I just really, really love You

Digging a little deeper these days. Finding there is grace to do more than I ever thought. Have harder conversations. Pray more. Fit in that extra need. Stay awake one more hour. It shouldn't be an easy burden, but when we get it springing from the right well, the right motivation, it somehow is.

Still... sometimes-- a lot of times-- I want to be overwhelmed.

Just last night, I sit by my son's bedside as he cries and cries and repeatedly tries to get up and I think to myself how tired I am and how long this day has been and I so badly want to calculate how many years I have been doing this very routine, but I know to stop before I even begin, because even if I measure the years of giving that are behind me, the ones ahead stretch out further and scarier. Instead, I put my hands on both his cheeks and he tries to push them away; he is crying messy tears and he is angry with me. But I just put them back and say, "Oh Oliver... I love you. I just really, really love you."

I say it for him.

I say it for me.

I say it for Him.

I say it because at the end of the day, I have cooked and I have taught and I have broken up disputes and I have sinned and I have said too much and I have said too little and I have reached out and I have kept to myself, but You know, Lord, that I love You. You know, Lord, that I'm doing this thing called life for You. Often wrong. Often messing it all up. But I'm trying. Because I love You, Jesus. I just really, really love You.

And the truth is He loves first and He loves best and He gives grace to take that deep breath again, to teach, to try, to repent, to give.

I've been thinking lots about that broken and contrite spirit, the one He doesn't despise. I've been thinking about how too often I want to hide the brokenness, retreat from Him in my frailty, when I ought to be pouring it all out before Him. I ought to be letting Him make beauty from my ugly ashes. I ought to be letting Him show His glory through and in spite of this earthen vessel.

So I lay it all out again. Right in the tough moments, the ones I don't have the answers for, the ones I'm certainly not wise enough to understand, the ones I am pretty sure I'd rather shrink back from.

And He gives grace.

I want to hold back the loaves and fishes I have, embarrassed by how meager they are in relation to how great the need.

But He gives grace.

And so I give it, not because I think it is anything good or wonderful-- I know it's not-- but because You know, Lord, that I love You. I just really, really love You.

He will keep us

In my kitchen, I have a garland of Scripture verses printed out. Some of them I've put to memorization, others are simply there to catch my eye, both with the hope that more Word will sink deep into my heart and the fibers of my being.

A few weeks ago, this one caught my eye.

I am not a brave person. There have been many mornings in my life when it has all seemed too hard and I desperately want an escape. I bury deep under the covers and I beg for this cup to be taken, for Him to come quickly and just get me out. The flight in me wins over the fight every single time.

Right now, I am facing another situation that brings that inclination to the surface. Perhaps I will write about it soon, but suffice it to say, I have asked over and over and over again that it just be different-- and instead of being different, it just seems to continue.

And so as I looked up from my eggs and vegetables recently, I read these words and tears came quickly.

I do not ask that you take them out of the world,
but that You keep them from the evil one.

You know that feeling of being buoyed by the prayers of another? Suddenly my heart was flooded with the realization that Jesus was praying for me, for me in my present distress, for my heart and my life, for my faith. He knew that at times I would want an escape, that I would want quick deliverance and fast answers, and He knew that there would be days when I would want out of this world with its present-day angst and agonies.

...keep them...

Those two words, over and over and over again in my heart. The knowledge that Jesus made this petition on my behalf. The reality that it has not been left to me to keep myself, but that He will do it for me. He hasn't asked that I be taken out, but He has asked that the God of the universe, the One who holds all in the palm of His hands, keep me from the evil one. He hasn't asked me to fight for myself; He has fought the fight for me.

I don't know what you're facing today. I don't know what private tears you cry, what unanswered prayers you're praying, what loss or grief you're enduring. But I know that the same Lord who prayed this prayer on my behalf prayed it on yours, and He is able to do what He says He will do.

He is able to keep us.

Cookies, Oliver, and Peace

I am between batches of Christmas cookies: the rum logs have been baked, cooled, and decorated; the chocolate dipped butter cookies have been baked and are cooling (awaiting their chocolate dip); and the pecan tassie dough is chilling in the fridge. It won't be long before the kitchen table-- all 92" of it-- is covered in cookies.

The little boys are presently overlapping naps (this is a precious and usually non-existent occurrence) so while the older kids begin a movie, I cleaned up the kitchen, heated myself some leftovers, and sat down to catch my breath.

Each day this week is plotted out: which foods I need to prepare when, what dishes will be used, when the gifts will get prepared and the final decor arranged. I don't foresee much lingering by the Christmas tree or snuggling up under a blanket for a holiday movie with the kids in my immediate future!

The truth is, I love this work-- this getting ready for special occasions and to celebrate people who mean so much to Daniel and me work!

And somewhere in here, we will sneak in a birthday dinner for the littlest boy in this home. Our delightful, beautiful Oliver Richard. Just this morning I was watching him stand and clap and smile-- such a bright smile that reaches right into my heart!-- and I couldn't help but think that he really is one of the prettiest babies I've ever seen. Peaches and cream skin, ready smile, dimpled hands and arms and legs, twinkly eyes.

A year ago was a snowy Sunday. Many regular attenders didn't even make it out of their driveways to church. The following Sunday we would have to stay at home because of a state of emergency in our state due to winter storms. And right in-between that streak of horrendous weather, we had clear skies and crisp air to accompany a trip to Watertown and back where our little baby was brought into the world.

I was definitely anxious about being induced, but God had a plan.

Oliver Richard means "peace, dominant ruler." The verse on our hearts as we anticipated the birth of our baby was Isaiah 9:6, Of the increase of His government and peace There will be no end. This is a verse, of course, that is on many of our hearts this time of year. We didn't see it as coincidence that we would be drawn to it for our only December baby!

But the idea of the peace of God is a concept I find myself constantly needing to be renewed in over the years, and especially one that I had been chewing on since the spring before when my dad preached a message about Gideon.

Peace isn't a feeling. It isn't an emotion. It isn't a state of everything being perfect.

Peace is Jesus bringing His reign and order to the chaos that is my broken life and this broken world.

And of the increase of that, there will be no end.

Oliver is a prophetic declaration to me, and prayerfully to his generation: there is chaos and darkness, but in the midst of that, God had a plan. He sent His Son to redeem. His reign has been established-- it is finished!-- and the peace that accompanies His rule only increases day by day by day.

I hope that tomorrow, between more Christmas party prep and wrapping a few small things for a simple birthday dinner, I will be able to write more about Oliver. But today, these were the thoughts on my heart as I celebrate my baby's first birthday, as I anticipate Christmas Day, and as I yearn for the day Jesus returns.

photo dump (and some accompanying verses)

So many beautiful, breathtaking moments this fall-- wedged into the busyness of life as a homeschooling family of nine. Moments that kept bringing my heart back to its center, moments gifted by a Heavenly Father who is daily, line upon line, precept upon precept, teaching me to not get overwhelmed or unduly anxious or inappropriately frustrated, moments that help me remember Who this is all about.

It's not about me.

It's not about my kids.

It's not about my generation or their generation.

It's about Him.

We are part of His story, and the sooner and better we learn that, the more joy we experience in each and every bit of our existence.

What's funny is that these moments are usually very much tied to this life I've been given, these children I'm stewarding, this mission we're about-- and yet when He is fixing my vision, I see right through the temporal, to the One who is eternal and forever praiseworthy; glimpses of the permanent right in the midst of that which is passing away.

For only a penny you can buy two sparrows, yet not one sparrow falls to the ground without your Father's consent. As for you, even the hairs of your head have all been counted. So do not be afraid; you are worth much more than many sparrows!

 My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they shall never die. No one can snatch them away from me. What my Father has given me is greater than everything, and no one can snatch them away from the Father's care.

Don’t you see that children are God’s best gift? the fruit of the womb his generous legacy?
Like a warrior’s fistful of arrows are the children of a vigorous youth.
Oh, how blessed are you parents, with your quivers full of children!
Your enemies don’t stand a chance against you; you’ll sweep them right off your doorstep.

 The Lord upholds all who fall, And raises up all who are bowed down.

The eyes of all look expectantly to You, And You give them their food in due season.

You open Your hand And satisfy the desire of every living thing.

 

They find joy in obeying the Law of the Lord, and they study it day and night.

They are like trees that grow beside a stream,

that bear fruit at the right time, and whose leaves do not dry up.

(emphasis mine)

Behold, the Lord God shall come with a strong hand, And His arm shall rule for Him;

Behold, His reward is with Him, And His work before Him.

He will feed His flock like a shepherd; He will gather the lambs with His arm,

And carry them in His bosom, And gently lead those who are with young.

 For all the promises of God in Him are Yes, and in Him Amen, to the glory of God through us.

 For everyone who asks will receive, and anyone who seeks will find, and the door will be opened to those who knock. Would any of you who are fathers give your son a stone when he asks for bread? Or would you give him a snake when he asks for a fish? As bad as you are, you know how to give good things to your children. How much more, then, will your Father in heaven give good things to those who ask him!

 The Lord is not slow to do what he has promised, as some think. Instead, he is patient with you, because he does not want anyone to be destroyed, but wants all to turn away from their sins.

 Jesus said, “Let the children come to me and do not stop them, because the Kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these."

 The wise woman builds her house,

But the foolish pulls it down with her hands.

Therefore we do not lose heart. Even though our outward man is perishing, yet the inward man is being renewed day by day.

"Do not be worried and upset,” Jesus told them. “Believe in God and believe also in me. There are many rooms in my Father's house, and I am going to prepare a place for you. I would not tell you this if it were not so. And after I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to myself, so that you will be where I am."

Romans

We are beginning a series on the book of Romans at church.

I always love when we do a series on a passage/book of the Bible, but I am especially eager for this one. Do you ever have seasons when you just need the Gospel all over again? Because I do-- often-- and right now I am hungrier than ever for it.

The Word of God is living and active. I know this to be true. And yet I am daily amazed by this reality; by its strength, comfort, power, renewing, truth, and awakening.

This soul of mine, so easily overcome by its own inadequacy and brokenness and filth, soars each and every time I learn again that He loves me, He has saved me, He is for me, He will come again for me!

"The just shall live by faith."

Not by works. Not by knowledge. Not by circumstances.

By faith.

It is finished

He has done it.

I need this every day.
Every. Single. Day.

If you can't join us as we work through this study together on Sunday mornings, listen online!

seven years

When Aubrey was born seven years ago, there were naturally questions that tormented my heart and mind, especially in the first two days and then persisting through the nighttime hours when fears and grief seem to inevitably expand in the weight of darkness.

Why, God?
What did I do wrong?
Where are You in this?
Why won't You make it all go away?

I would say day by day except that early on it truly was moment by moment, He washed me with the Word, some verses becoming so familiar that at times I would find my lips forming the words even before awakening fully came. I clung so very desperately to the hope of eternity, to the promise of His love.

The truth is that I had to; I felt emptied and stripped of everything else.

I distinctly remember standing at the kitchen sink one evening shortly after we had brought Aubrey home from the neonatal intensive care unit, washing dishes, a candle flickering on the window sill before me. I could hear the sounds of Daniel readying children for bed upstairs. The furnace was blowing, comfortingly noisy, and everything was very normal after an up-until-then turned-upside-down fall.

Except that it wasn't normal.

My infant daughter had a totally messed up heart; a heart so unique in its messed-up-ness that nobody could even tell me what to expect, nobody could tell me what kind of surgery she would need, nobody could tell me how long she would probably live.

The sick, aching pit of it all was there in my stomach, mostly under the surface but my constant companion, all the time.

And that was when the work of the Holy Spirit really began.

I had to stop asking questions. I had to stop the inward tantrum that I wanted to shout at every turn: it isn't fair! I had to stop fearing the worst and dreading the future. I had to give up, put off, lay aside, let die in order for the fruit of the Spirit to grow large in my heart and life.

Again, He washed me with the Word and He began to teach me how present He is in the midst; how to be thankful in every situation; how to treasure the eternal ways I had been permanently changed by Aubrey; how to cherish each moment better through having learned more intimately just how fragile life really is. He taught me how to see His handiwork in the darkest moments I had ever faced.

Fast forward seven years: seven years full of celebration, miraculous sustaining, marvelous good health! Moments along the way of testing and worry and battle, but a victory journey-- including coming off of all medications within a few short years-- overall, especially as time after time, the inevitable (but "the what kind" still up for debate) surgery gets pushed off yet again as Aubrey's vibrancy and vitality has made it unnecessary to undertake something so risky.

Still, in July I felt the familiar tentacles of fear wrapping around my heart as I began noticing Aubrey's coloring turning blueish more frequently. In spite of a less-than-humid summer, she complained about the heat and the sun more than usual. Fingers and face and toes got swollen much more easily. Her own awareness of the limitations of her heart dawned and now it was not only my eyes but also her own eyes filling with tears about it all at times.

Finish that off with confirming her poorest blood oxygen saturation levels yet (79%) in August.

Another opportunity to walk in faith. Another opportunity to reject the questions, the raised fists, the doubts. Another opportunity to give up, put off, lay aside, let die in order for the fruit of the Spirit to grow large in my heart and life.

And now to let Him grow large in her heart and life, too.

I don't know what the rest of Aubrey's days will look like. I have learned and continue to learn that I don't need to know with her any more than I know with the rest of my children. The same God who holds each of our lives in His hands holds her life, too. He has proven that He works and He works and He works. In me. Through me. In her. Through her. To grow, to build, to further.

We continue this victory journey, knowing that the real victory is when we stand before Him, face to face, and declare once and for all, "You are faithful to the end."

stealing summer

Maybe it's because of an unseasonably cool August.

Or because we've officially started our school year.

Or because these simple evenings with long shadows and Daddy around are mostly come to an end.

All I know is, tonight felt like we were stealing summer.

I soaked it in: smells, colors, sounds.

This man, manning his manly station.

A table, laden with foods of the season.

A bleach-blonde boy, grinning across at me.

I love fall.
I love routine.
I love teaching my children.
I love candles.
I love afghans.

But I have also loved this summer.

one thing remains

I sing the words and I take comfort in them.

One thing remains.

At the end of the rubble of what was me, but turns out daily to be broken and sin-sick and hopelessly lost, I find that He remains.

Even more miraculous, I daily find that the brokenness and sin-sickness and hopelessness that is being burned away bit by bit actually reveals only Him more perfectly than the most poetic words or put-together life ever could.

I don't know why He's chosen to use human vessels-- people like me who fail, fall short, disappoint, hurt-- except that the more I see how much I need Him, the more free I feel to shout from the rooftops just how good He is. Like the lepers who found bread, I have tasted and seen that there is a well that gives Living Water and I want the world to know.

I've fallen upon the Rock and I have broken, but He has made me new. Not just put together. New. From the inside out.

And now I live and breathe and have my being in Him.

His strength, His life, His power.

June

June began one way and ended quite another. It didn't look quite like we had planned or assumed it would, but if there's anything I'm learning more and more and more in life, it's that plans must be held loosely. I might have an idea of how things will go, what my days will be like, but in the end I trust the Lord to direct my steps.

It's the one plan that I can count on, and it's the best one anyway.

And it's been a wonderful month.

Full of family, rest, sun, reading, talking, praying. Not so full of work, projects, or demands. A pause, a breath, a chance to pull back and rebuild and re-strengthen and remember.

We are doing all of this for Him.

It's Your breath in our lungs...

I hear it over and over and over in my heart.

So we pour out our praise, pour out our praise!

It was all You anyway, Lord, I think to myself. Anything I have to offer or give is from You, so let it be for You.

It's been a month of being reminded that our strength comes from Him. Youthful zeal dries up, but He promises to renew us. His arms are strong enough and in our weakness His strength is perfected.

It's been a month of stirring myself in the knowledge that if the sacrifices we make are going to accomplish anything, they must be made and offered with joy. Joy in loving Him, in pouring ourselves out for Him, in pleasing Him. Any other motivation runs out. I want to do the things He is asking me to do and only those things, and I want to do them without complaining. Not a single even half complaint, Lord!

It's been a month of realizing how often we (and I use the word "we" very personally) pride ourselves in busy. It sounds cliche and I'd like to pretend it isn't so, but as humbling a realization as it is, it's being realized. We'd rather be the hero, rather be the tough one, rather be the one doing and not the one being done for. Lord, forgive us.

It's been a month of remember how good it is to be together, to have time for our children. We so often hurry through life and before we know it our biggest priority has become getting these seven charges from Point A to Point B, be it education or events or milestones or even spiritual growth. It's so good to have moments to watch, observe, talk, listen, coach, nudge, enjoy. NOT RUSH.

It's been a month of rekindling relationships. Time with friends who we love. We need this!

June seemed to promise ministry trips and missions preparation and meetings and hosting and in the Lord's wisdom got flipped upside-down and perhaps right-side-up and turned into just what we needed.

And now we are beginning July and I feel like a baby Christian all over again, but in the best of ways. My heart is bubbling with hunger for His presence, adoration for His Word, love for His people, hope for the future.

It was a June to remember!

Sowing

Some days, I'm sure we're getting it all wrong.

After all, surely if we were doing it right, we would be getting better results.

But some days I'm sure that I'm just looking too soon, focusing too small, analyzing too intensely. Some days I'm sure that right now, right here, I need to stop asking, "Where's the fruit?" and just ask once again, "Did I sow well, Lord?"

Some days the seeds that were planted were ugly ones. And on those days, I repent, I hold hands in my own, I look deep into eyes, I ask for forgiveness, and I pray, "God, let the seeds of this day be ones of repentance and humility and restoration."

But always, always, always: "God, let me sow today,"

and

"God, let everything that was sown in the Spirit go deep, and let everything that was sown of the flesh be washed away."

I am simply the farmer, tilling the ground, planting the seeds, watering when I can, holding my breath at times, wondering if I got it all wrong many times, certain I haven't done enough all the time.

But God gives the increase.

And I can trust Him.

Sowing nearness

 

Sowing knowledge

Sowing friendship

Sowing acceptance

Sowing energy

Sowing guidance

Sowing love

holy week thoughts

There is such a multitude of thoughts that swirl this time of year as we take special occasion to consider what Jesus did for us on the cross and through His resurrection. Thoughts of awe, thoughts of sorrow, thoughts of repentance, thoughts of victory, thoughts of eternity, thoughts of gratitude. This year, the Holy Spirit is using this opportunity to remind me afresh of the freedom we have in Christ from bitterness, hurt, and offense.

Many, many years ago-- before I had children, before my husband was ordained into pastoral ministry, before I gave birth to a little girl with severe heart disease, before prematurely burying friends and brothers and sisters in Christ, before the highs and lows of the past decade and a half-- I heard a message that comes to mind often throughout the years and this week in particular:

You can't offend a dead man.

I have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me.

I will never forget the words, spoken so passionately by a man who had laid down his life and given up the very identity he was born with to build the Church in an area of the world where he wasn't welcomed, was betrayed by the very people he was serving, was deported for sharing Jesus, and had chosen to return to nonetheless. The same words that were spoken by the Apostle Paul, a man who knew what it was be beaten, abused, misunderstood, and misrepresented yet understood something infinitely greater-- not one thing can separate me from the love of God in Christ Jesus-- and repeated hundreds and hundreds of years later by another man who understood the same great thing: you may take my money, my time, my possessions, my freedom, my body, but you cannot take my joy, my identity in Christ, my eternal destination.

I admit, I get offended sometimes. I let the old me reign supreme and the result is that I am disappointed, let down, hurt. By my children. By my husband. By my family. By those in the Church and those outside of the Church. And, yes, at times when I am particularly misguided and selfish and myopic, I feel offended or disappointed by the very good God who gave Himself for me.

And each time I am tempted to embrace that hurt; to withdraw, lick my wounds, and throw myself the biggest and grandest pity party available, I hear those words that have not left my soul since the day I first heard them:

You can't offend a dead man.

Oh! the call is a deep one. Lay down your life. Give up your rights. Let go of your pride.

But in that call, and in that daily act and moment-by-moment choice to respond, is life and life more abundant.

What freedom is found when I live in the reality that this isn't my life anyway! I died with Christ. The life I now live I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me. He is my prize, He is my surety, He is my hope, He is my destiny-- and He does not disappoint.

So when the hurts come, when the offenses knock at my door, when the pity party is calling-- and sometimes because of things that are very real-- I get to let every single person off the hook. Whether malicious or accidental, words or actions, choices or forgetfulness, they can't offend me. Me is no longer. Christ is.

I lay down my life and, with it, my right to be offended. And in exchange I get love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Peace with God. Peace with man.

The Gospel, what Christ did for me, never ever ever gets old. It is water that truly quenches my thirst.

the Son is calling

 
It is still cold outside and deep, deep snow still covers the ground.

I shake my head as I light the first candle on Wednesday evening, as I hang the first Scripture just before we sit down to share our simple dinner together. I grumble inwardly, There are some places in the world where the season approaching Easter is warm and all things Easter-y. Not here. Hardly ever here.

And then, my heart catches in my throat as I realize how fitting it is, how appropriate it is that while we remain in this season of dormancy and death, we begin to look ahead. We look ahead to Jesus, to the only true Bringer of Life.

When we were yet dead in our trespasses and sin, He died for us.

Because He is good.

Because He saw something in us worth redeeming. Beneath that sin-scarred exterior, right through to the sin-marred interior of our hearts, He saw something worth giving His life for. Something worth buying back.

Beneath that snow, beneath that layer of ice and the barren exterior, there lies life. Life waiting to be called forth by the sun.

And so I light our candle and I hang our Scriptures, one by one by one. There is snow on the ground and there are snowflakes in my window, but there is life waiting to be called forth.

Called forth by the Son.

stretching

It's one of those seasons. The kind where I feel myself being pulled a little bit more taut, a little bit further, a little bit harder. The kind when I wish it were that I could just say I've bitten off more than I can chew and then simply pull back, but really I know that it's the Lord growing and expanding and putting some good, Holy Spirit pressure on me.

Pressure to dig in, in new ways. Pressure to be a little bit more to a few more. Pressure to hear from Him afresh.

My children are no longer all little ones. As terrifying a thought as it can at times be, I have had to acknowledge that we are growing beyond "the early years" with our older ones-- especially my oldest, whose tendency toward analysis and introspection is perhaps catapulting him toward growing up faster than I would often choose. Heart to hearts and grappling with sin and yielding already-firmly-formed habits to Jesus are becoming a deeper and regular and necessary occurrence.

And yet even as I am feeling the stretching of a new season beginning to engulf us, I'm a mama to a 9-week-old, I am in the throes of the turbulent toddler years with another, I am trying to make sure I find time to sit and read to the 4-year-old who is content enough to let me forget about her altogether if I am not careful, I'm working with a struggling early learner, I am guarding an 8-year-old's childhood, I am schooling and cooking and laundering and cheering and correcting and all the other myriad of things that come with the title Mother.

Of course I feel unequal to the task.
Of course I am unequal to the task.

What a comfort it is to know that He is ready to pour out all grace, all wisdom, all hope, all blessing that I need. What I lack in pedigree, skill, and knowledge, He gives to me each day in the amazing form of Himself in me. What a blessed thought.

"Know Me. Abide in Me. Find your strength in Me. Discover joy in Me. Rest in Me."

My choice is you, God, first and only. And now I find I’m your choice! 
You set me up with a house and yard. And then you made me your heir! 
The wise counsel God gives when I’m awake is confirmed by my sleeping heart. 
Day and night I’ll stick with God; I’ve got a good thing going and I’m not letting go. 
I’m happy from the inside out, and from the outside in, I’m firmly formed. 
You canceled my ticket to hell— that’s not my destination! 
Now you’ve got my feet on the life path, all radiant from the shining of your face. 
Ever since you took my hand, I’m on the right way.

Psalm 16:7-11
 

 My book-end boys: 2 months and almost 11 years old.
How I love them, and each one in-between.
I wouldn't trade this calling to motherhood for any riches, fame, or opportunity in the world!

winter days

This January has been one of the coldest I can remember. The temperatures have been bitter. Bitter. Last night, for the first time in my life and despite how childish and immature I knew it really was, I felt almost angry about just how cold I have felt for so many days.

The cure to discontent is thankfulness.

So this morning I am giving thanks...

for candles in the early morning light

 for baby yawns and baby snuggles

for brown paper packages tied up with string, just because

for soft places to land when sickness strikes

for hot drinks around the school table

 

 

for warm gifts from friends

 

 

for cozy dinner tables

 

 

 for a little girl's creativity on busy school days

 

 

 for blueberry pies

 

 

 for a superbly content baby

 

for sweet sibling love

 

 

for science experiments just before bed

 

 

 for a few days here and there that are warm enough to get outside and enjoy

 

 

 for a rearranged kitchen to keep us from going entirely stir-crazy

for fun with Daddy when he's home unexpectedly for lunch 

 

 

It's been a good January after all.