Frosted Window Panes... and plenty of presents! {Christmas 2013}

We had a simply glorious Christmas.

Scott's parents and sister drove in from Michigan. I still can't get over how willing our families are to make such a long trip in order to see us! We've had visitors every single month since we've moved to Philly, and you won't hear me complaining.

My Uncle Scott, a pilot based in Philly, also was able to have a 24 hour leave, and he spent Christmas Eve and Christmas morning with us. Of course, I didn't get any pics of him with his "great nephew," but we were thrilled that he was willing to join in our family festivities.

Harvest Bible Chapel-Philadelphia had their first Christmas Eve service this year, and my hubby was able to share the gospel with over 100 people on that special night. I cried, as he painted a picture of the wonderful rest and forgiveness that Christ offers. I continue to pray that God used that night, that moment, those words, to grow seeds of repentance in people in the audience. For me, it was an excellent reminder that behind all the glitter, brown paper packages, and family banter, there's a wonderful peace and joy in my life because of God's sacrifice and consistent love. Christmas was glorious, because I was able to rest in my Savior. What joy.

And now, pictures... Because nothing else captures Christmas so very well.

One of the five churches in our two-block radius. We had an "ice day" with Daddy, and enjoyed a down-day before the craziness of the season took off.

We were visited by an ice storm right before Christmas. It was gorgeous. Although, the homeless man watching me take this picture told me I was being stupid and that a branch was going to come crashing down on my head...

Someone loves icy walks with Daddy.

Christmas decor is up!

I don't think there were quite enough presents. (And yes, that is a push-broom handle. Scott's present from Trevor.)

I have a weakness for mantles around Christmas. I just think they demand to be made up in style. I blame it on the previous two generations of women before me and their impeccable mantle-pieces.

The tiniest of my four nativities, with yet another beautiful church in the background. We're surrounded by beautiful, but dead religion in our neighborhood. It makes me happy/sad.

I have a weakness for brown paper packages. In fact, this year, I wrapped with nothing else. I also liberally spread glitter throughout our entire house. "Glitter: the herpes of the craft world"--according to my husband.

Although I know people bemoan taking down the Christmas tree, I think it makes it that much more special if it's only on display for a month. 

The mantle. At night.

This is another infatuation I can chalk up to my grandmother. Her Christmas stairs always looked heavenly. Someday, I'll be just like Barbara. Until then, this is as close as I can get.

Not a stellar picture, but literally the only one I have with even a portion of my uncle in it. I was not good at taking pictures of any person other than my baby... Classic new mom.

Scott, trying out his father's gift of "Doodoo Head." Don't ask. 

Scott and I traditionally don't spend money on each other on Christmas. We try to homemake all our gifts to each other. This was his "humorous" gift from me... According to this article, and our subsequent Meyers-Briggs personality types, my hubby is a beaver, and I am an octopus. We found this so hilarious, that it's been a part of our joking back and forth for several months now.

Scott wrote me a fairy tale, complete with illustrations. It humorously (and then poignantly) talked about our relationship, and addressed my recent phobia of getting old. I laughed and then cried. I have a hubby I don't deserve.

Grant with Auntie Sarah. She was the ONLY person who obeyed my "toys that don't make noise" rule. And she was duly rewarded by Grant loving his blocks more than any other toy.

Helping Daddy as he begins the yearly tradition of cutting toys out of boxes. Classic Dad job.

Grant loves his new bath toys, and "Roland the Hedgehog" is his favorite. 

His very own "choo-choo." Every boy needs one.

We still haven't fully grasped the concept of unwrapping presents.

It was a lovely Christmas. And adorable little Bets, although she didn't make an appearance, and appeared contented to flip around in Mommy's belly, was also very generously gifted. Every Christmas serves to remind me of what a generous family I have (on both sides!). I'm so thankful for parents who have taught Scott and I to love sacrificially, and who continue to lavish love, even when their parenting job is "done."

13 Months Later... Our Miracle Gift: Grant Alexander

Thirteen months. (Because I forgot at month twelve. Oops.)

That's it.

30 days over one year.

Soooo skeptical of his new parents.

I've only had 395 days with my little man, but it feels like he's been knit into my heart since before time began.

My baby is growing up. He's starting to look more like a toddler, and I had a mini-mommy-breakdown when I realized that I didn't need to shop in the baby section any more.

Thirteen months ago, Scott and I were awakened around 11:15 with a phone call. We were about to be parents. We dashed to the hospital (a three hour car ride is agonizing when you're in suspense), and we met our precious "Grantlet."

I grew into being a good parent. Scott was born a good parent.

For the next 48 hours, we held our breath, held his tiny body, and prayed for strength and grace. On December 12, 2012, Grant's bio-mama officially signed us over as guardians of this tiny bundle, and my heart began to beat normally again. Technically, we didn't become Grant's parents until March 2013. But technicalities have a way of becoming non-essential when you fall in love.

This past year has been full of opportunities to wait. To pray. To cry out for strength. To plead for wisdom. To rejoice with thankfulness. To rest in peace.

First family photo!

And we've learned that God always hears... And He fills our lives with good things. I've spent more time exhausted, convicted, and emotionally drained these past 13 months, than I have in any previous 13 month period. I've also been filled with more love, joy, and delight than I ever thought possible.

Grant Alexander lives up to his name. He has truly been "granted" to us as a trust. We know he is not our baby, he belongs to the Creator of heaven and earth, and we daily pray that he will be used in a powerful way to spread the glory of God.

For his birthday, he graduated from his dairy,
soy, and gluten allergies! Yay, for real
birthday cake!

Character {at age one}

Grant is exceptionally quiet and gentle. He's happy and peaceful almost all the time, and his "meltdowns" usually consist of some subdued whining. He's our little "detail man"--just like his daddy! One night, for dinner, he was eating beans. Mommy spilled some beans on his highchair tray, and Grant picked them up, one-by-one, and placed them back in his bowl. His attention to detail makes him very receptive to the emotions of others. When Mama is sick, he likes to play quietly at her feet. When a friend is crying, Grant usually becomes very worried.

Grant still remains very timid and hesitant to try new things. He doesn't like adventures. He doesn't like excitement. He doesn't like noise. Fortunately, God in his wisdom gave Grant a daddy who doesn't like adventures, so someone understands our tiny boy's hesitance. But God also gave Grant a mommy who loves new things, so there's someone to push him to grow and not be fearful.

Milestones {at age one}

The thumb has become a recent staple.
And isn't that elephant hat AMAZING!?

Grant (in keeping with his personality) excels at detail-oriented play. He's got a fantastic pincer-grip that he's been using since 9 months of age. He recently learned to stack blocks (but he still doesn't like making them crash down, despite repeated coaching from his mother). 

This is snow. It is new. We are not thrilled.

He is remarkably strong, and incredibly agile. Although he is fully capable of walking, Grant prefers to play it safe. He has yet to shuffle more than one foot in front of the other. He took a tumble off of two stairs approximately 3 months ago. He has expressed no interest in climbing stairs since. His natural cautiousness is saving Mommy and Daddy a bundle on child-proofing.

He's "talking," but not as much as his speech therapist mama might like. Like I mentioned above, he's a quieter baby. But his comprehension is beautiful, so Mommy isn't going into therapy mode just yet. He obeys the commands "no" and "come here." And he's generally very obedient. Recently, we've started working on sitting still and "contentment," because my baby boy has never been very good at being still. Fortunately, with Bets coming, we've had lots of opportunities to practice in doctors' offices and during reading time each day. Although he doesn't like it, he's picking up on the concept very quickly, and mommy is quite proud of him.

Favorites {at age one}

But our second time out in snow, we are thrilled. 

 Our son loves music. Loves it. I've worked with lots of children. All children like music. Grant loves music. He makes a drum out of everything he can find, he'll "play" the piano for 30 minutes at a time, and he dances any time he hears music. His favorites are old hymns (just another way he is like his daddy!), and he'll bee-bop right along to "Great Is Thy Faithfulness" as though it has the most fantastic rhythm he ever heard.

Grant, our timid son, is completely, totally, and without a doubt, not afraid of water. He loves super-deep baths, and he'll plunge his entire face in the water, take violent headers, and topple backwards into bubbles without a single cry. He loves it. He comes up, gagging and sputtering, rescued from the bubbly depths by an anxious mother, and he just grins. Bath time is Mommy's cardiovascular workout.

But far and away, Grant's favorite thing is attention. He loves all eyes on him. He basks in the glow of approval. A disapproving look will destroy him, and a smile makes his world all sunshine and roses. He's a people person through and through.

Grant Alexander {one year}
photo credit: Erika Aileen Photography

So, dear Grant Alexander, happy 13 month birthday! We love you. Your mommy and daddy can't wait to see what God's plan is for our gentle, detail-oriented, people-person. But don't grow up too fast... Mommy needs her baby for quite a few more years.

God Doesn't Do Vacations

And... exhale.

Christmas is over.

The New Year has been ushered in.

And my house is empty.

This season has been absolutely, totally, completely, and without a doubt, one of the best Holidays I've had in years. I wasn't sick. I didn't have a malnourished, detoxing baby. I wasn't working, cramming for comprehensive exams, or having recurring nightmares about grad school.

So, I enjoyed decorating the house, making cookies, mailing presents, cleaning... It was like heaven on this earth. I am well aware of the fact that there are a plethora of women out there who hate being Martha Stewart. They don't like cleaning, cooking is a chore, and decorating is only fun when you have no budget. And I get it. It's the same way I feel about exercising and counting calories. But I also suspect that there are quite a few women out there who love caring for their homes, and are hesitant to say anything because in our current culture (i.e. the backlash against Pinterest), it's rather gauche and pretentious to say that you like maintaining your house and decorating.

Well, I'm saying it: I love it.

It's one of the most tangible, self-sacrificing ways that I can love my husband. I married a 1950s man. (Quite honestly, I think a lot of us women have married men from this decade, but they're probably a little hesitant to own it.) My husband is very, very easy to love. He likes a clean house, a hot meal, and a smiling wife and baby when he comes home. He has quite a few nights where he doesn't get this. My pregnancy and constant illness have served to keep both of us from worshiping this kind of ending to our days. But it's so wonderful to work hard, and watch my husband's face relax into a grin as he enters his "safe spot."

However, I don't think this love springs entirely from altruistic motives. When I was growing up, one of the verses that I memorized (more from my parents consistently repeating it to me, rather than a conscious effort on my part) was Proverbs 18:9, "One who is slack in his work is brother to one who destroys." I can still see my daddy's face bending close to mine, as he pointed to a half-attempted chore, and recited this verse. He looked so serious. My mama would point out where I had been lazy and say, "Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might." (Ecclesiastes 9:10) And then, she would ask me very quietly, "Is this all your might?"

Shoot. They are good parents.

I needed someone to consistently address the laziness in my heart. My selfishness. My apathy. And they did. Every job I've ever held, I was driven by these early lessons. While I consistently failed (hello, being human!), I'm confident that God used these early lessons to regulate how I used my time and energy while on the job.

And then I transferred to a less formal environment: stay at home mama.

I'm not going to lie. The first couple months were incredibly difficult. It was a transition that I was not anticipating having any trouble with. But I did. You can relive my angst here, here, and here, if you would like. But then, I found my groove. I regained some energy. I found things for my hands to do, and I did them with all my might.

I became June Cleaver.

You can laugh, but when you have a husband who equates a spotless house with happiness, it's very, very easy to join him in this obsession. I clean like crazy. I bake. I cook. I organize. Obsessively.

And I began to derive a certain amount of pride from my efforts. You see, I'm not a naturally clean person. I'm actually quite laissez faire in my housekeeping. I'm more interested in creating than maintaining, and I'd spend all day glueing, decorating, re-arranging if I could.

So, I was quite impressed with myself for turning over this new leaf. In fact, I became very, very proud of the fact that I could keep my house so clean.

And this is where we learn that God doesn't take vacations. It may have been Christmas holiday, but He wasn't taking a break on my soul.

You see, my house is immaculate almost all the time. After all, it's my new "job." And I'm constantly checking in with my hubby for a "performance review." But, God, in his sovereignty this holiday season, allowed people to see my house every. single. time.  it was not clean. Every. Time.

Once it was a friend who showed up early for a play-date while I was in a whirl of baking, present-wrapping, and laundry. (Imagine the visual cacophony of glitter, flour, and piles of laundry.) Another time, it was my hubby giving a house tour to a host of youth leaders after 5 days of out-of-town guests, and a Sunday morning when my child had pulled everything out of the medicine cabinet and strewn it all over our room.

You get the idea.

Each time, I was given the choice of how I was going to respond... I could be flustered and ungracious during a play date. I could be angry at my husband for his poorly-timed tour. Or, I could recognize that these negative emotions stemmed from wounded pride, rather than from actual sin. 

I was forced to stop. To think about why I have my house. Why I keep it clean. Why I want everything immaculate. Am I actively using my role as housewife to love others? Or is it becoming an idol? 

I'm very thankful that God doesn't do vacations.

And that He chose to teach me. Even over Christmas...

Come Ye Thankful People, Come... Let's eat turkey!!!

I'm not much on recapping in the bloggosphere. I usually love reading other people's journaling, but I typically use this space to crock-pot on things that God has been teaching me. It's like a public forum for my private catharsis. My hubby maintains that it is a weird form of personal discovery, and he's probably right. 

But on days such as today, when the gray sky presses at my windows, and the washing machine tumbles around in the background, I just want to relive the rest and joy that was my past week. 

Thanksgiving was a whirlwind of food, family, and sunshine. I'm so thankful that I have literally too many gifts to write down, and my daily life is filled with continual discovery of God's goodness.

So, today I give you, a Thanksgiving in pictures... for they are worth thousands of words. I owe most of these pics to my talented sister, Erika Aileen, whose fantastic artistry can be seen if you follow this link. 

A houseful of people!? This is my heaven on earth...

These two drove all the way out, and then juggled tons of seminary life responsibilities so that they could be at Thanksgiving. I'm fairly confident that my whining played  a large role in their planning, and while I could be ashamed, I'm merely elated that they were a part of our celebrations.

Grant has fantastic grandparents... and he enjoyed milking the attention for 5 days of expert cuddles.

Oma is the baby expert. And Grant knows it.

Uncle Teej time.

Kamikaze! Poor Oma didn't even see it coming...

I love my daddy.

So I married a man who is so much like him. 

Attention monger. 

Caramel Pecan cinnamon rolls. I love having people to cook for... I can bake all the yumminess that I can't justify demolishing by myself.

Someday, she'll ask why we let her do this in every picture. As if it was our fault.

Chopping veggies is very relaxing.

I love that my job now is almost totally June Cleaver-ing.

This year I prepped the turkey by brining it... I'm never making turkey any other way.

I love my "Thankfulness Tree" and the centerpiece that cost me less than five dollars. 

Everyone wrote things they were thankful for on the leaves of the tree... Each year we'll add more leaves. This year I was thankful "for 2 babies when last year I had zero!" Can't believe I'm a mommy x 2. 

My son. Eating goldfish crackers on Thanksgiving. Only a baby would be happy with this on Thanksgiving. 

We dressed up like characters from the first Thanksgiving. Teej was "Miles Standish"

Scott was William Bradford. Of course. I was pregnant with "Peregrin White"... the first Pilgrim baby born in the New World. Of course.

Apple Pie. Classic Staple.

Cranberry Tart. Not so classic, and probably not returning.

Dad did the turkey and ham carving honors.

Table full of thankful.

Grant cleaned up the ham and turkey.

All the men did the dishes... This is a tradition I can get on board with!

Sisters, sisters! So glad we're finally friends... after years of angsty adolescence, we're finally buddies!

One fish, two fish... Julie's reading to Grantish. 

My son. Can't believe it.

The thumb has become a recent staple... 

Auntie ErBear is a good cuddler!

We paint pottery every year... this was year #6. We painted pottery in New Jersey near Mama's old Kindergarten!

I love my mama's pottery-painting face. 

Erika. Done first. Super cute. Typical.

These are two pretty girls. I'm so thankful that my mama loves being a mama and decided to love on Julie after all her older kiddies were grown.

While we painted pottery, napped, and made soup, all the men worked on our laundry room and did a massive amount of gutting and remodeling. Merry Christmas to me!

Thanks, men!

Thankfulness is overflowing. 2013 was a good year.

An Update: on sickness, joy, and snarky comments

Phew!

It's been a while.

Last night, I dissolved into tears because I had once again spent an entire day on the couch. Everything that I attached worth to--cooking, cleaning, decorating, creating, writing, mothering, reading--I was unable to do. I was so sick that even sitting upright while feeding my little baby was almost more than I could handle. Again.

For those who would like nitty-gritty details... My ulcerative colitis has calmed down. God has miraculously maintained my hemoglobin levels, and even though I've been more sick than ever, it does not appear to be affecting wee Elizabeth Wynne at all. For this I am grateful. However, the ulcerative colitis has manifested in an unusual and very irritating way. As opposed to isolating my inflammation to the colon, the ulcerative colitis has caused a systemic inflammation that has taken over my entire body. This inflammation mimics severe anemia. (Think: having a horrible flu... all the time.)

The upside: the meds seem to be working, and I'm having pockets of coherence and productivity. The downside? They are very little pockets, usually followed by a day or two of being completely horizontal.

So... during last night's deluge, I erupted into a massive pity party. The gist of this lame party was the irritation I felt at not being able to do a single productive task. I have this huge, beautiful home--and no energy to decorate. I am finally a stay at home mom--and I've only taken my child to the park once, and I never do play dates. I love to cook--no energy coupled with overwhelming nausea. I have a stack of books--most days the letters dance on the pages and I can't remember what I just read.

People can tell me it's a "season." Sure, it's like being stuck in February. FOREVER. People tell me I am being productive--I'm growing a small life. But what about those women who grow lives and also cook, clean, lead aerobics classes, run marathons, and star in TV shows? Why can't I grow a life like one of them? I have a highly inefficient oven, and last night, for whatever reason, I was exceptionally grouchy about it.

My husband was very understanding. He hugged me. He listened. He let me weep copious tears onto his shoulder. He even let me sprawl, uninhibited across the bed (even though I know he detests sprawling, and wishes I would just lay on the bed like a "normal" person). But at the end of all this sympathy, he changed to a tougher love.

"Courtney. Seriously. Stop. You're being ridiculous. I know this is hard. Trust me. But let's be honest. Your life could be a lot worse. You could be a Christian in North Korea."

In our family, "You could be a Christian in North Korea" is used frequently when your complaining has reached a fevered and irrational pitch. The thought of that misery and persecution is usually enough to make you stop griping about the price of paper towels, the traffic home, and the complete idiocy of your neighbors who don't want a privacy fence installed. It quickly brings your "suffering" into perspective.

But last night, I was not swayed. Without batting an eyelash, I said, "Yes, and I could also be a American Christian driving a Lexus and teaching spin classes during a perfectly healthy pregnancy." What followed was a brief, but snarky interlude in which I refused to see the glass as half-full, and steadfastly ripped all my husband's attempts at redirection to shreds.

Not my proudest moment.

Shortly after this I repented of my grumpiness and sarcasm (largely because I hate going to sleep feeling guilty), but my repentance was born more of habit than of genuine acknowledgement of wrong.

This morning, as I was wandering through Walmart picking up sundry items not to be found at Aldi, I kept staring a people's faces. Sad faces. Vacant faces. Angry faces. Stoic faces.

I am surrounded by miserable people. I'm not in North Korea. But people in Philadelphia don't exactly look like they're living in completed joy.

Horribly, awfully, totally miserable people. People miserable in their lives, surrounded by things that don't satisfy, trapped in relationships that are broken, caught in conflict they have no idea how to resolve. I don't live there.

Because of my Savior, I live next to hope. I have peace bubbling inside me. When I wake up in the morning, I'm automatically flooded with excitement and joy... every day is filled with goodness. The Gospel has taken all of the day's mundanity and filled it joy inexpressible.

A puddle of sunshine reminds me that God allows the sun to continue rising and setting.
A whiff of pumpkin spice sets my taste buds watering, as I'm blessed by God's provision.
A gurgle of laughter from my baby reminds me of the blessing of new life. God does not have to give us babies. If I was God, I would have stopped making babies a long time ago.
The ready forgiveness of my husband points me to the massive forgiveness enacted on the cross.
The feel of warm socks.
The creaminess of coffee.
The hugs from family.
The artwork of frost.

Every moment of every day is saturated with God. With His goodness. With handfuls of little blessings.

When was the last time you saw them? You acknowledged them? You grabbed them, tasted them... praised God for them?

Perhaps the problem with my Thursday was not my lack of health, or Lexus, or even North Korea... Perhaps the problem with my Thursday was my lack of gratitude.

Joy flows immediately from thankfulness.

In this month, we remember to be thankful. We post it on Facebook, we talk about it with others, we design kitchy Pinterest crafts to help the kiddies and family members focus on thankfulness.

But I would argue that to relegate gratitude to one month out of the year is the same as only taking multivitamins vitamins for one month of the year. It's a good thing you're doing it, but you'd be a lot healthier if you took them every day. Forever.

My challenge is finding things to be thankful for while horizontal on a couch... and it's not hard. The tree right outside my window is a gorgeous yellow. It's so funny to watch Grant pull himself up to the window and pound vigorously every time a truck passes. My blanket is warm and fuzzy. All my pants are stretchy and comfy (and no one judges the pregnant lady!). Apple cider is in season...

My blessings overflow.
My cup is more than half-full.
And joy comes quickly when I focus on the goodness of God.

My two men, who never cease to be blessings.