Rest

My tenth loaf of strawberry bread cooled on a wire rack. In a frenzy, I darted around the kitchen making a final effort to clean the explosion of mess before Christmas Eve. It was nearly ten o'clock p.m. and I was exhausted, a nasty cough still lingering after a week of vitamins and NyQuil. Ultimately I reached the corner near the phone where magazines, letters to reread, and lists of "things to do" inevitably collect, threatening to become the clutter which I disdain. Our most recent copy of The Word, a magazine our family receives gratis from the Antiochian Archdiocese was amongst the stack. I was mentally and emotionally at my limit and was about to pitch it into the garbage. Yet, supposing I at least owed the people who so graciously produce it a moment of my time, I picked it up for a quick glance before pulling out the vacuum. As I flipped through the pages, I came across an article whose author, quoting from Joan Osborne's 1995 hit, had entitled the piece "One of Us" and who sought not only to demonstrate how the Christmas hymns of the Church testify to her core belief of the Incarnation of Christ - God becoming one of us - but how in "performing" the hymns in worship, "theology becomes alive, becomes praise, becomes dialogue with God. Its vantage point is no longer outside the event to which it refers, but rather the event itself, made present liturgically and encompassing worshippers past, present and future." I slumped to the floor. Leaning against the refrigerator and reading the following hymn from the Eve of the Nativity, I experienced the rest my weary soul and body so desperately needed:

Today is born of a virgin He who holds the whole creation in His hand. He whose essence none can touch is bound in swaddling clothes as a mortal man. God, who in the beginning fashioned the heavens, lies in a manger. He who rained manna on his people in the wilderness is fed on milk from His mother's breast. The bridegroom of the Church summons the wise men; The Son of the virgin accepts their gifts. We worship Thy birth, O Christ! We worship Thy birth, O Christ! We worship Thy birth, O Christ! Show us also Thy holy Theophany.

A blessed Feast of the Nativity. Christ is Born! Glorify Him!

P.S. On the homefront: Thomas has declared his new favorite color to be red. Russell and Elliot have discovered their noses and take great delight in sticking their fingers up this sensory tool, as well as blowing it into their hands. Russell has likewise learned how blowing on one's arm results in noises little boys seem to love; these noises make Elliot giggle. Enjoy our favorite pictures of December!

St. Nicholas Day

There have been times, while standing in church, that a glance over at my dear four-year-old son has revealed less than appropriate behavior. Admittedly, to the untrained eye, this little one has the appearance of exemplary conduct: He is standing, feet crossed just a bit, swaying back and forth, but still standing, his thumb and index finger crunched ever so slightly with a tiny space between. One might imagine he is preparing to cross himself. But to the well-trained eye, the posture of these fingers is anything but holy or innocent. To the individual well-versed in all things Star Wars, he or she recognizes that in the mind of this child, he has transformed from four-year-old boy attempting to make it through liturgy to the villanous dark knight, Darth Vader. Indeed, as we pray for the Lord's mercy, Lord Vader's Force-filled gesture unmercifully punishes one whose lack of faith in the ancient tradition of the Force is "disturbing."

Tonight, however, there is no pretend choking, no mention of the vast array of weapons that he has usually mentally accumulated for play time after church. Rather, Thomas, standing in his gray socks. is praying. His squeaky, childish voice, boldy rises above the adults, "Rejoice, O Father Raphael, adornment of the Holy Church...consolation of the oppressed, father to orphans, friend of the poor, peacemaker and good shepherd..." On this Friday evening, while university students party outside, a small group from our church community have gathered to pay homage to another saint likewise characterized for his vast generosity to those in need. Candles flicker around the holy icon of St. Nicholas, Bishop of Myra and Lycia (the historical ascetic figure our culture has banalized into a gluttonous, jolly-old elf), providing some light in the dimly lit chapel. Incense from Father Ignatius' censer rises as prayers to God. The choir chants hymns to the saint:

"A river of healings abundantly pouring and a plentiful fountain of wonders hath Christ shown thee to be, O Nicholas: for those bitterly oprressed by illness, and those tormented by the cruel misfortunes of life truly find healing for every affliction, thy warm protection. Therefore we cry out to thee: pray to Christ God to grant remission of sins to those who with love festively celebrate thy holy memory."

As the vesperal liturgy concludes, the children (and a couple college students) grow antsy. Pairs of shoes line up outside the chapel. Throughout the service the children have eagerly awaited a visitation by St. Nicholas, anticipating a gift of candies in their shoes. And our holy Father does not disappoint. Cries of delight emit from the younger children as chocolates are unwrapped; knowing smiles are displayed upon the faces of the older children.

Upon our arrival home, a bit of chocolate still smeared around his mouth, Thomas and I carefully place our shoes by the door before going to bed, hoping that St. Nicholas will sojourn to our home, bearing gifts. And again, the saint does not disappoint. As Russell and Elliot, more enamored with tearing the wrapping paper than the actual gifts, open books, Thomas unveils a toy Millenium Falcon. "How did St. Nicholas know this was exactly what I wanted?" Thomas questions. Later that day, as has become part our family tradition, we loaded into our van despite the bone chilling cold and journeyed to Mumma's Christmas Tree Farm. Though the cold necessitated that I remain in the van with Russell and Elliot, Jared and Thomas grabbed a saw and cut down a nearly flawless Scotch pine. (It was Thomas' duty to yell "Timber!" when he began to see the tree fall.) Together we drove home, Thomas lost in the midst of pine branches, fingers sticky with candy cane bestowed upon him by one of the Mumma family; Elliot pointing to the tree which threatened him from the rear; and Russell, well Russell, he was doing what he does best, snapping his fingers and doing what we have termed "The Hustle Bustle."

A blessed St. Nicholas Day!

Pie Crust Fail

I stood at the kitchen counter. The sun had set hours ago and the children were in bed. I glanced over at the bowl of peeled and sliced Jonathan apples doused with sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg. A recipe lay to my left, as did flour, vegetable shortening, salt, a glass baking dish, rolling pin, and kelp (oh wait, not kelp, that was for a vegan pumpkin pie created by my dear friend Molly a few years ago, not mine). The stage was set. There was no turning back. I had resolved to overcome my inordinate fear of making a pie. As you may recall from a previous post, I had all but sworn off any attempts of ever making a pie crust after a disastrous endeavor several years earlier. But that was before my days of breadmaking and extreme baking. If I could roll out pizza dough every Friday evening, I reasoned, surely I could tackle this feat. Besides, I had acquired from Jared's grandmother a crust recipe guarannteed not to fail. It seemed simple enough - no cold water with an ice cube immersed to dip my fingers, no chilling of dough - just mix and roll. Valiantly I faced my adversary, rolled up my sleeves, and launched my quest for victory.

Act One
I breathed a sigh of relief. I had successfully rolled out and transferred the bottom crust to the pie dish. Confidently, I gathered the remainder of the dough into my floured hands. Suddenly my previous apprehension seemed silly. With ease I had completed part of my task, and in a few minutes I would have a pie baking in the oven, and sufficient time to watch an episode of Mad Men before retiring to bed. With a gleam in my eye, I dared the dough to cross me.

Act Two
An hour later, I still stood at the kitchen counter, pieces of dough surrounded me. The gleam had transformed into tears. The no-fail pie crust had failed. I felt bamboozled, betrayed. Sensing my acute desperation, Jared, who was washing the steady stream of dishes my pie making was producing, offered words of encouragement and advice. "Add a litte more shortening," he suggested. But instead of alleviating the crust debacle, the shortening served only to excaberate the situation, and I was left with shiny fingers and white grease smeared onto the flaking dough. Moreoever, our tempermental kitchen drain chose this particular moment to become clogged and brown dish water stagnated in our sink. Finally, in order to redeem my thwarted efforts, Jared picked up the rolling pin, crushed the dough back into a ball, and began to roll while I lamented over our misadventures. Initially, Jared's labors appeared not in vain, but when an attempt was made to shift the dough from the counter to the dish, it collapsed into pieces. Reluctantly, and a bit ambivalently, I commenced the entire process again.

Act Three
An hour and a half later, numerous bowls, wooden mixing spoons, and measuring cups cluttered the kitchen counter. Flour disseminated throughout the room, resting primarily on my black shirt and pants. Thankfully, the dirty dishwater began to slowly vacate the sink, leaving behind a ring of unmentionable yuk. Despite the dissaray, I smiled in satisfaction. The smell of baking apples permeated the house as the fully crusted pie cooled on a wire rack on the dining room table. A bit excessive in his praise but having learned the wisdom of flattering his wife, Jared declared the pie to be "the most beautiful one ever," and it tasted pretty good too! Victory is indeed sweet.

A blessed Thanksgiving to you all.

Just a few comments on the pictures. When not busy wielding light sabers and destroying bad guys, Thomas often lapses into, I must admit, our least favorite character: Baby Thomas. Last week, Thomas handed me his tie and informed me that Baby Thomas was going to church. And yes, we loaded ourselves into the van (couch), participated in the Divine Liturgy and received the Eucharist. When not busy throwing food, books, toys, etc. everywhere (or in Russell's case, stealing Elliot's toys), Russell and Elliot are enjoying games of chase, reading books, wrestling with their older brother, and just being cute.

A Time to Dance

I remember clearly the first time I heard Tessie's name. Thomas and I were in our backyard playing baseball when my then neighbor and her two year-old son arrived home. It was a rare occasion for all of us to be outside at the same time. Our conflicting schedules usually prevented any neighborly play between the two boys. But on this particular day, neither of us were pressed for time nor hindered by responsibilites and while the two boys played, Kristin and I sat on the grass and talked. We spoke about pregnancy, infertility, and adoption. We were in the process of adopting and she and her husband were likewise hoping to expand their family. "You should meet my friend Tessie, " Kristin casually commented. "She and her husband are adopting a little boy from Ethiopia." And as a result of Kristin's generous invitation to join a recently formed book club, I did indeed meet Tessie, as well as four other intelligent, strong, gracious women.

It was last Wednesday afternoon when, as part of an effort to combat my excessive list of "must haves," and other poisonous thoughts that creep into my head, I was taking a few moments to thank God for all His provisions to me and my family. As I was reflecting upon the abundance of food, clothing, heat, and other basic necessities, as well as luxuries, that I and most Americans possess, it occurred to me, for the first time, to be grateful that I had access to clean water. It was just twenty minutes later that I opened an email from Tessie entitled, "Wanna Dance?" I was intrigued by the title and awed and humbled by its content. According to recent information, 1.1. billion people do not have access to clean water; 4,500 children and 42,000 adults die daily as a result. Illness due to lack of clean water is the leading cause of death for children under the age of five in underdeveloped countries. Experts estimate that it would take nearly $10 billion to provide everyone with clean water. While it is difficult to wrap one's mind around that number, Tessie urged us to consider that Americans spend a staggering $45 billion annually on Christmas gifts. Passionate about giving back to the African people, Tessie and some friends are attempting to spread the word of this global crisis (and attain contributions for a non-profit group called Charity: Water) by, well, dancing. (To find out more, visit Tessie's blog: dancingforwater.blogspot.com.) Our motley crew will eventually dance for water, too. (With a flare for the theatrical, Jared would like us to dance to Prokofiev like Woody Allen's dance with Death at the conclusion the film, Love and Death.)

It was Sunday morning, November 16th, the day the Orthodox Church commemorates St. Matthew the Evangelist, and thus Russell's namesday (he was baptized Matthew). Things for the Johnson family were grim. Though we had actually managed to assemble into the van by 9:00 and were on schedule for arriving at church before liturgy began, tempers were inflamed. (Thomas concluded that a lot of people in the family, i.e. me and Jared, had woken up on the wrong side of the bed.) The hostile environment worsened when twenty minutes into the trip to Iowa City, Jared realized that he had inadvertenly left a box of pamphlets in the trunk of the car. It was necessary that the pamphlets be delieverd to church, so with no other viable option we exited and headed east on I-80 towards home. "Why bother going," I hissed (really, I hissed). But it was Russell's namesday and thanks to Jared driving a bit over the speed limit, we were really not any later than usual. (Editor's note: Does it balance the cosmic scale if the purpose for speeding is to get to church on time? Moreover, does the fact that I did not get a ticket infer God's blessing on my speeding?) During his homily, our priest typically relates the story of the saint the Church is commemorating that day. This Sunday was no exception. As I held sweet Russell and attempted to distract him with all sorts of jewlery, Fr. Ignatius told St. Matthew's story. Most of it I knew - how when Christ gave his offer to Matthew of becoming a disciple, Matthew instantly dropped everything and followed Him. But then, my ears perked up. Suddenly I was hearing a portion of the story I had never known. According to Church Tradition, after writing his gospel, St. Matthew traveled to (as Thomas would say, "you cannot imagine it") Ethiopia. In fact, St. Matthew is attributed to founding the Church in Ethiopia, and this is the land where he obtained the crown of martyrdom. And when the Ethiopian woman and her children, whom I had not seen in weeks entered the chapel, I fought back laughter and tears.

Lately I have been considering what we as a family can do to consume less and give more. Though it is a vice I vehemently detest and pray to eradicate from my being, greed all too often envelops my heart in subtle ways. And frankly, I am sick to death of feeding it by convincing myself that my wants are sincere needs. Last week we had received in the mail the most recent edition of the magazine our adoption agency, Holt International, publishes. Listed in the center were suggestions of "meaningful gifts that could transform children's lives." Overall, the amounts of money necessary to significantly affect a child's life are quite minimal. For example, a gift of $100 would provide a poor family in Cambodia, the Philipines, Thailand, or Vietnam with "a brood of chickens, a cow, piglets, a sewing machine and supplies, as well as agricultural equipment" so the family could commence a home-based enterprise which would stabilize the family financially and eliminate the risk of children losing their parents. This is less money than I drop for food per week. (If you want to donate, click here.)

The Church in her wisdom sanctions a fast prior to the celebration of the Son's incarnation into the world for our salvation. For forty days, Orthodox Christians all over the world prepare together, abstaining from certain foods and sinful practices until the feast to come. The days prior to the Christmas season are a time not only for reflection but also for self-denial- not solely as an end of itself, but in order to unite us with God. More than linked to this period of abstinence is the act of almsgiving. As we consume less, we are called to give generously to those in need. It is not optional, but an essential part of our salvation. Indeed, according to St. John Chrysostom, feeding the poor is to be considered a greater act than raising the dead.

The Gospel reading assigned for today by the Church lectionary is from Luke 14. While there are times when reading Christ's words, I am puzzled by their meaning, His teaching on how we are to treat others, and especially the poor, is straighforward and pertinent.

When you give a dinner or a supper, do not ask your friends, your brothers, your relatives nor rich neighbors, lest they also invite you back, and you be repaid. But when you give a feast, invite the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind. And you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you... He who has ears to hear, let him hear.

Possibilities

"There was no possibility of taking a walk that day." Admittedly, these are not my words, but those of the author, Charlotte Bronte, from her work Jane Eyre. But since this is one of my favorite pieces of literature and since I believe it to be an adept first line of a book, I decided to start this week's post with it. Yesterday morning, as I descended the stairs at 7:10 a.m. (to be precise), two little babies clutched tightly in each arm, praying I would not trip and fall down the stairs, the sun literally illuminated my living room. It was simply lovely and its warmth provided me with that extra burst of initiative that I desperately need on a Monday morning. But today, here in Iowa, the clouds replaced the sun. (Thomas and I could not decide if the sun was playing hide and seek or was merely refusing to get out of bed.) It appeared to be a chilly, damp, gloomy day. When I considered bundling up the boys and exiting the indoors for some exercise and air, I noticed that a light but steady rain had begun to fall (or the clouds had begun to cry, depending on your perspective). And although Thomas has informed me on more than one occasion of his deep love of rainy days over sunny ones, since one can jump in the puddles (of course), our desire to venture beyond 2708 Scott Street did not materialize.

Consequently, the question of what to do in between the hours of Russell and Elliot waking up from morning nap until lunch promptly entered my mind. Yesterday, the four of us cut open a pumpkin purchased on Saturday at the farmer's market, pulled out the insides, which Thomas reluctantly touched (but only for an instant before declaring they were "slimy like a snail") and baked the flesh. (I later pureed the pumpkin and cooked the seeds, which will be ground up tomorrow and placed ever so discreetly in the children's pumpkin flavored oatmeal. I am so tired of pureeing.) Likewise looming in my thoughts was the roast that needed to start slow cooking by noon if it was to be done by dinner. "Well, why not cook the dinner together?" I pondered. But did I actually have the patience? Already this morning, while I attempted to cook our normal Tuesday morning breakfast consisting of bacon and some variation of whole wheat pancakes, Thomas had volunteered his services so that we could eat together as a family before Jared darted out the door. Inwardly I groaned. Sizzling bacon plus a hot skillet plus one little boy cracking eggs plus two toddlers roaming the floor, one (Elliot) banging wooden spoons on the other's head (poor Hustle Bustle) equaled disaster in my mind. Nonetheless, and without incident, the two of us managed to serve breakfast relatively on time. But could our good fortune be repeated in one day? Well, why not. And so we assembled our ingredients: potatoes, carrots, onions, and chuck roast. With warnings over the well-being of my fingers (he cut his once while peeling an apple), Thomas peeled the carrots, and the three boys (with supervision of course) then took turns cutting both the potatoes and carrots (no one wanted the job of cutting the onions), and depositing them into the crock pot. (I absolutley refused when Thomas expressed his wish to cut the meat.) We counted each piece that we cut, sang songs, hummed the "Imperial March" from Star Wars and created a meal together. By the time we were finished, it was nearly 12:30, and I was still in my pajamas nursing along my second cup of coffee.

I am a homebody at heart. Don't get me wrong, I certainly enjoy getting out of the house. In fact, I relish any occasion in which I can leisurely pace the aisles of a thrift store or experience a meal or even a cup of coffee uninhibited by my precious little ones. Likewise, I have been known to frantically open windows throughout the house on even the hottest and coldest days because I feel a pressure descending on my chest and fear I am suffocating. But I don't like to rush nor do I care to hurry my children. There will be enough of that in their lives. Why commence so much activity when they are so young and vulnerable? And frankly when the four of us are not scrambling, there is an overall feeling of contentment. Anxiety is superseded with peace, and I am able to quiet my thoughts, listen, and even pray, "brushing off the impacts of cares and all thoughts" (St. Neilos of Sinai).

So today, I was able to truly listen to Thomas as he related his evening plans (apparently, he "had to work. A concert at 9:20 o'clock" and I would "have to stay home with the boys") as he simultaneously scribbled "concert stuff" on one of his father's business cards. I could cherish the image of my three sons wrestling each other while also listening to their laughter. I could appreciate my four year-old son's transformation from a boy into a ruthless, tauntaun-eating, Wampa monster. (If you do not not know what either a tauntaun or a Wampa monster is, you need to do some serious brushing up on your Star Wars knowledge.) Thomas and I could complete his laundry (Tuesday is his scheduled day) while singing the hymn to St. Raphael of Brooklyn, the patron saint of our church. I could accept the board books handed to me by Russell and Elliot and sit down and read with them. And we all could partake in and savor this gift of tranquiltiy bestowed on us by this ordinary day.

By the way, our dinner was delicious. And though Thomas declined carrots before they were even offered to him, all the children ate well, and there was no food throwing from R and E, a habit which is increasingly driving me mad. It only takes one time of squishing scrambled eggs between your toes to recognize the true detestablity of this nasty habit. For dessert, remember that pumpkin puree? Homemade pumpkin pie, sort of. The crust was store bought. Unfortunately, I am yet to overcome my fear of even attempting a pie crust ever since my highly intelligent, highly domestic, German friend declared, after viewing one of my efforts, that she "had never seen anything like my crust." But, to my credit, there was homemade cinnamon whipped cream.

Since I launched this post with a Bronte quote, I decided to conclude it with a poem by another Bronte, Emily, which we have been reading throughout the last several weeks. Typically we read a couple poems or sing a couple songs at the conclusion of breakfast while the boys munch on their Shaklee vitamins. This (the poems, not the vitamins) is part of the learning approach developed by Rudolf Steiner, known as Waldorf, to which I have become pretty attached. Though it might seem a bit odd, I cannot deny it's effectiveness - last week, without prompting, Thomas began to recite one of the poems. In fact, he even corrected me when I spoke an erroneous word.

"Autumn Poem"

Fall, leaves, fall;
Die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day.
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the Autumn tree
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow
I shall sing when night's decay
Ushers in a drearier day.

Pride

Election fever has erupted at the Johnson household. Jared came home from work with multiple maps of the country printed out, each state listed with its number of electoral votes, and a few states already colored in to reflect predicted Obama or McCain victories. I overhear questions to my husband from our four-year-old son concerning who we want to win. Jared, not wishing to prematurely bias his son, replies, "The better man." When questioned as to who the better man is, he deftly responds, "The people will vote and we will know." While presently performing his parental duty of bathing Russell and Elliot, the radio is broadcasting election results as the polls on the east coast close. Meanwhile, Thomas has acquired a red and blue crayon and under his father's careful tutelage is meticulously coloring in the states won by the respective candidates. I am a bit confused, however. I was not aware that there were orange and purple states.

A year ago when, much to my delight, I discovered two Jim Beam decanters at a thrift store, one of an elephant and one of a donkey respresenting our two primary political parties, I vowed we would host an election night party. (The two, powder blue Avon soaps of yesteryear, embossed with the visages of George and Martha Washington, likewise found at a thrift shop, ensured the likehood of such a party occurring.) But alas, my intentions did not materialize this year, perhaps because I was unwilling to risk the vehemence that arises between friends and family - or between myself and my husband - over political issues. So this evening, Jared, Thomas, and I have determined to party, not with our friend Mr. Beam, but with fluffy, gooey, marshmallows, roasted expertly by Jared, in our backyard fire pit. (There are no s'mores because I already consumed all the chocolate in Thomas' Halloween basket - bad mom.)

It was questionable whether I was going to exercise my right to vote in this election. Not nearly as interested in politics as my dear husband, I am easily disgusted by the gross amounts of money exhausted, as well as the acrimonious free speech that transpires during a presidential campaign. Moreover, I was tired of accepting the rationale that it was better to vote for "the lesser of two evils" than to not vote at all. Thus, I determined that I was going to sit this election out.

I am unsure what caused a conversion of my mind, but a few weeks ago, after reading from a work by the trappist monk Fr. Louis, known to the world as Thomas Merton, I began to seriously rethink whether withholding my vote was indeed a valid position for me. Honestly, my memory is hazy of Merton's exact words. It was clear to me, however, that every Christian must be responsible for confronting injustice wherever it manifested itself and that this war against injustice could indeed be waged within the political realm. Needless to say, early this morning, I placed a phone call to my mother and asked if she could help me with the children so I could cast my vote.

A little after noon, while Russell and Elliot sat under guard in the van with my mother, Thomas, who also wanted to vote, and who I must also mention was convinced that a Clone Trooper helmet was the most appropriate attire for voting, accompanied me into the polling place. I received my ballot, pulled out a receipt of my most recent farmer's market meat purchases to serve as Thomas' ballot, and we both sat down. When I completed my ballot and informed my young padawan that it was time to rescue Grandma, he announced that he needed a few more minutes to finish his voting. We left Trinity Lutheran Church, hand in hand, both wearing our "I voted" sticker. (I later found a tiny remnant of Thomas' in Russell's mouth.)

The five of us promptly drove to Starbucks and received our free cup of coffee since we had voted. Unfortunately, the experience was not nearly as pleasurable as I had hoped - Starbucks does not offer high chairs. There is nothing quite like attempting to enjoy a cup of hot coffee while simultaneously feeding oatmeal (yes, Starbucks now offers oatmeal) to two fidgety children who would rather be walking (yes, they are walking).

By the time this is posted, I am confident that the outcome of the 2008 presidential election will be decided (thank God). And though I will probably remain pretty detached from the political sphere and continue to be convinced that there is no government that can truly eradicate the sufferings of all people, my attitude of apathy is beginning to change as I consider the magnitude of this election. Historically speaking, the fact that I am likely witnessing the election of the first person of color to the highest office in the United States of America, and that an African-American woman from the southside of my former hometown could become our image of a first lady, I am speechless. And when I see the faces of men and women, who directly or indirectly suffered discrimination solely because of the color of their skin, so full of hope, I am a bit weepy and extremely proud to be witnessing this truly extraordinary event.

The children are bathed. Russell and Elliot are asleep. The fire is kindling and there is at least one marshmallow with my name on it. And oh yes, Jared has plugged in the radio outside. Time to party with the boys!

Beth
November 4, 2008

P.S. I couldn't resist adding some trick-or-treat pictures. Though having some minor difficulties standing up (picture the younger brother in A Christmas Story), Russell eventually was able to enjoy his dragon costume. Elliot was a monkey (of course). And Thomas, as you might have guessed, was indeed a Jedi knight - Anakin Skywalker, to be precise. Our night was even more memorable because my sister and brother-in-law, whom we had not seen since their move to Maine a year ago, were able to be with us.

Just A Look

Monday. And Russell had awakened at 4:30 a.m. whimpering and burning with a fever. Before the day had even begun, I knew Jared and I were going to be exhausted, weary, and short-tempered. Moreover, this evening was our church's monthly parish council meeting; a council on which Jared serves. It may seem insignificant for him to be gone once a month, since he assumes child duty for me more often than that, but what it meant to me was an evening where he dashed in, inhaled his dinner while simultaneously attempting to feed a disinterested, still weepy Russell, and dashed back out again, gone for hours, while I remained with the children. Admittedly, these are not my favorite evenings, and I certainly wish Iowa City was not an hour away. I just needed to get through the next few hours and then I would be free to blog, pick up the Jane Austen book I am currently reading, and savor a cup of decaf before crawling into bed.

All day I have been running over in my mind what to relate in this blog installment. After all, I just returned from a fabulous girl's get-away weekend in South Haven, MI, with four of my dearest friends. Leaving last Thursday evening, after much preparation for both myself and Jared (Thomas kept requesting that I add "watch television" to the schedule I was writing; isn't 1 1/2 hours a week enough?), I returned late Saturday night - the longest I have ever been away from any of the children - energized and deeply happy. After all, I ate out every meal (and absolutely never shared a meal) and even saw a movie. And so I considered writing on my need for others. That despite my frequent attempts to go it alone, I am in desperate need, not only of my friends specifically, but also of people in general. "No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main," the poet John Donne wrote.

But then I also wanted to write about how moved I was at church on Sunday, as sweet Thomas stood like a statue while our tiny community sang "Many Years" (an Orthodox "Happy Birthday" if you will, sung on occasions like birthdays, anniversarys, and name's days) in order to commemorate his name's day - the day his Patron Saint, Saint Thomas the Apostle, is remembered by the Church. Journeying through the dark years of infertity while watching and rejoicing with other families as they celebrated momentous occasions, causes events like these to be even more profound for me. I hoped to write about the life of St. Thomas, who through his honest expression of doubt provided us with a greater proof of the reality of the bodily ressurection of Christ. Who, according to Church Tradition, traveled to India following Pentecost in order to preach the Gospel. And who ultimately was run through with lances by five soldiers for baptizing the wife and the son of a local prince. And I thought I might conclude with how we celebrated Thomas' name's day last Monday evening by sharing a meal and a traditional name's day cake with family members and friends.

But in the midst of my evening, which I had prayed to "just get through," a beautiful moment presented itself. While rocking Russell (and yes, he was all swaddled up in the fleecy, Pooh Bear blanket) and singing what has become our family song, "If I Had Words" (If you are having trouble remembering the song, the tune is originally from the fourth movement of Saint-Saens' Symphony No. 3 and the words were developed in the movie Babe. It occurs when Farmer Hoggett sings and dances to cheer up the disillusioned pig; we cry every time - seriously.), I looked down at Russell, whose cupid mouth was trying to mimic mine, and then glanced over at Thomas and Elliot, who were playing together in Elliot's crib, a.k.a. The Millenium Falcon (Thomas was Luke and Elliot was "Han-when-he-was-a-baby") and saw Elliot looking at his big brother. Elliot's eyes shone, and he was laughing. In fact, they were both laughing. And maybe it was because I am somewhat sleep deprived, or because the night had been long and there were still dishes to be cleaned up from dinner, but I became a bit weepy, just seeing the way my youngest son looked at his eldest brother.

And now, as the smell of garlic from tonight's bulgogi dinner still lingers on my fingers, I must face the reality of the kitchen, throw some diapers in the dryer, and hopefully settle down with my book and coffee.

Precious Things

On Wednesday evening, while I was in the midst of corralling children and attempting to get dinner organized, Jared arrived home and casually announced that he had received a phone call from our friend in Mississippi. In this call our friend had related that he and his wife would be traveling to Michigan and were willing to make a "slight" detour to Iowa if we were interested. "When?" I questioned, mentally going over my schedule for the coming weeks. "Tomorrow or Friday," he replied. "Take a breath; you can do this, even though it is a concert weekend and Jared might not be around," I mentally coached myself. After all we had not seen our friends in over a year and the likelihood of us venturing down south anywhere in the immediate future seemed glim. "Tell them yes, but Friday would be better."

And so it was established: the Clarks would leave early Friday morning and arrive at our house at dinner time. I entered into frenzy mode and began to prepare our home for guests. After all, there were meals to be planned, groceries to be bought, sheets to be washed, and miscellaneous-items-which-never-find-a-place to be shoved into closets. And while Friday was a bit frantic and my eye began to develop an ever-so-slight twitch, when Brian and Kristin arrived, a bit later than expected, I was calm. And much to my amazement, I experienced the most relaxing weekend in months. Thoughts of what I needed to do, what I should be doing, and all other cares were laid aside; instead, I simply enjoyed being with a couple of my favorite people, sitting around our kitchen table talking and laughing, browsing a local used book shop, going out to dinner without my precious little ones, and attending a performace of Beethoven's 9th Symphony by the Quad City Symphony Orchestra, an ethereal experience of its own. (Buy tickets here.)

Another unexpected occurrence also happened this week in our developing relationships with Russell and Elliot. Initially when they arrived home, Jared and I attempted to rock the boys while feeding them their bottles, like we had Thomas. We quickly realized that twins really does mean two and accepted that we would probably not be able to bond with Russell and Elliot in this manner, especially since there is also a third child to consider. Moreover, Russell and Elliot never demonstrated any interest in rocking. Rather, they were fidgety, tried to crawl out of our arms, and screamed for freedom. I tried to convince myself that Russell's and Elliot's seeming disinterest in snuggling was due to their age upon arrivng home or their personalities. Still, I desperatley yearned to rock my two children like I had sweet Thomas, for I had so enjoyed it. And so in one last desperate attempt, I pulled out a large, fleecy, Pooh Bear blanket and announced to Russell and Elliot, who stared at me blankly, that it was time they experience swaddling. Russell's response was more positive; Elliot continued to scream. But now, several weeks later, wrapped as if in a papoose, the boys have ceased to resist being wrapped and rocked, and they actually appear to enjoy it. And to me, there is nothing more beautiful than looking into the face of a child I love and seeing them look back at me, smile, sigh, and snuggle into my arms.

And so today, as I hear the hum of the dryer, glance at laundry that needs to be folded and, dare I say it, put away, and bake a name's day cake (ah yes, back to responsibilites), I am thankful for the gifts of love with which we are offered every day that can transform us. There is an Akathist of Thanksgiving, composed by Protopresbyter Gregory Pettrov shortly before his death in a Soviet prison camp, that I treasure:

Glory to Thee, ceaselessly watching over me,
Glory to Thee for the encounters
Thou dost arrange for me,
Glory to Thee for the love of parents,
for the faithfulness of friends...
Glory to Thee for the unforgettable moments of life,
Glory to Thee for the heart's innocent joy,
Glory to Thee for the joy of living,
and moving, and being able to return Thy love,
Glory to Thee, O God, from age to age.

Life is Good

For months now, friends have questioned when our blog was going to be updated. And since so many of our loved ones are far away, and since I am notoriously terrible at keeping any formal record of my children's development via baby books, photo albums, or scrapbooks, I have decided that this is the best way to record the precious memories presented to me. And at the outset, I must issue this disclaimer. If you enjoyed our Korea blogs, you are sure to be disappointed. All of those blogs were the product of Jared. For the most part these will be mine, and unlike my dear husband, I tend to be wordy, use run-on sentences, words like "indeed" and "moreover," misspell, and am often (usually) not very clear. But since you all love me, and get to see pictures of "the boys," I am sure you will forgive me. It is my hope to update this weekly: I have added it to my "schedule."

So the question becomes what to write about in this initial venture. I have been pondering it for days. I could write about Thomas' and my slumber party Tuesday evening while Jared was away overnight on business. Though there are many words that could be used to describe me, "fun-loving," "impetuous," and "laid-back" are not at the top of the list. Determined not to let Jared have the upper hand in being voted "the most fun parent," i.e. showing Star Wars to Thomas whenever I am away, I ventured that Thomas and I would have a sleepover in Mommy and Daddy's bed, eat his favorite ice cream, and read books above and beyond his normal bedtime. So while I read my latest book club book, Thomas read Make Way for Ducklings, managing to spill his mint chocolate chip ice cream soup only three times-on Jared's side of the bed. Despite the fact I had a terrible night's sleep and woke up on more than one occasion with feet in my face, I proved to be "fun mom." I have the seven pictures that Thomas took of his feet to prove it.

I also considered writing in length about our annual trip to the Denhardt pumpkin patch where, besides picking a pumpkin from an actual patch, Thomas became quite smitten with the kittens playing in the barn. It was an adventure: primarily because our half hour trip over the Mississippi from Iowa to Illinois was elongated when my back seat driver casually related, "Mom, Russell's getting out of his seat." Peering into the rear view mirror, much to my horror, Russell was not merely "getting out of his seat," he was completely standing up in his car seat as we were cruising 70 mph down I-80. Needless to say, we stopped two additional times, even after I switched Elliot into Russell's seat-Elliot was not going to let the opportunity to crawl out pass him by-each time praying that a semi wouldn't blast into us. And yes, the problem with the car seat has been fixed.

There was the possibility of writing about our weekly trip to the Davenport Farmer's Market. Though the five of us have ventured out, this week it would be me and Thomas. Dressed in one of my favorite gray t-shirts (oh yes, dear college friends, you do know the one)$20 in hand, a son, armed with his sword tucked into his belt, "because you never know when you are going to run into bad guys," we were about ready to leave when Thomas received a phone call on his "cellphone" (a play phone that had, until the night before, been filled with tiny pieces of candy). The conversation went something like this. "Hello. Hi, good guy knight. We are heading to the Farmer's Market. Yes, we would love to come over for dinner. Good-bye. I love you." And when I tried to interrupt, the response? Ah yes, a pointer finger lifted and the words, "Just a minute." We had a beautiful time (or at least I did). I always feel so inspired being surrounded by people who are selling locally grown produce, hormone and antiobitic free meat, and products they have created themselves, all for a reasonable prices. (I love Iowa.) Thomas enjoyed playing at the park afterward and, fearing a fight when I knew it was time to leave, I simply announced that daddy had called and the house was surrounded with bad guys. That was all that was needed to spur Thomas on to the car, sword clenched in hand.

And now, well it is Sunday afternoon. We made it through church, which is no small feat, and even arrived before Liturgy began, which is a small miracle. The children are all in bed, though baby monitors are keeping me aware that no one is sleeping. I am armed with my coffee sweetened with flavored creamer and Splenda and am steaming and pureeing the cauliflower which will be slipped into the children's scrambled eggs in the morning. In less than an hour, Jared and I will be escaping the house and attending a performance of Bach's Vespers at Augustana's Ascension Chapel. And the Cubs, in case you didn't know, are in the play-offs. Truly, life is good. Have a beautiful week.

This Day Have We Begotten You

On Saturday, April 12, Russell and Elliot were baptized at St. Raphael of Brooklyn Orthodox Church in Iowa City. The relatively small chapel was quite full with Church friends, family members, and out-of-town guests. As with Thomas' baptism, there were actually two services performed. The first were the prayers of adoption. These prayers were said at the altar of the Church, and are the parent-child equivalent of wedding vows. The prayers are completed with Jared and Beth saying aloud, "Today you are our sons; this day we have begotten you."

The Orthodox baptismal service, or, let's be honest, any Orthodox service, is quite elaborate. It starts outside the chapel, where the godparents-to-be do things like renounce the devil and spit on him and recite the creed and commit themselves to Christ. It then processes into the chapel where the babies are prayed over and then stripped to be baptized. After the baptism (see video below), the babies are changed into their white baptismal gowns. They are then tontured, with the hair being burnt as a first offering to God, and chrismated. (Chrismation is actually a seperate sacrament and in the Catholic practice is reserved until the children are older.) The ceremony concludes with a procession around the baptismal font, with all in the Church singing, "As many as have been baptized into Christ, have put on Christ. Alleluia!"

Father Ignatius did a wonderful job of explaining what was going on during the natural lulls in the service created by the removing and changing of outfits. One of the things which may not have been explained is why Russell and Elliot were baptized as Matthew and Elijah. It is traditional for Orthodox Christians to take on the names of saints. In our family, these names have always borne some relationship to our given names. Jared is called Jared after the ancestor of Christ and father of Enoch, Beth is called Elizabeth after the mother of John the baptist, Thomas is called Thomas after the apostle, Russell (whose second name is Matthew) is called Matthew after the evangelist, and Elliot (an anglocized version of Elijah) is called Elijah after the old testament prophet.

Of course, one of the best things about events like this is the loved ones who travel from out-of-town to be with you. We would like to especially thank Nathan and Jennifer Larsen (Russell's godparents) and their son Owen, and Bobby and Paige Maddex (Elliot's godparents) and their daughters Isabelle (our goddaughter) and Jane for driving hours to sponsor our children. Thomas' godparents, Molly and Troy Sabourin, and three-quarters of their kids-Priscilla, Benjamin (our godson), and Mary-also made the trek. (Elijah, we missed you!) Finally, Carrie Sabourin (your third shout-out here, at least, so don't complain about being last!), Greg and Marian Lambert, and Geoffrey Thompson, our good friends from Christ the Savior Orthodox Church in Chicago, also made the long drive to Iowa City. Thank you also to our parents who endured all the devil spitting, hair burning, baby dunking, head greasing, prayer chanting, and incense smelling to support us on this important day. We love you all.

It's taken at least three nights to get this blog written with all the busy-ness around our house, so we'll wrap it up now. But before we conclude, it must be stated that it was Jared who wrote that he was his "usual grumpy self." It was just a little self-depricating honesty. As he is and ever shall be, grump without end, amen.

Eleven Days Later

Well, the boys have been home with us for eleven days. While the primary purpose of this posting is to alleviate the constant requests for more pictures, we suspect that some of you care about how we're doing, so we'll include some personal information in the post as well. Beth is taking to three children remarkably well. She is completely reenergized in her quest for healthy food and hasn't put down Jessica Seinfeld's Deceptively Delicious for a week. Her biggest frustration right now is that Russell and Elliot are not taking to the idea of a daytime nap. (As this post is being written, both are upstairs crying in protest of said nap.) Getting all three boys down for a nap is a neccessity for Beth's daily routine, so she finds this trend a bit unnerving.

Jared is his usual grumpy self, upset about even the slightest of interuptions in his sleep. Beth had Book Club this morning, so he got to spend some quality time with all his boys. Anybody who knows him know that means Legos! Yes, that's right, Baby Legos for the twins, Duplos for Thomas, and lots of plastic-brick-building-joy for Daddy.

Thomas is finally caught up on his sleep. We had to wake him from every nap for nearly a week, just to be sure he'd sleep at the next appointed time. He seems much more himself now, and is really beginning to play with the boys. He is also very helpful to Mom and Dad.

Russell and Elliot are also smiling a lot more, a sign that they are both catching up on their sleep and beginning to attach to our family. Best of all, they apparently can sleep through the night. This came as a shock to us, as their foster mother had said they slept from 11 PM to 7 AM with one nighttime feeding. Right now it's 8:00 PM to 7:00 AM with no nighttime feedings. (Somehow this amazing sleep pattern still makes Jared grumpy.)

So that's all the news that's fit to print. Enjoy the pictures. Aren't our boys beautiful!