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.

Superman, Four Years Old

April is going out like a sopping, shivering lion here in Minnesota. But we refuse to kowtow to drenching doldrums. Here, we party. Especially when we've got a birthday to celebrate! 

So yesterday Superman and Little Professor helped make Starlight Yellow Cupcakes (no, I don't know why Betty Crocker named 'em that way. They're kinda sparkly once baked, I suppose). Superman picked Papa's apron to wear. Hence "The Rev" and the emblem of the Greatest Football Team Ever.

"Cheeeeeeese!" A.k.a. The normal posed Superman face.

The "Nice for Mommy" posed face.

 My helpers were stellar. They moved a little quick with the ingredients (and for the camera), but didn't spill much and really, really, REALLY enjoyed helping with the mixer on high-seven-speed. (Little Professor kept whispering for Superman to "make it go faster!")

I told them to help me take some selfies. "What's a selfie?" asked Little Professor. Because he spends time reading The Magic Treehouse series instead of Facebook (or analyses of media culture). Anyway, per usual silly boys, they kept making silly faces. So I finally did, too. If you can't beat 'em, silly with 'em!

 

As usual, I forgot to take a picture of the cupcakes going in the oven, coming out of the oven, pre-iced, or even iced. Suffice it to say homemade cake and icing are mucho better than the boxed kind. And green food coloring makes a mess. But a bright, cheerful one.

So the big day came. We like to spread out birthdays here, so there's still presents and cards waiting to be opened in the next few days. Superman had fun playing with stamps this morning, building a monstrous tent house with four blankets and an American flag (disguised as a blue handkerchief), and reading birthday books. His sibs, especially the Little Professor, were so excited! LP even made him a second card, complete with its own envelope and label, that he placed by Superman's pillow during his nap so he'd find it when he woke up. 

Papa came home to pick up Superman to take him to get some eggs--one of his favorite foods--and to give us a little time to do some decorating and last-minute wrapping.  Little Professor hand selected four cars--significance in numbers here--to give to Superman. He wrapped each one in tissue paper. And Superman LOVED them. Brotherly love on display! Then he came home to a little surprise, some gifts, a lot of screeching excitement, and bacon.

Only the really excited kids stand on chairs!

 

I love it!

 And the little sibs didn't want to miss out, either. Pearly Girl kept a close watch. And Small Dude bounced up and down with excitement.

Did someone say "PARTY?!"

We celebrate birthdays with simple things--cake, icing, a few gifts, lots of love. Maybe someday we'll have a no-holds-barred birthday bash, but for now, it's a happy day to spend together, share some squeezes, thank God for His good gift of life.

He wanted eggs and sausage and toast with jam for his birthday dinner. Who wouldn't grin?

 A year is no time and a year is a lot of time. Here's Superman last year with his green cake, and here he is this year with his green cupcake. May you be blessed with many more, our dear son!

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!

Deep Freeze

Who knew Minnesota deep freeze winters could be so lovely? From the warm indoors, at least.

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.

Old Socks

For years, I've kept old socks for cleaning. That's about the extent of my creative capabilities to recycle productively. Anyway, as I scrubbed the bathtub with an old sock this morning, I was overcome with a quiet bit of contentment at using that old, ratty thing for something helpful. And it got me thinking: have you ever used something old in a productive, satisfying way? And using old people doesn't count here.

Maybe someday.

Neither Hot Nor Cold

There's no such thing as lukewarmness in regards to faith in Christ as our Saviour (at least, not if you want to avoid some serious spitting.) I'm pretty sure distasteful lukewarmness also refers to refrigerators, which are beyond worthless when they're neither hot nor cold. We've been experiencing the wide variety between the two this week, as our thirteen-year-old fridge sputtered, lived a little longer (thanks to Papa), and finally went kaput in the last week. Now the empty, dead monolith sits ridiculously impotent in the middle of our kitchen while we wait for a new-to-us one to be delivered tomorrow. All I can say is that Minnesota winters in January will never qualify as lukewarm--and thank goodness for it.

Don't worry, guys--God has marked you as BLESSED.

All Hallow's Eve

Yesterday afternoon, Papa took the boys out to the garage to carve pumpkins. They drew up some designs, dug out pumpkin guts, and learned not to play with knives or matches. Overall, a success. Happy All Hallow's Eve! Now I have to go rustle up some costumes.

Stratergizing.

"Oooooo." S: I think I'll put my mouth on it. Just because.

Diggin'.

At this point, P started weeping. We asked him what was wrong. He said, and I quote, "The pumpkin is stinky."

Meanwhile, S was grabbing pumpkin guts. And grinning.

Luckily, the tears and guts ended quickly, and they posed happily with Mr. Giant Pumpkin.

And here's the final result! Wait...something's missing...

...that's it! Our fifth lil' pumpkin, who slept through gourd surgery. :)

To Life, Decluttered

Those of you who know me (like, you've seen me in my PJs at noon and my bomb-of-a-kitchen floor as it looks, um, well, right now) know that, despite frequent appearances to the contrary, I'm a decently organized person. I really like folded towels stacked cleanly in the spare bathroom closet, the boys' beds made neatly with their pillows arranged squarely, my spice and baking cupboard to be accessible and neat. I used to think I was a neat freak, and maybe she's lurking deep down underneath the mommy survival gland, where she'll emerge with a whimper or a shriek someday when diapers no longer habitate our space. But in the meantime, I'm trying to become more practical than getting every.single.hair out of every.single.corner of the bathroom. Like the hairs you can't even see...unless you're on your knees with a two-inch view. Not that I used to do that. Because I didn't. But it makes me feel better to set up a uber-hygenic straw man (or woman--hey, I'm not discriminatory!) so I can congratulate myself on not burdening my children with Ebola. Yet. Anyway, I guess I figure that if I was a "real" neat freak, I'd be one that stayed up until all hours cleaning my house so it looked like a magazine spread. And I'm obviously not the type to stay up to all hours unless I'm watching Downton Abbey or reading some hilariously awesome mommy blog.

So on to the practicalities of cleanliness. I've found that with every kid, once we hit about nine or ten months post-birth, I get this crazy, crazy urge to purge our house. Much of this comes from the dozen or so boxes we've alternately moved, consolidated, repackaged, shifted, and just blatantly ignored in our eight years of marriage. I've gone through a lot of stuff, but these basement dwellers start to eat at me once babies are more mobile, off Mommy, and generally able to amuse themselves for longish stretches of time. I want those boxes to go. I want them to die. I want to be able to actually look at the stuff we're keeping if it's so darn valuable to us. I want closets that are 40% full. I think what comes over me in these times of intense desire for order and neatness is a renewed belief, as screwed up theologically as it can be, in the old phrase, "Cleanliness is next to godliness." As a good Lutheran, I scoff at the idea that God actually cares if all my husband's socks are put together or my kitchen floor is clean or even if I've got twelve boxes of papers and remembrance clutter in my laundry room. But I do think He cares--and actually judges me--for sinfully neglecting my vocation as a wife and mother if I don't take care of those who have been gifted to me. And I so spectacularly fail at this every single day, even on those few days I do manage to do laundry, fold it, and actually put it away, that I thank God in His Son Jesus that He forgives me for all my selfishness for throwing the socks in the drawer, for not cleaning the floor, for leaving stuff to pile up, year after year.

And not to sound glib, but the fact is the mess remains. I don't live with cheap grace, thinking I don't have to do stuff because Jesus saved me for it anyway. "Thanks, Jesus, for saving me from eternal damnation! Now I don't have to clean out the dryer lint." I do live, though, sanctified in His grace. So maybe that's part of what's gotten me moving on the morass underneath me. I'm not saying you're not saved if you've got a mess in your house. I'm just thinking that cleanliness can so help us focus on what's most important--the saving work of Christ. Instead of being distracted by muck and clutter, I can think about Jesus. "Cleanliness is next to godliness."  So in terms of our basement right now, that means--you guessed it--a monster mess.

While upstairs is pretty decluttered,* our basement right now has multiple boxes just sitting there, waiting for me to go through. Yesterday I spent about five hours going through about one box of stuff. Hey--I had to know what I was throwing! And I know it'll get easier. I also know just beginning this dream-of-a-purge project I've had for years has actually made me able, today, to think about what my house and my lifelong work of keeping up with stuff will look like after this is through. It won't be a weight around my neck. It won't be a guilt-inducer anytime I sit down to rest. It won't be a huge pain in the rear to move if we ever move. It will be a less complicated living space. It will be a nicer place to be. It will be a home where, God willing, it will be easier for us to think every day on Christ and His unfailing mercies. So on to life uncluttered! If you've ever attempted/hoped for/accomplished/waited for Jeeves to show up to make this happen in your home, I'd love to hear from you.

*Depending on what your definition of "decluttered" is. Here's the kitchen table right now. Go ahead; judge away.

Visible and Invisible Glory

Tonight, after a lovely catch-up chat with Papa on our lovely front porch as we gazed at a lovely sunset, I offhandedly mentioned that I'd like my bike tires inflated. Short back story: Papa gave me my bike on our anniversary six years ago. He took me to church and said there was a surprise for me in the quilting room (a big storage space), and when I looked, there was a bike! It was one of the sweetest and most delightful surprises he's pulled off (the Nook might just beat the bike, though). We enjoyed riding it before the kids were born, and I've managed to ride it a little between pregnancies, but it's been a long time since I've hoisted my wobbly self onto the seat. I've been excited to take a spin this summer.

Anyway, Papa had already done the hard work of digging my long-neglected bike out of the shed last week, and at my words, he jumped up and went straight to the garage. I told him (admittedly half-heartedly) that he didn't have to inflate them now, but he did. And then I looked at the gleaming blue cycle with its oh-so-kickable kickstand and said, "Weeeeell... maybe I'll just ride around the block." Papa waved goodbye.

My ride.

I was about one hundred meters down the sidewalk when I realized that the sunset was reaching my favorite point--just when it last descends behind the horizon. The hues softening the few puffy clouds told me this was a good one, and I started pedaling fast. I was chasing the sunset.

We live a few blocks east of our town's western edge, and I like to walk over sometimes and watch the sunset from a higher point in a residential area that abuts a view of rolling cornfields, farms, and a few copses of trees as far as the eye can see. It's a gorgeous view. However, I had to go farther tonight to see the huge, molten day-gone sun because a new grocery store is now built, set to open next week, past the last row of houses. (I'll definitely do a post on that; it's big news out here.) I hit gravel and veered around the dirt paths that are set to be paved soon until I got to the main road out of town; I could just see the big red ball over the tops of a few trees to the north. I've got to get behind the high school, I thought.

I pedaled furiously down the little slope to the entrance of the high school. The sign flashed the time, 9:03 p.m., as I passed. Not much time. I cut across the grass to get to the library parking lot that connected to the back lot of the school, my jaw hammering with the vibrations of the rough ground. It's been a long, long time since I rode a bike. As I turned past the last corner of the school, I could see the sun, shining with muted ferocity as it sank. In the quiet, I could hear birds nesting, crickets chirping, cicadas calling, even the constant, mechanical buzz of the wind turbine. The wind whispered in the corn. The sight was so beautiful, I couldn't breathe.

 I've felt overwhelmed lately by the lists--all the things I have to do, all the things I should do, all the things I'd like to do, and the very long lists of what I just never do. I'm slowly realizing--I'm a slow learner--that there's no way in God's creation that I can actually get done everything on every list. I go through phases where I convince myself that I'm doing pretty well, that I'm "accomplishing" a lot, whatever that means. And then, when life gets busy, the kids grow and have more needs, I start feeling the pressure, like a boat that's taking on too much water. It's only a matter of time before something gives, before I get swamped. It used to be that I felt like I could "catch up" in the summers--clean out the closets, feel like I could get a fresh start to each school year. That's getting much harder--impossible?--to do.

But in the twilight, watching the sunset, I remembered that all of this life is meaningless. We chase ourselves and our loved ones around and around and die a little more each day, over and over again. The sun sets only to rise, panting. My chest heaved and my quads trembled and my soul stilled as I watched this day die, and thought of this.

But the sunset was so beautiful. Regardless of how temporal this life is, God deigned to give me--give us--this peaceful, marvelous tapestry on one evening out of the thousands, millions He has made. What a generous Giver He is, that as we struggle and as we lie burdened (esp. RAE this night), He showers us with loveliness, even little, seemingly meaningless glory in the heavens as the day ends. This is our toil, and this is yet our song.

Reb. Mary wrote today about how it's not OK, but that's OK, of the subtle temptation to think that doing certain God-pleasing acts (A) leads to certain outcomes (B). In her eloquent post, she writes:

When B does not follow, the cry of a [sinner's] heart should not be (or should not primarily be) for the Better Life: “Why, Lord? What am I doing wrong? Show me how to make it work!” Plead rather for the Better Hope: “Please, Lord. With this gift of your very life’s blood, pour into me the strength to continue pouring myself out. Enlarge my heart, that the life-giving transfusion may not be wasted through selfishly narrowed arteries. Teach me to live daily the difference of that cleansing flood, the difference between hard and hopeless, invisible to all but the eyes of faith. God grant me eyes of faith!” 

I can't see what is before me or our family. Heck, I could barely see the gravel on the shoulder as I pedaled weakly back up the hill into town. I don't know how everything important will get done. I have lots of sweating, and pedaling, and suffering ahead. This is the reality of life. But Christ makes visible what is invisible; He gives what we, the most impoverished, would starve without. I don't have to chase the sunset. He's already given it to me, and given me all the days that are before me, and given me the eternal dawn that waits for me and all believers.

Scrubbing

Only in artwork and staged sets.

To other wives and mothers, in between scrubbing pots and pants and little peanuts:

Only in our "new is best" culture would scrubbing and cooking and baking and the myriad of daily tasks seem onerous. Why? Because immediately upon unwrapping whatever product/item/idea, life smacks it in all of its natural aging and wear and grossness, and then we spend our time trying to keep it livable (or make it palatable, as kitchen arts go). Our products and homes and recipes never look perfect (even if they seemingly did the first time--remodeled bathrooms come to mind). And so we bemoan all the work it takes to produce livability, when much of what we do while we live barely evokes notice, let alone grumpiness. Case in point: we don't normally lament our need to imbibe several times a day; we don't even think about using the can or relieving ourselves as anything but a matter of course. When did taking care of our homes, the very spheres that we inhabit, become things of burden? We should reject the deceptive "new is best" mentality, but we should also guard against falling into the trap of thinking that our duties as mothers and keepers of the hearth are somehow meritorious by their very repetition and drudgery. Yes, they are. But not because we have made them so. They are because God deems serving the hungry and the thirsty and the naked so, and because He served and serves us so infinitely every moment that we breathe.

Seven Things I Wish I Would Have Known Before Becoming a PW

You can see this post--and even more wonderful conversations between PWs (pastors' wives)--at this blog.

 

We've marked that sacred date known LCMS-universally as "Call Day" in the spring. Now we've heard about ordinations and installations of candidates all over the country (and maybe in your neighborhood) throughout the summer. Due to these blessed events, I've been thinking about my experiences with that stressful, awesome process and, well, some things I wish I would have known before my wonderful husband (MWH) and I headed out happily into the mission field. After a lot of head-scratching, I came up with this list.

A few clarifiers:

My husband and I (both non-pastor's kids, or "PKs" as the mostly fond acronym goes) and our growing family have enjoyed five years in a church that was his first call out of seminary. This hardly makes me some sort of pastor's wife expert to women who are married to men who are near, either direction, ordination and installation, but lots of you pastor's wives reading this have much more insight, experience, maturity, and patience than I do--so please add advice and comments below! Our sisters--future and perhaps present--will benefit.

There's no particular order to my list here. I wrote them as I thought of them, so don't take the numbering too seriously.

1. Your life as a pastor's wife is not like your life as a vicar's wife.

Our vicarage year was honestly like a year-long vacation. Yes, it held stresses and crosses, but mostly it held joy, much MUCH support, immediate and sustained friendships with people who loved us literally on sight. It was everything anyone could want in a vicarage--which is how vicarages should be; safe, learning experiences. But life at a church as a pastor and pastor's wife is very different. The timetable is different, the responsibilities (seen and unseen) are different, the stresses are far different. And this is good. It's real life! But you can't expect a replica of your vicarage. (And for those of you who had an awful vicarage, this is really good news!)

2. Your congregation needs time to get to know you...

That's "you" meaning your husband, "you" meaning you, and "you" meaning your entire family dynamic. I thought friendliness, vivacity, warmth, and learning people's names really fast would mean people would warm up to and trust me, and us, fairly quickly. For a few (like a handful), it did. For most, it didn't. After almost five years and some really, really tough times, people are starting to really open up to us. Congregations are full of--news flash!--sinners, and sinners have wildly different ways of approaching and trusting others. I've learned that most people have to see, literally, that others care, and at least in our situation, that meant seeing that we'd stick around long enough to prove that we weren't just looking for somewhere else to go. Three years is about the max for young pastors in our area, and we heard that a LOT from members and non-members. "You've been here three years? I guess you'll be moving on soon, huh?" said one local to us a few summers ago, not realizing how clearly she articulated what many people were thinking. And every congregation's time frame for getting to know you is different, too. But I'd guess it's almost always in the multiple years category, not the multiple months category.

3. ...and you need time to get to know your congregation.I'm an outgoing person, and I'll have one terrific conversation with someone and think I really "get" them. I guess this is good in its own way. But it's not great for applying the time rule. The first people who really reached out to us when we first arrived--invited us over, helped us out a lot--are terrific people. In our case, they also were the ones who wanted certain actions or acquiescence from my husband that later turned into problems and, subsequently, a much more impersonal relationship with both of us. That was hard for us, and me in particular, who thought we were all friends! At the same time, people who were friendly but a little distant to us initially have become more and more close to us over the years. And I've learned that learning about people and what they're like over time--like, YEARS--is probably best. You want to try to meet everyone anyway (if that's possible for you), and you'll need lots of time for that. And it's nice to age with your congregation. It's special. You suffer together, you joy together. But none of that happens during a 30-second commercial break.

4. Together with your husband and family, establish what formal church involvement you will have.

I heard this from veteran pastors' wives before we arrived here, and this has proved invaluable. Many wives learn to say "no" after years of struggling with too much responsibility in the parish. It's much easier if you start out with certain parameters in place--that is, you stay uninvolved for at least six months, then converse with your husband and family, then slowly begin getting involved.

The opinion of most importance in determining your (and your children's, for that matter) involvement is your husband's. This is an extremely controversial thing to say, even to traditionally conservative Lutheran women! But this is true. Your husband is the pastor. He will know the church people and the various church organizations far better than you, even if you tag along with him frequently. He also knows you! I have been blessed by a husband who, at times, has told me he wants me to do something that I don't think I want to do, but, after doing it, I realize that it is for the best. He also has told me what organizations or participation he thinks I should NOT get involved with. He has saved me from much frustration and hardship and heartache by helping me say "no." So talk to your wonderful husbands and trust them! Then you can muddle through together.

I have found, as a mother with young children, that some of my most meaningful "involvement" is not formal; it happens with the occasional visit with shut-ins, sharing conversation with people over coffee at various church events (even really informal ones), standing in hallways (or store aisles) and updating, talking on the phone. We like to entertain and have people over, which we're not able to do as often as when we first arrived, but I recognize that my involvement at church--just like my life as a wife and a mother--will change over time and with circumstances. Yours will, too.

5. Your husband needs you to be his wife (and your children's mother) before he needs you to do anything else for him.

Not church involvement, not community involvement, not continuing your education, not advancing your career. Not anything else. This is controversial--and if I'd heard a pastor's wife say it five years ago I know I would have been offended. I thought then that I could do pretty much everything in my life well if I had the chance to prove it. That was laughably naive. Here's what I've learned: if you desire your husband to be faithful, to be dedicated, and to persevere through hardship, he needs you to be his rock at home. My husband says he does not regret that I went back to school almost as soon as we moved here and that I spent our first three years in the parish immersed in a graduate program. I can't change it now (and I'm not going to give back the fancy piece of paper I got for it, at any rate). But I look back, and for many reasons, I wish I would have waited. The most important reason I wish I would have waited was because I think my husband missed receiving my full support because my energy and focus were divided between him and our life at church and my own studies and teaching. Maybe other women can balance this successfully. I know that he, and actually both of us, lost opportunities in those years to talk and support each other in our marriage. Now I realize that my life revolves around my husband's need for my support--which has already changed over the last few years as he's learned a lot!--and our family. If God wills for me to pursue a career outside the home at some point, I pray He makes it really obvious to me and to my husband. In the meantime, I know He is strengthening our marriage by drawing us closer together as a family. And that can only benefit us--and the church!--in the long run.

6. Life is now in a fishbowl. Therefore, get a father confessor--for your sake and your husband's sake.

Vocations cross now in ways they don't elsewhere. It's not just that people can see what you do and judge you accordingly; you will be held to higher standards that can be unfair. It's also that your own individual lives get bound up in your husband's vocation as pastor. You can't go anywhere--especially in a small town--without knowing you'll be seen as a (or "the"!) pastor's wife. This is a sacrifice of individual autonomy for you that's inevitable. And you will resent it at times, and this comes out most often as resentment and frustration toward your husband--for not having enough time or energy for you or your children, for not making enough money, for not being in a field that gives you "me" time, whatever. And because of this, you need to find a father confessor, a pastor you can talk to or call to confess your resentment, frustration, selfishness, and all those other sins and receive forgiveness without having specific spousal issues get in the way.

My husband and I have relied sporadically upon a pastor that served as a mentor for my husband before his seminary days as a father confessor. We both have called him at different times; he's listened to our confessions and given us absolution. When we are in his area (he's in another state), we visit with him and his wife. I think a more regular pattern would benefit us, but for now, this is what we have and it is a blessing.

7. Be patient and pray for contentment.

I hate this one, because I'm impatient and a control freak. But God is teaching me patience over time, and in the process He is drawing me closer to Himself. Here's how it might play out for you:

You might love your congregation and want to stay forever--and God might call your husband elsewhere right when you think everything is how you want it. You might want nothing better than to move one thousand miles away--and God might want your husband to serve where you are for years--maybe a few decades. You might wonder why your husband doesn't seem to be doing as a pastor what you think he should be doing. You might wonder how your husband can be working so hard and trying so hard to pastor people and they don't seem to want his service, care for it, or accept it unless it's on their terms. But God wants your husband and you in this particular place. You might not know why now or ever, but He does. He also knows how much you both can handle, and if you are struggling with burdens that seem unbearable, He will guide you out of them. Sometimes this happens with time, or with another call, or with a resignation and a life elsewhere.

A very real truth little known or understood in the "outside" world is that many pastors and their wives suffer from depression. I understand now why the percentage of ministers and families who suffer from this is so much higher than in the general population. And I thank God He provides us with loving friends, experts, and resources to deal with this. Depression and its iterations are not weaknesses borne by the less-than-stalwart among us. They are crosses God, in his mysterious, infinite wisdom, that try our patience, test our commitment, and ultimately draw us closer to Him. And we can be thankful, even with the awfulness of mental illness, that He walks with us in this, too.

God also gives us joys as pastors' wives that far outweigh the burdens. The burdens can be hard, extremely hard. But you will witness countless examples of Christ's love from members to your husband, to you, to your children and maybe even your extended family. You will be privy to baptisms, catechizing and confirmations, weddings, funerals of saints called to glory. You will see Christ loving people from conception until death. Real life, real, intense, overwhelming love from our Savior to your dear congregation. And you get to witness it every week, every day. This is a miracle. Few people share this perspective--and those who do, like other pastor's wives, understand what you suffer and what you joy. And we are here for you!

***

A pastor's wife enjoys a wonderful vocation. For those sisters struggling in this vocation, take heart. Christ has already overcome the world for you. For those sisters just starting in this vocation, take heart. Christ knows the plans He has for you, and your husband, and your family--plans to prosper you and not to harm you! I, and so many others, am excited for what lies ahead for you. May God keep you in His wonderful grace always!

Finally! Somewhere to Sit. And Read.

Drumroll, please: after several months of an empty living room (per Papa moving all our original stuff downstairs to the now-finished basement), our "new" living room--complete with furniture to sit on! We've been enjoying it immensely since Thursday morning--and for the boys, that meant about thirty seconds after the furniture guys left. The corner chair and ottoman are especially popular! A nice little side perk? No payments--paid for with cash.

P couldn't resist peeking through the windows at the construction machines across the street. So much excitement for one day!

Love S's face..."Can you see what I'm doing, Mama?"

 

P decided where the toys would go... peeking out at the corner of the couch. Good choice, Son!

Now reading time before bed is even more enjoyable!

There's No Place Like Home, Toto.

We returned home from our vacation today in the late afternoon after a drive through beautiful Wisconsin (the trees! We do miss thick, foliage-rich landscape) and early-summer Minnesota. After the little boys and I napped, we stopped in south-central MN at a BP, which happened to be across the road from an implement business. We sat on the curb next to the pump, drinking Mountain Dew Throwback (Papa and I) and apple juice (P) and milk (S), listening to the quiet roar of traffic on I-90 and the periodic buzz of crickets in the surrounding fields. "You can tell the pace has slowed down already," said Papa, and I realized that I was breathing differently--more relaxed, slower. Sitting there, pointing out the occasional car, enjoying the silences that only family togetherness can create, I realized it felt like home, felt like here. We still had a few hours to drive, but it didn't matter--the rush and bustle of the more metro areas we visited in the last ten days were fading. And I was glad. Really glad.

I tend to be a "grass is greener" person, especially when it comes to place (geography) and perceived opportunity. "How cool would it be to live there," I think all the time. This is one of the reasons I like to read the atlas during road trips--but I digress. Moving so much as a child made me realize in my teen years that I liked moving, liked going somewhere new, starting over. I still feel that way very often. But after five years in one town, in one house, now where we are raising two (three!) of our children, I really appreciate the stability and comfort of home. Our home.

After we had a simple dinner, after the little boys got baths and stories and prayers and then promptly sacked out, Papa watched baseball on T.V. (don't ask about the Brewers) while I headed to the library. There, Sally helped me straighten out our convoluted check-outs and I browsed in the quiet stacks for a few minutes before heading out to the car. The sun this time of year is gorgeous, and at eight o'clock was still an hour and a half away from fully setting, so I rolled through the streets with the windows down, passing a Little League baseball game, walkers, quiet businesses, church members walking in the park. Then I went to Coburn's, one of two grocery stores in town, where I saw Sally again (small towns really are small!) and a church member, who chatted with me about her pregnancy. After I left with some penny-pincher savings (love those coupons!), I saw that Main Street in front of the store was jammed with parked cars, and the lights of the Performing Arts Center glowed into the street--it's Opening Night for Annie! (I really hope we can catch a performance--the community theater productions here are awesome!)

I drove home in the waning sunlight, seeing men tending their yards; family patios sporting vestiges of a day at the pool--wet towels, sand toys; old couples sitting on their front porch stoops watching people drive the Square. I was overwhelmed with gladness that we live here, that we had little moments today of simple gifts. What a great day. What a gift to be home, to have a home, to know that even should we lose our physical home on Earth, we have one prepared for us in heaven. And that home will bring countless more joys than even our wonderful, humble one here does! Here's to home, now and forever.