Where Are We?

A Library For Jubilee

2011-10-04T13:24:00.000-07:00

     I have a new project!

     As many of you know, I've spent some quality time in Haiti, specifically in a little village called Jubilee Blanc. My dear friend Doreen started a school there a few years ago, and they now have over 100 students who are learning in a classroom environment for the first time. If you'd like to know more about Jubilee Blanc, or the Jubilee School, or any of the projects that are currently running there, visit these sites:

   http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Jubilee-School/142467549148002?sk=wall the official facebook page for Jubilee School

http://love4haiti.blogspot.com/ a blog written by people that are permanently on the field in Haiti

http://jubileeschool-selah.blogspot.com the Jubilee school blog

Doreen- school founder, stateside administrator, beautiful human being

A thought that has been on my heart for awhile now- these children are learning to read, but they have nothing there for them to read! I want to give Jubilee a library.

Now I'm no Carnegie, but I figured that it couldn't be too terribly hard to get a collection of children's books together to ship to Jubilee. As it turns out, I'm right. And aren't I always?

Dreams coming true- the school at Jubilee

Shower The People You Love With Love

2011-09-28T06:49:00.000-07:00

     I'm curious. How many of you regularly receive a message, say from an old friend, that in just a few words affirms your beliefs, complements your abilities, and finds your life's work worthwhile and meaningful?

     Yeah, thought so. Me neither. I have loads of people in my life who do the most incredible things, and yet I never think to sit down and take a moment to just let them know how immense their influence is in my world.

     A few weeks ago, a dear friend of mine decided to let me in on what he thought about my life, and I have to admit, it was quite a gift. From the moment I was first reading it, I wanted to post it here. Not wanting to appear the ever self-congratulating narcissist, I kept it to myself.

     So here is my idea. I am a newbie blogger and I don't have a blogroll or memes or even a decent method of leaving comments, but lets just bear with that and give this a try.

     Write someone a letter. Write it to a person in your world who just might not know how influential, inspirational, or just downright awesome they are to you. It doesn't have to be lengthy or well written- just get to the point. Tell me about it in a comment. If you like, post it on your blog and you can leave a link to it in your comment. Tweet it, facebook it, stumbleupon it, whatever you like. Just let someone know today that you think their life matters, and tell them why.

     And as an example, I'll post an excerpt from the letter I got. At his request, I am referring to the author as Humpty Dumpty.

Jemima, “people” don’t do what you have done. “People” don’t listen. “People” don’t hear that voice that tells them what they should be doing with their lives. You, on the other hand, did just that. In organized religion, they have a word for that – vocation, from the Latin “vocatio”, or calling. But you already know all this, don’t you? You got your calling, and didn’t shy away from it. That is what makes you Jemima.
     I am sure you would agree with me that you and I probably share very few “religious” beliefs. I have a feeling, though, that we would find that we have many socio-cultural values in common. I chose to help you guys out because I love the fact that your mission has such a strong social base. I respect that immensely. I also know that if more folks who preach religion were to put their preaching into practice like you, Rooster and Cricket do, the world would be an immensely better place. . .
      . . . I have a feeling that you and I share this one, very simple thing. As I have grown to know you a little through our exchanges, and through your blog, I have realized that like me, you don’t struggle with the whys, hows and wherefores. You simply love.
      The contexts in which you and I apply this most simple of messages could not be more different. But the outcome is the same. We sow the seeds that blossom into expressions of love. People will believe the message that you bring them, Jemima. They won't believe it because you express it well, or because you "sell” it to them. They will believe your message because it will not be made up of empty words, rhetoric, smoke and mirrors. They will see that you live it day by day, and fully. That, my friend is the ultimate sales strategy.
-Humpty Dumpty

     There are no words for how this little message impacts me. So often, I assume people see me as I see myself- the ill-equipped, bumbling, stumbling gypsy on a quest that I haven't fully defined. He hit the proverbial nail on the head about what I actually want people to see in me. I'm grateful.

     So go spread a little love today by letting someone know that they matter, and then come back here and tell me about it.

Letter photo courtesy of Dave Di Biase.

Hands photo courtesy of Stephen Eastop.

The Day The World Met Cricket (This Is NOT A Birth Story)

2011-09-21T06:29:00.000-07:00

     Ten years ago on this very day, my darling Cricket was born. Hooray! Ten years. Where does the time go? Today will quite possibly be the busiest day, what with
taking cupcakes to his class and making a birthday cake (ice cream sandwich cake with caramels, just like he asked for, 'cause that's how I roll)
and prepping for his first football scrimmage of the season tonight,
and the dinner for nine I'm doing tomorrow...

I need a nap already.

     Just think, in 14 days, I'll do it all over again for Rooster's birthday...
and then there'll be the Great In-Between Birthday Party Bash (a name Rooster gave it because we always have a party for both of them somewhere in between the 14 days, and it stuck).

      Somewhere amidst all this ruckus of frosting and cheesy poofs and pointy hats and streamers is my birthday, nestled neatly in the middle of the Fourteen Days of Birthday Madness. HINT HINT

     I'm telling you all of this to say that I am NOT giving you a blow-by-blow account of my three day labor and delivery of Cricket, fascinating though it may be. Time is short. However, I will tell you one teensy story from that day.

     Did I mention that I was in labor for three days? THREE DAYS? I got to know a few labor and delivery nurses during those 72 hours. I really respect the work that they do. It isn't easy dealing with a woman like me in one of the most uncomfortable (and that is the understatement of the year) situations of my life. One of them could only aptly be described as a crabapple. Crumudgeon doesn't do her justice. She was an old, crabby, ate an under-ripe persimmon for breakfast piece of work. In hindsight, I should have prayed for her. But did I mention that I was in labor for THREE DAYS? I was in a highly narcissistic mood.

     So out pops Cricket at the speed of light (dismiss the irony, I know), into the arms of a nurse to scrub him down, and as I lay back I realize who the nurse that got to touch the skin of my child for the very first time happened to be... It's none other than Nurse Ratchet. I'm too tired to register my disappointment until she's swiping away, and what does Cricket do during his first moments on earth?

     He pees in her face.

     And he's had his momma's back ever since.

     I love that boy. Happy birthday Cricket.

Photo Courtesy of Juliet Belasyse-Smith.

Then and Now

2011-09-14T18:29:00.000-07:00

     The difference between then, when I said yes, and now, when I say nothing is 16 years, eight months, and 21 days.

     When I said yes, I said yes to whispered good-mornings and late night kisses. When I said yes, I said yes to summer vacations at the beach and Christmases by firesides.

     I said yes to cooking dinner, washing laundry, scrubbing floors, making beds. I said yes to washing bottles, changing diapers, wiping noses, kissing boo-boos. I said yes to growing waistlines, sagging skin, graying hair, aching knees.

     When I said yes, I said yes to a life lived safely within the walls of only one person's heart. When I said yes, I said yes to him.

     I knew these things. What I didn't know (and how can anyone know?) is to what else I'd said yes.

     Yes, he'll notice my weight, and yes, I'll notice him noticing.

     Yes, he'll stay late at work and yes, I'll wonder.

     Yes, he'll flirt with the neighbor, and yes, I'll doubt.

     I'll doubt when he tells me that he doesn't regret getting married.

     I'll doubt when he tells me that he still finds me attractive.

     I'll doubt when he tells me he's just going out with the guys.

     And I'll doubt she exists up until the moment that I see her face and realize with a clarifying horror that all of my doubts were real.

     But I said yes, right?

     So then I also said yes to mortification, to fear, to public humiliation, to starting over without the confidence of a young love.

     But I said yes, and I meant it.

     So now when he's knocking on the door, sitting down in the kitchen, and telling me that someone else said yes,
     I say nothing.

     I can't say it again.

     Eight million, seven hundred eighty five thousand four hundred fourty minutes ago, I said yes. And the difference between then and now is now while I'm watching him walk away, I'm silently breathing another word.

     No.

Turn And Face The Strange Changes

2011-09-14T11:49:00.000-07:00

     I'm breaking another one of my unwritten rules of blogging. When I started this thing, I said I'd never ever under any circumstances write about my ex husband, Rooster and Cricket's father. Our lives together and our divorce were private, and frankly, it was painful enough the first time around, so why on earth did I want to go and rehash it for everyone else? This week has changed my mind.

     I've known that my capacity for spoken thought is quite underwhelmed by my ability to express myself in writing. I just can't get it out when I talk. There isn't enough time to think when you're talking. And this is something I need to talk about, even if it is with my virtual friends on a computer screen (see how important you are?). I can't get this out, period.

     I need to talk about my ex husband asking someone else to marry him.

     I asked my followers on twitter the other night what I should have said in reply when he told me his big news. They made me laugh at a time when I thought I might just die. I am grateful for what they said:
     "Can I come to the wedding? And throw rocks?"

     "Well isn't that special?"

      "and why the fart are you telling me this? I don't give a flying fart whose life you ruin!" (Ok, I edited that last one, just a teensy bit.)

     I needed a laugh in a really bad way, but here's the point- the one rule I'm not going to break is talking ugly about the father of my children publicly. So I'm asking you to help me out with this and post tons of comments, but make sure that they won't humiliate my children in front of the world.

     I've also been wracking my brain since Monday morning to come up with an idea for a writing contest running this week. As well as being highly cathartic for me, my next post will be my official entry into the Writer's Week Writing Contest hosted by Suess's Pieces, and if you like, you can read more about that here. http://blog.emilysuess.com/2011/09/12/writers-week-writing-contest/    I'll post it a little while before it's due, so please feel free to comment if you notice anything technically wrong with it- I'd really appreciate that actually.

     I'm more nervous about this post than anything I've ever written for obvious reasons. I'm also nervous about the style. It isn't really me to write "heavy-handed." I enjoy the fact that my pieces are light hearted and easy, with maybe a little random seriousness thrown in just to prove that an adult actually writes this stuff. I'm excited to try something new, but I'm not too proud to mention that I'm scared. Help me out here, guys.

Tap Taps: Ride Them, Love Them, Paint Them Wacky

2011-09-07T13:56:00.000-07:00

     A lot of my regular readers actually know me. They know how much I love Haiti, and some of them have actually been with me. I have been really honored to serve in such a country. The people of Haiti teach me so much about how to live.

     So lookey lookey at what I found! I am so excited to find a book about one of my favorite things in Haiti- the tap tap!

    For those of you who don't know, a tap tap is a Haitian cross between a bus and a taxi. It is usually a pick-up truck with an enclosed bed. Two benches run the length of it, and you can cram a TON of people in one. The reason they call it a tap tap? To the best of my knowledge, you get into the back of one, and when you want to get off, you tap tap on the roof. I love, love, love me some Haiti.

     I'm not giving a review on this book, because I just found it, but it is written by one of the same authors that wrote Four Feet, Two Sandals. It should prove to be a special find for those of us who love Haiti and want to share it with the little ones in their world.

Four Feet, Two Sandals

2011-09-07T05:18:00.000-07:00

     Four Feet, Two Sandals, written by Karen Lynn Williams and Khadra Mohammed and illustrated by Doug Chayka, is a refugee story set in Peshawar, a border town in Pakistan. The story is inspired, according to the authors, by a real-life refugee girl who asked why there were no books about people like her.

     The story is about two little girls who meet in a refugee camp in Peshawar, after fleeing with what was left of their families from Afghanistan. Neither of the girls have shoes, and when they find one pair that fits both of them, they decide to share the shoes, and develop a friendship.

     It can be assumed that the descriptions of daily life for a refugee are accurate, because the authors themselves have worked with this same refugee people group in the United States and in Pakistan. Although accurate, the story is designed for first world children, so it is a soft introduction to the plight of refugees that is appropriate for young readers.

     I especially appreciated the author's note on the final page, which answers the question, "What is a refugee?" For parents interested in teaching their children about a rather large and particularly vulnerable segment of our global society, this is a good starting point.

     It is worth noting that the story does not refer to the children as "refugees." You may wish to point out that people prefer to be known by their names, not by labels. The book does an excellent job of creating individuality out of a mass group.

     There is an online guide, meant for teachers, that is worth reading. It discusses the story's themes and suggests questions to ask your children that will better their understanding of the book, and how they can relate it to their own lives.
http://www.karenlynnwilliams.com/files/sandals_guide.pdf

     I like the book, enough said. The information aspects are important to me, and they are things that I want my children to know. The artwork is engaging. It isn't as colorful as most children's books, but it depicts the landscape of the region, the ethnic dress of the people, and their home surroundings accurately.

     For those of you who are disclosurites, let me restate what I've said in my last post. The opinions expressed here are my own. I am not paid by Amazon or anyone else to express them. I do, however, get a commission from the sale of the book if it is bought through the Amazon links posted here.

A New Blog, A New Me.

2011-09-05T14:56:00.000-07:00

     I started this blog with a few things in mind.

     I wanted a place to chronicle my family's year of transition from the "at home" family to the "living abroad, working for God" family. I wanted a way to keep all of our stories, good and bad, in front of us, and I liked the idea of the accountability that having an audience would provide.

     I wanted to stop writing the dreaded newsletter email. You know what I'm talking about. The opus that some families send out a few times a year with what seems like every detail of their lives crammed into, oh, a few thousand words. The people in my field of work are famous for them. And most of them get deleted before they're ever even opened. Why? Because they're boring. Here we are, in some of the most exciting places on earth, doing the most exciting work on earth, if I do say so myself, and we're boring you to tears.

     It is my dearest wish to stop this madness.

     Next on my list- Every now and then, someone asks me how they can contribute to our  Work, and it was suggested that I have a spot online somewhere with a paypal donate button. It's over there>>> to the right of this article. Check one thing off the to-do list, pat Jemima on the back. So if you do ever feel the need to help out our Work, feel free to avail yourself of this service, and I am much obliged to you.

     That was really it. The only things I wanted to do with a blog. I had absolutely No Flippin Idea what was out there in the world of Blogdom. I discovered rather quickly that there were other avenues I could be taking, and those of you who've been around since the beginning have seen how I've played a bit with it.

     Anyhoo, I've made a few decisions, and I'm very pleased to announce that I am now an associate for Amazon Affiliates. What does this mean? It means that from time to time you will see ads for products sold on Amazon.com. If you click on the link, and purchase ANYTHING from Amazon, I'll get a commission from it. This goes for most of the ads on my blog, but they are run by Google, so it's a different story altogether. It also means that I am going to get to do something very near and dear to my heart. . .

     I'm going to start writing book reviews.

     I'll be starting with a series of children's book reviews- six story books written about children who live in different places all over the world. It is of extreme importance to me to raise my children to recognize, understand, and appreciate different cultures everywhere. These books are for parents who have similar desires for their own children.

     Of course, at the end of every review will be a link to the book. The proceeds will support our family in the Work that we do. Questions? Please ask.

     And don't worry, I'll review my own faves as well. They won't all be children's books.

     Want a sneak-peak at the first book? It's up in the left corner of this post. Go ahead, I won't tell.

     Anybody know of a great book they'd like me to review?

Photo courtesy of Mateusz Żdanko.

Rooster in the Road!

2011-08-29T11:40:00.000-07:00

My Rooster. I just love him to PIECES. He says the darnedest things.

     Wait, is darnedest a word? Have I spelled it right?

    Regardless, we've had the darnedest day, he and I.

     It all started with a phone call. From a number I didn't recognize. Cricket's voice on the other end. Just minutes after they both headed off to the school bus stop. This couldn't be good.

     "Hey, well if Rooster doesn't make it home in the next 30 minutes, you have to come get him now."

     "Cricket, is that you? Where are you? What's going on? Are you alright?"

     "It's not ME Mom, it's Rooster. You have to come get him, he fell down. Oh wait, he's getting up. Nevermind." Click.

     So if this was a conversation with your child that would freak you out, you're in good company. I was a little freaked. But you must also realize that conversations like this are not unusual around here, living in the nuthouse. I've been working really hard on not over-reacting to weird junk like this. Take for example: When Cricket was about three, he'd been rehearsing for three months at church on Wednesday nights for the preschool Christmas pageant. I was informed that every child would have a costume made for them by a team of talented ladies at the church, no problems. A few weeks before the big day, I started asking questions... What did I need to do? Nothing, it's taken care of. Seriously, what do I need to be doing to get ready for this? Absolutely nothing. Don't worry about it, just show up.

     And show up I did. There was no costume. I started asking around. I got blank stares. I was asked if I'd gotten their emails and letters. Uh, well no, I wouldn't have been asking every week if I needed to be doing anything if there had been letters and emails. I was asked if he had been at the rehearsals every week. Uhm, yes, all but one in three months. They had no record of him being there.

     What?

     So any reasonable person would have thought that this was a terrible clerical error. But I was looking around this room of maybe 25 kids, with ALL of these teachers and thinking-- how on EARTH could they not remember a child being here for all of these months? I know it's not an easy job, but COME ON! So my mind went where no mom's mind ever wants to go. Someone had been taking my son out of that room for an hour every Wednesday night and no one knew it. WHO had been doing it, and WHY? And Could Someone PLEASE Just Tell Me Where He's Been All This Time?

     Sanity entered stage left in the form of our children's pastor, who had been at many of the rehearsals and seen him there. And slowly but surely, the women who had actually been in charge started coming around and assuring me that he had indeed been there, but somehow he'd just been left off of the list. I felt like the idiot. Because I'd acted like an idiot. In front of a lot of people.

     To their credit, the costume ladies had him in a costume by the time the program began. Evidently, there is a fourth wise man that no one knows about. He wore a Burger King crown, an old gold colored choir robe with a blue sash, and carried a green glass vase as his gift to the baby in the hay. And he knew every word to all of the songs, so we know quite well that he was in rehearsals. Whew.

     All that to say, I've been doing my Ever Best to not overreact until I've gotten all of the facts. Sometimes it happens, more often than not, it doesn't. So I tried to just laugh off the conversation with Cricket this morning and continue on my merry way. Have I mentioned that I'm also trying not to humiliate Rooster any more than necessary either? No? Didn't get that impression from previous posts? Well I am. Trying.

     Then my neighbor showed up at my house. With Rooster. Looks like he found him sprawled in the middle of the road, and he couldn't get around him with the car, so he got him up and brought him home. What a good Samaritan! I tried really hard not to think about the fact that he'd just come home in the car of a man that he didn't know, but I did, and we had to have a little talk. But I didn't overreact. Which is important for you to know.

     It was a mild sprain. He'd tripped and fallen, it hurt, and he just wasn't getting up. Even for the neighbor's car. That's my boy. He gets it from his mamma.

     On the advice of my brother, medical expert extraordinaire, I took him to the immdediate care clinic and got it x-rayed. Sprained, not broken. Splint, not crutches. He was so disappointed.

     "You wanted it to be broken? Why?"

      "I just wanted the wheelchair. I like it."

     Oh, Rooster. What am I going to do with you?

     More things he's saying:
   We were listening to the radio in the car and he found that Maroon 5 song about moving like Jagger (and I'm thinking, with a walker, maybe?). He likes it. I asked him if he or his friends even knew who "Jagger" is. His reply, " That guy from that band." What band? "Mick Jagger and the Other Guys."

     He is obsessed with weather and stays glued to the Weather Channel.  Lately he randomly yells, "Irene, you old blowhard!"

     Sigh. Smile. That's my Rooster.

Photo courtesy of Julie Elliott-Abshire.

Looking Back. Good Times. Spots On Berber.

2011-08-25T07:29:00.000-07:00

     You know, I'm really liking this blogging thing. I rarely write anything anymore, and now I have the perfect excuse to think something through- to create something new as often as I feel led. It's quite the creative outlet and I've become a bit emotionally bonded to it. Already. It makes me feel... Oh I don't know. I can't stand touchy-feely let'stalkaboutourmotivations moments anyway. Cutting to the chase-

     I stumbled across a rare piece of writing I did about three years ago, when my kiddokis and I were first beginning our journey as field harvester extraordinaires. I had forgotten what prompted it. I'd had a rush of mixed emotions right at the last minute, and I couldn't verbalize what was happening very well.

     So I wrote about it. It's what so many of us who enjoy writing do. When we can't get it out of our mouths, we write. And I did. I'm so glad I did, because not only had I totally forgotten about this little episode in our lives, but I now have a chance to look back. I can gauge where I'm going by looking at where I've been, both physically and with writing.

     And here it is, dated December 20, 2008.

    We leave in ten days. Ten days to pack three lifetimes into three suitcases. Ten days to distribute the cast-offs, the leave-behinds, the junk we never needed anyway. Today Cricket and Rooster attended school for the last time before we go. The other children will go back in a few weeks, they won't. They accepted it better than I did.

     The decision to go wasn't hard. It was what God wanted from us, and it sounded so thrilling, so adventurous. Who wouldn't want to leave this life behind and go to the Great Elsewhere? I've been confounded by the surprise of others- people who were shocked, people who would never do such a thing. Why? Why would you want a normal life? Somewhere in the last few weeks I began to understand. I became afraid. I resisted change. I am normal after all. Who'd a thunk it?

     For someone who really isn't doing much to celebrate Christmas this year, I sure am busy. Cleaning out a house takes all of my strength, mostly in the thinking-about-it stages. I am constantly remembering things that must be done. This weekend is carpet cleaning. I am going to get every little grubby spot out of the floor. I rent from my mother. I want this place left as clean as I can get it. While the rugs dry, I'll sort the clothes in the laundry room that don't have a place yet. I have baskets- too small, save for next year, Goodwill, give to so-and-so because her son is size thus-and-such... I swear they are breeding.

     I am comforted by the fact that much of this slumbering domesticity will be left behind when I enter the New World. I'll be living in one room with Rooster and Cricket, and there won't be much more than sleeping bags, suitcases, and clothes to care for. I loathe housekeeping. I'll be a much better parent without so many household duties. I'll be taking care of my kids, instead of taking care of their stuff.

     I've got fun stuff to tell about leaving, things much more exciting than laundry and spots on berber. It's just that right now, it's just talk. What am I doing now? I'm letting go of an old life, burying the past, and like any funeral, it's not fun. I'll let you know when this part ends.

Photo courtesy of Jane Cleary.

Gimme A Ticket For An Aeroplane...

2011-08-22T10:04:00.000-07:00

     Yes, you could say I've done a bit of traveling. Compare me to a business traveler and I come up sorely lacking in frequent flyer miles, but compare me to most, and I'm a gate-hanging diva. I know my American Airlines frequent flyer number by heart. God has given me some very unique opportunites, and I've learned that when He gives you an opportunity, you should take it, because God doesn't do boring. On the contrary, it's more like wild monkey fun. And I do mean wild monkeys.

     I've been asked, quite often now, how I get the best airfare for our many splendid adventures, so I thought it might be of some interest to you to take you through the wild and wooly adventure of purchasing airfare to our greatest pond hop to date- our trip to Perth, Australia. In 2009, which was actually the beginning of our family journeyfortheglory, the three of us said goodbye to family, friends, toys, wedding china, furniture, and seperate bedrooms. We set out for six months of training with Youth With A Miss--n at the Perth base in Western Australia. So the end of 2008 brought a season of education for me- on how to wrangle every last discount out of an airline, because hey, they're wrangling every last dime out of me, right?

     My evening looked like this: get Rooster and Cricket some sustenance vaguely resembling dinner, attempt a load of laundry, watch an episode of something on Nickelodeon with the kiddokis, give said kiddokis a tub-dunking and hope they don't stink by morning, get them into bed, and spend the next two hours online squeezing every last drop of information from the internet about airfare.

     What a life.

     I did learn a trick or two. One is that complete trust in God always bears fruit, even if you can't see it at the time. Two is that banging your head and suppressing naugty words does absolutely no good (don't bang your head on anything, and go ahead and say the naugty words. Quietly. Where no one can hear you). And three? When all else fails, if you happen to have a brother with an attitude and a penchant for getting through to people on telephones when no one else can, go ahead and let him call the airlines- I dare ya!

     Down to business- How do I recommend finding the cheapest airfares? Sigh. There is no method that seems to work best every time. Any time that you want to find a deal on anything, block off a good deal of time to spend researching the internet first, and have realistic expectations. A $500 roundtrip flight from Jacksonville to Perth does not exist, believe me.

     First, know your fares. As soon as you have a destination in mind, go to every travel website you can find and search the available fares. Many of them will now compare several sites for you, which can cut down on a little of the legwork- use them. Start noticing which airlines offer the lowest rates. Write them down. While you're at it, take a look at alternate airports. Driving a few hours away to an airport with different flight availability can save hundreds of dollars. Case in point: the last time I checked airfare to Port Au Prince, a flight from Jacksonville cost over $700, but a flight from Orlando (2.5 hours south of Jacksonville) was less than $350. Even with the cost of gas and parking, you can come out ahead. Don't get too carried away with this. On this same trip, flying out of Miami cost about $300, but it meant a total of around 8 hours each way in the car. Saving an extra $50? Not really worth it.

     So once you know which airlines look the best, go straight to that particular airline's website and look up their published fares. With only one exception, I have absolutely always found the best prices directly from the airlines themselves, not on the travel websites. This is only not true when you need to book a hotel and a rental car too. Typically when you book all three, you pay the regular price for your airline ticket, and next to nothing for the hotel and rental car. So these sites can be worthwhile, but not typically for the work we do.

     Next, backtrack your route. I went online and searched for all of the airlines that flew out of the airport in Perth.   It turned out that there was a no-frills budget airline called Tiger Air that flew from Perth to Singapore at dirt cheap prices. So in the end, I booked our flights from Jacksonville to Singapore on American Airlines. Singapore just happened to be about as far away as they flew at a reasonable price. It seems that taking a code sharing flight with another airline makes prices rise significantly. Then I booked a flight to Perth from Singapore on Tiger Air.

     The savings? Over $1000. That was worthwhile. And our family got a 16 hour layover in Singapore- one of my favorite places on earth! Think of it as an Asian Orlando, except way cheaper. We checked our luggage at the airport and hit the town for a day of shopping and fantastic food, complete with a nap and a shower at a really cute local hotel. Hey, when you're flying for three days with two kids, a shower and a bed is gold, pure gold. The price of a day's worth of food, souvenirs, and the hotel? Less than $100 for the three of us. Between the educational aspects of visiting another foreign city and the chance to relax, the stopover in Singapore would have been worth it without the airfare savings.

     I think I have the "Extreme Airline Travel" covered for today. What about you? I'm always looking for the latest tips. Got some for me? What are your favorite lessons about traveling?

Photo courtesy of Christian Großekathöfer.

Really The Same But Different

2011-08-16T06:45:00.000-07:00

     I learned something today.

     Stop. No Laughing.

     I am attempting to familiarize myself with more British slang before our family makes the big leap o'er the waters- just to keep from completely humiliating ourselves. It's just one of those things I'm doing for fun to keep myself amused and also to stay motivated when I'm bogged down in the hows and whys of constant fundraising. This morning, completely by chance, I stumbled across an article on the difference between pants and trousers.

     It seems that we Americans call the thingies that cover our legs from waist to ankles "pants" and the British refer to them as "trousers." Now this wouldn't be so bad, except for the fact that the thingies that Americans prefer to call "underwear" is what the Brits refer to as "pants."
     And all this time I thought the word was knickers.

     This could very well lead to some troubling moments for our family.

     Quite a few years ago, we were all settled in front of the tv, dutifully watching some family entertainment, when some character, on some show (don't ask, we don't remember) uttered the historic phrase, "Where in the heck are your pants?" We liked it so much that we insert that line into household conversation whenever we possibly can.

     It may have lost it's appeal within the normal passing of time except for the fact that dear Cricket absolutely cannot stand to be fully clothed. I find him shirtless daily, before noon. As the day wears on, he loses the "trousers" as well. I've learned to cope with this phenomenon by buying him the most voluminous underwear on the market. He secretly rebells being fully clothed in public by leaving the house sans underwear on alarmingly frequent occaisions. I have some concerns that one day he will become a nudist.

     So you see, we frequently have the opportunity to use the phrase in differing variations. Now what happens when we get to London, and Cricket invariably does what Cricket does, and someone hears Rooster yell, "Cricket! Where in the heck are your pants?"

Photo courtesy of Fons Reijsbergen.

Jemima's being nostalgic, duck and cover.

2011-08-02T18:31:00.000-07:00

     Today was a very big day in the life of Rooster. He went to his high school freshman orientation. Reread that sentence and let that sink in a bit. He's going to high school. Next week. Glass of water and a chair for Jemima!!

     Poor Rooster was the only one there who had his mother and his nine year old brother following him around. Now before you go thinking that I'm one of "those" moms, let me defend my decision to publicly humiliate my child. He's very high functioning, but he's still autistic. He needs someone with him to explain things sometimes.  At school, he has a parapro that does this, but there was no parapro today. So what's a mom to do? Make my kid a social pariah, evidently. I parked my car, and the three of us marched into the gym of good old Brunswick High, my alma mater. I cannot believe I followed my son through freshman orientation. I am mortified for him.

     There have been a lot of changes to the Gold and Blue since I graduated, but one thing that seems remarkably unchanged is the gym. Big pirate painted on the back wall, blue drapes on the stage, even the little foldey-outey bleacher chairs are still there. Oh, and while I'm on the subject- there's Mrs. Mungin, my old advisor. And the assistant principal taught umm... world history back in the day.    Seeing those two was nothing next to seeing this teacher walking down the hall that I knew as the cheerleader who did all the backflips at the pep rallys. She stood up and told the freshman class that when they graduate, it'll have been 20 years since her own graduation. Somebody should tell her to hush, she's younger than me.

     The walls are a different color.  It still smells funny, but a different funny. And I know I've gotten wider, but would that really make the hallways seem that much more narrow? the classrooms so tiny? I took for granted that I'd remember forever the hallways of my high school, but as we walked down the old language arts hall (now the freshman hall), I realized that I couldn't remember where my homeroom was. For four years I started every day by walking into that room, and I couldn't remember if it was the second one from the end on the right, or the third. And for the life of me I couldn't find my Latin teacher's room (sorry, Magistra). It was in the middle of the hall, a muddle in my memories, even though I could tell you just where half of her wall decorations were hanging the last time I saw them. I did manage to find my foreign policy teacher's classroom. I think I must have left some energy traces in there because I knew it immediately. It had to be all of the ducking and weaving I did (because he quite often threw things). Ahh, Model UN- the good old days.

     As if this wasn't all bizarre enough for one day, our next stop was the show choir room. The show choir teacher (the same one that was there when I left) put all of those hormone riddled, pimple bespotted freshmen-to-be on risers and taught them the fight song. Yup, the fight song. Despite my best efforts, I found it necessary to choke down my instinct to sing along. Unbelievable. This was after my first urge (pointing and laughing) was successfully squealched by the realization that no one present would understand why it was so funny, so strange, so incredibly flipping surreal. Well, maybe the teacher/somersaulting cheerleader might get it, but I had a feeling that she'd already been down that hallway and gotten her late pass, so to speak.

     Other things to ponder:
     I'm going to be going to Friday night football games again, as a mom.
     The homecoming dance is five weeks away.    What am I going to wear? I mean, wait...

     Oh, crumbs.

Another Way You Can Help, Without Money

2011-07-28T16:21:00.000-07:00

I stumbled upon something on another blog site that I thought sounded like a lot of fun, and can really be helpful. Since London is one of the most expensive cities in the world, I don't want to need things there that are much less expensive here. Before we leave, I'll make sure the kids have new socks, shoes, and pajamas. This stuff adds up. But you can help with that once again, without giving me money.

What's it called? Ironically enough,it's called, "Shop It To Me." Here's a description from their website.

Shop It To Me is a free, trusted online personal shopper relied on by millions of women and men.

The Service:

Shop It To Me is an effortless way to find sales on more than 700 brands.

You tell us what's important to you: specific brands, categories of clothing & accessories, and your sizes - and we work as your free personal shopper, scouring the web to find the best prices on the items you love.

We check close to 200 retailers each day for sales on women's, men's, and children's clothing, shoes, and accessories.

Then, based on your preferences we create personalized e-mail alerts (Salemails™) that feature the latest markdowns, secret promotion codes, and even VIP sale events.

     So, what you do is click on my personal referral link here: http://shopittome.com/index/referral/C5qaLpZQvz_plOwc0NJ90OHOjg_eq_eq
and they'll ask you what brands you like, and then you'll give them your sizes. They send you an email when they find your sizes and brands on sale on the web, complete with links that take you straight to the sale item. You even choose what day of the week you get your email. I get mine on Thursdays. It's nice because I'm a size that is difficult to find. I can't tell you how much I hate finding a pair of shoes online that are at a really great price, only to click on the link and find that they don't have my size. "SaleMails" take care of that little problem.

     Here's how it helps me.
     For every ten of you that sign up, I get a gift card to a clothing store where I can get the things we need for the big pond hop.

     So if you think you can stand one more email per week, please give it a try. If you don't like it, you can unsubscribe or dump it in your spam folder. And if you really like it, you can earn the gift cards yourself- just get your friends to sign up through you.

    You guys have been so supportive. I love reading your comments and hearing what you think. I couldn't have imagined that so many of you would even look at this blog, much less continue to look and click on ads. I wish you could know how my heart smiles when the counter goes up on my stats page. Thank you.

Ms. Fine

2011-07-25T16:11:00.000-07:00

     We tried to go to Taiwan last year. By tried I mean we prayed, we sent lots of emails, we researched. It ended up to be a big, disappointing no-go. I haven't given up on that one yet, but for now, it's not going to happen.

     Reason number 1 on the no-fly zone? I have two kids. No one had a problem with me having kids, they just don't have anyone available to watch them while I work. I needed a "support person" to come with me and help me out with them.

     Ok, well, do you know anyone who is willing to step out of their lives for, say, a year, and come across the planet to babysit? For free? Oh, and did I mention that this person would have to pay their own way? Yeah, I didn't either. Plan shelved.

     So then I had the experience that I've referred to as "The Big Bang," and the issue has been raised again. Could I possibly have such a thing as a nanny about?   Well, as a matter of fact, yes. This time I did. Go God.

     Let me just say that I have some really great friends. For most of my life, I've had friends for seasons- wonderful people who came into my life and have since moved on. In many cases, if I run into them at a store, or if I'm on facebook at just the right time, I can pick up with them as if we'd never been apart. I love them. They are significant, irreplacable. The friends I have in my life right now and for the past two or three years since I began this crazy life of makingallthingsnew are extraordinary. They are quite the group of intellectual, free-spirited, dusty footed, rag-tag, people loving, God adoring freaks. I heart them.

     I gave one of them a little journal for Christmas this past year, because I am convinced that her ideas will change the world, and I wasn't about to let a thing like forgetfulness rob her (and us) of what her mind can do.   She is a force like a hurricane. I walked alongside another as we carried our malaria-stricken children to the hospital. We were both so far out of our element, wondering what our obedience was really going to cost us. In the middle of that great chaos, she reminded me that I could be a mother, work the Great Work, and participate in all the silly things that are required of us for being human and still find joy in a really good book, a cup of tea, and a quiet conversation. She walks in beauty.

     I don't have time to write about all of them, and there are many more, like the one who always has an hour or three to listen to me rant on the phone about oh, just about anything- it started on facebook chat one night when I was scared to death about my health. . .or the one who showed me than having a kid with autism was cool in an I'll-beat-your-butt-if-you-mess-with-my-kid kind of way. But I did meet this one in Haiti. With dirt in our hair that smeared in the sweat that dripped out onto our foreheads, blackened fingernails and feet that would never know cleanliness again, we learned about happiness. If you've never been to Haiti, you need to find yourself a group that is going to go do something really great to help them out. Then go, and see how insignificant your contribution really is, and in return see just how much those people can give you. It is a crazy, manic joy that I can't describe to you at all, you have to do it yourself. So over a plate of rice and beans one afternoon this friend shares with me her heart for God, her willingness to serve. I'll never forget hearing her say, "I am ruined. I am ruined." Nothing will ever be the same for her. And I knew it because I saw myself about four years ago saying identical things, hearing that old hymn in my head, "No turning back, no turning back."  She's gonna start working the Work.

     I finally got up the guts to ask her to go with us to London. I told her what I needed her to do, and she started laughing. Of course she would go. She'd just been asking God how she could serve long term, and how she could specifically serve in London.

     Well.

     Cricket loves her because she throws paper wads at him when he eats. Rooster likes how she's going to be a nanny, like that show. He regularly stops and yells, "Ms. Fine!" just like Mr. Sheffield did on the show.   We're all singing the theme song around the house and laughing, because, who would have thought? A nanny! For us! Unbelievable.

     That's how she became        The Nannyyyyyy!

Cricket

2011-07-23T13:04:00.000-07:00

     When Rooster was born, all of the nurses in the maternity ward made cooing noises at him and commented at how they'd love to take him home. He was always being held, always being talked to- I thought this was what maternity nurses did. When Cricket was born, I learned differently. He kicked, he squirmed, he screamed when he cried. The nurses wanted no love from Cricket.

     I learned quickly that my two children are very different. Where Rooster craves quiet places with little interruptions, Cricket wants the world at his feet, ready to be enraptured by his every word. Pretending that you are listening isn't good enough for Cricket. He wants you to believe in everything that he says, and he is a very passionate little boy.

     He is the stereotype of a boy. He loves bugs, mud, fish, farms, any animal that will be still long enough for him to pet them, popsicles, bubble gum, and bare feet. He is also quite partial to chickens, especially if they will sit in his lap, but if they won't, he's just as content to chase them. He likes nothing better than an afternoon spent with a water hose. He doesn't like to wear shirts. He will never, ever be capable of sitting still. He is constantly talking. He baits his big brother and reacts with glee when Rooster attacks him for it. He really reminds me of the little red-haired boy in that movie, Diary of a Wimpy Kid. He's also a bit of a Beaver Cleaver.

     Rooster, Cricket, and I have logged quite a few frequent flyer miles in our QuestToMakeTheTruthKnown. It hasn't been easy on any of us. We once lived in the jungle for six weeks. Now when I say "the jungle" I mean we were flown in on a crop-duster of a plane, dropped off in the jungle, and the plane left, taking with it's departure our only means of  returning home. We were staying in that jungle for awhile. Rooster, in his overly dramatic fashion, decided immediately that he was going to die. I must admit that I contemplated my own mortality a bit more often than normal during our stay. It was hard living. We both got sick several times. I'll spare you the details. But every time I thought I'd had all I could take, here'd come Cricket, bouncing along without a care in the world. I can't count how many times he asked, "Can we move here?" If you ask him today, he will readily tell you that it is his favorite place on earth.

     He earned a nickname on that trip. Cricket the Ev-ng-list. And he earned every letter of it, even the vowels I didn't type for security reasons. That kid will stop anybody, anywhere, and ask them if they know God. He doesn't know all of the answers yet. Sometimes Mama Jemima has to help him out. But that kid opens doors. I've never seen anything like it. Whatever it was that the nurses didn't like about him in the maternity ward, it sure attracts people now.

Rooster

2011-07-22T12:31:00.000-07:00

    I call him Rooster for a reason. He really is the cock-of-the-walk. Just watch him walk sometimes. It's so Foghorn Leghorn. He's fourteen. He's over six feet tall. He has massive feet. He turns tween heads with his black hair and sparkly blue eyes. He's the most comical person I know. He's autistic. He's neurotic. He absolutely adores babies. He wants to see the world saved and he's quite willing to participate in that if his pre-requisites are met. He laid it on the line for me:
1- No countries with malaria.
2- No countries where one must sleep under mosquito nets.
3- No countries where I can't play my PSP.
4- No countries without Wi-Fi.
5- I am not going anywhere without my own Wii. This is non-negotiable.
6- We absolutely must take ice trays. I can't live without ice. It's horrible.

     When asked what he thought about his family entering into our line of Work, he replied, "Well somebody's gotta do it, and I suppose it's gotta be us." -said with much arm waving and head bobbing.

     He's hysterical in a Dan Akroyd kind of way. In fact, when I first heard that Dan Akroyd has Asperger's Syndrome, I couldn't see it until I compared his humor to Rooster's. Good grief, they're twins. I've been trying to talk him into wearing a dark suit, fedora, and sunglasses while walking around saying, "We're on a mission from God." I think he'd nail it. He thinks I'm nuts.

     He's the type of kid that isn't easy to love, but well worth the effort. If you can get past the smart-aleck tone to his voice and the constant derrogatory coments that he's been told by modern tween television are funny, then you've got a kid who cares very deeply about the world around him.

     He's been bullied unmercifully. The worst perpetrators have been adults. Everyone thinks they know what will make him better, but oddly enough, wouldn't know enough about him to ever make those calls, and don't ever care to know. No one seems to realize that he was born into a society that believes everything he does and says is somehow wrong. He literally wakes up in the morning knowing that he won't do anything right today. Every day. That knowledge alone is enough pressure to make anyone of us go bonkers, but he gets up every day, makes his bed (most days), and walks out into a world that will never accept him and constantly make hurtful attempts at changing him. And even though he still wakes up mama Jemima every time there is a thunderstorm in the night, he is the single bravest human being I have ever known.

     When I think about what I've been taught about Jesus laying down his rights and his life for us, and how we are called to do the same thing for him, I think about my Rooster, my beautiful, strong boy, and how he lays down his rights to comfort, to security, to comraderie every day to walk among us. Will he ever know how much we have been honored by him? Will we?

Hurdles, Hedges, and Hoops and How To Crash Through Them All One At a Time

2011-07-22T09:26:00.000-07:00

     We're in the honeymoon phase. We've been given a new mission, we've gotten over the shock, and now we're just being silly. Doing things that don't need to be done now, but doing them anyway, just for fun. Like dusting out our suitcases, picking out sheets and pillowcases, deciding which toys must be taken... Or reading up on English slang. Watching Dr. Who and saying over and over again, "Look, I want to go there. Did you see it?"

     What we must do, and we must start doing it now, is no fun at all. Fundraising. The word alone sets me all over with shivers. I dread it. But it has to be done, so I've set my teeth on finding ways for it to be fun because, after all, I'll be doing it for a solid flarking year and you, yes you, will all have to put up with it.

     My God is a God of miracles. I don't say this lightly. I've found several ways for my supportive community to help, and it doesn't cost money. Hallelujah! Did you hear that? I said you don't have to give me money!

   Oh, I can't believe I just said that. Give me a moment for the palpitations to subside. A glass of water for Jemima! Thank you.

    Now then, I'm a newbie at blogging. I know next to nothing about HTML, or computers in general for that matter, but if I need to know something, or I need to know how to do something, I will figure it out. Ask my mechanic. Ask my plumber. Ask my doctor. Ask my mother! So when I started putting this blog through it's paces, I discovered something. You can put up ads on this thing. And I get paid per 100 clickety-clacks of your little mice. Or I get a commision if you buy something, but don't do that unless you were planning on buying it anyway. So if you don't mind, once every seven days, could you clickety-clack through them? All of them? It's completely free and easy to do. And the proceeds go to the Work. You know what Work I do.

The Big Bang

2011-07-21T13:43:00.000-07:00

     No, I'm not talking about controversial theories. I'm talking about our lives, and what happens sometimes when you live your life on faith and obedience. Sometimes, just sometimes, you get a Big Bang from God himself.

     So here we are, wandering along, and one morning I open my email and there it is, my Big Bang. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Cricket and I were planning this splendid adventure in Haiti together. I'd been, he hadn't, and he made me promise him that I'd not go again without him. I agreed and we pulled out the calendar to block off three weeks of good times with dusty feet- simple enough. But we never could pin down dates (clue number one), and I never could decide just exactly how to begin fundraising (clue two) or what exactly we were going to do for three weeks aside from walking around randomly feeding people (food, amongst other things). And there was the issue of Rooster, my little chicken, who is terrified of mosquitoes and malaria endemic countries, who refused to go to any place else where he'd have to take malaria medications. He'd had malaria once, and he was bound and determined to not ever have it again. Was I seriously going to leave him behind?

     The answer to that ended up being no. Our Call (with a capital C) is a family call, and where one goes, three go. I made this decision, and just about the same time, behold, I received the Big Bang.

     I got an email from my good friends the Perthians, needing my help with a specific task. Could I spare them, say, 2012?
The year?
Yup. Or any length of time during that year.
Ok, where to?
London.
London, Ontario?
No, London England.
Well, let me just think about this...

     Now before you go thinking that I was jumping and screaming for joy, let me tell you a little about myself- Jemima. I am a confessed anglophile. I love all things English. I can Jane Austen, Dr. Who, and Cornish pasty you around the block and back again. I cannot get enough. I am actually thankful that we don't have the BBC on our cable lineup because I'd never get my beehiney off of the couch and do anything if I had unfettered access to that much information all day. So why did my stomach take a flying leap off the Tower Bridge when I heard "London?" For all of my love of those absurdly uptight, highly fashionable, quick witted people, I am, admittedly, more than a little intimidated. If you know me, you know that I put my dirty feet into my dusty rubber clogs with my grubby t shirt and my shorts that have definitely seen better days, and I'm good for going. . . anywhere.

     Anywhere except London.

     This is my fairy tale city. The in-your-wildest-dreams fantasy town. And I'm going looking like- THIS? I couldn't even pull a pair of good panty hose over my crusty, haven't-had-a-pedicure-since-Cricket-was-a-baby, water buffalo hooves without catching a good ladder in the first try. How am I going to swing this one? I don't want to be the water buffalo loose in Notting Hill. I want to be the fine lady in Banbury Cross with rings on her fingers and bells on her toes.

     There ought to be a reality show, "When Fantasy Becomes Reality" because when fantasy actually does become reality, what do we make of our dreams?

     I finally remembered, at some point, what Paul said in 1 Corinthians 9, "I have become all things to all men so that by all possible means I might save some." So there you have it. If it means that I must wear real shoes and visit a hairdresser regularly, and maybe slap some polish on my hooves (I mean toenails), then so be it. Big Bang.

     And guess what? Stubborn old Rooster is excited! He's actually looking forward to it. Cricket is excited too, but he's always excited. That boy has an ant farm up his caboose somewhere. So we're going. To London. God willing. July 2012. For six months. Big, big bang.

Photo courtesy of constantin jurcut.