a thrill of hope

I'm a few days into Christmas break and already feeling well rested now that the 4:51 am alarm clock has been turned off.  In fact, we have already experienced a Christmas miracle: both darlings received their Christmas vacation memos and have slept until past seven every morning thus far. 

After a couple mornings of sleeping in, I decided to crawl out of bed early this morning to spend some quiet time by the Christmas tree.  Getting up early is drastically easier when a Christmas tree is waiting for you in the other room.  As I sat in stillness, I started talking to the Lord about these beautiful words.

A thrill of hope

the weary world rejoices

I kept whispering them, over and over, and found myself stuck on that word thrill. I want to experience the thrill of hope. I want to truly rejoice knowing this weary world has been given salvation and knowing this world is not my home.

The past few weeks have brought lots of thrills, each of them great gifts from the Lord.

I have been thrilled by Andrew's round face crouched low to the ground as he watches the toy train come around the tree.  I have been thrilled watching him start walking around the house, particularly when he's rocking his elf pajamas (see below-you won't be disappointed).

I've been thrilled by Charlotte's excitement to open each advent envelope and her persistence in memorizing her first Scripture.  I've been thrilled by her dramatization of the Nativity with baby Jesus up on the roof and the three wise men who "don't start in the stable.  They have to start in the kitchen and make a long trip."

I've been thrilled by the excitement and teamwork of our staff who turned our school into the North Pole for a Family Night that packed the house and even included a live reindeer.

I've been thrilled by Secret Santa surprises. (I love surprises!)

I've been thrilled by a night of talking and laughing with friends as we lugged our children around the Holiday Light Festival at the zoo.

Spectacular dinners never cease to thrill me, and to my fortune, there have been a number of those too.

I've even been thrilled by our ten-year wedding anniversary last week and a sparkly gift from Stephen that most certainly cost far more than I want to know about, but I willingly accepted. 

I imagine Jesus loves seeing me get excited about these because each is a gift from Him, and I am grateful.

But I am also weary.

My own little life wears me out sometimes.  Kids exhaust me, teaching is hard work, and managing a home never ends.  Satan is constantly throwing lies in my face, and I keep fighting to believe God's grace really is sufficient.

I also get weary from the terror and heartache of the world. I feel weighed down, scared and sometimes paralyzed by tragedies like the church shooting in South Carolina and the bombing in Paris.  In just the past few months, I've ached with a friend who lost her unborn baby and prayed alongside a friend whose mother was diagnosed with cancer.  I attended the funeral of a former student and watched two young boys pulled from a home filled with abuse.  

Oh Jesus, we are a weary world, looking desperately for a real reason to rejoice.

The reason the Son of God appeared was to destroy the work of the devil. 

1 John 3:8

Oh man Lord, every bit of me that loves a victory for the underdog wants to jump up and down when I read this verse.  I know You're not the underdog, but sometimes I feel like it. Sometimes I feel like our team is losing.  The weariness gets to me. 

Today Jesus, I want to be thrilled by hope - thrilled by the brilliant truth that God has come to earth to destroy the work of the devil - thrilled to know that victory is here.

I love the Christmas season for the same reasons everyone does.  I love the music, the movies, the food, the gatherings, the traditions, the beauty of it all.  But Jesus, I pray all of these fade into the background, taking their place as secondary thrills in comparison to what You have done for me.

You are my reason for joy, for peace, for endurance. 

Be my one true thrill.

Shout out to Kate from August and Elm, the Etsy shop where I got this beautiful print!  I love it!

And because I don't want to disappoint you...

 You smiled, right?

speaking of pancakes....

In my last blog post, I mentioned pancakes.

his made me want to eat pancakes.

So I made these.

You should make them, too.

I was originally just going for pumpkin pancakes.  Major props to three-year-old Charlotte for suggesting we add chocolate chips. Granted, she suggests adding chocolate chips to just about everything - granola, cupcakes, soup, pizza, tacos,  but this time she was right on.

Chocolate Chip Pumpkin Pancakes with Vanilla Maple Syrup

• 1 1/4 cup flour

• 2 TB. brown sugar

• 2 tsp. baking powder

• 1 tsp. pumpkin pie spice

• good pinch of salt

• 1 cup milk

• 1/2 cup pumpkin puree

• 1 egg

• 2 TB melted butter, plus extra for the skillet

• A good handful of chocolate chips

Vanilla Maple Syrup

• About 1/2 cup maple syrup

• 1 tsp. vanilla extract

In a medium mixing bowl, combine the flour, brown sugar, baking powder, spice, and salt.

Mix together the milk, pumpkin puree, egg and melted butter in another bowl or liquid measuring cup.

Add the wet ingredients to the dry ingredients and whisk together just until combined. Use a rubber spatula to fold in chocolate chips.  Do not over mix.  A lumpy pancake batter is a yummy pancake batter.

Preheat the oven to 200° F.  Have an oven safe plate or serving dish ready.

Heat skillet or griddle over medium heat.  Melt some small pads of butter right on the skillet. 

Once the skillet it hot and the butter is melted, add a 1/3 cup scoop of batter to the pan.

Cook until bubbles begin to form on the top surface.  Carefully flip with a spatula, and cook the second side until golden brown, a couple minutes more.

Transfer the cooked pancake to the oven safe dish, and place in the oven to keep warm. 

To make the vanilla maple syrup, just add vanilla to warm syrup.

So simple.  So yummy.

rebuilding our village

Today I enter a new public writing territory -- motherhood.  It is a territory I have thoroughly explored in my private writing, but not one I have ventured out to publicly.

Motherhood is a tricky topic, and this is certainly not due to lack of material.  Moms are a wealth of stories to suit any crowd and any mood.  We're ready at any moment with the tear-jerkers, the tender moments, the terrifying, the hilarious, the disgusting, the melt-your-heart, the weird, the confusing, and the "so-cute-I-could-just-scream" stories.

But writing about mama life is very different than living mama life.  

A couple months ago, I wrote about surviving in our landominium that had long exceeded maximum capacity.  In this post, I explained that my perspective about overflowing out of our home gains much clarity when I'm writing in the early morning hours and all the darlings are still sleeping.  In those calm moments, I can find humor in the cozy chaos, but there are many moments I find no humor. The struggle is real and ugly.

The same goes for motherhood.

Days after our nine hour road trip with minimal napping, dozens of "I have to go potty" claims, whining, seat kicking, and no less than 247 requests for a snack, the rough edges have softened.  I can chuckle, turning that nightmare into an amusing story that would prompt any parent to nod along and feel my pain.  But there is no chuckling in that car; there is frustration, crabbiness, self doubt, and even tears, wondering how to pull myself up from the current exhausting moment and move into the next.

This is the balance of writing about motherhood.

It is my hope to bring out the humor, absurdity, and joy in it all, while carefully giving full weight to the struggles, questions, fears, and doubts.

And it is for that reason I have steered cleared.  But Andrew turned one a couple weeks ago, so my maternal walk down memory lane is in full stride as I recall exactly what we were doing one year ago today. The transition to two children was much more difficult than either Stephen or myself expected.  This wasn't due to lack of sleep or an extra needy big sister (well, not entirely), but because welcoming our second child were some of my loneliest days.

Our first child, Charlotte, had been born two years earlier, and within hours of her arrival, our hospital room was filled with at least a dozen friends, all of whom were bubbling over with love and excitement for our new daughter.  During our two-day stay in that room, there was a steady stream of visitors with lattes, cupcakes, Jimmy John's, and pink onesies in hand.  We arrived home to pink balloons decorating the porch and meals lined up for weeks.  There was hardly a day someone didn't stop by to just chat, check in, and keep us company.

I recognize that for many new moms, I have just described your worst nightmare. But for Stephen and me, this village of people celebrating with us was a showing of love that we will always treasure.

Two years later, nearly every detail surrounding Andrew's arrival differed from his sister's, but the most impactful difference was the absence of that village.  It was a harsh reminder that so many of our dear friends, as if almost on cue, moved away from Oxford over that past year.  This mass exiting from Oxford spread our closest friends all over the country from California to New York to Florida to Hawaii.  But this is the nature of a college town.  Very few people, particularly those in their twenties and early thirties, expect to stay more than five or six years, ourselves included. 

I remember sitting on the couch nursing Andrew and thinking about how I'd possibly survive the upcoming cold months of maternity leave with limited friends.  Who would I talk to?  Who would Charlotte play with?  Where would we go?  What if we didn't leave the house for weeks?  Would anyone check in on us?  My tremendous joy was being overshadowed with an intense state of loneliness.

I wasn't looking for someone to watch Charlotte or hold Andrew or fold my laundry.  I didn't need someone to relieve me so I could nap or shower or spring for a latte.  I was just looking for friends.  Friends to patiently listen to every boring detail of how my new baby spent the past twenty-four hours. Friends to scold me for trying on regular jeans far too soon.  Friends to remind me that the outside world was still in motion, and I would rejoin it again someday.

I slowly lowered myself to the ground and asked Jesus for friends, and more specifically, mom friends.  Not just mom friends to make small talk with, but mom friends I could really connect with, laugh with and be real with during this season.  I prayed God would slowly rebuild that village we missed so dearly.

I have prayed dozens of prayers on that living room floor.  There are requests I have been laying before the Lord for years, pleading with Him and waiting to see how He will work. But there have also been times God fulfills an immediate need almost before I've picked myself up off the floor.

This was one of those times. 

Within days, I received an invite to come over to a friend's house for a pancake breakfast, yoga pants expected.

A few days later, a young mom from our church invited Charlotte to join her and her girls at the library story hour so I could have time with just Andrew.  Her kindness led to multiple doughnut dates and a few day trips to the children's museum.

A month later I connected with another mom during Charlotte's toddler gymnastics class. This friendship led to playdates, some great conversation, and of course, doughnut dates. (Should I be embarrassed about all the doughnut dates I schedule?)

Those winter months chugged along, and I soon found myself laying out those work clothes I hadn't seen in months. I sat with Stephen on the couch processing the jumbled mess of emotions every mom feels at the end of maternity leave. 

God had been so faithful.

Andrew's arrival didn't come with the crowds and balloons that his sister's had.  The enormous community we had surrounding us at that time was unique, a precious season of our lives.  A village would have been great.  I always prefer a house full of people,  but what I learned so deeply in those months after Andrew's birth was that I didn't need an entire community.  God didn't rebuild that village of friends we'd lost, but instead He taught me the simply beauty of someone who would just say "come eat pancakes at my house," or "let's meet for doughnuts."

After all, no one, especially a new mom, is saying no to pancakes or doughnuts.

And in honor of Andrew Boston...

"I'm one!"

creamy corn and veggie soup

In our home, soup is a year-round go-to.  I will unashamedly admit to simmering a pot of soup in the middle of July, and as soon as fall hits, my soup making really kicks into high gear. Three pots a week is not uncommon, and here's why.

Soup is the perfect way to load up on the veggies.  For the life of me,  I cannot get my three year old to like raw red peppers.  Dice 'em up, throw 'em in some soup, and she's on board.  Amen.

Most soups fall into the "chop and drop" category.  This means I can plop my children on the counter, and they're content to sample raw potatoes and gnaw on a onion (strange, but true) while I get chopping.  The measuring is minimal which means I don't have to think much.  Thank goodness.

Soup recipes are so easy to double (and even triple if only I had a pot big enough), and most recipes freeze well too.  This means an easy dinner down the road, and that makes mama happy. Win for everyone.

I pack four lunches a day, and one could argue that soup is almost always better the next day.  This means lunch packing just became super yummy and super simple.  Hallelujah.

Stephen posted this Creamy Corn and Veggie Soup last week on our Instagram account, @bakeitlikebecker (are you a follower?!?!).  There were requests for some recipes, and I'm happy to share this veggie-packed goodness. (Never fear, there's bacon and cream, too.)

Creamy Corn and Veggie Soup

• 2 TB extra virgin olive oil

• 3-4 slices of bacon, chopped

• 1 onion, chopped

• 2 cloves of garlic, minced

• 1 red pepper

• 10 ounce bag of frozen corn

• 2 small zucchinis

• About a pound of potatoes (This time I used russet, but I have used red potatoes in the past.)

• 1 bay leaf

• 1 tsp. paprika

• 1 tsp. chili powder

• Salt and pepper

• 2 TB flour

• 4 cups chicken stock

• 1 cup milk

• 1 cup cream (I admit I used half and half this time because it's all I had. Still yummy, but we all know cream would have been better.

Heat the olive oil in a medium pot over medium-high heat. 

Add the bacon and cook until it is close to crispy. 

Toss in the onion, garlic, and pepper and cook until those soften up.

Add the corn, zucchini, potatoes, bay leaf, paprika, chili powder and some S&P. Give it a good stir and let it cook for about five minutes.

Sprinkle the flour into the pot, stir, and cook for about a minute.

Slowly add the broth, milk, and cream. Let the soup simmer for about 10 minutes or until the potatoes are tender.

Happy Soup Season!

the trenches of writing workshop

Earlier this year, I co-taught in Mrs. Ary’s room and gathered 28 sixth graders onto the carpet for a mini-lesson about how authors gather ideas in order to find a story that matters.

There is this terrifying moment as a teacher when you wrap up the mini-lesson and are about to send your students off to actually try what you’ve just taught. Oh, how I wish one of them would just shout out,

“We are ready, Mrs. Becker! You’ve presented this information so clearly, and I’ve been so engaged for the past fifteen minutes, not at all distracted by the smelly classmates I’m smooshed up against on this tiny carpet. I totally understand what I am to do independently, and I can’t wait to get started!”

Instead, I get 3 smiles, 1 head nod and a handful of kids who are already standing up.

I’ll take it.

Let’s go write.

The assignment was to brainstorm a list of seven story titles that tell your life. These could be life altering days or seemingly insignificant moments that have somehow been permanently planted in your memory. What seven stories best reflect who you are today?

I had never taught this lesson before, and although my heart knew it had potential to be awesome, I’ve been teaching long enough to know that sometimes the lesson you’re most excited about has to flop two or three times before you get it right.

Unfortunately, I had to skip out halfway through independent writing time to get to a meeting, so I wasn’t able to see the final lists or hear the sharing session. When I got back to my office that afternoon, my table was filled with post-it notes. Each student had written down his or her favorite or most significant story title and left it for me to see.

I wasn’t sure if sixth graders would be able to define who they were in story titles. I didn’t know if they’d be willing to get past their day at King’s Island or a play-by-play of their tenth birthday party. I really wondered if they’d be brave enough to tell the painful stories.

I sat at my table, reading though post it notes feeling so proud of these writers who took me up on this challenging assignment. It was a glorious moment that the teacher in me will hold onto for awhile. And right in the midst of my tender-teacher moment, Mrs. Ary popped her head in my office to jolt me back to reality.

“Ok, so now what? How do we get them to actually write those stories?” she asked.

I laughed. “We enter the trenches of writing workshop.”