Here is Good:

"I do not want ever to be indifferent to the joys and beauties of this life.  For through these, as through pain, we are enabled to see purpose in randomness, pattern in chaos.  We do not have to understand in order to believe that behind the mystery and the fascination there is love.

...The questions worth asking are not answerable.  Could we be fascinated by a Maker who was completely explained and understood? The mystery is tremendous, and the fascination that keeps me returning to the questions affirms that they are worth asking, and that any God worth believing in is the God not only of the immensities of the galaxies I rejoice in at night when I walk the dogs, but also the God of love who cares about the sufferings of us human beings and is here, with us, for us, in our pain and in our joy.

I come across four lines of Yeats and copy them down:

But Love has pitched her mansion in
The place of excrement;
For nothing can be sole or whole
That has not been rent."

~Madeleine L'Engle, Two Part Invention

Here is Good:

 First meetings;

sleepy snuggles;

precious quality time.

Here is Good:

Here is Good:

Warm beverages, thoughtful friends, sweet children, and piano time, all wrapped into one precious afternoon.

Here is Good:

A "good morning Aunty Lauren" text 

from this wise little face.

[That moment when your baby brother becomes a daddy;

meet Asher Finley Kooistra!]

Underground, the Real moments

Once upon a time ago, I was living in a season of needing to remind myself of what was good, so as to not get lost in the places I was lost.  And, in that same season, it was painfully clear to me that I had shut my mind and my memory to much of my life leading up to that point.

It occurred to me that when my brothers or my friends were to talk about "remember when?!"....I could not, in point of fact, remember.
But, show me a picture?  Suddenly, there I was, returned.

And so, this blog began with dual purpose:
Look at what's good, and remember it.

And it turned out that I loved to blog, loved the creative outlet of mixing pictures with words, recording moments and spinning them into story.

Which, fast forward to how I've come to approach life, means:
I always have a blog in mind.
And I take a lot of pictures.

There is one person in my life, however, who challenges me on this.  Frequently.  Quite verbally, actually.

And, via other means of communication:

It makes the moment "un-real" she says,
to stop what you're doing and take a picture.
[She doesn't like to make moments "un-real",
if you couldn't tell.]  

What she means is "we're sharing in this time together, and you just broke the moment by drawing attention to it".

She's a wise child.

I thought about this, over the weekend, during moments where whipping out the camera would have been truly odd:

Moments like lounging on the bed, in front of the tv for after-school relaxing, a messy mound of limbs all wrapped up together...

Moments of early morning as I wrap myself in my sweater and pretend that I am functional alongside  9-year-old commentary, such as, "you seem grumpy..."...

Moments of conversation over hair brushing and braiding, before we head out the door and share more thoughts together, walking along to school, our sides bumping together in easy camaraderie as we go...

Moments of overhearing the precious and time-stamped play conversation of these two not-yet-grown girls, or the singing loudly in the car, scatting and laughter all thrown in together...

These are the moments that I found myself knitting together in my heart.  These are the underground, the stolen moments.  The real ones.

Because here's the thing: No picture, no blog can ever capture the fullness of the sinews of life that get shared in between the camera.  It can't pour the feelings back in to you, can't keep the funny turn of phrase and the laughter that accompanies it inside of a magic jar.  It can't replay the little hand finding mine because she wants to know I'm there or the lilt of the laughing voice, calling my name.  It can't re-create the connection of "here we are, sharing together", no matter how much I want to hold on to--to not lose--that precious moment of time.

But, of course:  Still, I take the pictures.  Still, I write the blog.

Because here's the other thing:  That one captured moment can remind you that all the rest was there.

Would we truly remember how fun it was

  to dance in the bathroom with wildly done make-up and hair

if we didn't have a document like this to look back on?

But I hear her, that wise child of my soul:

This blog started because I was afraid of losing the moments, 

when the real moments are the underground moments, 

tucked inside of my heart.

Our Multi-Cultural Weekend

Every year I book out time with my two favorite girls, 

while their parents take a weekend away.

There are some typical things that happen,

 like swinging,

 pancakes of some delicious variety,

quietly shared moments,

and antics
[including but not limited to alarms set for 2:30 am,
by a child who knows she is adored].

As the babes get older, I find myself having some time to myself,

reading as I listen to their play,

reflecting as they entertain themselves
[with my camera it would seem...],

even my own swing.

And then, to keep things interesting, this year we found ourselves in the midst of a multi-cultural experience.

First, there was dinner at The Greek,

 which this one needed a little talking into

 but in the end we all loved.

Then there was the drive through Amish country,

 in one-lane construction, behind a truck holding a load of manure.
[The smell of tar and manure combined is terrible, just so you know.  In Sarah's words, it smelt as if we were "inside of someone's pants!"....a culture none of us want to experience ever again.]

 Ultimately our Amish adventure left us with treats,

and a stop at a country store for lunch
exposed us to the culture of country living.

Then, we hit the Asian market,

 for a dumpling making extravaganza

involving lots of chopping,

 inanity,

challenge,

and reward.

There were other cultures explored,

 

stepping back in time,

 and through whatever culture introduced Monkey Bread to the world.

Sunday morning church consisted of
making the dough and watching it rise,

then--chopped into pieces--

we rolled it all up in buttery cinnamon goodness.

And though we researched but could not find the original culture of the Bread of the Monkey, I have my suspicions that we did not really need to look far:

Multi-cultural or no, 

I'll take any kind of weekend with these, 

my favorite monkeys.