Let's burn a book

A few years ago, my kids’ curiosity about childbirth began to surface, so I thought I’d take the birds and bees by the horns. I went out and bought the first two books in a series that offered developmentally appropriate, values based information for my kids’ age ranges and we read them together.  The older book included a very basic, but direct explanation of intercourse.  I thought it was a great first step to unveiling the mysteries of life to my older girl without freaking her out.  I explained to her at the time that this was private information, which she should not share with her friends or younger sister.  She's been open, since, about bringing me her questions.  The book for my younger daughter was much less specific about the baby making part of the equation.

My big girl did a great job of keeping it to herself. Seeing my middle girl’s shock this week, I knew she hadn’t been told.  I was just building up the courage to tackle that same reading with my middle daughter, now that she’s approaching that stage of late-elementary curiosity, but the elementary school library usurped from me the privilege of being able to break the story gently.  She checked out a nifty book the librarian recommended to her about the human body, and during her free reading time later in the day, she discovered a chapter on reproduction that included a diagram of a penis inserted into a vagina.  Needless to say, when I picked her up from school, the first thing she did was to show me the book and seek an explanation for what was, to her, a pretty confusing and disturbing image.

I am, needless to say, livid.  Although I empathize with the school, in that it is difficult to know what is on every page of every book in the library, a diagram that graphic should have certainly been caught by someone along the way – the writer who was aiming to sell the book to elementary schools, the publisher who supposedly reviewed and approved the material, the librarian who with a simple look at the table of contents could have seen there was a chapter on reproduction that should, perhaps, be reviewed before putting the book on the shelf.

Now, instead of gently introducing these mysteries to my daughter, I have to work backwards from her awkward dismay to reassure her of God’s plans for our bodies.  I can take part of the blame for not having covered the material sooner; she could have heard the news on the playground or in the backyard by now, but no fellow school kid was going to explain it to her with the vivid and shocking specificity and credibility that she encountered in that diagram.

We took the book to the principal and the librarian called me back to let me know the review process the book has to go through before it can be pulled off the shelf at her school and the two other elementary schools in the district that also have it in their collection.  I’m hoping no Kindergarteners decide to check it out before they make up their minds.  In the litigious atmosphere of schools, they did not, of course, offer any apology.

 That is why a man leaves his father and mother and is united to his wife, and they become one flesh. Genesis 2:24

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

I had to surrender.

Sunday before last, I was scheduled to preach while the pastor was on vacation.  I had agreed to do so well ahead of time and had even begun to strategize about it a few weeks in advance, wanting to ensure a well thought out message with engaging, and even humorous, illustrations.  I sometimes get feedback that I’m too serious from the pulpit, so I was going to make a deliberate attempt to stay lighthearted.  Despite my honest effort to be thoroughly prepared, events in my personal life took a turn that week, and I was not in a good place, when I arrived at church about an hour before worship.  My emotions were barely stifled.  I was unable to look anyone in the eye, because any sign of compassion might bring my struggle to the surface.

I sat in a front pew and read back over my sermon, gathering my courage to lead worship.  I realized as the scripture and message kept piercing my heart, how completely helpless I was to fulfill this obligation.  I knew that some 90-100 people were about to file in and expect worship.  I knew from past experience that some of them would be hanging on my every word, looking for an opportunity to send an offended and critical email to our pastor, validating their staunch insistence that women shouldn’t be preaching.  I knew that, for all the times in ministry that my personal issues had made my leadership role a challenge, this was the time.  This was the moment of complete surrender.  I knew that I, me, myself, Emily – I could not get through worship.

So I prayed.  I gave it all to the Lord.  I begged God to take over and use me in whatever way necessary to glorify him.  And, in a way I can’t explain, God did just that.  I didn’t plan my prayers, I just walked up to the pulpit and let it come out.  Every time I said "Amen," I was thinking, “Weird – that’s not really a prayer I normally would say.”  The sermon, thankfully, was all written out, but even in delivering it, I was constantly struck by the message of scripture; as if this message I had written the week before were not my own, but written for me.

That Sunday morning is one I will never forget.  People love the poem “Footprints” for how it expresses the notion of Christ’s partnership and support of us, the idea that we could look back and see the times Jesus was actually bringing us through.  But rarely do we actually feel his arms beneath us and know that right then, in that moment, we are being carried.  But that, my friends, is something I have experienced.  There are many hard times when I’ve fought through on my own, but praise the Lord to know how powerful Christ was when I was utterly helpless.

May that be a blessing I do not have to experience very often.

(This was my sermon illustration - thought you might enjoy...)

Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” Matthew 28:19-20

We lived too long with rouge furniture.

It’s been weeks since I took the leap and started moving things around the house, in anticipation of setting the big girls up in the downstairs bedroom, and moving the master bedroom upstairs.  I pulled all the toys out of the bedrooms and stacked them in the hallway.  The kids’ clothes have been in disarray, shifting from one closet and set of drawers to another; trying to stay one step ahead of the move.  The piles of clean, folded laundry on the couch grew to become a fixture, because I saw no point in hauling them upstairs to a closet, only to haul them back downstairs to another closet when we completed the move.

My attempts to move the project along progressed to the point of actually moving furniture a good two weeks ago.  Our small house doesn’t accommodate much rouge furniture, so getting through the transition involved living for a time with a vanity and mirror blocking the kitchen hall, and a very large chest of drawers making its home smack dab in the middle of the living room.

I no sooner got the project to that point that my husband saw an open weekend and suggested we take a break from the moving things around to hold a garage sale – maybe it would ease the whole mess to eliminate some clutter and lighten our load.  I generally argue for Good Will donations, over garage sales, but once every ten years, I concede.  We did the work, held the sale, and remembered more clearly why we prefer to make Good Will donations.  We made a few bucks, probably broke even for our effort, and still have a backlog of stuff we need to unload.  Plus – there was still that chest of drawers in the living room.

Then we had pickups and drop offs for summer camp that occupied much of our free time for a week.  Then we needed to get the taillights on the camper to work, so we could have some hope of actually camping in the thing before winter.  Then the Olympics started.  Then the bills were due.  Then…then…then…

Now that I’ve thought more about it, I’m scared to count back and even know for sure how long we’ve been dancing around a chest of drawers in our living room.  All I know for sure is that yesterday, finally, it found a home.  Not just any home, but an insanely useful home, where it not only has quit blocking my view of the baby when I want to check on her from the kitchen, but where it now stores, with complete visual anonymity, copious amounts of family clutter.  Items that once graced every horizontal surface of our ground floor are making their way into designated drawers, offering me such a massive sense of peace and relief that I might even find it in me to put all those clothes away, and find a better home for the toys.

Yep, it was a real milestone.

Then that time will come when the Lord will give you fresh strength. He will send you Jesus, his chosen Messiah. Acts 3:20

Now I'm a WildCard.

My church does a prayer chain, where people can get word out to the entire church body to ask for immediate prayer, if something urgent happens.  They also publish a weekly prayer list in the bulletin.  It is a great comfort to know that your church family is lifting you up in prayer and I make a concerted effort to honor the prayer list and prayer chain in my own prayer life.  It also serves as a great reminder, as the prayer chain emails come into my inbox throughout the week, to pray ceaselessly.

My husband and I have always viewed “unspoken” prayer requests with at least a small amount of mirth.  I realize that second guessing someone’s prayer request is incredibly insensitive and probably doesn’t honor the things scriptures says about the need for and power of our petitions and praises to the Lord.  Nevertheless, it seems like there ought to be some way for a person to word their request that is at least somewhat more specific than “unspoken.”  Couldn’t they say “encouragement and support for a person in crisis?”  Couldn’t they say, “healing for a person’s pain?”  Something, anything, nonspecific and anonymous, that gives you more to go on than, basically, “just pray?”

Recently my husband received a prayer chain email on his blackberry, which I hadn’t gotten yet, because my email isn’t linked to my phone.  He alerted me that it was a prayer chain notice, and I asked what I should pray for and he said, “There’s two.  [Soandso] needs [suchandsuch], and WildCard.” I gave him a questioning look and he said, “You know, unspoken.”  It gave me a laugh, and I said a prayer, and we have since had an inside joke about “WildCard” prayer requests.  It doesn’t say what they want, so just pick something and pray about it for them.  Maybe they want the new shoes you’re praying they get, maybe they don’t; but at least you prayed.

So this week comes along.  I discovered some really tough truths about my life that I had previously failed to confront in their entirety.  I have some major challenges ahead of me, and it is going to affect my relationships – some in a potentially calamitous way.  I can’t talk about it; I can’t give more detail than that.  But I need, I covet, your prayers. 

So, I apologize to anyone who previously has made an “unspoken” prayer request, for my callous disregard for your need for privacy and the challenges you were facing.  Like that email, I make two requests: please pray for my friends and loved ones to have patience with me and honor the ways that they may notice our relationship changing, and WildCard.

 Always be joyful and never stop praying.  Whatever happens, keep thanking God because of Jesus Christ. This is what God wants you to do. 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18

I've got something yellow coming out of my ear.

First and foremost, let me say – does anyone need a little crooked neck summer squash?  Or a lot?  Short of that – does anyone have a rockin’ squash recipe that uses up seven…or fifteen…pounds of it?  It’s a horrible drought, yet, somehow, we have been harvesting four or five big ones a day.

We got our garden in late, relative to most other vegetable gardens around here.  Anxious to get a good crop going on the first try, we pretty much over-seeded everything.  Then I was so excited when all the little sprouts started coming up that I just did not have the heart to thin them.  They were such cute, little baby plants.  I couldn’t imagine having too many plants in a garden.  So I let them all grow; I was sure that the minute I pulled half, or even a third of them, the rest were going to change their mind, shrivel up, and die.

Well, nothing changed its mind.  We compounded our lack of thinning with gross overwatering when we forgot the sprinkler – watering the garden from dusk ‘til dawn not once, but twice.  Despite the distasteful accountability of having to pay the inflated water bill, I still feel guilty every time someone comments on how huge our plants are.  Our soil is truly fantastic, but our abuse of the municipal water supply certainly played a role.

Now we have a jungle that is producing a harvest with which we cannot keep up!  I need to find ways to incorporate squash in breakfast, lunch, dinner, and late night snacks.  And if I’m successful at using up the squash, who knows what I’m going to do with all the cucumbers.  Trust me, I’m not complaining.  I’m just trying to mitigate my guilt.  Farmers are crying for their lost harvest this year, grocery prices are about to skyrocket, there are children starving all around the world, and I’m here, hording squash.  That’s me.  The Squash-Horder.

 “For the next ten days, let us have only vegetables and water at mealtime. Daniel 1:12

My kids don't think I'm parenting them.

The girls have coined a new term this summer.  They like to point out my “Mom Mode.”  More specifically, they like to celebrate the instances where, according to them, I’ve forgotten to be a mom.  They generally take me completely by surprise with a sudden, “Ha!  We love it when you get out of Mom Mode!” or, “Uh, oh, now you’re back in Mom Mode,” as if we’ve been hanging out in the basement together watching R movies, chugging beers, and smoking dope.

Two times they cracked me up with a Mom Mode comment this week.  One time, a family outing to the park segued into an episode of “This is Your Life,” as the kids began quizzing my husband and me about our early romances.  They wanted to know about our first kisses, how many people we dated, whether we ever fell in love before we met each other.  This segued back into a little bit of water play at the drinking fountain before we headed out.  On the way back to the car, I got one of their happy comments about Mom Mode.  I had to chuckle to myself that the kids thought we had forgotten for even a moment that we were parents.  As if we weren’t measuring every word of every phrase, trying to answer their questions with honesty, but also knowing that this moment of curiosity was a key opportunity to impart our wisdom and values to them before they begin their own romantic pursuits.  We really pulled it off, if they mistook “Mom Mode Hyper-drive” for not being in Mom Mode.

Another comment came when I joined them in the pool.  With an hour or two of daily swimming, the kids’ swimming skills have been advancing quickly this summer, resulting in the Incredible Shrinking Swimming Pool effect.  When they were spending most of their time on the surface, playing with float toys or splashing, the pool seemed large to them.  Now they are tooling around under the water with goggles and snorkels, dive sticks, and underwater tricks.  They bump into each other more and more.  Every now and then, I find a time to get in with them and introduce some new pool games, or some new challenges to make the old games harder.  You know, my sneaky way of making the pool bigger again, getting them to challenge their swimming skills, and therefore avoiding aquatic bickering.  After an hour or so of crowding up the pool, I made my way to the ladder and they gave me a gratifying whine that they were disappointed I was going back into Mom Mode.

Of course, I’m enjoying this whole Mom Mode thing immensely.  It takes me by surprise every time.  The best part is knowing that parenting doesn’t have to mean never having fun together.  Their comments remind me of exactly the opposite: sometimes we do it best when they don’t even realize we’re doing it.  Hopefully, instead of disciplining them for fighting with each other, I will get to enjoy watching them play pool games together.  Hopefully, instead of hiring surveillance and grounding them for their entire teenage years, I will be able to hear about their developing relationships and help them navigate those muddy waters.  Maybe not, but at least I’ll know I tried – I’d definitely rather play with them now than yell at them later.

Let’s face it, I could never forget that I’m a mom – but it’s OK with me, if they forget it sometimes.

The LORD answered, “Could a mother forget a child who nurses at her breast? Could she fail to love an infant who came from her own body? Even if a mother could forget, I will never forget you. Isaiah 49:15

We're not wasting change, even when it feels like we are.

In our years of church life, my husband and I encountered a fairly steady stream of troubled kids.  Often they would come to church activities and programs with their wounds emotionally oozing all over us.  Whether it was sassiness, obstinacy, compete lack of social skills, or intense neediness and a relentless pursuit of our attention, it was easy to diagnose the deep, open hole in their soul, that no one in their life was filling.  After hearing a heartbreaking back story on one of these kids, my husband was discouraged, wondering what the point was in submitting ourselves to so much bad behavior; as if our meager kindness could somehow make a difference in lives that were so steeped in brokenness.

Trying to encourage him, and myself, I suggested the metaphor of a well.  Every kid has a well where they store up the love and care they’ve been given.  Some get their well filled at home, and they go out into the world whole and confident, needing only a little top-off now and then.  Others have an open, empty well, and we are trying to fill it up with one little penny at a time.  Every little thing you do for them, from a warm smile, to a pat on the shoulder, to a cupcake snack or a firm redirection, is a penny tossed into their well.  You pray you’re not the only one tossing in pennies, because it may never be enough.  But if enough of us are tossing pennies into these empty wells, we can hope and pray that it will eventually make a difference for a kid who never otherwise had a chance.

Once in a while, you actually get to hear a penny strike the bottom, like when a kid, half a dozen years later, quoted a lesson back to me about how I’d once challenged her to open her Bible to any page and she could find something encouraging about God’s love or power.  She said she’d tried it over and over again – and never failed to find a message of God’s love.  Those moments give you the encouragement to keep tossing pennies, don’t they?

If you’ve been tossing pennies into empty wells, I have another story of encouragement for you.  It involves my sister.  She is in Africa right now, about a day’s hike away from the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro.  Lots of people will be impressed when she comes home and tells us the adventurous story of her summit attempt, but that’s just another feat on a long list of her accomplishments.

My sister was once one of those kids with the empty well.  She was sassy and rebellious.  She dated older boys, dropped out of school, moved out of my parents’ house, and added a tattoo to her piercings.  Not to hate on tattoos, but she went and got the biggest one she could afford.  She wandered a while looking for her calling, first in one state, then another, until she ran out of steam and money in Colorado.  My sister was never a bad person, she never pillaged or stole, got in trouble with the law, or hurt others, but she was definitely the so-tough-on-the-outside, you’d never guess she’s soft-on-the-inside young person, that others find difficult to love and even harder to help.  She also had a huge educational deficit.  She was bragging one time about how she couldn’t wait to get to college, because high school was so lame.  When I mentioned that someone who was flunking high school should hardly expect that college was going to be a breeze, it was not our friendliest conversation.

Fast forward fifteen years: my sister has a Masters Degree in Education and Curriculum Development.  She is bilingual in English and Spanish.  She’s studied and taught in Mexico and Spain.  She was accepted to a highly competitive Denver Scholars program that only takes 1% of its applicants.  She has three years of teaching under her belt, all in bilingual classrooms of the Denver Public Schools systems, at schools with free lunch rates over 75%.  There is no scheme those kids can pull on her that she didn’t once use herself.  She’s done all this with a G.E.D. and a well-full of pennies, tossed in by teachers, friends, aunts, grandparents, mentors and others.  I am so grateful to the people who invested their loose change in my siblings and me.  We’d never have become who we are without you.

Here she is at the top of a peak in Colorado. 
She's been blogging her preparations at: http://ucdkiliclimb.wordpress.com/

My sister applied for the program to go to Africa, knowing it was an incredible opportunity and willing to work for it.  She thought she might be able to get a half-scholarship.  Imagine her excitement when they offered her a full scholarship to come participate.  After she summits the mountain, she’ll spend two more weeks in Africa, experiencing as much as the continent has to offer and gaining a thousand moments of inspiration that she will bring back to her classroom this fall.  She got a new job this coming year – same district, but teaching Spanish and Art.  Where she will go on tossing pennies down wells – and now and then hearing a gratifying clink when they hit the bottom.

I think she’s pretty incredible.

 Don’t get tired of helping others. You will be rewarded when the time is right, if you don’t give up. Galatians 6:9

I'm adopted.

My husband and I were already engaged before I met his favorite uncle, and that uncle’s fiancée.  They were planning a July wedding, about two months ahead of our own.  I don’t remember exactly what it was about them: the casual hospitality of their lake house, the fun afternoon of sun and water activities, or the absurd way I was included in the early morning wakeup call of “Good Morning, Vietnam!” blasting out of the stereo by my head at dawn.  Something about them, right from the start, included me, as if I had always been there; as if we were related by something more than marriage.

They put me up every week for years, when I was commuting to Kansas City for seminary.  They hugged me tight and expressed admiration for my courage when I was trying to be brave after a miscarriage.  They go out of their way to come by when they are in town, even when they are booked tight for holidays.  They keep an open home and open hearts, not just for my husband and me, but also for our girls.  From braving the heat to spend an afternoon at the petting zoo with me and the kids, to coming up with the wildest array of kid friendly meal options every time we come to town; they show by deed as much as word that we matter to them.

We visited my husband’s aunt and uncle on our way through town twice this week.  My daughters pitched a fit when we wanted to take them out for breakfast, because they love so much sitting around their table, eating strawberries, and chatting through the morning.  I can see why – it is a lot of fun to visit with people so well-read and thoughtful; always giving us something new to think about before we hit the road to head home.

It is such a privilege to share our marriage year with a couple who live out such a true expression of mutual submission and boundless love.  I grieve that they didn’t know each other soon enough in life, because their kids would be amazing people, but I’m grateful to God for giving them such a bounty of love to share with the rest of us!  We are, indeed, related by something much more than just marriage.

Jesus and the people he makes holy all belong to the same family. That is why he isn’t ashamed to call them his brothers and sisters. Hebrews 2:11

Destination: Arkansas

Well-traveled as I might consider myself, I know next to nothing about Arkansas.  I’ve never seen a PBS travel show about it.  I’ve never thought, “Oh, man!  Add it to the list!  I gotta’ get to Arkansas!”  Razorbacks and Hope: that’s the extent of my Arkansas trivia.  I’m not hating on Arkansas; it has just never made it onto my radar.  At all.

So it has been with some mirth that we’ve responded to inquiries about our holiday plans this week with a chipper, “We’re going to Arkansas!”  And with even more mirth we began to pile up the incoming brochures and travel guides.  They were ordered for us by my brother, who came up with the perfect home base for our Arkansas adventure: Devil’s Den.

There is actually more to recommend Devil’s Den that you might imagine, or more than I ever imagined, anyway, especially given the name.  There’s the Ozarks, with plentiful hiking, and river activities, and even the intriguing possibility of a zip-line adventure.  There’s also a nearby Civil War battlefield to visit, and somewhere in the vicinity are some presidential relics from the Clintons.

Of course, the biggest reason to visit Arkansas this week, is Texas.  It’s a 14 hour drive from my house to my brother’s - not an impossible distance, but certainly a challenging one for our two larger families.  It has been two years since I last saw my nephews and my niece is almost a year old without my having met her.  So we agreed to meet up half way, and Arkansas was the ticket.  If the only thing I get out of visiting Devil’s Den is a three-day-long game of Skip-bo with our combined 7 offspring, I will come home with glorious memories of Magnificent Arkansas.

And that could make me become a regular.

“Say of your brothers, ‘My people,’ and of your sisters, ‘My loved one.’ Hosea 2:1

Why demolish something so sacred?

My husband jokes that if I ever become famous, they’ll have to put up more historic placards than they used for Ronald Reagan.  It seems like nearly every state has claimed a childhood home of the Gipper.  If it was me, they’d start with the hospital in Effingham, they’d mark the trailer court in Perrysburg.  There’d be East Carlisle Elementary, near Cleveland, where I attended Kindergarten in the basement.  Riverside would have to acknowledge the little ranch house on Priscilla Street, and the 1840’s brick house on Tyler Rd would become quite a landmark, because I wrote my name in the brick and the closets alike during my tenure there.  And that would be before my homeless college years, when I changed domicile from semester to semester and break to break.

The place where I spent the most time as I was growing up, however, would apparently be left off.  An old friend posted a photo this week of the demolition going on by the shores of Belleville Lake.  My high school is being scrapped, replaced by a fresh new building that, from the school district’s on-line slide show, looks very much like every other new high school being built right now, with beautiful glass atriums and state of the art everything.  It made me feel a little old, to see my high school being torn down.  I suddenly realized that it has been twenty years since I joined the choir, swam for the team, and bored the audience to laughter as the office messenger in Up the Down Staircase.  The building was outdated and lacking in many ways, even then, so surely those additional decades haven’t been kind.

For a moment, it felt like maybe I was losing something important to me.  That my next trip to the ‘Ville was going to be somehow lacking in some important connection or memory.  Like most people, I have this habit of believing that my emotions and memories dwell in the buildings where they happened.  But I haven’t been back in the BHS building since the last day I attended there.  In the last fifteen years, I’ve only even driven by once.  The relationships, lessons, life experiences, and memories that happened in that building are alive and well, living in me.  They are part of what made me who I am, and whenever I want to relive them, I have photo albums, yearbooks, and friends with whom to reminisce.  It makes no difference whether that building still stands or not.  But for a moment, looking at the photo, it mattered a lot.

We get the same misconception about faith.  We come to believe that God dwells in brick and mortar.  Oftentimes, we believe, God loves best to dwell where the seats are uncomfortable benches and the window views are obstructed by stained glass.  But it opens up a whole new kind of faith to tear down the church – at least figuratively – and let the relationship, lessons, and experiences live in you, and be lived out in you.  God doesn’t live in a building – God lives in people of faith.

My little heartache at seeing my high school torn down, reminded me again about letting go of the transient things of earth and letting the eternal dwell in me.

“But will God really dwell on earth with humans? The heavens, even the highest heavens, cannot contain you. How much less this temple I have built! 2 Chronicles 6:18

I was made for this.

I’m only a month into this “stay at home Mom” gig, but it’s by far the best job I’ve ever had.  The to-do list I was hoping to conquer by being at home is still about three years long, and growing instead of shrinking, but we came in from swimming in the EZ-set backyard pool the other day, to sit around the dining room table and eat bologna sandwiches.  Between slapping cheese and mustard on our wheat bread, we contemplated what we would do during “quiet time,” the two-hour interlude when the baby takes her nap, and read the day’s message from our paper chain (we made a chain of all the days until school starts, and wrote little messages to ourselves on each link).  My oldest suddenly breaks a grin and says, “You know what?  We would be hanging out alone in the youth room trying to keep the baby happy right now.  I’m so glad we’re here doing this instead!”

I’m sure we would still be grateful, even if I’d been home with the kids straight away from Stork’s first delivery, but having spent so many years juggling work and kids, I think we all are feeling the blessings in a much more profound way.  Life is suddenly measured in all these little moments of weed pulling and bologna sandwiches.  I’ve been able to spend hours at the library choosing books with the kids, then actually sitting down and reading with them.  This week, I was able to take them overnight to visit an aunt and uncle, and see a cousin’s first dance recital.  We’ve painted our nails, planted beans, written letters, and made crafts.  I’ve been able to go days in a row without driving thru anywhere to pick up a lunch or dinner on the run.  And that, that is probably the sweetest blessing – we haven’t had to feel like we were living “on the run.”  Instead of trying to get from one thing to the next, and fulfill our obligations quickly enough to leave a little time at the end for each other, we’ve been able to put it in “park,” and make being with each other our only obligation.  We’re contemplating cancelling swim lessons next week, just to savor more of these precious days, just being together.

Not everyone gets the privilege of staying home with their kids, and I realize not everyone would even desire it, but for me, in this moment, it is absolutely the sweetest blessing in my life.  Now forgive me if today’s confession is a little brief and not especially funny – I’ve got a job to do, after all.  The kids have been watching a movie and it’s high time I turned it off and took them outside.
I could do this job forever, but am all too aware of how brief these days will be.

Don't you see that children are God's best gift?
      the fruit of the womb his generous legacy?
   Like a warrior's fistful of arrows
      are the children of a vigorous youth.
   Oh, how blessed are you parents,
      with your quivers full of children!
   Your enemies don't stand a chance against you;
      you'll sweep them right off your doorstep. Psalm 127:3-5

I've been slain by an aluminum bullet.

Just imagine tooling down the highway, the whole family is singing On the Road Again in chorus together, and tagging along behind is that shiny aluminum bullet of Americana – an Airstream camper.  It is something we’ve dreamed of since the success of our first tent camping trip.  It was wildly successful, despite long nights of thunderstorms, foul pit toilets, and inescapable mosquito clouds that threatened to carry our babies away.   If we can have that much fun on the meager sleep and damp accommodations a vinyl tent can provide, imagine the possibilities with the relative comfort and ease afforded by a classic, beautiful camper, with its on-board facilities, functional kitchenette, and enormous shade awning.  Take a moment and dream with me…

Of all things, an Airstream turned up last week, parked along the highway with a “For Sale” sign.  After driving by for a week and averting our eyes, my husband and I both came clean the same day that we’d had our eye on that most beautiful incarnation of outdoor accommodations.  We pulled up next to it and found out that it was actually being offered at the kind of humble price we could consider.  We took my dad by, a guy with plenty of experience buying campers, and he didn’t find anything to stop us, not from the outside anyway.  We made another visit to our Landyacht when someone was actually there to let us in, and it was exactly what we expected inside – outdated, but clean and usable.  No odors, no water damage, all the windows opened and closed, the owner says all the systems operate: an incredibly functional camper for an incredibly accessible price.

This is a little bigger, but similar.

So we’ve spent the last two days mulling it over.  The first, biggest, and most absurd con: we don’t have a truck.  The camper would have to sit on our property as a children’s playhouse until our Caravan dies and warrants a new vehicle purchase (this could happen soon, but how soon is an unknown).  The other cons are less absurd, but important non-the-less.  In the last eighteen months, we have had a baby, bought a hobby farm, sold a house, traded a convertible in on a minivan, and bought a tractor – oh, and I’ve quit my job.  In the next six, we still hope to build a chicken coup, get chickens, build a lean-to, and add at least one grass-eating livestock to our family – oh, and finally get the basement boxes unpacked.  In addition to all that, we’re seriously, seriously considering a kitchen remodel.  Every time I can’t open the door of the fridge far enough, because it’s crowded up against a wall, or I have to run the dishwasher twice in one day, because the “Spacesaver” under-sink model has only half an upper rack, I’m reminded of the need to put all our spare pennies in the kitchen fund.

If we don’t buy the camper, I know, with some certainty, that the day will come when we will look at each other and say, “Man, if only we’d bought that camper.”  If we buy the camper, I know, with some certainty, that my kitchen is going to stay in its current state for another year.  Of course, that may happen anyway – we have a chicken coop to build after all.  But knowing that only makes it harder to pass on my Airstream dreams.  Self denial stinks.  Really really.

a time to search and a time to give up  Ecclesiastes 3:6

I was finally star struck.

Flying with a school group from Detroit to D.C. for the 1993 Inaugural Festival, we were waiting to board when my dad realized something amazing was happening.  He says, “Emily, do you see who is next to us?” 

I looked over his shoulder and replied, “An old, black man is talking to our choir director.” 

He says, “Look again.” 

I looked again and corrected myself, “An old, blind, black man is visiting with our choir director.” 

After being redirected one more time, it finally hit home that Ray Charles was sitting next to my dad, waiting for the same flight.  As everyone around us went a little nuts and started interrupting Mr. Charles to get pictures, I thought, “Eh, leave the man alone, he just wants to catch his flight.”  I noticed that he had a Braille book in front of him, and even as he looked up and smiled for pictures, he continued reading.  I just refused to give in to the temptation to disrupt his peace and soak up his celebrity.

I had a similar reaction when my roommate, an active college Democrat, was short on volunteers for a presidential visit and begged me to drive for the motorcade.  I turned her down because I had too much homework, and she convinced me that you spend most of the day waiting in the car; I could get a lot done.  I ended up having quite a madcap adventure that day, including getting firm with police and secret service who weren’t convinced that the dirty, blue Olds they had assigned me, really belonged in the motorcade.  It all ended with a brief moment of being face-to-face with Bill Clinton, while we waited for the photographer to set the flash.  I was, again, so nonchalant about meeting the president that I’m not sure I really grasped the moment, even as I grasped the hand of the leader of the free world.  I passed my souvenir photo on to my mom on my next visit and haven’t seen it since.  Last night I lived to regret it.

Despite a very busy week, we decided to take all three kids to see President Obama out at the Iowa State Fairgrounds.  We knew from past political rallies that POTUS is never on time, so we ignored the advice of the organizers who suggested getting there at 3:30pm, and instead didn’t head out until 6, stopping on the way to drive through A&W and eating our spoils in the parking lot before going in.  We cruised right through security with the small band of latecomers and realized as we were ushered into an amphitheater with only a hundred or so other people that we had blown it – we were in the overflow and would only get to hear a piped-in version of the presidents’ speech.  One of the volunteers explained that, if we were very lucky, the president would stop by after his speech and say a word or two before heading out; we should get comfortable for the potential wait.

Imagine our surprise when maybe 3 minutes later, before the official appearance next door, the crowd went nuts and the president walked out on stage right in front of us.  The crowd was so small that we were only a few feet away as he made a few remarks about the brilliance and work ethic of Iowa’s citizens, then he came down off the stage and worked the line, passing just an arm’s length in front of us!  Throughout the evening, our oldest daughter had exactly the nonchalance I used to.  She didn’t see why we needed to walk so far, to stand around in the heat, to give up our evening, just to see some guy in a suit.  Why all the fuss?  He’s just a person like the rest of us.

But after she saw the excitement, heard the nice things the president said about the people of her state, actually looked the nation’s leader in the eyes, her attitude shifted.  Walking back to the car, she expressed her gratitude that we had dragged her out there, and we all marveled at our good luck.  We didn’t have to crowd in with 15,000 other people and look down with binoculars to see a pin prick image of Obama; we were just about close enough to touch him.  On the way out, my husband and I started to say, “That’s probably the closest you will ever get in your life to the President of the United States!”

And my middle girl chirped, “Unless we are her!”

 Among the crowds there was widespread whispering about him. Some said, “He is a good man.” Others replied, “No, he deceives the people.” John 7:12

We're going boy crazy.

Picking the kids up from school recently, an exceedingly young couple was walking home together, holding hands.  They paused to hug at the corner before parting ways.  I wanted to vomit, because they seemed way too little to be “in a relationship,” but instead used their public display as the entry point into a conversation with my daughters about whether their lives or friendships are being affected by romance, yet.  In doing so, I opened the floodgates.

It has set in.  My daughters have gone a little boy crazy.  They were just waiting for me to ask.  I’m thankful they tell me so openly about their lives, but I found myself growing bored quickly when they started outlining the list of boys they like, which other girls like the same boys, which girls the boys like, and all of the various dramas that ensue.  I tried to keep a stiff upper lip, to act very casual about their interest in romance so they would hopefully keep these communication channels open, but on the inside, I was just so SO sad.  I pray their search for Mr. Right doesn’t crowd out the wonderful breadth of interests, friendships, and activities that have, up to now, brought them joy and contentment.

Their sudden excitement about boys got me to thinking about the posting and conversation trends of people I know who are single, as well as my own experiences from back when I was single myself.  Those memories were buried some sixteen years deep, but I pulled some out and dusted them off to try and relate.  I had forgotten how consuming it is, waiting for your other half to come into your life.  Every new room you walk into, “he” might be there; I remember now the daily anxiety and anticipation that goes along with knowing you weren’t meant to be alone, but not knowing yet who it is that will fill that void.

I’m sure I sometimes lost control of my senses and went a little boy crazy in those days – letting my hope for love cloud my enjoyment, possibly even my pursuit, of other interests.  I rejoice to realize all the spare time and mental freedom I have to play and learn and cook and sing, because my time and attention isn’t consumed with the quest for the One.  I can go about my business, dressed however I want, focus on what I’m after, and not care who is or isn’t noticing me.  It is very liberating, but I’ve taken that for granted since I realized my husband was "him."

As we head into the turbulent season of adolescence, I wonder how I can help my daughters appreciate that while God designed us for partnership, their lives are now; they don’t start some day off in the future when they partner up – they are beautifully complete works of art, all on their own.  I hope they will let romance happen upon them while they are doing all the other exciting and meaningful things that fill their lives with contentment and satisfaction, rather than surrendering all those wonderful things and letting their pursuit of romance become the central focus of their lives.

It sounds so basic, but I know it will not be easy.  I pray a lot.  For their self-worth, for their discernment, for the boys they’re going to fall for along the way, for the dreams I hope they pursue, and ultimately for the marriages I hope they’ll have.

Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: Ecclesiastes 4:9

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 have a special super power.

Some people might label it “poor communcation.”  Others won’t acknowledge that it happens.  A few others might even call it sexism.  Since my husband and I see the world through the lens of super heroes and Jedi, I prefer to think of it as a super power.  We recently realized that I have the amazing ability to throw my voice, so that only one of the two other people in the conversation actually hears what I said.  It could be that I didn’t talk loud enough, or didn’t wait for a break in the conversation.  I would have chosen that explanation, as well, initially, but it didn’t happen only once – and the other people around seem to hear me just fine.  I’ve been using this special power most of my life, but I’ve stepped it up lately, it seems.

First it was the wonderful, elderly man who sold us the farm.  Several times, he was explaining some piece of machinery, or one of the mechanical systems on the house to us, and I would follow up with a question.  He’d hesitate briefly to look at me, then continue on with his explanation as if I hadn’t said anything.  My husband and I brushed it off, telling each other that at 90-plus, the apparent lack of regard for my question might have actually been due to hearing impairment.  Usually my husband would find a way to work my questions into his dialog with the gentleman, so at least we still were able to gather the information.  Because he was so gracious, kind, and helpful to us, I felt bad for using my super power on him, but I figured a person of his generation probably didn’t expect a person of my gender to be asking questions about mechanicals anyway, so he probably wasn’t that upset that I had made my voice inaudible to him; probably no need for me to apologize.

Once the old 9N tractor failed on us, I started using my super power indiscriminately.  The salesperson at the Kubota dealership was showing us a sub-compact with a 3-point hitch.  Although it had the 3-point, the machine looked too small to handle the pasture we need it for, so when he took a breath in his sales pitch, I asked whether that machine was powerful enough to run our 60” brush hog.  He looked at me just like the old man had and kept on talking, just like the old man had; but he was not an old man, he was our age!  I waited patiently through another few minutes of sales before finding another break to repeat my question.  This time, I spoke louder and slower, but got the exact same results.  It was so obvious that my husband glanced over at me uneasily, and we both laughed a little.  He didn’t pick up on our frustration and went on talking to my husband.  Finally, my husband interrupted him to say, “Hey, did you have a question?”  Apparently his intervention was Kryptonite to my super power, because the salesman finally heard me, and replied that, no, we would need to purchase a smaller brush hog.  Was he avoiding the no sale or did he actually not hear my question?  Was it because I was female, or because I was invoking my amazing Jedi mind tricks?  It’s not like I was asking what color it comes in, or whether it has a make-up mirror.

The new tractor delivery.

The same thing happened at the Case dealership, when I wanted to know how moving up a model size affected the price of the machine.  Then it happened again in our driveway when I suggested we move the trailer to the disabled tractor, instead of freewheeling the disabled tractor (that has no breaks!) down a hill to get it to the trailer.  When the tractor guy told us his seemingly life-threatening plan, I outlined my own suggestion for getting the tractor on the trailer.  He gave me the old man look, and then he repeated my plan back to us, as if he was suggesting it for the first time.

It may not be a complete coincidence that we made our purchase, not from a salesperson at all, but from a mechanic who came out of the garage and never once fell victim to my super power.  He patiently answered both of our questions; he showed us all the levers; he never took my husband aside to tell him to keep me away from the farm machinery.

I’m blessed by a husband who does hear my voice and show regard for my thoughts, ideas, input, and questions.  Being valued by the most important person in my life gives me the patience to stay gracious and laugh it off when my amazing Jedi abilities complicated communication elsewhere.  He even lets me drive the tractor.

They have ears, but cannot hear Psalm 115:6

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

P.S. Farming can be women's work, it seems.

Looking up info on our disabled 9N, I found this bit of nostalgia at http://www.tractorshed.com/cgi-bin/gallery/gallery_pic.cgi?pic=http;//www.tractorshed.com/gallery/vphotos/v9546.jpg&firstrec=9&Parameter=9n&w=vphotos&cc=0  Ad from March 1945 'Country Gentleman.'

Ad goes on to say: 'As effortless and simple to operate as her household applicances. Not only does the modern farm woman find the Ford-Ferguson Tractor, with its automotive type controls, as easy to drive as the family car, she also changes implements with no more effort or complication than shifting the attachments on her vacuum cleaner.' 'Raising orlowering the plow or cultivator with the Ferguson Finger Tip Control is as easy for her as throwing the lever to start the wringer on her electric washing machine.' The FergusonSystem's mechanical 'brain' controls furrow depth in much the same way that an oven temperature control 'watches' her pies while she plows.'

I'm reluctantly sentimental about a tractor.

It was my biggest concern when we considered moving to the hobby farm: the pasture.  In addition to the 2-3 acres of lawn mowing, owning this place was going to mean cutting down another 3 acres or so of pasture as many as half a dozen times every summer.  The seller had been using an antique tractor with a 60” Brush Hog to get the job done.  My husband reasoned, whenever I questioned him, that if a 90 year old could keep it up, all by himself, certainly we could together.

We got the tractor worked into the deal, and it sat under a beautiful, giant oak tree, snuggled under a tarp, all winter.  The image on the fender of a heroic eagle with a flaming pitchfork evoked the era of its manufacture, and reminded us that, with its revolutionary 3-point hitch, this machine had once been the essential workhorse of any Midwestern farm.  The seller had given us a briefing back in October and we had each taken a practice lap around the field.  Yet looking out at that tractor all winter, I couldn’t help but feel anxiety about the pasture.  Would my husband enjoy driving the old beast?  Would he want to come home from a 40-50 hour workweek and spend his free time dragging a Brush Hog around the property in the blazing sun?  Would the noise, the dirt, the grease, and the smells bring him the joy of rural life or the burden of it?  I already knew from my own childhood that mowing an acreage was not my favorite summer pastime, but I hoped he might like it.

On the flip side, even as I considered the possibility we might want to trade our working museum piece in for a modern, wide-bladed mower, I couldn’t help hoping that old tool would become the centerpiece of a new way of life for us.  It might pull a wagon around for hayrides.  It might run a tiller for the enormous garden.  It might drag tree trunks to the woodpile.  I imagined all the possibilities its heroic eagle evoked, and knew this machine was so much more versatile than any modern mower would be.  Who knows, maybe even I might find myself enjoying the work, when it was on my own property?

Getting her ready
for the maiden voyage.

Last week the grass was tall enough; it was time to move from anxious hope to reality.  Sure enough, the old engine started easily, and after airing up the tires and checking the oil, we fired up the brush hog.  My husband quickly found himself at ease at the controls, and mowed down the first section of pasture in short order.  With a big grin on his face, he crossed the creek and began to mow the front section, finding himself completely confident going up and down the hills and around the trees.  Our vision was actually coming true!  I was elated, and I am pretty sure he was, too.  Our stress melted away and jubilation replaced it.

Who smiles when they're mowing?  That's my husband.  Living the dream.

He waved as I passed him on my way out to pick up a kid and our grins matched.  It was, however, a different story, ten short minutes later, when I got back.  The tractor was backed into a brush pile at the edge of the creek, and my husband was leaning over to one side and the other, fidgeting with the controls.  He eventually came in to report that something in the drive had snapped, and the tractor had freewheeled, backward, down the hill.  Because the breaks only nominally work, it was only my husband’s lightning reflexes that had allowed him to steer the thing into a cushion of brush, instead of coming to a hard, possibly limb-threatening, stop by hitting a tree or landing in the creek.

Now, aside from praising the Lord for my husband’s safe landing, we’re back to square one.  While a clutch assembly is a mere $150, installing it requires splitting the whole machine in half then putting it back together.  My dad did that once to his old Case when I was a kid – he winched the front end up to a tree to do it.  We’re not so mechanically adventurous as my dad.  Plus, the thing is disabled, on the far side of the pasture, on the wrong side of the creek.  We may have to rent another tractor, just to drag it out of there!

Check out that emblem on the fender.  Awesome.

All logic tells me that investing in a newer model mower with the widest cutting deck we can afford is our best option, but the sweetness of nostalgia for the old ways, for the possibilities, and the ambition wrought by the image of a pitchfork wielding eagle make it hard to give up on our old 9N.

Remember the days of old; consider the generations long past. Ask your father and he will tell you.  Deuteronomy 32:7