Announcing: Pantene Ambassadrice 2007

As promised, here is the final Pantene update:

Sandrine is their 2007 Ambassadrice.

Congratulations to a lovely lady, and many thanks to all who joined me in voting for Virginie.

In the end, it was all about who could drum up the most *clicks*. I suppose Pantene designed it that way, just hoping that they could get the maximum number of individuals to visit the site daily and think positively about Pantene.

One time I scanned a couple of discussion groups (in French) and found it interesting to peek in on analysis from people with no vested interest in who wins. They discussed the ladies' hair, their photos, their personalities, and who was--in their supposedly objective opinions--most appropriate to represent Pantene to Belgium in publicities and ad campaigns. It was intriguing.

By the way, one of my readers told me off-blog that they worried that Isabelle might have felt bad about having the lowest voter turnout. I don't know exactly what happened, but I did notice one day early in the voting process that her votes leaped way ahead of the other two ladies' (unnaturally fast and unnaturally high) and then plummeted a day later. I wondered--and this is mere speculation--if someone may have clicked and clicked and clicked, not realizing that they were only supposed to vote once a day. And I wondered if the computer program then penalized her, or at least erased the extra votes? Who knows? Maybe it was a well-intentioned aunt with time on her hands clicking happily away thinking she was helping her out? Whatever it was, Isabelle's votes never recovered from that blow.

Again, it was fun to participate and promote the possibility of a Virginie win. Now that the prize money is going to be sending Sandrine off on her tropical vacations, I wish I had a spare 3000 dollars to donate to the Burundi project, but at the moment I don't.

Perhaps it could be a good long-term project for my kids--to start saving up spare change in a jar for Burundi. We've certainly talked more about Burundi in our house since this contest. And in that regard, I have to say that Virginie's "Pantene dream" did do some good: she raised awareness for the project, which was one of her goals.

Thanks, Virginie.

FlyLady Primer

Yesterday I mentioned FlyLady.

If you've never heard of her, her local news interviewed her for their style segment. It gives you a little background on how she got started. Also they've posted a series of FlyLady steps from last year that you can follow to prepare for the holidays.

FlyLady strongly recommends 15-minute assignments to get control over your life--to move toward overall simplicity, at least by one definition of it (defining simplicity I'll save for another post)--so that you don't get overwhelmed. Don't be surprised when the first assignment is very basic and only takes 15 minutes or less. Somehow or another, if you do her assignments in preparation for the holidays, your house ends up looking presentable and you have what you need on hand to pull off the meal and hosting responsibilities.

She's aiming at people who are overwhelmed. If you already have your act together, you won't need her suggestions. Now that I mention it, if you've got your act together, please post your secrets in the comments section. I could use a little help...

Simplicity!

Two bloggers I follow (see my BlogLog) have posted recently on similar themes.

This weekend Shannon over at Rocksinmydryer posted this quote from G.K. Chesterton:

There are two ways to get enough:
one is to accumulate more and more.
The other is to desire less.
--G.K. Chesterton *


Then Mary DeMuth posted something similar about consumption and "stuff."

She said that a book by Lisa Samson has her thinking "about stuff and clutter and consumption and shopping for the fun of it. Being in France in a hobbit house has helped me tremendously in my addiction to shopping, thank goodness, though I still miss Ross and T.J. Maxx."

And then she went on to voice a theme that continues to nag me, too--something I long for, but can never seem to make happen. "Simplicity is something I've longed for as an adult," Mary says. "I want space, less clutter, more freedom---both in my home and in my heart."

(Heavy sigh.) When I look back on journals over the years, "simplicity" emerges as a theme--a constant longing. I write about wanting to simplify my schedule, my household routines, my mindset, my space, my stuff. Instead, with each year it seemed we did the opposite: adding to and complicating our lives.

With one exception. Summer 1997, The Belgian Wonder's emergency heart surgery slammed on the brakes. When he was in the hospital, our schedules screeched to a halt. Even when we made it home alive and well and he was recuperating, we just existed. We were just...us. No plans, no meetings, no activities to rush off to. The kids were still little; in fact, two were yet to be born (one inside me at that moment, born two months later; The Boy not due to arrive for a few years). So we just lived simple little lives with our little girls in our little house. We strolled around the block. We walked to the library. We ate simple meals and played with blocks. Life really did get pared down to the bare minimum. Those were important lessons on What Really Matters. I discovered during that unusual season that for me what mattered was my relationship with God and my relationship with people. That was about it.

Jesus summed it up that way, too: Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength. "This is the first and greatest commandment," he said. "And the second is like it: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.'"

Gradually, however, as The Belgian Wonder returned to work, we invited busyness back into our lives, one event, one class, one "sure, I can help with that" at a time. Our schedules bulged. We were rushing again. We lost that simplicity of schedule.

Our minds were full of all the obligations and commitments we made. And with three girls and eventually four kids, stuff piled up. Lots of stuff. A few years later, nothing seemed simple.

Years have passed since those lessons were learned and neglected. We continue to raise our family of four children in a suburban American culture brushing against an affluent zip code. The oldest two are preteen girls, and society serenades them in particular, as our family navigates treacherous waters. They're tempted with songs of Hollister and Aeropostale, Nintendo and Apple; and I can't plug their ears with beeswax. The sirens sing of acquisition and accumulation, and above the mesmerizing symphony of consumerism playing incessantly in their ears, I am one lone, unpopular, uncool voice shouting "Simplicity!" I am drowned out, I think, by the messages all around them on TV, at school, and stitched onto their neighbor's favorite jeans.

I want to desire less, like Chesterton advised. I want space, less clutter, more freedom, as Mary D. expressed. I want to pare down and cut back. I want simplicity.

To start by simplifying our stuff would be both a tangible move in the right direction as well as a symbolic reminder of all the other ways we could declutter ourselves: heart, soul, mind and strength.

Although it takes a while to see progress, one of the simplest ways to accomplish this is via a daily commitment recommended by FlyLady: a 27-fling boogie, moving quickly through the house and ridding it of 27 unwanted items, whether things to donate or trash to toss. I probably have more like 2700 items to evaluate. Maybe more. I'd best get started.

Seems like simplicity should come with an Easy button…with one thwack, my surroundings could be in perfect order.

Instead of simplicity being easy, however, it appears that it requires hard work: hard work to get there—and the hard work of staying strong against the surrounding culture in order to sustain it.



* I tried to find a reliable source to confirm it's a Chesterton quote, but couldn't find anything...so we'll just go with it for now.

Variations on a Theme

On our way to meet my parents, we suggested that the kids look out the windows (instead of staring at their handheld videogames) and tell us what they see.

"I see cows!" one exclaimed.

"I see birds, I see trees, I see grass!" exclaimed another.

With great excitement, The Boy pointed and practically shouted, "I see die shadows! Look! I see them! Die stones!" I looked to where he was pointing: a cemetery.

**************************************************************

Later that afternoon, my dad and The Boy were discussing ladybugs. Dad was trying to assure The Boy that ladybugs are harmless. "If they land on you, they won't hurt you," Dad said.

The Boy disagreed. "Some flip over and they'll poisonize you!" he said. He took a sip from his can of Sierra Mist, swallowed, and added with intensity, "And then you'll die!"

Kids and Concerts

The Belgian Wonder's nephew plays trombone in the wind ensemble at the small college he's attending this year. We drove up to hear him in concert last night, and it was quite nice. The student musicians performed beautifully, and a guest soloist played trumpet for several pieces.

All of our girls are taking piano lessons, and one is learning flute; another, clarinet. During the concert, they had a chance to see all of those instruments contributing to the overall beauty of the music (and The Boy got to see the constructor at work), while enjoying their Belgian cousin's skills at trombone.

After intermission we moved toward the back, which freed up the kids to be slightly more animated. One of the girls pretended to play the trumpet and The Boy bounced to the beat in his auditorium-style folding seat--the kind he can get folded up and stuck in like Lucille Ball in a Murphy Bed.

To introduce a jazzy version of "Leaning on the Everlasting Arms," the guest trumpeter stepped up to the mic and paraphrased the story in the gospels of the disciples reprimanding parents for bringing their children to Jesus for a blessing.

"People were bringing little children to Jesus," the soloist began, "and the disciples didn't think it was a good idea. I mean, children are sticky and sweaty and loud. Children don't know when to be quiet and they wiggle around and bother people. The disciples thought, 'We shouldn't have the children around Jesus. They're just going to distract and disrupt everything.' "

I started to get nervous. Was he going to point us out? Was he going to spotlight The Boy for being disruptive? After all, The Boy might have stood out at the beginning. He'd been mesmerized by those first songs, swaying his upper body and making slow, fluid hand motions something like a Hawaiian hula dancer. He might have been a little distracting.

The soloist continued, "But when Jesus heard that, he was indignant and said, 'You bring those children to me. Let the children come to me. That's how we receive the kingdom.' That's what we need to be like--like little children, leaning on our Father."

Whew! No mention of our presence. But The Boy was listening to the whole story. When the trumpeter finished speaking and started to play the song, The Boy looked up at me and asked, "Was that a true story?"

"Yes," I whispered. "It's a story in the Bible about Jesus."

He nodded and made a "how about that" face. He was surprised. So I leaned over and added in a whisper, "Jesus really liked children." He was already sucking on his fingers. It was late and he was tired, so he just nodded again.

The concert ended with a jazzed up version of "Joshua Fought the Battle of Jericho," during which one of the older girls leaned over and informed me that this was a Veggie Tales song. When it was over, the people--mostly parents of the student musicians--applauded long and enthusiastically. The students didn't get up and leave the stage right away, the parents kept clapping, and the soloist had exited but then came back out.

"What's happening?" our youngest girl asked.

I wasn't sure, so I speculated. "Well, if you clap really hard, sometimes they'll come back out and do another song. It's called an encore." The soloist looked like he might be preparing for another song. The students were shuffling music on their stands.

Clapping continued. The students started standing up with their instruments in one hand and music gathered up in the other, glancing out at the audience sheepishly, not sure what to do. The soloist looked out, grinned and kind of shrugged. A student tapped a final ker-thump on his drum and everyone laughed and stopped clapping. The auditorium lights finally came on.

"Are they going to play another song?" our girl asked.

"I don't think so," I answered. "It looks like it's over. I guess there's no encore after all."

"Too bad," she said while zipping up her coat. "I guess we didn't clap hard enough."

Call It What It Is, and Give Me What I Want

This afternoon I met a friend for coffee at Starbucks.

When I go out with someone, I order a coffee to have something to sip as we chat. I like coffee, but not in large quantities, so I definitely don't need the "Grande" or "Venti" size. But I really don't even need a "Tall." It's too much for me; I almost always leave a portion unconsumed.

It irks me that their so-called "small" is so big. It's so big that they must have realized that they can't in good conscience call it "Small." It's far too big to be described as small, so they accurately and appropriately call it "Tall." Other than rhyming, however, the Tall doesn't have much in common with the word small. Nevertheless it's the smallest option on the board. When I ask for a small, they give me a "Tall." I've always hated that.

So what a surprise when I heard my friend order a "Short."

"What did you just order?" I asked.

"They have a size that's not listed on the board. A smaller size called a 'Short'."

"What?" I exclaimed, appalled. Maybe you already heard about this, but it was news to me.

"Yep."

The barista didn't miss a beat when she ordered it. She went to work making a truly small coffee and handed it to my friend. She set it on the counter next to mine. There it was, a perfectly sized cup of coffee. It's just what I've always wanted: less coffee at a lower price.

I had already irkedly ordered the smallest one I knew about, the "Tall." Too late to change my order that time...

...but just you wait, Starbucks.

It really aggravates me to know that they've offered this but hid it from me. I've actually asked for a "small," but they never said, "Oh, we have a 'Short' that we don't have room for on the board." Nope. I asked for a "small" and they simply handed me a "Tall."

But they knew. They knew that they had the truly small option to serve me. I mean, my friend asked for a "Short" and they just popped out the little cup from its hiding place and made it; no hesitation, no questions asked.

They've always known, but never told me. And because I've actually requested the smallest size but never received a "Short," it feels like they're coming very close to lying. I've read that their defense is that they don't have room for it on the board. But it's strange that they don't have room for it on their website, either. I used their "search" option, but they came back with: "We're sorry, but we were unable to locate the information or item you are searching for." They don't list it or any of their sizes.

At least, they don't list it on the North America version of their site. I did find it on an English "Latte Lingo" page on their Japan site. Why do the Japanese get the truth? Why are they given all the options up front?

Why are they hiding this from us?

Here's one take on the situation from Tim Harford in Slate.

Here's another article by the same writer in BBC News in which he calls it "product sabotage" and explains how other companies are pulling off this kind of stunt.

After reading this, I'm going to start asking for smaller portions of everything, everywhere I eat. While I'm at it, I'm going to ask for discounts everywhere I eat or shop. I'm going to pull out my AAA card and flash it around, in case it's worth a few bucks in savings. I'm going to explore all of my options.

And I will only order "Tall" if I truly want 12 ounces of coffee.

Otherwise, I'll take a "Short," thank you very much.

Pantene-o-meter

For those still interested in voting, take note: Virginie's behind. At the time of this writing, she's behind by 1,321 votes.

She had surged ahead a week or so ago, but now lags behind quite a few votes. In fact, it looks like Sandrine may end up being the face of Pantene in Belgium after all. In case you're curious (and if you trust my lackluster abilities in French translation), Sandrine said in her profile that she intends use her prize money to travel with her son and his papa to the islands that inspired her favorite painters, to meet the people, live their culture and contemplate their landscapes so that all those images in her head can finally become realities. That's a great dream--I'd love to do that, too.

I know that my update about Virginie's donation plans may have soured voters on the whole thing. But a couple of friends asked me to offer a brief update from time to time, so this is one of those updates.

Voting continues until Oct. 31.

Virginie's currently behind.

If she wins, she's planning to give half of the prize money to Imuhira (which means "Home"), the humanitarian project in Burundi. The donation would amount to 2500 euros.

So there you go. That's the update with only seven days to go.

Who You Gonna Call?

When you need to police the world's most dangerous countries, what do you really need to keep the peace? What can really keep hoodlums, rioters, rebels and ruffians in check?

An all-female police unit from India, that's what.

Caterpillars on the Counter

When we were out on that fall walk two weekends ago, the kids found some caterpillars, the woolly kind, brown-and-black. According to old-timers, you're supposed to be able to predict the severity of the upcoming winter by the width of their stripes. Dad--an official old-timer (sorry, Dad)--said a wide band meant a mild winter, and this 2005 blog from wunderground.com says the same thing.

These caterpillars, which now reside on my kitchen counter in a bug habitat, are entirely brown. Is all that brown representing the widest of all possible bands, predicting the blizzardiest winter in recorded history? Or is it actually band-less, suggesting that we'll have almost no winter weather at all?

In search of an answer, I did a little clicking around and ended up at this 2002 Ohio State Extension Service article. Coming from a scientifically minded institution and all, they poo-poo the caterpillars as weather-predictors. They just laugh about the wide/narrow band predictions.

Entomologist Barbara Bloestcher sounds like a nice lady willing to go along with all this nonsense to a point, but she takes all the fun out of it when she's quoted as saying, "The length of the bands have nothing to do with the severity of winter...Woolly bears hole themselves up somewhere for winter. What do they care what color they are?"

She goes on to offer a psychological explanation, which is really outside her area of expertise, if you ask me. She says, "I think people have this basic need to be prepared, to be forewarned of what the weather has in store for them," said Bloetscher. "That's probably why they make a connection with animal behavior or appearance. It gives them some sort of control over the future."

Yeah, well...

I know I can't control the future...but I'll admit I would like to be prepared. I'd kind of like to know if the end of my nose will be pinkish-red for the next five-to-six months and whether or not I'll be shuffling around town in my shin-length, sleeping-bag-style down parka all winter. I just need to mentally prepare for that, you know?

So in an attempt to ignore Barbara Bloestcher's bubble-bursting, I think: science, schmience...maybe the old-timers are on to something? Maybe they aren't just grasping for a hint of the future by way of fortune-telling caterpillars and did in fact make some connections over the years between the woolly bears and winter weather?

I glance over at the bug habitat and decide to go with the old-timers. And I'm just going to count on those beautiful brown woolly worms being mild-banded.

No, it isn't science. Bloestcher may be right. It probably is just human nature, and I just need a little hope.

Bloggrrrrr

Hey, I tried. I really tried to blog this weekend, but Blogger was having a technological breakdown and wouldn't let me on.

Today, however, it looks like they've flipped on the backup generator, slapped on a little duct tape, and managed to get themselves up and running again.

So I'm back.

What Does He Want to Be When He Grows Up?

The Boy, flicking a stick in the air, announced, "This stick reminds me of something else I want to be."

"What's that?" I asked, catching a glimpse of him in the rearview mirror.

"A music constructor." Amused, the girls all laughed and repeated it several times, but he continued confidently, "So I either want to be a zookeeper, a music constructor that teaches music, or a waiter. So I need to practice holding a tray with one hand."

He proceeded to conduct--or construct--imaginary musicians the rest of the way home, while I wondered if I could divert him from his waiter dream, if only to preserve the dishes.

Anyone, Anywhere

In the September 2006 O magazine, Oprah interviewed Janet Fitch, author of White Oleander.

At the end of the interview, Fitch stated, "In our exterior life, we can be only one person. But in our imagination, we can be anyone, anywhere. That's one of the reasons I read and write. It's a way for me to have more than one life." (p. 280)


I write fiction for my own pleasure with shimmery dreams of being published, but I think Fitch hits on one of my big motivators--to have more than one life. And I agree--reading does the same thing. As I suffer or rejoice with the characters, I enter another world, another life.

I love stories, whether everyday, real-life stories from a person's blog or powerful, epic tales from the classics. In any story I can be anyone, anywhere. I can have more than one life without all the fuss of more than one puberty. I like to think that identifying with others and living these lives increases compassion and understanding in my "exterior life," as Fitch calls it. But I don't know. It might just be escapist.

Midwestern Woods in the Fall

This weekend, a walk in the woods.

Black-and-rainbow-striped hat and yellow hat girls called each other Lewis and Clark throughout the expedition, later coining me Sacagawea (they know I always dreamed of having some Native American blood), blue coat girl Columbus, The Boy was Magellan (then they switched him to Amerigo Vespucci), and finally The Belgian Wonder was told he was just some unnamed companion who traveled with Lewis and Clark.

A beautiful outing, not quite as cold as the attire suggests.

Virginie Update

First off, due to my lackluster abilities in French translation, I misunderstood the end date for voting. The contest continues until October 31st, rather than the 15th. If only I paid more attention in French class! (Okay, I never had a French class...if only I had taken a French class! I need to start watching French in Action again...)

In the past three or four days, "domi jack" has commented on the original post I wrote up regarding this contest. This person has challenged me to discover how much of the prize money Virginie will be donating to the Burundi, and how much will she be keeping for myself [editor's note: this typo should read herself, of course. I'm getting no money at all for anything]. I appreciated this call to accuracy, and apologize for not digging into this sooner. In a world of scams, I can understand a general wariness and perhaps even cynicism.

I naively assumed from an email alerting me to the whole thing (translated by a mutual friend of Virginie's and mine) that Virginie was giving all of her prize money, should she win. So to follow up, I tracked down Virginie's email and asked her about it. She wrote me back and confirmed and clarified a few things.

Should she win, she intends to give half of the prize money to the Imuhira project in Burundi(this site is all in French, but the photos show you some of the construction progress they've made). On the Pantene website, the prize is 5000 euros (I used an online exchange rate calculator, as you know my computation abilities are about as strong as my talents in French translation. If exchanged today, the dollar amount would be: $6,258.99. So half would be 2500 euros, or $3,129.49).

She explained that she has always wanted to work in humanitarian aid, but in Belgium it's not easy to find a job of this sort. People often work as volunteers, she said, or have years of experience on the field making job openings even more scarce. So when someone came to her church and spoke about the Imuhira project, she realized that this was a way to contribute to a project, helping out and making a difference while continuing with her real job.

"I have chosen to work on projects like the Imuhira Village, beside my real job, to help where and when it's needed," she wrote. "With this contest and the prize money, I hope that the Imuhira project will be better known and I hope that this will contribute to the work's progress in Burundi."

Please accept my apologies for unintentionally giving the impression that she was going to donate the entire 5000 euros if she wins. It's my fault, not Virginie's. She never said she was giving the whole thing; it was naivete and negligence on my part to assume and not confirm details before enthusiastically promoting the contest.

Now that I have interacted with her, I wanted to be sure you knew that it is half.

Still...half!

When I think that this is just a beauty contest and she could just keep the prize money to do whatever she wants, that seems like a lot to give away. To be a young couple starting out in life choosing to donate 2500 euros, wow. In fact, 3000 dollars is more than my husband and I could donate to one cause in one chunk.

Personally, I still think it's cool. And if my daily vote propels her to francophone Pantene Ambassadrice 2007, and the Burundi project gains 2500 euros in part because of my painless "click," it seems to me like a simple, positive act that I can do from my office while sitting at my computer.

However, I understand if you prefer to stop. I didn't mean to mislead anyone, but I can understand if, like "domi jack," you feel frustrated. I did, after all, "advance the project" just because I thought it was neat.

Either way, it's totally up to you. No pressure intended.

A Prayer

O God, grant that today
I may not disappoint any friend;
I may not grieve any loved one;
I may not fail anyone to whom I have a duty;
I may not shame myself.
Grant that today
I may do my work with honesty and fidelity;
I may take my pleasure in happiness and purity.
Grant that today
I may lead no one astray;
I may not make goodness and faith harder for anyone.
Help me today
to be a help and example to all;
to bring strength and encouragement wherever I am:
Through Jesus Christ my Lord, Amen.

William Barclay (1907-1978)

(source: www.cqod.com October 15, 2006)

10 Reasons to Run

10 reasons I like to run:

1. It's efficient. No gym bag, no complicated accoutrements (unless you count my railroad spikes), no driving. Just head out the door and start the exercise. Come back and take a shower. Done.

2. It's cheap. As long as I buy a good pair of running shoes regularly, I need no other equipment. Last year I bought some cold weather gear, but even that wasn't too expensive.

3. It can be social or solitary. If I need time alone to think or pray, I can go alone and have uninterrupted solitude. If I want to get to know a fellow runner better, I can arrange to jog with her.

4. It's weight bearing--good for building bone mass. My future postmenopausal self thanks me.

5. It's simple. I don't have to learn a bunch of rules. I just go out and move my legs the way I've moved them since I was eight years old running laps around the house asking my mom to time me.

6. I just feel better afterwards. I see why people say it works as a mild antidepressant. The kids love it when I run: less nagging; fewer lectures. Their mom has a little more energy, a few extra smiles, and a more peaceful demeanor. You'd think they'd be pushing me out the door.

7. Brownies. With running, I can have one. Without running, I can't. Actually, a broader statement would be that it helps me maintain a reasonable weight. When I eat healthy and run regularly, I look pretty good. I mean, there's still a bit of flab flopping around--from the brownies, I suppose--but it's not as saggy.

8. It's a self-esteem boost. When I come back from a run, I feel like I've overcome something inside of me, some form of laziness or lack of self-care. When I set running goals and achieve them, or set a PR, confidence translates into other areas of my life as I think, "Hey, I can do something I never did before!"

9. Energy. In spite of shuddering leg muscles after a long run when I push myself, I end up with more energy overall. It's just getting in shape, and running isn't the only way to achieve it...but it's the way I achieve it, or try to. It just seems so contradictory--go out and expend something, then end up with more of it in return. Kind of like a good stock market investment--just as it takes money to make money; it takes energy to gain energy.

10. Slows me down. Seems like I'm zooming hither and yon to deliver my kids to or from school, soccer, AWANA, youth group and so on. When I run, I plod along one of four or five routes I take from my house. This slower pace allows me time to ponder the neighborhood, nuances in seasonal changes, a chance to nod and wave hello to people working in their yards, dog-walkers, fellow joggers, bicyclists. It's a contemplative sport, for a contemplative mom.

BUT when it gets cold, I'm a wimp, and I must dig down deep to drag myself out there and put in some miles. Sometimes I need to review some good reasons to run in order to keep myself at it. Remind me of this post tomorrow. I think it's supposed to rain.

Meb for Mastercard

Just caught a Mastercard commercial showing a marathon runner darting in and out of stores continuing to lead a marathon while using a speedy new pay-pass feature.

It's cute. You can see it here. Click on the "marathon" scrolling icon as it passes.

He's the elite runner from Eritrea to whom I referred in a previous post. I remembered his story in Runner's World, partly because I had never before heard of Eritrea.

Why I Majored in English Lit: Reason #8

My third-grade daughter, whom I haven't yet nicknamed for the blog, explained a math exercise her teacher poses daily. She'll toss out a number--say, 8--and then the students take turns offering equations for which the answer is 8. My daughter said that one boy liked to come up with time-consuming equations that go something like this: 1 + 1 + 1 + 4 + 2 - 4 .... and so on.

"Does he get it right?" I asked.

"Yep."

"He can keep track of all those pluses and minuses?"

"Yes, he can."

"Do you ever do it?"

"Yes, but I do something a little more normal."

"Like 7 + 1?"

"Well, maybe a little harder, like 10 - 2."

Inspiration hits. "I know what you could do!" I begin, "You could start with a big number, like, 477 minus, um, four hundred seventy, uh, no wait, four hundred eighty. Shoot. I can do this, I just..."

"I know," my third-grader interrupted. "I see what you mean. It would be something like 479 minus 471."

"Right. That's what I meant. I was getting there."

The Belgian Wonder was sitting next to me the entire time, shaking his head.

Word Power

That Lord of the Flies post from Amy Loves Words struck me in the gut. I keep thinking about word-power. And I don't necessarily mean the word-power of good writing; I mean how words--spoken or written directly about and to us--have the power to define, limit, destroy, heal, empower and change us.

Amy was only asking the students to play a role; yet for the duration of the exercise, those phrases formed them. The descriptions almost possessed them.

I thought of a conversation I had with Jenne years ago about parenting. She warned me not to label the kids. She told me how she resented the labels people inadvertantly placed on her sister and her. They meant well when they said things like: "Jenne, she's the funny one" and "Carrie's the smart one." But without meaning to, people placed limitations on the girls, and Jenne was left trying to make jokes all the time and not worry so much about grades; while Carrie, who is hilarious, may have felt compelled to ace every test and not fully develop her wit.

Jenne has certainly proven to be funny. Dang, my abs get a workout from laughing so hard at some of her posts! But she's also incredibly intelligent and gorgeous and resilient and profound and about a million other amazing things. And so is Carrie!

Jenne's advice has replayed in my head often through the years. As The Belgian Wonder and I raise four very different people, I've felt tempted to refer to them according to their standout characteristics. It's hard to resist, because it's true that each one seems to have special traits that rise above others, but it's also true that the others may have this trait in abundance as well, and I don't want them to think that one sibling has it and the others don't.

But then I struggle with helping them identify gifts and interests, so that they can pursue a fulfilling course of study and hopefully end up in a job that "fits." I want them to figure out what comes easily to them, so they can help people and serve the world. To start saying, "The Boy, he's the performer" contradicts Jenne's early advice.

What's a mother to do?

I think back to my own perception of self as a child. I think my mom and dad resisted labels, too; yet people must have said something along the lines of Jenne and Carrie's friends and relatives, because I somehow I came away with the following beliefs: My brother was the musician and really creative word person, the writer. I was the athlete.

When I think back to actual conversations, I recall people saying, "Annie, you can be or do anything you want, if you set your mind to it." This may have been a reference to my stubbornness, but the intent was to set me free. Still, I came away with the feeling that I wasn't much of a musician and while I loved to write, my brother was the writer. I didn't even bother to study writing in college until a friend insisted I take a creative writing class. He knew I secretly loved to write, but that I didn't believe I had what it took. That's because I believed my brother had hogged all the writing genes--that it wasn't possible we could both be writers. I believed I must have some other "gift," but couldn't figure out what. I wasn't enough of an athlete to compete at the university level, so there I was "the athlete," with no future as a track star. So as a sophomore, at the prodding of this friend, I signed up for Creative Writing 101 and loved it. Hm, maybe I could be a writer, too, of a different sort from my brother.

One time my grandmother wrote me a letter that said, "Thanks for your note. It was very well organized and easy to read. Maybe there's another writer in the family!" Me? A writer? Later two creative writing instructors said some encouraging words about my poems about dirt, and I began to imagine that I, too, might become a writer. And a supervisor at my first job out of college affirmed my writing skills, as well. So while I resist labeling, maybe there is something empowering about pointing out strengths in a person. My grandma's letter was like the slip of paper that helped define me, "You are a writer with something to say." I embraced it and eventually started to live it. Was Grandma prophetic, or did I simply snatch that encouragement as an outside affirmation of what I hoped to be true? Eventually I became a writer. I lived what she suggested.

In a recent post about words, author Mary DeMuth pondered several that stood out to her. You can read it yourself, but I'll just toss out the words she mentioned:

Play.

Health.

Freedom.

Abundance.

After the comments rolled in with a few additional suggestions, she tossed out a slightly altered list that included:

Play.

Simplify.

Rest.

No Condemnation (that's two words, but that's okay).

Freedom.

Then she added, "Imagine what our lives would look like if we lived like these were realities in our lives?"

Imagine. We might actually become them.

The Power of Suggestion

Occasionally I have a few minutes to browse blogs, clicking here and there following a series of recommended links. A circuitous route brought me to Amy Loves Books, where she told the following story.

What do you think of that?

Copying Nature

In case you're craving more stunning visuals, today's New York Times did a story about a photographer who turned to the lowly copy machine to capture nature in dazzling beauty and even intrigue (is that the right word for some of those bug shots? You decide).

See it here. (It's under "Science," if you have trouble with the link)

Makes me want to pull out my shell collection and see what I can arrange.

All Creatures Great and Small

After pondering the previous link, I kept thinking of this poem.

And I couldn't stop thinking about God as Maker of Heaven and Earth.

I sent you to things of Earth. Check out this Hubble slide show and ponder the heavenly realm.

Everything Could Have Been Off-White

God made the world and everything in it.

Everything.

(Gives a whole new meaning to "the least of these," doesn't it?)

Message in a Bottle?

Last night I cruised through some of the blogs on Christian Women Online and many other mom blogs and listings.

People want to be heard. Lots of people: 34.5 million bloggers worldwide according to 2005 statistics, all blogging their hearts out!

At one point during this surfing, I was struck by the sheer numbers of blogs and suddenly pictured them stuffed inside bottles, corked and floating in a virtual sea. Just like the song by the Police, "Message in a Bottle," where Sting hopes that someone gets his message in a bottle, then walks out one morning and can't believe what he sees--a hundred billion bottles washed up on the shore.

Maybe we're all just castaways, tossing out our ideas and thoughts in hopes that someone will get our message. Maybe everyone is scribbling, cramming, corking their messages and tossing them into the worldwide web...and no one is reading them.

Or maybe people are reading them...maybe there are twice as many readers as bloggers, and they really are making an impact. If so, it's a fascinating phenomenon. It's surely changing us in significant ways: language and vocabulary, the concept of publishing and readership, communication, transfer and cross-fertilization of ideas. All of that is evolving into something new. Highly intelligent people who have never published a book or magazine article are sharing their insights. Average Joes and Josephines with profound life stories can encourage the world.

Whether or not people are reading blogs, they do represent a new freedom of speech being exercised. How can we make the most of it--as readers and writers?

Nicknames for Privacy

I've been pondering nicknames for my family to use on the blogs...a small attempt at protecting their privacy.

I've taken to calling The Boy, well, The Boy.

So I started thinking about Hub. My friend Jenne calls her man The Hub, so that's taken. Then I remembered my hub's nickname in college when he was on the soccer team: The Belgian Waffle. When he performed a spectacular athletic feat that scored a goal, they called him The Belgian Wonder. As you can imagine, Hub prefers The Belgian Wonder. "The Waffle thing--that could have been derogatory," he pointed out. "I didn't say anything, but I preferred the other." Well, of course he did. We'll let him have it. Maybe it'll be a self-esteem boost--ideal for heading off a midlife crisis.

You may, as a result, begin seeing this reference pop into posts.

I'm still working on ideas for the girls. My neighbor suggested I give them names "in order of appearance," so to speak. That is, the oldest would have a name that begins with A, the next girl would have a fabricated B name, and the third would have a nickname beginning with C.

I'm working on it.

Don't Want to Bungle Things

My mom wrote me a note in relation to my "Will I do everything" and "Burundi" blogs. She said she was reminded of a quote by Jackie Kennedy when JFK was president and her kids were little. Someone asked her about something she might do, and her reply was, "If you bungle raising your children, I don't think whatever else you do well matters very much." Mom paraphrased the quote (from memory, I might add!), eliminating the odd sentence construction: "If you don't do a good job of raising your children, I don't think it matters much what else you do."

There are lots of ways to do a good job raising children. I think it could be done well in Burundi, though unconventionally (from a North American perspective) and not without risk. But Mom sure knows how to help me feel good about weekends filled with pancake breakfasts, soccer games, and watching Hub running alongside The Boy who is learning to ride a two-wheeler.

I imagine Mom is tempted--whether subconsciously or consciously--to convince me to stay nearby. It's a little easier to celebrate birthdays and Christmas when we're on the same continent. But I do agree that Jackie O's quote is a great reminder that my obvious calling of the moment is to raise my children well, however and wherever we continue the task. Until otherwise notified, I guess that means right here on the cul-de-sac in our suburban neighborhood.

When we bought this house seven years ago, I had instant buyer's remorse. I actually cried, feeling guilty, because the house was so big. I thought we'd been too greedy. Within a week of buying the house, I prayed, "Lord, we'll sell it right now if we've done the wrong thing."

I didn't hear a voice from heaven, and I sometimes worry that I'm hearing my own voice instead of God's, but I felt like the response was something along the lines of this: I appreciate your sensitivity and willingness to downsize, but I've given you this house to enjoy. If I take it away or ask you to move at any time--next week or ten years from now--I want you to stay open-handed about it like you are right now. Either way, it's technically my house. Use it however I ask. Until I tell you otherwise, relax and enjoy it as a gift from me.

When I think about doing whatever God wants me to do, I remember this, uh, interaction, if that's what it can be called. I think it's a pretty good attitude: stay open to change, be willing to sacrifice for God's calling and kingdom, and pay attention in case He's trying to get through to me. But if God doesn't say to change anything, relax and enjoy the current situation and make the most of it.

Reminds me of Paul's words, when he said, "I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want" (Philippians 4:12). And he was pretty good about doing whatever God wanted him to do. As I mentioned earlier, I'm reading in Acts, and I forgot about the episode where he was dragged out of the city because they thought he was dead. Then he got up and went back in! He definitely went a n y w h e r e God wanted him to go, but other times would stay for a while in one place to encourage believers, when that's what God wanted.

So I guess at the moment I find myself open to God, willing to take risks--even though I'm a wimp (a nice deal for wimps is that when I lean on Him in my wimpy weakness, God gets to show his power. His power is made perfect in weakness, and when I'm weak, then I am strong...in Christ)--and hopeful that I won't bungle motherhood.

With Apologies

While we were watching one of the girls play soccer, I pointed out the referee, Bruce, in a sea of bright blue and red jerseys. Another mom and I were noting how dedicated he is to training and leading all of the refs.

"Who's Bruce?" asked The Boy.

"He's the referee. He's on the field wearing black. With stripes."

"Which one?"

"The one in black. The only one in black."

"With white stripes down the side and little skinny stripes on the shirt?"

"Yes. He's the man. The only man on the field."

"With white hair? Oh! I mean gray hair. My apologize (sic). I said white, but it's gray. Oops. My apologize."

Vote!--Countdown to the 15th

People have reported trouble voting for Virginie in the Pantene Ambassadrice 2007 contest.

My friend S. discovered what may solve all problems. I told her, "Look for the word 'voter' near Virginie's face and click on it."

Here's her simple solution:

Go to this page:

http://www.pantene2007.be/fr/index.php

In the paragraph of text, the word "voter" is highlighted and underlined.

Click on it.

The girls' faces come up with "voter" underneath.

Click for Virginie.

Does it work?

It's sooooooo close. One day she's up by 100, next day she's down by 200.

Vote 1x per day, per Internet connection until October 15.

Will I Do Everything He Wants, Cont'd

I was telling some friends about my post, and one of them asked, "So you're going to Burundi?"

"No! That was just illustrative. Hypothetical. What if God asked me to do something big, something radical, with Burundi representing a radical call, a radical destination...would I do it? That's what I was exploring."

"Hmmm...." she said, with a mischievous grin.

"You think I'm going to Burundi?" I asked.

"I don't know. I just think it's interesting."

As we were finishing up the discussion, I looked across the table at my other friend, who had just smiled and stayed out of it. Last year she volunteered every day as a teacher's aide in an inner-city public elementary school. This year, she has accepted a position working with special needs kids in the same school. I see it as a sacrifice: Radical, Burundi-level service to the world. She thinks it's no big deal, but does see it as a perfect fit for who she is--she loves it.

What do I love? Well, honestly, I love to write. But the nation needs people to go to the most challenging schools and offer anything of themselves, no matter how small or simple. The world needs people willing to sacrifice to build schools in Burundi and teach English to Indonesian orphans and sing songs with Haitians. There's a shortage of people willing to meet those kinds of needs, and an abundance of writers blogging and writing books.

So I'm trying to pay attention and be open-minded. I'm trying to listen. Burundi...Public School 26... a n y w h e r e.

"Anywhere" feels like it's right here in my back yard, swinging The Boy on the swing. But I also don't want to just let myself off the hook. I want to be willing and available, assuming the whole family could be, too.

But if I were honest, I'd have to admit that I'm still a wimp. So maybe I cling to the back yard because it's safe and familiar.

I think it's important to ask these questions from time to time. To struggle with them a little...or a lot. And I think it's important to stay totally open to new possibilities.

Meanwhile, it's time to fix lunch. Not radical. Rather ordinary. Is ordinary what God wants me to do? Maybe...maybe not.

Skidboot

My friend Linda sent me the link to this video about a dog named Skidboot. My only complaint is that I would like to see more of Skidboot's abilities.

I love David Hartwick's soft heart, his philosophy of life, his attitude of giving, and his desire to spread laughter and smiles through the gift he's been given in Skidboot. What a guy...and what a dog.

Santa's Girls and Snack Thieves

Note to self: pack MP3 player to record The Boy.

The Boy was retelling the story he heard in preschool today.

"There was this guy who wanted to go to India, and he went to a king and a queen with some jewels. He went two times and then on the third time, they said he could go. They gave him three huge boats and he sailed to...here. You know, right here. In the United States of America. He bumped into here and couldn't go any farther, so he didn't get to India."

"The boats," I said, "were those the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria?"

"Yes! Yes, those are the boats, and--ha-ha-ha--the Santa Maria. That's a funny name."

Of course it is. I mean, what's Santa doing with Maria? Isn't he supposed to be with Mrs. Claus?

Later we pulled into the library parking lot. He puts his bag of apples into his lunch box, sets it on his car seat, hops out and pulls the door shut. "Lock the door, Mama," he insists, "so no one will steal my snack."

Will I Do Everything He Wants?

In Acts 13, Paul speaks to people gathered in a synagogue on the Sabbath. He was asked by the rulers for "a message of encouragement." He begins way back with the Israelites being led out of Egypt, summarizes 450 years or so, touches on the judges and prophets, and then mentions how the people asked for a king and God gave them Saul. "After removing Saul, he made David their king. He testified concerning him: 'I have found David son of Jesse a man after my own heart; he will do everything I want him to do'" (Acts 13:22).

Paul continues by launching directly into how Jesus was brought to them via this lineage. But I stopped right in the middle of Paul's message, because that last line from verse 22 stuck with me. I wondered, Am I a woman who will do everything God wants me to do?

When I graduated college, I would have. I wanted to do or be whatever God wanted. I expressed this to Him often in the little campus chapel where I'd slip away from the crowds of students to pray. If only He would show me, I would go anywhere and do anything for Him, even--gulp--Africa. Offering to go to Africa was shorthand for saying "really, Lord, honestly, I mean it, I will go a n y w h e r e for You." I did mean it. I would have gone. . .by faith that He'd help me every step of the way, because I was such a wimp on my own.

But no African opportunities presented themselves to me at the time, so I went with what was in front of me. Following in the footsteps of a group of friends, I moved less than two hours away to help plant a church in a wealthy suburb of the state capital. As you can imagine, this was a long way from Africa. So much for sacrifice. Am I this much of a wimp, Lord? Is this where You want me? In a cushy city in the Midwest, serving at a church plant for well-off Americans?
As far as I could tell, the answer was yes. So I went, because I wanted to do everything He wanted me to do.

Over the years I often ask this question, and I find myself asking it again this week: Am I still doing everything God wants me to do?

It's even harder to tell today than it was in college, now that my life is intimately intertwined with five other people's.

I want to. I want to do everything He wants me to do. If God tells me what to do using His still, small voice, it could get tricky. I'm not sure I'll hear it over the cacophony of kids practicing flute, clarinet and piano downstairs in the living room or the screeching of tag in the back yard. Or the van--I spend so much time in the van, and it gets so loud. "Could you speak up, Lord, over The Boy singing in the back seat at the top of his lungs?" I could miss it so easily while racing off to the soccer fields.

I want to be open and available. But it's not just me any longer. Now a group of six people must be open and willing to do everything God wants us to do. It's a challenging question to consider. What if God says, "Hey, remember your offer from the late '80s, when you said a n y w h e r e ? Well, I have in mind this little country east of the Democratic Republic of Congo. You know the one. The Pantene girl is giving her prize money to help build a village there. I'm just wondering, Ann, are you still available?"

What would I say?

Billions of Bouncy Balls

This has been bouncing around the Internet for months now, so you may have already seen it.

If not, it's just so wonderful. The music, the colors, the balls...oh, all those bouncy balls!

There's the short version, if you only have one minute (literally).

But I really recommend the "longer" version--2:26 minutes--because there's a wonderful old truck in that one, people peeking out windows, and a virtual wall of balls raining down at one point.

And then, if you're as curious as I am, there's a "making of" the Sony Bravia commercial (almost 7 minutes long)...in case you wondered how.

Fortunately, the frog leaps out of the drainpipe in all of them.

The kids loved it. Who wouldn't?

Saving Love As Our Mission

I don't follow Brian McLaren's writings too closely, so I don't know if I would endorse everything he says.

But I did really like his tribute to Steve Irwin. I don't want to spoil it for you, because it's nicely written, but I will mention that I really appreciated his concept of "saving love."

It's Madness

I can't wrap my mother-mind around the copycat school killings in Pennsylvania.

The Amish? Please, not the Amish!

It's like someone's found a long thread that's supposed to keep humanity connected and keeps pulling at it, tugging, until everything's unraveling at the seams.

Book Release

Due to the underwhelming response to the absolutely-free-no-strings-attached book offer, I am registering A Search for Serenity with Bookcrossing.com and releasing it to the wild.

I guess I've got to pull a more interesting title from my shelves.

Man, you don't know what you missed, either. I had a whole plan to record The Boy masked and in costume (to maintain his secret identity) plucking the winning name from a hat. I was hoping he'd say something hilarious on this momentous occasion, for posterity, and then I was going to post it to YouTube, and link you to it.

Instead, someone will discover this book on a park bench while watching her kids slide and swing on the playground. That's nice, too.

Your Comments Should Be Heard, er Read

A friend just asked if I saw her comment on the "Hallmark Moments...Or Not" post. I looked again, and there's nothing.

So! If you've tried to comment on a post and it hasn't gone through, I apologize. It must be a Blogger problem.

I'm totally bummed, too, to think that people have been trying to post comments, and I've missed them.

If you've ever tried to comment and for some reason it didn't go through, email me:

ann@contemplativemom.com.

I'll post it for you. The world should know what you have to say. After all, isn't that what blogs are for?

The Kid Who Thunk Too Much

For seven years our children have been involved in a Bible club called AWANA. At AWANA, kids work their way through handbooks memorizing verses and reciting them week after week to the club leaders. They do other activities as well, but Bible verse memorization is the main thing.

When they successfully complete a page in the handbook, they receive something called a "share" that can be exchanged for small prizes on "store night"--a big deal in the world of AWANA. I mean, earn enough shares and you can get a bag full of plastic toys, candy, maybe a Bible cover or a T-shirt. A couple of years ago on store night, one of the kids had so many shares she was able to bring home a Veggie Tales videotape! Memorize a verse, come home with loot. They've got a great system. Very motivating.

During all these years of memory work, I've listened to the kids practice, made up gestures to accompany the phrases, developed pneumonic (oops--wrong word. I meant: mnemonic) devices and drawn pictures to help long passages stick in their heads. Three girls, dozens of handbooks, and countless Bible passages later, The Boy is involved. He's been in the youngest class, Cubbies, for a couple of years. This year he moved up to Sparkies. That's a big move involving a thicker book and greater memory responsibilities.

He was proud to recite the Fledge and John 3:16 to earn the right to begin the book. We helped him with a new verse: "these are written that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God." He dutifully repeated it--I added gestures to help.

"Let's review it once more, so you're sure," I said.

He did it well, and I announced that he seemed ready.

Then he made a comment that in all these years of AWANA, none of the others has uttered:

"I can say the words," he said, "but I don't know what they mean."

Oh.

Well, now. All this time, the girls were content with candy and plastic toys. Recite the verse, bring home a bag of stuff. Who cares about meaning? Or maybe they understood without additional explanation?

The Boy, on the other hand, wants to actually understand. What's the point of spouting out all those verses if he doesn't comprehend their meaning? My friend Beverley told me that he seemed like a thinker. At the time, I thought, I think he's a cutie-pie, but not really a thinker. Now I wonder if she's onto something!

Then I started to consider how I might explain the verse we were working on: "these are written that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God." Where to begin?

Okay, I could start by introducing the concept of the Trinity, talk briefly about substitutional atonement tossing in a little Old Testament background. Then I should touch on Jewish prophesies of a coming Messiah, a Christ. I'll have to give him the chapter context to understand what "these things" is referring back to.

Or--and I don't want to underestimate his intellectual capacity, but--it occurred to me (inspired by Karl Barth) that the verse is pretty well summed up in a few words he already knows:

Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so.