Favorite Pink Post Cards | From: The Little Pink House

awake

Jan 142012

I watched her with her children today.

The gentle voice. The soft instruction.

She didn’t try to moderate disagreements from where she was at the kitchen counter; she didn’t wait until she was finished mixing the corn bread to explain their error.

Swiftly, silently she was there dealing with the offender.

She wasn’t so engrossed in her work that she could turn a deaf ear to the upset voices; she wasn’t more intent on her task than on her children.

She was awake and attentive to the constant need for instruction.

I listened in her home today.

Peaceful. Playful. Quiet. Happy.

We swapped ideas about teaching reading and sharing. We discussed titles and concepts of parenting books and methods.

She’s not perfect, and neither are they.

But what struck me most was what she didn’t say, the tone that wasn’t in her voice.

What I heard was the loving, patient way she spoke to each one of putting her sister first.

What they saw was that she put them first.

^{Five-Minute Friday: awake}

fifteen years

Sep 302011

pictures of us on that day, superimposed onto a picture of the geyser by which we met Fifteen years ago today, I met my very best friend.

No, we didn’t talk that day—we were young and shy, just days past our thirteenth birthdays.

But we listened to our parents as we all walked those boardwalks through Yellowstone—away from the Riverside Geyser where we met, towards Old Faithful itself.

We all thrilled at the kindred bond we felt. Little knowing it was but the beginning.

Yes, my romantic imagination wandered a bit. I wondered. Could he be the one?

But I was only thirteen. I couldn’t know how God would use this boy to mold me, to pray for me, to make me feel valued and special.

I couldn’t guess how he would make me love Country music and fill my mailbox with Hallmark cards. I had no idea what adorable kids we would have.

I didn’t know that on that day, September 30, 1996, I had met my very best friend.

Happy “anniversary,” my love!

Pictures:
Us, cropped out of family pictures from that day, and put over a picture of the geyser by which we met.
Us, celebrating our birthdays together this year.

Five-Minute Friday Prompt: of friends

goodbyes & growing older

Sep 272011

Growing older makes it hard to say goodbye.

hands (photo by my sister Jessica)

They are two years old and three years old. And it’s only hard to say goodbye because they don’t understand time or why people have to live so far away or how long it is until Christmas.

He and I are getting oh-so-close to thirty. And it’s awfully hard to say goodbye because we watch the younger ones growing older and the older ones growing older and we know that each goodbye might be the last—for any of us.

heads (photo by my sister Jessica)

They grow older each time I see them, there on either side of eighty. And it’s awfully hard to say goodbye because their steps are a little slower and their hearing a little harder, while age has given them wisdom and His nearness has given them patience.

Growing older makes it so hard to say goodbye. Because each moment is as normal as it has always been. And yet each moment is so precious because it might never come again.

hearts (photo by me)

{linking up with Five-Minute Friday and Just Write because sometimes Fridays become Tuesdays quite quickly and because the two go so well together that I just wrote—for just about five minutes—on the prompt “growing”…}

I Love My Aprons

Sep 172011

I’m so glad you dropped by my kitchen!

Let’s pour a cup of tea and swap apron stories for a bit, shall we?

I’ll cut a slice of homemade bread and get out the raspberry freezer jam.

And then, if dinner-time’s a-comin’, I’ll tie on an apron and you can keep me company while I cook.

Sound good?

~Gret

“Don’t take off your apron, whatever you do, it’s peculiarly becoming.”

-Little Women by Louisa May Alcott, page 204

seasons

Sep 072011

laundry and leaves

Summer is almost over. I feel it in the crisp, cool mornings that make us pull out the sweaters and hoodies. I see it in the red-tinged leaves of our Maple tree.

The summer I dreaded, anticipating the craziness of a summer schedule with three little ones under three. The same summer in which I was showered with company and help and merciful rest and naps. Tears come to my eyes as I look back on this summer and realize that He was faithful.

I didn’t get everything done that I’d planned. My sister wasn’t here for every day and week and month of it. But it was a productive, growth-filled summer.

My aunt often reminds me of what dear old “Grandma” Cloud would always tell her:

The days are long, but the years are short.

And as summer draws to a close, I realize that the days may be long, but the seasons are short.

And in each season, He remains faithful.

red maple 1

Be still, my soul: the Lord is on thy side.
Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain.
Leave to thy God to order and provide;
In every change, He faithful will remain.
Be still, my soul: thy best, thy heavenly Friend
Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.
-“Be Still My Soul” by Katharina A. von Schlegel, verse 1

red maple 2

Be still, my soul: thy God doth undertake
To guide the future, as He has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
Be still, my soul: the waves and winds still know
His voice Who ruled them while He dwelt below.
-“Be Still My Soul” by Katharina A. von Schlegel, verse 5

red maple 3

so glad you called

Aug 182011

“When’s a good time to call?”

Several friends have asked me the same question recently. I suppose my lack of response has answered as well as I could have.

When is a good time to call a mom of little people?

In the morning when she’s getting breakfast on the table and laundry in the wash and daddy off to work?

When she has five spare minutes to sit down and get to some desk work that must-needs be done?

Right before lunch when the baby’s waking and the laundry’s calling and lunch isn’t ready?

When all the children are napping and the house is quiet and she finally has a moment to write?

When she catches a brief moment of rest with her feet up, out in the fresh air and sunshine?

When everyone’s awake and clamoring for a snack and there’s dinner to be made?

At dinner when her husband is home and she finally has another adult to talk to?

In the evening when we never go anywhere anyway because everyone’s tired and ready for baths and mommy’s more ready for bed than anyone?

My friends have figured out that there’s no time that’s always going to be “good” to call.

That’s why they call me when they are thinking of me and then give me the chance to call back later if it’s a really bad time. That’s why they see a Facebook status that makes them worry about me and call me without giving me a chance to tell them over the internet that I’m fine. That’s why they keep me on speed dial and make the call without looking at the clock.

Maybe there’s no good time to call. But we call each other anyway. And leave long, rambling messages if the other’s too busy to pick up. Because we just might be “so glad you called…”

If someone you know is weighing on your mind
And needs a friend on the end of that other line
Don’t hesitate what you say may seem so small
But who knows
They might be glad you called…
So make the call

-lyrics from Matt Kennon‘s “The Call“

smile lines

Aug 112011

It’s always worst on Sunday mornings. I wait until the last minute to get dressed, letting the little man who still shares our bedroom get as long of a nap as possible before we go to church (where naps are now impossible for him, unlike some of the other people who go there).

I pull the outfit from the closet that I’d been thinking of wearing. It would match the dresses I had picked out for the girls. I slip it on, as the little guy in the playpen wakes up.

I tug, I pull, I turn around. But nothing makes it connect where I want it to. Everything sticks out where it’s not supposed to.

I yank it off. I pull open my drawer, digging around to find option number two.

Rinse. Repeat.

By the time my husband comes in to investigate crying baby and quiet wife, he finds the still unmade bed littered with discarded outfits, the closet open, the bottom dresser drawer overflowing with the shirts bearing evidence of an extensive rifling.

He knows better than to say anything. He holds the baby while I race to the bathroom to put on my makeup, impatiently brushing past the little girls who want me to admire their pretty dresses.

It’s not that I am satisfied with the way I look in the outfit I have on—it’s just that we’re already late.

I try to keep the tears from coming and ruining my makeup, as I have the familiar conversation with myself on the way to church.

You should choose your outfits the night before. But I never know what the weather will be like—or what I’ll feel like wearing! You’ve got to remember you’re a nursing mother of a young baby. But I want to be pretty for my husband! Then you’ve got to stop eating so many cookies. But my husband likes to have goodies around to eat. Then you need to start exercising. When?

I heave a big sigh. About that time, his hand slips off the steering wheel and reaches over to grab mine.

“I love you,” he whispers, squeezing my hand.

I try to smile back.

I know he loves me no matter how I look. But I want to look nice for him. He might prefer you looking happy to looking skinny. Thanks, conscience.

And we get to church and I paste on a smile and it becomes a real one as I walk into the love and warmth of our church family.

A church family filled with wrinkled, stretched-out, post-menopausal, graying, old ladies. Some of the most beautiful ladies I’ve ever known.

Husbands’ arms around them (those whose husbands aren’t already in Heaven), laugh lines around their eyes, contentment shaping their faces. Their children are getting cancer, their friends are going home to Heaven at an increasing rate. But they are the light of the nursing home, the ones with the most praises to share on Sunday mornings.

I look around and realize that even though my daughters will probably fit that shirt I wore the day we started courting before I will again, it’s not really size that matters.

He always said he loved my smile, so maybe I should work more at putting it on instead of those jeans.

Maybe beauty has a lot less to do with size than with attitude.

I look over at him holding the crayons for those children who helped make my body look like this. And I forget my clothes and my shape as I smile at the love in his eyes.

The weight will come off in its own sweet time. Meanwhile, there are three little people learning their definition of beauty from me.

I’m working on those smile lines already.

IMG_5101-1

still

Jul 292011

Still.

“Be still.”

“Peace, be still.”

“Be still and know that I am God.”

Still? When am I still?

My hands are busy holding, doing. My mind is busy thinking, planning. My ears are busy listening, trying not to hear.

But He commands me, just as He commanded the waves that day—“be still.”

I step outside. The wind that He bid be still is whispering. The earth that He made is literally singing forth His praise.

Somehow, out here, with the sun at my back and the wind in my face, it’s easier to be still. Easier to listen. Easier to hear.

Maybe the expanse of sky is less distracting than the expanse of dirty dishes. Maybe there’s less that’s just stuff and more that points to the all-wise Creator.

Maybe I’m just a farmer’s wife, a country girl, who feels closer to her Maker when walking the dust He formed man from.

But when I need to be still, I step outside where nothing is still and yet everything still points to Him.

Sunset Sky

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