A Day in My Life, Part 1

T’wasn’t so long ago I was looking at someone’s blogsite and sighing over the fact that it looked like this writer was miles ahead further than me, headed where I wanted to go. But then I came across what her day was like and decided that not only was she living far differently than I, but that our visions differed in how to get to where we, seemingly, were similarly headed. It was a wonderful blessing to see her day! Not only did it give me some inspiration, it gave me added contentment in my own life and manners. My life is my own, my days are unique. So are yours, in their own beautiful way. Here’s a peek into one of mine.


As a note, I consider the start of my day the evening before. That is, my “day” begins at sundown and ends at sundown the next calendar date. It does a lot of good for me to consider it this way, so we start our journey at suppertime.


6pm.  My husband takes me out for a burger downtown in the renovated building that used to serve as a gasoline station. The locals here easily pay thrice as much as the nationwide dollar-a-burger across the street, but in return have choices such as garlic fries and gluten-free buns.  And taste.  The motto is “good grub is messy”, and it is, the greasy napkins piling up on the formica.  So instead of supper with the family, my kids enjoy a pineapple pizza while my husband and I go on a date to eat, pick up our food from a coop order and choose a video for ourselves as well. Which, 48 hours later, we still have not watched.  But I digress.


Back home, while the children are already jammied up and engrossed in a video playing on the projector screen, I decide to sneak away to finish up the sweet little blackbird pincushion I had been working on, while half-listening to the audio of Family Writing.  That other half of me is not listening to anything at all; just quietly stitching deftly through layers of black wool.  I feel the baby inside roll and rumble, keeping me company.


I help my husband get the kids into their beds with kisses,  read three-quarters of a chapter about Photoshop, and head slowly back down the stairs.

I go to bed alone, fight with where pillows are going to support my growing baby-middle, and read a bit of Among English Hedgerows.  It’s a little book published in 1899 I found in a musty used book store last summer in Eugene, Oregon.  As I’m reading, I’m remembering my childhood and thatched roofs, pulled market baskets, pubs.  I pull the lamp cord and turn the light out at 11pm.


That night, I wake at 3:30am.  My hips feel out of place, and what am I going to do, wake up my chiropractor husband for an adjustment? I lay there, waiting to go back to sleep, but I feel like an owl.  Finally I just talk with the Lord, and pray until I am all prayed out, and then I feel a bit guilty for that.  I mean, who ever runs out of things to pray on or pray for?  I just give thanks that He knows all things, and I figured that whatever reason He had me up to pray, His Holy Spirit accomplished, and besides, isn’t just talking with Him prayer too?  I read a chapter from my kindle, and my last look at the clock is 5:30 on that morning.

I awake again at 7:45, almost two hours later than usual.  At this point, I’m thinking that blogging my day is going to be a big flop because none of it has been “typical”.  I missed my quiet Bible reading.  I hear little feet stomping around upstairs so I dress, make the bed, get my adjustment, check emails and tweet as the rooster is crowing and the goats are hollering for fresh hay.  The mudroom door slams as the kids run outside and I shut the laptop cover.


I get the tea pot going and feed my Italian starter again.  While eggs are getting collected and watering pails filled, I shuffle in the kitchen making everyone Russian black rye sourdough toast with a fresh egg over easy that morning.  It is satisfying, listening to the children chatter like chickadees at breakfast, yolk dripping from chins.

Afterwards, I check the slow of sourdough. On the right is the promise of baking to come.  On the left I have rolled out sourdough cinnamon rolls ready to rise and bake, hopefully in time to share with a friend who may, or may not, depending, be coming over.  I think, “If she comes, she’ll need a roll today with her tea.”  I drain the soaked walnuts, put them into the dehydrator, and steep my pomegranate green tea while overseeing the rest of the morning chores for the children.

In the midst of this, my seven year old gingerly admits to opening up my Japanese crayons–the ones I had brought out to share with her to begin with–and to drawing directly on my art book with them.  I find myself peeved.  I quietly send her to her room to have five minutes to drink my tea and ask the Lord what He would have me do.  Is this really something to be peeved about?  Is being peeved a sin?  Isn’t being offended impossible for those that love His law?  Doesn’t “peeved” lead to “peevishness”?  Doesn’t that sound like an entrance to becoming–or confirming–an odious woman?  I’m peeved with myself now, for being peeved.


While I’m pondering and peeving, I look my nine year old standing above me in the eye and say squarely, “Do not even ask me one.more.time. when our friends are coming.   I said I would tell you when I knew.  If I’m told.”  


I have just enough time to note the sunshine streaming through the firs outside onto the kitchen garden.  I leave half my tea untouched while I go to speak with my seven year old.  It is 10am.