Earth's Crammed With Heaven

"Fairy tales are more than true; not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten." G.K. Chesterton This quote was such refreshment to me yesterday in the middle of a day full of obligations that were less than fantastic. It pulled me out of my full-speed-ahead-momness back to a place I enjoy much more - that of my fascination with Fairy Land. It began much later than many childhood fascinations begin... in seventh grade. Yes, I was the girl who stayed a little girl much longer than everyone else. I haven't made it out of my little girlness yet. But I don't apologize for that. In fact, I think my perspective is valuable to a world sorely in need of enchantment. I won't go into too much detail about the hours I spent at Four Winds, my wood-elf fort, with my friend Emily. You might be too shocked by the elaborate stories we created and my beloved Tom  might be too embarrassed by the woman he married. I will say

People ask me all the time to tell them how I met my beloved Tom. They ask because it's a question on the list of "what to say when you're meeting a relatively newly-wed," but my answer is something special. It's one of those stories worth stopping everything to hear because it's one of the best love stories of all time. Today, and not yesterday because my sweet baby Piper got a fever and all I could do was hold her, I'd like to tell you the story. My Valentine is one of a kind. The story is about this guy. And this girl. It gets better, I promise. Once upon a time, there was a most excellent man. He was handsome, creative, clever, and had a resume of life experiences to be remembered. He spoke German, had lived abroad for two and a half years, had built a ropes course in Ireland, had ridden motorcycles through Portugal, had led Young Life in Macedonia. He could build houses, play the guitar, ice skate, write music, sing to make a girl

Rain. I am burning a hazelnut candle against it, but my small protest is not stopping the downpour or the thunder that threatens to wake my sleeping baby. Typically, I admire thunder for its boldness. Today, I have courteously asked it to be quiet so that I can enjoy the full thirty-seven minutes of my sweet baby Piper's nap. Who would want to disturb this? Today I am ignoring the taunts of dishes, the call of laundry, and the murmur of dirty carpets, to do a picture study. A picture study is an exercise of observation and memory. They taught it to us in high school, after lunch, when we were too sweaty and exhausted from playing power base (more on this childhood game later) to care. Eventually, I learned to love the moments spent in silence contemplating a painting.I hope you will enjoy a few of these moments with me right now. Here is how to conduct your own picture study: Step 1: Select a painting. I will be studying the painting my beloved Tom gave me for Christmas

To begin with, you must know two things. One, I do not smell well. Two, I am a choir girl. That is, I have sung in choir since I was five years old and my mom put me in the large-haired Mrs. Davidson's church choir. Knowing these things will help you understand how I met the Patchouli People. It was Thursday night and the temperature had dropped ten degrees when the wind picked up. After feeding, changing, and cooing at my sweet baby Piper Joy for a little while, I entrusted her to the able arms of Nurse Cori  along with my parents, Ann and Carson, who will hereafter be referred to by their grandparent names, Nan and Pop, because those are their favorite names right now. Piper Joy trumps all. Why would I leave Piper Joy on a windy, cold Thursday night in the care of her aunt and grandparents? To go to a choir concert of course. I have mixed feelings about going to choir concerts. They come from the fact that I would prefer to be singing with the choir rather than listening. I k