I’ve been rather quiet because we’ve been galavanting across the country and recovering from illnesses that hit as soon as we made it through our front door (isn’t that always the case?).
This post will be full of photos, be warned!
We traveled first to Southern California, where we spent some lovely time with Jake’s parents and younger brother.
Michael got to go to his first baseball game, and he absolutely loved it. He spent most of the time holding onto the fence or Jake, shouting “ball!” at the top of his little lungs.
We then headed to San Diego for my best friend’s bachelorette party. It was so great to see her again (and some old friends too)!
We had an amazing day full of food, drink, and companionship, and then went to the Safari Park for a mimosa safari. It was quite a weekend: perfect for celebrating one of the smartest, funniest, and kindest persons I’ve had the pleasure of befriending.
I needed a black cocktail dress for the bachelorette, and I didn’t have any that I really liked — so I decided to make one! I have a new, handmade little black dress for fancy occasions and you can see it in the photos. I’ll write a post with more details on my sewing projects later, but I’m really pleased with how this one turned out.
We drove back home and then flew to Ohio to visit more of Jake’s family — all but one sister was there! (Sorry Jillian, we’ll see you next time!). For his first time flying, Michael did a really good job. There were a few rough spots, but all in all, not as painful as we were fearing.
It was so lovely to see everyone for the first time in quite a long time. Michael adored meeting all of his cousins, and was never bored or without a playmate.
Playing with Aunt JacquePlaying with Aunt Justine
We played games, knit and crocheted together, ate amazing food (courtesy of Aunt Johannah!) and had a wonderful week catching up and enjoying each other. So many babies, so many laughs, so many delightful people under one roof.
Michael was confused between Uncle Joe and Dada for a little bit Allllll the cousins! Birthday cake decoratingStretching with Uncle JacobNighttime crafting Playing with Aunt Johannah
On the plane trip back, I began feeling a bit under the weather, and then the next morning I woke up with the sorest throat I could ever remember having and a 101 degree fever. Urgent care confirmed I had strep throat. I’m still making my way through the antibiotics, but feel much better. Thankfully, only one other person of the whole group seems to have gotten it, and Jake and Michael escaped without strep. However, now both of them are fighting colds, so all three of us are laying low and resting as much as possible.
While we were gone, my small garden efforts sprung to life.
I planted daffodil bulbs back at the beginning of the year: they were 60% off at the store and I figured I would see some nice blooms next year, since it was too late for them to bloom this year. I was mistaken! They grew anyway! They have the most beautiful blossoms. It was such an unexpected source of life and beauty, and I delight in them every time I walk in my front door.
They’re one of my favorite flowers. I memorized the poem Daffodils by William Wordsworth as a child, and it still runs through my head every time I see one.
More of my beets survived Max’s munching than I expected! I’m hopeful I’ll have some homegrown beets in a few weeks. My little strawberry plant has also been blooming.
My lavender has been soaking up all the rain we’ve been having recently, and I plan on harvesting some of the blossoms to dry for tea and tinctures.
Even my onions, planted hastily in a grow bag, have pushed green fingers out of the soil.
There’s still much to do, especially as the weather warms. Beds to assemble, fences to build, seedlings to harden and plant, and so much more. I’m hopeful we’ll have more garden updates in the near future.
At nearly fourteen months, Michael is growing like crazy in every way. He’s officially in 12-18 month clothing, and even the odd 24 month/2T item. He’s been teething a lot, and is cutting his upper molars.
Sleep continues to be the hardest part of all our lives. He takes one nap, usually around 10:30 am, anywhere from 45 to 90 minutes. Bedtime is a trial. Earlier this week, two days in a row, he gave us an unheard of 4.5 hour stretch of sleep. However, he’s now fighting a cold and is back to being up every 1.5 to 2 hours. Still, having that 4.5 hour stretch two days in a row gave us some hope. Maybe the end of this insane sleeplessness is close?
Michael has taken to hiding toys in shoes. Jake and I have found several balls, toy cars, blocks, Cheerios, and the tv remote hidden in the toes of our boots. We’re now in the habit of dumping our shoes out before putting them on.
He loves putting things inside containers, shutting the lids, and then opening them and removing their contents. Anything from Tupperware to kitchen cabinets — if it has a door, he will open it and put something inside.
He hates the car, still — any drive longer than 20 minutes is a gamble. We’ve tried everything, but what seems to distract him from screaming the best is Jake and I singing the jingle “Bumblebee Tuna” at the top of our lungs in harmony. We’ve tried hymns, Irish ballads, pop songs, nursery rhymes — none of them make him stop screaming like the Bumblebee Tuna jingle. Go figure.
His language has continued to explode: he now says “Cosmo” (one of the dogs’ names), “Grandpa”, “Grandma”, “Bubba” (pacifier), “keys”, “down”, “shoes”, “book”, and “Jesus”. His favorite word right now is “uh oh”: anytime anything drops or crashes or makes a loud noise, we hear an adorable “uh ohhhhh”.
He currently loves cars and making car sounds — he delights in “driving” the car with Jake or the tractor with my dad. He has some of my dad’s vintage matchbox cars that he carries around with him wherever he goes.
Currently, his favorite books are Moo Baa La La La, Hand Hand Fingers Thumb, and Organic Chemistry for Babies. He often points to the atoms on the page and brightly explains “ball”!
He loves making animal noises: he willingly obliges when you ask him what a cow says, or a sheep says, or a dog says. We credit Moo Baa La La La for this skill set.
We’ve all been fighting colds the past week so I’ve utilized screen time more than usual. He loves Ms Rachel’s Songs for Littles channel on YouTube. I love that she gives me a chance to make dinner or fold laundry without a screeching barnacle. He giggles and dances along to the music, and she’s helped him find several new words. She’s also helped us learn how to best teach Michael new words. Often in the mornings or late afternoons, Michael and I will snuggle on the couch and watch an episode together.
As always, he adores being outside. He prefers pushing the stroller to being pushed in the stroller, and loves playing with the rocks in my parents’ driveway and throwing the ball for the dogs. It’s been raining a lot lately, and the resulting mud is fascinating to Michael.
His favorite foods currently include grapes, mozzarella balls, applesauce, mashed potatoes, rice, and black bean soup. He loves having his own spoon and has started learning how to use it to move food to his mouth instead of the floor.
I love watching my bright-eyed, curious, kind little boy explore the world around him. In spite of all the difficulties and growing pains, being his mother is the greatest honor.
I feel like I say every room in our house is my favorite — but of all my favorites, I definitely spend the most time in the kitchen. It’s the first place I go to when I stumble out of bed in the morning, and the last place I tidy before I head to sleep.
I love the sage green of the walls — a color both calming and alive. I love the hanging pots and pans. I love our counters, lovingly sealed and installed by my dad and my husband. I love the large sliding door that opens to our porch and invites the breeze to blow through our home. I love the deep sink and the window that looks west over our backyard, and how the sunset trails its fingers down our walls every evening before dinner.
As I said, I spend the greater part of my hours in the kitchen. Putting away groceries, preparing food, eating food, cleaning up after meals, preparing snacks for my little one, cleaning out the fridge, emptying the dishwasher, filling the dishwasher — the list goes on.
However, some days I don’t see the green walls or the hanging pots and pans or the sink or the sunset. I see a never-ending cycle of chores that makes Sisyphus look like a man taking his pet rock for a stroll. No matter how many dishes I wash, more will be dirty in an hour or two. No matter how many meals I make, we will all be hungry and ready to eat again shortly. Every day when I wake up, the same tasks await me.
Much of motherhood and homemaking is cyclical and repetitive: somehow both always changing and always the same. My days all look very similar to each other, but just as I feel like I have a grasp on our routine, Michael hits a new growth milestone, and it causes a domino effect on my previous schedule or routine, and I begin again.
St. Benedict, the father of Western monasticism, has a famous motto I memorized back when I studied Latin in school: Ora Et Labora, which means “pray and work”. All of our work is an opportunity for prayer and beauty and sanctification: not just the parts I enjoy like writing or knitting or gardening, but also the dishes and the laundry and the vacuuming.
I can look at my labor as drudgery (and on my worst days, Lord have mercy, I admit I do), or I can embrace the work, offering it up as prayer and sacrifice and turning it into love. Even the constant and unending chores. Especially the constant and unending chores.
I’ve created small places in my kitchen to remind me to offer up my labor as I cook or clean. Our prayer corner is the eastern(ish) corner by the table. I have icons of Christ and St. Euphrosynus (the patron saint of cooks/kitchens) on the window sill above my sink. I also have a small card with the Hours printed on it: whenever I’m doing dishes, I try to find the closest hour and pray the corresponding Psalm.
Becoming holy is a labor that takes as much persistence as doing the dishes or laundry (if not more). No matter how many times you repent, you will have to repent again. Becoming more and more like Christ takes constant toil in the gardens of our hearts. Our faithfulness in these small, seemingly insignificant chores will translate over to our faithfulness in larger things. Luke 16:10 comes to mind: One who is faithful in a very little is also faithful in much.
Many of the venerated saints of the Church speak about this constant struggle towards holiness. St. Benedict also says, “Even when we fail, always we begin again”. And St. Anthony of the Desert says, “Everyday I say to myself, today I will begin.” It is here, in the daily struggle and daily choices, that saints are formed.
So tomorrow, when I enter my favorite room in our house and have a dishwasher to empty, meals to cook, and laundry to wash, dry, and fold, may I look at as an opportunity to begin again; taking steps toward my sanctification through work and through motherhood.
Now that Michael is one, I would rather not chronicle his life by month: I’d like to record the moments and milestones as they come. I’ll be posting updates on our little hobbit as the pictures and life skills accumulate (most likely more than once per month, knowing me).
Michael’s favorite book currently is Moo Baa La La La by Sandra Boynton. He anticipates each animal sound before we turn the page and joins in BOW WOW WOW with gusto. We all have it memorized by now.
His baby babble has become much more sophisticated: Mama, Dada, yes and no, eyes, nose, ball, and “num” (food) are all regular parts of his vocabulary. He mirrors back to us words we’re saying, and he talks to himself constantly while playing — I know he’s getting into something he’s not supposed to when the babble ceases.
We transitioned from a crib to a floor bed, hoping it would help him sleep longer. So far it hasn’t improved much, but it’s easier for Jake and me to put him down and soothe him back to sleep, so I’m calling it a win. I need all the wins I can get, especially now that he’s down to one nap.
His favorite game is Bonk, which is exactly what it sounds like. He gently (and sometimes not so gently) bonks his forehead against ours and giggles uproariously when we proclaim bonk! (Or sometimes ouch). He also adores opening and closing cabinets. It keeps him quite busy at church during the homily.
He’s officially walking everywhere, and prefers walking to crawling. We hear little padding footsteps followed by a loud splat as he loses his balance, often a frustrated screech, then footsteps once more as he gets up and tries again.
Grandpa and our cat Chai are tied for his best friend. Grandpa likes Michael a lot more than Chai does, but she’s tolerant of him and allows him to pet her. He’s remarkably gentle with pets for his age. He also enjoys chasing her with his toy mop (a behavior we’re trying to discourage).
He continues to love music, just as he did in the womb and as an infant. We often listen to music in the afternoons together while playing in his room. Whenever our washer or dryer plays the ditty that announces the cycle is finished, he often pauses and bounces in place along with the beat. He’s especially enjoying Nickel Creek and Chris Thile. Maybe he’ll play fiddle or mandolin when he grows up.
His frustration tolerance is low — if he gets stuck or something is in his way, he displays an impressive lung capacity. My favorite quote from Moby Dick often comes to mind: a bellow “like that of a heart-stricken moose” (Ch 36, for those interested). We’re slowly and surely helping him learn patience. He might be impatient, but he’s resolute and has all the virtues that come with stubbornness.
Being outside in the garden is one of his favorite pastimes. I have to keep a close eye on him to make sure he doesn’t eat the compost or behead one of my seedlings with his trowel, but he loves playing in the dirt with his garden tools. He helped Jake plant a tree, and helped me plant some blackberries.
Currently, he’s a ridiculously adventurous eater. Anything I’m eating, he wants to eat it too. To name a few, he’s eaten kimchi, kombucha, wasabi pea chips, and sauerkraut (and come back for second, third, and fourth bites)
He is a very loved little boy: GG and PaPaw dote on him, as do his grandparents. Living in community has its difficulties, but seeing Michael grow up surrounded by so many who love him is one of the brightest parts.
I watch him grow with a bittersweetness: this walking, talking toddler was my tiny baby not that long ago. I feel like I blinked and he became a little boy.
Even in the midst of the sleeplessness and other challenges motherhood brings, I cherish these beautiful moments and collect them in my photos and in my heart.
It’s been quiet here as we all scramble to catch up on work/household chores that fell neglected during our two-ish weeks of storms and power failure. The siblings went back to college and Michael misses them already. I’m glad they were able to be here for his first birthday.
Even though it’s been a week since his party, I still wanted to document it here. Michael’s birthday party was a quiet affair for similar reasons: power outage cleanup and head colds made throwing a large party out of my ability. Plus, Michael chose the week prior to drop his afternoon nap and the transition was difficult for all of us. But I still wanted to make his first birthday something special that he could look at in our photo albums as he gets older.
Using felt and some macrame rope, I stitched together some bunting that matched the colors of his room and went with our Hobbit-themed party. My blanket stitch wasn’t perfect (those pesky corners) but I love the handmade look and Michael doesn’t seem to mind. It now hangs over his window in his bedroom.
I also made him a birthday crown. I’m hoping to keep up the tradition as the years continue, embroidering or felting something on each that reflects an aspect of my child’s interests and loves. For this one, I felted a leaf, a sun, a ladybug, and an acorn — to capture Michael’s love of the outdoors and his curiosity about the world around him.
It was my first attempt at needle felting so it’s a tad rough, but I’m happy with the end product.
Hobby Lobby had some fun woodland themed decorations and I enjoyed putting them around our living room and kitchen. Mushrooms, acorns, hedgehogs, and foxes all helped transform the small space into something magical.
Food was a simple affair, based on some of Michael’s favorites and those that might be found in The Shire. We had cheeses and veggies and fruits and honey cake with blueberries.
Our family crowded into our tiny cottage, and Michael was delighted by all the love and attention. He spent the afternoon ripping tissue paper and toddling from one person to the next, showing off his new books and toys.
He loved every present, as did I — they give me a few minutes of independent play here or there so I can get a few chores done around the house.
Watching him with his birthday cake was probably the best part of the entire day. He loved the candle, and the singing, and the frosting. He also loved demolishing the cake.
I had been struggling with “mom guilt” over having a simple and small birthday party, especially since my original plan had been much more ornate and exciting and involved inviting many friends. But seeing the happiness on his face as he opened gifts and wandered from person to person and smashed cake into every crevice of his high chair, that guilt eased a little. Although his party wasn’t elaborate, the cake was wonky, the house small, and the decorations imperfect…I know he still loved every moment of it.
It’s Michael’s first birthday today, and my heart is full to bursting. I look at him and see the tiny baby I held with love and shock and exhaustion a year ago today, after twenty-seven hours in labor.
I also see a strong and inquisitive and fiery soul with insatiable curiosity and energy, and the gentlest and sweetest spirit. Getting to know him and help shape him as he grows is the greatest privilege and honor I’ve ever had. It is also one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done.
He walks when he wants to, usually for quite a few feet, but is still unsteady so he chooses to crawl more often. His favorite activity currently is emptying things out of containers: toys from his bin, books from the shelves, clothes from the drawers.
His language skills are blooming: he babbles to himself constantly, and his favorite sound right now is “geegogeegogeego”. As well as “bye-bye”, he says “please”, and “up”, and “num” (which means he wants a bite of whatever we’re eating) and can very emphatically say yes and no, with accompanying nods or head shakes.
If he could be outside 24/7, he would be. He is happiest being in the fresh air, whether on a walk around the block or hiking in the mountains.
He’s come to accept church as a second home, and is comfortable enough to crawl wherever he desires, keeping both me and his godmother on our toes.
Grandpa still remains his favorite person in the whole wide world. I love watching his relationship with my parents and my grandparents: it’s such a joy and a delight.
He loves music and now plays the piano almost daily, insisting on sitting on my lap and watching my hands move and joining in.
It seems like only yesterday I was in the hospital giving birth — and it also seems like an entire lifetime ago. I haven’t told Michael’s birth story on a public forum yet, and I figured his first birthday was a good time to recount the events leading to his entrance into the world.
If birth stories freak you out, feel free to stop reading past this point. I’m recording it for myself as much as for those who are curious, so I intend to hold nothing back!
On Thursday, January 13th, Jake and I headed to my early morning 39 week appointment. We expected to hear the heartbeat and go home (to continue eating dates, curb walking, drinking raspberry leaf tea, and all the other natural labor augmenting tricks.) But when my OBGYN placed the Doppler against my stomach, we didn’t hear the regular heartbeat rhythm we’d come to expect: it sounded like an extra beat kept getting thrown in, reminiscent of a bad dubstep from the early 2000s. After calling and consulting with another doctor, she sent us over to the hospital to be induced, hoping that the sudden arrhythmia would resolve after birth.
Without any of our prepped bags, we headed over to the hospital around 11 am. I quickly ate a granola bar since I hadn’t had breakfast due to the early appointment time. We were both in a bit of a daze as we filled out the paperwork and made our way to the labor and delivery ward. I wanted both Jake and my mother with me during labor, but due to COVID regulations, my mom couldn’t join us til I tested negative. I was grateful Jake had come along to this appointment — otherwise I would’ve been by myself for quite a while. So we sat and waited as I was poked and prodded (they blew two veins trying to get an IV in me), started on Pitocin, and had a cooks catheter inserted to help with cervical dilation. I was 4 cm dilated and 50% effaced, and the baby was at a -2: a bit too high in my pelvis.
When my COVID test finally came back negative, my mom headed over with all our bags. For the next several hours, I breathed through contractions, rocked on the peanut ball, chatted with the nurses, and watched John Mulaney comedy sketches. Finally, around 11 pm, the Pitocin contractions were at the point where I had very little to no breaks between them, and I had barely progressed since that morning. I also hadn’t been able to pee since the cooks catheter was inserted, no matter how hard I tried, and my full bladder was adding more pain and pressure to each contraction. I realized later the catheter had probably been pressing on my urethra. Due to the discomfort of my bladder and the unceasing Pitocin contractions, I finally agreed to an epidural.
When the epidural was inserted, the anesthesiologist brushed a nerve, and that was probably the most painful part of this entire experience. But once the epidural took effect and the catheter helped me finally empty my bladder, I was finally comfortable enough to doze through the night while they cranked up my Pitocin. I had the kindest night nurse who braided my hair for me so it wouldn’t tangle, and held my hands and prayed with me as the epidural was inserted.
By morning, I hadn’t progressed as much as we had hoped, and I was getting tired and discouraged. This entire time we had also been struggling with monitoring Michael’s heartbeat. They tried Bluetooth monitors, external monitors, and internal monitors — none of them could give us a consistent and steady reading of his heart rate, which concerned everyone. On top of that stress, there was a miscommunication between the nurses and my OBGYN, and I was incorrectly told I should prepare myself for a c-section. Thankfully, that was not the case, but the stress didn’t help our situation.
With the morning also came a new nurse: Lindsay. She was the biggest blessing, and looking back, I’m not sure how I would have done it without her. She was the doula I couldn’t have (due to COVID restrictions). She encouraged me, laughed with me, helped me shift positions and do different movements even with an epidural to engage the baby lower in my pelvis.
Early afternoon I began to feel pain on my right hip, even through the epidural. No amount of position changing or epidural dosage increasing would get rid of it. As it increased, I felt the urge to push. I pushed for two hours, in a primal haze of pain and determination. At one point Jake was speaking to me, and my brain couldn’t understand the words he was saying. I just needed to push, and meet my baby. I had the icon of the Theotokos, our Helper in Childbirth, on my pillow (given to me by my wonderful friend Catie) and I rested my forehead on it between pushes, the Jesus Prayer the only words I could formulate in my head.
Lord Jesus, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Finally, he was crowning, and the OBGYN came in to help deliver him. I had been pushing this entire time on my hands and knees, and I had to switch to my back for the delivery (Still not the happiest about that.) At this point, I believe my epidural was wearing off. I could feel intense pressure. Lindsay locked eyes with me and helped coach my breathing through the last pushes, and then the pressure gave way to sharp pain as he was finally born at 4:45 pm. He came out with his hand up by his head, which might explain both the hip pain and the second degree tearing I experienced. To this day, he still loves to sleep with his fist by his face.
No visitors were allowed due to COVID, and we spent our first night as a family of three in the hospital. My mom came back the next morning, and finally we were cleared to go on Saturday evening. The first meal I had when I got home was sushi (oh how I had missed it!) and a glass of my favorite Chardonnay.
His arrhythmia did not resolve after birth, and we had a few appointments with a pediatric cardiologist in the first months of his life that determined he was experiencing premature ventricular contractions. He also had a small septal defect in his heart. Thankfully, both of these things resolved themselves within the first six months of his life, and today he has a clean bill of health.
I’ll never forget watching my parents meet their grandson for the first time, and my siblings their nephew, and my grandparents their great-grandson. I didn’t know love could grow as incredibly and exponentially in such a short period of time, but in just a few short days, I was full of more love than I thought was humanly possible.
Happy first birthday, my sweet boy. May God grant you many years.
It’s been a busy December: much of my time has been taken up with Christmas preparations, and still there are traditions that we didn’t make time for this year. Gingerbread baking (and many other classic holiday treats) will have to wait for next year.
But we still watched our favorite nostalgic Christmas films such as White Christmas and A Charlie Brown Christmas. There was something magical about watching Michael see them for the first time. Even though he won’t remember them, his wonder and innocence made watching them as a family even more special.
We also made room for some new traditions. One of my oldest and dearest friends flew out to join us for Christmas, and we all walked along one of the festive streets in town to look at their Christmas lights. There were some incredibly beautiful decorations (the Grinch was my personal favorite).
It was a beautiful, simple evening: we all were bundled up in knitwear and jackets, and we reminisced about our favorite Christmas movies as we walked.
We were touched by the neighborly cheer and friendliness from all the people walking with us on the brilliantly lit sidewalks. Kids laughed and squealed with excitement, grandparents walked arm in arm, and we sang Christmas carols as we went. We even snuck in a little harmony when we could.
PG&E finally installed the new power pole earlier this week, meaning we can now have air conditioning installed for the summer. We’re grateful they allowed temporary power to our house so we could move in in October, and we’re glad the final large step for our home is complete.
We were without power the entire day while they worked, and the sun was hidden behind thick grey clouds. I lit the Advent wreath and it glowed brightly on our table, the only source of light and warmth in our home. It seemed fitting.
Michael enjoyed watching the men working, and all the trucks with their flashing lights. I think Jake and dad enjoyed it too. It was quite an ordeal: seven trucks, and half the street was shut down to traffic.
We have a gas stove, so for dinner I made vegetable barley soup by candlelight. Our little cottage was incredibly cozy. I must admit, I was almost a little disappointed when the power came back on halfway through our meal. We were all grateful for the ability to turn the heat on however, since the house temperature had dropped to 60 degrees.
We are preparing for a quiet Christmas: it’s a bit different this year, as we think of those whose places at our table will be empty. As we all navigate grief and exhaustion for a medley of different reasons as a family, I’m grateful for these Christmas traditions. They’re a balm to our souls: they gave us bright memories that we can all talk about and remember, and they remain beautiful and comforting despite how many things have changed throughout the years. And we can experience their joy renewed through the eyes of Michael as he gets to celebrate his first Christmas.
This year seems to have been heavy for many of us: many of my closest and dearest friends and family members have experienced profound loss and grief and pain. I know the same goes for many others. If you have had a difficult year, I pray that you also may find peace and joy in these simple traditions like Christmas lights and carols.
Michael turned eleven months last week. It seems as though he’s grown in leaps and bounds over the past month. He’s incredibly talkative and vivacious, earnestly saying “yeah” or shaking his head, waving and saying “bye-bye” to Jake as he goes out to work, and trying his hardest to mimic whatever words we might be saying.
He’s very excited over the Christmas trees and shining lights. It’s been quite a task to keep him (and our cat Chai) from knocking over our little blue spruce. We plan to plant his first Christmas tree outside his window, so it can grow with him.
Michael is close to walking: he often takes a series of short steps to get to something (or someone) he wants. He still thinks crawling is more practical for getting from point A to point B, however.
Music remains Michael’s favorite thing: he now bobs up and down whenever he particularly loves a song, and nods his head in time to the beat (usually). He loves playing the Irish tin whistle with me and has learned how to blow into it. He also loves playing the piano beside me, and watching Uncle Jon play the organ and piano. Every time he hears Jake sing in church, he turns to watch and listen. Sometimes he even sings along.
He still fights naps and bedtime with an intense passion, afraid he’ll miss out on something exciting. I remind myself often that this willpower is a strength of his, and will be quite a force to be reckoned with when properly directed.
(But yes, I’m still tired and look forward to sleeping through the night again at some point).
On very short car trips he often chatters to me from his seat while I drive, and sings along to whatever we’re listening to. However, he hates being in his car seat with the same passion as nap time. When we arrive at our destination he’s usually elated to be out and about, but the journey there often puts all of us through purgatory.
He wasn’t quite sure about Saint Nicholas when he came to visit our church, but he still posed for a picture. Michael isn’t shy, but he’s quiet and will observe people he doesn’t know from the corner of his eye as he plays. He’s got quite the doubtful stare — I swear, he copied all his expressions from his father.
He’s so joyful and fiery and funny and gentle: I love watching his personality unfold each passing month. I love you, sweet boy. Happy eleven months.
The Saturday after Thanksgiving, we visited the graves of our family members and left flowers on the two new ones.
It was a crisp autumn day, and the trees in the cemetery were beautiful. Their leaves made me think of the glory of the cherubim: bright and burning and spread across the heavens.
My uncle David’s headstone still hasn’t arrived, but we found the plot where he rests and placed a lily there.
We stood together as a family, and cleaned off the headstone, and we read part of the Akathist to Christ for a Loved One Who Has Fallen Asleep. It’s one of my favorites, and I’ve prayed it many times this year. Jake and I also sang Memory Eternal, and the words of the Akathist seemed to rest with me as we sang.
But love is strong, delivering from eternal darkness and saving all, for whom with boldness it raises a song to Thee: Alleluia!
Death is ugly. Our society hides it out of sight and out of mind. It isn’t a topic of polite conversation. We’re inundated with marketing and advertisements that promise eternal youth, while the elderly and the ill are hidden in sterile buildings for others to take care of. The practice of visiting the graves of family members seems to have fallen out of style. Often we pretend death doesn’t exist, until we can’t any longer.
The Orthodox understanding both of death and our relationship to the departed is a great comfort to me. Death exists, and we prepare and pray for a holy end to our lives — but we do not fear death, knowing Christ has conquered the grave. We also pray for those who have departed this life: only God knows the state of their soul and their salvation, and so we pray for His mercy.
We also ask the saints to pray for us and our loved ones. Fr. John Breck writes in greater detail in this article, if you are interested in exploring the Biblical and traditional foundations of the communion of saints.
Prayer transcends both time and space. As the work of the Holy Spirit within us, prayer unites us in a transcendent, eternal communion with the Holy Trinity and with all the faithful who have preceded us through death and into life beyond. We can and we must pray for them, for their salvation and for our own. We pray for them and request their intercession for the same reason the Church has always offered that prayer: because even now we are united with them in the eternal bond we know as “the communion of saints.”
Fr. John Breck
These reminders of hope in the face of death are especially poignant as we continue in the Nativity fast in the East (and enter into the Advent season in the West). This entire liturgical season of the Church is rooted in hope.
The Nativity hymns of the East are full of the imagery of a barren wasteland springing into life. The words below are selected from the Advent Paraklesis:
The desert flowered like a lily at Thy coming, O Lord…
…For through Thy birth Thou dost shape all things afresh, making them new once more and leading them back again to their first beauty.
Make ready, O Bethlehem, for Eden hath been opened for all. Prepare, O Ephratha, for the Tree of Life hath blossomed forth in the cave from the Virgin.
The Advent hymns from the West also highlight the theme of hope: of a barren wasteland now filled with new life, and of light dispelling darkness. The ancient hymn O Come O Come Emmanuel has several verses that speak to this hope:
O come, O Branch of Jesse’s stem, unto your own and rescue them! From depths of hell your people save, and give them victory o’er the grave.
O come, O Bright and Morning Star, and bring us comfort from afar! Dispel the shadows of the night and turn our darkness into light.
And of course, the refrain is not one of sorrow, but of joy: Rejoice! Immanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.
I was struck by the beauty of the cemetery as we walked through it to the graves of our family members. Everywhere we walked, trees and flowers embraced the graves around them. It was a beautifully strong image of new life overcoming death.
Hope is essential to the Christian life. It is because of this liturgical season, preparing for the Incarnation of our Lord, that we can have hope. We can see the trees and the flowers blossoming over the graves of our loved ones and pray Lord have mercy, with hope. We can ask the communion of saints to pray for us, with hope. We can face our own deaths with hope. And in the end, we can taunt death and the grave, saying with the psalmist and St John Chrysostom: O death, where is your sting? O Hades, where is your victory? Christ is risen and you are abolished.
It’s been a wonderful Thanksgiving week. My best friend came for the weekend before, and having her here was a balm for my soul.
She held my child so I could do things around the house, made me one of the best sandwiches I’ve had in a while, and cleaned and organized my house for me whenever I put Michael down for a nap.
The evenings were filled with wine and games and deep conversations and ridiculous jokes. I laughed and I cried, and felt more alive than I had in a while. I am so grateful for her friendship.
My siblings flew home for Thanksgiving on Saturday too, and I was able to host my entire family at my house for the first time.
I made a purple sweet potato soup that turned out more vibrant and beautiful than I anticipated. I had made it with regular sweet potatoes before, but never purple ones: now I have a new favorite dish.
Guests began arriving Wednesday, and we had a delightful meal together (a pre-Thanksgiving Thanksgiving) and a blind scotch tasting (which made the evening games a lot more entertaining).
Thanksgiving at our house is always a huge and communal affair. I think we had a total of twenty-four people this year.
This year, I made the pumpkin pies and my spiced red wine cranberry sauce, and Jake made the dinner rolls.
We also have a yearly tradition of taking photos every Thanksgiving. It’s a great way to get an updated family photo for the Christmas cards! We have a few nice ones that I’m saving for our Christmas card, but I love these more candid ones of us.
I finished Michael’s Thanksgiving sweater just in time: I frantically knit the last sleeve and wove in my ends while Michael took his morning nap, and did a quick steam block to smooth the stitches.
It was my first ever colorwork project, and I’m quite proud over how it turned out. There are a few tension mistakes but otherwise I count it a success. It fits him perfectly.
Michael got to try his first bites of Thanksgiving dinner: I think his favorite was the whipped cream.
Thanksgiving is often a complicated holiday: not only because of its origins in things I disagree with (colonization and Puritanism) but also because our culture’s emphasis on family can leave some out in the cold. Often the “nuclear family” is put on a pedestal as the highest good.
Family is wonderful and beautiful and important. It is something to be preserved and cherished. But we should not limit our understanding of homes to a nuclear family. Thanksgiving is a time to remember and include those who might have a complicated relationship with their families, or too much distance between them and their families, or have no families. For these people, we are called to be their family.
One of the things I love most about Thanksgiving is how it resurrects the virtues of gratitude and hospitality in our society. The ancient understanding of hospitality has stuck with me ever since I read Greek mythology in elementary school. For them, hospitality is a virtue because you never know when you could be entertaining gods in disguise.
As Christians, our homes and tables should always be open to all, because we know that each and every person is an icon of Christ. We don’t have to wonder if we’re entertaining gods in disguise: we know that by serving each other, we serve Christ. Every meal can be a Thanksgiving meal: a chance to open our tables to our fellow man and our hearts to the virtues of gratitude and hospitality.
So may there always be room for one more person at our tables, and may we take these virtues of gratitude and hospitality forward with us beyond Thanksgiving Day.
five acres four generations 