sledding.

I've never really {loved} sledding. Never.

As a young girl, and even in college - where sledding was what everyone did for fun all winter long in LaGrande, it seemed that every time I went sledding, something went wrong, and I was the one that usually wound up hurt.

Hurt, embarrassed, and wishing I had stayed on my feet just watching or even under a blanket reading a book in the warmth of home. 

I like to be in control and on a sled there is little control. 

I don't like to move fast, I like to think things through, and I have little sense of adventure. Those don't go with sledding at all.

Years later, I have found myself the mother of two boys who love to move fast, like to be out of control most of the time, and have a magnetic pull toward any and every aspect of adventure.

They have little fear and don't seem to mind the wipe-outs at the bottom of the hills or the crazy jumps made by sagebrush and rocks that send the sled one way and the rider the other. In fact, sometimes they make the jumps on purpose. I will never understand that. Never.

On this particular day, I watched from the deck and found myself wondering how I ended up here. Here dressing two boys in all sorts of winter gear, and sending them out to risk their lives on the hills below our house.
Mack begged me to join them in the crazy, wild fun, and as I pulled on some old ski pants and found myself standing on the other side of a barbed-wire fence with muck boots on and a sled in my hand, I couldn't help but laugh. What was I doing here?

We made our way down the hill over and over ... laughing, tumbling, and rolling. We dodged rocks, smashed down sagebrush, and held on for dear life. It was fun, sort of ... if you like being cold and having no control.

And then the tears came. The tears that seemed to say "I should have stayed in the house, but didn't want to miss out on anything fun." The tears that arrived when our  hands were like icicles. The tears that froze to our cheeks because it was so cold.The tears that were caused because one brother shoved snow in the other brother's face. Yes, those are the tears that should be more like warnings that nothing good is left in the day and it's time to quit while the going is good.

We did't listen to the tears closely enough. We took one last run, and I lost my phone somewhere between the top of our hill and the bottom, and as I looked for it, Mason took a run on the other side and got a concussion.  (that is a whole different post in itself)

Sledding. It seems so fun, and then ... well, it's not.

So this is Christmas...

and what have you done

Another year over

And a new one just begun

And so this is Christmas

I hope you have fun

The near and the dear ones

The young and the old

A very merry Christmas

And a happy New Year

Let's hope it's a good one

Without any fear

And so this is Christmas ...

We don't do seem to do anything normal or usual on Christmas like the rest of America... and this year was no different.

A day spent building fence and finishing up the bunks below the house - enjoying sunshine and family ... well, that's as perfect as Christmas can get in our world.

the golden girls.

Rose

After 2 glorious days together as a trio, we grafted the one I call Rose onto a heifer that lost her calf in the middle of the night on Thursday. I wonder if when she left this pen for another one outside, if she called back to the others like Dorothy did on the last show of the Golden Girls ...

"You'll always be my sisters. Always."

My guess is, she did.  

What a beautiful gift these triplets have  been in the midst of the mud, fog, and cold & dreary weather we've been having. They've brought shimmers of hope, and flecks of joy each and every time we're in the barn. All of us love them and their spunky beauty, but especially Ian. They are the miracles that he'll never forget.

coming clean.

Defined as:

having no interior flaws visible.

observing the rules.

relatively free from error or blemish.

characterized by clarity and precision.

..............................

I sometimes play tricks in my mind. 

Tricks that say if my house isn't clean, I'm not good enough.

Tricks that whisper if the piles aren't taken care of, I'm failing.

Tricks that shout from a distance, be embarrassed because you're a mess. 

My eyes give this message to my mind that if things aren't "clean" then I'm not who I say am.

I look at the muddy floor and the counters covered with school books, pens, a phone book, recipe cards, bread crumbs, and something sticky that hasn't been wiped away for at least 3 days.

I glance at the couch with the folded clothes, and the table with the watercolors and thank you cards scattered about, and the floor with toy tractors and dozers, and realize that I don't even know where to start.

Here's the thing though, I'm living proof that clean is relative. Clean is a nice thing, but when you're so consumed with clean, it's my guess you're missing a piece of truly living.

My home is lived in.  My home is defined by its piles. My home is "us" from the minute you walk in. My home is a beautiful mess but totally "clean" at the same time.

Tonight I came home and found a pile of swept up dirt near the dustpan lying on the kitchen floor. The dishwasher was running with only a few glasses and bowls left in the sink. The mail was stacked neatly, the TV was on, and Ian was sitting in his chair sound asleep. I felt like crying in the best sort of way.

We're trying to live in the cleanest sort of way through the mess we're in right now. Our lives are precise and clear one minute, and complete chaos the next. We are living in a way that is nowhere near free from errors or blemishes. And you know what, I think that's the best we can do. I know that's the best any of us should ever do.

Don't get me wrong. I've dreamed of a day when my house would be clean for more than 2 days in a row. I'd love to have a housekeeper, but the reality is, she wouldn't know where to start and I wouldn't know where to even have her begin. She wouldn't see the love in the piles. She wouldn't see the life lived in the stacks of books and movies, and bills. She'd see a mess. I see a mess too, but for the first time in a long time (maybe ever) I'm starting to see more than the mess. I'm starting to see the mess for what it really is.

This mess is our life. This mess shows that we all piled on the couch instead of picking everything up. The piles of dishes and pots and pans show that we actually made dinner and didn't go out or run through the drive-through. The mud, the worn out broom, the broken vacuum cleaner, and the washing machine that may or may not be on its last leg ... those are ours and we'll use them the best we can to stay as clean as we can for as long as we can. And more than anything, I truly hope that the next time you find yourself sitting at my kitchen counter or on the couch, and you notice the piles of this and that, I hope you'll feel the same way I do. 

That clean is something I am when I'm honest. It's something you are too.

Clean is a character trait that can shine through every sort of mess because it's truth.

Clean is screaming from the depths of my soul that I am beautiful and the flaws that you see from the inside of me are worth sharing with the world.

I'm coming clean ... and I'm inviting you to come clean to.

We're not meant to be flawless.

We're not meant to be without blemishes.

We're not supposed to be perfect.

We're supposed to be real and true and a giant mess that is seen and not hidden ... because that, friends, is what coming clean is really all about.

How can words lead to change?

 When I wrote the question on the board today, and saw the 6 words stretch out to my right as my hand held the pen, I stopped and stared. Six words, and yet, so much more than six simple words at the same time. I looked at the 22 pairs of eyes watching me, waiting for my next move, and I realized that my word for 2015 was not to disappear and then reappear depending on where I was or who I was with. The word voice was coming to life for more than just me - right under the date 1-5-15 in my very own classroom with the beautiful souls that fill the desks and spaces of my heart each weekday from September to June.

The question hung in the air like twine dangling from a gate as we said it together. We repeated it and heard ourselves speaking words in a normal Monday morning sort of way, but at the same time, we heard what the words were asking. It was a phrase, a question, full of  a quiet kind of strength - so useful when used in the right way, but lifeless without someone - the right one - to bend and twist and pull at it, shaping it into something strong and beautiful with purpose and poise.

Our words, even when they're hurtful and wrong, are just like strands of twine. They are strong when they're together, but alone, they're weak. And when you're smart enough to loop one end through another and pull tight, you realize that what you've done, what you've said, and what you've made is one of the most powerful things one could ever hope to hold in their hands, let alone be a part of creating. Your voice is a tool that can change everything in an instant as as you scribble across a paper, or open your heart while reading something meaningful, or even when you whisper and the words you're thinking and feeling barely slip off your tongue.

After a short, but real discussion about those seven words, we, as a class, read a story of a woman that had spent a good portion of her life using her voice on paper and in public gatherings in powerful and purposeful ways. A story about a woman that never saw the actual outcome of the strength her voice truly held. I don't know for sure, but I'm fairly certain that she knew what she was doing was changing things, but the actual, physical change didn't come until she was gone. She had weaved her way through several spaces and places, using grace and dignity to stand up for what she knew was right. She was opposed, and fought against, but she never gave up. She held strong under pressure and was used in just the right ways - similar to the several pieces of twine dangling from gates, and bales of hay in my own life.

We may never know how our words might change the world around us - in our homes, in our cars, in the quiet of our bedrooms, in our classrooms, in our churches, in our neighborhoods, in our lunch rooms, in our meetings, and even in our own journals, but we should never cease using our voice in the biggest and best of ways in doubt that they are making a difference. Our words - our voices -  are pieces of twine - hanging on a gate, just waiting to be used to become something stronger when they're tied together.

Your words can change the world one loop at a time. Count on it.

the nose knows.

Yesterday was cold. The sky stayed the color of a cloud all day long. In fact, it felt like a cloud was touching me and the world I live in most of the afternoon. It was a cold kind of cloud that hung low and seemed to press in on all of us from every side. The girls gathered in their circles watching me closely. They always watch me closely. I used to wonder if it was because I'm the only other girl out here besides Jill the dog? Or maybe it was because I'm sort of intriguing to them, just as they are all sorts of enchanting and brave to me. I'll probably never know since "moo" isn't a language I plan on learning anytime soon, but I have to admit, I think about my relationship with these beautiful ladies a lot. 

I walked through them quietly - pushing them toward the gate - guiding them away from the chaos happening on the other side of the lot. The side of the lot where babies are born and life suddenly changes whether you're ready for it to or not in a matter of minutes. The side of the lot that some avoid at all cost until the last possible moment. The side of the lot where you're not just in the crowd anymore, you're being watched like a hawk. I'm thinking you don't have to be a cow to experience this kind of pressure to perform at all. In fact, I'm certain that the pressure of having all eyes on us is something everyone in the world experiences at some point in their life - human or not.

Here's the thing though - most of the time when eyes watch us closely, we immediately believe that it's to criticize or critique, and not necessarily to compliment or better yet, copy. We live in a world where women watch other women and secretly hope they fail at something, anything, or everything. We watch women want the attention their best friend is getting. We see other women desperately wishing to be the one that everyone follows. We click through and scroll down in question of how to be that woman that seems to have everything figured out without even trying. I hate that part of this world. Hate it. And yes, I know hate is a very strong word, but it's the best I could come up with.

We don't have to be this way. We don't have to conform to anything less than just being the best daughters, wives, mothers, sisters, friends, co-workers, or even neighbors that we've been created to be. We don't have to roll our eyes at posts or articles. We don't have to be jealous. We don't have to unfollow or unfriend. We just have to be us. Why, though, is it so hard to just be "us?"

I'm done being a watcher, and I'm done being watched. I know there are eyes on me, following me, watching me closely, and maybe even critiquing me, but I don't care. I can't care if I want anything to change in this world I've found myself in.
I'm a human, but I want to live in the herd that lives like I imagine the girls I've been watching closely for days now live. I want to surround myself in the herd that fights for each other and protects each other - not competing, but complementing. I want to be alive and free to be myself in the group of women that provide warmth to those around them when they need it most. I want to be in the middle of the circle that says it's ok if you've gained a few pounds & that they promise to walk to the water trough with you 8 times each day if it would make things better. Yes, I want to be in the herd that watches closely, listens carefully, and smells cautiously - only to say "welcome" when they smell you coming because they know you're one of them.

May we all find great and beautiful ways to use senses other than our sight to see the best in others.

reading logs and Christmas.

So this beautiful thing called Christmas happened and with it, backpacks were put away and presents took their place. Reading logs were forgotten, and instead Christmas cards were piled high and then hung for all to see.

 Letters from family and friends were read and treasured, and some even found their place on the bulletin board. A beautiful advent book was shared and Hallmark movies were watched. Recipes were read and cookies with red and green M&M's were set on  racks to cool. It was 2 weeks of being {home}.

It was just enough time to escape from the schedule that seemed to have "ruled" us for the past few months. Blankets were piled high, sleep-overs with cousins and Christmas lights brought smiles, and stomachs aching with sparkling cider bubbles and homemade fudge won our hearts.

Choclate & strawberry quick was stirred into milk, slices of cheese were piled on crackers, pizzas were made, games were played, and bubble gum was chewed as one sacred day whispered it's way into the next.

Presents were opened and savored and then stacked for later. Conversations about thankfulness and presence over presents gave way to special & meaningful moments that we will treasure for years.

Our hearts were filled with warmth that can only be found when you know where to look. Warmth that is about who we are and not what we have. Warmth that gives us strength when sometimes we feel like we can't go on.

But through all the magic and cups of hot chocolate and egg nog, and even the putting away of the ornaments for another year, the beloved reading logs from school were forgotten. We didn't read our 20 minutes a day. We didn't practice our math facts. We didn't think about school even once until today. Today - when the lunch boxes and backpacks made their way out of the office and into the living room I wrote in bold across the reading logs this simple truth ...

We needed a break. You did, I did, we all did. We read a lot of different kinds of things and we've compiled a list of things we enjoyed most. It does not equal the 20 minutes a day required. Not even close. But those sacred minutes that turned into two weeks of rest ... they were  just what we needed them to be & will forever be moments that none of the 4 of us will ever be sorry we chose.

Voice.

This five letter word that holds 2015 in the palm of its hand can be a noun or a verb. It's a distinctive sound belonging to each of us. It is defined by words spoken, shouted, sang, whispered, and written. It measures our character and qualities, our aspirations & dreams, our hurts, our gratitude, our excitement or even disappointment, our cheering, and even our secrets that only journals hold. Our voice defines our lives with the simplicity, yet complexity, of the words we choose to use. 

I've been coughing a lot lately and haven't had much of a voice ... but at the same time, the voice I've found within the depths of my soul over the past two weeks is more than I could have hoped for as one year comes to an end and another begins. In the quiet of these winter days, I've found new ways to identify what the word voice means to me and what it means to the people around me too. Our voices, defined as a noun or a verb, are real, alive, and worth focusing on, worth thinking about, worth giving attention to.

We each have a distinctive voice. One we were born to carry. One that has enormous authority over our lives. We have a voice that can influence for good, or for bad, and everything we think and do and feel is the foundation of it - of who we are through our actions, and through our words.

As a new year begins, it is my prayer that I would be able to identify the sound of God's voice more clearly than ever before. That I would not just identify it, but that I would listen to it. That it would be a voice that drowns out all others and somehow manages to be the biggest and best part of me -  teaching me, knowing me, and changing me - not just my habits, or the way I dress, or how I treat people, but that what I say with the voice God has given to me would change my heart, my hopes and my entire being. 

I want my voice - my God given voice - to be a beautiful song that harmonizes with the world I live in. A voice that doesn't outshine His voice, but one that accompanies God in a gracious and humble way. 
That in an unhurried, quiet, and immersed way, my voice would reveal a God that can change life in every sort of way with typewriter keys playing the tune that has been orchestrated for me to be a part of sharing with the world.

Yes, in 2015, my voice will be a voice that is used just the way God has intended.