Boston.

The TV is blaring the news. Stories of tragedy. Stories of heroism. Stories of things we don't want to think can happen in the world.

A year and a half ago, it wouldn't have affected me the same way. We live near the President. We're always a target. It's a risk we're willing to take for ourselves to do what we do - to live the way we do.

But today I hold my baby boy in my arms. His breath is warming my shoulder. His strong little limbs - limbs that are just now taking wobbly steps - are quiet in his sleep. I feel the softness of his skin, his little body heavy in my arms. I feel differently.

I think of a mother who once held her little boy just like I am today, his weight heavy in her arms. I can imagine her smelling his head, breathing in his baby smell. I can imagine her pride as he took his first steps, and her joy as his personality formed. I can imagine her heart swelling at his sweetness, his kindness, watching him march for peace - asking for "no more hurting people." I imagine her watching her boy watch the runners, and the horror that must have followed the explosion.

I think of her loss today, as she recovers in the hospital. How she has to teach her little girl to live without a brother, and to live without legs. Who told her he is gone? Does she even know the extent of the loss?

We think of IEDs as an instrument of war, far away, not in our cities, not on American soil. We think of strong soldiers, fighting for our freedom, who face these deadly devices in a sun scorched desert across the world. It's not supposed to happen here. But war has, once again, come to our shores.

Today we have a choice. We can hide our son away, never taking him to the many historical sites just down the road, never taking him to the many festivals or activities on our doorstep. We can live in fear and try to protect him, praying he never has to know these things happen in the world, constantly vigilant. Or we can put our trust in His creator, and believe that there's a purpose for his little life,  pray that life is long,  and that this kind of tragedy is the exception, not the rule. We can tell him the stories of people who rushed to help the injured. We can teach him about those who dedicate their lives to protecting his - whether first responder, soldier, IT specialist, doctor or just a neighbor or friend. We can teach him to be a helper, to be courageous, to be kind.

As I filter for my grief for that mother, tears rolling down my face, stories flitting over the screen, I have a choice. And today, I choose faith. I choose trust. I choose to believe there's more good in this world than bad. I choose to continue to live, and try to live without fear. And I continue to pray for those parents who can no longer hold their child's firm little body, who have to learn to live with their injuries, and who somehow have to find the strength to trust again.

Dreaming Through the Wavy Glass

I have a love affair with windows. I particularly love old windows. They don't have to be fancy. They don't have to be perfectly painted. I love traditional, paned windows with chippy paint. I love large windows that dominate a wall, with their sheets of sunlight that travel across the floor as the sun travels the sky. I love little windows - the kind that look as if they were an afterthought - that offer little slips of blue as you wind down an attic stair.

My love affair with windows probably started in my childhood. I watched the world through the hand-poured, wavy glass of my bedroom windows. The tall trees would wave and sway on the other side of that glass, budding and greening in the spring, their outstretched arms filling through the summer, shedding in showy pleasure in the fall only to ice over with delicate fingers in the cold of winter. I watched the birds fly far, far away in the sky or nest in the arms of those trees, while the chipmunks foraged in their roots - the slight distortion giving the scene an otherworldly quality. I'd lay in the floor under those windows, sunning myself on a pallet as I read book after book and dreamed of foreign lands. In many ways, my dreams began as I watched the world renew, grow and soar through those windows.

Today, I have a tiny baby boy. He's not very old, but he's got a Mama who's a dreamer - and who's not too bad a planner either. I saw a picture the other day that sparked an idea fanned into a flame by my love of windows. And now my head is full of dreams and designs for a tiny house of windows where I hope he, too, will learn to love windows, look at the world a little differently, and dream great dreams.

I'm starting young. Because if a Mama doesn't dream, how will her children ever learn to let their dreams take flight?

Miracles.

December 19th, I posted the following on Facebook: "Just saw a miracle - the tiny little heartbeat of our baby. Go baby go!" After 4 fertility treatments, 8 (known) embryos and nearly 4 years of trying, our miracle came to life.

The next week, my parents were visiting and I posted this: "So incredible to see the changes in the baby in a week - and to share them with [my mom] (who cried for about an hour after). This morning saw the heartbeat again (146 bpm), the big ole head, the little tail that will be the hinie, a tiny Swider chin (like Daddy) and some long, long legs!! Can't believe how much is developed at 7 weeks 3 days! Keep praying folks, we're watching a miracle unfold! So, so thankful!!" That day my Mother saw years of praying come to fruition with tiny, tiny kicks showing us this kid was a fighter.

This week I face D-day. It's been 9 months of watching for everything that could go wrong in a pregnancy. We've had test after test, monitoring appointment after monitoring appointment, doctor's visit after doctor's visit, and the answer stays the same, "Pregnancy seems to agree with you." Given they're estimating a 9+ pound child, pregnancy apparently agrees with my son as well. And with every visit, with every kick, I'm reminded of this little miracle. He's a tiny ray of hope for more than one person in this world.


You see, it's not just the people I see on the street who give me big smiles when they see my big belly. It's not just the joyful ladies in the restroom who want to know details on whether it's a boy or girl and relate stories of their pregnancy. It's not even the frowning people I see in Lowe's whose faces light up in apparent memories of the times they were expecting their children that have made me realize just how much hope there is in expecting a child. It's the hope I see in the journey my father has taken in the last 9 months.

Daddy was diagnosed with stage 4 t-cell lymphoma in March of last year. He went through several rounds of chemo and we thought he was cancer free as of last August. In fact, when I went through that last fertility treatment, found myself pregnant and celebrated with them the news of impending birth, we thought cancer had been beaten. In fact, the week my parents visited and Mama got to see the baby with me, we knew something was not quite right with Daddy. And as much as we hoped it wasn't so, a doctor's visit a week later showed the cancer was back with a vengeance.

Daddy is now going through chemo in anticipation of a stem-cell transplant that will happen roughly a month after his first grandchild is born - a child for whom HE prayed.  The miracle of my son is just the first of the miracles we're expecting in my family this year. We're also believing in the miracle of remission.

Remembering SHHG July Guild Fair.

I found this in my Facebook feed this morning and the memories flooded my mind:

Craft Fair of the Southern Highlands

Wishing safe travels for all those making the journey to Asheville for Craft Fair set up today. The Show begins at 10am Thursday morning and we are all looking forward to a fabulous weekend!

Things would really start heating up about a month before the July Fair. Mama would feverishly work to finish up a new round of character dolls, working into the night with her modified sculpting tools that included a coffee can lid with bolts sticking out of it (for use in firing) and toothpicks and dowels of various sizes that she used to sculpt and shape each unique face and set of hands. For days at a time, we'd wake up to a new set of head and hands that would soon be attached to a cloth body, costumed and given an identity for it's debut.

There would be days where she would just make bodies - put together wire armatures to be inserted into a cloth form and stuffed before waiting in rows to be hand sewn onto waiting heads and hands. Some days would be "hair" days where she would painstakingly create wigs out of wool roving - including tiny curls wrapped around toothpicks and stuck in the oven to set just like you would in a beauty salon. Other days would be sewing days: cotton dresses for apple pickers, choir robes for church choirs, overalls for a grandpa waiting to sit on his handmade chair.

We did what we could too. Mama taught us how to weave chair seats to scale with tiny pieces of reed. Those were the days your hands would have little nicks and cuts from weaving wet reed. I also became pretty good at sculpting and painting fruit and vegetables - I would be happy to demonstrate by making an apple or peach or squash if you'd like. We'd sit on the back patio on a summer's morning weaving or sculpting until we had a line of accessories ready for use. It's not really the work I remember, it's being together, working toward a common goal. We were getting ready for the July Fair.

Pretty soon the week would be on us. We'd be in a frenzy to pack up displays, finish up projects and get the car ready for that trip. We'd load the booth and a carpet remnant on top of our Toyota Tercel, pack up the apple crates that served as display pieces, carefully wrap the character dolls Mama had painstakingly made in the months prior and somehow fit ourselves and the luggage into that tiny car. Whoever sat in the back seat always had to share it with an apple crate or two and pray the air conditioning would miraculously manage to blow that far. We'd set out on the windy road through the mountains to Asheville, NC, the headquarters for the Southern Highland Handicraft Guild, to begin the weekend that marked the zenith of our summer.

We'd arrive, tired from a day's travel, to the Convention Center that had been opened up to allow cars to drive through to unload stock into designated spaces. We'd search the floor for our "space" - usually indicated with pieces of masking tape on that Convention floor - and off would come the rug that would mark the floor of our booth. From the top of the car we'd pull off the posts Mama and Daddy had cut and stained to create the sides of the booth. We'd pull the copper rods that held the curtains (becoming walls), and would begin to build the structure that would become our home for several days. At last we'd pile all those apple boxes full of stock onto the floor in front of our booth before Mama would pull the car back into the designated parking lot.

Stephen and I would set up the tables, lay out the tablecloths and generally set the stage for Mama to return. Mama would then work her magic: carefully unwrapping each of her creations, putting apples in the apron of the apple picker, carefully setting a woman with her sewing basket into her rocker or arranging the choir in perfect accord as if they were breaking out in songs of praise. Only when everyone was in place could we find our hotel room and get some sleep before the Fair began.

The doors would open that first day and people would rush through - something like 10,000 people per Fair if I remember correctly. The main floor would start with a trickle and move to a flood. And the questions would inevitably come, "Are these those apple dolls?" "Are they made of fudge?" Then there was my all time favorite request, "Come on, you can tell me what she uses to make these. She'll never know." Mama's clay "formula" that gave her dolls' skin a translucency like no one else working in the medium was, and still is, a state secret. To this day I don't think anyone has figured it out. But that didn't stop many, many people from trying!

For days my brother and I would take turns alternately talking to folks, volunteering to cover breaks for other craftspeople and sleeping under the table. We got very good at making pallets out of blankets, which worked pretty well until someone started snoring. Given the customers were looking at a table full of lifelike dolls, we had a startled look or two when that happened.

It seemed like every moment we anxiously awaited a sale. Would this be a "good show" or a "bad show"? Would we make expenses? We knew anything over covering expenses would go to braces or winter coats or school supplies.  And if we were really lucky, and the show was really good, we knew we'd have a "vacation" day on the way home where Mama would treat us to an extra day of sightseeing somewhere along the way home. Those sales always brought a rush of quiet celebration behind the scenes.

No matter how many people I talked to at those shows, I never made a sale. They always wanted to talk to Mama. Somehow talking to the artist was like taking home a piece of her, and she'd readily give a piece of herself knowing that every sale would allow her to do something more for her family. Through the weekend she'd talk until she's almost lost her voice, hoping to make just one more sale.

The end of the show would approach. Those final hours were full of anticipation, always wondering whether just one more person would take home just one more doll. Somehow those last chance sales were the greatest, the most grounded in hope. Then the Fair would close, we'd carefully wrap up what stock was left, stack the apple boxes and tear down the booth. Mama would pull in the car and we'd hoist the booth and carpet onto the top, tie it down with clothesline using the knots Daddy had taught us to keep it on top through the winding mountain roads, finish packing the rest and fight over who had to sit in the back.

Mama would make deals with us that final night. "If we can tear down in an hour, we'll go to a movie." Generally, that was a good show. "Let's see if we can tear down in time to hit the hotel pool." That may have been a not so good year. I guess you can say Guild Fair taught me a lot about how economics trickle down, how to talk to people, how to remain professional in disappointment and a lot about how to work hard for the good of the team. I also met some of the finest craftspeople in the world, learned from the experts about heritage crafts and even picked up a skill or two that I've used later in life.

So this weekend as they're celebrating another Guild Fair, I'll have memories running through my head of all those years we were a part of that experience. I'm blessed to have known those artists, those giving people who were always willing to share and show their skill with a young kid curious about how the world worked. And today when I go to my office in DC and randomly drop a fact about something like Raku pottery, weaving or marbling, I'll smile as I remember all those years traveling to Guild Fair, living a life only a lucky few will ever know. And I'll send silent wishes for it to be a "good show" this year.

On nesting.

Every weekday I drive past a house that has three stands of decorative grass separating their house from the busy road. These variegated, decorative grasses grow all year long and are about 7 feet tall. These are not small blades of grass.

One morning this week as I was driving by, I saw a little bird swoop down to pick up a piece of grass. This piece of grass was easily three times the length of Mama bird, but she was determined to grab it and fly. She swooped in, picked it up and flapped her wings like crazy to get it off the ground. She had a little moment of hesitation once she was airborne, just a little swoop, but she flapped her wings harder and off she went with that huge piece of grass clutched in her mouth. Can you imagine the nest she's building? Talk about the super deluxe model!

I had a "moment" watching this determined Mama. I felt like I know a little bit about how she feels. I'm sure if birds had doctors, they'd tell her to be careful lifting things and would probably be horrified that she thought she was able to lift this exceedingly large piece of grass. If she had my doctors, she'd be hearing about how "high risk" this kind of behavior is. She'd be hearing about all the things that could very well go wrong with her pregnancy, and all the precautions she should take. I'm sure she's (in relative terms) younger than I am, so she's probably never heard she's a little OLD to be having babies. But whatever her circumstance, whatever her path, she was determined. She pressed on. She knows she has to build a nest. It's instinctual. And she's building the best darn nest she can.

You see, I'm building a nest too. I'm building a nest for our miracle baby. I'm building a nest for a baby who has beaten every odd that's been put against him. A baby who's growing faster than the average baby is supposed to grow - even though he's supposed to be lagging in growth because of the unusual nature of his existence. So despite all the warnings, despite all the circumstances, despite all the battles, I'm building my nest. Because I believe our miracle baby is going to continue to beat the odds set against him, showing all those doctors, with all their warnings that the God who made him can defy all their odds.

So you see, I too know I have to build a nest. It's instinctual. And you can bet I'm building the best darn nest I can.

Inspiration Thursday! On the subject of hearts.

The tiny white dot in the center of this picture has changed my life. I know saying something changed your life is a bit overused ("This new face cream changed my life!"), but it really changed my life. When I first saw it, it was a little white light pulsing on a screen... flashing, flashing, flashing. I wasn't even sure what it was I was seeing... flashing, flashing, flashing.

Then they said, "there's the heart."

And my life changed.

- Baby Swider @ 6 weeks

DIY Monday: We Three Kings

It's November. This year has blown by me and I can't quite believe it's here. November brings memories of holiday preparation and the excitement of Christmas pageants to come. I guess that's why things like random bits of trim and fabric catch my eye.

It usually happens like this: I'm rummaging through a box and I see a piece of fabric, braid, ribbon or trim that would make a great costume. You see, I was trained this way. I can't really help it. I spent my childhood rummaging through the bargain rooms of fabric stores looking for fabrics, trims or ribbons that would make a good costume. And this time of year it usually had something to do with a Christmas concert at church. Whether a chiffon head scarf for Mary or a striped fabric for Joseph, we were always looking for things that would create the illusion of Biblical times. Fake leather became a Roman officer's uniform. Silver fabrics were turned into helmets. We were always watching for "period appropriate" fabrics for outer robes for the disciples and a piece of rope was often called into service as a belt.

And so as I was rummaging through a box at an estate sale, this beautiful trim caught my eye. I could just see it on Herod's crown - because from the audience the gold, red and green would sparkle like jewels. And Mama thinks my compulsive organizing is a sickness....