An Excerpt--Nature and Families

[An excerpt from my book, The Contemplative Mom: Restoring Rich Relationship with God in the Midst of Motherhood]

Mary Pipher, Ph.D., author of the book The Shelter of Each Other: Rebuilding Our Families, describes several case studies of families in turmoil. She contrasts a family from the 1930s—her grandparents, actually—with those families she sees currently in her counseling practice. Noting the strengths and weaknesses of each era, she draws some practical conclusions and offers suggestions that she has seen bring healing. After describing a family that struggled with typical suburban problems, Pipher wrote:

"As adults, people remember three kinds of family events with great pleasure—meals, vacations and time outdoors. I wanted this family to have some memories.

"'I’m going to make a couple of radical suggestions here,' I said. 'One is that you turn off the television and computer for at least a couple nights a week, and two, that the family do something out of doors every week. Watch a sunset, go for a walk or take a trip to a wilderness area.'

"These were standard suggestions for me. I think that the natural world has great power to heal and restore broken families. Children need contact with the natural world. It’s an antidote to advertising and gives them a different perspective on the universe. Looking at the Milky Way makes most of us feel small and yet a part of something vast. Television, with its emphasis on meeting every need, makes people feel self-important and yet unconnected to anything greater than themselves."

(p. 59, The Shelter of Each Other: Rebuilding Our Families, Mary Pipher, Ph.D., Ballantine Books, NY, 1996)

Just as Pipher suggested, turning off technology and getting out in nature has brought our family closer and already we are seeing that those three kinds of family events remembered with pleasure are reality for us: meals, vacations, and time outdoors.

For us, camping takes care of all three in one fell swoop.

C.S. Lewis Says It All

From today's Writers' Almanac:

C.S. Lewis said, "You can't get a cup of tea big enough or a book long enough to suit me."


Amen, brother.

The Goblin of God

We misplaced something last night. "That's weird. I wonder where it went?" I wondered aloud.

"Maybe a goblin took it," one of the girls joked.

The Boy's eyes lit up. "A goblin? It must be the goblin of GOD!"

My daughter and I looked at each other doubtfully. "The goblin of God?" I repeated.

"Yes," The Boy continued, "the goblin of God. It was with the Israelites."

Evidently he was repeating a story he'd heard at church or preschool, but I couldn't think what it would be. Maybe a story about a goblet?

"I'm sorry," I finally said, not wanting him to merge Halloween with Christmas. "I'm pretty sure there isn't a goblin of God."

"Yes there is! There was a goblin that followed the Israelites. It went behind them to protect them from the Egypkins when they left Egypt. At night it was a fire so they could see it."

"Oh! The column of fire."

"No, the goblin of God."

Right. How comforting.

Sixteen solutions to spending time alone with God

Sixteen solutions to spending time alone with God
(and still getting dinner on the table) *

These suggestions may not be a perfect fit, but see if they spark another thought that will help you work within your own limitations.

· Hire a sitter. Yes, it’s perfectly acceptable to hire someone just so you can have solitude.

· Swap babysitting with a friend once a week.

· Order pizza and ask the family to eat without you one night (be sure to hand them paper plates).

· Put in a good video to occupy the kids and leave the dishes. Once a week won’t warp your kids or summon the health department.

· Pack a sandwich, block off a lunch hour at work and lock the door to your office, if you have one. A “Do not disturb” sign should make things clear. Better yet, take off.

· Use your time on an exercise bike or treadmill at home or at the gym, or run/walk outside for more freedom of expression. (Careful, or someone might phone for medical help, thinking you’ve fainted or slipped into a state of delirium!)

· Say no to the next thing that threatens to steal an hour of your week—even if it’s a very good thing.

· Take a long bath and instead of letting your mind wander from loofah sponges to grout repair, choose to experience God.

· Establish a “quiet hour” in the house. Everyone to their rooms with only books and soft music. You, too. Instead of scrambling to do housework or reading a novel for personal rejuvenation, use this hour once a week for God-centered solitude.

· Turn off the TV.

· Seriously consider a life-overhaul. Maybe this is a time to lob off many responsibilities and pare down to the bare minimum. You’ll have time for solitude, and out of that regular time with God, you may have all kinds of life revelations.

· Request a vacation day and dedicate it to a time of extended solitude. If you work from home, ask your spouse to request one. Ask him to take over while you take off.

· If all else fails, grab solitude on the run, while waiting in the car to pick up a child, or standing in line at the supermarket. Just a few seconds connecting with the Lord is better than nothing at all, and I believe He makes the most of it for us, pleased that we connect with Him.

· If your small children need monitored naptimes, lie down on their bedroom floor and if they are quiet enough, direct your thoughts to God.

· Okay, maybe it’s obvious, but: Wake up an hour earlier, or stay up an hour later.

· Continue asking God for ideas. He is a limitless problem-solver and the Creative Genius. Don’t underestimate His vested interest in helping you find time to be with Him.

* (This was originally published in my book The Contemplative Mom, out of print and only available used)

I'm Thankful for You

Thanks for being interested and curious. Thanks for enjoying some of the things I enjoy; for pondering, philosophizing, contemplating and meditating on bits and pieces of life along with me.

I'm thankful that others like to hear a good story, click on a promising link, and give some thought to the wide range of things that rattle my brain and yank at my soul. I like sharing it all here with you. I like writing.

Lots of people have waxed poetic about Thanksgiving the last few days on blogs and websites. I thought I'd just keep it small and personal to my readers. I decided to speak directly to you.

Sure, there are lots of Really Important People and Things to be grateful for--like God, my family, friends, life, health, avocadoes, dishwashers, houses big enough to house 11 people--and I am very grateful for those things and much, much more.

But at this moment, right here, I thought I'd just let you know that I'm thankful for my blog readers.

That's you.

Thanks.

Functioning with the Dinner Table Rule

Our house is filled to the brim with relatives--a happy kind of chaos. As we gathered around the dinner table last night, The Boy halted all conversation with this announcement:

"Everybody! Everybody! The rule at the dinner table is: no interruptering."

Slight pause. Then a sister pointed out, "But you interruptered us to say that."

Everybody laughed. The Boy growled and put his head down on the table for an instant, then looked up and laughed with everybody else.

He was interrupted several times during the meal. "Excuse me," he would say. "Excuse me everybody, but when I'm talking about my school, I don't like to be interruptered."

We pointed out that sometimes during conversation, the subject shifts from one thing to another; that we didn't exactly interrupt. It was just that something he said caused the discussion to go in another direction. He didn't like this very much, but we let him sing two songs and all was well.

Edison, Sousa & Sudoku

From today's Writer's Almanac:

"It was on this day in 1877 that Thomas Edison announced that he had invented a new device for recording and playing back sound, which he called the phonograph...Most people who saw the early demonstrations of the phonograph found it spooky, as though it were playing back the voice of a ghost...In order to help American customers feel more comfortable with the idea of playing back sound, the Columbia Phonograph Company commissioned a recording of marching music by John Philip Sousa's U.S. Marine Band. The idea was that Americans couldn't be spooked out by patriotic music, and those recordings became some of the first successful musical recordings ever sold."


When I spoke to the MOPS group this week, I told them about Dr. Frank Lawlis' advice that chewing gum can help our minds.

Well, he also recommends listening to marches. In the 4th slide under "We're going to activate their brains," he says, "For example, marching music ... that particular kind of music really excites the brain, gets somebody very excited and inspired. This does have a direct effect on the brain."

We can thank Edison for so many things, including the ability to listen to recorded Sousa marches...which can help our mushy minds and improve our IQ, or so they say.

These days I grab on to anything that might give my brain a boost.

Has anyone seen my book of Sudoku puzzles?

Alert and Concerned Readers Take Note

You know, I just want to say one more thing about the recent events I attended and blogged about.

An alert reader confirmed that some of you were, well, I don't know the right adjective. Maybe upset or alarmed or concerned? But it did not sit well with some of you that I mentioned some writers on this blog and gave links to their website without providing any kind of theological disclaimer.

When this happens, please feel free to write a comment. If you don't want to post it publicly, please let me know if something concerns you. You can even email me at ann@contemplativemom.com and it should get to me. I appreciate this kind of input. It helps me, because I want to be clear and helpful.

That particular event on Friday was a series of readings intermingled with Carrie's songs, and the readings were just stories. Sweet, funny, thoughtful stories. Some were memoirish, so they were nonfiction but still stories. Phil Gulley read from his Harmony books, so it was lighthearted, warm fiction a la Jan Karon's Mitford series. Brent's came closest to imparting hints of his beliefs, but again, it was really all about story.

An evening of stories. That's what it was.

And I love a good story.

That's why I wanted to share it with you.

When Does "Out Of Print" become "Limited Edition"?

The other day I told you about Scott Russell Sanders' book Warm as Wool. I loved that book, so I decided to see if could pick up a used copy to own.

What in the world???

How can a children's picture book cost 45 to 60 bucks used? In some listings, it's over $150! I did think it was beautifully done, but there's no way I'll buy a book for my kids that costs over $150!

I'm not sure why it's become so valuable. Scott is still alive--at least he was as of Friday night--so it's not some kind of Van Gogh-like, posthumous shot of fame. As far as I know, he's not achieved any current fame; I found him to be an excellent writer, but nothing he's produced has hit commercial success that would cause his other titles to increase in value. The book is nicely done, but not so extraordinary as to warrant astronomical prices. The most noteworthy thing about it is that it's out of print.

So it left me thinking, "Hmmm....I'd better hold onto my one little box of out-of-print copies of The Contemplative Mom."

Because you just never know when it will be marketed as "Limited Edition."

I could be sitting on a gold mine!

Reading with Discernment

I've been blacklisted by someone on the Internet. This person is on the prowl, looking for any mention of things that might seem like heresy.

It's certainly a wise move for readers to be sure of a person's theology. Everyone should read carefully, according to their beliefs, and be discerning.

Because I've recently referenced some controversial names who don't line up with conservative Evangelical beliefs, I thought I might have been tagged--if this person employed the Homeland Security Advisory System with regard to spiritual danger, my blog may have just shifted from Code Yellow (Elevated) to Code Orange (High).

As a writer learning to tell stories and communicate clearly and creatively, I take inspiration from many different authors who represent many different points of view. Just because I mention them here doesn't mean I fully endorse every bit of them and align myself with their beliefs.

When I send you off-site, I'll try to remember to compose a little disclaimer so that you won't visit without knowing what you're getting into. With regard to the latest links, I loved their way with words and thought you might, too.

As for myself, for the record:

I believe in God, the Father Almighty,
the Creator of heaven and earth,
and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord:
Who was conceived of the Holy Spirit,
born of the Virgin Mary,
suffered under Pontius Pilate,
was crucified, died, and was buried.

He descended into hell.
The third day He arose again from the dead.
He ascended into heaven
and sits at the right hand of God the Father Almighty,
whence He shall come to judge the living and the dead.

I believe in the Holy Spirit,
the holy catholic church,
the communion of saints,
the forgiveness of sins,
the resurrection of the body,
and life everlasting.

Amen.

Who Were Those Mysterious Writers?

You may be wondering about the musician and authors I mentioned in the previous post.

The event was called Music and Memoirs, Story and Song, featuring Carrie Newcomer, Brent Bill, Scott Russell Sanders, and Phil Gulley.

Phil Gulley wins the Garrison Keillor soundalike award, by employing impeccable timing in his delivery, delightful storytelling abilities, and a most unusual voice. He could be on A Prairie Home Companion, except they'll probably never have him for fear he'll upstage Garrison.

Brent is the kind of person I'd love to sit and have coffee with, and I could probably easily arrange that. We have some mutual friends and he doesn't live far from me. His readings were conversational and warmly pastoral in that he was imparting some ideas and hope in a completely accessible style. In fact, it felt like we were sitting across the table from each other; except he did all the talking, which was fine because I didn't have much to say anyway.

Carrie's music is rich and full of imagery, unlike anyone I've ever heard before, with an unexpectedly low, full voice that complements the storylines of her songs. Captivating music, and she often smiles during the song, which is so inviting.

Scott Russell Sanders is an English professor at my alma mater. I can't remember if I ever took a course from him, though he was there when I was taking all of my requirements. College was such a blur. I'd have to look at my transcripts. My friend Nichole took a class from him and said he was her favorite professor. I stumbled onto a picture book called Warm as Wool that he wrote--historical fiction for children. I was so impressed to find something of such quality to share with my kids, then discovered our college connection. Now I'm ready to dive into his nonfiction for adults. He read from his most recent book, a memoir entitled A Private History of Awe.

After attending an event like that, I'm conflicted: inspired to write, but intimidated by such talent; warmed by a sense of connection, as if surrounded by kindred spirits, while wistful that I don't belong to a fellowship of artists like that.

I live in the suburbs. It's a convenient area to raise kids. The Belgian Wonder can commute to work and we have access to good schooling options. But suburbs are not commonly where poets and novelists congregate. I think of urban centers and college towns as a more likely hub to find a kindred spirit, and my life just doesn't take me to urban centers or college towns very often.

But if I spent all my time socializing with writers, I probably wouldn't be writing. And wouldn't that be a little situational irony?

I'd best get to work. When Scott Russell Sanders was writing about a diner, and Phil Gulley mentioned by name a tiny town that I could ride my bike to when I was growing up, images from childhood kept coming to mind. I remembered shooting a bb gun at a pole sticking up from the abandoned chicken coop behind my house. At night, I could see the lights of the city in the distance. Something is cookin' in my head. Not sure what. I need to explore it.

Time to write.

Love It or Leave It...or Write Books about It

Friday night I was in the company of powerful storytellers. Three authors and a musician performed readings and songs in an intimate setting downtown. My friend Linda and I went together, and she introduced me to the singer, whom she has met a couple of times. I could have said hello and reminded the authors why they have a slight reason to know me, but I decided to just enjoy what they were offering the audience.

One writer in particular has a style that ignites my imagination. His details weave intimate, specific scenes that we could taste and hear. His writing was so vivid, I was with him as he recreated a scene from his childhood on his screened in porch while a thunderstorm was moving in and lightning cracked a huge oak tree. See? Just retelling it didn't take you anywhere. You weren't on his porch seeing him sink against his dad's chest, but because of his writing, I was. I'll have to buy his book and try to learn from him. It's harder to write like that. Requires more discipline and time at the very least...maybe some degree of genius, as well.

As for the "performers," if you will (is that what you call authors when they are reading excerpts from their work? Or are they still just authors?): they are all local to my state, and they seem to like it. That always surprises me. I mean, most of my adult life--and maybe for most of my youth--I've hankered to pack my Colgate, computer, flip-flops and photo boxes and drive south on the Interstate to some locale that never freezes. To get away from this Midwestern crossroads and just to try out the South. Just to live somewhere warm for a year or two and see if I could stand the insects and the sweltering summers and the tourists and snowbirds. I think I'd be okay, because I could consume endless grits and sweet tea, and right there I'd be pretty much set.

But these authors actually seem to enjoy living here. They like this state. They choose it. They write about it--proudly. They promote small towns and cornfields, limestone and geodes. They laud the diners and farmers, pond life, and simple living. They're all Quakers, too, however; so that may account for some of it.

I was left wondering if I ought to just accept that which appears will never change: I'm here. In nearly 40 years, I've never lived anywhere else--even after marrying a man who grew up in Europe, I'm still here. I should learn to like it; maybe even to love it.

Perhaps I should start writing poetry about it.

Oh, I forgot: I already did.

Any other suggestions?

MOPS and Our Mushy Minds

Many thanks to the MOPS group that had me in to speak this morning!

We talked about our mushy minds, a topic I relate to ever so well.

After highlighting some of the causes of Mamamnesia, as some call it, or Mommy Mush Mind, I talked about a variety of ways to try rescuing from the quagmire our memory, creativity, attentiveness, and intellect along with our verbal, spatial and cognitive abilities.

One simple suggestion came from Dr. Frank Lawlis who was an IQ expert featured on a Dr. Phil segment (see the slide show entitled, "We're going to activate their brains")--and of course if you hear something on Dr. Phil, it's got to be true. Dr. Lawlis offered several suggestions. I was captivated by his comment that chewing sugarless gum could make a significant impact on our ability to focus.

I researched his gum claim online and found an article summarizing the research done in Great Britain the year before. It's looking good for Wrigley.

Who knew? All those years our teachers made us spit it out, chewing gum could have been one of our best study and test-taking allies. This morning I passed out some gum and told the MOPS ladies that it was our secret weapon.

It's not too late. Next time you can't remember where you put your keys, reach for a pack of gum and start chomping.

If you can remember where you put the gum, that is.

Reason #563 That This Mom Needed A Long, Hot Shower

Yesterday I wasn't keeping track of time. Suddenly I realized it was time to pick up the girls, so I went into my Keystone Cops routine, running this way and that, bumping into things, getting The Boy into motion, dragging him from his activity and barking orders: "Get your shoes and some socks--quick! We're going to be late!"

He couldn't find socks very quickly, then discovered that his shoes were soggy from stepping in a puddle. "I'll get a pair from the garage," he said.

"That's fine. Just get your coat on. Come on! Comeoncomeoncomeon, we've got to get in motion. Can you hurry?"

"I have to get my shoes on!"

"We need to, well, I just--tell you what. You just grab your shoes, and I'll scoop you up and carry you to the car."

He liked this idea, grabbed his shoes, and I leaned down to let him sort of climb on. He's getting quite big and too heavy to carry comfortably. "You're going to have to really hold on," I explained, "because you're getting big enough I can't hold you on my own. My arms aren't strong enough."

"Okay," he said, wrapping his arms around my neck. He was still holding the shoes. I managed to get through the garage door with a purse dangling from one shoulder and The Boy holding on like a monkey, his shoes brushing against the back of my hair.

That's funny, I thought as I pulled the garage door shut. The trash can lids were shut, but I could still smell the faint odor of dog doo. The kids pick it up in plastic grocery bags, tie them shut and dispose of them in the trash bins, so I can smell it slightly if the lids are flipped open. But the lids were shut. This just flashed through my head as I continued the manic race to make up for lost time picking up the girls.

We got in the car. I still smelled doo.

That's when I realized it.

"Did you step in dog doo when you were raking leaves yesterday in the back yard?"

"Oh," he replied. "Yes, I did."

"Were you wearing those shoes?"

"Yes, I was."

"I thought so."

No time to go back. No time for a shoe exchange. No time for a shower.

I had to drive the long commute leaning forward toward the steering wheel, looking like a 92-year-old near-sighted driver, to keep the doo off the head rest.

We Have to Help

When Anne Lamott talked about how her passion for politics formed, she took us all the way back to her childhood. She said she would see pictures in National Geographic or read somewhere about starvation, injustice and poverty and just weep. Her compassion for suffering ran deep, but wasn't respected or affirmed in her family.

Instead of commending her honest and heartfelt response, her parents would shake their heads. "Oh, no! What now?" Or she would be sitting quietly pondering these enormous world issues and someone would come up and say, "Don't you have any homework to do?"

I mentioned that she read to us from the commencement address she delivered to graduating seniors at UCLA at Berkeley in 2003. One section stood out to me, especially in light of this wonderful explanation of how she developed this lifelong commitment to helping and sharing out of her weakness.

As you read this, please keep in mind she was speaking to secular students at a liberal west coast university three years before this recent election:

"If you find out next week that you are terminally ill -- and we're all terminally ill on this bus -- all that will matter is memories of beauty, that people loved you, and you loved them, and that you tried to help the poor and innocent.

"So how do we feed and nourish our spirit, and the spirit of others?

"First, find a path, and a little light to see by. Every single spiritual tradition says the same three things: 1) Live in the now, as often as you can, a breath here, a moment there. 2) You reap exactly what you sow. 3) You must take care of the poor, or you are so doomed that we can't help you.

"You don't have to go overseas. There are people right here who are poor in spirit; worried, depressed, dancing as fast as they can, whose kids are sick, or whose retirement savings are gone. There is great loneliness among us, life-threatening loneliness. People have given up on peace, on equality. They've even given up on the Democratic Party, which I haven't, not by a long shot. You do what you can, what good people have always done: You bring thirsty people water; you share your food, you try to help the homeless find shelter, you stand up for the underdog."

Her passion to love, to help and to remind us to see other people in their real condition -- and to love and accept them -- touches me. It humbles me.

Last night I was doubly humbled (is that possible? If it is, I was) because while listening to Anne's own story, I thought about the two friends who came with me. I was sitting next to two women who volunteer with an inner-city Christian organization that hosts a weekly girls' club. What's more, one of the two women is leaving in early 2007 to serve with a mission in Bolivia for four months. They also both work in public schools because they share Anne Lamott's passion to help and make a difference.

And I'm just trying to get a shower installed in my bathroom.

I'm humbled.

At the very least, I'm going to try to be aware if my kids are pondering world poverty and let them alone to think and pray and come up with ways they might help. Homework isn't everything.

In fact, I remember one time when the kids were younger, they turned to a station showing one of those long ads about starving children that ask for donations to the program, like World Vision or Feed the Children. They watched the footage of those little children staring at the camera through eyes rimmed with flies, stomachs distended. A tiny sister cries in her mothers' arms. Three small kids drew buckets of muddy water from their only water supply. My kids were aghast at the long line of patient kids, standing in line for a dollop of rice.

I was in the other room when one of the girls came running to me, holding out a scrap of paper. "Mama! Mama! We have to phone right now. I wrote down the number. It says we have to help the children! It's up to us! We have to help!"

They're right; we do. We have to help the children.

We can always do something, even if it's very small.

I would like to gather some ideas of what families do to try to make a difference in the world--both in big and small ways. Would you post a comment if you know someone or you yourself are doing something tangible to try to make a difference?

Writers' Night Out

Tonight an author whose books I've enjoyed over the years spoke at a nearby church. I bought tickets way in advance, and my friends and I arrived early to get good seats.

The author: Anne Lamott.

Okay, I know there will be readers who find this delightful and others who may be shocked. From what I understand, her outspoken political views and generous theology have made her controversial in Evangelical circles.

But I overlook the naughty words that pop up here and there in some of her books, and take what's helpful and true from her work. She's honest. She tells a great story, or two, or three in her messages--many in her books. She knows what it's like to be at the bottom--it fills her with compassion for people. For all of her insecurities and neuroses, however, she's strong and opinionated. In her writing and when she speaks, this apparent contradiction brings a refreshing balance to what she communicates.

Two years ago my friend Beth and I drove all the way to Chicago to hear Anne speak, so this was much more convenient. The venue was packed, too. I was happy for Anne. In fact, it seemed packed with people who were hanging on her every word, laughing at every joke, nodding at every wise observation.

She repeated some statements and stories Beth and I had heard in Chicago:

For writers: Always carry a pen. When ideas and inspiration come to us, we need to stay receptive and always carry a pen to capture it. If we don't, after a while God might stop sending all of those ideas and inspiration our way and start sending them over to that cute little Anne Lamott instead...because she has a pen.

For everyone: You are so loved and so chosen.

For everyone: Whatever you do, wear comfortable pants. She read from a commencement address she gave at the University of California at Berkeley in 2003. "Refuse to wear uncomfortable pants," she said, "even if they make you look really thin. Promise me you'll never wear pants that bind or tug or hurt, pants that have an opinion about how much you've just eaten."

For writers especially, but in a way for everyone: This world is a mess. It's odd. Our lives are messy and we fail. When we fail, however, that's when we learn. It's when we have something worthwhile to say. (I'm paraphrasing from memory.)

There were a thousand other things she said that struck me at the moment she uttered them. I hope some of them come to me tomorrow.

She signed books. People stood in line to meet her.

My friends and I decided to just swing by the refreshment table, drink some punch, eat some cookies, and head on home. Refreshment for the body to accompany Anne's refreshment for the mind.

I've Been Discovered

I've been sort of blogged-up, frozen, unable to post anything for a couple of days.

One thing that stopped me was when someone reminded me that everything you blog is forever.

Forever?

Whoa.

The other thing that has me thinking about this blog is that over the weekend, my youngest daughter came to me with a huge grin and stared.

"What's up?" I asked.

"I just found something."

"And what's that?"

"I just read something."

"What did you read?"

"A blog."

"A blog, eh?"

"And not just anyone's blog. I read your blog!"

Now I don't run everything past the kids for their approval, but when I write about them, I try to make sure it's a sweet story or something that won't humiliate them. I tell people that I include stories that I'd consider using if I were publishing a book.

But I couldn't help but mentally review the last few posts to see if I could recall any that would have made her uncomfortable. She continued to just stand there, the grin stretched out. I'm not sure what she was thinking. Was she proud that she could Google her own mother and find her that easily? Was she mortified? Impressed? I'm not sure.

"What are you thinking?"

(Still grinning) "I don't know," she answered.

"Were they appropriate? I mean, in your opinion, now that you've read them, do you think I wrote anything that would embarrass anyone in the family?"

"No."

I swept my hand across my forehead and blew out an exaggerated whew! "Good! Because I don't want to do that."

"I liked the one about 'small is big.' That was funny."

"Did you watch Store Wars?"

"Watch it?" She didn't know to click on the highlighted text for a link.

"Go to my blog, find that post, and click where I tell you to and you can watch a fun video. I think you'll like it."

She left--grinning--and came back later laughing about Cuke Skywalker and Obi Wan Cannoli.

After that, I wrote four posts that I never published.

I can't bring myself to.

It's like I've looked out from the stage and spotted someone unexpected in the audience.

Maybe I have stage fright.

Veteran's Day

On Friday The Boy and I attended a Veteran's Day service at the school where the girls attend. The choir sang a medley of patriotic songs, the band played marches and the National Anthem, and some students spoke.

The school invited veterans to attend. They walked down the center aisle behind the flag as the band played a march: both men and women of all ages, including two young men in uniform and a distinguished gentleman who walked with a cane. Some were young men with kids in the school; others may have served in Vietnam or Korea. The old man may have served in WWII.

My mom and I had to blot our eyes a bit. Something about that man with the cane...

Later, one of the students asked all of the veterans to stand. The audience applauded. And applauded. And applauded. And then a teacher toward the front stood up. Then another. Then we all stood and kept applauding for what seemed like five full minutes--the steady, strong kind of clapping flowing from respect, admiration and gratitude. I teared up again, and I didn't expect it, as I'm not the teary type.

I came home to an email from my friend Beverley in which she recommended this slide show. The Boy came running when he heard the pretty piano music and watched it with me.

I want to share it with you today, Veteran's Day, and join with the Military Support Group who put together this short presentation (I know nothing about the group except for the slide show) in saying thanks to every man and woman who has ever served in the armed forces.

Some of you have suffered personal pain and losses as a result of your work. Some of you still suffer. Some of you will.

In light of that, "thank you" may seem lame. I can only imagine what you have gone through, because I really have no idea. Still, I hope you know that we want to somehow communicate our gratitude.

Thank you for serving.

Thank you for your sacrifices

For those in active duty...I pray for your safe return.

Corporate Seminars for Preschoolers

This week I was able to drive two hours to see my friend Jenne! She normally lives, oh, maybe seven hours' drive or a short flight from my house, so to be able to drive only two hours to sit in person with her sent me packing up for a road trip. The Boy and I stuffed some snacks into lunch boxes, piled books and activities into a blue laundry basket for easy access to preschool hands, voted, and then headed out on our trek.

The Boy travels well, quietly sitting behind me flipping pages in a book, pondering the billboards, listening to music or a book on tape, and playing his sister's Gameboy. So even when we were driving Jenne to the airport, he rarely interrupted.

We stopped for a Wendy's snack. I ordered a Sprite for The Boy, expecting a small. In a Starbucks-inspired move, they gave me a large. "I thought I ordered a small," I said to Jenne.

"Maybe you just said 'a Sprite,' but didn't say small and she just automatically gave you this," she suggested.

"That's probably it. Man, that's a lot of Sprite for a little boy."

The Boy sipped his drink, tilting the huge yellow cup in order to access the straw, spilling a little. Jenne recovered it before the entire thing poured out onto his jeans.

As we munched our fries, she and I talked about her work as a consultant, instructor and corporate trainer. In the midst of a larger discussion, she made the statement, "Small is the new big."

From the back seat, after hours of silence, The Boy spoke up in a tone of astonishment. "Small is big?"

Jenne turned to make eye contact with him. "You bet it is," she said, "Small is the new big. And don't let anyone try to tell you it isn't."

He smiled and nodded, pleased to get the inside scoop.

Hours later, as we neared home, The Boy and I were discussing dinner. "Next time we go to Wendy's," he began, "you should order a large Sprite. Then they'll give you a small. Because today you ordered a small and they gave you a large."

"It's funny, isn't it?" I commented.

"It's just like Jenne said," he observed, "'Small is big.'"

Our Right to Vote

A few months ago, my father-in-law spent several weeks in Democratic Republic of Congo. Part of that time he assisted with their historic elections as an "observer." And of course we all know about the Iraqis' own recent opportunity to elect their own leader. From the news reports, interviews and stories of risks taken to get to the polling stations, it's easy to see and important to note how precious it is to have your ballot count.

But someone sent me an e-mail reminder of my own right to vote, a right that was once not even a privilege. It wasn't even an option.

Before I vote today, I wish I had time watch a 2004 HBO movie about suffragists called "Iron Jawed Angels." The e-mail referenced this film, and while I didn't have time to rent it, I read a review of the movie, watched the trailer and read the synopsis. Sounds like it's got its weaknesses, but reminds me that we haven't always had the opportunity to enter into this political process. Some sites pointed me to historical timelines of the suffragist movement, their struggles, sacrifices and eventual success. They did it. Thanks to the commitment of determined women, I can go around the corner and participate in the democratic process.

For the sacrifices women have made before us....

Vote.

Because we can.

Store Wars

You know, after scanning the recent articles about Haggard and Hussein, it was nice to spend a few minutes just vegging out.

Literally.

To get people thinking about the virtues of organic produce, the creators of this video cast several vegetables in the roles of Luke Skywalker, Darth Vader, Han Solo and Princess Leia (whose last name, coincidentally, was "Organa"). I didn't laugh hysterically, but I did grin. And I think I might have giggled a couple of times.

http://www.storewars.org/flash/ *





* Many thanks to Mary DeMuth for pointing me to this site. It granted me several minutes of amusement.

Sabbath Thoughts

In light of the Haggard scandal, I find myself searching for an appropriate personal response.

This is where I landed:

The Parable of the Pharisee and the Tax Collector
"Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee stood up and prayed about himself: 'God, I thank you that I am not like other men—robbers, evildoers, adulterers—or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week and give a tenth of all I get.'

"But the tax collector stood at a distance. He would not even look up to heaven, but beat his breast and said, 'God, have mercy on me, a sinner.'

"I tell you that this man, rather than the other, went home justified before God. For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted."
(Luke 18:9-14)

And he said: "I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. (Matthew 18:3-4)

He guides the humble in what is right
and teaches them his way.
(Psalm 25:9)


Humility.

Lord Jesus, have mercy on me, a sinner.

A Gift of Love

My youngest daughter, who hasn't read my blog about peanut M&Ms and is the one who kept precise count of her loot, just let me pick any candy at all from her bag!

"Which one should I take?" I asked.

"Any that you want."

"Any?"

"Sure!"

I pulled out a Kit-Kat and a golden package of peanut M&Ms. "Which one of these should I take?"

"Whichever one you like best."

"Do you like one of them better?"

She indicated she kind of liked Kit-Kats better.

"Cool!" I said. "I'll take the M&Ms. Thank you. Thank you very much!"

"It's because you're such a great mom," she said.

Ohhhh.....what a sweetheart.

This doesn't happen very often, people. After such an outstanding display of generosity and love, I almost want to keep the M&Ms as a cherished reminder of this rare and precious moment in the history of my parenting.







Naaaahhhh......


(I can always keep the empty package.)

A Brief Review

At lunch today I asked The Boy, "What is it you want to be when you grow up? A zookeeper, and what else?"

He swallowed and cleared his throat. "When I grow up, I want to be: a zookeeper, help Papa at work, and a music destructor."

"A music...what did you say?"

"A music destructor."

So...a little heavy metal in his future?

Peanut M&Ms

Supermom/crazedmommyofthree at her blog entitled "What Makes a Housewife Desperate?" posted a picture of the Halloween loot her kids brought home. A nice haul. I have to say from what's pictured, I'm partial to peanut M&Ms while The Belgian Wonder prefers Twix.

At our house we have two kids in braces. Their creative and generous orthodontist offered to buy back Halloween candy from his patients at $2/lb, so all but one of the kids eagerly sorted and bagged up what they wanted to sell. I supported the venture, because I get so tired of the begging and snitching day after day, kid after kid. I thought this was a great way to unload a bunch all at once.

Now I didn't see what they had bagged up to sell until we were standing at the orthodontist's counter. After weighing the candy, the ladies at the front desk dumped the candy into enormous shopping bags--I gasped! My daughter had sold at least two packages of peanut M&Ms! One of the yellow bags sat directly on top of the mountain of candy, gleaming like a chunk of gold. Man, did I want to ask for that back....but just about the same moment I spotted the M&Ms, the front desk gal told me they were planning to donate the candy to a shelter for abused women and children.

"Oh, that's so nice," I conceded, trying to pretend I wasn't drooling slightly and in desperate need of a little sugar high. Because it is nice. The shelter kids should have the M&Ms. Surely I'll find some more chocolate someplace in the house.

The front desk ladies handed the girls four dollar bills each, and the boy (who was unwilling to part with much--and who can blame him? After all, he doesn't have braces) two dollars, and I turned to go.

I thought about those M&Ms all the way out to the car. When we were all strapped in, I said to my eldest, "I can't believe you sold those peanut M&Ms! I love them!"

"I can't have them with the braces. No nuts."

"But I can have them! You didn't even offer them to your dear ol' ma."

"Ya, well, you didn't go around to the houses trick-or-treating!"

"That's true. You're right. It was your package of M&Ms to do whatever you wanted."

"Besides," she pointed out, "I offered you two Butterfingers, don't you remember?"

"Yes, yes you did. That's true." She did that the night of Halloween. Sweet girl. I did used to like Butterfingers.

But I should have rummaged through their "sell" bags the night before the big orthodontist pay-back. I lost my chance. Bummer.

Shannon at RocksinmyDryer reports that she rummages, culls and freezes some of her kids' candies for future stocking stuffers. Her kids are younger. I think mine might notice. The third girl (who chose not to sell any) counted each piece; she knew exactly how much candy she had.

I told the kids who did sell that I affirmed their decision: fewer calories, less sugar = stronger immune system for flu season and overall better health.

But doggone it, I really wanted some peanut M&Ms today.

It's okay, however. I was right about finding some chocolate in the house. I unearthed a few leftover peanut butter cups. That'll do.

When a Starbucks Isn't a Starbucks

Last night was my first occasion to order a "Short" Starbucks coffee. I'd already eaten dinner and was going out to talk with a friend--it was the exact scenario when for me, a Short is called for. I just wanted to sip a truly small drink and chat. I was looking forward to my first experience drinking the coffee I've always wanted.

I was so eager that while standing in line, I told my friend all about the Short and how they left it off their menu and that the other day someone ordered it and they handed it to her without blinking an eye. "Just watch," I said. "I'm going to order it and they're going to hand it to me--a Short. Just you wait and see."

"I'd like a 'Short' decaf coffee, please." I asked, enunciating carefully.

She poured the coffee, set it on the counter, and the young lady operating the cash register rang me up for the price of a Tall.

"This is a 'Short,'" I clarified, "so it should cost less."

"This is the price," she said.

"But this should be a 'Short,' not a 'Tall.' I ordered a 'Short.'"

The barista who prepared my drink seemed perturbed. She looked over her shoulder and grumbled, "It's a Tall."

"But I asked for a 'Short,' which I understand is not posted on the menu, but is available if I ask."

The girl at the cash register lifted her eyebrows, "A 'Short'? I've never heard of that. I'm sorry. There's no way to ring it up. This is a Tall, so I rang it up for the price of a Tall."

"Well," I said, "you might want to research this, because Starbucks offers a Short that isn't listed on the board."

The perturbed barista turned to me with a sour face and said--enunciating clearly--that "this is a Barnes and Noble Cafe, not a Starbucks." The signage, the machines, the snacks they serve and everything about the place sure did look to me like a Starbucks set down smack in the middle--well, in a corner--of a Barnes and Noble. Silly me. All of these years, I assumed it was a Starbucks Cafe in a Barnes and Noble bookstore.

"So you serve Starbucks, but you aren't Starbucks?" I asked.

"That's right. We don't have everything that an actual Starbucks has."

"I see. So you don't have a stack of 'Short' cups stuck under a counter someplace?"

(I'm sure by this point my friend was wondering why she goes out to coffee with me, and I'm beginning to suspect that I'm turning into my curious and questioning father who has done this exact thing in hundreds of establishments all my years growing up. We just want to understand the discrepancy, you see...)

Cash register lady says, "No, and I'm sorry, but I've never heard of a Short."

Perturbed barista, now officially scowling, talks about me in third person, "I know what she's talking about: the kiddie cups. We don't have any."

Kiddie cups! What a low blow. I gave up on the discussion at this point, thanking her for my coffee and paying the Tall price for my Tall coffee without further comment, as I'm sure you're all relieved to know. I pointed out to my friend that on the English language page at the Japanese Starbucks website, they referred to the Short as the perfect after-dinner coffee size...not a kiddie cup.

We sat down for a great discussion, chatted and sipped our drinks; and, as usual, I wasn't able to finish my Tall. As we left, I tossed my cup in the trash disposing of a portion. I estimate that it was just about four ounces--the difference between a 12 oz Tall and an 8 oz Short.