Little Boy Turns One: January 19 - 25

Be good to your servant while I live, that I may obey your word. 
Ps 119:17

TUESDAY
Mornings. I love them. The day is new. I'm the only one awake. Coffee and quiet time in my robe and slippers. Putting away clean dishes, making lunches and breakfasts, preparing for the day. The hour from 5:30 - 6:30 might be as peaceful as the day is going to get. Dawn smacks of heaven.

Mornings. I hate them. Shaking off dreams. Shaking out aches. Eyes so tired. I often feel defeated before the day even gets going. "What was that thing I was worrying about yesterday?" "Did I go to bed annoyed?" "Oh, shoot. Is today the day of that meeting?" Sunrise brings another day of bondage to this broken world.

The tone of the morning is set when the eyelids close at night. A heart left wandering as sleep comes will wander all night and be wayward in the morning. So the remedy for morning aimlessness is evening aim. Pointing the heart in the direction I'd like it to face when I wake up. Let's try this.

WEDNESDAY
This week, we've started having Henry eat dinner with us rather than have his own dinner time earlier than we eat. It's nice to make him feel like part of the family by sharing the same mealtime, and it's nice to start serving him (as often as possible) the same food we're eating. When he can't - like tonight when we had tacos - I've found an easy and yummy meal that's perfect for him. An egg, scrambled with some Baby Bam seasoning (recipe here) and cheese, served on toast. I cut it into bite-sized pieces, and it makes a perfect dinner.

THURSDAY
My little boy is one today.

I thought I loved him a year ago. And I did. But, oh how much more I love him now.

I won't bemoan the long-gone days of his babyhood (though I could). I won't get deep about how time flies and will only fly faster and faster (though I'd like to). I won't list off his milestones (though I'm proud of them) or speculate about what the next year will hold.

I'm grateful today - grateful every day - for this little life entrusted to me. Not one of the past 365 days has failed to bring me utter delight in my little son. But though his birthday reminds me of how dear he is to me, it's also a mile marker, reminding me that his days are ultimately limited. So are mine. So how I spend them matters.

I'm inspired today to make commitments that will better my son's life. No more pop radio in the car, more consistent prayers before meals, and being careful of my attitude since it will rub off on Henry. Though these are noble goals, and things I should work towards, the best thing I can do for my son is not a commitment to do anything. It's to give him up, to commit him to the Lord. In the 9 months of my pregnancy, in the 33 hours of my labor, in the 365 days of my motherhood, I have never been in control of Henry's life, safety, wellness, or eternal security. He has always been in much greater Hands than mine. So while caring for him diligently and thoughtfully and passionately will always be my primary occupation, it's helpful to keep in mind that all of his birthdays, and all the days in between, are cupped safely in our Father's hands.

Happy Birthday, my little boy.
I love you.

SATURDAY
We hosted our first birthday party today, for our little one-year-old. Birthday parties can hardly be homey anymore, with the pressure of pinterest and social media demanding share-worthy perfection (and of course, here I am blogging about my son's first birthday party.) But I did try to keep Henry's first birthday party low-key. We had alphabet soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, macaroni-and-cheese, fresh veggies and fruit, and homemade punch. The guest list was small, and with a few family members unable to make it, we all managed to cram around the dining room table to eat. There were gifts for the birthday boy (mostly opened by Mommy and cousin Ellie) and a cake (which was, I confess, inspired by pinterest). (Not a bad knock-off, though, I thought.)

I hope I'm never a mom who feels the need to impress, with her parties or any area of life. Lucky for me, party planning isn't my forte anyway. Our family enjoyed sharing an evening with a brand-new one-year-old and we enjoyed preparing to host them. It was a joy all around and a satisfying cap to our week.

I'll leave you with this driveby joyful smile.

Grateful this week for: 
summer-good blueberries
Henry taking his milk from a sippy cup happily
a deep sleep
the Dollar General
snow flurries
homemade cupcake frosting
lemon-scented hand lotion
Pete taking shifts with a sad Henry all night
humidifier
cozy morning in the living room
watching Henry obey an instruction
snowman-building
morning readings from Mark ch 10
Henry and Ellie hugs

Heart: January 12 - 18

I rejoice in following your statutes as one rejoices in great riches. 
Ps. 119: 14

TUESDAY
You probably think your friends don't have heartaches. That their sleep is undisturbed by chronic worries. That their spouses give foot massages at least once a week and that their kids are only irritable when they miss a nap. That their fridges are stocked with nutritious and appetizing foods (and never anything molded or rotten). That their cars only break down in easily-fixable ways and in convenient circumstances. That their bank accounts are full and their bills are paid. That their health is stable.

Maybe you know a few people of whom this is not true. The ones with piecemeal homes and too much debt and too many calls from the school principal. But for the most part, especially in the church, everybody's whole.

Or so you think.

Until you learn about a sister who has felt betrayed for years. Or a mom whose teenager is on the brink of running away. Or a wife whose husband has been less than honest about finances.

These are friends and colleagues and relatives, members of the church, people you thought were whole. And as you start to see other people's lives from the inside you see the broken pieces you didn't know were there. Slowly, you see your own dinged-up life in a new light, realizing that your embarrassing job loss and your stack of unsent apology notes and your nagging worry about your daughter's rebellion don't isolate you. Your heartaches link you others.

In a coffeeshop late at night, or a diner early in the morning, or a living room in the late afternoon, we share our hurts, our worries, our really difficult things. We find peace in the aches of others - not because we want them to feel pain, but because their pain means that our pain is normal. Spreading the messy pages of life out on a table together and sharing them with someone helps. If we don't do this, we keep thinking nobody else is battered. And we miss out on the comfort of helping each other press on.

WEDNESDAY
The drop ceiling in the den is out. The die is cast.
We're doing something with this room, that's for sure.

FRIDAY
First, the exhaustion. The heavy eyelids, the heavy limbs, the long slow walk to the morning shower, then down for coffee, food-processing lunch soup for Henry, crock-pot meal prep for this evening, a minute in my quiet time chair before the day is underway.

Then, work. Emails and invoices. Students at the door, parents on the phone, teachers in the office. Paperwork, deliveries, planning, discussing, sorting mail, and counting cash. (Some days my to-do list doesn't sound very glamorous.)

Then, finally, that blissful 12-noon drive to pick up Henry. The freedom of the weekend stretching out ahead. Time with my son, time to plan meals, buy food, clean the house, work on crafts. Sit in the morning dining room sun. Spend more time than I should in the aisles of Target. It all starts now.

Usually on Fridays after Henry's nap we drive over to school for Pete's elective class called Under the Lamppost, a half-hour read-aloud time with about 10 students who've been listening to Mr. Mountz read Dickens' A Christmas Carol since November. Henry steals the limelight when we show up for class, the kids watching him far more than listening to the story. But nobody minds and it's a delightful way to cap off a long week. Today, though, Henry got a late start on his nap and didn't wake up in time for us to go to Under the Lamppost.

Aunt Ruth and Uncle Dave came for dinner. Chicken chili, cornbread muffins, lots of rice, salads, and cranberry shortbread for dessert. After dinner they brought in an early birthday present for Henry.

His first desk! Open, close, open, close. He's enthralled. Success!

After it all - after the goodbyes, the jammies and the bedtime bottle, the kitchen cleanup - the eyelids are heavy again. The day slows, the night eases in. Weekend, in this case three whole glorious days of it, has begun.

SATURDAY
"Read the book first," we say. We, the readers, the word lovers. No movie, no matter how true-to-the-book, can make up for words on a page.

Unbroken, the true story of Louie Zamperini's life made it to the bestseller list in 2010 and hit the silver screen this past Christmas. Pete and I went to see it this weekend.

I stand my usual ground. Read the book first. But I was surprised to be so delighted with the film adaptation. Try to condense two years of wartime horrors into two hours of screentime and you'll need to skip some things. The film, though, condensed effectively and without the loss of any key events. Louie's life grips nearly as tightly on the screen as on the page. You'll come away grateful and moved. If you have read the book, the magic isn't lost. The shark scenes will still make you jump, even though you know they're coming. The Bird's reappearance will still make your heart sink, and war's end will still bring tears to your eyes.

Christian viewers might bemoan the omission of Louie's coming to faith in his post-war years, a deletion that worried me before I went to see the movie. It's Louie's faith in Christ that puts Unbroken among my top three favorite books. A story of a POW who survives WWII would be only a story of man's strength unless the survivor ultimately found his hope in the Lord. But that's not the part of Louie's story the movie sought to tell and from a theatrical perspective, it would have felt disjointed to tack on the post-war years. So watch the movie knowing its limitations. For the whole account, nothing can replace the book. Except maybe talking to Louie, which I can't wait to do when I join him in heaven one day.

Grateful this week for:
a mouse caught in a trap
veggie straws
fresh laundry
cloth diaper liners
Mom and Dad watching H so we could have a date night 

Back at it: January 5 - 11

Oh, that my ways were steadfast in obeying your decrees!
Ps 119:5 

TUESDAY
It snowed this week, so Henry shoveled the walkway before Daddy got home.

At first he was pretty enthusiastic. What a happy helper!

But his excitement about the snow was shortlived.

Regarding the lack of mittens: I'm not a negligent mama. I actually wanted my 11-month-old to learn what snow feels like. He learned. Then we went back inside.

WEDNESDAY
Nothing is sure. One morning, as you're trying to rush out the door to make it work on time, your little boy could be happily munching his pears for breakfast, and then - without warning - he could be choking, gagging, coughing, mucous and tears smearing his red fear-filled face. You whisk him from the high chair to the floor, slapping his back and sweeping his mouth with a finger, waiting for the overfull mouth to be empty, for the windpipe to be clear, for your little boy to be alright again.

For all you know, it could be the end. 

Or the Lord could give you back your boy. For another day. Another week. Another 50 years.

Our son was spared this morning. Pete swept the slimy chunks of pear out of his throat and he finally stopped coughing and gave a weak smile. He's alright. He's alright. Alright for now. Alright this time.

Life isn't sure. It isn't ours to claim. Or ours to promise. It's given one day - one moment - at a time. And just when I think my little boy's old enough that I can stop worrying about some nagging mama-fear, he's old enough for me to start worrying about another one. Dangers never go away. But fear can go away when we recognize that the breakfast pears and the lead paint and the winter-slick highways are all in the hands of Someone who will never go away and who breathes life into our little frames one breath at a time.

That's all that is sure. And it's far more than enough.

SUNDAY
Winter comes. Roofs leak. Pipes freeze. Water pools on ceiling tiles and laundry room floors. Seeping into cracks in the walls, cracks in the worried mind. Finding the tiniest spaces and opening them up wide. Warping, swelling, staining. This is the season of distortion. The season of doubt.

How will we manage? How will we afford? What will snap next? 

Prayer seems pointless when troubles pile up like wet rags. Voices of defeat echo. Matter-of-fact. Confident. "[All hope is lost.] Why bother the Teacher any more?" There can be no fix for this.

And yet... And yet "ignoring what they said, Jesus [says], 'Don't be afraid; just believe.'"

When hope seems lost - when hope is lost - even then, doubt can evaporate. Fear can melt. The Teacher ignores cynicism and fatalism, laughs in the face of hopelessness. He's confident too. And with better reason. "Why all this commotion and wailing?" He asks. "Don't be afraid. Don't assume. Don't throw in the leaky-pipe-water-soaked towel just yet. It's not the end. It's a new beginning. Just believe."

And you know that whatever happens next is a miracle.

References from Mark 5:35-43

Grateful this week for: 
homemade vegetable lentil chicken soup (for my baby, not for me... sadly)
coats
sweaters
socks
mittens
scarves
boots
hats
sandwiches with my sister-in-law
teepee chases
slow cooker
a roof, even a leaky one
chocolate cake
folding laundry

Endings and Startings: Dec 29 - Jan 4

Sow for yourselves righteousness; reap the fruit of unfailing love. 
Hosea 10:12

MONDAY
We've all laid our flowers - coral carnations, white spider mums, and pink roses - on the casket. Some of us have started walking back toward the cars, parked end to end in two rows like matchbox cars along the narrow drive, but a cluster of cousins have formed a ring around something on the ground, not far from the awning beside the bittersweet-smothered tree. I join them, seeing the stone they're seeing.

It's James and Vera. My MomMom's parents. Parents of my GreatAunt Ruth, whose life we've just celebrated. The husband and wife who raised four girls, each of whom brought three new lives into the world, one of which was my dad. My Great-Grandparents. It has never occurred to me to wonder where they were buried, or to consider visiting their grave. Twice a year the whole extended Dowdy family reunites, at Fourth of July and at Christmas time, to celebrate and to rejoice in the heritage we share, but now, on a cold and sunny Monday at the very end of the year we're all together again and we're gathered around the memory stone of the couple who started it all. My dad is here today - these are his grandparents. My dad's cousins are here. Their kids - my second cousins. And their kids - my son's third cousins. My grandmother and my GreatAunt Vera, named for her mother, are the two Dowdy daughters still living, and they are here.

In an afternoon of sorrow, this is a joy none of us could have pictured. Unexpected, unlikely to happen again, and unmatchable, standing here together brings our connection full circle. We are family. We are linked by blood, by decades of love, and by the faithfulness of our Father who has handpicked each member of this Dowdy family to be part of the story He is writing. We rejoice today in all that He has done.

WEDNESDAY
Having a child diminishes the likelihood - and the desire - of staying up until midnight to ring in the New Year. But we thought there might be other parents in our situation who might enjoy an earlier-in-the-evening celebration of the page turn from 2014 to 2015. So we hosted a New Year's Eve: Parents' Edition Party.

Arrival was scheduled for 5:00, but the first family arrived at 5:15 and said, "This is our kind of party. Fifteen minutes late and still the first ones here." Exactly what we had in mind. No pressure. Four couples and their kids came to our house on New Year's Eve. Ten adults, eight kids, three pizzas, a stromboli, wings and fries, champagne, hors d'oeuvres, desserts, a campfire, moon-watching through the telescope, and a hymn sing. It was that good kind of chaos when you're just soaking up life as it throbs around you.

Everybody packed kids into carseats and headed for home long before midnight, and we had cleaned up and were in bed by 11:00 ourselves. But if our party is any indication of what 2015 has in store - styrofoam plates for toss-away cleanup, kids learning to share new toys, hymns in harmony, a patio and a living room filled with friends and conversation, and absolutely no pressure - it's going to be a very good year.

FRIDAY and SATURDAY
Furniture shuffling, just for the newness of some rearrangement
Grocery shopping
Paper-grading
Christmas decoration pack-up until next year
Dusting
Meal-planning
Reading
Teepee exploration

Wishful thinking about bathroom renovations
Foyle's War episodes
Vacuuming
Bath toy scrubbing
Late Christmas cards, addressed, stamped, mailed

Grateful this week for: 
cousins
new shoes
Henry's wakeup babbles
alphabet chicken soup
houseplant
apple fritter
baby fingers on piano keys
quiche, the weekend supper
warm winter morning
surprise snuggles with my little boy
baby squeals