"Spento"

His eyes were big and round and tears formed what looked like lenses of glass over his pupils. Big, salty tears made their way down his flushed cheeks and onto his sweatshirt. His sleeves became tissues as he wrapped his hands into them and, making cotton fists, he dabbed his eyes, repeating as each glass-eyed tear was released.

"I just don't want my teacher to yell at me again," He sobbed.

Heartbroken, I took him under my arms and pulled his little body into mine, rubbing his hair, meanwhile feeling hopeless and fearful and desperately needing some emotional first-aid kit to make it all better so that we could get out the door by 8:20 a.m.

I'm always in a hurry.

But since emotional band-aids don't exist and since I recently stopped taking my emotional pain-killers (aka Lexapro), Elias and I melted slowly into one sad mess as we stood in the middle of his room (a familiar scene to those of you who read my blog).

Our routine went awry. His tears were like a faint siren, like the one I hear coming up from the tunnel that runs under the train by our apartment.

Emergencies, even little emotional ones, require time.

The tactic of making a child learn his multiplication tables (in second grade, mind you) by using fear as a weapon makes the mother bear in me very upset. My son has never been yelled at by a teacher...that is until this year. Negative reinforcement as a teaching method is as common here as black coffee after every meal.




Italians use the word "spento" to imply that one has been turned off and has thus run out of juice, of batteries, of whatever it is that keeps him going.

And lately, I am "spento."

I have nothing else to give--not in any realm of life.

So like any emotionally-imbalanced mother would do, I let him stay home.

In fact, I let them all stay home. I couldn't fight--not today--not with gaping wounds wrought by unkind teachers and pressure and feelings of inadequacy and hopelessness.

Not today.

But I am not one to sit still. When I am "spento," the only things that keep me moving are my kids. Because I know they are the only eternal and tangible people in my life that I can invest in and see a return no matter my emotional state, no matter the circumstances.

A few years ago, when I was pregnant with Ezra, we spent a summer in Africa. The trip was awful in almost every sense of the word. I remember this moment of hopelessness in my heart as I felt alone and depressed, as if my heart had been replaced by a ten-pound weight. And tears formed in my eyes as I set up plastic bottles as a make-shift bowling lane for my kids. And we threw the ball and knocked the pins down. And I'm pretty sure Elias, who was three then, asked me if I was crying. And I'm pretty sure I had a meltdown in front of him and his baby sister.

They are used to that kind of thing.

And when it was over, we set the "pins" up again and rolled the big rubber ball.

I cannot, will not, give up on this one thing.

Mothering.




And so, Elias and I sat and wrote his multiplication facts on construction paper. We cut them out and made them into color-coded flash cards.

And we practiced.

With each correct answer, the air became a little lighter and his shoulders became less tense. And he smiled. And I laughed at his silly jokes...even if they weren't very funny.

Because laughter is the best kind of medicine.




I spent most of my twenties living in the land of what-ifs. Prone to depression since I was thirteen, I have often felt like I was running from sadness, questioning every good and perfect gift God has given me, foreseeing an unforeseeable future where all of these good things (mostly people) would be gone and I'd be alone and depressed.

With cats.

And I don't even like cats.

And thus, in my twenties, I didn't get too close to people. I watched a few friendships fall through the cracks or simply dissipate. I didn't understand balance in terms of humans and so I stood at arm's length so as not to get hurt.

Without expectations, there can be no disappointment.

But living without expectations is like living in pastels. We go through life avoiding conflict and in turn miss out on the deepest parts of one another as humans.

Without pain, we would not know joy. Without Burnt Sienna, there would be no Cobalt Blue.

Barely doing the splits into my thirties, I like to think I have learned to live a little less in pastels and a little more in vivid colors. I confront a whole lot more, but with more grace than when I was a teenager, before the world taught me that you lose a lot of friends when you speak your mind, especially when you aren't doing it in love (hence the pastels in my twenties).

On the flip-side, I have learned that when someone confronts me, the world isn't ending. My identity is not at stake. This is part of being an adult, after all. I swallow. I accept. I think about their words. And I try to be humble, even though (with certain people) that can be a very daunting task.

I have also learned to laugh a little more, to take each day as it comes and to not (always) live in the land of what-ifs.

These gifts could all be gone tomorrow.

Would I live with regret?

Or would I have loved despite the breaking? Would I remember every detail of my child's face because I took the time to sit next to her on the couch and marvel over each perfection? Would I know that despite the junk of deep, authentic relationships, that I put my heart on the pavement at times?

I do not know these answers for sure.

But in my thirties, I know I'm trying to find them.




So when I am spento, I suppose there is only one thing I can do. It's the same thing I tell my little sisters when they are dealing with the crap of their twenties.

Breathe. One foot in front of the other. Breathe.

And love.

Because there is always someone to love. Right in front of me, in fact.

La Mia Cucina

Ah, the kitchen. SO much living happens in the kitchen. For this reason, it is essential (to me) to have my organizational needs met so that I don't feel like I'm always living in chaos, though I do admit, the kitchen is the most difficult room to keep clean. Children eat. And then they get hungry again. And then they eat again. And since restaurants are so expensive, we rarely go out to eat. A LOT of cooking goes on in our kitchen.

In Italy, you buy your kitchen when you rent. We found a great deal on our kitchen from a store called "Mobilandia" here in Italy. It was around 2000 Euro and that included all of the appliances (a tiny refrigerator, freezer, dishwasher, stove and oven). It's completely mobile so if we have to move, the kitchen will travel with us. While there are obvious downfalls to our kitchen (lack of cabinet space, small refrigerator and TINY freezer), I LOVE the fact that most of the appliances are hidden behind cabinet doors. I love the clean look.


Above the Stove: While it may seem a little cluttered, we have utilized this space as our "coffee bar" and keep all things coffee/tea related right there, within arm's reach (because I do drink coffee at all times of the day). We also put our spices on a shelf so that they are accessible while cooking. The magnetic strip from IKEA (9.99 Euro) is handy because we are always in need of sharp knives and don't have to go looking for them in a cluttered drawer.



Side of the Sink: Our kitchen did not fit all the way to one wall, so Thomas screwed hooks into the cabinet walls and we store several of our pots, pans and even pot holders over there, out of the way. We also brought some funky animal hooks from the States (Pier One - Clearance) and Thomas spray painted them orange. We keep dish towels and our strainer (since we make pasta DAILY) right there, also within arm's reach.



Above the Radiator: We bought these wooden drawers and file holder and of course, painted them. The drawers are nice because they are shallow and I can file away the kids' school papers and know that they won't be buried too far underneath anything. The file holder is great to store mail and important, pertinent documents.

Table/Bar Stools: We bought the four piece shelf (dark wood finish) from IKEA (29 Euro) and found a really cool counter top in the as-is section at IKEA (30 Euro. Thomas bought the legs to give it more height so that it could act as both a counter and a table. I like that it is small enough to give us room to move around in the kitchen and yet big enough to seat all five of us when we are having a quick meal. The (black) bins underneath (3.99 Euro - IKEA) the table serve as storage, something we are always in need of. One houses food items, another school supplies, and another paper/plastic products.



THE MAP: (IKEA- 75 EURO, although we found it on clearance marked down from 125 Euro) This map is BY FAR my favorite thing in this kitchen. Living oversees, we have several people into our home who have traveled the world. It is so fun to sit around the kitchen table, especially as we are preparing dinner, and point to all the places each person has been. AND with three small children, it's great to always have the context to speak about the world, at large (no pun intended!).

Silenced

It's amazing the books you'll pick up in a bookstore when there's only a barren rack of best-sellers under a small sign labeled "Native Language," meaning, I guess, that if you can read the sign, then English must be your native language.

But the ridiculous novels and memoirs were worth a few moments of my time--just to stand in a crowded bookstore behind a book, without struggling through the text, trying to conjugate verbs and recall nouns from my daughter's first grade homework assignments.

"Eat, Pray, Love" was one of those lonely titles on the shelf. And since I just saw the film, I hastily picked it up, although I've on all other occasions avoided my encounter with the book, despite the suggestions to read it from people whose opinions I value.

I knew that the book would find its way into the parts of my mind that I have been training, like a hyper puppy, for years. I am not a person who can simply read a book or watch a movie for entertainment's sake. If I am "involved" in a book or a movie or a show (yes, it's much like a relationship...except it's a bit like dating a dead person), I generally talk about it in all contexts. I can think of a House episode that correlates to some bizarre scenario in life. I talk about whatever book I'm reading at the moment with intense passion...because if it held my attention after the third page, then believe me, I'm passionate about the subject matter. When I've seen a good movie, one that moved me and inspired me, I will likely ask you if you've seen it three or four times, forgetting that I've asked already. I am a hopeless addict in all realms of life. So it's just healthier when I avoid those things that would suck me into another (perhaps unhealthy) world and leave me fantasizing about the what-ifs...the greener grass...

But of course, the opening lines of "Eat, Pray, Love" drew me in, as I knew they would (hence my avoidance), and they coddled my emotions, gave way to whispers of "freedom" and I drew a small breath...and kept reading.

Then it hit me. This chic spent three MONTHS in Italy. This book recounts one YEAR of her life. And no matter how dreamy she made "finding herself" sound, the reality is that she didn't even hit the nitty gritty culture shock of the places she "lived."

Three months is just enough time to fall in love with Italy...or to decide "it's just not the place for me" (although I think the former applies to most people). There are far too many quirks and small pleasures to physically and mentally take in within three month's time. I have been here a little over a year and I'm still enamored everyday. In fact, while I was waiting in line at LIDL (think Aldi, but just take out an L, add an A, and you are so there in line with me), this old man kept rambling to everyone...and then breaking out into song while looking in each person's cart, asking questions that I didn't understand. I expected him to throw his cane down and start dancing, like Charlie's grandpa after he discovers Charlie just found the golden ticket.

Those moments...the ones that make me feel like I'm an extra in a perfectly scripted Italian movie, they make me want to live here forever.

And then there are the other moments.

The really dark moments.

Like yesterday.

I hadn't thought it possible to have a complete and utter meltdown by 9:00 a.m. But indeed the events of the morning perhaps were just a piece of straw laid on top of a half-ton pile of hay that just did the camel in. Seriously, did I just type that?

What I'm trying to say is that it was a normal morning...except for the fact that my alarm clock, which is also my cell phone, was DEAD and thus didn't go off and thus we didn't wake up until twenty minutes before we were supposed to be out the door. Twenty minutes just doesn't cut it when you are working with children who can't find matching socks or decide on what to eat for breakfast. And that's not mentioning the every day whining stuff and the convincing that ensues.

"Mom...I have a headache."

To which I routinely reply, rather heartlessly, "You don't have a fever and you aren't puking. Do you want some medicine?"

And on and on it goes. So of course, we were late for school. Ten minutes late. Our daughter (5) does not handle things well when we are late. She freaks out, convinced her teacher will be mad at her, and clings, claws, cries, pleads, and begs to not have to go into school, and this is all happening while she is being dragged into the school. The secretary (who is also the janitor...and the nurse) knows the routine and has become quite accustomed to it. She reluctantly allowed me to walk Keziah to her classroom, even though this is a big no-no in socialist buildings (also known as neighborhood public schools), where parents are pretty much expected to take off their parental hat and hand it over to said teacher when entering their territory.

So we arrive at the classroom and I'm suddenly hoping that the "nice teacher" (as Keziah refers to her) is there. No such luck. Curly headed "Maestra" (teacher) pops her head out, intimidating me meanwhile with her icy blue eyes and heartless glare. And suddenly she reminds me of Ms. Massingale, my 7th grade Gym teacher. But I tell myself I'm 31 now and she's not forcing me to play dodge ball, even though I just got my period and have really, really bad cramps.

I take a step back, apologizing (once again) for our tardiness, gladly accepting any reprimand, so long as she doesn't take it out on my daughter.

But then...she just keeps going. I'm not catching a good 30% of what she is saying, but I keep hearing "8:30" and "punctual" and "Senyyyora"...and she keeps saying those words over and over again and I'm having scenes from a Stephen King movie flash through my head and she has those gym teacher eyes and I swear...I swear...if I wouldn't have sounded like an angry preschooler due to my lack of intelligent argumentative skills in Italian, I would have given her a piece of my mind. I would have told her all about Mrs. Bryant, Elias' Kindergarten teacher, who saw the value in Thomas and I and our willingness to volunteer in the classroom at the drop of a hat...and how she saw how much we cared for our son and his education and therefore didn't give us a lecture when we were five minutes late. I would have told her how difficult it is to live in a foreign country with no family to help us out when we are in a jam. I would have told her how much it sucks that I have no language skills to defend myself in any situation. How hard I have to work just to help Keziah with her homework.

But instead, I glared at her, trying to show my disapproval of her public reprimand with my "mommy" eyes. I sent Keziah into the den of wolves (pause for dramatic effect) and then turned around just in time for the tears to fill my eyes and begin their ascent onto my freshly "madeup" face. The poor secretary/janitor/nurse lady asked me if I was okay.

"No. Questa non e' va bene. Fata le vuole Keziah lascia a casa perche' siamo diece minuti di ritardo? Questo e' ridiculoso. Non esista questo in America."

At the very moment I strained to pull my words together, the Italian just kept coming out of my mouth, as ridiculous as it may have sounded. I rushed down the stairs, out the door, into the cold, and back into the car where a silent Thomas and Ezra awaited me.

I screamed and said some really nasty things in my native language because I could. I told God I hated this place and that I was done.

We dropped Ezra off at his school. I dropped all my plans for the morning. I knew I needed a good, long cry. Thomas went on his way. I went home.

When I got into our apartment, I rushed for the bathroom (where I have all meltdowns), shut the door, and let out every tear that has been waiting to come out for the last few months (since last bathroom meltdown). I poured my heart out to God, let Him know verbally how I really felt about the situation. I didn't hold back anything. I seldom do. Told Him I needed Him to speak to me, like really speak to me. Like take my face in His hands and speak to me.

There was silence.

And peace.

And I cried and cried. And then they came to me. Images of women all around the world. Women enslaved to abusive men. Women without the right to vote. Women without the right to choose their spouses or a career. Women who have faced injustice on every level and have no right to defend themselves. And for a very, very brief moment, I empathized with them, felt a small sliver of their pain. Not just because of the teacher incident, but because of the bondage of silence. Everyday, every place I go, I long to communicate efficiently. I long to make small talk with cashiers and waiters and parents at my kids' school. Of course I can get my needs met. Of course I can answer some questions and ask a few myself. But I rarely walk away with that feeling I get in the States when I really connect with a total stranger.

Verbal communication is a gift. It is such a gift. And you don't realize it until the capability has been stripped from you. And every step toward learning the other language leaves you feeling like you are getting closer to a mountain only to realize you are further away than what you first imagined the distance to be.

Fluency.

And so in that moment on my bathroom floor, I was silenced. Not because I couldn't speak in my native tongue to the Creator of all nations, tribes and tongues...but because I saw those women. And I knew that this moment was an answer to all of those prayers I prayed to be more compassionate, to empathize with the poor...to help bring the Kingdom of God to earth.

And I knew what my next move was to be.

The tears subsided. I gathered my things, including Elias' forgotten glasses that I promised him I would bring back, got into the car, and headed for the school. I walked in and spotted the kind secretary right away. She greeted me with a smile, as if I hadn't completely had a foreign lady meltdown right in front of her an hour earlier. I held back tears and began my apology.

I thanked her for being so kind to my daughter and assured her that my outburst had nothing to do with her, but so much to do with the fact that I feel like I cannot explain my "cuore" (heart).

Of course she understood. And she kept saying how much she loves Keziah, which meant a lot considering she has seen the absolute worst of the girl. I love when people look for redemption. God knows I need people like that in my life.

I left the school, knowing I had listened to God and responded in the right way. And that always feels good.

All too often, I turn my back on the beatitudes, Jesus’ own words...and seek justice, hate my enemies, and curse those who curse me. But in the corners of my heart, the ones that have been gently rounded off over time, their sharp edges sanded away through experiences I’d rather forget, I know that the Kingdom that Jesus proclaimed is lived out in humble experiences, in the giving up of my rights, the laying down of my will.

In silence.

Silence comes easy when it’s forced. But I cannot help but think that this (me, moving to a country of unknowns) was all in God’s mind when He sent me on my way to a land that would indeed, very literally, silence me. It hurts. It aches.

I typically expect to learn compassion, kindness, and humility through some act of service or in some big moment in life. Not through reprimands from a first grade teacher at 8:40 a.m.



So I put “Eat, Pray, Love” down after about the fifth or sixth page and I walked to a café’ across the way, ordered a cappuccino, and took a seat next to a group of disabled people. I gathered my thoughts and began writing. Because I have not been silenced in this manner.

And I drank the cappuccino slowly, like I always do. And I took my spoon and scooped out all of the sugary foam at the bottom. And I listened to the men next to me, with Cerebral Palsey, communicate the best they could with each other. And I watched as the couple across from me wrapped their bodies into each other as only Italians do. And the clanging of coffee cups and the steaming of milk was the background to all of my thoughts.

And once again and in silence, I was glad to call this place home.

Design on a Dime...I mean Euro.

We live in a 6th floor apartment right off of a main street in Torino, Italy. Our flat is roughly 1000 square feet, including balconies. With three children, a pretty small space and an outrageously priced economy (ie. we pay $1600/mo for our apartment), we have been forced to use some creativity with our usage of space, as well as our taste in design. Yes, we have traded in our dream of having Eames chairs for the reality of the fifteen Euro chairs in the as-is section at Ikea. But creating a warm, inviting space is still always at the forefront of our "as-is" picks. Perhaps you live or are wanting to live in a small space in an urban environment. I hope you can get some tips on small space living from these pictures and ideas! And remember, LESS IS ALWAYS MORE!!!

Boys Room: With two energetic boys, the biggest problem I have with the boys' room is CLUTTER. I try to maintain the clutter by assuring each toy has its own home, also known as a bin or container. While we couldn't afford a wardrobe to act as a closet, we tried to utilize under-the-bed storage as well as shelves.
Red Bookshelf: 39 Euro - IKEA
Red toy shelves (on wheels): 15 Euro each - Ikea (they are stacked and screwed together and Thomas added the wheels to make it a mobile piece)
TV: We did some price comparison and opted for this no-brand TV for the boys room. It has a built-in Universal DVD player and was a fraction of the cost. Hint: Ask an employee what he thinks of said brand. In this case, the only reason this brand cost less is because it isn't popular. Also, although the TV placement may look a little strange, we placed it behind the toy shelf so that it would not get run into. We also placed it at eye level for a child so that the boys could sit on their bed and watch it or play the Wii.
Wii: Thomas mounted the Wii so that it is permanent (in the case that our boys are a little too rowdy and run into it).

Bed: 199 - IKEA

Road Rug: 14 Euro - IKEA
Small black table: 5 Euro - IKEA We have two of these black tables and they travel all over our home for various pertinent needs. Right now, our three year-old is really into coloring, so it made its way into the boys room to act as a kids table. Other times it is outside as a play-doh table or a side table for food when we have parties.
Green stools: 5.99 Euro - IKEA



Star Wars X-Wing Fighter Kite: $20 - Target (although I saw it on clearance for $6.99 right before we moved and wanted to scream! While they don't really have sales in Italy, in the States I always recommend waiting for things to go on sale. I had to re-learn this lesson with this kite!)
Desk: 35 Euro - IKEA We chose this one because, for the money, it had the most amount of "storage" both with the pull out keyboard area and underneath it.
Red Shelves: 4.99 Euro - IKEA
1-2-3 Bins: 2.99 Euro for a pack of three. I think the rule with 8 year-olds is to give them a space of their own. Our son isn't quite at an age that he can organize all of his "trinkets" on his own, so any help (like these bins) is always good. In this case, I had him help me place the items in each bin, so that he would know where to put things on his own. For example, one #2 bin is a "SPY GEAR" bin. Another bin holds memorable items, like pictures of family in the US and important gifts he has received.
Star Wars Pictures: $6 from the good ole American Post Office. They were on clearance and Thomas grabbed all the ones they had left. They are matted and ready to (one day) be framed and placed on the walls.

Dresser: 69 Euro - IKEA (Each of the boys has only two drawers for their clothes-One for shirts and the other for pants and pajamas-- This forces me to downsize, although I would like another dresser so that clothes aren't always spilling out!)
Black storage bins: 2 Euro in as-is section -IKEA
Behind the door coat rack/hooks: 6.99 Euro - IKEA (I love HOOKS and because of the many jackets we have floating around the house I almost always opt to put such coat racks behind doors, so that they are out of sight! And a hint: When buying a coat rack, go for hooks and NOT pegs. I made the mistake of putting pegs behind Keziah's door, and everything subsequently falls down because there is nothing to secure the item).

The 30 Euro Girls Room Makeover
Somewhere between five and six, our daughter decided that princesses were a thing of the past, associated only with "little girls," not big ones like herself. This would have been fine if we hadn't decorated her entire room around a princess theme the previous year. She decided polka dots would suffice when changing her room into a "teenage room" and thus I painted some dots, added some hot pink curtains, re-located our green run, and took down all things princess-y!
Curtains: 6.99 Euro/2 - IKEA
White Table: 5 Euro - IKEA
Acrylic paint for polka dots: 10 Euro
Overhead Paper Light: 6.99 Euro - IKEA


Living. Room.
It's called a living room for a reason. This is certainly where we do a majority of our living, and especially our entertaining. For me, this is the most important room in the house. I take great care that the ambiance is just right and that someone who walks into this room would feel at home. Unlike every other place we have lived, we went with a very light color on the walls this time. It's a pale blue and during the day it matches the sky. In this way, I feel like the outdoors are simply an extension of our living space. It in essence opens the room up and takes advantage of all the natural light that pours in all day long. I always think it's important to accentuate a room's strength, and this color does just that for me.
Couch: 399 Euro - IKEA This couch pulls out into a bed AND one side flips up so that you can store stuff underneath. By FAR, the best couch for the money...and here's the other thing, when working with small spaces, I highly recommend buying smaller furniture. This couch was much smaller than others like it and yet offered the same comfort and function. Because of its size, it doesn't overtake the room. The other furniture isn't disproportional.
Chair: 20 Euro - IKEA We found this on sale and liked its mid-century modern potential. We brought it home, bought a can of orange spray paint, and changed its entire look...and added a splash of color to our neutral living room.
Clock: 10 Euro - Little hardware store down the street. It's plastic, but you'd never know that.
TV stand: 65 Euro - IKEA Again, this piece is multi-functional. The bins underneath house whatever a standard family would throw in a closet or a drawer (ie. DVD's, remote controls, books, magazines, art supplies for kids, etc.)
Coffee Table: 19.95 Euro - IKEA I love this coffee table because it has a shelf underneath where I put magazines, books, and photo albums that we like to look at frequently.
Dining Table: 99 Euro - IKEA While once again, this wasn't the table I was in love with, for the money, it has been very good to us. We can get eight people around it if we are desperate, and it slides into a smaller table in the case that we ever wanted to use it for another space.
Dining Room Chairs: 15 Euro- IKEA They match. I'm not crazy about them. But they match. And they were affordable. :)
Pillows: We have several pillows on our couch and in the orange chair. I like the softness, brightness, and pattern that pillows bring to a room. Some of them are cotton and others (my favorites) are down. I don't think you can go too wrong with pillows. It's the one area where I might back down from my "less is more" mantra.




The Green Room (aka our bedroom)
For over a year, our bedroom took the brunt of clutter, as it was in essence a catch all when I wanted to do a fast cleaning before having guests over. It was neglected and barren. And the walls were an awful, depressing not-even-white non-color. I avoided our room, except to sleep, because the ugly walls and awful lighting made me feel like I was living in the Projects. What's sad is that our bedroom is full of natural light and is potentially the warmest room in the house, aesthetically speaking. Recently, I made an impulse purchase while at the store with a friend, helping her pick out paint for her new apartment. I stumbled upon the kind of green I wanted, or at least whatever a three inch square sample could sell me on, and I asked the man behind the counter to mix some 3760 for me.

The paint brought the warmth and relaxation that this room has been dying to offer for the past year. I love to light a candle and sit on my bed to read in the middle of the day. The walls offer a spa-like feel and the light is at its peak and I feel inspired.

Ironically, we do not have a desk in our bedroom...or anywhere in the house for that matter. It felt funny at first to not have an "office" space, and the reality is that the only place we could put it would be our bedroom. But the more I go without a desk, the more I realize how uninviting and full of clutter all of our office spaces in the past have been. I like going to bed without the endless amount of post-it to-do lists posted next to a desk. Besides, the couch and our bed are much easier on my back than is an office chair...at least one we could afford.

Bed: 129 Euro - IKEA We went with an inexpensive bed frame and mattress and invested more money into a memory foam mattress topper and down comforter.
Duvet Cover/Shams: $25 - Target (clearance, marked down from $100)
Side Tables: 22 Euro - IKEA (A little more than I wanted to spend, but my husband really liked them and I really think these add a touch of elegance to the room...and they serve a much-needed purpose, which is always a must in a small space. I love multi-functional, utilitarian furniture.
Chair: 5 Euro - IKEA (as-is)
Bookshelf: 35 Euro
Hanging Lamp: 10 Euro - IKEA (notice that little corner with the paintings? That is Thomas' art studio for now, hence the hanging light).
Plants: 1.99 Euro each - IKEA (Living green things make me happy. I just wish I didn't kill so many of them!)
Pots for plants: 3 Euro each - IKEA

We don't have a closet in our room, just one wardrobe and a dresser. We would like to get another wardrobe, but for now we are forced to utilize the space very carefully and to get rid of clothes that never get worn. Also, we have a coat rack/hooks behind our door, as well as a shoe stand. These are all hidden and out of the way when the door is open.





My husband saw something similar to this in a magazine and so we found the hooks at Ikea (they were a few Euro each) and he used his drill to screw them into the concrete. It's great, especially in the winter, to get the kids' bikes and scooters up off the ground and away from the brutal weather.

My Little Rock Star

Name: Ezra Cash Shophet McEwen
Age: 3 1/2
Hair: Blonde
Eyes: Blue
Enjoys: Trains, candy, and just about any film that isn't a "gurwee woovee" (a girly movie)
Bio: Completely out of control most of the time. Was bribed with chocolate in order to get these shots. And let's face it. This mother is in love.

Just because I read Brian McClaren does not mean I'm a heretic!

just saying...

It's good to know I'm not alone in the journey God has placed me on. Found this today while searching for online magazines to submit some of my work to. Here's to an ever-changing, culturally relevant church that is reaching people on the fringe.

Read the article HERE

I hate you but I (still) love you...

I love the raw, uninhibited honesty of children.

anticipation

My favorite thing about Autumn is the anticipation that is in the air, falling from the trees, filling my nostrils. I love the changing colors and even those trees who have lost their foliage and have become naked too soon are quickly covered by white lights. In the city, there is a bustling about. The excitement of Christmas fills us all. Too soon, yes. Perhaps for the wrong reasons. But before the snow and before the commercialized red and green, one can't help but blink while taking in the colors that nature has shown off. The juxtaposition of man-made roads covered in yellow and orange and red. The crushing of the leaves beneath my feet while walking to get a cappuccino. The backdrop, on a clear day, of Alps that go for miles. It may not be an Indiana Fall, complete with pumpkin pie and warm family dinners. But for today....for today, it's enough.

How He Loves (part II)

As I was walking around the block this morning, enjoying silence and trying to appreciate the antithesis of the exciting urban environment I ventured about just twenty-four hours ago, in Cincinnati, before returning to a land of huge manicured lawns, four car garages and electric dog fences, I realized that the background of all of my strange thoughts was the song "How He Loves Us." In fact, I find those words coming to me at the most random moments these days. "He is jealous for me...loves like a hurricane, I am the tree, bending beneath the weight of His wind and mercy..." And the lyrics drift through my flesh, my soul, my heart and penetrate the desperate parts of me that question His love... the parts of my that aren't afraid to lay it out to Jesus, to drop the f-bomb while screaming, "Why is this life so *%$#-ing hard?"

We had the crazy privelege of being a part of two communities this past weekend. One is on the outskirts of Cincinnati in a pretty rough neighborhood. They meet in an old Catholic Church and it's beautiful in all of its undressed glory. One of the crosses on the top of the building has fallen apart and there was something about this when we first pulled up that made me know that this was just the place for me. The stained glass was old and beautiful and made me long to be back in Italy...in Florence.

The pastor is in his late fifties I'm guessing...and was wearing a pink shirt...and sounded like a former California surfer. He was simple in the way that I like simple. And he interacted with the community as he spoke. The group was small and I'm sure would be looked upon as a failing community by many large churches... but what I saw in the misfit bunch was life, passion, and a pursuance of true Kingdom living.

I found out later that this community was birthed when three families intentionally moved to Norwood, a desolate and seemingly condemned neighborhood. They constantly met to pray and did a prayer walk and asked God for a large piece of property owned by the Archdiocese of Cincinnati. It was all but given to them for pennies compared to its worth. And they all lived in one house for months until they began buying more properties on the block. I was told they even had a shared purse.

The "church" is comprised of a network of house churches and a gathering in the aforementioned building once a month. They have a coffee shop across from the deteriorating church building where people can meet to do art together, pray together, knit together and so on. And people are pretty open that it's not easy living within a few feet of one another, but the value of friendship, love and accountability outweighs any of it. At one point, as I was sitting outside the building, watching my kids chase each other, an overweight, toothless white man walked up. My senses were heightened as, having lived in Chicago, home of scam artists, I awaited the outcome of our dear friend Laura's interaction with him. She is an Occupational Therapist and works with psych patients and so I figured this was right up her alley.

But what I heard come out of his mouth didn't match his appearance. He opened up to her, sharing that he drank too much the night before. He said he's been trying to get it together and even had a job. Laura encouraged this component and the conversation ensued. He never asked for money, hit on her, or insinuated a self-centered reason for approaching her.

I later found out that he is a part of their home church. This man, familiar with addiction and so willing to admit his faults, is in community. I was challenged by him...by his willingness to be vulnerable. And I was floored at the compassionate and kind response of Laura. She sees value in every human, despite what label modern-day Psychologists have placed on him or her.

Later that evening, after having the privelege of sharing with Laura's home church what we are doing in Italy, we gathered our bags and our tired kids and travelled further into the city, to a neighborhood called "Over the Rhine." I knew we would love it, for our favorite band named themselves after this very district.

Ironically though, the neighborhood is not something off of a CD cover. Its borders house drug deals, abuse, addictions and seemingly orphaned children. One walk to the park had me near tears as I watched two older siblings, responsible for their three year-old brothers, forcing these "babies" to fight. One of the little guys didn't want to fight. I could see he was a peace-maker. His eyes welled up as his brother shouted in his ear, "Hit him back." My heart was breaking. And I wanted to grab him and bring him to safety... but I felt hopeless. Because right next to this scene was another...and another like it. I knew at that moment that the urban nastalgia of a neighborhood with a cool name like "Over the Rhine" wouldn't last a day if it weren't for people heeding God's call in their lives that He wanted them there for such a time as this.

They say Cincinnati has the most amount of racially segregated neighborhoods in the country. And I felt it as we walked through a few different communities. At one point, in broad daylight mind you (meaning that mom, if you are reading this, no need to freak out), a man started following Liz and I, along with our kids. He talked and talked, opening up the conversation on a heavy note: "I just got out of prison..."

I didn't know what to say as I was just waiting for him to get to his line that usually goes something like "I went to Harvard. I just fell on hard times. I almost got drafted for the NBA and I know Michael Jordan.... Hey, can I ask you a question? I am wanting to get to Chicago for a job conference and I don't have money for the train... it's fifty bucks to get there...."

Can you sense I'm a little jaded? I would like to say I have been ignorant or patient enough to hear them all... but just when I say that, I find myself sucked into someone's story and handing them a couple of bucks.

So anyway...the guy never got to that part. And I don't really think he was heading there. I mean, you don't normally start off asking for money by mentioning your bail. Just when I was getting nervous, he found some "friends" and stopped to chat. I had the feeling though that he wasn't going to go past "his" block. That is the feel of the city. People know their "place" and stay there.

And yet, that evening, during a house concert at Liz and John's house, serenely nestled and juxtaposed in the ghetto of sorts, after listening to Liz sing these amazing poetic and heart-entrancing songs, we met some other couples who were also living in the neighborhood. These couples all had something way beyond themselves living just beneath their smiles. They all had moved to this area, very intentionally, and like us in terms of Torino, pictured a garden in the desert. One woman, after I had shared about my park experience, said, "I can't make a difference with all of them. But I can love on one."

Ahhhh. Hope alas.

I left Cincinnati with gut-filled peace, the kind you can't fake or forge...the kind that is only found when I'm surrounded by people who are living out community and usher me in, not because of what I do but because of the same Spirit we have within. It was love in its raw and freeing form, like the ocean at sunrise. Like a child dancing. Like Laura's compassion...Liz's voice.

Still, the words from "How He Loves" are drifting through my being. I have so many questions...so many worries and obsessions and lalalala... but those words, like the feeling I drove out of Cincinnati with just last night, wash my insides...and "I don't have time to maintain these regrets, when I think about the way....

"He loves us.... Oh how he loves us. How he loves us so...."

How He Loves

I have been thinking and thinking about Mary Magdalene lately. Thinking about she and Jesus…about how he loved her. About how her presence made him feel. About the special bond, that although perverted by modern-day scholars, gives us a glimpse into the flesh of Jesus, as her name floats in and out of the Gospels, like a pale colored butterfly, blending with the sky, tempting us not to notice, and yet drawn to her by her restrained and delicate scent.

My teacher tells me the heart is so big. So big that if we allowed it to feel the many kinds of love that it is able to feel, it may explode. And as I’ve been reading about those African men, namely Bishop Tutu and Nelson Mandela, who led South Africa out of the apartheid, I keep thinking about that kind of love. The kind of love that revolutionizes people’s hearts and ends civil wars. The kind of love that stands in between enemies, risking its life, in order to demonstrate its power, its pervasive kindness and its gravitational pull to Father God’s heart.

As I lay in bed tonight, rubbing my little sister’s back and holding her, I kept thinking about all that we as humans miss out on out of fear. My stream of consciousness flickered about, like a movie, seeing the faces of those people I love in my mind, as I spoke aloud to my sister, trying to make sense of the heartache she was feeling from a failed relationship. And as it so often does, my thoughts took me to the tender, vulnerable parts of my heart where the image of my father still remains. I have tried to push those parts away, have tried to bury them, psycho-analyze them, mend them…and yet there the broken pieces of our relationship rest on the mantle of my mind, like a vase that is waiting to be glued together so that it can function once again. I am familiar with this broken vessel but I am never sure I want to sort through the glass, as the pieces are sharp and I always end up with eyes full of suppressed tears.

It was no different tonight. Holding my sister, I felt one tear slide slowly down my cheek and land in her hair. And then another. I swallowed hard. I didn’t want this moment to become about me. After all, I am twelve years older than my sister. And this was her moment. She needed me.

I spoke one phrase: “I don’t know why I always start to cry whenever I talk about dad…” and then I lost it. The tears came out of a familiar component of my heart and they always feel the same. The release of the emotions and the sorrow over the loss, or perhaps the non-existence, of a relationship united again like summer and winter, assuring me that there is much unresolved. I continued to fight the tears, all the while allowing my baby sister to love on me, to hold me and speak life into me.

And I received. Perhaps one of the powerful elements of love.

And she gave. And she kissed my dreadlock-covered forehead and told me how much she loved me. How much her dad loved me.

We talked about the differences in our earthly father’s love toward his girls and I talked about how I fear rejection from him and how even though I try so desperately to keep my dad at a safe distance from my heart, there is always this lingering pain any time I realize how much I still need a daddy.

And I know that Father God is referred to as Abba. But like my husband says, “Sometimes we just need Jesus with skin on.” And on occasion it just seems natural that this flesh-covered spirit would come in the form of my earthly father.

And I do have hope that someday it will…on either side of eternity.

In the meantime, I pray to love well. To be loved well. To understand the danger of loving and embrace it, for it is the power of God in motion. I should not find it ironic that this same sweet sister, while hurting herself, was able to comfort me in an unexpected moment of angst this night. Her pain makes her real. And enables her to love deeply. And I should not think it ironic that she will get a tattoo on her wrist tomorrow, a constant reminder, of this deep love. It will read:

“How He loves.”

And that is really the bottom line. He loves us so deeply, so madly, so dangerously and without boundaries or borders, despite our inward and outward crap.

Oh that I would love how He loves us…

And receive love because

He loves us.

Happenings of Spring

Thomas...because he was feeling left out.



"Lettuce Crudo"... my kids have an obsession with plane ole' iceberg lettuce. This one is for all the doctors who have told me that one of my child's digestion problems is due to a lack of vegetables!!!


Lots of time at the park...


Ali comes to visit


I wear a dress...for the first time in long time...


The morning. Diet Coke and my groggy boy. But my groggy boy doesn't drink Diet Coke...in the morning at least


Striking a pose...


Keziah learns to ride a bike


Boy meets (Italian) car

Inch by Inch

I found mascara on the white pillow in the kids' room today. Stains from my eyes, from crying last night.

It all fell apart around the dinner table, which is actually quite typical. Elias was in trouble for complaining about his school work, Keziah was in trouble for telling her brother he wasn't in trouble. Ezra was painting the table with milk. Thomas was in a mood. I was exhausted. Completely exhausted. Which is where I find myself every night these days. I made an incredible vegetarian lasagna (if I do say so myself...) and I just wanted us to sit and be a family...for twenty minutes at best. Is this too much to ask? Apparently it is.

As the world was falling apart in our home, which included a pouting husband and, at this point, an angry, bitter wife... Elias, who had finally gotten his teeth brushed and V E R Y S L O W L Y slipped his pajamas on (seriously, this kid moves slow... he tries my patience on every level... and I have to admit, I have a lot to learn from him...) turned to me, with huge blue eyes and a face so sad you would have thought someone had died. With big round tears he says, falling to his knees, "I just want to change... I just want a new life."

I melted into the floor, grabbing his little skinny body, holding him tight, remembering the night he was born. I began sobbing. Keziah had many questions. Before we knew it, we sat in a pile on the floor, holding one another and crying. It was a hopeless, yet beautiful moment. A moment where my boy's words went somewhere deep within me. A moment of truth, if you will. "I want to change too..." I cried.

There are those minutes, hours, days, or weeks in life, when I feel so incredibly desperate for Jesus...like a seven year old begging for his punishment to be taken away... And I can't help but run to Him. He was familiar with grief, with suffering... but does he understand my guilt? Does he understand how I daily feel that I am never and WILL never be enough...not to all the many people who are counting on me. And I hear the band-aids of people's well-intended words haunting my subconscious, cramming me further into the cave...further into desperation.

And somehow, He meets me there. With a kiss from my child, with a kind word from my husband...with shared tears that remind me of how needy I am...how needy WE are...and how we WILL make it as a family.

The questions of doubt quickly follow. The mirror of my soul leaves me with questions. And alas, I begin comparing my life. A hopeless trap. One that leaves me unsatisfied every time.

Later that night in bed, as I held Elias' shaking, sniffling body, I watched as he slowly went through a pile of photos. Photos from all the people he loves in Indianapolis. I noticed as he stopped at one photo. The shaking got worse. The sniffling unbearable. My heart hurt so bad. I couldn't make it better and I wasn't about to try. I knew he needed this moment. I asked him who the photo was of, and he said, through sobs, "Katie." It was his Aunt "Katie." He held the picture to his face...stroked her face as if it was an ex-girlfriend. It was so dramatic, but so real in his little being. He kept putting the picture on the bed and then taking it in his hands, gently, like he was holding a seashell, and bringing it to his face.

"You miss her, huh?" I asked.

"I just feel like I'll never see her again. I want to go back to Indianapolis." He bawled.

"We'll be going back soon..." I offered.

"No, it's more than 60 days and that's a long time."

I didn't have much to say to that. How do you compare adult time with child time? Sixty days IS a long time to a seven year-old.

"I just don't like how I act here. I'm mean. I am in trouble all the time." He continued sobbing.

It always makes me laugh a bit when he pulls this one out of his hat. He really thinks this is true, not realizing that if I was over 30, I'd probably be completely gray because of him. He is so strong-willed and stubborn and has been this way since he was a toddler.

I lay silent. Holding him.

"Do you want to call Aunt Katie?"

He perks up and we reach for the computer, searching for her number.

We dial. She picks up. She asks all the right questions.

And I hear him in the other room, and I know he's smiling. And I can see his dimples in my mind and I know that when I can see his dimples he is happy....from his gut happy. And I feel relieved.

Today I have heard his words over and over... "I just want to change." There's a song that he sings for school that goes "Little by little, inch by inch, by the yard it is hard but the inch what a sinch..." And I reminded him that change happens little bits at a time.

But how can I tell my child this and believe it for him if I am not believing it for myself? I grow desperate again. And I hear the words of Isaiah running from my mind to my heart, leaving their footprints all over, so that I will again have hope.

He was "a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering." (Isaiah 53:3)

I know that my child's sadness... my sadness is familiar to Him.

And I know, inch by inch, we'll make it.

Waiting in line at the Shroud of Turin...







Picture taken by me at the Shroud. I inverted the second one, which is how they originally discovered the detail in the Shroud. Notice the image of his body laying horizontally on the left side and the slight image of his backside on the right. I'm still a skeptic, but the more research I do, the more fascinated I become. While it still takes deep faith to believe in Jesus' life, burial, resurrection and HIS REASON for coming to earth, I find the Shroud to hold an unsolvable mystery in it. The more technology we have, the closer we are to the truth of the Shroud.







Chasing Pigeons at Piazza Castello...










Our wonderful balcony...