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation;

the old has gone and the new has come." ~ 2 corinthians 5:17