on church vans and the places they took us

One of my favorite bloggers, Addie Zierman, has a new book coming out today! It's called When We Were on Fire, and I'm really looking forward to reading it this week. I've never met Addie in person, but I think we'd have quite a bit to talk about over coffee. We church kids tend to have our stories about our years of certainty, our years of questions, our searching out of peace. There's no formula to it (many church kids are highly suspicious of formulas and for good reason) but a lot of us have experienced a similar trajectory with different details, and I find that fascinating and also comforting. This post is part of a synchroblog happening over at Addie's blog today, and my attempt to examine some of the areas surrounding my own on fire time.

I grew up in a small church with plenty of Pentecostal spice: no holds barred preaching, church twice on Sunday with a potluck often in between, women with big hair and heels and also women who didn't own a dress, testimony time, Campmeeting in the summer, songs about God on the mountain still being God in the valley. It wasn't an easy group to define by any means. I knew about community, and I knew about having a fire in my bones, how it felt to want to matter and make a difference in the world.

Many things have become harder for me to define now; I look back and see a mix of truly beautiful and special experiences, as well as ones that had unfortunate consequences.

Something I realize, looking back on my stories, is that many of them involve a church van. I'm thinking, too, that if you were a church kid in some variation, you may have a few church van stories of your own. Here are a few of mine.

Sunday School

My earliest memory of a church van (well to be specific, this particular one was a full-sized white school bus) was driving around with my parents, picking up kids for Sunday school. That my parents spent their Sunday mornings not sleeping in or even just making it in time for a service, but rather rising early to get the whole family ready for our bus route, is telling of their commitment level. It was to me at that young age (five? six?) and especially now as a parent of small children who sometimes finds it difficult to get everyone to church wearing shoes on both feet, or if I'm being honest, sometimes finds it difficult to get myself to church at all.

Surrounded

One of my favorite things about summer was our day at the river. We would load up early in the morning, in our Christian t-shirts and cut-off jean shorts, picnic lunches and coolers, towels and flip flops, drive off to a spot along the Gila River and swim the day away. When I was twelve, I decided I wanted to be baptized a second time in the river, because I felt I understood it all a bit better than I had at age seven. Several of us had made the decision to be baptized or re-baptized, and we all stood waist deep in a big circle as each of us took our turn.

I remember so well what it felt like to be surrounded by all that water, all those people, the tall canyon walls, to make a statement of faith and mean every word. Believe every word.

On the way home, a summer monsoon pounded down on the roof of the old van we affectionately called Rusty, and the inside part of the ceiling began to collapse down on us. We pushed our feet up against it, water dripping down onto our faces, laughing uncontrollably. To this day, when I think of summer, I think of that moment.

Safe

My youth group was returning home from a short mission trip. Our shiny new 18 passenger van had not only carried us to Mexico and back home, it also served as a place to sleep for all the girls on the trip (the boys made camp inside the cinder block church, their sleeping bags rolled out on the sanctuary floor.) We had painted faces, handed out food, shared our testimonies, worshiped with local believers, and of course the whole experience was peppered with teenage silliness and a bit of youth group drama. Tired, happy, and ready for our own beds and showers, we drove in the direction of home. In the last leg of our trip, those of us who were awake were deep into a theological discussion. There was a newcomer to our group, a tall lanky guy who had a lot of problems at home and sometimes got into trouble at school for things like flipping off the camera during the senior group picture and setting off smoke bombs in the hallway.  He seemed really smart, and also sad. I liked him. As the conversation went on, he shared some of his questions about God and pain with the group; the sorts of questions we must all face if we're honest with ourselves. As we pulled into a gas station, one of the adult chaperons scolded him for his questions that she felt were disrespectful to God. He mumbled a quiet response and most of the group climbed out of the van to stock up on snacks and hit the bathroom. 

He leaned forward, resting his crossed arms on the back of the seat in front of him, lay his head down, and sobbed quietly.  My friend and I sat there in the dark, watching his shoulders shake. I knew in that moment that bullies can have the best of intentions, that showing up for church is incredibly brave for some people.

I managed to say something that I hoped was comforting. I still hope it was.

Whether its struggling with another day at school or handing out bags of candy to kids in Mexico, we bump up against ourselves. Wherever you go, there you are. I suppose I was learning that too; I just didn't have his kind of pain in my life. I didn't know yet what it meant to not feel safe at church.

Sold Out

Every summer, we loaded into a church van and went to camp. Camp was another of my favorite things, and I looked forward to it all year. We spent the days playing sports and silly games, and the nights in lively church services. Animated speakers would encourage and challenge us to be radical in our faith, sold out, to do BIG things for God. We would linger around the altar, soaking up that feeling and praying for each other. It was incredibly intimate, I realize now. We weren't only praying for each other to have more faith or be more bold. We were praying over our deepest wounds and fears, too.

I remember feeling like there was something different in the air at camp. I would leave feeling excited to share my faith, connected to the people in my youth group as well as new kids we met, and just happy in general. A few weeks after returning home, though, I would feel the energy start to fade. It was hard to reconcile the intensity and energy of camp with the routines of high school life, but we weren't really supposed to compartmentalize these things. If you didn't bring Jesus into everything, you might be ashamed of him, and that seemed like pretty much the worst thing someone could be. 

Sting

Once, one of those church vans drove us all out to a country graveyard. On the first day of high school, full of the hopes and schemes of a fourteen year old, a much-loved girl in our youth group had died in a head on collision, and we'd all been processing her death together, as best we could. We formed a circle around her grave and read from Paul's letter to the Corinthian church: oh death, where is your sting? oh grave, where is your victory? The plot was decorated with silk flowers and teddy bears, photos and crosses, and a light that her parents had installed. A soft row of trees stood in the distance, lining the same river we had been baptized in.

The van carried us back home, where life went on. We learned about grief: what it meant to smile at school and come home to a bedroom for a good cry, about praying through pain and dancing when the pain lifted, about honoring the dead by carrying on. That's the only time in my life I've walked through a season of grief with a group of people like that. I think about all that raw, consuming sadness coupled with just being a teenager, and maybe the reason we didn't all go under is because we had each other.

Sky

There was a ladder on the side of one of the vans, and sometimes we would climb up there and talk, watching the sun sink lower into the horizon of the vast New Mexico sky. I didn't know at the time, sitting cross-legged on top of that tan rusty van, pinks and oranges swirling all around us, that I was in soul-therapy. That vulnerability wouldn't come so easy as an adult. That I would wish for something, anything, like that one day.

Spirit

I look back now, and what stands out to me as real and timeless aren't the catchy slogans or the challenges to be bold or the attempts to be relevant to youth culture. What's precious to me now are the relationships: the girls who cried with me at the altar, the boys who chased us around the parking lot and took us mud-bogging and four-wheeling, the kind ladies who faithfully took out the felt boards every Sunday and told us about Noah, Moses, Deborah and so many other complicated biblical figures, the children's church leader who captivated us with her stories and taught us how to sing in the Christmas pageant, the people who made themselves available to drive a bunch of teenagers around in church vans. The potlucks and Sunday night singing, my parents in that big white school bus. The Spirit, the sense of wonder. That's the church experience I would love to pass on to my children, although I might save some of those Bible stories for when they're older. 

I hope they have a youth group to be silly and sad and real with. I hope their questions are welcomed. I hope they get excited about their faith, and I hope they know it's okay to not be excited for a season, too, and that the small things are actually the big things. That what their friends who believe differently need most from them is a just a genuine friendship. That things like being radical and bold and on fire for God are temporary, and to place their faith in those things (like their mother did, for a while there) will end in disappointment, but that placing their faith in the God of all seasons will bring peace in surprising places. 

we settle in

So, we moved. Very far from New Mexico. It occurs to me that Ricky and I are very good at jumping off of cliffs. Foster care felt like a cliff, like a hold-hands-and-jump endeavor. This move feels a bit like that too. But, it's pretty important to note that prior to our cliff-jumping shenanigans, we talk about whether or not we should jump for a long while. Years, typically. I don't know if that still counts as spontaneous, but it certainly feels that way. The whole should we move conversation's been happening since Nicky was a baby, but never really took form until the summer. I believe in keeping inventory of dreams, lining them up on shelves, dusting them off occasionally, putting them back, and when the time is right taking them down. The tricky part is knowing when the time is right. This dream just felt more and more right.

So here we are. It's September and already chilly; we bookend the days with jackets. There are crunchy leaves and hidden parks and forest trails. There's the thrill of something new and the ache of not having our people around to share it with.

Routine helps. There's a sweet neighbor who calls me baby (as in, hey there baby, you gettin' yourself together? and before I can really answer she assures me that's all right, it takes time) and we've tried a few churches. Sometimes all the newness is exciting, and sometimes I just want to hurry up and find our places here. 

Here are some pictures of our first weeks.

a little garden at Nicky's school

Silas loves "pitter-pillars" and unfortunately has discovered that stepping on them makes goo come out.

We have "lots of nature", Nicky says.

first day of second grade

taking Nicky to the bus stop

we spent a lot of time in our sweet little backyard

and this one loves to push all the things

My mom came to visit, and to stay with the boys while we finalized the adoption.

We all went to Washington DC a few times. I love that it's so close.

It wasn't until she left that the move started to feel real. We've had so much excitement in just the span of a month. Househunting, goodbyes, packing, the actual move, exploring a new town, unpacking, finalizing the adoption, my Mom's visit, new job for Ricky, new school for Nicky.....wow.  I've certainly needed some space and quiet to process it all.

Now, we settle in.

heavy for my friends

I was born to laugh
 I learned to laugh through my tears
I was born to love
I'm gonna learn to love without fear

Some friends are burying their Dad young today. The son plans to stand tall, sing and play guitar; I find that unspeakably brave. Other friends sit with a swiftly passing mother, shortly after their precious daughter was stillborn. Still.

Oh, there have been desperate prayers going up all around. Prayers for things to change, for what we see to not be so. And how can you not? You're stunned and you whisper it wasn't supposed to be this way. And my beautiful friends have something I do not- they pray the deepest hopes of their hearts. There are things I simply cannot bring my heart to ask for, but they can. I think, how can you not, but still I cannot. And so we take our shifts. We watch out for each other. And on a summer evening, we hush babies and cross our legs and sing Lord the dark is creeping in, is creeping up to swallow me, I think I'll stop and rest here awhile. 

We don't have to say any of the right things, and this is grace. We pray what hopes we can. There are times for theological questions, but now is not one of them. Now is the time to lean up against this force you can't make much sense of and find rest.

And another brave soul, she's reeling from a diagnosis that changes so much of what she hoped for. But I see my friends making these choices in the midst of their pain, choices that bring lightness and life into such dark places. I think, I want to be more like them.

Pour me a glass of wine
talk deep into the night
who knows what we'll find?

Intuition, déjà vu
the Holy Ghost haunting you
whatever you got, I don't mind

Two nights after this precious baby was born and snuggled and already called home, I assist with a delivery that's elegant in its simplicity. All is well, and so we leave mama and baby skin to skin with a big warm blanket covering them; we step out to let them have this time they worked so hard for. My heart is light in those moments; I'm nothing but happy for them. There is a process of thought beyond that which I simply cannot bear now.

Souls are born, souls die, some souls are in an in-between place. I suppose it lightens the load if you can think of life as a continuum. Not here and gone; just early or farther along. But still, we want to be at the same place with those we love; we want to walk along together. Isn't it what we were made for?

Put your elbows on the table
I will listen long as I am able
there's nowhere I'd rather be

My friend and I, we cry and process together, we talk about thin spaces and she tells me of the moment she held this precious baby and the veil between our world and the other was simply not there for a moment. How it was sacred, how it was an honor. Too much, almost. Too holy.

I know my Redeemer lives, maybe only because of those breaks in the veil. We know in our marrow, it wasn't supposed to be this way. And yet we know how to find beauty and hold on to it for dear life.


*lyrics from Born by Over the Rhine and All I Can Say by David Crowder Band

done.

It's been an interesting few months. Not long ago, I had this sinking, constant feeling that I was in control of nothing. My temper surprised me, my irritation was an addiction, little things exhausted me. Something had to give. I suppose I should elaborate on the feeling of lack of control: I couldn't control the timing of the adoption or make myself feel all the things I thought I should or make our daughter progress any faster in her journey, I couldn't make Silas any easier in the throes of toddler behavior, I couldn't seem to make myself any more patient with very long question and answer sessions with Nicky, it felt like I was going nowhere at work, and I continued to feel the loss of some things that are better not described here.

I was feeding the wrong wolf; I can see that so clearly now. The answer was not to keep shoving my feet into the shoes that just don't fit, or to force anything else, really. It was to find something I could be proactive about and get to work on it.

Turns out I'm a pretty controlling person. (It's been disappointing to realize this.) I honestly think it was God's hand, directing me to simply let go. Stop forcing. Fill my mind with other things. So I did: I took a leap and started a new job that was demanding of my time and energy, and my wonderful partner in life took up a lot of slack in the process. He wants me well too, and I love him for it.

I think one kind of tiredness is a cure for another kind of tiredness. It's the difference between your hands aching because you've been clenching your fists all day and your feet aching because you've been running with a purpose. That good tired when you fall into bed, when you've earned your sleep. I've found a lot of rest in getting good and tired, and I feel better. My mind feels like it's waking up, more than before.

As for those lack of control things: I've seen our daughter blossom under Ricky's calm and relaxed care, I've learned to enjoy my Silas again, and I now look forward to that moment when Nicky runs in the front door with his million questions and observations. Of course I still get frustrated from time to time, but I don't wear it like a heavy overcoat these days. Thanks be to God; I can say it with my whole heart.

I don't think the issue was ever actually about my children. Sure, parenting is such hard, self-exposing work, but there are other things in my life that felt wrong for such a long time that I was trying to keep plugging away at, and that created a toxicity that had to come out somewhere.

There are still things I don't know what to do with, but not everything is fixed right away (or at all, perhaps.) I can carry on. I've come to believe that it's okay to put things on a shelf and distract myself with the good. When the right time comes, I'll feel compelled to take them down, examine and work through them. In the meantime, I'm not forcing anything. I'm not enslaved to anyone's formula. I'll try to be better at listening, knowing we're all carrying quite a load around.

It comes back to this, over and over: walk gently through the world. Look for the goodness of God. Rejoice when you find it; rejoice with the people around you who see it too. Whoever they are, wherever you find them.

So I'm trying to look around, all the while feeling quite vulnerable and oh-so-tired. We're all in some stage of healing I suppose.

plans for Lent

Observing Lent is something I've wanted to do for several years. Here's what seems right and needful this year:

• letting go of Facebook and Twitter. It's fairly obvious I guess--I need more time in my day and I spend a lot of time mindlessly checking them. I love keeping up with friends and laughing at witty banter, but there's a darker side too. There's a temptation to see the worst in people, and I would really like to resist that. Not sure about long term solutions, but this is a start.  

• Reading just one blog post per day, and taking some time to reflect on it. I read a lot of blogs, and some of them are really quite profound, encouraging, and inspiring. For this season, I want to focus more on letting their messages really sink in, and maybe taking a little time to engage in conversation there, instead of just reading one after another. 

• Reading through the whole Bible. I'm following this plan. (Life may happen, I may not finish. But I will try.) Here's why: the Bible is an old friend, but because of various readings with various lenses, I've been pretty allergic to it in recent years. I've all but thrown it across the room at times. These days, I'm learning to look at everything through the wide and generous lens of Jesus, and oh, how that helps. If something doesn't line up with the character of God as revealed to us in Jesus then I get to question it. I've been tiptoeing into this freedom for years. This Lent, I want to dive into it; to read the entire Bible through the lens of Jesus, for the first time in my life. It's kind of a celebration of this new-found freedom, and rightly so, because it's been a big deal for me. (Maybe I'll have new or different thoughts about this when I'm done; we shall see.)

I was hoping to attend an Ash Wednesday service, but we'll be watching Little Miss' big sister and another sweet girl for the evening, so that will have to happen another year.

Here we go!

another way

Be careful when you fight the monsters, lest you become one. -F. Nietzsche

What exactly are we supposed to do with our anger? A good friend of mine once called it the healthiest emotion, which I think it certainly can be. Be angry and do not sin.

Feeling angry on a regular basis and not sinning is fairly exhausting in my own strength. Placing people into categories puts a band-aid on anger; making it easier to dismiss those with whom I disagree. Underneath, though, the wound festers.

Facebook, that great reveal-er of the human heart, helps us right along with this, doesn't it? So many broad proclamations; so many opportunities for subtle jabs. And so it goes: oh, you voted for President Obama? You must believe in abortion on demand and want to see churches stripped of their right to teach what they believe. You're a liberal elite. Obviously, you don't care about what the Bible has to say. Oh, you voted for Governor Romney? You must want all women to be barefoot and pregnant, with no agency of their own, and believe that everyone on Medicaid is lazy. You're a conservative, completely unaware of your own privilege in this society. Obviously, you don't care about the poor. (I've hyperbolized this a bit, but not too much, as you probably well know.)

My own personal Battle of the Categories has been largely internal. I feel compelled (Holy Spirit, is that you?) to let some light in. I want to see people for who they really are: a great many things.

I am thankful for the everyday prophets who call me out of the false dichotomies I have railed against and find myself slipping into. Categories make us feel safe, but they also kill any chance for relationship. In real life, people defy those categories. In real life, we have to find ways to champion justice and mercy. So many people talk about the straight and narrow road in terms of salvation, but these days I think of that phrase in terms of my interactions with other people. It is hard to be kind out in the open and in secret; not to think of anyone as ridiculous. (Because, if you hear their stories, you'll know they're not.)

My husband does something that I love: he wanders the halls at church, and talks to people. He's brave and curious enough to ask the good questions, and talk about the real things. Back when we first met, I used to think man, he makes a lot of eye contact. It's disconcerting to be noticed when you're trying to hide, but don't we all need that? He is a listener, in a world of people who just want to be heard.

Here's a thing: as I've moved from a place of struggling with the nature of God to a place of struggling with evangelical culture, as I've come closer to conclusions about questions I once didn't have answers for, I find it much easier to place people in categories. I find I've become less interested in the stories of people I don't agree with. Yikes. That needs to stop.

Here's another thing: I like having a few more answers these days. I like it that when I hear something that misrepresents who I've found God to be, a voice in my head firmly says no. There is so much more peace in my heart this way. But at the same time, I don't want to ever be comfortable with writing people off.

Something I love about Christianity, in its purest form, is that it offers another way. The only agenda we have to cling to is that of Jesus.

Hearing that Jesus had silenced the Sadducees, the Pharisees got together. One of them, an expert in the law, tested him with this question. "Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law? Jesus replied: "'Love the Lord your God with all your heart and all your soul and with all your mind.' This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments."

Matthew 22:34-40

(Oh, Jesus. I love you. You cut right through all the noise.)

Loving God with all my heart means I stay vulnerable, sensitive, open to the idea that I may be wrong.

Loving God with all my soul means I keep a sacred space for Him to work on me, with me, through me. It means I'm careful about what ideas about Him I let in.

Loving God with all my mind means I get to ponder, deconstruct, find the holes, imagine, and rejoice when He reveals new things to me. It means I get to grow at my own speed.

And loving my neighbor as myself? That means other people get to grow at their own speed. It means they get to protect their treasures from the harsh light, too. It means I should strive to create a safe space for them to be vulnerable. 

There's a beautiful line from one of my favorite poems: I Ask the Impossible by Ana Castillo:

...love me as you always have:
not as admirer or judge, but with
the compassion you save for yourself in your solitude.

Admiration isn't necessary; neither is judgment. There is another way.

in search of autumn color

It was a crisp, chilly fall day yesterday--perfect for a drive.

The babies napped on the way over.

We found what we were looking for, along with several deer skeletons. Nicky, of course, had to question whether they might be dinosaurs. He did some observing and poking and decided yeah, probably not.

We walked and picked up leaves for projects, and pressed them in my big fat nursing school books.

our gem-boy

Got some great shots of all three littles together. (I'm tired of hiding her face on here...) Hoodies with ears never fail to make me happy.

We thought maybe we could squeeze in a quick pie stop before any meltdowns began....and we had just enough time. We're getting to know what we can and can't do with this bunch.

 Nicky got a mustache, just in time for Movember I guess :)

I love Sundays.

fall, again

We made our annual visit to the pumpkin patch yesterday, and came home with three pumpkins: big, medium, and small. One for each of the littles.

This time last year we were filling out paperwork to be foster parents, and now we're looking at the possibility of adoption. Nothing even close to official yet, but that's the direction we've been told things are moving. We're going to pursue it as the opportunity arises. It feels like we're taking these slow, shaky steps but really, when I look at the big picture, things are just flying along. It's amazing.

Little Miss was a trooper. She stayed awake the whole time, rode in the carrier facing out for a while, then just hung out in her stroller. She smiles big when she sees Ricky.

Silas wasn't quite walking last year, so he thoroughly enjoyed himself this time. He ran, climbed, hoisted, ate and at times even stayed still for pictures. 

Nicky knew what he wanted this time around: a big pumpkin, lots of turns down the slides, and to find the diggers right away. He confided that last year he was a little scared of all the fifth graders playing on them.

Ricky and I found a contained play area and sat for a bit, eating fresh corn in a cup with lots of butter, chili powder and garlic salt, and a green chile tamale. Oh my.

At the end, the boys shared a wand of cotton candy, and it was suddenly very quiet. They just sat there, and every once in a while Silas would say "Dattoo, Gicky" after he was handed some more. 

Such a good Sunday afternoon.

disquieted

This week I am going to do things that are good for my soul. Things like:

• checking facebook a whole lot less
• setting the alarm and finally trying out that cycling class that scares me
• going outside in the evenings, taking an honest-to-goodness walk
• reading a book that's not criticizing or recommending anything, just a good book
• speaking kind words to myself more
• speaking kind words to my family more
• taking some time to make eye contact
• prayer and meditation (the practice of lectio divina has intrigued me for some time now)
• taking time to be creative
• breathing more, sighing less
• writing down ideas before they float away
• planting something for fall
• cleaning out closets and drawers, just for the feeling of it afterwards
• loving my littles exactly as they are, right now. Holding them close.

....and maybe at the end of it I'll find some things that have gone missing. 

open

There is color everywhere. Speckled eggs on a dish, a new can of slate blue paint for the back door, my toenails, more rose and yellow and pale blue in the laundry pile. We leave the back door open; the kids and the dog meander in and out. This I remember especially to enjoy, because it will be too hot soon enough. Right now it's all open windows and fresh air and potential.

We poke seeds into the ground: spinach and lettuce and wildflowers, and I keep finding so much happiness in little things. Watching an indie film while the floor dries. Folding whites, wiping away dust. Naptime, sadness, the luxury of mindfulness because it means there is space in the day. Scribbling with chalk on warm concrete. Weather that warrants ice cream and trips to the park and skirts and dinner outside. I feel the sort of elation and then calm that comes after you take a leap of faith. When you look around, and it's enough, and it's also okay to dream, and the deepest-rooted thing I know comes back to me:

everything is spiritual; every day is a gift. There is the seen and the unseen. I let all this swirl, lift it back up, say

thank
you

once
again.

bread crumbs: joy

Joy is mysterious to me, how it sneaks up and surprises. Yesterday morning, as I sat in church and listened to my pastor talk about serving the poor, reaching out to the lonely, and raising children to love Jesus and do the same, I was absolutely filled with it. We sang about vision; we heard stories of beautiful things that have already happened. I felt assurance rise up in me, and I felt the absence of a great weight.


I won't lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace*.

http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/502/montesibilinirim.jpg/

Lately there are hints of the divine everywhere. It's there, calling to me, and I commune with my Savior as the days pass. There is no special ritual really, we just walk together. This is what it looks like right now.

There are seasons where I can't seem to see past my own front door; where I'm overwhelmed with inner struggles. And then, one day, it just lifts, and I find I have a bit of wisdom to tuck away. Some days I choose joy and some days it chooses me. Joy doesn't really make sense; it just is.

I stumble out of a cave and I twirl in the sunlight, and there are several truths to contend with. One is that a force other than myself drew me out of it, and so I will not take that for granted. The other is that I will keep spending time in the cave, because there are precious lessons to be learned there. This is a journey, but I'm finding more and more that it's not linear. And if we have to revisit things, and look them over a few more times, there's a reason.

I am learning to embrace the mystery of it all.

*from Matthew 11, The Message

one step

The house is quiet and weekend-messy. I have no intention of cleaning until Monday. We're home from a birthday party for a sweet little friend, I have a hot cup of cocoa and a basket of yarn, and a sore flu-shot arm, and I am at peace. This morning I told Ricky, "I want to try this," pointing to the stack of papers that make up the foster/adoption application. And he said, "Cool". He was already there. So it's a yes, and I'm keeping in mind what the regional recruiter I spoke with told me-just take the whole process one step at a time, and be flexible. That's the plan.

Yesterday we went with Nicky's class to the pumpkin patch. Little brother tagged along too. Last year he was a belly pumpkin. We didn't do much chaperoning, because there were a ton of parents. So we pretty much just got to hang out and chase our own kids around like usual, and meet some of the parents we didn't know yet. I love this age. (I'm pretty sure I've said that every year of Nicky's life).

 rubber duck races

 cooling off under the leaves

tired Papa

We came home and vegged out for a few hours (and Silas took a real nap, not one of those 30 minute fakies he's prone to lately) then chopped up the garden. It was still very green so the soil should really benefit for next year. It's exciting to think about what could happen between now and then. We'll see.