New Site

Hey, you guys...just in case anyone ever wanders onto this blog anymore, I've taken things in a new direction over at www.sobeloved.wordpress.com. Hope to see you there! :)

New Additions

I've been MIA for a while, but with good reason -- we've had a few changes around the Lambert house. We have a newly painted dining room (in the beautiful Apple-a-Day red), a new table in the dining room, a completely cleaned-out garage (in hopes of morphing it into what my dad refers to as a 'man-cave'), and a brand-new teenager living upstairs in the bonus room.
As a friend of mine said, "Congrats! It's a 16 year old!"
Ha ha ha.
Seriously, though, my sister has moved in with us until she finishes up her diploma...and we're having fun. Hannah is forcing me out of my usual habits of solitude and hermit-ism, which is good for me (I guess!) and I'm forcing her to read short stories and do writing exercises, which is great for her (I know!). And since she isn't a picky eater, I'm getting to try new recipes, which is such a great change after years of eat one bite. Just one bite of the veggies. Please. Please try it. Please eat it. Vegetables make you strong and healthy. Eat it or else. Eat. It. Now. Eat it or you're NEVER EATING COOKIES AGAIN.
And that's just talking to my husband. Don't even get me started on the dinner battles I have with the kids.
As Hannah would say, jk...jk. (Oh, the text-speak. Don't get me started on that, either. [For those of you not living with a teenager, thats 'joking, joking'...])

So, this is to say -- welcome to the chaos, Hannah! <3 you! (She taught me how to do that, too! :) By the time she moves out, I might actually be sort of cool again! Emphasis on the 'might' and the 'sort of''.)

They Say this Guy's Pretty Smart...

...and I agree. A bit of wisdom from this fella' who seemed to understand that intelligence is nothing without creativity...that life is a balance of faith and fact...that any endeavor, great or small, requires imagination.

"The intuitive mind is a sacred gift and the rational mind a faithful servant. We have created a society that honors the servant and has forgotten the gift. "

"In the middle of difficulty lies opportunity."

~~Albert Einstein

Watching the Soap-Opera Network for Philosophical Inspiration?

As you've surely heard, Jack's back. 24 fans everywhere rejoice! Tim and Heidi are again nourishing the dreams of fashion designers and Donald Trump will soon be sending celebrities on scavenger hunts through the city....but it is a lesser known show that has me double-checking times and dates and the TiVo's to-do list.
Being Erica premiered last year on the Soap Opera channel...and though it isn't my usual habit to watch re-runs of Days of Our Lives (Saturday re-runs of 90210 and the O.C. are a different story. A girl has to fold laundry at some point!), I did tune in for this show. The premise caught my eye -- Erica is in her early thirties and she has a mile-long list of regrets up to this point in her life...she's feeling all of those 'what-ifs' and 'should haves' haunting her. Enter Doctor Tom. Dr. Tom is supposed to be a regular old therapist -- but instead of having her talk it all out, he sends her back in time to re-live those regrets. She can change things (barring the general rules of time-travel and wish-granting). She gets a do-over.
Who among us hasn't wished for a do-over once or twice or three thousand times? Wouldn't it be amazing? Well...it is and it isn't for Erica, for lots of reasons I won't get into...but for us, it isn't exactly an option.
We make choices and we're stuck with them...whatever our actions might be, the consequences that follow can't be magically erased. And sometimes, life just...happens. We can't control people getting sick or natural disasters or other people making decisions that hurt us. But we do get to choose how we proceed from that point. Every day that we wake up in this world, we've been given a gift of opportunity...we can take our God-given hours (our God-given mercies) and make something out of them. We can learn from our mistakes and see how that knowledge might help someone in our lives...if we keep our eyes open and our hearts willing to move on and embrace what we have, right at this moment, we can live gracefully with the heart-ache...our regrets and mistakes can make us more concious of our actions. More empathetic. More willing to forgive others. Hopefully, more willing to forgive ourselves (which can be pretty hard to do). And if we allow God to heal those hurts...well, at that point, we can have a real victory. Because He truly can turn what has been bad into something good...He can bring beauty from our ashes. I've seen it happen in my own life and in the lives around me...it may not always be immediately, or show-stopping...but it'll happen, like those first flower-buds finally popping out their gorgeous colors just when you think winter's gonna' last forever...
In short, life isn't perfect. We aren't perfect. It's what we do with those imperfections that counts.
This show is a great reminder of that fact...so, yes. Though it may seem like an oxymoron, I am watching the Soap Network to learn about real life.

One of Those Paradoxes...

I found this little gem in the middle of Troubling a Star...I'm still soaking it in and I'll leave it for you to consider:

"...until we accept our mortality we cannot even glimpse the wonder of our immortality."
-M. L'Engle

A big thought, isn't it?

Christmas Miracle

So if you've read through any portion of this blog, you know that my favorite writer is Madeleine L'Engle...her imagination is amazing and her faith inspiring. Whether it's her fiction for kids, adults, poetry, personal memoirs, advice on the writing craft, thoughts on God....whatever the subject, she writes with a clarity and purity that gets to the heart of the story. Her novels make me want to read to the last page and go pick up my own notebook and pen...and it's one of my life's goals to own every book written by her. I currently own 15 of about 60....and the latest addition to my collection was a Christmas gift from my parents....The Rock that Is Higher: Story as Truth. I've been reading it slowly in order to savor it...and imagine my delight (by delight, I mean a squealing, jumping-up-and-down, 5 year old on Christmas morning kind of joy) when I randomly flipped to the title page the other day and saw....HER SIGNATURE. The loopy, unmistakable handwriting is RIGHT THERE (For Megs, & her story - Madeleine L'Engle)...which means that this book in my hands was once in hers....that somehow, through what I can only attribute to a miracle, I own a signed copy of a Madeleine L'Engle book. Which may not be a big thing to most people, but it's a huge thing for me. The funny thing is that my mom didn't even realize that she had bought a signed edition -- she just followed my instructions to buy any books from Better World Books (you should, too! this is proof that buying used books is like treasure-hunting!) and randomly picked this particular book (the notes from the seller never mentioned the signature -- maybe it somehow slid by them, too!)...so I now have this small connection to a woman that, through her work, has become a cherished mentor-ish figure to me...and I think it's one of those small things that she would have smiled about.

If you look here, you'll read the story of another of Madeleine's fans and her signature...and you'll read an excerpt that shows what Madeleine thought about the importance of a name...

Prose from Picasso

"Art is a lie that makes us realize the truth."
~Picasso

Which makes me think of a big point that M. L'Engle makes in her book that I'm reading right now (The Rock that is Higher: Story as Truth)...facts do not always make the truth. Facts can be solid and seem logical, but they do not always take into account the heart or the eternal picture or the knowledge that nothing is impossible to those who believe...which leads to faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things unseen....which leads to hold on. The truth is, in spite of the facts, that the best is yet to come. Events and people and love can unfold like you've never seen, like you've never imagined...God can do above and exceedingly beyond what we can even think to ask...He is art and truth and His creativity is limitless.

A Thought On Dreams

"I think a life of wishes, once we are adults, is no life at all. It is one thing, as children, when we are powerless, to turn to stars and wishbones and candles on a cake to make our dreams come true. But as adults, we need none of that. We can take charge of our dreams -- if we dare."
-Barbara Lazear Ascher
----"On Passion," in The Habit of Loving

The Rise and Fall of the Berlin Wall

2010. I'm looking into the new year and there's a lot I'm hoping to see happen...there are high stakes ahead.
And I can't stop thinking about this documentary I watched the other day...it was all about the Berlin Wall -- the timeline of its creation and of its destruction. It was fascinating to hear about the people who watched this huge barricade appearing...day by day, they were either being shut in or shut out even more. They watched their home become a prison. At first, they could still see through to other side -- waving at old friends or loved ones...but, eventually, there was nothing to be seen but armed guards and ugly walls.
Oddly, this strange historical story makes me think of someone in my life. There's a person who is dear to my heart and this person is going through an addiction of sorts...and as the days go by, it feels like more and more cement is poured and barbed wire added to the wall already between us. We can still wave -- we can still hear each other -- but it's getting more and more difficult. And I'm so afraid that one day I'll wake up and find that the barricade is too high, that I won't be able to get through without underground tunnels and the speed to dodge bullets...in the meantime, all I can do is wait. Wait and send notes to the other side so that they'll know I'm still here. Still waiting.
I'm not sure why I'm writing about this here...except that, maybe, I never before knew how lonely it is to watch someone isolate themselves like this. I never knew the helpless feeling...the chronic worry and pain....and if you happen to be reading this and you have your own Berlin Wall going on...just know that you're not alone. You're not alone in the waiting for...I don't know....healing, peace, a miracle....and if there's any resolution worth keeping this year, it's to keep hoping. Because, eventually, the Berlin Wall came tumbling down....with all of my heart, I'm waiting to see the walls in my life fall...and I hope that yours do, too.

Ideas for Your 2010 (music & books I fell in love with during 2009!)

If you're fortunate, you've already experienced the talents of these authors and musicians that occupied my brain space during '09....and if you haven't, you have something to look forward to!

These are my favorite discoveries of 2009...

The novels of Marisa de los Santos . Love Walked In and Belong to Me are heartwarming, unique stories of families...Marisa does an amazing job with her characters. They're genuine, real people -- people I'd love to know in real life.

I read sixteen novels by Elizabeth Berg this year. Sixteen. You can safely assume that she's amazing. Her novels are full of life -- family, friendship, the art of appreciating the small moments of a day. I'm in the middle of her book of writing advice, called Escape into the Open: the Art of Writing True. If you have any inclination to write, it's a must-read. It's friendly and encouraging -- and contains great writing exercises.

Sing Them Home, by Stephanie Kallos, is a novel about missing people. It's about how absences affect us, how our heritage affects us...it's beautiful, really. I can't wait to read her other novel, Broken for You. It's on my list for the new year!

I'm not usually a sci-fi reader, but a friend recommended the John Twelve Hawks Traveler series and I was hooked after the first couple of pages...these novels are fast-paced, action-packed, and thought provoking. They make you step back, look at the world, and go -- whoa. There's a grid and we're all on it. It also opens up that realm of parallel-world kind of stuff, which is always fun.

My last stand-out suggestion, even though I can add more if anyone's interested, is Audrey Niffenegger's Her Fearful Symmetry. It's creepy and a little twisted -- the perfect historical/haunted/rainy October kind of book...


And as for music...I've always been a Bethany Joy Galeotti fan and she's part of a group called Everly...they haven't released a full album yet, but I'm eagerly anticipating it...check them out! And, um, this one!


Happy reading!

Advice From Thoreau For The New Year

"If thou art a writer, write as if thy time were short, for it is indeed short at the longest." -Henry David Thoreau

For That Resolution...

And Christmas is over...just that fast. I spent the last days before the holiday with a pitiful baby girl - Kailey ended up with a sinus infection. She's finally perking up, but we had a rough few days. We had a good time with our families and we're still having a good time with the presents Santa left beneath the tree. Now I'm trying to make the
most of this vacation from school...and, of course, preparing for the new year.
And here's a bit of child-wisdom for you...
Neil and I were talking about our plans to diet in the new year and Sean piped up with his opinion on the subject. "Everyone's bigger than mouses, so don't panic about your bellies!"
It's really all about perspective, isn't it?

The Night Before the Night Before the Night Before Christmas

Dec. 22nd. 11:06 pm. Gifts bought? Check. Gifts wrapped? Ummm...half a check. Baked goodies baked? 3/4 of a check. Santa visit/picture successful? Not yet. House cleaned? HA!

It gets here so fast. It's no secret that a sick kid will bring havoc into the best laid plans...and this week has been no exception. Between the frenzy of Christmas plays/school parties/shopping (mostly on-line!) and Kailey being sick all week...well...I'm sort of where I didn't want to be. Exhausted with a to-do list still a mile long...but --

The kids were cute and crazy in their play at church. We've watched Charlie Brown and Home Alone (1&2) and the Grinch...we've eaten a ton of popcorn and sang Christmas carols nonstop...Kailey's learned to say 'Santa' and 'ho ho ho' (followed by exuberant applause)...Neil was awesome in the choir's Christmas service...and, after all is said and done, no matter how busy and tired and nuts this place is -- there is still that abiding truth beneath it all.

EMMANUEL. God is with us.

O Christmas Tree

As of Friday, the Christmas tree is finally up. We did have a few roadblocks...it was leaning over at a precarious angle, branches kept snapping off, and half of the pre-lit tree wouldn't light, so there was much rearranging and adding of new lights...the star still doesn't work, but it'll stay where it is on top of the tree. Symbolism works just as well without a few bulbs, right? Sean and Christian were more excited than ever to help decorate, so the bottom half of the tree started out as interesting and becomes more Picasso-ish every day with Kailey's adjustments to the ornaments.
I love it when darkness falls outside and inside is full of twinkling, happy lights...there is no cozier feeling than sitting in a warm room with a Christmas tree.
It's one of those particular happy/achy feelings...because it reminds me of all the Christmases past with my family (and, as one song says, I miss them most at Christmas-time), fills me with hope and anticipation that this season will be magic for my kids (and the magic-making falls to Mommy--what a responsibility!), and...just a whoosh of peace that I wish could last forever. It's contentment I feel, with my kids snuggled on the couch (even when they're wrestling, as the boys always are) and the popcorn popping and their wild excitement when Daddy gets home from work...and I know these moments won't last forever. Which makes them even more precious.

Those Christmas Bells

Simply gorgeous. (Click the title! ;))

A Classic Tale

"The Gift of the Magi"
by O.Henry


One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."

The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pierglass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."

"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.

"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."

Down rippled the brown cascade.

"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

"Give it to me quick," said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty- seven cents?"

At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-- what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."

"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"

Jim looked about the room curiously.

"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"

And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."

The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

Oh, Let it Snow!

Today there was frost on the car! As Sean said - "Jack Frost visited!" I think he did -- just in time to say, "It's the first day of December. Let's get winter-ish."

This poem by Robert Frost is one of my childhood favorites...I love how it conveys that feeling of a peace a snowy day brings...it's that rare feeling of true quiet. A blanket of snow (especially in the South!) forces us to take it easy...to slow down. There's nothing quite like freezing outside while you're throwing snowballs and then sitting inside with hot chocolate and a view of a natural wonderland. I am wishing wishing wishing for snow this Christmas....

"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"

-Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

And in the spirit of wishing, let me introduce you to the wonderful Bing Crosby.

Welcome, December

This is the season that means the most to me -- and so, every year, I am amazed and a little sad when it zooms by me. It's too easy to get caught up in the preparations of the physical things (the presents, the plays, the cookies, the decorations) that we don't have time for the inside things that give all those other things meaning!
So, in spite of the fact that this blog has been neglected for so long, I'm going to take a little time every day to share my thoughts, my favorite readings, my favorite music....I'm going to take a minute or two to hold onto the essence of this Christmas season.

And what do I love about Christmas? I love everything from Charlie Brown's search for the perfect tree to molasses-spice cookies to that commercial where the M&M and Santa both pass out at the sight of each other....I love the magic of lights gleaming in the darkness and the fun of decorating cookies with the kids....I love the music!....I love finding gifts that will bring smiles to faces of people that I love...I love the old movies and the hope of snow...I love the anticipation....I love going to see Santa and watching kids either freak out or stare in awe....I love all of this and more...
...most of all, I love that this is the season to remember Hope. To me, all of the twinkling lights represent the Light that came to us so long ago....a Light that has neither dimmed nor changed. The world is dark. It's crazy and scary and, more than ever, it's in need of peace....but let this wonderful quote from Madeleine L'Engle remind you:

"His coming to us as a human child, in total weakness, was the greatest act of warfare against the powers of hate and chaos that I know. And if I, too, am to fight in this battle, it is from his weakness that I must draw my strength."

He was meek, humble, and gave Himself for us...he showed us how to love. He gave us reason to hope. He gave us miracles and wonders and a glimpse of God...

This is the irrational season

When love blooms bright and wild.

Had Mary been filled with reason

There'd have been no room for the child.

-M. L'Engle

This is the irrational season, and, oh, how I love not being bound by human limitations and fears!...if ever, this is the time to expect miracles, to plunge into pure faith, to believe in hope and in peace, to give love...to give of yourself...this is the irrational season and you never know when you'll be the light in someone's darkness.

In Lambert-Land

If I had to use one word to describe my life these days, that word would be: busy. From the moment I get up in the morning until the time I fall asleep at night, there is always something to do. (I’m not talking anything extraordinary here—think laundry and the school pick-up line.) I don’t mind this (usually). I like having my list and marking off what I’ve done…one thing I’ve learned about myself is that I like productivity. I like having a goal and accomplishing it. Feeling aimless makes me anxious and crazy.

But since my free time is limited, I have to choose wisely when filling it. Lately, that has meant this blog has gone untouched. My writing time has been dedicated to the second rewrite of the novel I finished for NaNoWriMo. Since I’m taking some space from it before continuing to the third draft, I’ll have a bit more time to spend here.

Anyway, things have been good. Sean loves kindergarten…it is incredible to watch him learn. He is to the point of reading small books by himself and helping me read our bedtime books…and he is proud of himself when he knows the words. Seeing him proud of himself fills me with such gratitude and joy. His school-journey has begun so positively…and I’m thankful.

Christian is four years old now…he is still silly and compassionate, smart and full of energy…he loves playing pretend and with his Hot Wheels cars. We’re working on all of his pre-k skills…he won’t start school until the 2010 school year, so he’ll definitely be ready for it.

Kailey is nine months old and wonderful. She crawls at rocket-speed and, to date, has six teeth. She loves to play with her big brothers and her daddy…they can make her laugh so hard with their silly faces and voices. I am cherishing these moments with her…her baby-months are flying by and I am doing my best to live and appreciate every minute of them.

So that’s where we are…striving day by day, step by step, to love fully and to be conscious of these fleeting moments.

The Hiding Place

When I was nine or ten years old, there was a particularly fierce storm system blowing through our area. Tornadoes were a real possibility and after some discussion about the sturdiness of the trailer we lived in, my parents packed up the three of us kids and drove us all down the road to our church.

I remember feeling terrified as we left our home – I had just read Night of the Twisters (not the most comforting book for a skittish kid) and the storm seemed like it was out to get us. It was a relief to get to the safety of the church – I felt better as soon as my dad unlocked the doors and ushered all of us inside the bright foyer.

While my parents and some of my aunts and uncles were in the sanctuary, playing instruments and singing, I sat in the space beneath my Papa’s desk. My dad propped a mattress up against the open side of the desk, creating a little dark cave. I felt safe with my flashlight and a Sweet Valley High book…and ended up sleeping through the rest of the storm.

Nights like these happened fairly often while I was growing up -- when my dad pastored a church on the coast, he’d open up the building for any members who needed a place to stay whenever tropical storms or hurricanes came through. With the wind roaring outside, we’d gather in the fellowship hall and play board games, watch weather reports on a tiny static-filled black and white tv, and talk over the sound of the pouring rain. Even after the electricity went off and we were stifling hot, it felt better to be there in the four walls of the church.

These days, when bad weather arrives, I walk around my house, looking out of the windows every other second and listening to the local news. I don’t get to run to the church or anywhere else. I have to hold my ground and tell my kids that there’s nothing to be afraid of.

But, lately, I am afraid.

While I drink my coffee and feed Kailey her mixed fruit and rice cereal, I turn on the news. I watch for a few minutes, which is long enough to put a lump of dread in my stomach, and change the channel to one of my TiVo’d episodes of The West Wing.

It isn’t just the economy – there are the random shootings, the always-evolving crisis of the Middle East, the shaky health-care system. And we all have our personal worries – car accidents, deaths in our families, illnesses, debt, the safety of our kids.
With all of that in mind, who doesn’t feel like running away to some safe haven? The question is: is there a refuge? Where, in this world of unrest, can we find security?

Looking back, it wasn’t those church buildings that made me feel so safe. It was the time I had spent there, peaceful in the presence of God. It was the word of God, proclaimed from the pulpit, affirming God’s power and sovereignty. It was there, in that church, that I was certain of God’s close proximity. It was there that I was reminded again and again of His love and protection, of the way He always brings good to those who trust Him. When I was hiding beneath my grandfather’s desk, I was really hiding in the shadow of the Almighty, secure under His wings.

Fear is corrosive; it eats away at us, bit by bit, day by day. And fear is sneaking in through the news, through the movies we watch, through the forwards in our in-boxes. It invades our minds and highlights worries…and when it’s there, we get so confused and anxious that we forget to seek shelter. We forget that there is a place of peace in the middle of the chaos…we forget that we do have a place to run. We forget that our trust is in a loving Father. He wants to take the anxiety and the fear from our hearts…He wants us to know that the downward spin life seems to be taking does not shake Him. He is still in control. He is still our refuge.

He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.”……..”Because he loves me,” says the Lord, “I will rescue him; I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name. He will call upon me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble, I will deliver him and honor him. With long life will I satisfy him and show him my salvation.” Psalm 91: 1-2, 14-16