Thanks in Thanksgiving

Like my friend Aubri over here, we Olsons had a nice, relaxed Thanksgiving. It sure is a gift to learn some things over time, like: this is only one day. If the meat and at least one side is done, we'll survive. Kids like to help with special days (even if sometimes it feels like anything but help, like when they're juggling the fine china). A clean kitchen is a great joy. And a perennial favorite: eating is fuuuuun.

I also greatly benefitted from advance planning (I won't talk at length about my Wednesday meltdown which primarily involved a cranky, overtired pregnant momma who spent too much time standing and insisting on unrealistic execution. But I digress). The bread dough and pie were finished yesterday, so the sugar-high cinnamon rolls this morning were a breeze and a hoot--the kids wanted to try using cookie cutters on the dough until I explained that the cinnamon had to have a roll to make it happy. Papa dressed the turkey--the boys debated whether it should get underwear, a ski hat, or PJs to wear--as usual, which is a huge relief for me. He also cleaned and prepped and boiled the white and sweet potatoes. He's a dream, I know!

Because he did that, I could make the Schnitzel Beans (bacon, onions, green beans and other top secret ingredients), the Scalloped Corn, prep the dinner rolls from the dough, and make eggs for a late brunch. I also did two loads of laundry and put away three weeks' worth of clean clothes in our room, which was completely tangential to the meal but made me feel fan-tad-tic (look! Our dresser has a top!). Taking a shower probably helped my state of mind, too. And washing dishes by hand and running the dishwasher twice. Then I made the (box) stuffing and creamy mashed potatoes (cream cheese, check) while Papa carved the bird and made the melt-in-your-mouth sweet potatoes. Oh, and I opened up the can of cranberry sauce that Jon and the kids love.

At four we six and a half sat down to a great meal. We talked about things and people we're thankful for, in between preventing spills, reminders to use utensils, and refilling plates (you never have to ask Small Dude twice if he wants more. He invariably says "Puh-puh," or "please!"). Then I laid on the couch for an hour while Papa cleaned up. Bliss.

Yeah, the kids watched the parade this morning (fun to converse with them about it. When asked about the Rockettes' kick line, the Little Professor said, "It looks like a combine." Why, yes, yes it does. There's a deeper social analysis in that comparison, but the literal one was enjoyable enough). They played spaceship and trucks and who knows what else for much of the day. And I find myself near sleep and realizing how few thanks I gave today, how much I took for granted.

I know better. I wrote about gratitude this very week. I said prayers and read psalms and thought about God's gifts, but these are such small tokens. Like a pastor friend wrote on Facebook today, maybe that's the point--that God is pleased to receive our tiny thanks is another indication of His unsurpassable generosity to His children. We deserve nothing and get everything, and He smiles upon us when we give thanks to Him. I can and should do better, yes, in rendering thanks and praise to my Savior. Yet He forgives even my selfishness and inward focus on this day. For His great mercy I give Him my gratitude, my whispered words. And He gives again, and will so tomorrow and until the end.

Mother of a Filler Post

I began this post over two months ago, if that tells anybody what kind of priority this blog has been. It's been so long since I blogged that those of you in cyberspace might be wondering what in the Sam Hill is going on at the Olson Homestead. Not that you've lost any sleep. But your theoretical concern piques my heart, nonetheless. So here's a beginner of a filler post on what we've been doing here.

• Learning. We're heading into Week 18 of homeschooling--yes, that means we started back up in July--so we've been hip deep in larnin'. Reading? Check-check-check. Writing? Check. 'Rithmatic? Check-check. Catechism and daily prayer and bits of ancient history and science too. And Latin and piano lessons (for the Little P). Then there's tunnel-making and ball-rolling and leaf-pile-design and all kinds of free play for the littles, and all sorts of random stuff (I'm hoping the recent fascination with arachnids passes soon, because wheesh). It sounds like a lot, but it isn't. Maybe I'll explain that more thoroughly someday.

• House-selling. Well, it's not sold yet, and maybe I should have filed this under "learning." But it's been an interesting few months in a very small market. "Why are you selling your house?" you're probably wondering. Well, the short version is we'd like to both get rid of some debt with our huge equity and possibly get a bigger house before this one gets way too small. And the good news is we don't have to rush (if we sell, we can move, but we don't have to move rightthissecond). The better news is we've had five positive showings--a solid showing for this area--and springtime is a better time to sell. So we're optimistic.

• House-moving. Internally, that is. After eight years of a series of remodels and getting used to everybody sleeping on the first floor, Papa and I finally moved up by moving down to the ensuite master bedroom in the basement. With a walk-in closet and our own bathroom, I feel like I've finally reached some point of adulthood I didn't know I was missing. And it's really quiet down there! Unless Small Dude is screaming into the monitor. Pearly Girl transitioned cleanly into a big girl bed and her own room, and Superman and the Little Professor enjoy their big boy room. Yes, Papa did a three-room furniture shuffle (and repainting one room). I was awesome at giving directions, pointing, and picking up random screws. 

• Exploring regular freelance writing. Since late August, I've been given an awesome opportunity to write a weekly column for our local paper, the Star. It's been great practice for me, and the editor is amazing--constructive, insightful, encouraging in pushing me to improve. You can look up my columns here, under "Thoughts in the Heartland." 

• Kid growing. The Little Prof (6) is seriously steaming ahead in lessons (again, possibly more on that later). Superman (4.5) is looking to follow in his tracks ("I'm crazy about history!" he announced the other day). Pearly Girl (almost, almost 3) wants to do everything the boys do, and more. And Small Dude is a year old--a YEAR OLD! No walking yet, but he's crawling everywhere and starting to pull himself up on his knees (and eating random Cheerios off of the kitchen floor. Score!). We're thinking he might, just might, decide to go bipedal by Christmas, but it's actually kind of great that he's not walking or running or climbing stairs and furniture yet. Because..

• Kid growing, part V.  Yes, we have been blessed again. Olson Child will arrive in mid- to late April 2015! I'm doing much, much better in terms of energy and appetite than for a few months there in early fall, but keeping up with four kids is, for some reason, kind of time-consuming. I keep wondering why I'm so surprised by this. Like getting used to this life somehow also should mean it gets easier. It does, in some ways--few things they do surprise me--but in other ways, it's just a dump-fest--laundry, books, toys, needs. Thank goodness Someone Else is ultimately their Caretaker! This season is just that--a season. That gives me both heartache and incredible relief.

Well, that's about all I can put down for now. My pillow is calling.

Queen of the Bowl

Pearly girl is moving toward independence by leaps and bounds. By independence I don't mean driving motorized vehicles, paying her own rent, and generally assuming the responsibilities of adults--though I suppose her progress is a start. 

I We officially began the great procession known as the weaning of diapers on Saturday, January 4. With the boys, our system--if you can even call it that--was less official and more gradual (diapers to pull-ups or the much-preferable training pants, with rubber pants, then without, and finally moving into actual dandified underwear as the ultimate prize. Or exhausted finish. Whatever.). People had always told me that girls were easier to potty-train than boys. I thought Little Professor and Superman were pretty easy, if messy. Superman moved into underwear on his second birthday, so I figured an older brother role-model really helped him.

Well. Pearly Girl has put them both to shame. Granted, she's one and a half months past her second birthday, but I can't remember the last time I put a diaper on her. Last week? Anyway, after one day of full court press of the training pants, she was telling us when she had to go. A few accidents later, she's into the girlie underwear I figured was at least a month away. I am relieved the way runners are when they get to the last lap. And we got here much faster than I anticipated.

I know more accidents will happen, because they just do. But in the meantime, I am crowning Pearly Girl Queen of the Bowl and loving washing the prettiest little undergarments that mark her transition to Big(ger) Kid. 

So much cuter than cars and Ninja Turtles pants! Say it with me: ooooh!

One Thousand--Ahem--Boons

No, really, Sister--thank YOU. Nice hat, too.

Maybe you've heard of or read Ann Voskamp's One Thousand Gifts. It's a beautifully written read--thought-provoking, lyrical, laughter-inducing and certainly tear-inducing. It also, from my obviously Lutheran perspective, ultimately ends up heaping law upon law on Voskamp herself and her readers by concluding that we have to give thanks in all circumstances. Period. So DO IT, good Christians! Always! No excuses! What I began reading with so much hope and delight ended with me slinking back to the library dropbox, wondering what went wrong.

And what went wrong, of course, is that we can't actually give thanks in all circumstances all the time or even act like doing so is some act of penance or some act of works-righteousness contributing to some partnership-with-Jesus contract deal. And since we can't, because we're poor miserable sinners and we generally know it (thanks for this, Adriane!), this book that tries to emphasize the good ends up shackling us with more impossible expectations rather than giving us the Great Thanks-giver Himself. Because ultimately I need to know that Jesus could give thanks all the time because He was God, and Jesus loved me even unto death, and His vicarious atonement isn't conditional on any merit on my part, like giving thanks always. Otherwise His work wouldn't be, well, a something-for-nothing gift. I realize the hyphenated adjective there is superfluous, but it's amazing how many people think of "gift" as more like the beginning of a bartering deal. "I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine. By the way, I've got an ingrown hair problem, but you're cool with that, right?" Thanks, but no. I'll take my birthdays and Christmases and back-scratching and Jesus without the sides of conditions. 

All that being said. Here I give you One Thousand Boons, my list of decidedly less--no, significantly less--than one thousand benefits that I* never, ever list when I'm coming up with things I'm thankful for. Enjoy, and go about your blessed life with all of its gifts and boons.

(*or anyone else, unless she's--or he's--crazy or warped. Join, please!)  

• The Friends of Meinders Community Library Annual Book Sale.  
• A room in which to lock myself into for five minutes of privacy. 
• That my belly button isn't in the middle of my head (that would be awkward).
• Angelika, who came up with those last two while 1) yelling at her kids through the locked bathroom door to give her some peace for five minutes and 2) explaining how truly awkward a belly button on the noggin would be. Yes, she's joined. She's actually probably a charter member.
• Accidentally dropped M & Ms under the kitchen table. That I find days later. (Surprise chocolate!)
• Bath salts and a sleep aid. Not used simultaneously but in tandem.
• And a glass of Riesling.
• The flip-down mirror by the passenger seat for mascara-application, hair-fluff-checking, and last-minute blotting of baby-stained clothing. Better than a personal stylist, IMPO.
• Bedtimes. For small children.
• Natch that. Sleeping children. 
• Anna Karenina, Madame Bovary, and Sister Carrie. To remind me that my life is actually pretty s-ah-w-eeeeeeeeeet.
• Ear plugs.
• Ice packs.
• Three-packs of kid underwear.
• My Hope Is Built on Nothing Less Than Jesus' Blood and Righteousness. And that's a for-real boon.

Far as the curse is found

Every year on Christmas Eve night, our church's Sunday School presents a pageant. The pageant includes lessons and carols, with some shepherds' robes, microphone feedback, candlelight, and the usual-yet-unexpected poignancy whenever children are involved in public confessions of faith. This year, the Sunday School teachers did an exceptional job preparing our youngsters to read and sing of Christ's coming. And despite a last-minute rash of kids getting the flu and a snowy, blowy Eve, Our Saviour's Sunday School did a wonderful job. Here they are right before the service.

Our small group is blessed to include Ali, a lovely, energetic girl who is developmentally disabled. She cannot walk without help and she cannot speak with words that we understand. But she smiles often, participates vigorously, and shows us how God makes beauty out of brokenness.

Ali's mother is one of our Sunday School teachers, and one of the ways Ali participated in the pageant was to light candles during one of the readings. Her mother helped her walk up to the Advent wreath. Then, she carefully wrapped Ali's fingers around the acolyte's brass lighter and lifted the flickering end bravely toward the candles. It took some doing, for it was difficult for Ali and her mother to get the lighter wick lined up just so against each candle wick. But as we watched Ali's rapt face glow in the soft light she lit and listened to the Old Testament prophecies and New Testament narratives of Christ's coming, we saw exactly why Christ came: to give light to darkness and to give hope to the weak. Later, while Pastor read of joyful noises and praise for God's good gifts, Ali lifted her voice to share her excitement. Her timing was perfect. She literally made a joyful noise as we heard about all of creation rejoicing in God's greatest gift.

One of my favorite Christmastime readings is Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol. In the story, Bob Cratchit tells his wife about taking their son, the saintly Tiny Tim, to church. "He told me, coming home," Bob says, "that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk, and blind men see." 

Parents of disabled children, including Ali's mom and dad, will tell you that their children are not perfect. They know, just as parents of able-bodied children know, that despite glimpses of sweet innocence and selflessness, children act in savage, selfish, sinful ways, ways that belie their angelic appearances. That's one reason why Lutherans baptize babies--we know our months-, days-, or even hours-old children have been infected with the sin of Adam. Their behavior shows this, but their bodies show it, too. Children scrape knees, break limbs, get infections, battle cancer. Some of the scars heal, but none of them disappear forever. And even the most saintly kid can't fix himself. Tiny Tim recognized this. Even at young ages, we see our children marked for death.

Papa and I witnessed this firsthand in our own home this week. Superman developed a low-grade fever a few days after Christmas. I kept him home, snuggled him, gave him lots of 7-Up and regular doses of bubble-gum Tylenol. But he still felt badly, and his body suddenly reacted to its illness by triggering a seizure. We took him to the Emergency Room within ten minutes of his seizure, and he revived, especially when the nurses prepared his hand for an IV. (Oh, the great patience of pediatric nurses!) He spent the night at Sanford Children's in Sioux Falls, at what we call the Castle (it looks like the Cinderella castle at Disney World). And we were relieved when his temperature disappeared after a night and the doctors concluded that Superman is one of about five percent of kids who experience febrile seizures, or seizures causes by a fever. He might have another one, but he might not. It's most likely that he will grow out of them. And we are very thankful that he is well now, asking for candy at every meal, and asking us, "Do you remember when I got to spend the night at the children's doctor?" Yes, Superman. We remember. And we always will.

In a feeling-apple-eatin'-good moment.

Few things are as terrifying to parents, I think, than when their children become physically unresponsive. Right after his seizure, Papa scooped up Superman and held him like a baby. Our son was helpless, and so were we. All we could physically do was to rock him and place him in the care of people who know how little bodies work and what they need. The experience with Superman was a mighty, visceral shock to remember that our son is not ours, that we did not make him, and that we cannot keep him well, or even keep him at all. His days on this earth are numbered. And this knowledge can cripple us with fear and anger.

Too often, I think the world manipulates the weakest among us. Many are manipulated because they are small or voiceless. Many are exploited as powerful political or religious examples that we thoughtlessly or knowingly parade in a voyeuristic show of pity to achieve other ends--our own selfish ends. But Christ came as a weak Babe precisely to show us that He loves each little one unto death. Because that's where Ali and Sam and every child, from the red-faced newborn to strongest Olympian to the frailest centenarian, is headed. And the Child gifted with myrrh, the embalming spice and funeral incense, reached for Death and struck it away, for us, forever.

On Christmas Day, we sing joy. We sing, "Joy to the world, the Lord is come." But even more, we sing healing. "He comes to make His blessings flow/ far as the curse is found." In the Christmas season, and for the rest of this year and every year, we need joy. But we also need to know that His blessings flow even into the very crevices of our sinful lives, into every dark and putrid corner, into every broken heart and annihilated hope that we suffer due to our terrible physical and emotional and spiritual frailty and that of those we love. We need to know that He, the mightiest and the greatest, made Himself the smallest and weakest and most nothing of men to save us, the ones who so desperately need Him. As this Christmas season closes, I pray you know and remember that He comes to defeat every curse that haunts and plagues you. He comes as the lowliest to lift you lowly ones up, to hold you like babies, to heal your brokenness. And he comes still to make His blessings flow.

Terrific Two

Our Pearly Girl turned two recently. We can hardly believe she's grown into such a big girl already! Here she is almost a year ago (notice the short locks):

...and here she was this summer. She loves her girly stuff, like having her now LONG hair brushed and accessorizing with shoes and scarves, but she LOVES being outside and getting active (and usually dirty. Even eating dirt)! 

In our first substantial snowfall this fall, she and I ventured out into the white stuff. Even when her hands were freezing (and most of the rest of her was, too), every time I asked if she wanted to go in, she'd say, "No!"

A few weeks before her birthday, I finally took her in for a trim. I've learned to have no expectations when the kids go to the dentist or the hair stylist, and Pearly Girl surprised me even so. She sat very still and wasn't bothered in the least by the scissors close to her head (Sam, who cut her hair, was very nice and gentle, so that probably had a lot to do with it. Thanks, Sam!). Her trim looks great, too!

Her birthday fell the day before our annual open house, so she spent most of the day helping me bake. She's a big helper in that department! We enjoyed a nice chicken dinner later and a Ree Drummond chocolate cake just for her, too, along with some snazzy gifts.

Just a little help from Mommy with the candles
(and her brothers, who were blowing from across the table).

With three little boys in the house, we really cherish our little girl! We look forward to watching her grow even more in the days and months and years ahead. 

Thankful for His times given

Today, I give thanks for many things.

Mostly, I give thanks for my family--my messy, loud, amazing, ever-changing family. 

God knows the worth of what He gives far more than I ever could. 

So, take and use Thy work, 

Amend what flaws may lurk, 

What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim! 

My times be in Thy hand! 

Perfect the cup as planned! 

Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same!

~From "Rabbi Ben Ezra" by Robert Browning

Running the Neatness Marathon: The Help

...who make life's work possible.
BTW, read this book.

Last year I blogged about beginning my years-long dream to declutter. Here we are, thirteen months later, one more baby later, and what do I have to show for it?

To be honest, I'm not finished with the project yet. But however slowly, decluttering has happened in bursts, small jumps, and after long interruptions of illness, travel, and life in general. Ultimately, I've learned that some of the biggest forward-moving parts of this process have involved the help of other people. And I don't mean "help" in a weasel word kind of way; I mean it in a "we couldn't do any of this stuff without the time, physical labor, and generosity of these people" way. We can't maintain God's gifts to us without help from our neighbors. Ooooooh! I'm sensing a wider lesson in all of this. Can you smell, too? (Go ahead. You can grin at my silliness.)

I'll give more details about the Olson family decluttering project later. I think you'll understand, though, if I first give credit where credit is due. So without further ado:

• Let me strike that "I" for a "we." If Papa wasn't on board for this long project, then progress would be infinitesimal at best and, um, negative at worst. What's negative progress, you ask? That would be moving backwards into a dung heap of squalor. It would be decline of the one-step-forward, twelve-steps-back variety. Without him, our floors would remain dirty because he would ignore the mop and vacuum or our children so I could clean. But to his awesome credit, he wields mop, vacuum, OR kid duty. Plus, he jumps in with gusto to our heavy duty declutter projects (i.e. he does most if not all of the heavy-duty physical labor). He initiated the steam-cleaning project, in fact. All this on top of his normal yard/garden/outdoor work--he's hauling leaves right now as I type and feed Small Dude. One word for this amazing husband: swoon!
• Another huge contributor to our project, though she doesn't know it, is my mom. She's visited a couple times this year, always at times where we desperately needed full-time assistance (i.e. after Papa's emergency surgery and after Small Dude was born). While she didn't sit and sort old papers or move furniture or tag items for the yard sale, she did wash dishes, clothes, kids, floors and generally keep our house spic-and-span so that once she was gone we didn't have to recover our house and so we could do other purging projects later. This is one of those small-but-huge gifts. If you get the inherent paradox.
• Then there's Dan, who moved furniture with Papa out of our house for our yard sale and a few things back in, all for a measly plate of sweet treats. I don't know about you, but people who move furniture without major rewards are self-givers of the heroic kind. 
• As are people who gift us their time and energy to watch our children! My friend Devina deserves a shout-out here. She, in her great conscientiousness, heard and remembered my lament last spring on my stalled cleanliness project and in her great kindness offered to take the three older kids (I was still pregnant) for an entire day so I we could clean. Then, when she had to reschedule the original date, she showed up an extra day and took all the kids--including her four--to the park! 
• In that category also there's also Gary and Carmen, who took Little Professor and Superman overnight and for a whole day so that Papa and I could steam-clean the carpets, move furniture, hang pictures on walls that have been bare for years. The same day, the uber-awesome Terri watched Pearly Girl, even when she and Joel had a relative coming to visit. Because of that one night and full day, Papa and I got stuff done that can only happen without little ones around (even hanging frames without pictures in them because if it's going to survive long in this house, as all parents of little tykes know, it cannot. be. on. the. floor. Or anywhere remotely accessible. Which means if Papa and I don't see it, it don't get done). So thanks to these awesome folks' help, we were kidless on that productive day. I mean, except for Small Dude, who was blessedly quiet and only needed feeding when I really, really needed to sit down anyway.

Such help like this is humbling because it reminds me of my inadequacy to do everything myself. Yes, "smart" as I might be, I actually fool myself into thinking far too often that I can actually accomplish everything on my list single-handedly. Which is ridiculously impossible. And so I give thanks for all of these people and their time and efforts, who--whether they knew it or not--were giving us the ability to run the neatness marathon in front of us.

A Little Peek at a Small Dude

Today we mark the one month face time arrival of our newest blessing, our son Daniel Luke Michael. He arrived on Saturday, September 28, a week ahead of his due date, and managed to give us all enough of a heads-up to get his siblings some awesome care and for Papa to make it to both services on Sunday. He weighed in at a solid seven pounds, fifteen ounces, and measured twenty inches long (and by six days post-partum, he'd shot up to eight and a half pounds. Good eater, this one). We were surprised but pleased to see his full head of blond hair--no bald baby this time! I'll share more about his watery births--physical and spiritual--later, but suffice it to say God is merciful and we are very grateful for our son. Say hello, Small Dude!

I'd say more, but the little manny is hungry, and I still haven't figured out how to breastfeed and blog at the same time. Thank you for all of your thoughts and prayers! Our cup runs over.

Oh, and happy belated October, all, and Go Cardinals!

Fruitfulness, Round Four

Last week, post-yard-sale and some back labor excitement, Papa picked tomatoes from the garden. This is what the counter looked like after I'd cleaned half of the take from three five-gallon buckets.

As they say up here: Uff-da.

Suffice it to say, we've had a bumper garden harvest this year. Since early August, I've been freezing green beans, sweet corn (not from our garden but from three different church members--sweet corn had a good year here, too), preparing eggplant and squash and cucumbers, and this month we've been tackling the pepper and tomato haul. Yes, it's been a lot of work. We're also very thankful the garden has borne such bounty, especially considering the late spring and the fact that we were gone for four weeks after Papa planted. So Nancy, if you're reading this and still at all concerned that your watering efforts in July went to waste, please, PLEASE fret no more. God used your efforts to great success. In fact, our tomato load last week was the fourth round of our tomato haul. The first resulted in twelve pints of hot salsa and seven quarts of tomatoes in their own juice. The second begat twelve pints of mild salsa and multiple quarts of peeled, frozen tomatoes. The third produced over twelve gallons of frozen tomatoes (see how my energy with each round diminished?). The fourth round, by sheer size alone, demanded extra effort.

So last week when I decided to make tomato sauce with all two-thirds of Papa's latest picking, I had a lot of time to think about garden harvests and familial blessings. Sitting in the kitchen, destemming and slicing up countless tomatoes for what turned out to be over ten quarts of sauce (which, if you've done this before, means roughly sixty pounds of tomatoes were involved), and wincing every time Baby decided to make his presence known (the guy's running out of room!), I pondered the mysteries of fruitfulness.

Papa's planted a garden every summer we've been here, and we've had some good years. He's rotated placement, Miracle-Gro-ed, swapped out different varieties of produce, tried different spacing. He's tried onions and radishes with little success. This year, he tweaked again, but not enough to account for the haul. Our backyard neighbors planted a few tomato plants scarcely twenty feet from our garden and didn't get a single tomato for their work. Yet we planted and basically left the little green squirts alone and now find ourselves inundated.

It's not fair, in the whole scheme of things. I'm ten months pregnant. Why all this work at this particular time? But what a silly response. I could dwell on the effort such bounty requires to preserve and sustain, but that seems beyond ungrateful. It doesn't even make sense. Gardens by their very nature are supposed to produce. And when they do, we give thanks. On the flip side, our bounty seems unfair to all the gardeners who spend this month wondering what went wrong. It would seem judicious if everyone got at least a little something for all of their gardening efforts, but sometimes it just doesn't happen. Sometimes the rabbits and birds wreak havoc. Sometimes the weather soaks or scorches. Sometimes seeds and seedlings just don't take due to soil or weeds or for causes we can never determine. Experts have spent and still spend countless hours attempting to explain why things grow and why they don't. But even finding reasons why things don't grow can't suddenly make them grow. Even having all kinds of scientific answers as to how and why life can happen can't actually create and sustain life itself.

Gardens are one thing; families and children quite another. I think of my friends and others whose arms and hearts ache with emptiness, from children desired and children taken to Jesus. Like agricultural scientists and researchers and farmers, doctors and specialists can only explain so much. This is not to diminish their God-given expertise and aid in any way. It is only to say that they are not God, and they cannot act as Life-creater. Sometimes we fool ourselves into thinking they can be, that technology or drugs or some combination of scientific theory and practice in the hands of certain people can do what only God can do. But we also see too much suffering and tragedy to believe such a lie. Seemingly healthy children die young. Healthy women are infertile. And children who should not statistically survive do. My sister and I are such exceptions. We were born over thirty years ago at  twenty-eight weeks gestation. We were given less than a ten percent chance of survival at birth, but we both did. And only God knows why. We can speculate, of course. But the truth is that we don't know. And we can only trust that God's ways are best, even when we don't know His reasons for life or for death, for fruitfulness or for barrenness.

Such may sound glib or callous, an easy write-off for unanswerable burdens that provides no comfort. Instead, it is a life-saving trust in a sea of loss and suffering. We pray a meal prayer sometimes that begins with verses from Psalm 145: The eyes of all look to You, O Lord, and You give them their food in due season. You open Your hand; You satisfy the desire of every living thing (14-15). We give thanks for the nutrients God provides us for our bodies. We acknowledge that only He can give us what we need, when we need it, be it food or health or children or any number of gifts. And ultimately, whether we like it or not, we bow to the inevitable scarcity or abundance that He provides, as He sees fit. We don't like this, because it means our efforts mean, well, nothing in the face of whether God withholds or blesses.

But we also know that His gifts are always good. His good gifts always satisfy our greatest need--that we need Him, that we are, in fact, completely helpless apart from Him. And He provides for us in multiple ways, too, just not always in the forms we desire or expect. Neighbors bring extra asparagus and apples (or get five-gallon buckets of tomatoes). Some years are corn-heavy and tomato-light. Some arms hold one child or two or many, biological or adopted, and others hold nieces or nephews or godchildren or congregational children. Regardless, we receive. And--this is a hard truth--if God ordains that we should bodily starve or bear the cross of barrenness or loss, we trust that His ways are not our ways, His care not ours. This is a terrible truth, but one on which our very lives depend. Abraham wielded a knife over his only son. Mary watched hers be pierced and nailed and suffocate and die. Both wept and ached and suffered. But none more so than He who made them to begin with, Who bore and bled and died and rose to give us life that would never end, that would never stop giving.

Our family waits and prays in these days for God to bless us with another child, who is our fourth living one. This baby has grown unseen and mostly unknown, though we cherish our time with his kicks and his hiccups, even his sunny-side up turn. God knows the days He has prepared for this little one, and we trust in His promises for us and for our child, that He will never leave us or foresake us, though we all will pass someday from this veil of tears. And so we give thanks for His mysterious bounty, in all of its forms. Bless us, O Lord, and these Your gifts, which we receive from Your bountiful goodness. Through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.

Snips and Snails*

Other than my own suffocatingly slow reflexes when it comes to blogging lately (that's a really lame excuse for an apology for my absence here), we've been moving slower here generally in the Olson household. The temperature outside finally rose above freezing, so we've been lounging and soaking up the sun outside. We've also been sleeping like rocks at night due to all the fresh air time. Last Thursday, I sprained my ankle when I missed a step. I am very thankful that I sustained only a few scrapes, bruises, and a minor sprain, and I'm already moving much faster than I was a few days ago (does sitting on the couch for hours qualify as movement? Please say yes). Baby's complied by kicking me more since Thursday than I've felt yet in this pregnancy.

Anyway, beyond some physical snail-ness (excepting Baby), we've been waiting with patience for today's prenatal ultrasound. Because we found out today that Baby...is...a....

You didn't think I'd just spit it out like that, did you? Patience, patience!

All of us went for the appointment this morning. I asked the sonographer if she would only tell us the gender if she was really sure. I explained we know some recent instances of people finding out their child's gender, only to find out on birth-day that--oops!--Baby isn't a girl but a boy. Or vice-versa. She said she only shares what she's absolutely sure of (don't they all say that?). Then she said she knew what sex our Baby is. At that point I'd been lying on the table with the gel on my belly and Baby's picture up on the monitor for about five seconds. So Papa and I were a bit surprised that she said that. Then we both thought the same thing: that must mean...

Sorry for all these ellipses! At the same time the sonographer continued with her normal measurements and picture-taking (Brain! Heart! Stomach! A-maz-ing!), and we explained to the kids what we could see. "There's Baby's face! Do you see the heart beating? Look at Baby's kicks!" Superman said, "There's the eyes!" while we looked at the brain. We obviously haven't covered any biology yet. Then he said, "It's dark in here. Can we turn up the lights?" I was laughing at all of their comments so much Baby looked like an earthquake was happening. It was awesome.

So the boys were impressed to see Baby. Pearly Girl was impressed by the swivel stool in the room. After a few minutes, Little Professor abruptly told us that he thought Baby was a boy. He's been telling us for months--months!--that Baby was a girl. Surprised, Papa and I talked to him about it for a little bit, and then he or Superman asked the sonographer what she was doing now. She said, "I'm writing that your new baby is a boy." And she did. And he is!

Did you like how I snuck that in there?

Papa and I have been thinking for awhile that Baby is a boy. To have that hunch confirmed was still surprising--I suppose the difference between thinking about winning the lottery and actually winning it. I admit I felt a momentary let-down. We'd both hoped that Pearly Girl would get a sister. But then we both got really excited. A son! A son! Three sons! The sonographer then said, "And he's not shy at all." Boy, was she right. While Pearly Girl was modest to the point of us almost not finding out that she was girl until her birthday, Baby hid nothing in that all-important department. I'll refrain from including a tell-all picture here, but suffice it to say, we saw a little, er, "snip" that told all. :)

The little man was more shy when we saw him in the 3D. But we still got a peek at his face!

When we realized Baby is a boy, we celebrated. Little Professor said he was excited. Papa and I grinned at each other and expressed our joy. Pearly Girl smiled because we all were. But Superman got upset. "I don't want a boy," he kept saying. "I want a girl." He even put his head in his little hands and leaned against the table where I lay. We had to talk to him about how much fun a little brother will be, but he was still pretty despondent. I was surprised because he's never expressed a strong opinion on the subject (while LP stuck with his "sister" guess, Superman would change his mind every day), and his dejection was unexpected. He's a thoughtful one, our S. I don't know if he saw another brother as a competitor or really wanted a little sister so Pearly Girl would have a buddy. I suspect the latter. Superman is very aware of other people and shows an acute conscientiousness for his age (asking open ended questions to adults with no prompting, for example. Then again, he also yells at his brother and pushes his sister on a regular basis). My guess is that over time, Superman will come to love having a younger brother. And before he went to bed tonight, he told us, smiling, that he was excited about his little brother. So he's recovered somewhat.

And we have, too. Every life is a gift, as we've been reminded so clearly in the last day since the tornado in Moore, Oklahoma. Whether we expect what we get or not--and truly, who actually gets exactly what they expect?--God knows what is ultimately good. We give Him thanks for His gifts of life and salvation, comfort and steadfastness, and for our Baby Son.

*The phrase "snips and snails" is taken from an old nursery rhyme entitled "What are Little Boys Made of?" So no real sneaking going on here!

Broken Bones and Celestial Skydiving

What the last few months of our lives have contained.

Have mercy on me, O God,

according to your steadfast love;

according to your abundant mercy

blot out my transgressions.

² 

Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity,

    and cleanse me from my sin!

Throughout Lenten services this year, a dear friend and I sang Kenneth Kosche's lovely setting of Psalm 51. The words have rattled about in my brain and in my heart; they have settled in my bones and in my stomach and even in my womb. Miracle of miracles, God's Word worked the way He says it will. It does what it says.

 

For I know my transgressions,

and my sin is ever before me.

Against you, you only, have I sinned

    and done what is evil in your sight,

so that you may be justified in your words

    and blameless in your judgment.

⁵ 

Behold, I was brought forth in iniquity,

    and in sin did my mother conceive me.

⁶ 

Behold, you delight in truth in the inward being,

    and you teach me wisdom in the secret heart.

During one of the last pre-Lenten weeks, I suspected that we were pregnant. Ecstatic and apprehensive, I took the test, mostly because Papa told me I should (I think my unknowing, near-constant speculation might have motivated, however slightly, his insistence er, encouragement). Filling the dishwasher as I waited on the results, my hope for a child suddenly vanished, literally struck with worry--worry about costs, worry about the baby's health, worry about our family's adjustment, worry about my varicose veins in pregnancy. Yes, even that. And I felt terribly guilty. I was, too. Here my sinful heart had already rejected even the possibility of a good gift because it turned selfishly, twistedly inward. In my terrible blindness, I could not even accept a gift without suspicion or grudging.

And then the test was positive. As I fought my conflicted feelings, Papa's face lit up and the boys squealed with excitement, especially our eldest, the Little Professor. When we told him the pregnancy test was positive, we asked him if he knew what that meant. "Yes," he said without hesitation. "It means Mommy can go skydiving."

After we laughed in surprise and perplexity, he explained that Mrs. Duggar had been pregnant, and she had gone skydiving, so naturally one was connected to the other. Actually, in that old episode of 19 Kids and Counting he'd just happened to watch a few days before, she hadn't gone skydiving because she suspected she might be pregnant. But no matter. Little Professor was more right than he knew.

 

Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean;

wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.

Let me hear joy and gladness;

    let the bones that you have broken rejoice.

A week or so later, on Sunday, February 10, during a snowy storm day, Papa and the snow blower belt tussled, and the belt won. Papa had to have emergency surgery on two broken, mangled fingers of his left hand that night, which went well. The anesthesia won that round, too. But thankfully, we expect him to make a full (if somewhat ugly and scarred for a time) recovery.

I teased Papa after surgery that he'd have a great topic for an Ash Wednesday sermon: that we all return to dust, sometimes one little piece at a time. He smiled (what a nice guy to take my pathetic humor at such a time).  But then said, "No, I think it'll be about pride."

And, of course, he was right. We all fear our physical death, our bodily decomposition as every hour and year passes. But we also fear our spiritual death--that we mean nothing, that we will disappear into a dark, endless, terrible void when our earthly lives are over. Dust is bad in all forms, from mangled fingers to decomposed flesh to meaningless lives. Snow can appear so clean--that day, I had marveled at its cleansing power on a dead, wintry landscape. But snow only magnified spilt blood. It highlighted brokenness. Papa needed far more than snow to cover his injury. And so we need far more than a surface covering to heal our spiritual death.

As we stumbled, narcotics-laden, pain-filled, nausea-and-fatigue burdened, in the first weeks of Lent, the Psalmist's words kept coming back to me. "Let the bones that You have broken rejoice." Who would? Well, we did. We were so thankful for the excellent medical care Papa received, for the surgeon's knowledge and skill, for all the friends and relatives who supported and cared for us. In our weakness we were reminded of our complete helplessness. Christ sent people to care for us physically and emotionally. He blessed the prayers of those who prayed for us. Yet only One could bear our spiritual helplessness. It was a difficult experience for me to see my husband suffer. I know he will not live on this earth forever, and neither will I. Neither will our children. We cannot prevent their suffering or ours. But even so, joy and gladness exist. We hear it and anticipate it. And this is a mystery.

 

Hide your face from my sins,

and blot out all my iniquities.

Create in me a clean heart, O God,

    and renew a right spirit within me.

¹¹ 

Cast me not away from your presence,

    and take not your Holy Spirit from me.

¹² 

Restore to me the joy of your salvation,

    and uphold me with a willing spirit.

Then I will teach transgressors your ways,
    and sinners will return to you.

Through Lent, our circumstances kept reminding us of our true state. I could not force away the debilitating fog of early pregnancy, its physical or spiritual manifestations. My condition was light compared to many others--including Papa's!--but often I could only think of my own burdens. At one point, I naively thought, "Okay. If Jesus could fast in the desert for forty days and endure direct temptation from the devil, then I can handle another day of this." But I couldn't. I realized, again and again, my complete and utter helplessness and my utter worthlessness in the sight of God.

Thank God in His Son, Christ Jesus, Who suffered physical pain and spiritual torture for our sakes, and Who knows exactly what our sufferings are like. While we can feel chagrined or silly or downright dumb for mistakes or choices we make, feel guilty and damned for rejecting good gifts and even hating them, our fatal flaws that no doctor or midwife can ever fix plague us still more. Despair and guilt bury us, for we know we are ill with an illness that ends in the grave. But we do not suffer without any hope. For we can rest in the knowledge that Christ heals all things--from fingers to selfishness to pride to sinners--through His suffering, death, and resurrection.

Why do people skydive? For exhilaration, for excitement, I suppose. But people who do it implicitly communicate trust--trust that they will be safe, that the parachute or diver to which they're affixed will keep them from harm. And Christ, in rising from the dead, has affixed us not to a descending fate but to an ascending one. We will all suffer in this life and die, unless He first comes again. But we trust that He will uphold us, that He will not cast us away. He who has made Himself our Brother and His Father our Father names us in baptism and cleanses us. He has already won all things--for Papa (and even unto his fingers), for me, for every one of our children, even the littlest. And even as we live in uncertain, unknown worldly days, in his scarred, resurrected hands we leap, and we rest. Happy Easter.

So Long, Turkeys

After an awesome Thanksgiving (over three weeks, we enjoyed four amazing Thanksgiving dinners and innumerable fantastic people! Our church family is great!), we're taking down the Thanksgiving and harvest decorations now. So sadly, our little turkeys are going into hiding for the next year. Thanks to Aunt Rachel for the foresight to send these guys our way in time for Turkey Day (the boys LOVED gluing on the feathers!). Though Mama helped with the writing--and, okay, a little bit with the thankful things--the boys ultimately decided what went on 'em. And where they went.

May your heart always be thankful for Jesus, fruit snacks, and monster trucks! (And your family, too.)

S's turkey. He let me help with placement.

P's turkey. He loves his family--and gluing by himself!

Giving Thanks, TLH style

It has been a while since I've posted here, so here is a little something I came across in an old TLH Liturgy/Agenda from 1921. I gently updated the language from the King's English.  I especially appreciated the mention of thanking God for our liberty to serve God according to His Word.  Happy Thanksgiving, and a Blessed Advent! ~Papa

Thanksgiving Day

          

          Almighty God, Heavenly Father, we praise and magnify Your holy name for all the temporal and earthly spiritual mercies You have given to us at all times.  You did cause Your holy, saving Word to be preached to us in purity and truth, comforting, admonishing, warning, and reproving us by it, clearly telling us how to turn from our evil ways, to obtain salvation by faith in Your dear Son, and to walk before You in righteousness and holy obedience.  You cause us to live in an abundant land that You care for, and Your eyes are forever upon it from the beginning of the year to the end.  You have given to us our Government, and you grant to those in authority wisdom to rule over us, that, being safely kept under their governance, we may pass our days in peace and quietness.  You grant to us the priceless blessing of liberty, so that, without restraint or hindrance, we may freely serve You according to Your Word, be strengthened in our most holy faith by the Word and Sacraments, confess Your name, and spread abroad Your Gospel among us and all those of the household of faith, and in our homes and churches and schools teach our children the knowledge of the saving truth, and bring them up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord Jesus Christ. You richly forgive us all our daily offenses, and You do not deal with us according to our sins.  As high as the heaven is above the earth, so great is Your mercy to us.

            We beg You, give us truly thankful hearts, that we may not forget all Your benefits and Your never-failing mercies.  Enable us to realize that Your goodness should lead us and our country to repentance, and that we are not worthy of the least of all Your mercies and of all Your truth, because we have repaid Your many blessings with all manner of sin and unrighteousness, and completely deserve that You should cause Your loving-kindness to altogether cease among us.  As You have delivered up Your only-begotten Son for us all, and with Him also freely give to us all things, through Him granting Your abundant blessing upon our land, its government, and its inhabitants, that all men might seek and find You in this acceptable time and the day of salvation; do not turn away from us, but for His sake be gracious to us always.  With the finger of Your Holy Spirit write in our hearts the perpetual remembrance of Your faithfulness.  Open our lips, that we may praise Your grace and mercy, and confess Your name and Word.  As You have prepared us with earthly possessions, make us willing and ready to praise You by our works and to honor You with our prosperity for the extension of Your kingdom. Let this mind be in us, which was also in Christ Jesus, that we have compassion on our neighbor in need, even as You have had pity on us.  Keep us from arrogance and false belief so we do not say: “Our power and the strength of our hands has gotten us this wealth”; but let us remember You, the Lord, our God, by whose power and benediction our beloved Church, our congregation, our country, and our Government are preserved, to the end that we may teach our children and our children’s children as a memorial forever, that You have done great things for us, and we rejoice in You.

            Our soul shall bless You at all times, and never forget all Your benefits.  Let us walk in Your ways, until we shall glorify You and exalt Your name in the new Jerusalem; through Jesus Christ, Your dear Son, our Lord. Amen.

My Awesome Brother

He's pretty great, that guy. Growing up, I always wanted an older brother, but now that I'm grown, I realize that my brother has the qualities I wanted in my imaginary male sib (and my younger brother has an awesome wife, too!): thoughtfulness, humor, protectiveness (he's got an adorable baby girl now!), steadfastness, faith, imagination, vision. I'm uber-proud of him. And just wanted you all to know it.

And P still remembers the important stuff, like he told me tonight: "Uncle C likes sardines."