TJ Hirst

Ingenuity: n. 1. Inventive skill or imagination; cleverness. 2. Imaginative and clever design or construction.

Our home sits on unique triangular-shaped, one-acre lot with a steep hill and undeveloped forest. We chose it because we could position the house up high to take in the views but also enjoy the trees. We built the home right at the front of that pie shape and left the woods natural.

When we were at my parent’s farm, Grandpa loved showing us his planned projects to improve their property. We also took a short hike through a state park that everyone loved.

When we returned home, I wondered aloud with my 11-year-old son, NH, if he wanted to build a hiking trail through our forest to a fire pit/campsite and make a nature loop back to the house.

He’s nurturing that idea as his own summer project with research on the Internet, sketches and notes the site plan, and initial marking of where the trail will go. I love to see his mind catch hold of this idea and know that he is old enough and skilled enough to carry it through with our help. Now, he’s the leader on this one, and we will post his progress along the way.

Intention: n. A course of action that one intends to follow. 2. An aim that guides action; an objective.

I wanted to make blueberry muffins for the 6:45 a.m. youth religion class I teach. It was Friday and we struggled through Jeremiah and Lamentations all week. I wanted to reward their effort and acknowledge their work. I envisioned combining a spiritual feast with a home-baked one.

At 9 p.m. the night before, I decide that I have too much on my plate and try to be content with the lesson I prepared.

At 6:05 a.m., dressed and ready, I say, “There is enough time; I can still do this.”

At 6:07, I heat the oven and began doubling my favorite blueberry muffin recipe. I need to get them in by 6:15 for this to work.

At 6:12, I stress a little, stirring the blueberries into the batter. What was I thinking?

At 6:17, I am lining muffin tins with paper wrappers.

At 6:19, My family comes in for prayers while I am filling the muffin cups. My husband looks at me funny. He says, “Do you have enough time to bake them?”

At 6:20, I stick them into the oven and set the timer for 15 minutes. Perfect. 15 minutes to cook. 10 minutes to get there.

At 6:33, I load up my car and start it—minus the muffins, which are still baking.

At 6:35, the toothpick comes out gooey. Overfilled the cups. Going to take longer. I set the timer for one more minute.

At 6:36, I take the muffins out, set the hot muffin tins on two larger baking sheets and grab them to leave. I burn my thumbs in the process.

At 6:45, I am halfway to the building. Ok, only a few minutes late. I am never late, and they always are. Should work out fine.

At 6:49, I drive down the road to the building. I see a familiar minivan coming toward me. I hope they were just dropped off.

At 6:50, I pull up, and one boy gets out of his car. No one else there. I am juggling the muffins and my lesson materials. I ask him for help, and he tells me three other students were here but they left. “But I made them muffins.”

At 6:51, I open the building and turn on the lights and set the muffins down in the classroom. I can’t just teach him myself. I tell him that and then say, “Wait right here, maybe I can let them know I’m here.” I grab my cell phone to find some phone numbers, but the battery goes dead.

At 6:53, I am in my car, back on the main road, driving the short distance to the high school. I make it a block and see another student’s car coming toward me. Good, we can have class, now. I turn around and head back to the building.

At 6:54, I watch that student drive right past the nearly empty parking lot.

At 6:55, Back in the building, I tell the one original student, “We’ll wait five minutes.”

At 7:02, I hand him two muffins on a napkin and cancel class.

At 7:10, I am walking the halls of the high school’s south campus trying to bring muffins to my students. The halls are empty except for the cooks in the kitchen preapring school lunch.

Plenty of food. Just no one to eat it.

This is why I am not spontaneous.

When I was just a young wife without any children, my husband took me to visit his mother’s homeland in Finland. We toured familiar places where he lived and visited. He shared his favorite food at the train station in Helsinki, grilled makkara with mustard eaten from white paper envelopes as we rushed to our train. He showed me the characteristic arts and design from Finnish architect Alvar Aalto, composer Jean SIbelius, and artist Akseli Gallen-Kalela. He gave me the beauty and solitude of the forests at a mökki on the Kemi River. And I knew when he introduced me to his Mummi, his mother’s mom, it was like he was going home and bringing me with him.

My heart and my cultural sensitivity expanded. I attempted to memorize every piece so I could adopt it into our eventual family’s life. About 13 days into our trip, though, my inspired perspective waned, and I longed for the familiarity of my actual home. I desired conversations without translation and cool water from a drinking fountain. I wanted to replace the foreign lifestyle with the routines I knew.

When we arrived at New York’s Kennedy Airport, the environment felt nearly wholesome to my travel-weary body. Another long flight and a short recovery restored me to home. It was nothing more than a basement apartment in an old house, but it was home to us. There I unpacked our vacation purchases from iittalla glass and set a vision of our future home alongside our eveyday reality.

We haven’t taken many far-off adventures since our children were born, but whenever we leave home, I always bring back the souvenir of a wider perspective. Whether we spend a few days camping nearby, cross the country to visit relatives, or travel to another time and place while watching a movie together, my new eyesight gives me insight. The return trip is a journey home again, connecting what I learned to what I will do.

Our family began like many others, in a struggle between the nostalgia from two childhood homes. While we built on the foundation of these traditions, our individual circumstances and goals also required an expanded vision. I found that when I step outside my own door to seek solutions, the windows of my mind open to receive new truths that I can bring home. Through the years of collecting, displaying and using these mental souvenirs, we have built a home of our own on this pattern of inspiration.

This post is an entry in the April Write-Away Contest at Scribbit.

The good of one self
is to be the good of another.
_{definition of love from
The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis}

I have discovered the most appreciated feature in our new home is the built-in babysitter whose frequent use brings renewed love to a 17-year marriage. For payment of a recent day out, our children requested we bring home Krispy Kreme from our date.

After a full day together we left the comfort of the Ikea meatball dinner and turned toward the inevitable two-hour drive home, contemplating whether to fulfill their glazed over dreams. We did. We pulled off the interstate at the exit and stopped. When we drove back on the interstate again, my husband looked at the clock and announced, “Eight minutes.”

Those minutes, or maybe just a sugar rush, created delighted eyes. Their delight captured feelings of giving and receiving love.

In the busyness to do things for those I love, sometimes my exhaustion tempts me to bypass both doing for love and feeling love altogether. This is most difficult to admit because I am generally well-rested. My youngest child is nearly nine and way beyond middle of the night wakings that leave me hallucinating without sleep.

That is why I was surprised by her knocking at my bedroom door at 3:59 a.m. “Mom, I threw up on the bathroom floor,” she said.

“Is it all over or just in a little spot?” I asked, wondering if she could just throw a towel over it until morning. She reported the multiple locations. Out of practice with such episodes, I took over a minute to react. Then, I cleaned the bathroom, I cleaned myself and I went to her room to clean her.

Cozy in her covers, she peeked out at me and said, “I am sorry I made a mess.”

I cupped my hand around her face. Her cheek was soft and warm, and again, for the second night in a row, love filled her eyes. When I returned to my room, it was 4:08 a.m. Only eight minutes.

Right there I stopped counting the eight-minute interruptions of the weekend and relished another eight-minute connection. Eight minutes to listen to a daughter on a car ride home. Eight minutes for a romantic goodbye while packing with my husband for a business trip. Eight minutes for a cherished hug and chat with a friend. Eight minutes to remember and encourage someone who was struggling. Eight minutes to love.

To know true love is to feel throughout these minutes as they evolve into stages, each beautiful and fulfilling in its own way. Seeking and receiving the attentions of a parent. Affirmation from friends. The dizzying depth of first romantic love. The passionate yet intelligent bond in truer commitment. Adoration and awe at the birth of a baby. Maternal sacrifice of self. Expanding compassion beyond an immediate circle. New faces and friendships awakening old feelings. Seeing beyond imperfections to offer or accept a forgiving heart. Maturing familiarity. Rediscovery.

Love develops in time. And filling fleeting minutes with love creates an abundance of eight-minute chapters in life’s love story.

This post is an entry in Scribbet’s Write-Away Contest; see her site to read other entries.

^{_{lovesymbol image copyright by Paulus Rusyanto, at freestockphotos.com}}

This weekend, we traveled the rural two-lane highways of northern Minnesota in horribly frigid temperatures of minus 20 degrees below 0 (double that in wind chills) to take some teenagers to a youth group activity and dance in Duluth. On the return trip Saturday evening we approached the small community of Cromwell, MN, and spotted a chimney fire blazing atop a two-story house alongside Hwy 210. A few lights were on in the house, but no activity was evident outside. “They don’t know!” was our first response.

We all grabbed at cell phones, but we were close to the gas station at the center of town so we stopped there to report the fire. Ironically, we hadn’t noticed that the fire hall was right next to the gas station. The clerks called the fire department. One thought she knew the older single woman who lived in that house so we returned to the house to alert the occupants. “In this town, the firefighters will all be volunteers,” my husband said.

The intensity of the fire had escaped further down the chimney and we could just see the sparks spewing out the top. We followed the driveway to the back door where another driver in a truck had seen the fire and stopped to help. He had knocked to no avail. “Has someone reported it?” he asked.

We drove around the house, looking for another entrance and returned to the back. A passenger in our car rang the doorbell and tried the door, but it was locked and the fenced dogs barked at our intrusion. Knowing the fire truck would be here soon and not wanting to be in the way, we turned back to the highway.

Indeed, the fire truck was pulling out of the fire hall, but it stopped to wait for the volunteers. My husband pulled up to the truck, reported what we knew, and said, “Do you have it from here?”

Of course they did. Volunteers, like these, are indispensable in small communities. Those who offer to perform a service of his or her own free will, those who render aid or those who assume an obligation deserve not only appreciation but emulation.

This experience sparked me to re-engage in community service. I don’t mean I immediately signed up for an organized volunteer position (although that could be one way to help). Rather, it means I will be a more active and aware participant in any community to which I belong, taking a cue from my husband’s often-used phrase.

Here’s How to “Be Aware of Your Surroundings”:

1. Be observant. See other people and situations outside of our own concerns. Look beyond our usual line of sight at the verbal and nonverbal clues that tell us something may not be normal.
2. Be available. Don’t over schedule ourselves so we are too busy or distracted.
3. Be willing to offer to help or accept responsibility until someone more qualified can take over.

Such service not only strengthens our communities it reconnects us to them, whether it is family, school, church, work, or municipal. When we are an active and aware participant we feel a greater sense of concern for the issues and individuals and become a real part of that group.