We lived too long with rouge furniture.

It’s been weeks since I took the leap and started moving things around the house, in anticipation of setting the big girls up in the downstairs bedroom, and moving the master bedroom upstairs.  I pulled all the toys out of the bedrooms and stacked them in the hallway.  The kids’ clothes have been in disarray, shifting from one closet and set of drawers to another; trying to stay one step ahead of the move.  The piles of clean, folded laundry on the couch grew to become a fixture, because I saw no point in hauling them upstairs to a closet, only to haul them back downstairs to another closet when we completed the move.

My attempts to move the project along progressed to the point of actually moving furniture a good two weeks ago.  Our small house doesn’t accommodate much rouge furniture, so getting through the transition involved living for a time with a vanity and mirror blocking the kitchen hall, and a very large chest of drawers making its home smack dab in the middle of the living room.

I no sooner got the project to that point that my husband saw an open weekend and suggested we take a break from the moving things around to hold a garage sale – maybe it would ease the whole mess to eliminate some clutter and lighten our load.  I generally argue for Good Will donations, over garage sales, but once every ten years, I concede.  We did the work, held the sale, and remembered more clearly why we prefer to make Good Will donations.  We made a few bucks, probably broke even for our effort, and still have a backlog of stuff we need to unload.  Plus – there was still that chest of drawers in the living room.

Then we had pickups and drop offs for summer camp that occupied much of our free time for a week.  Then we needed to get the taillights on the camper to work, so we could have some hope of actually camping in the thing before winter.  Then the Olympics started.  Then the bills were due.  Then…then…then…

Now that I’ve thought more about it, I’m scared to count back and even know for sure how long we’ve been dancing around a chest of drawers in our living room.  All I know for sure is that yesterday, finally, it found a home.  Not just any home, but an insanely useful home, where it not only has quit blocking my view of the baby when I want to check on her from the kitchen, but where it now stores, with complete visual anonymity, copious amounts of family clutter.  Items that once graced every horizontal surface of our ground floor are making their way into designated drawers, offering me such a massive sense of peace and relief that I might even find it in me to put all those clothes away, and find a better home for the toys.

Yep, it was a real milestone.

Then that time will come when the Lord will give you fresh strength. He will send you Jesus, his chosen Messiah. Acts 3:20

The chickens are going to have to wait.

Imagine the kids’ surprise on Easter morning, when we open a seemingly routine express mail package and out pop – chicks!  Downy soft and ready to eat their first meal, the three day old chicks cuddle up in their warm hands and the girls’ eyes sparkle with delight as our new adventure in hobby farming begins.

We’ve had that image in our minds since we first put an offer on this place.  With great optimism, we imagined that we’d get settled in over winter break.  We’d be hosting sledding parties in January.  We saw ourselves, as March rolled around, rearing to get out there to plant a giant garden and build a chicken coup.

Reality is reining us in yet again.  With the mildness of winter this year, we spent winter break building a shed and cleaning the garage, instead of unpacking the basement.  Old Man Winter withheld sledding until just this past weekend, when we finally got a snowfall that could cover the grass on our hill.  As the dominoes are toppling, I see that our Easter fantasy is fading as fast as my laundry pile is growing.

I am in no way deterred from the vision of what this place is going to be for us, but I am having to rethink the timetable.  We chose a smaller house, and it takes a lot longer to get organized and settled in when you have half the cupboards, closets, and garage that you did before.  My spring chickens aren’t the only thing I have to let go of.  There’s also the extra set of dishes, the spare bed, the computer armoire, that stunning teal sectional…and many, many things that are still in boxes downstairs, yet to be identified for sale or donation.

Finally breaking in the sledding hill last weekend!

We took a lot on, pursuing this vision of self-sustenance and simplicity; it may take us quite a while to achieve even a basic start to all we hope for.  But it was a gratifying moment last week, when my oldest came in after school, dropped her bag and coat by the door, and sighed, “Ahhh…home sweet home.”  Yes, my dear girl, it really is.  And whenever we do get to it, farm fresh eggs and garden vegetables will only make it sweeter.

Hezekiah, I will tell you what's going to happen. This year you will eat crops that grow on their own, and the next year you will eat whatever springs up where those crops grew. But the third year you will plant grain and vineyards, and you will eat what you harvest. Those who survive in Judah will be like a vine that puts down deep roots and bears fruit. 2 Kings 19:29-30

My kid outclassed me (and I didn’t scrub the floors).

OK so, first of all, I didn’t go all Molly Maids on the old house after we moved out.  I figured the new owners were going to give it an overhaul to put their own smell on the place anyway, and, frankly, we had other priorities moving week.  The actual moving, three kids, Thanksgiving, out of town family, and a cancer diagnosis in my husband’s immediate family – to name the most obvious contenders for our attention.  But all excuses aside, we did leave the house without completing our regular housekeeping, so it was not the spotless showplace it had been a few weeks earlier.  Let me know if I’m wrong on this, but I’ve never known anyone who moved into a house or apartment and raved about the previous owner’s housekeeping; cleaning the new place is part of moving.  Or so I thought.

I expected the new people would find something to complain to the neighbors about, but what I didn’t expect was that my ten year old would be approached at school by the child of our former neighbor, in front of other kids, with a nasty accusation about our family’s filthy living – as reported to her parents by the buyers of our house.  As if they hadn’t gone through the house just a few weeks earlier and seen how clean it was when we weren’t in the middle of moving.  I was horrified when my daughter told me what the girl had said.  I couldn’t believe she wasn’t crying and wondered if she was being brave for us.  A well of defensive unpleasantness bubbled up in me, as I took a mental inventory of all the very judgmental and personal jabs I could take at them.  It was a challenging sale, and we had sometimes struggled to remain gracious.  All of those moments when we had to remind one another to be kind, to let things go, and to be generous rather than stingy, were suddenly overwhelmed by a vicious instinct to lash out and harm the people who had turned an adult financial transaction into neighborhood gossip and schoolyard bullying.

As I was about to surrender to my anger and injured pride, and arm my daughter with a slew of nasty responses she could use if it came up again, my husband saved the moment by asking her how she had responded.  She said matter-of-factly that she had told the girl, “Oh, so you must think moving is easy.”  And then she told the other kids who were listening to the exchange, “What?  Did they live in a hotel before?  They can’t clean their own bathroom?”

I could have cried.  I felt so much admiration for her.  She did everything the school counselor says to do with bullies.  She stood up for herself; she disarmed them with humor.  She didn’t take it, but she didn’t escalate the situation either.  I could not have provided her with a better response than she came up with all on her own.  She was the tough but gracious person I wish I was – and she’s only ten years old.

I am embarrassed by the ugliness I felt about the situation and by the defensiveness I’m still battling.  I am tempted even now to give you all the reasons why I think we are nicer people than them.  I am just not as good or confident a person as my daughter is.  She is a class act.  And I have a lot to learn from her.

We work hard with our own hands to feed ourselves. When people insult us, we ask God to bless them. When people treat us badly, we accept it.  When people say bad things about us, we try to say something that will help them. But people still treat us like the world’s garbage—everyone’s trash. 1 Corinthians 4:12-13

I’m hiding laundry in my trunk.

In the fabulous juggling act of life, I’ve been dropping a few balls lately.  To say that I’ve let the summer get away from me is an understatement.  Somehow my return to work after maternity leave converged with personal and family obligations, both planned and surprise, in a way that has left me with more on my plate than I can swallow; at least not in one sitting!  Added to that, I can be pretty negligent to my obligations this time of year anyway, because summer is the season I suck the marrow from, in order to survive the dark days of winter ahead.

The laundry thing started out innocently enough.  The house is listed, so we’re trying to keep the place spotless.  I think keeping dirty underwear out of site helps create a positive vibe for buyers.  Nothing says “utopia” like an empty laundry room, right?  So when we got back from my grandma’s service (just three, short weeks ago, mind you), I brought in each of the girls bags in succession to wash their clothes and put everything away.  Then I fell behind and my big duffle, a combined mess of my own and the baby’s clothes, was still riding around in the back of the minivan when we packed up again for a 4^th of July weekend in Wisconsin.  We had a blast!  Unfortunately, in the days since our return, I have been too preoccupied with my kids and preparing for our summer program at church to empty the trunk and get our laundry done, so our fresh crop of dirties is languishing in the trunk on top of my previous duffle.

There have been a few awkward moments, since this whole laundry hiding thing began.  Every time they load groceries into my car, I feel an obligation to explain to the cart-boy why they are having to pile my purchases on top of our suitcases.  I don’t, but I feel like I should.  I have the same feeling when there’s a sudden chill at a ballgame and the girls dig through my bag and come back to the bleachers in an assortment of my dirty clothes.  Then there’s the odor.  Maybe it was a bathing suit?  Perhaps a towel?  Something back there got wet, and there’s nothing more refreshing on a day of 92 degrees and 89%  humidity than a wave of hot, musty stench rolling out to meet you when you slide open the door of your car.

I'm hauling more than kids back there!

So, I’ve still got two days of packed activity to live through, but I’ve requested a do-nothing day this weekend and I’m a hankering to remedy my laundry folly.  We’ll see how far I get before something more pressing distracts me – like making faces at the baby, eating Hawaiian Shaved Ice with the big girls, a showing, or Mr. Popper’s Penguins at the Drive-In.  I’m sure it will work out.  If not, pack extra underwear, girls, because it may be winter before we get caught up!

After Moses went down the mountain, he gave orders for the people to wash their clothes and make themselves acceptable to worship God. Exodus 19:14