So. That being said.
The little is already dressed and the bread is rising on the stove. A few more sips of coffee and I can refill.
|cup no. 2|
Yesterday, I noticed our glass-top coffee table needed a pick-me-up. So in an effort to save money, I tore out pages from Anthropologie's latest catalog and put them under the glass. Now I get to see what I want but can't afford...every single day.
In a few hours, my sister is bringing over her smallest five for a "royals" party — where we dress up, eat sweets and read stories.
|family is fun.|
It may say spring on the calendar, and it may be almost be April, but the March winds are fierce. Cold. Biting. Slamming the doors on our backs as we dejectedly run back inside.
So instead of being sad that we can't go outside to play, we're making our own fun. My Mads keeps referring to outside as "the park." I realize this may be in part to the fact that we've been living in concrete apartment buildings for the past two years. Now we're out in the open. Pine trees scratching our roof. Mountains casting shadows and creeks swollen with thaw. This all looks like a park, and I guess in a way, it is.
I don't correct her. I figure, what a great way to look at this gift of creation. A giant park.
Today is one of my brother's birthdays. I like him. He's a good man. (And I love him so much, that I'm willing to post a not-so-great photo of me...just to show that he's a good-looking, man-who-runs-up-mountains, Jesus man. I guess you can't see the Jesus part, but trust me, it's there.)
|he's a good brother.|
The to-do list is somewhere, on the yellow dresser I think. I know what's on it, so I don't even have to look. But I will, because I like lists. I hug lists.
But I know my taxes are done.
And that one project is finished.
And that phone call is made.
I told myself I'd get out for a run today, but the icy winds feel like blades against my cheeks and they steal away my breath from my bones. So a bundled up walk may be a better choice.
I baked cookies yesterday. Mads tried one and threw it in the garbage.
I liked them.
My mom liked them.
And I'm in the middle of reading Romans. Sometimes I forget what a beat-up chapters 1-7 are. Thank God for chapter 8.
My little is capturing the concept of prayer.
So she thanks God for me.
And then she lifts her eyes and asks why Daddy doesn't live here. I don't know that I'll ever be expecting these sorts of questions, or that I'll ever have the prepared answer.
This is my Tuesday morning. Filled with half-prayers, spilled chocolate milk, a potty accident, rising bread, cups of coffee, cold winds and gratitude for a Chapter 8 kind of God.
p.s. (Every Tuesday, I link-up with these lovelies.)