Christmas is...

Christmas is...
footy pajamas and ribbons and bows
twinkle lights and cookie cutouts
anticipation and waking before the sun

Christmas is...
a crackling fire and falling snow
games and meals and memories
bickering and baking, laughing and loathing

Christmas is...
Sparkling trees and video games and cousins clashing and laughing
children and grown-ups barely acting their age
one word reducing us to tears - of laughter or agony
reliving past wounds, remembering past loss
and choosing love.

Christmas is...
Jesus and Mary
Donkey and sheep
Star and wise men
And angels, deep

Christmas is...
Singing hymns, for centuries sung
Family side by side, hand in hand
Open wounds covered in Christmas best
Remembering the One who came to give us rest.

I love Christmas, but I am thankful Christmas is...

Over

until next year.

Italia!

I've only been home for a few days, and already I'm wishing that Italy wasn't so far away. I want to take all of my friends and family back to show them all that I saw and experienced, and I want to continue the friendships I began in Milano. I guess pictures and blogs and facebook will have to suffice, as Europe does not seem to be drifting any closer to the U.S., and airline prices are holding steady at completely unrealistic prices.

I am happy to say that my trip was amazing in every way. The food was delicious, the sites were awe-inspiring and the people and language were wonderful!

I so enjoyed learning the language over there that I was trying to teach some of it to my children, but the other day after using my favorite saying to send Lukas off to school, "Baci! Baci! Arrivederci!" (which means kiss, kiss, goodbye), my kids asked it I could be less Italian.:(

I don't know. I think after visiting Italy a part of it stays with you. I'm wondering if my experience there has earned me the right to call it "the old country." As in, "Remember back in the old country? When we had gelatto every day and enjoyed long relaxing meals, twice a day? Ah, I miss the old country."

Though I enjoyed the language, there were a few issues I ran into with it. First of all, it seems that without the proper voice inflection and hand movements, no one understands you. My most frustrating experience was trying to order bruschetta, real Italian bruschetta. I even had my Italian interpreter next to me, but all of the Italians looked at me like I was crazy. They asked if I saw a picture of it, but I couldn't find one at the time. I got a kebab instead. It's kind of like a gyro, but I didn't like it as much. Later, I found a picture of the bruschetta and showed it to Frank, our host, who said, "Oh, bruskaitta!" (with a powerful accent on the ai). Determined to order my own bruskaitta (which is actually spelled the way we spell it), I practiced my pronunciation and accent and a few days later the waiter brought me just what I wanted and all was well in the world.

I think my favorite part of being in Italy was waking up every morning, raising the blinds and opening the window to find Italy just outside - the old buildings, flower boxes in every window, trams running constantly, and Italian voices raised in what often sounds like arguing, but usually is not. They are a very passionate people.

As much as I loved being in Italy, ten days away from my family was very difficult. At one point during the trip I told the girls I needed more hugs because between my husband, four kids and dog, I was used to at least 100 touches a day. Thankfully, soon after that I got my first Italian kiss! Don't worry, it was from a girl, on both cheeks and it made me gloriously happy, as it meant that we were friends and made me feel like I somehow belonged there.

After getting home, sharing gifts with my kids and being mauled with love by everyone, I asked Lukas how he did while I was gone.

"Terrible," he said. "It was like a puzzle with a missing piece."

Such a beautiful word picture, I thought. And that is how I felt, too. As I traveled and photographed and met and loved people, I still had this aching feeling, like I was a missing piece, longing to be back in my puzzle where I belong.

Arrivederci!

I'm freaking out, I'm totally freaking out!

I leave for Italy this morning and really don't want to leave my family, but am so excited to see Italy and meet the people, see my sister and watch God unfold what I trust is his awesome plan for this trip.

I Googled our hotel and it is so quaint and perfectly Italian, I can't wait to be surrounded by Italian voices and scenery. I also saw where we are going for our excursion day - Lake Como! Don't worry, I'll tell George you said hi if I see him. And, of course, I'll be posting pics.

Well, wish me safe travel and my husband sanity as I leave him for nine days as Mr. Mom.

Addio!

My Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Week

Last week was not a good one. It began with tears, my own instead of Hope's this time. I woke up Monday morning unable to shake my sadness. I went for a run and as I prayed I started bawling. Apparently there were some unresolved issues I needed to work through with some friends. The hurt was overwhelming me, which then turned to anger.

I don't really like anger. It's ugly and impulsive and does all sorts of stupid things and then blames it on us. So I boiled and stewed and sent out a short email asking my friends if we could get together and talk. I knew my typical novelette of an email would only lead me to trouble. They responded promptly with a time to get together and I felt a little better. The cursing in my head subsided a bit and I considered making a list of grievances, but thankfully didn't.

Apparently this is what happens when you leave things unresolved for something like 10 years. One day some event triggers it and a flood of emotion, dammed up to overflowing comes flooding out. I don't really like these floods of emotion either (note my previous post on my control freakishness).

So, to recap, it's Monday, and I'm an emotional mess.

Then I took my daughter to the doctor where she failed a hearing test, in both ears, even though I thought her hearing had improved.

Discouragement on top of sadness.

Then I took my daughter back to school and discovered that I had taken her to the doctor during a special lunch time when she was to get pizza and cookies and sit on the stage to get a character award.

Complete failure as a mom on top of discouragement on top of sadness.

At this point I was thinking going back to bed and starting over in another hemisphere would be nice.

The week progressed.

The meeting with my friends on Thursday went well. I told them how I felt, minus the angry tirade, and then cried for over an hour as we hashed through the past. Apologies were made, explanations were given, friendship was reaffirmed, and then I left.

On Friday, my mom arrived. We headed to the mall to do some early Christmas shopping and while in our first store, perusing pajamas, I got a call from my son's school. He had lice.

Lice.

Deep breath...

So now my emotionally exhausting week turned into a physically exhausting weekend as we washed (and shaved some) heads, cleaned sheets, bagged stuffed animals and combed out nits. (I apologize if you are now scratching your head uncontrollably. I promise you can't get it through the internet.) By Saturday night I was pretty sure that every surface had been sprayed, laundered and deloused and I was done. Emotionally and physically DONE.

Mom left on Sunday morning and I had the opportunity to go to Starbuck's for a little chai therapy and journaling. It was wonderful. A few more tears were shed as I poured out my heart to God, but he gave me insight into where all the tears had come from and why. But he did me one better. He showed me that he saw all of my pain over all of the years, all of the sacrifice, and that he felt it, too. It mattered to him. And not only that, but there would be rewards in heaven for everything done for him. One day, he would make everything better. And so, after a very, very long week, I was comforted. I felt peace.

As I thought about what I needed for the coming week, I felt prompted to fast on Monday and then to gradually reintroduce foods throughout the week. Have I mentioned that I was eating my weight in Oreos to cope with all the stress of the previous week? I wondered if a little self-control on the food end of things might help me look to a higher power than Nabisco when tragedy strikes again.

And it has been awesome. Not only is my son's head no longer crawling with insects, but I feel so connected with God and able to do one thing at a time, prioritize my time without worrying about my list of 100 other responsibilities, and I've lost a few pounds (this in not the ultimate goal of fasting, but I'm pretty sure it was all Oreo weight that needed to be removed immediately). I feel like this fast has been a reboot for my body and my brain.

So, my terrible, no good, very bad week came to an end. God redeemed it and has given me a pretty wonderful one to follow it, and hey, I go to Milan in seven days!

Losing Control

Apparently, I'm a bit of a control freak.

My husband chuckles when I say this. Not a, "No, you're not a control freak!" kind of laugh, but a, "Really, you're just figuring this out?" laugh, which I do not appreciate.

It's always irritating when other people know things about me before I do.

But I came to this realization the other day when I mentioned to a friend that I have had a few borderline panic attacks lately. It was odd to me because my life has gotten less stressful since my kids are all in school and I no longer work at a job where I felt like a constant failure.

My friend, after listening to what brought on these attacks, suggested that I make a list of everything I feel responsible for and then share it with my husband, and maybe see what he could take on and be responsible for.

I began my list. I started with all my responsibilities on Monday - everything from getting groceries, to getting kids to their events, to working out, making dinner, checking everyone's homework, teaching my younger two to read, and practicing spelling words, then moved to Tuesday and so on. The list, by the time I was done, had more than 100 items on it, all things that I feel responsible to get done.

I showed Joel the list and he gasped, really. My husband has a lot of responsibility right now with working a full-time job and going to grad school just about full-time, so I try to pick up everything I can for him. But the truth is he does help a lot. He does dishes regularly, throws in a load of laundry here and there, vacuums and such, but when he does these things I usually feel guilty. Like it's a sign of my failure that he needs to pick up my slack when he's already stressed out.

But getting to part 2 of my assignment was difficult. What could I actually give Joel as his responsibility? As in, not my responsibility anymore. The problem was, as much as I didn't want so much responsibility on my shoulders, it was hard for me to let go of any of my list.

If I don't make sure that Joshua's reading is done, will he fall behind? If I don't clean the bathroom myself, will it really get as clean as I like it? Could someone else really work out for me? Man, that would be nice if I could hire a personal trainer to work out and then see the results on my own body! Seriously, why has no one else thought of that?

Anyway, all of this thinking about my myriad of responsibilities made me think about something that Shauna Niequist said in her book, Bittersweet. As a wife and mother, author and speaker, she has made a list of things she doesn't do.

This list includes:
scrap booking
baking (though she buys lovely treats from the bakery)
gardening
home improvement (she says unloading the dishwasher counts as home improvement in her family)
making the bed

I look at her list and think, but I love baking, just not the effects of eating what I bake. Gardening is sort of fun, especially the fresh basil and tomatoes that make the most wonderful bruschetta. And making my bed is the easiest "cleaning" I do of the day.

I know I need to give up some things on my never ending list of responsibilities, but every time I try to make my list it looks something like this:

What I don't do:
Sing well
Keep my house clean enough
Always respond patiently to my children
Eat well enough to get my cholesterol down and lose 10lbs
Save money
Respond to emails promptly
etc...

You get the point. My list of what I don't do is really a list of what I feel bad about not doing well, which is probably not the goal of this exercise.

So, for right now, just having a husband who has compassion for my extensive to-do list is nice. I'm still working on figuring out what I can let go of and sacrifice for my own sanity, without causing my house to spiral out of control.

Bittersweet Kindling

I am a book lover.

I love not only reading books, but holding their sturdy spines in the palm of my hand, turning the paper edges with anticipation for what waits on the next page. I love the smell of wood pulp and ink.

I love books.

Reading them, underlining their best passages, dog-earring the pages so I can go back to my favorites again and again. And lining them up neatly on my shelves, like old friends and destinations just waiting for me to come and visit again on a lazy, rainy afternoon, a sunny morning or sleepless night.

Books are a wonderful escape; fuel for my imagination and understanding of this world.

Someone said that, "A room without books is like a body without a soul."

It feels true to me.

Whether the tattered and stained cookbooks that tell the tale of favorite meals shared with love, as well as failed attempts at culinary delights, that sit on my kitchen shelves; or the worn and dusty collection of classics that go mostly untouched in the family room; the pile of reading material waiting on the bathroom counter for a stolen moment behind a locked door; the loads of books on my bedroom shelves where my favorites are displayed and cared for; or the rainbow of childrens books standing at attention in my kids' rooms; books bring comfort and imagination to all the rooms of my home.

So when my husband got a Kindle for use in grad school, I was excited for him, but hesitant for myself. It sounded so exciting to have books right there at my fingertips, whether traveling or home or at Panera. No broken back as a result of lugging all those pages, just the touch of a button on one neat and tidy device. But no books?

This week I bought my first book on Kindle. It is called Bittersweet and is by Shauna Niequist, the author of Cold Tangerines, which I blogged about before. And the title seems fitting for my first foray into technical reading.

The Kindle is cool. Even though it looks like a computer screen when turned off, when I turn it on, it is as though a page appears with no glare and no screen strain on my eyes. It saves my place when I turn it off, lets me underline or take notes right there in the text, no need to find a pen, and I can make the letters larger for my eyes which sometimes require reading glasses (yes, I am that old).

When I turn it off, a random picture appears of sketches of fish straight off an encyclopedia page, Mark Twain, Mount Olympus or, my personal favorite, Charlotte Bronte (I almost kissed that picture when it appeared, but refrained due to the fact that I had on lip gloss and did not want to clean the screen, but I do love her that much). I need to have proper lighting to read off of it just like a normal book and Joel bought a nice protective case for it that feels like a book spine or nice journal in my hands.

I know that this is the future of books, if only to save the trees and publishing costs. I must say it was pretty amazing to see the book on amazon, buy it new for a paperback price and then watch as it downloaded to the Kindle, via some sort of magic that I do not care to understand, in mere seconds. But I will miss not having this book's purple spine watching over me as I go to sleep at night or being able to grab it off the shelf, shove it into a friend's hand and tell her she must read it.

The book, Bittersweet, is pretty fantastic. The Kindle certainly doesn't affect my enjoyment of the content and kindly shows me my progress (28%) at the bottom of the "page" as there are no page numbers or book marks to show how far I have gotten.

So, while I am enjoying the convenience of our Kindle, I hope that books will forever be printed on paper, at least a few copies, for those of us who need these old friends sitting on our bedroom shelves keeping us company, not just on our hard drives.

Waking Up Hope

No, this is not a commentary on how to wake up hope in our lives, but a plea for help in waking up my 5-year-old daughter for school every day.

Each morning I start with the tried and true alarm clock, situated next to her sleepy head, move on to flipping on the lights and telling her to wake up because it's time for school. These tactics, which have been effective on my three boys, are completely ineffective on my late night owl daughter.

Here are some more creative approaches I've tried:

1) Putting her to bed super early so she won't be so tired in the morning.
Result=It's 10pm and I think my daughter has been sleeping soundly for the last few hours, only to hear her door open and tiny footsteps make their way out to the family room where a very awake little girl tells me she just organized her kitchen.

2) Thinking of something she will look forward to that day which would make it worth getting out of her soft, warm bed (i.e. you have art today! It's Friday! You get to wear your days-of-the-week socks! I'll make you a special lunch!).
Result=I'm beginning to feel more desperate. My attempts at manipulation seem to be moving into the realm of bribery and I'm afraid she's onto me. Next thing you know she'll be staying in bed longer, holding out until I offer to buy her a pony for getting her tushy out of bed (not gonna happen).

3) Singing her ridiculous songs to make her laugh and wake up happy and/or annoy her until she gets up and asks me to please stop singing.
Result=That annoying song, Alejandro, seems to be on our local radio station every morning about that time and is most effective at making my boys laugh and then beg me to stop singing while Hope just giggles a little and then hides deeper under the covers.

4) Faking a natural disaster. This morning was my first attempt at this. It started out with me shaking her gently, and after no response, I started shaking her mattress violently and telling her it was an earthquake.
Result=Either she realizes that we don't live on a major fault line, or she just doesn't care, but it didn't work either way. Maybe telling her a tornado is coming would be more effective, but I fear scarring her, as she's actually pretty afraid of those.

5) Having Lukas play his trumpet in her room. He's just learning to play, so not only is it loud, but it is irritatingly off-key.
Result=Everyone else in the house is annoyed by such loud noise first thing in the morning, including Joel who has to stay up late studying, while Hope lays in bed with her pillow over her head.

6) Putting Gabby on her bed. Our sweet puppy is the sure-fire way to get Hope to stop crying, so maybe she could help wake her up.
Result=My dog, who seemed to be on to my plan and is terrified of heights cowered in fear as I picked her up and then foiled my attempts to get her onto Hope's bunk bed buy digging her claws into my shoulder and Hope's railing. Later I also realized that she peed on Hope's carpet while cowering in fear. Nice.

So, this is just a smattering of my attempts since the school year began. If you have any creative suggestions, just leave them in the comments below!

P.S. Hope does like kindergarten, though she says it's not as much fun as preschool. :)

Ciao, Bella!

God has really been pretty good to me in this life. I live in a nice house, have a great family, have friends that I love and enjoy, even good health. But every once in a while I am blown away by an extra blessing that God gives me. My puppy is one example, why she means so much to me, I can't put into words, but she feels like a gift directly from God to me.

The other day another of these blessings came upon me suddenly. It started out as sort of a joke. We were in church listening to the announcements when our pastor said that there was a short-term mission trip to Milan, Italy that was still open for more people to sign up. It was to be during Thanksgiving, and as this is the year that we are with Joel's family for that holiday, I turned to him and whispered, "Hey Honey, can I go to Milan instead of your parents' for Thanksgiving?" I love my in-laws, and Tennessee is beautiful, but we're talking Italy here.

In all seriousness he looked back at me and said matter-of-factly, "If you can raise the money."

Of course, he knew that money was a sticking point, but he meant it. Out of curiosity I went up to our pastor after church to find out the details, particularly how much it would cost. But while I was waiting in line Joel appeared next to me and said, "Oh, we actually have that money raised already."

What!?!

It's a little complicated to explain here, but essentially, the missionary agency we work for already has that money for ministry expenses in an account for us. We don't have access to it for anything normally, but for this trip we do.

My reply to Joel was something like, "Don't be messin' with Milan!"

But he wasn't messing with me, he was serious, and serious, as well, about me going if I wanted to.

So, I thought maybe I should pray about it. I usually pray a lot about these things, but felt so much excitement about going and how everything was falling into place that I wondered if I already had an answer. Just in case, when I was journaling my prayer to God, I asked, "So, what do you think about Milan?" No immediate answer, just all of my own excitement welling up in my belly.

The next day as I was running, I asked again, "What do you think about me going to Milan?"

And to my delight and surprise, I felt like God said that it gave him great pleasure to give me this gift and that he wanted me to enjoy it.

I felt so loved and special and amazed in that moment, that God would care enough to send me on a trip overseas to see a new place and meet new people and eat real gelato on an actual street in Italy. I couldn't believe that God would love me that much.

But, apparently, he does.

So, as long as I get my passport in time, I will be off to Italy mid-November. I will be going to help teach English to some Italian college students and hopefully to share with them at least one ounce of this love that God has shared with me.

Rest

"I'm freaking out, Mom, I'm freaking out!"

Those were the words coming from the backseat of our minivan the first day that I drove my oldest to school six years ago. Today the words are mine.

I watched my oldest son ride off to middle school today, on his own. He wanted to ride his bike. He wanted to go alone. He's ready.

I'm not.

I wanted to go with him, make sure he got his locker open and walk him to his first class, maybe even take a picture. You don't think that would affect his middle school status, do you?

I'm trying to figure out how close I can get to the school when it's time for him to head home. If I stay a few blocks away I may not totally humiliate him.

I don't know.

To add insult to injury, I also had to drop my baby girl off at all-day kindergarten today. She was ready, too, she was fine. I thought she might be a little sad to see me go, maybe look up at me longingly as I left. Nothing. I held back the tears, told the teacher to have a good day (code for: please take care of my baby) and left Hope coloring the picture of Barney on her desk.

Then I drove off, alone. Came home to a quiet house, only my puppy waiting for me. No one asking for a snack or to watch t.v. or to play with me. I can clean the house without anyone following behind me to mess it up again, until 2:45.

I feel this odd sense of joyous freedom tinged with crushing anxiety. Twelve years now. Twelve years of raising kids, being a stay at home mom, maybe working part-time, but mostly with my kids all day, every day, for twelve years.

I feel like I've earned this. Earned a little break. But I miss them. It is excruciating having to wait six hours to hear how their days went - if Joshua scraped his knee on the playground, how Gabe likes his first male teacher, if Lukas was shoved into his locker (he checked to see if he would fit when we visited the school - he does, just barely), and if Hope likes school.

And so, when the anxiety starts ramping up and I feel like I might not be able to take it anymore, I get on my knees and give them back to the One who never leaves them, always knows how they are, and somehow loves them infinitely more than me.

And He says to me, "Rest."

"Rest in me. Trust in me. I will care for them when you cannot. I want you to rest."

Okay, I'll try. I'm still eager to hear their stories when they get home, but for now I'm going to drink my chai and rest.

Vacating

Last week, for the first time ever, we went on vacation with our kids. We've camped with them, visited grandparents and even lived in the mountains and at the beach for entire summers (for my husband's job), but we had never just gotten away for the sake of getting away and having fun as a family. And it was awesome.

We went to the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee because we got a good deal on a cabin and we could drive there in one day. The cabin was gorgeous, with a hot tub on the deck and jacuzzi tubs in each bathroom. The hot tub was used at least every evening, often mornings, too. And Gabe soon figured out what fun it was to wash in the bathtub and then turn the jets on.:)
Since I actually had my own master bath, I refused to let anyone under the age of 13 use it. And it stayed miraculously clean all five days!

The first day of our trip we went tubing down the river. The river was a little low, so it ended up being a bit more work than we expected. Joel took Hope and I took Joshua as we floated down the river, keeping them on course, unwedging their tubes from between rocks, and helping pull them over low rapids.

The kids' favorite part of it was when we stopped at some giant boulders that they could either jump off of or swing from a rope into the river. I wish I had a water proof camera. Joel and I were exhausted by the end, but had stayed cool in the 95 degree heat and had a lot of fun as a family.





The next day, Joel's parents were gracious enough to come and hang out with the kids while we had some time out to ourselves. I wanted to do something adventurous, like kayak down the river, but with the river so low we thought we'd be pulling our kayaks more than paddling. Our second option was to go zip lining, until we got there and asked how high it was. Joel has no fear of heights and would have loved it, but wouldn't do it when he saw the terror on my face when they said I'd be hanging 200 - 300 feet above ground. So, I got to see the Titanic. That's the actual ice berg that caused its demise. Cool, huh?

And then on our last day I planned an awesome hike to a water fall that we could walk behind. I mean, how cool would that be to go behind a water fall, and what a photo op?

Unfortunately, for some reason I thought that 3.5 miles meant round trip, not one way. So with my family wilting in the heat and exhausted from the hours long uphill climb, we gave up and stopped at a place where water did fall, just not quite as dramatically as we had hoped.

But, the kids had fun climbing around and we got a nice family photo, which always makes me happy.



















That night was our last night, so we went into town for a delicious Mexican meal and then went to a mirror maze that was so much cooler than I ever imagined. We really couldn't tell what was a mirror and what was real. But we eventually found our way out and then headed to Pirate Black Light Golf.
















This is me posing in front of another scenic water fall while Joel focuses on his game. He was a little disappointed in the greens. I tried to explain that quality of course was hardly the point. Men and golf, what can you do?

After that we headed back to the cabin to pack up. When Hope and Josh realized what was going on they started crying. They wanted to stay and keep having fun. I think Josh loved his bedroom so much he would have been happy to move in permanently. But I guess tears are a sign that we accomplished our goal of a fun, bonding family vacation.


The next day we left our beautiful cabin in Sherwood Forest, drove out of the Smoky Mountains and headed home to prepare for school. Summer will be over for us tomorrow and the chaos of managing six lives going in all of their different directions will begin again. But I'm so glad that we had a chance to create some awesome memories for our kids, and us, too.

Reading

So, I've been reading. A lot. It's been my favorite activity this summer, sitting by the pool, reading a book as my children play. I love that they are all now excellent swimmers. So much less stress.

Anywho, I started the summer with the biographies of Corrie ten Boom (mentioned in the last post), kept trying to read the two headier books listed at the right, and then read the memoir of a surgeon who started a hospital in Ethiopia to fix fistulas. The book is called, The Hospital by the River. It was a fascinating (and sometimes horrifying) book that both showed life in this troubled and impoverished country and explained in graphic detail the horrors of obstructed child birth in 3rd world countries. I don't want to go into detail explaining what a fistula is, lets just say it is not good, and this Catherine Hamlin is a saint. On the book jacket, they compared her to Mother Teresa, but I think M.T. is rather like the all-star of the faith whose jersey is retired. There is no comparison.

But this woman did a world of good, and as far as I know, continues to do much good for the people, and especially women of Ethiopia that she loves so much.

As inspiring as she is, Joel recommended that I stop reading such depressing books this summer. So, in search of lighter fair, I stumbled upon some ridiculous teen romance. Not quite the beloved "Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants," but fun none the less.

It's taken me back to my reading roots - young adult romance. I fell in love with stories when I was in first grade and Miss Carstensen read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory to us. I ran home every day and told my mom every detail of the latest chapter. (The movies have never lived up to the magic in my 7 year old brain). Julie of the Wolves I read soon after and was the first book that made me cry. I'm still heartbroken by the horrific ending. And then Where the Red Fern Grows, which, I finished in my 7th grade homeroom class, made me cry - publicly. There is nothing sadder in literature than a dog dying. Seriously.

But, according to my teachers, I had good reading comprehension, but was a slow reader. I now realize that this is because I love the detail. I love picturing every color of the sun as it sets, every crinkle of the grandpa's brow, every whisper of the boyfriend's voice in her ear. I like to let it linger in my head, swirl around a bit and then move on with the story when I'm ready.

My mom on the other hand, was eager to make me a more efficient reader and therefore borrowed dozens of books from a friend's daughter. Every one of them had a picture of a teenage girl on the cover with a handsome teenage boy just behind her. The stories were all the the same- girl meets boy, sparks fly, something comes between them, they end up together in the end. To Kill a Mocking Bird, these were not, but I devoured every last one of them by summer's end and I was hooked. Few things get the blood pumping like teenage romance.

And so here I am, reading the likes of Sarah Dessen, whose characters are decidedly less picture perfect (one is abandoned by her mother, another nearly raped), but the formula is still the same - boy meets girl, boy likes girl, girl pushes boy away due to her issues, then realizes the error of her ways and kisses him in the end. And I am hooked yet again. I've read three of these ridiculous books in the last two weeks and have two more on hold at the library.

I keep wondering if I should read something a little more literary, but it is summer after all, the perfect time for teen romance.


***Forgot to mention - I did read Water for Elephants as well - love it! 4 stars, two enthusiastic thumbs up. Can't wait for the Reese Witherspoon/Robert Pattinson movie to come out!

Adopt-a-Grandpa

I just finished reading Corrie ten Boom's biographies (3 of them) and have found that she is, indeed, my hero.

My first exposure to her and her life was through the movie, The Hiding Place. I was horrified as I watched this true story of her family hiding the Jews in Holland and then being taken to Nazi concentration camps where they were forced into hard labor, beaten, and hardly had enough food to live on. Many of Corrie's family members died in those camps, but miraculously Corrie survived and was released one week before all the women her age were exterminated in her camp.

Corrie went on to travel the world telling anyone who would listen that God's love is deeper than the darkest place. She knew. She had been there.

Corrie also lived out and preached forgiveness, setting up places for former Nazis to heal, receive forgiveness and be made whole. Corrie even had opportunities to forgive former guards that had wounded or humiliated she and her sister. A true example of walking the talk.

But when I read the story, The Hiding Place, I was relieved to find that it begins in Corrie's childhood in the Beje. The crumbling old home in Haarlem, Holland where her father worked in his watch shop and every aunt she had came to give her two cents on Corrie's life.

What I loved to read about the most was Casper ten Boom, Corrie's father. He was this wise old man, kind to everyone he met, treating beggar and dignitary with the same respect, always believing in the good within people and trying to draw it out with his own goodness. Brave, as he helped to hide Jews in Nazi occupied Holland, dying in prison for this act. The Nazis had wanted to release him because he was so old. They told him they would set him free if he promised not to cause any more problems. Casper said that he could never turn away anyone who needed help, and he never did. Not the 11 foster children whom he helped raise in his home, not the men who came begging for work or the families who came to the back kitchen door, knowing that the ten Booms always had soup going on the stove in case they needed it, and certainly not God's chosen people, the Jews.

And Papa ten Boom was a fount a wisdom. Every day reading to his household from the scriptures, giving patient, thoughtful replies to his childrens' questions, seeing what was coming when Hitler gained power.

Reading about him made me wish I could have been one of his foster children. To sit at his feet and hear the ticking of watches inside his coat, to listen to his sure, steady voice read from the Bible he loved, and to be able to ask him so many questions about why life is the way it is and how it got this way. Maybe he wouldn't have all the answers, but I know he'd have some.

It got me thinking. I know we have big brother/big sister programs, why not Adopt-a-Grandpa? I thought I could start scouring nursing homes for old men who still like to talk, have something to say in this world. Set them up with people who want to listen.

Or maybe have an eharmony-grandpa. Seeking wise old man who likes to tell stories, answer questions, with warm smile and preferably non-diabetic (I like to bake for people).

I don't know. The more I think about it, the more I think I'm just talking about God, the Father of Fathers. Someday I'll see his beautiful face, I like to picture it a little worn with years like a grandpa, but I don't think God gets very worn. But I'll see him and if I'm not flat on my face in awe, I'll ask him some questions, and maybe just maybe I'll understand his answers.

And then he'll give me a hug. I hope.

Ode to a Great Dad

This is my husband.

The one hanging in midair.

He was a pole vaulter in college, so despite his 40th birthday looming a few short months away, Joel continues to impress the youngsters at the pool with his mad skills. Gabe posed for this picture to put on the front of a homemade card for his dad. It was to say something like, "You're so cool you can still do flips in the air."

And he is. Cool.

I married him, in part, so that I could become more like him. More emotionally steady, more eager to meet and be very friendly to strangers, more able to stay up late at night and have a coherent thought. I don't know that I've actually grown in any of these things, but I do still admire them in my husband.

We have four kids. Four. When we were having kids I knew so many family with 4 or 6 or even 10 kids, that four actually felt almost small. But I've found that it's actually a big number. I thought the number would get smaller once my kids were bigger. Not that I'd have fewer kids, heaven help me if I lose one of these, but that it would feel smaller. I thought that as they became more independent, made it to the bathroom on their own, could speak, ride bikes and read books, that I'd sit back and relax and think how awesome it is to be a mom to these kids. And it is awesome, I wouldn't trade it for anything, but it is hard.

I am so thankful for Joel, my baby daddy to all four of my kids. When I feel like I'm going to bang my head against the wall if I hear one more comment about how they need more video game time, Joel steps in and explains the rules and that the kids need to respect me and give Mommy some grace. When I feel like a complete failure as a mom, he holds me and reminds me how loved our kids feel, how secure they are in that love, and that tomorrow is a new day. And when I have no idea what to do, how to help these boys become men (of God) or how to raise a pure and beautiful daughter in this sex saturated society, we seek the Source of all Wisdom together and figure it out step by step, day by day.

Sarah Groves' song about her husband says, "Life with you is half as hard and twice as good..."

So true.

But I think what is weighing most on my heart this father's day is what it is to watch my husband love our daughter. I see everything that I didn't have because my father lived across town.

The good morning kisses.

The middle of the night snuggles to keep bad dreams at bay.

The protective strength of father arms always there, always ready when Hope is scared or weak or hurt.

The pitiful efforts to do her hair or pick out an outfit when I'm not home.

The endearing terms that remind Hope how special she is to her daddy.

The intimate security of watching daddy kiss mommy and tell her he loves her.

The spontaneous dates to Taco Bell for no apparent reason.

The sound of that strong, sure voice shouting, "You can do it!" before she jumped off the diving board for the first time, or telling her, "It'll be okay," when it feels like it can't possibly be.

While I had many of these things every other weekend and I am thankful for that, the truth is I wish that I had had all of these things in my home as a little girl. But getting to watch my daughter get them brings so much joy to me that tears regularly spring to my eyes.

How thankful I am that in the love of my life, I also gave my daughter the joy and security of hers.

Fear & Trembling

I went to a conference last week. It was designed to help people who want to develop a speaking ministry. The main thing that I learned is that I need to tell people that this is what I do, and that I want to do it more.


Me with my small group at the conference.

So, I thought I'd start here on my own blog, sharing what I believe God has put on my heart.

Ever since I was 18 years old, I've had this overwhelming desire to share the things that God
teaches me with others. At times the feeling is so pressing that I feel like I might explode. I relate to Jeremiah, the prophet, who said that he felt like God's word was a fire shut up in his bones.

For years, my answer to that question, "If you knew you only had a year to live (or 30 days or whatever), what would you do?" My answer was always that I would find as many people as I could to tell them all that God has taught me. It was what God had put on my heart, and I hadn't done it yet, and it was making me crazy.

Thankfully, over the past few years I have had multiple opportunities to teach the things that God has put on my heart. I have taught people about God's holiness, in this highly entertained nation; about Esther's beauty; about sitting on a beach with Jesus, like Peter did; about how God is the ultimate romantic, the creator of romance; about tearing down the walls in our lives, to get to a place of peace, just like Joshua did; about being an adult child of divorce; and this year I have taught on the miracle of hope in our lives, in my life.

By God's grace, some of that fire has been released from my bones. I have been able to share insights God has given me into his word, I have attempted to use my creativity to show the relatability of that old book to today, and I have had the privilege of looking hundreds of people in the eye and telling them that they are loved, that there is hope, that God is for them. And when I do this I feel like I have done what I was put here for. I feel fulfilled and overwhelmingly happy.

At this conference, they taught us how to do this professionally, how to promote myself and this ministry that God has put on my heart. And I hate it. I hate the idea of advertising myself, putting myself out there. But I guess it's a means to an end. If I am not to explode with everything God has given to me and if I am to live in obedience to what I believe he has called me to, then this is what I must do.

So, apparently at some point I'll be setting up a website with info about me and what I like to teach on. I'll be sending countless queries to magazines, in hopes that maybe one of them won't reject
Me graduating from the seminar with
my small group leader, Linda. She's a
great lady, a published author and
speaker with a heart to help other writers.
How cool is that?

me. And I'll be asking people like you, who know and love me, to spread the word. If your church is looking for a speaker for a women's retreat, maybe I could help you out. If you know of another church that needs someone to teach a seminar on one of the above topics, let me know.

Donald Miller says that you know you're living a good story if it terrifies you. Well, here it goes...

A Little B-day Therapy

My birthday was a couple of days ago. It was pretty awesome. I had lunch with friends, dinner with family, watched a Madonna-themed Glee with one of my favorite people, and got a massage. It was pretty much the perfect day.

But when I say "massage," I'm not just talking about one from my awesome hubby. No, I got a real massage from someone called a massage therapist, as in, this is her full-time job. I have had one "professional" massage before, but it felt like it was from a hair stylist who took a few classes on the side. Now I know I was right.

A real massage therapist is amazing. First of all, that woman didn't just have magic fingers, she had seriously buff hands and forearms. She manipulated my joints and muscles, pulled on my head and pushed on my shoulders to work out the labyrinth of knots in my neck and upper back. It lasted an hour, but I could have laid there all day.

Afterward I just wanted a nap. And to schedule my next appointment.

I'm a pretty big proponent of therapy, you know, the kind where you work out all of your stuff and then go home and cry, but it eventually gets better?

I have now officially become a fan of massage therapy...where someone else works out all of your stuff and then you go home and take a nap.

Now I just need to figure out if my insurance will cover it...

Story, part 2 - Redemption

We don't choose our endings, but God is capable of redeeming our stories.

I made a friend a few summers back. I was in the mountains of Colorado with no t.v., sketchy internet, and three young boys. I had a lot of questions for God that summer and sought answers to them in two books - The Unexpected Legacy of Divorce (trust me, it's super fun:) and Genesis.

I read the divorce book to understand how my family dysfunction affected me, and I read Genesis with the question for God: "How do you feel about me, about your people?" And an amazing thing happened. Right there in the Old Testament, amid the smiting and stoning and casting out of Eden, I saw how much God loves us, how profoundly he delights in us. It was amazing.

And I saw how so much of what I believed about God was actually based on my messed up past, not scripture. It became clear to me that God loved how much I loved my family, my husband, my children. My intense love for them did not make God want to take them from me, as I had feared since I fell in love with Joel a decade earlier. I was sure that that verse on how we should hate our mothers and fathers compared to our love for Jesus meant that God would punish me for loving them too much. I saw how messed up this thinking was. How could the God of love be angry at me for loving people he loves infinitely more than I do?

How I tried to break up with Joel because I was too happy? - common among adult children of divorce. Desire to be with Joel my whole life, but terrified of marrying him? - because of the broken family. Constant fear that husband will have an affair and children will be killed in horrible accident? - part paranoid me, part serious dysfunction. It was crazy and eye-opening and freeing to have the wheat separated from the chaff, the truth from the lie, the true God from the false (and scary) image in my head.

I felt free, and had just begun my journey of understanding just how much God actually loves me.

In the midst of this journey came my friend. She was this sweet and beautiful girl who asked if I would mentor her. Our mentoring sessions consisted mostly of me sharing what I was learning in all of my studies, and her asking me questions and telling me her story, which was filled with plenty of dysfunction of her own.

Her parents had divorced years before and her father was an alcoholic. It was a difficult story to hear, but somehow God brought us together that summer and began her journey of healing as well.

A few weeks ago I was able to get with this friend after so many years apart. She had gone into full-time ministry for a few years, gotten married and is now teaching and thinking about starting a family. It was fantastic to see her and to hear how well she is doing, but one thing in particular has stuck with me.

She told me the story of how her father died.

After years of alcoholism, her father's body just started to give out, to shut down. He went into the hospital and eventually reached a point where he was no longer able to talk. He couldn't speak, but he was coherent. He was sober.

My friend visited her father regularly during this time, talking to him and somehow understanding what he was saying to her (she was the only one that was able to interpret what he was saying). And something amazing happened. This girl, who had such a broken relationship with her father, got to hear all of the things she needed to, things she should have heard years before.

Her dad said simple things like:

"I love you."

and

"I'm glad you're here."

Things she had never heard before.

He held her hand and looked into her eyes with clarity in his own and spoke words of love and affirmation to a daughter he had horribly neglected.

I sat there listening to my friend tell her story, open mouthed, in awe of God. I sat there in awe of his goodness, of his kindness, of his power to redeem, and of his desire to make things right.

When I met with her so many years ago I prayed that she would find strength in God, that she would seek out the healing I believed he offered. I hoped that she would find people to love her wherever she was, but I never dreamed that the story of her dad would be redeemed, I didn't dare to hope for that.

That goes deeper than any Hollywood ending. That is redemption of a life, and that is pure God.

I know that my Redeemer lives, what comfort that sweet sentence gives...

How amazing that we serve a God who not only redeems souls, but stories, too.

Story, part 1 - Endings

I watched this movie the other night that really affected me. I don't want to tell you the name of it:
1. because you'd make fun of me

and

2. because I'm gonna give away the ending.

It's the story of these two people who fall in love. The kind of love that consumes you from the inside out. I know, it's Hollywood, so what other kind of love would there be? But I'm a romantic and totally bought into it. Anyway, they both have these kind of tragic pasts which makes their love for one another that much more intense and magical. (And which made me love the story even more).

It's a typical movie in that you root for them to figure it out, to make it work, to forgive each other when they mess up, and they do. But then something unusual, for Hollywood, happened. One of them died. On one hugely tragic day, a main character died along with many others. I watched transfixed as the significant other and the character's family grieved this loss. It was so sad to think of them going through yet another tragedy. It was too much. No family could survive under that. The story wasn't supposed to be over...but the movie was. That's how it ended.

It wasn't a typical Hollywood ending because no one watching wanted it to end that way. No one thought, "Yes, the main character should die tragically at the end of the movie and leave the other person to grieve another crushing loss. Yes, that would be really satisfying." No one thought that. No one wanted that. But that's how the story ended.

As I left the theater, though, I thought how no one who died on that day in real life (it was 9/11) was done with their story either. No one went into work thinking, "I've lived my life, I've loved enough, I'm okay with not making it home today." No one thought that, because their stories weren't over either. They had husbands or wives, kids or roommates, moms in the hospital or little brothers needing to be picked up from school. They had dreams of the next day and year and decade. But their story was over. Just like that.

They weren't in a Hollywood movie where a test audience decides if the ending is just right. I heard once, though I don't know if it's true, that Pretty Woman's original ending had Julia Roberts strung out on drugs in some seedy hotel room while Richard Gere went back to business. It was a romantic comedy with a decidedly tragic ending. But (not surprisingly) the audiences didn't like it. So they changed it all around and gave the insanely happy fairytale ending where every need of every character is met and they ride happily off into the sunset together.

We don't get to choose our endings. I don't mean to be morbid, but today reminds me of this fact. We don't choose our ending, but the miraculous fact is that even when the ending is most tragic, God can redeem the story.

To be continued...

Closure

They didn't cheer.

This is a good thing.

They didn't cheer.

I thought they would. I prepared myself to know that deep down they didn't mean it. But I told them I was leaving and they didn't cheer. God is kind.

Two weeks ago my husband and I decided that I needed to quit my job. For the last two years I have worked as a middle school teacher at an after school program for at-risk kids. Even though I don't live in a very big city, our schools essentially function as inner city schools and these are the students that I have worked with.

And I love them.

They have made me laugh and cry, feel angry and happy, hopeful and hopeless.

My first year on the job I felt like a complete failure. Every day that I couldn't get them to calm down, not tell each other to shut up or put one another down, every day that they brought in another "F" or disciplinary referral or I found out they were suspended...again, I felt like I had failed.

It was a long and painful process to realize that my job was not to save them or make them successful or even make their lives easier. I could do so little in a few hours a day, especially when they were already exhausted or angry or just plain done after a long day at school.

I found that my role was to just show up. To offer them a kind smile and a warm welcome, to encourage them to study and learn, to find their gifts and talents and offer them to the world, and most of all, my job was to love them. No matter what.

And I tried.

And so, yesterday I spent the day emotionally preparing for their responses. I was sure that some would cheer, glad to be rid of me, happy to see me go, but hopefully knowing that no matter how they felt, I had loved them. I was ready for anger, too, the go-to response in that classroom, but I didn't see that either.

There was surprise and confusion, even some sadness. I gave them a picture of our class and one last "proverb," as I called the wise sayings I had them memorize every week (for a blowpop reward). And then I wrote a personal note to each one of them. An honest note telling each one of them what I saw in them, what gifts and talents I looked forward to watching them develop, encouraging them to set goals and to work to achieve them. I was making sure they knew they mattered, to me.

And I told them I loved them. Because it is true. No matter how hard this job became. No matter how much abuse I received. When I left for the day, I hurt because I loved them so much, wanted to do so much more for them, felt like such a failure.

Yesterday Zhylon said he would miss the sweet things I say. I got to hug a few students good bye.

Kindness wasn't lost.

I told them I was leaving, and they didn't cheer.

The Hope Lady

During the Christmas break I had the opportunity to teach a seminar at Ignite, our ministry's national conference. The topic I chose way back in August, was hope. The Miracle of Hope was my title and challenge to convey.

When I chose the topic I was feeling very hopeful, in fact better than I had felt in years. I was thrilled to get to share on a topic that I had learned so much about and come out on the other side of. Unfortunately, by October I was not feeling quite so hopeful any more. I was struggling with God to understand where exactly we can put our hope.

I knew that I was supposed to put my hope in God, and that's great, but it seemed so limiting, and so simplistic. I had an hour to speak, should I just tell them to put their hope in God and then dismiss them? It seemed like such a bumper sticker answer, and I'm much too long winded for that.

I know that we're supposed to put our hope in seeing Jesus one day, and while that does give me great hope and I eagerly look forward to that day, it seems that we must have more hope here and now.

What I realized as I wrestled with God over this, was that I wanted to continue to hope in people, in specific relationships in my life and the results that I craved. Unfortunately, that is exactly what God was asking me to let go of. Whether family members that I wished could engage on a deeper level with me, or my at-risk students who I wanted to see transformed, God asked me to release my vice grip on this hope I have in people.

Out for a walk one day with my son and our dog I was delighting in them and the new fallen snow. We made snow angels, threw snow balls, chased our dog around and laughed as she frolicked with complete abandon. And I was filled with pure, unadulterated joy. It was one of those moments that I wish I could bottle, put on a shelf and open just a crack every once in a while to remember its beauty.

And in that moment I felt like God asked me, "Isn't this enough?" I stopped in my tracks and realized there was no end to what I hoped for other people. For my students, I don't just want to help them be successful in school, I want them to know peace and love, to be provided for and have a support system. But I felt like God asked me if the possibility of these moments wasn't enough. If they, if I, get to experience this kind of love and joy and delight for just a few moments of our lives, isn't that enough? Isn't that the hope that we crave?

So, in my seminar I told a lot of my story, the hopelessness that I come from and the miraculous place that I am now. I talked for an hour, read an abundance of verses on putting our hope in God alone, but in all the fantastic aspects of our Infinite God, and then I read some slam poetry at the end (just for fun). And somehow, God spoke and people heard.

Thirsty hearts were quenched with a little hope from their Creator and I got to hear a little bit from many of these. It was wonderful for the rest of the conference to have people come up and tell me they needed to hear what I shared, they were struggling with hope themselves, and that somehow my story brought them hope.

As I was leaving town, I stopped at Starbucks for some chai and as I waited in line I listened to two girls chat in front of me. They were college students that I didn't recognize, but when we were about to get our drinks they looked at me and one of them said, "Hey, aren't you the Hope Lady?"

Why, yes I am.

If you want to hear my teaching, The Miracle of Hope, go to www.gcmignite.org and click on audio video, then breakout audio, click sermon player and then scroll down to my teaching title. Grab some chai and sit back and hope.:)

Insults and Such

It has been too long since I last blogged, and unfortunately I do not have a finished novel, but I am much farther and have learned a great deal about writing and the joy it brings to my soul.

But I wanted to talk about an insult I received on Facebook. To start off the new year I had an old friend (and ex-boyfriend) add a comment to one of my photos that has since been deleted. It went something like this: "Just keep those hairy ape-arms hidden (sorry I remember that)."

Lovely, I thought. A grown man trying to take me back to my insecure days of elementary school. It is true. I have hairy arms, even started shaving my legs in 4th grade, and not because I hit puberty early. But I didn't shave or wax my arms because stubbly arms didn't sound very appealing and I wasn't too fond of pain at the time. But this was the one thing for which I was made fun of throughout my childhood.

It is interesting to hear the insult now, as an adult who knows a little more about life and who she is. I now realize that this is the most minor aspect of myself, and actually has some benefits that my husband doesn't complain about - a little extra testosterone in the system is not all bad.;)

But even more than that I realize that for someone to reach out and publicly publish an unkind comment there must be an issue, some hidden motive. If you've read my post on regrets with boyfriends, you know that he has plenty to fuel the ex-boyfriend fodder. But we've had perfectly civil conversations over the last several years, so I think something must have sparked some malice.

Here's my theory. He posted his insult on the day that my status update read:

"Celebrating 15 awesome years with Joel, praising God for his goodness."

Now this fellow, we'll call him Matt, is an atheist. A passionate, devoted anti-God atheist. I am not. I love God. I am forever grateful to Jesus for being my friend, savior and lover of my soul. Matt knows this, but I think that seeing my status angered him and he had to lash out in some way. I'm not sure, but that's my theory.

It's interesting because I've been praying for Matt to know God and his love, to feel the peace that can be his with knowing Jesus and the grace he offers. Matt was divorced a few years ago and I prayed for him through that time and like most of us, he has demons he is fighting. And so every time I think of him I pray.

And I'm afraid that my status update seemed like bragging:

"Look at me, 15 years! I have exclusive rights to God's goodness!"

Which is not what I meant at all. What I meant was:

"What an amazing miracle! I am a child of divorce (multiple, in fact). I was married at 21. We have lived on a shoestring budget since our wedding day and at times have not known how we were going to make it, trying to buy groceries for a family of 6 on $40 a week. All this to say that I am married against all odds and statistics. It feels like a miracle of God's goodness."

If, on the other hand, I had been divorced 5 times by now, God would be no less good. I might want to utilize some wisdom in future relationships, but God's goodness is not dependent on my circumstances. God is good. That is fact. And I have found that as I seek him, read his word and attempt to follow it, hang out with others who love God and share that love with people who don't, I tend to feel God's peace. I feel joy. And I see his goodness. I feel it as I share in it.

I don't know why God has been so good to me. I know he loves me and desires to give me good things, but I believe he feels that for all of his children. I know I had many years of loneliness and at times I feel like shouting that verse from the book of Joel (ironic isn't it?) that says that God will restore the years the locusts have eaten. Oh how he has restored them!

For our anniversary Joel got me a necklace that says simply, "loved." Because that is the most profound truth of my life.

I am loved.

I am loved.

I am loved.

How can it be?
How I wish that Matt knew how loved he is as well.