This bacon thing is getting out of hand

I used to make turkey bacon and thought it was great.  Then one week, I ventured off the health-food track and picked up some pork.  We’ve never looked back.

As my kids get older, and their palates mature, somehow foods they once loved become suddenly indigestible.  The antidote to this trend, it seems, is inevitably more bacon.  First I bought bacon bits for salad.  Then I found myself sprinkling them into green beans, next burgers, then meatloaf.  Now, I can’t say for sure, but I might have sneaked a tablespoon or so of bacon into their oatmeal the other morning.

Running parallel to this developing bacon addiction, has been the sudden influx of widely available, bacon-infused products.  Would my children eat more broccoli, if I had a bacon-scented candle lit on the table?  Would they remember to brush every morning, if their toothpaste tasted bacon-y?  I think it’s altogether possible.

I’m not sure what I was thinking, last week, when I picked up yet another bacon incarnation: bacon flavored spaghetti sauce.  And it wasn’t because I was making the kids a quick, little pasta dinner.  No, I took the ultimate risk and added this absurd concoction to the world’s most amazing, Italian dish – which should never, ever be messed with – lasagna.  I know a lot of people who claim to make a fabulous lasagna.  It makes me snicker, really, because how can you possibly go wrong, when you are preparing a dish that is made up of layer upon layer of pasta and cheese?  But anyway, you are all going to have to bow out of this informal lasagna competition – I have it won.  I now have the ultimate secret recipe: Bacon Lasagna.  My kids always love lasagna, but they have never before eaten the whole pan in one meal.  All hail – bacon.

I’m thinking about weaving bacon around the turkey next week for Thanksgiving.  If I do, it might be the first time ever that 6 people, most of them children, eat an entire 16 pound turkey in one meal.  I haven’t committed, but I’m seriously considering the endeavor.

One note of warning: Bacon flavored soda pop.  We knew it was wrong, but we tried it anyway.  Stick with Bacon Lasagna.

I love the High Life Lounge – for serious. I love it.

I love this place.

Whether it’s the awesome collection of beer signs or the wood paneling, I couldn’t say for sure.  Maybe it’s the $2 Sloppy Joe, because everyone knows I hate overpaying for a meal, but the High Life is the dingiest place I ever loved.  Out with a friend a few weeks ago, I was taken aback, trying to figure out what was wrong with the place.  Finally the giant fans clued me in – they had shampooed the carpet.  It just didn’t feel like the same place when the shag was fluffy – and didn’t have Chili-Cheese Tater Tots smeared into the fibers.  I’m sure it will better by my next visit.

The High Life is a place where you can order Schlitz without shame, and take down a deviled egg or two while you enjoy your cheap, crappy bear.  I don’t disparage the good times available at the west side’s upscale hotspots, complete with their fancy martini menus and well-dressed patrons, but if you’re going to pay for a hoity-toity beer, the last thing you want to do is have it served to you with a napkin around it.  Why pay for a status beer, and then pretend you want to hide the label?  You get none of that at the High Life, a place that feels like you grandparents’ basement, where you can buy the same brands of beer your grandpa would have stocked in his basement fridge, and eat the same comfort foods your grandma would have served you at the Formica table, with the green flowered vinyl chairs.

My grandparents were all strict Baptists.  They didn’t have a beer fridge, or a basement hang out.  Even my high school home was a historic farm house with a cellar, not a paneled basement.  Maybe that’s why the High Life is such a comfort to me – it’s the teenage beer party I never got invited to.  And best of all – there are enough other 30-somethings hanging out there to keep me from feeling how old I am that the décor of my childhood is now back in style.  I hope you all have a similar place in your town – otherwise, maybe you have some neighbors that will share their basement with you?

Be happy and enjoy eating and drinking! God decided long ago that this is what you should do. Ecclesiastes 9:7

Babies are dumb.

We brought our first daughter home from the hospital, pulled her out of the car seat, laid her in the middle of the living room, and told her, “OK, now do something funny.”  We didn’t have to wait long; sure enough the laughs began.  Why?  Why do we find our offspring so entertaining?  Because babies are dumb.

My future Mensa candidate

Babies can’t help that they’re dumb.  They don’t realize that when they hide their face behind the window curtains, laughing with delight at their amazing disappearing ability, the entire rest of their body is still in plain sight.  They don’t realize that the fuzzy new toy they can’t seem to quite pull into view is the hair that is still attached to their own head.  One of my favorites: they honestly believe that they can fit on the miniature dollhouse toilet and will try futilely to sit on it.

My baby girl topped her sisters this week, on proving my mantra that “babies are dumb.”  She got a hold of a bottle of Japanese Cherry Blossom hand sanitizer and dumped it down her face and body.  Because I had no idea how much she’d actually consumed (FYI- hand sanitizer is extremely high in alcohol and only a small amount can give a child alcohol poisoning), and I could smell the fragrance on her breath, we got to make an evening visit to the ER.  She showed no signs of inebriation (although that probably would have been funny in only the sickest sense), but we still had to let them do a blood draw to make sure she was OK.  It was excruciating, holding her down for it, knowing that she had no way of comprehending why she was being put through this torture.  Then we had a long wait in the room, while they ran the labs, twice, because they got an error the first time.  On top of that, I had to endure the inquiries and suspicious glances of all the hospital personnel, who are legally obligated to report me, if they suspect this happened as a result of abuse or neglect.  The labs came back clean; she hadn’t actually swallowed anything at all, for which I am grateful, and certainly not anxious to repeat the exercise.

The very next morning, however, my darling girl discovered a fresh pile of dog poo, ripe for the curious eater.  Imagine my surprise when I turn around after only a moment’s distraction to see her hand up to her mouth and a bright green turd between her lips.  I have no idea what dog poop tastes like, so I can’t be sure if it was my dismayed directive or her sensitive palate, but it took only a moment for her to spit it out and there were no teeth marks or other signs that it had actually made it into her mouth.  I wasted no time in throwing her in the bathtub and thoroughly brushing her teeth.  Not that a bath was going to do any good at removing dog poop from her insides, had it made it there, but it definitely made me feel better.

My word of advice while I was bathing her, “Sweetheart, if you’re going to gargle sanitizer, do it after you eat the dog poop next time.”  See, babies are dumb.

Here are some proverbs of Solomon: Children with good sense make their parents happy, but foolish children make them sad. Proverbs 10:1

The baby ate a pill bug.

Her culinary experimentation didn’t stop there, either.  I was making photocopies at the church, allowing her to crawl around the workroom at my feet.  She crawled toward a corner and I heard her hacking and gagging.  I looked down and saw that she was poised near a pile of bug carcasses and when I asked her if she had something in her mouth, she drooled out a small gray remnant of rollie-pollie shell.  Although she seemed none the worse for it, I had to take a deep breath to avoid the dry-heave sensation that welled up in my gut.  Within a few days of the pill bug ingestion, I looked down at my precious bundle of purported “sugar, spice, and everything nice,” to find her smiling up at me with a ring of drool around her mouth that had two, tell-tale, translucent fly wings dangling in it.  While I was, again, disgusted, she seemed only proud of her ability to provide her own provisions.  In retrospect, I wish I’d gotten a picture, but at the time I couldn’t get those wings off her face fast enough.

This is all new to me.  My oldest daughter, the model of decorum, never put anything in her mouth but food.  My middle daughter, the scavenger, never put anything in her mouth that hadn’t at least at one time been food.  An M&M was an M&M, no matter how long it had lain beneath the shelf at Target waiting for her.  Now my youngest is putting me through the paces, happily chomping down on anything that her fine motor skills allow her to capture.

As we experience our first spring since the move to an acreage, and what with my baby’s ambitious critter consumption, I’m realizing that I’m going to have to step it up in one of two ways, or both: tighter supervision of the baby to intervene before the insect gets into her mouth, or acceptance of insects as potential nourishment.  If she likes bugs, we have a smorgasbord now.

There are, however, some flying insects that walk on all fours that you may eat: those that have jointed legs for hopping on the ground. Leviticus 11:21

I’m feeling called to First Church of Denny’s

When I offered to resign four months ago, I knew I was ready for a change.  But even as my last day was set, I still couldn’t really imagine not being on staff at my church.  Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings have been such an ingrained part of our family rhythm, relationships with the kids and friends at church have been such a substantial part of our social network, it was hard to comprehend that we were going to depart from those ways.  We fantasized about waking up on Sunday morning and going to church solely because we wanted to go to church, but we could hardly comprehend the possibility of not going.

Maybe it is short-timer’s syndrome, but the last four months, and the last week specifically, have made leaving so much easier than I thought it would be.  Maybe our eminent separation has given me clearer vision to see what was always there, maybe my eminent departure has created some fatalism about our church being able to effectively reach young families, but my vision for a welcoming, accommodating church reached an impasse.  The hot button issue that made my last official board meeting depressing and bitter: changing tables in the main bathrooms.  There were only two other people besides me who argued to keep them: the two women who, albeit 30-plus years ago, once had to change their babies’ diapers at church.  Everyone else in the room was a baby boomer father (i.e. never changed a diaper except in an emergency) or never had kids.  But we were out-voted and diaper changing has now been relegated to the back bathroom.

Will the loss of these changing tables directly affect the membership demographic of our church?  Probably not.  But it was, for me, a weathervane.  There are dozens of similar decisions over which I’ve voiced a minority opinion throughout the years; this one was, to me, one of the most ridiculous.  They are small plastic tables that fold up against a wall; a standard in any public restroom.  What do they hurt?  Someone had to wait an extra couple minutes to use the restroom, and someone else didn’t like how they distracted from the décor.  So they took them down and now parents, especially guests, will have to hunt down facilities down the hall and around the corner.

Maybe the changing tables aren’t a big deal.  Maybe none of my gripes or issues ever really mattered.  Maybe I was wrong to think I was called to my church to be an ambassador for the lost, or to help break down the barriers that have led 2/3 of my generation to avoid church, if not actively despise it.  Maybe my generation doesn’t belong in church after all.  Maybe we need a new place to congregate on Sunday mornings.

I’m thinking Denny’s.  They don’t quit seating at 10am; they serve breakfast all day.  They have changing tables and high chairs visibly available to accommodate your family.  You can come as you are; no one comments on your appearance.  You know your 10% is going to help someone who really needs it.  There’s no mention of “luck” when it comes to what is in the “pot.”  And they won’t quit serving it, just because you spill a little coffee on the carpet.

I need to find a new way to meld my concern for my generation, and those coming after, with my belief in church as the Body of Christ.  I probably need to take a break from church life and politics for the same reasons so many of my peers avoid it all together.  But in the mean time – I’m counting down to my first Sunday morning Grand Slam.

When Jesus saw this, he was indignant. He said to them, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. Mark 10:14

I have puppet music stuck in my head.

Did you know I made the first cut to be on the second season of Big Brother? I submitted my tape (back then, it was all VHS), and got a call back to go up to Minneapolis and interview on camera. It was also back when “real” people appeared on reality shows, not models and aspiring actors who already have agents and gigs. Anyway, I went into my interview ready to shine, and they about fell out of their chairs laughing when I pulled the stars from my audition video out of a paper bag. Two puppets: Jesus and Moses. I think it was my attachment to my then one year old daughter that eliminated me from further consideration, because the prophets and I rocked the interview.

My husband and I started leading the puppet ministry at our church several years before I actually hired on as staff. As completely dorky as puppet ministry sounds, it is one of the most fruitful ways that we have been involved. The youth who are now graduating still talk about the music and messages they first heard from the mouths of felt characters, back when they were small. With our combined creativity and resourcefulness, my husband’s extraordinary gift at bringing the puppets to life, and my ability to manage young people, we’ve come up with fresh ideas and lively shows for probably 14 years now.

Back around the time I summarized my personality for casting directors by appearing with Jesus and Moses, we took on organizing a puppet dinner theater for Holy Week. It involved preparing a dinner, decorating a dining room, seating charts, ticket sales, and a million little mind-boggling details. But the biggest endeavor was working with half a dozen teenagers to put together a three act show that would keep the audience’s attention between courses of food. Apparently the six weeks of rehearsals that led to our Good Friday show made as big an impression on me, as they did on the puppeteers, because every Good Friday, the soundtrack from Fish Tales runs through my head like, “Baby, Baby, Yeah,” after a Justin Bieber Today Show appearance.

There was a song about the feeding of the 5000, where Jesus took one child’s lunch of loaves and fish, and multiplied it to feed the entire crowd: or as the song put it, “fish sandwiches! What a plan was his! Supernatural Supper for the multitude!” Of course, you can’t forget the Good Friday number, “It was a good day. On a bad day.” Or the finale, “Do not fear! He was crucified, but he escaped the grave, he’s not inside, no, he’s not here. He is alive!”

Ten year old puppet lyrics, trumpeting through my mind, and recalling at once both the demands and the joy of a vibrant ministry. And, at the same time, filling my heart and mind with the bittersweet, compelling truth that this week is all about: the teachings, the sacrifice, and the resurrection of Christ.

And when Jesus had cried out again in a loud voice, he gave up his spirit. At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth shook, the rocks split Mathew 27:50-51

Lent is my New Year's

I don’t make resolutions, because I find it pointless.  More than that, I get a little annoyed with everyone else’s resolutions, because they inconvenience the good habits of others.  For those disciplined health nuts who hit the gym every morning, every day of the year, it seems unfair that the first week of January they suddenly have to wait in line for a treadmill, knowing that the row of unseasoned novices, smelling of fresh spandex, and struggling to figure out the settings on the machines, aren’t really serious about this new lifestyle.  By mid-February, they will return to their morning Starbucks ritual and everyone else can get back to their own routine, without having to trip over the uncommitted.

So, rather than get in the way of people who really do want to better themselves, I skip the whole shenanigans and wait until I’m truly inspired to do something different.  Over the years of our marriage, my husband and I have often found that inspiration in Lent.  The whole concept of giving something up or taking on something new, in solidarity with Christ and his suffering, burdens me, and commits me spiritually in a way that 1/1/whatever never could.

Making changes in my life for Lent has both those spiritual connotations, and also some practical ones.  Lent is for six weeks.  It is the perfect trial period for life improvement.  You can commit to almost anything for six weeks; it’s a very do-able length of time.  You won’t have to feel like a failure at the end, if you don’t keep it up, because it was only a six week commitment to begin with.  But it is also a long enough time to know by the end whether your changes bring the kind of joy and benefit that makes them worth continuing.  Many valuable life improvements have sprung from the brief six week commitment of Lent.

One year, we gave up coffee creamer.  We lost 5 pounds each.  While we went back to drinking creamer, we do not consume nearly the quantities we did before.  Another year, we gave up TV.  That was hard!  We tried to tape all our shows so we could catch up after Lent, but it really never happened.  It helped us realize how much time TV was consuming, and how unimportant the missed episodes were to our enjoyment of later shows.  We developed a family mantra of, “We will never lament that we missed a TV show because we were out living our real lives.”  We went back to TV, but we also disarmed it from having so much power over us.

This year, we decided to start walking 3-4 times a week.  We mapped out the neighborhood and our walks range from .7-1.5 miles.  We’re slowly working in some running, too, but not pressuring ourselves with it.  Mostly, it’s just about keeping our commitment, to get out there and be in creation while moving our bodies.  I’ve been impressed that so far, we’re actually sticking to it, and I’m noticing some improvement to my stamina and muscle tone.  Who knows, maybe this will be one of those Lenten rituals that actually lasts past Easter?

With every change we make, with every habit we start or break, there is some internal switch that seems to flip – or not flip – in us that determines our outcome.  New Year’s never really flipped that switch for me, but, and I know I may sound a little hokey here, Jesus does.  Whether it’s that “I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength (Philippians 4:13),” or “Everything should be done in a way that will bring honor to God because of Jesus Christ (1 Peter 4:11), Lent is a season, where my meager sacrifices and gifts take on a much more meaningful and deeper symbolism than they deserve.  What’s a day without meat, or a cup of coffee without creamer, compared to the unthinkable suffering Jesus endured?  If he did that, the least I can do is commit for six short weeks.

If anyone speaks, they should do so as one who speaks the very words of God. If anyone serves, they should do so with the strength God provides, so that in all things God may be praised through Jesus Christ. To him be the glory and the power forever and ever. Amen. 1 Peter 4:11

Less than heroic.

Last weekend was a blast, starting right from Friday morning.  I pulled my sewing machine out of mothballs and discovered that I can still pull off a fairly professional-looking hemstitch.  I love the satisfaction of a good sewing project, and it was a bonus that I got to help out a friend.  Then, a rarity since the baby was born, my husband and I got to enjoy, childfree, a fantastic, seafood dinner that felt like anything but fasting.  I savored every bite of Volcano Roll and Whiskey-glazed Char – and every moment of uninterrupted conversation. 

Finally, to top it all off, a friend and I spent Saturday evening at Super Prom!  It was a charity event where costumes were optional, but of course we had to go in costume!  Since we share the same name, we decided to go as Super Emily-s.  The fun started when we hit the costume shop and found coordinating red and blue wigs, silver dresses, and crazy red fishnets.  We planned and plotted for weeks: scoping out the Dollar Tree for masks, coordinating our make-up, cutting out our hero emblems.  The kids were fascinated by all my preparations Saturday evening and got a kick out of the big photo session before we left for dinner and the Prom.  We were already having so much fun; we even admitted to each other that we both initially put our “E”s on our dresses backward, not realizing we were looking in the mirror. Ha!

It has been a long time since I danced for five hours straight, but, minus bathroom breaks, we were non-stop partiers until the band sent us home at 2AM.  2AM!  I got photographed with my hero, Kermit.  Emily got photographed with her hero, Rocky Balboa.  We worked together to fight off the advances of Kung Fu Panda.  And we even got a decent picture of Hoochie-Wonder Woman to share with our husbands later.

It was such a hilariously fun and memorable weekend, I wouldn’t change a thing.  But if you’re going to dance, you have to pay the fiddler; I guess that means more than the $20 cover charge for the party.

I’m not sure why 8-10 hours, over the course of three days, put my family into such discord, but by Sunday evening, I had three kids, including the 10 and 7 year old, trying to squeeze into my seat with me.  And then even the dog got into it when she, not once but twice, tried to prevent me from picking up the baby by racing between us and marking a circle around me.  Nothing says “I missed you” quite like a perimeter of urine.

Monday morning, our middle girl had an exhausting appointment with a specialist that raised as many questions as answers about her chronic stomach aches, it’s always stressful at my husband’s work this time of year, and by midweek I felt paralyzed by everyone’s competing needs.  Hero to Zero in three short days.

When my husband called at lunch time, I was near tears, trying to figure out what to feed the baby.  I had run out of all the foods she eats reliably, and she now refuses to ingest anything puréed or that she can’t feed herself.  Even admitting my frustration felt like another failure, knowing my poor husband was busy and stressed out with work already. 

But he was the real hero this week.  Instead of cutting me off and reminding me that he had no possible means to help, and I was ridiculous for dumping my load on him when he was already enormously strained, he heard me out and then gently reassured me that nothing was as bad as it felt right then.  Hearing his reassurance was just what I needed to finish out the day – and the week.  I still haven’t been to the grocery store, the dog is in the kennel at this very moment, the baby is declining her raviolis by tossing them on the floor, and I’m still in my pajamas at nearly noon.  But it’s all good.  I don’t have to be a hero.  I just have to love them.  And I do.

 When the Philistines saw that their hero was dead, they turned and ran. 1 Samuel 17:51

The chickens are going to have to wait.

Imagine the kids’ surprise on Easter morning, when we open a seemingly routine express mail package and out pop – chicks!  Downy soft and ready to eat their first meal, the three day old chicks cuddle up in their warm hands and the girls’ eyes sparkle with delight as our new adventure in hobby farming begins.

We’ve had that image in our minds since we first put an offer on this place.  With great optimism, we imagined that we’d get settled in over winter break.  We’d be hosting sledding parties in January.  We saw ourselves, as March rolled around, rearing to get out there to plant a giant garden and build a chicken coup.

Reality is reining us in yet again.  With the mildness of winter this year, we spent winter break building a shed and cleaning the garage, instead of unpacking the basement.  Old Man Winter withheld sledding until just this past weekend, when we finally got a snowfall that could cover the grass on our hill.  As the dominoes are toppling, I see that our Easter fantasy is fading as fast as my laundry pile is growing.

I am in no way deterred from the vision of what this place is going to be for us, but I am having to rethink the timetable.  We chose a smaller house, and it takes a lot longer to get organized and settled in when you have half the cupboards, closets, and garage that you did before.  My spring chickens aren’t the only thing I have to let go of.  There’s also the extra set of dishes, the spare bed, the computer armoire, that stunning teal sectional…and many, many things that are still in boxes downstairs, yet to be identified for sale or donation.

Finally breaking in the sledding hill last weekend!

We took a lot on, pursuing this vision of self-sustenance and simplicity; it may take us quite a while to achieve even a basic start to all we hope for.  But it was a gratifying moment last week, when my oldest came in after school, dropped her bag and coat by the door, and sighed, “Ahhh…home sweet home.”  Yes, my dear girl, it really is.  And whenever we do get to it, farm fresh eggs and garden vegetables will only make it sweeter.

Hezekiah, I will tell you what's going to happen. This year you will eat crops that grow on their own, and the next year you will eat whatever springs up where those crops grew. But the third year you will plant grain and vineyards, and you will eat what you harvest. Those who survive in Judah will be like a vine that puts down deep roots and bears fruit. 2 Kings 19:29-30

Don't make me sing...

As they passed out the songbooks, the emcee announced, “We borrowed these from the Senior Center…”  That’s when we knew we had been bamboozled.

Although we might have felt some obligation to attend the church’s chili cook-off anyway, it was a stroke of genius when the committee chair asked my husband to judge, thus securing the whole family’s participation.  They said there would be a talent show after the meal.  Maybe not our first choice for a Saturday night, but we could sit back and enjoy the accordion playing and card tricks, we figured.

Then, as quick as you can say, “zipa-dee-doo-dah,” the evening was turned all around on us.  Before a single act had taken the stage, the gal at the piano banged out the intro and, despite my husband’s best effort to wave off the song books, we were swept up in a sing-a-long against our will.  The music segued from that deliriously wonderful day to the fairy godmother’s “bibbidi-bobbidi-boo.”  We felt none of the mythical Disney magic; we had hoped, like most talent shows, that audience participation would be limited to texting in our votes.

Admittedly, I could not help but laugh at my husband’s chagrin, and I sang louder and more expressively to add to his misery, but the real entertainment for me was in my mind.  I imagined all sorts of more entertaining alternatives to our current predicament.  Imagine if the pastor had come in dressed like Jiminy Cricket to sing Zipa-dee-doo-dah.  The only way to follow that up would be to have been for the choir director to throw on a tulle skirt and grab a wand for Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo.  Instead of the hard knot of anxiety we all felt in our core in seeing that Hakuna-matata was next in the book, we would have felt wild anticipation for which old friend was about to come out dressed like a wart hog.  It wouldn’t have mattered that most of us were off-key.  It wouldn’t even have required any talent.  It would have, most certainly, made for a memorable and entertaining program.

So, church event organizers, I just thought I would share this tip for the next big event.  If we can’t bring the talent, let’s bring the costumes.

Kenaniah the head Levite was in charge of the singing; that was his responsibility because he was skillful at it. 1 Chronicles 15:22

Holiday sweets make me giddy.

I couldn’t help it.  The gal at Sonic was passing me the most beautiful incarnation of Pumpkin Pie Milkshake ever.  The cup was shiny metallic, like an old soda shop, the whip cream was fluffy and crusted with crumbs of graham cracker and brown sugar.  Before I could stifle it, a high pitched giggle of delight escaped, and I felt embarrassed by the cold on my teeth as I gave the girl a billboard grin and a childishly joyful “Thank you!”  I felt like a complete weird-o, as her even stare and cautious body language signaled her distrust.

Who needs mom’s apple pie?  There’s I-HOP’s Eggnog Pancakes, McDonald’s Holiday Pies, and pumpkin, in all its various forms.  I don’t need to be invited to a slew of holiday parties, I bring the party to the drive thru, every time I get a chance to consume these delightful concoctions!  How, tell me, how can you beat getting 2 custard pies, with sugar sprinkles baked in to the crust, for a mere $1?  I can pass on the dessert for the whole rest of the year, because these enchanting specimens are only on the menu for four short weeks!

So whether you are serving me up a Gingerbread hot chocolate or a caramel apple parfait, don’t look at me like I’m putting you on.  I’m for real.  And for the 700 calories, that shake better be worth getting excited about, don’t you think?

It is a joyful holiday that they celebrate by feasting and sending gifts of food to each other. Esther 9:19b

I'm a pizza addict

It has pickles, mustard, onion, and bacon on it, and I can never stop after just two pieces.  As likely as it is to add inches to my middle, Bacon Cheeseburger pizza, I would argue, is still a healthy choice.  It satisfies my pizza cravings, and my fast food cravings, with a single meal.  When have you ever found such an efficient junk food?

If only Bacon Cheeseburger pizza actually were enough to satisfy my pizza cravings, though.  I love pizza.  You’re right, we all love pizza.  Let me clarify, I love pizza.  I would gladly eat pizza once a day, every day, for the duration of my life.  If such an occasion arose, I could certainly add an extra lunch or dinner to that when necessary.  My husband hordes pizza coupons to shelter our family from the financial burden of my addiction. 

I often find myself doing pizza math when we start discussing dinner options.  While he’s thinking: steak, chicken, or fish?  I’m trying to make sure we didn’t eat pizza in the last 24 hours, before I mention that I’d like to have pizza again.

In addition to my newest favorite, the Bacon Cheeseburger pizza, I’ve long been a fan of the Supreme.  Hawaiian is also delicious.  Barbeque – yum.  Steak or green olive – yes please.  Originally not on my list, I’ve even come around to find myself enjoying Taco pizza.  It is, however, the one pizza I do not enjoy cold the next day.

Oh, yes.  Cold pizza.  If you don’t order a big enough pizza to dine on cold leftovers the next day, you didn’t order a big enough pizza.

Then he set it before them, and they ate and had some left over, according to the word of the LORD. 2 Kings 4:44

I hoard Oreos.

It’s not just Oreos, either.  Sometimes I sneak ice cream into the freezer and stash it behind the asparagus.  If there are any Zingers to be had, they are most certainly on the top shelf of the pantry, often in a sack to mask them.  Behind the pretzels and tortilla chips – that’s where to look for the Cheddar Cheese Chex-Mix.

It seems utterly ridiculous, considering how much more easily my kids could metabolize all that junk than I can, but the good stuff doesn’t come out until after they are tucked snug in their beds.  During the day, when they want something tasty, I steer them to bananas, fruit snacks, and whole grain crackers.  I try to model good habits by eating granola and yogurt myself, at breakfast and snack times.  Then 9 o’clock hits, and I can be found building an architectural wonder out of peanut butter cup ice cream and hot fudge, or teasing my palate with different combinations of wine, cheese, and snack mixes.

I suppose a little moderation would mean sharing a reasonable portion of these goodies, on occasion, with the whole family.  But it works out much better for me, when the kids just never know that stuff is in the house.  When they do get wise to the box of donuts I have hidden in the fridge, I have to deal with, “Mom, can we have a donut?” in fifteen minute intervals, all day long (whether or not they’ve already had one).  Then I feel driven to consume the whole dozen by midnight, just so I won’t have to answer their endless inquiries the next day.

I have a snack habit.  I hoard to support it.  Sometimes I skip supper, just to free up some extra room for snacks.

John told them, "If you have two coats, give one to someone who doesn't have any. If you have food, share it with someone else." Luke 3:11

I loved my job at McDonald’s

It offered free uniforms, on-the-job training, and a complimentary pop whenever I wandered in – beat that! They said in my first training session, I guess to help us keep our dignity, that 25% of the adult population had worked for McDonald’s at some point in their lives. Believe it or not, I could see why. Some days I’d like to go back.

During my year and a half at Mickey D’s, when I was outside the restaurant, I was an overachieving high school junior. My days were packed from dawn to dusk with Student Council, S.A.D.D., National Honor Society, Tennis, choir, College Prep classes, and even a social life; yes, it lasted only one year, but I had one in 11th grade. Going to McDonald’s for a three hour shift was better stress relief than stopping for yoga, because it paid. It was wonderful to have a few hours to myself, where I could put on the cruise control and be occupied with busywork.

Unlike outside life, McDonald’s provided clear, streamlined, efficiency. There were simple routines to follow for collecting the food items, making change, even stocking ketchup. There was nothing to second guess, no extra points for creativity. Everything I cooked had a beeper that alerted me when it had reached perfection and no one expected more of me than 30 seconds of my undivided attention to punch in their order accurately. Just by offering a smile or a friendly, clear tone of voice over the drive thru speaker, my shift would be cluttered with compliments from pleased customers.

Most of my life since McDonald’s has required a lot more of me. I have to interact with people who have ambiguous motivations. I have to juggle my personal life with ministry, which can often create very blurred lines. From establishing appropriate clothing each morning based on my kids’ hot or cold tolerances and the forecast, to answering the 10pm call from a nervous grandmother who needs reassurance that her grandchild will enjoy children’s church, life keeps me on my toes. Very rarely do I actually know what someone wants from me, can I give them exactly what they want, or will they commend me for just being kind to them during the exchange. Nor am I always as kind as I was in the drive-thru.

Let’s face it, McDonald’s is a wonderland that does not exist in real life. If only it didn’t make you fat.

We don't want anyone to find fault with our work, and so we try hard not to cause problems. 2 Corinthians 6:3

Daytime TV may suck out my brains

I’m a TV snob. While we do normally watch a vast array of programs, even that scandalous reality television is on our usual diet of boob-tube consumption, we generally have the television on for just a few limited hours a day. The kids watch Electric Company once their homework is done, and my husband and I take in some Prime Time after dinner. This, of course, is “High” television, right?

But boob-tube is actually pretty descriptive of my viewing habits lately, and I’ve found myself able to tolerate at least one of the shows that are on, at nearly every hour of the day and night. I now know that the SNL skit about Kathy Lee and Hoda is not exaggerated; they really do drink alcohol and act giddy. I know that you can skip the whole Dr Oz show, because he recaps his findings at the end of the program; just flip over for the last two minutes. I know that Kate and Will are scheduled to kiss at 8:25 EST this Friday morning; can’t miss that. And I know that Julie Chen and Leah Remini are uncomfortable bathing with their kids or kissing them on the lips; it’s hard to imagine what life would have been like without this knowledge. Sometimes I’m pretty sure I can feel my IQ dropping while I consume yet another celebrity interview or expert opinion on whether the toilet roll should be installed to dispense over or under.

My first strategy to preserve my brain function was to surf for cooking segments. At least I could gain some useful knowledge that would help me feed my family better or more interesting meals. So far, however, I have not cooked a single one of Rachael Ray’s “What’s for Dinner Tonight.” But I have attempted and consumed Buddy Valastro’s funnel cakes. Yep, imagine that, deep fried pancake batter tastes great! Not only did we make them, but while on a diaper and groceries run, I purchased better equipment to improve our funnel cakes next time. So, while we are enjoying the delicious “fruits” of my cooking segment viewing, I wouldn’t suggest that it has improved our family’s standard of living.

My next strategy was to opt out and read during the baby's mealtime. I quickly found out that reading What to Expect the First Year while nursing is like juggling fine china and a brick, so I switched to this month’s This Old House magazine. The magazine was easier to juggle, but only lasted a day. So now I’m heading back to daytime until next month’s arrives.

As long as we get through the first three months without getting sucked into any soap operas, my dignity will remain intact. Let’s all agree to blame my declining vocabulary on sleep deprivation, instead of The View. Agreed? The real irony – I’ve read that breastfeeding is associated with higher IQ in the baby. Apparently she’s gaining the brain cells I’m losing with this endeavor. That makes it all worth it.

Our people should learn to spend their time doing something useful and worthwhile. Titus 3:14

Roaches kinda’ scare me.

Nothing inspires my evolutionary inferiority complex more than cockroaches. They’ve got survival perfected. They can live anywhere, and survive anything. I would be in complete awe of their perfection if they didn’t make me feel queasy, just thinking about them. To some degree, roaches are what stand between me and residence in a warm weather climate.

There are so many things about cockroaches that revolt me. The greatest, by far, being their intellect. I’m disgusted by June Bugs and Water Beetles, too, but they don’t run for cover when you enter the room or flip on the light. That high speed dart for safety that roaches make, makes me feel violated. And have you ever tried to step on one? Even if you’re reflexes are actually quick enough to make a hit, it is pointless, unless you add an ankle twist. Their hardy exoskeletons flatten down thinner than paper and, while the ankle twist ensures their loss of life, it also means cleaning up roach guts. And the trickery! If you don’t add the ankle twist to your roach stomp, all you accomplish is squishing out a pile of eggs onto the floor, so that you can enjoy the company of more roaches later! Revolting!!

I’ve been fortunate in that I have not had to share my residence with roaches for decades now, but I’ll never forget the terror, as a young girl in Southern California, of having a roach slowly creep up on me from across the bathroom, as I was helplessly confined on the throne. Or the enormous size of the roaches that scurried in every direction when anything banged into the garbage cans by the back gate. I’m quite confident that human survival is not based on our superiority to roaches, but is because the roaches held an international convention and decided to let us live. After all the more we propagate, the simpler their food collection goes.

I was reminded, a couple summers ago, of how much I despise roaches and what a blessing it is to live in a home without pests, during Youth Service Week. We were taking the church’s teens out into the community for a week of service projects. One of the days, we prepared an apartment for newly arriving refugees. You’re probably already feeling ill, but try to be brave as I describe this apartment.

We came into the apartment in the full light of midday, but a few roaches scurried for cover out of every room we entered. As the youth set to work cleaning the kitchen cupboards and stocking them with pots and pans, the other leaders and I noticed that the wall sockets and light fixtures were producing an overflow of baby roaches that ran across the walls and ceiling every couple minutes. In four years of living in the southwest, I never once saw a baby roach. You normally wouldn’t – they would be protected in a nest away from humans. We concluded that the walls of this apartment were so teeming with roaches that even the babies were coming out into plain sight in the middle of afternoon brightness.

We were amazed at the bravado of the youth. Every time they bumped the refrigerator, another bug would run out and then try to run back. They were pouncing on them,quickly learning to add the ankle twist and taking delight in the game of roach stomping. They apparently had such limited experience with roaches, they didn’t know the disease-spreading un-cleanliness the bugs' presence indicated. I wanted, every minute of that afternoon, to run screaming from the apartment, burn my clothes before entering my house, and scrub down in a boiling hot shower. Instead, I hung in there with the kids and kept cleaning. I imagined the cockroach disco party that was going to greet these new refugees that night. I wondered at the circumstances of a refugee camp, that this crummy, roach infested apartment could seem like a luxury, as the refugee service workers assured us it would. I said silent prayers of thanksgiving and gratitude for my own, pest-free house.

I have the privilege of being fearful of and disgusted by pests like roaches. I have the privilege of single family housing, where my pest prevention is not dependent on 500 or so other people, who, out of limited means and low personal functioning, share and attract pests into my slum.

I’m horrified by cockroaches, mice, and bedbugs, in part, because I can be. I’m humbled that it could be called an act of service to prepare an apartment for someone, in a building where I would not be willing to spend a single night - and barely made it through an afternoon.

Swarming insects are unclean, so don't eat them. Deuteronomy 14:19

God Said "No" to Us.

Heading into the week of Spring Break, it looked like our family was about to turn a huge corner. In very similar fashion to how things progressed with my older two, mild contractions started getting harder and closer together until we decided it was time to drop the kids off at Grandma and Grandpa’s and head in to the hospital. The girls were thrilled and my younger daughter bragged that she’d prayed all day that her baby sister was going to be born today. In a surprising twist, however, all the discomfort I was enduring was not actually accomplishing anything! We got sent home! We’ve put another uncomfortable week into this waiting game, complete with waking up many times a night to sweaty, apparently unproductive, contractions. Many Tylenol PM’s later, I wonder what’s going to be left of me if I don’t get some sleep before the real thing sets in!

Despite my complaints and discomforts, this week turned out to be one of those true blessings: the gift of our unanswered prayers was a tremendous week of togetherness with the two big girls. Instead of spending it on late night feedings, sore body parts, and all the readjustments of infant care, I got to spend a week lavishing my girls with time and attention. My husband managed to take a couple of the days off, as well, making for a couple true family holidays! Many times, I’ve lamented that since they started school, I don’t get nearly enough time with my girls. I’ve resented the cost of child care over breaks, not because I don’t value the people who care for my children when I can’t, but because I hate the thought of paying someone else to do what I would so much prefer to be doing myself.

This week was such a fantastic counter-experience. Not because we went crazy and spent a million dollars on entertainment and activities, because we didn’t; we didn't even end up going to the movies, which seemed like a sure thing at the start of the week. It was all the little moments that brought us so much joy. We went to the park 3 days in a row. My older girl mastered kite flying. My younger daughter woke up and sneaked into my bed for a morning snuggle, spending more than a half hour straight talking my ear off about her friends, her fears, and her imaginings. Both girls got to spend 2 hours swimming at the community pool with Daddy, perfecting their back floats and finding out how helpful goggles are for retrieving rings off the bottom. We did a $3 shopping spree at the Dollar Tree and have played with Silly Putty A LOT since. We went to the St. Patrick’s parade and caught beads. We ate a feast of hard shell tacos at Taco Bell on 65 cent taco day and gave the backyard playset a good workout. We’re still hoping to squeeze in another swim, and some home-manicures…maybe some baking.

All week long, the girls nagged and begged for their baby sister to arrive; and I certainly shared their impatience. But, as with so many things, God knows best. I got to enjoy my daughters in such a special way. I’ll treasure it forever. We’re so excited to welcome their new sister, but this was a perfect celebration of the family we’ve been so far. And I’m so grateful God said "no" last Saturday.  We'll take a "yes" now, whenever we can get it, though.

After the stone had been rolled aside, Jesus looked up toward heaven and prayed, "Father, I thank you for answering my prayer. John 11:41

Weigh me down with Caramel deLites and throw me in the ocean.

We got our first delivery of Girl Scout Cookies. One box each of Caramel deLites and Peanut Butter Patties. With great restraint, the girls and I put them away, unopened, to enjoy as dessert after dinner. It was hard, but we were having meatloaf, a family favorite, and planning to watch the latest episode of Survivor, so our anticipation sustained our resistance.

After dinner, each girl was allowed to choose three cookies, as did my husband and I. And they were every bit as fantastic as we remembered from last year. How does one even choose between the two supreme flavors of the universe: peanut butter and caramel? If you’re a kid, you have to. But if you’re an adult, you only have to wait until you’ve tucked the kids in for the night.

After bedtime, we indulged in a few more cookies and a nice cup of milk, watched the nightly news, and then trudged off to bed ourselves. On my way out of the living room, I noticed that we hadn’t put the cookies away and it crossed my mind that perhaps we might come out in the morning to find the tray empty, but I was sore and tired, so I did nothing about it. After all, we were expecting another couple deliveries over the week, as there are a number of Girl Scouts in the neighborhood, so we order a box or two from each of them. Plus the girls were pretty unlikely to actually consume all the cookies that were left before we could intervene.

My younger daughter woke up before everyone else in the morning, and my husband heard the telltale rattle of the cookie tray and wrapper. When I came out to breakfast, he seemed a little proud of our girl, in that, as soon as he came out into the living room, she promptly confessed to having eaten a Girl Scout Cookie. I too was impressed by her self control and honesty, and relieved that she knew better than to scarf down every cookie in sight. I hated it, though, that she felt bad for it.  I wish, I could take away the guilt she felt for eating a cookie when she knew she shouldn’t. I left a tray of open Girl Scout Cookies on the side table in the living room. My daughter showed the personal fortitude to eat just one cookie. If it had been me, I would have eaten three, at least.

I know she knew better, but I definitely knew better. Instead of considering the situation I was putting my kids in, I selfishly thought only of myself. As long as I was going to get to enjoy more cookies, I wasn’t worried about the inviting temptation I was laying out for them to stumble into. It’s not the end of the world that my kid ate a cookie without permission, but if my daughter can confess to her cookie consumption, let me confess to my lazy parenting. And my hope that I’ll do better next time. After all, the scripture promises grave consequences for leading a child to sin.

It will be terrible for people who cause even one of my little followers to sin. Those people would be better off thrown into the deepest part of the ocean with a heavy stone tied around their necks! Matthew 18:6

It's Turkey Time, Eh!

My husband and I went to Bennigan’s for lunch this week and both of us were enticed by the “Day-After-Thanksgiving” sandwich. It’s embarrassing when we order the same thing, so we coordinated, and he ordered it, while I ordered some other side item, so we could share the sandwich. I know I’m going to sound like an ad for the restaurant, but have you had this sandwich? Mashed potatoes, stuffing, gravy, cranberries, and turkey on a pretzel-bread bun. We ordered a side of sweet potato fries to finish off the feast. It was everything we thought it would be: a delicious preview of Thanksgiving to get us by for another month.

The idea that sandwich could tide us over until the fourth week of November completely backfired. I could think of nothing else for the rest of the afternoon. Turkey. Cranberries. Grandma Ella’s pickled beets. Green-bean casserole. So much for pickles and ice cream; I’ve been fantasizing about a feast that is still seven long weeks away.

I confessed to my husband that night. I don’t think I can wait; I am going to have to roast a turkey. It’s wrong. It’s unseasonal. We should be focused on pumpkins right now. But I cannot get that turkey breast and cranberry sauce out of my head.

Then I remembered the most important holiday on our North American-combo calendar: Canadian Thanksgiving! I’ve been told that my Southeast Michigan upbringing has left a permanent Northern imprint on my pronunciation, so why not embrace that “A”-enhanced culture? I’ve never tried Boxing Day and I’m unlikely to postpone our egg hunt to Easter Monday, but Canadian Thanksgiving…now that is a holiday I can embrace.

So, despite the three-week accumulation of housework I’ll have to overcome before guests can use my restroom or eat at my table, and the nap I will likely require while the turkey roasts - I guess I'm motivated by turkey when all else fails - we’ve invited a couple friends who seem to embrace our wacky sense of humor, and we are going to celebrate Thanksgiving with the Canadians this year. Don’t worry, we will still do our patriotic duty and overeat again on November 25th.

You give your guests a feast in your house, and you serve a tasty drink that flows like a river. Psalm 36:8

I’ve been obsessing about my own mortality

I’m turning 35 this summer. Whether that seems old or young to you probably depends on how much higher or lower your own number is. What I know for sure is that, while there is potentially still a long journey ahead of me, I have also put some long years behind me. I’ve always tried to live intentionally, beginning with the end in mind, you might say. However, lately everything in my life seems to be contriving to bring me repeated consciousness of the fact that living is a terminal condition.

I attended another funeral this morning. A beloved friend from church who was blessed to enjoy a long and fruitful life has gone on to Glory. Another dear friend, not so advanced in years, had emergency surgery to remove her appendix the day after Mother’s Day; thankfully they caught it in time. My younger daughter is graduating from Kindergarten; it seems much too soon. Grandpa is back in the hospital again. A family in our community had two of their three kids die when their minivan was T-boned on a quiet side street we commonly drive down. My older daughter started needing deodorant. All are subtle and not-so-subtle reminders that time moves in only one direction and, sooner or later, that onward march is going to lead all of us to the same outcome.

I’m seeing everything different these last few weeks. Every time I get into a car, I consider the possibility of an accident. When I order French fries, I hear my arteries begging me to stop. I look in the mirror and see the smile lines and sun spots starting, and know that kid at the grocery store isn’t going to keep asking for my I.D. forever.

Some ministers will suggest that from the day we put our faith in Christ, our earthly life is just a hindrance, holding us back from the Glory that awaits us. When I was younger, that was one of my biggest fears; that life quit meaning anything, because accepting Jesus meant longing for the end. Life was just this burdened in-between of trying to spread the Gospel and secure eternity for others.

The Gospel is much fuller to me now than it used to be. While I hope for the eternal Glory my friends are now experiencing, I’m trying really hard to experience Glory each day. Life has these incredible seasons we get to pass through, each a unique gift from God who gives us life. From the beautiful naiveté of childhood, through the discovery of youth, the comfort of finding our identity and vocations, and on into the uncharted future that I hope will bring adventure, accomplishment, and grandkids. God didn’t plan just for the end, God planned for each and every day, each moment, of this Glorious life I get to live.

But even as I dream of this amazing future, I feel burdened right now by the reality that, as Mat Kearney’s song Closer to Love puts it, “we’re all just a phone call from our knees.” Anything can happen at any time to cut short the dreams I hope for, and I feel like, right now, life is just starting to get good. Really good. Good-byes are hard, but I don’t want to live in either denial or in fear of them; they’re part of life, too.  Lately, though, I've been feeling the pinch of their inevitability.

"Show me, O LORD, my life's end and the number of my days; let me know how fleeting is my life. You have made my days a mere handbreadth;the span of my years is as nothing before you. Each man's life is but a breath. Psalm 39:4-5 

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