Author Archives: Kari

Stick People and the Things They Know

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Poor stick people, they are always being used to illustrate the worst case scenarios. For example:

Stick people know you should never poke around high voltage areas due to the fact you may or may not be struck by lightning.

Stick people know you should never nap under bailing equipment…like, ever.

Stick people know, as a general rule, to never operate bucket loaders–you should know this too.

Again, stay away from the bucket loaders. If it doesn’t work out for stick people, it isn’t going to work out for you. Stick people are our example. Stick people know.

Does a stick person really need to explain this to you? Just. Don’t. Ever.

Stick people know that hay bails are evil; you should stay away from hay bails or the hay bails may not stay away from you.

You see this poor stick person being lured in unaware of his demise? Learn from this stick person.

You should listen to the stick people in your life. Stick people, they know–oh do they know 8/

Hampton Beach in the Spring

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The weather here in Massachusetts has been wonderful all winter. The temperatures have been up in the 30s and 40s almost every day and we’ve had hardly any snow–this makes me smile–like this ———-> :]

The only problem with the spring-like weather is that my brain actually thinks it is spring and it’s everything I can do to keep from throwing lunch in a basket and taking off for the beach. Last winter after we had been buried in snow for months, Darren I and decided we had enough and took off for the beach even though it was still freezing out and we weren’t yet out of winter. We went to Hampton Beach in New Hampshire before the beach was really open and had the whole expanse of ocean frontage to our cold crazy selves. Here’s a few pictures of Darren first taking off for the water, touching it and realizing just how cold it really was, then running back with a big grin on his face. I love his expression when he’s coming back from the water–he looks like a little kid all lit up by the excitement of a day at the beach :]

Who says the ocean is just for the warm weather days?

A Winter Weekend in Maine

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Welcome to Maine!

Darren and I spent the weekend in Maine so D could begin repainting his dad’s plane. We usually arrive in Maine at night so the first thing I do when I get out of the car is look up–up at the clear night sky filled with stars bright and brilliant without the dulling reflection of city lights. I love getting out of town and spending a few days in the mountains and the country away from the busy world. Darren’s parents don’t have internet or TV and our cell phones barely have any reception so we have no choice but to sit back and take a few days away from all the technology and busyness we are accustomed to. I usually spend my time in Maine reading, writing hand-written letters, and spending quiet time with Darren’s family.

Darren the martian painting one of the airplane wings

While Darren worked away, I went down the road to his grandma’s house and visited for a bit.

Take your wet boots off at the door please!

As soon I was in the door and out of my wet boots, Grammie opened up the wood stove and had the fire roaring. I love the way Grammie keep wood in the Raido Flyer. She does it because it’s easier to bring more wood in at once (and an 80 something girl still hauling her own wood can do it however she likes) but I think it’s kind of charming in the wagon by the fire. After chatting and chocolate chip cookies, I headed back to the house.

At home, my mom-in-law built a cozy fire too. We sat by the fire and watched the big fat fluffy snow flakes drift as big as cotton balls from the sky.

We sat and talked until the sun went down and the boys came in and then it was time for dinner. My mom-in-law wanted to get sandwiches for dinner so the two of us bundled up and headed out to the old standard station wagon. My mom-in law suggested I bring a blanket because the car would be “wicked cold” and it was! I laid the blanket out in the seat and wrapped it around my legs and we were off. New Englanders like to test the road conditions by slamming on the breaks and seeing if the car slides–this scares non New Englanders like me out of their minds. Since it had been snowing all day and the road was already covered in packed snow, my mom-in-law decided to perform said road test. With the car pointed down a steep hill she started driving then pulled the stick into some foreign gear before slamming on the breaks–we slid but didn’t die so on we went down the slick mountain road into town. We made it to the “Mallard Mart”–a gas station/sandwich shop and picked up our Italians and whoopie pies then we were off again into the snowy night.

I wondered around the farm and took a few pictures of the place covered over in snow.

My father-in-law built this barn; he built the house too.

The fat cheeky cows grazing.

I love this little bird house in the field.

Here’s the same bird house in the fall.

On the way home, this pulled in next to us at the gas station

Snowmobile crossing–a legit road sign in Maine

The Potter and the Clay

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“Yet, O LORD, you are our Father. We are the clay, you are the potter; we are all the work of your hand.” Isaiah 64:8

When I was in college I decided to take a pottery class. I thought pottery would be easy and who wouldn’t want to get college credit for playing in the mud? Well, pottery ended up being one of the hardest, most time-consuming classes I ever took–and one of the most enjoyable too. In molding pottery with my own hands, I came to better understand the heart of God when he refers to himself as the potter and we as the clay.

Molding pottery is an intimate, messy labor of love. The part I love the most about pottery is the way the artist’s fingerprints end up on every part of their creation. As the soft clay spins between my hands on the wheel, my every movement changes the shape of what I create. My fingerprints weave in and out along the surface of the clay and what I am creating becomes as unique as the pattern of my fingerprints.

God is the potter molding our lives in his hands. His fingerprints write a unique story on our hearts as we are molded and shaped by his creative plan. He is as intimately involved in the shaping of our lives as the potter is in the shaping of the messy clay.

Clay is delicate and fragile. All it takes to destroy a work of art is one wrong move when the clay is spinning on the wheel or an accidental drop and the whole thing is shattered. After all the time and labor that goes into making a piece of pottery, the artist is quite protective of his work and is extremely proud of the beauty that has been formed from a simple lump of mud. God labors in his creation–and he carefully protects that which he has created. Why would he so labor only to shatter what he has made? He doesn’t–he protects and takes pride in his creation–in what he has formed from the dust of the earth.

When you are making pottery, you start with a lumpy ball of clay full of flaws and imperfections. To even begin forming anything of value, you first have to work the clay into a balanced circle on the wheel that is free of bumps and air bubbles. To do this, you knead the clay with both hands by pressing it hard against the wheel and slowly working the outside walls in until the whole thing is balanced and centered. Like the clay, we too start out as lumpy mounds of imperfection. But God gathers us up in his hands and begins his creative work. To work the flaws out of us, he must push, pressure, and pull us into usable pieces of clay–this is a messy, exhausting labor of love but it is essential if we are to ever become useful in the potter’s hands.

Once the clay is balanced you open it up in the middle and begin pulling it up from the sides into the shape you want. Once it is pushed and pulled into shape, you carefully remove it from the wheel and let it dry to the “leather-hard” stage. At this stage you put the clay back on the wheel upside-down and trim away excess, rough edges, and give the piece more shape and character. Like the clay, after working on us for a time, God often gives us times of rest and refreshment so we don’t grow overwhelmed–but his work is not done. There is still much trimming to do and this sometimes means putting us on our heads and turning our world upside-down to trim away the excess and rough spots so that he may ultimately add more beauty and character to our muddy lives.

Once the piece is trimmed you are ready for the first firing which hardens the clay and prepares the surface for glazing.  Again, like clay in the potter’s hands, God puts us through “fires” of testing to make us stronger. Even though it seems like the fire is destructive, it is actually the only way a piece of pottery can reach its full potential and be prepared for what makes it really beautiful–the glaze. Out of the fire comes a beautiful piece of pottery well worth all the mess and labor.

“I waited patiently for the LORD; and he inclined unto me, and heard my cry. He brought me up also out of an horrible pit, out of the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock, and established my goings. And he hath put a new song in my mouth, even praise unto our God: many shall see it, and fear, and shall trust in the LORD.” Psalm 40:1-3 (italics mine)

Note: None of these pictures portray me making pottery or anything that I have made. All credit for both the pictures and the pottery go to the individual artists.

Other Scripture regarding the potter and the clay: Isaiah 45:9,  Jon 10:8-9 and 33:6 and Romans 9:20-21.

Knocking On The Wrong Door

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       Eighteen months ago I quit my job and had no idea what I was supposed to do with my life. The smart one (my husband) had also left his job but had at least already lined something else up–he was taking a risk but he had a job and his brains to back him up. Not me, I was scanning the internet and newspaper in a panicked flurry trying to figure out how to get myself out of the mess of joblessness I had created. All along I was praying that God would open doors and lead me into just the right job–and I prayed, and hunted, and prayed, and hunted…on and on it went.

       Then it occurred to me–maybe I was pounding on all the wrong doors and asking for all the wrong things. Maybe the reason I couldn’t find a full-time job was because I wasn’t supposed to have one. After all, the reason Darren and I decided to quit our jobs in the first place was because Darren was working 70+ hours a week and I was working an odd schedule so there were days when the only times we saw each other were when we got up in the morning and when we went to the bed at night. I would sit in the apartment all day by myself only to leave for work when Darren was getting home. It got to the point where we decided what we were doing just wasn’t working anymore and it was time for a change. The change we had in mind was both of us working normal Monday to Friday 8 to 5 jobs not me being jobless. Darren upheld his end of the deal while I grew frustrated and discouraged.

       But then I had that thought–that maybe the reason I wasn’t getting anywhere was because I was going in the wrong direction and God just wasn’t going to open the wrong door for me. Maybe God had a different door for me to walk through and if I would just stop trying to break down the door I wanted He would open the right door for me without the struggle. Even with this thought percolating in my brain, I knew I couldn’t just tell Daren, “Guess what? I’m not looking for a job after all so have fun working yourself to death while I chillax.” When Darren took his new job it was with the understanding that we would both be working and that would lessen the risk of him starting over with fewer hours and a pay cut. Oh, and did I mention we had just bought a house? Oh ya, ya we did. I had no idea what to do.

       Then Darren surprised me–he came home one day and told me he really loved the way life was without both of us working. He loved working normal hours and his new job was working out beautifully. He loved coming home to me and actually getting to spend time together. He loved having the weekends to go places and do things together and maybe another hectic full-time job wasn’t the best thing for me (or us) right now. His words were the answer I needed. Knowing that he was loving life as much as I was, that he wasn’t worried about money, and that he wouldn’t be disappointed in me if I decided to stop working–it was a huge relief and the push I needed to make up my mind and settle on staying home.

       Once I stopped trying to break down the wrong door with a sledge-hammer the right doors opened up. I enjoyed staying home and spending time with Darren and eventually a position opened up for me at the same company where Darren works. So I found my job after all and we still get to enjoy a peaceful life together (I mean we work together and come home together!) and everything worked out when I was finally willing to let go of my plan and open my heart to God’s plan.

       If you’re pounding and pounding and the door is locked tight maybe you’re pounding on the wrong door. Maybe God has closed that door tight because he has a different door open and waiting for you if you’ll just walk through it.

The Edges of His Ways

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All the thunder and lightning and unpredictability of bad weather terrify me but the thunder and lightning are just the edges of the storm–the real story is above the clouds. I love flying above storms. The way the lightning billows through the clouds and seemingly sets the sky aflame is majestic. I’m not afraid of storms when I see them from above–when I see the whole picture. We only get to see the edges of God’s ways not the whole picture. Sometimes life terrifies me–I don’t know what’s going to happen next or what I’m supposed to do. If I could see the whole picture I might not be so be afraid–but I can’t. I must learn to believe that beyond my sight, the story has already been written and a plan is working its way out.  I must believe that the edges of God’s ways are enough for now and someday I will see the whole story from above–and it will be a majestic story of sovereign grace and love.

“Rock of my heart and my Fortress Tower,

Dear are Thy thoughts to me,

Like the unfolding of leaf or flower

Opening Silently.

And on the edges of these Thy ways,

Standing in awe as heretofore,

Thee do I worship,

Thee do I praise,

And adore.

Rock of my heart, and my Fortress Tower,

Dear is Thy love to me,

Search I the world for a word of power, Find it at Calvary—

O deeps of love that rise and flow

Round about me and all things mine,

Love of all loves, in Thee I know

Love Divine.”

-Poem by Amy Carmichael (italics mine)

Terrifying Love

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I have always struggled with fear. When I was dating, I was afraid of giving my heart to the wrong kind of guy and getting hurt. Now that I’m happily married, I’m terrified of losing the man I love to sickness or an accident. I would tell myself that there’s nothing to worry about and everything is going to be fine but I’ve known too many people who have gone through tremendous heartache to in any way believe that I’m somehow immune to hurt and loss.

When Darren and I were dating, I almost broke up with him because I thought he was too good to be true and there must be something I don’t know that will break my heart down the road. I almost missed the best thing that’s ever happened to me because of fear. Love takes tremendous vulnerability. Love means opening your heart and life up to someone in the most intimate way not fully knowing how that person will respond or how careful they will be with your heart and life. But if you ever want to really love someone, you must be willing to take this leap of faith. You must have the courage to take risks, to love even though love opens your heart and life up to vulnerability and the chance of excruciating pain–the risks must be taken to know both the heights and depths of love.

Now that Darren and I are married and I no longer worry that’s he’s going to hurt me, I still fear losing him. I have never had so much to lose and now such a loss seems unbearable. But in loving Darren and giving my heart to him, I have learned one thing: If I lost Darren tomorrow, no matter how much it hurts, the hurt is worth the joy of having loved him. If we have but a day left together, I would still have married him three years age. The agonizing loss is worth the immense joy.

Don’t be afraid to love. Even if you get hurt, don’t let past hurts and mistakes keep you from future love and happiness. Love is worth the risk.

Why Women Lug Bags Around

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I am slightly bag obsessed. I would rather spend lots of money on one great bag than on lots of new clothes or shoes. Fossil is my absolute favorite when it comes to bags and I’ve been dreaming of one in particular for a while–the vintage weekender satchel. Well, guess what? It ended up under the Christmas tree! I’ve been thinking about why I love bags so much and wondering why women lug bags around with them everywhere. Why do we need so much stuff with us all the time? Men, after all, manage to keep everything they need in a wallet in their back pocket–why don’t women do that? Oh I know, because if we didn’t lug our bags around, where would men unload all their junk when they’re tired of having it in their pockets? My husband and I even struck up a deal: If he buys me a bag I want instead of having me take it out of my money, he gets to keep his stuff in it. So no complaining about his cell phone, wallet, keys, etc. :]

I’m fascinated by bags and what each woman finds important enough to keep with her at all times. I also find a woman’s protective “I will ninja you to death if you even think of getting in there” instinct pretty interesting. I mean, I have these two adorable nephews that I love to the moon and back. I also have an iPod that they love to the moon and back. They know I keep my iPod somewhere in my purse and they know they want to play games on it–so what do they do? They try digging through my bag to find it. There is one thing that even loved and adored nephews should never do; they should never dig through auntie Kari’s bag. The last time my nephew pulled this move, I sat with him and told him that going through a girl’s bag is like reading her diary and those are two things you should never, ever do. He replied with enlightenment, “where’s your iPod?” and continued wrestling me for the bag. What a good teacher I am.

So, here’s what I find important enough to keep with me and lug around:

  • IPod and ear buds: It’s like having a remote brain in your purse with a calculator, address book, and lots of useful apps…oh, and games to entertain the husband and nephews. Darren got me the little leather case with a “K” on it to keep my ear buds in…nothing I like more than organization!
  • Survival Kit: Ok, I probably never would actually be able to survive with a kit consisting of lip gloss and hand sanitizer, but if you think of it as a “social survival kit,” then the whole thing proves more useful. What with breath mints, hand sanitizer, tissue, chap stick and lip gloss, powder, lotion, and cough drops–it’s everything I need to freshen up throughout the day. Oh, and if I ever need to operate on you in the wilderness, the hand sanitizer and tissue will be quite handy. I can also use my ear buds as tourniquets and you can suck on the cough drop to get your mind of all the pain you’re in and the pings from my iPod will alert the local authorities to our location–you see, me and my bag just might probably won’t ever save your life!
  • Wallet: Also Fossil of course and has all the really important stuff.
  • Keys: Uh, ya, kinda self-explanatory.
  • Day planner: Because I can’t remember anything anymore and it’s nice to write stuff down right away so I don’t mix up dates or forget something.

And that, my friend, is all this girl needs with her at all times. Please note, I don’t have a cell phone in there. Who would have thought a modern girl could survive without a cell phone! Well, the truth is, I spent all the husband’s money on the bag and can no longer afford a cell phone. Oh well, the smell of the leather makes everything better.

Okay, now you know what I keep in my bag. What do you keep with you at all times?

A Resolution Free New Year

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2012 is around the bend which means it’s time for epic resolutions and fad diets galore…or not. I usually make resolutions and promptly break them about two days later so guess what? I’m not making any this year. No promises. No to-do lists. No cold turkey anything. I do have a few plans and hopes for the upcoming year (and life in general, I suppose)–none of them are earth shattering but I hope they will add a little something to the next 365 days (uh, make that 366 since it will be a leap year):

  • I start planning for summer when the temps drop anywhere below 70 so this summer I’m going to buy an adorable vintage looking bike with a basket and ride it up and down the East Coast. I especially want to take a trip to Acadia National Park in Maine and do some biking and camping in the fresh, beautiful Maine air.
  • I’m going to start learning how to do pencil drawings with some art books and the help of my husband who has studied art most of his life. I want to take up painting too but Darren recommends drawing first as it helps you get the bones and structure of art down before you move on to more complicated mediums.
  • I’m going to freaking master the art of getting bread to rise and making homemade pasta and the different sauces that go with each kind of pasta. I don’t like cooking but I do like eating homemade food and since I can’t get anyone else to cook homemade food for me, it appears I’m going to have to do it myself (where’s your mom when you need her?). I’m also going to make a lot more vegetarian meals this year (don’t tell Darren–he might move out).
  • I’m going to make a mediocre effort at losing 10 pounds and toning the chubby ol midriff. I’m not sure how I will both do this and make homemade pasta and bread but these aren’t resolutions so who really cares anyway?
  • I might cut back on caffeine. I probably won’t because most of my personality resides in the caffeine I drink but here’s to the illusion of self-improvement.
  • I might organize my house and rubbish; I might not.
  • I hope we find a house or land to build a house on and figure out what we’re doing with our lives.
  • I’m going to write lots of lovely handwritten letters.
  • I’m going to read Mr. Thoreau and a little Ms. Austen too.
  • That’s all I’m probably going to do because I’m actually going to be very busy working and cleaning the house and terrorizing my family and friends.

Have a lovely Christmas and a fabulous New Year :]

The End

How to Be a Tree Hugger

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When I was a girl I was always up a tree. The farm I grew up on spread out flat like a canvas dotted with so many different kinds of trees–apple, cherry, hedgewood, redbud, oak, juniper–it made no difference, I climbed them all.

We had a little orchard with apple, pear, cherry, peach, and plum trees. You do not know when you’re little what a privilege it is to walk out to the yard and pluck fresh fruit off a tree–local, organic, free–but the fruit meant nothing to me; it was the branches I cared about. We had an unusually large apple tree–the largest I’ve ever seen and I was fairly well persuaded as a child that it was planted right in that spot by Mr. Jonny Appleseed himself. The base of the tree was short and stout with a landing between two large branches that y’d out from the base. It was just the right height for little ole me to pull myself onto the landing and climb from there up the larger branches as high I could go before the skinnier and skinnier branches could no longer support my weight. The silver branches weaved together like a tapestry and formed a canopy overhead that guarded from the heat of the blazing sun and the cool drops of rain. I remember one year when the snow had already come and the apples were lush and red on that tree and my dad wanted to get the fruit in before it was all spoiled by the snow. I remember him climbing up into the tangled branches and dropping apples into my hands below.  I remember how cold it was in the wet snow. I remember after I had stayed for a while and all my brothers had gone back to the house, how my dad promised to pay me a dollar for staying with him and finishing the job. I remember caring nothing about the dollar–the comical sight of my dad all tangled like a cartoon character among the unruly branches that seemed to intentionally hold the fruit at arm’s length, just out of reach, was payment enough for me :] Many an hour I spent in and under that tree as a grew up on the prairie dreaming of bigger, better far away places…I have moved far from there now and have discovered no place better than the unsurpassable quiet found among the branches of that fat old apple tree.

We had a juniper tree tall, thin, and magnificent dotted with little blueish berries. I built a fort below it and climbed up its sticky, sap covered branches to look out for intruders and to watch the sunsets sweep across the sky in vain shades of pink and orange.

Across the yard, through the field, down into the woods, over the little bridge crossing the pond to the hedgewood tree I would march with my brothers. Here we built a fort together–and fought over its particular branches and landings from sunrise to sunset. Hedgewoods are not friendly trees; they are, with their thorny branches and rough bark, trees to be reckoned with and conquered. Their large green hedge apples filled with sticky glue were our weapons of choice when fighting for or defending the trees from which they came. The bright yellow wood hidden beneath the unassuming brown bark was too beautiful to burn and it always upset me when my dad insisted it burnt the longest and hottest and must be used for that purpose. I love fireplaces; I hate burning trees–they are simply too beautiful to burn.

We had three pine trees all standing in a row and in one of them we nailed a board here and there among the branches to sit on. I would climb up in that tree, find a cozy spot to lean back against the barky spine, open a book and there sit and read away the summer days until the sun finally gave out and settled behind the veil of the night sky.

Down through the fields, over the barbwire fence separating the neighbor’s land from our own, tip toe among the fat smelly black cows that so frightened me, and quick up into the tree with the enormous branch that grew straight out, stretching from the neighbor’s field across to our own. The neighbor’s were friends and did not care that I climbed their trees too. Here in the woods among the fat smelly black cows was my hideaway. Here the trees sat close together and the branches held hands overhead and the sun peeked through only in fleeting rays creating lacy sunshine patterns on the ground. Here the cows had trodden the grass into the dirt and left bare paths winding like a treasure map through the woods. Here I sat and grew up bit by bit, thinking the thoughts and feeling the feelings that have made me who I am today.

Last night a lay in bed thinking about the woods and the trees and the vast prairies spreading out endlessly before me. I thought about the smell of the country and the rustle of the wheat and corn rocking in the hot summer wind. I thought about the landscape of my childhood–vast and wild. I thought about the trees, the smell of the leaves, the feel of the bark and branches, the view from above–and missed it all terribly and realized what a terrible tree hugger I really am.