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.

The Impossibility of Thirteen Clocks Chiming Simultaneously

A belated nod to our nation's birthday, from Walter McDougall's awesome Freedom Just Around the Corner: A New American History 1585-1828:

[T]he American republic was not the product of a spontaneous uprising of instant democrats against tyranny, nor the product of bourgeois versus proletarian class conflict. Otherwise, contemporary historians agree the colonists' anger over taxes, restrictions on commerce, colonial assemblies, and new western settlements, and perceived threats to religious liberty were all necessary conditions for revolt, but none by itself was sufficient. Nor do any of the historical theories answer two mysterious questions. The first is why colonists, especially some of the wealthiest, risked their lives, fortunes, and sacred honor over a thrup'penny tax or mere point of principle. The second is how the colonists managed to set aside their provincial, religious, and social divisions so that--as John Adams put it--"thirteen clocks were made to strike together." 

Those questions cannot be answered by reference to material or legal interests alone. Or rather, they can be so answered only if one grasps that most Puritans, Quakers, Cavaliers, and Bordermen, Old Lights, New Lights, and rational skeptics, invested their material and legal complaints against Britain with moral and spiritual meaning. Was the American rebellion caused by conflicts over wealth or ideology, a backward-looking Whig mentality or a future-oriented American dream, a secular discourse of human rights and equality or an evangelical discourse of corruption and virtue? The answer is all of the above, because the whole experience of the colonists dating back to 1607--and the twin vocabularies they used to interpret that experience--made self-government, religious freedom, economic opportunity, and territorial growth inseparable. Almost everyone from Massachusetts to Georgia could agree that: civil and religious liberty went hand in hand; liberty could not long survive without virtue; an exploding population could aspire to no liberty at all if its territorial and commercial expansion were artificially choked. 

And a nod to James Thurber, who shows us in a fantastic unique tale of romance, chivalry, whimsy, and better-than-Seuss tongue-twisters how inseparable [the] Time is from impossibility. Here, two of our heroes try to start the frozen thirteen clocks:

"I cannot start the clocks," the Princess said.

They heard the sound of fighting far above. "He faces thirteen men," she cried, "and that is hard."

"We face thirteen clocks," the Golux said, "and that is harder. Start the clocks!"

"How can I start the clocks?" the Princess wailed.

"Your hand is warmer than the snow is cold," the Golux said. "Touch the first clock with your hand." The Princess touched it. Nothing happened. "Again!" Saralinda held her hand against the clock and nothing happened. "We are ruined," said the Golux simply, and Saralinda's heart stood still.

She cried, "Use magic!"

"I  have no magic to depend on," groaned the Golux. "Try the other clock." 

The Princess tried the other clock and nothing happened. "Use logic, then!" she cried. In the secret walls they heard the Iron Guard pounding after Zorn, and coming close.

"Now let me see," the Golux said. "If you can touch the clocks and never start them, then you can start the clocks and never touch them. That's logic, as I know and use it. Hold your hand this far away. Now that far. Closer! Now a little farther back. A little farther. There! I think you have it! Do not move!"

The clogged and rigid works of the clock began to whir. They heard a tick and then a ticking. The Princess Saralinda fled from room to room, like wind in clover, and held her hand the proper distance from the clocks. Something like a vulture spread its wings and left the castle. "That was Then," the Golux said. 

"It's Now!" cried Saralinda.

A morning glory that had never opened, opened in the courtyard.

Marriage is a Love-ly Gift -- Valentine's Day Edition

Papa and I are nearing our the nine-and-a-half-year mark of our marriage. How do I know this?

Because our half anniversary falls on Valentine's Day. Pretty nifty, huh? (For those of you doing the math, that puts our anniversary date on August 14. Nope, we didn't pick it so the half-date would fall on the day typically thought of as one for lovers, but it gave it a certain romantic cachet. And that way I could finish undergrad and Papa could be between things in his seminary schedule.)

Our first Valentine's Day as a married couple found us hosting a visiting pastor to Papa's vicarage congregation. He was nice, and we liked (and still like) hosting, but...it was Valentine's Day. And we were six months into our marriage. I think you can fill in the blanks.

Look at those newlywed goo-goo eyes! And Papa's hair!
...and that dress I'll never fit into again.

Well, we survived. And other Valentine's Days found us alternately working, studying, dealing with pregnancy symptoms, wiping up baby spit, dealing with pastoral care concerns, washing dishes, sorting laundry, and generally looking significantly less attractive than we did during our dating and engagement days (well, probably just me. Papa rarely looks anything less than handsome. But I suppose I'm a little biased). In other words, the day found us dealing with Life generally. We've also exchanged sappy cards, enjoyed candlelit dinners, and received beautiful bouquets (okay, just me on that one). One time I found a post-it love note from Papa. And honestly, both the mundane and romantic ways of marking Valentine's Day are good. Really! So you, like any other normal person, ask "What do you mean, Emommy?" (Go ahead; say it. You know you want to.)

Well, let's consider a little history. Valentine, an early Christian martyr, supposedly left an encouraging note for his jailer's child before he was killed. This note became the inspiration for those mass-produced cards sold by the boatload this time of year. But Valentine's gesture hardly fits our image of a day for lovey-dovey chocolate-swapping goo-goo-eyed lovers. Rather, it reminds us that love is a gift, one steeped in selflessness. No one, not even an outwardly good man, can truly love a man who's responsible for leading him to (or imprisoning him until) his death--unless that man has been given the ability to love his neighbor out of the incredible sacrificial love His Savior has first shown to him.

Love is Christ. Christ, who died for us and suffered for us, who totally renounced Himself so that we might live. This gift manifests a ripple-effect throughout our lives, sometimes in glorious moments, like weddings. But it also comes in everyday moments, like finding post-its and ironing shirts and scrubbing toilets (yes, you read that right).

So with this in mind, I appreciate this day mostly because it reminds me of what a gift Papa and I have been given in our marriage. God has used the vehicle of marriage to deliver us a measure of His regard for us. And we, then, are able to love each other, and the children we have been given, day in and day out. As the years pass, I am more and more grateful for Papa, and for our marriage, as a source of love that is pure gift. I don't receive love because I've been especially lovable (and usually, I am far away from lovable. Just try talking to me before I've had coffee in the morning. I mean that rhetorically, of course. Don't actually try it.). I don't receive love because people owe it to me (they don't). Yet I get it anyway. And marriage--this wonderful, mysterious relationship that God created and Christ blessed--is a major way that I receive it. And wouldn't you know? With every day and month and year that passes, love grows between us. As Dietrich Bonhoeffer so aptly put it, "It is not your love that sustains your marriage, but ... your marriage that sustains your love."

I thank God for our marriage that sustains our love.

Because love lasts ALL year. Even on holidays when we dress like fictional characters.
Well, Cardinals players and National Park Rangers are real. 

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.

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

A Star is Born

 We spend six weeks (at least) preparing for the first day of Christmas. All the decorating, baking, card-writing, buying, wrapping, tinsely-music-listening leads up to the One Big Night followed by the One Big Day, which trickles into a Few More Days until we run smack into New Year's. Then it's over. Completely over. Pack up the stockings, lights, and crumpled ribbon.


Papa and the kids and I made a Sioux Falls run last week, one day after New Year's Day. We needed an oil change and paper products and a few groceries and--of course--just a few organizing items for New Year reorganizing. The sky was a dull grey, the wind a hesitant spitter of occasional snowflakes, the slush on the roadsides ugly, the grime on the van even worse. And in every bright, orderly store, beyond the bargain bins and 70% off sections, we saw absolutely no signs of Christmas. Zip. Zero. Nada fa-la-la-la-la.

This doesn't surprise me. After all, we live in a commercial culture that literally survives on the Next Big Thing, largely hinged on days marked in grey on our calendars. (Of course, Valentine's Day stuff stood front and center in the stores we visited.) But it's disconcerting to Christians like us, who know that, on paper at least, there really are twelve days of Christmas that lead right into the Holy Feast day that used to crown the Church Year: Epiphany.

What? Epiphany is a big deal? For most people, including churchgoers who don't even attend an Epiphany service every year (when it doesn't fall on a Sunday), this sounds surprising, maybe even ridiculous. The Wise Men get a thirty-second inclusion in most Christmas pageants, a smack-together mish-mash of their long, arduous, miraculous journey that Matthew recounts. Why make a big deal out of guys  on camels? We don't even know how many of them came to visit Jesus. We don't, despite the popular notion, know any of their names.They showed up, dropped off, got out. Right?

Or maybe not.

I remember a picture I saw years ago of a Greek Orthodox priest reading the Bible. The caption said the priest was preparing for Christmas, which his church celebrated in January. At the time I thought, mistakenly, that the priest and his church just celebrated Christmas on Epiphany. The idea of people having to slog through rampant, commercialized Christmas weeks after the the rest of the world was completely beyond the holiday stuck with me. How, I wondered, did they cherish Christ's birthday in the midst of the long, long emphasis on December 25 everywhere else? My question now applies to Epiphany. How do we appreciate it when we're burnt out from six weeks of celebrating? Maybe we isolate themselves from our culture (not likely). Maybe we capitulate to all the stuff but exercise massive self-restraint and manage to wait for weeks (um, not likely). Or maybe we find some other reason for cherishing Epiphany.

This excerpt from an Epiphany sermon from St. John's in Wauwatosa helps us here:

We are told that the Wise Man came from the east, but exactly how far east we don’t know.  We aren’t sure who they were either, but we do know who they weren’t, and that is significant.  These men were not Jewish.  They were not among God’s chosen people.  They weren’t descendants of Abraham, and yet they were included in the promise God gave to Abraham: “All peoples on earth will be blessed through you” (Genesis 12:3).

God loved the Jewish people.  He gave them hope.  He gave them a home.  When they strayed, he warned them.  When they repented, he forgave them.  But God’s love is too big for just one race.  God loves all people.  He loves Jews and Gentiles.  He loves you and me.  And if you need proof of God’s grace, look no farther than the Epiphany gospel.

Somehow, some way, God’s promise of a Savior reached hundreds of miles beyond the borders of Israel.  And when God fulfilled his promise he gave the rest of the world a sign.  He gave us a star.  And through that star God gave the Wise Men the opportunity to meet their Savior face-to-face. ...

For Gentile Christians the difference between Christmas and Epiphany is sort of like the difference between being a guest at a party and being the guest of honor.  For the most part the Christmas story is a Jewish story.  Mary was Jewish.  Joseph was Jewish.  The shepherds were Jewish.  The rest of us stand on the sidelines.  We are allowed to observe everything that happens.  We can appreciate everything that happens, but we don’t really have an active role.

Epiphany is different.  This account wasn’t just written for us.  It was written about us.

Even our family, a pastor's family, struggles to honor Christmas all the way until January 6th. We want to move ahead and get on with the rest of the year (and our newly-inspired goals). I want to clean up and get the house "back to normal." But maybe in future years we'll put off putting up with Christmas during Advent (at least for so long). Maybe we'll enjoy the twelve days without rushing away from Christ's gifts. Maybe we'll remember and cherish that He came for us, yes, every one of us. Just as He came for every one of you.

On the Ninth Postpartum Stable Day

Everyone knows "The Twelve Days of Christmas." And if you don't, then you've really missed out--on turtle doves, geese-a-laying, and lords-a-leaping. But seriously, I think we all miss out on the full twelve days of Christmas too, beyond the song that's kind of annoying (okay, really, depending on who's singing and how creative they get).


As we head full-boar into the New Year of 2013, though, I've been thinking about 2012. More accurately, I've been thinking about Christmas, and what we remember and commemorate that day, and what comes after. Namely cows.

Whoa. I mean, "Moo."

**

A few months ago, a church member invited us out to her farm. She and her husband have milked for years, and they were slowly selling off their cattle. She wondered if we'd want to come over and see how they milk the cows and how she bottle-fed the calves.


We drove east out of town around sunset one night. Gloria met us at her house and we drove about a quarter-mile south to the barn where the cows are milked.

A wind turbine we passed in the early twilight.

The kids were super excited and eager to get out. Once we went into the barn, they were a little--ahem--cowed by the size of the animals. And the sounds. And the smells. And the, erm, floor.

P is impressed.

Gloria and Mike's operation is like most small diary farmers in America, I'd guess--efficient and impressive. The machinery is amazing; I know mechanical milkers have been around for decades, but still. And the way the milk stays clean in the midst of the cows' regular digestive events (that's gotta be a new euphemism for, well, you know) is really amazing.

Then we watched Gloria mix up the formula for the calves. Our little C's formula seemed downright paltry in comparison; Gloria made a few five-gallon buckets of the stuff several times a day. Then she poured it into individual bottles for each calf.

Good thing calf formula isn't priced like Similac. Shudder.

Then we left the barn to go out to the little sheds where the calves lived. In the early November air, they needed some shelter from the coming winter freeze, Gloria explained, so they lived in the little huts until they were weaned. When they saw her coming with the bottles, they wiggled and groaned in excitement. They were adorable. And hungry.

Heading to the little calf sheds.

Smiley S, posing next to the busily eating little guy. Or gal. I couldn't tell.

 The final thrill was that Gloria's grandson, Austin, gave the boys a ride in a tractor. I couldn't get a picture of them, but they loved it (especially when S finally realized we weren't leaving him. Because parents abandon their kids by putting them in tractors). We shivered (well, more like tried not to freeze) as we watched the tractor lights glow and descend over the dusky winter fields. It was beautiful. 

**

Ever since our little visit, I've been thinking about Joseph and Mary and Jesus in the stable. All the pictures we see of the holy creche look cozy, even downright comfortable. But the real deal was--had to be--the pits. It's likely Joseph and Mary had been in the stable for days before Jesus' birth; there's no indication that Mary bore him immediately. And who's to say that they left the stable after the first twenty-four hours? If Bethlehem was bustling, even stuffed with people, all waiting to be counted and taxed, where else could they go? If no one had room for a woman on the brink of labor and delivery, who'd have room for a mother and a newborn?

So we're nine days into Christmas, and while much of the world has already packed away their Christmas trees and moved on, in their ninth day postpartum, Joseph and Mary and Jesus probably were living in the warmth and the hay and the refuse of the animals that witnessed the birth of our Lord. I can't quite wrap my mind around what that must have been like, let alone that the begotten Son of God likely spent his first days, even weeks, sharing space with livestock.

So let's all, ahem, chew on that for awhile, and merry Christmas.

Monopoly With Friends (Old Long Ago)

Monopoly with friends is comfortable. We talk smack, exchange fake bills with glee and frustration, laugh and laugh again, and groan loudly when a certain someone lands on Free Parking--AGAIN--and rakes in our taxes and dumb fee money.

This New Year's Eve, we've consumed lots of water and chocolate and near-misses on the Millennium Edition board. It looked so futuristic twelve years ago, but its shine is too metallic now and its tokens quaint (a ginormous cell phone and a roller blade. Chortle with me, now). But life is like that, isn't it, especially in these long evenings that go by so quickly and that turn into years, and years. We don't know what's coming next year, whether the cliff will serve us a belly flop, whether we'll get an unexpected raise or a much-wanted child or a surprise move or none of the above, or whether our friends and family and dear ones will suffer and love and cherish and go homeward, heavenward. What comfort then that no matter the monopoly that sin and the unknown hold over us, that our lives are in trust.


But I have to go now, here in these last moments of 2012, because Papa's about to win the game. Happy New Year, friends. For Old Long Ago, my dears. 

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!

To Mine

Today is Valentine's Day. But just to show you that love transcends far beyond even the most hippy-drippy pre-packaged commercialized holidays, consider this small list.

Papa's Acts of Love

 

• Helping our sons blow their very runny noses.
• Cleaning up the faces of said runny-nosers.
• Washing dishes and cleaning counters.
• Making spaghetti with semi-homemade sauce and a multi-layered green salad.
• Sorting, washing, folding, and putting away laundry. Repeat times six.
• Washing dishes and cleaning counters. Again.
• Getting up at night to assist and comfort not one, not two, but three children who awake due to bathroom needs, feeding needs, and illness-I-feel-yucky needs. Repeat times four (or five or six. Hard to keep track.).
• Going to four different stores to find a warm mist vaporizer (after ours went kaput after hard running). 
• Fixing breakfast for the boys and eating with them (translation: keeping them out of trouble).
• Teaching Bible class, visiting shut-ins, and serving in pastoral capacities that transcend my understanding.
• Loving his wife, even when she doesn't do much (other than work really hard on a really great hairstyle after tossing on a pillow for six hours).

The real kicker? All this he has done in less than twenty-four consecutive hours.

He gets my vote for Man, Husband, and Father of the Century. Make that Millennium. Thanks anyway, St. Valentine!

A few years ago, pre-crop-of-kids. He looks even better today.

On the Twelfth Day

In the car today, in an effort to distract from an impending meltdown, I asked the boys if we should sing "The Twelve Days of Christmas," which has been one of their favorite Christmas songs this season (along with the hymns "Joy to the World," "O Come All Ye Faithful," "Of the Father's Love Begotten"--also known as "Evermore and Evermore" to P--and their favorite, "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing"--also known as the "Mommy, Mommy! They Sing This on Charlie Brown Christmas!" ditty). Anyway, after the first verse, P decided we needed to change the words.

So we did, just for fun.

Apart from the third day, which was my contribution, and the twelfth, which was S's--always thinking about food, that one--P came up with the rest. And you'll notice that in his version, your true love ends up with a lot fewer birds.


Kudos to Grandpa E for introducing P to this phrase, which made the cut, as P thinks saying this is just hilarious!

Hope your twelve days of Christmas have been lovely!

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me...

12 Pretzels

 

 11 Bulldozers

 

 

10 Barns

9 Ramones

8 Yummy Brownies

7 Chocolate Bars

6 Tow Maters

5 Doggy Cash*

4 Vacuum Cleaners

3 Olson Kids

 2 Vietnamese Dong

1 Partridge in a Pear Tree

*This is P's phrase, which I think is a combination of Dong and cash. He thinks it's hilarious, and he usually follows it up with "I need some Vietnamese Dong." But this is what he says, so I had to get creative with the pic.

Secondhand News, Part I

A few blurbs here from the Outer Banks of the Midwest (and Postpartum Life, mostly including learning how to live with three children under four. Without freaking out too much about the horrendously dirty kitchen floor.), where real news tends to come like the reverbs from the cotton string on the tin-can telephone--that is, not usually directly. So here's our contributions:

1. It finally snowed here last night -- about half an inch, perhaps. Enough to make it look wintry. I can't believe I'm saying this, but huzzah for white wintry fuzz that covers up the brown deadness!
2. I was pleasantly surprised to learn last week that some awfully awesome dames at this great blog
had selected my submission on Advent and Barrenness as the winner of their contest. So I get a copy of the book! It's a delightful Christmas present. ... 
3. ... and I was even more excited by the news that my awesome sister-in-law (Papa's sister) had also submitted and won a posting slot! Yay, Mrs. J.L.! Beautiful words by a beautiful lady.
4. And the excitement just keeps on coming! My brother and sister-in-law officially announced (that is, alerted cyberspace) that they're expecting their first child! We are SO excited for them! I should probably have posted this first or last, to at least emphasize the incredible awesomeness of this news... but I think Mr. Fartlepants will understand. I get to be an auntie! WAA-HOO! :)
5. The new year arrived, creeping in at midnight last night. Welcome, 2012! Here's to auld acquaintances and beginnings and all that newbie jazz!

Next year this will be YOU, Mr. Fartlepants! I mean, if you have a lot of hair. And teeth.

Wahhhhhhhhhhhhhh. (That's code for We Ate Horrendous, Horrendous amounts of food.)

YUUUMMM!

 What a terrific Thanksgiving we Olson's had! Early to rise (but later than normal); I made the rolls and fed the boys breakfast while Papa prepped the turkey for the roaster and got 'er started. Then he magnanimously offered told me he'd make everything else. Since I made the pie yesterday, I said I'd make the green bean casserole--one of my favorites--and, okay, he could make the rest. :) So before 10:15 a.m. he'd made the mashed potatoes, the stuffing, the glazed sweet potatoes; prepped the corn and the gravy to make later; set the table; and washed all the dishes. I KNOW--he's amazing!

Then, after I got the boys and myself dressed between reading stories and watching some of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade (isn't that a tradition?), we all piled into the car and drove to Good Sam, where Papa led the residents in a short Thanksgiving Day service. It was terrific. Everyone was very kind, and the boys behaved wonderfully. We were glad to see some shut-ins from our church and talk to other residents, too. We enjoyed it so much, we hope to do this every year if it works out.

Then we headed home to EAT. And eat we did! Everything miraculously turned out--there's always some snafus that make us think something isn't going to taste right--and all of us, even the little guys, spent the first ten minutes after the prayer stuffing our faces and not saying anything. Which, if you know us at all, almost never happens. So the roughly four hours of prep paid off in the roughly ten to fifteen minutes of eating. The return doesn't seem great, but with enough leftovers to last us a week (and mighty good leftovers, too!), we'll take it. Especially since Mama did so little work. :)

P: Did someone say "TURKEY"?! S: Gimme some milk.

Ready to dig in!

The Menu:

Roast Turkey
Stuffing
Mashed Potatoes
Glazed Sweet Potatoes
Lydia's Schnitzel Beans
Buttered Corn
Cranberry Relish (from the can, per Papa's favs)
Beth's Best Buns
Milk
Pumpkin Pie (not pictured)

Papa, a.k.a. The Chef, spooning up. No, that's not his plate.

 

Then I cleaned up most of the remnants while Papa took the boys downstairs to start watching the DVR'd Packer/Lions game. The little guys went down for naps after a bit, and so did Mama, while Papa spent an enjoyable few hours watching the Pack beat on the hapless helpless hopeless downtrodden Lions. (He then spent the rest of the day telling me how great of a game it was. It really made his Thanksgiving!) Then we drove over the the Smidt Family Thanksgiving and saw and visited with lots of lovely people while we ate dessert. They invited us last year, so this is becoming somewhat of a tradition, too--what a blessing!

It reached almost sixty degrees, which has to be near a record. At any rate, it was gorgeous out, so we all played at a nearby park before we headed home and started getting out the Christmas decorations. I've put my Christmas dishes in the hutch--one of my favorite seasonal activities is to switch out dishes and flowers; nerdy and old-school, but I can't help myself--and after some shopping yesterday, we rearranged the living room furniture (hey--I helped push the couch a few inches--once), which always precludes the annual Christmas Tree Decorating Extravaganza. I love this time of year!

We're so thankful to God for all of His gifts. And, as S said on Thursday, "Happy Thanks" to you all.

Happy (Belated) Pumpkin Day!

 Thanks to Aunt Rachel for inspiring our pumpkin face. Papa and the boys called him "Mr. Crabby Pumpkin." And, of course, we had to make faces resembling said pumpkin. P, of course, made the best face.

I think P was frustrated that he couldn't pick his nose in this picture.

May your candy-induced hangovers be short and relatively stomachache-free (ending by at least noon, when you can again resume the lovely post-Halloween practice of indulging in pre-meal, post-meal, and between-meal snackin's).

Happy Belated Birthday, Mr. V (And America)

 We spent a quiet Independence Day here at home. There's no formal celebration in our small town, which is a shame--I miss the parades, the fireworks, and with the little guys at home, driving anywhere to get to any festivities is a lot of work. Besides that, it's vaguely unsettling to be reaping the countless benefits of all those who have sacrificed for American freedom without even a single firecracker to acknowledge it (though many buy the little buggers over in South Dakota and set them off, illegally, in Minnesota. But since the state is "shut down," people didn't have much to fear about getting caught--that, and the local police don't seem to care. In a few years I daresay we'll join those law-breakers. But I digress). Most people here go "to the lake" over the Fourth. But we stayed home, and we subsequently enjoyed one of the best reminders of why Independence Day in our country is really great.

Mr. V, a lovely gentleman at our church, celebrated his 90th birthday on Monday. Achieving that age of distinction is impressive enough. But Arnie has been blessed to raise five children with his wife of 68 (yes, that's a six-eight) years, Esther. He continues to farm land outside of town. In fact, after a windstorm just last week majorly damaged his truck windshield, he promptly knocked the entire thing out ("It was completely destroyed anyway," he told Papa) and drove to town in it, sans windshield, a few miles away. The guy is tough, no doubt about it.

I'd heard before that Arnie served in World War II and received, among other distinguished medals, the Purple Heart. At his Open House at the church, the welcome table featured a large framed mount of his military picture and his medals, including the Purple Heart. What guests couldn't see was the shrapnel that Arnie took in his back over fifty years ago while he served his country, that he still carries while he walks, and farms, and lives.

Papa said a few words to those gathered--scores of awesome family, church friends, and a few now-walker-bound buddies. Papa talked about Independence Day and how we celebrate it--parades, fireworks, picnics and barbeques with family and friends--and how we also celebrate, for the 90th time, the birth of Arnie V. Papa did some math, and come to find out Arnie has been living for more than 38% of our country's 235-year history. Over a third! Arnie promptly said, "That makes me even older than I thought." Everyone loved it. And we are so glad that we have been blessed to know him, that God has blessed us with knowing Arnie as baptized child of God.

I didn't take any pictures at the party. If I could, I would show you the picture in my head of Arnie shaking P's hand while P tells him, "Happy Birthday, Mr. V." Of S giving him one of his charming smiles. Mr. V is so sweet to our boys. And--without sounding rude, I hope--when they look at him, they look at history that even we as their parents can't comprehend, suffering that we have never had to endure, that we can hardly even imagine. I hope they can learn his tenacity, his steadfastness, his dedication to home and family. We are certainly proud to know Mr. V.

The rest of Mr. V's (and America's) birthday we spent relaxing, playing in the kiddie pool, eating homemade oven-fried chicken and sweet corn and green sweet lettuce from the garden (and strawberry-raspberry smoothies for Papa and I later). What a gift to be able to eat from the bounty of the earth; to laugh without fear with our children in the sunshine. I'll leave you with a few pics of the boys exploring the sprinkler (and of Papa tending the garden). And yes, I know the boys are not wearing the appropriate swim attire. I was lazy, and luckily it's not illegal in Minnesota for kids to run around in their own backyard sporting only their undergarments. How's that for a closer?

God bless America, folks!