The Children's Book Quote of the Day

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That’s a lot September 18, 2013

“…we got each other,” she said, “and that’s a lot.” (from Tuck Everlasting by Natalie Babbitt)

I’ve been reading Crossing To Safety by Wallace Stegner and it has me thinking about friendship and family and the wealth therein. My family is reasonably comfortable now but we have been through times when we lived on a pittance. I will not romanticize living on little. It was stressful. But I can not tell you that we have ever been poor. We have always had the wealth of one another. It’s not just enough. It’s a lot. An excess of laughter and comfort and presence. I have always said that our one great talent is friendship and we have surrounded ourselves with just the loveliest people. It’s weird because we are introverts by nature yet we have these wide circles of friends and deep pools of them. We are also close to our families. We live where they live and we don’t plan to move away. This is what is most important to us, these people.

And the astonishing grace of the whole thing is that enough would have been enough. Just Jon and I loving each other or just our families or just a couple of close friends–any of these scenarios alone would have made us feel secure in affection and comfort. As Ma Ingalls said in one of the Little House books, “Enough is as good as a feast.” Enough would have been enough. But instead we have more than enough. We have a lot.

 

Going to believe September 16, 2013

Filed under: Chapter Books,Classics — Kristi @ 9:25 pm
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I don’t know what lies around the bend, but I’m going to believe the best does. 

(from Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery)

 

 

 

A plan for when you’re losing height September 13, 2013

Filed under: Chapter Books,Young Adult — Kristi @ 10:32 pm
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Most of the quotes I chose for this blog are pretty obvious and make sense without needing context to support them. I’m going to veer away from that today a little bit and I’ll need to set up the context for you in case you haven’t read the book. Last night, my husband was listening to Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by J.K. Rowling (read by Jim Dale, the audio book is not to be missed) and I walked into the room in time to hear the quote I am using today:

There was a deafening bang and the sidecar broke away from the bike completely: Harry sped forward, propelled by the impetus of the bike’s flight, then the sidecar began to lose height–

In desperation Harry pointed his wand at the sidecar and shouted,Wingardium Leviosa!”

(from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by J.K. Rowling)

What struck me when I heard this small portion of the final Harry Potter book, is that in a moment of desperation, when losing height and on the brink of death, Harry doesn’t use one of the more sophisticated or advanced things he learned in six years of wizarding education. Instead, he uses one of the very first (maybe the first?) charm he was ever taught.

I think this is why the early lessons we teach our children are important. This is what sinks in. If they learn this now, it could be the thing that makes them soar when they would otherwise fall to the unforgiving ground. What are the first lessons we learn? Treat other people the way you want to be treated. Listen before you talk. If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. Tell the truth. Be brave. Be kind. Forgive. Love one another. When we start to lose altitude, these are the lessons that can bring us back up. These first lessons are the ones we know so deep that we can call them forth in a moment of desperation without thinking. They can become like instinct, that thing that stops you from saying the horrible thing on the tip of your tongue that can never be taken back. These are the lessons that can save your marriage,  your job, your friendships, your life.

What you learn as a young child you will use until the very end of your story. I hope I can teach these lessons very well.

 

This is now. September 5, 2013

Filed under: Chapter Books,Classics — Kristi @ 2:16 am

She thought to herself, “This is now.”

She was glad that the cozy house, and Pa and Ma and the firelight and the music, were now. They could not be forgotten, she thought, because now is now. It can never be a long time ago. (From Little House In The Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder)

 

When I think about now, I feel as if there could never be a better time or a time more worth remembering. Just now everything is going well and my healthy children are sleeping peacefully and all my needs and a lot of my wants are met. It’s a good place to be. We don’t have the kind of lack that creates fear and stress and we don’t have the kind of wealth that produces the same. My relationships are all fine. We just bought a house we love and we’re leaving a house that we have loved. I feel very cozy.

There have been times when I have lived in fear and worry. I was worried that the rug would be pulled out from under me, that if things were going well it must be just a matter of time before something goes terribly, terribly wrong. I had major anxiety about the safety of my husband when he was away from me or the safety of my children even while they were under my gaze. But what does it serve, this kind of worry?

As certain as I am that things are well right now, I am equally certain that they will not always be this way. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that there are hard times to come because it is the way life is. Someday I will surely have to deal again with a crushing loss. It is entirely possible that we could yet face financial upheaval or a devastating injury or illness. Natural disasters will strike. Hardship is a given.

But now, right now, is a gift.

Rather than squander the gift worrying about what shape future hardship may take, I will snuggle down and enjoy it. I choose to enjoy the people around me and the time that we have together, the wonderful place in which we have the privilege of living. And someday when we do have something hard come our way, the memory of this time will be sweet to us. Now. This is now.

This is now.

 

What’s the point? November 9, 2012

Filed under: Chapter Books — Kristi @ 1:05 am
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I don’t think she has very much fun, and what’s the point in being that clean if it means you never get to have any fun? (from Ellray Jakes is NOT a chicken! by Sally Warner)

I have always said the best way to get my house clean is to invite people over. If I know someone is coming, historically, I clean in a frenzy and make it perfect because I want people to believe I am some sort of superior housekeeper and that it always looks like this. And, for a long time, I went around feeling somewhat inadequate in the housekeeping department because every house I went to was spotless and I believed these houses remained in a permanent state of cleanliness that I had been woefully unable to achieve in my own. Not so, reader. Not so.

About a year ago, a friend invited my son and me to her house for a play date and when we got there I was struck by how messy her house was. I don’t mean that to sound rude. When I say it was messy, I mean that there were scattered toys, junk mail was on the table in a careless heap, dishes were in and around the sink, and I could tell the counter top had not been freshly wiped. When I say it was messy, I mean that it was exactly like my  house most of the time. It was normal. It was just their home the way they actually live in it. I couldn’t fathom the kind of confidence she must have had, to be able to invite people over in such a relaxed way, with no fresh smell of Lemon Clorox greeting friends at the door. When I got home I just felt so blessedly normal.

So I don’t clean my house for play dates anymore either. And, as a result, I have people over a lot more. Which means I have more fun. I no longer see the state of my home as a barrier to hospitality. You know what? We have a messy desk. There is pureed pumpkin stuck to the kitchen floor. There are whisker hairs on the bathroom sink and I can see a sock peeking out from under a toy peeking out from under the couch. It is what it is and what it is, is normal. I bet you have a junk mail pile too. So why stuff it in a drawer or cabinet before I come over? So I will think you are the type of magical person who has no paper pile? I am not relaxed around those magical people. I am relaxed around people who make me feel normal.

I worked a charity tour of homes once when I was in high school and the house I was helping give tours in was one of those that you can very briefly describe and everyone in town knows which house it is. (Oh, the big stone house on Bennett that always has a limo out front? I know that house!) It literally had an elevator in it. And one of the bedrooms had leopard print carpet. One of the bathrooms had a mural of the home owner painted on the tile. One of the bedrooms had a ceiling raised several feet to accommodate a piece of furniture. Anyway. It was that kind of house. Just before the tour, the home owner (as gorgeous and strange as her house) showed me around and gave me the spiel. When we entered one of the bathrooms, she said, “Ooops! I forgot to move these!” and hid the toothbrushes in a cabinet. I thought that was so funny–to hide your toothbrushes–to make it look like a house in a magazine spread that no one really lives in. And the truth is, I have tried and tried to imagine someone relaxing there and I can’t. It’s just too perfect.

Do I want to create an environment that people want to tour and photograph or one where people want to live and breathe and have a good time? Well, I might put the gnarly, twisted toothpaste tube in the bathroom cabinet, but our toothbrushes are out for the world to see.

 

 

Broken July 12, 2012

Filed under: Chapter Books — Kristi @ 9:48 am
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All living things have a heart. And the heart of any living thing can be broken. (from The Tale of Despereaux by Kate DiCamillo)

Two months ago I had a baby girl and on the same day a friend of mine had a baby boy. June and Ezra–we called them birthday buddies. It was so much fun to compare notes on everything, to be next door hospital room neighbors, to see so many similarities between our sweet babies. On Tuesday afternoon, Ezra passed away suddenly. I can’t really write about it but I can’t really think about anything else. It’s like lightening striking the house next door–so close to home I can feel the heat and the shock  and smell the burning wood. Yesterday I went to see my friend, Ezra’s mommy, and I saw a home full of broken hearts. If you pray, reader, will you pray for them?

 

You know how that feels? March 9, 2012

Filed under: Chapter Books — Kristi @ 9:38 am
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Mr. Powell asked if he could keep my drawing. You know how that feels? (from Okay For Now by Gary D. Schmidt)