the in between times

It’s been a while since my last post (say bloggers the world over), but as my writing lapsed I savored some of life’s precious in between times. After the squirrels devoured the pumpkin, and the robins pecked at all the winterberries, the rhythms of the church calendar ushered our little household into the season of Advent. We celebrated Christ’s incarnation—the fully divine becoming fully human, in humanity’s humblest form. We joyously anticipated the kingdom to come—another lighted city.

The “now and not yet” of Advent took on a rich (very human) meaning as we encountered the many in between moments of expecting our first baby. There was a time of waiting to see if “it” was really there; a time of waiting to share the news; a time of waiting for sickness to subside; a time of waiting to feel the slightest flutter or kick; and, a time of waiting to find out whether the little shadow was a son or a daughter. 

Our son (!) still has a lot of growing to do before we meet him face-to-face in early June. In the coming months, my hope is that this short season will be more than just a time of busyness. Yes, there are windows that need replacing, compost that needs turning, and books piled high next to the television. I just hope I can endeavor to pursue prayer with the same focus as decorating the nursery.

requisite mum and pumpkin

Last weekend we had a mini fall work-day, traveling to my favorite garden center for lawn fertilizer, pebbles, and -- of course -- a pumpkin and a mum. We augmented a sad little spot of gravel by the mailbox, at the threshold of the gate to the backyard:

The gold mum and large pumpkin stand sentinel. We're hoping the squirrels won't attack the pumpkin before Halloween, so we can carve it. If they do, we have a spare hidden in the shed.

Fall remains my favorite season, and our new home's faded perennials make the season more personal. I've followed the progress of the sedum, aster, coreopsis, and virginia creeper almost full circle. In the large bed next to the vegetable garden, the winterberry bushes have released their namesakes:

The garden, lawn, and hedges remain mostly green -- even as the maple trees across the street have lost most of their leaves.

squirrels of september

Every week in September has brought armfuls of fallen leaves off the pin oak tree that stands in front of our house. I've raked, bundled, and piled them on Saturdays. But they're still green.

Fall may be approaching, but the local squirrels are determined to hurry it along and de-leaf the old oak before it even has a chance to enjoy the season. They baldly, gleefully chew off bunches of green leaves, hunting down green acorns. The small, molested branches fall gracefully onto the lawn, the driveway, the hill of myrtle.

Here are some action shots of the property damage (and accompanying acrobatics):

We're guessing that squirrels are a protected species in this progressive, urban county. But that hasn't stopped Wes from pricing BB guns.

shorter days, snazzier lighting

My industrious in-laws visited over Labor Day weekend, quickly adopting the honey-do list as their own. We learned a bit about hard-wiring, caulking, and problem-solving ... and now we can remember their invaluable help every time we flip the switch.

The first project was upgrading the mismatched and poorly functioning outdoor lights. We added a touch of industrial chic:

Next, we installed a modern gray felt pendant in the dining room. Perhaps my love for the color gray is some kind of subconscious effort to balance my extroverted personality? The dining room in morning light:

In the picture above, you can also see my grandmother's mirror and a framed old map of the great state of Iowa, which we found at the Capitol Hill flea market. Look through the pocket door to the kitchen, and you'll catch a glimpse of the new gas range and OTR microwave ... our only significant "upgrade" so far. Finally, I can cook again! Just in time for fall soups and sauteed apples. Speaking of fall, please enjoy this close up of my harvest centerpiece (shades of grandma), composed of gourds from the farmers market: