holy ground

It struck me this morning, as I gazed down at my feet, that the ground beneath them—the stretch of real estate that runs past my kitchen sink, from the refrigerator to the stove--is holy ground. I don’t often think of it that way. Usually, when I am there, holiness is the farthest thing from my mind. But it is sacred nonetheless.

For this ground is the first place I go to in the morning, and the place where I wind up when I can’t sleep at night.

It is where I prepare my family’s meals, sometimes lovingly but more often than not with a lot of sighing and grumbling.

It is the place where my husband kisses me good-bye in the morning and hello in the evening.

It is the spot where countless arguments have begun and where many have ended.

It is where I stand to watch the birds flock carelessly around the bird feeder, and where I stare out the window, fretting about the future.

When I read the day’s mail, I lean with my back against the counter there, ready for whatever might come my way.

When I am on the phone, whether it is with a friend in need or I am simply on hold, I pace back and forth along that stretch of floor wondering how many feet have trod that same path.

And, when my children don’t know where to find me, it is the first place they look (of course it is the only place they look before they start yelling).

In this place, I have received good news as well as bad; found reasons for celebration as well as for remorse.

In this place, I have shed many tears and laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe.

In this place, I have gotten a lot of great ideas, and lost my train of thought more times than I care to remember.

I have poured out countless doses of medicine on the counter there and cleaned what seems like hundreds of scraped elbows and knees under the faucet.

I have watched generations grow older here--my parents, my siblings, my children—and I have set down and torn up roots only to set them down again.

Perhaps what makes this ground holy is not what I do here but what God does. For this is the place where I least expect to find Him and the place where I most often do.

steak tonight!

Tonight we're having steak.  Here's the reason why:

On Tuesday, my local grocery store was having a sale on meat:  five packages for $19.99.  Being the bargain shopper that I am, I dug through the bin until I found the biggest package of meat I could find:  a nice, thick, juicy, london broil steak, valued at $8.43.  Since it was getting late, however, I also bought a package of hamburger which I used to throw together a quick pot of spaghetti for dinner.

On Wednesday, one of my kids had soccer practice which meant I would be in the car at the moment the steak would have to go on the grill.  So, at 3:30, I pan-seared the chicken thighs I got on sale and then smothered them in a lemon-garlic-basil sauce (the basil was my idea) and baked them in the oven for forty-five minutes  As it turned out, soccer practice was cancelled but the chicken was so yummy I didn't really mind.

Thursday morning, I suggested to Mark that he marinate the steak so we could grill it for dinner.  But, by the time dinner rolled around, we encountered two unexpected snafus:  hornets in the grill and extra kids in the yard.  Since neither seemed as though they were going to leave anytime soon, we did what any red-blooded American family would do:  we ordered Chinese food.

Last night, it was more soccer practice and more driving.  By the time I got home, it was too late to begin baking the potatoes I bought to go with the steak so I heated up the leftover Chinese food and spaghetti and set it out on the counter.  Then, after dinner, under cover of darkness, Mark sprayed the grill with hornet spray and got rid of the nest.

Which brings us, at last, to tonight.  The steak is marinated, the potatoes are washed and ready to go, and the hornets are gone.  There will be no guests for dinner tonight, I have informed my kids, and no unexpected change in plans.  Because we are going to eat that steak--and enjoy it--if it's the last thing we do!

Daisy's home!

Daisy is home and all is right with the world.  Not that anything was wrong, but when Daisy is away things are different.

The house is quieter.

There is more hot water for showers.

The computer is more accessible.

The kitchen is less chaotic.

The pile of shoes by the front door is greatly diminished.

There is no softball glove in the middle of the living room floor.

And all my sweaters are right where I left them.

 As nice as that might sound, it's just not right.  I guess I've just gotten used to the noise and the clutter and the craziness.  I guess I've just gotten used to Daisy.

give us this day

The other day, I received an email about a woman who had suffered unspeakable tragedy.  What followed was an outpouring of cyber prayers--"Lord, draw near to her," "Help her to see your hand," "Teach her to trust in you"--all of which were beautiful and appropriate to the situation.  But as I stared at the screen, all I could think was, "Lord, get her through this day.  Help her to get out of bed in the morning and to put one foot in front of the other.  Help her to eat; to breathe; to be."

Sometimes, when life throws us a curve ball (as it seems to be doing a lot lately) we jump right to the grandiose, the hoped-for end result--"Lord, help me to find a job," "Teach me to trust you in these difficult times," "Grant me a sense of purpose and meaning in this nothingness"--when, what we really should be praying for is today.  "Give us this day, Lord, our daily bread."

Help me, God, to put my feet on the floor in the morning.

Help me to see making my kids' lunches as a blessing and not a curse.

Open my eyes Lord to the beauty of your creation as I run.

Grant me wisdom and patience as I make my way through the grocery store.

Remind me to smile and look people in the eye.

Give me this day.

chalk drawings on the driveway

One sure sign of spring for me are the chalk drawings that seem to sprout on my driveway around the time the daffodils and hyacinth come into bloom.

I love chalk drawings on the driveway.  There is something so festive, so fun and playful about them.  Once, when we were living in the city, Amelia and I drew chalk flowers and hearts on the sidewalk in front of a friend's apartment to celebrate her birthday.  The next day, my friend called and explained that she had not seen the drawings the day before because it was dark when she got home.  "But, when I went out this morning and saw them there," she said, "I was so happy I nearly skipped all the way to the subway."

Fortunately, my children have not yet outgrown drawing on the driveway, although they seem to have less time for it than they did in the past.  So I am thinking of putting a bucket of chalk out by the mailbox and inviting the up-and-coming chalk artists in my neighborhood to have at it.  But why stop there?  If you know anyone who is looking to release their inner child, or at least feel a few years younger, tell them to stop on by.  I've got plenty of chalk and there's always room on the driveway for one more artist.

gremlins (who needs 'em)!

I am really starting to believe in gremlins, those pesky creatures that try to foil your good mood by taking your stuff: a single sock from the dryer, keys, a favorite earring,  my glasses (these they are kind enough to return eventually although they never manage to put them back in the place I remember leaving them).


Lately, it seems, the gremlins have been hard at work around my house, taking everything from permission slips, to music books  to sports equipment (really, gremlins, I ask you, what good is a chewed up mouth guard to you?).  At times such as these, in moments of sheer desperation, I have been known to shake my fist at the gremlins (who, I believe, live in the floor) and shout things like "give it back," and "it's not yours."  But, being gremlins, they don't seem to listen.  Nor do they seem interested in the peace offerings I have made: the ping-pong table in the basement; the bracelets that are in a gigantic knot it my jewelry box; the socks with holes in them.

So, I am off this morning to look for a lost necklace, a missing tooth and my glasses.  Hopefully, the gremlins have grown tired of these things--and of spoiling this beautiful day--and will take my up on my offer of a pair of mismatched socks, an assortment of old keys, and a humble apology for ever doubting their existence.

casserole and cereal season

The crack of the bats at Fenway can only mean one thing in my neck of the woods: the start of the spring sports season.

I like to call this the Casserole and Cereal Season. That's because, on a good day, I will have a casserole ready to go in the oven once all the craziness stops.  Most days, however, my kids will eat cold cereal out of a Ziploc bag as we hustle from one activity to the next wondering why I look forward to this season every year.

good friday

I like this quote from Buechner (okay, I like just about everything Buechner writes).

"To repent is to come to your senses.  It is not so much something you do as something that happens.  True repentance spends less time looking at the past and saying 'I'm sorry,' than to the future and saying, 'Wow!'" -Frederick Buechner.