Simply Rea

Pinterest, and a love song

2012-02-15T07:27:00.002-06:00

Pinterest. That great scrapbook of the internet where we go to plan our dreams of houses, weddings, children and a 5-star gourmet kitchen. You can learn a lot about people by spending a few minutes looking at what they pin. This one dreams of urban homesteading. That one loves all things old-fashioned and romantic. Another wants to travel the world. Edgy, soft, bold, quirky...all of these come through when you look at what interests people.

Pithy quotes and bumper sticker philosophy abound. Sometimes I see something that I agree with wholeheartedly and pin it to an inspiration board.

From the lovely elembee.com via Pinterest

Sometimes I see things that just make me roll my eyes and move on because of the superficiality, misspelling, or really poor theology.

And then there are pins that I see that irritate me so much I decide to devote a blog post to them. Why? Well, because I CAN!

This is one of those pins.

via Pinterest

Oh, this bugs me. I suppose it particularly bugs me because it is the time of year where we are told that love must be summed up in grand gestures of flowers, cards that cost almost as much as flowers used to cost, and jewelry. Because she doesn't know you love her if you don't buy her something from THAT store.

Yes, in order for love to be worth it there must be passion! It must be superlative! Big! Exciting!

Hogwash! (Because I use old fashioned words like that.)

Do you know what love looks like? Love looks like me, waking my husband the other morning and asking "Can you get the boys up and ready, because I'm not feeling well at all." And him doing it. Just getting up and doing it because I asked.

Love looks like a kiss goodbye in the morning and me truly hoping and caring that he has a good day.

Love looks like him when the first was tiny, holding him in the middle of the night so that I could sleep.

Love looks like him trying to find the right words to tell me how much he loves me and always worrying that he's not good enough at saying it. And I would take ten fumbling words from his heart over the most eloquent poetry any day.

It doesn't always look mad and passionate. Some days it looks like just getting by, just putting food on the table and getting the kids to bed. And if I ran away looking for mad and passionate I would miss the truth. And the truth is this: real love is extraordinary in ALL its forms. Never think that just because it doesn't look like a Hollywood screenplay that it isn't real love. Never think that just because your love story doesn't have fireworks and your toes don't tingle that it means your love is less than perfect. Look at your love on your own terms, not what someone else tells you it should be.

In the end we all find our own definition of what extraordinary love is. And I wouldn't trade this love for all the world.

The 5 stages of sickness

2012-01-30T09:38:00.000-06:00

Stage 1: Denial. A scratchy throat? Nah, it's allergies. Or...something. I'm not getting sick. I don't have time to get sick. I'll just drink a lot of water and tomorrow it will ALL be gone. And look, I ate a lot of fruits and vegetables today so all of those vitamins are swimming around in my blood doing their job. Free radicals and antioxidants and all that stuff. Yep, by tomorrow morning I'll be just fine.

Stage 2: Anger. All right. WHO gave this to me? Did one of the boys bring it home from school? Was it that child who coughed without covering their mouth? Someone out and about who SHOULD have been home? It's not fair. I don't have time to be sick. Why can't people just stay home and keep their germs to themselves?

Stage 3: Bargaining. If I just get better I PROMISE I will clean the house from top to bottom! Everything will be clean and beautiful and fairies will dance over the sparkling surfaces of my kitchen tossing rainbows and joy everywhere. Just PLEASE let me feel better.

Stage 4: Depression. I will never feel better. I have always been sick and I will always be sick. There is no health. Pass the chocolate, it is the one joy I have left in life. Except I can't even taste it.

Stage 5: Acceptance. OK, so I'm sick. I've been sick before and it passed, so will this. At least I can stay home and work in the comfort of my robe and slippers. I think my cough is turning the corner into something slightly less miserable. I'll go drink another mug of tea.

Happy cold and flu season, ya'll!

By Andrea Joseph via Flickr

Old school

2012-01-25T22:50:00.000-06:00

"I had an argument with one of my friends in class today," he says. "We were talking about businesses we would create when we grow up and he said he wanted to have a weapons store. I said I didn't like that because it is about killing people."

"Some of the kids tease me at lunch and say I am old school because I say a prayer before I eat."

Photo by vakoom via Flickr

"I don't think I trust those science people and their evolution stuff."

Oh, God help me. I'm so not ready for this. I'm not ready to handle even one of those issues let alone all three in the span of a fifteen minute ride home from church when it is already past their bedtime. Can I please go back to the days when all I had to do is sing 'Jesus loves me, this I know' to them? Back to the days when we weren't on the 'read through the picture Bible in a year' plan and I didn't have to try to explain why all those people had to die and reconcile that with a God who loves completely.

I'm still trying to wrap MY mind around issues of deep theology and ambiguity and being okay with questioning, I'm not ready to deal with it in a nine year old. How do I explain that there are things we don't know to a child for whom logic has an answer for everything? How do I explain that there isn't anything bad or evil about scientific fact and that it is perfectly all right to weigh everything and come to his own conclusions? How do I explain why some people don't believe in God, or why they think it is silly to pray before a meal? How do I explain that two people can love God with all their heart but believe very different things on so many issues?

photo by Sylvain Masson via Flickr

I want it to be easy for him, but it isn't. It will never get any simpler than it is now. All I have to offer is the heart of a broken mother on her own long journey.

All I can do is pray every day, "God help me."

I take his face in my hands and look into his eyes. "I don't know the answer on this", I tell him. "But this one thing I do know for certain from the Bible. That God loved YOU so much that even if you were the only person on earth he would still have sent Jesus to die for you. THAT I know, even when I'm not sure of any other answers."

And for now, just for this evening, that seems to be answer enough.

You Have to be There

2011-09-20T17:12:00.000-05:00

I am so small on this earth, I am nothing without You;

Daring to doubt You at all turns the knife in my heart...

"You Have To Be There" from "Kristina from Duvemåla"

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

Why are you so far from saving me, from the words of my groaning?

O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer,

and by night, but I find no rest.

Psalm 22:1-2

photo by Mutasim Billah Pritam

Can I be perfectly honest? Some days I just don't have this whole faith thing figured out. I stand in church and I mouth the words to songs that skim like a skipping stone along the surface of my day and I don't know what any of it means. I sit down in the mornings, coffee in hand, with Bible and highlighter and it's all just words that crumble if I try to grasp them. I pray and I wonder if anyone is listening. I wonder what the magic trick is to figuring this all out, to being one of those so sure and steady in their faith.

Am I too much a cynic?

I scan back through words written over the years. Some days it seems that I understood it, that I grasped this idea of God-love pouring over our lives. Or were they just words? I wonder if I'm all talk and no substance.

Am I a fake?

I read through the picture Bible with my boys and they want to know why Isaac is on the altar and I don't know the answer other than that God told his dad to sacrifice him and Abraham said 'OK' because he loved God more than anything. I don't know how to tell them this without raising the specter of "What if God asked you to sacrifice me?" And I don't know how to tell them that if it came down to that I would choose them over God any day.

Am I a bad Christian?

I have not suffered. I have never lost a child, a job, a house, a life. I have never gone hungry, never known the pain of terminal illness, of famine, of war. I am loved by my husband and my children. I have friends. My petty trials have been so very easy, so fleeting in the grand scheme of things. How can I have all this and be so small in my faith compared to those who have suffered loss, pain, sickness? How dare I doubt?

Am I simply weak?

I know that God can handle my questions. I know that I don't have to have everything figured out. But sometimes I feel like the least certain of his children, the one in the back of the crowd trying to get a glimpse of him but always falling off of whatever I've climbed up on for a view. And yet I stay here, because where else would I go? Even if I can't see him, he HAS to be there.

Note: I first heard this song almost a month ago, and have spent the past month writing and re-writing this post trying to articulate why this song resonates with me on such a deep, gut-wrenching level. And thus the quiet on my blog, because every time I opened it this post was staring at me, daring me to finish it before I wrote another word. I can't be all light and happy and 'oh, look at the room we just painted' at the cost of being authentic. So here it is. Here I am.

Sharing this bit of myself on Life: Unmasked at Joy in this Journey.

To a First Grade teacher

2011-08-17T09:25:00.000-05:00

Dear teacher of my youngest child:

I met you at the school open house last night, and you seemed to be everything I want in a first grade teacher: warm, open, caring, a person who relates instantly with children, who can get my shy child to actually tell you his name! I’m looking forward to this year with you and to everything that you will teach my child.

Before I hand him off to you for nearly seven hours a day though, there are some things I want you to know about my child. Oh, I know that you had us fill out a paper at the open house “My child in a million words or less.” But I’m an introvert and I don’t process thoughts that quickly, and I’m a word person who can’t distill my child into a few short paragraphs. So here is what I would have told you about this child, one of the great loves of my life…

From the moment he was born I was sure this was going to be my extroverted child. Whatever he did he did with gusto and went after it with a single minded determination. Imagine my surprise, then, to discover a few years into his life that he takes more after his introverted mother. This child will play well with a few close friends, but everyone else gets the shy head duck. Even classmates he spent the past year with will be nearly strangers if he meets them in public.

A classic introvert, he wants to please and he craves affection. This can sometimes get him carried away with clowning around because he loves to make people laugh. He loves to get reactions from people. It has taken me several years to realize that this is his way of saying “Here I am, SEE me! Notice me!” I’m learning that what he really wants most is the connection, the hand on the shoulder, the smile, and the affirmation of who he is.

In solitude he has one of the richest imaginations I’ve ever seen. He will sit for hours by our refrigerator playing with the magnetic poetry words. Not so much reading them as turning them into characters in whatever elaborate story he happens to be making up at the moment. They are spaceships, they are monsters, and they are animals and people and a thousand other things living out their story on a white background. Give him outlets for his imagination and watch him come to life.

This desire for solitude will be your biggest challenge, as it is mine. There will be many days when he just doesn’t want to go to school. I’m beginning to suspect they are the days he just wants to hole up in the introvert cave and be silent, the days he wants it to be just him and me. Be gentle with him on those days. You will know them because he will arrive at school with tear streaked face and stubborn eyes. He’s lost the battle to stay home, and I’m counting on you to remind him that school can also be a safe and nurturing place.

Delight in and nurture his imagination.

Be patient with his frustration when he struggles to master a concept. (Anything linear; days of the week, time, math…these are the things he will struggle with.)

Be gentle but firm when he acts out. He will get carried away; he will need to be reminded.

Most of all, love him. Love him because I worry that loving him from a distance won’t be enough to carry him through his days. Love him because he is loveable. Love him because he is my child, because he is anybody’s child.

I’m giving you the sacred trust of helping to teach my child. I wouldn’t hand that over to just anybody. I wouldn’t hand HIM over to just anybody. Be worthy of that trust.

Sincerely,

A mother

So short...

2011-08-10T09:31:00.000-05:00

Is this it, then? The end of summer already? Only a week and a half until the boys start school would seem to indicate that at least by the calendar it is almost over. Yesterday they received their classroom assignments in the mail, a sure sign that school is upon us.

And then there is the weather, slated to barely top 80 for the next ten days with night-time temperatures dropping into the 50's. At least these last few blissful days of free time can be filled with lots of outdoor play.

With the dropping degrees comes a desire to turn back to my mainstay hot coffee in the morning. But oh, iced coffee you have been so good to me for the last month! Happy concentrate sitting in my refrigerator just waiting to be poured over ice each morning, followed by a splash of milk...or if I'm feeling reckless I don't shake the jar and pour the cream off the top instead. So pretty as it swirls together, so delicious. So easy it's a good thing I made it decaf because I've been drinking multiple glasses a day.

I'm savoring these last days of summer; hanging out in the hammock with my boys after dark, snuggling and reading, the last few trips to the park. Soon they'll be heading off to school again, childhood passing one year after another. Like summer it is gone all too quickly.

What I'm reading - August Edition

2011-08-05T10:37:00.000-05:00

The problem with reading blogs is that ~~occasionally~~ frequently they will review books that sound really interesting. This is causing my 'to-read' list over at Goodreads to increase beyond what I could possibly read in at least the next six months. And every time I knock a book off, two or three more come to take its place. This could get expensive if I bought every book, fortunately we have a great library system that has most of them available. But sometimes books hover at the top of my list for awhile and the library doesn't have them and I never win any of the free copies given away on blogs, so I give up and order them. I just got an order in this week, so suddenly my pile of books has grown dramatically. Here's what I'm reading, or contemplating reading, this month.

Pagan Christianity by Frank Viola and George Barna. This is a library book that I'm about half-way through. So far it has been a surprisingly easy read (there are copious footnotes and references at the bottom of each page for the more scholarly minded). The book explores the roots of...well, just about EVERYTHING we do or see in church. From the set-up of the building, to what we wear to the order of service this book shows where those practices came from and how they deviate from what the 1st century church looked like and was intended to be.

OK, I wasn't naive enough to think that the early church looked like how we do things now. Still, it is eye-opening to see just how we differ and why that can hinder the church functioning in the way it was intended to function. No, I'm not ready to run out and join a house church; I love the church I'm at too much for that. But this book is making me rethink how we function as a body and wonder if there is any way to move back at all.

Following somewhat off that is the next book on my list Introverts in the Church by Adam McHugh. If you know me you know that I am an introvert's introvert. There's not even any question about it. My 'I' on the Meyers Briggs is about as heavily weighted of an I as you can get. So from the moment I saw this book reviewed I knew I had to read it, because honestly the attitude of the many wonderful extroverts I know that with God's help I can exhibit my passion just like them is getting a little bit wearying. If God wanted me to act like them then wouldn't he have made me an extrovert? This book is about introverts finding our place in a church that values extroverts as the highest example of the what we should attain to. It is a book for introverts like me, struggling to find their place. It is a book for the extroverts who love us, to help them understand that we are not simply less passionate versions of themselves. It is a book for the 25% of pastors who are introverts in a position where people expect them to be extroverts. It as a book for the members of their churches wondering why their pastor doesn't act the way they think a pastor ought to act. In other words, its a book for all of us.

The next book on my list is Half the Church: Recapturing God's Global Vision for Women by Carolyn Custis James. (Are you detecting a theme here?) This book is my antidote to the teaching of 'what a Godly Christian Woman (TM) looks like'. It takes away the assumption that all women operate on the same economic or stage of life footing and examines what God really calls us to be.

Half the Sky: Turning Oppression into Opportunity for Women Worldwide by Kristof and WuDunn is next on my list. (See, I just took the theme and turned a corner!) This one hit my list mainly because I am passionate about women's and children's issues and am trying to figure out how to direct that passion.

And finally Just Moms: Conveying Justice in an Unjust World, a compilation of stories from 27 authors on modeling Christian social-justice principles for our children. I will admit that so far this one is my favorite because it is SO readable. Every story is short, every story is self-contained, every story is REAL! This is the perfect book for moms like myself who are right the thick of mothering and wondering how to teach our children about things like simplicity, equality, peace, and giving. It is a book to reassure us that we don't have to follow some program and get it perfect, that we don't have to turn out perfect little activists. We just have to be real, and allow our children to be real as well.

Oh, ok, that's not the last book in my list. Lest you think I'm all about the non-fiction let me assure you that my primary delight is fiction and this month I am also reading:

Unwind which I need to pick up from the library today and also A Game of Thrones because it has been awhile since I geeked out on a good epic fantasy. I may also work a few cheesy mysteries and chick-lit books in there as well. I am so not an intellectual!

So, that's what I'm reading, what about you?

P.S. I can't possibly read all of these books at once, so if anyone in this area really wants to borrow one I will happily lend it out.

Let us not grow weary...

2011-08-04T11:40:00.000-05:00

And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up. Gal. 6:9 (ESV)

I see them staring out from my computer screen. Faces of children dying of starvation in Somalia; 29,000 of them in the last three months. That is JUST the number for those under the age of five. That would be all but 7,000 of the preschoolers in Washington, DC. Half of the preschoolers in Delaware or South Dakota. 1 out of every 100 in California. I read the news stories and I glance at the comments hoping to see people moved to help. I need to stop reading the comments, because how can people look into the face of suffering like this and be so hateful, so vengeful, so unmoved?

I read the stories from bloggers currently traveling in Bolivia with World Vision. More faces of children, more stories of poverty, of children walking an hour to get to school, of fathers leaving families to find work and never returning. Stories that bring tears to my eyes and rip holes in my heart. And I hear the frustration in the words of the bloggers as they report that their blog stats are down because apparently people don't want to hear about the broken places.

The other week our family participated in the annual Minn-Kota Festival for World Relief. This sale takes place to help support the relief, development and peace branch of our denomination's ministry, Mennonite Central Committee. Handmade quilts, wooden furnishings and a variety of other items are auctioned off, theme baskets are created for the silent auction, food abounds. But every year the sale is smaller, every year it seems that fewer people attend. People in our age group just don't make the effort.

Indy after a busy day at the sale

What's the deal? Have we grown weary of doing good? Is there too much suffering in the world for us to comprehend and so we close ourselves off because the small difference we could make doesn't seem to be enough? Are we so caught up in our lives that we just don't care enough to make the effort to help?

I wish that I could instantly help every child who needs it. I wish that I could change the world. I wish that I weren't so self-centered sometimes, that I could think more of growing the kingdom of God and less of growing my possessions. I wish that I could find more ways to consume less and give more. I wish that I didn't feel such a pull to live like everyone else around me.

And so I start small, because small is what I do best. I glue a map of Africa to a jar and set it on the kitchen table. I toss in the coins because they are just change and really I won't miss eighty cents, will I? And eighty cents grows into two dollars and then three and I start to look for more ways to make a change. I step on the scale and I'm pretty sure it's broken and I should get a new one...but do I really need something to tell me that I'm still eating too much? Couldn't that $25 feed a family instead?

I clear my closets and bag the excess to take to a thrift store. Double blessings here because maybe someone will have clothes they couldn't afford, and proceeds from this store go for world relief. My children want to know why we don't have a garage sale and all I can say is 'because we don't need to'. And we don't. I am not so poor that I can't afford to give away.

So I keep going with small. A dollar here, a dollar there. I can't change the world, but I can change the way I see it. I can change myself. I can refuse to grow weary of doing good.

Potluck

2011-07-16T21:04:00.000-05:00

Can I make a confession? A confession that could potentially alienate my friends or at least cause them to roll their eyes and say "Really? Get over yourself!"

I am a competitive potlucker. It is sort of like my own mini version of 'Throwdown with Bobby Flay' or 'The Next Food Network Star'. Oh come on, don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about! Either you do this or you know exactly the woman at your church of whom I speak.

There's a church potluck tomorrow and I began mapping out my strategy early this morning. (Yeah, I'm a lightweight. A real competitive potlucker starts the moment the potluck is announced.) Should I bring one dish or two? One dish allows me to pull out all the stops and really give that dish my full attention. But if it fails then I have just brought one really bad dish that no one likes. Two dishes means I must divide my time and attention, but there is greater chance that at least one of them will be a rousing success. OK, two dishes it is. Best to do a main and a dessert, there's just not as much glory to be had in a really well done salad. But it IS summer and pushing 100 both outside and apparently in my kitchen as well, so I'll do a salad-y sort of main dish. Risky, but necessary.

Once the courses are decided on the searching begins. Go with a tried and true recipe, or find something new off the internet? Take a risk on a recipe on a food blog that doesn't come with a rating or use a site that has handy stars or forks to rate how highly recommended a recipe comes. Stars are always good, preferably from several hundred people or more. Nine hundred people can't be wrong, right?

Hmm. Blueberry zucchini bread? Interesting. Summery, should hit about the right note. Do I go for the full sugar that I know earned it a lot of those rave reviews, or follow my instincts and the advice of the more health conscious reviewers and reduce it by half? Ah, health consciousness, I hope you won't be my downfall...half the sugar it is. Oh, one reviewer added streusel topping; should I do that? Nah, I think I'm going to aim for the 'simple knockout' strategy on this recipe. Into the oven it goes.

Whew, it's getting hot in my kitchen!

Salad time! Did I mention that there are bonus points to be had from knowing that some people love the lack of highly processed ingredients? Yep, there are. Hmm. The ramen noodles may take me down a peg, but the dressing is all homemade. And once again the heat wins out as I chop up a rotisserie chicken instead of preparing my own.

When the day of the potluck dawns I will cart my offerings to church and lay them out on the altar of fellowship. I will sample the foods that others have brought, I will watch the dishes to see which item disappears first. (It's always the pizza and KFC, but I'm not counting those.) Did someone just take seconds of my dish? Point! Did someone at my table just say "Wow, this bread is amazing? Who brought this?" Double point! Triple points if a short conversation ensues between several parties about how good it is. Bonus if I get asked for the recipe after humbly declaring my ownership of the item in question.

Yes folks, I am indeed competitive about my potlucks. But in the end, whether I succeed or fail the truly wonderful thing is gathering with my church family. Some of them can't cook worth a hoot, bless their hearts, but I couldn't think of anyone I would rather have fellowship with, no one I would rather laugh with, chat with or drink powdered lemonade with. So bring on the potluck, and may we all go home satisfied!

Disclaimer: This is slightly tongue in cheek, I'm not really THAT competitive. Maybe.

Skirting the issue

2011-07-14T19:41:00.000-05:00

I have a new love in my life. It steals my time and I love every minute of it. I tell myself that it is worth it because it will somehow magically unleash the creative side of me. My love? Pinterest.

Yes, I've been sucked in and I'm only slightly ashamed to admit it. I did make a decision at the outset that I wasn't going to let it become a catalyst for being dissatisfied with what I have, that I wasn't going to let it become a source of a 'gimme' list. You will find very few gadgets pinned to my boards. Instead, it's a place of inspiration for crafting, thrifting, home decorating on a budget and oh yes, lots and lots of food. (There may also be a board dedicated to my love of all things geeky and sci-fi/fantasy related.)

The other day I was browsing some boards and came across this tutorial for making a skirt out of a men's t-shirt. Immediately I decided that I had to make one of those. The only problem was that none of my husband's t-shirts were long enough to cut into and still have a skirt of sufficient length, and I wanted it for this weekend.

No big deal, I thought. After all, what is a t-shirt other than a tube of stretchy fabric? So I hit the fabric store, bought a yard of techni-colored t-shirt fabric for three dollars and started sewing.

Here's how I modified the original tutorial.

First, I measured my hips at the biggest part, added in one inch for seam allowance and one inch for ease, because the last thing I want is fabric stretched tight across my rear. I kind of wish I had added another inch...the amount of ease you give it can be up to you, limited only by the width of your fabric. Fold your fabric in half with the stretch running horizontally. (You want it to stretch over your hips, unless you have no hips in which case I do not like you.) Stitch a seam along the open side.

OK, you can't really see it that well, but you've just ended up with a tube of material. I played with my machine and found an interesting new stitch that I used to finish off the edge of the seam.

Once you have your tube of material, start shirring from the top as explained in the original tutorial. (You will need elastic thread on the bobbin for this part.) I did about fifteen rows of shirring. I made the mistake of trying it on after only eight rows and resigned myself to hating it, but after fifteen the fit ended up just perfect.

I finished the hem with my new funky little stitch (which makes my sewing machine sound like it is going to explode), turning the hem under one inch and sewing a double row of stitches.

The entire project took me one afternoon, but part of that time was spent cursing my old machine because the thread kept breaking. And obviously if you start with a t-shirt you cut out several steps. In the end you will have a cute knit skirt that will hopefully help you weather those 100 degree days with just a little more style. Although it must be argued that plastering my lower half in bright tie-dye colors probably doesn't qualify as style. But it looks cute on the hangar and will make an awesome cover-up for going to the pool.

So, there's my justification for all the time spent on Pinterest. Who knows what I'll create next?

Book Review - The Muir House

2011-07-12T13:48:00.001-05:00

Link to Amazon

When I received The Muir House in the mail I jumped in and began to devour it in my typical 'Let's read this book as fast as I can because there are more books to be read and I don't have time for them all' fashion. And then I slowed down, because this book is just too good to rush through. Unlike many pop Christian authors Mary DeMuth writes with nuance and with symbolism that invites the reader to slow down and savor her books, mulling over characters, pondering thematic elements and sinking into the sense of place that often develops in each book.

After finishing I sat down to write my review. And then I got up without writing a word. The next time I think I got about three sentences on screen before giving up. Because the truth is, I loved The Muir House so much and want everyone to read it that I'm afraid a less than polished review won't do it justice. Sigh. Apparently I have taken the entire weight of DeMuth's career upon my own shoulders. Yeah, I have an overblown sense of my own importance like that.

But enough about me, on to actually reviewing the book. Did I mention it was good?

Willa Muir has just been proposed to by the man she loves. She walks away with the ring on her finger but with her future with Hale the green smoothie-drinking quasi-hippie boyfriend still in doubt. (Oh, how I love the descriptions of Hale!) Because Willa can't say yes, can't move forward with her life until she answers the one burning question that has consumed her for years. Events transpire fairly quickly that thrust her back to the place she does not want to go, the only place that still may hold the answers she is looking for. Questions of what defines home and how one finds it when what you have had is less than perfect are central to the story in The Muir House. Walls, houses and building become symbols for the internal journey even as they relate to the plot of the book.

Can I just be honest for a moment? There are times I wanted to smack Willa for refusing to move on with her life because of questions in her past. This is, I think, what makes this such a good book. Because after I think about smacking some sense into her I start to think about how much I may do something similar in my life. This is the beauty of DeMuth's writing, the flawed character with whom we can identify. I quickly tire of characters who solve every problem with perfect Christian composure and the scripture to back it up. I can relate to a character who is unavoidably messy, incredibly real, and DeMuth's books always have their share of messy. Even the perfect Hale deserved a little shaking at some moments.

Although neither a suspense nor a mystery book, this book contains enough questions to satisfy a mystery lover. Characters are introduced, past conversations are alluded to and gradually we piece together the story of who each person is, how they fit into Willa's life and the role they play in shaping her memories.The conclusion is neither saccharine sweet nor forced into a reality-defying turn of events that requires suspension of all common sense. It was, in fact, a satisfying conclusion that left me hoping for the possibility of a second book focusing on other characters in Willa's story.

Mary DeMuth gets better with every book she writes. Old fans will no doubt love this book as much as the others, and I hope that new fans are created who will then go back to seek out some of her past writing. She is well worth the time.

Disclaimer: I received a free copy of this book from the publisher in hopes that I would provide a favorable review. All opinions expressed in my review, however, are 100% my own.

Farm day!

2011-07-08T20:36:00.000-05:00

Summer is for heading down to the in-law's farm with the boys for a day of relaxing. Indy especially loves it there...the tractors, the 4-wheeler, the riding lawnmower that he can drive himself, the rope swing...

Oh, and the mulberries.

I picked some myself, a task that included mulberries falling down my shirt and branches poking me in the eye. But I got enough to fill the dehydrator.

The light ones are white mulberries which are THE BEST. This winter I shall have mulberries to toss onto granola or into trail mix. Yum. If Indy doesn't steal them all out of the dehydrator, that is.

And since I remembered my camera, you finally get some shots of my garden! (Can't you just feel the excitement building?)

All 30 or so tomato plants, which feels more like 300 when you are trying to prune the suckers off and the sweat is running down your back and mosquitoes are biting the corner of the eye that wasn't poked with a stick. But it is worth it when you see the little babies growing.

This might finally be my year! The year that my tomato growing is actually successful and I have enough to can sauce and salsa and pizza sauce and juice and the dried tomatoes that seem like such a good idea that I always forget to use.

And then I got so excited about the tomatoes and so hot and sweaty from tending them that I didn't take pictures of the corn or potatoes. Which pretty much look like corn and potato plants should, only with lots of weeds interspersed.

So...did I say relaxing? OK, it was a day pretty much filled with a lot of sweat and effort.

Except for Gates.

Other than a few brief stints on the rope swing he hung out in the air-conditioning, apparently planning a cross-country road trip.

Life is good down on the farm.

Mama angst

2011-06-22T18:00:00.000-05:00

I dropped him off at camp today, oldest child, newly sprung from 3rd grade, looking somehow smaller than all the other children even though this is supposed to be 3rd grade camp. What are all these other parents feeding their children, Miracle Gro?

Him, excited, nearly spinning himself into mental circles with the wondering of "What do we do next?"

Me, nervous, nearly falling down under the weight of the wondering "Will he be ok?"

Him, picking a bottom and then changing to a top bunk.

Me, remembering my husband's "I had a few campers fall out of the top bunk every year," not knowing what to say to him in front of his peers that wouldn't make him lose face, wouldn't take the light out of his eyes. Closing my eyes and trusting God to guard his sleep.

Him, wanting to change into his camp shirt right away.

Me, making him wait because 'none of the other boys are changing right now, so why don't you wait until they do?' All I want for him these next two days is that he 'fit in'.

And then there was the running off and me begging for a goodbye and him moving on and me getting in the car and driving away wondering if these boys barely old enough to shave are really capable of caring for my child. Despite my providing the camp with a guide to the hallmarks of Aspergers and the areas Gates will most likely struggle in, are they REALLY ready? Will his heart and his soul be nurtured or will I get back a child scarred when the dearly desired experience turns sour?

I come home and I worry. Worry about the bathroom and what if he needs to go in the middle of the night but is so frightened by the dark and wind that he wanders into the lake? Worry that he will be so overcome with newness that he will sink to the ground overwhelmed and no one will hear his cries over the wind. Worry that for two days no one will talk to him. Worry that the shine of camp will dull and cut too quickly.

I do not worry that other children will find him strange. I know they will. But will they find him loveable? Will they see the heart that I see? Will they marvel at the knowledge held in his mind? When he laughs too loudly, will they laugh with him? Will the staff be a safe place for him to fall?

I open Facebook and I see a Twitter update from a favorite author. Just one verse and nothing more.

The LORD himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged. (Deut. 31:8, NIV)

God himself going before us. Going before my child. Never leaving him, never forsaking him. I am not there, but God is. And God cares and loves and knows him more than my wildest abilities.

If I say I'm not still worried, I would be lying. My frantic Facebook updates chronicle my restraint in NOT emailing the camp to see if he has survived the last 4 hours. But I am trying to rest in this, the exhortation not to be afraid. God is there.

Decisions, decisions...

2011-06-16T14:14:00.000-05:00

Oh, I hate decisions! I hate them even more when I know what I'm SUPPOSED to choose but it isn't what I WANT to choose.

Yesterday in the mail I received my advance copy of Mary DeMuth's new book The Muir House.

I'm already hooked. Who is Mrs. Skye? Why is she the caretaker? What happened to Willa's father? What is it that she is trying to remember? What was in all of her papers that burned? SO many questions and I'm torn between wanting to hurry forward to find the answers and lingering over each scene so rich in language and symbolism. Houses. Walls. Building and burning. How will it all tie together? I just want to curl up on the couch and READ!

But...

there's also this:

What? You didn't think I was going to show you undoctored photos of just how bad my house really looks right now, did you? Suffice to say that chaos is king and has been for several weeks. And the chaos needs to be tamed. And the family needs to be fed.

But I really want to read my book.

I suppose I must resign myself to choosing the 'right' thing. All the while casting longing glances at the book and the couch.

Get well soon and don't touch me

2011-06-13T12:04:00.000-05:00

One of the challenges for a child with Aspergers is helping them to learn empathy. To say it doesn't come naturally to them would be VASTLY understating the issue. So it came as a bit of a shock to me this morning when Gates embarked on a mission to help his poor, sick mother feel better.

When I coughed he got me a cup of water.

He asked me about ten thousand questions about what time I started feeling sick, and what felt sick first, and how sick did I feel, and did I have a temperature?

He prayed to God to help me feel better.

And then he wrote me a 'Get well' card. I will probably keep it forever (for one thing, he told me to keep it).

The first thing you need to know is that he is incredibly practical and to the point. No fluffy pictures, no little jokes. He didn't even get out the nice paper, just some scrap paper.

See? Straight and to the point.
And then I am told to keep this helpful card.

But most importantly, there are TIPS!

Most important? Pray to God. Second most? Don't touch anybody.

And that, folks, is how an Aspie wishes you Get Well Soon! With a handy list of tips. I love my boy!

Mystics, Moonbeams and Myers-Briggs

2011-06-11T10:24:00.000-05:00

Several months ago I picked up a copy of the recently released One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp. I had never read her blog before, I was simply intrigued by the idea presented in the book and more than a little drawn in by the beautiful cover. Written in the rhythms of poetry the book is an invitation to discover grace in every moment, both the beautiful and the ugly, to see God in the mundane moments of our lives.

I was only a few chapters into the book when controversy erupted in the blogging world, perhaps not on the level of the controversy recently created by Rob Bell and Love Wins, but nonetheless, the parallels were there. Defenders of the faith, aghast that anyone would dare write something outside the realm of what they deemed appropriate spiritual writing, criticized the book severely for what they deemed a number of heretical ideas. It felt like a spiritual witch-hunt, complete with burning torches and the mobs in frenzied agreement.

The claims? Mostly that Voskamp dares to use mystical language to talk about spiritual matters, that she speaks of relationship with God in sexual terms, and that she doesn't see God as holy enough. Perhaps even that she lessens the sacrifice of Jesus. Illustrations of being drawn to worship God under the light of a full moon are projected into criticisms of panentheism, despite her own insistence that nature is but a reflection.

I do not know Ann. I cannot know her heart fully. But what I can say is that having begun reading her blog I see a woman who is DEEPLY in love with a holy God. I see a woman who realizes that viewing God's holiness is not limited to words left for us from centuries ago, not limited to the confines of the church building, to heads bowed in prayer. God's holiness encompasses all creation. It lives and breathes through every moment of our days and if we but take the time to stop for a moment and look we can see the artist's signature written across the world.

If one wants to question the orthodoxy of her beliefs she has spelled out beautifully in a page on her blog exactly what she believes:

I believe in Jehovah God who created the whirling galaxies, the birds soaring in the sky overhead, the endless crashing waves and all that dances within them. I believe in Father of all who knits together life, made in His very own image, in the secret quiet of our beings.

I believe in Jesus Christ, the One with no earthly Father, with the dust of this earth between His toes, and with our names etched onto the palm of His hands, right beneath the nail scars…Who now sits at the Father’s right hand making endless intercession on our behalf. I believe in the stone rolled away, in the Body being raised, in the first fruits of the dead…and us all following soon, very soon.

I believe in the Cross as our only Hope, our only Claim, and our only Foundation. I believe that in the pounding surf of life we have only one thing to cling to: the feet of our Lord, hanging on that tree, His lifeblood flowing down, washing us whiter than snow.

I believe in the Holy Spirit, moving, whispering, indwelling our very skin. I believe in living by the Spirit, walking in the Spirit, and producing fruit in the Spirit…in the Spirit who helps us in our weakness with groanings that can’t be expressed in words.

I believe in the infallibility of the Bible, God’s Word – a sure Word, a pure Word, the only secure Word. I believe the words on those pages are breathed from the very throne room of heaven, are the love letter penned from the heart of the Lover of our souls; a beacon of light for stumbling feet to find sure footing on a dark path.

It seems orthodox enough to me. Not that I am the perfect judge of all that is orthodox, but I'm pretty sure she covers all of the basics.

Photo by Ben Leto

So, what of this claim of mysticism? What of the accusation that quoting mystics somehow equates with heresy? Why are some bloggers so bothered by her 'heresy' that they CANNOT LET IT GO, continuing to dig at her with little jabs designed to get their audience nodded and jabbing along with them? (And why do I keep going back to these blogs, trying to figure out what motivates them?) What is the block that seemingly keeps them from understanding a more mystical view of things, the block that keeps me from understanding their seemingly cold adherence to sola scriptura?

As I lay in bed last night pondering this for the millionth time it hit me. Personality type. I wonder if it all comes down to personality type.

If you are familiar with the Myers-Briggs type indicator and the Kiersey temperament sorter then you've probably seen groups of letters tossed around: ISTJ, ENFP, ESFP, INTP, etc. Each letter of the group indicates how an individual is disposed to interact with the world around them; how they relate to others, how they process ideas, what energizes them. For example, a strong E personality is energized by their relation to people and objects in the outer world, whereas the I personality receives energy from the inner world dealing with ideas and concepts. S's prefer facts over ideas; N's prefer ideas over fact.

In a 1982 study (The Prayer and Temperament Project) Chester Michael and Marie Norrisey divided the four main temperaments into four streams of church spirituality: Ignation (SJ), Augustinian (NF), Franciscan (SP), and Thomistic (NT). Each of these temperaments deals with spirituality in a uniquely different way. I'm not going to detail the differences here although it can make for some interesting reading. Here are a few resources if you would like to learn a bit more:

http://thenoxfactor.com/files/NoxonMyers-Briggs.pdf

http://www.liturgy.co.nz/spirituality/info.html

http://www.youthministry.org.nz/?sid=134 (Uses Corinne Ware's four quadrant approach to spiritual type)

http://www.msgr.ca/msgr-3/personalitytypeprayers.html (OK, that one's mostly for fun...although once you dig deeper into the site it has some excellent suggestions on types of prayers that flow most easily from your personality type as well as suggestions for areas in which each type may need to focus additional attention.)

So, what is my point? Simply this, each of us will approach our spiritual life in a different way. Some will approach it entirely from logic; eschewing all idea that feeling might have any validity in the spiritual walk. Some will rely entirely on feeling, trusting that what they experience is real. Neither one is entirely wrong. Nor is either one entirely right. Simply because we are predisposed to relate to the world, to our spiritual life, in a certain way does not mean we should not challenge ourselves to understand from a different perspective. Most descriptions of Myers-Briggs types will also include areas of weakness for each personality type that will require effort in order to become a more balanced person.

Ultimately, my point is that more grace needs to be extended when we see someone who experiences God in a different way. If you are a realist, a person who deals in what logic and the printed word says, understand that there are people in whom God has placed a personality that is willing to embrace the unknown, a personality that is ok with some divine mystery and the creativity to express God in words that may feel awkward to you.

And if you are someone who dwells in the realm of mystery and metaphor, understand that not everyone will be able to understand that bent. Don't be quick to write off the ones who combine logic and scripture as hard-nosed, uncaring people whose only concern is using the Bible as a weapon. (And yes, I'm speaking to myself here.)

photo by amanderson

It all comes back to the heart. Only God can truly know another person's heart, only grace can make us shut up long enough to get a glimpse of it, only love can teach us to live with those whose hearts beat for the same God but whose minds express it differently.

photo by Elliott Brown

photo by Johan Hansson

Sometimes it just takes time

2011-06-09T14:27:00.000-05:00

A year or two ago I went to a plant sale and bought an iris to plant by my house. If there is any plant that I truly love (next to tulips and daffodils) it would be the iris. I've always admired homes that have great bunches of them blooming in shady patches, slender stalks stretched tall with velvet crowns.

Well, the iris did not grow the first year. It did not grow the second year. (Or possibly I am imagining that two years have passed, time has pretty much ceased to have any meaning for me.) So I was quite shocked this past weekend when I noticed it had shot up and was getting ready to bloom. I now have two beautiful blossoms as reminders that sometimes things grow when you have given up all hope that they will ever bear fruit.

For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven

and do not return there but water the earth,

making it bring forth and sprout,

giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater,

so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth;

it shall not return to me empty,

but it shall accomplish that which I purpose,

and shall succeed in the thing for which I sent it.

Isaiah 55:10-11 (ESV)

Summer is for...

2011-05-30T13:50:00.000-05:00

photo by Jose Manuel Rios Valiente

Suddenly realizing I haven't blogged in almost a month.
Unfinished posts rambling around in my head.
Maybe I'll blog tomorrow.
Maybe I won't.
Enjoying time with my boys.
Relaxing and gardening and working and a million other things.

Yes, I'm still here. I've had things to blog about...finally getting my garden in the ground, the lilacs at the farm in full bloom and Indy picking them every time he passes them and heaping the wilting lilacs and dandelions of 6 year old love all over my dirt-grimed hands. But they were posts that begged for pictures and I kept forgetting to have my camera when I needed it. Yes, I am one of only about 2 people in the US under the age of 50 who doesn't have a phone that takes pictures. My husband is the other one.

And then there is the stone with the heart-shaped hole in it that I found in the rock bed the other day, the one that has me thinking over and over again about how God promised his people he would take their heart of stone and give them a heart of flesh. And there's words to be said there, because right now I feel like my heart is a little bit stone.

There's posts about grace for myself and my boys, a book review that I've been wanting to write for a few months, and another book that I'm watching the mail for because I get to review an advance copy (yay!). Then there's the post about being outnumbered in a house full of males, all of whom are right now trying to hang NASCAR posters on my kitchen wall. Give it up guys, I may be only one, but I wield the power of motherhood.

So there WILL be more posting soon, I promise! Just as soon as things settle down around here...

Fill 'er up!

2011-05-05T11:23:00.000-05:00

When I first started this blog I thought I was going to spend a lot of time focusing on the choices we make as we try to live simply. As I wrote more I realized that part of living simply is tied in to the quest to live authentically, but "Authentically Rea" just doesn't have the same ring as a blog name. Still, simplicity and what that means and how that looks are a big part of my life and shape a lot of the things that I do.

So for today I want to pose this simple thought...

What if we said grace every time we started our car? Or every time we filled up with gas? What if we treated our fuel consumption with reverence? Would it change the way we drive? The way we feel when we swipe our card at the pump?

I first saw this short video yesterday, and today with my tank nearly empty I stopped at the gas station. I swiped my card, pumped my gas, cringed at the total and thought of how little it used to cost to fill my car. And then I got in the car, bowed my head and gave thanks. I gave thanks for a checking account balance that allows us to fill up our car when we need it instead of letting it sit in the driveway because we can't afford the gas. I gave thanks for my smaller car that can still be filled up without cracking the $50 mark (unless I'm SERIOUSLY on empty). I asked for wisdom not to take this resource for granted, but to be a good steward of my driving habits.

And a curious thing happened. I pulled away from the pump happy.

Sometimes the root of simplicity lies in knowing how to give thanks.

First is last

2011-05-02T09:02:00.000-05:00

I'm writing this for Rachel Held Evens' "Rally to Restore Unity" this week. The idea is to remind us, with humor if possible, that no matter what we are all one body. I'll admit at first I wasn't sure if I could do this. Lately the gut-punches of being on the wrong side of the Real Christian™ fence have felt like they are coming hard and fast and I can't catch my breath before reading or hearing something that slams me down again. Sometimes I wonder what the point is. This post is simply my thoughts on the matter.

My boys are arguing again. I'm tuning them out because it is the same old argument that they've had for months and they both are right but insist the other is wrong; there is no winning until understanding grows.

The beginning? One of them declares a race of some sort. Who can get to the car first. Who can stand up fastest. Who can say "I win!" first. You know, typical 6 and 9 year old stuff. Nonessentials. And whenever the 6 year old wins the 9 year old says with the full weight of scripture behind him, "Well, first is last and last is first, so I win!" This, of course, sends the 6 year old into a tizzy as he defends his title and me straight into migraine zone if the argument happens on the way to school (as it so often does). This week I had a talk with the 9 year old about his attitude not quite being what Jesus had in mind when he talked about the last being first, but he clearly didn't get it.

As grownups we can be just as childish sometimes. We seem to think that Jesus said we should ACT like little children. Three years ago I read an article about a fracas between Greek and Armenian (not Arminian) priests and worshippers on Orthodox Palm Sunday at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. Apparently it began because a Greek priest was present when it was the Armenians' time to hold THEIR service, so in the true spirit of the risen Lord, they kicked him out, pushed him down and started whacking him with palm fronds.

Yes, palm fronds. Which were then also used to assault the police who tried to break things up. Because nothing says "Hosanna in the highest!" like using your palm frond as an assault weapon. Apparently the centuries old 'status quo' of who can be where and when had been upset and all bets were off. And we won't even go into the pre-Christmas fight at the Church of the Nativity when the priests went at each other with brooms.

In some ways it's easy to read stories like that and be almost amused. Imagine that, those priests pummeling each other instead of living out a life of love made flesh, the very reason for the sites they are so jealously protecting.

And yet...and yet...are we that far above all that? Maybe we haven't turned to brooms and stones or palm fronds. But how often do we pummel at our fellow Christians over the insignificant stuff? Over who has the 'right' to do something? Over our worship styles, the formality of our services? Over whether or not one used appropriate language to speak of God? What is the 'status quo' we think we are protecting? Who holds the perfect understanding of every nuance of God's nature? We've marked our territory, we've declared that we own this part of Christendom and then someone comes in and challenges us, enters our sacred territory with different garb. And the fists come up. First is last, last is first...or is it? It depends on how we're looking at it, doesn't it?

So maybe we need to put down the palm fronds and the signs. Maybe we need to figure out where our common ground is. We worship a risen Savior. None of us can fathom the depths of who God is. We love because HE loves.

(apparently Jesus also loves us when we make silly faces)

I don't know how to heal from the slashes of the palm fronds. I haven't figured out how to reach across that divide in love just yet, there's too much risk. All I can do is try to speak love with every word and every action. The only person I can change is me.

Getting my craft on

2011-04-22T14:25:00.000-05:00

I'm not a crafty person, but every now and then there is a project that doesn't seem too taxing for my abilities. Yesterday afternoon I ran across the idea of silk-dying Easter eggs and it was love on so many levels.

First, I really don't like dying Easter eggs. I wish I had never started the tradition with my kids. It's messy, time consuming, and the results never turn out the way I want them to. Oh, and I'm the only one in the family who will eat a hard-boiled egg.

Second, it involves re-using something that is old and worn, which I love. (There, I've worked Earth Day and Easter into one post together.)

Third, well, the results can be STUNNING! Google it and you'll see that we don't have to all be Martha Stewart to make them.

Yeah, mine are a little pale, I didn't want to cook them too long and I didn't wrap them quite tight enough.

I didn't do all of them because my husband was only willing to sacrifice three ties for the cause. Why does he need all of those ties, anyway? Next year I'm stalking thrift shops for silk ties to use.

Want to make your own silk-dyed eggs? Here's a great tutorial.

Have a blessed Easter!

The life of pie

2011-04-21T13:24:00.000-05:00

I pound the prezels small, dust coating my counters as they prick through the too-thin bag. Heat the butter, add sugar, mix in the crumbs. Press it into the pie pan. Once again I've been too hasty, not tarried over the pounding and the processing (d'oh...food processor, why didn't I just use that?) and the crumbs are too big and the crust unbeautiful and lumpy. But it's the taste that matters.

I make this pie once a year, birthday dessert for a husband who doesn't like cake. I know he likes peanut butter pie, although mine doesn't compare to his favorite and that's ok because no one's does and that baker doesn't share her recipe. So I make mine, chiffon and lightness to the denser creaminess of that one. But this is my mother's recipe, fading, stained and creased and once a year I make it and remember childhood.

Pounding the pretzels was always my job, after we rubbed the extra salt off of them. Oh how I hated the rubbing, coarseness of salt scratching my hands as we rubbed until mom said they were ok, and then pounded in the clean breadbags until she pronounced them fine enough. And meanwhile my mother's hands cooked and stirred the filling, then cooled it just long enough to make the air and the dense mix together in smooth perfection and I ALWAYS cool mine too long and the blending is uneven. But it's the taste that matters.

And so I mix the sugar and the egg and milk and stir while two full days of driving away my mother's hands are resting in a hospital bed, lungs working away at breathing so hard. One week ago all was fine, and the heart catheterization was sure to show nothing wrong, she said. And then there was the 100% blockage in one artery and the 60% in another and three days later the double bypass surgery. I talked to her two days ago, and words came in starts and stops as air ran out of lungs not full enough.

Remove the mixture from the heat, add peanut butter and stir. Chill. Waiting for that just right temperature because I WILL get it right this time. How many times did I not get it right with my mother? Angry words and me wondering what I did wrong, why I couldn't be loved just the way I was and maybe why couldn't I love her just the way she was? Trying to figure out just the right balance of me and her, pleasing and being. And I always got it wrong, until my heart set up too hard to let the softness blend in.

Pour the whipping cream into the chilled bowl. Real cream, not the Cool Whip in the recipe that my mom always used. I long for the authentic, tasting reality traceable to its roots, not the reliable, but chemical tasting product that would be so much simpler to use. So much richness, the work doesn't seem like any effort to make it. Sweeten it just the way I want it. I am my mother's daughter, I can trace it through the taste back to her homemade granola and her fresh baked bread and all the times she said that homemade was better (but still she used that Cool Whip).

Whip the egg-whites, the sugar, add the peanut butter mix, once more cooled too thick. Fold it gently with the whipped topping until all is mixed together, and there are lumps but isn't it the final taste that matters? Pour it into the pie crust and then refrigerate, waiting for family to devour its sweetness and declare it good. And isn't it all good, this love we make for others?

(Note: My mom is home from the hospital now and recovering well.)

Not just a Sunday Hosanna

2011-04-17T13:57:00.000-05:00

1 Now when they drew near to Jerusalem and came to Bethphage, to the Mount of Olives, then Jesus sent two disciples, 2 saying to them, “Go into the village in front of you, and immediately you will find a donkey tied, and a colt with her. Untie them and bring them to me. 3 If anyone says anything to you, you shall say, ‘The Lord needs them,’ and he will send them at once.” 4 This took place to fulfill what was spoken by the prophet, saying,

5 “Say to the daughter of Zion,
‘Behold, your king is coming to you,
humble, and mounted on a donkey,
and on a colt, the foal of a beast of burden.’”

6 The disciples went and did as Jesus had directed them. 7 They brought the donkey and the colt and put on them their cloaks, and he sat on them. 8 Most of the crowd spread their cloaks on the road, and others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road. 9 And the crowds that went before him and that followed him were shouting, “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest!” 10 And when he entered Jerusalem, the whole city was stirred up, saying, “Who is this?” 11 And the crowds said, “This is the prophet Jesus, from Nazareth of Galilee.” (Matthew 21:1-11, ESV)

He rode in one day, and the crowds acclaimed him. Shouts of Hosanna, shouts of blessing and praise, they honored him. Acknowledged his kingship, bowed before him.

I stand in church on Sunday and lift my hands. Songs of blessing, honor and praise flow from my mouth. I acknowledge his kingship, bow before him.

20 Now the chief priests and the elders persuaded the crowd to ask for Barabbas and destroy Jesus. 21 The governor again said to them, “Which of the two do you want me to release for you?” And they said, “Barabbas.” 22 Pilate said to them, “Then what shall I do with Jesus who is called Christ?” They all said, “Let him be crucified!” 23 And he said, “Why, what evil has he done?” But they shouted all the more, “Let him be crucified!” (Matthew 27:20-23, ESV)

Why the change? The crowds that so easily praised him so easily swayed to call out against him? One day of 'Hosanna!' and then they shout out for his death? Oh fickle people!

Monday comes and the Hosanna is silenced as I slip myself into the fickle mold of life. I acknowledged him king, Lord of my life...and then I turn away when tempers flare and it isn't easy and God isn't acting like I think God should act so away with him as I take the lead. Oh fickle me.

Can my Hosanna live beyond Sunday into the taking up the cross of every day life?

The ugly beautiful

2011-04-11T08:30:00.000-05:00

It is the first soccer practice of the season and the husband has taken Indy to his practice and I have Gates at his. He loves soccer, has been looking forward to this night through the past two weeks of cancelled practices and games (spring soccer in South Dakota, it starts when it starts).

The other third graders are calm, quiet and as focused as third grade boys can be. Gates is a live wire, talking, spinning, leaping, squatting. Where others blend in, he screams 'look at me!'

The boys start doing drills, dribbling the ball from one end of the field to the other. It takes him twice as long and his gait is awkward, his legs stiff. Loving soccer does not impart even a speck of talent. And it hurts to see him so clearly out of place, so different from the others.

As I number the gifts on the way to one thousand so many of them are easy. Who can't see the thanks in sunshine, in spring's arrival, in hot coffee and blue skies? But this moment, this is what Ann Voskamp calls 'the ugly beautiful'. The moments in life where brokenness seeps through and HOW do I give thanks in this for a child who is different?

Tears sting behind my eyes as I watch him, willing him to focus, willing him to calm down just a bit. Willing him to be normal, just for this moment, just for this practice, just for this season. And as I blink to keep them back I think, "Give thanks in the ugly beautiful. Give thanks FOR the ugly beautiful," and for thirty long minutes I fight my battle of eucharisteo in the hard spots. Breaking myself open and letting thanks spill out even when I hurt. When I hurt for my child, for all that he isn't.

And as I break I see what he is and I give thanks in it and for it.

For his utter comfort with who he is.

For his unbridled exuberance.

For his smiles and waves from the goal line.

For the grace of imperfections that strip me of any pretense that I am in control.

For love that is bigger than loving him just for what he can do.

I give thanks in this moment of ugly beautiful and I know that it will come again and maybe with each practice it will get easier, maybe some day I will look at him and see him through God's eyes without the label of Aspergers/different/awkward.

Gifts #46-78
Green pine trees standing sentry among trees still winter-bare.
Wide open blue of midwestern sky.
Little one rushing to put his pj's BACK on so that he can snuggle with dad before getting ready for school.
Giving thanks in the attempt and the not giving up and the accepting failure and keeping on.
Words of encouragement.
Laughter of boys playing catch and tumble with Dad.
Little one noticing my list and asking "Where am I in there?"
The beating of a heart.

Inertia

2011-04-07T16:39:00.000-05:00

Photo by roeyahram

These words stick sometimes
Hard in my throat,
Never making it to my mouth
Never whispering across teeth and tongue
Breath formed and shaped by lips,
Vibrations stilled before beginning.
Accumulation
Left unsaid for years
Choking like pebbles that lodge
And stick.
The other words, they make their way around,
'How's the weather there?' and
'What's growing in your garden?'
But the other ones, the big ones,
The ones that mean everything,
Are held fast with glue of time
And yes,
Of unforgiving.
And if today were the last day,
The last chance,
Could 'I love you' overcome
Inertia?

Resurrected

2011-04-06T17:16:00.000-05:00

When Mike and I got married we were the 'lucky' recipients of a partial set of ~~old~~ antique china that had belonged to my great-great grandmother on my dad's side of the family. I am not exactly the most sentimental woman there is, and the last thing I really needed in the world of apartment living was a bin of cracked, incomplete china. Still, I am also extremely susceptible to feelings of guilt and so I have lugged that bin from home to home for the past eleven years.

Several weeks ago the water heater leaked all over the floor of the laundry/storage room and in the process of hauling everything out I decided that I was going to Do Something about those dishes. Some of them are being sent off to family members who are perhaps a little more sentimental than I am. A few plates took up residence above my kitchen cupboards. The sugar bowl became a jewelry holder.

And then there was this mystery object. To give you an idea of size, it is about 3 1/2 inches high (without the lid) and 6 inches in diameter. Too big to be a soup bowl. The sugar bowl was already accounted for. Too small to be a serving dish. What was it?

Did you guess butter dish? Yeah, neither did I until after a serious internet search turned up a few similar objects that had that tell-tale disk with a hole in the center. It seems that you fill the bottom with ice, set that disk on top of the ice and then put your butter in. It stands to reason then that the tiny 2 inch round dishes that I found are actually butter pat dishes, not salt dishes as I previously thought.

Of course, I don't need a butter dish, certainly not one this big (I guess they used a lot of butter in those days). But I DID need a little planter.

A few rocks in the bottom, set the disk on the rocks...

Fill with dirt and a plant, make a mess.

Voila! An old piece of useless china, resurrected into a pretty and useful little planter. Oh happy day! Getting rid of guilt AND repurposing something all in one shot? Win-win.

Not what was

2011-04-01T19:44:00.001-05:00

Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come. (2 Corinthians 5:17, ESV)

Once upon a time, a very, very long time ago I looked like this. Pre-kids, pre-husband, pre-going back to school full time and working part time, pre-accounting job. I could hike up mountains, climb over rocks, and spend the day on the trail. It was glorious. It was also glorious to have the body of an active twenty-something. Now I have the body of about two twenty-somethings.

Somehow in the midst of all of the schooling, the working, the getting married and the having children I lost that body and I would like it back, or at least a reasonable facsimile. But the numbers on the scale creep ever upward despite my efforts and I hide from the camera to avoid documentation of my current state.

Will I ever be what I once was? I will never be twenty again. I can’t undo the changes of carrying two children in my body. I can’t erase the (blessedly few) wrinkles that time has etched on my face. There’s sagging and stretching going on all over this body and no matter how successful I may end up being at losing weight I will never be what I once was.

But look a little further into the picture, behind the eyes. See the girl-woman that inhabited that body. See loneliness, confusion, self-loathing, darkness, depression, uncertainty. Read the journals from those years. What was on the outside looked fine, but the inside was a mess.

How I longed to feel whole, to feel loved, to feel that I was more than some cosmic mistake, some joke played at my expense. I ached with all of the words left unsaid, with all of the times I had watched friendship, love, trust slip through my fingers and disappear. Awkward, shy, socially inept, quiet; there are so many words I could use to describe what I was.

The picture changes though. Grace moved in. The corners of my heart began to slowly fill with God-love. Light burned away the darkness. The years flick by like frames of an old movie and even as I see my body changing and growing I see my soul changing as well, being reshaped, remade into the image of the God who loves me more than I could have ever known.

Oh, how I long to turn back time. Not to have the body and the youth, but to be able to take that face in my hands, look into those eyes and say “You ARE loved, you WILL be changed. Be patient, dear one. There is a love that is beyond all human love you know, a love that does not use and discard, a love that holds no expectations, a love that sees you as beautiful even when you don’t see it yourself.” I ache for the pain of things to come, of postpartum struggles, of the child who is not what I dreamed of but who is exactly the child I needed in order to learn grace. I ache for difficult moves and the search for a church home and the years of no friends. But there in the middle of it all, there was grace.

Grace changed me. God changed me. He knows me and loves me with all my baggage, all my mistakes, all my longings.

I am not what once was. And I am glad.

I believe that some day God will give me the opportunity to broaden my voice, to encourage other women on their journey as they learn the beautiful grace that God has for changing them from what WAS and into HIS image. She Speaks is a conference designed to equip women as speakers, writers and leaders to help encourage and connect other women to the heart of God. If I could pay my way I would in a heartbeat. Fortunately, they are offering a scholarship opportunity through Ann Voskamp's blog "A Holy Experience". Maybe this will be the moment, but if not for me than for some other woman who hears God's voice whispering grace through her to other women.

Dear husband...

2011-04-01T01:00:00.002-05:00

Remember that time you went away on that overnight trip? Remember how I said I was so tired that I fell asleep on the couch all night? Remember how I said I had a crappy day and it made me feel so good that you had made the bed for me before you left and how it was so sweet and I felt bad that I didn't even sleep in it?

Yeah, I lied. I knew darn well that you short-sheeted the bed and I re-short-sheeted it when I got up in the morning. It was fun going to bed that night and knowing that you had indeed secretly scampered to set the bed aright so that I would never know you hadn't been acting from the purest of motives.

Happy April Fools Day!

(P.S. No, this is not a challenge to do it again.)

(P.P.S. Thank you for all the times you really do actually make the bed.)

Soul balm

2011-03-28T14:24:00.000-05:00

Wednesday, and the day was grey with snow flurries from low hanging clouds of winter slipping through a loophole into spring. Grey to the eyes and grey to the soul.
Some days all I can do is hold on, mark the spot where I stand and determine to not give way. Hold on to the God who sees the sparrow fall, hold on to the God who knows my pain. And so I searched for gifts to be thankful for and I repeated Psalm 42:11 over and over as I ran my morning errands.

Quick stop at the church to drop off the groceries for the evening meal and there is my friend, Anne. She gifts me with small succulent plants, children of her succulent garden that I admired, started for me and nurtured for me without my knowing.

Such a small gift, big in its timing. I take it home, put it in my window and the closed up tears fall from the grace of knowing that I am known.

Gifts #15-45 of One Thousand Gifts...

Bird song in the morning.

Hazel eyes and strong arms that surround me.

'My mom is nis' written in chalk on the driveway.

Psalm 42 that speaks to my soul.

Early morning God-meeting after a rough night of sleep.

Circle of women sharing hearts and scripture-truth that heals.

Christ in me, the hope of glory.

Seeing the God-light shining from the face of a friend.

Chives growing taller, lit with sunlight.

Mommy-bot, v.1.0

2011-03-22T16:06:00.000-05:00

Republished from April 2008, because it's one of those days when I have to remind myself that I'm human.

Introducing the newest invention to spring from the genius minds of Silicon Valley, it's Mommy-Bot! This simple microchip, implanted in your head will turn you into the perfect mother. No more yelling at the kids, no more frustration. With a smile on your face you will be able to manage a surly teenager, a recalcitrant five year old, a tantruming three year old and a newly mobile one year old all at the same time! Oh, the wonders you will be able to perform with the Mommy-Bot chip. No more throwing some seeds in dirt and calling it a science fair project, you have the genius of NASA engineers in your brain and your child's science project will amaze judges far and wide. Each day you will happily whip up (from scratch) three nutritionally balanced meals from the huge database of nutrition information stored on the microchip. No more sighing and rolling your eyes when asked to play Piranha Panic for the 53rd time in two hours, no more saying "Let Daddy build it" when confronted with the 500 piece Lego Star Wars ship that must be built right this instant. You will be master of games, leader of fun, AND able to maintain a sparkling clean house in your spare moments. No more feeling inadequate next to all the other mothers out there, you can hold your head high because you will be The Perfect Mother.

Ah. Wouldn't that be nice? To finally be the mother I always thought I'd be? I was so sure before my son was born that I would do everything right, that I'd never get frustrated with MY child. No matter what he did, I'd be able to handle it with a smile and some gentle discipline. No formula for him, I'd nurse for at least the full first year. I'd rock him peacefully to sleep every night. As he grew older only the healthiest foods would pass his lips, and he'd joyfully eat whatever I served him. I'd be the 'fun' mommy, getting down on the floor and playing games with my children. I'd open up worlds of creativity to them, expand their horizons, and teach them about the world around them. And on and on the list went.

We all have lists. Lists of what we think the perfect mother should be, and what the perfect mother should do. And then reality hits in the form of a human baby, born to an all-too-human mother. I've never managed to be perfect at anything else I do, I don't know why I thought parenting would be the exception. And still I can't stop. I compare myself to the mothers around me. I compare myself to the mothers I interact with online. I compare myself to that impossible model of perfection in my mind.

But it's time to face reality. I'm a human parent, not Mommy-Bot. I have emotions. I WILL get frustrated when trying to dress a tantruming three year old and I will mutter through gritted teeth, "Blessed are the merciful for they shall receive mercy. Blessed are the merciful for they shall receive mercy. Blessed are the merciful for they shall receive mercy." And somehow I'll get the clothes on him without breaking an arm in the process.

I will kill the carrot seed that Gates so proudly brought home from school. And weeks later, when he remembers and asks if his carrot is growing yet I will sadly tell him, "Honey, the carrot just didn't make it. Some seeds just don't grow." And then I'll make it up to him by letting him pick out seeds for the most gigantic sunflowers in the seed rack, and I will plant them in our back yard. And hopefully I won't kill them.

I will feed my children pancakes for supper because it's all I can muster the energy to cook. (But if I have ripe bananas I'll smoosh them up and add them to the batter, hey, that's balanced, right?) I will allow Indy to eat peanut butter sandwiches for lunch every single day. I'll still read labels in the store, I'll still try for good nutrition, but the reality is that some days they are lucky to even have supper on the table at all.

I'll struggle to balance it all: work, kid's playtime, self-care, quiet time, blogging, and cleaning. I'll learn that if you keep the curtains closed and the lights off (and if you squint just right) the house doesn't look so bad. I'll explain to my boys what dust bunnies are, and I'll laugh when Indy spies a piece of fluff under the piano and says "Mommy, Mommy, a bunny ear!"

Sometimes I'll get frustrated with them. Sometimes I'll yell. Sometimes I'll sit them in front of the television because I just can't deal with the constant demands for the moment. Perfect Mommy fell by the wayside a long time ago, now she's just a mask I wear.

Ideals are great, until they become idols. If I were Perfect Mommy I wouldn't need to depend on God's grace to get me through each day. If I were Perfect Mommy I wouldn't be able to relate to all of the other mothers out there who are struggling with the same challenges I face. If I were Perfect Mommy I would fail at the most important task of all, teaching my children how to be human.

To Whom It May Concern: I am returning your Mommy-Bot chip. There is nothing wrong with the functioning, but I don't want it anymore. It was impairing my abilities to be a true mother. I couldn't teach my children how to deal with frustration when I didn't have any myself. I couldn't teach them how to apologize when I never did anything that needed apologizing for. The nutritious meal program failed to take into account that you can lead a child to the table, but you can't make him eat. I need to be human to teach my children things like patience, self-control, and love in the midst of the tantrums. I like myself the way I am, flawed, but growing.

Sincerely,

Imperfect Mommy

(P.S. - If you ever come out with a Gardener-Bot chip, I might still be interested in that.)

The bitter bite of wanting

2011-03-21T01:00:00.001-05:00

Photo by '28 misguided souls'

It devours me, this incredible, ever voracious beast of WANTING. I could blame it on a thousand things, the Barbie I never got for Christmas, the polyester thrift store clothing of my childhood, the college summer when I ate moldy bread and mashed potatoes made with soured milk because it wasn't pay day yet, the months fresh out on my own before a job when secret friends delivered sacks of groceries. My life is a sketch-book of never quite having the dream, always hovering on the edge of barely enough.

But I have claimed contentment, have BEEN content. I AM content. I have come to terms with thrift stores, I have embraced minimalism in my possessions, I have learned the beauty of simplicity. I have, in fact, chosen this life, stepped away from the rush and the money and the letters after my name and the stress that never ended to embrace all that I have right here in this house.

And yet...and yet...I drive past the large houses, those architectural dreams and I WANT, I WANT. Despite the knowing that I have all the space I need, despite my delight in my quiet street and my little garden, WANT growls like a beast deep inside me.

photo by Martin Heigan

I see the women in their beautiful clothing, sweaters swishing with lovely drape, patterns and color and texture, necklaces and bracelets and scarves placed just so and WANT stares out of my eyes.

My children beg for the latest toy and I know they don't need it, won't play with it for more than a week but I WANT for them a life of more and how can I say which path will free them from being devoured by their own beast of WANT?

I pray for contentment, I pray for WANT to go away and still it lingers, prowling and pouncing when I least expect it. I toss it lattes and chocolate bars, second helpings of dessert to try to pacify it, but still it growls and paces, digging claws into my heart.

I can tell you about the lilies of the field, the sparrows that God cares for. I can point to the thousand times my needs have been met in spite of circumstances. So why do I still struggle so with WANT?

One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are is what the title on the book reads above a picture of two perfect eggs nested gently, held in grateful hands. I buy a copy because something draws me, something gentler than WANT. Live fully; how do I do that when I am devoured? I begin to read and am drawn in by the story of 'eucharisteo' and learning to give thanks, to reach out and actively receive what God has given us. Gifts in the ordinary moments of life.

I wonder, could this practice, this active acceptance and naming of blessings be the tool to defeat WANT? Would it slink away every time I gave thanks for that perfect pair of jeans found for $4.50 at the thrift store, for the first signs of spring in my garden, for the laughter of my children?

I start to write...

1. Socks knit for me by an almost-stranger, just because she wanted to do it.
2. Hazelnut coffee warm in my cup, made milky with farm fresh cream.
3. Bed-head boy's rooster-tail hair sprouting wildly from his head.
4. One thousand questions from the boy whose wordless years were deep heart-pain.
5. First robin of spring.
6. The rapid in-out breaths of small creatures.
7. Words, beautiful words, strung together in books waiting to be read.
8. Purple.
9. Indoor plants alive in spite of me, a study of green leaves in green ceramic.
10. Sunshine on my floor.
11. Little boy spinning up in the swing and unwind-flying.
12. First day of spring.
13. Sun-warmed arms.
14. Soap bubbles that drift from around the corner of the neighbor's house.

Edward

2011-03-19T14:05:00.000-05:00

I was taking mail out to the mailbox yesterday when I saw it, a strange flapping in the small stream of melted snow at the end of our driveway like a newspaper caught on the breeze but weighted down in a not-quite-newspaper way. At first I ignored it, but then the flapping came again and I came closer to investigate.

There, lying in the water with one wing folded in and one outstretched was a small bat. Of course, not being familiar with bats he may actually have been very large for a bat, but I wouldn't know.

My first instinct was to say "Ewww!" and go back inside. But then the part of me that read Last Child in the Woods: Saving Our Children From Nature-Deficit Disorder, the part of me that wants my children to know that learning extends beyond the bricks and mortar of a school building said "Oooh! Science lesson! Nature!" So I hurried inside, grabbed a shoebox, stuffed it with an old sweater that once was destined to be converted back into yarn, grabbed some other scrap material, and carefully transferred the bat, whom we shall call Edward, into the sweater lined box.

Inside I carried Edward down to the boys. Gates was immediately fascinated and we whipped out his digital microscope to get a better look at Edward, trying to see if we could spot an actual injury and just studying him in general.

We learned several things.

1. It is hard to take close up pictures of a bat with a digital microscope and not have them turn out blurry.

2. Bat fur looks very soft.

3. Bat claws and wing hooks are very tiny and look kind of gross.

4. Bats do not like having their claws gently poked at with a pencil tip.

5. Bats have sharp looking teeth.

6. Even injured bats can move really fast when they want to.

Yes, Edward had declared "Enough!" So far he had been wounded, nearly drowned, scooped up, had a bright light shone on him and now he was being poked at. Screeching with his wide open mouth full of very sharp looking little teeth he flung himself out of the shoebox, onto the desk and then onto the floor.

For a few moments chaos ruled as Edward shrieked and flopped, Gates and Indy shrieked and ran, and I maybe shrieked and tried not to run over Edward with the wheels of the desk chair. Once the chair was moved safely away I managed to corral him back into the shoebox and with the lid firmly in place Gates and I took him out to the back deck.

Carefully I transferred him out of the box and then we retreated to let nature take its course. I'm not sure what happened to him, at one point he had scooted to the edge of the deck, later he was gone. A search of the ground around the deck didn't reveal him so I hope he simply needed to dry out sufficiently to fly to shelter. Maybe he's hanging out in one of the old bird's nests under the deck.

I felt that I'd somehow failed at my grand attempt to introduce my children to Nature, but Gates declared it his most exciting day ever. Maybe that's all that matters, that moment when our children realize that the world is just a little bit bigger, a little bit more interesting. That there are moments when a bat becomes more than just a picture on the page and becomes the shrieking, flopping thing on your floor.

So farewell, Edward. May your nights be dark and the insects plentiful. And may the God who sees the sparrow fall watch over one small bat as well.

Ordinary days

2011-03-12T11:30:00.000-06:00

Not everything is all theology and angst here at Simply Rea. Some days we just kick back and eat pizza.

Homemade, of course.

And it doesn't last long enough to get finished pictures when there are two hungry boys in the house.

And then we watch a movie...

...because we've just finished reading the book. And I learn never to ask my children which was better, the book or the movie. My husband confesses that as I read the book to the boys he kept waiting for scenes from the movie to happen. I am married to a man who doesn't like reading.

Fortunately I think I'm changing that with the next generation.

Rejected Gifts

2011-03-10T17:21:00.000-06:00

Republished from April 2008. As I continue to review posts from my old blog to see if they still echo my heart I came across this one. It seems especially timely given a discussion that I had earlier today. I debate with myself on whether or not is is ok to publish it. Will it cause pain to someone I once held dear? I see a painting, heart spread on canvas. It is painted by my friend. I delight that she has found the expression of her own inner voice. I wish that I could know this person she has grown into. And I decide to publish this because we are not the same people today that we were then. I decide to publish this for all the women holding on to our polished masks. I decide to publish this because I realize that I am not blameless either, that far too often I reduce my friends to a label, a demographic, an extension of their external circumstances. I publish this because the two most precious, beautiful and fragile gifts that we can give another are the gifts of trusting them with who we really are and accepting the gift of who they are, with no expectations and no labels.

A number of years ago when I was a recent college graduate I was dirt poor. Not an uncommon state for a recent graduate. I had some close friends who were, to put it mildly, significantly NOT dirt poor. If they wanted it, they bought it.
When Christmas time came they invited me to spend the day with them. This of course raised the dilemma of what to get someone as a gift when you are poor and anything you can afford they already have ten of. And so I did something I had never risked before, I decided to give them something of myself. I found a beautiful little journal for a few dollars and on the inside I wrote a message to them. And then I filled it with my best poetry. I labored over that book, selecting just the right poems, adding inscriptions about what they meant to me. It was a labor of love (and I was not a bad poet).

Christmas Day. They gave me some lovely gifts, things that I could never have afforded to buy on my own. And then I gave them my gift, handing them my heart wrapped in green paper with a gold bow on top. They unwrapped it, looked at the cover and then laid it aside. To the best of my knowledge they never opened it. They never saw that what I was giving them wasn't just paper, it was my heart, it was vulnerability, it was trust. I stopped writing for years.

It took me ten more years and a lot of hurts to realize that our views of friendship were different.They didn't want my heart. They didn't want to know who I really was. They never looked beyond the cover to see the person inside, the person with hopes and dreams of her own. I was a part of their life but sometimes now I wonder if they were ever part of mine.

People will do that. It's inevitable. Offer them your heart, your trust, be vulnerable and some of them will reject it. Some of them will never even dare to crack the cover to see if what is inside is worth reading more about. But this is the important part, the part that I am slowly beginning to learn. It isn't about me, it's about them. They are the ones who lose out on the beauty that each of us carries inside, the poetry that makes up our life. They lose out on our insights, they lose out on being part of watching hopes and dreams blossom and grow in our hearts. And they lose out on what we have to offer to them.

I spent a lot of years after that gift was rejected trying to figure out how to be accepted, how to be the gift that they wanted. I never could be and slowly I began to realize that I didn't want to be. I wanted to be the book of beautiful poetry, not the useful tool. I wanted to stir the heart, not sweep the floors. And the more I asserted myself, the less I saw of them.

Rejection happens. It hurts, but it happens. You will hand someone the vulnerable part of yourself and they will toss it aside unopened, or they will open it and then mock it. Sometimes they will trample it on the ground. This is life.

"And the day came when the risk it took to remain closed in a bud became more painful than the risk it took to blossom." Anais Nin

I'm learning to risk. I blog not because people read it, but because it's my heart. I let it be silenced all those years ago and now I'm learning to speak again. It isn't easy, it's vulnerable. But it feels good to finally find my voice again.

Words

2011-03-10T14:03:00.000-06:00

They buzz in my head. These thoughts, these hopes of what is and is yet to be. Dancing, sharp, sweet and scary. If I open myself, if I live them...if WE live them...what will happen?

Open myself. Let the words and the life flow through me. Let my soul sing with authenticity. Laid bare to the roots, to the essence of who I am, my life crying "Welcome!" Pull up a chair, enter in, I want to know you, I want to be known. Walk with me, break bread, drink deep the wine of community that leaves our shallow selves at the door.

We need.

We need God.

We need each other.

We need life.

Authentic life.

Ashes, ashes

2011-03-08T16:36:00.000-06:00

Republished from February 2009.

Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

By now most of us know that the delightful little ditty we grew up chanting is really a macabre holdover from the plague times of old. But as I ponder Ash Wednesday and the beginning of the Lenten season I am reminded again and again of that line

Ash Wednesday, the day of repentance, a day when those who observe it are marked with the visible indication that we ALL fall down. Desolation. Destruction. Surrounded by ash. We sin against our families, our friends, our communities and our God. We fall down, and we lie in ashes on the ground and mourn our failure once again.

Photo by fallingwater123

And then God steps in. He lifts us from the ashes and calls us on a journey, a journey of following in his footsteps. If we rise from the ashes and go on that journey with him he can and will bring something beautiful from our failures.

Ash Wednesday is a day to repent of our sins. But it also marks the beginning of a journey that will lead us to the cross and to the reminder that for EVERY time we fall, for ALL of us who fall provision has been made. Grace has been given.

...for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that came by Christ Jesus. Romans 3: 23,24 (NIV)

photo by James Trindade

After the well

2011-03-03T14:10:00.000-06:00

A little something different today, republished from February 2009. I don't usually dabble in fiction, but the story of the Samaritan woman fascinates me. We know so little about her and I wonder what really came before, and what came after. This is my 'what if'...

Painting by Daniel Bonnell

This town is not so large that most people don't know my past. But there are still the newcomers, the younger generation, those passing through who don't know my story, who don't know who I was, or what I was. They see only what I do here in this house; they believe me to have lead a blessed life. If only they knew. I am blessed, but it has not always been so.

Many years have passed and I am old now, old and looking back on my life. I wonder at the changes in it, it seems a different life, a different place, a different me. Yes, there are still people here who know my story. Some who know it and rejoice with me, others who know it but refuse to see past who I was then to who I am today. I suppose I can't blame them, at least some of them. I hurt, and in my pain I hurt others. I hurt them willingly, without caring about the consequences.

Once I believed in love. Once I thought that life would be simple; I woud find a husband, settle down, raise a family. I envisioned my husband coming home, our children running to meet him and being swung high in his loving arms. I believed in beauty; I believed in truth. When I married my first husband I thought that all of my dreams were coming true.

A year passed, then two, then three. As each year passed with no sign of children he became distant. I could see him looking at me, see the accusation in his eyes. I was failing him in my most important task. At the end of the fifth year he divorced me, put me aside like a worn piece of clothing with no use left in it. Part of my heart grew cold that day.

My second husband had no need for sons. A widower with two sons he wanted only a pair of hands to tend them, to cook for them, sew for them, wait on them. It took me only a few months to realize that he bore no love for me, that to him I was a slave, no more than that. Sleeping on the cold floor with the thinnest of blankets to cover me, cowering in fear when the meal was not satisfactory, not ready when he arrived home, a whole list of 'not good enough's'. My heart grew bitter within me. When he and his sons were killed in the attack on a trade caravan as they travelled in our eighth year of marriage I did not weep.

Barren, once divorced, once a widow...the choices were few. My third husband was solely a marriage of convenience, I needed security, he wanted a wife to meet his appetites. Two years later he put me away in favor of a younger wife. Husband four was much the same. I did not wait for him to reject me this time. I had a reputation, no longer the dreamer, no longer the woman who believed in love and family I resolved to take my fate into my own hands. By the time my husband found my replacement I had already found his. We were married for three months before an accident took his life.

Tainted, cursed, unloved. The words swirled around me. I turned to the last resort for a woman who bears the burden of those words. I sold myself, I sold what was left of my soul to whatever man would give me a bed to sleep in and a roof over my head.

That is who I was, until one day I went to draw water from the well. I went at noon, the heat of the day, but the best time to avoid the accusing glances, the whispered comments, the loneliness of being unloved in the midst of a crowd. As I drew close I could see the well was not deserted. A man sat there, clearly a Jew from the look of him. I thought about leaving and coming back later. But the day was hot, and I was tired so I approached the well.

"Will you give me a drink?" He spoke to me! I, the outcast, the cursed one, was being spoken to by a JEW, by a MAN! How could he ask such a thing? He did not know my position, didn't know my past, but I was a Samaritan and a woman, that alone should earn his disdain.

But wait, he continued to speak to me, words I did not understand. He spoke of living water, of the gift of God, of never being thirsty again, of eternal life. In my heart a dream long buried began to stir, a dream of being filled with love, a dream of beauty, a dream of truth. Never come back to draw water? Never bear accusing glares again? Something within me called out to be filled.

"Go, call your husband and come back." Dreams crashed and died. He would turn in disgust; this water was not for me.

"I have no husband," I replied.

And then he looked at me. Not with accusation, not with condemnation or scorn. He just looked at me and in his eyes I saw something. I saw a hint of compassion, I saw a reflection of my dream. "You are right," he said. "You have no husband; in fact you have had five husbands and the man you are with now is not your husband."

A prophet! A prophet who could see my darkest secrets, see the bitterness, the hurt, the anger. A diversion...my mind fumbled for a question and a voice not my own babbled about questions of the proper place to worship. Was I an idiot? What kind of question was THAT? But he answered it. Still looking at me, still meeting my eyes, still reflecting my dreams he answered me. Not understanding, trying to escape I fumbled for a response, the easiest out I could think of. "When the Messiah comes he will explain everything." That should have ended it.

One final look, deep into my soul and for the first time in years I saw love looking at me. "I who speak to you am he."

"I who speak to you am he." I had broken his laws, I had lived a life worthy of scorn and he said nothing about it. Simply, "I who speak to you am he." Tears began to fall down my face as I felt the broken parts of me beginning to mend. In his eyes I saw that my dream was not dead; that love, that beauty, that truth still existed. Even more, that they could still exist for me.

I left my jar and I ran back to town. Into the knots of women who had scorned me, past the stall of men who had used me. "Come!" I pleaded. "Come see a man who told me everything I ever did. Could this be the Christ?" I do not know why so many believed me. Some have told me it was the glow of joy on my face, a glow where there had only been bitterness and aloofness. Some have said it was the sudden passion with which I approached them, approached those who had scorned me and looked at them as if they had never hurt me. I do not know. But they followed. One by one and then group by group they came and for two days he taught us. He taught us of his coming kingdom, he taught us of love, of forgiveness, of healing the brokenhearted.

I left the man I had been living with. Some of the new believers provided me with this small house I live in still. They provide me with what I need to get by and they provide me with what I need to fulfill my dreams. It is because of them, and because of the one called Jesus that I sit here today, here in this house called Tikva, which means simply "Hope". It is here that I spread the hope that he gave me to those who need it. They find me, they always find me. The abandoned, the ill, the abused, the ones whose dreams have died. They find me and I give them shelter for as long as they need it. I give them shelter and I tell them everything I ever did, and everything Messiah did for me.

After the well nothing has been the same. I still go there every day for water, sometimes alone, sometimes with others who have lost their hope. And each day that I draw water I can feel the spring welling up inside of me, a spring of love flowing through my days into eternal life.

Spring thing

2011-03-03T13:54:00.000-06:00

For months the ground has looked like this; snow covered, rabbit trails tracing a picture across the landscape between snowfalls. Ice. Cold. Barren.

And now we enter the season of in-between. Of 10 degrees and windy switching places with 34 and sunny on a daily basis. Weather that can't make up its mind. Hope of warmth dashed with random snowfalls. Promise of mud to come.

It is SO hard to wait. Knowing that spring will come, the trees will bud, the flowers will bloom but not certain just how long that day will be in coming. How long we'll have to deal with the endless ritual of gloves and snowpants and coats and hats. Ten minutes added to the morning routine.

Spring will come and I am living with that hope, buying my seeds, plotting my garden layout, readying the starting trays for the right moment.

As much as I ~~hate~~ dislike winter, would I really want to do without this season of anxious anticipation? Would I appreciate spring, really live it if there were never a winter? Would the warmth of the sun satisfy me if I never felt cold?

It's supposed to snow again this weekend. I'm staring at my seeds and living into the promise of spring.

This crazy thing called love

2011-02-28T04:01:00.001-06:00

This post was originally published on February 24, 2010. I'm republishing it as my response to the classmate who taunts Gates by telling him that someday he will be living on the streets. I know that this is not the last time Gates will be made fun of. I know that I cannot stop every hurtful word from reaching his ears. I cannot change the minds of a world full of people who won't 'get' him, who refuse to see the wonder in our differences. All I can do is love him, with the love of a mother who is crazy about him. And I can fight for him and let him know that I stand firmly in his corner. I can teach him to counter those lies with truth. This is the reality we live with. This is how I know what it is to love.

Photo by Adam Foster

Once there was a Virginia state delegate who made an incredibly thoughtless comment about disabled children being punishments to women who had aborted their first pregnancy. This left many of us wondering, "What sin, then, did I commit?" It left others thinking, "Then why do my adopted children, whose mothers chose life, have disabilities?" And it was, no doubt, a searing pain to the heart of those who have chosen abortion and are already bearing the emotional consequences. But this is not a post about that man. It is not a post about disabled children being a curse. I think that Jesus settled that question quite nicely when asked of the man born blind "Who sinned, this man or his parents?" His answer? Neither.

That question is settled in my mind. Instead, this post is about the flip side of the coin. This post is about all of the people who tell us we are blessed, we are strong, we are amazing because of some random trick of the genes, some accident, some collision of environmental factors that has given us the children we have. By this logic my sister-in-law with the autistic son is more blessed than I am with my Asperger's son. The parent of a child in a wheelchair is more blessed than the parent of the child who walks on legs of different lengths. All children are blessings. End of story. God didn't look at any of us and say "Wow, I really love them so I'm going to give them a child with special needs." Am I blessed by my son? Absolutely, but it is because he is my child, not because of anything he is or says or does.

Here's a secret for those who think we are so strong, so amazing, possessing some indefinable character trait that no one else has. We aren't. Sometimes we cry ourselves to sleep because we are exhausted from caring for our children, whether it is the endless round of caring for a child with severe physical needs or the emotional ups and downs of caring for a child whose brain just doesn't work like that of other children. Sometimes we wish for normalcy, and then feel guilty because we love our child and wonder if we have just wished away all that makes them most special, most lovable. We will always be just a little bit jealous of those who seem to sail through life with 'normal' children. The unknown of our child's future seems very big and very dark, how can we help our child navigate it when we don't know how ourselves?

No, we don't have any more strength than any other parent. We don't have a patience that appeared magically as a gift along with our child, it has been forged through trial and error just as the patience of every other parent is forged. What we have for our child is simply the thing that every parent is gifted with: Love. Crazy, wild, uninhibited love. Love that will keep on loving even when we want to cower in embarrassment because of something our child has said or done. Love that keeps on whispering "I love you" to our child long after other children are saying "Wuv oo" to their parents in the belief that someday they will repeat those beautiful words back to us. Love that forgives the tantrums, the meltdowns, the raging because we know in the end after all of the emotion is spent they will return to our arms.

Oh, to be loved with a crazy love like that! And you know what? We are! We are all God's special needs children, each with our own flaws, our own hangups. Sometimes we blurt out things that must surely embarrass him (I'm looking at you, aforementioned state delegate). Sometimes we rage and kick and scream. And yet he waits, patiently, lovingly for that moment when we come running back to his arms. Over and over he whispers to us "I love you." Day after day he waits for the moment we will turn to him and say without prompting "You know what, God? I love you too!" I know how I felt the day Gates first said "I love you" and I knew it wasn't just a parroting back of words. I know how it feels now when he says it nearly every day, when he spontaneously turns around and runs back to give me a hug. It's a crazy thing, this love that keeps on hoping, keeps on loving, keeps on forgiving.

That's all I have to offer, no special gifts, just crazy love. Love that is renewed every day because I know that I am also loved with the crazy, wild love of God.

Back when we didn't care

2011-02-26T11:04:00.000-06:00

When most of us were children there was a time when we could do anything. We could indulge our passions and rest secure in the knowledge that of COURSE the world would love what we did. We were brilliant artists, writers, explorers, actors, scientists, dancers, bakers, magicians...and so on.

And then reality hit. We weren't always brilliant and the world wasn't always going to love us. I can remember the moment that first dawned on me.

It was third grade and I was an AUTHOR. I knew that my imagination was second to none; my words could sparkle on the paper and people would see what a genius I truly was. The Young Authors contest was MADE for me! Write a book and out of all of the schools in the county a certain number of students would be selected to be whisked away for a day of learning about writing with a Real Live Author. Swoon!

I wrote and illustrated my masterpiece, a story about a magical fallen tree in the middle of a pasture. Anything could happen when you found shelter in the hollow formed by the roots of the tree. It was a story of hope, of safety, of finding a home. It did not win and I was devastated. It seems I wasn't an author after all, especially since the winning stories were really quite dull.

That was the year I started to care about what others thought about me. Oh, not just because of a failed story, it was also the year I got glasses, the year I endured taunts of "Four Eyes!" The year that I learned to be afraid of failure, of not measuring up to what other people wanted me to be.

For years I stopped thinking of myself as a writer. I wrote the occasional poem for an assignment, blocking out the compliments of my teachers because I was NOT a writer. I cared too much to voluntarily share my work, to abandon myself to words when it wasn't required.

In college I tiptoed into the realm of writing again, entering a poem in our college paper's contest and winning first prize. But it was a fluke. What if I tried again and was rejected? I cared too much to try again. I filled notebook after notebook with the angst ridden poetry of youth, but never showed it to a soul (and in some cases that perhaps was for the best). In creative writing class I hid my true feelings and wrote what I thought I ought to be writing, and it stunk. It lacked the spark and the bite of a soul set free on paper. I settled for acceptable instead of what my heart wanted to say.

And now I am grown, and the fear of what others will think has grown with me. The fear of rejection, of not being good enough. Year after year I tell myself this secret, "If I could be ANYTHING, I would be a writer." I have been a dental office receptionist, a CPA, a bookkeeper, a mother. I have never been a writer. I care too much about rejection.

The other week Gates came to me with a picture he had drawn for National Geographic Kids magazine, a picture he wanted to send in to their kids' Art Zone. I balked and stalled and tried to think of ways to not send it in because how would he handle it if his masterpiece was rejected? If they didn't publish it? Still, he persisted. Why wouldn't they love what he had drawn?

Today I acknowledged to myself that this was MY issue. And as his mother it is my job to keep him from caring what others think about him as long as possible. It's my job to let him test his talents or lack thereof on the world, to let him rise or fall on his own.

So we prepared it for mailing. "You have to understand that they may not pick your picture," I said.

"Will you be proud of me if they do?" he asked.

"Of course I will."

"And will you be proud of me if they don't?"

"I will still be proud of you if they don't."

"Why?"

"Because you are braver than I am. Because I want so many times to have the courage to send something in to a magazine but don't because I am afraid they won't like it. But you are brave enough to try, and that is why I am proud of you."

"Even if they don't pick it?"

Even if they don't, my dear, even if they don't. And may you always keep that excitement to share yourself with the world. May you never let yourself be too burdened by what others might think.

The Giant Sahara Dessert by Gates

Beloved

2011-02-25T17:25:00.000-06:00

photo by {Salt of the Earth}

"Those who were not my people I will call 'my people,' and her who was not beloved I will call 'my beloved.' Romans 9:25 (from the Revised Standard Version)

"See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands..." Isaiah 49:16 (RSV)

My mind cannot begin to comprehend the wonder that the God of the universe calls me beloved. Me. Ordinary, insignificant me, with all of my faults, all of my failings. In spite of the fact that I yelled at my kids today, in spite of the fact that my house is a mess, that I'm spending time blogging instead of working, that I blew it in a hundred different ways today, he still calls me beloved. Not only that, but I'm engraved on the palms of his hands. He can't forget me and he's not going to overlook me.

I'll admit, I struggle with understanding this. I struggle with believing that it really is true. There's such a huge gap between God and me, why would he bother with me? Because of love. Because of the longing of a lover's heart to have the object of his affection love him in return. Make no mistake about it, the love God wants from us in return is not the cold and passionless love of rules and regulations. He wants the fires of our heart to burn with a longing to know him. He wants us to rejoice in knowing him, to join him in the dance of life.

I can't comprehend it. But I am still his beloved.

Silent

2011-02-22T22:20:00.000-06:00

I sit,

ready to talk to you again.

Looking for the art of practiced conversation,

give and take.

Speak and listen.

Words spill out so easily.

The thoughts that rattle in my mind,

hopes,

dreams,

a million questions

to answer.

Why?

Why not?

I don't understand?

Be silent,

they say,

be silent

and the answers will come.

But I can't, I can't.

My mind races on without me.

Shhhh.

What shall I cook for supper

and did I put the laundry in the dryer?

Peace.

I need to get payroll done today

and mail some forms.

Stillness.

Oh look, a cobweb.

And a dusty fan.

Focus.

My head hurts.

How do I practice silence

when my mind scampers down

a thousand rabbit trails?

How do I reign in me

long enough for you to speak?

Will I question forever

because I cannot learn to be

silent?

I am not famous

2011-02-01T10:26:00.000-06:00

This morning I curled up on the couch with a cup of hot tea and leafed through the latest issue of my alma mater's alumni magazine. I'm not sure why I do this, because in the tradition of alumni magazines everywhere it is chock full of people who are Doing Something and at times that can wear on the self-esteem a little. I'm not a world renowned opera singer, I'm not part of a band. I'm not a well-known business person worth millions or a famous surgeon saving lives every day. I'm simply me. A mom, a wife. I'll never have articles written about me, because the only thing I'm using that $40,000 English degree for is to write this blog that is read by about ten of my friends. I am not famous.

I am not famous. I am not rich. In the currency of the world and even of Christian colleges what I do is of little significance.

But here is what I know. In about 2 1/2 hours I will walk into my son's classroom to volunteer for half an hour and the faces of 25 children will light up. And one teacher will be happy because for half an hour she has an extra pair of hands and eyes in the classroom.

I know that every Wednesday I will show up and spend most of my day helping to cook dinner for our small groups. And about 60 people will come back with empty plates saying "That was delicious!" (Well, except perhaps for my children...) And my friend will be happy because she doesn't have to prepare a meal for 60 by herself.

I know that my husband will come home every night to a warm dinner waiting (ok, MOST nights...well, MANY nights...). And he will have someone to listen to him talk about his day. Someone who thinks that social workers rock and deserve their own issue of alumni news because they give and give for so little financial gain.

But most of all I know this:

I make a difference to my children. Fame and wealth are fleeting. Mothers are forever.

I am not famous. But I matter.

Overflowing

2011-01-23T06:08:00.001-06:00

The prostitute, that's me. Fallen woman,
Whatever you want to call it.
I sold my soul for the coin of affection,
Fleeting moments of validation
Consumed and spent in a heart beat.
And then you came,
Speaking forgiveness, tossing love
Into my empty purse and filling it
To overflowing.
The coins spill over, a cascade,
and I take this wealth,
Pour it back on you
In tears of gratitude.
Spending the coin of love on you
Because my heart is full.
Forgiven much.
Loving much.

Love, Like

2011-01-19T06:36:00.000-06:00

This post was originally published on April 21, 2009.

Photo by Clairity

Today as I dropped Gates off at school we did our standard goodbye routine.

Me: Have a great day at school!
Him: OK, I will!
Me: I love you!

Sometimes he ignores this last line, sometimes he doesn't (usually he's too busy running towards school). Today he answered. "I love you too, mom." Pause, then he turned around again, "But sometimes I don't like you." And off he ran, leaving me to wonder what prompted THAT this morning.

It's ok, really. I don't expect my children to like me all the time. I'm a parent, I'm going to make decisions they don't like. I'll survive the moments when they don't like me, knowing that as they grow in maturity they will start to understand why some of the decisions were made. But even after the moments of not liking me it always comes back to love. Snuggles, hugs and laughter, we can't escape the fact that our lives are intertwined and we know we would be lost without the safe place of our love to fall back into.

As I was driving home after dropping him off I began to think about that statement and my relationship with God. Sometimes I feel the same way. Sometimes I want to say "I love you, but right now I don't know if I like you."

Photo by Kelsey

When my husband spent a year after we moved here looking for a job, I didn't like God very much.

When I began to realize that my perfect child had developmental delays, I didn't like God very much.

When natural disasters kill hundreds or thousands, I don't like God very much.

When I know in my heart he wants me to do something that I don't want to do, I don't like God very much.

When I struggle to make sense of some of the things in the Bible, I don't like God very much.

Yes, there are moments when I just don't LIKE God. As I grow I begin to understand some of those moments in a different light; I begin to understand the why behind what happened. Some of it I know I'll never understand while I'm alive on earth. But underneath it all is the current of love, a love that will not let me go, a love that I don't want to let go of either. His love is my safe place to fall when the world doesn't make sense...when HE doesn't make sense. Just as Gates knows he can count on my love enough to be honest about not liking me sometimes, I know that I can count on God's love. Even when I don't like him.

I love you, God. Sometimes I don't understand you and I don't like you, but my life is intertwined with you. I would be lost without you, without your love. I'm glad that you love me unconditionally, even when I'm acting like a child. I'm glad that after the times of not liking you I can still turn to you and say "I love you," and know that you are loving me too.

What was I thinking?

2011-01-19T06:07:00.000-06:00

Occasionally I will have what seems like a Really Great Idea. I will get excited about this Really Great Idea and start to run with it only to find that it wasn't such a great idea, in fact sometimes it is a really lousy idea.

One such Really Great Idea was trying to start two blogs at once. I thought I'd keep this one for my lighter ramblings and the other one for my deeper thoughts. That's not working out so well. First, because apparently I have more light ramblings than deep thoughts, and second, because I barely have time to write for one blog, let alone two.

And let's face it, if this blog is about being simply who I am, then who I am is someone that can't just be reduced to one or two facets of my life. I'm made of flesh and spirit, God's beloved with dirt under her fingernails and I really can't separate the two. Every day is touched by the breath of God, every day offers the opportunity to hear his voice in the most mundane of tasks.

So I will slowly be migrating the posts from my other blog (and from my older original blog) over to this one. I'm excited about having everything in one place and I hope you enjoy both my lighter ramblings and the times when I (try) to get deep and philosophical!

7 Quick Takes Friday - 1/7/11

2011-01-07T08:51:00.000-06:00

-1-

I never thought I'd say this, but on Monday it was a beautiful sunny 27 degrees outside. In my former life, the one where I lived in Virginia and 27 was the average winter temp and we had about one week a year that made it down near zero and there was never any wind I probably would have been whining and freezing. Now that I live in the frozen wastelands of the north, a sunny 27 is cause for bliss! Especially when there is a light flurry of snow falling, glinting in the sunshine. Apparently I am really becoming a South Dakotan.

-2-

Yay for Gap Curvy jeans! They are one of the most awesome pairs of jeans that I've owned. Even more awesome was finding them in great condition at one of my local thrift stores. Yes, I shop thrift and I'm proud of it! I may never pay retail for jeans again.

-3-

On the subject of thrift stores, I have to share once again this super cute purse I picked up while I was shopping for jeans.

I have decided that winter calls for color, lots of it!

-4-

One thing that I look forward to at this time of year is calendar shopping! I almost always wait until the end of December because then they are all 50% off at Barnes and Noble, and in case you haven't guessed yet, I'm all about saving money! Buying a calendar isn't a quick in and out experience. No, I have to mull over all of the choices, decide what I want hanging in my kitchen for the rest of the year, what will bring me joy every time I look at it. Inevitably I end up with either a nature or a travel calendar. This year it's Tuscany...last year was Ireland.

And after the wall calendar comes the purse calendar because I am hopelessly out of date and have a basic no frills cell phone, not a Blackberry or a Droid or a whatever you use that does ten million things including keep your calendar. But they are not as pretty as my purse calendar either. See? Purple and shiny! It looks fantastic with the green purse. I've been getting this particular brand of calendar for several years because they are the most beautiful calendar I've ever seen.

-5-

If they came out with phone app that could get my boys up and dressed and ready for school I might just purchase one of those phones. It was without a doubt one of my least favorite mothering tasks at this stage in our lives. Fortunately I have one who is not only a morning person like me, but who also loves school. In a 'why can't we go to school all year long?' way. So getting him up and going isn't a problem. Getting him into all the winter gear right now is a bit of a challenge; he'll have his snow pants half-way on and get distracted by something. "Gates! Get your gear on!" Five seconds later one arm will be in the coat sleeve and he's distracted by something else. "Gates!" Everything on...distracted again. "Gates! Boots!" Sigh.

Now Indy is another story. He is his father's child. As in, NOT a morning person. Sometimes I refer to him as the small grumpy one. Morning starts with a five minute warning to give him time to adjust to the fact that he's going to have to pull his body out of his warm little bed. If we're smart, he's picked out his clothes the night before. If not...well, the morning is lost.

"What shirt do you want?"

"I don't knoooooooow!" (Hides head under pillow)

"OK, how about one of these three? Can you please look at them?"

"Noooooo! I don't LIKE those!"

"OK, then what do you want?"

"I don't knooooooow! I don't know what shirt I like!"

And so it goes until I give up and my husband goes down and stuffs Indy into some clothes. Then we get to repeat the saga with breakfast. This is often puncuated by outbursts of "I don't want to go to school. School is boring. I hate school. I hate you. Go away from me. I have a headache. I have a stomach ache."

Yes, I'd pay premium for a phone that would take over those tasks for me (including the packing of the lunches and all the other stuff that must be done).

-6-

I must say, I adore both of the boys' teachers this year. I love Gates' teacher for loving his quirkiness and for finding ways to use his endless storehouse of facts in the classroom. I love her for being able to handle the moments when he becomes stubborn because he doesn't like what they are working on. He had ONE discipline slip last semester. One. That's a record.

I love Indy's teacher for taking a grumpy morning boy and getting him to smile, for her playful attitude to teaching. For being able to keep her smile in a room full of 5 and 6 year olds. I've been volunteering in the class once a week, and it appears to be vaguely similar to attempting to get a roomful of cats to all do the same thing, at the same time. I applaud her for managing it.

-7-

I'll just end with one final picture.

Yes, we've joined the cult of Snuggie.

For more 7 Quick Takes Friday visit Jen at Conversion Diary.

The purse-uit of happiness

2011-01-05T08:58:00.000-06:00

On Monday I was shopping in Target, just a quick trip to pick up a few odds and ends, and I found myself drawn to the purse display. I really, really wanted a new purse, something snappy and bold, different from my typical drab brown purses. Now granted, my current drab brown purse really did need replacing before the handles fell completely off, but if I was entirely honest with myself, I had another drab brown purse sitting in my closet that would work perfectly fine. I didn't want brown though. I wanted green. Or maybe purple. Specifically, I wanted this purse:

Isn't it cute? And green? Nothing drab and brown about that purse.

But I didn't get it. I HAD another purse. And with car repair and emergency room bills coming due I just couldn't justify the expense. Not even as an early birthday gift to myself.

Today I made a quick trip to the thrift store to look for some new jeans. (Maybe someday I'll write about how much more I love thrifting now that I'm not forced to buy orange polyester pants.) New jeans were a necessity because I was one split seam away from having nothing other than athletic pants to wear. And that split seam was looking like a very real possibility. Plus, I just like being able to breathe when I'm wearing clothes. Just for kicks I detoured past the purse rack.

And there it was. Shining amidst the sea of brown and black in all of its beautiful green glory. I had absolutely no problem justifying the purchase at thrift store prices!

Isn't she beautiful? It makes me happy just to look at it.

There was a time in my life when I would have thought "Wow, God really wanted to bless me today! Look at how he gave me the very thing I wanted!" Or maybe I would have thought it was some sort of divine response to my faithfulness in tithing, or in completing our building fund pledge even in the face of the aforementioned car repairs and emergency room bills.

But I'm not so sure anymore. Because if I go down that road, then I have to ask myself why God would bother to give me a new purse but let a child in Africa starve to death. I have to ask if my faithfulness in my finances is really all that special in the face of the faithfulness of the persecuted church, most of whom are probably not receiving any purses as signs of divine favor. Does God really care so much about my happiness that he bothers with the little stuff like a purse?

In all honesty, I'm just not sure that he does. His sole desire is that I pursue HIM and find my joy in him. God is not some cosmic Oprah sitting in heaving saying "YOU get a new purse, and YOU get a new purse and YOU get a new purse! You all get new purses!!! Except for those of you too poor to come to the studio. You're out of luck." The theology of blessing doesn't seem to have much to do with material goods, but everything to do with the spirit.

Had I not found this purse I would have probably gone on being content with my drab brown purse and sometime in the future when our finances were more secure I would have purchased the purse I wanted. It would never have occurred to me to think that God loved me less because he didn't provide one. I think perhaps that is one of the keys to happiness; not holding out our hands to God like little children begging for a toy, but sincerely delighting when one happens to drop into our path.

What say you? Agree? Disagree? Think green purses are too blindingly bright? I'd love to hear what you think.

Happy New Year!

2011-01-01T16:43:00.000-06:00

photo by Barry Yanowitz

This morning as I lay in bed pondering the end of the world (don't laugh, it's coming in 2012...or at least some people think it is, which means we are another year closer to it) it occurred to me that this year my birthday will be on 1-11-11. For some reason the complete order of all those ones makes me happy.

My husband found that whole train of thought remarkably funny when I explained it to him. I don't know why, they were perfectly legitimate random thoughts and I'm sure that if I think long enough I'll figure out how I managed to get from one thought to the next in the space of one breath.

But the point of this post is neither the end of the world, whenever it may occur, or my birthday, which is virtually certain to occur at least once every year. No, I'm focusing on the little word 'happy'.

What makes up a happy year? Is it a year in which nothing goes wrong? Good luck with that! We had our share of woes this past year, mostly involving car repairs and hospital bills. Sometimes my children can bring their fair share of unhappiness along, whether they are shouting "You are the meanest mom ever!!!!" or simply struggling with things that I wish they didn't have to deal with.

For years I spent my New Year's Day wishing for a year in which everything went right. The sun would shine all the time, I'd become instantly popular, a novel would magically make its way from my brain to the keyboard, I'd be HAPPY. Resolutions were focused around things designed to make me happy. Lose weight. Be organized. Be the perfect Christian which by default is supposed to make me happy, right?

And every year by January 2nd, ok...by the evening of January 1st, I'd realize that I wasn't going to succeed in my goal of obtaining some whacked-out sense of unending bliss for the coming year.

So this year is different. This year instead of trying to grab happiness I'm going to look for the moments that make me happy. I'm looking for the small things, the things that are always there that bring that little internal sigh of delight. Like a birthday made up of all ones. A smile from my child. A crisp, buttery short-bread cookie. Cooking with friends and watching people delight in what we've prepared. I'm going to savor each moment like the juice of the sweetest fruit, letting it linger instead of gulping it and moving on. And I'm going to make a list, a 365 day long list of things that made me happy. Anyone want to join me in my happiness project?

On the outside, looking in

2010-12-24T09:47:00.000-06:00

One of the most intensely dark Christmas stories that I have ever read is Hans Christian Anderson's story of The Little Match Girl. Touted as a children's story, it features a destitute little girl, bare-footed and shivering in the cold, afraid to return to her meager home because she has not sold any matches that day. All day long she has been on the outside, looking in at lives filled with warmth and laughter, Christmas trees, holiday feasts, loving families. With no place to go she curls up in a corner between some houses and lights a match to try to keep herself warm. Each match she lights pulls her into a vision of all that she dreams of, delights of warmth and comfort that vanish as the match burns out. Finally she sees a vision of her grandmother, and, desperate to keep that vision from vanishing she lights all of the matches at once. Her grandmother carries her off to heaven and in the morning people find the little girl's cold, dead body. Funny how that's not a story widely told to children anymore.

In a way, I have always identified a bit with that little match girl. Always on the outside, looking in at the warmth and laughter, never feeling that I belonged to that world. In vain I would light my feeble matches, trying to hold on to visions of belonging. Education. Career. Appearance. Family. If only it wouldn't burn out; if only I could REALLY enter in, I would finally belong somewhere. But they all burned out, each in their own way, never bringing me the warmth that I longed for.

I remember in particular one year during college. Home on Christmas break, the feeling of emptiness was overwhelming. On Christmas Eve I went for a walk under a star-lit sky, thinking that if I just tried hard enough I could capture some of the warmth of Christmas, some of the peace, some sense that I belonged in the universe. I knew the Christmas story, had been raised with it drilled into my head, but I didn't FEEL the Christmas story. The stars didn't hold any answers. No angels sang for me, no sudden a-ha! moment came to me. All I felt was alone, wandering under the sky. Forever on the outside, looking in at something I couldn't quite grasp. Inside, I was as cold and dead as that little match girl.

Flash forward many years. Many midnight wanderings on darkened streets that never led me anywhere. Many matches lit and burned out. And now I know...I wasn't the only one on the outside. I'm not alone. We are ALL the little match girl, all longing for something that we could never reach on our own.

Photo by Steve Evans

And so, God came. Because we could not open the door to go in, God opened the door and stepped out in the darkness and the cold. God came to us. As we huddled in our corners he came, and he laid the gift of a baby at our cold and bloodied feet. A baby who would suffer through the same cold and despair that we live in. A child who would know the things that pain our hearts. A man who would take all of those hurts and all of those longings and in one final moment would experience the ultimate knowledge of being on the outside, being forsaken. And in that moment the door would be flung open for all eternity, welcoming us into HIS warmth.

Immanuel. God with us. God with us in the darkness, God with us in the light. God entering our world. God breaking through. Immanuel. God with us. And I am no longer on the outside, looking in.

Oh, Christmas ladder...

2010-12-03T09:08:00.000-06:00

I grew up in a house without a Christmas tree, in fact, in most of the years that I remember my mother did very little decorating at all. I didn't understand it at the time, and I longed for a Christmas tree with all of the passion of a child to whom the Christmas trees of friends and classmates seemed embodied with the magical abilities to bring that mysterious "Christmas Spirit" into a home.

We had a tree one year, when I was about five or six, and we may have had them before that, but never afterwards and I didn't really understand why. One year we had a refrigerator box that my mom fashioned into a pyramid shape and covered with green wrapping paper; we stuck paper ornaments on it with all of the names of Christ written on them. I suppose it was a meaningful experience since I still remember it, but at the time all I can remember thinking is "Well THIS is all well and good, but I want decorations!"

Yes, I wanted sparkling lights, candles, tinsel. I wanted something to warm both house and heart. One year I discovered a box of old Christmas decorations in the closet and those paltry, crumbling items held an aura of mystery to me. From them on I took it upon myself to be the decorator for the season. Tinsel on the house plants, old candles arranged with fake greenery and a few flaking decorations, pictures stenciled on the windows with fake snow. I spent years trying to create the feeling of something that I knew was out there, something that I never managed to quite grasp.

Fast forward to my first year out of college and an attic apartment shared with my best friend. She was determined to have a tree, and I happily joined in, going to pick out the tree, hauling it up two flights of stairs and around several tight corners. We decorated with ornaments she got from home, as well as a few purchased on our meager budgets. I still have them in a box; each of my trees since then has been the cumulative story of my adult life.

I had a tree most years after that, skipping a few years with crazy roommates, picking back up when I married and then stopping again when Mike and I lived in apartments with no space for a tree. But still I loved the idea of putting up a tree.

That all changed a few years ago, at a time when we were finally settled into our own home, a time when I should have gladly decked the halls for all they were worth. And I found that I just couldn't make the effort, it exhausted me to even think about it. Going to pick the tree wasn't the happy family outing I had dreamed of, it involved freezing fingers and two small children fussing about how COLD they were. And then there were the needles everywhere, and the hours spent decorating and the watering and the needles and the allergies to the chemicals used on the trees and the needles and the hours spent packing everything back up and it just didn't make it FEEL like Christmas for more than about the first hour.

I wonder now if my mother suffered from seasonal depression too, if the effort of trying to maintain peace on earth and joy to the world all through the holidays was as exhausting to her as it has become to me. I wonder if, like me, she just wanted something simpler but didn't know how to achieve that balance and so she just didn't even try.

This year I decided to put my foot down. I just couldn't do it anymore. Fortunately, I was helped along in my decision by a certain eight year old who suddenly decided that we are better off keeping the trees where they are so that they can provide us with oxygen. The minute he declared we shouldn't have a tree I said "OK! We won't!"

The lessons learned in my childhood weren't lost though. I decided that I would decorate within MY abilities. And so we have the poinsettia corner (using the tree skirt that I debated on for almost two years before purchasing):

The garlanded stocking railing (complete with decorations that recall the chipped and flaking decorations of my childhood):

The Advent wreath (in which I make use of all the round glass ornaments):

The Nativity set, watching for something (for those who have known me awhile, yes, this is the nativity set of "Help, help, Baby Jesus is lost in the beans! Quick, get the sheep!" fame):

And finally, the Christmas ladder:

I can't begin to tell you how much fun I had decorating this year. Each piece was small and quickly finished. I missed putting up ALL of my treasured old ornaments just for the chance to remember their stories, but I am content with what I've done.

When I pulled out the box of decorations Indy dove in with great delight and as I started fussing at him to not make a mess and leave the decorations alone I remembered the mystery that I found years ago in a box of old decorations and I decided to let him play. Maybe one day when he's interested I'll tell him the stories held in some of the decorations.

Most importantly, now that I have the pressure to create removed from my back I have more to give. More time to spend on Advent devotions. More time to spend soaking in the peace. More time to sit with my children, listening to them express their wonder with the season. More time for Christ. And really, that is what it's all about.

Snuggies: Gift from above or government conspiracy?

2010-11-15T13:33:00.000-06:00

It's that time of year again. Election season is over, and there's a chill in the air. People everywhere are wondering "Where can I get my daily dose of controversy now?" and, "How can I keep warm for the next six months?" (Yes, I live in South Dakota. I like to anticipate six months of cold and then get pleasantly surprised if it warms up sooner.)

And so, I present you with an issue to solve both dilemmas. The Snuggie.

For years we have seen ads featuring people lounging on their couches, encased in these oversized fleece backwards bathrobes. They smile at us and wave pleasantly while a calming voice tells us that all will be well. Cold cannot enter their Snuggie-wearing world. Even their pets wear Snuggies.

You think I jest? Exhibit A

Forget sweaters and blankets, we are told. It's just too HARD to lay that blanket over your lap. There are some things humanity simply shouldn't have to deal with, and apparently putting on a sweater is one of them.

I have a theory that explains just where the insidious roots of this dorky attire TRULY lie.

Yes, my friends. The Snuggie is a government conspiracy.

Think about it. There we were, going along happily for years and years, wearing sweaters and tucking under blankets and no one EVER conceived of the Snuggie. Why didn't some guy back in the 1800's say to his wife "Hey now, Liza-Beth, how about you sew some sleeves on that blanket for me so I can sit 'n smoke my pipe with my hands free?" After all, they didn't even have central heating. Surely if ever there was a time for the Snuggie to be developed it was before the advent of central heat.

Let's look first at some of the tactics used by the Snuggie marketers:

1. They convince us that it is a CHORE to reach out from underneath a blanket to grab something. Note that they carefully avoid the issue of just putting on a sweater, instead implying that the only alternative would be to turn up your heat. This technique is known as 'distract and deflect'.

2. They falsely inflate the troubles of blanket use. "Oh my goodness! It might SLIP!" I could never just readjust the stupid thing, that would take effort!"

3. They attempt to make themselves look attractive. Custom prints! Sports team logos! Colors! All to distract from the fact that this is a backwards bathrobe.

So who do we know that likes to distract and deflect? Who do we know that just might falsely inflate something? Who do we know that likes to pretty things up to distract from the true appearance? That's right, the government!

And why, you ask, would the government want its population wearing Snuggies?

Well, first we have the obvious fact that the fleece in Snuggies is made from petroleum products so any politician with a vested interest in petroleum companies is going to want to encourage their use.

But lets dig a little deeper, shall we, into the dark underbelly of government conspiracy?

Simply put, they WANT you laying around, munching popcorn and watching tv. Heaven forbid that you get up and do something active to stay warm. All those pictures of people standing in their Snuggies? Propaganda. Stand up and you get a cold butt. No, the Snuggie is part of the plot to encourage complacency, to encourage us to seek the easy route, the route that is filled with comfort. No longer are we a nation who works with our hands to make this country great! No! We are a nation to be lulled into a Snuggie wearing dream where all is cozy and right. Don't struggle! Don't make waves! Wrap yourselves in your Snuggie and it will all be ok.

And so I say fight! Fight against the Snuggie! Pull out the blankets, the sweaters, or the bathrobes worn as they were intended to be worn. Better yet, get up off the couch! Put music on! Dance! Resist the voice that lulls you into a fleece induced haze! Viva la revolucion!

I leave you with this last bit to prove the evil agenda of the Snuggie...the Snuggie Macarena.

Proverbial

2010-11-05T13:25:00.000-05:00

There she goes again
The living embodiment of
that super-woman from Proverbs
Chapter 31
Verses 10 through 31.

Up before dawn
She bakes her own bread,
Makes her own yogurt and feeds her children
A healthy breakfast of hot cereal.

All before a day of homeschooling them.
All six of them.

I'm up before dawn,
but I don't want to be.
And sometimes its because
I just can't sleep.

I send my children off to school
with peanut butter sandwiches.

Every hair is in place and her wardrobe
is impeccable.
And three sizes smaller than mine.
She probably doesn't eat chocolate
when she is stressed.

Does she get stressed?

Her home is a welcome beacon
Shining with polish and decorated
tastefully for each season.
She hosts guests with joy and style.

My home is decorated with dust bunnies
And hosting makes me quake with fear.

Her children rise up and call her blessed.

Mine rise up and yell "You are the meanest mom,
Ever!"

She serves on committees and her name is known
for her generosity.
She always knows the right thing to say.

She opens an Etsy shop to sell
her handmade wares.

I have a knitting project I started almost a year ago,
that's been ripped out four times.
And I almost always put my foot in my mouth.

Proverbs 31.
The words always taste bitter.
More rules,
A standard that weighs me down.

What does the Lord require?
What does the LORD require?

Do justice.
Love mercy.
Walk humbly with your God.

I am a Micah woman.
Chapter 6.
Verse 8.

Chaos

2010-11-05T06:55:00.000-05:00

Psalm - a miktam*

Oh God, I have that gnawing "I can't do it all" feeling again.
There's too many things on my plate,
A house to clean, children to take to school,
Work to get done
And grocery shopping.

I'm sinking in the morass of my "To-do" list
and I can't see open skies anywhere.
I want to ditch it all and run,
Run far away.

Meetings and conferences and responsibilities
Are devouring me piece by piece.
And there is no peace.

So I stop, and I cry out to you.
You are my rock of rest.
I lean on you and you surround me.
I WILL take time to praise you,
For you have given me untold blessings
Even in the midst of chaos.

My soul delights in you
Let me run to you and take refuge.
My list is still here
But so are you.
Holding me, walking beside me,
Breathing peace into me.

I will hold on to you,
and I will not forget you in the middle of my chaos.
I will see your love in the faces of my children,
Your hand covering me as a sweep the floor,
Your face in each person I pass today.

I will exalt you today, O Lord,
My peace and my strength.

*In ancient Hebrew word pictures Miktam is composed of mem (chaos), kaf (God's open hand allowing to cover), tav (the cross/covenant/seal), and mem (chaos). So loosely, a miktam could likely mean 'a bringing of our chaos to the One who can bring order from it'. If you want to geek out a little further on ancient Hebrew, Genesis 1:1 presents this same picture of One standing in the midst of chaos to bring order.

These days

2010-10-11T16:41:00.001-05:00

Today I'll just let the pictures do the talking. Sometimes simple joys are best left wordless.

What we do for fun

2010-10-11T16:41:00.000-05:00

You may be wondering what we do for fun, out here in the middle of nowhere.

First, I would like to point out that we do have culture. We do actually live in a city of over 120,000 and it may be the only one of its size in this state, but we DO have a science center, the arts, movie theaters, a mall and all the other trappings of Western civilization.

So for fun we go to tractor shows.

No, really, we do. See?

OK, to be honest, this is my once per year trek to a tractor show because in my mind once you've seen one tractor you've pretty much seen 'em all, and once you've seen a tractor once there's really no need to see the same tractor year after year. But this is my annual nod to the fact that I live with boys. I live with boys who like tractors. I live with boys who like to go to tractor shows. And so I go, even when it has rained in the morning turning everything into a sea of mud.

There are big tractors,

and small tractors.

Loud tractors and...well, ok they are all loud.

My family has a blast and as for myself, well, this year the saving grace was local White Headed Robin Winery who braved the mud and the crowds to offer samples. Delicious, every single one I sampled. Well, with the exception of the Jalepeno wine, which no doubt has its fans but after killing my tastebuds I'm going to count myself out. But I'm looking forward to seeing their wines in the South Dakota Wines section at most local Hy-Vee stores. See, not only do we have culture, we actually make WINE in this state!

So there you have it. That's what we do for fun in South Dakota.

Surrender

2010-09-14T17:04:00.000-05:00

Dear State Board of Accountancy:

Enclosed, please find one certificate to practice public accounting in this state. You didn't need to get threatening about it, I was going to send it back anyway. I was just having a hard time parting with those shiny letters 'CPA' and the right to put them after my name if I was feeling insignificant. There was something comforting about having a title, about having something that proved I had worked hard and been successful.

And I did work hard. I earned the right to those letters through countless hours of juggling work, classes and a husband. I paid for it in the currency of lost hours, of conversations never had, intimacy set aside in pursuit of my goal. I was going to be self-sufficient. I wasn't going to depend on anybody.

It took me several years to figure out that wasn't what I wanted. That it didn't matter how good I was, what my test scores were or how much the clients loved me. I was empty. Bit by bit my drive to BE someone had drained me of who I REALLY was. I tried to make a go of it, to live up to my expectations of myself. And I was miserable.

It took something fierce to start to pry my grip away. A fierce love for a child that I knew needed me in a way for which there was no substitute. It took mama bear love standing up and declaring that I wasn't going to be afraid, that I would be there for my child. It's been just over three years and I can honestly say I have never regretted a moment of it.

But still I clung to that title like a child clinging to a security blanket long after it loses the ability to keep them warm. The 'what if's of fear, the lack of financial security...those are tough demons to conquer. Far easier to have a fallback plan that I am in control of.

I'm giving up now. I'm surrendering. Along with my certificate I'm surrendering my need to be in control of my life. I'm surrendering the idea that I even CAN be in control of my life. I am convinced that the God who brought me this far has much better plans for me, plans that do not involve public accounting. So you'll just have to muddle along with one less public accountant in this state; I'm pretty sure you'll manage just fine. There's a bigger call out there, a wind that is gathering to take me to places unknown and I'd prefer not to be anchored in the past.

So file this certificate in the file marked 'F' for 'Freedom!' And who knows, I may even do a little William Wallace "Freeeeeeeedoooooom!" yell when I put this in the mail. My neighbors might think I'm nuts, but that's OK.

Sincerely,
Simply Rea

photo by Jesus Solana

Book review - Evolving in Monkey Town

2010-09-12T16:54:00.001-05:00

I don't read deep theology books. I also don't read the popular 'it' books in Christian circles. Too much buzz about a book and I dig my heels in, determined not to succumb to the hype. Thus, I have never read The Prayer of Jabez, The Purpose Driven Life or The Shack. I haven't read Velvet Elvis, Sex God or Blue Like Jazz. I've also never read anything by Joel Osteen, but that might have more to do with the fact that he has too many teeth gleaming from the cover of his books.

But when I started seeing mentions of Rachel Held Evans' book 'Evolving In Monkey Town' popping up across the Internet I was intrigued. I picked up the book at the library on Friday and devoured it in barely two days. And now I'm sitting here digesting it, trying to decide if it lived up to the hype or not. More than that, I'm trying to figure out if this book had something to say to me that I didn't know already.

This book is not deep. If it doesn't become clear from her preface, the opening sentence of "Monkeys make me nervous" should give you a hint, one that is further confirmed by Evans' description of using apologetics in fourth grade to defend the existence of Santa Claus

And yet, this book IS deep because in a voice that is both witty and intelligent Evans tells the story of how she began to question the very fabric of all she had been taught, to go beneath the surface apologetics, the pat Christian answers, the formulas, the guilt trips and really wrestle with the deeper questions.

What happens to people who die without ever hearing of Jesus?
What happens to faith if we accept the premise of evolution? Does it have to fall apart?
What is the Biblical worldview and are we supposed to be living it?
Are apologetics the best way to evangelize?

The beauty of this book is that I felt that in many ways her story was MY story. Raised in the certainty of 'the way things are', shattered on the rocky ground of a world that contained questions my upbringing couldn't answer. Taught that there is a right and a wrong for every situation; skirt length, political party, self-expression, career choice, church denomination. The list was endless then and it seems to keep getting longer. I have run aground on some of those questions and I still struggle with finding the answers.

This book will not give you answers. If you want a deep, learned discourse this book is probably not for you. If you want to be told that x or y is right or wrong, this book will leave you frustrated. You may even throw it against a wall or declare Evans a heretic. What this book will do is give you the freedom to ask the questions. It will point you in the right direction, give you a gentle nudge and then leave you to work it out with God.

I suppose if I gained anything from Evolving in Monkey Town (beyond that nudge to keep asking questions) it was confirmation of just why I do not gel with the idea of apologetics. It was a reminder that people want to see Christ living in us; that arguing has rarely, if ever, led anyone to the knowledge of a God who loves them. It was a conviction that having a string of 'Best Christian Attitude' awards is not enough if I don't have love. Read this book at your peril, it may turn some of your preconceived notions on their heads. Ultimately, that is a good thing.

7 Quick Takes Friday - 9/10/10

2010-09-10T09:23:00.000-05:00

Eight year olds have very little concept of the relative amounts of time it takes to complete a task, and apparently I have not been ~~exploiting this~~ encouraging the development of this skill to its full potential. I discovered this one recent Sunday when I told Gates he needed to sweep the Wheaties strewn floor around his chair.

"Noooooo!!!! I ALWAYS have to do it!!!!!! I'm TIRED of doing it!!!!! I don't want to do it!!!!!" Always meaning like once every other week or so for the past few weeks when he's made a significant mess.

So I tried some Mom psychology on him. "Well, I ALWAYS have to do the dishes and I don't want to so I'll tell you what, I will sweep the floor if you do the dishes."

"OK, I'll do the dishes."

Not quite the response I was going for, but OK, I can roll with this. Expecting him to back out at any minute we emptied the dishwasher, re-loaded it, ran water in the sink and washed all of the pots and pans. He declared it 'not that hard'.

He's also already negotiated the fact that at chores go, washing dishes ranks up there enough in difficulty to be worth 50 cents on his chore commission chart. I'm still trying to figure out if I got lucky, or if I got played.

I was always an imaginative child, so it makes me happy to see my boys following in my footsteps as they make up stories. Indy has this down to an art form. He can take any object and turn it into a HUGE cast of characters. For example, the refrigerator words:

I got these for Gates a year or so ago in the hope that it would help his ability to write creatively. He's got the creativity in his head, he just has trouble getting it down on paper. Well, he pays no attention to them. Indy, however, has recently discovered the joys of words. And I don't mean reading them. No, he'll sit there by the refrigerator for an HOUR (no exaggeration) making up stories by turning the words into characters and moving them around. It will be interesting to see if his play changes as he learns to recognize words.

On the topic of imagination, I've been listening to Anne of Green Gables while I work (I LOVE the down loadable audio book section of our library). It's made me realize just how little scope for the imagination I have allowed myself lately. So I'm vowing to bring some more imagination into my own life every day. I've especially missed all of the time I used to spend in nature; I need to find some special places where I can dream, if only occasionally.

I always felt that I should have been a redhead. Maybe not Anne Shirley red, but something brighter than brown. But lately I've become conflicted about using too many chemicals on my hair and body. So what's a girl to do? To dye or not to dye, that is the question.

I need to get some new garden pictures up. Last weekend we visited the farm garden and I ruthlessly chopped all of the growing tips off of my tomato plants so that the remaining fruit would ripen more quickly. I don't think I'll be getting that variety again, they were the vineyest things, with little fruit to show for it. I'm taking suggestions for a good, bushy heirloom sauce tomato for next year.

Vines seemed to be the story in the garden. Next year I SWEAR everything that vines along the ground is getting planted at the far end of the garden. After last year's great pumpkin takeover (which grew to more than double the size shown in this picture)

I swore that I'd keep my vines in check this year. Umm. Not so much. I told Gates the other day that I think if you stood there long enough you could actually see them grow. First there is the squash plant. See that area I'm standing in? I planted nothing there this year. My squash volunteered from last year and that entire area is covered with vines, and then some.

I also thought I'd be smart and plant a pie squash instead of a pumpkin under the mistaken delusion that a pie squash wouldn't vine as much. Yeah, I don't know what I was thinking either. See that tree I'm standing by? The squash attacked the tree. And by attacked, I don't mean grew up the trunk. I mean some little tendril grew high enough to grab a branch and after that it was all over for the poor tree. This is the stuff movies about aliens are made of.

So yeah, I'm going to have lots of pie squash to hand out to my friends this year. At least they're smaller than the pumpkins were.

Last, but not least, this morning as we were snuggling in bed before school a certain 8 year old who shall remain nameless looked at me, smiled and said "Mom, you look kind of like you're having a baby." I tried to explain to him why women do not consider this a compliment, but in his mind babies are good, therefore looking like you are having a baby must be good. Sigh. On that note, I'm going to go get friendly with my exercise videos.

For more great 7 Quick Takes Friday posts visit Jen at Conversion Diary.

What's in a name?

2010-08-24T17:02:00.001-05:00

The other morning I sat down to breakfast. I opened a box of Raisin Bran and poured it into my bowl. Hmm. No raisins, how disappointing. Ah well, they'll be in the next bowl, right? Next morning, same thing. No raisins. I expressed my disappointment on Facebook, because clearly all of my friends should care whether I have raisins in my cereal or not.

That afternoon I cut open my seedless watermelon. Seeds. Definitely enough to disqualify it for the 'seedless' label.

What's going on here? 'Raisin' and 'seedless' are words that describe the inherent qualities of my food and they are NOT delivering on their promise!

Then all the peoples on earth will see that you are called by the name of the Lord..."Deut. 28:10 (NIV)

If my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven and will forgive their sin and will heal their land. 2 Chronicles 7:14 (NIV)
I have a label too. Whether you call me a Christian, a Christ-follower, a Messianic, follower of YAHWEH or some other form to express whose name I bear it is a label. A label that tells the world what they should see in my life.

Anne Rice made news in July when she declared that she was walking away from the Christian church. No longer was she going to bear the label of Christian. Why? Because like so many others, I think she opened the box and found that what was inside didn’t really match the label it bore. Instead of a people who are seeking to be transformed into the image of Christ we have become a people seeking to transform the world into the image of us. Like raisinless raisin bran we have the ‘good for you’ stuff but not the sweetness. Like seedless watermelon filled with seeds we’ve added things that shouldn’t be there.

Anne is not the first, nor will she be the last to open the box and find it lacking. Thankfully she has not stepped away from following Christ, only from being associated with a bland and seedy Christianity.

So what IS in a name? At its core, what should people expect to see in my life if I bear the label of Christian? What would I like them to think of when they hear that I follow Christ?

Let's start with some of the basics.
But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self‑control. Against such things there is no law. Galatians 5:22,23 (NIV)
If I bear the name of Christ I will be loving. Not just to those who are like me, not just to those I agree with, not just to those who are lovable...I will be loving to all.
One of the teachers of the law came and heard them debating. Noticing that Jesus had given them a good answer, he asked him, “Of all the commandments, which is the most important?”

“The most important one,” answered Jesus, “is this: ‘Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one. Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.’ The second is this: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no commandment greater than these.” Mark 12:28-31 (NIV)
How often do we get a reputation for being unloving? People walk into our churches, expecting to find something in that box and walk out again having been ignored, criticized, talked down to or judged. Love is conspicuously absent.

Did you get what Jesus said? The most important commandment is to love God with all our heart, all our soul, all our mind and with all our strength. I can't help but think that if I am putting all of that energy into loving God that leaves me precious little time for running around telling other people what to do with their lives. My sole devotion is to LOVING GOD! And out of that love comes pouring love for my neighbor. Love for the one who is untouchable. Love for the one from whom established religion shies away.

I think for today I'll leave it at that; it's more than enough for me to wrap my brain around. When people look at me, I want there to be truth in labeling. I want them to see Christ's love pouring out of me. Not all the extra stuff we stick in there and try to make important, just Christ. Christ who has every right to judge, to declare me not worthy of his love. Christ who loved me enough to give his life as a ransom for mine. Christ who rose again so that I can live with him eternally.

That is a name worth bearing.

Time flies

2010-08-23T08:41:00.000-05:00

Last Moday marked the beginning of a new phase in my life. Despite his protests that he was going to stay home forever, Indy was dressed, backpack laden, and off to school. For the record, he declared at the end of the day that school was fun and he had a great first week. Unlike some kids, he never cried. I think that he draws strength from contact, so each morning I stand in his line, the only parent holding their 50 pound kindergartner. And it's ok with me, because for those few brief moments he is still my baby, he still needs me, he hasn't grown apart from me just yet.

And then the bell rings, my signal to put him down, and the students line up, chattering, giggling, jostling, ready to start their day. A whistle is blown, the teachers at the head of the line put a hand in the air and suddenly it is still as several hundred students are quiet, putting their hand in the air as a sign of 'we're listening and paying attention'. It's a bit eerie to see that sudden stillness fall over a crowd of children! It brings order though, as each class files into the school, and I stand and watch my baby, my boy, disappear through the doors.

I am faced with the emptiness of seven hours by myself. Seven hours to do ANYTHING I want to do. Oh, the lists of things I thought I would get accomplished each day. My work would get done, my house would be cleaned, I'd fit in an hour of exercise every day, quiet time, prayer and contemplation, a little reading, some knitting or crafting, and every day I'd have time to BLOG! Relaxed and blissful I would welcome the boys home at the end of the day, with nothing to do for the next few hours but focus on them and cook supper (which would already be prepped, of course).

Photo by Mike Epp

I have no idea what happened to my time, because my list did not get done. I got my work sort of done because people tend not like it if they don't get their paychecks, but I still have a pile of paperwork to sort through and the paid invoices are stacking up waiting to be filed. I got at least some exercise in...most days. Quiet time, check...most days. But not exactly the intense prayer-filled hour I'd envisioned. Reading, knitting and blogging? Cleaning? All those somehow fell by the wayside. I don't even know where my time went.

When I started this blog it was going to focus on living the simple life, enjoying simple pleasures, a beautiful tribute to streamlined simple ways. Life is more complicated than that. So this is me, simply Rea, trying to live out life as simply as possible when everything tends towards chaos. If I ever figure out how to tame that chaos, I'll let you know.

7 Quick Takes Friday (8/13/10)

2010-08-13T12:14:00.000-05:00

I am in the rotation to occasionally play the pre-service music for our church's traditional service. I usually try to run straight through my selected music several times to make sure I'm close to the ten necessary minutes. Of course we all know what happens when we try to time ourselves doing anything with our children around. You'd think that if I can practice with the distraction of two small boys and keep my focus then I should be ready for anything. Last Saturday night practice sounded something like this:

Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling...

"MOM!!! INDY WON'T LET ME SIT ON THE CHAIR WITH HIM!"

Calling for you and for me...

"Well, go find another chair to sit on then."

"UGH! BUT IT'S NOT FAIR, I WANT TO SIT THERE!"

Did you feel the mountains tremble?

Screaming...

Did you hear the oceans roar?

"You STUPID HEAD!"

When the people rose to sing of Jesus Christ the risen one...

"AAAGGGGH! MOM! HE'S BEING MEAN!"

If with all your hearts ye truly seek me

"Mommy, do you know where my Snowmanny is?"

ye shall ever surely find me..

"Did you look in your little wooden box?"

Thus saith our God.

"Where IS it??? I can't FIND it!!!"

Sigh. I just wish all of that concentration would result in fewer mistakes on Sunday mornings.

I am married to MacGyver. On Sunday the passenger side window mechanism on Mike's car broke with no warning and no apparent cause. There was just a 'ping' and the window dropped out of sight. We've had to fix this problem before on a different window, it isn't cheap. And we've pretty much cleared out our savings on car repairs the past few months. So while I was inside stressing and stuffing my face with ice cream and peanut butter cookies (oh, so THAT'S where the extra pounds came from) he went out, took apart the door, raised the window and then screwed a block of wood into the door panel to hold it in place. Sure, we can't use it, but who needs it anyway? I ask you, could the Mac have done any better?

This summer is becoming known as the summer of the bugs. Apparently both mosquitos and crickets like abundant rain. What I didn't expect was dragonflies. Hosts of them. They zip around my garden like little blue pins, sparkling in the sun. We've found a few specimens on the sidewalk, and despite Indy's insistence that I rescue them, they are typically beyond my help. But the most glorious sight by far happened the other week as I went out for an evening walk. I looked up in the sky and saw hundreds, probably thousands of dragonflies dancing in the air. Apparently the moist summer brings them out, particularly since it provides an abundant supply of their food source, mosquitoes. Bring on the dragonflies!

photo by Glass_House

I really don't care what celebrities do, but sometimes I find that the whole celebrity culture has tipped over into the absurd. Like this recent article. "Paris Hilton sued for wearing wrong hair extensions". Really? Do people actually pay so much attention to that that it would be worth millions to a company if she wore the wrong ones? And how do they KNOW she wore the wrong ones? It's hair, it doesn't come with a little tag proclaiming its origin. They are also claiming her party-filled lifestyle doesn't fit their marketing campaign. Umm, hello? This is Paris Hilton we're talking about? I don't think they can claim ignorance on that count.

On the subject of hair (mine is real, thankyouverymuch), I was reading recently that women over a certain age should forgo hair accessories and settle for simple tortoiseshell clasps and grosgrain ribbon headbands. Although I'm not exactly shopping in the kiddie section of the hair aisle, I do like some sparkle, and you will pry my hippie headbands from my cold, dead hands. I prefer to think of it as an expression of the inner me, and the inner me does not scream for tortoiseshell. What's your favorite hair gadget, and what does it say about your personality?

The boys start school on Monday, which is creating a lot of mixed feelings. On the one hand, I may actually be able to clean and have it stay so for a span of several hours at a time. I won't be interrupted by bloodcurdling screams of "MOOOOOOMMMMM"! I will be reasonably sure that while out of my sight they are behaving like civilized little human beings instead of devising new ways to aggravate each other.

On the other hand, it will be quiet. Very, very quiet. My husband said to just turn on the tv as background noise. He's missing the point. There is noise for the sake of noise, and then there is noise that is alive and breathing that wraps itself around me and reminds me that I exist for someone other than myself, that I have a purpose and a job to do. Without that noise I fear a loss of purpose, I fear being adrift for seven hours a day.

School starts on Monday. And I start learning how to navigate a new stage of my life.

Last, but certainly not least, a recognition of the one who helped to bring the noise, the chaos, the laughter into my life. Without him I do not think I would have ever learned how to fly. I would have never had the joy of rolling over to gaze into eyes that hold nothing but love for me. I would never have a hand to hold, a shoulder to lean on, someone to rub my feet at the end of a long day. (Oh, wait, scratch that last part...he doesn't do feet.) There is a picture in my wedding book; I have no idea what I'm doing, but the joy shining in my face is unmistakable. It is the most joyous picture I have of myself and captures perfectly what he brings into my life.

Happy Anniversary, Mike. I love you now, always and forever.

7 Quick Takes Friday is hosted this week by Hallie at Betty Beguiles, go check it out!

Unexpected

2010-08-11T16:10:00.000-05:00

My garden is not looking too good.

My beans are deceased.

My tomato plants are diseased and have no more leaves.

And I had to pull the squash because it got a grub in it.

In the midst of all that, something beautiful is happening:

The volunteer morning glories have wound their way around the cages, finally blooming and adding a spot of unexpected beauty to an otherwise ugly situation.

I want to be a morning glory, bringing something beautiful to the wasted spots.

7 Quick Takes Friday

2010-08-06T08:55:00.000-05:00

Move over Panera, I have a new favorite restaurant in my town. Last night I ate at Mixed and can I just say, YUM! If you like the idea of freshly prepared salads with crisp greens and fresh veggies, this is the place for you. If you like supporting businesses that are committed to being eco-friendly, this is the place for you. If you live outside of Sioux Falls....you're out of luck. I suppose other places have comparable establishments, but the idea of a made to order salad to go is a fairly new concept here.

Of course, I'll be eating there alone because Mike and the boys are allergic to the idea of eating anything containing salad ingredients. Especially lettuce.

So, why did I get to eat there? Because my wonderful husband saw me gazing longingly at it as we headed into Chuck E Cheese's and said "Go take a break and eat what you want. The boys and I will be fine." I so love this man.

How did I justify buying my own meal instead of eating pizza at Chuck E Cheese's? Because we have a wonderful neighbor who just happens to be the manager there and who occasionally gives us gift cards for a free pizza, drinks and tokens.

And when another neighbor was left with $2 in his bank account she gave him enough food to get him through until payday.

It kind of makes me wonder why someone who doesn't claim to be a Christian is out-giving me. It challenges me to do better.

Speaking of food (because I was, sort of), why is it always up to us moms to finish off everything that the rest of the family has decided they don't like? I've got two boxes of cereal in the pantry that I am slowly working my way through. Cereal that the boys USED to like, cereal that Indy insisted he wanted. And now he has declared he doesn't want it so I'm stuck eating it because I can't just toss perfectly good cereal.

The same thing happens with leftovers. I will cook a perfectly delicious dinner and then be stuck eating leftovers for the next four days. Even the most delicious dinner gets a little tiring after the second day in a row. Multiply that times the number of meals a week and its no wonder I am as big as a house...it's from eating all the leftovers. Because my German ancestry forbids that I ever waste food by throwing it away.

Moving off the topic of food, school starts in only a little over a week. I am still trying to figure out where the summer went, and if I am ready for this or not. This year I send Indy off to Kindergarten and I am NOT ready. Although there are moments (when he is testing his voice to see how many decibels he can reach) that I am MORE than ready. Unlike Gates, he's not too thrilled with the idea. Gates loves school (or maybe he just doesn't like being at home?). When I asked Gates what his favorite part of summer had been he said "Waiting for school to start." As one friend commented, "I think he's missing the point of summer."

Indy, on the other hand, would be more than content to stay home with me forever. Or at least for another year. But he'll turn six in November, so I can't really hold him out for another year and Mike is adamantly against homeschooling. So, off to school my baby goes.

Remember how much fun it was to go school shopping when we were kids? Picking folders and notebooks with cool pictures on them, expressing our personality through the accessories. Yeah, they've pretty much taken the fun out of that. Or at least, our district has. "Four two-pocket folders in solid colors, preferably green, yellow, red and blue. Four spiral bound wide-ruled notebooks to match." Try marching your kids past displays of folders with cars, robots, cartoon characters, etc. and telling them they can only pick the plain ones. Not so fun. Gates has adjusted, Indy not so much. And I'll admit to casting a longing eye at the display of gorgeous folders, binders and other coordinating accessories and remembering the days when all I wanted was a cool Trapper Keeper.

Still on the topic of back-to-school shopping, we finally went shoe shopping for the boys last night. Yes, 'we'. Because I refused to attempt it by myself, quite certain that it would result in chaos, mayhem, and possible bodily injury. It is amazing how excited they were about new shoes. You'd think we'd never ever bought them new shoes before. In fact, Gates just asked me if he could look at his new shoes. Um, yes? He picked them up and went and lay on our bed and just looked at them for awhile. Some people appreciate art, my child appreciates shoes. Go figure.

For more 7 Quick Takes Friday posts visit Jen at Conversion Diary.

Water

2010-08-05T14:21:00.000-05:00

photo by darkpatator

Water. We take it so much for granted. Turn a handle, squeeze a nozzle, push a button and out it pours, ready to do our bidding. Washing hands, doing dishes, loads of laundry, cleaning, water gun battles, filling pools, watering lawns; it is ours to command. Stop and think. Can you tell me how many times you have used water so far today? From brushing your teeth this morning (hopefully) to the drink you just got from the refrigerator how many times has water been there for you?

I've been thinking about it today. Not because it isn't there, but because I'm not supposed to use it. A crisis in the sewage system due to a recent spate of heavy rains has called for severe restrictions on water usage since last evening for our side of the city, lest an over-taxed system start backing up sewage into people's homes.

Sure, I rejoiced in a reason not to do laundry. I may have even looked at the dirty dishes and smirked a little...until they threatened to start taking over my kitchen. I figured I'm home all day so no one cares if I don't shower.

Yep, I may have been a little self-congratulatory over my willingness to 'suffer' for the sake of residents who would have been affected by a sewage back-up.

And then I came across these statistics (from the website of the Mennonite Central Committee):

In our world, one billion people do not have access to safe and affordable drinking water. 2.4 billion live in conditions that lack basic sanitation.
2.2 million people in developing countries die every year from diseases associated with lack of clean drinking water, inadequate sanitation and poor hygiene.
The average U.S. citizen uses more than 79 gallons of water per day. The average person in the developing world? Barely a quarter of a gallon.

What if I had to spend a four hour round trip on foot just to get water for my family? What if I couldn't just turn the handle and have access to water that I knew was safe?

It makes my temporary water restrictions look like a cake walk. It makes me feel a little less self-congratulatory, a little less proud of my 'sacrifices'. It makes me want to cry for how good I have it, and how different that is from how so many live and die.

It makes me look at water in a new light.

It makes me want to make a difference.

Photo by magnus franklin

Ready, Aim, Fire!

2010-07-31T19:03:00.001-05:00

photo by Stacirl

All kinds of animals, birds, reptiles and creatures of the sea are being tamed and have been tamed by man, but no man can tame the tongue. It is a restless evil, full of deadly poison. James 3: 7,8 (NIV)

You'd think it wouldn't be a problem for an introvert like me, but I did it again. I got upset, and instead of taking some time to step back, give the situation to God and let him quiet my heart I charged in with cannons blazing and my tongue lighting the fuse.

Let's take the lay of the battlefield, shall we?

On one side we have our history with the school district. Gates' kindergarten year was filled with problems. It was fortunate that he has an unquenchable thirst for knowledge because otherwise I am afraid it might have turned him off of school for a long time. We knew that his teacher had been transferred to the school at the last minute and was unhappy about it, we just didn't fully realize how much it was affecting her work in the classroom. We spent a lot of time blaming our discomfort on our unfamiliarity with 'the system'. It wasn't until first grade that some conversations with other parents brought the realization of just how much of the problem rested on his teacher. So we are understandably leery of school district politics and the transferring of teachers who don't want to be transferred.

On the other side we have our new school, built after Gates finished first grade to accomodate our expanding side of the city. The difference in staff at every level is amazing; handpicked by the principal to fit her educational philosophy it is a beautiful model of top-down influence on corporate culture.

This year Indy starts kindergarten. On Thursday evening I went to the introductory meeting to get his teacher assignment. With less than three weeks to go before the start of school the highlighted portion read 'TBA'. During the meeting the principal explained that due to higher than expected enrollment they would need another teacher but that they had to wait for the district to do a final count on August 3rd to determine needs, which would probably result in a teacher being reassigned from a school that had fewer students than anticipated. I sat through the rest of the meeting with my sole thought being "Oh HELL no, we are not going through this again."

After the meeting I lined up with other parents who had documents to turn in, questions to ask, problems to solve. A large portion of the line seemed to be made up of parents with children in the 'TBA' class, and they were not happy. And I am ashamed to say I did nothing to make them any happier. With scathing tone and sarcastic wit I told about our past experience. I expressed my feelings about the situation. My tongue worked its magic, spreading poison with every word.

When it was my turn to speak with the principal I handed in the paperwork that was my guise for speaking with her, and then I began to question her about the teacher situation. I voiced my frustrations, I whined, I may have made vague threats about how we were NOT 'doing this again'. In short, rather than extending her grace in a situation she had as little control over as I, I dumped all of my frustrations on her and as much as blamed her for misery that had as yet to make itself known.

It hit me today as I was folding laundry (a time that is exceedingly useful for deep contemplation) that I had really screwed up. Again. It is amazing how quickly I can use my tongue to spread poison, to start fires, to tear down. James certainly had it right when he said that no one can tame the tongue. With many of my actions I have a moment or so to think before acting, time to consider if it is kind or not. But there is something about speech that seems to bypass that moment of self-awareness, spewing out of my mouth with barely a thought. And once I head down a certain path it is incredibly difficult to reign it back in, to remember to season my words with grace and kindness. I make myself the center of the universe and act like a spoiled child when things don't go my way.

I can't undo the words I said. I also can't justify them by insisting on my 'right' to feel that way. But thanks to the instant nature of modern technology I was able to sit down and quickly email the principal an apology. I was able to do what I should have done from the start, assure her that I am praying daily for a teacher placement that will be a complement to her already excellent staff.

I make mistakes (ok, no sugar coating...I SIN) because I am human, because I fail to turn to God first when problems arise. I need to walk daily in humility, sensitive to the prompting of the Holy Spirit. I need to learn to speak when he says to speak, and to shut up when he tells me to shut up. Oh, how desperately I need wisdom to navigate the battlefields of life with my weapon tossed aside, seeking instead to bind up those who are already injured.

Who is wise and understanding among you? Let him show it by his good life, by deeds done in the humility that comes from wisdom. James 3:13

Lord, let my words be light-bringing and life-giving to those around me instead of a raging fire. Let me never take lightly the power my tongue can hold.

photo by metaxin

Church ladies

2010-07-18T17:50:00.000-05:00

photo by Paul Lowry

This past week I hosted a spa party at my home. I invited a number of women from church and the lone neighbor who actually happened to be outside long enough for me to ~~corner~~ chat with her. She declined, giving various excuses about needing to mow her lawn, being all sweaty, not looking up to par, being tired from a week of work. I tried to dispel her arguments, "No really, who cares what you look like? Look at me! It's a spa party, it's supposed to be relaxing and it sounds like you could use it! Mow your lawn, shower and you'll STILL have time to come." But no deal, she was steadfast.

I suspected another reason hiding behind the surface ones, a reason that was later confirmed. Even though I hadn't said a word about the guest list she knew who was coming...Church ladies. And she didn't think she'd fit in.

When did it become this way? Oh sure, in the 1st century when Christians were being tossed to the lions I can see why your average unbeliever would say "You know, I think I'll pass on being seen at your party." And yet the growth of the church in spite of persecution tells us that there must have been something about these Christians that drew others to them. But at some point, lions and persecution aside, we got the reputation as 'People you don't want to hang out with'. Is it the picture of the pious saint, nibbling cookies and rhapsodizing about the five hours spent in prayer that morning? (On her knees. On the wood floor. With splinters.) Is it the picture of Christians as an exclusive club of dour evangelists who will only admit you to our gatherings if you accept the '5 Steps to Salvation and Living a Righteous Life Unlike Those Worldly Sinners' booklet and promise to adhere to its guidelines? Or maybe we've been pegged as the type who put on sweet faces and say "Bless your heart" as we stick the knife of gossip in your back.

It hurts my heart to know that somewhere along the line my neighbor has decided that Church ladies = people she wouldn't feel comfortable around. Like we are somehow so radically different from her that none of us have ever made mistakes or struggled with our weakness. That maybe we would regard her as a 'project' to be 'led to the altar' and then discarded. That she just wouldn't have anything in common with any of us and would have no fun.

If that is what she thinks of when she thinks of Church ladies then in some way I am failing. I am failing to reflect the love and grace that have been showered on me. I am failing to reflect the reality of being part of the body of Christ and yet part of this world. Because the reality is that in my house that night were a bunch of flawed and crazy women. Yes, I can lean towards the prim and proper side...it has more to do with introversion than any thought that somehow that makes me more holy. But as a whole we were a motley group of brash and reserved, rocker, nature lovers, horse riding, gardening, creating, stumbling, rising, life-living ordinary women. We worship passionately, but we also live life passionately and in that we could have found common ground.

I'm on a mission now. A mission to change what those around me think of when they think of Church ladies. I want their first thoughts to be of grace, of joy, of gentleness, of welcome. I want them to see a flawed individual being made whole by the grace of God. I want them to see my heart. I want them to see the heart of God.

photo by LoveFusion Photography

But whatever was to my profit I now consider loss for the sake of Christ. What is more, I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them rubbish, that I may gain Christ and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which is through faith in Christ–the righteousness that comes from God and is by faith. I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, and so, somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead.

Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already been made perfect, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me. Brothers, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.

Philippians 3: 7-14 (NIV)

Looks like salad...

2010-07-14T11:44:00.000-05:00

Last evening I had a party at my house. Just a few good friends, some watermelon lemonade, some Key Lime cheesecakes with raspberry swirls, a line-up of spa products to try and lots of laughter and relaxing. As I was getting ready for the party, which involved cleaning only those rooms that I thought people might venture into, I realized that my table was lacking a little something. I needed a centerpiece, a floral arrangement, something pretty.

Well, there was no time to go out and buy flowers (not to mention we're on a spending freeze), my planters of petunias have once again died, and I had no flowers in my garden.

But wait! I had stalks and stalks of lettuce that had started to bolt. Hmmmm.

Behold, the unflowery summer centerpiece:

Indy's comment? "Hmm. Looks like salad!"

I'm linking this post to:

Works for Me Wednesday at We Are That Family

Summer's Bounty

2010-07-11T19:50:00.000-05:00

I love summer. I love the smell of fresh mown grass, of food being cooked on a grill, of children dripping wet from the pool. I love the taste of peas from the garden, of sweet corn, peaches and garden ripe tomatoes. I love the colors that spill over from flower pots and window boxes, that peek out from between garden vines. Summer is the richest of seasons for the senses, bursting with goodness.

Yesterday I checked in on the farm garden to see how it survived during our vacation. Fortunately, the weeds were smaller and fewer. Unfortunately, the mosquitos were larger and more plentiful.

My pepper plants have fallen victim either to marauding animals or my father-in-law's mower, it is uncertain just who or what is to be blamed.

I harvested my first yellow squash from the plant that volunteered from last summer. In another week I'll probably have more squash than I know what to do with based on the number of babies hiding amidst the leaves.

And then I found this guy. Neither yellow crookneck nor zucchini, he proves the point made on the seed packet...squash varieties within the same family have a HIGH likelihood of cross pollination and should be separated by lots of distance if you plan on saving seed for the following year. I think I need to name him. I'm just not sure what suits his uniqueness.

My final harvest for the day didn't come from the garden, but from the in-law's cherry tree. Ah, bliss! I picked enough for about two pies, which is about all I have the patience to pit anyhow. I plan on cooking up the filling and then freezing it. Just a little taste of summer to carry me through the coming winter.

There's no place like home

2010-07-08T11:15:00.000-05:00

2500 miles.

Over 30 hours of driving.

300 rounds of "How far to the Iowa/Illinois/Indiana/Ohio/Pennsylvania/etc border?"

Over an hour spent sitting in a repair shop outside Toledo. And the accompanying bill. And the thankfullness for just finding an open repair shop on July 5th.

Endless taunting of signs as we cross Minnesota. "HA! Look! You've only gone 5 miles and we're going to put another sign here to remind you of just how far you still have to go!"

But we finally made it home. Up the exit ramp, onto familiar streets to the excited cheers of two VERY bored children. (And the inner cheers of two VERY tired parents.)

It was a great vacation. The boys swam, and swam, and swam some more. In hotel pools, at their cousin's house, at the retreat center. If there was water, they wanted in it.

They mini-golfed, played shuffleboard, ran circles in the retreat center housing, and even had time for a quiet game of chess.

With made up rules, of course!

We got to spend precious time with my brother and his family. We got to enjoy the beauty of Laurelville Mennonite Church Center with Mike's family and friends from the years they spent in Bolivia. Add in a brief stop on the way home with one of Mike's best friends from college and our trip was complete.

It was a whirlwind trip over six days, four of them spent in the car. But I am glad we made it.

And now we are home. The garden needs weeding, the laundry is piled up, there is payroll to be done and quarterly reports to complete. But there is something relaxing about being in my own space again. Room to stretch, to breathe, to be family with all our imperfections and our joys.

There's no place like home.

Sweet Pea

2010-06-30T15:50:00.002-05:00

The garden is growing nicely. Green things will do that when they repeatedly get several inches of rain dumped on them. The spinach was a bit of a loss, and the lettuce is growing crazier than I can keep up with as the sole lettuce eater in the family. But now the best part has arrived; the peas are starting to fill in!

Yesterday in frustration I told a bored and more than slightly irritating Indy to 'go out to the garden and eat some peas'. He was more than happy to oblige.

Indy loves to eat things straight from the plant. On Monday at the farm he feasted on peas from the garden, copious amounts of mulberries from the trees. He truly shocked me by eating sour cherries off of the tree and declaring them 'mmmm!'.

I do love my little sweet pea and his produce loving ways! Who could resist a summer smile like that?

Stormy weather

2010-06-26T21:58:00.000-05:00

Photo by El Garza

He ping pongs from one window to the other, practically hyperventilating in his fear. The clouds are still moving in, the thunder rumbles in the distance but the thought of what is to come has sent him over the edge. Too nervous to eat, he begs to check the radar so that he can see how big the storm will be. He begs to go down to his bedroom, but can't stay there because he must continue checking the windows, watching the progression of the storm. The sky turns green. His fear is a tangible presence, a scent in the air that rips at my nerves like no storm ever has. He cannot be comforted, either by prayer or by my arms around him. We give him large headphones to block the thunder. The power goes out. Worry is a beast that claws at his insides, refusing to be distracted by snacks or movies on the battery run DVD player.

The power comes back on, the storm passes. He continues to pace, reporting on the advancing blue sky as if fearing that if he does not keep tabs on it, it will retreat. He begs to know the wind speed. He asks again to check the radar. Fear takes its time in loosening its grip on him. Slowly it retreats, but I know that each day he lives life with his eye on the sky (and the radar) waiting for the next storm.

I am exhausted from over two hours of this emotional upheaval. I want it to stop. I want to say "Peace, be still," and have it be so. But how can I do for my child what so often I cannot even do in my own life?

In my life I often struggle with fear. Fear that holds me back from doing what I should be doing or what I want to be doing. I am a champion worrier. I have been for years. I look to the horizon and I see the clouds. Aspergers. Finances. The shadow of loneliness. Flickers of failure. I begin to focus on the possibilities, the 'what-if's', the sense that something that I'm not going to like might be forming on the radar and I WANT TO KNOW WHAT'S COMING!

Gates and I have a verse that we will often say together when he's afraid of something. The verse is Psalm 56:3 and simply says "But when I am afraid, I will put my trust in you." Time and time again in the Bible we are told not to fear, not to be afraid. I'm not a Biblical scholar, but I don't think God expected us never to experience fear. We're human, with human emotions. I think the key is in that verse. WHEN I am afraid (not 'if'), I will put my trust in God.

I have a hard time with that. Put my trust in God? Rest in the assurance of His care? Oh, no no no! I have to keep my eyes on the horizon! What if the storm moves in and God isn't paying attention? Doesn't He know that I need to know how big it is going to be?
I love the story of Jesus calming the storm (Luke 8:22-25). I can imagine the disciples in the boat, watching the storm roll in, glancing over at Jesus asleep in the boat. Worry begins to creep in. What if God isn't paying attention? Yeah, that's His Son and all, but...what if? Or, what if God plans on plucking Jesus out of a capsizing boat, saving him at the last moment but not them? The waves get higher, water begins spilling over the sides. How can he SLEEP through this? "Master, wake UP! We're going to DROWN!" Jesus awakes, speaks the words and the storm stops. I imagine the disciples continuing to scan the sky, a bit uncertain that it is really over.

Could you have done it, if you were one of them? Could you have sat in the boat with the waves washing over the sides, trusting implicitly that the One who was with you was fully aware of what you were facing? Could you have remained calm when the world around you was in turmoil?

Can you do it today? Can I? Can I lay aside my worries about what is looming on the radar and simply say "Lord, I am afraid but I will trust in you." Can I stop my frenzied preoccupation with my fears and let God do what He wishes with my life? I have learned that preoccupation with what I am afraid of crowds out all ability to do anything else. Just as Gates couldn't concentrate on anything while the storm raged, neither can I accomplish the work God has called me to do if I am busy worrying about the storm that is raging.

Storm clouds of insecurity are dotting the horizon. What if all of my words are for nothing? Does any of this matter? Will God use the words I thought He put into my heart? I can only rest on the words of Paul in Philippians 4:4-9:

Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.
Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable–if anything is excellent or praiseworthy–think about such things. Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me–put it into practice. And the God of peace will be with you.

Stormy weather lies all around us. But the God of peace is with us.