GIRL

Urban Servant: What Can I Teach You?

2009-04-05T17:10:00.007-04:00

A gem for my fellow trans-racial adoptive parents:

http://urbanservant.blogspot.com/2007/11/what-can-i-teach-my-kids-about-being.html

Blessings to you all.

Sisters and Brothers

2008-09-02T13:13:00.012-04:00

"I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: 'We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.'

...I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character...

...I have a dream that one day...little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers." ~ Martin Luther King, Jr.

The line about sisters and brothers always gives me pause, as it's literal reality in my house. Truly living as sisters and brothers sometimes looks like this:

These were taken Saturday. How sweet they were together, holding hands, giggling, conspiring to run straight back to the ride entrance for a second ride, a big brother protectively ushering his little sister onto a ride that would be far too scary to do alone, a sister, for no apparent reason at all, putting her arm around her brother while riding the flying elephants ...

And sometimes truly living as sisters and brothers looks like... well, if you have siblings or you have kids, you know! Living in community, large or small, brings misunderstanding and differences of opinion, after all.

Not judging by the color of his skin, but by the content of his character, politics, record and experience, I simply cannot vote for the current Democratic candidate for President.

Yet in principle I am beyond thrilled for the fact of his candidacy as a man of African descent. Injustice and racism of all kinds are not gone from our country and world, and never will be 'this side of heaven. What a joy, nonetheless, to have such a visible symbol of progress. I rejoice in and am so thankful for the movement in the hearts of people that has allowed this possibility to become reality in our country.

These are interesting times.

Warm, With Butter

2008-08-28T21:42:00.005-04:00

Since I haven't really been posting lately, have no themes going and no blog "brand" to speak of, there's really no reason I can't just post a random recipe right now, is there? I think not.

As part of a little social studies unit we're doing about New England, I wanted to make something approximating Boston Brown Bread. More concerned with simplicity than authenticity, I chose to pull out a nearly forgotten recipe for Steamed Molasses Bread from my file instead of searching further, and made it today. It's been feeling downright fall-ish around here in the coolest August I can remember, so the homey smell of baked goods was well-suited to the day.

Oh, folks, it was delicious. Served warm with butter. Mmmmm.

Of course almost anything sounds delicious "served warm, with butter." It's a powerful phrase.

Try "Octopus, served warm with butter." Wait. Some of you may actually enjoy octopus to begin with. It's possible.

"Tree bark, served warm with butter." See? You at least considered it, didn't you?

"Earthworm, served warm with butter..." Ok, the phrase has its limits.

In any case, perhaps you might like to try this recipe, too. It's sweeter than a typical whole wheat bread, but not nearly as sweet as a typical pumpkin or banana bread. It's... different. And delicious.

The bread is made in a slow cooker, and requires some sort of pan or container that will fit in your slow cooker and hold about 8 cups. There are molds made specifically for steam baking in a crock pot, but I've never had one. A small coffee can is the mold traditionally used by many people, but anything that fits will do. (I have a square Pyrex dish that happens to fit.) This needs to be set upon some sort of metal rack, trivet or, as I've even done, a couple of spoons, in the bottom of the crock pot just to keep it off of the direct heat and allow steam to surround it. Get creative; you have something in your kitchen that will do the trick.

So then.

Steamed Molasses Bread

2 cups All-Bran cereal
2 cups whole-wheat flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup raisins (these can be optional for the raisin-haters)
1 egg
1 3/4 cups buttermilk (or add 1 1/2 T. vinegar to regular milk and let stand 5 minutes)
1/2 cup molasses

Place a metal rack or trivet in a slow cooker. Grease and flour an 8-cup mold.

In a medium bowl, combine cereal, wheat flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt and raisins.

In a large bowl, beat egg. Add milk and molasses, and stir to combine. Stir in dry ingredients, without overbeating.

Pour into greased mold, and cover with foil. Pour 2 cups hot water into slow cooker. Place mold on rack in slow cooker. Cover and cook on high 3 1/2 to 4 hours.

Remove from pot and cool 5 minutes. Loosen edges with spatula and turn out on plate.

And don't forget: Serve warm, with butter.

A Few Thousand Words

2008-08-18T15:52:00.025-04:00

Does this blog look abandoned to you? Cast aside and forgotten?

It may be neglected, but it has not been abandoned, despite appearances.

I simply have been lacking the time and physical and emotional wherewithall to write anything. I could flesh out that last statement with details, but that would require writing, wouldn't it? This almost could have been written by me. Almost. Far too many coherent sentences.

I've been popping in to visit blogs here and there, and look forward to writing here when I can. But for now, just to show that I'm still alive, posting a few summer pictures would count for something, wouldn't it?

They're worth-- what?-- around a thousand words apiece?

A Girly Girl with three brothers looks like this...

The Class of 2021 looks like this...

A brand new nine year-old & a mom sorely in need of a hair cut look like this...
A picture that really needs of a post of its very own might just look like this...

Ahhh...

summer!

Go, Children! Run into the street!

2008-07-19T17:14:00.017-04:00

Today, against every parental sensibility, we encouraged our children to run with abandon into the street. We do this every year, just after noon on the Saturday of the weekend that comes two weeks after Independence Day.

Today was the Borough Days parade, kicking off our local two-day festival. The parade is… oh, some might say rinky-dink. It features clowns, local politicians, a very small marching band, a couple of kids’ drumming and baton twirling troupes, a dance group (that somehow never seems to be, you know, dancing when it passes us, even though the route is less than a half-mile long?), and fez bedecked Shriners joyriding on their snazzy ATV’s, the kind equipped with an extra wheel in the back for popping wheelies. And, of course, the backbone of the parade: fire trucks and rescue vehicles of every size, shape, and color of the rainbow, all with horns blasting and sirens wailing. (Ok, so there are no violet fire trucks, but let me tell you that powder blue does make a fire truck look almost pretty.) And the best part! Many of the paraders throw candy in the direction of eager kids along the route. Hence the encouragement to my kids that feels so very strange coming out of my mouth. My kids react as if we never, ever, ever allow them to have candy except on this day.

Rinky-dink or not, we faithfully attend the parade every year. We kind of don’t have much choice. It passes right in front of our house. The arrangement actually has its advantages for those among us whose sensibilities are most offended by the rowdy vehicles, and tend to prefer watching the parade like this...

... and may want to move up to watch from the front porch. Or maybe from inside the house, near the window. Or perhaps may even prefer to retreat to the far interior of the house with their hands placed staunchly over their ears in attempted denial of the whole traumatic event. It’s good to have options.

The parade progresses to the end of the street, where the festival commences. Again, it’s nothing spectacular, but a nice something-to-do. There will be a talent show this year, along with a band playing each night, booths selling food or running games to benefit local groups, and crafters selling (?) their wares. Somehow these wares usually are comprised largely of anything that can be made from crocheted doilies or plastic grids stitched with yarn. I had no idea that there was a market for such things. While walking past them, I usually nudge my husband and hint that July is not too early to begin his Christmas shopping for me. Then I make triple sure that he knows I’m kidding.

The grand finale will be the fireworks in the park tomorrow night. I could watch them from a blanket in the park. I have a feeling, though, that I’ll be watching them over the trees, from an upstairs window, inside the house. Or perhaps I’ll even prefer to just read Fancy Nancy in the back room and try to forget about the whole booming thing. I'm sure Girly Girl will let me know what I prefer.

It’s good to have options.

Graceful

2008-07-18T17:15:00.009-04:00

Have you met Katherine, who writes on her blog, Raising Five?

The name of my blog was loosely inspired by Katherine one day. She was asking her readers to let her know what kinds of things they were interested in, and what they would like to read about on her blog. In thinking about what really draws me to Raising Five, I realized that it wasn't in the subject matter exactly-- she writes mainly about her family life-- but in what is often plainly visible through it: grace. So many times when she describes how she responded (or should have responded--she keeps it real!) to an everyday interaction, I see it. That soul-expanding, life-giving , hopeful, heart-takes-flight release of God's grace, right there in the midst of everyday life. There it is! THAT's what it looks like, flowing outward, reaching into the mundane, touching others and drawing them in. (She's been at it again, simply and quietly inspiring me, with a couple of her posts this week.)

As I responded to her and typed the phrase "in real life," my brain simultaneously translated it to "IRL" in Typespeak, the native tongue of all hip modern keyboarders. ( That whole lexicon of text, e-mail and internet language deserves its own name, doesn't it? What should it be? And who gets to name it? Um, back to the post.) GRACE in real life-- "GIRL". Yeah, that's what this girl is after.

The grace and mercy that God offers, from ultimate salvation to the countless mercies bestowed upon us in love each day, are amazing. But his grace is also meant to flow through us, splashing refreshment, and inviting others to see and know God . What does that look like? What sometimes blocks both its reception and flow through me? What does it look like in perfect balance with discipline and justice? In parenting? In marriage? How do I receive and release grace in the midst of the roller coaster ride that is MY life? Ultimately it is God's spirit that produces and teaches me this, but he's long been in the practice of using object lessons, including ones sometimes found in others' blog posts. I recognize his teaching in the midst of them.

Beyond that, what drew me to the merging of "grace in real life" and the word "girl" is something I can't even articulate very well for myself. It has to do with the life journey I've been on. It's deep and meaningful, I tell you! But unraveling all of that might require a major online therapy session and far too many run-on sentences, even for me. I'll spare you, and stick with the half-baked explanation, ok?

So, GIRL. Grace in Real Life. Now, MY blog, instead of exhibiting the grace of God in full flow as Katherine's does, may be more likely to reveal God's merciful grace, as in, "If God can extend mercy and grace to THAT train wreck, surely He'll persevere with me."

Either way. May it be real and somehow show the real Him.

I'll Take My Holiday Weekends Boring and Uneventful, Thank You- Part 3, This Weekend, The End

2008-07-14T23:36:00.009-04:00

I should have known that our address would earn a spot on the police blotter this weekend.

My husband was going to be doing some painting and projects over the weekend. (I'm sure the plan stemmed from my choice of cabinet handles one way or another.) So, to get us out of the way, I travelled with all of the children to my parent's house for a long weekend. Somehow there's just something about this scenario, especially when one of us is out of town, that invites "action". It's been the trend.

The last time one of us had taken kids down to my parents' like this, of course, was Memorial Day 2006. During our summer weekends, our family has encountered burglary and massive identity theft, an intruder in the house, an armed robber thought to be hiding in our little yard, a car crash in front of the house, a car somehow flipping onto its roof in our 25mph street, two men aggressively banging on the door at night asking for "bus money" (husband out of town, of course), and a neighbor pulling a gun during an argument as our family saw it all from very nearby on our back porch. Oh, and two floods, one while my husband was out of town for the weekend. (Did you know that appliances float?)

I am at least happy that I was the one to miss the action this weekend.

After a long day of working on projects Saturday, around 11:30pm my husband finished up, pulled the shades, and locked up. As he trudged upstairs to take a long, hot shower, he thought he heard some arguing outside in the front. He took a quick look through the peep hole in the door, but couldn't see anything, and continued up to the shower. Afterwards he came back downstairs to relax and watch TV. It was as he was sitting there in a tired haze that he became aware of the loud, rattling hum of many idling vehicles coming from the front of the house.

His initial peek through the peep hole revealed a glaring array of lights. He opened the door to find a host of police cars and ambulances immediately in front of our house, just steps off of our porch. He could see a woman in the ambulance and a man and boy standing a little way off, but he couldn't tell in the dark who they were.

Turning back into the house, he then noticed small lights and movement through one of the windows in the back of the house. He opened the back door to find our little yard crawling with police who were searching everywhere with flashlights. He switched on an exterior light for them, and asked what they were searching for. A gun, they said.

He went back to the front and stepped outside. Getting closer to the man and boy, he could see that it was a D, a 7 year old boy from up the street who comes over to play nearly every day, and his father. They told him that D's mom, Miss L, was the woman in the ambulance, and filled him in on what they knew.

Miss L had been riding the bus home from work when two girls in their late teens who were very drunk began harassing her. It was an aggressive verbal assault, and Miss L did talk back to them. The bus driver kicked the girls off of the bus, letting them off at the stop that is just steps from our front door. This was Miss L's stop, too,but she wisely decided to stay on the bus and let the bus driver loop her around to the grocery store stop. It would be a farther walk for her, but she figured that by the time she got back to the place she needed to get off, they would be gone.

They were not. They recognized her immediately, and started screaming at her. She tried to move to the other side of the street, but they came after her. Knowing that she wouldn't make it all the way down the block to her house, she sprinted through our neighbor's back yard to try to get into our back door for help. My husband did not hear all of the commotion as he was in the shower.

They started beating her with the handle of an umbrella and their fists. Then, one of the girls yelled at the other, "Just get the gun out of your purse, and shoot the *****! Just shoot her!"

I have to mention here that the very reason Miss L moved her family to our neighborhood a few years ago was that she had been shot in a drive-by and severely wounded in the shoulder in her old neighborhood. She thought our neighborhood would be safer for her family.

So, even more understandably than for anyone else, when she saw the one girl reach toward her purse, she went after her with full fury, pinning her between our steps and fence. The girl bit her severely, and the other continued to beat and kick her. Mercifully, someone had heard the screaming when it started, and called the police right away. They showed up then and, eventually, caught the girls.

Miss L needed stitches in her head, lip and arm, and was quite bruised, but she had no concussion or further injury. D and his father had no way to get to the hospital or bring Miss L home when she was done, so my husband took them. It was 5:30 in the morning by the time they all came home. Miss L is recovering, but angry.

I don't mean to glorify this kind of "action" by telling the stories. But life carries these kinds of danger. With the exception of extremes, it really doesn't matter who you are or where you live.
I don't know why, in addition to the violence that touches our city and church congregation, God has been allowing us so many direct brushes with this kind of action. I do know that there is purpose in what God allows, that he is faithful to us, and that, for right now, we are where we are supposed to be. That is enough.

I've heard it said that the safest place in the world is right in the center of God's will for you, be it a war zone or a convent. I've heard it stated that a believer walking in God's path for his life is immortal until the work God has for him is done. That's good enough for me. I'm not afraid.

I'll Take My Holiday Weekends Boring and Uneventful, Thank You - Part 2B

2008-07-14T23:20:00.005-04:00

(Part 1, Part 2A)

And then, after… I don’t know… five minutes? Ten? Out of the silence below, sudden movement and noise. The sounds that had so terrified me not long before now occurred again in reverse order. There was a similar“bang” of wood on wood, hurriedly followed by the sound of the window sliding shut, still steadily, but more quickly and purposefully this time.

I hoped that the sound meant that the intruder had left. But how could I be sure? When were the police coming? After several minutes, I went to the top of the stairs and debated going down to have a look. Was that the responsible, adult thing to do? (Or was that the kind of choice to which horror movie viewers respond, “Nooo! Don’t go in there!”) I decided instead to do the other responsible adult thing, and checked on my children sleeping in their beds. Then I returned to mine. After a long while of praying and listening, God mercifully lulled his child to sleep.

When morning came, I tread cautiously downstairs into the dining room, not sure what I would find. Everything appeared peaceful and untouched… except for the kids’ chair closest to the window, which was pulled out from the table instead of being pushed in like all the others. I went to the window and took hold of it. It was closed but, sure enough, it was unlocked. I shuddered as I slid it open myself and heard that sound again. No mistake: that was exactly what I had heard from my room. Or could I have imagined it? There was no real evidence that anyone had been there. Except perhaps the chair out of place. I knocked it over just to hear the sound it would make. “Bang!” Wood on wood, exactly as I’d heard the night before.

Questions abounded. If someone had been there, why? Who? And why had they left without disturbing anything? Did my noisemaking scare them off? Not likely: The fact that the person climbed in just 20 minutes after I went to bed and turned out the lights suggested that he already knew someone was there and had waited for me to go to sleep. Had there even been direct spiritual intervention? Stories abound of angels becoming visible and thwarting harm. I’ll never know this side of heaven what went on in the room below me that night. In any case, I had no doubt at all that the timing of my sudden, yet gentle awakening was not a coincidence.

Seeing my neighbor outside that morning, I went out to ask if he had also heard anything in the night.

“Yeah. The police were all over your yard,” he said.

Oh, so they had come! “And that was after 2am?” I pressed.

“No, no. That was around 9pm. There was another armed robbery at {the grocery store in the shopping center across the street.} The police were searching your yard with dogs and flashlights for quite a while when the dogs led them there.”

Yikes! I had been home, watching a movie, visible through that back window. How on earth did I miss all of that commotion? This was something else entirely. ARMED ROBBERY, and they thought the guy was in my yard! Was it related somehow to the intruder at 2am? Was it the same guy, returning to see what he could accomplish with the ladder he’d spotted when he was in my yard the first time? Or had he decided to return later after seeing… me? Or were the two events entirely unrelated, just a coincidence of criminal activity?

Absorbing the new information, I pressed my neighbor further regarding my original inquiry: “But did you hear anything around 2am, like the gate or ladder between our houses?”

“Well… yeah. Oh, yeah. My wife DID say that she thought she heard something...”

None of my questions have ever been answered beyond that.

I'll Take My Holiday Weekends Boring and Uneventful, Thank You - Part 2A

2008-07-14T03:15:00.009-04:00

(Here's Part One.)

Exciting Holiday Weekend #2: Memorial Day Weekend, 2006

Our family spent Memorial Day 2006 split into two groups. Boy #1, Boy #2 and Husband #1 (And Only), traveled to my parents’ house for the weekend, where they had been invited by my father to spend a day paddling down the river. Boy #3, Girly Girl and I were holding down the home fort with plans for a weekend of sedate fun more suitable for the toddler set.

As you would expect, the bigger boys, all three, found excitement and adventure during their time away. A little too much excitement: I never completely understood the whole story of what happened, but suffice it to say that, by the time the river adventure was done, the river had claimed one wedding ring, one canoe, and a little bit of skin, but the health and safety of all adventurers remained intact. Thank you, Lord.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, things were quiet. “A little TOO quiet,” as they say. My little ones were tucked into bed, and I was poking about doing the kinds of things moms do when they have a quiet weekend evening to themselves. (In other words, I don’t remember what, but it was blissfully quiet! And did I mention quiet?) Around 1:40am, I climbed into bed and thankfully, quickly fell asleep.

Right around 2 am, I awoke quite suddenly. I was immediately aware of the muted blare of a train whistle in the distance, but it was not a sound loud enough to have awoken me. I had the strangest sense that someone had gently, deliberately woken me up. I lay still in the darkness and listened.

Now, occasionally I'm not the bravest soul when it comes to sleeping at night while my husband is away. I tend to hear every little noise made in our old house and busy neighborhood, and sometimes find it necessary to explain a healthy set of them to myself before I can really surrender into sleep. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, too, an awareness born of my past experience arose, reminding me that it was a holiday weekend when people are away and criminals like to prey. But we were not away. Though the boys had taken our van from its usual parking spot for the weekend… I firmly dismissed all of that as unfounded fear springing out of past experience that would never be repeated.

I began the soothing, mumbling mental litany as I lay so very suddenly, inexplicably, and completely awake. “House settling… car passing… metal gate lightly scraping the cement… The gate? I suppose it could have been the neighbor’s gate. Sound travels well enough in the quiet of night. It sure did sound just like one of ours, though. Perhaps a neighbor’s cat pushed it open. Quiet… soft, rattling metallic sound? What was that?”

It sounded exactly like it came from right beside the house, in the very narrow walking alley between houses where our neighbors have a metal ladder hanging on the side of their house. “Uh, hmmm... Ok, don’t be alarmed. It’s probably nothing. Maybe the neighbors needed to walk through there for some unusual reason. Maybe you imagined it. And besides, you always check to make sure the doors and windows are locked before bed. You checked the front door, the living room window in the front, the kitchen window, the… You know, I don’t remember checking the dining room window in the back. And I was cleaning windows today. Yes… and I had to open and close that dining room window a couple of times as I scrubbed bird crud because I couldn’t tell if it was clean yet. And… I don’t remember locking it when I closed it and saw that it was finally clean. Did I?? Oh, no. I didn’t lock it. That window is unlocked.” I was now very much wide-awake.

Not ten seconds after this realization, as if on cue, I heard it. The sound that I will never forget as long as I live. The distinctive rolling sound of our dining room window slowly, steadily, sliding open in the room right beneath me. That was quickly followed by a loud “bang” sound, which could best be accounted for as one of the little wooden kids’ chairs that sit right by the window smacking sharply to the floor.

Then, complete silence. Except for the sound of the big bass drum inside my chest. Or was it outside of my chest? It was beating so hard and so loudly that I honestly wasn’t sure if it was inside or outside my body.

I froze. I cried out silently to God: “Jesus!” I froze again. I quickly realized that I should call 911, but the cordless phone was out in the hall. I knew I had to get it and, for whatever reason, I decided to make as much noise as I could while forging out there and back, stomping heavily, brusquely grabbing the prize, and shutting my bedroom door firmly. No doubt whoever was in the house now knew for sure that he was not alone. And what did that mean? What had I done?

I quickly dialed and told the operator that I had heard noises in the alley beside the house. And then, that was all I could say, as my mind once again froze, not allowing me to speak anything beyond that. No mention of the window or the loud bang in the room below me. Just another woman calling to say that she was hearing “noises” at night, for all she could tell, I’m sure. She said she’d send someone out to check things over.

I waited on my bed, completely frozen, hearing nothing but the pounding of my heart and the strange quiet below. The babies! What do I do? Go get them? I still couldn’t move or think. I simply sat there praying the most eloquent prayer I could muster: “Jesus! Jesus! Jesus...”

To be continued...

(That would be a cruel cliffhanger, except that you know we're all quite alive and well, right? Look at the sidebar photos. See? We're ok.)

I'll Take My Holiday Weekends Boring and Uneventful, Thank You

2008-07-13T23:48:00.006-04:00

So how was your weekend?

We’ve had some unusually exciting summer holiday weekends around here in the past few years. It's an odd trend we have going. I just spoke to my husband and found out that this weekend, a holiday by virtue of the fact that I've taken the kids out of town, has also had its own excitement. This time, for once, I was the one to miss it all, and I am glad.

But, in case yours was a little lacking in drama, I’ll tell you about it. In fact, let me tell you about three of the events that have made some of our summer weekends so... exciting and memorable.

That’s right! Today, and today only, you get THREE stories for the price of one!

Exciting Holiday Weekend #1: July 2, 2005.

Wanting to do a little long overdue scrap-booking (this is the last time I attempted to squeeze some in—I’ve given up for now!), I’d arranged for my husband to watch the kids for the afternoon and headed up the highway to his new office suite to make use of the conference tables and luxurious quiet. As I punched in the security code and entered the building, making quite a racket as I banged my huge plastic tub of supplies through the double set of exterior doors, it suddenly occurred to me that it wasn’t likely that anyone else would be there working because it was a holiday weekend. I tried not to be creeped out by the thought, and continued down the hall to the door of my husband’s suite and my afternoon of peaceful creative pursuit.

I set my gear down, got the door unlocked, and quickly punched in the code to disable the alarm on the back of the door. I’d been too slow the last time, and didn’t want to repeat the ear-splitting sensation. I then turned around and saw, leaning carefully against the wall in front of me, the large glass insert that makes up the full center of the door to the suite, along with the wood border that frames it. In the distraction of finding the right key to open the door, I had somehow completely missed the fact that I could have simply stepped right THROUGH it!

This was odd, but actually not alarming. My husband had mentioned that workers were still coming in as they were available to fix some things in the entryway that weren’t done correctly, and I assumed that this was somehow just part of that work in progress. I wanted to be sure, though, so I stepped into the reception area to call him. He said that this wasn't expected. Oooo kay. As I was listening to him, I glanced down at the reception desk and vaguely realized that the it was unusually empty. A computer... that was it. Where was the computer?

I knew that they had just gotten new computers that week, and my husband immediately verified that yes, there should be one on that desk. Still on the phone, I popped my head into my husband’s office and looked. No computer there, either. Next down the hall, the associate’s desk also was missing a computer. I then noticed that the mouse had been dropped on the floor, facing toward the door, it’s cord strung out in a straight line behind it, as if the person who dropped it had been in very fast motion toward the exit.

My mind quickly apprehended the fact that there had been a burglary. Then, as if in slow motion mentally, it dawned on me that the scene—the door pieces so painstakingly laid aside, as if they were going to be carefully replaced, the cleanly removed computers in the first two offices, the mouse so hurriedly dropped outside of the third— suggested the possibility that I had interrupted the burglary with my noisy entrance into the building! Crime buster! Yeah, right. I wasn’t looking around one minute more. Forget bravery or clear thinking. I told my husband to call the police, and I was OUTTA THERE! Not just out of the building, out of the zip code.

The police discovered that a dentist's office upstairs was also missing its computers, but those in all of the other businesses were untouched. They never caught the guys. It became clear later that, whoever these people were, they were sophisticated professionals. The smooth, massive identity theft was not discovered until a few months later when something blatantly obvious was done: our business account was almost completely emptied. And that’s when lawyers began uncovering and untangling the mind-numbingly massive web of fraud, carried out via multiple ISP’s without a trace. The untangling and repair still continues today, three years later.

Nothing had happened to me physically that day, so I was surprised by the feeling of violation that came with the experience. Not knowing who had done it or why we were targeted above others also left me feeling much more unsettled than I ever would have expected. For the empathy I gained in that regard, it was a profitable weekend. I'm thankful for God's protection that day and the grace he has given us to walk through the rest of it without anxiety.

Even so, note to self:
Office buildings: Not a good place to hang out on a holiday weekend. Best to stay home where it’s safe, right?

Well, good gracious! For a post I never even had a thought to write just a couple of hours ago, this sure has gotten involved. I’ll come back soon and share with you another sampling of our special brand of holiday weekend excitement!

What in the world?

2008-07-13T00:20:00.004-04:00

So... something has been bubbling in my mind and spirit in recent months. Despite a busy time and other plans for blogging when I did finally find the time, these past few days I have felt strongly compelled that I need to write what I'm hearing from the Lord. I have prayed, lost sleep, and resisted, but tonight I finally sat down to wrestle it all into words. I've never spent such time, thought, and effort on a post. After three (!) hours of work, with a conclusion finally in sight, something suddenly went "ding," and the whole post draft disappeared from the window.

Does this happen regularly on Blogger? Did I hit some mystery key I've never seen before or do something dumb? Is it ever retrievable?

Can someone more experienced in blogging please explain to me what may have just happened here on a technical front? On a spiritual front, I know you're not the ones to ask!

WFMW: Out of the Kitchen in Five Ingredients or Less

2008-07-02T09:12:00.007-04:00

It's Wednesday already? Time flies!

Speaking of time, one place I do not like to spend much time in the summer is the kitchen. This week's edition of "Works For Me Wednesday", hosted by Rocks In My Dryer, tells me that I'm not alone in that. We've been asked to share recipes with five ingredients or less. Finding one that actually has five ingredients or less was tough... unless you count cereal, which none of YOU would ever serve for dinner, right? Or fruit smoothies, or eggs, or leftovers...

One easy thing I do: Throw some boneless, skinless chicken breasts into a crock pot with pre-made barbecue sauce in the morning. If you have an extra moment, browning the chicken with a bit of flour first can help the chicken to stay moist and flavorful. Serve on buns as chicken sandwiches with fruit, salad, chips, or whatever you have on hand.

But I'll bet you've thought of that one already.

Here's one we fall back on a lot, year-round. There are technically seven ingredients, but I promise that it's easy because it's a recipe for which measuring is totally optional. It's forgiving.

Lasagna Soup

The name comes from the pasta used: mafalda, found in the dried pasta section of most grocery stores. It looks like mini lasagna noodles. It’s not crucial to have that exact shape of pasta, but, of course, the name of the recipe won’t make sense without them!

One recipe is not enough for the 6 of us if I serve it as dinner by itself, but it is fine if served with bread, salad, etc. I generally double these days-- those boys are growing!

For just one recipe:

–Brown a pound of ground beef.

–Sprinkle generously with some form of quick onions (onion powder, dried minced onions, whatever you have) and a quick shake of salt.

– Throw in a little dried basil, maybe 1/2 teaspoon.

– Add a can (14.5 oz size) of *Italian seasoned* diced tomatoes.

– Add somewhere in the neighborhood of 4 cups of beef broth.

– Add mafalda. You choose how much. If you add a smaller amount of the pasta, it will truly be soup. If you add a lot of pasta, it will absorb much of the broth and be more of a noodle dish.

–Boil about 10 minutes, until pasta is cooked.

– Serve with a generous sprinkle of parmesan cheese (for those not casein free at our house!).

It's very quick. Like many pasta dishes, it's even betterthe next day, too!

Everyone likes this at my house, which is a miracle. I don’t feel the need to serve anything else with this if it's "one of those days" and I don’t have the energy. Ya got yer' vegetable (They say that tomatoes are a fruit, but they seem quite vegetable-y to me.) meat, starch, and dairy. By the old food group guidelines, you’re covered in one bowl!

If You Give a Mom a Cabinet

2008-06-29T22:16:00.010-04:00

Have you ever noticed how remodeling, organizing, and cleaning projects rarely stay neatly within their own borders? One thing often leads to another.

Re-organize one area, displace some items which need to go somewhere else, re-organize that someplace else, displace more items...

Tackle a cleaning job , notice the dirty area under it, clean it and discover major grime in the area next to that...

Attempt to remodel one thing and suddenly realize that the things surrounding it no longer match or look very worn by comparison. And one room flows into another, you know...

These projects can have a way of flowing and spreading until you're engulfed by an ocean that you never even saw on the map! That's where I've been lately. I've been paddling furiously on a raft in the middle of an ocean of all three project varieties. S.O.S.!

If I ever reach shore, I'd love to share with you the very special story of our adoption. Amazingly, I've never written it down in its entirety. It is something that I have promised myself I will do before becoming totally embroiled in planning and launching the new school year, so you'll either soon read the story, or read of my arrest for child neglect. Stay tuned!

That is all.

Unless you are further interested in my project ocean. If you are not, please, I beg of you, read no further. Save yourself!

Our house does not have the best physical arrangement for our family or homeschooling, and it's added some extra stress to the daily mix. You name it, I've tried it. This spring, the situation deteriorated sharply when Boy #2's full drum kit moved in, displacing homeschool materials from the third floor into a gigantic heap in my dining room. I wracked my brain for an inexpensive, creative, still attractive solution for school, and came up with nothing. (I'm kind of known for creative organization, so that's saying something.)

Meanwhile, like every other area in our 108 year old house, our little kitchen has its own issues. One is that there has never been enough room in the kitchen to actually store the dishes. They've been living around the corner in the dining room. There's a space under the kitchen counter with two bar stools for my four children, also not exactly fulfilling our needs. So why not purchase a cabinet for that area under the counter, finally bring the dishes into their rightful kitchen homeland, and then organize those homeschool materials in the dining room cabinet? We'll do it! Hooray! I'll soon be down to the business of organizing and planning life and school. A little expensive, but very practical, quick and easy, right?

No, no, nooo...

Because the configuration of the cabinet means that this will fit best here, and that there, and now where should those go, and that really needs to be re-organized, too...

Because we can't relocate things into dirty cabinets, in a dirty kitchen, in a dirty house...

And because I'll need to pick up some handles for the new cabinet! And why would we search out shiny gold tone handles to match the 1980's knobs we have in the rest of the kitchen, when we like fashionable antique bronze?! Of course we'll have to replace the rest of the kitchen knobs, but knobs are a simple, inexpensive little update, right? It IS probably a good time to replace those breaking door knobs, too-- antique bronze, of course. Which will really make the shiny gold switch plates look out of place... And, well, hey, while we're at it, let's get rid of those tacky gold light fixtures, too... Oooh my, how those new lights really illuminate how badly the kitchen ceiling needs to be refinished! And I'm not even going to mention how that doorknob shows on exterior of the house, too, where there's a shiny gold kick plate and a boatload of interdependent work to be done, from tarnished light fixtures, to siding, to... to where?

I do believe that if time and money were no object, the logical endpoint of this might not be found until we had replaced our house entirely... with a brand new one... in Hawaii... with new cabinets... which will need handles...

Somebody. Please. Save me from myself.

Bless a Boy

2008-06-26T14:25:00.006-04:00

Recently I shared the story of our One Hit Wonder on the baseball field. Please read the story if you haven't already. (I mean now. Spoiler ahead!)

Read it yet?

Last warning. I'm going to totally spoil it now, and assume you know what I'm talking about.

OK, so after those boys flooded onto the baseball field, the coach said that he didn't think he could have stemmed the tide if he wanted to! Their joyful reaction was sponataneous and sincere. They were simply thrilled for their teammate's success, regardless of the fact that it didn't advance the score one bit. I have to give a lot of credit for this to the coaches' focused efforts to build a loving atmosphere of respect on the team. With just a few weeks of practices and games, just look at what was wrought! It was not just my son who benefitted in that situation, either. Practice in compassion and getting along with different people always reaps benefit, don't you think?

Last month another adult made the news for the way she used her power to shape the minds and character of young people in her charge, only this time they were impressionable kindergarteners... and the power was not used well. Kindergarten teacher Wendy Portillo was frustrated with Alex Barton, a child in her class who was in the process of being diagnosed with autism*. This is what she thought would be helpful: She encouraged each student to tell 5-year-old Alex what they did not like about him, and then led them to "vote" Alex out of class. Not only am I heartbroken for what happened to Alex in this atmosphere, but also for the children in his class. What a horrible lesson has been foisted upon them.

You can read more about Alex at Mommy Life, where Barbara has followed his story. Just search his name in her archives for more. More importantly, though, would you consider taking part in the "Alex is Special" effort she has organized to send love to this child? People from all over the world have showered this boy with cards affirming him. I'm a bit late to the party in spreading the word, but still did not want to neglect the opportunity. Barbara is collecting mail for Alex and forwarding it to him. She has been posting pictures of Alex opening his cards with updates from his mom.

While we're on the topic, think about the environments your children spend time in. What lessons are they learning about how to perceive and treat people who are different from them in ability, appearance or behaviors?

UPDATED TO ADD: Barbara has already sent her last care package to Alex. There will probably be more news of this case, though, as they are taking it to federal court.

* It's not my intent to discuss classroom inclusion here and now, but please do note that this child was only in the process of diagnosis. It does not sound likely that appropriate supports were in place.

Just the Girls

2008-06-20T09:42:00.017-04:00

Little man #3's life got even better yesterday. The camp my big boys are attending also has a separate, concurrent camp at the end of the week, in which kids ages 5 - 7 can come to camp for two nights with a parent, just to give it a try.

He's just old enough this year, and he was very excited to be signed up. "Very excited" doesn't even begin to cover it, really. In a Mommy mental lapse, I forgot about how slowly time moves when you're five, and I told him the moment I registered him... in April. Yes, I did. Someone may need to take away my parenting license, because that wait was torture for him!

By Tuesday, with the big boys already gone, he was so desperate for his camp day to come that he begged me to just MAKE it Thursday already. Today. I said no-can-do, of course, but I did negotiate it down to me making it happen the day after tomorrow. I kept my word on the deal, and yesterday was indeed Thursday. Off he went proudly with just his Daddy, with pomp and circumstance fit for a king embarking on a great journey. Not to mention six bazillion kisses and hugs. And his blankie, tucked into the suitcase, just in case.

So that leaves just us, the two girls. Girl time! I've been striving this week to squeeze in some spring cleaning (I know, I know... It's summer already...), but I didn't want to miss out on the opportunity to take some special time with just my little girl. At her request, yesterday we painted her toenails pink and went out to eat. A local 99-cent kids' meal special made her a cheap date! Today, we snuggled in bed, then decorated and fancied up the whole house. Her whole doll house, that is.

Through the generous cooperation of grandparents, she received a giant Ryan's Room doll house for Christmas a couple of years ago. It's made of unstained, sturdy wood. A blank canvas for the imagination, at least in the estimation of we adults who buy such things. She has enjoyed it very much. It has not escaped her fancy soul's notice, however, that there are other doll houses in existence with considerably more fancy, girly, fairy princess purple-and-pinkaliciousness going for them. She has never made a big fuss about acquiring such a fine model for herself, but she has obviously taken wistful note.

One day I casually threw out the idea that perhaps we could fancy-up her doll house a bit with some paint, paper and "accessories" (an understood nod toward her current literary hero, Fancy Nancy). Buried longings tapped, that little girl flew to me with such speed and force that she nearly knocked me over. She seized both of my shoulders, looked directly into my eyes, and said with solemn, yet fiery earnestness, "Yes. Yes, I want to do that! Can we do it NOW?!?" No, not now. "TODAY?!?" No, not today. I don't even have the accessories yet. Let's do it when all of your brothers are at camp. "Is that TODAY?!" No...

Chalk up another Mommy mental lapse. I caused her no small amount of mental anguish by sharing such a thrilling idea a bit too soon. But after today's flurry of "wallpapering" with scrapbooking paper, cutting new little bedspreads, towels, rugs and placemats from fabric, and even letting her paint her own paper rug, this...

...has made her very, very happy.

Which makes me very, very happy.

So glad to be in your world, sweetie girl.

Shining

2008-06-19T21:56:00.012-04:00

Sometimes it isn't easy being Boy Number Three.

My third little guy has overheard the words, "And who is this?" asked regarding himself more times than I can even recall.

It can be commonly observed that when a woman is expecting her first baby, folks are generally excited about and quite interested in both the pregnancy and the baby. It's big news-- not to mention the perfect opportunity to offer all of one's wise advice! When number two comes along, it's still an exciting, noteworthy event for the general public, though with a little less luster than the first time such news broke. It is, after all, the expected thing in the course of forming the standard American family with 2.2 children.

This completed, however, the general appetite for baby news is sated and the pregnancy attention span takes a sudden dive. When number three comes along, especially of the same gender and appearance as the first two, let's just say that the public splash isn't quite so large. Mental Rolodexes for families seem to come with two official slots for children, and those are already filled. Number three's name may or may not get written on a post-it note to be pasted in. But, then! "An adopted child? From Ethiopia, you say? With such a poignant story, too-- have you heard? And a GIRL!" Middle-child sandwich.

Even beyond their grand entrances into the world, he jockeys for position: Boy #1 is not only #1, but he also has special needs. Boy #2 is busy excelling in many areas, and the Sister is just very busy being so notably girly and distinct in her other ways. He wants to hang with the big boys, yet he's just 18 months older than the baby, and gets grouped as a little one. When he does hang with the big boys, it's not always so easy to keep up. (Hence, the motto of little brothers everywhere: "If you can't join'em, beat'em-- or at least trash their stuff!")

He does well... but, poor guy! The effect is exacerbated by the fact that he looks so much like Boy #2. Sometimes people will see him apart from his brother, and assume he IS #2. Then they'll see him with all of the kids together, and out it comes: "Hi, girly Girl! Hi, Boy #1!" Pause for a double-take.... "Hey, what's up, Boy #2? And who is THIS?"

But this week! This week the big brothers have been away at camp. And so THIS? THIS is the big brother! The one who reads the little sister her bedtime story. The biggest boy in the house. The only one awake with mom during nap time. The one who gets to make a cool pirate ship model with all of mom's attention for himself. The snuggler, the sweet encourager, the helper, the voracious reader, the budding musician, the jokester... center stage, my little guy.

I love you, precious boy!

Drunken Slugs

2008-06-18T09:18:00.004-04:00

For this edition of Works For Me Wednesday, I'm sharing an oldie but a goodie.

If there is something wreaking havoc in your flower garden, it just might be slugs. Slugs often aren't easy to find, but one thing will bring them out of hiding readily: Beer. They like a good time.

Here's what you do:

1. Buy some beer. We don't drink it ourselves, so it requires a special trip to get it. Though we have debated whether slugs prefer lite beer vs. regular, or one brand vs. another, the slugs themselves have indicated no preference. Therefore, we have scientifically concluded that the very best kind of beer for attracting and pleasing slugs is Cheapest Brand in the Case.

2. Place a small, low saucer filled with beer in the garden. That's it. In the morning, you will find drunken little slugs. They will be dead drunken little slugs, but they will have died happily.

3. Repeat a few times, as often as you deem necessary.

It's all-natural.

The best thing about this method is that, once a year or so, someone in your house may utter a sentence like, "We need to buy some beer for our slugs," and that is mightily funny. You can also then go to your local beverage store and explain to the clerk that you are buying beer for your slugs. If you have a few extra minutes on your hands, you can also try to engage said poor clerk in discussion about which variety of beer today's slugs like best. This will give him something to talk about with his co-workers later, bringing them closer together. It's a win-win-win solution, and it works for me.

For more tips and ideas, click over to Rocks in My Dryer.

Jammin'

2008-06-15T19:01:00.013-04:00

Here it is. About twelve quarts of strawberry jam, ready to be eaten. (Less now, actually. We got started on it right away.)

Have you ever made freezer jam?

Until four years ago, I hadn't. Somehow I'd never even heard of it. I thought that to make jam, you had to do canning. Canning is scary to me. Granted, I enjoy the results. Mostly, though, it's associated with childhood memories I have of my mom's friend in her hot, steamy kitchen, on hot, steamy summer days, surrounded by boiling cauldrons, strange wire contraptions, and vast quantites of tomatoes. (I think raw tomatoes are scary, too.) It looked complicated, very uncomfortable, and even a little bit suspicious to me back then. I also suspected that, to do canning, you had to have your homesteading papers or at least be born before 1950. (That was before I met Mary at Owlhaven, of course. She has dispelled my myths. But I'm still not canning.)

Anyway, when I came across a recipe for strawberry jam that involved no unfamiliar contraptions or jars with parts, I just had to try it as soon as the next berry season came along. After making that first batch, my reaction was, "Wow! This is SOOO good!! And I cannot BELIEVE how easy it was! Why did I wait so long in life to try this? Why did no one tell me about this?!" I have since learned that this exact series of statements is the official, universal reaction of every first-time freezer jam maker.

Every year --until this one, I hope!--we have run out of jam before the next year's berry crop. It is a royal bummer felt 'round the household to have to go back to the store-bought stuff, with it's unnatural color and stale taste.

Just to emphasize how easy it is and how, yes, you, too, can do it: the very first year I made it, I picked berries with my 7 year old, 4 year old and crawling baby, went home, and then was able to make up a batch within the hour. And I'm not even close to supermom status. (Then I did laundry. 'Turned out they had watered the strawberry field just before we got there that year. It was muddy. Did I mention that my baby was a crawler at the time?)

You don't want to go through your whole life among the uninitiated, do you? That would be sad. You can make jam with other fruits and berries,too, and even get all gourmet with it, adding ingredients like crystallized ginger, grated lemon peel, or vermouth. There are recipes everywhere. So please, if you haven't ever tried it, be brave, find some fresh, ripe fruit, copy this recipe if it suits you, and go at it!

30-Minute Freezer Jam

Makes 6 cups

1 quart fully ripe strawberries
4 cups sugar
3/4 cup water
1 box Sure-Jell fruit pectin (available in most American grocery stores)
6 1-cup plastic containers (or whatever you have that's on the small side)

(Yes, 4 cups is a lot of sugar. That's how jam is. If you want to try the low-sugar jam, look for a special version of Sure Gel, and follow directions on the box. I'd like to try it next year.)

1. Rinse clean plastic containers with boiling water; dry thoroughly.

2. Wash strawberries and remove stems.

3. Crush strawberries thoroughly, one layer at a time. (I just stick'em in the blender.)

4. Measure exactly 2 cups of the crushed strawberries into a large bowl. Stir in sugar. Let stand 10 minutes, stirring occasionally.

5. Mix water and fruit pectin in a small saucepan. Bring mixture to a boil over high heat, stirring constantly. Continue boiling and stirring for one minute. (This whole step only takes a few minutes.)

6. Stir pectin mixture into fruit mixture. Stir constantly for a couple of minutes until sugar is thoroughly dissolved.

7. Quickly fill your containers to about 1/2 inch from the top. Wipe any drips off of the rims, and cover with lids right away.

8. Let stand at room temperature 24 hours, and it is ready to use. You can store it in the refrigerator for about 3 weeks, or in the freezer for up to a year.

Christ, Crosses, Community

2008-06-14T14:43:00.017-04:00

Several months ago I began reading Jennifer's blog, "Et Tu?" The Diary of a Former Atheist. Wow. A relatively recent convert to Jesus Christ, Jennifer thinks deeply about her faith and its applications to life in her world.

Whether you are a believer or not, whether you're new in faith or "old", browse the archives at "Et Tu?" for just a few minutes, and, no doubt, you will find something that intrigues, engages, challenges, or inspires you....

(Jennifer writes from a Catholic perspective, by the way. If you are accustomed to a Protestant style of worship, a few of her references may feel unfamiliar to you. You'll get over it. You'll be fine with just a few minor adjustments. The quotes and thoughts she uses from the writings of Saints who have walked with God before us? Think of them as quotes and thoughts from the writings of respected saints who have walked with God before us. See? Not so hard.)

Intentionally or not, with several of her more recent posts, she has explored and now wonderfully woven together ideas like hospitality, carrying your cross (the one that is already right in front of you) , embracing suffering and valuing life, and the nature and challenge of building modern community. She's totally onto something. I probably wouldn't do it justice if I attempted to summarize and synthesize it all here. I encourage you to visit, think, and participate if it interests you.

I do so admire the way Jennifer is continuing right onward toward maturity with the honest exploration and questioning that helped lead her to faith. For example, one of her recent posts was from her "Half-Baked Thoughts" file. (Let me say here that, if these were "half-baked", the thoughts that typically reside in my brain haven't even hit the bowl yet!) She discussed this statement:

"A culture that respects human life must have a joyful acceptance of human suffering."

The post was left open-ended with a list of questions for readers to discuss:

1. Why is it that fear of suffering leads to decreased respect for human life?

2. How does the fact that people increasingly deny the existence of a real, personal, evil force (Satan) factor into all this, if at all?

3.What about fearing other people's suffering (or potential suffering) on their behalf -- how can we be deeply compassionate and helpful without falling into the dangerous "your life isn't worth living" territory?

4.If there is a connection, what can we do? How does rethinking suffering factor into working towards turning around the trend of decreasing respect for the dignity of human life in the world today?

See what I mean? There's a whole lot of' thinking going on over there, "while {she's} folding laundry." I started with my answer to the first question, and ran out of time before even starting on the others.

Here's my take on the first one:

The more we fear suffering, the more we worship its rivals, Comfort and Convenience. Messy human lives can get mightily in the way of those twin gods, and so they are readily sacrificed on their alter.

In so many ways, by worshipping those gods instead of worshipping God and embracing our crosses, we end up devaluing human life. To keep ourselves from having to confront the suffering we fear and acknowledge its uncontrollable power over us. To stay comfortable and on our own terms, avoiding expense of either time or money...

Fear of suffering and worship of Comfort and Convenience make it easy for abortion or "euthanasia" in any form to seem like the right choice. It makes it seem acceptable to be rude to anyone who is in our way. And, ok, let's bring it down: worshipping comfort and convenience instead of embracing the cross right in front of us can lead a mom to act inhospitably to a "bothersome" neighbor child or lash out harshly at her kids when they interrupt her--again-- with problems.

Ouch.

But can you begin to see the outline of connection between all of those topics listed above, and the key to building community? No? Clear as mud? Do you see things differently?

If you'd like, head over to "Et tu?", think about it, pray about these things in your life, and add your thoughts to the discussion!

Feed Fix

2008-06-14T10:28:00.007-04:00

Dear Internet/modern technology in general,

I THINK that you have redeemed yourself in my eyes. I THINK that a site feed is working now. It's set at http://feeds.feedburner.com/blogspot/CdOX but http://greenkneesocks.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default?alt=rss seems to be the one that's working. This is for Bloglines only. Google still does not like me.

You know that I have a love/hate relationship with you already. Yes, what with the way you purport to make my life simple and save me oodles of time, and then cost me untold hours and hours to figure you out, fix your "bugs", and handle your mood swings. With the way you promise to connect me to other people, and then prevent me from interacting with a single soul in public, as they chat on their cell phones, tap on their keyboards, and text.

Nevertheless, you came through this time. And I do truly love all of the wonderful people you introduce me to, bringing them right into my own dining room to chat, share, discuss, inspire, encourage, and sometimes enrage, but often in a good way.

So, thank you.

But don't do it again.

With Advil,

Marian

Oh, how many feet you meet!

2008-06-12T15:30:00.015-04:00

Some women have pretty feet. Small, slender, smooth, pedicured, free of bumpy blue varicose veins that were the special gift of her gestating third child but she doesn't hold it against him... you know, pretty feet.

I do not have pretty feet. In this season of full foot revelation, mine really do require the colorful flourish of a little polish on the toes to Keep America Beautiful, or at least a Little Less Horrifying. It's mid-June already, and I have not yet taken time to complete this act of public service!

So tonight, instead of blogging, I'm going to finally break out the callous scraper thingie and my bottle of Cover Girl "Megawatt Mauve". (Tomorrow I'll post pictures of the whole process... Kidding! Kidding!! Please, come back!) After that I'll use all of the strawberries I picked yesterday to make freezer jam, a product which also makes the world a more wonderful place.

So, to be clear, what you are seeing here is NOT a blog post (A whole post about painting my toenails? Goodness, no. How vapid!) I will not be posting today. I might as well let you know at this point, Internet, that I will not be a post-a-day kind of girl. It may happen sometimes, but, over the long haul, my guess is that I'm more likely to be the kind of blogger Bloglines was made for.

I've been surprised by how many people still are not familiar with feed-readers like Bloglines and Google. They are such a convenient tool for keeping up with posted material, and I can't imagine online life without them! A few of my favorite blogging people only emerge from daily life once a week or less to post something, and it's so nice to pick up with them without missing a beat. I admire them for finding the blogging balance that works for them. I don't know what mine will be yet.

I humbly invite you, Internet friends, if you'd ever like to keep up with me and let me get to know you better, to subscribe here with one of the buttons. Subscibing does not mean that you are converting to my worldview or agreeing to come babysit my kids every Friday night (though that would be very nice and most welcome). I've been known to subscribe in places that I've been made aware of and intend to try, but haven't yet read even once!

Anyway, back to priorities. Toes first? Or jam-making? Hmm... Jam, I think. I'll smudge the toes if they're not done last.

(See? With such scintillating material here, how could you NOT want to visit again?)

p.s. Debbie, this non-post is dedicated to you, feet and all! Please come visit sometime with the kids. You can check out my polish job in person.

Kumon, try them!

2008-06-11T14:36:00.009-04:00

My first "Works for Me Wednesday"! For a couple of years now I've been gleaning from the helpful ideas offered by women all over the blogosphere via this carnival, hosted by Shannon at Rocks In My Dryer. It's high time that I ante up and share something, too.

I'll tell you what's working for me-- working right this very minute, in fact, enabling me to take a few minutes to write a quick blog post. My Book of Pasting Jigsaw Puzzles (for ages 4 -6), and Let's Cut Paper! (ages 2 and up) , both from Kumon.

I've walked by these books in the past and thought, "Good grief. Aren't parents creative enough to give their children paper and a glue stick anymore?" I've always let my little ones practice cutting and pasting with the basics, drawing zigzags and curves for them to cut, or just working free form. It's been fine, and I'm still all for it. Sometimes we get little sticky works of art, and sometimes we just get lots of paper all over the floor, with lots of glue everywhere else. At their ages, they can lose direction and interest, though, if I'm not right there with them, participating.

But these books have been great, even for more independent play! I really like how the puzzle book has purpose, direction and interest built right in. A kid can cut out the puzzle pieces (in increasingly challenging shapes), have a defined place to paste them in the book after solving the puzzle, and have a finished product that is easy to appreciate. The Let's Cut Paper! book adds color, fun and purpose for even the littlest snippers, also increasing in difficulty through the book.

If you could use a little spice in your young ones' repetoire, these books may be a nice addition. They work for me!

Consider the Peonies

2008-06-10T23:23:00.027-04:00

Do you have peonies blooming where you live? Do they look anything like this?

This is what they looked like all over town today, after last night's rainstorm. I'd say their time is done.

Peonies have always struck me as a rather tragic lot.

No, seriously.

They burst forth in the early summer with big, bright, bold blossoms, full of promise and beauty, ready to glorify their creator with all of their splendor. Then, with the very first shower of rain, they bend and droop down low, unable to lift their heavy heads again under the weight of the little drops of water left upon them. Even with moderate support, they droop. Though they grow together as a bush, it seems that only vigilant care and individual staking of each flower could prevent this from happening.

The sad thing is that they never really recover from this. Even after the rain passes and the water dries, they just can't seem to lift their heads. They just spend the rest of the brief time they have to bloom upon the earth in this sad state, a big, brilliant array of petals facing downward, until they finally wither and fall off in the later storms.

After the first rain, I always cut and gather a few, gently shaking off the droplets of water, so that instead of following the path of the others outside, they can live out their days doing this in my kitchen:

Looking at them today, it occured to me that peonies kind of remind me of... myself.

How easily I take on lies, allowing them to sit on my petals instead of shaking them off! They come as little droplets from the constant shower of whispered thoughts that rush through my head. With an accumulation of surprisingly few drops, I'm soon hanging my sorry head, looking nothing like the blooming creation I was designed to be. Even with other blooms and low stakes supporting me loosely, sometimes I cannot seem to recover.

I do not want to spend my vapor of a life defeated, falling apart, and not living up to the beautiful promise that has been placed within me by God's mercy! I need to be aware of the showers and the power of just a few drops. I need to shake off each little drop when it lands. I need firm staking supporting me, and to wholly cling to it when I become burdened with lies.

Jenni, at One Thing, wrote about this battle of the mind and spirit just the other day, punctuating it with a stunning video. I encourage you to take a few moments to watch it. As she mentions, these church dramatizations can sometimes be a little schmaltzy, yet the striking visual image has such a powerful effect. I have BEEN that young woman in the presentation. I could feel the emotions vividly with her-- the pain of realizing that you have been slowly lulled, deceived and trapped in a pit deeper than you ever imagined was there, being yanked and pulled and mocked, desperately wanting to get back, yet ultimately powerless to do so on your own... I don't ever want to be her again.

I am so grateful that there is a loving gardener who mercifully cuts me from my bowing stem and gently shakes off the clinging droplets, who will provide me with the water and sunshine I so desperately need to live and bloom, and who graciously allows me a place in his house where I might again have the opportunity to bring glory and pleasure to him, the one who valued and rescued me.

Wardrobe Malfunction

2008-06-09T22:36:00.007-04:00

Lately I've been finding a lot of my 3 year old daughter's underwear strewn around. It turns out that she has been having a little problem.

No, it's not what you think. They're dry and clean. Just colorful little trails of fresh Doras, Elmos, Kitties, Monkeys or Plain Pinks between her room and the hallway mirror where she now prefers to dress and check her look.

Today I found out what's been going on. Apparently she started to notice that sometimes, when she puts her underwear on, it's backwards. Being smart like she is, she easily figured out the obvious solution to this matter: she must find and put on a pair that is NOT backwards. Back to the drawer she would go, in search of a forwards pair of underwear. Unfortunately, sometimes those pairs turned out to be the backwards kind, too.

Don't you just hate it when you reach into your drawer for a pair of undies and all that's left are the backwards kind?

My Boy of Summer

2008-06-07T22:16:00.015-04:00

Something special happened last week. It was both overwhelmingly joyous and overwhelmingly sad for this Mommy, so if you sense the splash of my tears on the keyboard, just know it’s one of those. Happy... or sad... or probably both together. This story actually has many facets, and there are larger, related issues that will surely propel me into other posts, so... so... in a burst of creative brilliance, I’ll just weave all of that introduction together and call this...

Part One

As I mentioned yesterday, my eldest son has some disabilities. This spring, seemingly out of nowhere, he had the desire to play baseball on a team. This sudden interest in baseball was an eyebrow-raiser, met internally with cautious skepticism and mixed emotions, but he was so enthusiastic and eager to try it that we just had to consent.

He’s on a team of 11 and 12 year old boys, one of the three teams fielded as an outreach of an urban ministry here. A majority of the kids in this ministry’s programs live in the inner city. Many come from some tough situations at home, and some can be a little rough around the edges. (My older boys have spent the past two summers at day camp through this ministry, giving them the invaluable experience of being daily in an environment where they are the extreme minority race, but that’s a post for another day.)

Now, you might not think that this particular group of competitive 11 to 12 year-old boys would be prime soil for inclusion of a kid with significant differences in physical ability. The primary goals in this baseball program are a little different than most, though. They aim to create a loving atmosphere, in which respect for teammates, coaches, other teams, umpires and equipment is placed far above winning games in importance. They accept and support my son, valuing him for the things he does bring to the team, without begrudging him the one or two outs he adds to the tally each game.

Every player is guaranteed to get at least one turn per game at bat and out in the field. As the team hasn’t been doing so well, he often gets two or more turns. Seeing his differences (a coach steps up with him, for one), most opposing coaches opt to signal their pitchers to slow down. The resulting high lobs can actually be harder to hit than straight pitches -- Imagine yourself swinging at a ball a good foot above your head... There. See what I mean? -- but he’s not likely to get out of the way of any errant fast pitches, so we’re not protesting to change this anytime soon! In any case, as of last week, he hadn’t gotten a hit all season. Not even close.

At last week’s game, the team was having their best game of the season by far. It was going to be a one-turn night for my boy. As he got up to bat, we were narrowly hanging onto a lead, there were two runners on base, and two outs already. “Oh, no, Lord. I wish he wasn’t in this particular position...” I thought. “Wouldn’t it be amazing for him to experience getting a hit, even just once this year?” my heart added.

To be continued...