On to Bigger and Better things!!

Friends and Faithful Readers!!

I write this with a sliver of sadness… but an overwhelming sense of purpose and hope. After two years of calling this place home, I’ve started a NEW BLOG called “Girl Meets Paper” which I hope will better capture my writing in a professional arena. Today’s post can be found HERE.

You should also know that from now on, all my family ideas will be separated out and posted on my second blog, “The Unofficial Homeschooler.“

I hope you’ll visit both and that they would be an encouragement to you in your busy life. Whether it’s a quiet, thoughtful moment at www.girlmeetspaper.com or a burst of creativity at www.unofficialhomeschooler.com, my prayer is that you would find something relevant and helpful that ultimately gives glory to God and makes you want to share it with a friend!

Hope to see you at both of my new homes! Your readership is an encouragement to me!

A NEW PLACE TO SHARE!

Friends, it is going to be an exciting week around here! 

Today I’d like to invite you to visit my new blog, The Unofficial Homeschooler. This is the place where, from now on, I’ll be sharing creative ideas to try at home with your kids, parenting perspectives, and thoughts on life as your child’s first teacher.

Please click over and take a look at it! BELIEVE ME…it has been a royal pain in the buttocks real labor of love

Additionally, I’ll be announcing another new project later this week! Can’t wait to open “door #2″ and share it!

O Sacred Head Now Wounded

Not many songs bring me closer to the cross than this ancient hymn penned by a shrouded, unknown figure and set to music sometime in around 1600. Bach himself composed the harmony, but the text is what tears at my heart. Thought to have been based somewhat on a poem by Bernard of Clairvaux, the intensely personal nature of the words calls each of us to examine the cross and its implications for our faith, our life.

The final verse begs, “What language shall I borrow, to thank thee dearest friend…Lord let me never, never…outlive my love to Thee.”  If I’m honest I wonder:

• Is Christ truly my dearest friend?
• Do I feel a loss for words–that language is inept or even incapable of expressing my gratitude?
• Is my first and foremost desire to never outlive my love for Jesus?

Fernando Ortega’s version of this song has long been one of my favorites; I’m including it today to speak into the quiet somber of Saturday. The Saturday that has to come before the joy of Sunday. O Sacred Head Now Wounded, by Fernando Ortega

        O sacred Head, now wounded,
	with grief and shame weighed down,
	now scornfully surrounded
	with thorns, thine only crown:
	how pale thou art with anguish,
	with sore abuse and scorn!
	How does that visage languish
	which once was bright as morn! 

	What thou, my Lord, has suffered
	was all for sinners' gain;
	mine, mine was the transgression,
	but thine the deadly pain.
	Lo, here I fall, my Savior!
	'Tis I deserve thy place;
	look on me with thy favor,
	vouchsafe to me thy grace. 

	What language shall I borrow
	to thank thee, dearest friend,
	for this thy dying sorrow,
	thy pity without end?
	O make me thine forever;
	and should I fainting be,
	Lord, let me never, never
	outlive my love for thee.

Pro Kadima Invasion

Well, the game that was meant to be played while shuffling through powdery sand slathered in Panama Jack sunscreen has hit our living room.

Pro Kadima is a ping-pongy game played with large wooden paddles and a hard foam ball. We don’t actually boast any knowledge of the official rules, so when we play we just set some volley goals and cross our fingers.

Today my youngest son, “M” begged pathetically for me to disregard dinner preparation and flee to the carpet for some “hitting.” Carefully positioning our two ottomans as a dividing line–or net, I supose–we went to work, counting aloud with each hit.

Not that it was that difficult to count to 2. 

Or 3.

In case you don’t know, maintaining a volley with a five-year-old is a bit of an undertaking. His forehand swings tend to land on the fireplace mantle or smack into one of our new lamps. I especially love those.  The backhand attempts generally sail off the tip of the paddle and land…in another room.

But all in good fun, right? [insert shoulder shrug and tedious smile]

Of course it’s all ratcheted up several notches when my husband gets home. Brandon imagines that a match-up with me carries the weight of winning the gold medal or preventing the sky from falling.

He loosened the collar on his dress shirt and sank into position, swaying back and forth like Agassi in pinstriped pants. At this point I’m already laughing.

“C’mon now. This is serious!” he exhorts. “Let’s get to 20!”

With the kids enjoying the hand-to-hand combat, we began, their heads bobbing left-to-right and back again.

“13, 14, 15…D’OH!!”  Nuts. “We” missed. [a-hem...]

“Let’s try again. SERIOUSLY Jane! Be for real! We’ve got to get this!” [read: the fate of the world rests in this pseudo-Pro Kadima match that he's playing in dress clothes and without rules].

“15, 16, 17, 18…” Missed again. Rats.

“Jane! What time is it?! We have to get this before I leave!” he pleaded. “Ahh!” He lets out an exasperated scream–the kind that you’d allow yourself after shopping online for an hour, only to find your cart wiped clean just as you’re ready to buy everything.

I, of course, start laughing at his genuine effort and the pain he’s enduring over the fact that we can’t quite seem to pile up enough hits to make the 20 mark. After the next miss Brandon screams again. Literally screams…kind of like this.

At this point my stomach nearly hurts and I’m laughing so hard I can’t imagine doing anything 20 times in a row except maybe tinkling in my pants or rolling on the floor like a rabid critter trying to scratch its back.

Well, you’ll be relieved to know that we made the 20-hit mark, as evidenced by the sky not falling and us sporting genuine imaginary gold medals. And everybody knows that when a Pro Kadima invasion hits the living room, those are the best kind.

What do you do for comic relief in your home? What are ideas for quick family fun?

[full crack-up chicken story here] 

[beach photo credit]

Pippi Longstocking and Praise Dancing

I saw him twirling out of the corner of my eye.

On the table, in socks, arms raised like a praise dancer. 

I opened my mouth to tell him to get off, but the words got stuck. Why not let him spin? I thought. It’s not like he could break the table!  

Instead, I watched in silence.

Soon enough the praise dancing stopped and he sat down with a pile of baseball cards. Diligently arranging them and sliding from right to left, he worked to line up his favorites.

I’m not sure if I did the right thing by allowing him to stay there, but for today I decided to enjoy his whimsy and smallness instead of examining rules.

Pippi Longstocking would certainly approve.

What?!

Do you ever overlook the rules when it comes to moments of innocent play? Share an example by leaving a comment below:

The Lure Of What I Don’t Have: A Confession

It’s been twenty months…twenty months…since I’ve really let myself trip, stumble, and generally get all out of sorts over stupid things.

Well, let’s be honest: it’s been twenty months since I’ve decided to tell you about it.

This Lent I gave up shopping at three of my favorite places: Costco [where each item deposited in your cart is about $10], Target [where you want to spend about $10 but easily dole out $210], and the mall [where you skip the math and get out the plastic].

Five weeks later, I think all this non-shopping has started to catch up with me. I fear I may have developed a few ticks and eye twitches during this off-season, something that has only worsened as I peruse the latest Crate & Barrel catalog and faithfully dog ear every-0ther-page [as if I really could buy all these things if I wanted, but it's just a matter of locating my purse that's stopping me].

Sheez.

I’ll admit it: I look around and still love this house, but I’m starting to see the flaws more than the smile lines. I’m wishing for new countertops…and an ice maker in a fridge with a little more consistency than the slacker we have now. I can imagine a new backsplash with glossy subway tiles like you see on Dear Genevieve. I can effortlessly imagine away our stained carpet and replace it with the gleam of wall-to-wall hickory floors.

I know this discontent is shallow and worthless and completely without perspective. I know that the “Finley Pendant Lamp” I’d like above our dining room table isn’t going to make me happy, give me a flat stomach, make me funnier, or help me be a better friend. [Although I would like to argue that it would make our dinners a lot more stylish].

So why this lure? Why so many dog-eared pages?

I think I’m fooled into believing that if I own the Stoneware Potluck Bakers in “Paprika, Turquoise, and Yellow” that I’ll actually bake tasty dinners. And possibly be invited to potlucks.

I’m fooled into thinking that if I have the vases on page 18, I really will make more of an effort to arrange cut flowers weekly. Maybe even start a garden.

I’m drawn into this world of order, cleanliness, and new possibilities–as though an office desk equals a book contract or a chaise lounge equals the freedom to…lounge.

I’m drawn into thinking that these things would give me what I want and what I think I need.

And so this cycle of mental wrestling and pseudo-shopping bring me back to Lent–back to the reason I’m not shopping and back to the reason why I shouldn’t even be looking at catalogs: because during this season of preparation, I need to work on my heart.  Work on desires that aren’t evil or sinful in themselves, but that give birth to so much more than I want floating around in my brain.

Balancing these things and staying twitch-free is something I’ll probably never master. For some it’s food and others it’s cigarettes and still others, alcohol. For me, this year, it’s Crate & Barrel.

But always, there’s the promise of grace. And this Lent, I’m realizing just how much I need it.

~

What are you learning about yourself this Lent? How are you being stretched or changed?

The Scrambled States of America

If you want to teach your gang geography, encourage them to value travel and well…possess the general knowledge that a reference to ”Washington” does not necessarily denote a conversation about our first president…then you’ll appreciate The Scrambled States of America, by Laurie Keller.

I first stumbled upon this gem in one of my many self-indulgent rendezvous to Hallmark. Drawn in by the fantastic illustrations and novel storyline, it became plain that I would actually be doing my kids a disservice by foregoing a purchase.

I mean, it’s educational, right?

In Keller’s imaginative world of changing geography, Kansas decides he’s tired of being surrounding by the same dull states, without water, and stuck in a wide expanse of flatness. So, he proposes swapping spots with another state and eventually extends the invitation to the entire nation at an evening potluck. [Wisconsin contributed cheese...can you guess what Idaho brought?]

After the states flee their old friends and neighbors in the name of newness and adventure, they quickly find that the grass is not always greener on the other side of the Mason Dixon Line. Minnesota gets sunburned when he flip-flops with Florida, and Kansas ends up bobbing in the Pacific when Hawaii signs up for a switcheroo. Should they stay? Should they go?

The Scrambled States of America is a silly page-turner that will keep you captivated until it’s all settled. Humorous comic-like captions let you in on the private thoughts of the states, and Uncle Sam serves as narrator.

If you’re wondering how you can introduce basic geography to your kids, pick up a copy! It will remind them that there’s more to “Washington” than cherry trees or wooden dentures.

What’s your latest and greatest children’s picture book? Why do you like it?

{photo credits: Thank you, Photography by Kamarah!}

Ten Reasons I’ve Been MIA

It’s been awhile since I’ve gone ten days without a blog post! For you hangers-on, here are ten reasons for my absence:

1. We went to Florida for Spring Break, and in some comically-timed [or divinely ordained] sequence of events, I was completely without internet! Don’t worry, the shaking stopped after a detoxing a few days here:

 

Spring Break 2011

2. I was quite busy pretending to know how to fish:

3. Shell hunting with my daughter was a delightful priority:

4.  …and of course our shells weren’t going to organize themselves!

5. I was with the people I love most at one of our most-loved places:

6.  We were preoccupied with frozen confections and broad smiles:

7. My feet were intoxicated by the luxuriously warm water for hours on end:

8.  I had a nightly cheerleading gig at low tide for my skim-boarding boys:

9.  Watching wildlife is nearly a full-time job on the island:

 

3 wild manatees close enough for my son to touch! Right off our beach…

10. And really…who can think of computers with God on display like this??  Our nightly walk on the beach:

So what have you been up to? What small moments are you treasuring?

Family Friday: Supporting Adoptive Families

Thanks to "Photography by Kamarah!'

Ever since my husband and I went to Zambia, Africa in 2004, my heart has remained softened to the hearts and faces of countless orphans awaiting families to call their own. And while the Lord first imprinted my heart on that faraway continent, adoption touches me regardless of the child’s birthplace. Little can compare so perfectly to the love of God adopting us as heirs, as the love of earthly parents expanding the boundaries of their families.

When I first heard that my daughter’s teacher and her husband were working on her own adoption dream, I stood amazed at her resolve to extend unconditional love and acceptance to a child–or children–whom she had never met. What trust in God’s sovereign plan!

Last month she and another adoptive family were the prayer focus of our home. This month we stepped out a bit further to support their adoption fund by purchasing these super-cute T-shirts! You can’t see mine [navy] in the photo, but my daughter’s [black] has quickly become one of her favorites!

If you’d like to help bring this good work to completion, hop over to her blog and check them out!

If you’re a family who has walked this path, what creative ways did you use to help fund the process? Did anyone step forward to assist you?

A New Kind Of Chore Chart [and a Freebie for you!]

Moms, if you’re anything like me you’re always trying to figure out new ways to motivate your kids to help, hold them accountable, and land on an appropriate reward or compensation.

• Do we pay an allowance?
• Do kids work on commission?
• What is/is not the expected contribution merely as a member of this family?
• When must chores be completed and to whose standards?
• When is it worth a battle…and when is it not?

We’ve gone round and round with these questions, trying several approaches. To be honest, most of the failing is due to our own inconsistency in enforcing the rules. There have been times I’ve “owed” our kids money, but I don’t have cash in the house…so the reward of being paid for work completed is a bit diminished when they have to wait for payday.

Other times we’ve failed out of sheer busyness. We used to be absolutely firm in starting Saturday mornings with chores [and I had an entire system for that], however with sports and church activities and a crazy husband, Saturday mornings have proven tricky. Maybe once school’s out we’ll give it another go.

Until then, I have a new kind of chore chart which will hopefully prove helpful even with little ones who don’t read. If you’re a Mac user, you should be able to click, drag, and print. If that doesn’t work or if you’re a PC user, feel free to email me and I’ll be happy to send you the PDF.

ALLOW ME TO POINT OUT A FEW FEATURES:

1. There is a place on this chore chart for the name of the child assigned these particular chores and place for your child to state a weekly goal [i.e: to complete 3 days in a row, 4 days total, all chores, etc.]
2. Write down when chores should be completed by in order to earn the corresponding money [i.e: completed before school, by dinner, before bedtime]
3. $ Earned is where you write down the grand total earned for that week by that particular child
4. Assign each chore a value–but be creative! We’ll be paying our children cash, but perhaps yours are more motivated by a special dessert after supper, a night at the library, a date with grandma, or a video rental. You get to decide!
5. Checkboxes to indicate completion and approval by mom and dad: yes if they pass, no if they don’t…just like that note you passed to your boyfriend in junior high
6. LASTLY, use the empty boxes to either DRAW the chore [for young workers] or write the words [for older workers]. For an even greater brain-based learning experience, have your child draw the chore!

I would love to journey through this with you! Please leave a comment and let me know if this chart has been at all helpful…or if you have suggestions for how to improve it, I’d love to hear them!

 

5 Easy Ways To Use Notes With Your Kids

I’ve told you before that I love paper in all forms. In fact, next month I’m looking forward to a blog makeover, and my name will change to Girl Meets Paper to reflect my love of writing–and because I use so many printed charts, calendars, flash cards and report cards while I “unofficially homeschool” my kids [more on this later].

Paper is my friend in any form: card, canvas, notes, or napkins–anything that will sacrifice itself to be a carrier of sentiment and feeling. I would also argue that because few people take the time to handwrite letters anymore, when someone does take a few moments to express love, gratitude, and affection, it is special.

Which brings me today: 5 Easy Ways to Use Notes With Your Kids.

1. The United States Postal Service: Last fall my husband and I went on vacation without the kids, and I knew that by day 3 our children would be missing us. So before we left I bought some Hallmark Kids’s cards and wrote a little note in each one, and then asked my neighbor to mail them for me so they would arrive at Grandma’s house during our absence. Even if you’re not separated from your family, imagine their joy to go to the mailbox and see something from YOU…instead of another American Girl catalog.

2. Lunch Notes: Of course any scrap of paper will work here, but I recommend THESE for a cute burst of love in your little one’s lunch pail. They’re adorable, they’re easy, they’re small, and even if your third grader acts too old to receive them, he secretly loves knowing his mama is thinking about him. I guarantee it.

Thanks to "Photography By Kamarah"!

3. Notepads: I think my obsession with paper is a genetic trait that’s been passed down to my daughter. So imagine my delight when I found this cool stack of color at Staples for just $2! I bought them and used it as an opportunity to leave her a note after school. Maybe you could do the same?

4. Stickies on the Mirror: Why not let your kids discover something special from you while they brush their teeth in the morning? Some ideas:

• an encouraging Bible verse for the day
• “I was so proud of you when…”
• “Have I ever told you that…”
• “You make me laugh when you…”

5. Mail Monday! Last year as part of our family Valentine’s day fiesta I gave each of the kids a mini mailbox with their name on it–the kind from the ‘dollar spot at Target. They are red and cute and have an actual working flag to indicate new mail. Our tradition here is “Mail Monday.” Though I’ve fallen off the wagon recently, generally speaking our kids receive a card or note from me every Monday morning. It’s nothing extravagant or fancy, but in it I express something I appreciate, love, cherish, treasure about them; a simple way to start the week together!

So how do you communicate with your little ones? Do you have a great idea to share?

…and if this post was helpful to you, would you please pass it along to another mom who might enjoy it?

Great Minds and Lost Souls

Photo credit: darleneanitascott.wordpress.com

Last month our family swam through years of history together, dodging slave traders and rabid dogs courtesy of the pages of a Harriet Tubman biography. We spent evenings imagining how cold and frightening it would have been to slink through southern swamps guided only by tree moss and the North Star. We talked about the courage possessed by Underground Railroad travelers, and marveled at the unflinching tenacity of Harriet, “the Moses of her people.”

Shortly after completing the book with our family, I happened upon that wonderful ancestry show, Who Do You Think You Are? The episode I caught featured Lionel Ritchie searching for his origins in the South. At one point he was led to an old cemetery, a scrap of land littered with leaves and stray roots, and not a respectable headstone to be found among the fauna. The guide with Lionel explained that one of his relatives had been buried here, in this slave cemetery, though no one could say exactly where the remains rested.

Breathing in and out slowly, clearly seeking to steady his own emotions, Mr. Ritchie was left alone to consider his heritage. As the camera panned out and away, leaving his black-cloaked figure nearly silhouetted against the autumn branches, I felt the heaviness of his journey. And in that moment it crystalized:

Imagine for a moment all the souls lost to the evil, greedy, heartless enterprise of slavery.

Attempt to fathom the great minds never used. Ignored. Wiped out.

Stop to ponder what would have been the fate of Lionel Ritchie…if born in another time, on another intersection of latitude and longitude.

Even those of you who aren’t signing up for an autographed copy of Dancing on the Ceiling can surely appreciate the mind and sprawling talent of a man whose career spans four decades–a man whose life would have been completely different under the tent of slavery.

And dear Harriet–savior and protector of so many souls–God surely placed her in that time and space for a divine purpose. Yet, I can’t help but re-imagine a life for her free from the oppression and injustice she endured. Free from dogs biting at her heels and the angry growl of an empty stomach in the night. Free from hiding in corn cribs and under piles of hay and carrying a revolver around her waist.

Free from prejudice and hatred.

Reflecting on these things reminds me of the great call we have to be light and love to those around us and to teach our children to look past the thin veil of skin.

And hair and height and weight, for that matter.

Paul writes these famous words in Galations, ²⁸ There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus. ²⁹ If you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham’s seed, and heirs according to the promise.

We are all one in Christ Jesus.

We are all one.

OWL MOON Winner!

By Jane Yolen, Caldecott Winner

My, My! What astute readers have I!

Last week Friday I shared a fun family idea and opened a contest to those of you who could correctly identify the name of the audio book our family listened to.

All entrants guessed correctly, and the winner is: #3–

LYNDSEY DYKSTRA!!

Congrats, Lynds… and thanks for playing! Your new book will be in the mail shortly!

True Random Number Generator

Min: 1 Max: 4

Result: 3

Powered by RANDOM.ORG

Family Friday: I Don’t Homeschool, BUT…

I don’t officially homeschool our kids.

Sadly, my patience is usually gone after the PB & J hits the counter at lunchtime, and keeping the kids focused on anything longer than an hour generally requires some form of sugar or technology.  Or Benedryl.

Ok, it’s not that bad, but you get the idea.

Still, I am passionate about infusing learning opportunities into everyday life and finding fun, meaningful things to do together.

So I guess you could say that I unofficially homeschool our kids.

One of the ways we’ve brought school into the everyday is to transform our kitchen wall into a learning center. We have four clocks representing the four time zones of the contiguous United States, labeled according to locations where friends live. Having these clocks in the midst of our busy traffic space allows us to see immediately what time it is in Washington or Chicago or Montana. It helps us judge the best time for phone calls and for figuring out if so-and-so is eating dinner.

We also took a cue from the beloved classic Sleepless in Seattle, and hung a US map below the clocks. This map is special in that it is laminated and came with red pins to indicate our family travels. It’s fun to return home from trips and get out the Vis-a-Vis marker to chart our paths together. Lord willing, I’m hoping this map will look like a spider web on steroids by the time our kids leave the nest!

We refer to our map every day when we read the news, hear of others’ vacations, or learn the attributes of other states. Our kids have a running list of places they’d like to visit, with our youngest declaring his goal to go to all fifty states!

My sister and friends who homeschool all tell me that it’s really “a way of life.” I get that. And you know what? Based on what God says in Deuteronomy 6, I actually think it’s his idea to weave teaching into your daily life.

If you agree, then I officially declare you an “unofficial” homeschooler.

Start in the kitchen.  Benedryl optional.

~~~

What creative ways do you have for incorporating learning into your everyday life?

**Thank you to “Photography by Kamarah” for the lovely pictures! Look for her on Facebook.

Morning by Morning

This past week while I was stuffing my pie hole with a loaded baked potato at our BSF Fellowship, our leader posed a question:

“Looking back over this year’s study of Isaiah, what do you think the Lord’s been teaching you…or how have you most been convicted?”

I quickly stabbed a small pile of bacon and avoided eye contact, equally needing time to think and not wanting to be labeled as the girl who won’t shut up. No one likes an overambitious “humble” admission.

The women around me offered stories of hardship and trial and shared how God had used the truths of this ancient prophet to shore up their faith, reminding them of his goodness and promises.

I swirled a dollop of butter and sour cream into a tiny puddle; vanilla pudding in the cavern of my starchy volcano.

“What about you, Jane?”

Surveying the room, I sucked in a breath and let the truth spill out.

I need to be more dedicated to consistent Scripture reading. Not because as Christians we “should” or we’re “expected to” or in an effort to keep legalism alive and well. Not because we’re striving for extra points on some mythical God-scorecard or on a heavenly tally sheet–but because reading the Bible reveals the nature of our God and Savior.

How can I, in circumstances of confusion or questioning, find any solid footing if not in God’s Word? Should I depend on my emotions or personal opinions?

How can I, in times of trouble or doubting, find strength in His Promises if I don’t have them hidden in my heart?

After sharing this one of the women told a story of a friend who went to Asia. Upon seeing the face of an American, one of the nationals ran up to her–a complete stranger–and begged her to recite a chapter from the Bible.

The American woman stood on the side of the busy street, enveloped by exhaust fumes and utter disbelief.

“What did you say?” she asked.

“You Americans all have Bibles and we have none! Certainly you must know just one chapter that you can share with us to give us a piece of the Word of God.”

Back in our fellowship group the room fell silent. How many of us could have answered that plea?

Isaiah 50:4 says, “The Sovereign Lord has given me an instructed tongue to know the word that sustains the weary. He wakens me morning by morning, wakens my ear to listen like one being taught.”

My conviction is to live that out.

Morning by morning, day by day, getting up after I’ve fallen, trying again after I’ve failed, but striving always to listen like one being taught.

~~~

How do you make time for God’s Word in your life? Is it a struggle or have you found a way to stay disciplined?

 

Anatomy 101 with Zac Brown

It’s been interesting to watch my oldest child grow up. He’s slowly interjected his fashion sensibilities, voiced desires for new hair styles, and independently changed the radio station away from my channels to those he enjoys. Seeing a unique personality emerge ignites my imagination for his future and reminds me that part of parenting is making room for greater freedom and individuality.

Today he was home with the never-ending fever of 2011, but I had promised my mom that I’d run an errand for her, so he sluffed into the van in jammies and moccasins. When I remembered that I had to duck into the grocery store for a handful of items, I let him wait in the car to listen to the radio.

Photo Credit: http://theinspirationroom.com

Enter Zac Brown and his hit song, Toes.

J is on a country kick. He’d probably buy his own pick-up truck right now if we let him.  Let’s pray he doesn’t ever consider chewing tobacco or obtaining a Confederate flag.

So I was surprised to return to the van and find the radio on but totally turned down. He looked at me and explained everything.

“Mom, I don’t think this song is appropriate because there’s a swear word in it, so whenever it comes on I just turn it down.”

“Oh. Well good job showing that I can trust you! So what does the song say? What’s the letter that the swear word starts with?”

“A.”

“Is it a-s-s?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know what that means?”

“Well, I had to kind of figure it out. The first time I heard the song he said, ..toes in the water, ass in the sand, not a worry in the world, cold beer in my hand… so I just thought to myself, “If his toes are in the water, then he had to be talking about his butt in the sand.”

We continued our conversation about these alternate anatomical references and how when I was growing up it would have been soap-in-the-mouth post haste for using that language. [ahhh...how times change, right?]

These days soap and shame are gone and colorful language has bubbled over into the mainstream, through the speakers of our radios and television sets. Now, if you know me well, you’ll know that I’m not beyond adding a little color to my vocabulary from time-to-time, and I certainly wouldn’t judge you for doing the same.

I’m just coming to terms with the fact that our world is a little different now. And if you’re in the car with your kid, chances are there will be opportunities for anatomy 101, courtesy of the Zac Brown Band.

I guess I should add a few diagrams to the glove box, just in case.

~~~

Have you ever been confronted with lyrics that you weren’t expecting your kids to notice? Or conversation on the news that caught you off guard? How did you handle it?

 

Up on the Watershed

photo credit: untitledrecords.com

My head is cloudy. I’m realizing with sorrow and unwillingness that even the sweetest things in life evolve and change.

Of course we’ve been heading toward this fork for some time now, however the prongs of decision continue to force our hand. The tangible, visible forcing rose like cream to the surface this weekend when my husband found a long-forgotten allen wrench and went to work disassembling our kids’ bunk beds.

We had scrimped and saved and experienced a bittersweet turning that summer, too—the summer before the birth of our youngest. Emptying the crib meant moving toddlers to big beds and saying goodbye to two babies so we could welcome one more. That was nearly six years ago, that season of pregnancy and anticipation and construction.

But Friday, each turn of the wrench and every twist of the screwdriver became a metaphor for the deconstruction that seems to be happening all around me. World events that crash in on our security. Smaller storms brew in our own lives and communities, tossing hearts and rocking steady feet. Questions and challenges and new ideas send me reeling and reaching for something to quell the tide in my belly.

I feel the splintering acutely, like a vegetable peeler taking away one slice of my heart at a time. Slowly, as slight as velum, slivers fall to the floor and I am left in confusion and grief, without the energy to navigate the next fork in the road.

There’s an old song* that says “You can stand there an agonize, till your agony’s your heaviest load…” The pinprick of sorrow that started with an allen wrench has swelled to somber agony when thrown into the mixing bowl of emotions and decisions.

It’s never just about the thing. It’s never just about the bunk beds.

There are always layers to lift up, peek below, peel away, and come to terms with.

It’s just that sometimes those layers feel so…profoundly…heavy.

~ ~ ~

*song credit: Watershed, Indigo Girls

Second Chances

My CONTEST is begging for a second chance! I’d love for more people will have the opportunity to get involved, so the deadline is being extended. Please tell your friends that they may enter their comment until midnight on Thursday, March 24.  And help me spread the word–this is a great book to win; I’m certain you’ll agree that it’s an instant classic!

Family Friday: Crayons and a CONTEST!

In the spirit of loving competition, my husband started “Super Fun Dad Nights” when our kids were little. On evenings I was out he’d plan something spectacular to do together, usually involving candy, balloons, and duct tape. It won the kids over and, of course, solidified dad as the favorite.

Until the next morning when I slathered their Eggo with the best syrup Michigan produces.

Now I’ve stolen the idea: I tell the kids that we’ll have “Super Fun Mom Night” when daddy’s off working hard at a meeting or function. As I’ve told you before, he is much more fun in the traditional sense of the word. I’m fun in the “let’s learn together creatively” sense of the word. Life’s a regular party with me, huh?

So last week I grabbed one of our library books on tape and slid it into my son’s portable boom box which we relocated to the living room. I passed out a hardcover book to each kid, along with a piece of computer paper and pencil, and put a community box of crayons in the center of the floor.

Then we sat in silence as the story rolled on, imagining the pictures, envisioning the scenery, and capturing tiny details. As the narrator progressed, we began to draw a scene as we pictured it in our mind’s eye. We added details and tried to incorporate as many components as possible.

After the story concluded we took a few extra minutes to wrap up and then we shared our work. The kids described the setting, characters, and which section of the plot their story represented.

This was a peaceful activity that promoted active listening, imagination, fine motor skills, and interpersonal skills during share time. They all felt they could do better next time, but for a first try, I thought they did great. Take a look and don’t miss the CONTEST at the end!

By J, my 8 year old son

 

By M, my 5 year old son

 

By A, my 7 year old daughter

 

By a Super Fun Mom

Based on these drawings, can you guess the title and author of the book? Your correct guess will enter you into a random drawing for your own copy! Here are the rules:

• Leave a comment with your guess BEFORE MONDAY, MARCH 21
• YOU MUST ALSO post this contest on your blog or facebook page, or tweet a link [sorry friends without social media, these are part of the rules!]
• and…
• You can earn an extra entry by also correctly identifying the award this book won.

Good luck!

Leaving Breakfast at Tiffany’s

Image via Wikipedia

I’ve never been a big “shopper”…if by shopper you’re picturing a classy, well-manicured Breakfast at Tiffany’s 30-something clicking through the mall with a bouquet of bags bursting from the nook in her elbow.

I prefer flip-flops and I’m not all that classy.

Despite my efforts to be cute and semi-fashion-informed, the truth is that I’m just average. I’ve been in jeans for the better part of my life, and until the loving intervention of my friend a few years ago, those jeans were famously paired with turtlenecks on a daily basis. What can I say? I like to be warm and I like to be comfortable.

What I’ve been learning, however, is that shopping doesn’t have to happen at Banana Republic or Kohl’s for it to start cutting into your budget. Your handbag obsession is my Costco bill–and my Target splurge is your pair of designer jeans. It’s all the same to the bank.

I remember a couple of months ago my parents stopped over and I excitedly said to them, “Guess what I got today?!” My mom said something like, “I don’t know Jane, you’re always getting something.” Now, this comment was flippant and lighthearted, [don't worry mom--you didn't hurt my feelings]—- but it DID make me think. Am I really turning into that girl? That “shopper”?

How many times have I gone to the store for deodorant and toothpaste and left spending $100? And don’t even get me started on Costco! You can safely bet that each item you deposit in your cart is going to cost you $10. Their food testers lure and their kids’ clothes are cheap and their books such a bargain! It’s a regular merry-go-round of delight and I sign up for a ride way too often.

Generally these “extras” are justified by pointing out that they’re not for me, they’re for our kids.  For instance, I found a couple of $5 videos which I reasoned would be perfect for our upcoming vacation. Since we’re driving, we’d better have entertainment after all! Then I stumbled upon some squirt guns and water balloons. What a fun mom I am, I told myself. Of course all the Easter goodies are out, so I had to scoop up a few of those items–for the kids, you know. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

So where does it end?

For me, it’s ending this Lent. I’ve given up the holy trinity of shopping: Target, Costco, AND the mall. Now, I wouldn’t stand in the way of my husband popping in for a mega-box of granola bars at the Warehouse, but I’m not going to go in. It’s too easy for me to see the variety of sparkly, fun things and try to justify why we need them.

Like I did with our snorkeling equipment. [see? fun mom in Florida, right?]

The truth of the matter is that even though we can pay our bills and God has blessed us with some rainy day money, there’s no need for me to aimlessly wander the aisles grabbing things at whim. There’s no need to store up treasures here when so many people are scraping along with less than basic essentials. And what does it teach my children about instant gratification or patience if I’m piling up purchases myself?

So this Lent is bigger than shopping. It’s really all about contentment. It’s about praying the words of Paul and really striving to walk in the direction of the peace he talks about:

“If we have food and covering, with these we will be content.”

I Tim 6:8

What are you working on this Lenten Season? Have you felt convicted to make some changes in your life?

Michigan Maple Syrup!

The dormant, hibernating teacher in me is creeping to the surface once again. I may not be clawing to get back into the classroom, but I do love to turn our living room, kitchen, and the nearby woods into places where we can learn and explore together.

So this past Saturday I planned a “Family Challenge” for us: a outing or activity with a purpose. We surprised the kids and went to a local maple syrup farm to learn how trees are tapped and syrup is made!

I quickly typed up a handout to help direct our time, made copies, paper clipped them to hardcover books, and then passed them out to the kids [who needs clipboards?!]. The first section had them make a hypothesis and record some road names and location information. The rest of the questions dealt with the process of making syrup, what natural resources are involved, what benefits there are to buying local products, etc.

The folks at the “Sugar Shack” were warm and gracious. Without an appointment they swung wide their doors and invited us into the history of the farm. With unhurried care they explained how sappy goodness is boiled down into something wonderful for your morning waffles, and they explained how Native Americans and Settlers each had their own ways of making syrup [clever people!]

After we asked questions and wandered around a bit, our children got a spoonful of the real thing, ladled out of a stainless steel drum before our very eyes! [I quickly channeled Buddy the Elf and thought of him pouring syrup on his spaghetti and naming it as one of the four food groups].

After making a few purchases we plodded down the adjacent dirt road which led to the farm’s harvesting area. Zig-zagged with blue tubes scurrying from 1,000 tree taps, the nearby forest was a maze delivering sap to a 250 gallon drum, which when full is only enough for about FIVE gallons of syrup!!  [if you are cynical about the cost of pure maple syrup, that's why!]

Days like this one open so many doors for learning, great conversation, and praise to a God who would provide something so sweet from a tree! If you live in West Michigan or the Northeastern United States, check your local directory for a syrup farm near you; you’ll never look at your pancakes the same way again.  I promise!

What about you? What fun winter activities have you discovered recently?

Family Friday: Math at Dinner

Do you remember memorizing your math facts in elementary school?

I clearly recall my second grade teacher walking us up one-by-one to the front of the room to recite addition and subtraction facts. With breath suspended and heart pounding my ears, I looked to the paper train hovering above the blackboard and followed her tapping yardstick until reaching the goal: finish the entire train without one mistake.

No pressure, right?

With our own kids starting down this road of mastering math facts, my husband and I have been trying to find ways to incorporate a little math into daily life. This doesn’t mean that flashcards and calculators have to make an appearance or that the mood must become tense and somber–there are other ways to get your kids thinking! Here are a few ways to weave math into your dinner convo tonight:

1. How old is grandma? One of our kids asked how old grandma would be on her upcoming birthday. Instead of just telling them, we offered her year of birth, provided pencil and paper, and asked them to figure it out.

2. What about the dog? We got a puppy seven months after we got married. If we got married in August of 1998, roughly how old is our dog now? [cue the paper and pencils] How old is he in dog-years?  How old was the dog when you were 4?

3. Speaking of Marriage: If mom was born in 1975 and we got married in 1998, how old was mom when she walked down the aisle? [Repeat with dad].

4. When your brother is 10….? Our youngest son is in preschool and is not yet working to memorize math facts. However, this boy does not want to be left out! So we crafted a few simple questions for him like, “If your brother is 3 years older than you, how old will he be when you’re 6?” or in reverse,  ”When J is 10, how old will you be?”

We actually had fun and spent most of our dinner crafting problems and searching for solutions. Once we had discovered one grandma’s age, the kids prodded for information they could use to figure out the other grandparents’ ages. And with a little thinking we were able to incorporate our 5 year old effortlessly.

Next time you sit down for dinner, add a piece of paper and pencil to each place setting and flex your math muscles together; not only will it prepare your kids for the rigors of school, but it reinforces the idea that math really is an everyday skill.

Counting the Cost at Lent

My school year has been transformative for several reasons, but the most notable has been joining BSF, Bible Study Fellowship. This international Bible study brings over 200,000 students together over 38 countries each week; it’s truly mind-boggling to think that women in Africa and men in South America are opening to the same passages of Scripture and learning the same truths as we are in West Michigan.

Today our lecture leader wove several questions throughout her talk that seemed perfectly timed with the beginning of this rich and historical Lenten season. As you prepare your heart for a measured time of self-sacrifice, devotion, and prayer, perhaps these thoughts could spur you on–spur me on–to greater love and purpose.

• “Ministry that costs nothing accomplishes nothing.” Is it costing me anything to be a Christian today?
• “Jesus’ heart was to bless all, but to please just one.” This demonstrated his love and obedience. Am I being obedient to God? He never says it will be easy.
• Women, on average, speak 20,000 words a day! We weren’t saved to sit, so what am I doing with my 20,000 words a day?
• The Pharisees had religion, but no relationships. They knew duty, but lacked devotion. They had lists, but no love. Does this describe me in any way?
• Even those who believe have honest fears and doubts. But do I focus on the problems…or Promises?

What are you doing as you walk the calendar road to Resurrection Sunday? Have you been convicted? Encouraged?

Easy Recycling and Repurposing Craft

This past weekend my son was given a homework assignment to find an object that could be recycled or repurposed into something new and useful.

[DISCLAIMER: by useful, we don't mean turning a regular piece of paper into a paper airplane which another boy certainly did do as his project; I noted that you may as well take a Jimmy John's napkin and blow your nose in it and call that recycling].

Instead we turned to the wonderful world of youTube for some ideas. What we came up with is a bird feeder that I will actually use after the grading is done! Perhaps you’ll be inspired to make one with your kids–it’s the perfect way to welcome spring!

You will need:

• 1 empty [2L] bottle
• one 1/4 in dowel precut to about 10 inches
• an exacto knife for cutting
• a drill
• bird seed
• string for hanging

DIRECTIONS

1. Grab an empty 2Liter bottle from your recycle bin and strip away the label.
2. Using a craft blade or exacto knife, carefully cut two round circles across from each other in the bottle, approximately 4 inches from the bottom. These should be large enough to allow birds in but keep other pests out.
3. Again using your exacto knife, slice a small “x” shape about an inch below each of the round circles [picture the straw hole in your fast-food drink lid].
4. Insert your pre-cut dowel into the “straw hole” and through to the other side.
5. Fill feeder with bird seed.
6. Drill a small hole in the cap and insert a string for hanging.

Using a paper funnel to get the seed in.

 

 

What Are You Craving?

Today I’m tooting horns and celebrating with an acquaintance/church friend of mine awaiting the release of her first book, Craving Grace. I’m honored to have been given the opportunity to review this book in the next month or so…just in time for your Mother’s Day shopping and graduation-gift-buying!

On her blog today, Lisa’s asking you to post questions you might have about the book; please join me in checking it out! I’m sure I’m not the only one who’ll relate to her mini-bio on the back cover about a girl who did everything “right” until…one night.  [Hmmm!! I'm intrigued!]

What happens when perfectionism and rules and legalism crash into God’s sweetness, love, and grace? You get a great new book!

ICD Revisted

In August 2009 I posted a humorous take on my own made-up disorder: ICD–”Inter-Connectivity Disorder.” I purported that this disorder subconsciously connects faces into a criss-crossing web that leads me to exclaim, “You know who he LOOKS like?!” at least seven times a day.

The irony of this post, aside from being my most popular ever and based purely on an invented disease, is that many of my commenters thought it was real! They said things like, “I do the same thing and I’ve always wondered if there was a name for it!”

It simultaneously made me laugh and wonder if I’d be sued for fraud.

But mostly I laughed.

So in the spirit of silliness and adding a measure of light-heartedness to the gravity of global news, here is my latest connection:

  

Moammar Gadhafi

Henry, my little buddy and our dog's best friend

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, sweet little Henry. If only Gadhafi had a small measure of your kindness and joy for life, the world would be a much better place.

YOUR TURN: Who are your look-alikes? Leave a comment with names or link back to your own blog post about the same topic if you want to show photos.  Cheers to ICD!

Building Trust in the Small Things

When the lights fall and I’m lying motionless in a smudge of darkness, my prayers become loose and frayed and worry sets in. While many contend that worrying is “normal,” I know that many more would suggest it reveals my own lack of trusting God to hold the future. And as much as I’d like to say that notion is ridiculous, I know better.

In today’s world, we worry about any and everything. Does red dye in food cause hyperactivity? Does aluminum in our deodorant cause cancer? Should we quit drinking milk? Is red meat as bad as they say? Will our identities be stolen while we’re at the lakeshore? It can be maddening, really, and I think that we as Christians have a tough job when it comes to responsible stewardship and responsibly seeking health…while not getting sent into a tailspin with worry.

For me–and probably many of you–one of the concerns that immediately rises to the surface has to do with trusting our kids as they become more independent…and trusting that with God’s help and by his grace our parenting will prepare them for good choices and right living. Of course at this point I have no reason to think our children will turn to trolls when they hit fifteen, however, I do wonder:

• When my future teen leaves to spend time at a friend’s house, can I trust that he will really be where he claims to be?
• Can I trust that he or she will seek solid friendships instead of falling into the wrong crowd?
• Can I trust that she will refrain from watching TV shows or movies that clearly lie beyond the boundaries we’ve established?
• Will I be able to trust him to walk away when buddies pull out a Playboy or Maxim Magazine?

So one of the little things we’ve been trying to do is to use the language of trust with small things. For example:

• “Son, if I set the timer, can I trust that you’ll turn off the computer when your time is up?”
• “Daughter, it’s lights out and radio off at 8:30 tonight.  Can I trust you to do that?…or will I have to come back to check on you?”

Of course all this is an unproven and untested in the real world, but my prayer is that the kids will begin to see that trust is earned in small steps and with daily decisions.  Jesus himself says it perfectly in Luke 16:10:

“Whoever can be trusted with very little can also be trusted with much, and whoever is dishonest with very little will also be dishonest with much.”

Parents out there, what are your biggest worries? And what are your techniques for instilling the importance of trust in your children?

Please leave a comment and share them below so we can encourage each other!

Family Friday: Book Nights

Cover of WHERE THE RED FERN GROWS

Pop some popcorn and get in your jammies for Book Night!

My husband and I first considered taking story time beyond Officer Buckle and Gloria when one of his friends from work shared this simple idea: instead of “movie night” or “game night,” they do “book nights.” He mentioned how excited his kids get when they pile on the couch with a great chapter book.

Now, I can guess what you’re thinking: this is your big idea? Reading a BOOK?! Ok, I’ll admit that this is not rocket science, but I’d argue that for today’s families, hunkering down for an hour or two to read a chapter book is more difficult than it sounds.

You have to resist answering the phone.

You must carefully choose books that are compelling and classic, while being age-appropriate for each child.

You must make time.

Our most recently finished classic is the beloved Where The Red Fern Grows, by Wilson Rawls. If you’ve never read it, please add it to your to-do list immediately. Simple yet profound, this book will have you laughing and weeping and wondering if childhood can ever be the same as it was for the young protagonist.

One of my favorite passages says, “…People have been trying to understand dogs ever since the beginning of time. One never know what they’ll do. You can read every day where a dog saved the life of a drowning child, or lay down his life for his master. Some people call this loyalty. I don’t. I may be wrong, but I call it love–the deepest kind of love” [214].

There are some action sequences in this book that are a bit PG+, including the detailed death of a boy in a hunting accident, however the sweeping sentiment of love, hard work, and loyalty is priceless. To add some depth to the experience, I found the movie on the $5 rack at Target and our family enjoyed comparing and contrasting it to what we had read in the book. Our kids absolutely loved them both, but agreed that grandpa just didn’t look quite like they had pictured him in their minds [isn't that always the case?]

Last night we began a shorter chapter book, Who Was Harriet Tubman? It’s exciting to plan ahead and choose books that teach wonderful values [like Red Fern], encourage imagination [Narnia Series] and that teach history [Tubman, Island of the Blue Dolphins].

It takes purposeful evening planning to stay consistent, and I’ll admit that’s something we can improve on at our home. However, even snuggling up two or three times a week is a great family moment free from media and screens, but full of wonder and dreams.

Shovel It In, Kids. And Quiet Down While You’re At It.

How long does it take you to eat your lunch?

And what’s on your lunch menu, generally speaking?

Today I surprised my oldest and snuck up to school with a bag of processed goodness from a certain “Clown-Based Establishment” in our town. That’s right, McDonald’s was in the house school.  My son was over the moon with the revelation that meat sandwiches and apple slices would be replaced with cheeseburgers and fries. I, of course, gazed at the luke-warm patty sitting neatly on its yellow paper and calculated how I would completely nullify my morning workout in just one hearty serving of grease.

Super.

At any rate, this is not a post about the cuisine found at the Golden Arches. It is about school cafeterias and what I learned sitting at a round table of third-graders in the middle of the day:

1. They get fifteen minutes to eat their lunch. Some of you are probably thinking it takes you that long to relieve yourself [ahem], so how in the name of all that is holy could kids consume an entire lunch in fifteen minutes? Good question.  This is how:

2. They eat only the good stuff. A sweet boy and friend of my son was sitting a few butt-spaces over from us. I took mental notes on what he chose to eat from his bag-lunch.

• [1] Jell-o chocolate/vanilla swirl pudding cup
• [2] Chips ‘Ahoy cookies
• [1] bag of mostly crushed potato chips which were literally jammed into his mouth while the bell rang…before he politely declined my offer of a napkin and proceeded to smear salted hands down the front of his pants.  Mmmm.

3. It is loud and stressful. Now, I must commend our school for maintaining high and clear expectations and having disciplinary procedures in place; however, 100+ kids in a small echoey place? Not ideal.

4. Did I mention they get fifteen minutes to eat? And, might I highlight the fact that if they can’t properly stab their own Capri Sun or if you forgot to add a fork to their lunch box, they have to raise their hand and wait for a helper to come to their aid. Again, it makes sense to not have dozens of small bodies bustling around, but for real. We’re down to twelve minutes–best case scenario.

{EXHALE}

I guess the moral of the story is this : pack light, pack little, and tell your kids to sit down and shovel it in.

TICK.

TOCK.

Time’s a’wastin.’

Your Baby Doesn’t Come With Instructions

Do you find it rather unbelievable that we are asked to fill out nearly every detail of our existence to rent a movie from Blockbuster, that we are legally bound to take hunting and boating safety classes if we wish to pursue those hobbies, and that even ordering things online means creating accounts and passwords till the cows come home?

Thank you to Kamarah Sietsema for this lovely photo

It seems that so much of what we do–be it hobby or job or personal–requires jumping through some hoops. YET, what is arguably the most important job a parent will ever do [that's right--actually RAISE their kid] requires little more than watching a dusty video on Shaken Baby Syndrome before leaving the hospital. You can be the biggest turd in the zip code, running a meth lab in your shed and letting goats sleep in your living room, and if you want to reproduce the only thing there to stop you is a rusty zipper and the old box of pizza you left on the mattress the night before.

Comforting, I know.

Now don’t misunderstand: I’m not advocating for governmental oversight into parenting or reproduction. at. all. Ever. Period. Fin.

However, I’m merely making the point that there is no manual, no instruction book, and generally no formal training on disciplining your children or raising them to love the Lord or be kind, loving members of society [except for the gentle input of your mother-in-law...wink, wink]

Am I the only one who sees this irony?

So I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to say that parents often feel overwhelmed and defeated as they deal with screaming toddlers feigning death in the supermarket or dramatic school-goers who are having “the worst day EVER!”

It’s hard, right?!

While we’ll all have trials with our kids–and while we acknowledge that at the end of the day, they’ll still make their own choices–I don’t believe we have to feel hopeless.

Of course as parents we have the Bible to guide us. Proverbs will quickly become your best friend if your looking for ways to remind your kids [and yourself!] about anger and foolishness. But if you’re looking for something a bit more concise [i.e, leaving out all the exciting stories of death and rebellion and plagues], here are a few resources to consider:

For New Parents

Baby Wise, by Gary Ezzo and Robert Bucknam: INVALUABLE for newborns!!  A MUST!

Parenting Kids Who Can Speak

Shepherding a Child’s Heart, by Tedd Tripp: Fantastic resource for disciplining–even if you don’t agree with everything.

Bringing Up Boys / Bringing Up Girls, by James Dobson: I confess these are both in our home and on the nightstand, but I haven’t completed either yet. Friends who have read them highly recommend the insight gained.

General Resource

Words Kids Need To Hear [To Help Them Be Who God Made Them To Be], by David Staal: Tremendous book about how to love your kids better. Very quick read with great ideas; practical.

***

If you’re anything like me, you’ve got twenty-six other titles laying around that are half-read or in the “I really need to read this” pile. I can think of several off the top of my head that should be added above, but I’ll keep it brief for tonight.

What are your classic parenting books? Please leave a comment with your suggestions! Readers helping readers…

On Jobs and Polished Nails

I went to college at a time when I thought I had six job choices: nurse, lawyer, doctor, teacher, church-something-or-other, or the mysterious “business” person. It never occurred to me that there might be other fields outside the scope of my imagination that deserved consideration.

Shame.

As I’ve gotten older I’ve found myself in envious disbelief when I hear of people who dared to get a cool job–who dared to push themselves beyond the boundaries of the expected and the safe.

Packaging Engineer?  Huh??

Traveling Journalist? Really?

Website designer?? Wait…we didn’t have websites then…

This year marks my ninth home with our children and the bittersweet end of this road is drawing close. My feelings surrounding this event are immense and varied, and best saved for another post. However, the prospect of working again is on the horizon, and that prospect is at once exhilarating, intimidating, thrilling, and a bit daunting.

Although I am so thankful for my training and experience as a teacher–and although I am glad to use what I learned as a parent-who-teaches–I’m standing at a fork in the road and am considering a left turn. Something unexpected. Something that might be considered “a bit of a stretch.” I think I’m finally ready to brave the unwritten pages of a new chapter rather than return to the classroom [insert many prayers here].

I’m considering things for this next chapter that I love, but acknowledge they probably won’t ever move beyond hobby and into a real money making “here’s-your-paycheck” type of job.  That could pose a bit of a dilemma, but I’m not going to let pragmatics and potential problems stand in the way. I’m dreaming about the what-if’s and the why-not’s.

And I’ve decided.  I want to work here:

Oh. my. It’s stunning, right?

Now, on to the practical: What kind of job, you ask?

Well…technically, I don’t know yet.

I just know that it’s going to require this laptop and some really gorgeous shoes. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to keep my nails polished so that I can page through lovely paper samples and examine stunning photographs without the embarrassment of a stray hangnail.

Sigh… Sounds dreamy, right?

Helping me along with the fantasy is Lavender & Lilies, who posted this box of eye candy last week, including the photo above.

Thanks for the dreams, L&L.  I’ll be back for more.

Moms out there who are contemplating a return to work outside the home, how are you processing? What are your aspirations?

Hearing Isaiah in a Painted Sky

“Who has measured the waters in the hollow of his hand,
or with the breadth of his hand marked off the heavens?
Who has held the dust of the earth in a basket,
or weighed the mountains on the scales
and the hills in a balance? ”

“To whom will you compare me?
Or who is my equal?” says the Holy One.
Lift up your eyes and look to the heavens:
Who created all these?
He who brings out the starry host one by one
and calls forth each of them by name.
Because of his great power and mighty strength,
not one of them is missing…”

Do you not know?
Have you not heard?
The LORD is the everlasting God,
the Creator of the ends of the earth.

[Isaiah 40: 12-13, 25-26, 28]

Valentine’s Day Part 2: Hunting for Treasure

It’s probably the hibernating teacher within that brings me round to setting up riddles and scavenger hunts for my kids. Yes, after all these years of standing in slippers wiping butts and noses, there are moments when that alter-ego is dusted off and put to use. My hands start scrawling notes with time stamps and abbreviations, planning out each section of our night and crossing my fingers for a normal bedtime. I stay awake into the wee hours of silver moonlight thinking about how it will unfold and try to convince myself that this is all very normal.

This Valentine’s Day, having already delivered the cookies, we planned for some family time that centered around a hunt. The goal was to come up with a creative way to unveil their gifts and cards instead of looking at them all and saying in a benign tone, ”Here you go.  Happy Valentine’s Day.” [cue pink cards and wrapping paper flopping weakly on the table].

PLAN:

1. kids will find hidden riddles and mini-gift bags accompanying each clue [one bag per kid]
2. run riddles and gifts one-at-a-time back to living room and start a pile
3. continue searching
4. once all 6 cards are found, sit as a group to solve each riddle
5. riddles are intentionally scrambled and kids will have to unscramble “clue” words [below in bold caps] to form a coherent sentence which will tell them what to do

SCAVENGER HUNT CLUES:

1. Look up Genesis 8:16. What did God tell Noah to do? ["COME out of the ark..."
2. Look up John 14:1. Write down the word before "hearts": [YOUR]
3. Look up John 3:16. Write the first word here: [FOR]
4. Write down the missing homophone: two, too, [TO]
5. Look up Genesis 43:26. What was presented to Joseph? [GIFTS]
6. Look up Exodus 20:12. Whom must you honor? [YOUR FATHER AND MOTHER]

The kids worked together to form: Come to your father and mother for your gifts –or–For your gifts, come to your father and mother.  They got it! Running downstairs they found their gifts laid out in three piles: nothing special, but something to let them know they were thought of. A small card, a little candy, lots of love.

So it was a great Valentine’s Day at the Graham household. We didn’t get to the Bingo game or The Story of St. Valentine as I had wanted, but the kids enjoyed the challenge and the mystery of the hunt nonetheless.

Try it next time you want to send your family a creative message–maybe even something like “pick up your disgusting clothes pile” will turn into a fun!

Valentine’s Day Part 1: Spread Some Love

Don’t we all wish there was a fool-proof recipe or some sort of silicon mold that promised to shape our children into the caring, generous, love-filled humans we want them to be? Or perhaps some magic powder we could sprinkle on heads or tiny feet that guaranteed sweetness and compassion?

Instead, we parents carry the burden–and joy–of instilling these values and character traits into our children with purposeful teaching and through personal example. In my own life, I can think of incredibly generous individuals whom I so admire, and others that I love dearly, but who seem to squander opportunities to spread love. Taking time to reflect on both possibilities can help us parent with “the end in mind.”

So it was perfect timing that our youngest son’s AWANA homework last week was to make Valentines’ cards with his memory verse on them.  We decided to tackle it as a family and started our Valentine’s Day celebration with the premise that we should share love with our neighbors.  Although they may argue that they’re sick of our baked goods and annoyed by little hands ringing doorbells in the dark, we think it’s fun and enjoy these small moments.  Neighbors, thanks for graciously welcoming our children…and our cookies

 

Heading out for deliveries

 

 

Easy Meal Idea With a Side of Smiles

If you’ve been a long-time reader, you will know that my kitchen prowess is, well, a bit unpolished. That is to say, I should have auditioned for Anne Burrell’s Worst Cook in America. I’m sure I could put on quite a show with my colorful creations.

HOWEVER. In a moment of serendipitous delight, I actually hit one out of the park this past week! Of course the protein was prepackaged and precooked, but hey–once the Costco food testers get you drooling in the aisles, there’s really no turning back.

Here are the details.  Go ahead and add it all to your shopping list:

• 1 french bread baguette
• baby spinach
• sliced tomatoes [I make mine half-moon shaped]
• dipping herbs + EVOO
• Amylu’s Chicken Burgers [YUM!!]

I use my lovely new panini press to toast the french bread which has been generously slathered in the EVOO and herbs. Next, to accommodate the size of the “bun” I cut the burgers in half. This is also a tricky portion control stunt I use to reduce my tendancy to strap on the feed bag and go to town.  Last, top with spinach and tomato and BAM! Instant smiles!

I slice my bread on a bias so that the "buns" are bigger

Prepare your dipping sauce to baste the bread

Mmmm! Hot and toasty...

Toss on your chicken burgers for those great grill marks

Garnish...

Enjoy!

 

Family Friday: Compassion Project

I don’t know about where you live, but the past few weeks have blasted West Michigan with painfully icy wind and record-breaking snowfall. I wish I could say that I’m loving it, but in truth, I’m counting the days until we can flee like frozen refugees for asylum on some non-specified Florida beach.

While our climate can seem oppressive, weeks like these do provide fodder for thought if you’re looking for matter to ponder. At our home, the relentless weather led to a meaningful conversation about the homeless in our community. Tucked safely in our cozy home like birds in a nest, we empathized and tried to comprehend life in their scuffed shoes. We imagined a cold night without restful sleep or a place to go, and decided that there had to be something we could do–however small–to show compassion.

We came up “The Compassion Project.” Sitting down together, the kids dictated a letter to our neighbors which I typed up.  It started out:

“Dear Neighbors,

Have you ever imagined what it would be like if you lived in Michigan in the winter and were homeless? I bet it would be freezing.

Together as the Graham Family we are working to collect blankets you don’t need or care about that we could take to people who are homeless. We will deliver them to Mel Trotter…”

After dad made copies, we drove our little offspring around the neighborhood to deliver the letters and later in the week we collected the blankets. We were surprised and grateful to those who scouted out forgotten quilts, washed them, and had them ready when we came around in the suppertime darkness. At the end of the night, we had almost 30 blankets!

Tired but happy

Bagged up and ready for drop off

That weekend we delivered everything to Mel Trotter, a shelter in downtown Grand Rapids. While I wanted the kids to see the reality of life on the margins of society, more important to me was instilling in them the idea that showing love and concern for others doesn’t have to be a monumental undertaking. You don’t need a million dollars. You don’t have to know the president. You certainly don’t have to be a grown up!

Why not reach outside yourself today with the little ones that you love? Whether nieces or nephews, grandchildren, kids at church or school–or your own children–find a small act of compassion that you can do together. Love always brings a little extra sunshine to the winter snow!

Check back next week for another Family Friday idea…and be sure to share your own great ideas by leaving a comment below!

An Our Final Winner Is…

KAREN SILVA!  Karen, you will soon be the proud new owner of Keri Wyatt Kent’s book, Simple Compassion. I’ll be contacting you to make arrangements for shipping!  Hope it’s a blessing!

Thanks for playing

Peanuts in the Morning

Do you remember the sound of Charlie Brown‘s teacher on The Peanuts? She had that muffled “whaa-whaa-whaa” of an expertly muted trumpet combined with some sort of nasally resonance never before heard on earth–much less in a classroom. How Linus ever managed to do anything beyond “pound erasers” is beyond me.

Which brings me to our home this morning. It seems I must sound like the Peanuts teacher to my kids. I see them stare blankly into my eyes, their gaze hollow and questioning. I swear they see my mouth moving and may even note a waving hand or pointing finger. What they don’t seem to capture, however, are any of the things that come tumbling out of my mouth before 8:30 in the morning.

“What?…get dressed? What are you talking about?!”

“Huh? Hurry up? What for?”

“Brush my teeth? I did that before bed last night!”

Well, ok…they really didn’t say those things, but they may as well have. Instead of saying those things they:

1. Did not get dressed [or run an ever-loving comb through their ever-loving hair]

2. Did not hurry up [missed the ever-loving BUS]

3. Did brush their teeth, but also managed to drop the toothpaste on the floor [awesome]

Friends, what’s up with the pre-bus stop disconnect? Why–in February mind you–is it so fantastically difficult to get buttons fastened and socks on feet? How long does it really take to suit up in snow gear–and should I clock this task in minutes or hours?

Tomorrow, instead of fighting and going crazy in my head, maybe I’ll just look at them and express, in all candor, my true feelings:

“WHAA WHAA WHAA.”

I promise: they won’t know the difference.

Thin Places goes to…

DENA!  Congratulations!  You’re the new owner of my gently-used copy of Mary DeMuth’s Thin Places.  I’ll be contacting you for further details soon!

And Monday’s Winner Is…

Terri from nanasfaith.blogspot.com ! You are the proud new owner of my Defiance Texas Trilogy set, by Mary DeMuth.  I’ll be contacting you for your shipping information so that I can get the books in the mail by the end of the week!

Congrats!

 

And The Winner Is…

Terri from nanasfaith.blogspot.com ! You are the proud new owner of my Defiance, Texas Trilogy set, by Mary DeMuth.  I’ll be contacting you for your shipping information so that I can get the books in the mail by the end of the week!

Congrats!

 

Take Care of Your ‘Neighbs With Some Simple Compassion

Today, one of our local news reporters delivered his thoughts on this record-breaking weather while stationed up to his thighs in snow on a fake deck. Nice touch, I thought. One leg was in a “normal” section of the snow while the other was dramatically stomped into a tall drift, making the point that with the wind comes a new problem: blowing snow piling up to legendary heights.

Thoughtfully, this reporter not only called us all to personally use care and caution while outside, but to go the extra mile and check in on a neighbor. Blow out another driveway. Help someone get down the sidewalk. Keep your mailbox free and clear for the postal worker. In other words, exhibit some simple compassion.

This news snippet brought to mind a book I reviewed last year by Keri Wyatt Kent, Simple Compassion: Devotions to Make a Difference in Your Neighborhood and Your World. This book will be the subject of today’s free book giveaway! [Click on "Book Reviews" above for more information].

You have a week to do this–and a week to tell all your friends so they can throw their name in the hat. If living the Way of Jesus is important to you [instead of just talking or reading about it], this book is the perfect catalyst to get you thinking.

To enter your name into this contest, simply:

1.  Link TO my blog FROM your blog, facebook page, or twitter.

2.  Leave a comment below so that your name can be entered into the random drawing.

The winner will be announced next week Wednesday, FEB. 9. Good Luck!

More Exciting Than A Blizzard? A FREE BOOK!

It seems that nothing has the power to transform meteorologists into giddy children like a rollicking storm. Weathermen and women posted outdoors in the bluster seem thrilled to be at the center of such epic developments, their stern admonitions to skedaddle to the gas station and grocery store delivered while leaning precariously on the margins of a barely-visible highway.  There, hanging on for dear life, they convince us that the world as we know it may very well be coming to an end, sending school kids everywhere into a tizzy of snow day speculation.  [Ours are prepping for a sibling slumber party even as I type!]

THANKFULLY there’s a spark of light in all this blizzardy drama!  A free book for you!! Up for adoption today is my read-and-reviewed copy of Mary DeMuth‘s powerful memoir, Thin Places, published last February by Zondervan. [For more information, click on "Book Reviews" above].  Part of the reason I’ve chosen to share this book is that I found it to be so compelling, so raw and honest, that anyone who picks it up is bound to be changed. I hope that you’ll agree…and that you’ll pass it on to bless someone else in your community after you’ve laid it down.

If you’d like to toss your name in the ring, simply:

1. Post a link TO my blog FROM your blog, facebook page, or Twitter.

2.  Leave a comment below so that your name can be placed in the random drawing [I use random.org]

That’s it!  Unlike this blizzard–which should blow over in the next couple of days–you have a week.

The winner will be announced next week Tuesday, February 8. Good luck!

Book Giveaway Week!

This past week while huffing through a morning deathmatch with our eliptical machine, my gaze fell on the nearby spines of several books have been given to me over the years to review. Having gotten them with the intention of spreading the word, I figured that it’s high time they should be put up for adoption; after all, books can only inspire others when they’re read, which means they need to come down off the shelf and land squarely a pair of open hands. Maybe your hands?

Mary E. DeMuth

So to kick things off, I’m giving away my Defiance Texas Trilogy set by Mary DeMuth. I’ve reviewed all three of these books for Mary and can’t say enough about her storytelling or the effort she invests in her craft.  [If you'd like to read my reviews or learn more about any of her stories, click on the "Book Reviews" tab at the top].

To win all three gently-used books, simply add a link TO my blog FROM your blog or facebook page, then leave a comment below to submit yourself into the random drawing. Remember to enter your blog address in the comments form, leave an email address, or check back so that I can find you to discuss shipping options!

I’ll announce the winner next week Monday, February 7.

Tomorrow’s giveaway will be another fantastic Mary DeMuth book: her memoir, Thin Places. If you know anyone who has ever dealt with the pain of losing a parent at a young age, endured a broken home, or felt the shame of sexual abuse, you’ll want to visit tomorrow to enter.  Perhaps your contest win could be a life-changing gift for someone you hold dear, if not for yourself.

Family Friday: Indoor Skeet Shooting

I have to give major props to my husband for this one–it’s totally his brain and creativity that adds so much color and life to our home.  What can I say–he has a PhD. I guess you have to be crazy … colorful to get to that point.

In fact, tonight on Modern Family, one of our favorite shows, Claire said to her son Luke, “Luke, don’t know it’s a rule that you can only have one fun parent?” That’s Brandon, friends.  I’m “fun” in the “let’s have a teachable moment and do something nice for so-and-so” sense of the word.  So if that’s fun, I’m hilarious.

At any rate, Brandon came up with this beauty over Christmas break when our Nerf arsenal was at an all-time high. Walking around like a chew-spittin’, saggy-pants-hikin’, told’ja-so cowboy, he proposed we needed a little indoor skeet shootin’.

Welcome to Kentucky.

This evening proved to be a lot of fun, and I think the take-away for me was just how easy it is to be inventive and creative with stuff you’ve got laying around the house anyway.  In a nutshell, here was the night:

1.  Dad goes to the second story with balloons

2.  Dad drops balloons over the ledge [our 2-story foyer is open]

3.  Kids armed with double-barrelled Nerf guns wait at the ready, aiming for the balloons.

4.  Kid who makes contact with the most balloons wins [daughter who enjoys note-taking will keep score].

and of course, Mom and Mr. Fun give it a whirl, too…

Look at me!  A different kind of “hilarious.”  Try it!

What a Great Idea!

I love to share great ideas. If it’s something that can encourage or edify–I’m your blogger. [keep that in mind and send my your besties!]

Recently my dear friend Lyndsey sent me a link to her friend’s design blog–you know–the kind of designer that nearly makes you feel like a kindergardener coloring with jumbo crayons stuck between your toes in comparison. But I say that in love and admiration.  April is amazing.

Anywho, I love April’s idea so much I’m linking to her site so you can check it out for yourself.  My husband and I have been working on our own version of this on a piece of wood he rescued from a gym floor…when it’s done you can bet you’ll see it here first

April’s Family Rules Canvas Idea is just a click away…

 

Fortune Cookies: Free Therapy

Let’s pause for a moment of honesty.  [Exhale through the nose]…

thanks to travelstart.com for the photo

I ate the whole. box.

[Minus five cookies which were generously allotted to my children.]

I mean, this was over several days, so don’t go pointing fingers.  I’m sure I’m not the only person who’s ever eaten more than the “suggested serving size.” Those are just guidelines, anyway.

I didn’t really know I loved fortune cookies this much until they became a secret treasure to be consumed in the late evening hours. Preferably during an edifying episode of The Bachelor.  In case you didn’t know, some food just tastes better in your pajamas [no charge for that priceless tidbit].

Maybe it’s the elastic waist band that is so forgiving, or the fact that it’s quiet and you can hear your teeth crunching without the background noise of kids fighting over who forgot to flush the toilet.

At any rate, what I discovered [beyond my penchant for binging] is that fortune cookies are like free therapy! Who knew?! Biting into one of these is like flipping on a grown-up version of Barney and having a group of cheerleaders spring into your living room for encouragement, cartwheels and all.

So now I know: in those moments when gray clouds seem to crawl over my future, all I need to do is look at this array of oh-so-specific fortunes for a quick pick-me-up:

1. “You will make a sudden rise in life.” [That is correct. Starting with my weight.]

2. “Opportunity will soon knock. When it does, answer the door!” [Ding-Dong: Girl Scout cookies!]

3. “Your golden opportunity is coming shortly.”

4. “The weekend ahead predicts enjoyment.”

5. “A charming friendship is in the making.” 

6. “Grant yourself a wish this year; only you can do it.”

7. “Opportunities surround you if you know where to look.”

Don’t you just feel better already? I told you–instant cheerleaders, right? Opportunities abound, and good times and charming friends are coming my way! Fantastic!

So next time you need free therapy, head down your nearest “ethnic” aisle at the grocery story and look for that lovely, shiny blue box of LaChoy goodness.  Happiness and instant optimism for only $1.97!

Grab your jammies and dive in.

Family Friday: Spiritual Formation

I’ve been thinking about posting this for awhile now, and thanks to the encouragement of a friend am finally getting around to it. This Friday I thought I’d share an idea I had for bringing Scripture into the kitchen–which we all know is where all the action is, and arguably, the heart of the home. The look and specific location of this thing in our kitchen would definitely NOT make the cut on Dear Genevieve or Divine Design, but I think it’s ‘divine’ all the same [terrible pun, I know].

A little background: When our kids were little I’d search the Bible for Scripture passages that could teach a lesson [i.e, "It is good to share what we have"] and were short enough to get caught in the crazy brain of a 3 year old. I’d print them out on cardstock paper, have the kids draw what they think the verse meant on that same paper, and then put them in a binder that we’d look at before bed.  It worked great, and if you’re a mom of young kids I’d still recommend it.

The problem with growing kids is that it becomes–or is becoming in our home–more difficult to sit down together every night without the static of homework and sports and dad being gone. The binder got put in a basket and we started getting it out less and less.  I decided there had to be a better way to get this stuff in front of our kids’ faces and into their hearts.  So here’s what I came up with:

I bought these nifty magnetic ropes from Home & Company [I know...I'm obsessed...] and decided to condense my goals into two parts: 1) here’s what we believe, and 2) here’s how we want to live.

Now when I find those clincher verses I write them out on flashcards and put them up under the appropriate category.  

This way we can reference them during conversations and they see them every time they leave the house and return home again.  And so do I.  Because I don’t know about you, but my Scripture skills can always stand some remediation!

Lastly, the verse that we’re focussing on today [or for us it's every-two weeks] goes up on the fridge.  We reference it mostly when it comes up in discussion or when it’s a natural teaching moment.  I almost never say, “Ok, kids! Repeat after me!” [unless I'm really torked about something and need drop the holy hammer].  Rather, it’s more something like this:

“Wow, you guys.  Look at this article in the paper today.  The homeless people in our city are really struggling.  Can you even imagine what it would be like to not have a warm home or a place to rest at night?  What do you think we could do to show them kindness and love?”  [more on this specific convo another time].

[Mom, continuing]: “…it reminds me of this verse we’re studying…”

Next to our verse we have our prayer focus.  I blotted out the names we have up there right now to protect privacy, but we talk about it as a family and decide together who we can be praying for in a special way.

And you know what?  Kids get it!  They really do.

Be encouraged, moms and dads and those of you with special kids in your lives.  Your efforts at home–even when they seem to go in one ear and out through a sassy mouth–do matter.  And if you’re walking it–they’ll remember it.

Do you have a great idea to share? Leave a comment or email me privately; maybe I’ll contact you to be a guest blogger for me in a future Family Friday!

What Women Tell Me: Finding Freedom From The Secrets We Keep, by Anita Lustrea

“As a girl and young woman, I memorized hundreds of Scripture verses in vacation Bible school and in Sunday school.  I grew up memorizing the hymn book. I didn’t, however, grow up understanding much about God’s grace and freedom.” [pg. 191]

For so many women around the country, the melodic sound of Anita Lustrea’s voice piping into the kitchen each day on Moody Radio is a call to sit down with a good sandwich and breathe deeply during the lunch hour.  Speaking for myself, her show Midday Connection has been a welcome hour-marker in my day; for years I have flipped on the radio, scrambled to hush crying babies or quickly closed the door on a noisy washing machine so that her conversations could bring light into my day. You can imagine, then, how I felt to have received a note from her asking me to review her new book [WOW!].  And after you read the book yourself, you’ll understand the joy I felt in turning each page [11+ pages dog-eared].

While the topics discussed in Anita’s book are reflective of what one might hear on Midday, rather than threading in an outside voice to the dialogue, Anita stitches in her own unvarnished story of growing up and grappling with the ebb and flow of life. Whether it be loneliness, struggling with fitting in, divorce, single motherhood, or body issues, Anita’s journey is told with the curtain pulled back and the lights fully on. To her credit, she doesn’t retreat into silence when discomfort creeps in: she tackles it with truth and the kind of authenticity that brings the reader back through the chapters of her own history to the place where she can whisper, “me too.”

What struck me about What Women Tell Me was how well-crafted each chapter was. Opening each chapter with an email snippet from a radio listener, Anita dives in with her own stories recounted from various points in her life, drawing on Scripture and noted authors for depth and breadth. With a skill and eloquence that is not overdone, people, places, and emotions become real–nearly tangible.  I could picture the junior high version of Anita navigating the halls of her school.  I could sense the deep longing within her for true, lasting friendship.  I remembered having been there myself.

In particular, Anita’s bravery in discussing both divorce and the issue of pornography should be applauded–especially by those within the church who often turn a blind eye [or fire quick judgment] to these kind of bleeding wounds.  I was surprised by all the hurt and struggle the Lord has brought into Anita’s life, yet she unfolds each detail with the hope that her story can bring freedom to another shrouded in secrets.

Anita is real and unflinching in her storytelling and in her faith.  I picked up the book with curiosity and put it down next to a list of people with whom I need to share it. If you have ever felt the tight, suffocating grip of secrets, I encourage you to read this book while you seek the freedom Christ died to give you: “It is for freedom that Christ has set us free.  Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery.” Galations 5:1.

This year, end your slavery to secrets and isolation! Choose today to unyoke yourself.  Find room to breathe, room to cry, room to be real…in the pages of What Women Tell Me, and ultimately, in the arms of Jesus.

Family Friday: Engaging in the News

Stop rolling your eyes.

If you’re honest, I’ll bet at least a handful of you are contemplating a click of the mouse right now, mumbling something like, “There’s nothing good in the news–I can’t even stand to turn on the TV or open the paper!  And there’s no way I’d show any of it to my kids!”

OK.  Calm down.  Don’t get your panties in a bunch.  This is a really cool idea and if you’re into intercessory prayer, I think you’ll be on board.

Over the past couple of weeks you’ve probably heard the story of Ted Williams, the man with the “Golden Voice” who was discovered panhandling on the side of a Columbus, Ohio freeway [you can watch a CBS Morning Show clip here]. A drug addict and homeless man who hadn’t seen his mother in 20 years, Williams once held a job as a radio announcer and was blessed with a new beginning as the voice for a Kraft Macaroni & Cheese ad that aired this past Sunday on ESPN.

Getting to the point: our local Grand Rapids Press printed his story and I was struck by Williams’ final remarks: “I just hope,” he said, “everyone will pray for me.”

This article is now cut out and will be read by our family tonight at dinner before making its way into our photo-album prayer journal.  We’ve cut out and prayed for other newspaper faces before, including a very moving season of prayer for a local 17 year-old boy whose poor choices meant that Christmas would be spent in jail.  We prayed for his safe and quick return home.  We prayed that he would find one good friend in jail.  And we prayed for his family.

In my opinion, although sweeping prayers “for our government” or “for our leaders” are not bad, I’m not convinced that they mean much–if anything–to kids.  Who are these leaders, anyway?  And…what’s a government??

No, kids need faces.  They need a story. And they need a reason to care.  Wouldn’t you agree that a man returning home to his mother after 20 years of being apart would conjure powerful emotions in a child whose entire world revolves around mom and dad?

I believe that drawing the hurts of the world into your home–the hurts of strangers–is a powerful demonstration of intercessory prayer for your kids. It gives your family the opportunity to talk about the choices of these individuals, about what went right and what went wrong.  It opens the door for empathy and compassion: “How would you feel if…” And of course, it reminds us of the hope and joy available to all in Christ; it reminds us that even dead-beats and dead-ends can find rescue and resurrection.

They just need someone praying for them.

Will it be you?

Tangled Up In Applause!

For those of you look beyond the paltry three-sentence reviews in the newspaper to determine whether the latest Disney or Pixar flick is a good fit for your clan, I’m using this post as an opportunity to share my thoughts on Tangled.

Having walked out on or turned off many a movie in my day due to an easily-frightened child at home, I have to be very cautious with our film selections–especially when shelling out $14 at the mall for a matinee [highway robbery!!]  Thankfully, we were very pleasantly surprised at both the beauty of the animation and cinematography [ok...that was me] and the humor and delight of the story line [that was my child...and me!].  All thumbs up!

For those of you unfamiliar with the tale, Rapunzel was stolen away from her crib as a baby by the manipulative Gothel, who raises her as her own child for the express purpose of having access to the magical healing and restorative qualities of the girl’s hair. Disney successfully adds a colorful cast of thugs and animals to deliver that coveted “princess” quality we all love.  Rapunzel is sweet and dreamy, a girl at war with her desire to obey house rules, yet longing to be free. Flynn Ryder, Disney’s hero and would-be-prince of the story, undergoes welcome change after beginning the movie as a thief and liar–a change which is wonderful to watch and even better fodder for conversation at home. Unlike the Brother’s Grim story, this version sets the stage with Rapunzel’s estranged biological parents as king and queen of the land, so the stakes are high for her safe return.

True to Disney’s feel-good style, the moral of the story is to follow your dreams, even if it means scaling mountains or risking life and limb [or in this case, one's hair] to do so. There are some lovely songs that showcase the innocence of Rapunzel and others that expose Gothel for the wicked woman she truly is. We laughed and nearly cried…and most of all, we had a great time.

If you’re stuck on the PG rating, I think you can move ahead with relative calm and confidence if you’re okay with these elements [note: some spoilers]:

Gothel, the evil “mother” [kidnapper] is very scary looking until she is made younger by touching Rapunzel’s hair.  In fact, toward the end of the movie when Rapunzel’s hair loses its powers, Gothel shrivels up to a haunting skeleton-like hag.  Of course being shrouded by a black cape and hood only adds to her foreboding appearance.  Additionally, she meets her doom by falling out of the tower window; although you see her hit the grass and see her cape floof out, Disney spares you any gore here.

Continuing with Gothel, she does sport a tight, low-cut dress throughout the movie. When Rapunzel hugs her, her face lands squarely on mom’s perfect breast.  I’ll admit that I found it a bit distracting. I mean, really.  Who runs through the mountains collecting parsnips for dinner with full cleavage on display?

Evil “stepmother” character take 3:  In one nighttime scene the camera pans to the side and you suddenly see her [again with the cape and hood] standing silently behind Rapunzel, which is unexpected and actually a bit startling.  [I warned our fam about this ahead of time].  At the end of the movie she also appears to stab Flynn and his death seems imminent, however Rapunzel’s magic restores him [again--I told the kids that Flynn wouldn't die.]

There is also a scene in the local watering hole with a gang of criminals who are quite scary, including one who speaks as though intoxicated. We knew about this ahead of time, and also knew that in a matter of seconds these limb-missing, toothless thugs would burst into song.  It actually is one of the funnier parts of the story, but worth mentioning to your young ones.

Lastly, there’s the wonderful kiss and happy ending that we all want when we go see a fairy tale.  It’s a fantastic animated film that will please both boys and girls…and their parents.

If you’ve already seen it, what would you add to this review?  Please leave a comment!

 

The Good, The Bad, and The [very] Ugly

It’s no secret that I’m not all that gifted in the kitchen.  I mean, I try. Really, I do. I occasionally reference a recipe and even give a passing thought to planning my meals.  At my best I actually enjoy our dinners, savor each bite, and make a note to copy each procedure to the nth degree.  At my worst I don’t even eat what I cook.  I keep a bowl of Raisin Bran handy and sneak bites while the kids work on my debacle.  Is that bad?

My latest strategy is to watch The Cooking Channel…while I’m on the elliptical machine–my own homespun version of kitchen penance and self-induced food torture.  I did recreate a Giada “Venetian Holiday” recipe this past Saturday that successfully livened up the abysmal Bowl Games.  Not that besting U of M or State was that difficult, however, considering what happened tonight, it must be pointed out.

This evening’s foray into Costco’s lightly breaded Tilapia was an average success, paired with mashed potatoes and broccoli that never fails to be cold by the time it climbs onto my fork [why is that?]. When I noticed that one of the kids’ fish still looked a little…shall we say…fishy, I slid it back under the broiler for what I intended to be just a quick wink…and of course promptly forgot about.  The result?

FLAME BROILED

Standard.  Bad and [very] ugly wrapped in bread crumbs.  And absolutely obliterated. Reaching for the Raisin Bran now…

 

In better news, THE GOOD:

What I lack in front of the stove I’m hoping to make up for behind wrapping paper. I’ve been working on a special gift for my niece’s fifth birthday tomorrow.  Blank canvas, paint, a pack of $4 brushes and fingers crossed = this:

In the beginning was the base coat...and the base coat was varied...

...then came the letters...

Dots and dashes in the details.

Do you think she'll like them?

YES.  I am taking orders.  The fish isn’t working, but the canvas just might…

For Your Olfactorial Pleasure

Ok, I’m not really sure that’s a word, but I’m guessing you know what I mean.

Smells!  Good ones!

I discovered a wonderful new candle that I just have to rave about—and adding frosting and sprinkles to the news is that these are locally made! Lakeshore Candles burn evenly, smell awesome, are soy-based, and come with a reasonable price tag. Check them out at Holland’s Home & Company, found in 8th Street’s Clock Tower Building.

Frasier Fur and Winter Wonderland are perfect for the snowy season!

Dare I Put It In Print??

Dear friends and marginally-invested visitors,

It’s time to own up to the truth.  I must remove the mask and costume and be honest: I am a blue-ribbon slacker. You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I kick butt and take names when it comes to slacking.

Sure, my cupboards are newly organized and my 38-piece set of Snapware is finally put away, but truth be told, I am completely undisciplined. I start things and get distracted by the washing machine beeping and thoughts of seeing John Mayer in my living room in concert. I pause to find a recipe on the internet and end up planning a fictitious vacation to St. Croix. I think about exercising and settle for a quickly-paced trip upstairs to make the bed. Pathetic.

I need to get my poop in a group already!

So!  Along with millions of other slackers who use the onset of a new year to get their life into gear, I am putting some ambitions into print.  Well, I’m putting two ambitions into print because things get real after they’re written down for the world to see.  The rest will be hanging on my bathroom mirror.  No need to raise the bar too high too quickly.

1. I’d like to use this blog as a place for sharing fun family activities.  My husband is pretty creative and I figure sharing his genius is your gain.  So, if you’re looking for ways to enjoy your kids outside of video games and without heavy doses of Day Quil, come back and look for Family Fridays.  I’m hoping to be on the job with this weekly. Please come back and leave your comments! I’d like this blog to be [dare I say it...] helpful, rather than just a collection of my ramblings. There are more than enough ramblers out there.

2.   “Run, Forrest, RUN!” So far in my life I’ve run three 5Ks, and would like to add a 10K to my unimpressive resume this May.  Firming up my gut rolls will be an added benefit if I can ignore the dessert tray in the meantime. If you live in the area and want to join me, I’m aiming to be laced up and jumping around behind the starting line of the Fifth-Third River Bank Run on May 14. Considering my age and the height of my arches, this is a tall order. I’d love to know that I’m not the only crazy person out there, paying to run down the streets of Grand Rapids on Mother’s Day weekend. If you don’t want to join me but would like to submit a great song for my iPod, please leave a comment.  It is decidedly time to expand my hip-hop tunes beyond Gold Digger.

So, there you have it.  What kinds of things are on your list this year?  Will they make it into print?

New Year’s Eve Traditions

Contrary to the throngs of Time-Square-pounding, diamond-clad, smoky-eyed, horn-blowing ladies waving their champagne flutes to the thumping beat of the Black Eyed Peas, I was at home this New Year’s Eve wearing hoops and yoga pants, sporting mascara-free lashes and thumping–ok, humming–to the sultry beats of 40′s jazz that I got for free at a wedding reception.

No Dick Clark, no Ryan Seacrest, no Kathy Griffith.  Instead, my husband and our kids.

For the past three years on New Year’s Eve, we’ve stayed home, opting to forego the hassle of babysitters and overpriced parties.  We turn off the lights, set candles aflame, and celebrate the gift of another year together.

Our night begins around 6:30 with appetizers: this year we made our favorite jalapeno popper recipe from my neighbor.  We pulled porterhouses and sizzlers from the freezer [we did our kids the favor of giving them the steak "without the bone."  Such a sacrifice...], chopped and roasted vegetables, baked potatoes, made salads, and prepared dipping sauce for the warm french baguette.  With sparkling grape juice on ice, we pulled everything together for dinner in our pajamas–always a hit!

After dinner we dug out our special memory journal and read aloud the memories we wrote last year, sighing and smiling at the mention of things long forgotten; things that might seen insignificant and trivial to those on the outside looking in, but precious and treasured to those of us storing them inside our hearts.  We went around the table and shared our favorite memories for 2010, adding them to the annals, and then set goals for the New Year.

While I’m not naive to the possibility of this all shriveling away at the onset of dating high school gatherings, I hope that these nights will always be special to our kids.  I hope that they’ll remember staying up late when they were 5 and 7 and 8, and consider the fun we had and the kooky things we did together. I tell myself we’re doing it for them–to build strong bonds and strengthen the love that holds us together.  But really, maybe I’m doing it for myself.  So in those moments of change and doors closing behind teenagers, I’ll have memories like this for myself.

 

J making the steak marinate.

Mushrooms and zucchini tossed in EVOO and seasonings

 

China and crystal...and candles suspended in rice because I don't have the right kind of candleholders!

 

Thanks to the kind gift from a friend, we each had wine glass jewels!

 

"A" preparing the dipping sauce

 

Daddy pouring the Sparkling White Grape Juice...made in Michigan!

 

Smiling brothers

 

Celebrating with cupcakes!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Happy New Year, Everyone!

Stuff 2011 with all the memories you can!

 

 

Settling for Reflections

Last week wasn’t the first time that I’ve learned something new–or remembered something old–because of the words or actions of a child. Usually it’s my own kids convicting me of something, perfectly reciting words I wish I never would have spoken, and holding me to things that I shouldn’t have promised. But most recently, my memory was jogged by my mesmerized and sleepy three-month old nephew whom I’ve recently had the joy of babysitting.

One morning, after breakfast was gobbled and Baby nestled safely on my lap, I watched in wonder as he watched in wonder. Surprisingly, it wasn’t Baby Einstein or our silly dog or my morning hair that had him staring, though: it was the reflection of the Christmas tree lights dancing on a black TV screen.  Their pretty colors blazed brightly in the early morning, but even still, they were small and distorted against the convex screen. If he only knew that turning his head just slightly to the right would have afforded him a view much more beautiful than a dim reflection–he could have gazed at the actual tree!

I was immediately stopped in my tracks. How often don’t I settle for a watered-down substitute for something intended to be so much more beautiful?  So much more authentic and whole? How often, Lord, do I miss out on what you really have in mind for me?

This Advent Season was the perfect time for Baby to remind me of this.  Many of us talk about the hustle and bustle, the hurry and worry, the tinsel and wrappings–yet we–or at least I–will admit to continuing down that same worn path, staring blankly into a dim reflection on a dark screen rather than turning my head to behold something true: the manger.  The Christ Child.  The Reason.

¹¹ When I was a child, I spoke and thought and reasoned as a child. But when I grew up, I put away childish things. ¹² Now we see things imperfectly as in a cloudy mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity.^[a] All that I know now is partial and incomplete, but then I will know everything completely, just as God now knows me completely. ¹³ Three things will last forever—faith, hope, and love—and the greatest of these is love. [I Cor 13:11-13, NLT, emphasis mine]

Let’s turn our heads away from all that distracts us so that love will be the source of all our light and joy this Christmas.  Join me?

Yearning for the day when we will see with perfect clarity,

Jane

Meet Rob and Kelly…

One thing I so appreciate about our family is that we try to be purposeful about planning special nights together where TV and telephones fall to the wayside, and imagination and teamwork grab the spotlight. They are nights when we [usually Brandon and I together] plan some sort of activity that includes riddles, a feat to accomplish, or something to create. My husband has dubbed these nights “Family Challenges” and this past Saturday’s was a hands-down favorite here.

Planned this time by Brandon and our daughter [she earned the privilege to plan], we were given two bags of balloons and the directive to create a “balloon person” and compose a small write-up about who this individual is–all in 45 minutes. Divided into two teams, we were allowed to obtain any other necessary building materials from the kitchen or garage [i.e. tape, markers, string] and were encouraged to stage the scene to fit the character of our creation.

Here’s what we came up with, named by our children:

"Team Kelly" posing with their new friend in full snow gear.

 

“Snowboarding Kelly”, a 7 year old girl who loves to ‘board.

 

"Team Rob" cheer on their creation [note the Wii controller in his right hand

 

"Rob" is a 20 year old college student at home for Christmas vacation. He loves to enjoy a snack in his slippers.

Because nothing seems “official” to certain members of our household without an poll or referee involved, we are asking for you, dear readers, to vote on which creation you like the best. Lest you are tempted to click on without voting, you should know that there are prizes for the winners!  The kids are depending on you!

 

 

Little Star, by Anthony DeStefano

“Little Star knew that Jesus could have chosen to be born in a palace, surrounded by riches, but instead, he had humbled himself to be born in a stable…Of all the stars in the heavens, Little Star was the only one to understand the king’s message.  His message was love.” [from Little Star]

With fresh eyes and childlike innocence, Anthony DeStefano has given us another treasure in his latest children’s book Little Star, published by WaterBrook Press. Teaming up again with illustrator Mark Elliot who brought whimsy and realism to DeStefano’s This Little Prayer of Mine, this book delivers lovely artwork wrapped in the wonder of the Christmas story.

Little Star is the tale of the Bethlehem Christmas star as told by a father to his young son.  The boy, troubled that he can’t locate the famed light in the sky outside his window, asks where it could be and why it no longer shines.

His father explains that “Little Star” was overlooked by other bigger and brighter stars as an inferior member of the heavenly host.  Left out and disregarded by all, Little Star was uniquely situated to understand the lowly state of the Holy Family.  They were not welcomed in by the inn keeper.  They were poor.  They were not important in the eyes of the world.  And yet, God was preparing them to be the parents of a King.

DeStefano’s wraps up his story with an ending that children will remember through the years, and certainly, each Christmas as they work with their family to decorate the tree and place a star on top.  If you’d like to hear the complete story, grab a cup of hot chocolate and listen to Pat Boone’s narration here.

Whether a gift for your own children, grandchildren, or other loved ones, Little Star would make a wonderful addition to any holiday library this Christmas.

Beware: I’m 8 and I have a label-maker

After returning back to headquarters Saturday night with scads of candy, sweaty hair, and cavities at-the-ready, the kids dumped piles of loot on the dining room table and declared victory.

Victory over vegetables, unprocessed food, and moderation in any form.

And at that brief moment when sugary bliss intersects with a primeval need to organize the booty [booty 1 |ˈboōtē|:• informal something gained or won]…THAT is the moment when 8 year-olds reach for the label-maker.

Observe:

1.  Obtain Rubbermaid container for “non-chocolate” items, being careful to sort out any dangerous, braces-endangering objects such as Jolly Ranchers, Laffy Taffy, or worse…the terrifying…DOTS. [cue Jaws music and smoke]

2.  Obtain larger Tupperware container and label with “Chocolate.”  Tip:  ”If you don’t know how to spell “chocolate”,  just copy it from the wrapper of your Hershey bar.” Response to said tip:  “Thank you, son. Good to know.”

People, do you SEE this organization??  I know, I know, you may think it a bit Type A. But lest you assume this level of sorting and labeling is a lifestyle, allow me to assure you that indeed, it is NOT. His bedroom is a tornado.  The space under his bed is a private storage bin.  The floor, a dumping ground for wet towels and dirty underwear.

So why this determination on Halloween?  Easy.

“Mom, I take my candy seriously.” [Yes, that is a direct quote!]

I can’t argue with that.

“What’s Included” In Mexico

Image via Wikipedia

Next month my husband and I are leaving the mess in the kitchen, turning on our heels, locking the doors, and escaping into the wild blue yonder together.  Along with some of our best friends and our new friend, the ultra-cheap Carnival Cruise Lines [in this instance, cheap is a compliment], we are heading west from Florida and into the sandy, sunset-washed waiting arms of Cozumel, Mexico.

Preparing for our day on shore means that we have been trading ideas and websites with our travel partners, searching for activities worthy of our time and money, and weeding out those that are either dangerous or stupid…or both.

Case in point: today’s search.  I stumbled upon an activity that was airbrushed and plucked to perfection, promising the beauty of nature and all things eco-friendly.  Apparently this includes “visiting” crocodiles and other eye-brow raising activities.  While this alone did not slam the door for me, the fine print below did.

Note the last item in the right hand column–that’s what’s included with our $119 rate.

Rates*: USD $119 Adult USD $109 Kids * Rates & schedules may vary depending on the date selected. Land Transportation and Ferry from Cancun or Riviera Maya Punta Sur Park entrance fee Certificated bilingual guides Snorkel gear and Dive Master guide for the snorkel tour Buffet Bottled water, soft drinks, beer after the snorkel tour Life insurance

I’m sorry, LIFE INSURANCE??

Boy, I’ve never felt so secure!  Yes, there may be crocodiles and other mammoth flesh-eating beasts on both land and in the sea, but have no fear! We have Mexican Life Insurance!

Friends, help me.

If you’ve been south of this particular border, please leave your ideas for fun, affordable activities!

A Patch of Sky

Today as I sat motionless beneath a two-way stoplight, I looked up and noticed a gap in the steel, perfectly framing a bookmark-sized patch of the purest blue sky.

It was mesmerizing.  Suspended above a cloudless tree line it floated like soapy cashmere and I couldn’t turn away. I wondered what Benjamin Moore or Sherwin Williams would call this color.  Maybe Mountain Columbine or December Frost; Shadows on Pavement or Starched Oxford.

I imagined how perfect it would look spread evenly in Martha Stewart’s spare bedroom, trimmed with thick white woodworking, a backdrop to her Nantucket wrought iron bed.   Quilted bedding just in from the line exudes the heady perfume that only mother nature can manufacture; hydrangeas burst from a glassy globe, beckoning visitors stay just a moment more.

Maybe someone feel in love there, in Martha Stewart’s spare bedroom. Maybe a college acceptance letter was opened and read, joy muffled so as to not disturb a fussy souffle still in the oven.

Maybe Benjamin Moore found his inspiration there, just like I did.  Perhaps he looked up from his parked buggy and caught a patch of sky between the branches of trees–between the dance of autumn leaves.

Beauty’s everywhere this time of year.  Where have you found it?

A Slow Unraveling

This fall my kitchen windows have seen more than just leaves changing color outside; they have stood witness to exhausting and unwelcome changes happening within our walls, around our table, in our kitchen.  It’s taken me a more than a stretch of days to put my finger on it, but now that my prints can be dusted in all corners of the surface, the slow unraveling beneath that surface cannot be denied.

By God’s grace, I am not speaking of the kind of life-altering unraveling that sadly befalls many: divorce, death, depression.  Rather, mine is the arguably more insidious, nearly imperceptible slipping away of something that robs your joy while you’re stirring cookie dough or chopping vegetables for a salad.  And all the while, I stand by, examining specks on the kitchen floor as oblivious as a Parisian tourist smiling exuberantly while being pick-pocketed on the subway.

The past few months have produced, as my husband postured, “the perfect storm” at our house: he was promoted and began a new job [fantastic, but demanding], our oldest child began a ridiculously over-scheduled rocket football season, and my daughter’s violin classes were moved to an after-school time [whereas before 1st grade we went during the day].  Add to those entrees the side-dishes of grocery shopping, house cleaning, beginning BSF [which is wonderful], pre-school field trips and classroom volunteering, and WOW!!  I need an assistant.

Today, while talking with one of my “counselors,” it was pointed out to me that I have “togetherness” issues.  Meaning, I need–and value and desire–an abundance of quality time as a family unit.  That’s not a bad thing, but it means I need time.

Time to read together.  Time to teach our kids to pray.  To teach them to love and serve and give generously.  To bake together and show them how to make applesauce in autumn.  Time to go to the orchard and ArtPrize.  Time to visit our college for football games and time to just sit in the grass with neighbors.

And it positively grieves my spirit that rather than leisurely enjoying our meals, they are jammed into a fifteen minute time slot because we have to leave for football practice.  Or that homework is happening at 9:30 because the game went late.  Or that daddy can’t do bedtime tonight.  Or that my children see their teachers more than they see me.

Ten minutes with me a day is unacceptable.

In this house, ten minutes is not okay.

So this month I am praying over our calendar and over my priorities and over my time.  What can go?  What can I do differently?  What can I do better?  What are my expectations? What is fair? What can I ask of my kids…of my husband?

And I’m praying for an end to the unraveling.  I’m praying that God, in his might and in his wisdom, would knit us back up, a cord of three strands, more tightly than ever.

Running with Children

So I’ve been trying to be diligent in my exercising lately, walking the dog and going for runs as often as my knees can handle it. I’m trying to loose my three pound gut roll, er, ”be healthy” and model active living for our kids. Also, I may or may not have seen a heinous photo of myself two days ago in which I leaned over to hug someone, and by the looks of my midsection it appeared I had a small ferret nesting inside my sweater.  It was terrifying. Terrifying.

But before you applaud my efforts or reach for your sticker book of gold stars, you should know that by “running”, I mean jogging down to a stop sign while yelling breathlessly at my son to stop at the corner and not park his bike and then wander through murky ditch water. The whole trip stretches between 1.5 – 2 miles, depending on which way I exit my neighborhood.  That means it takes me about as long to get dressed, find my iPod and get out the door as it does to actually pound the pavement, but hey: better than nothing, I say.

Yesterday looked like this:

I left the house after gleefully discovering that my son’s bike was “fixed” [read: chain was attached and functioning] and bribing him with a play date if he rode along with a happy heart.  Lest think this unimportant, rework this scenario with a grouchy 4 year-old trying to canvas 2 miles on a scooter, all the while complaining of tired legs and begging to go home [so he can ride this same scooter back and forth across the street instead of down the sidewalk with me].  But that’s another story.

So we’re heading south into the glory of the autumn morning when Shazam! M’s chain falls off.  I try to replace the greasy chain while jogging in place, or at least making a half-way effort to continue moving my feet while struggling with this offensive piece of junk. After a few go-rounds I finally win the battle and smear my filthy hands in the dewy grass to clean them.  Just like camping, I think to myself. No sweat.

Now, picking up speed again for the next several yards and feeling pretty good about it, my son has stopped at a nearby pond where he has spotted an enormous bird standing like a statue under a stand of trees.  To my novice birder-eyes, I think it might be a Blue Heron.  It was, no joke, easily taller than my child.  I’m pretty sure that this bird could kill us with his freakishly pokey beak…or at least peck our eyes out like a scene in some horrific Greek myth.  Trying to flee from such thoughts, I propose that we should name this bird and look for it every time we pass the pond.

M decides that his name should be Alex Rodriguez.

Not this one:

This one:

I had to laugh.  After meeting Alex Rodriguez and trucking down the bike path to our turn-around point, I am again jolted from my steady trot by M exclaiming that his bike chain has fallen off.  [Unreal!] In my eternal patience and everloving kindness I calmly replace the chain…for the second time…on his offensive piece of junk…and continue.

What I won’t do to remove that ferret from my sweater. I mean business.

I am busy mentally patting myself on the back about my dedication to finishing this outing when we passed Alex Rodriguez again, moving like a shadowy flamingo near the pond and…you guessed it: THE DANG BIKE CHAIN FELL OFF YET AGAIN!

Would I really make this up?!  By now I resemble the tire-changing scene in A Christmas Story when Ralphie’s dad knocks the hubcap out of his hands.  There was muttering and fist shaking, and quite possibly silent bouts of screaming.

The moral of the story, friends, is simply this: Running with children, while providing practice in bird-watching and general tenacity, does not do much in the way of cardiovascular training…even if I can say that I saw Alex Rodriguez sunning himself at the pond.

Moms out there:  How do you exercise with your little ones?  Please leave a comment and share your best ideas…or funniest moments!

And the Winner Is…

Jennifer!!

As chosen by random.org, she will receive a personalized and signed copy of Shauna Niequist’s book Bittersweet.  Jennifer, please email me [janeg75@gmail.com] with your mailing information so that I can forward that on to Shauna’s blog tour folks.

Thanks everyone for participating!  If you’re at home in the midst of another great book, please leave a comment and share what you’re reading!  With the weather cooling it’s the perfect time for hot cider and something magical from the bookstore.

Bittersweet, by Shauna Niequist

What a delight to have been offered the opportunity to review Shauna Niequist’s latest book, Bittersweet, released last month by Zondervan.  Stitched together with threads of the poetic and honest writing we devoured in Cold Tangerines, Shauna’s voice again rings true in this, her sophomore debut about “change, grace, and learning the hard way.”

Comprised of forty essays ranging in topic from meals lovingly prepared after a morning at the farmer’s market, to the grief and disappointment that settled in the wake of a devastating miscarriage, Shauna’s rich descriptions and morsels to ponder prompt the reader to do more than turn pages; she prompts us to turn our perspectives to find the take-away, the lesson, the a-ha moment awaiting our discovery amidst even the most swirling and overwhelming of circumstances.

One of the things I so appreciate about Shauna as an author is her ability to swivel from deep thoughts to flat out humor. In what is essentially a letter to her son, Henry, Whole Heart reads with the tenderness of a mother’s caress and will, no doubt, be treasured by this growing superhero-boy as the years stretch him into a young man.  Pages later, the introductory story in Princess-free Zone had me chuckling at the thought of her band of church friends stumbling onto a crazed patch of sand in South Beach–only to be compelled moments later to remain mindful of the effect that I have–and that women collectively have–on girls like my own daughter.

As I mentioned the other day, one of the chapters that gripped me most is entitled Things I Don’t Do. In it she describes the pressure we feel [notably, the pressure mothers feel] to do it all–and do it all well.  She shares with great transparency that sometimes, “…everything becomes a lifestyle.  Everything is an addiction.” [pg. 56]  Be assured, she’s not talking about possessing everything–the new Escalade, a great pair of designer jeans, or the latest techno gadget–she’s talking about mastering and managing everything. Work.  Family.  Home.  Bills.  The PTA.  Being a fantastic wife.  Having polished floors and fingernails.  As a mother, her words sounded the alarm I didn’t even know resided within me.  Could it be, I found myself asking, that I do the same?

With wit and masterful writing, Shauna draws us into her world, inviting us to sit like gulls on the fence while she reflects on South Haven summers and hands preparing meals and travels to the wonderful, “otherly” California.  Her ability to choose exactly the right words–with exactly the correct tone–creates a symphony on paper.  If you’re new to Shauna–or an old friend returning for what seems an afternoon visit over tea and homemade mini-cupcakes–you’re in for a treat that refreshes.

Bittersweet, like a good meal, is layered with flavors and experiences and emotions–raw and real–waiting to be savored and enjoyed.  Dig in!

~~

I am pleased to offer YOU, dear reader, the opportunity to win a personalized and signed copy of this book!  Here’s how you can win:

1.  Leave a comment in which you share a bittersweet memory or moment from your own life in 3 sentences or less.

2.  Post a link on Facebook or on your own blog for an additional entry [let me know you did this by sending me an email: janeg75@gmail.com]

3.  Do this before midnight on Friday, September 3!

4.  The winner will be selected randomly [thank you, sweet computer program] on Saturday, September 4.  If you win I will contact you for info and congratulations!

Good Luck!

Should’a Would’a Could’a

Sure.  There are lots of reasons I should have stayed home today:

1.  A sink that appears to have vomited up fruit particles, dirty pans, and filmy glasses.  You’d think that with a dishwasher directly adjacent to the sink I could keep things picked up and put away.  BUT.  Let’s be honest: loading and unloading that blasted thing two or three things a day is about as fun as being ravaged by clown nightmares while you’re on vacation.  Still, I am running out of cups.  And we’re down to about 7 forks. I suppose I should’a taken care of that…

Seriously. Where's Alice?!

2.  Our dining room table seems to have sprouted clean laundry limbs and junk mail leaves.  What I really need is an assistant whose very life is made complete by the opportunity to sort and recycle all our stuff.  The laundry…well, I’ve accepted it as the thorn in my flesh.  I’ve resorted to placing it on the table so that I don’t take up valuable seating by alternately plopping it on the sofa or side chair.  Still, I suppose it wouldn’t have been a bad idea to tidy a bit…

Wish I could use the Mary Poppins finger-snapping trick here...

3.  Then there’s the laundry room–also used as the “CRAP!  They’ll be here in 5 minutes!–  Hide all the clutter!!” room [picture the intro to Everybody Loves Raymond].  I guess it’s catching up to me.  Unfortunately.

Have Mercy.

I should’a would’a could’a stayed home to attend to these things.  Instead, however, I attended to these things:

Take time today to forget your should’a would’a could’a's.  School is just around the corner, ready to be ushered in by changing leaves, burgeoning pumpkins, glossy apples and the kind of chill that whispers football. History reminds me that there will be plenty of time for laundry, dirty sinks, and messy tables when the windows snap shut and rain slides down their panes.

But today…ahh…  Today is a day for glorious sun and childhood and all the things that make it so fun to be a mom.

Let go today.  By doing so, maybe you’ll find that you’ll be able to better hold on to summer.

The Lure of Summer

My blogging aspirations for the summer have, quite obviously, fallen flat, dying the pathetic death that comes with goals left unattended.  The weight of summer presses in on my heart and I am drawn, again and again, away from this magical little metal rectangle and off to the grassy expanse of our backyard.  No, I don’t mourn what I’ve gained during my respite this summer–the tradeoff of being away is worth the loss of a few readers [though I do hope you'll return!].  Instead of writing, I’ve:

• reveled in the new wonder of frozen blueberries, picked by my hands and those of my children
• squished my way through saturated sand on the shores of Lake Michigan
• laid my skin out to bronze and burn beneath a sun that I adore and yearn for in February
• packed hummus and naan and grapes and cheese for picnics
• felt the sting of tears at the birth of our nephew; all new and wrinkly and fresh
• unleashed my soul into a music-filled night at Frederik Meijer Gardens
• sped through the warm spray of waves in South Haven, utterly free, flying across deep water
• laughed until my sides hurt around a campfire, sharing wine and memories with dear friends
• celebrated twelve years of marriage to my wonderful husband, and marveled at my son–only 8–who thinks he’s twelve.
• savored the fried crunch of panko-breaded coconut chicken beside the Black River [thank you, Linda!]
• realized that in everything, the joyous, the sad, amidst imperfections and disappointments and loss and everything in between, God is there, loving us. Always loving us.

As summer winds down, may your small moments be sprinkled with laughter and joy; may the sun shine a little more brightly on your tomorrow, and may you find the rest you long for in the coolness of night.

Balance Beams at Summer’s End

A Confession:

Lately I feel as though I’ve been walking a balance beam–clumsily and epically unsuccessfully.

Locked between walls of my own architecture and construction, I find myself scurrying from thing 1 to thing 2, trying to fit it all in, trying to do more and do it all better.  There was the new washing machine to buy, laundry toppling under its own weight, meals not made due to shopping not done, football practice to drive to and violin practice to slog through.  Fighting kids and flies in the house and an old dog with an open sore…[exhale]…I have to say, this pace does not bring peace.

Screen doors open and slam and open and slam.  The phone rings and interrupts. Bills arrive.  Kids need snacks [see "grocery not done" above] and a small screaming voice reminds me that buns must be wiped post haste. My life seems to be defined by the number of times per day I unload the dishwasher or brush crumbs from the counter and into my waiting hands.  It’s never. done.

In short, I am beating the wind in this struggle.  If I stay home to polish the silver, shine shoes, and attend to the lime buildup in my shower, my precious little darlings drive me BONKERS.  If I go to the zoo/museum/store, weaving my way through several zip codes and traffic lights–offering my children the very best in wholesale shopping freebies–I feel the very life drain from my being as though daylight itself has become a condition to endure until I can pass out on the couch at dusk; reaching for the remote control masquerades as a lifeline to nirvana.

Pass the wine.

Now, I know some of you are probably thinking, “It’s the end of summer.  Those feelings are understandable!  We’re clinging to the promise of the merciful yellow angel chugging down the block, whisking our children off to their heavenly oasis: school.”

Perhaps.

Yet I still have a nagging in my spirit that says:  Is this really how life should be?

In her fantastic book, Bittersweet, which I’m thrilled to be reviewing for you on September 1, Shauna Niequist explores this very idea in her chapter entitled: Things I Don’t Do.  In it she confesses that she is bound to list making, often making lists into task-masters they were never intended to be.  During dinner with a dear friend, she heard words that reshaped her thinking, and by extension, reshaped mine:

“It’s not hard to decide what you want your life to be about.

What’s hard…is figuring out what you’re willing to give up in order to

do the things you really care about.” [pg 54].

Isn’t that so true??

Here I am stuffing my days with nit-picking minutia, dragging my children all over kingdom-come, or alternately, allowing my emotions to dictate the atmosphere on my days at home, when really, I need to figure out what I want our family life to be like, and what needs to go in order to get there.

If I allow our days and evenings to become bloated with activities and exhausting busy work, that’s my choice.

If I would, however, give myself permission to be quiet…

To sit.

To examine.

To pray.

To take an ever-loving BREAK…

Maybe I’d be able to more clearly separate the grain from the chaff.

Perhaps I’d more readily pinpoint and highlight the ways in which my choices have made this balance beam so tiring and discouraging.

So for tomorrow and the day after, my list will read as follows:

#1.  Figure out what matters.

and with God’s help…

#2.  Do it.

Readers, are you feeling the balance beam struggle in your home right now?  Please share…and encourage.

Stefanich Stepping Stones

Tonight is one of the many times I’ve sat in my home, buoyant and basking in a deep pool of gratitude.  My good friend Kamarah [Best Neighbor Ever] recently sent me an email sharing the journey of a wonderful woman in our community who just happened to be my son’s first grade teacher and will be the same for my daughter when the leaves turn in September.

MacKenzie and David, her groom of one year, feel such a perceptible leading of God’s spirit in their lives that they have dedicated themselves to walk a path that few choose, but one I so admire, respect, and honor.  With hearts full of love, they are adopting one child–or perhaps even siblings–from Ethiopia.

To help hem-in the costs associated with international adoption, they are conducting an online auction beginning tomorrow, July 29 – Sunday, August 1. I hope you’ll join me in supporting their efforts, lifting them up in prayer, and cheering them on as they take these courageous steps of faith.  Click here to learn about their journey and to shop the auction.

I feel so blessed that my children are able to sit and absorb the goodness of someone like this at their school!  My pool of gratitude, churning with life and burgeoning with love, grows deeper and deeper each day, thanks to people like MacKenzie and David.

Birds in Cleveland

Sitting alone in the terminal, windows revealed thin, glinting silver tubes slicing through July’s muggy atmosphere. I hovered over carry-on bags while the revolt in my stomach was slowly being quelled by the lunch spread across paper on my lap.  Peace…or the closest thing to it was beginning to settle.

Two bites later, something akin to that sixth-sense of feeling someone standing beside you or entering the room replaced lunch and peace, as I thought I heard the sound of air rushing—just for a second.  And shortly thereafter—again.  Looking both ways, then up, I saw the quick, fierce flapping of small wings.

There were birds in the airport.

Perched on exposed beams the color of aircraft carriers, these little lives flitted around, frantically searching the terrain below for scraps of breakfast or droppings from lunch.  Upon spotting a morsel, they’d swoop low, crossing back and forth like Cinderella’s chirping, airborne dressmakers.  Joining other nameless travelers watching the spectacle, I waited for them to land, expertly plucking crumbs from the dirty threads of carpet.

And I instantly thought of the song my mother used to sing to me as a little girl—the one about sparrows and God’s love and His perfect provision. Here, in the midst of travelers and workers, plastic chairs and metal structures, birds were finding what they needed to live and make a home.

Sometimes God’s gifts and measures of provision do seem to turn up in the most unlikely of places.   This week I experienced that very thing in the most humbling and surreal way:  I was invited to Columbus, Ohio by Tami Longaberger to help promote the book we worked on together at the company’s annual convention, The Bee.  What a bizarre privilege to offer help, to be a contributing team member, to be part of the success of this project.

I felt out-of-place in some ways, having left behind a sink full of dishes, a floor to be mopped, and fresh cookies tucked neatly in Tupperware for my kids—and heading straight for a new dress and a convention center.  But in other ways, I felt right at home.  Using parts of my brain and waking up skills that have been slumbering for a long time.  Chatting with people and striving for a common goal, and feeling such happiness to see it coming about.

I was like a bird in an airport.

Only God isn’t offering me crumbs.  He’s laying a sprawling banquet and pulling out my chair, encouraging me to dig in.  To enjoy it.  And in the midst of it all, in my heart, to praise Him.

Bleeding Cherries

Tonight we went cherry picking–something I love doing when the days of June dwindle into the heat of July.  Standing in the evening shade cast by a low, squatty canopy, I looked up to the patch of blue breaking through the branches.  There, shining like perfect spheres of glossy lipstick were the cherries that punctuate summer for my palate.  Dangling in a barely-there breeze, sweet and juicy, they are, seemingly, the very essence of Michigan.

Summer means a lot of things to me.  Traditionally it means traveling and campfires and the beach and grills.  This summer we’re subtracting the travel due to what my husband calls “smart choices” an I call “self-induced torture.”  I guess I never truly realized how much my spirit depends on travel for perspective and joy and kinship.  Perhaps God’s trying to teach me to be content right here.  But although I feel desperate to touch the ocean or walk in groves of old-growth trees, it’s not just nature and national parks that I miss.

It’s my friends.  And picking cherries, cleaning strawberries, and anticipating blueberries only reminds me of the many times we did that together.  Of the many meals we’ve shared under so many different skies.  Of the late nights and laughter and dreaming.  Of good food and blessings that burst forth, blooming from the earth.

It’s an unavoidable juxtaposition: being surrounded by farmer’s markets and fantastic weather and wonderful lakes while tears hide, tucked deeply in tired eyes.  But the stain of fruit on my hands seems an apt representation of my heart right now: broken and laid open.

For another year.

Life In Defiance, by Mary E. DeMuth

The doors slam in the unshaken universe that is my dear Lake Pisgah. Metal against metal is dissonant against birds chirping their songs to welcome springtime around the bend. It’s a pleasant day with the sun warming our heads as we walk toward the shoreline. I hear our feet crunch against brittle grass, Emory’s steady humming, and a hint of wind through still-bereft trees.  In the light of the beauty beckoning me, I push down my fear… [pg. 213]

Exuding rare poetry, well-crafted words and a story that winds deeper and more fully into the pained hearts of desperate men and women, Mary DeMuth delivers the final book in her Defiance Texas Trilogy published by Zondervan. Set against the backdrop of a small town reeling from disappearance and murder of young Daisy Chance, Life In Defiance is relayed from the perspective of Ousie Pepper, the pastor’s wife who ekes out an utterly defeated existence under the crushing fist of her husband.

Certain she knows the identity of Daisy’s killer, Ousie moves through her days caged in secrets: the “gleaming” pastor beats and belittles her, twisting Scripture for his own benefit; the mysterious killer is on the loose while she ferrets away clues to “protect” others; her penchant for alcohol squeezes more tightly and she eagerly gives in–anything to dull the torment of life with Hap Pepper.  Ousie has relinquished herself and supplanted a woman who feels little except the sting of her own shortcomings.

Like familiar faces gathered around a table, the cast of characters is one we know and understand well from Books 1 & 2. Old friends become pulsing lifelines to Ousie and those once dismissed are afforded a fresh glance.  Life In Defiance builds on Mary’s expert character shaping by introducing us to new folks that blow into this Texas town like Tumbleweed: coming and going softly, but leaving indelible footprints in the life of Ousie Pepper.   It explores elements of trust and disappointment; it follows the human heart to the end of itself and asks the questions, “Is this all there is?  Will I ever be good enough?  Do I matter?  Am I lovable?”

With strong thematic elements of domestic violence and references to sexual and substance abuse, this book is raw and gritty and real. As an outsider looking in, I was thoroughly frustrated with Ousie’s mental gymnastics that sought to justify the behavior and hypocrisy of her husband.  I pray that women living this kind of tortured reality would see Hap’s evil in full color and abide Emory’s suggestion to “make a plan” rather than listening to well-meaning but ignorant people who reinvent Christian submission to mean that under the husband’s authority anything goes. Certainly abuse is not what Christ intended for any of us.

While I was left wishing for greater resolution between Ousie and her son Jed, in particular, all-in-all I found the story to neatly wrap up loose ends, finally revealing the killer lurking in Defiance.  I applaud Mary’s use of broken, imperfect characters and her ability to peel back the layers so that we readers can see our own reflections, however dim, staring back from stark pages.  She writes without pretense [much unlike new character Sheba Nelson] unveiling wrinkles and cracks and muddy pasts to the Glory of God.

Thank you to Mary for another wonderful installment of quality fiction and for reminding us that in Defiance–and in our towns–no life is wasted, and no body is beyond the grasp of our loving Savior.

LOVE THIS!

In the humid rain with a van full of kids, I sloshed to the end of the driveway and across familiar roads to Target.  Toothpaste and deodorant being what they are [essential!], we rolled through the aisles tossing Crest and Method and Suave into my Market Basket from Tami.

A Basket of Goodies...

And it was there, exactly, that I found them.

Toothbrushes made from recycled yogurt containers!

How cool are these?!

What an awesome concept!  I was thrilled to share them with my kids.  And the great thing is, not only are the toothbrushes recycled, but the manufacturers encourage you to recycle them again in three months!! All you do is hold on to your packaging

, insert your used toothbrushes after ninety days, give or take a few sunrises, and send them back!  They even pay for postage…

Self-addressed stamped...tootbrush return?

As a side bonus, I discovered a trove of Burt’s Bees chap stick on clearance [have you ever seen Burt's on clearance?!], so I loaded up with four sticks of delicious, pepperminty goodness.

It is my belief that one can never have too much chappie.

Or too many yogurt-based toothbrushes

What’s your favorite GREEN product?  Leave a comment so we can add some new things to our shopping lists!

Things I Don’t Understand Thursday: TMI at the Salon

Allow me to set the stage:

I decided to indulge yesterday — enjoy a little piece of the relaxation pie on my last “free” afternoon before the kids explode into the neighborhood, fleeing big yellow buses and running loose on summer vacation.   All the swirling, wonderful, serendipitous events of the last few months have meant that I haven’t had much “extra” time on the calendar –not that I’m complaining–but it was nice to look at a fresh hour, sprouting and about to bloom, and realize that I had nothing to do.

So I had long talk with myself in efforts to justify spending $12 on an hour with my hands in water, cuticles tended to and nails slathered with polish.  I know, I know–$12–what’s the big deal, right? But it felt like such an unnecessary luxury in the face of bills and gas tanks and a living room remodel.  Still, I determined that a snatch of pleasure couldn’t be pricetagged, and I went for it.  Went for the manicure in the kind of place with purple walls, abundant triangular mirror arrangements, and excessive black lacquer furniture.

As my nail tech worked with gentle purpose, I breathed deeply, let my chest rise and fall naturally, closed my eyes.  She clipped and filed, switched hands and repeated; rested my fingers in a warm bath, removed barely visible remnants of an old polish job.  Richard Marx crooned his overwrought nineties love songs from the corner boom box.

Ahhh. Lotion squirted on my hands and she pressed her thumbs into the palms, kneading out the balls of tension and strain.  The fragrance was layered: sweet pea and mint, lightly zingy on my skin.  Zingy and amazing.  Next came wrists and forearms and each finger.

It was quiet.

The faint sound of bubbles provided soothing white noise.

I may have fallen asleep.

Until, that is, my ears regrettably grabbed hold of the conversation occurring behind me at the pedicure station:

“I’m sorry my feet are so bad–I had to have my toenails removed.  They kept getting ingrown, so the doctor pulled them out from the roots.”

Ummmm….  WHAT?!

My eyes snapped open and I swallowed hard, sending gurgling bile back to a churning stomach.

Yeah, I thought, You better be sorry, lady.  That unfortunate mental image has shattered my $12-purple-nail-salon-sanctuary and plunged me into The Land of Gross better left to digit doctors specializing in compromised toenail growth. Even though I know it’s not the same thing, all I could picture was the toenail fungus commercial where the little fungus-monsters open up yellow toenails like glove compartments and hop inside, frothing at the mouth to be destroying a perfectly-good flip-flop season.

Overcoming this negative imagery took all the mental fortitude I could muster, I assure you.  Luckily for me I was able to focus my attention on the dusty silk plant arrangement bursting from the top of the tool sterilizer to my left.  It very well may have saved the day.

The moral of the story is that your medical history, while perhaps important to your nail technician, need not be broadcast across the room with the booming volume of a court bailiff.  Why not lean over and whisper your apologies, informing said technician of your litany of sensitivities and anatomical abnormalities?  Why do I need to hear about things getting ripped out?

Please, let me have my $12 moment with zesty lotion and sleep-inducing massage without worry of nightmares.

That’s all I ask.

~~

So what’s your favorite TMI moment?  Leave a comment below and share it with the rest of us, or post the story on your blog and link back to me

Hooray For Talented Friends!

I’m using today’s post to brag about my wonderfully talented [and too-humble] neighbor, Kamarah.  She’s just recently allowing the petals of her photo-flower to bloom, and has comprised a uTube video highlighting her work for future clients.  If you’re someone who needs a photographer or slide-show video maker [i.e. mom of Senior, bride-to-be, birthday planner], check it out!  It’s a 4-minute phenom!

CLICK HERE to watch!

Yes, I Still Have a Pulse!

Hi Friends!

For the handful of you out there who still remember me–or even care–I’m still alive and well and fully intend to get back to this blog after my life returns to normal.

In the meantime I’m hard at work on this book and spending most of my mental energy wondering how this fantastic waltz through dream-world ever came to pass.

Tami invited Brandon and I down to her home this week and was entirely gracious and wonderful, making us feel right at home with every comfort.  Forever the hostess, we were included in private meetings, exclusive dinners with Longaberger National Sales Leaders, one-on-one tours,…you get the idea.  It was amazing to see what her days are like!

At any rate, the manuscript is due in roughly TWO WEEKS [charge defibrillators!!], so I really just can’t spend any spare time ruminating with you all, however much I’d love to.

So please be patient and pray for me if you’re into that sort of thing.  My fingers are practically typing while I sleep…

The Gift of Sand and Water

Anyone who knows me well can attest to the hold that the beach seems to have on me.  The sound of pounding water, birds overhead, toes in sand, sun on shoulders, salty air — it’s almost too much.   Living in West Michigan provides access to beautiful lakes and great shorelines, but the ocean, ah…that’s quite another thing.  Enjoying creation there is a spiritual thing for me; I see God’s handiwork in jumping dolphins, shell fragments washed onto shore–each unique in color and texture, the sound of beach grass rustling in the wind.  The artistry of the landscape takes my breath away and, at the same time, breathes new life into my waiting lungs.

Last week we trekked down to Florida for Spring Break, spending six nights on an island paradise and concluding our trip with a day at Disney.  I’m sure I’ll be writing more about our vacation in days to come, but in the meanwhile, here are some photos that best capture my memories.

Daddy & M waiting to skim board

A & new friends playing

The boys fishing off the back of the Pier

Mini-Science lessons on the beach after sundown--HOW COOL!!

Watching God do magic in the evening sky

Perfect endings.

…to be continued…

A Lovely and Thankful Wreck

I’ve been a wreck lately.

My emotions on have been arching between profound gratitude to God and utter disbelief and, on the far spectrum, sadness that our kids are growing up so fast.  It seems I’ve been waiting for years for them to gain some independence and strength, and now that it’s here, I find myself staring in the rear-view mirror, searching for scraps of their smallness.  [Moms out there--can I get an 'amen'?]

At the same time, I’ve been gifted with the most gigantic fluke you can imagine–if you believe in flukes [which, to be honest, I don't, but this might be the closest I've come to considering it].

After working as a lowly creative copy writer for the Longaberger Company for five weeks, some of my projects seem to have sprouted legs and made their way up to the President’s desk [OMG], and then to Ms. Tami Longaberger herself [O.M.G!].  And, as if God decided to puppeteer some cosmic ‘Shazow‘, Tami liked my work.  Loved it, actually.

So…I was asked by her to ghostwrite her book which will hopefully be coming out this fall.

That’s right.

It’s straight up crazy pants. I still think I could be living in some parallel universe somewhere dreaming this all up.  I’m waiting for George Jetson to fly in with Astro and tell me it’s an enormous joke.

The caveat, however beautiful and fantastic this opportunity, is that the entire book is due on May 1.

Of this year.

And we’re leaving for vacation soon.

[searching for an inhaler or strong drink right now...]

I feel just…utterly undone and thankful and speechless at this turn of events.

What is God doing?  What in THEE WORLD??

And so, I sit in the kitchen and stare at the artwork on my fridge wrought by tiny hands and expanding minds, and I’m a wreck.

And I think about this book, and I feel like a poser.  I am not “a real author.”  I am trying to be, but I never thought my trial-run would be working with the owner of a  multi-million dollar company.  So you can imagine, I’m a wreck.

A lovely and thankful wreck.

Be Still My Soul

One thing that has always amazed me is how poets and hymn writers of the past so eloquently captured the message of God’s compassion, His immeasurable grace, and the comfort found in the Gospel.  We sang this song in church today while life after life filed to the front, Image-bearers each, to partake in the ancient Sacrament of Communion.  As the whispery strain rose, hanging above us like a gauzy canopy of love, I couldn’t help but thank Heaven for the gift of Ka­tha­ri­na von Schle­gel, whose song written in 1752 still touches my heart today.

[Sung to the tune of Finlandia]

Be still, my soul: the Lord is on thy side.
Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain.
Leave to thy God to order and provide;
In every change, He faithful will remain.
Be still, my soul: thy best, thy heavenly Friend
Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.

Be still, my soul: thy God doth undertake
To guide the future, as He has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
Be still, my soul: the waves and winds still know
His voice Who ruled them while He dwelt below.

Be still, my soul: when dearest friends depart,
And all is darkened in the vale of tears,
Then shalt thou better know His love, His heart,
Who comes to soothe thy sorrow and thy fears.
Be still, my soul: thy Jesus can repay
From His own fullness all He takes away.

Be still, my soul: the hour is hastening on
When we shall be forever with the Lord.
When disappointment, grief and fear are gone,
Sorrow forgot, love’s purest joys restored.
Be still, my soul: when change and tears are past
All safe and blessèd we shall meet at last.

Be still, my soul: begin the song of praise
On earth, believing, to Thy Lord on high;
Acknowledge Him in all thy words and ways,
So shall He view thee with a well pleased eye.
Be still, my soul: the Sun of life divine
Through passing clouds shall but more brightly shine.

Found Art, by Leeana Tankersley

“Because such art is essentially redemptive, found art is also deeply spiritual, predating even urinal-man in its origins.  In God’s hands, spit and mud become sight.  Dust and rib become humanity.  Darkness and void become world.  Fishermen become followers.  Virgin becomes mother.  Water becomes wine.  Empty nets become overflowing.  Death is somehow miraculously refashioned into life… When I arrived in the Middle East, I realized I was looking at a half-me, a fragmented soul walking around town.  I had given away pieces of myself, convinced the giving had all been for good causes.  During this journey, I discovered it was high time I felt the losses, collected the pieces, and reclaimed myself.”  [pg. 13]

In her debut book, Leeana Tankersley expertly layers story, emotion, and personal reflection to create a deeply moving and heartfelt account of the year she and Navy SEAL husband, Steve, spent in Bahrain.  Structured as a memoir of sorts, Tankersley’s 27 essays are grouped thematically around pieces of “found art” collected during their stint abroad:  a handwritten note from Kuwait, a braid of fringe from a persian rug, a bit of basting thread. Retrieved memories from the past are pulled to the surface and intertwined with events from the Middle East, creating a soul-moving work in which shortcomings and hopes and joys and losses are addressed and attended to with care.

After meeting her husband and skipping through a brief courtship, Steve and Leeana wed and almost immediately set out for the Middle East on assignment.  Thrust into this new world where women are faceless and the earth is dust, Leeana struggles to find her footing.  Suddenly, in contrast to her “former” life in San Diego, nothing is expected of her.  She doesn’t have to “do” anything.  She feels slightly off-kilter and out-of-place.  With Steve coming and going in a flurry of secret Navy operations, Tankersley is left with time to think and examine her life, her heart.  What she finds is surprisingly deep and utterly transparent.  She spares no detail when discussing the challenges of her marriage, the hard work done in a counselor’s office, her struggle to understand a God who allows such a devastating war and heart-splayed-open sorrow and anguish.

I was struck immediately by two things while reading this book: Leeana’s expertly chosen and perfectly descriptive words that became art themselves, and the shameful reminder that I do not really comprehend the gravity of sacrifice made by our soldiers and their families each day. Tankersley’s essays lay bare this true cost with courage and, deftly, without becoming political or preachy.  Rather, her insights enlighten and provide a new lens for readers who, page after page, are drawn deeper into her dessert world.

Compared in style to Shauna Niequist, Tankersley’s essays are rich and honest, sincere and seeking.  Found Art would make a lovely gift to a military family or anyone you know who strives to find beauty in the foreign, unknown, and mysterious.

~~

Thank you to Tina at The Blog Tour Spot, and to Zondervan Publishers for generously providing me with this book.

[A Different Kind of] St. Patty Green

Contrary to most St. Patrick’s Day festivities I’ve been privy to, we’re steering away from shamrocks and ale and making a B-line for healthy greens this Wednesday.  Not because I’m a prude who doesn’t like cabbage or has nightmares about biting leprechauns, but because I’m nursing a serious sore throat and muscles that feel stiff and achy.  Maybe it’s “the rheumatism.”  Or maybe I’m desperate for a chocolate-shake IV drip followed by a Nigh-Quil induced sleep.  I’ll take my pick.

In the name of good health [that is, wishing for it], I’m sharing my new favorite recipe that is as delicious as it is green.  You might even be able to get your kids to enjoy this for St. Patrick’s Day!

GREEN SMOOTHIE

Combine the following into a reliable blender:

1 ripe banana

1 wedge of fresh pineapple

1 whole kiwi, washed and with ends removed, but with skin on [Vitamin C]

roughly 3/4 C water

squirt of Agave Nectar to sweeten

generous handful of spinach leaves [organic best]

ICE

>>Blend until smooth, and enjoy!!  It’s truly delicious!

QUESTION FOR YOU:  What will your family be eating/drinking this St. Pat’s??

Practicing Silence

“Sometimes we need silence.  Not always, but definitely sometimes.  If we will comply, if we will receive the moments of quiet contemplation and rest, we might be surprised by what emerges.  As much as I didn’t want to engage in the art of shutting up, the solitude offered me gifts I had never, ever received.  …

“Like a desert windstorm, life is often unruly — wild, fierce, and howling.  By choosing the stiller and smaller world of voice rest and life rest and mind rest and body rest, I somehow chose the stiller, smaller voice of God.” [Leeana Tankersley, Found Art, pg. 58]

Reading these words last night sparked an image of a future me, flashed upon the deepest places of my heart.  It stirred within me something profound — full of wonder and sadness.  It’s difficult to hold seemingly opposing emotions in the palms of upturned hands; it leaves me stranded, sometimes, without hands to dig or reach or overturn.

Pondering Leeana’s words made me shifty and unsettled, in part because the silence I think of is not a “day-at-the-spa” invited silence.  It’s the uninvited kind that invades me.  I thought about what my life will be like in two short years, after doors close and school buses chug past, picking up my children and packing away their unscheduled, snuggly, lazy days with mommy.

I tried to imagine the inevitable future silence of our home.  Clocks clicking.  Dishwasher swishing.  Laundry churning.  Dog scratching.  And me: alone.

It isn’t the “silence” itself that frightens me.  Or, as the author of Found Art alludes to, the scary reintroduction of yourself to yourself, although I will need a hefty reintroduction to be sure.

It’s the slow slipping away of these days.  These very present days–which, of course, will lead to silent ones spread out like an icy mantle: slippery and unfamiliar, forcing me to walking with unsteady feet.  It’s the acidic, stinging feeling that I’m losing them–that I’m losing my kids.

And I know that’s not really true–in fact, many days I celebrate our freedom to run around without diapers and bottles and cumbersome car seats.

Yet their smallness is going away.

Their fingers are losing those squishy dimples.

My son listens to ESPN radio and wants “cool” clothes from the mall.

My daughter is growing like a weed and can barely fold herself up enough to fit on my lap.

And my youngest…I just noticed today how he surpassed a bulletin board at our library.  He wants “spiky” hair and a “gas-powered dirt bike.”

The silence I’m pushing against is the uninvited kind that erupts from the slow stream of hours and days and years.  A time to come when kids are busy with friends and sports and social lives that don’t include me.  When I’m at home –in silence– pleading with the walls to give me back the sound of laughter from tiny voices.

I’m not ready to lose all those tender moments yet.  I’m not ready to give up on snuggles and kisses and tickle fights.

I’m not ready for that kind of silence.

Not yet.

PS:  My “official” review of Leeana’s book is on the way, courtesy of The Blog Tour Spot and Zondervan Publishers.

5 Things You Can’t Quit

Last week while furiously peeling potatoes, simultaneously trying not to gore myself with the peeler or drop a starchy, slippery mass down the garbage disposal, I suddenly had a bizarre sort of desperate thought:  “I will be grocery shopping for the rest of my life.  I will use up these potatoes and have to go back to the store, and I will need to grocery shop forever.”

Well, duh.  It’s not the deepest, most philosophical ponderence known to man, but in that moment, I wondered: “How many other things will I have to do — forever??”

So I decided to make a list.  I exempted any and all bodily functions and things that are essential to life itself [i.e., eating, drinking, breathing, using shelter, using the potty, etc.], and here’s what I came up with:

1.  Clipping Fingernails/Cutting Hair. OK.  If you’re Lee Redmond and you enjoy looking like THIS [see right], you might argue against fingernail clipping, but I’d argue right back that you’re bonkers. And gross.

2.  Using Money. Yes, it’s true: money, the proverbial root of all evil, is a necessity.  And while you may pine for the days of yore when trading glass beads and animal furs was the way to do business,  we’ll ever see those days again.  And really, a pile of animal furs wouldn’t fit in your wallet even if you could get them past the PETA demonstrators.

3.  Grocery Shopping. All of you who have just finished reading Animal, Vegetable, Miracle are ready to send me pointed letters of disagreement [please, do!], however, I would argue that while you may raise your own chicken, pork or beef, and while you may have a garden the size of Delaware, there are some things that you will need to get at the store:

• salt, pepper, spices [don't even try to tell me you're going to grow your own cinnamon]
• COKE!! coffee, OJ
• mustard
• vinegar
• tuna
• toilet paper and other “feminine” needs [if you go back to pioneer days -- well, see note on Lee Redmond.  Bonkers. Gross.]

4.  Taking Out The Trash/Recycling:  Again, unless you desire to live in a cistern of filth like THIS [see right], I don’t see any way around this one.  Nasty. [PS: if you haven't checked out A&E's Hoarders, set your Tivo for Monday nights at 10 pm].

5.  Laundry.  What can I say?  It. Must. Be. Done.  Forever and ever, AMEN.

So what would your list look like?

Please leave a comment with the “5 Things You Can’t Quit”, as you see it.

Egg Cartons, Baby Chicks, and FREE Fun

My husband calls me a recycling maniac.  I prefer to consider myself a “wise recycler” or “earth-conscious mother.”  I’ll leave the title “maniac” to the kids, little angels though they are

At any rate, I’ve been in the habit of saving egg cartons because once-upon-a-time, my farm-living, egg-selling sister re-used them at her roadside stand.  Now that hard times have hit small organic businesses, they only produce enough eggs for their family and have shunned my monthly donation of double-digit cartons.

I suppose I can’t blame her.  I mean, if you aren’t packaging up farm-fresh eggs of all sizes and colors, what IS one to do with oodles of cartons?

Thanks to my Aunt Barb’s crafty ways, I have an answer!  Make adorable baby chicks for your Easter mantle!  And, depending on how heavily-stocked your art bin is, you may very well be able to birth these beauties for free!

To adopt your own family of Baby Chicks:

1.  Cut egg cartons apart.  I chose to do rows of 3 chicks, still connected, but you may modify according to your needs.

2.  Next, using either yellow cotton balls or colored pom-poms from your local craft store, glue one pouf into the carton and a second one on top [like a snowman.]  We used Elmer’s glue rather than a glue stick  [which is always fun with kids].

3.  Glue googly-eyes on your chick above an orange bill.  I used card-stock paper for my chirper.

4.  Cut another section of egg carton carton to resemble a “cracked” egg shell.  This will be glued on the chick’s head in hat-like fashion, mimicking the idea of her bursting from her egg-home.

5.  Add a smiling child [and plenty of help from mom] and celebrate your success!

6.  Display your hatchlings with pride at the center of your home.

Happy Spring!  Happy Easter!

Leave a comment below to share your own Easter or Springtime craft!

Hallmark Sends Its Very Best

I’ve already told you bits and pieces of my now-exposed [obsessive] affair with Hallmark Gold Crown Stores.

It’s thorny territory for me to write about something so intimate and special, but at last I’m able to admit that sneaking away to be with ‘Mark is time that I long for and treasure.   Escapes are carefully planned so that I am alone, without the distraction of children reaching and touching and interrogating.  I strategize so that I can meander without the inconveniences of pressing deadlines.  When I run to ‘Mark, I ensure that my thoughts are there only, able to linger on every carefully crafted word.

Like any good lover, I know the power of secrets, so won’t devulge everything [like how much Platinum status has cost me!].  But today I can’t help share this one item which has brought such joy to our kids:

As part of our family Valentine celebration I bought three of these adorable little books: one for each of our kids.  The inside has pre-written pages that either prompt you with a question, fill-in-the-blank, or provide a check-mark style list for you to complete.

Some of the sentence starters are silly:  “If ___________was and Olympic sport, you’d win the gold medal for sure!”

Others are sentimental and profound:  “Thank you for teaching me how to_________”, “The thing I most admire about you is: ____________”.

By now it shouldn’t surprise me how much kids love these kinds of affirmations, but it does — every time.  I truly marvel at how the human need for acceptance and love begins at such a young age.

My husband and I are huge fans of The Biggest Loser.  Several weeks ago, Sam, one of the Samoan contestants, broke down in tears and was barely able to speak because of a recent conversation with his father.  At 24 years old, it was the first time he had heard the words I’m proud of you.

And he was crushed with love and gratitude for those words.

Isn’t that sad, in a way?  That this man had to wait nearly a quarter-of-a-century to hear that?  My DNA dictates that I’d rather be open and free with the abyss of my heart than raise kids who feel uncertain about their parents’ affection.

If you’d like to see a new kind of inner light shine brightly on your child’s face, purpose to leave a sweet letter on her pillow or nestle a card in his dresser drawer.

He may not want to open it in the school cafeteria, but I guarantee that it will be ripped open with joy in your home, and stored away forever in his heart.

Yoga With Kids is Soooo [NOT] Relaxing…

Yoga.  The word, even to non-practicers, seems to evoke a sense of calm and relaxation.  It conjures up images of super-fit Californians poured into black yoga pants, lean muscles taught and glistening on some Pacific cliff overlooking the gorgeous, sparkling ocean.  The instructor’s voice floats over the sound of waves, cooing in a soft, 1-900 style tone:

“Let your body just siiiinnnkkkk into the mat.  Block out all distractions and focus on your breathing.  Yeeesssss.  That’s goooood….”

Despite my former dedication to such teachers, lately I’ve been sitting and watching their DVDs from the comfort of our couch, eating a handful of Oreos Veggie Straws and trying desperately to suck in my gut before someone asks me when when the baby’s due.

I’m sure you can’t relate.

Well this morning, after being encouraged and motivated by Poppy, the wonderful author of “Yoga is Yummy”, I decided to get with the program.  Still in PJ’s and lacking the proper elasticized breast-hoisting mechanism, I popped in [my secret boyfriend] Bob Harper’s Weight Loss Yoga DVD, straightened my spine and tried to get “in the zone.”

With kids fighting in the background.

With my son running back and forth across the fireplace hearth positively BAWLING because he didn’t have anyone to play Duck Duck Goose with.

With my son then crawling under my belly as I trembled and moaned in plank position.

And as he continued to weave in and out of my legs while I contorted into twisting triangle.

Ahhhhh.  The picture of harmony and calm!

Finally, by some stroke genius and good fortune, I convinced both kids that Duck Duck Goose is a washed up, repetitious game for toddlers, and that they too should enter this world of serenity with me.

And can you believe — IT WORKED!

Despite my floor space being stolen and my energy now focused on capturing the fun on my camera, we actually had a great time together.

Who knew that yoga with kids could be so….relaxing? 

Ice Tunnels and Secret Caves

As the snow continues to threaten and temps stay frosty, cabin fever can set in and cause temporary insanity.  To combat mental decline, we planned an adventure to Lake Michigan this weekend [free fun!] and the kids are already asking to go back.

I don’t usually post a slew of photos without text, but in this case I’ll let the pictures do the talking and encourage you to get out and enjoy the frozen landscape.  Your kids will think the Magic Schoolbus took them to the moon!  It’s beautiful and completely different than anything I’ve seen.  Great memories!

My two oldest on the far right, waaaay out on the lake

My youngest next to the pier

West of the pier

My cuties finding a snow cave

On top of a huge pile of snow, looking down a crevasse to the lake

Playing "Little House on the Prairie" in a hidden "house"

Keeping Christmas Alive

In truth, I can’t completely remember if I read about this craft or adapted it from several other ideas, but this year we actually got out the scissors and did it.

We purposely saved our Christmas photo cards so that we could cut the pictures out and make them into prayer placemats.  My mom, in her generous wisdom, had given us several old wallpaper books for all our crafting, so rather than buying poster board or another large piece of paper, we cut out swaths of wallpaper as our base.  Across the top I wrote “Today We Pray For Our Friends”.

With a pile of photos on hand, the kids started clipping away.  We tried to choose pictures of people we know best, even if we don’t see them frequently.

After getting all the photos in place, I used a Sharpie to write prayer starters between the pictures and across the page:  “Help us make good choices” and “Thank you for good friends and good health” etc.

Although I was hoping to “officially” laminate them at Staples, it became a bit cost prohibitive.  Instead, I sped over to my local hardware store for some clear contact paper and did the job at home for $3.69.  Fantastic!

We trimmed off the excess and now have wonderful placemats to use at breakfast time.  Rotating them between our three kids gives us the opportunity to pray for different people, different needs, and through different lenses.

If you still have your Christmas cards, give it a try!  Or if not, collect special photos throughout the year and use them as a springboard for prayer and gratitude with the little hearts in your home.

Crazy for Brains

I lay there with one eye open, watching the TV move in blurry sequence.  By now two kids warmed the sheets next to me so I could “rest my eyes.”

Whatever cartoon Nick Jr. was peddling at that hour of the day, I took it in under the haze of morning.  Surprisingly, I managed to laugh at the little caricatures trying to teach recycling to kids during a 5 minute mini-lesson.  With a variety of bins before them, a moose-like critter and a blue owl sporting a cute flower in her feathers discussed the future resting place of a drinking glass.

Just as moose was going to recycle it in the “glass” bin, another creature perked up and interjected that maybe “someone” [cough] would like to reuse it…?  Astutely taking the hint, moose hands off the glass to his buddy; buddy responds with,

“Thanks!  Now my Frozen Gnome collector’s set is COMPLETE!”

[HA!]

Frozen Gnomes?

Where do they come up with this stuff?  That is so utterly RANDOM!

Later today as we tooled down the road in our lovely family van with the kids’ tunes pumpin’, I listened carefully to the words of a new-to-me Laurie Berkner song, I Feel Crazy, So I Jump in the Soup.

Laughter exploded from all of us as she sang!

One of the following verses says, “I feel crazy so I gallop in the soup.”

That’s brilliant!

Her website [yes, I did indeed come home and look it up ] says that a 4 year-old once asked her to write a song with that title, so she did–on the spot.

Right.

I’m totally jealous of people with those kinds of crazy brains–people who think of galloping in soup and collecting frozen gnomes.  People like this brilliant woman [read the entire post--it's hilarious] who, of course, have book deals and can somehow whip up ridiculous yet coherent streams of thought that make me laugh and burn with envy.

Sometimes I try to learn from them and make up imaginary lists of useless but comical items in my head.  But always I sit at home wishing I had crazy for brains.

What do you wish for?  Leave a comment so I don’t have to lament alone

This Little Prayer of Mine, by Anthony DeStefano

“Impress [these commands] on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up.”  Deut. 6:7

This verse has a way of lacing up its running shoes and doing laps around my mind.  It’s so honest, so simple.  God takes the time to show us how to teach our kids: often, with purpose, and stirred into the daily-ness of kitchen conversation.  He draws a map, clearly instructing us to bring God into the mundane rather than separating moments out for Him.  We are not to isolate Jesus to Sunday, Awana, or Cub Scouts.  And thank goodness!  Bringing God into the kitchen, the garage, and the muddy backyard models for our kids that there is nothing in our lives that is not spiritual.

At our house, when it comes to teaching our children–be it about sharks, recycling, or Easter–you will find me searching for a good book.  Our kids are tough critics: they love the library, they know what a Caldecott Award and a Newbery Medal are, and they have a sharp eye for literature that is colorful both in word and form.

In light of this, it is my pleasure to introduce you to a book that meets those criteria and adds to them a measure of wit and wisdom that our children found delightful.  Anthony DeStefano, bestselling author of A Travel Guide to Heaven, and Ten Prayers God Always Says Yes To debuts his first children’s book this month.  Published by WaterMark Press and set for release on February 16, This Little Prayer of Mine carries with it high praise from such notable folks as Bernice A. King [daughter of Martin Luther King Jr. and Coretta Scott King] and the National Day of Prayer Task Force.

DeStafano tackles tough issues like justice, rebellion, isolation and confusion, wrapping them in soothing rhyme and ensuring that high concepts are palatable for young readers.  Woven throughout these larger issues are models of both intercession and prayers of gratitude; the scope of this prayer demonstrates that nothing is off limits when we talk to God.

Illustrated by Mark Elliot, the book’s images are wonderfully life-like, with the cover-art reminding me vaguely of Disney’s Toy Story.  Our children commented that the pictures “look so real!” but that the inside ones “are a little dim” [we wish they were all as vibrant as the cover].  The pictures convey the text so that very young children can sit with this book and understand much of its message even if mom and dad are not nearby.

This Little Prayer of Mine is a book that will be re-read often at our home.  While our 6 & 7 year-olds are perhaps at the upper-end of its influence, our 4 year-old sat at attention, pointing to pictures and adding his own color commentary.  If you are a mother of a toddler or preschooler [ages 1-5] striving to live out God’s command in Deuteronomy, take a peek at Anthony DeStefano’s latest release.  May it not only become a treasure to your children, but may your children grow to treasure its message: we can take anything to the Lord in prayer.

~~

My sincere thanks to Anthony for inviting me to read and review this book.  It was an honor!

Remembering My Own Thin Place

When I survey the landscape of my life, it’s shocking that fingernails still cling to these hands at all for all the scraping and clawing college required.

It wasn’t the academics that pulled me apart; books and essays and ink pens were friends.

It was scarce tuition money that threw an ever-present shadow of fear over me.  Would I have to abandon my friends and beautiful campus before walking across that spring stage?  I imagined having to pack up and leave in the night like a tangle-haired mother evading an impossible landlord.

With these kind of shadows creeping round, you can imagine my angst when I felt the Lord calling me to South America.  My love for Jesus and the developing world was magnetizing, but paying for it seemed the one hurdle I would never overcome.

I battled the demon of money, feeling certain that God would not withhold a righteous desire because of this one pesky detail.  My housemates gathered and prayed over the possibility of a summer in Peru.  And slowly, the shadows retreated.

Miraculously, within two weeks of sending support letters, my feeble, unbelieving hands held all the money I needed—to the dollar.

My soul took wing, soaring with gratitude and love—the kind that springs from certainty, conviction, and affirmation.  I flew through the pine grove on feet that moved without instruction, praying prayers without words.  Tears like rivers now freely ran. My face, a burst of joy; sunshine radiating off gray clouds.

Unrestrained elation.  God a breath away.

I inhabited a precious Thin Place.

~~

Note to readers:

This post is part of a contest to describe a Thin Place in exactly 259 words [which, according to WordPress, mine is].  The winner gets a new Kindle!  Wish me luck

Thin Places: a memoir, by Mary DeMuth

“The Celts define a thin place as a place where heaven and the physical world collide, one of those serendipitous territories where eternity and the mundane meet.  Thin describes the membrane between the two worlds, like a piece of vellum, where we see a holy glimpse of the eternal–not in digital clarity, but clear enough to discern what lies beyond.” [p. 11]

The sky seemed a giant gunmetal smudge as I moved through campus that spring; the decision had been made and my heart leapt in its cage at the thought of seeing summer plans turn into reality.  Never had I felt such certainty–such a sense of calling as when I left to spend three months in Peru working with the poor and vulnerable.  God had spoken so clearly and purposefully.  His voice, undeniable.  My face, a burst of joy; sunshine radiating off gray clouds.

That was a thin place for me.

The Celtic definition Mary shares in her introduction brings to mind more of those wonderful “holy glimpses of the eternal,” although they are sparse and sprinkled scantily across calendar pages that comprise years of my life.  And as I read through Thin Places, I wondered, How many more have there been?  How many times have I failed to see God breathing so closely?

The gift of this book, and I do believe it is a gift, is Mary’s passionate search for the thin places of her life, and her ability to turn those places round and round, looking for the speck of goodness, listening for the sliver of time when God spoke uniquely to her.  This ability to hover over years and circumstances with wisdom and perspective is truly awe-inspiring.  Despite all that was dealt to her, she holds the cards, reshuffles them, and finds a way to make meaning.  Finds a way to win.

With an engaging and lyrical style, Mary replays the scenes of her life, letting the reader fully conjure each episode: smells and sights and feelings–all portrayed perfectly and poetically by a master storyteller.  Mary does this with clarity, telling her story with brutal honesty.  Specifically, the chapters entitled Snapshot, Shame and Marked were so naked and raw that I could not help but sob quietly, letting tears bleed into heartwrenching pages.

Thin Places is arranged in 28 short chapters embraced by an introduction and a conclusion.  I enjoyed the way that this book was mapped out by themes rather than being entirely chronological.  It amazed me that Mary was able to sit down and comprise *28* themes: growth and struggle, hardship and revelation–28 thin places where God has revealed himself to her [could I even get to 8?!].  She tackles brokenness, loneliness, despair, and hurt, but in time flips them around so we don’t miss their other side.  Deftly, skillfully, she threads the needle and shows us how so many scraps and throwaways are really the makings of God’s tapestry.

To anyone who struggles to move beyond the heartbreak of stolen innocence, the disappointment of childhood cut short, the need to be seen and loved for who God made each of us to be, Thin Places will speak to your soul and stir you in a powerful way.  Mary has so completely poured herself out, so thoroughly wrung herself dry, that in the end only Christ himself is left to shine.

Mary’s writing mantra is “turning trials to triumph.” There’s no denying that she has done just that with this memoir, released February 1 by Zondervan Publishers.  As a reader, I offer proud applause for all the triumphs.  Proud applause for her love and undying passion for Jesus.  Applause for her determination to remember, learn from, and share so many of her own thin places.

~~My thanks to Zondervan for furnishing a copy of this book.

More Free Books!

If you’re the lucky owner of a portable reader such as a Kindle or a Nook, you’ll be dancing in your pajamas to know that a few great books are being offered as free downloads through next week–just in time for your upcoming winter vacation or the unexpected wait at your dental office.

One of the book offerings is the amazing Daisy Chain by Mary DeMuth; Daisy Chain is the first in the Defiance Texas Trilogy, and was reviewed here last fall along with the second book in the trilogy, A Slow Burn. I am excited to let you know that I will also be acting as an influencer/reviewer for Mary’s latest release, Thin Places, out this January. I’ll be posting my review of this heartbreaking and redemptive memoir on Tuesday, and hope you’ll come back with your entire world of friends to check it out.

Read more about how you can download your free eBooks HERE.

Drumroll, please!

Congratulations to Kamarah S!  As the person who referred the most folks to this contest, Kamarah will be the recipient Gary Thomas’ latest book, Pure Pleasure: Why Do Christians Feel So Bad About Feeling Good?, courtesy of Zondervan Publishers.

Thanks to all who participated and as always, to you for reading.

Update your iPod

Sometimes I find myself dreamily swaying back and forth, occupying a snatch of time that feels special, different.  I look to my right and see smiles, to my left, hear laughter, and know that God has given this moment for us to enjoy.  And in His grace and love, he gives it freely to all–even to those who will not credit Him with the gift.

Two weeks ago I got to see Brandi Carlile perform at a local venue here in Grand Rapids.  My concert buddy and I had been introduced to her months before as the opening act for The Indigo Girls.  It was a gorgeous summer evening in a semi-outdoor concert hall nestled at the heart of an age-old forest.  The lake adjacent to us glittered back the drooping late-day sunshine and lapped softly against the beach that remained hidden from view.  [What could be more lovely?] My, oh my.  I fell in love with Interlochen, and I fell in love with Brandi.

I’m a sucker for girls or guys who can pick up a guitar and possess it in such a way that it nearly becomes an extension of their bodies–an extremity allowing them to open their souls with poetry and tempo and meter.  If those girls or guys can write songs that wield power enough to hush a crowd or rouse them to frenzy, I’m gone.  My heart and spirit connect to music the way that others connect with paint or cooking or building streetrods.

Watching this variety of soul expression in Interlochen and again in Grand Rapids this January leaves me slack-jawed with equal parts envy and admiration.  Some day when I can afford one-on-one guitar lessons [preferably with John Mayer] at my beach house [preferably in Southern California], I’ll work my fingers bloody to achieve even the repetitive and elementary notes of Jingle Bells or Happy Birthday.  But until then, I wipe the drool from my mouth and sway dreamily in the presence of music and musicians like Brandi.

If you’re looking to update your iPod and you enjoy folk/rock, check out Brandi’s album The Story, or her new album with a new Elton John collaboration: Give Up The Ghost.

Ready your handkerchief for drool–and don’t say I didn’t warn you.

WIN THIS BOOK!

Zondervan was gracious enough to provide me with a second copy of this book to pass along to my masses of spellbound and excited readers [cough]; to that end I am happy to launch a spiderweb contest to determine the winner.

Yes, I made up that descriptor.

At any rate, if you’re dying to read Gary’s book [you should be] but you can’t justify yet another trip to the bookstore [I'm with you] or you just lost your Kregel coupon in a pile of dirty snow [how unfortunate], TODAY’S YOUR LUCKY DAY!

HERE ARE THE RULES:

To enter the contest, please:
1.  Post a link to this entry from your own blog or Facebook page.

2.  Add a comment below below stating where you posted the link.

3.  Friends who see your link should leave a comment stating that “Sheila told me about this contest”; if these friends want to be entered themselves, they should also post a link to their blog or Facebook page.

4.  The person who refers the most people to this contest by noon on Friday [2/5] wins the free book!

Good Luck!! This book is worth it!

PS:  If you haven’t heard of Gary Thomas’ latest book yet, you can read my review here.  I also wrote about honoring God with our view of food [one of Gary's topics]; you can read that post here.

Pure Pleasure, by Gary Thomas

Check back tomorrow to see how you can win a copy of this book, courtesy of Zondervan Publishers!

Little did I know when I tore into the envelope that I was the lucky recipient of something I never knew I needed.  With the kitchen finally quiet, I embarked on the kind of delightful journey one rarely finds in non-fiction: a work so thoughtful and sown with so much depth, my underlining pencil never left my fingertips.  Pure Pleasure: Why Do Christians Feel So Bad About Feeling Good? would change me.

I grew up in a Christian home with parents who were raised under the pressed thumb of loving, yet legalistic parents.  My dad, in particular, often recounted wonderful, innocent opportunities he missed out on as a child because his mother and father thought they were “sinful.”  Riding a bike on Sunday.  Playing organized sports.  Befriending Christians of different persuasions: all “sinful.” And while I always had an ache in my gut, a rebellion to this errant type of Christianity, I never had the words to describe why it might ache the very heart of God. Gary Thomas most eloquently explains why:

“Prayer and fellowship are among life’s richest pleasures, but let’s not stop there.  Let us learn to fill our souls with beauty, art, noble achievement, fine meals, rich relationships, and soul-cleansing laughter.  When we acknowledge these pleasures, we acknowledge God as a genius creator of brilliant inventions.  Let us be wary of a faith that denies these blessings as “worldly” and unfit, as though Satan rather than God had designed them.  Let us refuse to fall into the enemy’s trap of denying ourselves God’s good pleasures so that we end up deeply vulnerable to illicit pleasure.”  [pg. 17]

In my estimation, the strength of Thomas’ writing is threefold: amazing research and breadth of literature upon which to draw, impeccable theology drenched in insight, and wisdom sprouting from love, compassion, and truth.  Time after time as I folded over yet another page corner, I found myself saying, “Wow.  That is so true.” And to be honest, while I knew I would enjoy the book, I didn’t fully reckon the weight it would have on my thinking.

The scaffolding undergirding this book comes from the considerable attention given to Scripture, fortifying the position that our joy matters to God.  Thomas’ scholarly approach unfolds a new picture of who God is, pointing to the life of Christ for examples and instruction, and laying out sound defense for soaking up pleasures as good gifts from the Father.   So that we may better claim this joy, Thomas asserts that we must spend time discovering what things truly give us pleasure.  For some of us, the beach and a good book are all we need!  Others enjoy physical fitness, travel, cooking or baking, photography, golf, or motorcycles.  Whatever it is, these gifts, when in healthy balance, are to be accepted with gratitude.

Thomas points out, however, that many folks are still hung-up on the old way of thinking: if pleasure involves laughter and does not explicitly carve out time for prayer, this time is not quite as well spent as it would be within the four walls of a church. Nonsense, says Thomas.  God is the creator of everything! And while considerable attention is given to the balance and control we must exert to remain pure in heart, he is quick to point out that our enjoyment of healthy pleasures gives God great joy–perhaps much like the joy an earthly father feels watching his spellbound children swoon over Christmas presents.

In a world so bombarded with instant gratification of all kinds, Pure Pleasure also provides the kind of practical guidance we need to navigate confusing passageways.   Thomas includes invaluable information on “spiritual ferns”, those innocuous things in our lives that may cause us to stumble or falter.  He challenges us to be honest about our limitations and boundaries, and to recognize the dangers that come from both avoidance and exhaustion: “If your spiritual enemy can’t get you to apply the brakes to keep you from ministering, he may well try to get you to push the gas pedal to the floor, hoping to drive you off a cliff.” [pg. 122]

The author arranges this book in fourteen chapters which are brought to a close with questions for discussion and reflection.  For those desiring further study and contemplation, the end of the book offers additional small group discussion questions, guiding the reader to purchase optional videos available online.

When I received this book, I didn’t realize I had so much to learn about the heart of God or about how he wants to father us.  I didn’t realize that our enjoyment of life’s good things is so vital to effective witness and healthy spirituality–that God gives us these things, often times, as a protection from dangerous pleasures.  And that if we’d just lean back and drop into the arms of God and accept these things, we’d be all the better for it.

Bravo, Gary!  Reading your book, for me, was a pure pleasure.

-  -  -  -  -  -  -  -

Thank you, Zondervan Publishers, for graciously providing me with two copies of this book, and to The Blog Tour Spot for including me in this tour.

All Hail Hallmark!

When the “rewards” coupon comes in the mail, I’m the sucker who can’t wait to race out the door to Betty’s–Hallmark, that is.  I love walking into the dreamy ambiance full of pretty bags and holiday decorations, and hearing the clerk greet me in her usual soothing tone, “Hi, there. Welcome.”

Welcome, indeed.

The subtle smell of candles reminds me that I am on sacred ground: no rice has been burnt here, no bacon grease sent splattering, no wet dog slogging down the aisles.  Time alone at the Hallmark is my sanctuary.  I’d be willing to bet the farm, proverbially speaking, that if a neurologist hooked me up to expensive monitoring devices during my escape he would literally see my heart rate fall, my breathing deepen, my brain waves align, and my Seratonin levels spike.

Perhaps this is partly due to the fact that selecting wonderful cards may just be my true spiritual gift–and perhaps working in that giftedness provides calm.  I pour over the cards, reading each one, pausing to consider who might be pleasantly surprised to receive it in the mail.  My feet take me across the carpet, weave me between aisles and right up to my willing death:  the clearance rack.  That’s where the budget gets blown, and that’s precisely how I’ve become a Platinum Gold Crown card-carrier.  And proud of it.

Last Saturday I was able reclaim a scrap of time to get over to Betty’s, and found all sorts of treasures.  I won’t publish exactly how much I spent, but I consider it part of my tithe [kind of]… since it blesses others.   Don’t you think it’s worth it to brighten a day by sending a card that just says, “I know you’re sick of wiping poopy butts and blowing running noses and making meals that few appreciate.  But I appreciate you and I just wanted to let you know.”

Well, whether you agree or not, I love cards, and in my next life I’m sure I’ll own my own Hallmark store and have my own line filled with hilarious adventures and off-color jokes.

For now, however, I’m cheering for the brilliant folks who come up with things like this: itty bitty greetings for you to pop into your kid’s lunch box or backpack.  This particular one is a “school pack,” although I also got one that was more general encouragement and praise.  Each card is roughly the size of a pack of gum and you’ll get 8 cards in each pack.

So for all of you encouragers out there looking to add a smile to someone’s sandwich, run to your nearest Hallmark, breathe in the scents, live in the calm and serenity, and grab a handful of cards.  Make it your goal to send at least one to someone each week…and see how the blessing may be returned to you.

Living with Prepositions

It seems this blog has become my own private confessional.  Be warned: you are all priests and I expect absolution at the end of this post.

I regret to inform you, as I’ve regretted admitting to myself, that I’m living in a land of prepositions.  My favorite of the moment appears to be about.

I have a mental list of things I should be doing.  I spend considerable time thinking about them.  Planning to someday do them.  Lately I’ve been fairly convinced that if I just had a pretty bulletin board with artsy magnets and textured paper to “organize” my goals, then I’d do them, without a doubt.  I’d have various sections for all the flotsam wandering around in my brain; there would be bright colors and curliques and meaningful doodles.  And surely, then my prepositions would turn to verbs and I’d actually accomplish something!

Here’s my list on its virtual bulletin board:

1.  [This section would be pink and would include paper with scalloped edges.] I spend a lot of time thinking about writing a book or an article, but I know that I am not doing the hard work it will take for that to happen.  For real, Jane–just post something on this blog more than once a week!  Get out there and “Make it work!”  I’m sure that if I had an office designed by Nate Berkus that I positively loved and wanted to cry with joy at the sight of it, I certainly would not have this struggle.

2.  [Green paper donning a work-out chart]  Run another 5K this spring.  I think about that.  I also think about actually running anywhere right now and quickly slap my own face and put myself in time-out.  On the couch.  With the remote.  My excuse: It’s too cold and I’m barely subsisting on root vegetables.  The only way I’m running is if Richard Simmons himself shows up and threatens to impose his hairdo on my scalp.

3.  [Light blue for "to-do" lists]  I need to wake up earlier.  I would get a lot more done.  Because clearly, I can’t even keep cobwebs out of our Christmas tree or laundry from forming its own continent on our dining room table.  I think about these things while I’m lying in bed, convincing myself that it’s so much more “worth it” to pass another 20 minutes on high-thread-count sheets than to get up and stare at my dirty toilet.  After all, my brain tells me, a rested mama is a happy mama, so ‘you’re really doing your family a favor.’ I love my talking brain.

4.  [Yellow: books I want to read, those I have read this year, and my prayer list]   I need to spend more time reading and praying.  Period.  Why is this hard?  This is hard because People Magazine exists and has taken up residence in our home.  This is also hard because I like to check my email and facebook page, and there seems to be a strange magnetic pull between my body and this computer.

OK.  That’s it.

Even though it’s more than a little humbling to reveal my shortcomings to the faceless world of cyberspace, I’m clinging to the theory that if I write them down, I’ll somehow be held accountable to taking positive steps away from prepositions and toward VERBS.

So I’m curious: do you have a virtual bulletin board?

What’s on yours for 2010?

An Apple At Dawn

It is before 5 am as I sit here with my apple.

People who know me will realize that something is strangely amiss that I would be pulled from the warmth of the bed I love to descend to a computer and a rigid wooden chair before dawn.

The culprit?  I am seriously hungry.  [Hungry, people--not pregnant].

In light of the tragedies in Haiti and the devastating and legitimate hunger of others around the world, I will not say that I am starving.

I am not starving. Thank God–truly.

But I am seriously hungry.

Ten days ago I started a detox to help reposition my view of food and hopefully to change some habits that I was ready to conquer.  This particular detox demands that for 28 days I eat sugar-free, dairy-free [eggs OK for part], gluten-free, and beef/pork-free.  Additionally, at specific times of the plan [like this week], I am to cut out even lean meats like chicken and turkey, nuts, beans & legumes, and eggs.  This is all supplemented with certifiably “yummy” shakes [read: grainy, gritty, and taste like a pile of wet autumn leaves].  That’s why I woke up hungry.  Fruits, veggies, and rice, while delicious, aren’t really giving me the satisfaction that a warm and crusty piece of toast would, carefully smothered in jam and served still-warm on my plate.

My love of sugar, in fact my felt need for sugar, was something I did not run away from.  I loved to sit with a glass of Coke–or three–or mix up a batch up chocolate chip cookies so I could devour a respectable portion of the dough.  And don’t even get me started on the holy grail of chocolate and peanut butter.  My goodness.  That has the prospect of taking on a life of its own.

I began to acknowledge patterns I had long denied or downplayed.  Like how my lack of self-discipline when confronted with certain things meant that food didn’t submit to me and my fork, but that I submitted to it. And the more I’ve been learning about enjoying pleasures and following Jesus, the more I realized that this kind of submission will only be realized when put in right relationship with my heart and faith.  Giving free reign to self-indulgence doesn’t seem like the best way to move through life.  At least not for me.

As I’ve mentioned before, I had the distinct joy of reading Gary Thomas’ latest book, Pure Pleasure:  Why Do Christians Feel So Bad About Feeling Good? [I'll be reviewing this book and offering the chance to win a free copy on my blog next week!]  Gary approaches the subject of pleasure in such new and interesting ways I was unable to put this book down.  While he lauds accepting gifts of relationships, food, hobbies, and intimacy with open and grateful hearts, he cautions how blind abandon can, though won’t always, lead to sin. His chapter entitled “Dangerous Pleasures” gave me particular pause as I contemplated this detox:

“I grew up in a conservative Baptist church.  Many of the older widows wouldn’t be caught dead saying “heck” or “gosh,” much less their demonic counterparts.  They wouldn’t think of watching an R-rated movie or, sin of all sins, participating in a poker game. But they would all but clean out the desserts during potluck.  Perhaps bereft of many common pleasures, they gorged without restraint when an “acceptable” pleasure sat before them, in much the same way that a climber atop Mount Everest desperately tries to suck down some air…

“…It would be a monstrosity of a generalization (as well as a lie) to suggest that being holy means being thin.  God creates different body types, and it can be just as much a sin of vanity to spend hours crafting a certain physique as it can be a sin of gluttony to exert no control over our food appetites.  So without referring to body size, let me gently ask you this:  Does your discipline toward food honor God? Is your witness undercut by your failure to control, or even address, this particular issue? [emphasis mine]  Ultimately, only God knows.  I raise the issue primarily because it would be simplistic to talk about “dangerous” pleasures and ignore the most common, and therefore perhaps the most dangerous, pleasure of all–gluttony.”  [pgs. 150-152]

Am I the only one who reads this and says, “Ouch“?

Maybe I wasn’t cleaning out the dessert table at potlucks, but that doesn’t mean I have the right to ignore patterns of indulgence in my life.  I want to honor God with a right view of food–one that allows me to enjoy the distinct pleasure of sharing a meal with friends, one that sees the gift in slowly enjoying and savoring my [one] piece of dessert, and one that reminds me that I eat to live–not live to eat.

Credit: CNN.com

So in these pre-dawn hours I think on these things.  I remember that the inconvenience of giving up chicken and bread is a daily circumstance beyond the control of billions of truly hungry people around the world.  That most people on our planet won’t have fresh fruit and vegetables today.  That most people will be grateful for a bowl of rice and nothing more.  That most people don’t even have a glass of clean water to drink.

My heart splits open at the images flashing across my TV screen.  Children wandering along, crying out for relief.  Mothers now merely existing with souls ripped out at the loss of family.  Brothers and sisters scrounging for scraps of food, praying for deliverance from their hell on earth.  All while I sit comfortably on my sofa, wrapped in a blanket, sipping my tea, lamenting a 4 week loss of bread and jam.

I think of them.  I remember that my brief sacrifice is small and ordinary.  That it is optional.  I remember that my hunger is temporary and laughable.  My sleeplessness: a poignant reminder that at dawn and always, my heart sings with gratitude for the gifts and provisions of God.

For an apple.

And for so much more.

BNE: Best Neighbors Ever

I first crossed over the asphalt divide six years ago with a plate of monster cookies and a welcome note, hoping that the new people across the street would be, at the very least, pleasant.  What I never even considered was that they might become helping-hands, egg-lenders and sugar-borrowers, and in the end, true friends.  As the pages on the calendar tore away and we came to be surrounded on both sides by such people who give and take in the most harmonious way, my husband and I have soaked up the kind of blessings that make us want to leave the porch light on just a little longer.

It turns out that one of the monster cookie recipients isn’t just a good neighbor to me, she’s a good neighbor to her friends across the country and around the world.  Kamarah is giving and judicious, kind and compassionate.  And when Shannon McNeil, a college friend from her days at Taylor University, was leveled with the unimaginable news that both of her children had a degenerative disease that would one day claim their lives, Kamarah knew that doing nothing just wasn’t an option.

Joining forces with another mutual college friend, Michelle Montenegro who now resides in Costa Rica, Kamarah helped to form A Hundred for a Home, a non-profit fundraiser aiming to raise $400,000 so that the McNeil’s will be able to purchase the kind of handicap-accessible home they so desperately need.  In light of their work I am so excited to share that these heroic efforts have been highlighted in the February 2010 edition of The Ladies’ Home Journal!  [Click on image; see the center article under "Shout-Outs"].

Join me in saluting the love and hard work that drives good friends to be good neighbors.  And if you feel so moved, check out the Hundred for a Home website or leave a note on Kamarah’s blog.

Quote, Unquote

Tonight I walked my oldest son to his room to spend a little time with him before bed.  He treasures these moments–almost longs for them in the way that I long for chocolate desserts and the pleasure of new slippers.  He thinks of all kinds of off-the-wall topics to discuss and touches my face and pats my shoulders.  I love it.  I love it because it is so purely J and because I know it won’t last forever.

I lay down on the bed next to him briefly, staring up at the ceiling and enjoying the familiarity of our old mattress.  J asked me to tell him stories about when I was little [which I deferred to grandma, who will be coming over tomorrow with photos in tow.]   I turned to face him in the dusky dim, rubbed his back and said, “Oh, I just love you, J.  You’re my big boy.”

To which he, ever lovingly responded, “I love you, too.  You’re my big mama.”

From “Pure Pleasure”

This coming February I will be taking part in a blog tour for Gary Thomas’ latest book, the phenomenal Pure Pleasure.  When I was invited to do the review, the title intrigued me [subtitled: Why  Do Christians Feel So Bad About Feeling Good?] and I wondered if this was a thinly-veiled book about having hot sex and feeling great about it.  You can imagine, my husband was thrilled to see it on the nightstand.

While Thomas certainly incorporates the gift of intimacy within marriage into his thesis, the broad topic of pleasure in general has been so compelling that I’m finding myself dog-earring or underlining something on almost every page.  Because we’ve been asked to save our reviews for next month, I’m tapping into my shallow well of personal restraint and will end this post with a brief quote.  Think about this as you move through your day and allow yourself to ponder whether you’ve been snuffing out God-given gifts of enjoyment and fellowship in the name of piety.  Just as your heart leaps in excitement to see your children explode with gratitude on Christmas morning, imagine the Lord’s joy when, rather than rejecting his good and perfect gifts [James 1:17], we accept them with light in our eyes and thanksgiving on our tongues.

“Prayer and fellowship are among life’s richest pleasures, but let’s not stop there.  Let us learn to fill our souls with beauty, art, noble achievement, fine meals, rich relationships, and soul-cleansing laughter.  When we acknowledge these pleasures, we acknowledge God as a genius creator of brilliant inventions.  Let us be wary of a faith that denies these blessings as “worldly” and unfit, as though Satan rather than God had designed them.  Let us refuse to fall into the enemy’s trap of denying ourselves God’s good pleasures so that we end up deeply vulnerable to illicit pleasure.” [pg. 17]

My review and a chance to win a free copy of this book coming the week of Feb 1.

Struggle Bus

One of the many lovely things about Christmas and the New Year is the way families and friends come together around the table for a meal.  The dimly lit dining room aglow with reflections of the Christmas tree and Percy Faith’s Holiday album hanging in the air seem to cast a spell on those huddled around its oak belly.  For most folks, the eating doesn’t stop when the last of the Prime Rib is dipped in au jus; instead, the feast continues with all varieties of sugary goodness: frosted, chocolately, cut-into-shapes, sprinkled, and embellished to the point that eating these small pieces of art seems paramount to some kind of sin.

Once the final page is torn from the calendar and I must face a new week in old jeans, I am left feeling heavy.  All this unrestrained, recreational eating ultimately leaves me with sludge in my shoes and a brick in my gut.    [Enter New Year's Resolutions and daydreams about Bob Harper ]

Sometimes, though, heaviness is not about what I ate.  Sometimes it sneaks in the back door from unexpected places: a weird conversation.  Feeling slighted.  Hearing of another’s sadness.  Seeking shalom in your community, only to find that it evades.

This kind of heaviness settles like a hefty wig about my head.  It wears like cumbersome shoulder pads.  Follows me like a lonely pup.  Sometimes, as my husband says, I “drive the struggle bus”. I like to think that I do a commendable job of keeping the bus on the road and getting it into park after a short trip around the block, but if I’m honest, I’d rather quit driving it altogether.

Struggles are not new to humanity, nor are they unique to me or you.  Maybe other people, older and wiser no doubt, are just better equipped to deal with them.  I guess each of us has our own propensities and gifts, and mine appears to be making really good guacamole.  Not dealing with certain stripes of adversity.

Christians like to say things like, “Well, I guess God must be wanting to teach me something, because I’m really dealing with a lot of strife.”

I don’t know what to think about this, although I’m sure it’s come out of my own mouth many times.  Perhaps it’s human nature to look for the silver lining and try to make meaning out of confusion.  But what does that comment really mean?

That people living with a terminal illness need to be taught a lesson?

That single men and women must learn something before they can continue down the path of finding a mate?

That if my friend on the brink of divorce would just “get it”, God would reverse the situation?

…which raises all sorts of other questions:

God, if I learn this “thing”, will you remove this heaviness?

Will you heal this man if he achieves the lesson objective?

Are, then, those without struggles not in need of teaching?  Do they have it “all together”?  They somehow “figured it out”?

I don’t know.  This type of theology seems too transactional for me.  Do this and I’ll give you what you want.  Learn the lesson and I’ll change things for you.  Conditional love?  Conditional provision?

When Jesus was in the Garden, He prayed,  “Abba, Father, all things are possible for you. Remove this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what you will.” [Mk 14:36]  How did God respond to this prayer?  With a crowd of mocking scoffers and wooden beams hoisted up, nails holding the weight of the world.  Despite his prayers, God [thankfully] did not stop the events leading to our Salvation.  And what of the Apostle Paul?  In 2 Cor. 12:7-10 he speaks of a “thorn in the flesh” that he thrice asks the Lord to remove–to no avail.

What are we to think?

Friends, I’ve put on a different pair of glasses and am looking through a new lens this year.  I still spend considerable time in self-examination, trying to discern whether God is revealing anything about me while I’m driving the bus.  Maybe after removing a few layers I’ll come away with a decision to make some changes.  To do better next time.  To ask for forgiveness.

The irony is that struggle often does reveal our weaknesses [as Paul discusses].  But never is it promised that our ability to detect those weaknesses or to “learn something” would guarantee that we will now live in blissful abundance, grinning from ear-to-ear and eating ice cream for breakfast.

Struggle happens in a sinful world.  Struggle happens when things aren’t the way God designed them to be in Eden.

So until Jesus comes back to make all things new [Rev. 21:5], I guess we’ll all be driving the bus.

I have to make peace with that.

Win A Free Book!

Thank you to Keri Wyatt Kent for the comments she left [below] on the review I posted on her latest book, Simple Compassion: Devotions to make a Difference in Your Neighborhood and Your World.  She is inviting interested readers to visit her website for a chance to win a free copy of this book! If you’ve been looking for practical ways to promote justice in your neighborhood, city, and world, this book will be an ideal springboard for you.  Please link to me and tell your friends!

Simple Compassion

Yesterday my oldest child came through the door flushed and rambling about the latest bit of excitement in his 7 year-old life.  As he slowed down and afforded me the chance to listen, I surmised that his school was sponsoring the annual winter “Jump Rope for Heart” and that he wanted to raise money to help.  He shared “sad facts” about the many children living with disease and illness, and with conviction and determination, he announced he was going to work hard to earn pledges.

My eyes pricked to see the compassion that even a second-grader can display.  To imagine life through the lens of another–to empathize with hardships–and then do something about it is what I saw in my son.  Because growing this trait in our kids is so important to me, I was thrilled to receive a copy of Keri Wyatt Kent’s latest book Simple Compassion: Devotions to Make a Difference in Your Neighborhood and Your World from Zondervan.

Simple Compassion is a year-long devotional laid out in four parts:  Compassion Begins with You, Compassion Grows in Community, Compassion Extends beyond our Comfort Zones, and Compassion Offers God’s Love to the World.  I appreciate how Kent goes on to break each of these sections into 52 weeks, providing not only a short meditation for the week, but ending with two sections on how each of us can be challenged both individually and communally.

One of Kent’s strengths is her storytelling.  Time and time again she drew me in to her deep pool of emotion by writing with honesty and ending, often, with thought-provoking questions.  Much of her questioning comes as a rebuff to some of the things she was taught as a child growing up in a Christian home.  For example, in week 5 entitled expectations, she probes: “What does God expect, anyway?  What does he want from us?  The world is full of problems, and it seems like people have a lot of different ideas about what it means to follow God, about what he wants us to do.  They focus on rules, sometimes.  By keeping the rules, can you make God love you?” [pg. 35].

It is evident that Kent has done her research.  On several occasions she shares historical tidbits that sometimes surprised me and other times gave me an “aha” moment, allowing me to view Scripture differently or understand it more fully.  She is passionate about empowering Christians to join in the work of bringing the Kingdom to earth.  In particular, Kent wants to see women begin to view themselves as being an important and integral role in God’s work.  Too often, she asserts, women get the “little old me” syndrome and leave the work of discipling and involvement in social justice up to the men.  Some readers may want to know going into this book that Kent vigorously supports her position of women in leadership and jokes about “picking a fight with conservatives” [pg. 21] on this issue.  While I, too, support women in leadership and the importance of women in the Biblical story, at times her tone seemed a bit gritty.

Lastly, I went into this devotional expecting something a bit more “unisex”, perhaps because one of Kent’s back-cover reviewers was Shane Claiborne, a well-known author and promoter of living like Jesus in a literal way.  Seeing a male’s thoughts displayed prominently made me assume that Simple Compassion would be something for both men or women.  In my opinion, while men would certainly benefit from Kent’s creative and approachable ideas on how to put compassion into action, this book is most definitely written for a female audience.

All in all, I enjoyed Simple Compassion and plan to re-read it a week at a time as it was intended to be read.  I look forward to implementing many of the author’s ideas about loving neighbors and making a difference in the world–and next door [great for kids!].  At our house, 2010 is going to be one of trying to live out Micah 6:8 in a new way:

He has showed you, O man, what is good.
And what does the LORD require of you?
To act justly and to love mercy
and to walk humbly with your God.

Hello, My Name is Jane, and I Have ICD: Part 2

Welcome to my crazy brain, part two.  Come on in, have a look around, grab a cookie and put your feet up.  Ignore the wild ponies and flashbacks of college.

I first revealed to you in August that I have diagnosed myself with a “disease”.  This fictitious self-diagnosis is intended to make myself feel better about the compulsive way in which I seem to link faces together; it gives me something to blame for my weirdness.   Sometimes I swear my friends want to hit me in the face with bags of sloshing strawberry jello when I say [for the 6,397 third time] “Do you know who that looks like?!“

So after months–okay, years–of this, we came to the sad conclusion that I’m living with ICD:  Inter-Connectivity Disorder.   I’ve collected some new faces that I want to share with you, including one photo that my best friend took undercover.  She was even wearing a trench coat and sporting eye black.  Just kidding.  About the eye black.

Exhibit A: Undercover Lee Ann Womack.  The real LeeAnn on the left, innocent football mom on the right.  Thank you, LEJS

Exhibit B: NBC’s Jim Miklaszewski [left] looks like Jon Voight from Mission Impossible.

Exhibit C: Are any of you die-hard fans of Sprout’s Sunny Side Up Show? I know–who isn’t, right?  Moms–right?  [insert coughing now].  Here is the show’s host, Sean Roach, looking a lot like my sister-in-law’s ex-boyfriend.

Readers, Do you have any of your own?  Write your own post and link to me!  Let’s create an online support group for us ICD’ers

A Christmas Meditation

One of my husband’s favorite Christmas songs was written a few decades ago by singer-songwriters Mark Lowry and Buddy Greene.  Mary, Did You Know? is a thought-provoking song that wonders aloud whether Mary fully knew the entirety of who her Son really was.  Luke tells us twice in in his Gospel that Mary “pondered/treasured” things in her heart [Luke 2:19, Luke 2:51]; yet, I wonder: did Heaven give her insight into the depth and gravity of the identity of her baby boy?  It’s an interesting premise and a beautiful song [Bill & Gloria Gaither have a nice version on iTunes].

This Christmas I’ve spent considerable time thinking about the lyrics to this song.  As a mother, it’s fascinating to consider Mary’s journey into Bethlehem–which, contrary to legend, was probably on foot. After all, none of Scripture’s Nativity stories recount a donkey delivering Mary to the stable where she likely delivered Jesus.  The idea of those final hours and minutes of their journey, during which time she was presumably in labor, concluded in a dirty and dimly-lit animal barn is pitiful when compared to the luxe hospital accommodations of the modern world.  No warm towel, no sanitized instruments, no bed sheets.  Wiping him clean and striving to warm him with “strips of cloth” and then lying him in feed trough is, need I say?, incomprehensible.

And so, I wonder, as she gazed lovingly into the face of her son, did God impress upon her spirit all that He was?  Did she see beyond His olive skin and damp hair? Did she know?

~
Mary did you know that your baby boy will give sight to a blind man?

Mary did you know that your baby boy will calm a storm with His hand?

Did you know that your baby boy has walked where angels trod?

When you’ve kissed your little baby then you’ve kissed the face of God.

[lyric credits here]

As Christmas winds down and the TV blares the latest sales and markdowns at the mall, I sometimes let my mind imagine that Jesus is one day old.  Two days old.  Three.  I picture him cradled in his mother’s lap, quietly nursing and curling tiny fingers around the ones that would be his only biological connection in this world.  To think that God gifted Mary with such a unique and amazing role blows me away and almost paralyzes my understanding.  That in all the world–past, present, future–she was God’s choice to be Jesus’ mother. Though imperfect, though human, though in need of a savior as we all are, she gave birth to the Incarnated Christ. Wow.

It’s an awesome thought.  For me it opens Christmas up to more mystery, more miracle, more marvel.

“For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son…”

What a gift given!  What a gift to receive this Christmas!

[photo credit]

After-Hours Shopping = JOY

Friends, I have to say:  If you’ve never ventured to the mall during the week of Christmas to enjoy Macy’s “open ’till 10″ schedule, or Kohl’s “open ’till midnight” promise, take advantage of it!

Sunday night I managed to peel myself off the couch, against any sane and half-way intelligent cell in my being, and ventured to the mall first, then Meijers for our weekly groceries.   Needless to say, I did not want to go.  I knew it would be crazy.  It was dark.  It was cold.  And I wanted to be home in the coziness of our Christmassy living room.

Only the prospect of no milk in the morning [and the idea of starving, complaining children] made me do it.

And I’m here to tell you–it’s the way to go!!

I went to the mall first, arriving shortly after 9 pm.  Macy’s was like my personal haven.  I felt like Elvis–or possibly Oprah–renting out the entire store for peaceful shopping.  Though I didn’t bother to count, I’m sure I saw fewer than ten other shoppers in the store during my rendezvous at the palace of Origins and the jewelry counter.  Bliss!

Upon leaving Macy’s to go to Kohls, I was gifted with THESE MARVELOUS HALLS…alone.  Ahhh!!

I took a moment to respectfully admire the brilliance of the freshly zambonied floors.  I listened to the sound of nothing. What a lovely thing at Christmas time.  No crowds.  No hustle-n-bustle.  No pushing and shoving and fighting for the deals.  Just me and my thoughts.

After finishing up my few errands at the mall, I embarked on the short trip to Meijers for groceries.  I grabbed a cart around 10 pm and hallelujah! The store was as empty as I’ve ever seen it. [Why am I sharing this??  I should be hoarding and coveting this secret to the grave!]  It almost brought a tear to my eye to not have to jockey my cart around slow-walkers, screaming kids, and people who stop in the middle of the aisle to read their lists.

Lest you don’t believe me, see for yourself:

I’m reaching for a tissue now.

Look at these empty, peaceful aisles!

Christmas music was piping through the still air, my cart worked its way across the linoleum, and my mind was blissfully blank.  [except to take this picture with my phone ]

The wonderful thing about this shopping experience was that the only thing that ever became a hurdle to overcome, were the boxes that were busily being unpacked for the suckers who want to face the crowds in the morning.

As for me, I’d gladly trade in an hour of sleep to gain a day of sanity.

That’s a Merry Christmas.

Things I Don’t Understand Thursday: Cobwebs In The Christmas Tree?!

How can it be, Friends?

The tree hasn’t even been up for a month, and apparently an army of spiders has covertly taken taken up residence in its branches.  These busy little web-builders must be decked in green camo for the holidays, because I haven’t seen even ONE scooting across the carpet or knitting its way to webville.

But be sure:  I am not exaggerating.  The tree is being decked with unwanted tinsel, and the morning light streaming in all glorious and wintery does nothing to hide the tangled mess of spider creativity.

What am I to do??  DUST THE TREE?!

Well, it’s probably a good thing.  I really don’t have much to do at this time of year anyway.

[We Are] Overlooked: final thoughts

Matthew 25:37-40 (The Message)

“When did we ever see you hungry and feed you, thirsty and give you a drink? And when did we ever see you sick or in prison and come to you?? Then the King will say, ‘Whenever you did one of these things to someone overlooked or ignored, that was me – you did it to me.”

From Max Lucado’s Cure For The Common Life

“Love the overlooked.”

Jesus sits in your classroom, wearing the thick glasses, outdated clothing, and a sad face. You’ve seen him. He’s Jesus.

Jesus works in your office. Pregnant again, she shows up to work late and tired. No one knows the father. According to water-cooler rumors, even she doesn’t know the father. You’ve seen her. She’s Jesus.

When you talk to the lonely student, befriend the weary mom, you love Jesus. He dresses in the garb of the overlooked and ignored.

You can do that.

Even if your sweet spot has nothing to do with encouraging others, the cure for the common life involves loving the overlooked.”

~

~taken from www.weareoverlooked.com/about; under the section entitled “Where Does The Name Come From?”

[We Are] Overlooked

I happened upon a wonderful organization the other day that captured by imagination and my heart.  It’s called Overlooked, and it’s all about delivering justice to those in this world who are overlooked everyday by their governments, neighbors, politicians, and brother and sister human beings.

The “About” page sums it up:

~
“We are not a charity.

We are not a ministry.

We are not seeking donations.

We simply want to offer you easy, practical ways to help people that have been overlooked and make the world a better place.

When you buy our merchandise you allow us to provide children in Africa with mosquito nets and clean water.

You allow us to free young girls in India from sexual slavery.

You allow us to loan money to women in poverty to start new businesses for a chance to support their own families.

We are more than just another charity, ministry or t-shirt company.

We are Overlooked.”

~

I think that’s just awesome.  Why not consider buying or gifting a t-shirt or handbag this Christmas and spending money that will move forward in the world to make a difference.  Throw yourself into the pond and made some waves–or at least, some ripples.  Get people thinking.  Imagine that $5 could change a life.  Save a life.  Add hope to a life.  After all, isn’t that what Christmas is really about?  Life and hope?

Click here, look around, get out your plastic, become a walking justice sign.

No School!

Ah, the childlike joy of having school canceled–what thrill can compare in the mind of a 6 or 7 year old? Yesterday our kids had an unexpected day off due to a power-outage in their elementary building, followed up [with glee] by a snow BLIZZARD day today!  Such sweet, unwrapped, intangible gifts are received with smiles as wide as Montana skies in summer, and our kids couldn’t wait to dive into a day in the kitchen with mom.  Love that.

In the spirit of sharing, I’m posting my mom’s luscious Cinnamon Roll Recipe today and am inviting you to give them a try.  They’re easy, deee-licious, and fun to do with helping hands.  I must begin by saying that I acknowledge the hideous nature of the photos below.  I took them one-handed with my cell phone because the battery on our real camera was dead.  So, the lighting is terrible, the colors unacceptable and unedited, and the sharpness, well, they’re not sharp.  But hey–I never claimed to be a photographer   You’ll still get the idea!

For a Breakfast Party in Your Mouth, You’ll Need:

1 bag of frozen white bread dough [I used a 3-loaf pack of Rhodes]

Copious amounts of brown sugar

Plenty of cinnamon

Raisins if you like them

dental floss for a cutting trick

 

1. Thaw and roll out bread loaf. [tip: dust counter with flour first! Then spread with butter.

2. Sprinkle lots of brown sugar over buttered-dough.

3. My brown sugar in the forefront. Lots. of. sugar THEN, follow with a generous all-over sprinkling of cinnamon.

4. If you like raisins, soak them in hot water first to soften and plump them. Then, add copious amounts to your rolls. For me, a cinnamon roll just isn't a cinnamon roll without raisins.

5. Roll dough lengthwise in preparation for cutting. Above: my non-raisin rolls which were delivered to a friend, and all manners of cooking crap in the background. Ignore my junk!

6. Ready to cut. Tip: slide dental floss under roll. Lift both ends and criss-cross, making sure the floss touches in the middle. In a quick motion, pull the criss-cross for a nice, non-roll-squishing cut.

7. Me "floss-cutting" the rolls. Best idea ever! Thanks, Mom!

8. Arrange rolls in pan, leaving space for them to rise. Crucial!!

9. Cover pan and set on stovetop while you preheat the oven to 350*. The warmth seems to speed the process. Let them rise until they fill the pan! See below.

10. When your rolls are nice and puffy, stick them in the oven for roughly 15 minutes or until very lightly browned. Too dark = hard and crispy! Trust me, that is NOT what you want.

To end, mix up some powdered sugar + milk frosting and drizzle over warm rolls.  Enjoy with your family…just don’t give yourself a stomach ache by eating too many like someone I know did this morning.  It makes doing yoga a little uncomfortable!

What I Can’t Carry

Today I just needed a little time.  Some space to breathe and room to think.  Looking outside, the gray ceiling of clouds promised a harsh cold, but I didn’t care.  I found my running shoes, clicked my dog to his leash, and opened the door.

It felt really good to go for a walk alone–and for the first time in many months–without my iPod.  Because what I heard today was a new kind of silence:

no, this is not me photo credit: http://weather.thefuntimesguide.com/2009/02/northern_lights_aurora_borealis.php

heels crunching into snow.

the scratch of hood on hair in rhythm with my stride.

buzzing electrical lines.

a far-off bird.

Reuben’s paws click-clicking on pavement.

my own breath.

wind in skeletal grasses, tall alongside the road.

the whir of cars racing past.

the rub of dog leash against gloved hands.

~

God was calming my soul.

I knew when I left the house that I had a lot to unload.  Today in church we sang a song that I love, with a line that says that [Jesus is] “…gonna take what I can’t carry no more.”  What we sing is a bluesy and wonderfully re-written version of Amos Lee’s Black River. And it had me thinking as I sliced through the winter afternoon.

Maybe I’m the only one who struggles with “carrying”.  Maybe it’s easier for you to lay something down at Jesus’ feet and just walk away.  But I’m finding that there are one or two things that seem to sprout seedlings in my heart even after I try and try to tear them out.  Why does my mind persist in reminding me of the hurts and disappointments and measuring sticks? 

With wind numbing my ears and stinging my eyes, I rounded another corner.  I turned “the seedlings” around in my mind and weighed my options.  I thought about love and wondered what it means to act lovingly when you feel injured.  How do you know when love would confront, gently, and speak honestly?  How do you know when love would leave it alone?  Choose to overlook?

In 1Peter 4:8 the Bible says, “Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.”  So I considered packing up my feelings and stuffing them in a Tupperware container, snapping on the lid, and lodging it into the back corner of the freezer.  I would deal with these feelings by myself–sharing them with my husband, of course–but not approaching those directly involved.  I would trust God with my heart and remember my great worth in His eyes.  But I would not unearth my feelings in the context of a conversation with the salt-rubbers.  Because love covers over a multitude of sins, and I should love them and not seek recourse in confrontation.

My other option was sitting down with them and, like coffee thumped over by a thoughtless hand motion, let my thoughts spill out on the table between us.  Let them sit there and bleed into the tablecloth and dry as a stain.  A muddy blob of emotion laid bare.  Ephesians 4:26 says, “In your anger do not sin” : Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry.”  Except the sun has gone down many times.  I guess I’m sinning.

The struggle is that relationships look easy on paper, but we all know that in real life they are complex balls of connections and history and love and trust and vulnerability.  Maybe I think I’m ready to unravel that ball, but to be honest, the thought of approaching a table to drain myself is terrifying.  It makes the inside of my heart feel spooned out and hollow.  My palms start to sweat and I am filled with worry.

So, for now I’ve decided that “…the bitter pill I swallow is the silence that I keep.”  [Ghost, Indigo Girls]

For now I will try to stop carrying.  I will try to trust that Christ not only will carry it for me, but that He actually wants to do it.

I will remember that my worth does not require the validation of the world and a select few of its inhabitants.

That it is measured not by rulers and yardsticks, but by two beams that were hoisted up as the greatest demonstration of love the world has ever known.

I will keep walking and enjoying the crunch of the snow and the sound of my dog next to me.

I will swallow the pill and work on my own heart.

I will work on loving.

Things I Don’t Understand Thursday: Real-Life Ignorers

Isn’t she cute?  My daughter, that is

What’s not cute to me is what’s happening in the background [since I'm considerate and decent, I blotted out their faces].  I understand needing to check your phone in case the babysitter calls to tell you the house is on fire or your child is suspended from the ceiling fan, but this woman sat fingers-to-phone for at least 20 minutes! [Yes, I unofficially timed her.]

This real-life ignoring is reaching epidemic proportions.  You see it in restaurants, airports, at the mall–even in church!  [SHAME!]  And while it can be argued that we have progressed as a society–that we enjoy more conveniences and are more “connected”, this photo exemplifies my point: are we really “more connected” when we ignore life happening around us?

Notice her husband/boyfriend/companion in the brown shirt.  He is thoughtfully and fully engaged in conversation with the other couple.  Red shirt lady is leaning forward on the table, apparently hanging on his every word.  Meanwhile, Clarice is fingering her way into Carpel Tunnel Syndrome and being the latest friend voted off the island of real life.

What kind of message is she sending to her husband?  To her friends?  Even to me–a stranger secretly taking a picture “of my daughter”–the message I’m getting is that the people around her don’t matter as much as the next ring of the phone.

It’s easy to fall into the trap of being over-connected.  To wade too deeply into the cyber-sea.  It’s a diversion.  It makes shopping easy.  It’s fun to update your Facebook status and check your email.  It’s enjoyable for me to sit here and blog.

But if it comes to the point that my real, 3D life–my children and husband and friends–have to compete with my phone…slap me.  Having a loving community around you is too important to gamble on a text message!

Quote, Unquote…Again

Yesterday my youngest had a couple of cute moments–have to record them since I’ve done a pathetic job with his baby book share them with you!

1.  Our little guy has an adorable lisp [s's] and can’t quite seem to pronounce a few of his letters.   When he’s talking, things sound sort of like this:

quad= todd;  dirt bike = dirt bite [our boys are obsessed with quads and dirt bikes!]

grandma = ramma

milk = milt

chicken = titten

Since he just turned four a couple of weeks ago, it’s not something we’re worried about yet– it still sounds cute to me!

Today, however, a few of his words came out crystal clear!  He said “quad” the way it’s supposed to be pronounced!  Then he said something else and it came out perfectly!  I looked at him and said, “M!!  Say that again!  You did it!  You made your sounds!”

He looked back at me and said–very seriously– “Yeah, God healed me.”

2.  Same little boy, different situation!  When I picked him up from preschool he asked me if we were going to see Dr. Kik–my chiropractor.  I told him that I had already gone and thought little of it.  That’s when the drama started.  Sobs.  Fake and forced, yet somehow producing tears.  Maybe they were partially real–but certainly coerced.  Finally, after trying to ignore him patiently let him calm down–which he did NOT–I decided to probe.

“Honey–I didn’t realize you liked Dr. Kik so much!  I’m sorry–next time I’ll make sure to take you.”

Sob, sob…crocodile tears…

“Babe!  Please calm down!  You can come along next time.”

Cry, cry, ball, ball.

“M, I didn’t know you wanted to go along to Dr. Kik!”

His response?

“I wanted to get some of his ca-ca-caaaannnnddddyyyyy!”

Silly me.

Here I thought he had formed a bond with my kind doctor.  Thought he enjoyed the fake skeleton in the corner.  The medieval-like back crackers.

Nope.

He wanted candy.

So glad he has his priorities straight.

Move Over Nate Berkus!!

DRUM ROLL, PLEASE!!

I am proud to applaud the work of my husband and the strides we made on our poor, pathetic, ghetto bedroom of yore.

Tonight I feel like I will be going to bed at some 4-star hotel!  [Maybe I'll bump that up to 5-stars after the artwork is chosen and ordered].  I wish you could feel how puffy and soft and cozy our new comforter is!  And all those pillows!  Luxury!

Here are some before and afters:

BEFORE:

Not terrible, but bed-on-the-floor doesn't really scream "love den" to me. And the old rocker was taking up valuable real estate.

NOW

Now: Soothing colors and a BEDFRAME!! Hooray! Light-blocking curtains! Three cheers!

NOW

Check out my husband's mad carpentry skills! What? Carter Oosterhouse?! We love the wainscoting and the texture and depth it brings to the room. Still need a bed skirt.

BEFORE:

So glad to have the too-small random stuff off the walls!

NOW

A little different angle here, but you can see how clean/minimal everything is.

A huge thanks to Brandon who gave up his whole Thanksgiving weekend [plus some] to measure, cut, saw, sand, glue, nail, prime, and paint!   I feel so lucky to finally have a bedroom that, to me, feels like a retreat.

The Biography Channel

Last night while Norm Peterson my husband was upstairs working on our bedroom renovation/redecoration, I got sucked into several hours of the Biography Channel.  I’m pretty confident that I can now tell you just about anything you need to know about Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, Sheryl Crow, or the upcoming special about celebrity encounters with ghosts.  Critical information.

One of the segments I really enjoyed was a program called “Johnny Cash America” and included all sorts of amazing video footage of his life.  In it, certain portions had voice-overs by Johnny himself, lending a rather eerie quality to the old film.  His unmistakable voice and larger-than-life persona made me hunger to know more about someone I had previously only encountered via Joaquin Phoenix in Hollywood’s Walk the Line.

One of the things Johnny said about faith got my attention, making me stop to grab a pen.  I rewound the DVR to get the words just right.  Maybe you’ll find them to be profound, as well:

“What is man if he doesn’t have a spirit, and what is man’s spirit if it cannot connect with the Master of Life?”

~

Later, in the Willie Nelson biography, Kris Kristofferson praised his friend as the kindest, funniest individual he’s ever known.  He lauded Willie’s “outlaw” style of blazing his own trail and not falling into the easy traps of sounding like someone else, dressing like other Nashville stars, or wearing his hair like most country stars of the 50′s & 60′s did.  But it was, again, one sentence that struck me as especially meaningful.  Kris said this about Willie:

“[Willie] wears the world like a loose garment.”

~

Both of these quotes have stuck with me today.  In particular, I’ve been thinking about the last one and about whether the same will ever be said about me.  That I was in the world, but not of the world.  That I engaged fully in this place, but was not tossed about aimlessly by the quickly-shifting winds of culture and expectations.  That I wore the world like a loose garment: draping myself in it, but not constrained by it.  Not confined or limited.  Not bound by the seams, stitches, whims of another.

To me, that’s a beautiful thought.

It Must Be Raindrops…

I grew up listening to Oldies, and to this day I still enjoy a sugary doo-wop song or something that emerged from Motown at the height of its glory.   I love The Platters, The Fleetwoods, Martha & the Vandellas…pretty much anything from the American Graffiti Soundtrack.   There’s another song I’ve been thinking about today though.  Do any of you remember the song Raindrops by Dee Clark?  Dee tells us that since “a man ain’t supposed to cry, it must be raindrops…falling from my eyes.”

That about sums up my day.  I am, apparently, either a hormonal mess or suffering from early seasonal depression.  The littlest things have made me all choked up–barely able to complete sentences without betraying myself.  I may need help. Today I got teary-eyed from:

1.  Seeing a Lowe’s commercial in which mom and dad were working hard to prepare their home for the holidays.  Since their daughter couldn’t return home to be with them, the parents used a laptop web-cam to show her around the house, proudly displaying their remodeling efforts via Skype.  When mom says, “And just wait to see what we did outside!” she opens the door to find daughter secretly waiting to surprise them.  Aww! Sniff, sniff.

2.  Today we had to borrow my parents’ 1985 Chevy Suburban to haul some wood [that's a blog entry for another time].  This is the vehicle of my youth–of all the trips to Minnesota to see Grandma and Grandpa–my 5th grade venture to Washington DC before Grandpa died:  it all happened in that car. Now, with over 250,000 miles on it [!!] and still running strong, I hopped in and felt like I was in a time warp.  To top it off, my dad still had all his mixed tapes from those trips in the blue auto-organizer–the one that sits on the hump on the floor in between the driver and the passenger.  My oldest son was along and I thought I should do my family duty by indoctrinating him into the world of “Real Country.”  That’s right–”Real Country” capitalized and used as a proper noun.  Songs by the old masters.  People who have names like Hank and Lefty.  Tammy and Loretta. You know the type.  Tennessee twang from the 1950′s and 60′s. This was the soundtrack of every 12 hour trip I ever took, and it didn’t take me long to learn all about drinkin’ and cheatin’ and “layin’ you down.” Subtle education, really.

Anyway, I put the tape in so I could point out the fiddles and steel guitars to my son, and I started crying! Not sobbing, runny nose cry, but please-don’t-ask-me-to-talk-because-I’ll-blubber-and squeak-cry.   I’ll admit that I have so attached those songs to the person of my father that part of me was wondering how I’ll ever listen to them after he’s gone.  And that’s what I was thinking about.  Going to get a pile of wood for Bob Vila my husband, and thinking about how I’ll ever live without my dad.

3.  I had to stop at the grocery store for a bag of roma tomatoes this morning.  I’ve had a hankering for guacamole.   [I mean, how can you get through vacation without plopping on the couch next to your husband and plowing through a bowl of homemade guacamole with copious amounts of tortilla chips?]   As we were leaving the store we were met with the ubiquitous Salvation Army bell ringers.  I grabbed the loose change from my sweatshirt pocket and dumped it into the red can, feeling a bit sheepish that I wasn’t able to produce more.

On the way to the car, A asked me who the people were and why they were standing there ringing a bell.  True to form, I could barely formulate my answer about all the needy people that ache for help, especially at Christmas, without swallowing my tears.  By this time of the day I was fairly certain I may be going into menopause.

4.  In the same vein, Angel Tree commercials are now airing, reminding able givers to consider pulling an ornament off an Angel Tree and providing an unwrapped gift for a child this Christmas.  The announcer said that West Michigan alone has 30,000 wishes to fill this holiday season.  30,000 kids with nothing under the tree?  I’m crying again.

5.  Don’t call your shrink–this is the last one.  Tonight on NBC World News with Brian Williams, his “Making a Difference” segment highlighted the work of a non-profit organization called RAMP:  Rockin’ Appalachian Moms Project.  Seeing how one person can so powerfully change the trajectory of so many people’s lives amazes me.  It truly makes my heart beat a little faster.   So I sat and watched Amy, a mother of four from Connecticut, run a ministry that has delivered over a quarter of a million dollars of aid to one of the poorest places in our nation.  Heaters, clothes, food.  I sat and thought about how I never have to worry about those things.  How my needs are met and met and…exceeded.  And how the people of Appalachia don’t have heat.  And it moved me.

As we enjoy the quiet warmth of our own homes this Thanksgiving Eve, I invite you to send up your prayers of gratitude to the One who loved us so much that He Gave. And if you need a place to start, take 2.5 minutes and see what’s happening in Appalachia.

Good thing they’re predicting more rain tomorrow.  I might still be singing that song.

Firstborn

I remember wrapping him in swaddling clothes and lying him in a crib.  The midnight feedings, his first steps, our rocking chair.

I remember the joy and chaos of life with an infant.   The schedule changes, his tiny smile, our time together when the rest of the house was empty.  And silent.

I remember him, forever, as my baby.

~

But tonight I’m starting to see that the baby has officially hit the half-way mark to 8, noted by his infatuation with dirt bikes, snowboards, and basically, any kind of sport that gives me ulcer-inducing nightmares of him cracking all his teeth out of his head and possibly suffering a minor concussion.

He has opinions about what he wears, whether the temperature deems wearing an actual jacket [he counts fleece-lined sweatshirts as being good enough], and now, he cares about his hair.

His dad and I don’t mind this new burst of independence, although his cowlicks and course mop make the carefree J.Crew-kid hairstyle an impossibility.  Instead, we bargained: He may grow out the top of his hair, but the sides have to stay trimmed to avoid any confusion between his ‘do and a bonafide helmet.

The compromise is working.  It’s also making his look so old. And quite tough. Like a dirt bike rider or a snowboarder.

I’m guessing that’s what he wanted.

Funny, though, how a mother’s heart most often repaints her landscape with a retrospective lens.  Because to me, he’ll always be my sweet little boy.

 

Quote, Unquote

A couple of funny comments from my sweet daughter today:

“Mom, I bet Jesus is shrinking down again getting ready to be a baby at Christmas.”

And, during our search for “Euro Shams” at the mall today, she loudly conveyed to her brother,

“Mom’s looking for URINE shams, M!”

Ah…Had to share those.  Love the way kids see the world

 

Things I Don’t Understand Thursday: Ambiguous Deodorant Names

My girlfriend first raised this topic with me ages ago and I thought it was so true–and humorous–that I’m recycling it for today’s topic.  Thank you, LEJS.

What I don’t understand today are ambiguous deodorant names.  I went to my local Meijer store several weeks ago and perused the aisles just to get a handle on what companies like Old Spice and Adidas are trying to communicate with these names.  I’ve decided that they:

1.  …are largely trying to capture a sentiment.  I get that.  I understand that a high-school senior might think the best underarm protection for him–especially during football season–would be something called, “Game Day.”  But how, exactly, does that describe the scent?? It doesn’t.  Game Day means grass, sweat, dirt, and potentially a bloody nose or torn ACL.

Old Spice and Adidas scents that fit this category:  Swagger [?!], Showtime, Pure Sport, After Hours [again...what?!], Control, Pure, Intensive, Sport Fever [should not remind you of the SNL "Da Bears" skit, I hope.  Because that would mean it smells like obese men smoking cigars and sweating on a basement couch with a bucket of chicken wings.]

2.  They are trying to sell something you long for, usually relating to freedom in nature.  Case in point:  Aqua Reef.  Seriously, a reef smells like shark poo and salt.  Is that what they’re selling me?? Others I’m putting in this category are:  Pacific Surge, Arctic Force, Fresh Blast, Mountain Fresh, etc.

Lastly, in this vein, I’ll discuss a candle name I came across on our beloved trip to the casino this past October.    Sure, maybe it is a challenge to come up with appropriate and inspiring fragrance titles for candles, but tell me.  Does “Denim Breeze” [in a casino, mind you] make you want to hand over $18 to have your house smell like DENIM?

“Denim Breeze” says to me:

1.  …stinky, smoky Toughskins in which a truck driver regularly farts

2. …jeans drying on the clothesline–maybe?? Although “denim” doesn’t evoke anything cozy and romantic like “Linen Breeze” would.  It’s a kindergarten teacher’s jumper.  An unfortunate basement sectional.  1980′s decor.  Bad.

3. …again, it’s too close to wind, as in passing it. Through your demin.

I’d love to hear your favorite ambiguous scent names!   Make shopping more fun by scouting out the ridiculous and reporting back    Share them here or post them on my Facebook page.

Soul Care & Simplicity

Today [November 18]  I listened to another perfectly-timed radio broadcast on Midday Connection [Moody Radio].  The guest speaker was Mindy Caliguire, an author and speaker from Chicago who was discussing soul care & simplicity.

This got my attention.  As a rule, nothing in life–or in my life, at least–seems very simple.  Our calendar is packed.  Our three children are involved in activities.  The stress and responsibilities related to my husband’s job are many.  School, church, sports, music lessons, volunteering/mentoring…oh yeah–am I supposed to do laundry and clean the house, too?!

While at face value these things seem generally manageable, there are moments of chaos that make me consider fleeing to some mountain in Montana with a tent and a can of Coke.   I feel out of control.  I feel exhausted.  I feel like I’m living in our car, hurrying from one place to another.  Yet, if I were asked to drop a few of the balls we’re juggling, which ones would go?

Mindy urged us to evaluate all the things are we using to fill our time.  How many of these things seem necessary but might  actually be low priority time-wasters that we choose to indulge in rather than enjoying a moment of solitude?   Are we packing our lives to overflowing but feeling completely empty?

One of my good friends has been assessing her own life and has been sharing some of her thoughts with me in the process.  She is looking at the hours in each day with a new lens and asking some difficult questions.  I can resonate with her and have started asking these questions of myself:

When our children were infants and I yearned for time alone, did I ever picture myself spending X number of hours on the computer?  Shopping/blogging/Facebooking/ emailing, etc…?

Am I reading the books I want to read?

How often do I authentically connect with God?

Do I spend time thinking about the path of my life and what my goals are for the future?

Can I calm my mind down enough to enjoy a quiet room alone?

How much TV am I really watching?

Mindy reminded us that we need to take care of ourselves and our souls to be able to live a vibrant, fruitful life rather than trudge through our days with a list of obligations.  After all, if we do wish to authentically connect with God, how can we possibly do it amidst so much mental and physical clutter?

I Corinthians 14:33 says:  “For God is not a God of disorder but of peace.”

Do I live in a life filled with peace?  Order?  Shalom? Or is my head spinning in hundreds of directions at the same time? [YES!]  Can I actually finish a prayer without stopping somewhere in the middle to compose a grocery list?

Mindy left us with this verse that was so convicting for me:

“This is what the Sovereign LORD, the Holy One of Israel, says:
“In repentance and rest is your salvation,
in quietness and trust is your strength,…

but you would have none of it.”  Isaiah 30:15  [emphasis mine.]

Tonight I’m trying to live in that space where God would have me:  Peace.  Rest.  Quietness.  Trust.

And I hope, especially going into the holiday season, that you choose to pursue some measure of these, as well.

Crack-Up Chicken

It must be said:  I have the best husband ever.

I know, you’re ready to fight and give me 10 reasons why your significant other is better, but no.

Tonight my daughter was in “a mood.”

Are you picking up what I’m laying down here?  Do you know what it’s like to have a 6 year old GIRL in “a mood”??

I can’t honestly say what her problem was, but she was giving me the stink eye and I was trying to love her through it–until dinner.

She was pitching some sort of fit and not looking at me, so, being the thoughtful wife I am, I passed the baton to my husband [sound familiar? He doesn't let this stuff get under his skin like I do.]

To try to get her to smile–at least–he joked that her meal was called “crack-up chicken” and that just one bite would leave you in stitches on the floor.

She was not having it.

So, what’s a reasonable person to do?

Demonstrate.

Please observe the master of laughs in our house:

CLICK HERE FOR A GUARANTEED LAUGH

Small Moments

My oldest often comes home from school with catch phrases that describe what he’s learning.  Last year his teacher helped him work on “grabber-hooks and gotcha’s” to make the beginning and end of a story more interesting.  They illustrate, edit, and add details before presenting a finished product.  This year they are working on taking “small moments” and stretching them out into a full experience with descriptive words and feelings.  My small moment came this morning before 7 am:

~

Darkness barely clung to the walls and halls of our home.  All was silent.  I could hear the dog sleeping next to our bed.  My husband’s breath rose and fell in peaceful rhythm beside me.

The padding of little feet woke me up, followed by the swinging of our bedroom door.  I could see a small silhouette floating closer and closer to me and then in one fluid motion, using my elbow as a handle, M crawled up into our bed, swinging his little body over mine and into the safety of the spot between mom and dad.

I stifled a cough and lay there waiting to see what he’d do next.  I allowed my eyes to close.  Felt his soft warmth close to me.  The smoothness of his velvety skin.

It was what came next that I’ll treasure today and into all my tomorrows:  the weight of an arm flung loosely around my neck.  His hand moving up to touch my cheek.  A whisper.

“I love you so much, Mama.”

“I love you too.  Even more.”

I could see the contours of his face change in the shadows and knew a smile was spreading across his face while he traced the lines on my own.

That is what I’m grateful for today.

~

Another little gift wrapped up in a small moment. Just for me.

“Amana” Bar Revolt

Every once in a while you have those special moments of realization as a mom.  Glimpses of glory.  Morning has broken, the sky is caught in the rapture of sunrise, and children sit singing happily over their Cheerios in a perfectly clean kitchen.  They mind their manners, they obey with a smile, and kiss you as they flit out the door for the bus.

Then there are evenings of “special” realization when you think that all your hard work and discipline has flown right out the window, and that your offspring might very well have a puff of blue cotton candy between their ears instead of a brain.  They don’t like your cooking [too bad, breakfast's at 8], they mope when they are supposed to be clearing the table, they decide to rebel.  Blatantly.

Tonight it was our youngest’s turn.  He had his own Battle of Little Bighorn right in our kitchen.  He didn’t want to eat my delicious Pasta Bolognese and instead wanted to feed his sugar high with yet another “Amana Bar.”  When I told him that he didn’t get dessert unless he ate his dinner, he kindly shared with me that I should “go into a river with sharks.”

Precious, gentle little boy.

Conveniently, I have lost my voice and graciously deferred the confrontation to my husband.  So thoughtful, I know. Brandon scolded him for speaking disrespectfully to me, gave him the 4 year-old lecture, and ushered him to time out.

You can imagine what a hit that was!  After all–not only was he separated from the family, but he was still screaming for a blessed “Amana” Bar! [They are pretty fantastic]  As my husband sat next to him, calmly giving him instructions like Jo Frost with stubble, M conjures up his best response yet:

“Dad, I don’t like this!  I’m so MAD!  YOU’RE GONNA BE FIRED!!”

~~~

For BANANA BARS they’ll fight over:

3 large mashed bananas

1.5 C sugar

1 stick butter, room temp

2 eggs, beaten

1 C sour cream [8 oz]

2 tsp. vanilla

[2 C flour + 1 tsp. baking soda + 1 tsp. salt]  mix and add to other batter

Mix together and put in a greased jelly roll pan.

Bake  @ 375* for 20-25.  Check for doneness with a toothpick.  Cool, frost, enjoy!

Frosting

2/3 stick butter: melt over low heat in sauce pan, stirring until light brown & bubbly.  Remove from heat.

Add 3 Tbl sour cream

2.5 C powered sugar

Nothing to Say

Last spring I went to a writer’s conference in Chicago that was packed with all kinds of wonderful seminars, advice from published authors, and meetings with editors.  For me it was a fantastic learning experience and a handy excuse to visit one of my best friends in the Chicago suburbs.  It was also time to sit and absorb the wisdom from people who have been there, done that.

One thing I heard over and over again was the importance of an online presence–but–if you’re tweeting, blogging, facebooking, have something to say.  Nobody wants to hear about the contents of your dryer’s lint drawer.  Not many people care how many hours you spent raking leaves or what you scraped out of the bottom of your oven.  And so, as I blog and facebook, I try to keep that nugget in the back of my mind.

I have not posted anything here for about five days, which, although I’m not officially keeping track, is probably the longest stretch I’ve gone since being on vacation in the computer-free mountains of central Washington this past July.  The past five days at our house have been full of illness: fevers, sore throats, sneezing, sinus problems, sleep.  My husband and I have been taking temperatures in the middle of the night and breaking our own self-induced Coke fast just to stay awake the next day.  It hasn’t been terrible.  It’s just that I’m really not a picture of congeniality at 7:30 the next morning in those conditions.  I’m sure you can relate.

Above all, with life slowed down and confined largely to our home, I just haven’t had much to say.  Our kids, my usual fodder for general hilarity and blunder-making, have been out of commission.  [I'm thinking of docking their pay and will definitely be relaying the message of their slackness to Santa.]

So, as one trying to live out the wisdom of people much smarter than myself, I am abstaining from nonsensical blog entries that bore you and drive you to consider gauging your own eyes out with a spoon.  Hopefully tomorrow will be illness free, full of hilarity, and blunders aplenty!  Then I’ll be back clicking away.

Please come back.

Bring your friends.

 

 

Sick House

Our two boys came home with some kind of bug this week, leading to a couple days home from school and confined to our sick house.   A visit to the doctor yielded a “deep chest cold” diagnosis, for which we were grateful [no H1N1], but it was still miserable for them to deal with.   After multiple games of Sequence, dozens of stories and a few math worksheets, we packed up our makeshift homeschool and went back to life as usual today.

Having sick kids, even ones that aren’t terribly ill, always gives me pause to think about those whose health is in constant jeopardy.  Those who don’t have access to the kind of medicine, local doctors, and comforts of chicken noodle soup and fresh water.  This week reminded me of something I wrote many months ago, in August 2008; I’m republishing it here because it still says what my heart feels.

~~

It was 5:32 am when I first looked at the digital clock on my night stand,  the red numbers a stark contrast from the early light of dawn beginning to bleed through our bedroom windows.  Our youngest son M, sleeping on a blow-up mattress on the floor next to our bed to accommodate overnight guests, had awakened coughing.  It seemed to be one of those  rattling coughs one is accustomed to hearing in February, so I lay there listening for a cry or a whimper before getting up, hoping, of course, that it would pass and I could drift back into a blissful sleep.  Not to be!

Earlier in the week I had taken M in to see our family physician about his croup returning.  Croup, with our boys, has typically been a change-of-seasons battle, hitting us in the spring or fall in the middle of the night.  The barking cough and asthma-like breathing scare both us and the kids as their crying agitates them further, making it yet more difficult to breathe.  As it’s only the end of August, my husband and I were a bit surprised to be woken up–twice in one week–by the familiar and unwelcome sound of this child-barking, but I guess when the leaves start to change, God decides to begin the autumn dance whether we’re ready for it or not.

Because M had just been to the doctor and because a quick drink and walk with mom seemed to calm him down, I knew I could lay him back down without any worries.  I gently lowered him back to our lovely fake red velour blow-up bed and snuggled him like a caterpillar in his $10 youth-sized sleeping bag.  In the dark I combed his hair over with my fingers, stopping to notice the smooth skin of his forehead and the quiet hum of his new sleep.  While I don’t really like our kids sleeping in the same room with us, I will admit that this was one of those moments that pours your heart to overflowing.

I tripped back into my own bed and thought I would easily return to a coma-like sleep, but instead, found my head busy with thoughts.  What would it be like, I wondered, if our whole family had to sleep in our bedroom?  What if [a’ la V.C. Andrews’ Flowers in the Attic] we were forced to live in our bedroom?  I pictured myself washing dishes in the master bathroom-turned-kitchen.  I wondered if we would set up 3 air mattresses next to our bed and let all the kids sleep by us?  What about…romance??  No, I decided.  The kids would have to sleep in our closet.

As absurd as my ponderings may seem, I quickly thought of the millions  of families who do have to share one room with their families–LARGE FAMILIES!  Families whose bedroom doubles as a living room, separated from the kitchen by just a turn of the body. I thought of how differently this night would have played out if I were a mother in a remote village, sleeping on a woven mat laid upon a patch of earth somewhere under an African sky.  I thought of how many mothers wake up to the sound of a cough they can’t treat; whose children cry out for water and receive something akin to dishwater remains, the color of tea and milk stirred together in a British coffee house.  How do those mothers return to their slumber?  How do those mothers cradle their children, shush them when they’re crying, knowing that the aching they feel will still be felt tomorrow?

In that sliver of time, I felt at once grateful and despairing.  How is it, Lord, that I am so blessed? To have doctors and medicine, to have a home, to be safe, to feel secure, to know that my every need is met in abundance?  And at the same time,  How is it, Lord, that so many others, who love their children as deeply as I, do not have water for their children? Cannot go to a doctor or purchase a bottle of cough syrup?  How is it that they carry on?  How do they live under a banner of hope when the struggle has been the same for generations?

In twenty minutes time I had allowed my heart to roam the world.  It returned to my chest with no answers.  The numbers on my bedside clock clicked over: 5:53 am.  Dog under my bed.  Child next to my bed.  Husband next to me.  Blessings all around.

Things I Don’t Understand Thursday: Toy Packaging

Last week my daughter decided to use her long-saved-up birthday money to buy a new doll at Costco.  Maybe you’ve seen them?  They’re adorable American Girl look-alikes at about a quarter of the cost…which only makes them more adorable.

Of course A wanted to unpack her doll in the van as we were driving home, which I allowed, but she quickly found to be impossible.  The amount of tape and wire twisty-ties and bolts and chains and alarm systems is simply out. of. control.

Let’s examine this flotsam of ridiculousness in photo #1:

Friends, this is only a partial box of all the things they use to tie this poor doll down to her death.  I guess they would say that this is to prevent stealing [?] while in the store?  Perhaps they worry that a child, or worse, her parent, would try to remove the doll from the box while in the store? This is silly.  I just can’t imagine a thief taking the time to remove a doll from a box while standing in the toy aisle.  Can me naiive, but wouldn’t the thief just take the box?

This begs the question:  why all the hocus pocus packaging?? You practically need to be a surgeon to open it and successfully remove the doll.

Sadly, once the doll is freed from her chains, her trials are not over.

Please examine photo #2:

Yes.  Some ya-hoo thought it would be a super idea to sew her hair together. Please tell me–what does this accomplish?!  And how in the heck is a 6 year old supposed to free her once-beautiful, now tangled mass from this plastic…thing?!

The answer is, she’s not supposed to.  That’s her mom’s job.

And I guess the 20 minutes I spent with a seam-ripper is only good practice for Christmas.

Hurry and get your advanced degree before the holidays; you’ll need it to open your child’s toys.

Last Thoughts: The Year of Living Like Jesus

Tonight, over sour cream-laden chimichangas and icy Cokes, my husband and I had our annual gift-giving budget conversation.  At our house, November and December are packed with several family birthdays and, of course, the simultaneously beloved and commercially vexing: Christmas.

We sat there looking at each other saying something like, “What are we going to get him?!“  We have this amount of money “to spend”, and all he wants is a flashlight and a pack of cheese.  And so we look at each other realizing that everyone in our lives has everything they need and at least 90% of what they want.

And yet, we insist that we “should” get them something.  It’s the thing to do, we suppose.  Could we make a donation to the “Human Fund?” Rather than relaxing down into the pool of gratitude, we stress upwards into obligation and wrack our brains for more, more, more.

In Ed Dobson’s The Year of Living Like Jesus, there is a lovely Jewish prayer taken from the Passover Seder that affected me deeply.  Especially as we enter a shopping extravaganza for some of the richest people on the planet, it is words like these that make me stop and think.

Pg. 97:

“Toward the end of the story came a beautiful section entitled dayenu, a word that means “that alone would have been enough, but for that alone we are grateful.

Adoni took us out of Egypt.  Dayenu.

Punished the Egyptians and destroyed their idols.  Dayenu.

Divided the sea and led us across on dry land.  Dayenu…

…[several more]…

For all these–alone and together–we say Dayenu.

Dayenu is a powerful concept.  It is learning to be grateful for what God has already done and not asking him to do more.  For me, as a follower of Jesus, it means being grateful for what God has done through Jesus Christ in restoring me to God.  Dayenu. It is getting up every day and realizing God has given me one more day to live.  Dayenu. In times of economic difficulty, it is realizing that I have food on my table and clothes on my back and a warm place to live.  Dayenu. It seems to me that Western Christians are always asking God for more–more money, better health, larger houses, better jobs, a boat.  I want I want I want I want.

Dayenu contradicts this kind of thinking.”

~~

Regardless of your personal beliefs and convictions surrounding Jesus or Judaism or Christmas shopping, it seems to me that we could all use a little dayenu.

Some contentment.

Some gratitude.

Some joy.

A little peace.

I pray that for myself tonight, and for you.

~~

If you are interested in what others are saying about Ed’s book, click here for a complete list of those participating in his November Blog Tour.

More Thoughts From “The Year of Living Like Jesus”

Top Chef is one of my favorite TV shows.  On it, a group of amazing chefs compete in ridiculously hard challenges under pressures of time and budget, all to win the title of “Top Chef.”  One thing that these cooks have sometimes been criticized for in instances of under-performance with beef is that they failed to let the meat “rest.”  As I understand it, after cooking or grilling a piece of meat, the meat needs to sit, untouched, for a few minutes while the juices are sealed in and the temperature evens out.  To “honor the protein”, as Tom says, it needs to rest.

I’ve had to do the same thing after reading Ed’s book, The Year of Living Like Jesus.  To honor this book, I’ve had to let it rest.  I finished it over a week ago and am still sitting amidst a swirl of questions and a shocking reality that can be avoided in my cozy suburban life:  living like Jesus is difficult.  It is counter-cultural.  Sometimes there are gray areas.  And doing so in the most literal of senses is not for the faint of heart.

There are so many things I would like to say about this book and about some of the things that Ed shared, but instead, I invite you to read it for yourself.  I leave you today with a handful of quotes that still. need. time. to. sit.

~~

Pg. 91:  “As we continue to talk I ask one of the men at the table how he manages to live as a Jew in a place like this where everything, apart from the fish, is nonkosher.  “How do you deal with all the lobster and shrimp here?” I ask.  “Oh, I don’t pay any attention to that at all,” he says.  “I eat whatever I want whenever I want to.”  So the thought crosses my mind, “I’m a better Jew than he is!” but I know it’s not true.  I’m not a Jew at all–and he is a Jew whether he eats kosher or not.  After I got over my momentary feelings of superiority, I realize that all of us pick and choose.  While this Jewish man chose not to eat kosher, most of us who follow Jesus also pick and choose.  We tend to do the things that are easiest for us and ignore the things that are difficult.” [emphasis mine]

~~

From the High Holy Days of October: Jewish prayers of Repentance

Pg. 201:  “…We seek forgiveness from ourselves, from others and from God.  In cleansing repentance we seek atonement to be at one with ourselves, with others and with God.  Wholeness and holiness we seek as we enter a new year.  Help us, Lord, to realize the truth that we are as holy as we allow ourselves to be.” [emphasis mine]

~~

Pg. 225:  “I think Jesus wants us to focus on those who are crippled and lame because it requires significant effort on our part.  I think he wants us to focus on the crippled and lame because it forces us to slow down and help them.  I think he wants us to focus on the crippled and lame because when we do, we discover what truly matters in life–and it’s not our ability to walk and move.  These men remind me that what really matters in life is our relationship with God and the time and love we invest in others.”

~~

A Reflection on Mark 1:17-18: “‘Come, follow me, ‘ Jesus said, ‘and I will make you fishers of men.’  At once they left their nets and followed him.”

pg. 265:  “Being a follower of Jesus means walking behind him.  We often assume that as followers of Jesus we are supposed to walk next to him.  But the problem with that is that when we get to a fork in the road, we tend to negotiate with Jesus:  “I know you want me to go to the left, but I want to go to the right.  Is there any way that we could read a negotiated settlement and walk down the middle?”  With Jesus, there is no negotiation.  We walk behind him.  We walk in the dust of the rabbi.”

~~

Last thoughts tomorrow…

The Year of Living Like Jesus, by Ed Dobson

Preface:

These last several nights I’ve had a hard time sleeping.  I lie in bed thinking and invariably I find myself staring into the darkness, praying the prayer that Ed prayed countless times in his book:  “Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

This prayer and so many others I discovered while reading The Year of Living Like Jesus were not just inspirational–they were transformational. Ed, and ultimately Jesus, challenged me on so many levels: what does it really mean to do what Jesus would do?  How do I pray and what are my true motives in prayer?  Should I be observing a Sabbath?  What do I eat and why, and do I ever truly deny myself as a choice? [not because I don't have the money to indulge myself].

Because there is so much to unpack, I would like to post my review today and then spend at least one other day discussing some points that made me stop, dog-ear the page, set down the book, and think.  Thank you to Zondervan publishers for sending me a copy of this book to review and for the opportunity to participate in being a voice for this book.

~~

Most Christians I know would acknowledge that Jesus grew up in a Jewish home in what is now modern-day Palestine.  He lived as a Jew, ate like a Jew, thought like a Jew, worshiped like a Jew.

Similarly, many would acknowledge that they view our modern Bible as a “compass” of sorts for life; a roadmap, a guidebook, God’s Word for us.  We look to the Bible to understand who God is, who Jesus is, and what his plan was in sending Jesus to walk among us.  And many of us think we’ve got it licked.  Not that we’re perfect by any stretch, but we think “we get it.”

Yet, if we’re honest–brutally so, perhaps–how much do we actually know about Jesus, the person? How much time have we spent getting to know HIM, the person of Christ–versus the doctrines of Christianity? And likewise, how much do we understand the Jewish faith?  The faith that shaped the very world of Jesus?  That informed every decision, every choice?

Rather than meeting the familiar and expected beneath the cover, I opened this book and found page after page of things that challenged me.  Ed, a man living with a degenerative terminal illness, set out to live like Jesus for a year.  To do so, he committed to reading through the entire Gospels once a week.  He began eating kosher and growing his beard.  He went to Synagogue and kept company with people living on the fringes.  To the best of his abilities, he took the Bible literally and used it as a filter for every fork in the road.

Ed also embarked on a personal journey to discover Jesus in other contexts, something I applaud.  He explored what it is to pray the rosary, he purchased an Orthodox prayer rope which moved him deeply, he talked to priests and rabbis and learned folks in an array of different settings, all with the hope of understanding more fully who this person of Jesus was and is.

The Year… is arranged as a journal until August when he abandons this format for a broader, more topical analysis of Jesus and faith practicies.  While I found that many of the Jewish synagogue prayers and procedures were a lot to take in during the month of October [due to Rosh Hashanah & Yom Kippur], I did come away with an appreciation for the history and faith of a people I still know little about.  Isn’t it ironic, that so many Christians [I'm putting myself in this category] seem to all but ignore one of the most important components of Christ?

In the end I came away with many questions, many things I continue to ponder, and a truer, more accurate portrait of what it means to follow Jesus.  I wholeheartedly recommend this book to those of you who would like to really measure the cost. Not that Ed did it perfectly!  Not that you’ll agree with all he did, perhaps, or all of the decisions he made.  But walking with every good intention and doing one’s best while confined in our sinful humanity is not as easy as we make it out to be when we wear a WWJD bracelet. Living for Jesus deserves a fresh lens, and I believe Ed Dobson has loaned us his, full of joy and struggle in equal measure.

As he nears the end of his year, he concludes:  “This is what it means to follow Jesus.  It’s more than keeping rules and regulations.  It’s more than going to church and being baptized.  It’s more than reading the Bible and praying.  Rather, it’s the commitment of our life (mind, body, eyes, hands, feet, heart and everything) to him.”  [pg. 272].

So true, and so…difficult.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

BOO! I know, these pictures are scary, but I wanted to share in the festivities tonight by going 80′s punk: my own tribute to Cyndi Lauper. ‘Cause, haven’t you heard? Moms in the ‘burbs just wanna have fun!

fishnets + fushia heels = 80′s power

yes, my hair is actually orange–it’s *not* the lighting

Whether you’re celebrating the harvest, “Reformation Day” [as one of my young trick-or-treaters informed me], or Halloween, I hope your evening was full of sweet things, pumpkins, cozy fingers, and time with those you love most.

Until November…

Two Joys

1.  I found these adorable earrings right after I wrote “Little Sparrows” and fell in love with them immediately.  Being a girl with short hair, earrings are an essential to getting dressed.  Without them, I feel totally boyish and naked.  Since my jewelry collection consists of four things I’ve bought for myself, two things from my husband, and something one of my kids bought at Santa’s Secret Workshop last year, I often feel stuck in a rut of slim pickings.  That means that 90% of the time I wear hoops.  They’re fun, they go with everything, and they happen to never go out of style.

These baby sparrows, however, seemed to be cute and quirky, classy and different all at the same time.  I bought them and they arrived today!  I’m going to take my husband’s comment ["I've never seen anything like them."] as code for “You are now, truly, one in a million.” Hooray for my first joy of the day, and thanks to “Made by Sam” for the creativity.

Next, dear readers, I’m thrilled–elated even–to share with you that we’ve had a successful meal tonight!  I made meatloaf, roasted rosemary and garlic potatoes [holy cow], and steamed edamame.  Everyone loved everything!  My daughter filled up on the greens, which I’m officially recording as a bonafide MIRACLE.  The potatoes, according to my husband, were “the best potatoes [I've] ever made.” And they didn’t call for any butter!  Yippee!!  Hooray for joy #2!

Finally, a resolution:

With the encouragement of my good friends, I’ve decided that Kam is right:  Kids are smart, and if I let them think I’m a short-order cook, they’ll take me for a ride.  Amazing it took me so long to grow this brain.  I’ve been on that ride, and I’m ready to get off.  This is not Cedar Point or the county fair.  This is my kitchen and I’m re-staking my claim!

So tonight, as I set a lovely table for dinner, I told them that we would be operating with new rules.  No second choices, other options, or meal plan B.  What they get is what they get.  Love it or leave it.

And as Janet said, “If you don’t like it,…breakfast’s at 8.”

 

Things I Don’t Understand Thursday: Driving with Clowns

Seriously.

We live in Michigan.  We don’t even have carpool lanes for you to have to add a clown?! to cheat the cops.  Judging by the 4×4 pick-up, I’m guessing this is a man’s doing.  Sir, are you so lonely?  Or so in love with clowns…that you not only have them drive along with you, but you buckle their SEATBELTS?!

Whatever, people!  Whatever blows your hair back!  I don’t understand it, but it makes me laugh, so thanks for that.

O-for-2: What’s new?!

Prepare yourself for shocking news.  My little recipe experiment is heading straight for the toilet.  Do not pass, go, do not collect $200–head straight for the toilet.  On the double.

Episode 1

Tuesday night I made mushroom-Swiss burgers with sweet potato fries [+ Asian dipping sauce.]  The burgers were great; pretty hard to mess up a burger though–especially one smothered in sauteed mushrooms, fresh garlic, and Swiss cheese. The sweet potato fries were OK, but the Asian dipping sauce was too different to appeal to our youngsters.  With a base of peanut butter, chopped red peppers and toasted sesame oil, it sounded fantastic in theory, but just didn’t turn into the crowd pleaser I was hoping for.  At least the paper plates were festive.

One little detail I neglected to share with you is that the sweet potatoes called for sesame seeds.  Normally, I would not bat an eye at this, but for some reason that night, I was thinking about that old Ryan Phillipe movie “Antitrust” in which he’s an up-and-coming computer processor guy who is hired by Tim Robbins into something like Microsoft.  Anyway, it’s a great thriller if you’ve never seen it.  One of the details that turns into an important piece of information is that Ryan’s character is allergic to sesame seeds.  So, as I’m sprinkling them on to the potatoes to roast, I’m thinking of this movie.

And then, LOOK what happened to my daughter [after I FORCE her to eat it, whether she likes it or NOT!]:

Can you see the redness under her eye?  Can you see the raised white dots and rashy-patch spreading out like eye-black on a Major Leager?

Great.  I’ve poisoned my kid.

I’ve tried a new recipe, which they didn’t even like, and to boot, I’ve given my daughter a rash.   And did I mention it was under both eyes?

Episode 2:

Wednesday nights are always a bit hurried around here.  We have a weekly commitment and have to leave the house at 6:05, so you can imagine what it’s like at about 5 pm.  Craaaaziness! Being the superior home manager that I am [*cough], I try to plan something easy for dinner.  Thus, as I looked through my new cookbook, my sweet little piece of supposed salvation, I selected page 30 for tonight: fried fresh mozzarella and tomato sandwiches.  I grilled them instead, but followed the directions to soak them in egg first, a ‘la French toast.  Another twist that I thought would be a nice change.  A few notes of a different, yet lovely tune.

No.

Note to self:  easy at our house = PB & J from now on, forever and ever AMEN.

Remind me of this should I ever fall down and suffer some sort of memory-altering injury.   Or if I decide to beat myself in the head with a frying pan out of anger that I just cannot BUY a good home-cooked meal.

So here’s what it looked like around 5:40 in the land of bliss:

Image 1:

Fresh mozzarella melted on grilled Ezekiel bread with fresh Romas sliced lengthwise.

Image 2:

“Eeew!  I don’t like this kind of cheese!” ~  “Are you sure this isn’t a fried egg?!” To which I reply, kindly and gently:  “Fine, DOGGONE IT!!  Peel it off, but eat the sandwich!  [then graciously add...] How ’bout we add some ham to it?” They reply:  “OK, but can we take off the tomato, too?”

Image 3:

…And it meets its sad, inevitable end with our dog, who sniffs it over and eats only part of it. I QUIT!!

Introducing: Kitchen Salvation!

This past week I went to Chicago for a concert and some GREAT FOOD with one of my best friends.  We were introduced to Roy’s: Hawaiian Fusion Cuisine last month by another mutual best friend, and to someone like myself especially [read: kitchen disaster], the food can literally make you hallucinate colors and sensory delights that shouldn’t be allowed.  Really–it’s that good. They have this sushi that is worth the drive from Michigan to partake of–and normally, sushi doesn’t do much to blow my skirt up.  HOWEVER.  Here’s how the menu describes it:

Lakanilau Roll

Seared Kobe Beef wrapped around Snow Crab, Tempura Asparagus
and Avocado

Take a moment.  Let that all sink in.

Then, for dinner, we split this:

Roy’s Classic Roasted Macadamia Nut Crusted Mahi Mahi

Lobster Cognac Butter Sauce

Aahhhhh.  I took pictures with my flash-less camera phone, and they just don’t do justice to these sacrificed vegetables and proteins, so I’ll spare you.  At any rate, next time you’re in Chicago and want to treat yourself [read: $$$], make a reservation and prepare for a party unlike any your mouth has known.

Now back to the original post I was going to write when I sat down here…

We had some time to kill so we wandered down to my favorite store on Michigan Avenue: Crate & Barrel.  If you’ve never been to a C & B, perhaps you don’t know that they house everything-you-never-knew-you-needed.  All things cute!  All things seasonal!  Most things, I’ll admit, unnecessary.  Like these:

and this…

Still, I love the store, and although I didn’t purchase either of these adorable Halloween items, I did find [drum roll, please]…A NEW COOKBOOK!!! The image of the book is above, as you’ve no doubt seen, and the name is:  The Student Cookbook:  Great Grub for the Hungry and the Broke. While I’m technically not a student anymore, I do like “great grub”, I am hungry, and we’re approaching broke.  Perfect!

My girlfriend and I perused the recipes and immediately found several we thought were kid-friendly, looked good, and seemed easy enough to prepare.

So, this week, my menu plans include six new recipes!  Ambitious, I know, but following my “Pantry Challenge” that I explained before, I only spent $94 on groceries!  Without coupons!  I was thrilled.

Here are some of the things I’ll be trying:

Pg. 45:  Sesame sweet potato wedges with “nutty dipping sauce” [+ hamburgers]

Pg. 30:  Little fried fresh mozzarella and tomato sandwiches

Pg. 46:  Rosemary potatoes roasted with garlic [+ my meatloaf, which actually gets "thumbs-up" all around ]

Pg. 97:  Fish cakes with [pg. 50] Three cheese Broccoli  [do these go together??]

Pg. 98:  Bang Bang Chicken, which is an Asian salad with a sesame/peanut butter/soy dressing.

So!  Wow!  I’m getting nervous already, but I’m equally excited.  The Bang-Bang Chicken photo looks amazing, and I’m starting to wonder why I scheduled it for Saturday…I don’t want to wait all week!

Still, I’m trying to make this purchase “worth it” by really using it.  Wringing it out.

I’ll let you know how things go with me, the prep work, the cooking, and of course, my toughest critics [aged 7, 6, and almost-4].

Insomnia & Ineptitude

I haven’t been able to sleep for the past several nights, and it’s awful.  I lie in bed staring into the blackness hiding my ceiling, thinking about everything from my grocery list to meal planning to checks that haven’t cleared.  Like windshield wipers in a storm, thoughts flash back and forth in random pattern.  No rhyme, no apparent reason.

If I were asked during any other week of any other year, I would declare that this never happens to me.  In fact, my husband and I joke that we could go lay down in the driveway and fall asleep.  But this week has been different.

I’ve been feeling an unusual heaviness for some hurting people in my life whom I love dearly.  And so I wonder about them.  Pray for them.  Cry for them.  And to be honest, I wonder why God has placed me in a position to speak into their lives when I don’t know what to say.  When I can’t “fix” things.  When I can’t make it go away.  I feel completely inept.

To top things off, as if a grand cosmic joke, I was asked to step into a mentoring role within my church.  Our pastor talked to a small group of us and brought me to tears [which is pitifully easy to do, I'll admit] with the reminder that in the lives of mature Christians, most everyone can look backwards and point to the one person who made a difference.  Who brought them along in their faith.  Who exemplified Jesus in a new way.

So, of course, I left the meeting feeling all inspired and hopeful and willing.

Now, of course, I feel absolutely ridiculous, inappropriate, and regretful.

What was I thinking?  Who am I to do this?

My good friends say calming and wonderful things like, “Jane, God wants to sharpen you.” or  “It’s not about having something to say–it’s about listening.” or  “Sometimes it’s not about having the right answers, but helping them ask the right questions.”

Yes.

But I still feel like Moses.  I’m standing before God–in my kitchen–pleading with Him that I can’t actually do it.  [Dangit--WHY do I sign up for these things?!] I’m wishing for an Aaron to come to my rescue, to say the right things and bring some magic signs.

~~

Exodus 4:

¹⁰ Moses raised another objection to God: “Master, please, I don’t talk well. I’ve never been good with words, neither before nor after you spoke to me. I stutter and stammer.”

^11-12 God said, “And who do you think made the human mouth? And who makes some mute, some deaf, some sighted, some blind? Isn’t it I, God? So, get going. I’ll be right there with you—with your mouth! I’ll be right there to teach you what to say.”

¹³ He said, “Oh, Master, please! Send somebody else!”

~~

Yet apparently, he’s sending me.

I don’t understand it, nor do I feel competent to complete this task–to be Jesus for this person.  And so I lie awake in bed, worrying like the doubter I apparently am.

My mind cannot frame how this plays into eternity.  I can only pray for the words.  And for rest.

I can only pray to truly believe God when, as a loving Father, he says, “So, get going. I’ll be right there with you—with your mouth! I’ll be right there to teach you what to say.”

Scouting the Divine

I hit the jackpot today with my addictive talk-radio habit: Midday Connection had Margaret Feinberg on discussing her new book, Scouting the Divine:  My Search for God in Wine, Wool, and Wild Honey.

I was so touched–I cried, my chin trembled [that's a great look for me], I breathed deeply.

The connections Margaret made between God and her real-life aggrarian friends were stunning [she spent time with a shepherd, a vintner, a bee-keeper, and a farmer].  Additionally, the depth of perception she shared on the show was absolutely heart-stopping for me, especially around the issue of Christ as our shepherd.  A familiar idea, perhaps, but her insights helped me view this profound reality in a fresh light.  Prepare to move beyond the flannel boards!

If you have an hour without distractions, I’d highly recommend listening.  Grab a hot chocolate, a blanket, and your Bible, and prepare to see Jesus in a new way.

Listen Here [p.s., if you're finding this post after October 20, just search the date or Margaret's name]

Little Sparrows

“God sees the little sparrow fall,

It meets His tender view.

If God so loves this little bird,

I know He loves me, too.”

When I was little my mom used to sing this song to me.  Now I sing it to my kids.  They love the repetition of the chorus that comes next–love its lilting tune that flits about joyously just like the bird it’s meant to resemble.

Last week when M and I were at the pumpkin patch I came across these birdhouses that seem to have been forgotten and clustered randomly behind one of the greenhouses.  At first my eyes ran to the worn paint, faded and chipped, revealing the wood grain beneath.  The boards sustaining them: interesting–the rock a perfect accent.  But it wasn’t until I got it home that I began to think about birds.  About sparrows.  And about the song my little ears memorized decades ago.

Believing what Jesus tells his disciples in Matthew 6, that God clothes the fields in majesty and feeds the birds of the air, I cannot help but realize how much more–infinitely more–he cares for us.  Fix your gaze on the size of the birdie front doors above.  Do you realize how small they are?  That means the birds–and their brains–are even smaller!  Yet we are lovingly reminded that they do not escape the gaze of the Father.  

Today I had the joy of serving Communion at my church.  With each person that stood before me I repeated the same words:

“This is the body of Christ that was broken for you.”

Saying those words over and over and over has a very powerful effect.  It recalls the enormity of the gift and of what I believe.  It reminds me that every person that comes to the cross is worthy.  That every person is loved.  That every person is valuable.  That Christ died for each of them.  And for me.

Inevitably I start to cry and have to try to get my voice under control so I can speak without sounding like a whimpering child.  I wipe my eyes before I have to meet theirs and hope my cracked whisper doesn’t give me away.  Not because I’m embarrassed to weep, but because I don’t want my emotions to distract them from focusing on the ancient mystery that connects us to brothers and sisters across the pages of time.  Across miles and cultures, tongue and nation.  He surpasses it all–because His love for us knows no end.

So the next time you see a lily or a spring meadow or a mountaintop, I pray you’ll remember that your worth in God’s eyes is infinitely greater, infinitely wider, and infinitely deeper.  Next time you see a sparrow or take Communion, I pray you’ll remember that you are loved.

“If God so loves this little bird, I know He loves me, too.”

Free “Mentoring” from Mary

Last spring I was blessed to meet author and speaker, Mary DeMuth at a Christian Writers Conference in Wheaton, IL and have since reviewed two of her books here:  Daisy Chain and A Slow Burn. [...can't WAIT for #3 in the trilogy!!]

One of the reasons I hold her in such high esteem is because she exudes a sparkly, pure kind of joy and desire to bring others along in their writing journeys.   That said, she is to be trusted for an honest critique and would not stoop to kiss your rear just because you smell good and got your nails done before meeting her.  Mary will tell you how it is, and does so regularly to an array of hopefuls seeking advice on her publishing blog.

Aside from several blogs of her own, Mary was recently asked to guest-author a post for Michael Hyatt, the CEO of Thomas Nelson Publishing.  What she had to say on his site really impacted me as someone new to this “writing” thing.  I found the list of 10 heart-checks to be so valuable I’m providing a link so you can check it out.

Whether your goal is to be published or just write with greater truth and clarity, her message of “BOC” is something I’m going to ponder as a new week waits right around the corner.

Read “What It Takes to Become a Master Writer” here.

Thanks, Mary!

Tales of Kitchen Woes [take 61]

Our attempts at trying to eat healthier have basically translated into simply using less cheese and more grill.  I’m trying, really I am.  Trying to stick to proteins and vegetables, occasionally some bread, but making an effort at reducing creamy-ish, pastry-ish, and fried-ish things.

So, our menu tonight, as seen above, was a baked organic whole chicken, broccoli slaw, an assortment of roasted vegetables, and a slice of bread with butter.  I’d give myself a B on this one; not as good as my Paula Deen mini-meatloaves from Monday, but passable, for sure.

Of course, our kids pulled up their little noses immediately.   In general, they like tan foods:

peanut butter.

bread.

hamburgers/hot dogs.

chicken nuggets.

french fries.

chips.

graham crackers.

Jeesh. It sounds like I’m preparing a Biggest Loser Temptation Challenge!…or committing food abuse!

It’s not like they’re eating those foods daily–I’m just saying–if they were Pippy Longstocking and living alone, they certainly wouldn’t seek out steamed edamame.  At our house,  veggies = bartering.

The kids want to “make a deal” with me to eat 3 broccoli trees instead of the 5 on their plate.  Even if I let them choose their veggie I still see them gag it down with their nose plugged and face growing increasingly pink.  [seriously, does this happen at your house??]  One time my oldest son actually vomited up his asparagus onto his dinner plate. I am not joking.

So ‘ya wanna know the very first comment I heard about tonight’s chicken?

Take a guess.

It was my sweet little girl who looked at me with a squished-up look on her face, eyes welling in the tears of repulsion.  And in a split second, we went from thanking Jesus for our food…to this:

Mom, this tastes like the bottom of a shoe.

It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!

Yesterday I got to go along with my nearly-4-year-old on his preschool field trip to a local farm.  We visit this farm nearly every year, and I have to say, God’s lovely autumn creativity is rivaled only by the delicious scent of homemade pumpkin donuts wafting through the air.  Mercy! They are SO. GOOD.   The crispy deep-fried shell  is smothered in frosting, and opens to reveal a warm, spicy center that would probably convince even Jillian Michaels to forget about the Extra Sugarfree Gum and Protein shakes in favor of at least one…dozen.

We went on a hayride, chose a couple of mini-pumpkins, played in the hay, rode a “pumpkin” train, laughed during storytime, and again–the donuts.  Not that I’m fixating or salivating at the very thought of them.  [What are we doing tonight, honey?...]

M and I laughed at the goats, who by all accounts have the coolest jungle gym set ever, and who get to spend their days vacillating between munching aimlessly on straw–and sitting upon that same straw.  For the longest time the Billy below refused to look at me for a picture.  I called out to him like a pathetic fool:  “Here Billy Goat!  Here Goat!  Look at me!!  Look at ME!”

In a swift act of pity, M cried out with authority, “HEY GOAT!  LOOK AT MY MOM!!”

Since I seem to be creating lists of options lately, I’ve decided that perhaps I should…:

1.  Feel badly that I have no power over these creatures,

2.  Call Cesar Milan for tips

3.  Acknowledge my child is a goat whisperer and start charging hourly fees for his services.

A little extra money would be nice…

Tales of Kitchen Woes [take 43]

For the love of all that is good and holy and remotely edible.  I swear to you that I can’t get a break with my attempts at preparing decent food–ever.

A little back story: I am undergoing a grocery-related spending smackdown.  During this period of self-induced suffering abstinence from overspending and over-indulgence, I try to buy only what I’ll specifically need to produce a family meal. For me, this means no side-aisle wandering in Costco, and certainly no “ooh–that looks yummy–I should get it and try it in…17 days.”

In an effort to look upon this smackdown favorably, we call it a “Pantry Challenge.”   In theory, I purchase only fresh fruits and vegetables and carefully selected proteins; pre-planning our meals allows me to pair these items with the canned goods or frozen foods we already have on hand.  Brilliant, right?  This is what I should always do, right?

I guess it all depends on when dinner is and whether or not the meal needs to withstand a 2 HOUR waiting period.

Allow me…

Tonight is usually Awana for our children.  While wonderful and profitable for their little hearts, leaving the house at the exact time we normally eat is a struggle.  It requires speed eating, and this sadly involves things like chicken nuggets, sloppy joe’s, and hot dogs.  I know. Delish.

To compound my struggles on this evening, our son’s football coach [that'd be my husband] moved practice to tonight [we usually don't have practice--we have AWANA as previously stated]–at 5:30 [HELLO!] due to conflicts in the schedule and the impending doom of Daylight Savings.  Seven year olds with five weeks of football experience + playing in darkness = tears, bloody noses, and angry dads-who-think-they-should-be-the-coach.

SO.  Tonight was the perfect storm of kitchen woe, chef-angst, and general chaos.  I didn’t know exactly when my husband would be coming home [that's another issue] or exactly when he wanted to leave for football.  Furthermore, I thought practice was at six, so I didn’t put the chicken in until almost 5 pm.  It was at this precise moment in history that my husband called me to say, “I’m on my way home–I’ll be there in ten minutes and we’ll just have to have cereal or something fast because we’re running late.”

Do you see where this is headed?

"WHOA! People, this is some BAD food!!"

In that instant, my Top Chef [*cough*] menu of breaded and baked chicken breasts, Parisian salad and french bread:

1.   …was not going to happen unless I could unearth my blow torch to cook it in Jetson-like time

2.  …was going to be upstaged by Post Raisin Bran in a vintage box

3.  …might possibly end up inside “someone’s” pillowcase in a “goodhearted attempt” to convey that clear communication cannot be over-rated in marriage.

As was indicated in our phone conversation, my dear loving husband chose option #2 above while standing up next to the kitchen sink, eyes trained on the clock like Jack Bauer, commanding our son to find his cleats and get his water bottle. With all gentle loving-kindness, of course.

I stood in the midst of the frenzy, watching them suit up and leave the house just as the timer for my chicken rang.

Mmmmm.  Delightful.

Fast forward to their return home accompanied by ravenous hunger.  Here we are, again, in the kitchen trying to resurrect the food that was meant to give us so much joy and nutrition at 5:15.  The salad came together decently and the chicken re-heated in the microwave [you're jealous, aren't you.]  However, the french bread was left standing for those 8 hours and was now the consistency of Dutch Clunt in a Minnesota ice storm.  Rock. Hard.

I steadied the mass on a cutting board and watched in horror as the serrated knife skidded off the bony crust and onto my left index finger, breaking the skin but, thankfully, not drawing blood.

My husband and I sparred, in jest, over whose fault this was:  his for rushing dinner and settling for cereal? or mine for not better protecting the bread during the 14 hour wait.

We finally resorted to digging the barely-edible insides out from the brick-like loaf and smearing them through butter.  My son watched all this happening and asked if my husband would cut him a piece.  His response?

I can’t.  I don’t have a chainsaw.

Feelin’ Crafty…again

Hello, Again, dear readers.  If you’ve checked in with me or looked at my Facebook page, you know that I’m having issues with my computer, a’la no functioning keyboard.  I’ve found that this makes keeping up with my cyber life quite impossible.  Thankfully, I’m borrowing a used keyboard tonight, and while my heart wells up with gratitude, the sticky space bar [literally sticky--and sticking] is wearing my love a bit thin.  Hopefully I’ll be back to normal soon.

At any rate, I first posted “Feelin’ Crafty” on Monday night, only to wake up to a call from my “manager” alerting me to the fact that the post had mysteriously disappeared.  I have couple guesses as to what may have happened, but rather than boring you with my extended cyber problems, I’ve decided to re-post it.  Thanks to those of you who left comments the first time.  Sorry that they appear to be irretrievable–I really do love the encouragement from you!

On to the craft…

When I first saw this Potter Barn artwork last spring, I fell in love with its clever design, innocence, and whimsy.  I usually, however, do not fall in love with their prices.  Deciding this looked  feasible to reproduce at home, I went to my local hobby store and bought the components that seemed to be most obvious to my untrained artist within:

Craft buttons, rubber cement, canvas frames, Tempera paint, and foam brushes.

And who knew that it would be so easy a six year old could do it?!

We arranged our letter on the painted canvas…

My daughter’s first draft before we mutually decided to stick with cursive letters…

We added colored buttons around the white base letter…

And, wallah! Here is my finished “A” hanging in her bedroom.   I will honestly say, though, that her “J” is prettier!  She did a great job and we loved doing something new and creative together.

Here they are in her room!

Canvas Button Art: $12 each.  Bonding with daughter:  priceless

Trouble in CyberLand

Hello Friends-

Augh.  I don’t know exactly what’s happening, but my wireless, “bluetooth” keyboard appears to NOT be working at the moment.  I don’t know if the bluetooth lost a tooth, if it’s no longer blue, or what other tragedy has befallen us [yes, I changed the keyboard batteries!], but alas, I am not able to connect with you!  Thank you to my dear neighbor for allowing me to use her computer.  Let me tell you, free donuts go a long way in the world of bribery

Secondly, last night I posted notes on a great craft I did with my daughter over the weekend, and POOF!  The cyber police must have decided it was way too cute, because it magically disappeared, along with several of your nice comments.  BOO!  So frustrating!!

At any rate, I’ll try to re-post that tonight on my husband’s laptop while we figure out what the ‘hwong is going on with our beloved Mac.  I’m going through a bit of a withdrawl not checking email, updating facebook, and sharing my thoughts with you; hope you’ll check back soon for a re-launch of all things philosophical in suburbia

Until then…

Found Alter-Egos and Lost Kids

Strange things seem to be happening to my kids lately. Strange as in:

1. Possibly being possessed by ADD alter-egos
2. Morphing into a skeleton-free mass of squishy flesh and falling to the floor in front of perfect strangers [we'll re-visit this]
3. Running through public places as though their skivvies are filled with miniature fire-breathing dragons
4. Listening and obeying with the acuteness and precision of Helen Keller in her pre-Miss Sullivan years

Oh, Holy Holy Holy.

What am I to do but lose my everloving mind?  I should consider consuming mass quantities of chocolate-based desserts in the dark.  While chain-smoking and rocking back-and-forth, humming Danny Boy.

Tonight I about came unglued.  Luckily, I have perfected the art of disciplining my children with a fake smile on my face so the store video cameras don’t see some crazy lady in aisle ten who needs to be turned over to CPS.  This proved to come in handy…

We went to Target to get a prescription filled and had roughly fifteen minutes to kill while the pharmacists added watermelon flavoring to the magic elixir.   We trolled the floor for a bit finding things we never knew we needed, but now want desperately for Christmas.  As we approached the sporting goods area, however, I realized that M, my nearly-four-year-old, was no longer in our caravan.  Great.  I thought.  The store was packed and there I was walking up and down each aisle calling his name.  People looked at me like I was just a delinquent or quite possibly a leper, but I plodded on.  After a few minutes and no sign of WonderBoy, I asked my two other children to look in the next aisle over to see if they’d have better luck.  This proved to be a mistake, as they seemingly wandered into the next zip code, disregarding my appeal to stay in the neighboring aisle.  At the same time, thankfully, I located M, sweatshirt hood on, running away from me in the other direction.

What a little angel, that child.

I caught up to him, squatted down to his level and squeezed his hand while telling him how scared he had me, and how his brother and sister were now out on their own mini-search-party-gone-wrong.  I could see that my speech was really hitting home.  Just really–really impacting his heart.

He stared at me, smiling and stomping his left foot.

I spun on my heels and went to look for the other two, carrying my shopping basket in one hand and M’s hand in a deathgrip with the other.  I returned to pacing the aisles, this time calling different names but getting the same steely-eyed glare from other, much more gifted parents.   This one guy seemed to fling his gaze my way as if to say, “Great parenting, lady.  Ever heard of Jo Frost?  Supernanny?  Yeah–get her on speed dial.  NOW.”

We abandoned the housewares section with no trace of J or A, and headed toward the toy department still shamelessly calling their names in high volume.  [Such a picture of control and ease, isn't it?].  I saw a flash turning the corner ahead of me and thought for sure it was my son’s jacket!  We hightailed it toward the toothbrushes, M dragging like a rag doll striving to keep up with my pace.

I called their names again.

The man at the electronics counter turned to meet me.  “Can I help you find something, Ma’am?”

“Yeah–my kids.” [Again--control and ease]

Finally I caught up with them and knelt down to hug them both.  Yes, it had only been 5 or 10 minutes, but have you seen the cover of People Magazine this week?  The kidnapping stories have been flying around like monarchs in Mexico, and I’d be lying if I said the corners of fear hadn’t started to wrap around my heart.

~~Fast forward to our Exit~~

With watermelon prescription safely paid for and in a bag with three new glass picture frames and some Pull-ups, our crew headed for the door with fresh promises to “get a grip” and “listen to mom” still hovering in the air.

Apparently I need to define get a grip.  I’m sure there must be a Bible verse for that somewhere.

M, my aforementioned little angel, went running ahead of me, flying past the refrigerated section and stopping to violently open and slam each door.  I was ready to chuck my picture frames on the floor and let the glass shatter like the screams I wanted to unleash, when I looked up to see the Jo Frost guy.  Awesome.  What classic, perfect timing.

Instead of screaming, I calmly affixed my fake smile for the cameras, set down the bags, and reached out to grab his sweatshirt.  He fell to the ground like a slug, twisting to release himself, and it just pissed me off strengthened my resolve to be a loving, yet stern parent who is not controlled by emotion–but rather, by rational thought processes.

So what did I do?

I told him that he was not obeying and that he was acting like a baby.  And so, I would happily treat him like a baby by making him revert to diapers at bedtime instead of his new pull-ups.   And let me tell you, it’s amazing how much “big boys” want to be treated like “big boys” instead of babies.

I hope he sleeps soundly tonight.  Those size 4′s are a tight fit…

Vacation from my Vacation

If you’ve read any of my previous posts from this week [thank you, dear faithful 7: your checks are in the mail], you already know that I was blessed with a few days away with my husband.  I tagged along to his held-at-a-casino-convention, where, I’ve learned, wonders never cease.

My friend Kamarah and I often joke about how we return home from these getaways and feel like we need “a vacation from our vacation.”  We’re immediately thrust from sleeping in, moseying about in slippers and eating croissants in the bathtub–to screaming children with runny noses and school papers that need signing post haste.

It’s like Apollo 13.  You’re told you’ll be leaving the peaceful “dark side of the moon” and re-entering the Earth’s atmosphere.  You’ll be hurtling through a wall of fire which, in all probability will consume you.  If you don’t blow up, disintegrate or burn to a crisp in the process, you’ll be pummeled into the icy pond that is the Pacific Ocean.  At that point, you will have to locate some sort of flotation device which, let’s be honest, stands no chance against the mighty jaws of the Great Whites which will be following the scent of your toasted vessel as you bob helplessly, waiting for rescue.

Welcome Home!  You made it!

Frankly, I think there needs to be an adjustment period.

Here are my Apollo 13 moments since arriving home, as compiled by my can’t-sleep brain at 12:38 am:

1.  Excessive sibling fighting, including hitting, tripping, and the blunt-force use of foreign objects–“on accident”

2.  Son doing a “jig” at the bus stop and purposely flinging his new shoes high into the air and half-way down the street.  Awesome. I informed him that if they were ruined before Christmas he’ll be wearing bread bags on his feet.

3.  Nobody likes my cooking.  This topic deserves its own entry, because…for real.  It is a problem.  But anyway, my first-round draft pick tonight was “a lovely boneless-skinless chicken breast prepared in Swanson’s broth with a hint of fresh garlic.”  That’s right people: FRESH garlic–not the dried or jarred variety.  Tom Colicchio would sit in stunned silence at my originality and execution. The judges at our house are the kids, who insisted on smothering it with Sweet Baby Ray’s BBQ Sauce.  Whatever.  I’m over it.  However, the downside to this is that I later found the sauce smeared all over the doorknob to our front door.  And, yep–I sure did stick my hand directly in it.

4.  Kids still awake at 9:40 pm.  What’s up with THAT?!

5.  My daughter appears to have another infection on her rather-newly-pierced-ear.  And a cavity in her rather-newly-not-thoroughly brushed tooth.

6.  I missed my chiropractic appointment and feel like I can tell the difference.  I need a good cracking adjustment.

7.  Continuing, I feel “off” today and wonder if this means I’m getting sick, just tired, or if I should consider doing something drastic like altering my diet.  I read on Shauna’s blog about the changes her family is making, and she’s one of many people who I know or have heard of who are going down that path.  My concerns, however, are many.  Not the least of which is that 1] since I have few culinary successes anyway, what the heck am I going to cook if I can’t use gluten, sugar, or dairy? and 2] that my family will starve and secretly begin to scavenge local compost piles to find food they can “re-purpose.”

8.  Sinus issues galore with the kids.

9.  Returning briefly to point #3, Tuesday night I unearthed a frozen block of leftover homemade beef and barley soup.  I reheated it, added a few more seasonings [which I identified with my highly trained palate], and coupled it with sour-dough grilled cheese sandwiches.  Quick and easy, I thought, having just returned from the casino.

My husband, God love him, turns to me and holds up one hand to hide the activity of the other hand which is making a vigorous “thumbs down” motion.   At the same time, he jokingly whispers something like a gag and “blah” noise to me [still giving me the vigorous thumbs down].  Only my eldest and myself are eating the soup.  Husband starts laughing a little when kids 2 and 3 reject the bowl of food debris.  Then he says to me, “Where did you get this? [ha ha, he laughs] It tastes like S@#%!”

Now, I’ll be honest, because of the jovial mood and his ridiculous charades, I was not offended or hurt by this, but instead, burst out laughing. 

He then postulated that I opened a can of Aldi soup.

To which I replied, through gagging laughter, “I MADE IT!”

Heavens to Betsy.  We’re struggling over here.  He felt just awful about the Aldi comment, but honestly, it was pretty hilarious.  That I can laugh about it must, to some degree, admit a shred of truth.

Just a shred…

Things I Don’t Understand Thursday: Gambling

Maybe it’s because we’re a one-income family or because I try to squeeze my grocery dollars as far as they’ll go.  Maybe it’s because I feel a sense of accomplishment when I can produce an edible meal out of rice and hamburger for approximately $3 total.  Maybe it’s because I know how far $50 or $75 could go in the life of a single mom or a child in Africa.  Or maybe it’s because I’m just no fun.

But after spending a few days at the casino for my husband’s convention, I have to say it:  I just don’t understand gambling.

Please don’t be offended if you do enjoy this.  I’m not trying to be condescending or sarcastic.  It’s just that my brain can’t figure out a way to make losing money fun.  I guess I just don’t have enough of it to view it as a sport or hobby instead of a loss.

The photo above was taken on the casino floor earlier this week.  I walked around feeling nearly assaulted at the constant cacophony of bells, alarms, dings, and chimes.  Lights whirled and blinked and shone with such brilliance that I contemplated getting out my sunglasses.  Stools filled with people staring desperately at slot machine screens emitted a haze of cigarette smoke that nearly gave me asthma on the spot.  No wonder they’re chain smoking, I thought–they’re scared out of their wits that they’ll lose all their mortgage money!

As I wandered deeper into the bowels of this beguiling money-making machine, I stopped to watch some people at the $5 slots.  High rollers in my world.  All I could think about was how they could be at Little Caesar’s getting a pizza for each of their “spins,” or in today’s world, “button pushes.”  $5 will rent a movie, get 5 coloring books at the dollar store, buy two days worth of hot lunch for our kids, get 5 roast beef sandwiches at Arby’s…or…one push of a button.

You can imagine my angst when one of the women in that area walked up and easily slipped a $100 bill into the Wheel of Fortune game.  Ouch!  20 pushes of the button…or a week of groceries for many families.  20 pushes of the button…or 5 tanks of gas.  Or a nice outfit.  Or 3 BioSand water filters for a family living without clean water [see right].

I wandered next to the Craps table [I had to ask the dealer what the game was called].  This was interesting.  This game had people using chips and cash.  I watched as a man plopped two Benjamin’s on the table and stabbed them into some sort of hole-in-the-table-money-take-away-er.  All with ease.  With one swift motion.  $200–gone in 2 seconds.

Now, lest you think I’m trying to be the morality police, I’m not.  I tried the $1 slot machine twice, and nearly won!  [How many people say that, huh?!]  And I’ll admit:  after my first pull of the lever when my 7′s nearly lined up, I felt a tightening in my stomach and this foreign kind of excitement rise up in my chest.  I thought I was going to win!! So I think I understand the compulsion to keep trying.  Just one more time.  One more quarter, dollar, Ben Franklin.

But the sad thing for me is that I can’t imagine that many of the people playing are truly in a position to lose this kind of money.  With the state of our economy in ruins–particularly here in Michigan–it seems almost irresponsible to choose to spend your afternoon throwing money away.  It makes me sad for the kids who sit in the hallway waiting for their parents [yes, saw that].  It makes me sad for the elderly who haul their oxygen tank along with them to sit in a smoke-filled room [yes--the first thing I saw here].

It makes me sad that people feel that the best use of their time and resources…is to throw them to the whim of dice on felt.

Sugar Two Ways

One of the great things about being gone with my husband, aside from getting a brief vacation from Mommyland, is getting to do stuff together that we don’t do at home.  Such as ordering pizza and eating it in bed while watching Monday Night Football.  Ah, the little things…

One of these adventures led to an interesting conversation in which we came up with our own theory concerning sugar.  I’m testing it on you to see if you agree.  Here it is:

If sugar is going to be combined, we think it can best be partnered with two things:  Salt and Milk, separately.  I’d make the case for salt to be part of the larger “spice/spices/spicy” category, but for our purposes here, I’ll stick to salt only.

credit to: http://the99thmonkey.wordpress.com/2009/06/08

SUGAR + SALT examples:

Coke + chips/french fries/pretzels

Margarita + salt-rimmed glass

Caramel-corn

SUGAR & MILK examples:

Pie/cake/cookies + milk

Breakfasts with a syrup component + milk  [in my opinion, milk with french toast or pancakes WAY trumps OJ.]

~~

Obviously, this is subject to opinion.  I know people who enjoy pop with their cake & ice cream, or who don’t particularly crave the salty-sweet combo.  I guess everyone’s taste buds are different, but I’m curious to see if you can de-bunk this theory.  Can you think of a good sugar combo besides these listed?  Or would you add an example to my list?

Casino Life 102: Simple & Sharp

I’d like to think I’m pretty easy to please.  Granted, I have my moments and my private rants, but in general, I’m happy with little things:

A glass of Coke with lots of ice and a straw.

Receiving a funny card in the mail.

A husband who helps me put away the clean laundry [HATE that job!]

Splurging on dessert at my favorite restaurant.

Seeing lots of comments posted to a blog [*cough*]

So, you can imagine my glee when I discovered that this delightful casino we’re staying at [see yesterday's post] outfits the bathrooms with Bath & Body Works products!  Not some Dial knock-off or an oatmeal-based beauty bar, but the real thing.  From the mall–only smaller.  AND, it’s Coconut Lime Verbana!  What fantastic news!  I also scored a couple bars of Warm Vanilla Sugar, but since it’s not my favorite, I’m opening them up to the highest bidder  [see below for my giveaway].  Free shampoo, conditioner, bath bar, “moisturizing bar”, and shower accoutrements.  Like I said, it’s the simple things that blow my hair back.

Now.  Let’s contrast this simple pleasure with another kind that I haven’t run into before.  At least not in a hotel: “Sharps”.  I saw this sign right away on the table when we walked in.  Lovely of them to promote safety and cleanliness–I’m just sayin’– I haven’t seen this before.  It reminds me of that scene in Field of Dreams when Kevin Costner and James Earl Jones are staying in the hotel looking for Moonlight Graham, and the man at the front desk has to remind them that they don’t allow “midnight abortions” at their establishment.  Good to know.

Anyway, my small-town naivety is being enlightened, I suppose, by all these experiences.  I’m enjoying some time away from the phone ringing and the doorbell dinging.

Enjoying the Simple and the Sharp here at the casino.

If you really would like my Warm Vanilla Sugar soap, be one of the first two people to leave a comment saying that you have added a *NEW* link to my blog from your own.  I’ll check it out and then email you for your address.  Thanks!

Casino Life 101

This is one of those signs that you just can’t walk past without stopping.

And staring.

Perhaps briefly taking a picture with a camera phone [hypothetically speaking].

Scratching your head and letting a “Hmm” escape, slow and ponderous.

Really?  We need a sign to remind us not to leave our children in the car?  Are these casino goers so crazy for the slots that they’d literally run from their vehicles, forgetting their own offspring??  Is the allure of the lights and bells that seductive?

Imagine the scene: Ginnie and Trish peel into the casino parking lot, exhaust pipe belching black smoke powerful enough to compete only with the smoke unfurling from the window courtesy of Trish’s Camel unfiltereds.   Little Austin is strapped into the back seat of the Torino trying to focus on Handy Manny’s exploits when the engine stutters to a stall.  With rolls of quarters bouncing in their pleather bags hot with certain luck, the girls barely stop long enough to crookedly apply their Wet-n-Wild lipstick before hopping out of the car.  Just as Ginnie reaches under the seat for her AquaNet, she is startled by Trish’s piercing squeal:   “Ginnie!!  GIT over here, girl!  We’re going to be late! The slots will be taken! Forget your hair and let’s GO!”

Payless heels clicking loudly against the pavement, little Austin is left to spend the day with Manny in the Torino.  Alone while mom flirts at the Blackjack table, he wonders why she didn’t see the sign reminding her to utilize the casino childcare facility.

Maybe she didn’t want to cut into her winnings?

PS:  I’m not here with Ginnie or Trish.  My husband’s at a convention and I’m keeping him company

Things I Don’t Understand Thursday: Slow Drivers in the Passing Lane.

People, it’s called the passing lane for a reason.

I know it’s tempting to drive with an entire lane spread out wide across your windshield.

I understand your desire for control, and your desire to be a separate entity from those employing a more leisurely pace.

HOWEVER.

It must be said:  I don’t understand why you insist on remaining in this lane WHEN YOU’RE NOT PASSING ANYONE.

Please note exhibit A, taken by me this summer.  As a favor for Mr. Clueless, I’ve blotted out his license plate.  I have yet to blot out his trespass driving miscalculation, however.  I’m working on that.  With my counselor.

OK, I’ll concede that I’m no driver’s ed instructor, though I should be.  But.  Notice the long line of respectful, law-abiding drivers on the right.  Good job, folks.  Kudos to you!  Way to enhance the flow of traffic!

Now turn your attention to sad Mr. Blue Car.  Note that he could easily slide over into the right hand lane and still leave an appropriate distance between himself and the gray car.   If I were playing Rush Hour, I would totally move his fanny without giving it a second thought. It’s an obvious and sensible strategy.

What makes me crazy about the Mr. Blue Cars of the world is that they TRAP those of us wishing to drive faster than 45 mph by making it impossible to maneuver around them!  There is not enough space to pass him on the right, not to mention you’re not supposed to pass on the right.  And so I return to my initial point:

IF YOU’RE IN THE PASSING LANE, PEOPLE, PLEASE PASS.

And then kindly get out of my way.

Four More Days

One of the great joys, and simultaneous “pinch-me’s” of my days, is a more fervent awareness of the slipping away.  Time slipping away.  Childhood…slipping.  Days, seasons…slipping.

It sounds depressing, I know, but actually I feel joyful that God has given me new eyes to see it.  New eyes to behold these slices of history-to-be.  Already I look back at photos and can’t believe how fast the years have taken flight.

My youngest son M is the spitting image of his older brother J, who is, of course, the spitting image of his daddy.  This morning I pulled a long sleeve shirt out of the closet for him, pulled it over his small round head, and watched his smile pop through–transporting me in an instant to a time when it was J’s head emerging from the soft cotton.  The picture, bent and wrinkled, stands still in my heart: two boys, two faces I love, both wearing the same shirt, both growing up so fast.

On days when our two older children have school, M and I like to stay in our jammies and snuggle together.  I spoil him with chocolate milk in a sippy cup [even though he's waaaayyy too old for sippies], and we watch Berenstein Bears on the couch.  We wrestle and he wraps his small warm arms around my neck and I think that life just couldn’t get any better. I threaten to kiss his face off, and he says he’s too old for kisses “titheth”.  I tell him you’re never too old for mama’s kisses.  He disagrees.

I guess today he decided to better outline his thoughts in regards to kissing mom, because as I was blow-drying my hair, he bravely walked into the bathroom, stood on the toilet so as to look me in the eyes, and declared, “Four more days!”

“What?”

“Four more days!”

“Four more days for what?” I turned off the blower to better listen to his instructions.

“Four more days left to kiss me!  Then I’m too big!” I decided that aiming the hairdryer in his face and turning it on high was the only way to reasonably convey my thoughts.  He folded up in laughter and righted himself just as fast.

“No mom, only four more days.” Then he hopped off the toilet and set to “popping wheelies” on the glider ottoman that seems to have taken up residence in our bedroom.

I stood there, pondering this ultimatum, issued by a little boy trying to figure out what it looks like to turn 4 and hang with the big kids. Of course I didn’t get too crazy over his “new rules,” because after all, I’m the mom and I’ll be kissing his face off until he gets married. HOWEVER, as I said in the beginning of this post, I am more and more aware of the “slipping away” of life and of my role as an integral part of our kids’ lives.

I quickly opened my pharm drawer and reached for some Prozac

I set a brick on his head to stop him from growing up

Done with my hair I ran into our room and scooped him up, rocking him like the baby he’ll always be to me.  “Four more days?!  Four more days?!  That’s not enough!” I taunted him and kissed him and tossed him onto the bed, into a tangle of blankets and arms and laughter.

“Ok mom.  Eight more days.”

I’ll take it.  I’ll take all eight and cherish each one.

A Slow Burn

Last week I told you about Daisy Chain, a rare and wonderfully gripping piece of Christian fiction from author Mary DeMuth.   The first in her Defiance Texas Trilogy, Daisy Chain weaves a tale of suspense and fear, grace and deliverance, as told through the eyes of a forlorn 14 year old named Jed.   Chapter One opens like a firecracker–rising high and exploding with questions, doubts, and a terrifying new reality that Jed’s best friend, Daisy, has vanished.  Jed’s choices, while innocent in the making, prove to be an unshakable dark cloud that follow him throughout the book.  Could he have done something differently to protect her?  Why did he leave her?  How can he go on?  And, Can he ever forgive himself?

These questions, deep and universal to anyone who’s ever felt the weight of guilt, follow Daisy’s friends and family into book two,  A Slow Burn, due out OCTOBER 1.  This time, the chain of regret is tightly wound around Daisy’s mother, Emory Chance.  Never one to wallow, Emory’s past and present at last collide, forcing her to deal with the demons that took up residence in her heart as a girl.

Mary’s skill as a writer lies in part in how she expertly layers her characters so that the reader feels a kinship to them.  Despite her faults [and believe me, there are many], Emory became someone I cared about.  I wanted her eyes to be opened to the loving folks around her.  I wanted her to unfold and welcome difficult healing.  I wanted her to allow her heart to be soft–to be teachable.  I wanted her to repent.

“Only Emory didn’t repent of anything; instead she nursed her grief, feeling the great injustice of it all.  She reminded herself she was a good mother to Daisy, considering.  She wasn’t wicked. Not as wicked as her parents were.  Daisy, she didn’t know how good she had it” [pg. 46, A Slow Burn].

The depth of character that Mary builds in her books is outdone only by the unbelievable sequence of events that had me hunched in the dim light of the early morning hours, unable to put it down.   A Slow Burn builds on the mystery of Daisy Chain while adding fresh elements of surprise, new characters, and eerie revelations about Daisy’s disappearance.  With many questions remaining, the forward momentum compels me to unlock the answers.  Will Book Three finally hand over the keys?  I can’t wait to find out!

I hope you’ll head to your Christian Bookstore this Thursday for a copy and leave a comment with your own review.  Let’s start a conversation!

~~

PS:  I feel fortunate to have been chosen as an influencer for Mary, and as such, was privileged to have received this book free as an early release so that I could tell you all about it [thank you Zondervan Publishers!].

Lessons from the Orchard, Part 2

Yesterday I talked about the stunning day we had outside at Crane’s Orchard.  It was lovely.  Absolutely lovely.

Now that I’m at home, sitting in the quiet listening to Fernando Ortega, my mind spins both with things that I saw and with things it seems the Lord showed me.

As we meandered between rows and rows of trees, many of which have probably been there for decades, we eventually came to a grove of young trees.  Newly planted to birth the coveted Honeycrisp apple, these trees were small.  Delicate looking.  Even frail, it seemed.  Still staked down with a protective wrap around their bases, these trees, though little, were producing delicious apples–and lots of them.

Here’s my youngest, who at 3.5 years is already half the height of this Honeycrisp.  As I stood to to snap this picture, taking in the amazing sight of a tree giving life to this much fruit, it reminded me of John 15:5:

⁵“I am the vine; you are the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing.”

Bear much fruit.  Isn’t that what I long to do?  What I desire for my children?  My husband?   To see love poured out; to experience joy in abundance; to live in peace; to exhibit patience after spilled milk; to extend kindness and to model goodness; to be faithful to my husband and to my friends; to be a picture of gentleness and self-control [*cough*].  Each day.  Imagine the harmony!  Our home would be a utopia in Suburbia.

Yet John expresses this promise as a condition: “If a man remains in me and I in him…”

The alternative, I suppose, is the rotting and withering that comes with a life separated from the vine, from Christ.And, if I’m honest, sometimes I think I can make it on my own, drawing from the shallow well of my own strength.  Haven’t we all thought this?  Or if not consciously, unconsciously?  I know better.  But there are days when I think that somehow I’ll be able to reach deeper, keep it all together, stay focused, be kind–if only I try harder.

Today the Lord reminded me that even if you’re frail and small, even if you need the support of something stronger pointing you to Heaven, even if you’re young–fruit only grows if you’re deeply rooted.

Being in the orchard reminded me that it is only the vine that provides this kind of life and bountiful fruit.

Lessons from the Orchard, Part 1

Sometimes I feel like I’m overly emotional.  I mean, yes, I am a woman enduring cyclical hormones, but still, I don’t know how many people tear up at the sight of a lovely old tree or because painfully beautiful harmonies envelop them in church.  Maybe it’s gratitude or, I hope, a tender heart, but either way, it has me reaching for my sunglasses.   No need for my kids to see the waterworks and start to think that I’m dealing with a bad case of gout or some other unspoken rashy inflammation.

Today we went to our favorite apple orchard and soaked in the gorgeous pre-autumnal air like starfish welcoming back the evening tides.  The sky stretched out in brilliant blue with clouds ornamenting the expanse.  Apple trees bent under the weight of their fruit, giving and giving and giving still more to deers that will arrive to scavenge the ground at dusk.  In long shirt sleeves and jeans we were warm under the sun, but cool enough to sense fall awaiting its turn to trumpet onto the pages of a new calendar month.  It was exactly. perfect.

As we walked together through two different orchards, I felt such a deep sense of gratitude.  Such a profound thankfulness that we were able to experience this beautiful day together.  To be outside, to smell the fresh air–and later–pies baking.  To take in the grandeur of nature’s palate.  I found myself thinking,

Lord, how is it that we are blessed with all this?

How many children never know the carefree joy of running through rows and rows of apple trees?

How many–young or old–are confined to their homes and are not outside to drink in this Indian Summer sunshine?

How many innocent little lives are tucked away in brothels and slums, who know only the stench of a dirty city and the fear of a life going to waste?

With sunglasses safely on, I could feel a flash of sadness rise up inside me.  Tears filling my eyes.  It’s a strange thing, this mix of gratitude and deep sadness.

We walked together through two sprawling orchards, kids climbing like monkeys in the low branches of sturdy trees, then running to conquer hills and valleys.

Passing time together as a family, being thankful, seeing God revealed in Creation–it was church in my heart.  It was the kind of day I wish I could bottle up and save for deep January when the snows are unleashed from their heavenly hiding place.  It was the kind of day that reminds me of God’s goodness.  Of his gifts, all around us, freely given.  It reminds me of grace.  That for absolutely no reason–No reason–He saw fit to invite me to delight in Him with dust on my shoes and the fruity sweetness of a picked apple still resting on my tongue.

What a gift.  What a lesson in gratitude.

FREE RICE!

If you’ve ever stared into the eyes of a child who is malnourished or starving–whether in real life or in a magazine or on TV–you’ll find satisfaction in knowing that playing a game can simultaneously deliver food to those same children.  It’s easy, it’s fun, and it’s quite possibly a small part of the solution to global hunger.

Free rice is a site I heard about a long time ago and, to my joy, re-discovered today.  I invite you to check it out!  My goal was to earn 1,000 grains of rice to be donated [paid for by sponsors and handled by the UN food bank].  Set your own goal, plug in your brain, and decide to make a difference.

Things I Don’t Understand Thursday: Christmas in SEPTEMBER?!

Poor Baby Jesus.

“Dear 8 pound, six ounce newborn infant Baby Jesus.  Don’t even know a word yet.”

It’s bad enough that our society has gone to epic proportions to exploit his birth after Thanksgiving, but NOW we have to walk into our local Costco and be visually assaulted with artificial trees and gold foil wrapping paper on Labor Day.

I do not pretend to understand this.

In fact, I find it offensive because it ruins the specialness of Christmas. And I don’t even care if that’s not a real word.   I haven’t even mentally left summer!  I haven’t been apple picking! I don’t have my harvest decorations up! I haven’t discussed Halloween costumes with our children!

To add a little vinegar to the baking soda [= explosion, in case you've never tried it], the catalogs are starting to roll in.  The ad execs are no doubt counting their money in neat little piles like Ebenezer Scrooge, drooling over the prospect of a fruitful shopping season that will pull us, definitively, out of a recession.  Whatever.

In fact, yesterday we got a cozy little slice of marketing heaven:  The Company Store advertising free monogramming on select items as their “Happy Holidays” gift.  Don’t forget–Hurry!  Offer expires 10/14/09!

‘Ya know what I want to say?

I want to say, “CALM DOWN, PEOPLE.”

Live in this moment–this season, for crying out loud.

Enjoy fall.

Relish the colors, the changing leaves, the coolness of the evening air, the morning mist.

Delight in the unmistakably fall smell of apples baking.  Of spicy pies.  Homemade applesauce.

Shiver through a football game and remember the days of rooting for your boyfriend [now husband] who’d claw through the painted yardlines and rise up, smiling that boyish grin, captivated by something absolutely synonymous with autumn.

And ‘ya know what else?

DON’T RUSH ME.

Let me hold these days and drift through them with the kind of ease that comes when you’re over 30 and better understand the precious nature of time and season.

Let me sit in the quiet and admire God’s creativity.  His beauty.

Let me marvel at how so many colors can be captured on one single leaf.  And how pumpkins are the same–yet different.  How apple cider slides down warm, allowing you to pinpoint its exact location until it pools in your stomach like liquid comfort.

And let me enjoy Christmas when it’s Christmas.  After the snow flies and we’ve celebrated the harvest with turkey and mashed potatoes.  When you can count the days with numbers instead of months.

Because don’t you agree?  Christmas doesn’t belong in September.

Please do me the honor of leaving a comment if you share this perspective!  Also, thanks again to Kamarah for the great photo.

Chasing Pavements

Before anyone gets all “copyright lawyer” on me, I will admit the obvious:  I’m “using/borrowing/adapting” Adele’s song title for my own use and express benefit.

I was going to say, “So sue me,” but actually, no.  Please don’t.  I just spent the $78 I made at my garage sale and don’t have a penny for legal fees.  I hear bake sales are profitable, but when you factor in all these new nut allergies and everyone wanting gluten-free products, it pretty much leaves me with a pile of scrambled eggs and a bowl of canned mandarin oranges.  Something tells me they might not be hot sellers.

I digress.

If you’ve ever heard Adele elaborate on this song or if you’ve cracked into the world of urban dictionary [.com], you know that to chase pavements is to beat at the wind.  To chase something elusive and perhaps non-existent.  To continue down a proverbial dead-end road.  You get the idea.

I’ve been chasing after something that has seemed impossible for years.  It’s actually not even a personal “thing” in my own life, for my own body/self/person, or even in my own family.  I’ve been begging with God, praying, pleading on behalf of someone else and that person’s needs.  Have you ever been there?  Have you ever done that?  Desperately emptying yourself, draining all your tears, wringing out your heart, only to leave the Cross feeling like you’re chasing pavements? That your holy and righteous and God-honoring prayer might not be answered in the way that seems to make sense?

Thanks to Kamarah for the photo

When I run, this is part of the path that leads me to and from my home.  Over the past year I’ve passed this spot more times than I can count–and before I started running, hundreds of times with my trusty dog.  Sometimes familiarity like this can breed a certain level of blindness.  It becomes second nature to ignore one’s surroundings while the backdrop of your life passes by in similar color and texture.

But this spring I was nearly stopped in my tracks by this lovely burst of green, this determined patch of life that erupted from the concrete crust around it.  And all at once, I could sense the Lord speaking to my heart, that the “pavements” person in my life could be like this mysterious and tenacious grass.  That this person could possibly make it.  Could overcome the odds.  Could turn it around.  Could push through the hard and the cold that seems to weigh down the spirit.  Could experience life in a new way.  Could really live!

Boy, God.  Do I believe that?  Do I have enough faith?

So each time my feet slap the earth, I repeat the same name in my head.  I say it.  And say it.  And say it.

Tears come, and I say it.

Joy and sorrow flood me.

Am I chasing pavements?  Sometimes it feels like it.  The road stretches out long and arduous in either direction of that small island of life in the picture.  And likewise, the answer I long for still seems far off.

But I’m starting to see the spark of something.  And I’m still willing to chase.  To believe.  To hope.

Because I know that someday that pavement will turn into streets of gold, and I’m desperate to share the road.

You’ve Got a Friend

Our youngest doesn’t see being 3 as a handicap, but truth be told, at his young age he has already experienced age discrimination.

I know.  The Law Offices of Sam Bernstein are about to be put on speed dial, trust me.

I can’t blame the big kids–they’re faster [barely], they’re stronger [on most days], and they have a much larger vocabulary [no denying that one.]  M does what he can to keep up with them.  He braves the bike ramps.  He jumps the sidewalks on his two-wheeler.  He yells and screams with the best of them.  And arguably, he can ride our electric dirt bike as well as any kid who’s ever mounted the steel horse plastic pony.

Still, when you’re 7 or 8 or 9, chillin’ with the preschoolers isn’t on your list of “must-do” after school.  The kids that are slightly closer to him in age are girls, and while better than nothing, generally aren’t the thrill seekers that he innately is.  I mean, giving your American Girl a new hair-do might be cutting edge, true, but…can she ride a quad no-handed is really the question.

Even though my M can ride a quad “going no handlebars”, as he says, he often finds himself wandering alone.  Just this afternoon I caught him sitting by himself pounding some boards together for pretend–designing a half-pipe for Tony Hawk no doubt.  He’s a nomad on paved sidewalks.  A restless wanderer, longing for a friend.

Anywho, last week he started preschool, and I probably don’t have to tell you–he loves it. It’s just a couple of hours a week, but it has given him the opportunity to hang out with other super-cool 3 year-olds who also enjoy the art of jumping, singing, drawing, and playing with trucks.  Even though I nearly lost my mascara to TurboTears round 4 at the thought of my baby going to school, it has warmed the cockles of my heart [as my hubby would say] to see him in the company of so many tender souls.

Which makes today so great.

On the way home from his school I looked in the rear view mirror and asked him, “M, what was the best part of your day today?”

You wanna know what he said?

He said, “Having friends.”

Awwww!  [sniff sniff]

A moment of silence, please.  Show a little respect for the poor kid.

This conjures up two points I wish to make:

1.  That he does, obviously, feel terribly left out when the big kids take off [again, I can't blame them, but he does feel it].

2.  It also reminds me to verbalize my thankfulness for my own friends.  There are many times when I sit at home and think “What would I do without her in my life?  What would I do without her to call, to talk me through it, to make me put down the chocolate.  For ten seconds.” When I think of all the people I call friend, I feel so. grateful.

So to all my dear, dear friends out there who have walked beside me long after doll days and bike rides ['cause some of you have been around that long!], thank you for being there, for loving me, for filling my life with blessings overflowing.

Today I join my little boy in being thankful for YOU.

Daisy Chain

Last spring I was privileged to hear Mary DeMuth speak at a Christian Writer’s Conference.   In a room full of other brothers and sisters, alike in our love for the Lord yet quite possibly different in our perceptions of faith, I received her challenge to re-think my boundaries on His love.  After all, maybe the love of Jesus has no boundaries.  Maybe he loves and loves and loves.  And maybe he does it regardless of our choice to return his affection.  Could it be?

While it’s easy to love someone filled with grace and kindness, we all know that it’s much harder to extend love to those who are gritty.  Prickly.  Unkind.   I have found this to be true in life–and in literature.

A few weekends ago I got sucked back to 1977 through the binding of a book that I could not put down.  Daisy Chain, written by Mary, is a riveting and mysterious tale that had my emotions swirling: anger, injustice, fear [I actually had shiver bumps], love, admiration, and sympathy were all tossed in the blender of my heart.  Each one distinct, each one lasting and thought-provoking.

Mary sets the stage expertly: a lone church half-burned and in disrepair stands witness to an empty field surrounded by a dark forest.  Childhood friends Jed and Daisy meet there to forget the cares of their young lives, both heavy with burdens too cumbersome for children.  At the end of their afternoon together, Jed heads home for dinner, not wanting to be late.  Not wanting to again rouse the anger of his father, the town’s self-righteous pastor.

However, as Jed finds himself half-way to a warm meal, his gut tells him that he’s made a mistake.  Why would he leave Daisy–abandon her to walk home alone as dusk settles on their small Texas town?  He turns back, running now, fear pounding in his steps.  When he reaches the church, the door is left swinging on its hinges, an eerie squeak telling him something’s not right.  Finding Daisy’s shoe only confirms his fears.

And that’s just the first chapter! [I know!  Lock your doors!  Pull the shades!]

I normally don’t read suspense stories–fiction or non–because I get paranoid and have bad dreams.  This book, however, had me hooked, staying up till all hours for just “one more chapter.” I wanted to creep into the pages, talk to Jed, interact with his mother, meet his sister, stand as a defense against the twisted love of their angry father.

With threads of love, redemption, guilt and remorse, Mary weaves a tapestry of well-rounded characters and beautifully painted scenery against the backdrop of small-town secrets.

The good news is, if you like this book as much as I think you will [run, don't walk to your nearest Christian bookstore], you’ll be happy to know that its sequel–the second in her Defiance Texas trilogy–is coming out this October!  I’ve been asked to read and review A Slow Burn early [thank you, Mary!], and it is equally thrilling.  This time told from the perspective of a different character, more secrets are spilled, more questions are raised, and answers are beginning to seep.  But not all of them! There will be much left to be resolved in the third and final book, all published by Zondervan.

Watch for a follow-up blog posting about A Slow Burn, and join me in reading this series which has critics comparing Mary to Harper Lee and Francine Rivers.  It’s a lofty compliment and high praise, but I can promise you, it’s well deserved!

If you’ve read this book or others by Mary, please leave a comment and share your thoughts. I love discussing great books!

Things I Don’t Understand Thursday: No-Shows

We’ve been trying to sell this sweet little kitten for a couple of weeks now.  I would’ve thought that some eager high-schooler would’ve snatched her up like a Dutchman crossing a penny in the street, but alas, no.  There have been phone calls from “interested” shoppers, and even a couple of folks who have had the privilege of driving in the luxurious, smoke-free, V6 carriage of fun.  And it is fun.  Oldsmobile is synonomous with fun.  Just ask Tiger Woods.  Fun.

However, what I don’t understand are the people who call me, feign interest, tell me they’re coming to check it out, ask me to wait at home for their vague arrival time,…and then don’t show up.

What’s the deal, people!?  Three times this has happened!  Didst thou suddenly develop swine flu, and because thou art in quarantine thou art forbidden to pick up the phone to cancel thine appointment?  Didst thoust case of Carpel Tunnel flare, hindering thou fromst using thine telephone to call me?  Didst thou endure a frightful home explosion which destroyed thoust calendar?  And memory?

I have to say:  IT’S RUDE.  I try to be gracious, although I fully admit to failing daily.  BUT.  In my mind, it seems a matter of common decency to follow through.  To be courteous of another’s time and family life.  To be honest.  To speak the truth.

So, my fellow Americans.  Please.  For the love of all that is good and pure, either:

1.  Show up when you say you’re going to.

OR

2.  Don’t make the promise.

Fair enough?

Medieval War Games

Well, they did it again.

Made a game out of wood and jumping and self-inflicted wounds.

Little did the feudal lords of the middle ages know that their catapulting weaponry would be such a hit in the backyards of the ‘burbs.

While we grown-ups chilled on the deck, sipping our Coke on ice and munching on chicken brats and kettle chips, the boys were gearing up for battle.  Actually, J had never heard of a “catapult,” instead thinking he was making a simple machine.  Remember those?  Inclined plane, pulley, wedge, screw, etc.

“Mom!  Look!  I created a LEEE-VER!!” He sounded like Bill Nye the Science Guy during 4th hour Biology.

“A what?!” I asked, just to hear him say it again.

“A leeever!”

If I could zoom in on his shorts you’d see the skulls-with-crossbones sprinkled up and down the legs.  How fitting, don’t you think, that he’d spend his time creating dangerous devices with leftover wood and landscaping bricks?  He’s clearly ready for some real fun. Bikes are for sissies.

Things got real fun, alright, when his brother joined the party and insisted on shooting plastic toys off the opposite end of the “leeever.”  They found an old reflex-checker from a toy doctor’s kit, thinking it would surely fly nicely, getting some “huge air.”

It was at this precise moment that I should have demanded they strap on their helmets or at least some swim goggles.  Perhaps the kind of headgear that wrestlers or umpires wear would have worked.  But being the stupid encourager of creative-play mom that I am, I didn’t stop them.  Not for a helmet, not for the goggles.  Even though M is drawn to accidents like moths to flame.  And sadly, this day was no exception.  Enjoy the accident in slow motion below:

Effective jumping technique, tool on opposite end appears to be catapulting in the correct direction. Watchful older brother on guard.

Oops...and there he goes, folks. Down, down, down. To the Ring of Fire.

OK.  I have to stop the show for a second and explain.  I never thought the board would actually flip up and smack M in the face. Of course not.  I mean, what kind of mother lets her children reconstruct Medieval war tools in the backyard and actually thinks it’s cute?  [At least, in the beginning it was cute.  When it was just a "leeever" and not a weapon of mass destruction.]

So here’s my poor M after going inside and being soothed by a warm bath, fresh PJ’s and a bedtime smack SNACK–did I say “smack’?!

Maybe not so much a "ring of fire," but more like a slap across the ENTIRE from of your face.

It reminds me of that scene in Tommy Boy when Chris Farley asks Richard [David Spade] if there’s a mark on his face, while motioning dramatically with his hands:

Tommy: Richard, do I have a mark on my face? It really hurts.
Richard: Nope, nothing. I thought I hit you on the shoulder.
Tommy: My shoulder doesn’t hurt very much, but my face does.
[points to huge bruised area on his face]
Tommy: Right here. Not here or here so much. Right here.
Richard: Nope. Ship shape! Waitress, can I get that shrimp cocktail I saw in the glass case?
Helen: Yep. And you, what can I get…
[pauses and looks at Tommy's face]
Helen: [**], what happened to your face?
Tommy: I knew it!

This time we were all witnesses, and we don’t need Helen to tell us.

YES.  There is a mark.

Thank you, levers and simple machines everywhere, but there will be no more Medieval War Games at our house.

Ever.  Again.

Faces From The First Week of School

My friend lives with the mantra that “Life’s too short to have unflattering blackmail photos of yourself floating around.”

I suppose she’s right.

But when a 3 year old is taking the pictures, what’s a mom to do?

The bus came as scheduled last Tuesday and whisked two of my favorite little humans off to begin a new school year.  It’s always a bittersweet time for me; I’m excited that our kids have the opportunity to learn at a fantastic school with teachers who are absolutely committed to their craft–and to their students.  Yet the pangs that often come along with sentimentality stabbed at me as I watched them mount the bus stairs, turn to wave, and then drive off into the late summer haze.  I started crying!  Luckily my neighbors are in the same boat and we hugged and blotted our tears without shame.  Kleenex should consider pre-packaging a going-back-to-school kit for moms that includes tissues, new mascara, and a bottle of wine [for later, of course].  You’re on your own with all the old photo albums and size 18 month clothes that you dig up later to relive the memories, still crying, and uncorking the wine in the living room with your old VHS of Beaches playing in a loop in the background.

Anyway.  Blackmail.

So as I recuperated in the kitchen with my 3 year old and the dog, M suggested that I make funny faces for the camera which he was holding a frightening 6 inches from my face. Now I understand why all the female TV anchors have their panties in a bunch over HD digital television!  You practically have to be Barbie herself–or perhaps Kim Kardashian–to not look like the “before” photo in a midnight skincare infomercial.

With camera in hand, M proceeded to give me directions, and I think that, despite being terrifying, the pictures really capture my feelings for the day.  Take a look, and appreciate my willingness to forego conventional wisdom and actually post these on the *world* wide web.

Exhibit A:  Mom, how do you feel about J & A leaving for school and growing up so fast?

I'll be scheduling my neck-lift as soon as we get our tax refund...

Exhibit B:  Mom, demonstrate your emotions surrounding the issue of your youngest child preparing for preschool–which starts NEXT WEEK.  Are you feeling old yet?

Note the young photographer's interesting use of scale and angle. Now if we could do something about that face...

After our photo shoot, M and I had a fun day together visiting our local children’s museum and playing outside.  Even though it’s always a bit of an adjustment for me to get used to a quieter home, a different schedule, fewer mouths at the lunch table, it has been a blessing to bond with my special little man.

Moms out there– leave a comment and tell me how you’re adjusting to your kids being back at school!

Come On Over!

Friends!  I’m excited to announce that I’ve been asked to do some blogging for West Michigan’s own kids’ TV show, Come On Over! Supported by the Grand Rapids Children’s Museum, this show has already won numerous Michigan Emmy Awards and has been lauded by critics and families alike!  It’s a privilege to be joining their team for the next little while, and I hope you’ll follow the blogging community that’s intended to inform and empower parents and caregivers.

Childrens’ play is the focal point of this show, and if you’ve never tuned it, I encourage you to check your local listings–especially if you have 4-8 year olds at home!   Stories about creativity, imagination and unstructured playtime come to life with silly characters and even funnier neighbors who stop by or pop their heads over the fence.

Check out their updated website and find me on the “grown-ups” page, or access the site through the Children’s Museum homepage here.

Thanks for reading…now go out and play!

Moments With Love

Ever since I was little I’ve had a nudging–gentle, but there–prompting me to act of behalf of those with small voices.  Or no voices.  I remember vividly lying in bed one night when I was probably 11, drawing a picture of a huge community home I was going to build for homeless folks in our city.  Forget counting sheep–I was counting empty beds and dreaming of how something as simple as clean sheets could change an outlook–an attitude–a life.

This nudging progressed to mission trips and two summers spent in South America working with kids and families living in poverty.  I loved it–I loved the language, the music, the lifestyle [who can reject mandatory naptime?!]  When I got back, one of my college housemates [now best friend] and I planned a fundraising campaign on campus where we asked everyone we knew for $5–the mere cost of a pizza–to purchase Bibles and send them to a mountain church in Peru.  Most recently, my Bible-shipping friend and I started our own-nonprofit which we ran for nearly five years.  Our focus was to provide for the needs of orphans and vulnerable children affected by HIV in Africa.  Because I still believe that clean sheets, a school uniform, a nutritious lunch can change an outlook–and attitude–a life.

This was only further branded on my soul when we traveled to Zambia in 2004.  It changed the way that I look at so many things–even to this day.  Which brings me to Love…

As often happens in the ever-expanding blogospere, I found myself clicking into infinity one night last weekend.  Who knows where I started or how I ended up at Moments With Love, but I did, and I’m so glad.  I’ve added a link in my margins to her website [she goes by "Love"] so that you can read her story; a story of God’s great and infinite planning.  A story of grace.  Of how he brought together two people with a heart for kids and adoption, and placed a desire within them to bring home two little girls from Uganda.   Unfortunately,  these types of ventures cost money [darn capitalism].  Which is stupid.  Why not judge a family by their love and potential to nurture a child emotionally and physically and spiritually–rather than whether or not they have an extra $20 grand in their bank accounts?  I’m writing my congressman…

So and if you’re moved [i.e. if your heart is beating within your chest] you can decide if you’d like to cheer her on by making a purchase or donation to help them bring their little girls home.

Check them out and send her a note of encouragement.

PS: the necklaces are made by Ugandan woman and your purchase will help to fund their livelihood, too.  We all know that mothers with money mean kids with full bellies.  Which is a good thing.

Arctic Dog Mushing On Labor Day

Leave it up to the neighborhood kids, my own included, to create a game that is so wonderfully ridiculous I can’t help but document it for you.  Yesterday’s game had me laughing so hard the residual giggles followed me indoors after playing photographer to their silliness.  I must give credit to A.M, the 9 year old who I’m starting to realize is the mastermind behind such wildly creative game-inventions [you might remember her from her British commentary on Asian fashion].

Let me set the scene:  It is Labor Day in Michigan.  The sun and relative humidity are living in perfect harmony; temperatures hover near 80 degrees.  Blue skies all around canopy our town in the beauty of what we hope will be a long Indian Summer.  In such conditions, what sort of games would you expect 6-9 year-olds to be playing?

Baseball?  No.  Too predictable

Bike Riding?  Been there, done that.

Fort-building?  That is soooo August.

“Hey!  I have an idea!  How about we pretend to be sled dogs and I’ll be the musher!”

Wellll, of course!  Why didn’t I think of that?  Why don’t I contact my leprechaun uncle and we can mush the dogs to the end of the rainbow while we’re at it?!

A.M., the sled-dog master, showed up on our yard with a bungled mass of yarn, standard gear for any hard-core arctic racer.  She found the end of the ball and slowly drew three individual strands from the center, handing one to each of her “dogs” [her sister and our two oldest].  Taking a tip from Wikipedia, no doubt, she instructed them on the appropriate formation.   Wiki tells us, “The dogs spread out in a fan formation ahead of the sled as they run, and this gives them more room to maneuver over rough ice or other obstacles.”

Well done, novice mushers. Note the skis at the ready; these kids are not messing around.

And….THEY’RE OFF!! [by the way, do you see any similarities between these two pictures?]

Later, after realizing that skis do not work as well in grass as they would in water or, in this case, on snow, the sled team abandoned the aerodynamic wood planks in favor of all-out-sprinting.  Again, Wikipedia points out that, “…recreational mushing thrives as an unorganized sport providing healthy outdoor form of winter exercise for families.”  Winter, schminter.  September 7 is as good a time as any!

They ran through the Labor Day grass alternating between the command to “MUSH!” and childlike imitations of dogs barking.  After nearly reaching Nome, they collapsed on our front porch for a rest and a “snack.”

Now, what, would you imagine, a group of kids would conjure up for a sled-dog-appropriate snack?  Jerky?  Raw beef chunks?  For amateurs.

Instead, their trusty Musher offered them salmon.

No, I’m not kidding.  Not real salmon, of course, but I stood there in my kitchen with the windows open [trembling with laughter] listening to this exchange:

“Good doggies!!  Want a treat?  Salmon?  Treat??” in an eager, high-pitched voice.

“Woof!  Woof!”  [tongues panting, down on all fours, barking like dogs].

Oh Glory, was it funny!

Leave it to this group of kids to find a way to keep busy and wring the life out of summer.

They may have been soaking in the sun, but in their hearts, they were truly deep in the snow, living the wild, untamed life of a Sled-dog Team.

Teaching Kids About Friends

When I was in grade school I was teased mercilessly.  I remember, shortly after having moved to a new school in the 5th grade, crying in bed at night and having to confess to my mom that I just didn’t have any friends.  What a terrible feeling of isolation at such a young age.  It was the 80′s and I had bad hair, thick glasses, and clothes with the wrong labels.  Or none at all.  I was new, I wasn’t cute, and everyone made sure I knew it.

So today I was outside fiddling with a car we have parked in the road, and I heard my son coming home before I saw him.  He had ridden down the street to play with a friend and I wasn’t expecting him home for another 45 minutes.  As soon as I heard the crying, I knew it was J.  Head down, hand wiping away tears, I could only see his red helmet gleaming in the sun and my heart turned over.  What could it be?  What happened? Of course my mind was racing with all sorts of horrible options.

After J calmed down, hiccuping and swallowing his sorrow, he explained that the friend he was playing with saw his older buddies down the street.  The older buddies asked J’s friend to play, and off he went.  When J asked his friend, “Hey–where are you going??”  The friend said, “I’m going to play with them,” walked in their home, and shut the door in my son’s face.

Awwww.  POOR BABY!

Kleenex.

A moment of silence, please.

I could completely understand J’s feelings and heartbreak in that moment.  It’s been a few years, but I can still remember the sting of rejection–the stab of betrayal.  Recently I heard a statistic that said that in their school careers, 100% of kids will be the recipient of name-calling or unkind words. I suppose that shouldn’t surprise me, but now that one of those 100% has a face–and a face that I love–the story changes.

I want to hold him, or possibly keep him home.

Wrap him in a cocoon, swaddle him in a blanket, secure him in my nest.

Is it too late to home-school??

My husband pointed out, as we discussed the incident, that if I wasn’t so tormented as a kid myself, I may not be the compassionate person I am today.  [Did I mention that my husband was one of my chief bullies in 5th and 6th grade??  Maybe he's trying to take credit for my compassion...]

So tonight at bedtime we spent a long time talking about friendships with the kids.  We’re not instantly going to write off the boy down the street because of one poor choice, but we did decide that this year, our one big family prayer is that the Lord will help our children to:

1.  Choose their friends wisely

2.  That God would give them at least one good friend

3.  That God would give them the courage to walk away from bad situations, even if they’re with “good” friends.

We’re also focusing on one of my favorite verses for instructing about friends:  “Bad company corrupts good character,”  I Cor 15:33.  Our kids know that one inside-and-out.  Now let’s just pray that the Holy Spirit reminds them of these words in those moments of confusion, betrayal, and sadness.  And moms out there–let’s help each other by talking to our kids about treating one another kindly.

Do you have a tip to share?  Please leave a comment and encourage each other!

My Quarterly Bonus

Being a stay-at-home mom is something that I love and worry about in equal measure.  I love it because I get to have a front-row seat to the lives of my children.  It’s messy, both in literal and figurative terms, but it’s equally full of joy.  I have the opportunity to hear and answer their questions about the world, about God, about kids needing water in Africa.  And, let’s be honest, the less honorable things like Why do dogs lick their butts and Mom, do you have another baby in your tummy?  Because it looks like it.

The worry comes from wanting “success” at my job.  For me that means raising kids who love Jesus, who are polite, who are kind, who think of others’ needs, who are helpful.  Because I’m with them all day, heads turn to me when the little angels aren’t all those things [think: mall wrestling].  Their dad is supremely helpful and really creative, but still, I’m the one who does most of the disciplining simply because I’m around them the most.

For me, the issue of their spiritual development [i.e. loving Jesus] is one of thee main reasons why I view my job, despite the wax on the walls and wrestling in stores, as being so important.  Deuteronomy 11:19 says: “Teach them [the words of the Lord] to your children, talking about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up.”

What is God saying here?  He is saying that it is his intent for parents to teach their children about their Godly heritage all the time!  Learning about their faith should not, nor can it fully be, just a Sunday experience.  I love this verse and could say a lot more about it, but for now, I’ll leave it with that.   While I don’t believe that moms who choose to work outside of the home are sinning, it is my belief that staying at home makes it easier to do the kind of things that Deuteronomy instructs.  It makes it easier to talk with them while “you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up.”

There are a lot of Hallmark-esque signs and plaques that say things like, “Being a mom may not have a great retirement plan, but the rewards of sloppy kisses and hand prints on the wall make it all worth it.” That is so true.  HOWEVER…As many stay-at-homers know, unless you are Mother Teresa [I am not] and don’t *care* about recognition of any sort, there can be days and weeks that pass before a thank-you is uttered for your tireless contributions to their clean laundry folded perfectly in their dust-free dressers which sit upon beautifully vacuumed carpet.  Because as you know, my house is always in perfect condition.  [a-hem].

So, back to Mother Teresa.  Perhaps not hearing a Thank-you or getting a quarterly bonus or having a high-powered business lunch means nothing to you.  Perhaps your priorities are so squarely aligned, so Jesus-centered, so other-focused that these selfish thoughts never enter your cerebrum.   Good for you.  Maybe you should mentor me.  Because I’ll admit: the business lunch idea sounds fun.  It would mean I could get dressed up in something other than flip-flops and someone else could cook for me, which is like my favorite thing in the world.

In light of this, I guess God decided I needed that “quarterly bonus”, too, because the other night over dinner, I got it.

I got one of those Hallmark moments–delivered by my 6 year-old daughter.

I was telling the kids of something new I’m going to be doing when they go back to school, and she was worried that it would take me away from home.  I assured her it would not.  And then she said,

“Mom, thank you that you don’t give me away to a babysitter everyday.“

Kleenex, eye pat, sniff.

Kleenex, eye pat, sniff, SOB.

Kleenex, eye pat, sniff, SOB, stored in my heart, forever.

Moms, the world may not value what you do.  You may not get the recognition you sometimes crave or feel you deserve.  You may feel like things are spinning and your efforts don’t matter.  But they do.

A six-year old told me.

“Things I Don’t Understand” Thursdays: Actual Yahoo.com posts by people who don’t believe in grammar

“Open Question

Hey guys my kid watch lazy town in his frend its calld nogin chanel ıhave verizon tv what is the chanel number?”

If you don’t believe me, here’s the link.

My high school English teacher would gauge her eyeballs out with a cafeteria spork.

Need I say more?

Treasures In Jars of…Ragu

Yesterday was grocery shopping day.  The flour and water paste I was contemplating was a viable option, but in the interest of not stunting my childrens’ growth, I fled to the store for something with a bit more color.  And taste.

However, the thing with grocery shopping, I’ve discovered, is that the unpacking not only exposes your bare cupboards, it also exposes your empty…and dirty…and disgusting…refrigerator.  Or at least, I’ve heard this from sloppy housekeepers I know.

Well, OK.  I’ll admit it.  I’m the sloppy housekeeper that I know.  I got home with all my gorgeous vegetables and vibrant fruits and they just looked so lovely in their reusable canvas shopping bags that I just couldn’t toss them into a slimy or rather, “unkempt” fridge.  So I went to work.

I got out my Hasmat outfit and rubber gloves.

I removed the shelves and deposited them into the sink bubbling to life with hot suds.

I tossed wilted herbs and squishy celery.

I opened–and smelled–mysterious Tupperware containers of…airplane-food-after-seven-days-in-a-deserted-car-in-Arizona-in-July.

And last but not least, I tackled the interior door and its contents: the condiments. Just look at all the crap I pulled out of our door.

OK.  I admit it. I have failed in my mission to manage our home.  And you, dear reader, get to bask in my “oversights” as I give you a photo-tour of some of the treasures I found.  Let’s examine:

Exhibit A:  Thai Premium Fish Sauce.  Don’t let the title of “Premium” fool you into thinking that it is anything less than putrid and overtly offensive.  Did you SEE the episode of The Office when Dwight hid a fish in Michael’s air vents?  Need I say more?  I tried–really I did–to dump this out so that I could recycle the glass bottle, but holy fish sauce. I couldn’t get the top off and the slow drip of fish brains was just too much.  Forgive me.  I had to throw it away.  [Don't start with me--I'm already doing penance].

Exhibit B:  Ragu + two or three months?  The mold on the lid resembles the huge worm in Dune.  I didn’t dare to touch it.  The Yellowstone Hot Springs in the jar?  Yeah.  Let’s just move on.  It’s like spaghetti sauce with leprosy.

Exhibit C:  What?  You don’t think this looks like cottage cheese?  Well let me tell you about its fragrance. My “small curd” cottage cheese was more like “large turd.”  In a bucket.  With sauce.  Of course I have to tell you–I’ve encountered said “large turd” before, sadly.

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Exhibit D:  Innocuous looking, right?  Until I tell you that I bought this on a vacation to Florida in 2003.   When I was pregnant with our second child.  Six years, four months, and roughly twenty days ago. Is there an expiration on Burn Relief Gel?

*

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Exhibit E:  Sad Day.  Note two things:  this expired on January 25, 2009 [whoops--missed that by 7 months], and I never opened it!  Bad Jane!  I hate to waste, and this was just pure waste.  But, I didn’t want to take a chance that “all natural” horseradish would be good yet today.  No need to start growing hair on my chest at my age.

So there you have it, friends!  A tour of my folly!  I will tip my hat off–to myself–however, for the new and improved interior of our fridge.  The work was worth it–I have a whole extra compartment in my door now, mold and stink free

I Couldn’t Sleep, So I Thought About Names

The other night I went to see The Proposal at the movies with my BNE.  It was really cute and I have to say, I was even a little surprised by some of the elements that I thought would be so predictable.  Of course Ryan Reynolds is just an assault to the eyes–it was a real trial to have to look at him for 2 hours.  And Sandra Bullock–please.  She’s stunning.  Over 40 and nary a wrinkle or flab roll?  I have no use for people like that.

So I’m lying in bed trying to sleep, and I’m thinking about these people and what their real lives might be like.   Does Sandra design new tatoos for [husband] Jesse James?  What does Ryan do in his spare time?  Do he and Scarlet [Johansson] cook together?  Does he call her “Scar”?

Then, because my brain is one constant rolling rabbit trail, I started to think about names.  The things that fill your brain after midnight, right?

How do nicknames begin?  Do mothers name their children with potential nicknames in mind?  [and seriously, does Scarlet Johansson go by "Scar" at home?] This made me think of my pastor, Rob Bell.  I wonder if his parents decided to call him Rob, to distinguish him from his dad?  Or if he chose it as opposed to Bob, Robert, Bobby, Robby?  My dad thinks that Bob is the greatest name you can give a child.  He wanted us to name both of our sons Bob, and has often said that if he could change his name, he would choose…Bob.  “There’s no confusion, no questions about the spelling, everyone can pronounce it, and it’s the same frontwards and backwards.  Perfect.”

When a mother looks into the soft, squished up face of her lovely newborn and bestows a name–arguably the first gift a parent gives a child aside from life itself–does that mother stop to think about what the future might hold for her baby?  How the name will fit when the baby becomes a boy, a teen, a man?  When Lovell Swindoll held her infant son in 1934 [no I didn't just know that, I Wikipedia'd it], did she have a stirring–an inclination–anything?–to think:  “This is our new son, Charles Swindoll.  He is destined for greatness in the Evangelical world.”  Or the mother of C.S. Lewis–or Dietrich Bonhoffer.  Did they know?  Did Clive’s mom think, “I’ll name him Clive Staples so that he can go by C.S. That sounds so distinguished, and it will certainly look fantastic on a book sleeve.”

If they would have known–if we could know–the futures awaiting each of our children, would it change our parenting?  If we were raising the next Billy Graham or Corrie TenBoom, would it change the way we nurture our kids?  Would my temper be better controlled?  Would my tongue be tamed?  Would we read together more, study our Bibles with greater fervor, love our neighbors any differently?

Of course anyone who’s ever seen Back to the Future will tell you that once you know the future, you can’t change the past because it will alter the outcome of that future.  If Chuck Swindoll’s mom had done something drastically differently, who’s to say that we’d have the same Chuck on our radios today?  If Dietrich’s mother radically modified her mothering, would he have stood with such determination at the hands of the Nazi’s?  Only God knows that, but certainly no one can deny the strong, indelible print of a mother [and father] on the hearts and lives of her children.  In fact, years ago I heard Chuck tell a story of personal temptation; he recalled the Bible verse that his mother had taught him as a boy that came rushing into his heart at an acute moment of weakness.  Realizing the impact that that mother had on him and the lifelong imprint she left made me want to teach Scripture to our kids.  Right then, I wanted to be the kind of mother whose teaching followed her children into adulthood.

Thinking about names, about raising kids, about shaping their hearts and their spiritual formation made me stop to consider:  crystal balls would be nice, but the end of the story actually lies in the present.  The end of the story is decided in some measure, apart from God’s grace and sovereignty, upon how we decide to partner with him in the lives of our children.  How will we choose to use today?  How will we spend our moments together?  Our evenings alone?   As as if by magic,  I heard Chuck just minutes ago, this time talking about the life of David.  And in his teaching he said, “When’s the last time you thanked God for not showing you the future?”

He gives us only what we can handle for the day.  I believe that.  And so, I look at the little faces that, with my husband, I named years ago.  And I trust that they’ll grow into those names and into the future that God holds for each of them.

Dressers Are Over-Rated

You know you have a laundry problem when your kids ask for clean clothes…

…and you go to your dining room table to find them.

“Things I Don’t Understand” Thursdays: Kitchen Tornadoes

It seems like I spend most of my time in the kitchen.  You can’t relate…can you?

Breakfast prep and cooking.

Breakfast clean-up…but wait…the dishwasher needs unloading first.

What?  A mid-morning snack?  Let me just get that for you…and your five friends…

Lunch prep, clean-up, etc.

And on and on it goes.

Throw in a craft project, trying to unpack groceries, your husband returning hungry from work, washing and chopping vegetables, getting dinner ready, and… wallah!  You’ve got this:

It is at this precise moment that we generally get unexpected visitors from people like Oprah and the President of Bolivia.  Neighbors want to come in to use our countertops to arm wrestle.  Daughters want their nails polished at Mom’s Salon.

Sure!  Just push the piles of crap aside, and do what needs doin’. 

What is it about the kitchen and why is it so deathly hard to keep clean?!

Well, obviously for most people, it is the heart of the home.  It’s nurturing.  A natural gathering point.  A place of comfort [cookies] and refuge [hot chocolate after sledding].  Good smells come from the kitchen.  I’ve heard that good eats come from the kitchen…when other people cook.

Because the kitchen is full of so much life and love and warmth, you’d think I’d do a better job of keeping it tidy.  But friends, here I am writing while the dishes are splayed all over, the sink full of pots, splatters on the stove, and for some reason I’d just rather ignore it for a little longer.

Do you ever have those days?

Yes, it bothers me.  I don’t like it when my flip-flops stick to the floor.  I don’t like chunks of food left under the island–our dog should really take care of those, after all.  I don’t like the tacky feeling left on the stools by little hands that need washing.  I don’t particularly enjoy sudsing up a bowl of Murphy’s to wipe down the cabinets.  The smell is great–don’t get me wrong–but it just takes so much time.  I feel like I don’t have the energy.

Of course the kids don’t seem to care.  Maybe by the time they’re bringing home dates [Heaven help us] or trying to impress their study group they will.  Maybe they’ll get annoyed when they plop their arm into a fresh puddle of sauce–right before their choir concerts.  But until then, I’ll continue to balance cleaning and playing, cooking and scrubbing.  Because judging from this face, in the scope of life, it doesn’t really matter all that much.

Mall Wrestlers

I don’t know if I wish I would’ve had my camera or not.  In the moment I might have gone a little Russell Crowe on the situation, so perhaps not having it was a good thing.  Then again, right now, as I type, I’m feeling like an LA paparazzi member thinking, oooh—if only I had gotten that shot. Shameful, I know.

My mission this morning was simple:  head to the mall for jeans.

Ok, ladies–I can hear you now:  “SIMPLE?!  Jeans-shopping with kids?!”  Well, I knew exactly the brand I was looking for, I knew that my local mall-carrier had then on sale and I had a coupon [chi-ching], so all that was left to do was find my size in the pile.  Should be nearly effortless.  As long as there was a changing room large enough to accommodate my huge yet stylish mom handbag, three children, and piles of jeans, I thought we’d be set.

However, as any mall-going mom will tell you, you have to set the tone early with your expectations.  Therefore, we went in with clearly articulated rules:

#1.  If you can behave yourself during the jeans-shopping portion of the morning, you will get to play in the mall play-topia.

This was met with shouts of joy and personal accolades.  Great.  On to #2.

#2.  If you can behave yourself during the jeans-shopping portion of the morning AND a brief trip to Costco, you’ll get the play-topia AND a movie on the way home, courtesy of our sweet new van

This was met with shouts of joy, personal accolades, and a parade in my honor.  Splendid.  I’m the greatest mom ever.  On to #3.

#3.  If you CANNOT pull it together long enough for me to find some booty-shakin’ jeans and/or find sanctuary in the beauty that is Costco, your rewards will be taken away one by one.  Poof and poof.

Can you guess what happened?

The scattering of brownie crumbs on the kitchen floor this morning should have tipped me off.  Some might call it a reality check, others, a foreshadowing.  The feet scuffing and door banging in the mall restrooms might have been another hint.  [M had to pee the exact moment I touched my first piece of merchandise at the mall.  Thee very instant--"Mom!  I have to pee!"  Love that.]   Locking me out of my changing room was another ominous cloud in the skyline of our day [they lost the play-topia for that maneuver].

But you’d think that after losing the first reward and seeing the quiet, yet seething dragon lady emerge–they’d get a grip.  Maybe a light bulb would illuminate their dark little worlds.  A bright flash of realization that things could get ugly if they didn’t change their behavior. If they wanted to mess up their day–fine with me.  Strip away my kindness!  Force my hand!  I’m ready to play.

Being the trooper that I am, I forged ahead, undaunted, armed with consequences and the balls to follow through.  If Sacajawea could walk through the Rockies in the winter–wearing moccasins with her infant child strapped to her back–I could get through the mall, doggone-it!

But it was really the wrestling that got my goat.

The last straw.

My camel’s back?  Broken. Brokeback Camel.

I stood at the cash register asking for a price check on a lovely fall jacket designed, I’m sure, by Tim Gunn [it was Liz Claiborne].  I had a few coupons left and thought maybe I could swing an extra purchase if there weren’t too many zeroes.

The boys started getting crazy, so I instructed them calmly and authoritatively to sit on the floor next to me, in front of a display of shirts.

While I stood trying to do mental math on my discounts, I turned my head just ever-so-slightly enough to notice them writhing on the floor, locked together in some sort of wrestling move.

Oh. Nelly.

M was laying down on his back with his 7 year old brother J on top of his face.  J’s head was facing M’s feet and was now migrating down to M’s stomach while he yelled, “Stop it!  Stop it!”  M had his little paws clutched around J’s neck–a surprising feat for a 3 year old, but with this kid, it’s no surprise.

“Get up!” I hissed.  “We are leaving.  You just lost your movie and if you can’t get your act together, your bikes will be gone for the rest of the DAY when we get home!” The yellow-sweater clad grandmas behind me gave me the “loser mom” stare and I was cooked.

I marched ahead of them, leaving a waft of smoke in my trail.  My poor daughter, who really did do a great job [thanks, A!], trotted a step behind me trying to point out how she successfully evaded trouble.

Now I know some people get into this–martial arts and whatever.  I even know some closet cage-fighting fans.  But you heard it here first:

Mall wrestling is not fun for moms.

[Homemade] Tents Make Good Neighbors

There was a moment today–one of those stop-you-in-your-tracks illuminations–that made me so grateful for the gifts in my life.  Not only do I have clean water, access to food and electricity, a smog-free blue sky above me, and the love of family, I have the extra blessing of neighbors who exemplify community in the best sense of the word.  Kam & Janet–you bless me every day.

The play explosion started around 9:30 this morning with our boys building jumps for their bikes and “getting some huge air” when they launched from the wood planks, nearly crashing into a nearby fire hydrant.  They migrated from bikes to electric dirt-bike to roller blades to scooters to squirt guns.  Barely wanting to stop for lunch, the three of them [our two boys and Kam's son] moved in and out of activities and in and out of larger groups of kids, gobbling up summer and not wanting to leave even a crumb to waste.

My daughter and three other girls, on the other hand, camped out on our deck with an amalgamation of horses, dolls, socks [sleeping bags for mini-dolls], blankets, and other things to feed their imaginations.  It was so sweet to watch them moving the tiny plastic bodies, blowing life into them with their ad-libbed dialogue.  At one point the oldest girl sat as puppet master to her doll, discussing Asian fashion trends in a British accent.

Because that’s what you do.  When you’re 9.

As play progressed, I sensed the possibility of an impending fight due to a sudden doll shortage.  Springing into action, I suggested they get their Polly Pockets out to supplement their cache.  One of the girls replied,

“They won’t work because they can’t spread their legs to get on the horse.”

“Yeah.  They can’t spread their legs unless their pants are off.”

That’s what she said.

We moms about lost it!

Later in the day Janet had to go to work, so she arranged for her girls to go to Kam’s for a couple of hours.  However, with such spectacular fun underway on our deck, the girls stayed camped out at our house, drifting off into faraway places and adopting new names and voices for their play.  And that’s when it hit me–that illuminated gratitude I talked about earlier.  I reflected on this–on the beauty of this kind of trust and availability.  That Janet could leave for work and *know* that her girls would be safe; that they would be cared for and protected and loved while she was away.  That the girls had the freedom to roam between my home and Kam’s, following the whims of their creativity–and that that was ok.

As I unearthed myself from the pile of laundry on our dining room table, I went to check on them and saw that they had built a tent with the blankets that were drying outside.  They had beds inside, a canister of pretzels–all the basics for an afternoon of camping.  The tricky thing, however, about using a velour blanket is that it’s slippery, and soon enough the fort engineers determined that something was needed to hold down the sides of the blanket.  Off they went into our garage that’s overflowing with junk recyclables to find the final keystone for their home.

Now, I toast their ingenuity and resourcefulness, yes.

I take my hat off to their planning and teamwork.

However, in the spirit of nurturing neighbors and protecting kids and all the warm-fuzzies I just shared, I had to chuckle to see the last addition to their structure:

Cheers to creative minds everywhere.  Cheers to play.

Hello, My Name is Jane, and I Have I.C.D.

My brain works in strange ways.

I am increasingly distracted by my surroundings and by the everyday jobs that pull me in 17 different directions before I finish even one of them.  It’s frustrating, but I know that many moms struggle with this.  After years of the media championing the skill of multi-tasking, I think we’re all finding out [after a surge of moms-gone-crazy signing up for spa weekends and copious amounts of Prozac], that all multi-tasking does is fray your hard-wiring and lead to nervous breakdowns.

Or heavy drinking.  Or at least, contemplating taking up heavy drinking.

OK, maybe not for you [wink wink], but I’m guessing you’ll agree that it surely diminishes the quality of work you’re able to accomplish on any one task when three kids are pulling on your arms, shouting over-top of each other, and threatening to die from hunger if they don’t have a peanut butter sandwich in their face in approximately 21.8 seconds.

One thing that I think my brain does do well, however, is making connections.  Unfortunately these aren’t always the kinds of connections that are helpful, like recalling which animals were most recently added to the Endangered List, or which glaciers are most rapidly shrinking from global warming,…but other “interesting” connections that, frankly, are utterly useless and quite possibly, annoying.

My secret little skill habit obsession, is that I connect faces.  A lot.

On a girls-only shopping trip to Chicago this fall, one of my friends decided that I needed a diagnosis after 15 postulations like, “Oh my word.  Ya’ know who he looks like?!”  [Of course I'm thrilled to have made such an important "discovery."]  Or saying, “She totally reminds me of an African-American version of so-and-so, except with curly hair.”

What?

So, back to my “diagnosis”.  With the help of other really smart 30-somethings, we decided I have  I.C.D:  Inter-Connectivity Disorder, because in my brain, faces [in particular] get automatically connected.   Now, this is an invented diagnosis, but I think it sounds real-enough to be true–don’t you?

To showcase my ICD, I have selected two reality-show TV contestants who I think have similar-looking counterparts in Hollywood.  Leave a comment and tell me what you think.  Am I crazy?  Or, rather, what level of crazy am I?  You decide!

Case Study #1: Project Runway star [voted off last week]: Ari Fish looks like Samantha Ronson

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Case Study #2: Design Star [HGTV] Contestant: Jason Champion looks like Will Ferrell but with staighter hair.  This one is a bit more of a stretch, but if you watch the show and see Jason in action, I’m confident you’d agree with me

“Things I Don’t Understand” Thursday: Cash for Clunkers

I know–I’m chastising myself–believe me.  I promised you that this week I would share my own self-deprecating bad habit that, despite living in my own body for all these years, I still don’t understand.  But tonight I’m so short-wired and frustrated I just can’t even find the energy to upload the pictures and try to be funny.

Instead, let me spew some venom on this once-blessed, now-cursed Cash for Clunkers program.  The man on the radio today said it’s been one of the most successful stimulus plans to date.  While this may be true, we are getting our rears handed to us with a red bow attached by some faceless website manager who works for the government, thank you very little. I’ve spent this entire week on the phone, driving 45 miles away three separate times, visiting the Secretary of State office, calling my insurance lady [Pam, you're awesome], calling my old insurance lady for proof that we’ve always insured our car, going to the bank to have the lien on our title signed away, emailing the credit union and going there to see the loan officer–WITH THREE KIDS IN TOW as you might have read about yesterday–only to have the rug yanked out from underneath us.

Because why?

Because the people in charge of this program have found a way to say that our 1999 Suburban 4×4 is *not* eligible.

In plain English, here’s a snippet of the email I got:

“The 99 Suburban 4 WD has a GVWR less than 8500 lbs, but a curb weight over 6000 pounds.  Therefore, it is classified as a heavy-duty vehicle and therefore not subject to fuel economy labeling requirements which is why you don’t see it on the CARS.gov web site.”

Ohhhhhh!!  Right!!  Why didn’t I think of that?!  Silly me!

Now, never-you-mind that a year 2000 or 2001 will be accepted, but my 1999 “heavy-duty vehicle” is rejected.

Splendid.  This logic makes not sense at all to me.  While I sit here trying to figure it out, I’m pretty sure I’ve developed a bowel obstruction, an ingrown toenail, and some sort of dandruff.

So friends and readers, next week we’ll get into the grit of my bad habits and, let me tell you, I’ve got some great pictures that may or may not be considered blackmail material at some point.

But today, this is all I can think about.  Today this is what I truly don’t understand.

PS:  Do you have your own Cash for Clunkers story to tell?  Please share!!

Bedtime Prayers

Jars of Clay and Buckets of Sand...molding little hearts for Jesus

It’s exciting and gratifying to share this post today.  I have been feeling badly that I don’t give enough attention here to the wonderful, curious, and edifying things our children do; after all, silliness and general chaos often make for more interesting reading.  This, however, is proof that:

1.  It’s worth it to spend small, quiet moments with your kids; they’ll lift the veil and give you a glimpse into how they process the world, how they process who God is, and how they process what He means.

2.  Only YOU [not grandma, not their aunts, not the babysitter] can raise your children to reflect the values of your household.  Of course we have no guarantees that our kids will be perfect, and we have no guarantees that they won’t be prodigals.  God holds the loose ends of their little hearts.

BEDTIME PRAYERS

M [age 3.5]:  “Dear God.  Thank you for Jesus, thank you that He loves us, and thank you that He knows our name. Amen”

A [age 6]:  “Dear God.  Thank you for Jesus, and thank you that He died on the cross to take away our sins and give us a fresh start.  Amen”

Hearing these words was so powerful for me:  that He knows our names–that He gives us a fresh start…

And hear them from our own mini-pastors of the Word?

God is Good.

Of Chalk and Bees

In all fairness, I should say that my kids, overall, did a fantastic job of being good helpers with happy hearts today [I've discovered that threatening to take away their bikes for the day is a huge motivator!  What will I do when winter comes??]  Only M found a way to get into trouble [shocking], using sidewalk chalk to write on his clothes and body and then returning to the house to wipe his hands on the carpet.  Because why wouldn’t you, right?  He promptly got his butt thrown in the bathtub, grinning all-the-while.  Typical.

With a birthday party on the docket, we spent the rest of the day running all over creation in search of last minute gifts and dinner ingredients, subjecting the kids to such “drudgery” as produce shopping and going to a tractor supply store.   We returned home and to my dismay, I realized I had neglected a few items of business.  While I would like to blame this on dementia or low Gingko levels, today I was straight up unorganized.  Looking at the clock I saw that we had a half hour to accomplish three remaining tasks.  Could we do it?  With such a blissful morning and stellar track-record, I was certain the kids were up for the challenge.

Coke-deprived and stressed to the max [perfect recipe for a headache], I started hollering for everyone to get shoes on, again, and get in the car.  Racing around the kitchen, I grabbed a $20, smashed it into my purse, whipped on my sunglasses and flew out the door.

“Is everyone buckled up?” I yelled over my shoulder.

“Yes, Mom,” they replied blandly.

Without double checking for shoes, seat belts, pulses, or the presence of unwanted materials, I roared out of the driveway at 4:20, knowing that one of my stops closed at 5; it was going to be close.  Windows down and wind twisting through our hair, I sped [not really...but kind of...] to the store.  Nearing the stop sign, I came to what I would call a “totally appropriate” stop: I eased up on the gas well in advance, gently applied the brakes, increasing pressure as we neared the corner.  Perfect–I noted that the invisible driver’s ed instructor next to me happily checked the box on his clipboard next to “proficient.”

What I hear, though, is “Whooosh, clunk.”

Followed by, “Uh-ohhhhh.”

“What just happened?”

“Well, um…M just….uh…there’s bees,” said my daughter.

“What??  What are you talking about?” I asked, still frozen at the corner, glaring into the rear view mirror.

“M brought along honey bees [crackers] and they fell on the floor.”

“How many fell on the floor? How many are there in the box now?” At this point my jaw is clenching just a bit, and I wonder if it’s possible for adult molers to crumble under the weight of such crushing pressure.

“There’s none in the box,” my daughter gladly reports [glad that she wasn't the one who brought them.]

“There’s none in the box?”

“No,” Barbara Walters informs the car.  “They’re all on the floor.  The whole box spilled.  M wasn’t holding it when you stopped and it just dumped all over.”

Heavens TO Mergatroid.

I lit into a rant [yelling over top of the wind, of course] about how we’re *never* going to be able to get a new car if this is the way they treat our old one, and “just wait until your dad sees this”, and I can’t believe M even TOOK an entire box of crackers into the car–he should know better!  He’s THREE!  He should know that crackers spilled and smashed all over our car = a white-knuckled mom with red eyes and elevated blood pressure.  [Nevermind that I didn't inspect their carry-on items before boarding the vehicle.  Let's skip over that minor detail].

Fast forward to errand #3: the Credit Union.  I had to go inside for lit-e-rally FIVE minutes. Five minutes!  Is that too much to ask??  Apparently, yes.

While I took care of our business, I asked the kids to “quietly play” in the children’s area, a dreamy little nook with books, legos, and a chalkboard-topped table.  Again, I failed to inspect the details and had by now blissfully erased the memory of the morning’s chalk debacle with M.

As I spoke with Julie, I hear a crash behind me.

Chalk.

All over.

Very nice.  Love that.

I suavely ignored the commotion  with an air of  “Whose kids are THOSE?” We finished our conversation just as M fell down and whacked his head against the chalk table.  This is followed by the kind of scream that’s injected with long periods of silence.

Screammmmiiiinnnnngggg [long silent breath] Screammmmiiiiinnnnnngggggg……

Ah.  These trips are just so relaxing.  Such a bonding moment, just me and the kids hanging out at the Credit Union.

I’m at a loss for words.  Not only did he actually hurt himself, he dumped over the chalk and still managed to get it all over himself—again.

What’s a mom to do?

Ban chalk, ban bees, ban trying to run 3 errands in 30 minutes with 3 kids.

Sometimes hopeful thinking just isn’t enough.  I should have known.

Just Another Day at the Beach

Yesterday was a perfect, cloudless, blue-sky day–the kind of blue that looks like an inverted Caribbean Sea hanging motionless above a busy world; blue that is deep and changing and ever-present.  Carolina Tarheels Blue.   Hudsonville Ice Cream Packaging Blue.   J.Crew would call it Pacific or Lagoon. Whatever you call it–whatever it reminds you of, it reminds me of beautiful.

Everything I love about summer was perfectly packaged and delivered to me in the form of Grand Haven State Park on the shores of Lake Michigan.  If there were a way to preserve the moment, bottle it or freeze-dry it, ready for February consumption, I would find a way to do it.  When things get icy and slushy and brown-snow-on-the-side-of-the-roady–that’s when I’ll remember this day.

With cooler packed, windows down [no A/C, remember?], hair a’blowin’ and kids a’singing, we headed to beach for our fifth attempt at finding joy in sand.  We circled the park two or three times looking for parking before happening upon a mini-van leaving a prime spot ["...It's a Christmas miracle!!"].  I joked with Brandon that on a day like that we could have sold the spot and made some mad cash.  Instead, we walked away with some mad memories.  Here are a few of the fun and noteworthy ones, in no particular order:

1.  [Left] My daughter is taking notes from her Aunt Lori and is spending time under the umbrella picking out shoes.  I could hear her talking to herself in a quiet voice trying to decide between “this” or “that.”  She’d better start saving now, ’cause let me tell you, that wasn’t a Payless advertisement.

2.  [Right] Our youngest gets a little crazy when he gets water in his eyes.  Reminiscent of a Civil War soldier undergoing an amputation who, without anesthesia would ‘bite the bullet’ to manage pain…[you were thinking the same thing, right?  Admit it!], apparently M has decided that handfuls of wet sand and pirate-like squinting help him. That kid should have been born with goggles permanently attached to his face.

3. [Left]  Fricano’s Pizza.  If you’re a fan of trashy decor, paper plates, menus that double as place mats, and pizza that’s cheap and greasy, but also irresistibly crisp in a way you’ve never experienced…then add this to your Bucket List.  I love it.  Love, love, love. It’s unique, it’s been around for decades, and I guarantee you’ve never seen another restaurant that so charmingly seems to evade OSHA and any scrap of decorating sense.

4.  [Right] Really.  Could he be any cuter?  Ice cream after dinner, just in case we weren’t stuffed enough from our visit to the Pizza Kingdom above.  Side note:  I don’t care how old you are, when it’s 92 degrees at 6 pm, everybody eating frozen treats needs a bib, rubber gloves, and a pail for washing.  Scrap that–just jump in the lake.  That kid was a mess.

5.  [Left].  Well, I thought I had seen it all.  Until, that is, this guy escaped his time machine and blew out of the 1970′s straight onto the boardwalk.  I do give him props for getting out and exercising in the heat, but…honestly, I’m at a loss for words.  Is it the tube socks?  The roller skates?  The spandex?  The hair?  [see pic at right]  Whatever it was, maybe just that intangible sparkle or brash confidence that skates hand-in-hand with not caring what others may be thinking–whatever it was gave me a smile.  I had to document it for you.  I felt like I was on Ventura Beach, and that’s not a bad thing

6.  Last but not least was the ordeal of dad trying to take a photo of mom with her precious little angels.  Ahhhh.  It’s so relaxing, taking family pictures, isn’t it?  Has that been your experience?  Or do you deal with this kind of nonsense? [see pic] Do you see my kids?!  J is covering his face like the flash is giving him an instant migrane, M looks like he’s getting his tonsils checked, and A is just pissed.  Notice that I’m oblivious to this foolhardy behavior.  I’m thinking I might have something for the Christmas card until I see my husband’s face.  His eye roll tells me, nope–no deal. We need to try again.  Take a look at our final effort, and our last beach photo:

It’s hopeless.  Look at my daughter.  Such a gentle spirit, that girl.

Our kids have rejected the notion of happy camping and Kodak moments.

Something tells me that the next few years with this crew are going to be pretty interesting.

Hope you’ll be around to hear our stories.

“Things I Don’t Understand” Thursdays: husbands + laundry

Exhibit A:

Let’s talk about this picture, shall we?

If you will direct your attention to the images above you might think, “Yep, that figures…just go ahead and dump your clothes on the closet floor [mumble, mumble].” Or maybe you’re thinking, “BOY!  I thought that only happened at our house!”

What I don’t understand today is why these dearly beloved clothes are on the closet floor.  They seem drawn by some peculiar magnetic pull–perhaps strong rivets and powerful buttons–right down to the carpet.  Each day I walk into this space and there’s a new pile of clothes waiting to be tripped over, stumbled upon, cursed at.   And I hate to say it, but that in itself isn’t the part that makes my split ends curl.

Move along with me, please, to Exhibit B:

The part that gets me just a bit annoyed is the fact that these clothes are left directly adjacent to a provided and fully-functioning laundry receptacle. I haven’t quite figured out yet how to make this process easier for my dear husband [who, in case you're worried that I'm slandering him, knows fully about this post].

Should I construct a laundry shoot?

Affix a basketball hoop above the hamper to make it fun to be tidy?

Make a ramp from the shower area directly into the laundry basket?

Buy a larger basket that fills up any and all available floor space so that any “accidental dropping” will be caught?

Seriously.

Leave a comment if you have an idea.  I welcome your suggestions.

PS:  Next week’s edition will take a look at one of my own bad habits that I still don’t understand.  We’re all about self-deprecation here–gotta be fair to the hubby

Stupid, Childish Pity-Party

Today I’m throwing myself a pity party.  I’m being a baby, and I know it.  I hate that about myself:  these feelings of entitlement, of ‘being deserving’ even when I have done nothing ‘deserving’ at all,… of wanting what I cannot have.  The list of things I’d do with $1 million dollars is growing, and I feel like a brat.  It’s not attractive, and more importantly, it’s not at all God-honoring.

Last night I had a great phone conversation with someone I love so much who has hit a few unwelcome road bumps lately [then again, when are road bumps welcome?].  Despite the grief and disappointment that has come with those bumps, this person is trying to flip the coin over and look for something shiny.  To see any flash of brilliance, any shade of light that might overtake the darkness of melancholy.  And I appreciate that attitude.  That kind of optimism, that kind of striving for hope, is to be admired.

Yet, I pointed out, while it is important to keep one’s chin up, it’s OK–necessary even–to sit in the pain.  To feel the hurt.  At least for a little while.

“Yes,” E* agreed, “…but in the scheme of things, do I really have it that bad?“

OK.  If we’re comparing ourselves to the kids I saw in 2004 with my own eyes–using a filthy, stinking pit toilet in the middle of Africa, and returning home to a roof and four walls with no food and no parents–OK, no.  We are blessed beyond measure.  We are blessed beyond comprehension when held up to the rest of our world.  Knowing this, and marveling at my good fortune should preclude the kind of stupid wallowing I’m giving into today.

In Philippians, Paul says that “He has learned the secret to being content in every circumstance.” [4:11]

EVERY circumstance?!

As you continue reading, Paul talks about being content whether he’s well-fed or hungry, living in plenty or in want.  I wonder if, when Paul was strapping on his sandals, he ever wanted new sandals.  Better sandals.  Designer sandals. Or if he ever looked around his tent and thought about redecorating.  Or adding on.  Perhaps tossing in a few extra floor pillows to “better minister to weary travelers.”

I know, ridiculous.  If Paul was alive and among us today, he wouldn’t be pining for a new iPhone or new bedding or a new van.  He wouldn’t be fretting about the catalog of dog-eared pages of things he wouldn’t be adding to his wardrobe.

Why do I give in to this trap of Western-bread materialism?

Do I honestly believe that the things lying out of reach right now will truly make me happy?  Am I that person?  Joyful only when the house is pretty and the closet is full and the car smells new?

That’s shameful.  I don’t want to be that person.  I want to live like that Tentmaker and know the kind of pure contentment he wrote about so long ago.

This has been hard to write, because in essence, today’s post is a confession.  A confession that I have a lot of gratitude to catch up on, and a good share of sourness that needs to be scrubbed away.

Will you join me in the scrubbing?

What do you need to confess?

CA$H for Clunkers

My husband and I never know what to do about our cars.  They’re both ten years old and run perfectly, but are beginning to show their age in small but annoying ways.  For instance, Brandon’s car has a non-functioning seat belt clicker and mine has no air conditioning.  The no-air thing is particularly charming when I’m barreling down the expressway next to semi trucks and trash collectors.  One kid is screaming that it’s too windy and would I please put the windows up, and the other two whine that it’s too hot with the windows up and would I puh-leeeze [!!] put them DOWN?! Of course I can barely hear a thing, the radio is useless in the chaos, but HEY.  That sweet little kitten is paid for.  Thank you Dave Ramsey.

Still, being the person I am, the allure of something new with artificial climate control is quite sexy.  I would love to ditch the 1999 Chevy for something with a built-in nav screen and better gas mileage.  BUT…we don’t particularly like those monthly payments or the insurance increases that come along with it [adios vacations].  Plus, let’s be honest: we’re dealing with three kids and a dog [who occasionally needs transportation], spilled milk that dries to a lovely yogurt-like consistency, smashed french fries between the seats, stepped on M & M’s from grandma, banana peelings and a variety of wrappers littering the inside at any given moment.   Why would we upgrade to just make a mess in something more expensive?

The answer to that question is Cash for Clunkers. Unless you’ve been spelunking or investigating the ocean floor for the past several months, you’ve heard about this program.  Basically, the government is offering people like me a nice chunk of change [toward the purchase of a newer vehicle] as an incentive to get gas guzzlers off the road.  Sounds great, but like I said, our kids leave such a Hansel-and-Gretel trail of food behind them that we could feed a small refugee family on the spot.  And there’s still that nasty monthly payment thing and that “new car = no vacations” crap.

Well, today I think I made a breakthrough in my arsenal of persuasive arguments to be used with Brandon [in love and with all gentleness, of course]

Say what you want about driving with no air.  Pretend it’s still 1956 if it makes you feel better.  Say you’re saving gas by keeping the A/C turned off–or not fixing it.  But when you look in your rear view mirror…

…and see that your 7-year-old is wearing snowboarding goggles to ward off the wind…

…it may be time to consider a change.

Eleven Years and Counting…

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY TO US!

Honeymooning in Colorado

There we were, all shiny and new, fresh from our trip down the aisle, where, on thee hottest and most humid day in the history of the universe, we said our vows and unwrapped a life together.

Now that we’ve surpassed the decade mark, I definitely feel like we’re officially ‘veteran’ enough to dispense advice and share the kind of stories that wipe the fog from our memories and remind us that once it was just him and I: no mortgage, no kids, no dog, few bills.

Of course those are the things of life, and I love the life God has given us.  In fact, imagining my life any other way is an impossible thought.  Removing even one element would be like removing the Jack of Diamonds from a house of cards: it would all come tumbling apart, unable to stand on its own without the strength of another.  Unable to climb as high, unable to steady itself.

That’s how I feel about the life we’ve built.  Comprised of small moments that, when added up, make a lifetime.  Things that to others, mean little or nothing at all.  But to me, they are our private history, and our greatest joy:

Crying with overwhelming love at the birth of each of our three children

Late nights lying on the couch

Laughing together.  Laughter, laughter, laughter.

Sitting on the porch watching a storm roll in

Jumping on the bed at 1 am after Boise State won the football championship

Dreaming and planning and inventing

French toast on Saturday mornings

Reading to our kids

Campfires in cool evening air

Feet in the ocean, ears to the waves, sun on shoulders

Pictures of friends, or better yet, friends in our home

Traveling and enjoying this beautiful creation

Hugs and kisses after work

Meals together and praying with our kids

Loving our church and our community there

The freedom we allow each other to pursue ambitions

Supporting and encouraging

Hilarious camping mishaps that would only happen to us…

Watching our kids’ faces light up with discovery

Knowing that I get to spend this life with my best friend.

Who knew that a kiss at our Freshman Homecoming Dance in 1990 would turn into this?

Some kiss!

“Things I Don’t Understand” Thursdays: Indoor Baseball?!

Well, this really got my goat.

After withstanding numerous accidents in the house ranging from family photos being knocked off the wall [that was dad modeling great behavior] to lamps crashing to the floor, we have banned indoor throwing/pitching/catching/baseball/homerun derby.  Wrestling has somehow made the cut because dad loves it as much as the boys, but when things start to resemble The Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, it’s always me, the mean mom, who has to put the kay-bosh on the fun.

I’m so unreasonable, aren’t I?  Waaaaayyyy too uptight.

My youngest son, who indeed thinks I’m the devil in a blue dress [make that shorts and flip-flops] because I’m the one making it harder for him to reach the status of Albert Pujols, decided that yesterday was retribution day.

According to key eye witnesses, while I was upstairs cleaning, he came tearing in the house like the terror that he is, and threw a ball into a burning candle.

Awesome.

I came downstairs and thought someone had spit their toothpaste on the wall–it was all drippy and clean-smelling and turquoise.  Note exhibit A below:

My little angel is gladly pointing out how the drips extend well below the scope of the picture.   We had to get a razor blade and remove half of our paint job scrape the wall delicately to get it off.  We now have chunks of exposed drywall that resemble the shapes of Kentucky and The Bahamas, respectively [mind you, this is in our front foyer].

What’s a mom to do but turn it into a geography lesson?

Oh well.

We try to teach forgiveness here, and I think once you see exhibit B you’ll agree that his deep remorse is obvious.

Deep.  Remorse.

Ah, the irony…

This is a short one today, but after yesterday’s post, I couldn’t resist sharing.

Look at what just dropped into my inbox today–an email with this as the subject:

“Odd-Ball Vacations from $65/night”

HA!  Didn’t we already conclude that hotels in the $60 range are only good for photos and mockery?!

And, “Odd-Ball?”

That’s a nice way of saying, “1970′s era styling make this chalet a true memory-maker.  Sit back, relax, and enjoy our lovely shag carpet [you never know what treasures might be lurking in its' weave], antique furniture [the fact that it doesn't match just adds to the charm], and cozy bed linens [we wash them weekly]!  Remember to bring your own Lysol disinfectant, blue-light crime scene detection device, De-Con, and personal alarm system.”

“Look for the Pink”

This past weekend we embarked on a time-honored family tradition of visiting Beaver Island, Michigan in the summer.  My husband’s grandma, grandpa, and mother were born on the island, so our history there is significant and worth exploring.  Because the ferry departs so early in the morning and we live 3+ hours from the docks, we decided to drive up the night before and sleep overnight in Charlevoix.   I have to thank “K”, my sister-in-law, for arranging our stay; however sarcastic this post may become [and I make no promises], she delivered what she promised:  a safe, cheap room that would have us close to the docks for The Emerald Isle’s 8:30 am departure.

We drove into town off M66 and the road came to an abrupt T, leaving us to guess which way we should turn to find the now infamous 1415 Bridge Street [are you sensing a pattern of directionally-challenged adults in our home?...ahem]  Let me tell you–I think we got too used to having a GPS machine during our trip West.  Now we feel helpless without “Rita’s” calming voice telling us to “turn right, and then right.”  And if we make a wrong turn, she’s not there to “recalculate.”  [If you don't have a GPS you won't understand.  Sorry.]  Navigating new terrain, however exciting, is akin to me trying to use chop sticks.  With wet nails.  Blindfolded.  Eating soup.  I just can’t quite grasp it!  God love me, I try!  But I just can’t quite get there.

At my prodding, Brandon decided to call his brother who was already waiting for us at the one-and-only Villa Moderne.  That’s right, folks:  Villa Moderne–a little piece of France tucked away right in Northern Michigan.  “T” answered the phone and told us to turn around, keep driving, and just “Look for the pink.”

Sure enough, we turned the bend and could see the rosy glow emanating from the 1970′s facade of the “modern hotel.”  As we drove closer, Brandon and I alternated with:

“Is that it?”

“That can’t be it.”

“He said, ‘Follow the pink.’”

“Seriously?  It looks like a Vegas strip club!”

Pink neon tubing traced the edges of the roof and framed the porch in the kind of true class that only neon lighting can provide.  The vacancy light buzzed and cars whizzed by just feet from the parking lot [and hence, the main floor rooms].

Now, it’s not that I’m a brat or that I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth.  I don’t need the finer things in life…all the time…but I’ve got kids to think about!  I don’t want them to get bedbugs or fleas or…scabies.

The fact that there was a community microwave and refrigerator in the hallway was no big deal.  I trust that the guy who was sitting–alone–in front of room 4…on a bench, smoking–would not add drugs to our milk or poison our breakfast food.  I’m sure he barely noticed us pulling up to The Villa and dragging our five bags up the flight of stairs by the office.  Certainly there would be no need to worry about safety with the hollow fake wood doors that opened with the turn of a five-cent hardware store key.  Deadbolts are overrated.

But just to be sure we did jam a chair [taken from The Brady Bunch set in 1979] under the doorknob.  Just to be safe.  Not that I was scared.

So here’s what $60 gets you in Northern Michigan:

Matching sheets and linens.  Who says that red gingham and coral don’t go with an aqua floral print?!

Furniture that is not only useful, but that shines with the kind of glow that can only come from decades of love.  [The green chair's front leg bent off when I was sitting on it to tie my daughter's shoe in the morning.  Not sure if that means that I added too much love to the decades... or if my hiney is just too big for a dainty collector's item like this].

Thick, lush, coordinated bathroom towels that wrap you in luxury and leave you wanting to contact the hotel decorator.  After all, it takes a special touch like authentic bleach stains to make a bathroom feel like home.  Nate Berkus wouldn’t have thought of that.

We slept like babies on our beds–the sirens and low-flying aircraft barely kept us up!  We ignored the small eyebrow-raising features of the constantly running toilet and the red smear on the ceiling [I'm sure someone just killed a bug].  The bench smoker never bothered us, nobody poisoned our milk, and we didn’t get scabies.

What more can you ask for, really?  Safe, cheap, no bedbugs.

So, K, thank you for saving us a boatload of cash.  It was worth it just for the laughs and pictures!  We looked for pink and saved some green, all in the same night

INTRODUCING: “Things I Don’t Understand Thursdays”

In an attempt to help my regularity [ha!], I’m launching a new theme for Thursday posts:

“Things I don’t Understand.”

Sometimes these will be deep and thoughtful; theological, perhaps.  Other times, I will grapple with questions that are not at all important in the scheme of our lives amidst global warming and weapons of mass destruction.  I’ll try to sprinkle in some humor and maybe even post a picture if I need evidence to make my point.

Today’s topic definitely falls into this latter category of general silliness.

Things I don’t understand: why our kids leave cups of milk, chocolate milk even, hidden around our house for me to find and barf over when I take the lids off.

Refer to exhibit #1 below.

Notice how the chocolate milk has curdled into a patty similar to a slice-of-brain, clinging all soggy and floppy to the straw.

Ignore the clutter on my countertops and the egg shell in the sink.  Instead, focus your attention on exhibit #2 above.  You will see how this almost-cottage-cheese sliver is still hanging onto life.  You can practically smell it, can’t you?  Have you ever visited a cheese-making factory?  I have.  IN AFRICA.  It was disgusting. And now my children have turned our home into a cheese-making factory.

Exhibit #3.  Death in the sink.  I reject the notion of this thing existing in our house.  With nose plugged and brow furrowed, I actually had to chop it up to get it down the disposal.

Note to self: talk to the housekeeper about this horrendous oversight.

Son of a BEACH!

What a day.  Last night I was so exhausted after our elusive hunt for beach parking that I just couldn’t even tell you about it until now.  Well, let’s be honest: it was the exhaustion and the fact that the couch had some sort of magnetic pull on my rear-end during the Bachelorette Finale.  The exhaustion, the magnetic butt problem, and the fact that I was trying to be self-disciplined enough [a-hem] to invoke the 24 hour cool-down period after being completely torked-off and not wanting to say something I’d regret today.  Or ever.  God bless me.  You’ll see why:

Having heard from Channel 8′s indisputable and all-knowing Terri DeBoer that Monday was going to be the best day of the month [i.e., the only day breaking 80?], we decided to head to the beach with the kids to spend the day stocking up on vitamin D and exfoliating our feet in the sand.  What a delicious thought.  We Michiganders survive a soul-shattering seven months, if you’re counting from November to May, of cool-to-downright-frigid temps, lack of sunshine, overabundance of gray skies and oppressive cloud cover.  In fact, someone told me today that we actually have more days without sun than Seattle!! That’s right–pass the Prozac.  So when summer hits, watch out! We are determined to enjoy it!

Back to my story.  Brandon wanted to run a few errands in the morning and I gladly stayed home to get us packed.  Cooler, snacks, water bottles, towels, beach chairs.  I piled everything up by the door and waited for him to come home, knowing that the later we left the house, the worse our chances would be of getting into the park.  Believe me, my dad taught me that lesson very well over the years.

Tick-tock.  Tick-tock.

Where was he?

Tick-tock.

Finally the troop exploded through the door as the clock neared noon.  Brandon helped me collect our paraphanelia and we finalized our plans.

“Considering the time, I think we should ditch Grand Haven and just go to Holland.  It’s closer,” I logically pointed out. “Remember, I have to be home by 4.”

“What?!  We love Grand Haven!  We’ll be fine.  Let’s just go.  We’ll get lunch on the way.”  Famous last words.

We blew out of the driveway, stopped for subs in Allendale, and got to the lovely Haven that is Grand around 12:30 amidst the buzz of the Coast Guard Festival.   As soon as we got in the turning lane that said “Waterfront —>” I knew we were in trouble.  We were already lined up 4 cars deep just to turn.  I could feel my blood pressure rising as each minute passed.  The weight of the 4 pm return time pressed down on me and the anxiety started to build.  This is stupid, I thought.  We don’t have enough time now.  We shouldn’t have come.

Still, we crawled through the city, past the courthouse, next to the beautiful condos, waiting for the light at the Tip-a-Few.  Turns out I should have stopped to, in fact, “tip a few” because getting down to the waterfront took us a half-an-hour!  People were lined up along the boardwalk and littered the streets; they dotted the hillside next to Pronto-Pups and clogged the sidewalks at every turn.  Finally I could see why: a huge Coast Guard cutter was making its way down the channel toward the throng of eager fans.  Water shot out hundreds of feet into the air from the rear of the vessel, but all I could think about was the steam fire Frankenstein-like cork plugs ready to blow out of the side of my head as the day wasted away. Remind me:  who’s idea was it to come here?  And miss the best sun of the day?  And spend an hour in the car?

Easy, Jane.  Calm down.  Happy heart.  You love your husband.  Repeat after me:  You love your husband.

At last we were at the State Park entrance, rejoicing in the fact that we were in yet another line.  We saw the park ranger talking to the other unlucky beach-goer in the white Toyota, 8 cars ahead of us.  Then the ranger left.  We waited.  And waited.  It’s only a matter of time now, I reassured myself.  They must be checking for parking places because they didn’t turn us away…right?

Wrong.  A merciful stranger leaving the park stopped at our open window, returned the Frankenstein plugs which she found crushed on the ground outside our car, and told us that the park was full.  Great.

I voted to park on the street and walk to the open expanse of heaven on earth, but my husband [God bless him] thought it would be more logical to leave the city and drive to Holland.  Which is 30 minutes away.  And it was 1:30. I relinquished any whif of control and said, “Whatever.”  I couldn’t even speak.  I was so mad.  Actually, no.  I’ll admit it.  I was furious.

Sooooo, off we went to Holland.

Brandon decided it would be much better–that it would make much more sense–to take the back roads.  Because, you know, they’re quicker.

By now, the cooler ice was melting, the kids were planning a coup in the backseat, it was hot–and we have no A/C–and we were driving the backroads of West Olive.

What?  You’ve never heard of West Olive?

Exactly.

Now 2 pm, I rearranged my 4pm plans out of desperation, and tried to pull my attitude out of my fanny to salvage the day.  With Holland’s ranger station now in view, I cast out any thoughts of how we could have been there for an hour-and-a-half if we would have just gone to Holland in the first place.  We tooled up to the gate with our annual pass in full view of…the ROADBLOCK.

That’s right, folks!  PARK’S FULL!

I felt like Chevy Chase arriving at Wally World.  If there would have been a life-sized talking animated creature, I, too, would have punched it in the mouth.

Brandon, of course, started laughing.  This ticked me off even more.  I started making absurd, sweeping statements I now regret, such as “This ruins my whole summer!”   Yes.  I lost my head.  I totally lost my cool.  It was not a shining moment.

We turned around, yet again, and went all the way back to the red ice cream shop and found a parking place.   We got out, turned around again, this time on foot, with three kids, two beach chairs, a cooler and two bags, and walked to the ranger station.

Which was now allowing cars to enter.  At 2:20 pm.

SON OF A BEACH!!

We all lost our heads yesterday.

Who Needs Whale Watching, Anyhow? Part 2

I know–I said I’d write this sequel on Thursday, and it just didn’t happen.  To all 4 of you out there waiting with bated breath, I’m sorry if the torture of suspense may have elevated your blood pressure or aggravated your digestive issues.

When I last wrote about whales I had you weeping with me, I’m sure of it, when I shared that my failure to thoroughly read directions to the ferry dock resulted in us missing out on the whole cotton-pickin’ thing.  If ever there was a time for a superpower, I would have traded in our picnic lunch for the ability to teleport ourselves to the correct dock.  BUT–the superpower people passed on our lunch and we were shafted.  On to Plan B.

We have no Plan B.

My husband and I sorted through a list of options that all sounded fantastic, but maybe not super-exciting for young families or for our time constraints.  The EMP: Experience Music Project looked really cool, but I had read that it was perhaps a more natural fit for teens.  We had already been to Pike’s Place Market and the Space Needle, and had gotten a tour of the city in a conspicuous WW2 land-to-water vehicle that sent our kids into hysterics.  Olympic National Park would have been a joy, but in five hours, an impossibility.  So, we decided to take a $7 ferry ride to Bainbridge Island.

Dragging three kids, a cooler weighing no less than 57 pounds with our lunch safely tucked inside its watery bowels, and my purse which had grown to the size of a small buffalo [minus the hair], we parked the car at dock 48 and headed over to 52 to buy our tickets.  We passed a few homeless men and a dead jellyfish on the way to the ferry terminal which had a depressing sort of airport quality: flourescent lights, the unidentified general stink of food vendors, and tile floors.  It was new and fairly clean, thankfully, but in comparison to floating dreamlike over the Pacific spotting flukes and water spouts, it seemed like a second-rate venture, to say the least.

The man behind the plexiglass was friendly and helpful, and after we got our tickets we left him in his happy cubical in search of place to eat.  I quickly rejected the idea of eating inside the terminal, however lovely their plastic chairs were; it was gorgeous outside and I was determined that we enjoy it.   The north doors to our right led out to a cement terrace of sorts with a peek of the Sound.  We ignored the imposing view of the parking lot and hum of the nearby interstate and pretended we were thrilled as we sat on the shaded pavement, doing our best to avoid chunks of gum and cigarette butts as we unpacked our lunch:

A bag of icy cold and watery boiled eggs.

Mmmmm.  Are you hungry yet?

Crackers in a soggy box.  Cheese sticks.  Bananas that were bruised and kind of frozen.  Peach slices.  Juice boxes.  Mini Reeces PB cups for bartering and other general emergencies.

Wow.  Just reliving the day is a culinary fantasy.

I can almost smell the waft of sulfur emerging from the ziplock bag of eggs.  I thought I could do it–I even brought salt!  But the smell and the slippery white part holding the now-greenish yolks was just too much for me to overcome.  Morgan, my 3 year old, on the other hand, couldn’t get enough of them.  He was shoveling them in with both fists like Cool Hand Luke, blowing chunks of yellow yolk-crumbs when he spoke with his mouth full (still working on that).

I immediately regretted suggesting we try to save money by packing a picnic.  Here we were, a bunch of misplaced refugees sitting on the cement sidewalk, watching ants scurry about their busy ant-worlds, eating stinky boiled eggs and frozen bananas.

Brandon and I looked at eachother and burst out laughing at how ridiculous we must seem to the rest of the world, who, as luck would have it, was disembarking another ferry and streaming past us like Salmon fighting their way up the Columbia.  Practically tripping on us and all our stuff, they side-stepped and jostled and kept walking.  We just laughed.  I joked that we should have brought a hat along that we could set out for donations.

And then it happened.  I don’t know if it was a mistake or if it was intentional.  Perhaps someone did take pity on us and want to share.  Perhaps it was a modern-day Robin Hood.  Or a Socialist.  Or maybe it was just something that happened when Mr. Daily Commuter reached in his coat pocket for his vibrating phone, only to pull it out along with…spare change…that (I’m not kidding) went rolling right up to us.

This paultry windfall caused us to nearly choke with laughter!  We were slapping our knees and wiping our eyes thinking that we were officially tourist dorks.  Oh, but it was funny.  I never knew you could have so much fun with boiled eggs.

All that to say, we successfully took the ferry to Bainbridge and spent the afternoon walking around.   We won’t go so far as to call it a total flop, because it’s always a great adventure to say you visited an island after lunch and before dinner.

And how often can you do that?

Who Needs Whale Watching, Anyhow?

thanks to CBS.com

As I think I’ve mentioned before, we started planning our Washington vacation in December while the kids sat transfixed in front a red-nosed reindeer and an elf with bad hair who wanted to be a dentist.  Actually, as my friend Brian will tell you, if you lip read Hermey [the elf] he says he wants to be a “den-toost.”  But let’s not dwell on poor animation.

The fact of the matter is that for eight months–eight months–we’ve been making reservations, researching towns to visit, figuring out what our kids would be interested in and what to skip, and for those eight months, there’s been one non-negotiable:  whale watching in Seattle.  It had become like a baby I carried around–a little vacation fetus–held in the womb of my brown and aqua planning folder just waiting to come alive and make us look like the tourists we were, out on the ocean with cameras and squeals of delight.

Picture our family: all warm and full of anticipation as we packed our lunches, grabbed the camera, video camera, and Bushnell binoculars I got for free when I cashed in my Visa points.  I guess they were probably about $3,000 when you do the math, but let’s just pretend they were free.  It’s less nauseating.  Each of our kids had their own disposable cameras and were simultaneously fighting over the free Bushnells.   Sun screen?  Check!  Chap stick?  Check!  Water bottles?  Enough to irrigate a small vineyard!  We were ready. Whales–here we come!

The plan was to first stop downtown and see the Space Needle, which we did.  Again–let’s not do the math on those tickets because it’d probably equal out to $5.29 a minute for us to enjoy the view.  We were up there for 10 minutes.  Like I said: nauseating.  But that’s vacation, and we’re happy to do our part to spur on the local economy of Seattle.  Far be it from me to stand in the way of progress and capitalism and improving a ‘fundamentally sound’ economic climate.

Rabbit trail.

Anyway, as we’re driving downtown, thinking we’ve only got 5 blocks to drive to get to the wharf,  I re-read our whale info so that I can plug the address into our handy-dandy-borrowed-from-the-guy-whose-keys-we-lost-in-the-swamp GPS machine. I located the digits and the name of the ferry we were to take.  Great.  Everything was groov—Oh. No.

Oh my word.

Say it ain’t so, captain!

I can still almost make out the words between the charred remains of the cursed email:  “…take the ferry leaving Anacortes, which is 2 hours north of Seattle…”

Crap.  It was almost 11 am.  The ferry was leaving at 11:05  from a location two hours of where we were. [How did I miss that?!]  To make matters worse, this epic mistake would not only cost me the harmony and joy of my children, but half of our million dollar deposit, as well. Yet one more example of math causing heartburn.

CRAP!

I had royally botched the job this time and there was absolutely no way to fix it.  So, I called the company, nearly in tears, canceled our trip, and begged,  pleaded, and pawned my last remaining Reece’s peanut butter cup for them to have mercy on my soul and not charge me the million dollar deposit.

I never knew Reece’s peanut butter cups could be such an effective bargaining tool.  It worked!  She forgave the debt and was even nice to me in the process!  So we missed out on the beauty and mystery of migrating whales [which will probably be extinct before we ever get back to see them], but we did get our money and even got to ride a ferry later that day anyway.

You’re dying to know the rest, aren’t you!  Well, stay tuned for that story tomorrow:  Part Two:  the journey from blue ocean dreams to eating lunch on dirty pavement.

Seriously, with that to look forward to, who needs whale watching, anyhow?

How Summer Smells

Tonight while I was upstairs getting into my sexy night sweatpants [pathetic, I know] and going through my 83 step face washing routine for bed, I pulled my head out of the sink and was slapped in the face by the most glorious scent breezing in through the open window.  I put my still-damp face up to the screen, closed my eyes, and breathed in some kind of God perfume of evening air, grass, and neighboring campfire.  It’s so iconic of this time of year that I could smell it anytime, anywhere, and think, Ahhh…it smells like summer.

There were two moments like this on our vacation that stand out distinctly in my memory.  The first happened as we descended the path into The Grove of the Patriarchs in Mt. Rainier National Park, a protected patch of 1,000 year old Firs, Pines, Cedars, and Hemlocks. [PS: I fell in love with these trees.  Imagine the history they've seen...what the world was like when they sprouted...] The trail was wide enough for me to hold the hand of my daughter next to me, but narrow enough to carve around ancient trees jutting out and claiming forever the piece of earth from which they were birthed.  Starting at a higher elevation and then gradually working down to a river speckled with smooth stones, the air grew cooler with the rush of water and the dense shade cast by The Patriarchs.  I remember the first deep breath that froze my footsteps: damp and earthy and full of the kind of true pine that everyone wishes they could bottle for Christmas.  I turned to my husband and could only say, “Do you smell that?”  This was an invisible and difficult to articulate gift: clean air so fresh it nearly took on color and texture.

Days later as we made our way back to the eastern part of the state, we witnessed the green, lush landscape give way to desert and the kind of rolling hills that look like velvet mounds under the sky.  In the foreground were little white-ish green shrubs that grew in bundles close to the ground: sagebrush.  The windows of our car were completely closed, yet through the vents came the most wonderful surprise of fresh air and living sage.  Brandon and I looked at each other at the same time and said simultaneously, “Do you smell that?”  [We're creative, aren't we?].  It was such a strong, unmistakable aroma…as though God was giving a gift to Himself.  A fragrant offering.

Maybe these things are so memorable because I’m often deprived from the smell of our natural world.  I’m closed up in my cozy house with the air conditioning on, adding fake smells of “Mountain Air” to the carpet before visitors stop over.   We live in places where kids can more easily identify the smell of Burger King and Theatre popcorn than the living and breathing world beneath our feet.  Doesn’t that make you just a little sad?

So my goals for the rest of summer:  enjoy the smell of a thunderstorm or the calm after a downpour.  Soak up the moments around the campfire when you can smell the oak.  Breathe in freshly-cut grass and damp, dewy mornings.  Enjoy the smell of summer.

“It’s just a car…”

You know how your hands start automatically sweating when someone you barely know hands you their car keys and says, “And ya know, if something happens, just remember–it’s just a car”?  You let a little chuckle escape your lips and wave the thought away with a suave one-handed gesture like nothing could ever happen, but inside you secretly think, “Shoot.  He’s right.  Something could happen and this isn’t my car!” You reassure the car owner, even declining to accept the extra set of keys as if carrying them on your person would in some way implicate you or insinuate that you are, in fact, worried about locking the original set in the car.  Or losing them in a swamp.

Now I’m not saying this happened to me per se, but it may or may not have happened to “someone” during our Washington vacation.  Let me set the scene for you.  (Turn on some scary music while you read to really get the full effect.)

It was a dark and stormy night on Plum Street

Just kidding.

It was a wickedly hot day in the dessert.  The sun beat down mercilessly overhead.  You’d buy milk at the gas station and have cottage cheese by the time you got home.  The pavement was melting and so was my make-up.

He knows mud is good for his skin.

Miles of white sandy beaches...

To combat such misery, our gang of 11 souls piled in two vehicles and headed down to the local “lake”  (see the photos and decided for yourself on that one.)   We parked our cars and fled to the shoreline seeking the relief of cool water.  On the way down to the beach area there was an alleged interaction by two parties who shall remain anonymous to protect their identity.  During said interaction, keys were passed and the parties separated: one back to the vehicle and one back to children and Cheese-Its and sunblock.

After a full day of canoeing, fishing, applying lotion, eating, peeing in weeds (who really needs modern plumbing when you can stand in the comfort of grass and burrs next to tatooed men?  Talk about over-rated!).  Anyway, you get the picture.  We were ready to pack it in.  The kids were blissful as ever, but we didn’t want to show up at church missing a layer of skin, unable to walk for the sunburn.

We gathered the cooler, tossed the life jackets in our totes, closed the umbrellas and waddled up the 45 degree-angle boat-launching area that emptied into the parking lot.  As we huffed and puffed up the steep incline, sweating again in the flood of new heat, the Key Person (KP) searched for the instruments of escape.  A look of dread washed over KP’s face and his body froze.

“Did you check your pockets?” Our friend yelled, mouth stretching into a smirk.

“Very funny!!” KP shouted back.

Seriously!  Where could those blasted things be?! We abandoned our plans to leave and dragged the kids back down the incline (which I hear they’re using this winter as a downhill ski jump) and to the miles of sandy beaches in search of the keys.

We looked under rocks.  We unpacked our gear.  Three times.  We checked the canoe.  We checked the kids.  And their diapers.  We looked in the other vehicle.

And we did it again.  And again.  Until we had been looking for about an hour and a half.  (Kids: not so blissful now.)

I won’t say that things got R-rated at this point, but there may have been some potty talk from KP.  We stood on the shore and recounted the events of the day.  What did we do first?  Then what?  Did you see them on the towel?  We wrung our hands and looked at the lake.

Oh my word.  The lake.

They had to be there!  They must have fallen out of a pocket or the canoe (a-hem) or a pelican swooped down and and stole them as a prize catch (cough).

At this point, we decided that nothing could be done, so we summoned our inner gypsies and all piled in the other vehicle–yes, 11 people in one vehicle.  (Don’t tell.)  I contemplated strapping myself to the luggage rack, but the bungee cords would have been brutal on my sunburn.  Instead, I was nice and cozy on the floor between two bucket seats, staring at the lovely craftsmanship of the gray…interior of the van and smelling the feet of the kid next to me.  It’s a good thing I’m so petite or I never would have fit.

When we got home, we all looked at each other, half wanting to puke, half wanting to laugh.

“It’s just a car, right?” our friend chided.  “Just tell him that when you call him and ask him to FedEx the spare keys.”

Very funny. The call was made by KP and we were all there to help him scrape the egg off his face.

“I think I offered you the spares when you left here, didn’t I?” Our generous car-lender said.

A-HEM!!!

What can you say?  You could lose a UFO in that lake–or Las Vegas for that matter- -and never see the lights twinkling and flashing again.  How could we ever dream of finding those doggone keys amid the sooty muck and mossy stones, under seaweed and minnows?

Oh well.  It could be worse.

We could have hair growing on our tongues or chronic gingivitis or saggy earlobes.

Instead, it’s just a car.

Husbands in Costco

Usually when I go to Costco I have my list of “necessities” ready to go; you know, like cheese, milk, cereal, bread…fondue set?? Just kidding about the fondue set.  But I am always amazed at how many things I end up coming home with that I didn’t even know I “needed.”  Like their gourmet chocolate chunk cookies.

Oh.

My.

Word.

I knew it was a mistake to buy them.  First of all, yes–maybe you do get two dozen, but they’re over $6 for a plastic container which I’m sure 80% of cookie buyers never even recycle.  Secondly, they are addicting.  It takes an inordinate amount of self-control for me to walk away after having only, say, four cookies.  I’m not even going to TELL YOU how many days this container *doesn’t* last in our house!  My kids grab them three at a time and offer them to their friends and I sneak them into the laundry room and then they’re done.  Am I the only one willing to admit that cookies eaten in secret are really good? Maybe I have a problem.

Ironically, this post really isn’t even about cookies, and all these rabbit trails are further evidence that my brain is literally collapsing under its own weight!  Next time the alzheimer’s commercials come on TV I need to pay better attention.

What I actually wanted to tell (all 10 of my loyal readers), is something funny that happened yesterday at our favorite warehouse supercenter.  We’d just returned from a two-week vacation and as you can guess, our cupboards were bare.   When our kids started asking for chicken in a biskit crackers with a side of raisins for breakfast, I knew something had to be done–soon.   Costco and Meijer seemed to be logical destinations.

As we wheeled feriously through the crowds (NOTE TO SELF:  avoid Costco on Friday night!  All the cool people are there and it’s PACKED!…Sadly, I’m completely serious), I found myself asking my kids and husband to “Grab a thing of that cheese…Go pick out some bread…We need more hot dogs.”  As my dear helper-husband reached for the hot dogs, which, as any warehouse shopper knows, come in a pack of three, he verified the kind we buy, and then  attempted to rip the bundle apart.

I heard a sound behind me that my ears vaguely identified as tearing paper, and turned, mortified, to find him struggling with the bundle.

“Brandon!  What are you doing?!”

“We only need one pack, right?!”

“It’s COSTCO!  Everything comes in bulk!”

We locked eyes and crumpled into laughter.  I mean, really, who goes to Costco to buy only one pack of hot dogs?  And even if you do want only one pack…do you really stand there and try to tear a package apart? He knew instantly how ridiculous he looked, and I thought that it was the latest in my long list of reasons why it’s easier for moms to shop alone.

Can I get an AMEN?!

PS: There’s a coupon for the cookies in this month’s Costco mailer   I dare you.

Hello, Again, Hello

Well, I didn’t return as Neil Diamond, but I am back.

It’s been two weeks since I’ve last posted a blog and that’s because I was on vacation and away from computers!  YIKES!  For the first couple of days I thought about checking my email, updating FaceBook, and posting something new here–a lot.  Then, once we settled into our vacation routine I decided to not even try to seek out a computer.  Instead, I enjoyed being connected to my family, to nature, to God, and NOT the internet.

So.  It is my hope and my plan to spend the next several days easing back into life at a keyboard.  I have a few funny stories to share and a few things that rolled through the deeper parts of my brain while we drove through the mountains or enjoyed the seashore.  Hope you’ll check back soon to read all about it!

Until then, happy summer night!

Fill It Up Again

I’m borrowing this title from the Indigo Girls who, if I believed in reincarnation, I would totally want to be in my next life–at least musically speaking.  Their guitar playing–to die for; their poetry–kills me; their harmony–makes my heart stop with its aching beauty.  Since I do not believe in reincarnation, I’m choosing to believe that Jesus might give me their guitar skills if I promise to use them to be part of the praise band in Heaven.  We’ll see how that works out.

Anyway, the title is a song from a couple of albums ago and it has a line that I really love:  “…but the new road is an old friend…”

Tonight I can’t sleep because we’re going on vacation tomorrow.  Or, since it’s well past midnight, I guess we’re leaving today.  We’ve been planning this trip since December, and now it hovers closely like darkness coming over the sky–so close it seems I can almost touch it.

I’m looking forward to new roads and new landscapes.  I can’t wait to feel the Pacific splashing against my ankles and smell the salt hanging heavy in the air.  Something inside me leaps when I realize that next week we’ll be hiking through mountains filled with wild flowers and animals that roam freely.  I’m so excited to watch the changing expressions on the faces of our children as they absorb the beauty and the newness of another state.

Because I love traveling, for me the new road is an old friend.  In a few days I’ll be able to cozy up to that old friend and learn all the secrets it has been storing up for me; talk to it without saying a word.  Experience roads that few take, stand as a witness to places few have seen, admire creatures and creation living in unity.   Life filled up, again.

Flab Control, Part 2

Pre-race Hopefuls

Well, there we were, cute outfits and all.  I mean, if you’re going spending time working on flab control (speaking only for myself, girls), you might as well try to look cute.  The jury’s still out on whether the number-over-the-womb hides things or exaggerates them.  Sometimes, when the wind catches the paper just right, it reminds me of some pilgrim sail unfurled on the Mayflower.  That’s not really the look I’m going for.  Regardless, there were were in all our pre-race glory.  Ready to fight with the clock and our quads.

The Thursday night before the race, Kamarah (blue shirt) and I went out and ran 2.8 miles and felt great.  Our time was good, we were strong, we felt ready.  But Saturday morning rolled around and I just didn’t feel like a racer.  I felt like a mom who wanted to stay in bed or feast on french toast in an old fleece robe.  And have I ever mentioned how I am NOT a morning person?  I mean–I am the antithesis of morning.  I am barely a person in the morning.  I do not like to wake up to see prime numbers on the clock.  I was tired, my stomach was all in knots, I regretted wasting my $24 registering for something that I can do for free.

Once race time rolled around, the adrenaline kicked in and it was fun to start with a group of really special women.  I got moving at a strong pace (for me) and felt great until I saw the mile marker clock: 10:12 at mile 1.  WHAT?!  I felt like I was hauling my fanny, but seeing that time started to deflate my balloon of hope.  (I did not stop to think that we were over a minute behind the start line when the gun went off, so I was actually doing ok.)  Instead, I felt disappointed, but ran on.

This is when things got interesting–in a mentally tough kind of way.  I started getting tired.  My legs hurt.  I was thirsty.  I ran and ran and ran and felt like Forrest Gump.  Running forever and getting nowhere.  I thought for sure I had run another mile.  My running mix on my iPod was up to the song that usually measured 2 miles, and I wasn’t seeing the next sign!  I decided they had foregone the idea of putting up a 2 mile sign and assumed that I had passed it.  This is how naive I am.  When I finally DID see the 2 mile sign, I may or may not have whispered something naughty under my breath.  I wanted to walk.  However, as you may have read in my other post, one of my goals was to not walk.

I made myself think of those poor people on The Biggest Loser who had to run a marathon with only a month’s notice.  I commanded my legs to obey me.  Move!  Pick up your feet!  Keep going!  I tried to think about how many people are sick and would *love* to feel the wind in their face while they beat the pavement.  I tried to be grateful for working limbs.  I thought about being done and eating a free banana.  I thought about showing my kids that you don’t quit.

The mass of racers turned the corner like a school of fish, and I could see the finish line.  GAAA-LORY HALLELUJAH! I thought.  My balloon was expanding anew with hope that I could do it.  I resolved to finish…

Photo by my 5 year old daughter!

…until the cruel race workers motioned us away from the finish line and forced us to turn another corner.  My mind went back to the race map and I remembered, vaguely, having to go around the block at the end, probably to get the .1 miles tacked on to the other 3.  I might as well have been running in wooden Klompen shoes for how fast I wasn’t moving.  Remember that scene in Old School when Will Farrell sticks vet medicine in his jugular during the birthday party, and everything starts moving in slow motion?  That was me.  But in real life.   S-l-o-w   m-o-t-i-o-n   m-a-m-a, all the way up to the glorious orange banner waving me on, homeward bound.  And I finally made it!

Despite feeling weak, I did meet my goals:

1.  I finished the race without dying, collapsing, vomiting, or rupturing anything important.

2.  I did not walk.

3.  I finished in less than 30 minutes (28:59)

So, as a poser, as a fake runner, as someone in it just for the flab control, I celebrate!  If you’re reading this thinking you can’t do it, I challenge you to

Us girls, along with 2 husbands who ran! Kids are there just to look cute Photo, again, by my daughter!

re-think your limits.  It feels great to accomplish something that no one else thought you could do.  Especially when ‘no one else’ is YOU.

Old Dogs and Children

I should have listened to Tom T. Hall and added the Watermelon Wine to my morning–or something stronger–because I needed it.

Monday morning I convinced myself to go for a run in preparation for a 5K that’s been staring me down from the calendar for the past couple of months. As I’ve admitted in an older post, I’m not really a runner.  I’m a poser trying to control the jiggle that seems to be accumulating around my belly and the shaking ‘triceps’ that make me feel like a grandma when I wave.  At any rate, I’m trying.  In between ice cream cones and icy Cokes, I’m trying.

So, as I said, Monday morning I peeled myself out of our new king size bed, ate my farm-fresh protein and laced up my fancy new shoes.  At this point I should have grabbed some sort of tranquilzer or legal drug, regardless of the fact that it was well before noon.  I would soon come to regret–deeply regret–this oversight, but then again, how could I have known the trouble awaiting me?  Who would have thought that 2.8 miles could be so. difficult.

Just an innocent suburban mom trying to keep the flab at bay, trying to go for a run… with three kids and a dog.  We had done it a million times before and made it home safe and sound.   That day, however, would open a chapter that demanded the book be *slammed* shut and put away until all bike sprokets are at least 10 inches in diameter and the little legs that propel the sprokets are at least two feet long and full of energy.

Things started off OK for the first block.  Chris Tomlin was singing his praises in my ears, and I could feel my legs moving without effort.  We got down to our friends’ house on the next block [we can see them from our mailbox, so it's NOT that far!] and already Morgan, our youngest was whipping up some fake tears and complaining of some kind of devastating leg pain.  I stopped, trying to run in place, not wanting to miss out on Chris getting to the good part, and tried to yell over my huffing breath.  He was not happy.  My friend was in her driveway and graciously offered to watch him while I kept going, but in the move of a century, I declined.  Big mistake.

By the time we reached the edge of our neighborhood I had already stopped four times and was starting to see the writing on the wall.  This was not going to help my ‘training’ at all unless I planned to stop and walk this much during the actual race, and I assure you, I do not.  Still, I don’t want to raise kids who give up at the slightest discomfort or heat-induced irritation, so I kept going [stupid] and hoped he would follow like a fluffy little gosling traipsing blindly behind mother goose.

We reached our turn-around point with the help of my daughter sticking to his side and letting me keep my pace.  Pretty soon though, sweat was emerging from his lime green Diego helmet and he was doing nothing to mask his annoyance that I would have the audacity to continue running.  And that’s when the proverbial wheels fell off and we descended into the eighth circle of hell.  I conceded defeat, ripped my earphones from my ears, turned off David Crowder, and tried earnestly to be concerned about his [fake] injury.

In between sobs he pleaded that he did NOT want to ride his bike.  He did NOT want me to run.  He did NOT want to be at the back of the line, unable to keep up with the rest of us.  He did NOT want to be on the bike trail, and he DID want to be at home.

Well, what was I to do?  I’ve always wanted the super power to beam myself instantly to a new location, but clearly, it still elludes me.  So, I let him dismount and walk, and I took over walking his 12 inch bike.  Yes, that’s right:  a bike with 12 inch wheels, perfect for a three year-old, but more perfect when he’s riding it.

After about 100 yards of that nonsense, bending over like an old woman picking strawberries in the sun, I begged my oldest to ride the mini-bike, allowing me to push a 10-speed that was closer to my height.  Now I was only bending over like determined garage-saler looking for another deal on someone’s table.  Not as bad.

That was going swell until I saw the mini-bike come to a screeching halt on the path ahead of me.

Super. I thought.  Honestly, WHAT could it be now?!

I was dying to run ahead to diagnose the problem, but Morgan was walking so slow that I had to actually stop to wait for him to catch up.  Walking.  I felt like I was stuck in the returns-lane at Kohl’s after Christmas.  Move ahead, stop.  Move ahead, stop.  Flames were building up and shooting out of my ears.  My hair was singed and I could practically smell it burning, I was so mad.

We finally made it up to my son on the mini-bike where he divulged the last in a series of blunders that broke the camel’s back: the chain on the bike had fallen off.

Mom? He asked cautiously.  Could I ride the 10-speed again, because I can’t even ride this bike anymore.

Well for crying OUT LOUD, I thought.  Of course I gave him the bike.  I mean, I had to.

He looked at me and said, “You know mom, we’re supposed to be slow to anger, remember?”

Well for CRYING OUT LOUD!!! I thought again.  I replied, calmly, that I was slow to anger.  It took me 2 miles to get this angry.

Refusing to go back to strawberry picking with the mini-bike, I decided the only option I had was to carry it.  Carry it the remaining .8 miles home.  While my youngest son walked in the Kohl’s return line with the dog–who walked equally as slow–I carried the blasted bike.  All.  The.  Way.  Home.

I did not get a workout.  I did not get washboard abs.  What I did get was a series of red indentations on my arm from supporting the weight of the cotton-pickin’ bike, which remained on my arm for THREE HOURS after my “run.”

And so, the moral of the story is:  Old dogs and children do not make good running partners.  If, in an emergency you MUST take small children and old dogs, forget about Chris Tomlin on your iPod.  Forget about any so-called time to “commune with nature.”  Forget about trying to have a bless-ed 25 minutes to yourself.

Just don’t forget the watermelon wine.  Or something stronger.  You’ll need it.

Lessons From Donuts and Garages

The fact that I’m still thinking about that donut after a whole week should tell you something: either I’m a sugar addict and revel in all my indulgences–or–I’m worried about my ‘haven’t had a waistline since baby #1′ and don’t want to make it worse.   Well, I should be concerned about said lack of waistline, but truthfully, it doesn’t keep me up at nights.  As far as I’m concerned, a fifty-nine cent gift to my sanity and sugar tank is worth paying the price of having to walk around the block once more. (Although, let’s be serious.  Walking with three little kids and a dog generally doesn’t work up much of a donut-burning sweat.)

Since we’ve safely ruled out the waistline issue, for better or worse, it would make sense to deduce the former suggestion about some sort of sugar addiction.  That would be true: I am a sugar addict.  I need to work on that.  Combating this addiction with a leafy-green substance would be a good place to start.  Increasing my asparagus intake would also be beneficial.  But back to the donut problem.

The problem with the donut, or rather, the lesson I learned from it, lies in neither of the above scenarios.  The donut ‘lesson’ started when I ate this gorgeously fried circle of infinite fatty glory, and ruined my appetite.  It happened last Sunday.

As usual, we were a few items short of a Top Chef lunch, so we headed to our friendly Meijer store after church where I made the ill-fated purchase.  There it was, making eyes at me from within its glass home.  Luscious chocolate frosting dried to a smooth sheen, perfectly tanned donut holding it all together.  I would not be stopped.  I stole it from the tray and stuffed a curved edge into my mouth before even depositing it into the paper bag.  Another bite in the car on the way home.  Another bite while I was chopping veggies for lunch (what’s wrong with that picture?!).  Another bite while the chicken marinated.  And then it was gone.

Brandon put the cedar planks on the grill and I tried to channel Bobby Flay by cutting a little pocket into each chicken breast and stuffing them with cheese and fresh spinach from our neighbor’s garden.   Next came bell peppers: cleaned out and sliced in half, placed directly on the grill next to the mushrooms with a little olive oil.  The grill hissed, cedar saturated the air, and I could not *wait* to eat.

With our patio set newly unearthed and restored to the deck, we sat down in the sunshine for our first outdoor lunch of the summer.  Icy Coke in front of me, warm bread, grilled veggies and that cedar plank chicken.  Oh yeah…and that donut that was sitting in my gut like a brick.  I took three bites of my chicken and was so full I couldn’t eat another bite!  What a disappointment!  I cursed the donut under my breath, safely beneath the decibel level of the children in earshot.  For once in my life I actually found success by making a meal that did not originate in a box or on a recipe card, and I was too full to eat it.  I had wasted my hunger on a stupid donut.

This got me to thinking.  How often don’t we grab for a temporary fix–something tasty, but full of empty calories, so to speak–and end up regretting it.  How often don’t we sacrifice what we’re really hungry for by trying to fill up on something worthless?  To me this has all sorts of spiritual connections and consequences.  The Lord promises to provide for all our needs, yet we often–I often–sell out for a cheap substitute because I think I know better.  My choices are better.  Providing for myself is better.  My way is better.  I’m SO hungry…and I choose…a donut?

Today we celebrated Father’s Day.   On the way home from my parents’ house we drove past several other gatherings and many open garage doors.  I could not believe—could. not. believe.—the amount of JUNK that people have crammed into their little 20×28 covered slabs of attached-to-the-house-cement.  Trash!  Things they’ll surely never use!  Things I’m certain they don’t even remember having purchased!  Things I’m sure they don’t even know are still there, collecting dust and providing a cozy night’s stay for the resident mice!

Why is this?  Why do we load up on all this stuff?  All these things that we obviously don’t need (or else they’d be in the house).  Things we probably don’t even want (or we’d take better care of them).  Things we most likely wouldn’t even recall losing if the house burned to the ground into a heap of ashes!  I would argue that this garage situation is the donut problem in epic proportions.  We’re trying to fill some sort of void–some sort of gap–some deep hunger, with stuff.

The truth is, we’re missing the point.  The chicken and bell peppers are going to waste, and we’re missing the point.  The donut is now taking up residence on our right thigh, and we’re missing the point.  The garage continues to pile higher and higher, and we’re missing the point.

I know I can be a little dramatic, maybe too little serious sometimes.  As my neighbor will tell you, there’s no chance on this side of Heaven of me giving up donuts forever.  Let’s not get crazy!  But I will give pause, next time, to when and where I eat that donut.  And maybe, spend a little more time thinking about the why, too.

Storm

YOW-ZA!!  Last night we had a mongo storm that culminated in the loss of power in our neighborhood for roughly four hours.  Having just finished our basement and nestled our son down in his new bedroom, our immediate fear was that a disabled sump-pump would lead to a river of discharge water flowing over our new carpet.

My husband flew down the stairs and came up wide-eyed and blinking, announcing with some alarm that, yes indeed, the pump’s resevoir area had filled to the brim and we’d need to bail water.  In the dark.  In our junk “storage” room, next to scratchy rolls of extra carpet, dusty suitcases and the eliptical machine that only gets used when it’s snowing.  Or when we need to dry clothes indoors.  Did I mention it was completely dark?

We retrieved a Rubbermaid container from a forgotten corner in our junk “garage” and went back into the bowels of our home.  With mason jar in hand, we scooped about 20 gallons of water from the sump area and into the bin.  We soon realized that this plan, while ambitious and MacGyver-esque in nature, was not a long-term solution.  A quick phone call (thank God for cell phones!) to our brother-in-law delivered the answer we needed: a generator.

While Brandon left in the typhoon to get the generator, literally dodging felled-trees, lightning-to-ground strikes, and water over the roads, I began to get phone calls from our neighbors.  We soon ended up with extra friends in our living room, playing Chutes and Ladders under candlelight, eating Skittles and jumping at the sound of thunder so big and cracking you can only marvel at its power.  Another neighbor returned home early from a weekend away and found three inches of water creeping through their basement.  Running around like boys in a rainstorm, three men splashed through puddles to connect all three homes to two generators, helping eachother with flashlights and batteries and buckets.

Even as the flashes across the sky grew fewer and fewer, the rain continued to pound, and the voices of friendship stayed close to our home, heard through open windows and absorbed into thankful hearts.  Men in the street at midnight, women comforting children and dogs.  Kids up late in the darkness and mystery of storms.

Today it all seems like a dream: we’re basking in sunshine and enjoying life with electricity that enters our homes without so much as a thought from us.  The tree we just planted in our backyard will have to be resurrected from its new 45 degree angle, but other than that, we emerge unscathed and blessed to have our family safe and intact.  And blessed to know that in sunshine or in storm, we’re surrounded by the love of the family we choose: our friends.

Grandma

Grandma and me: June 12, 1009

I’ve been cautioned by wise and well-meaning people that my penchant for emotions (namely crying) may alienate those who don’t struggle with waterworks the way that I do.  But today it’s not to be avoided.  As I was downloading photos from the camera to our computer, this one showed up and all my love for this woman came raining down on me like a summer storm.

This past weekend was the first time I heard about the tumor…and the cancer.  After a hard year of moving from her home, enduring both open-heart surgery and a painful knee replacement, at 83 it comes down to the dreaded enemy that seems to be sleeping in us all.  With grandpa waiting for her in heaven, I doubt that she will be resolute to fight it, and I suppose if I’m honest, I’d feel the same in her shoes.

The sadness this news brings has come over me in waves.  Today while dusting the mantle and looking into the paper eyes of my children in framed photographs.  Sitting down and seeing her familiar features on this screen.  It’s the smallest things that remind me of the enormity of her impact in my life.

So, in her honor, I’m republishing something I wrote last fall about her and the memories I’ve hidden away in my heart.  For anyone who’s ever loved a grandparent for her care, compassion, sewing-instruction, Jesus-teaching, garden-tending, clothes-on-the-line, cookies-in-the-oven type of way, please keep reading.  And if there’s room on your prayer list for grandma, I’d be beholden to you for remembering her.

~

As I was leaving the library with our two youngest children last week, the book’s cover caught my eye.  The delicate painting was so lifelike it might at first glance be mistaken for a photograph.  The vintage barn wore the pattern of a huge American Flag and was sitting atop a blanket of grass left behind in the dust of an old pickup truck.  Displayed near the floor on a Plexiglas stand was Heartland, a lovely children’s poem about that area of our nation, told from the perspective of the Earth.

I am the Heartland.
On this soil
Live those who through the seasons toil:
The farmer, with his spirit strong;
The farmer, working hard and long,
A feed-and-seed-store cap in place,
Pulled down to shield a weathered face-
A face whose every crease and line
Can tell a tale, and help define
A lifetime spent beneath the sun,
A life of work that’s never done.

I am the Heartland.
On these plains
Rise elevators filled with grains.
They mark the towns where people walk
To see their neighbors, just to talk;
Where farmers go to get supplies
And sit a spell to analyze
The going price of corn and beans,
The rising cost of new machines;

Where steps are meant for shelling peas,
And kids build houses in the trees.
by Diane Siebert
paintings by Wendell Minor

At home that evening, tucked under covers and reading to the kids before bed, I found myself heartsick and missing a place I barely knew.  My voice caught as I heard the words aloud.  Ever observant, my daughter turned to me and sweetly asked Mom, why does your voice sound like that?  I swallowed hard and read slowly, trying not to cry.  What is wrong with me?!  Crying over a story about farms in Minnesota?!  Then I realized, it was something else in Minnesota that had me crying.

We grew up 750 miles away from my maternal grandparents.  They lived in a rural town in central Minnesota roughly two hours west of Minneapolis.  Driving into town, the welcome sign listed a population of less than 600 people–a number that’s been steadily declining for years.  There are two churches in this town, one school.  The old grocery store with creaky wooden floors has been gone for decades, but I still remember how it looked and how it smelled: of timber and soap and paper.  They used to have a miniature red shopping cart that I loved and would fight for, because for 20 minutes in that store, I became a grown up.  My brother and sister and I would clamor on bikes and race ‘uptown’ as my grandma says; not all the way to the grain elevators or the city hall, but past the bank and the funeral home.  An entire world to us, knit together on two tidy city blocks.

Trips to grandma and grandpa usually happened in the summer [so although I speak of these times with sentimentality, I really did not spend a great deal of time living them].  We would pile into our huge Olds 88 — maroon with velour interior and ENORMOUS — and hit the road for the 12 hour trek west.  By the time we turned off highway 7 and drove past Warren’s station, I was practically coming out of my skin to see the people I loved so much.  Would the house look the same?  Did grandma remember to put Kit-Kats in the candy dish?   Are her rows of marigolds in bloom?

Turning into the driveway and seeing the familiar landscape felt like coming home.  I have so many wonderful memories there.  Trying to sort through them now seems like ‘counting shades of light,’ as some of my favorite poets say.   She used to wash my hair in her kitchen sink and then set it in curlers for Sunday morning, letting me sit toasty warm under one of those huge astronaut-head blow-dryers she’d bring to the table.  She was with me when I got my ears pierced.  She played games with me endlessly, laughing and slapping the table when I’d beat her.  My brother would sit on her back patio for a summer haircut.  My sister went fishing with grandpa.  And at the end of our weeks together, she’d cry with me when we had to leave.

I grew to love her house and her small town.  Literally right in the middle of a corn field, she lived in the Heartland, and I think that’s why this book affected me so.  The descriptions were a guided tour through the things I have stored up in my heart.  Perhaps I do have rose colored glasses–remembering only the beautiful and pure and innocent days of summer.  But isn’t that what childhood should be?

Last year my grandma moved out of her house–the house she bought with my grandpa when they got married in 1946.  The house that changed and morphed and grew around them; as they built their family, they built on to their home.  The house in all of my mother’s childhood photos.  The house in every one of my memories.

Sometimes thinking about how things change seems so perfectly normal and expected, and other times, like this, it seems to slice away at the most tender parts of my heart.  What will it be like, next time, to go visit her and sit in the visitor’s section of the assisted living center, next to old magazines and piles of jigsaw puzzles?  What will it be like to walk into her room and not smell layers of coffee and years of love?  And my worst fear, of course, is to go back, knowing that there will not be the kind of visiting I so long for with a woman I love so deeply.  When that happens, the landscape of the Heartland–of my heartland– will never be the same.

Waiting for Mountains, Yearning for Sand

Every now and again I get into kind of a funk.  I usually write it off as fatigue or hormones, but really I think it has something to do with geography.

We’re planning a trip out west this summer and I’ve noticed my heart longing more and more for mountains and fresh air and flowers that grow for no other reason than the Glory of God.  Flowers that exist not because someone bought them at the greenhouse and planted them in their front yard, and not because they were a Mother’s Day gift–as lovely as that is.  But just to glorify their creator.

I remember a trip to the Tetons years ago, before children and mortgages, where I learned about those flowers.  Our friends convinced us to explore the back-country with them, which, when you’re camping with me, is code for bad weather, torn rain gear, and crappy food.  And no toilets.   Despite our follies,  it remains one of those landmark trips that I love to remember.  Even now the memories fool me by erasing the snow [in June] and mud [all over our clothes] with thoughts of mountain lakes unseen by so many and love ablaze around a campfire.

On one of our hikes on a gorgeous Wyoming day in summer’s infancy, my friend stopped and quietly knelt down on the trail.  I was waiting for her to point out a mountain goat or announce a rock in her shoe when she whispered amazement at the most unassuming little white flower I’d ever seen.  To be honest, I’m not quite sure it wasn’t a weed!  But her fingers cradled the petals and she hovered in awe at its simple beauty.

How many people do you think ever come up here?  How many people will ever get to see this flower? she asked.

Of course I didn’t know what to say.  Was she posing a question or making a point?

Imagine that God made this flower just for his glory!

Wow.  That one comment turned my thinking on so many levels.  Stop to consider for a moment how many treasured beauties are hidden in the brush, deep in the rainforest, or swimming miles beneath the surface of the sea.  None, perhaps, will ever be appreciated by human eye, yet they were created–and live–in their order.

Considering God’s majesty buries me.  I cannot comprehend it, but I long to see it.

With our trip drawing closer, I’m starting to feel a pull at my heart that is at the same time familiar and strange.  John Denver has a great line in Rocky Mountain High where he describes a young man’s journey like he was ‘Comin’ home to a place he’d never been before…‘   Sometimes I feel that way when I’m in the mountains or at the edge of water.  Not a melancholy feeling as if where I live isn’t home, but rather, a feeling of natural ease, refreshment, a spirit that can breathe more deeply.  What is it about green?  What is it about the pounding cadence of waves?  Maybe it’s a different kind of home.

Tonight we’re going to enjoy our own patch of green around our backyard fire pit.  I love nights like this: stars scraped away from an indigo canvas, moon bathing us in its light.  Friends, family, conversation,…life unplugged.  While God kneads my dreams and understands every detail of my longing, I will treasure tonight.  Tonight is its own gift while I wait for mountains and yearn for sand.

Wells and Fences

This past weekend I had the pleasure of listening to author Mary DeMuth speak to a small crowd of conference attendees in Chicago.  While I was only able to hear the last of her three nights of ministry, I’m certain that it must have been her best, because I can’t stop thinking about the theme:  Drink from the Well: Jesus.

After beginning her talk with the questions Who is Jesus? and Who are we as a body of Christ followers?, Mary shared an illustration that I am still digesting four days later.  She told us that a shepherd in Australia once told her there are just two ways to keep sheep near:  build a fence or dig a well.

Hmm.  Intriguing, I thought as I sat in my auditorium fold-down seat.  How does a well help a shepherd tend–and keep–his sheep?  I mean, besides the obvious benefit of their not dying of thirst.

In the well vs. fence theory, a shepherd choosing to build a fence keeps his sheep close to him by preventing their departure and by keeping others out. The sheep he cares for are well-defined; any passer-by knows to whom they belong, but likewise, the passer-by does not have access to the shepherd.  The shepherd is inside the fence with his flock, not outside with the passer-by.

On the other hand, digging a well means that any sheep can come and draw water.  Any sheep has access to the shepherd.  And instead of marking each sheep as “in” or “out,” this perspective invites us to consider that some are close–perhaps intimately close–to the shepherd, while others remain far off.  Even lost.  I’m adding Mary’s graphic below to help your thinking:

Credit to Mary DeMuth

As Mary continued with her talk, she qualified these theories by saying that “of course this well theory doesn’t mean that ‘anybody’ can get into heaven,” and she affirmed Christ as the only way to salvation.  But even without these footnotes, I was already thinking about how drawing closer to the well and viewing our faith in this new way was going to require a new way of thinking.  Because in the “centered set,” as Mary terms it, there is no “us” and “them.”  No fences.  No rejection.  Just the admission that some are near and some are not.

So why is way of thinking hard to get our minds around?  Even though most of us generally don’t want to espouse an us/them worldview, some might be brave enough to admit to thinking it even if we never verbalize those thoughts.  Look at the “Bound Set.”  If you had to list the in and out’s, could you come up with a few names or groups?

The tricky thing about the fence theory, though, is that it is quite easy, and perhaps almost an inborn tendency, to count others’ sins against them as being worse than your own.  Yes, I may be greedy, but at least I don’t _________. Or,  Well, OK, I might be a glutton when it comes to Costco’s Gourmet Chocolate Chunk Cookies, but who isn’t?!  I mean, it’s not like I’m polishing off a fifth of whiskey after dinner or ___________! You get the idea.  We shrink our own sins in comparison to others’.  We take ourselves out of the equation.

We Christians like to say that we believe that all sins are equal; that we’re all stained and imperfect and unworthy when compared to a Holy God.  That except for the atoning blood and sacrifice of Christ, we’d all be lost, forever separated from the Father.  We all believe that on paper.  We stand up and say it and we believe that.

But then why is it so hard for us to tear down our fences?  Why is it so hard to act on the fact that Christ wishes for no one to perish?  Is it because we believe that an unrepentant person belongs on the outside?  Is it because we know that not everyone’s going to heaven, so why not start drawing teams right now?  Get the jerseys ready and hit the courts?  Start keeping score?  Doling out penalties and fouls?

Mary then asked us to describe the Pharisees of Jesus’ day.  Hands shot up:  They prayed [albeit vying for attention], they fasted, they tithed, they knew their Scriptures, they wanted to obey the Law… She stopped calling for contributions and let us sit in the silence.  I could feel what was coming.

“Doesn’t that sound like a lot of the good Christian people you know?…Think about it…AND YET, they *missed* Jesus.  They missed Him!  For all their prayers and Scripture reading and tithing and fasting, they missed Him.“

Could this describe me?  Could it describe you?  Your church community?  With which theory do you most identify?  The idea that some are in, and some are out–with no chance of redemption?  Or the idea that redemption is possible–for anyone–if they only draw close to the Well?

Sit with this for a few minutes.  Or four days.  I’m not asking those questions rhetorically; I’d love to hear your thoughts, one philosopher to another.

The Closeness of Home

In recent days I’ve had reason to consider my story.  I’ve had reason to ponder the forks in the road and the winding path that led me to where I am today.  Who would have ever thought that a simple move in the fifth grade would have forged so many ties that continue to this day?  Who could have seen, as a ten year-old, that the scope of time leading to the future was unfurling in God’s invisible sovereignty?

The home my parents bought back in 1985 is theirs yet today.  The street has seen change and consistency in equal measure: families coming and going, outgrowing the constraints of brick and mortar.  Others stayed and made due, planting trees and watching them grow to maturity. Tilling gardens and enjoying the slant of the sun on their backyard patios.  That’s my parents—patio people; wading through days and months on that street, tucked snugly beneath the leaves of a now giant Sycamore tree we planted decades ago.

It amazes me to look back and see the quiet hand of God in our move to that house: only one block away from a woman who remains, even now, one of my dearest friends.  Only one block away from a boy I barely knew growing up, but through the fire and heat of college has gone on to become a brother in the truest sense of the word.  Only one block away from the man I would fall in love with at 14…and go on to marry.

Going home to visit my parents ignites many memories, as it undoubtedly does for anyone who returns to their childhood home, and I am reminded how blessed I am to remain so close to them.  I know that I can call my mom and, if needed, I can be to her–or she to me–in 15 minutes.  There to help me bring a new baby home, stoop next to me in a laundry pile, stop by with a gallon of milk and some of her chicken soup…all gifts of proximity I am determined to appreciate fully.

My own mother did not enjoy such serendipity; she moved away from her own parents’ small Minnesota town right after high school, and visits with my grandparents became few, by necessity and geography.  I don’t know how she did it:  managing children and home and finances, burning cookies or not, making meals with older generations rarely present at the table—all things foreign to me (except the cookies maybe!)  Before email and blogs and FaceBook and text messaging and free long distance, communication was limited to weekends, and the minutes were rationed for us all.  We all stored up love from month to month, waiting for the calendar pages to turn to the months of summer when we’d pile in our Olds’ 98 Wagon and make the trek to the farmlands west of the Mississippi.  For me, the wait seemed eternal.  I can only imagine for my mom, missing her own mother and father, the wait must have wrung her heart dry.

As a mom myself, I can appreciate how raising children with the luxury and legacy of involved grandparents is an enormous gift.  I often wonder how my grandma, alone now in Minnesota, carries the weight of children far-off.  There’s an old Emmylou Harris song (Calling My Children Home) that I love and that brings her to mind every time I hear it.  I’m listing only part of the lyrics below, but I think it will be enough for you to feel the yearning of the mother’s voice:

~

Those lives were mine to love and cherish.
To guard and guide along life’s way.
Oh God forbid that one should perish.
That one alas should go astray.

Back in the years with all together,
Around the place we’d romp and play.
So lonely now and oft’ times wonder,
Oh will they come back home some day.

I’m lonesome for my precious children,
They live so far away.
Oh may they hear my calling…calling…
and come back home some day.

~

My husband and I are already indoctrinating our kids with the idea that they ‘aren’t allowed’ to move far away from us.  I know, I know–apron strings!  Still, going six or eight or ten months without their company, their smiles, their arms around me, would diminish any sparkle that might reside in my eyes.  I don’t want to be the mom they visit on Thanksgiving and for the Fourth.  I don’t want to be the grandma living time zones away.  I want the closeness of home.  The closeness of those I love and to whom I’ve given my life.

Something to Brag About, Part 2

If you missed my post yesterday, I announced a two-day brag session to highlight the up-and-coming talent of two of my photographer friends. Yesterday I shared 5 of Lori’s photos [thanks, Lor], and today is Kamarah’s turn to sit with the knowledge that others are seeing–and appreciating–her great eye with a lens.

Because she willingly and lovingly takes so many photos of our kids, choosing my own top 5 would be very difficult. After all, what mom can see a picture of her kids in the spring grass and not love it?! So I worked jointly with Kam, and here are the ones we came up with. If you’d like to send your encouragement, check out her website or leave a comment on this post and I’ll pass it along.

Harvest Pumpkins

Best Friends

Little League, little fan

Birthday bubbles

Playing at the park--LOVE the colors of this photo

Something to Brag About, Part 1

This is the first of two posts that I’m doing to draw attention to the amazing skill of my two apprentice-photographer friends. Both feel the same ridiculous need to downplay their talent, insisting that the pictures they take are nothing special, that they don’t know how to edit properly, blah blah blah. Since they can’t see the forest for the trees, I’m bragging on their behalf.

Today it’s Lori’s turn for the spotlight; Kamarah can enjoy the glow tomorrow. Despite being relatively new on the scene, Lori as already *sold* one of her prints to the highest bidder and shows consistency in her eye for detail and unique beauty. When I asked her to choose her favorite photos for this entry, she sent several and gave me license to choose. Here are five favorites including, of course, my precious daughter. Since I don’t have a link for Lori, please use the comment section below to add your notes of encouragement. I’ll make sure she gets them. Thanks!

Makes me want a blue historic home in the spring...

Gorgeous. What more can you say?

I love the soft focus and surprise of leaves at the bottom

My own sweet angel

Love the single lavender tulip

White Buckets = Love

I was sitting at a stoplight lost in the silence of our car when the solitary, melancholy piano took me away.   In an instant there was a loneliness–an isolation conveyed on the ivory that made me think of him.  The Walgreen’s sign flashed its specials and traffic raced through the intersection. People consumed by their own destinations, adrift in their own worlds.  What would it be like…to feel imposed on the world but not a part of it?  Things falling apart—dispair, anger, disbelief, confusion—and all the while hundreds of others, each living their own existences, brush past him not knowing or caring about what he isn’t going home to.

How many hurting people are passing through this life feeling that kind of isolation?  Is it the man in the next cubicle?  The woman staring at her grocery cart next to you?  Sometimes when I’m in places like airports and malls I marvel at all the stories and journeys taking place before me.  That cute little girl with the pigtails–is she loved?  The woman who I never see smile; is her marriage ok?  The guy who seems so tough at the driving range–is he there to practice his swing?  Or to escape?

As a Jesus follower, I’ll be the first to acknowledge that generally speaking, His church isn’t doing enough to help the hurting.  Sadly, when many hear the word “Christian,” the first thoughts that come to mind are:  judgmental, unloving, exclusive.  How ironic it is, really, that Jesus did not exhibit exclusivity when it came to those he talked to, ate with, … died for.  So why do we grow hedges and hang drapery to keep ourselves in? Why do we isolate ourselves, often times, from the hurts of those living on the other side of our walls?

This past Sunday at church I found myself in the midst of something so big and wonderful that my heart is still expanding to contain it.  Our pastor taught with a guest teacher on Acts 2, in which Luke, the author, paints in broad strokes a clear picture of what life was like in the early church.  While the sermon referenced texts in both the Old and New Testaments, we landed on these words from verses 42-48:

⁴²They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and to the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer. ⁴³Everyone was filled with awe, and many wonders and miraculous signs were done by the apostles. ⁴⁴All the believers were together and had everything in common. ⁴⁵Selling their possessions and goods, they gave to anyone as he had need. ⁴⁶Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, ⁴⁷praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved. [highlighting mine]

“What would it look like,” our pastors postulated, “if we really did this.  If we gave to anyone as he had need…” They took us through the original Greek and expanded the meanings and challenged us.  They seemed to be saying, “If we, as Jesus Followers, actually took care of each other, might we enjoy anew the favor of all people?”  Might the lost be won over with our love?  Might they look at our generosity and outpouring of glad and sincere hearts decide that if that’s what Jesus is about, then I want it, too.

Rob bent over and collected a four-foot stack of white buckets.  “If you are here today, and you have plenty…think about giving away your plenty for those who have a need.  If you are here today and have nothing–except stacks of bills at home–come and share in our plenty.  Take what you need.”

The guitars started strumming and the tears began to roll.  I had a few one’s and a five in my pocket and I lept for joy to give this paltry offering, glad to do it and wishing that I had more to share.  As I returned to my gray chair, my thoughts immediately went to him.  I yearned for him to be there; yearned for him to be sharing in this bounty and generosity.  My friend came and grabbed my hand and hugged me.  “Let’s go get some money for him.  For Todd*.” My heart beat with love to know that she could read my thoughts and feel my pain, and that she still chose to walk with me through it.

Today I had the new and strange joy of delivering this gift.  Crumpled and stained with tears so they no longer lay flat, I tucked the bills in a card I’ve been saving for him for months, and drove to his house.  And stopped at a red light and watched the Walgreen’s sign flicker.  And listed to Adele and cried.  I walked into his garage and saw the remnants of a once-happy home.  Notes from the kids in marker on the inside walls.  The blue rectangular bike license plates nailed to the wall by the back door proclaiming the names of each family member; or at least, the family that used to live there.

I set the envelope down against the door and looked at those names and sobbed.  I stood in the darkness of his garage and sobbed and felt it all.  Helplessness.  Dispairing.  Disbelief.  Loneliness.  I looked again and again at that wall and realized that as far as we know, things in this home will never be quite the same.

And then God knocked the wind out of me, quite literally.   This same man with big questions and big problems and no church–this same man surprised me.  On the cupboard door next to the stack of names was a small black sticker.  One that I know very well.  One you may have seen around town if you live near Grand Rapids.  Next to an amalgamation of kids’ artwork, record album covers and band stickers was one proclaiming two simple, yet profound words: LOVE WINS.

LOVE WINS.  That’s from my church–that’s from Mars Hill.  That’s our “thing.”  I could *not* believe it.  Somewhere buried beneath all the questions and all the frustration and prayers that seem to rise to an empty sky, he still chooses to believe it.  He still chooses to slap it across his workbench cupboard and read it everyday.

I know that this doesn’t mean that he loves Jesus.  I know that this doesn’t even mean he’s ready to come back to church.  But I have concluded, in this world of confusion and religion, that it’s not about hosting a debate or having a list of answers.  It’s about Acts 2.  It’s about small steps.  It’s about love.  I have concluded that showing love…wins.

Flab Control

Memorial Day | Pre-race

You see, I’m not actually a runner.  I’m a poser of sorts.  A mom just trying to keep the flab under control long enough to make it through another bathing suit season.  When I was in labor for our first son, the nurse took my blood pressure [which is famously low] and just stared at the numbers.  “Wow.” She said.  “Are you a runner?  Do you run marathons?” I about spewed my epidural.  Ask anybody who has known me for longer than 9 months, and they’ll tell you.  Me running marathons is about as likely as me winning Top Chef with camping gear.

No, I’m not actually a runner.  But I do like the cute clothes that you get to buy if you’re willing to spend the money and want to get high-tech.  Note that I’m not wearing anything high-tech.  I’m sporting a pair of $19 ‘work-out capris’ from Gap and a shirt I got from Voice of the Martyrs.  Not exactly what you’d call ‘wicking’ material.  I’m blaming my time on that.

I ran in my first 5K last fall and just finished another one on Memorial Day with my BNE. I’m always amazed when I can run 3 miles without falling over, crying, fainting, or barfing in someone’s lawn.  In Cold Tangerines, Shauna Niequist talks about how for so long she abused her body or took it for granted.  How she overlooked the mystery and majesty of health and parts that work and grow.  Once she got pregnant and saw how her body–that same taken-for-granted body–nourished a new life, her perspective totally changed.  She appreciated it again.  She was thankful for it.

That’s how I feel when I run.  Despite my knees that crunch and sports bra that doesn’t quite get the job done, I feel strong.  I feel powerful.  For me it’s a real sense of accomplishment to finish a race and not have to stop to walk because it’s doing something I didn’t think I could do.   I’m not at all like those tanned gazelle-like size 4 girls who are fresh out of college and run 2 miles before the race as a warm-up.  Spare me.  No need for craziness at 8 a.m.

But I am out there, trying, and later this month, Lord willing, I’ll do another one.  My goals are simple:

1.   Finish

2.  Run the entire race

3.  Finish in under 30 minutes.

There it is!  In print!  There will be a whole slew of other moms and friends out there with me, conquering fears, overcoming obstacles, and doing what they didn’t think they could do.

So cheers to all you actual runners and all you wannabe’s like me.  Get a shirt that wicks and bra that works…and hit the road.

Shoot the Moon

Yesterday we got out the guns and clay pigeons and had ourselves a birthday.  This was no small shindig–this was a full-on, expertly crafted and perfectly executed surprise party for my brother-in-law, Jason, who will ring in 30 years in just a few days.

Now, I’m a city girl all the way in terms of my lifestyle and geographical location, but I do admit to living vicariously through my sister who lives a serene and idyllic life in the West-Michigan ‘countryside.’  She raises organic broiler chickens for…broiling…and has hens of all varieties which provide brown eggs enough for me, several of my neighbors and all who frequent her roadside stand.  She hangs her clothes out on the line and cuts fresh flowers from the garden.  They raise strawberries and asparagus and other vegetables that I should try to eat more often.  I love going to her house and so do my kids; they play in the dirt, feed the chickens and admire the general country-ness of the country.

But obvious to all who know us, despite the pleasantries and afternoon visits, there are some differences between the country mouse and the city mouse.  Namely guns and clay pigeons. Which bring us back to the birthday party.

We pulled off the surprise and it was fantastic.  The night ensued with games, visiting and kids on a trampoline with a hole in its center.  This trampoline posed an interesting challenge for any young child: to be able to successfully navigate the circumference of the jumping surface without being shot into the air by a rival and slipping through the hole of doom.  My 7 year old thought this was just the cat’s pajamas, while my 3 year old fell, nearly to his death, and then begged for more [still crying!].

On my way over to the hillbilly golf area, I nearly lost my pork sandwich at the sound of a blast so loud I’m pretty sure the neighbors considered calling 911.  Heck yes–it was time for SKEET SHOOTIN’!  I hiked up my drawers and shuffled through the tall grass on the back side of the horse corral.  There they were:  men aplenty standing in a row like green plastic soldiers, guns cocked, orange thing flung through the air and hoots of glee unleashed when one was shot to smithereens.  It was awesome [read with your best Chris Farley voice].  Men turned into Christmas-morning boys with the women folk cheering on this raw display of masculinity.  Such excitement was bound to ignite some inhibitions, and before long, my sister stepped up to the dirt patch and unearthed her years-old sharp-shooter skills.  Previously wasted on such elementary exploits as squirrel and rabbit hunting, this was the big time, and there was an audience.

She was in her glory:  pregnant, in Wranglers and boots, toting a rifle with her long blond hair flapping in the breeze.  The only thing that would have completed the scene would have been this same Cindy, but barefoot.  She got her gun ready and obliterated the first pigeon.  My eyes almost well up with pride now, just writing about it.  She finished her exploits with a 2/3 record.

Not to be outdone, of course, the men returned to the range and decided that clay pigeons were mere child’s play.  I don’t know if getting a woman in the game scared them or shamed them [since she was the reigning champ] but the pigeons were road kill.  On to bigger and better things like sky-high escaped helium balloons which they quickly returned to latex particles.  What could be next?

Shoot the moon!!  Shoot the moon! my son yelled.  I think the guy with the camo-wrapped sharp-shooter [complete with a scope] thought about it for a second.  There certainly was enough testosterone to fuel such an attempt.  But instead they chuckled and returned to the box of flying orange clay discs.  How they acquired the name ‘clay pigeons,’ I don’t know, but they work a lot better than trying for the moon.

Happy Birthday, Jason.  We had a blast

Martha Washington Sleeps Here

Well, as I indicated two days ago, I need Nate Berkus to come and rescue our poor excuse for a bedroom from the dismal decay of frump-induced bedding and lack of imagination.  I read recently that one’s bedroom should be reserved for “sleep and sex,” so I guess that means the kids’ books and Matchbox cars on my nightstand should go.  Setting the mood for those two gorgeous activities should, I dare to believe, involve creating a ‘love den’:  dark and lovely.  I’ve heard of others rejecting the notion of a ‘cave’ and opting instead for a ‘love palace.’  Nice.  Makes me think my knight in shining armor will be on his way shortly bringing with him gemstones, poofy dresses and glass slippers that click down brick floors.

Whatever you wish to call your bedroom, we can all agree that it *should* be an oasis.  In our home, however, the oasis has become something akin to the elephant graveyard from Lion King:  Don’t ever go there, Simba! It is a dumping grounds in an impending-visitor emergency.  Imagine the scene with me:

Shoot!!  My mom just called and they’re on their way!!  Get these baskets of clothes off the sofa!  What’s all this other crap?!  Quick!  Toss it in our closet before they get here! [activate children scurrying with a look of terror and angst on their faces ala the Everybody Loves Raymond intro].

Our furniture, though just 8 years old, has lost its shine…and an entire layer of wood veneers from the top.  You’d think we were laying in bed playing with knives and spatulas!  [see photo]  Just recently we let our son fall asleep in our bed and returned to find that he had drawn monster trucks on the bare wood with ink pen. That’s a hot look.  Nothing says ‘rockin’ sex’ like rolling over to your son’s drawings ON THE FURNITURE.  I can practically smell the exhaust and hear the radio announcer yell in a gravelly voice, ‘Monster truck rally–SUNDAY, SUNDAY, SUNDAY!!’  Just get your lid of chew and join the fun!

Note the drawings in the left hand blob of missing veneer

So far you’re realizing that my oasis includes strewn clothes, baskets of junk, and exhaust fumes.  This is why I need Nate Berkus.  I mean, who doesn’t need Nate Berkus?!  But seriously, I need help.

This past week we had a new mattress delivered.  It is pure heaven: a king size dream…with box springs still wrapped in plastic and sitting directly on our floor.  We are such pieces of work.  We’re trying to exercise control by foregoing the $100 frame-only option and putting that money toward the purchase of an actual headboard/footboard.  It’s all picked out but I’ve come to grips with the fact that they’re not going to let me have it just because I’m a nice person with a pathetic bedroom.  To top it all off, we are using this…”bedspread”…[you already know it's trouble, don't you!]…that we got from my husband’s mom.  It’s white with some kind of circle-raised-tufted designs and hanging things around the bottom.  I suppose you could call it a “fringe,” which only makes me cringe all the more.

To emphasize its hideousness, my husband, who could live his life rotating through the same 5 outfits, said to me, “It looks like it belongs in an Abraham Lincoln Museum.” Seriously.  If an ex-football coach whose favorite decor involves a certain ‘swoosh’ can detect the awful reality, anyone can.  I have since learned that this luscious textile does have a name:  Martha Washington Bedding.  For a Pottery Barn girl, this is sheer grandma-land that is better left to Bed & Breakfast owners in Maine.  I’ve tried to ratchet it up a notch by using some of our old pillows for color, but even they are not creating the distraction I was hoping for.

Note: space for a headboard, tufts of luxury on the bedspread, and the fringe of fun along the bottom. Hmmmm....

So, people, please send your suggestions!  We’re brainstorming how to rectify this situation and acknowledge that we don’t have thousands to spend on a total overhaul.  Now, if Candice Olsen or Nate Berkus want to help out of the kindness of their sympathetic hearts, the door to my bedroom stands open and waiting.  It’s time for Martha to get home to George.

A Seed Planted

One of my dear friends, dear in a way that few are or can ever be, lives three time zones away in a small city just west of the Rockies.   Talking to her is easy, as it should be with such a friend.  We reminisce, laugh, give and receive advice, we enjoy each other.  Talking is easy, but finding time to connect can be difficult.   Between the challenges of managing the time difference and our combined seven children, we have succumbed to the idea that 5 or 10 minutes on the cell phone while sitting on a park bench are better than nothing.  We don’t have the hours of free time we had as newlyweds, and any time we do have free is quickly scavenged by husbands and little faces.  These small conversations allow us to keep up with each other’s lives until a spare moment provides a window for something more.  It works for us and I’m grateful for it, although the idea of having uninterrupted time together around a campfire or their kitchen table is a dream that makes me anxious for sleep.

This July that dreamy sleep is coming; we are packing up and heading West–one of my favorite destinations, especially in the summer.  Stitching our children into this tapestry of family friendship is something that gives me such joy.  What a gift: the trip, the time together with our own family and with theirs, years of memories, years of love.  I can see the hand of God in it in so many ways.  How He’s moved us and led us through time, moved us across states and through our histories.  Like all the dear friends in my life, I treasure them as the family I have chosen.

During one of our more recent conversations, it struck my friend that we’ll have to be mindful of our selfish desires to sit and visit uninterrupted [I'm starting to doubt that's even possible] and work to not shush the kids away or hastily get them into bed at night.  How easy it can be, she argued, to want the kids to stay off playing, to be busy in another room, or to be angelically sleeping so that we can have adult time.   Even in a setting with many children [and adults that sometimes act like children], we need to be mindful of their need to have our attention, focus, and love.  The thought settled in and I thought a lot about how easy it is for me, at the end of a long day at home to want to rush through bedtime.  I try to tell myself that in 5 more years–maybe even only 3 more years–my little ones won’t be fighting for my lap and asking me to sing to them.  They won’t be waving a book in front of my face and pleading to hear it…again.  I tell myself to take it slow and enjoy it. But some nights seem to crawl by and everything in me desperately wants my place on the couch with no small voices crowding in my head.

Last weekend, with family over and the campfire ablaze, leaving the coolness of that spring evening to return inside with my cherubs was not on my list of thrills.  I shot a look at my husband who was too busy cramming a chip in his mouth and laughing at his brother to notice.  No help?! I wanted to protest.  I wanted to cram chips in my mouth, too.  I was selfish; I was only thinking of myself and not wanting to miss out on 20 minutes with the group.  And then…my friend’s voice rattled my heart.  I got a grip on my bad attitude and went to do bedtime.

And what a surprise was waiting for me when I did.  After tucking in three tired bodies and praying with them, I shared with my oldest two, “You know, you guys, tomorrow is Baptism Sunday at church.  It’s going to be a really special day…” I explained the significance of Baptism and reminded them what they’d be seeing and what it meant.  I re-lived the day I went into the water and came out to receive their hugs.  Both of them stared at me and hung on my every word.  Jonah asked really good and important questions.  His sister joined him and expressed the desire to talk more about it–and maybe it do it themselves next year, together, brother and sister.  We processed it and talked about Jesus and the Jordan and how He changed everything.

In that moment I knew:  a new gift was unfolding just for me because I took the time to sit with my kids.  Despite the campfire, our friends over, snacks being shared and drinks being sipped in my absence, I was inside being wrapped in the warmth of a moment totally unexpected.  Another gift nearly lost to my own blindness.

This July we’re heading West.  We’re heading toward a home we do not yet know filled with people we know intimately.  We’re going as a family, uniting with another family.  I’m praying that my own blindness, my own selfishness is held in check by the One who gave me such a precious moment with my kids last week.  A seed was planted then.  Not just, I hope, in the hearts of two kids captivated by the love of God, but in the heart of mom who needs to stick closer to the Vine.

Nate Berkus, please?

Since I made an appointment to get my hair highlighted next month, I figured why not give my month-old blog a little makeover, too?   It’s almost summer and to me nothing quite evokes the beach like turquoise and lime, so I got suckered into this new layout for the time being.  More upbeat and wistful, I think, than the weeping willow in the mist, however romantic and poetic it may be.  I’m also mulling around a few fun additions that should come to fruition here shortly [if I can figure them out], so keep checking back.

So many WordPressers out there have lovely, colorful, unique sites that make mine seem a bit vanilla and cookie-cutter; I wish Nate Berkus was in the business of advising bloggers on texture and tonality!  While I’m thinking of it, there are a lot of things I wish about Nate [come re-do our bedroom!]… but I digress.

Enjoy the new look

Until tomorrow,

Jane

Crazy Pants

Seriously.  My kids are going bonkers.  Straight up crazy pants with the possibility some kind of emotional disorder not completely ruled out.

Two days in a row we’ve dealt with hard-core temper tantrums and general inappropriateness courtesy of our little angels.  I swear my neighbors are either going to think I’m too busy sucking down a Corona in the kitchen to notice the screaming, or that the kids were once dropped on their heads and the damage is finally coming to the surface.  They say nice things and tell me not to worry, after all they say, we all have those days, but honestly—this is a 20/20 episode waiting to happen!  And with my luck Barbara Walters will come out of her 20/20 retirement just so that she can tisk-tisk me and then talk about it on The View.

Well, I actually don’t drink and the kids were never dropped on their heads, but I’m betting there’s a full moon tonight.  How many of you moms out there know what I’m talking about? [see my cool poll and vote!]  For all you non-moms out there, how many times have you witnessed such a commotion and thought the parents were a worthless excuse for rule-makers and that they should have been kicked out of the gene pool before things got messy?  [you know who you are!]

Yesterday one of my sons got honked off that I tagged him out at first base during our backyard baseball game [mark that one on your century calendars--Jane playing baseball?!]  Rather than shrugging his shoulders and saying “Rats!” or something as benign, he decided that running away from me was a much more reasonable and profitable strategy.  I spent the next 50 minutes–I’m not kidding–either chasing him or disciplining his ridiculousness.  It was not only embarrassing that he could not deal with his dismay rationally, but it was a revealing look into his heart that he disobeyed me by not returning to the house when asked to.  Needless to say, his free time options are severely limited this week and I think the little chat his dad and I had with him has started to sink in; he said he’s learned ‘not to mess with dad.’

Today my precious little mini-me, as my own mother will attest to, decided to make non-sharing a new sport and told her friend to ‘shut up.’  Yep, that’s right.  Classic choice.  Just great.  My husband and I don’t use that word, so when Barbara shows up I’m going to blame it on the fifth graders on her bus.

It’s not only the disappointment that I feel as a mother, it’s the compounding of two days of stern talks, consequences and all the rest.  Everyone has their own way of teaching and disciplining, and to be honest, I thought we were swimming with the current, staying afloat.  Today I’m pretty sure the undertow dragged us under and possibly cut our knees on the hard ocean floor .

How do we know when to step back and let them just scream their guts out and ignore them?  When do we chalk it up to exhaustion?  Should I have let the girls figure out how to share on their own?  Maybe when my son ran away from me I should have just let him go [to our neighbor's garden].   In our quest for perfect children, though we would never admit to it, do we meddle too much?  Do we hover just a tad to low?  Breathing over a shoulder that belongs to the body of a kid growing more and more independent?

Of course we can’t let blatant rebellion and disobedience slide and think we’ll escape the consequences of such a decision; but as kids grow and make choices, I wonder about the how much and how often and… how.  I’d love to hear your thoughts if you care to comment!

Roller Derby

I’ll admit it:  I had A BALL.  A ball!  Jonah, our 7 year-old celebrated his birthday last week and decided that nothing says ‘party’ like r-o-l-l-e-r   s-k-a-t-i-n-g.  I guess once you’re 7 good times can only roll with ample amounts of speed, danger, and loud music [does that ever change?]  At least this time around still doesn’t involve car keys–just some old wooden floors at a neon-frocked establishment that definitely hit its peak around 1989.

We invited a few of his friends and a cousin to this wheeled celebration, and when they arrived most made a B-line for the roller blades rather than old school skates.  Kids these days–don’t they know that you get much better handling, ease of balance and a more controlled ability to stop with the originals?  You remember them: tan suede, dark brown laces, and matching orange wheels and front stopper.  Baby.  What a style statement.  I don’t know what Stacy and Clinton would say, but I said heck yes to those sweet little size 8′s and went to the nearest bench to lace up.

Standing up and skating on carpet over to the rink entry point was a bit trickier than I remember it being at 10.  I nearly landed on my brother a few times, but figured it only garnered empathy with the struggling kids who were spending time bonding with the tile floor by the birthday table with legs splayed out sideways.  Gliding past the line of newspaper-reading dads and cell phone-talking moms gave me just enough time to re-hone my skills.  The rink was mine for the taking.  I was Napoleon Bonaparte ready to conquer any and all who dared get in my way.  Except the group of 7 year olds I was supposed to be nurturing and entertaining, of course.

The wood floor, long since warped and wavy, sent me back through time.  I looked up between the glittering the specks of silver splashed around by the disco ball and noticed a ceiling with tiles missing, exposing an old wooden dome roof.  It was beautiful in the way that old buildings are beautiful.  I wondered how many people have rolled past these same walls under this same ceiling over the years, listening to Madonna turn into Poison turn into Nirvana turn into Jay-Z.

It was fun thinking about all the memories that seemed momentous to me while strapped into skates:  my first ‘lady’s choice’ when Nick from 3rd grade held my  hand and Lionel Ritchie crooned Say You, Say Me.  In 9th grade, circling round and round trying to spot that boy to see who he was talking to, because he wasn’t talking to me.  What would I say to that high school freshman now?  I’d tell her not to worry—that she’d end up marrying him and they’d have beautiful kids that they’d take roller skating, too.

In high school I was the reigning champ when it came to races.   I loved to race because I actually won, something I’m still rather unfamiliar with.   I remember to this day who my main competition was, but I’ll protect her pride and her identity for now.  No need to rub it in once you pass the decade mark.  I won a lot of Coke slushes thanks to my skating prowess, and even more when the DJ did “Name That Tune” competitions.  Chalk up another Coke slush for knowing that Buster Poindexter sang Feelin’ Hot Hot Hot! Pretty cool for a dorky girl who couldn’t serve a volleyball if her life depended on it or keep proper score in a basketball game.  Roller skating was my thing.

Unfortunately, I seem to be gifted in areas that are inconsequential in real life.  Sure, I may kick booty on the rink, but so what?  There are no more drive-ups for me to work at and we have too much carpet in our home for me to skate and mop at the same time, tragic as that is.  All I have left are my fantasies of joining the roller derby or petitioning the Olympic people to finally make it an official sporting competition.  Seriously–if BMX is legit, it’s really only a matter of time.  And “Name That Tune?”  Good for nothing!   They have an iPhone app for it!

Jonah’s party gave me a chance to feel free and fast and unstoppable.  In fact, I felt pretty certain that the manager was watching and considering me for her next open skate-police-with-a-whistle position.  I don’t quite have the dance-while-skating thing down, but now that I think about it, I can’t dance in regular shoes either.  I am, however,  pretty good with backwards skating, turning a sharp corner, and avoiding small children clomping along near the walls.  No small feat, I assure you.  I’m preparing my resume.

In the midst of the Saturday afternoon excitement, it happened:  the skate-police-turned-DJ announced a RACE!!  Oh my.  I felt my palms start to sweat.  No mention of a free Coke, but who cares.  Should I?  Shouldn’t I?  A line of 12 year-old boys wearing jerseys and backwards hats clamored for the chance to burn some testosterone and shot out to the start line as I stood frozen on the stained carpet.  I looked at my husband for some direction.  Of course I knew I could win, I just didn’t know if I should go out there.  My thoughts rocked from not wanting to embarrass the 12 year olds to wanting to elbow them out of the way to show them that a 33 year old mom could still kick their junior high asses.

Oh no!  Too much thinking!!  The whistle blew!  They were underway!!  I missed my shot at Olympic gold—I mean, fame in front of 17 people in Byron Center.  The little things I cling to.  The boy with the white tank top won easily and I shook my head with pity.  Poor excuse for speed, really, but his legs were about the size of my arms duck-taped together.  No match for my powerful thighs or years of experience.  The DJ gave a last call for one more race and I finally started skating out onto the wood alone when he said, “OK, if there’s no one else, let’s get back to the music!” Dang it!!  Missed it again!  I cooly tried to snap my fingers and swerved around like I just couldn’t wait to join MC Hammer declare to the world that you can’t touch this.  And by this I mean my sweet mom-on-skates-skills.  I don’t think anyone noticed my ploy.

In an effort to stay away from questionable song lyrics with the kids from school [ MOM!...Guess what song they played at Jonah's party?!] we requested some classic John Denver and sang all the words with pride, along with the grandmas and other old-timers glad to hear about mountains and eagles instead of someone who’s a “lady in the street but a freak in the bed.”  Ahem. No comment.

The party ended with cupcakes and presents and smiling, freckled faces.  It was a great day and so much fun to hang out with the kids and show them that mom actually knows how to do something besides pack lunches.  It was great to have my daughter look at me with pure delight in her smile, begging me to pull her along faster, and to not let go of her hand.  It was great to have it all, and have the memories to myself.

Bye Bye, Baby

My five-year old daughter is captivated at the thought of a new cousin in the family.  Each time we ride out to my sister’s house she asks me,

“Mom, how big do you think Aunt Cindy’s belly will be?”

“Probably not much bigger than it was last week, Honey.”

I survey her eyes of wonderment in the rear-view mirror and marvel at how her comments are such an innate part of her girl-ness.  Her fascination with gestation is unique among our kids; our two boys offer no more than a passing acknowledgment of this new life, followed quickly by something along the lines of, “Can I have some more Cheetos, Ma?”

But Avery, she ponders it.  Rolls it around in her cute little head and tries to calculate when the doctor will be able to hear the pulsing miracle of a new heartbeat in my sister’s womb.  During our last pregnancy I got a full-color magazine from my O.B. that detailed the month-by-month changes that God orchestrates while He weaves together muscle and ligament and organ, bathes it all in life-giving blood and puts flesh on the newest member of a family.  I gave this booklet to my daughter and she pours over it.  My oldest son just laughs hysterically at the 9 month birthing pictures that make it look like the baby is “coming out of her butt.”  Poetic, huh?  That’s a boy for you!

Instead, my daughter asks, “How many weeks is Aunt Cindy’s baby?  Because ya’ wanna know what mom?  If her baby is 12 weeks it has eyelids and fingernails!” It’s amazing to look back through the pages of actual photographs and realize that I was three-times a helpmate to Heaven in this growing and developing.

Every time I read Jeremiah 1:5, the depth of this God-woman partnership astounds me: “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart.”  To think that it’s not just the length of each femur or the color of each eye, but the personality, the likes and dislikes, the talents and interests of that person that God knows.  Intimately.  And to think that He asks me to be a part of it!  Intimately!  The reality of it is so profound that I have lately been feeling more and more a shade of sadness settling over my heart when I think that I will not be part of that reality again.  My husband and I have decided that if we have anything to say about it, three children feels pretty complete, and let’s not try for gravy.  I’m satisfied and full of peace with our decision, yet…there is something…unsaid.

In talking to other mothers who are also staring at a complete picture, I’m discovering there is a grieving, a releasing, a pulling away.  While I don’t like to go through life Kleenex in hand, sobbing over “lasts,” it needs to be confessed that there are days that seem to close the door on certain chapters I’d like to leave dog-eared.  Like snuggling with a little one that so perfectly fits in the crevasse of your elbow in the dusk of evening.  Like hearing the coos that come from a sweet, milky, toothless mouth.  Like baths in the kitchen sink.

About two weeks ago our youngest son started riding a two-wheeler without training wheels.  My baby, at 3 1/2, is helmet-clad and tearing down the street like a bat out of hell yelling, “DIRT BIKE RIDER!!” I’m sorry–what just happened?  Was he not in diapers just last summer?  Was he not safe in my arms only a second ago?  Where did that time go?

I’m thankful that this time it’s Cindy who’s pregnant.  I’ve got bad knees and I like my new jeans too much to go down that road again—and don’t even get me thinking about how I could barely sleep for the entire last trimester!  Still, it’s something that I’m acknowledging is a loss for me.  My stage of mommyhood has more to do with explaining sperm and eggs than it does with that sperm + egg combo needing to be fed at 3 a.m.  The little fingers are losing their dimples at our house, and the little toes are growing out of their shoes.

So to all you sisters out there who are not yet mothers, those of you busy building a baby right now, or those of you with very little ones at your sides, here’s a reminder to treasure it.  I know you hear it all the time from the old ladies in the grocery store…but here’s a not-so-old lady telling you the same thing.  Pretty soon you’ll declare your womb closed for business, and you’ll be raising your family while the world swirls around you.  Pay attention.  The little moments are the things that fill up your heart; the heart that started beating inside your own mom when the miniature fetus-version of you was just 18 days old.

Sacred Laundry

Today is going to be one of those days, I can tell already.   While getting my son ready for school I was, as any multi-tasking mom would be, unloading the dishwasher.  I actually startled myself by saying “YAY!” after completely emptying the top rack. It just slipped out of my mouth, like the first time you swear in front of your mom and then quickly slap an ashamed hand over your dropped jaw.  What is wrong with this picture?? I must really be desperate to check something off the list!!…or perhaps I should talk to a specialist about my current mental condition.

It’s barely 8:30 in the morning, and already I’m sizing up the competition: laundry, dirty dishes, clean clothes that are folded but not put away.  You know the list.  Endlessly full of tasks that, while gratifying to complete, are less than gratifying to actually do. My mental energy is being spent wondering things like:  If I called my husband and begged him to take a personal day, would he come home to help me clean? or  Does everyone have a house that gets this messy? I’m sure not.  But the amount that I have to do today seems so overwhelming, I really don’t know where to start.  I just want to go back to bed and snuggle with my youngest and feel the cool air from the nearby open window.

This balancing act can be difficult for me; that is, balancing my ‘duties’ around the house and still making time to go on bike rides with the kids, take them to the library, play outside and whip up a batch of cookies before the school bus returns the rest of our family to our doorstep.  It’s hard for me because I don’t like living in a mess.  It’s not relaxing to sit and watch the NBA Finals with my husband while simultaneously staring at our dining room table that is literally covered in PILES of laundry.  My husband?  He could care less.  I mean, he loves a clean house, but in that moment, at 9:30 at night, he just wants to sit down–check that–lay down on the couch and relax.  Easy for him, I think, because he gets to leave this bombed-out hole tomorrow morning!

Contributing to this disastrous abode was my brilliant decision to spend the entire day yesterday outside planting flowers.  I don’t say that sarcastically–it was a really great day.  I threw all care and fashion sense to the wind and even put on a sun visor while I planted.  I felt like a Florida retiree: sun visor, sunglasses, tank top and jean shorts, digging in the dirt and hoping my lovely flat of zinnias would endure my amateur gardening skills.  The kids were outside helping me and before long, even a few neighbors wandered over or waved encouragement from their car window.  One neighbor who I’m still getting to know actually stayed and helped me weed our side flower bed.  Wow!  The sun on my shoulders, the wind in my hair that needs a haircut…it was awesome.  I’m so glad spring is finally here.  BUT…  With the front yard wearing a fresh splash of color, I opened the front door of our home and was welcomed by the reality of life inside these walls.  What a drag.

Years ago I was given a tape [remember when church had cassette tape ministries?!] of a sermon that our pastor, Rob, gave called, “Welcome to the Staff.”  This tape has given me so much fresh thought and hope while I drudge through my dirty days.  In it he teaches from Deuteronomy 29:2-6 where Moses and the Israelites are recalling their 40 years wandering in the desert.  The fascinating part of this text is verse 5:  “During the forty years that I led you through the desert, your clothes did not wear out, nor did the sandals on your feet.”   While I will not even attempt to replicate Rob’s message, the gist of it was that the part of the Israelites’ sacred history–the part that Moses takes the time to notice, the part that makes it into the Bible, the part that is worth writing down–is something as mundane and ordinary as clothes and shoes.  Our pastor goes on to encourage us:  how many mundane and ordinary parts of our day are actually contributing to sacred history?  The boring, repetitive jobs we all do, the mindless tasks we tackle each day…could they be part of something bigger?  After all, Rob points out, do you think even one of the Israelites ever looked at their dusty stinky sandals during those 40 years and thought, “People will be talking about these for 2000 years!”

He continues to explain that the Jewish writers of Scripture understood that “holiness and meaning was found in the everyday–not in extracting yourself from…the rituals of every day.”  Isn’t that true?  He references other texts to further his point, and then lands on one of my favorites:  Colossians 3:23.  “Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward.  It is the Lord Christ you are serving.”  Paul, the writer here, is underscoring the point.  Whatever you do.  There is no separation between sacred and secular, spiritual and nonspiritual, Jesus and world.  To the believer, it is ALL for the Lord.  ALL of life is spiritual.  ALL of life is about serving and loving, praising and worshipping.

Even laundry?

Yes.  Even laundry.  Even sweeping the floor and wiping butts and noses.  This perspective has so helped me re-think my days and what I do here in this house.  God notices.  Not whether or not I leave streaks on the windows or miss a spot on the table, but he sees me.  More importantly, he sees through to my heart.

Today I’m determined to keep my focus on the fact that my life right now is my ministry.  Today I’m determined to remember that whatever I do, I should work at it with all my heart, because it is the Lord I’m serving. I may not have the balancing part down to a science.  Somedays I work too hard on the house and don’t play enough with my kids.  Other days I play too much and get nothing done.  And wear a sun visor.

But I’m trying to figure it out.  I’m trying to remember that it may be a struggle, but it may also be how God refines me.  I’m trying to remember, this day, that laundry can be sacred.

Communion

This past Sunday I had the privilege of sharing in a most sacred mystery by helping serve Communion at our church.  When my best friend asked me if I’d be interested, I didn’t know how to respond.   Even though I’ve seen it done hundreds–maybe thousands–of times by other ordinary men and women, and even though I grew up in a Protestant church, I suddenly felt like only a priest should be handling the elements.  I felt inadequate.  Unholy.  Unqualified.  What did I know about administering Communion?  Shouldn’t somebody do a background check or at least spy on me for awhile to make sure I don’t yell at my kids or cheat on my taxes?

As a nod to my priestly concerns, I wore a black button down shirt and arrived to church early.  I checked the planning sheet for my station and serving partner, trying to still my mind and quiet my heart before the service began.  The large, imposing beams of our wooden cross, so simple a killing machine, yet so beautiful, stood under the lights at the center of the stage.  Two years ago, as partakers in another sacred mystery, I had the joy of nailing my declaration of faith to this same cross before I was baptized next to this same stage.  The same best friend went down into the water with me: both of us washed new and clean.  Old believers living a new kind of faith.  Young women both, joining the company of ages-old saints striving to live out the way of Jesus.  Trying to grasp the love that was stretched out for us on those beams.

When it was time for us to go up to the front of church to serve, I started to feel myself pull inward.  My fellow Jesus-walkers on their feet, praying communally, and me, eyes glued to the simple wooden bowl of wafers in my hands.  Are you OK? my partner asked me.  Yes.  No.  I don’t know. I wanted to say all these things, but managed a weak assurance instead.  It’s hard to describe the enormity of what I was feeling.  Overwhelmed by the meaning of it all.  Overwhelmed by love.  Overwhelmed by what I was saying to each pair of eyes that met mine:  This is the Body of Christ, broken for you.

The line stretched beyond my line of vision.  One by one they came: coifed and fancy. This is the Body of Christ, broken for you. Tatooed and dred-locked:  This is the Body of Christ, broken for you. Young and downcast, old and frail, strong, weak, sick, unsure, teary-eyed, rejoicing.  I looked them each in the face and the force of history and the weight of these words hit me.  THIS is the Body of Christ, broken for you.  This is the Body of Christ, broken for YOU.  The sacrifice came alive.  Each one of these people, fully excepted, fully loved, fully died-for, fully redeemed.  Before time began.  Before even given the choice to accept or reject Him, He embraced them—each of us.   I swallowed hard and felt my $6 mascara slip down and away from my lashes.  Did they feel it?  Did they feel His love?  Do they know Him?  Do they understand?  I breathed in, breathed out.

Our worship leader was singing in the background and I was singing in my heart.  Standing on that side of the gift—on the giving side—was an experience filled with such power I think I might have actually been glowing with some kind of supernatural spirit-love.  I am no priest and as my family will readily tell you, I am far from perfect.  But how wonderful to think that I don’t have to perfect to approach the throne of our God.  How wonderful to think that we can come to Him as we are: black shirt and tears in our eyes and stained and damaged, and he accepts us completely.

Matt, my serving partner took the elements and turned to me: This is the Body of Christ, broken for you.  This is the Blood of Christ, shed for you. My eyes closed.  My eyes were opened.

Joining in such a God-drenched moment in time is something that can only be described, I’m convinced, by words not yet contained in our language.

Last One on the Kickball Field

Unless you had the good fortune of being a fast runner and skilled kicker, I think everyone can remember the feeling of being the last one chosen for teams when the kickball was rolled at recess.  That was always me:  lined up on the place where dirt meets grass, waiting.  Standing at the ready, toes jabbing nervously into the dust, trying desperately to look around without making eye contact with the captains in charge of each person’s kickball destiny.   Person to my left, an early pick.  Person to my right, not a classically-trained kickballer, but still better than me.

The feeling of being left out is something not easily forgotten.  I’ve gone on to have a great life and have managed to put my ill-fated kickball career behind me without any counseling or medication.  I don’t think about those days much, except to pray that my own children will not be ridiculed if they do in fact lack the bronze ring of the recess playground:  athletic ability.  Still, there’s a new field of play that, if I’m honest, is slowing picking the old scab of rejection.  This time, the wound pickers are those sitting to my left and right around the dinner table on Sunday afternoons: my extended family.

Comments, subtly inserted into conversation: Remember that waitress at dinner last weekend?  hahaha… or  Hey–you left this at our house last time we hung out… There I sit, lined up where the table meets my stuffed abdomen.  Fork moving from corn to potatoes and back again.  I take a drink and nudge my husband under the table, wondering why they don’t hear the elephant shifting its weight in the smallness of the room.  Where were we that night?  Why didn’t our phone ring?  Not even a mercy invite?…Then again, do I want a mercy invite?? I used to count at least one of these people as a dear, dear friend.  In fact, friend first, relative second.  So why has this new curtain dropped between us?  I haven’t quite figured out how to process this.  There are a lot of layers that need to get peeled away, and I’m not sure I’m the one for the job.  Do I really want to know the answers?

This past week I happened upon Dr. Gary Chapman on the radio, talking to singles about dating and God and singleness.  He took some time to address the issue of rejection and what a man [or woman] might mean if they say something along the lines of, ‘I just don’t think we have the chemistry we need to move forward in this relationship.‘  What is the stunned person [probably the girl] to do–to say–in the face of such blunt, albeit gentle, rejection?  And does the non-chemistry-feeling boy owe this poor, bumbling, unacceptable girl an explanation?  After all, what does he mean when he states that they don’t have “chemistry?”  Certainly, any introspective girl would rightly wonder!  Dr. Smalley said that in general, he does not think the rejected party should probe deeper.  After all, he pointed out, if the non-chemistry-feeling boy wanted to share his list of your offending qualities, he would have told you.  So, he concludes, accept this miserable boy’s decision and move on.  No questions asked.

In light of this argument, I find myself warring over what to do with the kickballers at Sunday dinner.  If they don’t feel the “chemistry” between themselves and us, why dive into that murky pool?  Why wait to hear their list of our offenses?  On the other hand, if I need to ask forgiveness for something, I welcome the opportunity to erase the slate and move forward.  I would hate to think that something I have done–or failed to do–has impaired something I always regarded as loving and communal.

Families are weird sometimes, but the beauty of families is that we are supposed to be one team.  There should be no choosing sides.  No picking her over me.  No loving her better for some arbitrary and juvenile reason.  It should be a place of warmth and safety and acceptance.

When the ball is rolled out next Sunday, I’m praying that the teams will slowly settle into the dirt and that there will be no more separation: whether perceived or actual.  No one wants to be the last person standing on the kickball field, toes covered with dust, heart sinking.  I’m too old to be worried about my own family rejecting me.  I’m too old to spend mental energy wondering why my family wasn’t asked to join the game.  But I still care.  And it still hurts.  Whether at recess or in life, it still hurts.

Blogging: Take 2

Well, I attempted this last fall, and here I am making a go of it again.

Here’s to consistency, honesty, thoughtfulness, and hopefully, good writing.

Thanks for reading!   Jane