Letter to Mom, 05 January 2014

Dear Mom,

It sure would be nice to be able to talk to you on the phone today!  I really identify with you when I'm involved in leading a worship service.  I think I learned a whole lot about working in a church from observing your many years as a church pianist and organist.

For example, I rarely recall seeing you flustered.  Focused, yes, and sometimes a little tense while getting ready in the morning, but you maintained an inner calm and composure.  Watching you taught me about preparing my outer appearance, too.  You always took the time to style your hair (thankfully I don't need curlers), carefully apply your eye makeup, and dress in attractive but unassuming clothing.  Sometimes I watched you get ready, and my favorite part was waiting to see which earrings you'd choose.  This morning, I thought carefully about my earrings, makeup, hair, and outfit too!  :-)

Watching you showed me what being friendly to the other church attenders can look like.  You'd smile widely whenever anyone approached you--and you had delightful ways of responding to people's various comments.  I got to use your "make a joke when someone pays you a compliment you're not sure how to absorb" method this morning.  After the service, an older gentlemen came up to me and said it felt like I'd been part of the church for years.  I smiled widely and said, "Are you saying I aged during the service?"  We got a good chuckle out of that.

You had gracious smiles during each Sunday service, even if you didn't always agree with what someone said or did.  I remember this sort of close-lipped smile you'd get; it wasn't unpleasant-looking or dismissive--it said, "I don't agree with that but I'm not going to say so right now."  I have my own version of that smile, often accompanied by me saying, "Oh, okay," or, "I'm glad you told me that."

You wanted things to be done excellently on Sundays (and always, really), on the part of the leaders and the congregation, both.  Any time there's a "clapping" song in which there's some discrepancy with people clapping on or off the beat, I remember a time you were seated off the stage with us, and apparently, the majority of the people were clapping on the wrong beats.  You boldly clapped loudly throughout the whole song on the "right" beats...with a smile!

When this morning's service finished, the first thing I thought about when I got into my car was, "What am I going to make for lunch?  I'm tired."  How you and Dad put wholesome, large meals on the table every Sunday afternoon is beyond me.  (Thankfully, Jay took the boys to get soups from a deli today, so I was off the hook!)  Sometimes, especially after you got polymiositis, you were too tired to even eat when you got home, so you'd go straight up to bed for a nap.  While I am thankfully in good health, I did still need a nap today--but I took it after lunch.

Thank you for all this--and so much more--that you taught me by example.  I'm sure you'd be proud of the way I'm using my musical and interpersonal skills during this season of my life.  I sure wish you were here to see it; but then again, if you were here, you'd be busy in your church on Sunday mornings and wouldn't ever get to see me in action!  And maybe you can see me now...from the Heavenly organ bench you sit on.  I love you.

Love,
Rachel

An Unexpected Gift, 28 December 2013

Today I am recovering from Christmas!  Thanks to my blessed FIL and Mrs. FIL, the kids had a sleepover with them last night and I slept until 9:00 this morning.  Heavenly!  Now, after hot tea and a toasted bagel, I'm back under the blankets, still in my flannel nightgown (no photos forthcoming).  I can think of few better ways to recover from the flurry of planning and socializing that characterized this year's holiday!  (Okay, let's be honest: a bungalow on a white-sanded beach or a cabin in snow-bound woods could probably be even more restorative than this, but both of those involve driving or flying, plus rental fees, so I think I'm good with the current scenario.)

While out to a delicious New Orleans-style dinner last night (thank you again to the FILs!), Jay and I discussed how we can prevent next year's Christmas season from being as thoroughly exhausting as this year's was.  We came up with a few ideas.

1. Keep the house more orderly going into the hosting season to prevent a sudden loooooooooooooooong to-do list of chores.
2. Spread out the various family events.  Three Christmas celebrations three days in a row (with book-ending celebratory weekends) was just a bit much.
3. Pester gift recipients for their wishlists and do the shopping (preferably online) before December.
4. Apply for, be interviewed for, and accept any new jobs before mid-December.

I'm sure you nodded to yourself as you read the first three, possibly glazing over a bit at how predictably generic they are, but you may have been caught a bit off-guard by the last item.  I shall elaborate.

Jay read a book a number of years ago that described three main kinds of labor: Wage, Reproductive, and Domestic.  For the first years of our marriage, Jay and I were both engaged in full-time wage labor (working for a monetary income).  When we decided to start having kids, I shifted to part-time wage labor and full-time reproductive labor (growing a human being is a 24-7 job!).  Once we had two children, I transitioned into full-time domestic labor; some call this being a stay-at-home-mom, others call it being a homemaker, and my favorite is the title my parents gave it: Domestic Engineer.

I've used this cartoon in a post before.  I like it.  :-)  Although to be clear, I don't daily wear skirts and heels. And I don't drive a station wagon.

The above paragraph is a fancy way of saying that I have not had a money-paying job for over five years.  Jay and I are definitely at peace with that, because we place high value on all three kinds of labor, and this has seemed the best way to do things for our little family.  But starting January 2nd, I will have a money-earning job!

No, I'm not "going back to work" full-time (just 17 hours a week), and it's not even a permanent position.  I will be acting as Interim Music Director at a local church for three or four months while their leadership looks for a permanent person.  It will involve directing their small adult choir through rehearsals and Sunday mornings, teaching two 1/2-hour music classes to elementary kids once-a-week, and selecting and leading songs for two worship services per week.  This is a super opportunity for me for many reasons!

In the first place, this has come at a great time.  Those 17 hours a week include the weeknight/Sunday services, so my other prep time will fit neatly into the eight hours per week both my kids are at class.  In the second place, this is so great for me is because it is a temporary position.  I'm not ready to commit to a long-term wage-job, and Jay and I aren't ready to make decisions about whether we'd move our family to another congregation.  (While I'm working at this church, Jay and the kids will continue to attend our "regular" church family; it would just be too disruptive for the kids to switch congregations, and Jay and I are still very much "at home" there.)

A third reason this opportunity is perfect for me is that--unfortunately--the situation with the church's previous music director has been messy, and there are wounded people left in the wake.  One of the things they want in an interim director is someone who will enter and gently love on their congregation.  And you know what?  I'm really good at loving on people.  I'm not tooting my own horn here, it's just acknowledging that through my various life experiences, God has given me a growing capacity for compassion and tenderness.  This is not to say that I won't be extremely challenged and stretched through this time, but I think I'm coming into it with a background that prepares me well.

Another reason I'm so excited about this opportunity is that it is a paying music job.  Paying.  Music.  Don't get me wrong...I enjoy all the volunteer-music I do, but there is something incredible about being given money to use the skills I've worked so hard for (I have a Bachelor's of Music degree; for the whole long scoop on my history with music, grab a coffee and read about it here).  I am so excited about taking time to plan, produce, and participate in music on a consistent basis!  And I'm getting paid, too!!  WOW!!!

I'll try to moderate my music choices, heehee

Not gonna lie though...I'm nervous too.  Logistically, everything I've done in my few alone-time weekday morning hours will have to find other slots while I'm involved with this new job.  Emotionally, I'm coming into a somewhat volatile situation and I'm not sure what interpersonal dynamics/demands will be like.  Mentally, I'll be stretched by a new church service format and by the weekly kids' classes I'll be teaching, especially.  And this will certainly be challenging spiritually.  (My observation has been that when someone is in a ministry-type leadership position, they tend to get hit with a lot of life difficulties, from home plumbing problems to kid behavioral issues to health crises etc.  These things could be attributed to any number of factors; perhaps simply the added strain of leadership creates extra tension; but I believe that there are very real forces of good and evil at work in the world, and when the good is moving forward, the evil strikes back.  Star Wars, the Matrix, and a lot of other "epic" stories seem to tap into this idea.)

So yes, I'm really thrilled at this opportunity to use my music skills, gain new experience, meet new people, and be stretched as I love and learn.  The timing and the nature of it feels like such a gift from my loving God, even if it did enter my life in a particularly crazy month.  I'm thinking a little eggnog and television with my family just might be a great way to wind up our celebrations before this new whirlwind hits the first week of January.  A couple more mornings of sleeping-in would be great, too.

Happy New Year!

A Love Affair Rekindled, 16 September 2013

Today I have time to write about a new romantic relationship I'm forming with one of my exes.  We actually never totally stopped seeing each other, but the relationship was strained for a long time, and other things always seemed to take precedence over spending time together.

But today I can tell you for sure: I'm falling in love with Music again.

Chapter 1

Music and I go way back; in fact, our relationship is older than I am.  As a pre-born child, my little forming ears heard my mom playing organ, piano, and viola, and my tiny insides vibrated whenever she'd pull out all the stops and let loose on a Bach toccata.  Once born, I heard vinyl and cassette recordings of sacred music, orchestral music, and children's songs; and on Sunday mornings, Sunday nights, and Wednesday nights, I heard hymns and other spiritual songs sung at church.  The songs must have had the most influence on me, because I can remember wandering around the house as a toddler, making up my own tunes and lyrics (mostly about how wonderful Jesus was).  One might say that Music was practically a member of my family.

My relationship with Music went from casual to serious around the time I started taking regular piano lessons in mid-elementary school.  Occasionally I'd stand Music up at practice time dates, but I normally showed up and diligently spent the 30 minutes or an hour tickling the keyboard.  My piano teacher drove out to our house in the country once a week and spent a few hours giving back-to-back lessons to my siblings and me, bless her heart.  She would self-deprecatingly say she didn't know much about music theory, but somehow she managed to give me a solid foundation of Music's framework and technicalities.

In 7th grade, I had a brief fling with the violin.  It's hard to say who suffered more--me or Music, but after nine months my tortured teacher and I convinced my mother that I was not suited to stringed instruments.  (Word to the wise: If a child is struggling with self-esteem anyway, don't let them try learning a stringed instrument of any kind.  Shudder.)

I never actually got violent in the relationship, but I was tempted.

One day, on the long, quiet drive home from one of those nerve-fraught violin lessons, I said tentatively  "You know what kind of lessons I'd really like to take, Mom?  Voice lessons."  Her response was noncommittal, and although I put the violin down (RIP), I still continued with piano.

Chapter 2

With my first year of high school came the true ignition of my love affair with Music!  I joined a community children's treble choir, and was overcome by luscious harmonies, seductive rhythms, and breathtaking melodies.  For four years I poured myself into the choir, attending rehearsals twice a week and practicing my own notes at the piano in between.  My dates with Music were mostly group dates now, and every rehearsal was something between a sweaty workout and a steamy massage.  (It's a wonder I don't have permanent bruising where I'd beat my knee with a pencil to keep track of downbeats in tricky passages.)

Hello, Nineties.

At the start of my senior year, there was no question: Music and I were going steady.  In addition to just-for-fun harpsichord lessons, I started private voice lessons with a prestigious performer in our city.  A whole new world of trilled-'r' vocalizes and operatic arias was opened up to me.  I wasn't "blending" my voice in a choir during these lessons: I was developing a solo voice of my very own.

One thing led to another, and when I realized that I couldn't imagine my life without Music, we decided to take the relationship to the next level, and I began preparing voice auditions for college music schools.

Chapter 3

I was accepted with merit scholarships to a performance program at a conservatory of music.  My life felt right, my relationship with Music felt right, and I was excited to become a great singer--a remarkable singer.  A famous singer!  The world of opera opened the curtains and beckoned me in.

My first year of study was exhilarating   Core classes came more easily to me than to some (I thanked my early piano teacher for giving me such a good grasp of music theory); I adored acting classes; and I practiced hard to be ready for competitions and auditions.

But as happens in some relationships, in my second year at the conservatory, Music and I began to fight a little.  I wanted it to carry me into the international opera world.  My voice professor suggested I might be more suited to some kind of career in sacred music.  But that was not my plan, and I fought with doubt and discouragement.

In the first half of my third year, practice room dates with Music usually ended in tears, if they didn't start that way.  For four months I lived abroad, studying and practicing in one of the world's most musical cities, but my dreams of a career with Music began to crumble.  When I imagined a life of endless auditions and constant travel, I felt desperately lonely and anxious.  Standing in the cheap "seats" night after night at the city opera, the stage looked further and further away.  For me, the curtains of a performance career were closing.

Chapter 4

At the end of those four months abroad, Music and I decided to take a big step back in our relationship.  We didn't break up--I continued my studies at the conservatory--but we agreed to see other people to expand our horizons.  Lo and behold, the following semester I fell in love with someone else.  Namely, with Jay.  During the first months of my senior year, I married him.

I stayed friends with Music, but on a more reserved, professional level.  I completed my Bachelor's of Music degree in Voice Performance.  I sang in church sometimes.  I directed our church choir and led Sunday music a couple times a month.  I taught a handful of voice lessons.  I coached Jay's men's quartet  But most of my energies went into earning money at office jobs (Jay went into graduate school during our first couple years of marriage) and managing a household for two.

When my first baby arrived on the scene, my main response to Music was fatigue.  It just took too much of my limited energy.  When a second baby arrived less than 2 years after the first, my relationship with Music got buried to the point of being something like a dirty secret.  But it was a secret that festered.

Chapter 5

I've been jealous.  Jealous of the love affairs others were having with Music.  Jealous of performers who were "successful" in their music careers.  I've been angry.  Memories of reverse-favoritism by professors, lack of opportunities, what-ifs, and if-onlys have fed a growing sense of bitterness.  My alma mater became an icon of betrayal.  Over a decade of living in the same city after graduation, I have attended not one single student performance there.  I cringe every time I walk through the campus, hoping I won't be spotted by a former professor--one who might look at me and think, "Failure."

Nighttime dreams of college failure plague me.  I'm in school, but forgot to sign up for voice lessons.  I'm one semester away from graduating but I didn't fulfill the performance requirements.  My professor sees me across campus and turns her head in disappointment.  I am rejected at auditions.  I forget to attend class.

Maybe I'm not the only musician with bad dreams.

Fear choked any remaining sparks of attraction I had toward Music.  Fear of inadequacy, fear of not singing the "right" way, fear of judgment, fear of commitment.

Plus, the reality is that I've been busy!  Raising and homeschooling two boys, losing two moms, buying two houses and losing one, hosting a full procession of holidays and events, dealing with alcohol, developing and maintaining yards, taking three international trips, walking through a murder trial, washing endless dishes, marrying off three sisters and two dads...the last several years have been jam-packed.  The way I've seen it, why should I spend precious time and energy on a relationship that only fills me with pain?  Music was almost dead to me.

Almost.

Sometimes our nightmares reveal what are actually deep longings.  Check with your friendly neighborhood therapist for more detail on that, but I believe that during this dark time of bitterness I've been waiting and hoping for reconciliation with a Love that seemingly abandoned me.

Chapter 6

Have you ever fallen in love?  Did your heart flutter whenever you thought about the One?  Did you eagerly look forward to time together?  Did you spend un-counted minutes and hours thinking of ways to show your affection?  Did you giggle and smile?  Did you find yourself wanting to talk--or write--about your love?

This is the state I've been in for the last month.

"Why the change?" you ask.  "Did Music change or did you?"

Both!  Well okay, I guess I can only take the relationship metaphor so far.  Any changes that have happened in my relationship to Music came from my end, so here are some of the catalysts for my healing (yay lists!):

• Al-Anon.  No, really!  Primary among the things I've learned/re-learned during my 18 months in this sister-to-Alcoholics Anonymous program are that 1) God's good plan for my life is His plan for my life, and His plan for others' lives are for their lives; 2) I am a valuable person apart from my accomplishments; 3) I do have faults and need to accept myself as I work toward improving.
• Recognition that I have more gifts than singing.  Learning to value myself as a whole has been key to rejecting guilt.  Who is to say that the gifts used to organize a memorial service are somehow inferior to the gifts used for enthralling thousands from a stage?
• Letting go of the vice-grip that there is one good way to physically sing.  Maybe my voice professor wouldn't approve of the technique I use to sing in praise band--and maybe the technique wouldn't carry me into the opera halls of Europe--but I have fun doing it (AKA no despondent practice room tears) and I know listeners enjoy it too.
• Time.  Nine hours a week, to be exact.  It's not that I spend all the time my kids are in class "doing" music stuff, but the weekly breathing space allows me time to think.  To feel.  To dream.  To finagle my schedule.  It's a wide margin in the composition page of a harried sketch artist.
• Opportunity.  You heard me!  Opportunity!  This item deserves a chapter all to itself.

Chapter 7

Six months ago I attended a special-event worship service of sacred music by a quartet from a local church.  It consisted of a female singer (who also played guitar, banjo, glockenspiel, and clarinet), an electric guitarist, a mandolinist (also taking a turn on banjo), and a pianist.  The music was beautiful, sensitive, intelligent, welcoming, humble.  I shed many tears during the performance, thinking, "Yes!  This is music I love!  These are people who aren't performing just to impress! This is a kind of group I would love to be part of.  I wish...."  But I hardly dared acknowledge my hopeful, aching longings.

Afterward, a friend who had attended with me said, "I want more worship services like that!  I'm not a musician so I don't know how I could participate, but I'm going to talk with the lead singer and see if we can come up with something."  My heart thumped.

"I would like that too," I responded, "...and I'd love to sing with them...would you ask the leader if I could call her?"

A few weeks later, about eight people got together and brainstormed.  The quartet was happy to set aside two Sunday afternoons a month (in addition to their regular rehearsals) for very loosely structured times of singing, praying, and reflection.  The quartet leader welcomed any other musicians who would like to participate in those Sunday afternoons, and I jumped.  We started meeting in May.

The Sunday afternoon equation looked something like this: Nice people + talented musicians + no performance pressure + a relaxed atmosphere + very, very cool music + a small group (not me alone, but my contribution makes a difference) + space for contemplation of God's goodness = Safety, Delight, Love.  Music was wooing me back.

Then, at the beginning of September, the quartet leader said off-hand, "Hey Rachel!  I think I remember you saying you're busy on Thursday nights, but if you're free, would you like to join our regular quartet rehearsals?  Another guitarist has started coming, and I'd love to have you as a second vocalist in the group, too."

It was as if she casually reached into her pocket and said, "Hey, here's a winning lottery ticket!  Wanna share it with me?"

I didn't cry when I thanked her and assured her I'd be there.  I didn't yell or whoop or run around in circles.  Okay, I did smile broadly.  I think I did a delighted little hand-clappy dance at the first rehearsal when we sight-read a new piece together.  (I'm also pretty sure Jay cried when I came home afterward and he saw how happy I was.)  But I am happy.  Hopeful.  Healing.

Chapter 8

So what's different about my love affair with Music this time around?

For one, I'm obviously older and wiser.  My teenage romance burned with passion but lacked healthy perspective.  Two, I'm not singing to be famous.  Crazy how much pressure that removes!  Three, I'm not singing "required" music.  I'm singing what I choose and what I love!  (Okay okay, shout-out to my conservatory voice professor: You were right about me and sacred music.)  Four, I'm not singing to impress anyone.  I'm singing because it's fun!  I enjoy going over a piece and playing with voicing and instrumentation.  Five, I feel accepted.  The "quartet" (which is not strictly four people anymore) invited me in.  They respect my musicianship for where it is.

Six, the music group is the opposite of pretentious.  The whole reason they formed in the first place is because they found they were staying late after church services to play around with music together.  They enjoy challenging themselves, but are relaxed about what they do or don't want to attempt.  They're kind to each other.  They're creative without being snobby.

Seven, I don't have to organize things!  Do you have any idea how much stress that eliminates?  I'm not in charge of scheduling, recruiting, teaching, researching.  I'm there to sing and learn.  And worship.

Behind this whole love affair there is one Matchmaker.  He is the greatest artist and musician ever known.  In fact, He created art, music, beauty, joy, love!  He created me and loves me with all my features, faults, and foibles.  While I will never be able to see all the details of His ultimately good plan for my life, I know that guilt, bitterness, and resentment don't need to be a part of it.  I want to walk forward with faith and hope, learning from my past and meeting my future with open hands.

Will I ever become a famous singer?  I dunno (and for the first time in my life, don't really care).  Will more and more music opportunities open up to me?  I dunno.  Will I have more disappointment and grief in my life?  Probably.  Will I continue to heal and learn?  I hope so!

But in my current love-flushed glow of enjoying music, enjoying my voice, enjoying exploration, one question shines out above the rest:

How can I keep from singing?

Home Alone, 28 August 2013

Today is a major milestone in the life of Rachel.

Why?  Because for the first time in my life, both of my children are at school.

Give it up, what!!

Did I shed tears upon leaving little Z at his Kindergarten class today?  Not a one.  Is it because I'm heartless?  Not at all.  See, the deal is, the kids are only in class for 4.5 hours, 40 minutes of which is spent by me driving back and forth to the school.  Furthermore, Z is only in class two mornings a week, so we still have puh-lenty of time together.  (For any of you not familiar, my kids go to a school that is about 70% in-class learning and 30% homeschool.  Teachers send a packet of work home at the beginning of the week and the parents guide the kids through it.  We've already been doing the homeschool work for the past two weeks, which you can read about here and here.)

So what have I done with the first morning on my own??  I'll give you some hints.  Not this:

They've been there for less than 24 hours, so hey.

Or this:

Well these are already clean.

Or this:

Would you believe me if I said we're studying jungle ecosystems in my backyard?

Or this:

This stuff has been on the floor of our guestroom for over a month; what's another day?

But neither have I done this today (although I did eat two muffins):

Wish I knew who to credit for this photo!  Thanks Internet.

What I did do is actually fairly mundane--I took a walk with a friend, showered, snacked, read my devotionals, and puttered on Facebook.  Oh, I also trimmed down some potted chrysanthemums, which took all of two minutes.  Oh, and I put away the cereal boxes left on the table from breakfast.  And now I should really eat some sort of lunch before I leave to pick up the kids in 10 minutes.

But while this morning wasn't a red-letter day in terms of what I did--or didn't--do, it IS significant that I did those things without my kids.  This little introverted gal is very appreciative of the people teaching my kids this morning.

Once they get home, I'll be back "on" with homework and chores and whathaveyou, but I get to have this "free" morning again next week.  And the next week.  And the next.  And I just might find myself doing even more exciting things with my time than blogging about it.  Singing, volunteering, organizing, working on a foreign language...who knows!  The sky's the limit!

Well maybe not the sky.  I guess 4.5 hours is the actual limit, but right now that feels pretty vast to me.  Look out, world!  I'm coming to get you!  And sit tight, G and Z; I'm heading to the car to come get you in a minute.

School for Two, 13 August 2013

Today was a momentous day!  G started second grade...and Z started Kindergarten.

Seriously, this morning Z looked like a mostly-four-year-old, five in name only.  But this evening, guiding him through homework, before my very eyes he transformed into a full-fledged five-year-old in all its school-age glory.

(Note: Our kids are enrolled in a charter public school that is about 70% in-class learning and 30% homeschool.  Teachers send a packet of work home at the beginning of the week and the parents guide the kids through it.  Today was the first day of homeschool; classes won't start until the end of August.)

Z's first order of business was to trace his first name on a page his teacher printed for him.  I pessimistically expected him to balk when I told him I had a thing for him to do, but he practically ran to the kitchen table, eagerly taking up the pencil and bending over the page.  He traced his name (and it's a long name) once, and I planned to let him move on to something else, saving the other lines of tracing for another day.  But he had other ideas.  "I'm going to trace the next one!" he declared happily.

Then a shadow crossed his face and I braced myself for the expected complaint.  For the last two years, Z has sat with G and me during homeschool time, and I waited for him to echo G's idea that this thing called "homework" is to be dreaded like the Pirate Roberts.  I wasn't wrong.

"Mommy," a whine crept in, "when I'm done tracing, do I have to do homework?"

My darling boy!  Delight swept over me and I grinned.  "Z, I'm going to tell you a secret: You already are doing homework!"

His whine disappeared into a giggle and he enthusiastically announced, "I'm going to surprise my teacher and trace all of the lines right now!"  Which he did.  There's no way his classroom teacher is going to be more surprised by his industriousness than I was!

G also showed growth today.  After a nice long summer of having no required paperwork, I was ready for a barrage of protest when I handed him three sheets of homework this evening.  But all I got was a mild, "Do I have to?" and when assured that he did, G worked through the papers without another complaint.

Giving him a hug later, I told G I was proud of him for doing his work without complaining tonight.  "Yeah," he said, "thanks Mommy.  I was complaining a lot in my head though."  Hey, that's still progress and I'll take it!

Like any year, I know this one is going to have expected--and unexpected--ups and downs, but I think we're ready to start the semester...taking things one day at a time.

37 Bottles of Beer on the Wall, 05 April 2013

The title is slightly misleading.  It's actually 37 jars, not bottles; and it's jam, not beer; and it's on the counter, not the wall.  But the old song's countdown seemed appropriate.  Today was my first foray into the world of jam making, and I say Go Big or Go Home!

Forty pounds of strawberries later, I have my feet propped up and my eyes are slightly glazed as they gaze at the computer screen.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The story begins on Wednesday afternoon, when Jay called me from the grocery store, announcing that strawberries had gone on sale for $1/lb--a pretty darn crazy good price.  I suggested he get a bunch.  He announced he already had 16 pounds in the cart.  The word "jam" jumped into my head and I suggested he buy 20.

When he got home, he managed to fit all 20 pounds into the refrigerator, buying me an extra day with which to research recipes and gather supplies (in between watching four little boys for eight hours, but that's another story).  Daunted by the inordinate amount of refined sugar involved in "normal" jam making--the kind my mother did (we're talking more sugar than fruit)--I scoured the internet for reliable-looking reduced-sugar recipes.  I also ate a number of the strawberries fresh, and found the taste a bit weak, which is only to be expected from a grocery store.

So I settled on a strawberry-orange recipe that used honey instead of sugar, and a small amount at that.  (You can see my inspiration here.)  We happened to have some large oranges on hand, so I zested and juiced them for a trial batch of jam last night.

Seriously, these oranges were the size of grapefruits.

I followed the recipe's instructions to a T, only eliminating the water, since I wanted a stronger taste.  Two pounds of strawberries and a few minutes later, yummy smells began arising from my cooking pot.

Can't you almost smell that syrupy steam? Yummers.

Not bothering to seal the jar since it was a trial batch, in almost no time at all I had one pint of near-perfect strawberry orange jam.

So much for yesterday.

This morning, I woke up at 6 a.m. and thought, Wait a minute.  Two pounds of berries only got me one pint.  We eat a lot of jam [in plain yogurt, in cottage cheese, on toast...].  I don't want to go to the bother of making a big mess for only a few pints.  I should go buy some more strawberries.

**Queue ominous orchestral swell**

I dragged the kids to the grocery store with me and came home with another 40 pounds of strawberries.

Well, I had done the math and--at the time--it seemed like a reasonable amount!  Of course, somehow I managed to forget that we still had 10 pounds of berries in the refrigerator.  (Seriously, who forgets they have 10 pounds of *anything* in the frig?)

It turned out not to be a simple case of duplicating last night's success in larger quantities, either.  You know how on the back of pectin boxes it warns not to double the batch?  Try tripling it.  Then try stirring it forever to get it to reduce.  Then seal it up in jars and hope it sets when it cools.  Then try to decide whether cooking too much at a time made it so runny; or if the problem was using an off-brand of pectin; or if the strawberries weren't chopped small enough; or if somehow leaving out the orange zest changed the consistency; or if your math was totally bonkers and you mis-measured something.  Then try to stave off whines of "I'm bored!" and "G pushed me!" from little boys.  Then look at the 44 pounds of strawberries left in your kitchen and fight a growing sense of panic.

Only the first six pounds a-washing.

The air in the kitchen was tense.

But with the incredible moral and cooking support of our dear friend Grammy G--who ended up spending 8 hours with me today--and the knowledge that my mom would have figured it out, I made some adjustments and slogged on.

Wondering how those strawberries are in such uniform shape? I ran them through my French fry blade on my slicer-shredder. It was a cool idea but didn't end up saving much time in the long run.

By the third or fourth batch, Grammy G and I figured out our system and had things running fairly smoothly.  We didn't eat.  We barely sat.  We conversed only sporadically.  But we made progress.

Grammy G takes a turn stirring two pots at once.

Incidentally, I thought I'd make a note of the tools involved in the process.

• Knives, assorted
• Spoons, stirring
• Spoons, tasting
• Spoons, measuring
• Cups, measuring
• Tongs (for picking lids out of boiling water)
• Jar holder thingies (for moving jars into/from boiling water)
• Two cutting boards
• Large bowls
• Large pots
• Pressure cooker/canner
• Small pot
• Jar funnel
• Pot holders
• Towels and washcloths
• Kitchen scale (for re-weighing strawberries when I lost track)
• Pliers (for removing the drain plug from the sink after I wedged it in upsidedown)

A small sampling of the tools involved. Notice the many tiny honey bears. Jay said they were the best deal, oddly.

Six and a half hours after washing the first batch of strawberries, I removed the last jars from the bubbling canner.  They were the last jars because...they were the last jars.  I ran out of jars before I ran out of strawberries.  Remember those 10 pounds I already had in the frig?  Well, there are still 10 pounds of strawberries in the frig.

But the other 40 pounds are...Voila!

Thirty-seven pints of strawberry jam, which include 40 pounds of berries, nine cups of honey, three quarts of orange juice, and 12 boxes of pectin.  Plus a little desperation endurance.  And a whole lotta love!

The story ends happily with every jar cheerfully pinging its signal that it sealed, and displaying a progressively thickening consistency as the jars cool.  The taste tests I took while cooking are magnificent.  The fond memories I have of jam-making with my mom filled some little heart-holes.  Spending a day with Grammy G made some lovely new memories.

But I'm not going to buy strawberries again for a long time.  A long time.

P.S.  For those of you who are interested in such things, you might like to know the following.  After doing more math, I determined that each pint cost roughly $2.50US to make.  Each pint has a total of 60 grams of sugar (from the strawberries, orange juice, and honey).  The "low sugar" jam we've been buying at the store has 160 grams of sugar per pint.  I think this homemade stuff is worth it.  I think.

White Stuff, 20 February 2013

At this very moment, my kitchen counters are piled with dirty dishes and one of my rabbits has a clump of dried poo stuck to her furry behind.  But as disturbing as one or both of those items may be, I'm not going to do anything about it tonight because I'm tired from...

...a snow day with the kiddos today!

G has this week off of school (they combined presidents' birthdays or something), so I've been watching the mountain weather.  It snowed at a lower elevation than usual yesterday, so the three of us took off this morning to play.

A comment to my friends who live where it snows all winter long:  I know you don't like it.  I hear the complaints and I'm sorry for your pain.  But I will not apologize for personally feeling that snow is a ridiculous amount of fun!  :-)

This morning, I packed the back of our 4WD car with sandwiches, hot chocolate, and baby carrots for sustenance, along with the compulsory snow pants, boots, mittens, coats, hats, scarves, sleds, a towel, and the kitchen sink.  Oh, and a roll of toilet paper--just in case.  (In retrospect, I probably shoulda left the t.p. with the rabbits.)

The drive through the hills was gorgeous.  I'd never seen snow at that elevation before, and I just kept praising God aloud for the beauty of white fields and powder-capped fence posts.  Today I had a first: I saw cows standing in the snow.  In real life.  Not in Stone Fox or Farmer Boy.

The weather was gorgeous, too.  It was cold, but not bitterly so; the sun sparkled the snow.  A slight breeze blew flakes of snow off the trees, giving the feeling that it was snowing on us!  Magical.

We walked and floundered and sledded and threw snowballs.  And took pictures.

Z and I built a rather lumpy snowman.  (Snowperson?)  The snow was the perfect consistency for rolling snowballs, which I had lots of fun with.  Cartoons always show this ball rolling down a hill getting bigger and bigger--"the snowball effect," right?--but I haven't often been in snow that actually behaved that way.

G and I built what we generously called a "snow fort": basically a short wall to crouch behind while lobbing snowballs at one's mommy.  Yes, I helped build defenses for my enemies.

A fun day, but as I said, tiring.  Better get my beauty sleep so that I can deal with the not-so-lovely chores of tomorrow!

Murder Trial Begins Tomorrow, 05 November 2012

Tomorrow is known as Voting Day for 99.99999999% of our country's population, but to my family, tomorrow has been named Trial Day.

It has been one year and a week since Jay's mom was killed in her home.  The only suspect there has ever been is Jay's youngest brother, who has been incarcerated for this whole time.  I have only seen the defendant once since the incident: he was shackled and dressed in orange, and I saw him across the courtroom during a preliminary hearing.  Tomorrow, he will be dressed in a suit, but he will still be sitting across the courtroom from me, next to his lawyer, whose job is to convince twelve total strangers that he is 1) innocent of the crime and 2) if he's not innocent of the crime, he was insane and shouldn't be held responsible.

I've never seen a trial before.  I've never sat on a jury; and to be honest, most of what I know about these things comes from Hollywood (a real reliable source right there).  But tomorrow, I will watch as Jay's other brother and sister are questioned and cross-examined on the stand about the last words they had with their mom and what they did and saw, and the next day I will hear Jay asked about the same.  There will be police officers, EMTs, and DNA specialists interviewed.  Through testimonies, the district attorney will be piecing together a picture for the jury of what happened, and the public defender will be doing her best to rip it apart.

My mother-in-law's last hours, minutes, and seconds will be discussed in agonizing detail.  And twelve people who are stuck on this case (witting or unwitting though they may be) for the next 6-8 weeks have to listen to it all.

Fortunately for me, I can listen to as much or as little of it as I want.  I've decided to make plans to attend every day this week, accompanied by a relay of dear friends, while other friends and family stay at home with my boys.  But if I want to, I can leave after the first 10 minutes of the first day and never go back.

So how do I feel about all of this?  Nervous.  The kind of sad that's a physical, dull ache behind the frontal lobe.  Braced.  A little queasy.  Preoccupied.  And so very, very, very sad.

I find myself still asking the question, “Why did this happen????  What good can possibly come out of this??  How does this tragedy fulfill God's greater purpose for the world?”  Honestly, I hope I find out someday.  But I guess for now I just have to keep taking it one day at a time, leaning on the things I do know, that:

• God dearly loves every person, but He lets us make our own choices—which sometimes hurt each other in awful ways.
• God is with me every second, and He weeps when I weep.
• There is a bigger picture, and although I feel like I'm in a little boat in the middle of the ocean, not even able to see over the waves, God can see the whole globe and cares for every person in it.
• My mother-in-law and my mom and countless others who love Him are with the person of Jesus this very second, safe and sound and in total peace and joy...and someday I'll be there with them.

But not today, and most-likely not tomorrow.  Tomorrow I'm going to be on a wooden seat in a small room, clutching a tissue and feeling sick to my stomach.  But I will not be alone.  No, I will not be alone.  And while the district attorney paints a picture of Jay's mom dying alone at the hands of her attacker, I know she wasn't really alone either.  Jesus was there, holding her soul in His loving, scarred hands, and He was weeping.

Boyfriend? 04 October 2012

Today my husband had a deposition with a police sergeant and a district attorney, and my six-year old confessed that he kissed a girl.  Just a normal day, right?

As strange and heavy as it is to be involved in a murder trial, it's the kissing story that's making me reel a bit, to be honest.  Yesterday, when I picked up G from school, his teacher pulled me aside to tell me that G had been talking about kissing girls during recess.  When I broached the subject with him, he cringed and refused to talk about it.

But--O miracle of having a two-parent family--Jay was able to coax the story out of him during dinner tonight by first asking G if he was embarrassed to talk about it (he said he was) and assuring him that we wouldn't think "bad-silly" thoughts about him.  Then G smiled and said there was a girl at school who "hated him" but that he liked.  (!!!!)  And he kissed her.  !!!! "What did she do?" Jay prompted casually.  "She pulled away her arm."  This here mom breathed a sigh of relief that it was only an arm kiss, at least.  G continued, "She didn't like it because her daddy said she couldn't have a boyfriend."  !!!!!!!

He continued that sometimes she liked being around him and sometimes she didn't.  Like when they participated in a learning station during class, she enjoyed being with him, and they cuddled.  (I wanted to interrogate, "What do you mean, cuddled???" but I kept my mouth shut.)  But later she didn't want to be around him.

Jay talked about why he could kiss me--"because we're married"--and I piped up that it might make the girl nervous if G talked about kissing with her.  "It doesn't make her nervous," G retorted confidently.  "She just doesn't like me."  Then Jay led a discussion that every little and big boy should hear, and suggested that maybe G should find out what kinds of things she likes and then do those things.  My eyes widened a bit when G rattled off what kinds of things she likes to eat and how she plays, but I'll choose to perceive this as him innocently inheriting my gift of observation, rather than being a stalker in the making.

I have to admit, G was awfully cute as he smiled and talked about this girl, and as he giggled about the things he did around her.  And to be perfectly honest, I remember pretending about kissing boys when I was his age, but I certainly didn't try to kiss any of them for reals!  Come to think of it, I deliberately avoided the occasional affectionate advance.  But I had no qualms about chasing said boys around the lawn.  I better quit before I bare too many quasi-embarrassing facts.

My take-away from this is that it's good to know I have a little boy who participates in his social environments, who feels safe talking about his feelings and actions around his family, and is willing to listen to suggestions about behavior changes.  Yes, those are good things.

One last Mommy thing to add:  Little Girl who spurns my charming son's playful affection, someday you're going to look back and say wistfully, "I really liked that boy G."