And just like that, Michael is ten months old. Over the past month, it seems as though he’s grown in leaps and bounds.
This week he said his first intentional word: “bye bye”, complete with adorable little wave. He’s done it several times since, but we haven’t been able to catch it on camera.
He also clapped his hands for the first time, and is very shy about repeating the action (though I’ve seen him clapping to himself a few times while playing). He occasions stands by himself without any support, but he seems content to crawl for the time being.
Opening his Namesday gift from his godmother
He is hardly ever still: he is intensely curious and wants to figure everything out. Pulling books from the bookshelves is one of his favorite past times, as is chewing on them.
He loves climbing things and has figured out how to scale our stairs, couch, chairs, and even how to pull up on the oven. He hasn’t quite figured out how to get down without going bonk, so my days are quite busy and a little frazzled.
He loves chicken and pasta and bananas, and anything else he can thoughtfully squish between his fingers.
Sleep is still his nemesis. I look forward to the day he realizes sleep is his friend.
Fresh nap bedhead
One of his favorite things to do is throw the ball for the dogs with grandpa and sit outside by the fire pit. Grandpa is Michael’s best friend, and I love their special relationship.
The joys of motherhood greatly outshine the numerous difficulties. I love watching as Michael begins to interact with the world more and more.
Last Wednesday Michael got a miserable cold that quickly spread to every member of the family (including my mom and dad). We’ve been hunkering down with a sleep-deprived, stuffy-nosed baby and slowly recovering.
Even though this illness made us cancel a trip we’d been looking forward to and has kept me from updating my blog as often as I would like, there are still many things to celebrate over the course of this week.
I had photos and an article published in the November issue of HerLife magazine! You can read it here, and I’ve included a screenshot of their beautiful spread.
They did such an incredible job, and I’m so thrilled that I have the opportunity to contribute.
Autumn on our little homestead comes with its own set of tasks. We clear away dead brush and prepare the trees for winter, and catch up on whatever other tasks didn’t get completed during the summer. It feels like the land is letting out a deep, contented sigh and getting ready to rest.
Before the illness hit us too hard, my parents were able to trim back one of our large mulberry trees. Michael enjoyed watching (even though he was snuffly). It feels so good to check these tasks off our lists and slowly start to prepare for the sleepy chill of winter.
It was Michael’s name day in the Eastern calendar on November 8th, but all of us were still recovering from this cold, so unfortunately we weren’t able to celebrate the way I wish we could have. His wonderful godmother sent him a text and prayed for us.
He always gravitates towards our prayer corner. I often have to stop him from ripping the prayer books from their stacks, but he loves it when I take down the icon of St Michael for him. He’s been keeping me accountable with doing morning prayers.
Over all the Nine Ranks (of angels), the Lord appointed the Holy Archangel Michael (his name in Hebrew means “who is like unto God”), the faithful servitor of God, as Chief Commander. He cast down from Heaven the arrogantly proud Lucifer and the other fallen spirits when they rebelled against God. Michael summoned the ranks of angels and cried out, “Let us attend! Let us stand aright before our Creator and do not consider doing what is displeasing unto God!”
Synaxis of the Archangel Michael and the Other Bodiless Powers from oca.org
I chose Michael’s name quite intentionally (as I discussed in my Michaelmas post) and I continue to be glad I chose such a strong name for my strong son. May St. Michael’s faithfulness and strength be an inspiration to all of us.
We also celebrated my dear husband’s birthday this week. Later we’ll have a date at our favorite restaurant to celebrate just the two of us, but I loved making him special meals on the actual day.
His birthday cake request is always German Chocolate Cake, which is so much fun to bake, and makes the whole house smell heavenly.
I am not the best baker — I prefer cooking, where I don’t have to be quite as precise and have more room for creative modifications — but I think these turned out pretty well.
Watching Jake become a dad has been a highlight of this year. He is such an attentive and kind father, and Michael absolutely adores him.
Jake has embraced fatherhood with all its joys and sacrifices. Despite his demanding job, he often takes time throughout the day to come in and give Michael a quick snuggle (and give me a short break). When Michael wakes at 5:30 or 6:00 am, Jake takes him to walk around the property or play in the living room so I can get another hour of sleep.
Being his wife is the greatest blessing I’ve ever been given. He’s supported me through some of my hardest times, and laughed with me during some of my best times. He makes me a happier, holier person.
Thank you to all of you who prayed for my grandmother. She is home from the hospital as of Friday, and while we have a long road to recovery in front of us, we’re glad to have her home again. Please continue praying for her health!
It was a quiet weekend on the homestead, and all of us were able to take some much needed time to breathe and rejuvenate. I was tempted to say that we did “nothing”, but that’s really not true. We did quiet things: things that bettered our homes and our souls.
On Friday my mom took out her nice camera and got some fun pictures of Michael as she practiced using different settings. I put him in an adorable plaid shirt and suspenders and suddenly he looked so grown up…
He stood by himself right before I took this photoHe inherited that scowl from JakeHe wasn’t quite sure about the pumpkin
She got some adorable shots, and I even posed for a picture or two. When she sends them to me I’ll be sure to post a few of them here.
Saturday was delightfully slow and peaceful (well, as slow and peaceful as a weekend can be with a nine month old who abhors sleep). We made our favorite chai pancakes for breakfast and spent time doing chores leftover from the moving process around the house.
Someone enjoyed his first pancakesPurrboxJake fixed my piano’s sustain pedal
We hung a gallery wall over my piano with some prints from my favorite artists, including Loré Pemberton and Sleightholm Folk. I have two embroidery projects that I need to finish and hang in the places where the empty hoops are, but otherwise it’s complete. I love being able to look up at artwork full of wonder and magic as I play the piano.
I’ve already played a handful of hymns and simple classical pieces, and I look forward to playing Christmas carols by candlelight this winter.
My parents spent their Saturday laboring in their garden and preparing it for late fall and winter vegetables. It had fallen into disrepair as we threw everything we had this past month towards moving into our house, but now the dead plants have been cleared away and replaced with rich compost and baby seedlings.
Toe beansSleeping in the rose petals
They also seeded some of their pomegranates, as their tree is bursting with fruit. We’re hoping to seed as many pomegranates as possible and freeze them to juice at a later date for jelly. I’m excited to have a kitchen ready for our afternoons of preserving — it’s so satisfying to see the gleaming jars and hear the pop as the lids seal after all our hard work.
We ended Saturday with Jake and I having a date while my parents stayed home with Michael. We went to Vespers and then had dinner at a new pub near our house.
Sunday we had church and choir practice. Michael has learned how to climb up my parents’ stairs, but not down them. It’s his new favorite thing to do.
We ate with my parents, and then Sunday night we sat in our living room listening to the dishwasher hum while I knitted and we watched our tv show, a candle softly burning beside me.
It may have been a weekend where we did “nothing”, but I cherish weekends like these. It was full of the things we love the most: music, and family, and gardening, and good food, and worship. A perfect end to a week, and a beautiful start to a new one.
This weekend some of my oldest and dearest friends came in from out of town and stayed with us for a few days. It was an absolutely lovely time: we hadn’t been able to see them in quite a while, and they were finally able to meet Michael.
All of us are introverts, so it was a delightfully relaxing and quiet weekend. We sat and talked, and read, and ate, and made new cocktails, and knit and crocheted, and sat outside in the sunlight, and stayed up too late laughing over silly movies.
Teaching us how to do a Magic Knot
A small part of me had been nervous hosting guests for the first time in our new house. I knew there was no way we would be fully unpacked (especially with a nine month old whose new trick is pulling things out of drawers). I had no idea where a third of our stuff was. Things would be messy. Dishes mismatched. Meals simple. Boxes stacked in closets.
Teaching Aunt Cyndi Super Smash BrosNew best friendThey brought matching pjs for the boys!
But the rest of me knew that didn’t really matter. Not only are these some of my oldest and closest friends, but there’s something about hospitality hallows a place and makes it into a home. Making others food and eating at the same table, playing with each other’s kids, laughing late into the night, sleeping under the same roof and waking bleary-eyed, sharing coffee and sitting in pjs with rumpled hair: together they make a magic that sinks into walls and floors and IKEA furniture and transforms them into a home.
When they drove away, our home felt more like a home than it had before.
We have very few photos together so we took a lot this weekend as Proof of Friendship
When we sat around my kitchen table, I was reminded of the ways homes and hospitality have transformed my life. Our kitchen table is a loved hand-me-down from my parents that was in our old house. I remember my siblings’ high chairs crowded around it, eating dinner as a family when my Dad came home from work. I remember my childhood friends joining us for dinner too, we kids ate from mismatched cartoon character dishes.
The aftermath of soup
And as I looked at the people sitting around my table this weekend, I was brought back to the weekly Friday night dinners I grew up with, hosted by these friends we consider family. They were foundational to my childhood: sitting around a crowded table, piano bench and folding chairs added to make enough seats for all. The smell of the barbecue, paper plates, terrible puns, the sound of wind chimes through the open patio door, children laughing; adults talking.
Now we live far away, and many things have changed since those Friday nights of my childhood. It’s a bittersweet feeling: looking around my own home and realizing it’s my turn now. It’s time for me to make my table the one crowded with friends and family. It’s time for me to make my home the same sort of place I cherished as a child. It’s time to open it to others, in spite of its flaws and messes.
It’s not unpacked boxes or clean floors or fancy meals or perfect aesthetic that make a home. It’s the Friday night dinners: the simple food, the memories, the people, the prayers, and the love.
Postscript: I would like to end with a prayer request: my grandmother is in the hospital fighting an infection, and has been pretty sick for the last two weeks. Please pray she recovers well and is able to come home soon!
September 29th in the Western calendar is known as Michaelmas, or the feast of St. Michael and all Archangels. It’s a joyful feast, celebrating the angelic powers who serve the Lord and war against the demonic forces. St. Michael specifically is known as the Commander of the Lord’s army, and is the one who will cast Satan into Hell.
Our icon of the three Archangels: Gabriel, Michael, and Raphael
As an Eastern Orthodox Christian who lives in the West, I take great delight in living in both calendars. One of the beloved traditions of Orthodoxy is celebrating the Name Day of your patron saint. It’s similar to a birthday: your patron saint is chosen when you come into the Church. Though it’s a family name, we also named our son after Saint Michael because he has a very special place in my life: as a Protestant, my faith was fortified at a church camp called St. Michael’s Conference. When I began inquiring into Orthodoxy, I was enrolled as a catechumen at Saint Michael’s Orthodox Church in Whittier, CA. At this church I later met my husband, and was chrismated as an Orthodox Christian.
The fountain at my first church, Saint Michael’s in Whittier
At some point I will write more on the beautiful tradition of patron saints and how they help us participate in the cloud of witnesses that St. Paul talks about — but this is not that post. Instead, I want to talk about how we celebrated Michael’s Western Name Day and enjoyed some of the British traditions around Michaelmas.
Michaelmas has a rich history: it was celebrated in the Middle Ages as the days become shorter and colder, symbolizing the last day of the harvest and asking St. Michael’s protection against the coming darkness. One of my favorite resources on British holidays and folklore is a book called Cattern Cakes and Lace. Many of the holidays they describe overlap with church feasts, and they give delightful recipes and ideas for celebration.
Blackberries and goose are the two primary foods eaten on Michaelmas: blackberries because of the British folktale that Satan fell into a blackberry bramble when he was cast down from heaven, and goose because of a superstition it would protect against financial hardship in the coming year.
Given we’re in the midst of moving, I wasn’t quite up to cooking a goose. Maybe next year. But blackberries were perfect: and also happened to be among Michael’s favorites. I used this recipe to bake a blackberry torte for dessert, and Michael loved observing and taste-testing the berries with me.
After dinner, we sang God Grant You Many Years to Michael, and he enjoyed smashing his torte and eating some of it, though I think most of it ended up on his face and onesie.
His aunt called to wish Michael a happy Name day, and his uncle/godfather FaceTimed us to say the same, making Michael giggle up a storm. It was a delightful and joyful day. I’m so grateful for these traditions that bring us together and infuse our daily life with the goodness of the faith.
Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in the day of battle. Be our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do thou, O prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God, thrust into Hell Satan and all evil spirits who wander through the world, seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.
Michael turned eight months old this week. In the midst of a difficult year, he has been a constant source of delight. Nothing compares to the growth I’ve experienced being his mother, and nothing compares to the joy he gives me.
The intensity of his personality really shouldn’t surprise me, given we’re his parents. His joy, his focus, his frustration, his excitement: all overflow from his tiny body.
He proudly sports two bottom teeth, and the two top teeth are starting to peek through his gums. He is incredibly fast and agile, crawling everywhere and afraid of nothing. He pulls himself up on every surface he can, without concern for its stability. Like his father, he is fascinated by electronics of any type (especially cords).
He has a hearty disdain for most baby food, and has learned to spit it out with an impressive velocity. He is very determined to eat whatever we are eating whenever we are eating it. Mashed potatoes and bananas have currently risen to the top of his list of favorites.
He loves music, especially when Jake sings to him. He often likes to sing along when he hears his dad chanting in church. We have sung him the Song of St Simeon to lull him to sleep since he was born, and it remains his favorite lullaby.
Sleep remains a struggle: he doesn’t want to miss out on anything, so each nap is a battle. However, I’m sure his fighting spirit will be a force for good someday.
We love watching Michael interact with my parents. They love him so much, and he is delightfully close to them. This is the blessing of living in community: despite the sacrifices we’ve all made to make this living situation work, I’m so happy he will grow up with them as a strong presence in his life.
Happy eight months, my dear son. We love you more than words can say.
Despite the punishingly high temperatures, we’ve been using this long Labor Day weekend to make progress on the house. The front porch and back porch are framed and just need the railings and a coat of paint, and they’re chipping away at the side porch steps.
We have the electrical installation scheduled for Tuesday. It’s quite an ordeal. We will be without power or air conditioning for a large portion of of the day, and the high is projected to be 114 degrees…so pray for us!
This week we won’t be able to make much more progress given the heat. But, when the porches and the electrical are taken care of, all that stands between us and moving in is the driveway inspection. The end is in sight.
My parents’ 29th anniversary was this weekend. To celebrate, we had a charcuterie board and steak dinner. I made a Manhattan cake (a cake inspired by the cocktail with whiskey, bitters, cherries, and oranges).
I’m so grateful for my parents and their marriage. Throughout my entire childhood, they modeled sacrificial love and showed us what a marriage should be: laughter, grace, tears, repair, hugs, kisses, inside jokes, and above all, unconditional love.
The celebration was small but beautiful. It was a light in the midst of a dark summer. We are all still weary: I’m slowly recovering from COVID, and we suspect Michael now has it too (but we aren’t going to try to stick a swab up his nose to check). He’s been unhappy and uncomfortable, which has led to very difficult nights this week.
It’s amazing how sleep (or lack thereof) can change our perceptions and moods. When I’m especially sleep-deprived, I often find myself thinking of the illustrated version of Pilgrim’s Progress I read as a child, with Christian falling into the Slough of Despond. With illness and exhaustion and a sick baby, it certainly feels as though I’m slogging through a swamp and despondency can become overwhelming.
But because of that, I’ve been thinking about hope, one of the cardinal virtues (faith, hope, and love). One of my favorite books on education is titled Tending the Garden of Virtue. I love that metaphor of virtue as a garden: all gardeners know the work that goes into gardening. For life to thrive, we must tend to it. We can’t just hope healthy and fruitful plants will spring up. We must water, weed, prune, and till.
Gardening is also an inherently hopeful activity. We hope the seeds sprout and the flowers blossom. We do our best labor to cultivate, and then we wait.
This season of our lives has been full of waiting, and full of death. But I have been trying to more mindfully tend my own garden of virtue — particularly my hope. I remind myself that seasons change, and while in this season there is much in the ground, and much in darkness, this darkness won’t endure.
In the midst of the grief and the waiting, hope is here. I see it in my son’s smile, and hear it my husband’s laugh. I water it in our garden every morning. And, by looking for it in all of these beautiful things, I cultivate it within myself.
It’s been an interesting week. We had a health scare with my aunt and she spent a few nights in the hospital, but she is now home and feeling better. A part of the well broke at the Grand House and flooded their backyard, so my grandparents were without running water for a day while my dad and the plumber fixed it. And then I tested positive for COVID this weekend after starting to feel ill Friday night (so long, 2.5 year streak). But aside from those setbacks, all seems to be well. Illness is forcing me to move slowly and rest, whether I want to or not. Routine and normalcy are settling back into our lives.
I’ve been gathering photos of little things I find beautiful in the day-to-day, like a child collecting shells at the seaside. I consider it an exercise in gratitude. So this post will be quite photo-full as I share with you the ways I’ve been resting and the ways I’ve found beauty and gratitude in the midst of it all.
Despite blistering temperatures, our garden is persevering. The carpenter bees love our blue potato bush and I watch them nosedive into the blossoms every time Michael and I water.
Michael is sprouting his second tooth and is exploring the world around him more and more (and turning my hair grey in the process). But he’s so dang cute, I don’t even mind. He’s excited to have his best friend grandpa back in his daily life.
Earlier this week before I got sick, we were able to attend the last local farmers market of the season and stock up on some of our favorites. Highlights included a delicious and vibrant beet hummus with homemade pita chips and a bottle of pomegranate mead.
We also had a lovely date night for the first time in a long time. My parents watched Michael while Jake and I went to our favorite restaurant. I love the depiction of the Annunciation in their outdoor seating area.
Given the way our summer has gone, I’ve had to surrender my former hopes for our house timeline and reset my expectations. We are all exhausted, fighting illness and grief, and moving slowly with very little time and few resources. I thought we would be moving furniture and finished with essential projects by the end of August. Now, we’re aiming for the end of autumn.
But there’s a blessing in this: autumn is my favorite time of year. I love the coziness it brings, and the spices and soups, and the hand-knits worn against the morning chill. We’ll be able to start our life in Caedmon’s Cottage doing some of our favorite things: baking, preserving, knitting, and preparing for winter.
In the meantime, we have a tentative date for electricity (more on that in a later post!) and we’ve been working on completing the front steps. Jake has every Friday off work through September, giving him a full day to work on the essential house projects.
We’ve still got a long list of all the things standing between us and moving in, but we have learned so much patience and flexibility throughout this entire process. And there’s a great sense of satisfaction when we complete a job.
And finally, I’ve found immense comfort in this icon of Saint Patrick’s Breastplate.
It’s from Mull Monastery in Scotland, and it hangs by my nightstand. I see it before I go to bed, and when I rise from sleep. It reminds me of the Lord’s encircling presence as I go throughout my day.
So this week, I encourage you to take a photo of something that helps you remember to rest, or something you find beautiful, or that reminds you to be grateful. Share it with someone you love. It might be an unexpected blessing — for you and for them.
Michael turned seven months old this past week, days after cutting his first tooth. He’s growing like a weed, and wearing 12 month clothing already. He’s also quite the little adventurer: he’s crawling everywhere (especially after the cats and dogs) and loves pulling himself up on whatever furniture he can grab. We recently got him these silicon Lego blocks and they’ve become his fast favorites.
His favorite foods right now are bananas and sweet potatoes, and his least favorite thing is sleeping because he might miss out on something. He’s been on sleep strike the last few weeks, thanks to all these developmental leaps.
He has one of the sweetest and most joyful personalities I’ve ever encountered. Even when he’s in pain or discomfort, he still has a gentleness about him.
He’s rarely still — he loves movement and always wants to be outdoors, especially in his wading pool. He also loves snuggles with dad and his Aunt Boo.
Being Michael’s mother is one of the greatest blessings I’ve ever received. I love this sweet, sweet boy, and cherish these moments while looking forward to the years to come.
We were in the middle of our usual homesteading projects when our plans for this week changed suddenly Tuesday evening. My mom’s younger brother, my uncle, passed away unexpectedly at the age of 49. We are still waiting to find out the cause, though we suspect a heart attack or a stroke.
When tragedy strikes, time becomes something strange. Some moments are stretched out, each second like a synthesized chord that won’t fade away. Other moments seem to pass like a gunshot, leaving you blinking with an aching exit wound and wondering what happened.
The phone call, the car ride, the quiet paramedics, the body bag: all gunshot moments I am still bandaging.
Everything else has felt stretched out. Funeral home appointments. Phone calls to family members. Service preparations. And in the midst of it, life goes on. Babies still need to be fed and rocked to sleep. Meals still need to be made and eaten; laundry still needs to be done.
In one of the stretched out moments we continued with some of the manual labor for our house. As I watched the clouds of dust roll through the trenches we were filling in, I had two phrases echoing in my head.
The first was from the Ash Wednesday service we would attend as Anglicans: Remember, O Man, that you are but dust, and to dust you shall return. This is the reality of our fallen Creation. Eventually, for all of us, our soul will be separated from our body and our body will decompose. Death would like nothing more than for us to despair here, eyes fixed on the dust instead of letting it direct us towards repentance and preparation for a good death.
The other phrase was from the Paschal homily of St John Chrysostom that we read every Easter: O Death, where is your sting? O Hell, where is your victory? This is our reality as Christians. Death and Hell have no power over us that we do not choose ourselves. Fallen Creation will be made new. Dust is not the end.
That same evening my uncle died, our priest came to pray a trisagion for his soul — select hymns and prayers from the Rite of Burial, usually sung before a funeral. He also anointed us with Holy Unction. We sang Memory Eternal, echoing the words of the thief on the cross beside Christ: remember him when You come into Your Kingdom.
Over this last year, my family has lost three key people in our lives. We are weary. It feels like death is mocking us; trying to beat us down as we persevere towards building our homestead. But if anything, our prayers and resolve have doubled. Through our everyday faithfulness in taking care of our families and providing for those around us who are in need, we are furthering the Kingdom of God. We fight back chaos and death every day in our gardens, restoring order and life by the sweat of our brow. Now more than ever, we see the importance of our small work.
I will miss my uncle. I prayed over his body, and I kissed his forehead as I said goodbye. Our relationship had been strained in the past, but we had repaired and grown closer over the last few years. He was not a perfect man, but I loved him. And he loved me, very much.
Please pray for us as we grieve, and continue on doing the works God has given us to do.
May his memory be eternal.
O Death, where is your sting? O Hell, where is your victory? Christ is risen, and you are overthrown. Christ is risen, and the demons are fallen. Christ is risen, and the angels rejoice. Christ is risen, and life reigns. Christ is risen, and not one dead remains in the grave. For Christ, being risen from the dead, is become the first fruits of those who have fallen asleep. To Him be glory and dominion unto ages of ages. Amen.
five acres four generations 