Lord, That I May See

"It is the one great weakness of journalism as a picture of our modern existence, that it must be a picture made up entirely of exceptions.  We announce on flaring posters that a man has fallen off a scaffolding.  We do not announce on flaring posters that a man has not fallen off a scaffolding.  Yet this latter fact is fundamentally more exciting, as indication that the moving tower of terror and mystery, a man, is still abroad upon the earth.  That the man has not fallen off a scaffolding is really more sensational; and it is also some thousand times more common.  But journalism cannot reasonably be expected thus to insist upon the permanent miracles.  Busy editors cannot be expected to put on their posters, "Mr. Wilkinson Still Safe," or "Mr. Jones, of Worthing, Not Dead Yet."  They cannot announce the happiness of mankind at all.  They cannot describe all the forks that are not stolen, or all the marriages that are not judiciously dissolved....

This day is stinking it up. Six hours of baby, crying, and crying, and crying, and then, for an added touch, crying. Two meals I think I might have eaten: Cold oatmeal?  Check.  Cold leftover meatballs in a bag. Check. Two fits from a 4 year old who caaaaaannn't put away her clothes and caaaaannnnt take off her sock.  One was normal-ish.  One was epic. Zero schoolwork done. Zero hours of baby sleeping. Sixteen thousand songs from Raffi and Rainbow Brite and gaaaahh. One episode of Mommy sending EVERYBODY to their rooms. One Mommy meltdown. Two big apologies. And I'm beat. So, I stuff Sparky moaning in the bed. (Is he tired? Please?)  Then as I'm stuffing chocolate down my face, I remember. Today is January 22.  On this day, we do penance and pray and remember all the babies who barely lived, were never wanted, and were ripped out of their mother's wombs to die. And I am so ashamed of complaining.  I am ashamed of my frustratio...

1. A picture of the best part of my day Alot of us are sick here and it has been the whine-y-est day in recorded history, but this little guy falling asleep in my arms was wonderful. :) 2.  We are reading alot these long winter days.   Here is a sampling of some current favorites for various members of the household.   3.  The girls have discovered the poems in "Listen, Children, Listen" and are poetry "journaling" (aka copying the poems into their work journals).  Rosebud wrote a poem of her own the other day.  This is how it goes: THE SUN AND THE MOON The sun shines on the moon And the wind blows the moon like a candle And the moon says "Don't blow me out." Of course, my child is a prodigy. 4. There is nothing cosier on winter nights than a fire in the fireplace and their is nothing messier than the various branches and sticks required to start the fire and then the leaves, dirt and spiders that hi...

I'm joining in on "Weekends with Chesterton" at Sarah's .  How can one pick a favorite Chesterton quote?  If I could even begin, I think this would be in my top 10.  It's longer than a "snippet" but I couldn't convey it well by cutting it down! Children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, "Do it again"; and the grown up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown up people are not strong enough to exault in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exault in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning "do it again" to the sun; and every evening "do it again" to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we ha...

I stand in the upstairs hallway of my parents' house. The lighted Christmas garland on the banister casts a soft glow.  My hand rests on the post at the top of the stairs, round, smooth and cool. The old floor creaks comfortably as I step, like a well-known voice in the dim.   It seems everything is slowed, like in a movie, to show every detail of something that is happening so fast. The carpeted foyer is wide and gracious as I come down the stairs, the wall displaying familiar photos of family generations.  I look at the wide front door with the flowered glass inset and the French doors opening upon the rich red dining room, lit by a chandelier which has been spun for babies to watch and hung with balloons for countless happy birthdays. The room is full of so many memories they almost crowd me out and I remain, suspended for a moment in the doorway, hushed before their power. The emptying rooms throb with Home, Love and the weight of the living, praying, breathing and fo...

Reading Christmas books Her own markers on Christmas morning Rosebud turns six with a "Horsie Cake" Not to be left out, Sunshine decorates her "Doggie Cake" New dollhouse! New-fallen snow in the New Year