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

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

$2 is too rich for my blood.

Apparently I’m not the only one who thinks PowerBall blew it by doubling their ticket price.  They made the move because they wanted higher jackpots to set them apart from the other lottery games, but they drove their customers to Mega-Millions, and now it’s Mega-Millions that is all over the media with a half billion dollar jackpot.  Why would you pay $2 to lose at a game that you can lose at for $1?  Whether it costs $1 or $2, I am ambivalent to the lottery.

On the one hand, it is definitely a poor tax in my mind.  People who can least afford to play are the ones who spend the most.  Legislators spend all kinds of time debating our tax code, trying to determine how to fairly distribute the load, and many people argue tirelessly that the burden needs to be lifted off of struggling families, but those same families go out and spend an average of $500 a year on lottery tickets (according to this morning’s news), leading our government to pay for schools and roads by institutionalizing gambling, instead of taxing wealth.

On the other hand, who doesn’t want in?  I’m not spending my dollar because I think I’ll win.  I’m spending it, because if they’re giving away millions of dollars, I at least want my name in the pot.  I’m like my daughter, who puts $1 into the Crane Machine at the arcade every time we go.  We know that we are wasting our money.  We know that we have better chances of contracting Mad Cow Disease from a panda, than actually winning.  But if someone’s going to walk away with a stuffed Scooby Doo the size of a yak, for $1, we want our shot.

If everyone approached the lottery with that mentality, I probably wouldn’t loath it the way I do.  Yes, I buy a ticket now and then.  I will even buy a ticket when the pot is only $20 million.  Maybe I couldn’t pay off my house, send my kids to college, visit the Great Barrier Reef, and help plant a church with that, but…wait…yes, I could do all that with even the smallest jackpot.  So I throw my name in the hat for the price of a pack of gum.  But despite playing, I still loath the way it tempts us.  I hate that people buy lottery tickets instead of milk for their kids.  I despise that it reinforces the American cultural aspiration that we are all going to somehow get rich quick; an aspiration that fuels our drive to climb on each others’ heads to get what we want.  An aspiration that more often than not makes people poor, instead of rich.

Let’s face it.  The house always wins.

you abuse the poor and demand heavy taxes from them. Amos 5:11

The end of a season.

My husband picked up the soundtrack to Message in a Bottle back when we were first married.  The movie was nothing really special, but that CD played in the background through many of our early adventures and travels.  When our new, used minivan brought the luxury and convenience of a 6-CD changer into our lives, he dusted off the old soundtrack and plugged it into the rotation.

The last bleary-eyed new
parents picture.

Listening to these songs again invoked a wave of sentiment I didn’t expect.  Of all the milestones we’ve crossed so far, the one we’re crossing now seems to be the most bittersweet.  Our littlest girl turns one tomorrow and there are no more babies on the horizon for us.  We are beautifully complete as a family.  I am thrilled to be watching my children grow up, arm in arm with my dearest and most beloved best friend (who also looks pretty hot with a little facial hair).  I am excited for this next season of our lives, as our children become independent and our dreams have shifted and formed into our reality.  But I also feel the season of “young married life” slipping away: the falling in love, and getting married season; the getting to know your in-laws, and deciding who sleeps closest to the door season; the who is going to change that stinky diaper season; the what will our children be like season.

Every season of my life has had its high points, I have always found joy in the days as they go by, but this last decade-plus has been a treasure like none before.  I loved every minute, beautiful and ugly.  While childhood, high school, and even college came to an end for me with some relief, our early married life comes to an end with nostalgia and a little bit of longing.  There are many treasured moments still ahead for us, but for the first time in my life, I feel that something is passing away that I will miss and never get back.

Such a grown up girl already!



But, thanks in part to Hootie and the Cranberries, a large collection of photographs, and the best souvenirs ever – three darling little girls and the aforementioned husband – I’ll bid this season farewell knowing that the love and joy it brought can still be savored and recalled – like a sweet love letter, bottled up and waiting to be reread.

Happy birthday to my baby girl.

Everything on earth has its own time and its own season. Ecclesiastes 3:1

We're tablet addicts.

It was too late to head out.  My husband had a horrible day at work and was just too exhausted to load up the car and drive the first few hours of our Spring Break road trip.  Rather than push it, and potentially get the trip off to a horrible start, we decided to get a quick dinner and get everyone to bed early.  Then we could take off first thing, well rested, as the sun came up.  Or, as I like to call it – because it amuses and motivates the kids – the Butt-Crack of Dawn.

My husband’s day really didn’t improve when the IHOP waitress dumped an entire large soda on the baby and me, then cried while she served us the rest of our meal.  At least it wasn’t coffee, but it seemed ironic that we actually hadn’t ordered a pop.

By the time the kids were all in bed, we were exhausted, but still a little wound up from the day’s aggravations, so we got our tablets out to unwind for a few minutes before trying to go to sleep.  Suddenly my husband says, with alarm, “Do you know how late it is?”  No, I didn’t know.  I was just using up the last of my 150 moves on Tripletown and assumed it was getting close to 9:30.   “It’s 11 o’clock!  We better get to bed!”  Our oldest daughter had already set her alarm for twenty minutes before Dawn’s Butt would be Cracking, so there was no revising our departure.

The question we had to ponder was, where did two hours go?  What makes the whole thing even more pathetic is that we don’t even have wifi at our house – we were playing with the off-line features available on our tablets!  Lord help us when we stop at a McDonald’s with free wifi.  We may never actually arrive at our destination on this road trip.

If we had not wasted all this time, we could already have been there and back twice." Genesis 43:10

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

My soul is singing.

We dread early morning band.  As a family – we disdain it.  It’s not the “band” part.  It’s the “early morning” part.  No one wants to get up a half hour early to deposit the kids on the school roundabout, half asleep and a little hungry, because they inevitably have to settle for a fiber bar and a piece of fruit for breakfast on early morning band days.  My husband especially hates it, because he usually has to make the run while I’m wrapped up with the baby.  While I think it’s well worth the trouble for our children to have the chance to learn an instrument while they are still young – it is much harder to put in the practice time, once there are the competing demands for your time that come with maturity and responsibility – I haven’t minded letting him bear the brunt of the crabby kids and pre-coffee driving.

It was one of the rare mornings where I was not otherwise occupied, so I thought I’d better step up to relieve my husband from his least cherished duty this morning.  We got another minor snowfall last night, so I wasn’t sure how the driveway or roads would be, but we got our coats on and left the house at sunrise; to my delight, right at the pinnacle of this snowfall’s immaculate beauty. 

The snow wasn’t enough to sled or build a snowman, but it was the kind of icy snow that coats the world with crusty white sparkles that catch the light and turn a tree or a road sign into a work of winter art.  The sky was a rich winter blue, and the light of sunrise on the horizon was warm and golden, silhouetting the snow-decked branches of the trees, and casting halos of sparkling iridescence around them.  Despite the cautious driving, and the lack of caffeine to fuel my cautious driving, I felt the warmth and joy of praise spreading through my body.  As I inhabited the moment, I did not sing aloud, but it honestly felt like my soul was singing.

I could try to pen new words for that old feeling, but we already have the beloved words of every church hymnal:

When through the woods and forest glades I wander

And hear the birds sing sweetly in the trees;
When I look down from lofty mountain grandeur
And hear the brook and feel the gentle breeze:

Then sings my soul, my Saviour God, to Thee:
How great Thou art, how great Thou art!

A hymn so loved, because so many have shared in the same experience.  This amazing universe, this fantastic world, leads humanity to ponder the possibility of a Creator.  Many argue that God must certainly exist, for such complexity and beauty can’t have simply evolved on its own.  I argue that God must certainly exist, because when I stand in awe of the world around me, it moves my soul to sing.  I believe it must be the image of God in me that the sunrise stirred so powerfully.  In those moments, God is not just real, but present.

I pray you also are blessed to know such a stunning moment of clarity today.

I often think of the heavens your hands have made, and of the moon and stars you put in place. Then I ask, "Why do you care about us humans? Why are you concerned for us weaklings?" Psalm 8:3-4

I need to quit interrupting.

Communication is usually one of my strong suits.  It’s never going to earn me a medal, but I’m the goddess of the drive-thru.  Back when I was taking orders, happy customers repeatedly commented on how remarkably clear and pleasant our loudspeaker interaction had been.  Even today, my husband jokes that it would be better if he could back up to the speaker so I could place our orders from the passenger side, because it would up our odds of getting the food we actually want, and lower his stress levels.

Despite my ability to interact effectively and pleasantly, even without the assistance of visual clues, I’ve been troubled lately by my tendency to interrupt others.  A topic piques my enthusiasm, someone says something intriguing or funny, and, next thing I know, I find myself verbally jumping into conversation gaps that aren’t gaps.  This has probably been going on my whole life, but there are a couple circumstances recently that have made me realize I need to install a governor on my discourse.

First, I’ve had laryngitis.  For the last week or so, speaking has been a labored effort.  It takes so much extra breath to say something with enough clarity and volume to be heard, that when anyone, especially my kids, is inattentive, interrupts, or ignores me, I feel the burden of the added work it takes to repeat myself.  I find myself surrendering my point, rather than repeating something that seems too inconsequential to muster the effort.  It’s made me realize how important it is to be a good listener, to slow down and put more effort into hearing what others have to say.

The challenge of laryngitis has also heightened my sensitivity to a friend of ours for whom speaking is an act of deliberate effort.  I have caught myself interrupting him more than once in the last couple weeks, and it humbles me.  I should already be humble that someone values our friendship enough to work for it like that; I definitely shouldn’t be making him repeat himself by talking over him.

If I’m foolish enough to interrupt in those circumstances, it a guarantee that I’ve been interrupting everyone else, too.  So, if you’re one of my victims, I apologize.  I’m going to work on it.  Maybe flick me on the forehead, if I interrupt you.  That should shut me up.

Anyone who answers without listening is foolish and confused. Proverbs 18:13

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

I am helpless against roses.

My husband was the first man to ever bring me roses.  After our first date, I came home to my apartment one afternoon and found a dozen roses, left on my doorstep, with a note from “guess who.”  In the years since, he has often made similar gestures, usually not on Valentine’s Day, or my birthday.  Very rarely even on our anniversary.  Generally, it’s just some random evening that he decides to show up with a romantic gift.  Those moments are wonderful in their unexpectedness, remind me that he still considers me worth wooing, and humble me for being such a cold-hearted, “don’t waste your money on romantic gifts,” kind of girl.  Let’s face it, no matter how down to earth and practical I try to be, there’s still a little girl inside me, who loves playing dress up, things that sparkle, and, emphasis on occasional, romantic gestures from the man I love.

My daughters don’t have any of that practicality yet, but also don’t attach any romantic notions to flowers and jewelry.  Whether you are mother, father, aunt, sister, or random acquaintance, they will joyfully accept any flowers, trinkets, or jewelry you’d like to offer, without making any awkward relationship assumptions.  While, anymore, they seem to enjoy dance for its own merits, it rose to a place of prominence in their priorities when my oldest was showered with bouquets after her first recital.  I think my middle daughter danced her first year, purely in anticipation of cellophane wrapped roses and baby’s breath.

It was my oldest’s dance acquisitions, not my husband’s romantic overtures, that overwhelmed me this week.  After dancing her first principal role, she was blessed with an abundance of beautiful flowers from us, and from family and friends.  Then she got another big bouquet during curtain calls.  I filled a two gallon pitcher and dutifully arranged them all for her, placing them in the dining room for her to enjoy.  I immediately started a sneeze and runny-nose fest, but I didn’t think it was that big of a deal to live with flowers for a week or so until they died.

After a day and a half of cohabitation with their loveliness and aroma, however, my husband came home from work and blurted, “Whoa!  What’s wrong with your eye!?”  I hadn’t looked in the mirror all day, so I was shocked to see that my eyes were severely blood shot and there was a yellow blister growing out of my eye ball.  I scoured the internet to find out that I had a cyst on my eye ball, and that allergies can cause it.  So much for any future romantic gestures; so much for enjoying the girls’ recital gifts; so much for that lovely Japanese orchid I’ve been hinting about for the last six months (I stuck my face in one yesterday to see if it would make me sneeze; no sneeze, but the reward for my stupidity was a thirteen hour sinus headache and a scratchy throat).

Recital flowers are now quarantined to an upstairs bedroom, and I guess my husband’s going to have to woo with diamonds from now on.

 Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come, the cooing of doves is heard in our land. Song of Solomon 2:12

I'm itching for a road trip.

Between the baby, the move, and financially preparing for me to quit my job, family vacationing has been off the table for the last couple years.  Granted, and my husband would be quick to point it out, we did travel with the kids each of the last two summers, to Arizona and to Wyoming, but both times it was on short notice for a memorial service.  We tried to make the most of the time off and family togetherness, but, in my mind, it really doesn’t qualify as a true “family vacation.”  We have thoroughly enjoyed a few weekend visits to neighboring cities, and I wouldn’t complain about Minneapolis, Chicago, or the Wisconsin Dells, but, again, these short, fun weekend trips were really more “getaways” than “vacations.”

Mostly, those occasions served to remind me how awesome it is to hit the open road with the whole family in tow.  I love those long carefree days of seeing new things together, listening to old school music on the radio, eating deviled ham sandwiches for lunch, and taking turns watching Star Wars movies in the back seat with the kids.  There’re KOA campgrounds calling my name, World’s Biggest Balls of stuff to be photographed and explored.  There’s national history to be learned in person, hotel pools to be cannonballed into, mountain paths to be hiked, and, I hope with all my heart, an ocean to be splashed in.  I don’t care whether we go east, west, or south; I just have that deep hankering to go.

It’s not entirely reasonable.  The baby’s still small.  The house isn’t unpacked or organized.  The summer is still months off.  It always costs more than you budget, someone inevitably spills, craps, or vomits in the back of the van.  At some point, your will to rough it breaks down and you spring for a two-room suite that gives you a locking door between yourselves and the kids.  Yes, I know all the limitations.  But the heart wants what the heart wants.  I long for a 2-4000 mile, 14-20 day adventure, together with my favorite people.  I think it’s road trips that make us American; it’s our patriotic duty to explore this vast and beautiful nation.  Are you buying this?  Because I really want to go.

You brought us here and gave us this land rich with milk and honey. Deuteronomy 26:9

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

I felt guilty about the MP3 player.

My husband and I felt a huge wave of emotion when the girls opened their MP3 players this Christmas.  They were not the coveted iPod touches they had begged for since last Christmas.  Instead, they were affordable knock-offs that came in bright, personalized colors.  As we steeled ourselves for their disappointment, they floored us instead with their enthusiasm.  As they tore open the paper simultaneously and read the packaging, my oldest girl’s voice grew in volume and intensity as she saw and read aloud the all important phrase, “TOUCH SCREEN.”  We got the video camera out as quickly as possible to capture their unanticipated elation, but, as hilarious as it was, it still didn’t capture the overwhelming ecstasy of their first reaction.  We felt like Oprah on one of her Favorite Things episodes.

We outlined the attributes and limitations of the devices, because we did not want to mislead them about the reality that they were not iPods, but they were not disappointed in the least.  They, instead, were thrilled.  They immediately began snapping pictures and recording video.  They plugged in their ear buds to check out the music we had loaded for them, and our middle daughter took delight in looking through the library of photos we’d transferred for her.  They were the exact opposite of the kids in Jimmy Kimmel’s “I gave my kids a crappy present” montage.  My husband and I, with tears in our eyes, gave congratulatory glances to one another across the room.  Mission accomplished: an awesome Christmas gift that didn’t break the budget.  It felt like a real family accomplishment: our mad gift giving skills, the kids’ great and grateful attitudes; it all came together.

One of the great selling points (that we didn’t end up needing to sell, but still told them) was that these devices were affordable enough that the kids could be trusted with them.  Unlike high end devices, they could take their MiPods with them wherever they wanted.  This would be a test of their ability to be responsible with their own electronics.

Flash forward less than a week later.  My older daughter had her treasured touchscreen in the pocket of her hoodie, which she had slung across the couch cushion while we watched football.  I was crawling back to my accustomed spot in the back corner of the sectional, and proved that the weight of my body on top of my bony right knee was more than a knock-off touch screen MP3 player could handle.  At first, I didn’t comprehend her look of utter dismay, as she dug in the pockets of her jacket.  But when she pulled out the cracked device, and began to cry into my lap, it was all I could do to control my own emotions.  I tried to be parental and reproach her leaving something she valued so much in such a thoughtless place.  I reminded her that we had expressly told them of their responsibility to take care of the devices, and that putting them where they could be stepped or sat on was an explicit violation of that responsibility.  Through her tears, she determined to spend her own money to replace the defunct device, then continued to cry in my lap for another twenty minutes or so.  It was torture to sit by and let her mourn.

What my daughter doesn’t know is that after everyone was tucked in that night, I cried too.  In that one moment, I had gone from Oprah to the Grinch.  I could not believe that it was me!  I was the one who had broken my kid’s favorite gift.  I know it could have been anyone; after all, she left it hidden in a pocket on the couch.  But it was me.  I had disgraced our victory.  I had turned triumph to tragedy, in the world of a ten year old I love.

The next morning, when replacing her MiPod was her first and most emphatic thought of the day, I let her off the hook and told her I would split the price, because I wanted her to know how sorry I was for being the one who broke it.  I wasn’t sure if I should have done that or not.  But now that she has her new one, I don’t think it detracted from the lesson.  Both girls are taking care to keep them in cases and tuck them away when they aren’t using them.  And I’m going to be very careful where I step or sit.

We also bought the product replacement plan on the new one.  Duh.

I did feel bad at first, but I don't now. I know that the letter hurt you for a while. Now I am happy, but not because I hurt your feelings. It is because God used your hurt feelings to make you turn back to him, and none of you were harmed by us.When God makes you feel sorry enough to turn to him and be saved, you don't have anything to feel bad about. 2 Corinthians 7:8b-10a

My kid outclassed me (and I didn’t scrub the floors).

OK so, first of all, I didn’t go all Molly Maids on the old house after we moved out.  I figured the new owners were going to give it an overhaul to put their own smell on the place anyway, and, frankly, we had other priorities moving week.  The actual moving, three kids, Thanksgiving, out of town family, and a cancer diagnosis in my husband’s immediate family – to name the most obvious contenders for our attention.  But all excuses aside, we did leave the house without completing our regular housekeeping, so it was not the spotless showplace it had been a few weeks earlier.  Let me know if I’m wrong on this, but I’ve never known anyone who moved into a house or apartment and raved about the previous owner’s housekeeping; cleaning the new place is part of moving.  Or so I thought.

I expected the new people would find something to complain to the neighbors about, but what I didn’t expect was that my ten year old would be approached at school by the child of our former neighbor, in front of other kids, with a nasty accusation about our family’s filthy living – as reported to her parents by the buyers of our house.  As if they hadn’t gone through the house just a few weeks earlier and seen how clean it was when we weren’t in the middle of moving.  I was horrified when my daughter told me what the girl had said.  I couldn’t believe she wasn’t crying and wondered if she was being brave for us.  A well of defensive unpleasantness bubbled up in me, as I took a mental inventory of all the very judgmental and personal jabs I could take at them.  It was a challenging sale, and we had sometimes struggled to remain gracious.  All of those moments when we had to remind one another to be kind, to let things go, and to be generous rather than stingy, were suddenly overwhelmed by a vicious instinct to lash out and harm the people who had turned an adult financial transaction into neighborhood gossip and schoolyard bullying.

As I was about to surrender to my anger and injured pride, and arm my daughter with a slew of nasty responses she could use if it came up again, my husband saved the moment by asking her how she had responded.  She said matter-of-factly that she had told the girl, “Oh, so you must think moving is easy.”  And then she told the other kids who were listening to the exchange, “What?  Did they live in a hotel before?  They can’t clean their own bathroom?”

I could have cried.  I felt so much admiration for her.  She did everything the school counselor says to do with bullies.  She stood up for herself; she disarmed them with humor.  She didn’t take it, but she didn’t escalate the situation either.  I could not have provided her with a better response than she came up with all on her own.  She was the tough but gracious person I wish I was – and she’s only ten years old.

I am embarrassed by the ugliness I felt about the situation and by the defensiveness I’m still battling.  I am tempted even now to give you all the reasons why I think we are nicer people than them.  I am just not as good or confident a person as my daughter is.  She is a class act.  And I have a lot to learn from her.

We work hard with our own hands to feed ourselves. When people insult us, we ask God to bless them. When people treat us badly, we accept it.  When people say bad things about us, we try to say something that will help them. But people still treat us like the world’s garbage—everyone’s trash. 1 Corinthians 4:12-13

I wish I was in New York City.

Who doesn’t, right?  It’s a popular bucket list item to spend New Year’s Eve in Times Square.  Heaven knows, my bucket list is probably as long as anybody’s.  If my sister is going to Africa to climb Mount Kilimanjaro next summer (which she is), the least I should get to do is freeze my backside under the twinkling billboards, in the City that Never Sleeps.

Ironically, I have never had any desire to pass through the threshold of a new year beneath the dropping ball.  I would actually have been willing to fly home on New Year’s Eve to save on airfare.  If you’ll indulge my bragging, I have already ice skated at Rockefeller center and even witnessed the flight of the giant balloons for the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade.  I’ve been to the top of the Empire State Building, and backstage at Late Night with David Letterman; I just missed the cut to sing a little ditty for “Stump the Band.”  I’ve stood at Ground Zero and pondered the empty sky, and rode the Staten Island Ferry to get a glimpse of Lady Liberty on Ellis Isle.  I cannot complain that I in any way need or deserve a more fantastic New York City experience than I’ve already had.

The reason my husband and I both woke up from NYC dreams this morning, is this: our beloved Cyclones, that Blue Collar team that keeps making all the inspirational montage segments on ESPN, will be playing in the Pinstripe Bowl today.  Who wouldn’t want to be in Yankee stadium this afternoon, when that vibrant leader, Paul Rhoads, leads his irrepressible team of over-achievers onto the field, in hopes of pulling off yet another fantastic upset?  It may be a near home-field advantage for Rutgers, but my hopes, if not my money, are on Iowa State.  It may be one of those tens of bowls that no one has heard of.  It may be a battle between teams that don’t amount to much in the national picture.  The BCS is in no way implicated.  But when the Iowa State Cyclones take the field, they bring all the excitement college football can generate.  Watch for first quarter on-side kicks.  Don’t be surprised if they run a gadget play on a long fourth down in their own territory and make the first down.  Even if you had no other reason to cheer for the Clones, surely you are wondering whether Paul Rhoads can actually muster a more inspiring locker room speech than, “I am so proud…to be your coach” or “I don’t care whether your black or white, or rich or poor, or where you came from…I do care that we are ONE team.”  What about the way he jumpsaround on the sidelines when they botch a call?

There are at least a dozen reasons why we couldn’t make a bowl trip this year, but this morning I woke up regretful of all of them.  If I had it my way, I’d be at the end of a 24 hour RV drive through sleet-crusted freeways, dragging my kids through the subways, and saddled with an enormous load of blankets, mittens, and baby paraphernalia, to freeze my backside and lose my voice cheering for our team.  We’re going to have a blast cheering them on from Central Iowa today – I’ll probably lose my voice anyway – But I wish I was doing it in New York City.

Help us defeat our enemies! No one else can rescue us. You will give us victory and crush our enemies. Psalm 60:11-12