Father's Day

We are a blessed crew to have Scott as our husband and daddy.  We love him, love him, love him.  He puts up with my crazy up and down emotions and Ada's endless energy and John's need to wake up at all hours of the night.  I mean this in all truthfulness, Scott is probably the most patient man I have ever met.  He quietly walks through this life with me, and I am so glad that he is my partner.  Truly, if I were to describe Scott using two words, I would say patient and kind.  Always patient and kind. 

Ada adores him.  No one makes her laugh like her daddy.  He makes her laugh deep from her belly.  I am unable to produce those laughs from her.  He comes home from a long day of work and he plays and plays with her, running around the house and flipping her upside down, while I stand in the background saying, "please, Scott, be careful," and they always ignore my warnings. 

I know that John will soon adore him; probably in a way that only a son can.  I see it in Luke and Andrew as they love Steven and my own daddy.  Though Andrew is still young enough to prefer Near a lot of the time.

I am also thankful for my own daddy, and Scott's dad.  We were given such a gift in fathers who were faithful to our mothers, who worked hard to provide for their families, who were very present in our lives and continue to be present in our lives and our children's lives. 

I posted this poem two years ago, but I have to post it again.  It is one of my favorites and it certainly speaks of the love of my own father, Scott's father, and now Scott.  Parenting, it's a thankless job most of the time, but I am surrounded by men who fully embraced what they had to do. 

Those Winter Sundays 

Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?

--Robert Hayden

(photography by Cindy Stansberry Photography)

Failed attempt at a Mother's Day Picture. And a poem.

You are the trip I did not take;

You are the pearls I cannot buy;

You are my blue Italian lake;

You are my piece of foreign sky"

--Anne Campbell, "To My Child"

Thank you over and over, Lord, for letting me be a mother to these precious kiddos.  They are my treasures.

Christmas Eve

Merry Christmas Eve!!!

For to us a child is born,

to us a son is given,

and the government shall be upon his shoulder

And his name shall be called

Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,

Everlasting Father,Prince of Peace.

Isaiah 9:6

He the Mighty King has come!

Making this poor world his home

Come to bear our sin's sad load--

Son of David, Son of God.

He has come whose name of grace

Speaks deliverance to our race;

Left us for his glad abode--

Son of Mary, Son of God

--Horatius Bonar

Summer is knocking at my door

It is threatening to come to my house already, even though it is only May. Summer in the deep South is a bit like torture at times, don't you think?

Yesterday after I had showered and dried my hair, it was hard for me to put on my make up because my face was damp with sweat, and I looked at little Ada, whose hair was frizzy with curl and heat, and I said, "it's coming isn't it, sweetie?" Summer is on it's way.

The first summer that Ada was born, and we were fighting each other every step of the way as I tried to get her to nurse, our air conditioner in our apartment broke. We lived on the third floor, and all of the heat rose up to meet us and surround us and tried to drown us. Ada, her tiny infant pink self, was drenched in sweat, as was I. And yesterday when I saw her curls wet around her forehead from the heat, I was reminded that she and I don't do so well with the heat. It made me think of this poem, which is my plea when summer comes in the South.

Heat

O wind, rend open the heat,
cut apart the heat,
rend it to tatters.

Fruit cannot drop
through this thick air--
fruit cannot fall into heat
that presses up and blunts
the points of pears
and rounds the grapes

Cut the heat--
plough through it,
turning it on either side
of your path.

(taken from my book, Bartlett's Poems for Occasions)

Swiftly summer is making it's way here, and I am not sure that I am ready.

Late Father's Day Posts

Here I go again, two posts in one day, but I have been meaning to post this, and I am just now finding the time.

First a favorite poem in honor of Father's Day. If you are reading this and are not around other people, I suggest that you read the poem out loud. I love the sounds and the rhythm of this poem. You obviously can't appreciate it as well if you don't read it out loud. Just a little teacher suggestion.

"Those Winter Sundays"
Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?

I have loved this poem since college, but I love it even more now that I am a parent. Only now do I even slightly understand all of the things that my parents did for me, while I "spoke indifferently to them." I guess each stage of parenting will allow me to gain a little more understanding, though I suppose I will never fully understand. And I echo this poem, "what did I know of love's austere and lonely offices?" I am starting to get a glimpse of those lonely, austere offices.

I also love the picture of the father getting up in the blueblack cold (can't you just feel the cold in the hardness of those sounds?). My dad always started our cars before school on cold mornings. And made sure we had gasoline. And that our oil was changed. So much behind the scene stuff. So much that I just expected him to do. And he prayed with us on the way to school--the whole way, ha, ha. Sometimes, I would open my eyes because I wanted to be able to see a little bit of the scenery. But I am so thankful that he thought it important to pray with us before school. So, daddy, if you are reading this, thanks for all the little details.

And, mom, you know that I know you did a million things too--I will have to do a late mother's day post:)