If there's one thing that causes the most consternation when moving to another country, it's laundry. Sure bathing and washing dishes and driving and the exchange rate and any number of things can confuse and frustrate and make life a bit lot more interesting to maneuver. But it is the laundry - how you do it, when you do it, and how long it takes to do it - that can really bring an expat to his or her knees. Scrubbing. Scrubbing and folding and/or crying.

When we first moved to this house, we had washer/dryer combo. The combo washing machine is quite small, so we could only really fit in a day's worth of dirty clothes. And because it both washes and dries your clothes, it can take anywhere from 3 to 5 hours to complete the entire cycle. This type of washing machine is the bane of my existence, and of most expats I know. It's also prone to breaking down, not washing and/or drying sufficiently, and uses an enormous amount of electricity. We usually ended up doing a "short cycle" on the wash and then hanging it out to dry.

A word on hanging your laundry: on the rare sunny/warm day in Ireland, I simply LOVE to hang out my laundry. It dries faster than in the combo machine, the sun naturally gets spots out, and - you know - it looks all nice and homey. But even when the sun isn't out, the wind here can get your laundry dryish, too. You then bring your dryish laundry in and hang it on the radiators to finish up. This is not as fun and causes laundry chaos throughout your house, but it gets the job done.

This is mostly a moot point for us now, though, because our old combo machine broke down a few months ago and we now have BOTH a washer and dryer. And they are awesome. The dryer is a rock-star of a machine, the drum is quite large and it dries our clothes in less than an hour. AMAZING! I love it so much, I actually enjoy doing the laundry now. Yes, it still takes up to 3 hours to wash it, but I love that I'm not a slave to my laundry anymore. I can forget about it for a few hours, pop it in the dryer and then be done with it. And because the wash takes so long, this ensures I never have to do more than 3 loads (tops!) a day.

HAPPY FACE.

Still, there are days when I'm feeling whimsy and I hang out my laundry just for fun. Not really fun, but you know...

So yes, all you ever wanted to know about our laundry situation. I blame Lisa Jo and her "laundry" prompt for Five Minute Friday. And yes, I went over my alloted time. Come join us and write. About laundry. It's therapeutic, ya'll. What does laundering entail in your part of the world?

The one who came last

I wrote my Five Minute Friday with pen in my car on this Sunday afternoon. I knew I wanted to write this prompt, and I knew what I wanted to write, but between my birthday and his and summer break and life and work, everyday is a blur and sitting for just those five minutes to write about him didn't seem fair. Until today, whilst Asher slept.

Some days you sit in a car with a sleeping child because this is the only moment of peace in your day. He is a blur, in pictures and in your mind, so that when he is stilled - peach lips parted, chest gently rising, not even a sound escaping - you don't dare move for fear of missing it.

Yesterday was his birthday and the age of 4 betrays the fact that today he is still your baby. 

He is the one who came quickest, the one who came last, the only one to come without being prodded with pitocin. He's the one who came in a white wrought iron bed, the one whose eyes first blinked at the Irish sun, the one born by the sea. He's the one you felt the most, far from home and without so much as a drop of tylenol, so that when he was placed on your chest, fresh and wild from the womb, you forgot what you had fought so hard for, for only that moment.

The midwife said, "Look, your son." And you asked, "My son?"

Yes, that's right. Four years and so many suns and moons ago. Two continents and half a dozen homes ago.

My son came in a blur; quick, and last.

***

Sometimes on Fridays I write, with Lisa-Jo Baker and her gypsy friends. Join us here.

We are all so beautiful

I've mentioned this before, how she sends us pictures. We come home to a small white envelope, a letter detailing her parade outing (she was the grand marshall), the weather report (hot and dry), and pictures from my childhood. I cringe at the bangs, the perm bordering on child cruelty, my penchant for hats.

I think, no wonder she's sending these to me. Who would want to remember those dangling bow earrings?

My mother's always been good to keep her up to date with photos. Tiny albums filled with baby cousins and weddings and distant relations we may only see in heaven. They do their time on her coffee table, eventually finding their way back to me, or my sister, or any of us. We trade and laugh and remember what the heat felt like on bare, prepubescent legs. Where grandpa would hide the Easter eggs. Football in the school field.

And among the memories and the photos and the dangling bow earrings, there is always a gem. A forever moment. I am in her arms as a newborn, the sun is setting. Her hair is as it always is, only darker, she is so young. The image greets me several times a day, sitting in the windowsill at the top of the stairs.

She is so beautiful, I think.

We are all so beautiful.



Linking up with Lisa-Jo and friends for Five Minute Friday.

The view from down here, en Français

I was in my preteens maybe, post middle school crushes but pre high school angst. My best friend-psuedo-big-sister-babysitter-slash-confidante was back from a whirl around England and we settled her homesickness with a film. A Room With a View. Period piece and James Ivory loveliness, bucolic and naive and romantic. And sexy, without the sex. Those university-aged lads playing in a pond sans trou? Mmm-hmm. It was enough for me, at the time, to realize this was where it was at. Europe. Boys. Story. Life.

This week I went to France, and my room with a view was an ancient roof looking upon an ancient wall with a square little paint chipped window. It wasn't much of a view actually, and the gray clouds and rainy days kept it that way, no matter what window you looked through. But still, as I walked the halls and peered through each one, I let my gaze linger. I am in France, I thought, and I can only see it through these windows.

We did go to Paris for an evening. And I fell before we even left. Skinned my hands and knees so bad I was sure I'd need surgery and would beat my mother to the knee replacement prize. My coworkers/new friends picked me up and dusted me off and played sweet mothers and brothers to me. We had two hours in Paris, where it rained, where Notre Dame was closed, where we paid an obscene amount for tea. My knees hurt and my pride hung low and we maybe spent more time on trains than on any Parisian cobblestone streets. But the view, the lamps in the rain, the people staring at the face of Jesus without even realizing... it was something to behold, actually.

I fell again, on the last day. Good news: all my coworkers who missed the first fall were there to witness the second. I said, "I want to swear," and someone behind me said, "I would." Someone else suggested I wear shoes next time and a third person advised him I was likely to hit him for that. I sat on that last stair and said it, loud and good and so humiliated. Shit. I was in France, and the view looked not so great from where I had just landed.

***

Back with Lisa-Jo and her challenge to write, just write, for five minutes. Join us here. Hope your view is just as lovely, minus the bruising.

When at last I need her

She reached me under cover of darkness - literally - hiding in my room behind closed door and drawn blinds, curled up beneath sheets. I called her that morning, told her I couldn't go on, that something had happened, that I needed her Right Now. The dorm phone rang and I knew it was her reaching for me, buying me a train ticket, meeting me to take me home.

I don't know what happened that year, to my brain and the serotonin levels and the fear that clocked minutes away like eternity. She didn't know, either. But she knew enough to know I needed her, and a good therapist, and probably some meds. She knew enough to know that when I reach out, it's usually a last ditch effort. She knew enough to know that after you've done it all on your own (which she did), after you've raised a daughter to be independent and bold and unafraid of the world (which she did), when fear collides with reality, she knew enough to wrap her wings around me and let me nest awhile.

14 years later (more than that really: years and years and divorce and adulthood and marriage and kids and moving-half-way-around-the-world later), it's still a mystery to me, that she never gives it a second thought. She answers the call. She gives freely. Even when I don't want to, she waits for me, when at last I need her.



Following a lovely series at Lisa-Jo's blog about what our mamas did. What did your mother do, for you?

We did well here :: 31 days of messy parenting {day 19}

This lamp made this our home. The first thing we bought when we came back, the first thing I saw that said, "Here is where you can start again, again." We put the $12 lampshade on an old lamp we left behind, black iron and pull cord. We set it on the abandoned end table (my mother collects many abandoned things). Slowly, a home came into view.

The wall shelf was a gift, a Christmas present made of liptus. My favourite type of wood. We couldn't take it with us before, but it waited for us here, and when we returned it was the first thing nailed in. A photo collage, a winter print of the Hundertwasser neighborhood in Vienna, the Attestation of Pilgrimage to Israel (I was 19 and in love for the second time), the five of us framed in Trim. God bless our family, it says. And our Compassion children peeking out from behind school uniforms. There may even be a stone hippo from Kenya. It is cluttered, but our memories are displayed. When I walk in this room, the first thing I see is our life.

I say it's not a house, not our forever home, not where we'll stay. But I look at this picture and I know we did well here. Are doing well here.

Lisa-Jo Baker invites us to write, every Friday, for five minutes. Today her prompt was Look and beyond all the mess, I saw what was beautiful. You should try it, too.

Until change finds me

I read her post today, and she poses a question that hurts and hopes in equal measure:

What does one do with all these half-painted dreams?

I wish I knew.

I put mine in a box, stored high on a shelf in our closet, visiting infrequently, afraid to look in. I see them in maps and pictures, displayed in a ratty apartment I can't wait to break free from. They call out to me, taunt me, frustrate me... "You're not there yet," they say.

I look to those clouds of change, after a hot and dry and unbearable summer, bringing in wind from a hurricane, dying down in our plains. Rain half-heartedly falls in desperate spits. "Go, please go," they say.

What does one do with all these half-painted dreams? I pray, I sing songs (slow, tearful notes of hope), I go to the grocery store, I fold laundry and pick up legos and make my bed. Every day... 

Until change finds me.

Today is Five Minute Friday, where we join the lady formerly known as Gypsy Mama and write it out. 

Give it a go. It's great, cheap therapy.

Here, in five

Here is not
where I draw a line in the sand
the hill I will die on
where I queue up
against

Here is not
where the voice of angels
speak without love
where He would stand
I don't think

Here is not
where it matters who is right
where I have the answer
can fix you
can fix us

Here is
where I have only Jesus
when I know nothing am nothing have nothing
where He says
turn your cheek
come and die

Here I wait
silently
only for Him
to save us all.


Today is Five Minute Friday and I didn't think I have the words or the time. 

But I did. 

Maybe you do, too.

For today, it is enough

I've been praying this week, a bit more than usual. Carving out quiet times, seeking sacred spaces. Writing it down, these stories and promises, words flowing like air. I read them again and again, listening for His voice, asking Him...

How will this work?

Show us the way.

It's harder than it ought to be, reading and writing and saying...

Yes, I believe.

I drink the words in, taste them on my tongue...

God, give mercy.

It's not much, these four syllables, overlapping in my brain and my heart. It's not much, but those five minutes or 10 seconds are all I have.

And for now, for today, it is enough.

A two-for-one, joining Five Minute Fridays with #SheReadsTruth. You can join us there, too.

I open the door, in five

It's always a risk.

Dropping him off at school, waving to teachers I only know and trust because the school seems to know and trust them. Letting her visit family, a whole week apart from me, without a mother to keep eye out. Just sending her out the front door with a ball and a wave.

I've heard of this happening, mothers who are overwhelmed by fear and anxiety for their children. They keep the door locked and the blinds closed, not willing to take the chance. Because who knows? Who knows what might happen, who might prey, how they might disapear or get hurt or...?

It's enough to make any parent, no matter how sane or prepared, go crazy.

This week the papers are filled with these stories, of coaches and counselors and teachers, lying and hurting and threatening. My stomach hurts and I look at them, imagining their cries without realizing it. Why even leave the house, I think? I want to keep them all safely tucked in nook and nest, away from the world, away from harm, away from pain.

It's futile, really. Who can live life that way? I protect them now but there will be heartbreak later, at 17 in the driveway, at 30 by the kitchen sink, at 45 in an empty house.

They long to stretch their growing legs and taste the summer breeze. So I risk it. I open the door and let them go. My eyes watch as they make their way into the wide open, praying the world will stay away just a little longer.



Linking up with Five Minute Fridays. You should, too.

This is the best day, in five...

Perspective... It's all in how you look at it.

She's not so different than she was then. I mean, apart from the bangs. And Fluffo (the dog). Really, the only discernable size difference is in how the backpack fits her a bit better. Her hair is a bit darker. She's taken to wearing belts, too. But she's still her.

Independent, wild, sassy, excited, not a tear in her eye. This is the best day, she says. Graduation day. Nothing to be sad about. She's all wide-eyed and fancy-free. It's not the end for her, but the start of the next big adventure, whatever that is.

But for me, I'm weepy. A bit scared. Have not a clue what is next. We've made an executive decision not to enroll her in kindergarten yet. We have hopes, dreams, prayers that she and the boy will enroll on in Irish schools. But really, who's to know? Anxiety eeks up my chest and I'm all ready to seep out worry and doubt, when she says it again.

"This is the best day. Graduation Day. I'm so happy!"

It's all in how you look at it.

Where are you looking?

***

Linking up with Gypsy Mama and her Five Minute Fridays.

The sibling dance party, in five

"Wait guys, I have an idea," he says.

There is a pause, brief still silence, before the music. And the squealing. And, what I can only assume is wiggling and dancing. They're laughing and singing.

"Hey, watch this!"

"Did you see that?!"

Minor bumps and crashes come from the small room at the end of the hall. I'm assuming no injuries.

We do dance parties in this house. Arcade Fire and Mumford and Veggie Tales and Backyardigans. We hold hands and twirl. We jump and hug. We fall on the floor silly and dizzy.

The music has stopped.

"Wait guys, I have an idea."

He makes a stage and shows them their places on his bed. And he sings, for at least the 83rd time, the Addams Family theme song, a reprise from his concert earlier this week. No music, no discernable melody, a few finger snaps. And they eat it up. They love him. He is the big brother, and he gives them good gifts.

***




THE RULES:
1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking

2. Link back to GypsyMama and invite others to join in.
3. Please visit the person who linked up before you and encourage them in their comments.

The ladies don't mind, in five

Loud...

It's been awhile since we sat around this table, sharing stories and pistachios. Life gets in the way and we have babies and work and the carpool lane, so we cancel and wait and try again. The stars align and reunite around a hard day dark with thunder. One feels a burden and we stop on the spot and ask for grace.

This is how we do it. This is how we keep going. This is how we pray.

Going around the table, we catch up. We split a cupcake and make room for seconds. We tell jokes and I laugh too loud and the baby cries. I'm so sorry, I say. I'm so loud. No really, my voice carries and babies cry. She shushes me in the best way, oh don't worry, she says, it's not you. She leaves for a minute and he calms down and sweet silence flows over our meal.

We are sisters once again, made family because of Jesus. And we keep talking and eating and I laugh again, loudly.  It feels so good to laugh, to be loud, to have friends who want to know, who feel the pains and the joys.

I wait for the cry, but no baby this time. He's asleep and we smile.

---------------------------------------------



THE RULES:
1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking

2. Link back to GypsyMama and invite others to join in.
3. Please visit the person who linked up before you and encourage them in their comments.

"Mommy, I wet!" and other Friday morning cries...

Empty...



On Five Minute Fridays, I click the link and wait for the prompt and ready myself for the words that come. But recently, it's been mostly... nothing.

I set the alarm and hear the soothing cello sounds and press snooze right as I hear the wee lad cry, "Mommy, I wet!" There will be no up and at 'em before the children today, no reading, no prayer... just dishes and cereal and fingers unzipping another pair of pee-soaked fleece pjs.

This, I think, with as little joy I can muster, never gets old.

He's on his way to an appointment and I'm just out of the shower and the girl comes to me crying. Wee lad has hit her on the head with a wooden stick (because we have lots of wooden sticks and planks and piano parts laying around our apartment). He's in a rush, and I'm wet and naked, and there is no time for words of affirmation and kisses and till death do we part on a Friday morning.

The house is empty of two now, the husband and boy gone for the day, and here he is again. The wee lad crying for milk or for hug or for Wiggles. He is in need, hungry, desperate for love this morning.

----------------------------------------


The rules:

1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. Please visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them in their comments.

Trying out delight for size, in five

I started it. My list.

1. Red front doors.

Things to be thankful for, not just things that make me happy. But they do make me happy. I recognize the joy in them. The delight.

2. A fire on a cold day.

They're not there for nothing. Not given for waste. There is only one reason beauty exists in this world. Common grace.

3. My firstborn, 9 and healthy.

I could be cynical and ignore it. I try to. Only for the flowery, I say. Only for the farmer women, the super holy ones, the ones who cry watching the Hallmark channel.

4. Cookies for breakfast.

This is not for the woman with hard lines, with snark and sass and attitude. Not for the doubter, the wanderer.

5. Pink cheeks to match her pink shirt.

But it is. Because it's a crime, a sin, to not bear witness. To recognize it, to delight in it, to accept it is saying thank you.

6. A moose hat to keep the wee lad warm.

It is saying, "I know. I see You. It's all from You, and it's all Yours."

7. A roomy apartment to shelter us. (Forgive me... I have been so ungrateful for it.)

He withholds no good thing from us.

-------------------------------------------------

Five Minute Friday with GypsyMama.

Words tread water

Five Minute Friday with GypsyMama today, on the word that eludes me today...

Connected...

We tried to use words to connect with someone today, but sometimes words aren't heard. Apparently there are times only screams or groans or cries are heard. But we didn't do that. We used words. And they went unheard. I'm screaming for someone to fight for us, to advocate for us, to help us find our way in a maze of flaming hoops, hoops we've already fearfully jumped through only to find another one waiting. And when the miracle happens, and someone does advocate, does go out on a line, does use words and actions to invest in us and fight for us, that too goes unheard.

So, here we are, waiting and wishing we'd used different words to communicate our need, our calling, our heart-wrenching burden that hovers over everything. But the fear remains that we won't connect, we won't be heard, our words will drown in the ears of others, and we will lose the mission, miss the boat, and tread water in the sea that carries us back to chasing the American dream.

On being tired, in five

I don't remember ever not being tired.

Nothing terribly dramatic to report, just kids and homework and toys all over the floor and trading beds like musical chairs in the wee hours.And grown-up work and meeting and travelling and praying and hoping and waiting and explaining. And medical bills and asthma and new shoes for uneven feet.  And marriage and parenting and imperfect human beings with inadequate amounts of patience or wisdom.

So tired, I can't even type as fast anymore.

I remember vaguely thinking adults had it made: no school, no curfew, very few rules. But I don't remember anyone mentioning the tired part.

So I'm bag with Gypsy Mama and her Five Minute Fridays, at least for today. Thought the writing might break the exhaustion spell. No you give it a go!

Where I can see their eyes, in five

In real life, I serve them tea. I sit down and try to listen without interjecting. They drink and talk and laugh, even while the children run in and out. They grab ahold of one of them, probably the girl, and tickle and laugh some more. We run out of tea, so I turn the kettle on and sit for the 60 seconds or so, just long enough for the story to finish and the water to boil.

In real life, we sit up close. In real life, I can see their eyes. In real life...  they want to know. When are we coming back, so we can live life with them? Really.

It's Five Minute Friday, don't you know, and in real life I am where He has me. 

Where are you?

Quick, before you miss it!

Life has distracted me, been out of it for awhile, need to reconnect to the keyboard and the brain for a few minutes. Well, five actually. With the GypsyMama. While the nearly-2-year-old plays angry birds.

Beauty...

She has shiny black dots on her arm, remants of a temporary tattoo. To be fair, remnants of several temporary tattoos. She demands fingernail polish, in shades of blue and green, and her daddy gives it to her. She returns the favor (on his toes). Her hair is wild, she won't let you touch it, and she always needs a hand free to keep it from her face.

When they see her, it's the eyes they notice first: wide and brown and lashes the length of I-70 across Kansas. Then her dimples, not in her cheeks, but under those big brown eyes. Then her laugh, her smile, then her speed.

Because she won't let you look at her long. She's too busy, too fast, too mature for such trivial things as the outstanding beauty of a 4-year-old girl on fire for life. But when she does let me see her, I see me. And I get a glimpse - for just a second - through the eyes of my own mother. And I hope when she saw my beauty, she saw hers, as well.

Can you see it? Your beauty through the eyes of others? 

Shameful thoughts on home

Home...

When i first saw this topic, my chest filled with angst. If you know me or have been reading this blog for any short length of time, you know nothing quite disturbs me more than thinking about, wondering about, longing for a home. I don't really want to write about it anymore. I don't really want to think about it anymore. And I've spent more than a few hours praying that God would fill me with content with or without a home and let the idea, the dream, the impossibility of a perfect long-term security leave my heart so that the empty space it reveals can be filled with other things of greater value.

Today, I wait for an email to confirm whether or not my home is in Ireland or if we should just go ahead and plant ourselves here. I'm pretty sure I know where they will point us (back overseas, where we wish to go), but the waiting is driving me crazy and they sure are taking their time and I really really want to be selfish and petty about waiting to go home...

But...

The longing for home does not belong solely to me. I can't get on my high horse and demand a "home" when there are millions of children literally without a roof over their heads, there are babies with no hopes of homes - ever. There are mothers who have no place to take their children for protection or solace or security. There is a world filled with people with this same longing, but without any of the modern conveniences that I so harshly reject because, to me, it isn't enough to call home.

I'm wracked with shame when I truly think about it, when I look around me and in my heart I say with so little care, "Nope, not good enough, sorry." This is my sin, my shame, to have more than enough and to reject it anyway.

Oh, God, replace this sin with You. Take away this pride. Remove these shameful thoughts. Don't waste these precious resources on a heart so dark. Take those babies, those children, those mothers, and give them all I forfeit. I am unworthy. And they are Yours.



confession: sometimes I edit, and sometimes I write for six minutes, but still I write furiously with gypsy mama. where does your heart say is home?