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March 25, 2005
For reasons too boring to post, I'm hyperlinking you to my other blog spot.

www.contemplativemom.com/blog/

That is what I'll be using for a while. If I change my mind, I'll send you back here. Sorry to be so inconsistent. I'm trying to become more technologically proficient, and also to post regularly. Perhaps by returning to this option, I'll prove myself to be a more faithful blogger.

And of course an interesting feature that I'll leave on is the comment option. You can comment on my posts for all the world to read!

March 14, 2005
The crocuses are poking up their bright petals and looking around at the gloom in which they emerge, seeming to understand their contribution to the general mood. For me they represent a shift from the gray skies of winter; a promise, more so than even the daffodil, that it's finished. Spring is in the works. Soccer will soon be upon us.

On a completely different note, having unfortunately nothing to do with flowers, we have been invaded. A couple of months ago, a friend came over with a Gameboy. This awoke the jeering green giant of envy and desire in each of the children so fierce that we've staggered back in astonishment.

"Kids truly seem to get addicted to those things," my good friend warned. "I had to limit the use to no more than one hour a day for my son. He was getting obsessed. It's the first privilege we take away when he's in trouble, too."

I didn't want this. I didn't want to monitor it, demand that it be turned off, and become basically the Gameboy police. When the kids asked about it, I said, "I will not support that. I will not buy you one. If you," and here is where I didn't think through the consequences of my words before it was too late, "want to raise the money yourself and pay for it, that's your choice. But I won't buy the Gameboy or any of the games. I just won't. And if you do manage to get one someday and I see that you start to get obsessed with it, you turn it off the moment I say so."

Aren't you glad I'm not your mom.

Well, that small slip, that suggestion that they could use their own funds, was my undoing. One of the most frugal shoppers hadn't frittered away her funds on gumballs and purses. She, instead, had a pretty hefty sum in her bank account.

She now has a Gameboy.

And two games.

The other two, less frugal and also with fewer means to earn money, are exhibiting a great deal of patience and industriousness. They are doing every job in the house we can think of for money. Last night, my husband said, "If you can think of any tasks that need to be done, there is an employment line in this house. They're standing around with signs hanging from their necks that read, 'Will work for Gameboy'."

So I made the list. Our bathrooms are sparkling. The basement floor is fairly clear. The videos are organized, the carpets are vacuumed. The cars are cleaned out and vacuumed, as well. The four million sweetgum balls that drop from our trees every two days or so are also a source of revenue for them. Our laundry is folded and put away.

Maybe the Gameboy isn't such a bad idea after all?

In that same discussion last night, my husband said, "We need to take advantage of this opportunity, because it'll all dry up when they earn enough to cover those things."

"Yes," I agreed, "but there are always the games." At about twenty bucks a game, we may have clean and folded jeans for several months, maybe a year! And for the first time since we moved into this house, we might even have a year when the sweetgum balls aren't biodegrading in the front yard in muddy patches, apparently draining nutrients from the lawn.

Thus begins our lives with Gameboy.

March 8, 2005
In an effort to organize herself, our youngest daughter made a little list, to remember what she wanted to accomplish the next morning. She propped it up on the kitchen table between the blue candlesticks. My husband brought it in to show me later that night. In first-grade printing, it reads:

morning routine
make money
make clothes for care-bears

A list, my husband said, that would do Martha Stewart proud.

March 3, 2005
Well, hello there! It's tax time, and Turbotax is on the computer I have to use for blogging. Plus, I've had a birthday and other distractions. But here I am.

This morning I spoke at a MOPS group. I had a great time, the ladies were terrific, and I was feeling really great about the day. Driving home, I was on a 40 mph stretch of road but hit a school zone while my youngest was singing, "We are the grapes...of wrath..." from Veggie Tales really loud, making us laugh and distracting me. I slowed down just an instant after a cop clocked me. The ticket would have been a doozy--it would have cost me more than I made from my speaking engagement! In a marvelous display of generosity and mercy, he gave me a warning instead of a ticket.

It somehow captured the ups and downs of life compressed into a few short hours. You can have a wonderful "high" and speed directly into a "low" within a few short minutes.

I could have kissed the cop for the warning. He said, "I'm giving you a warning. I should be giving you a ticket, but I saw you just had your birthday, and I just thought..." he trailed off and I responded humbly, "Thank you. Thank you very much."

I have no deep thoughts regarding this. Only: watch your speed!

February 19, 2005

Hotel Rwanda.

Right now, I am sitting with it. Stunned.

February 18, 2005
On the Sojourners main page, scroll down to two short interviews, one with Philip Yancey, the other with Wendell Berry. I send you there to provoke thought. They are no more than five minutes each.

February 8, 2005
Clearly we've been watching far too much "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition."

The first clue came when we were watching the sister show, "How'd They Do That?" on Monday night. The show ended, and as we turned it off our preschooler burst into tears. "It's over," we said.

"No it's not! It's not over!"

"Yes it is," we said.

"No, it's not over. They didn't get to see the rooms!" He started wailing, weeping, heartbroken. How do you explain to a three-year-old that the show that looks exactly the same as the other show isn't the same show?

The next clue came when we were soothing him after the first misunderstanding. "This show is about how they built the house. It shows how Ty built the secret room," I tried to explain.

Hubby tried a shift in direction, a slight diversion, "Maybe you'll be a builder someday, like Ty?"

The boy perks up. "Yeah, I'll be a builder. I don't like this house. I don't like my room. I'm going to crash down the walls and build a new house. Come on! Let's crash down the walls!"

"Oh, no, honey. We have to leave our walls up. We can't crash it and start over. We can repaint, however. We can paint your walls orange sometime. Wouldn't that be nice?"

He frowned, picked up blankie, stuck his fingers in his mouth and walked back to his room.

February 1, 2005
I just finished Mark Buchanan's book The Holy Wild.

It's about the character of God. With that title, I had no idea where he would take it. I only read the book because a friend of mine insisted. She pulled it off the library shelf and flipped through it, then found it impossible to put down. "He reminds me of you, actually," she said. Now that I've read him, I'm greatly flattered. He far surpasses any ability I have with words.

One of the goals of his book, it seems, is to help us understand God's character so well that we'll learn to trust Him anew. On page 43, he writes:

In the middle of God’s second response to Habakkuk, He says something that is the key to the whole book. It’s the key to the whole question of whether God is good. It’s the key, in fact, to the whole of life.

“The righteous,” He says, “will live by his faith.”

At first blush, this seems cold comfort yet again. An ice pack applied to a ruptured organ. A tin shack erected against a typhoon.

But it’s infinitely more than that. It is, in fact, a truth utterly basic to life. The core of the Christian life is to live by faith.

And faith is finally this: resting so utterly in the character of God—in the ultimate goodness of God—that you trust Him even when He seems untrustworthy.

By the end of Buchanan's book, I feel that he took me to Scripture, pointing me to truth about God and expanding on it in ways I may never forget. I think he met his goal, helping me do just that: rest in the character of God...trusting Him even when He seems untrustworthy.

Here's a short review from the Amazon link.

Mark Buchanan is a rare combination. Certain authors are weak in the writing department, yet they do a wonderful job of telling stories and communicating truth. Others are masters in the art of literature, but they fail to touch us on a heart level. Buchanan mixes sparkling words with piercing insight, and delivers a book that should be read by all.

"The Holy Wild" is a book for anyone who has struggled with the questions of life. It doesn't turn its eyes from the ugliness of disease or disaster; it doesn't candy-coat the realities of abuse and addiction. It does, however, nudge us into the presence of the living God, reminding us to view life through his majesty, his justice, and his grace.

With the theological depth of CS Lewis and the storytelling ease of John Eldredge, Mark Buchanan is a voice that demands to be heard.

January 28, 2005
Last night I was re-enacting the same scene I explained in yesterday's blog for a friend. "No, you didn't!" she exclaimed after I said "...peace." "Did you end with 'Shalom'?" she asked.

"No," I said, "but if you spun me around at that moment, you would have seen the Dayspring Christian Card logo stamped on my back."

One of the brothers who heard my two ridiculous "speeches" is an outstanding improv actor. How I wish I could have climbed into his head for those seconds and listened in to what was going on his brain as I stood there.

I'm making a bigger deal out of this than it really was, of course. And far more important than anything silly I might have said is that this family really did seem to be celebrating their father/husband's life and honoring him in his death. It made an impression on me and left me hoping I can celebrate and honor my loved ones so well.

January 27, 2005
It seems that as soon as I exit my mom life and enter whatever the rest of life is for other people, I tend to say extra-stupid things. I say things that I regret, that cause me to toss and turn at night. I say things that I have to apologize for later. I talk too fast and end up in unedited mode, and that's trouble. Well, you can imagine my fear heading into a visitation this week. The parent of a friend passed away, and I knew the entire family. Time to walk among other adults and hope that I refrain from completely embarrassing myself.

My time at the visitation was going fairly well, with my prudent husband leading the way, nodding appropriately, not feeling the need to follow up with a comment or ask a nutty question. The worst that happened up to that point is that in a conversation with a very intelligent actor-director, I confused Peer Gynt with Pygmalion, and that didn't feel too terrible. Then my spouse headed out a few minutes before me to get back home, as our babysitter had to be someplace else. I was on my own.

A few minutes later, just before saying goodbye to the family, I was enjoying a story from one of them. Then as it happened, most of the family members gathered together, facing me, in a doorway. I could have just said, "Good-bye, friends." Or I could have just turned to go, waving slightly, and that could have been it. But there they all were, standing there looking at me with lovely smiles spread across their faces, saying nothing. It seemed as if a closing word or two were needed, a little comment to punctuate my departure, a thoughtful phrase.

It was a perfect setup for something very stupid to come out of my mouth.

So I began a clunky one-sentence speech. "Well, I hope...I hope that the next few days your family can...really enjoy a precious time together." They nodded, thanked me, and then something happened--I can't seem to piece it all together again in my memory--but I turned back. I turned back!

Someone began another story, or someone started to introduce me to someone. I just can't remember the details, but about two minutes later I found myself in the exact same "scene," with the family grinning at me gathered in that same doorway. I was facing them. I had an audience looking expectant, and this English major felt words spinning around wildly in her brain. The second mini-speech began, and I realized I was in trouble. I began it just as the first one! "Well, I hope that..."

This is an intelligent, creative family I was facing, and I detected what could have been a slight smirk appear on the face of one of the brothers. He knew. He heard this speech just minutes earlier and couldn't wait to see how I would adapt it. Was I going to simply repeat it word-for-word? How would I escape?

I was thinking, "Ann, you're an idiot. Abort! Stop talking!"

But, no. I had to finish the speech. It was a slow speech, filled with thoughtful pauses where I frantically fished for words. "Well, I hope that...your family.......finds....(this pause was really long, but then it came to me)....peace."

Period. Smile. Wave. The brother with the slight smirk smiled. I think he approved. I had not made a total idiot of myself; only half-idiot. The rest smiled, nodded slightly, and I turned and high-tailed it out of that place before I had to compose another "closing thought."

I should have just left when my spouse left. When he had to leave, he just said good-bye.

I should be so wise.

January 21, 2005
We grabbed the videotape recorder and caught our youngest saying things like, "peanut butter'n ammich" for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and "yashwa" for his friend Joshua and "shorry, Papa" for, of course, "sorry." He's fine-tuning himself, so the lisps and grammatical errors are more quickly corrected all on his own. As a result, we're in a constant state of melancholy, even mild grief. Since we plan on him being the end of the line, it's the last. Every first of his is the last first, and everything that ends is it. Done. Finished. Pretty soon, no one will come marching out of the bathroom with his face red with frustration exclaiming, "She didn't let me fwush!"

"What?"

"[Sister] didn't let me (he pauses to enunciate clearly) flush!"

Soon, flushing the toilet will be no big deal.

I'm sharing this grief with the older kids, too, because they are enjoying him so much. He clearly said "peanut butter and jelly" yesterday, and they all looked up in surprise. "Did you hear that?" one of them said. "He said it right!"

I said, "See? Try to remember how cute all those things are that he says wrong, because he's going to correct himself more and more. Enjoy them while he's doing it, because it won't last long."

Their smiles fell, their eyes grew wide. After a pause, one of them said, "Then why do you correct him?"

"Because..."

"You should just let him keep saying them, if they're so cute."

Interesting. What's a mom to do?

January 16, 2005
TESTING ONCE MORE 10pm
Christian Quotation of the Day

January 16, 2005

Do little things as though they were great, because of the majesty of Jesus Christ who does them in us, and who lives our life: and do the greatest things as though they were little and easy, because of His omnipotence.

... Blaise Pascal (1623-1662), Pensees [1660]

January 15, 2005
Here I am in the midst of technological aggravation, but I'm trying. I'm really trying to figure out what's going wrong and make changes. I'm sorry to leave everyone hanging on these rather uninspiring blogs.

My 3yo is writing deliberately on a piece of lined paper, waiting to read it to my husband and me. It's a story. "Almost ready, Pop?"

"Yes."

"He said 'Almost ready,' Mama. Have to clean up the table, Pop?"

"Yes, I've got to clean up the table."

"He's got to clean up the table, Mama. Almost ready?"

"Almost ready."

"He's almost ready, Mama. I'm just going to write these down," he explains as he locates another pencil. Good editor.

His papa continues to hustle around the kitchen clearing dishes. "Almost ready, Pop?"

"Almost ready."

We may have some problems with the understanding of "almost," but moms tend to mess up this one, too. They say, "We're ready to go! Come on, kids, it's time to head out the door," while visiting a friend. Then they stand at the door and talk to their friend for another 20 minutes.

By the time the table was cleared and Pop was ready, the 3yo lost interest. "I don't want to tell the story. I want to play." He refuses to tell the story.

"The paper's right down there," I motioned to Pop. "Perhaps we could read what you wrote?" I asked the 3yo.

"Yes, you can come in here and read it to me," the 3yo decides. Pop turns to me and makes a face. The kid wants Papa to read the scribble-story.

"Looks like you'll be reading the story yourself," I suggest to my rather uncreative spouse. "Next time you need to come when he calls. You can't put off a three year old for that long."

"I'm learning," he concedes. He picks up the paper.

"It's probably about his friend," I propose. "They usually are."

A few questions are asked for clarification, and the story begins. The three year old interrupts to clarify the drastically understated story begun by his Papa, adding all the details, telling, in essence the story. There are dolphins, sharks, shark shows, polar bears, monkeys, giraffes, ducks...it's a good story. I'm glad we didn't lose it forever just because we were "almost ready" for too long.

January 8, 2005
Experiment: Trying to post from new computer.

January 8, 2005
I have no idea what I just did right, but it worked. I was able to post to the web again. What did I do different this time that I didn't do 47 times over the past few days trying to post?

Let's just see if I can do it again. Before I try, however, let me just say that I was poking around in blogdom and found an interesting fellow who is blogging in my general area. Several people listed his as a link in their own blogs, and they are in the emergent church world. Now I know I had my rather negative, sarcastic blogs a while back about emergent stuff, but I'm over that now; I'll listen. I'm open-minded.

I'm not yet entirely sure what his simple church is like, but simple sounds very good to us right now.

Tomorrow we're going to go to an early service at a church nearby where some friends attend. Early! Our sleep schedule is so messed up from Christmas vacation, I have no idea how I'll manage to get up and get dressed.

Perhaps the only nice thing about going to early church service is that I have some clothes to wear. I picked up several items at my local secondhand store. If you know me, you know what a secondhand store freak I am. I told some friends that I had watched a few of those makeover shows like "What Not to Wear," and I think I have some basic principles down. I don't get the subtle suggestions, but I've grasped the big ideas. As a result, I can now mosey down the aisles see right away what has potential and what doesn't. I'm still probably a year-and-a-half from what's truly trendy, but I'm upgrading myself a little at a time.

I'm in a slow self-improvement phase, you see. After being in and out of maternity clothes for the past decade, it's nice to know I'm at the end of all that. I've lost a good amount of the flab from baby 4 (who is now 3 years old), though there's still some hanging around. So I can upgrade to a more reasonable size and still look ahead to the potential of getting rid of those remaining 10 pounds and getting a few more items in the next size down. Then again, maybe not. I may just have to make peace with the flab and keep the sizes I'm buying. At any rate, buying secondhand clothes seems like a reasonable way to make some improvements in my wardrobe. In with a newer item, out with the ridiculously old, oversized, out-of-style items. You should see some of the sweaters and pants I just put in the donation bags. Some are in excellent shape, they just don't fit my shape any longer.

If I eat too many of those desserts, however, I may have trouble squeezing into the new items! I may send them with my hubby to work. He can set them on a plate and offer them to passers-by. He can hand-print a little sign: "Please eat these so my wife can still fit into her new clothes."

Can I call them "new" when they're secondhand?

"New to me."

January 6, 2005
I'm having some technical difficulties with my new computer and all the gadgets that are trying to link it to the PC. I'm grateful and frustrated at the same time. Technology continues to be like one's best friend who comes over and puts sugar in the salt shaker and short sheets the beds. I feel all confused and mixed up; nothing's working like it did before. But I'm having fun.

New year, new computer, wishing I had lots of new ideas about how to live this life of mine. Then I realize that if I keep on living it the way I have been, I'll probably be okay. I seem to have the urge to reinvent the wheel even when things are rolling along perfectly smoothly.

I made an unbelievably rich dessert last night. I may pack on about 10 pounds from munching these sweets. Trouble.

December 31, 2004
New Year's Eve, rather sober in light of the chaos of the world. We're up. We're watching a movie. We're eating popcorn. But we're pretty low key. We probably would have been otherwise, but it seems weird to be carefree party people today. I was touched to hear that many countries were choosing not to do big fireworks celebrations and giving the money to aid instead.

December 30, 2004
Tsunamis. Waves of terror. So many dead.

What do we do? How do we pray?

Monies going out to aid agencies, a small thing.

As for prayer? Come, Lord Jesus. Have mercy, Lord, please have mercy.

December 29, 2004
Technical difficulties again......

December 28, 2004
The Christmas tree is soon to leave the building. It proved to be a Charlie Brown Christmas Tree, with needles dropping by the dozens from the slightest movement of someone brushing up against it. I read about a family choosing their Christmas tree, the kids examining every branch carefully before making their final selection. Our experience?

Car stops. Kids pop out, rush to the trees, pointing and shouting, "This one, Papa!"

"No!" another shrieks, "this one!" The trees at which they were pointing leaned in piles against others. It was impossible to tell the shape. We hold them up for a closer look, but no discernment is practiced; only the continuing shouts, "This one looks perfect!" While the older three battle it out, the youngest talks to the lawn ornaments such as the deer and the little boy on the fountain: "How are you today? Fine, thanks. It's good to see you. Do you want a Christmas tree, too?"

In 15 minutes or less, we settled on the short, squatty tree with a crooked trunk and falling needles that has been our symbol of life for the month. Now, this "symbol of life" is finally heading out the door, leaving a carpet of needles in its wake. I've been vying for a fake tree the last three years, but everyone loves a real one, needles and all.

December 26, 2004
Do you hear what I hear?
A blip,
a beep,
coming from the games
that we bought our kids for Christmas...
that we bought our kids for Christmas.

We gave each one of them a handheld electronic game: Hangman, Battleship, UNO, and Connect Four. They are attempting to outwit the computer. I'm about to drink coffee and eat a frosted chocolate-gingerbread cookie my sister-in-law made to share with us on Christmas Day. Dad gave each grandkid a snow shovel and knit cap of their very own, to assist with driveway clearing.

Looks like the snow is short-lived; the five-day forecast shows a warming trend. I might even go jogging in a couple of days. If temperatures can stay above 38, I can stand it. I'm even somewhat pleasant.

In other news, I posted some books on Half.com and actually sold one already! This is quite motivating, and greatly pleases the builder of bookshelves in our family. I'm going to continue purging, one title at a time. I think I need to prove to myself that I can do this. All those episodes of "Clean Sweep" have motivated me.

December 23, 2004
Here's Christmas card art for the Christmas cards I never seem to get made and sent out. Merry Christmas everyone!

Both by a Kroeker kid, age 9

by a Kroeker kid, age 10

December 22, 2004
From P.W.

Thank you, P., for sharing what you so vividly recalled from your childhood: the first time eating an orange. I can remember the first time I ate a Clementine when we were in Belgium several years ago. Now they are commonplace even here. But I was happy to be someone who knew what they were when they first started showing up in our grocery stores. I love a ripe orange. And during Christmas time, we love sweet Clementines. We get pretty sick of them by February, however. Isn't that a shame? What a tragedy to begin to take for granted anything, yet all of us do. How many of us thanked the Lord when we woke up breathing? Well, maybe you did, but I didn't remember until this instant. Anyone who gets used to the ocean, well, I say phooey on them. But I suppose if you woke up and saw it every day, it would start to feel like the sun rising and setting--something you become so used to that you stop noticing and feeling grateful that it happened again. And so it is with Christmas presents and oranges.

December 21, 2004
Time to wrap the last few items before Christmas. I was so proud of myself for working ahead and making some purchases early. Then the kids announced that what they really wanted was...something I had not purchased nor planned to. I can't seem to win.

Next year they are going to get an orange and some peanuts in their stockings, and the amount we might have spent on them otherwise will go to charity. That'll solve this problem, don't you think?

December 19, 2004
Hello, stranger! How are you?

Extreme Makeover: Home Edition is over, so I can sit down and tell a story or two.

Shall I tell you about a little girl who had a wish list for her birthday? She had some wish list items, and I could manage to make most of them happen. One of the wishes I had no control over, however: she wanted snow on her birthday. It's been an unseasonably warm winter, so I tried to prepare her. "You know, it's been so warm that it probably won't snow." But she wished it when she blew out her candles at her party two days before, and she prayed for it several nights at bedtime. And what do you think happened on her birthday?

Snow.

We couldn't believe it! Enough snow to say it snowed came down, rather than a light dusting, and we all celebrated that her wishes and hopes and dreams came true!

I just hope no one slipped off the road and was injured because of my little girl's birthday snow.

December 10, 2004
Oh, I know what you're thinking; you're imagining me lounging on my couch watching Biography and TLC and HGTV and movies, right? Okay, well, I have watched three or four episodes of Clean Sweep. And I saw two of Trading Spaces. I haven't ventured into HGTV yet. Hubby watched a show about fixing up cars. But really my life has been about Christmas, and just two days ago I was out checking on a few items. I walked into Barnes and Noble to look for a book for my dad, and so I was on the phone with my mom. While I was asking her about an author, I started toward the front to pay, then I started whispering into the phone, "Okay, Mom, I'm going to tell you something in a moment, but I have to walk this way before I can say it, out of earshot, okay, guess what--I'm looking at David Letterman's Mom!" My mom was impressed. "What should I do?" I asked. "Nothing!" she laughed. I ended up in line directly behind her while she discussed with the cashier an item she had on hold. I leaned over and whispered to the person next to me, "That's David Letterman's mom." "NO!" she said more at the volume of a stage whisper." "It is," I assured her. After all, I'd just seen the Thanksgiving show, where David guessed his mom's pies; I had a recent memory of her. We caught her profile, and the neighbor in line grinned and nodded. "Yep, that's her. I should get her autograph, because that's the closest to David I'll ever get!" I found that to be kind of funny, I guess, though I didn't let on, because I have found David Letterman's Mom's willingness to go along with his silly, goofy ideas one of the most charming things about the David Letterman show. I adored her when she reported on the Olympics. That was many years ago, now, but it was the winter Olympics and he would get her to ask the silliest questions, and she'd just do it in that sweet, low voice of hers. As for me, I'd want David Letterman's Mom's autograph as much as I'd want David's.

I phoned to tell my husband about it. "How do you know it wasn't just some other older woman who looks like her?"

"It was her." It was. I knew the voice, and she was talking as she turned away, about the item that wasn't what she had expected. I wanted to say something about the pies, but because of my track record with relatively famous people, I decided not to. I've embarrassed myself too many times. I let her continue Christmas shopping in peace.

December 4, 2004
I didn't want to complain about my online experience. It still seems somewhat miraculous that I can have so many resources at my fingertips. Still, staying content with dial-up was getting harder and harder to do, especially with the research I was working on. During the long wait, as websites slowly loaded, I'd either take a short break and mop the kitchen floor or sit in my desk chair and mutter, "I need more power, Scottie!" At times, as my eyes glazed over while watching the blue bar fill up, I'd dream of warp speed. But the cheapskate in me that resisted an upgrade would simply shout back, "I'm givin' ya all she's got, Cap'n! If ya push her any harder, she'll break up!"

But we caved in. The cable man came by this week, and we're on high speed Internet access, baby! I've got Google wrapped around my little finger.

Trouble is, the cheapest deal--this is not a joke--the cheapest hookup deal included a month of basic cable. It was actually cheaper, because of free installation, to get basic cable along with the cable modem, than to simply get the computer stuff and forget the TV.

So we have cable...for a month.

It's funny; I thought there would be all these amazing stations offering shows I only dreamed about. It wasn't so great. I watched "Trading Spaces" for the first time. And "Clean Sweep." They were fun, I guess. I'm ready to go to the basement and pitch some junk, so that's good. Perhaps our next garage sale will pay for this month's cable bill? I hope I don't get hooked on something goofy, however, and never make it down there.

I still prefer "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition," which I got with regular old network television. I think we'll just keep it for the one month. You can hold me accountable--ask me in late January what I'm watching on TV. If I say, "Oh my goodness, I just love this Discovery show!" then tease me mercilessly.

Shhhh....the kids don't know we've got cable. We only access the stations on our bedroom TV. The basement appears to only have network television. That way when we cancel, they won't even feel the difference.

December 1, 2004
We sing a repertoire of songs to our preschooler each night as part of his bedtime routine. During "Jesus Loves Me," we do some hand motions that he learned at Sunday school. About a month ago we added two songs in French (it's quite a long bedtime routine, let me tell you!), one of which is "Jesus m'aime," that is, "Jesus Loves Me" in French. The chorus translates exactly, so I did the same hand motions.

"No!" he shouted. "Not 'Jesus Loves Me'! The song in French!"

"This is the song in French. It's 'Jesus Loves Me' in French. Listen." I sang the chorus again and did the motions. His eyes grew wide. In a hushed, awed tone, he whispered, "Wowwww....wowwww....I can't believe it."

"Oui, Jésus m'aime,
Oui, Jésus m'aime,
Oui, Jésus m'aime,
La Bible me le dit."

C'est vrai. C'est incroyable!

November 29, 2004
Lord God, almighty and everlasting Father, you have brought me in safety to this new day: Preserve me with your mighty power, that I may not fall into sin, nor be overcome by adversity; and in all I do direct me to the fulfilling of your purpose; through Jesus Christ my Lord. (Collect for Morning Prayer)

November 20, 2004
We had a delicious pizza for dinner tonight. I even commented on it, "Papa John's really does a good job, don't you think?" My husband agreed. A minute or two later, as he closed the cardboard lid of the box, he exclaimed, "Well, no wonder you loved it. No wonder they do a good job--look!" Then he pointed to this sticker that was affixed to the box lid (I hope you can read it):

Who says you can't get good help nowadays?

November 19, 2004
Another comment:

"Naw, I think I'll just wait and ask God."

What a great response! What faith she displayed in that response. What respect she displayed in that response. What hope she displayed in that response. What patience she displayed in that response.

It was interesting how your daughter didn't need you to "fill in the gap". She didn't need you to explain the unexplainable. She was ok with the mystery of it all. We don't like living with questions. We always want answers. In fact, from some vantage points, questioning is seen as a negative thing. Some people equate questioning with doubting. Do I doubt God because I question God? They are not one in the same. To question is to be curious, to be seeking, to be wondering. Do we ever reach a point in our life that we have it so figured out that we cease our questions? No! Most kids go through a questioning phase. You know what I'm talking about? They question everything. Why do they stop? Why have I stopped? Because we believe that if we question something we are doubting it. People will think certain things of us if we "doubt" a certain belief. You know what, God gave me a brilliant mind. Most of it lies dormant because I've given into this mentality of acceptance and complacency. Ann, you have awakened my mind. You have awakened me to think. To question. When I say question I don't mean questioning with arrogance or in rebellion against that which is established. I want to humbly seek my God, asking great questions that unlock and reveal deeper, more meaningful glimpses into who he is. I want to listen for His voice. I'm not questioning him to attack him, I'm questioning him because I'm curious. Does that make sense?

What an encouraging story...such simple words, yet profound.
--
Posted by me at 11/18/2004 07:53:19 PM

November 17, 2004
Blogger was making life difficult for a friend of mine who tried to sign up. Instead, she e-mailed me with a comment, which I'm posting here. If you ever want to do it that way, just send me an e-mail at the address above (in bold, always above the newest entry).

COMMENT: Ann, Erwin McManus of Mosaic was one of my husband's professors at Bethel Seminary in his doctoral program! How cool is that!?!

COMMENT on the comment: Very!

November 17, 2004
This came from the other blog site which, by the way, I can't always access, so I'm behind in cross-posting. This is a comment on artistry from "me," an unidentified commentator.

Comment on artistry..

Excerpts from the book, "Unstoppable Force" by Erwin McManus

"In many churches compliance and conformity are the greatest values. There is rarely a rumor, much less a reality, of a church being the center point of imagination, invention, and innovation. If we are teaching sound theology but neglecting to create an environment in which people fulfill their God-given purpose, are we not, by definition, an unhealthy culture?" p108

"At the same time, the church has been at best aesthetically challenged, if not in fact an enemy of the arts. Somewhere on the road, we seem to have lost our love of beauty for beauty's sake, as if somehow God did not indulge in this kind of triviality. Those who worship the God of creation must never forget how beauty both reflects God and his values. Artistry matters to God." p109

"A culture is a beautiful art piece that uses people as its canvas." p. 112

I loved this idea of McManus: "Periodically at Mosaic we create a forum called Velocity. It is an explosion of creativity. It's 2 hours of dance, drama, poetry, short film, and comedy all wrapped up into one experience...The church is one of the few places where children are actually encouraged to sing. The church is one of the few places where musical talent is nurtured and developed...We dream of a day when local churches will be known for their wellspring of creativity and the Steven Spielbergs and Quentin Tarantinos will be forced to visit churches to keep up with the newest innovations and the most creative artistry." p 128

November 14, 2004
If you watched "Faith Under Fire" this week, I just want to apologize for the last, long ad. If you watched it, you know what I'm talking about. I hope the show grows in popularity so that PAX can be more selective about how they fill those breaks.

Now, I know I didn't answer David K's question about what I would ask God. First of all, some questions are a little too personal to post here. Actually, now that I'm thinking about some of them, I'm feeling a little too embarrassed to type them out.

I was talking with my kids about having questions we'll ask God when we're with Him. One of the kids looked up and said, "I have some questions that I want to ask."

 "Like what?" I asked. "Could you share any of them with us?"

"I think so. I'd ask God, 'Why can we see the moon in the daytime sometimes?' And things like that."

"That's a very good question," I said, after a pause. I was debating about what to do. Finally, I said, "You know, some things--not all, but some things--people have been able to figure out. Like the moon, well, you could ask Mrs. P. about that (her science teacher), because she knows a lot about science. I'm pretty sure she could explain that to you, if you want to know. Not that I'm saying she's as smart as God, and there are still a billion questions that she can't answer that only God can, but...you might start with Mrs. P. And then the ones she can't handle, you could try to figure out when you're older, or just wait and ask God."

She listened politely to me, cocked her head to one side, thinking, then stated, "Naw, I think I'll just wait and ask God."

November 11, 2004
My friend David K has been commenting on the other blog site. With regard to my blog about asking questions of God, he asked:

At Thursday, November 11, 2004 David K said... What are some questions you would ask

After my mom responded to the question of artists (see November 2), he wrote this:

At Thursday, November 11, 2004, David K said... Thanks for the reply "mom". I am intrigued by writers and artists. Their ability to put thoughts and ideas into words and pictures is an incredible talent. You have a really cool gift.

Finally, to refresh your memory, here is a short blog to which David K commented:

We think our kids could do an emergent church thing at our house. Just set out some paper and crayons or cray-pas pastels, or watercolor...a little artistic expression right there, modeled by uninhibited worshipers. I think they could lead the way, a multi-generational experience. And a little child would lead them! Perfect.

Oh, and of course there's always the clay. Molding, working that stuff, to express ourselves. Yep, Emergent Church led by the kids. Why hasn't anyone thought of this? The third- and first-graders could inspire the preschooler, and we'd be singing and molding and coloring in no time. "Come on, Mommy! Color with me! Here's Jesus, this is you, this is me, and we're singing, see?"

I can see it, yes, I can.
**************************************************************************
Are you being sarcastic here??? Or perhaps some insight into your thoughts on Emergent Worship.

--
Posted by David K to Contemplative Mom at 11/11/2004 03:50:54 PM
*********************************************************************************
Good question. What *did* I mean? I wish I could go back and figure out what kind of mood I was in. Was I feeling feisty that night? Melancholy? Bored? Analytical? I can't remember.

From what I've read of Emergent Church services, many include individual artistic opportunities for worship, and I've heard about stations where various media are available, including clay, pastels and watercolor. That part is serious, in case you've never heard about these ideas (and I mean more than you, David, because I know for example that my mom reads this, and I don't think she knows much about Emergent Church ideas). So I'm taking those concepts, which are practiced in some Emergent Church services (though it appears in my research that it's difficult to generalize about Emergent churches), and having a little fun with them.

But then there was a sort of poignant moment as I was writing this blog when I thought, "You know, maybe there is a simple attitude, a childlike attitude, that is appropriate." And that led to a train of thought that probably did start out at least with a teasing tone--I must have been feisty at that point--and then I realized that a little child could really lead "them", or *us*. As soon as I imagined one of my kids looking up saying, "Come on, Mommy...Here's Jesus, this is you, this is me..." I thought I really could envision that. I could picture families worshiping like that, together. Then I was more contemplative.

That's a long answer, but I will admit I might have been trying to get people to talk and think a bit about what this Emergent concept is about. It's too complicated and I know too little to really field these questions, however. I do respect many of the Emergent bloggers out there, for example, and those who are writing about it. They really are giving it deep consideration as they live it out.

Here, by the way, is a great place to start exploring the web-explanations of Emergent Church. At this site, a brief explanation of its history is provided along with a bunch of links.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emerging_Church

November 9, 2004
This comment was posted at the other site. I want to be sure everyone gets a chance to enjoy these thoughts:

An artist, to me, is more than someone who pursues. True artistry to me is the act of creation and releasing. One who creates and releases is an artist. An artist releases something from within themselves into the world around them. This releasing, this birthing, is itself a creation. People are touched by these creations because at a fundamental, basic level we are all human. We live our lives at this fundamental level with common needs, common fears, common wants. As artists release their creations from within, these creations resonate on a fundamental level with all of us. Theses creations bring words to emotions that we all have felt, these creations bring images and colors to thoughts we have all had. In a sense, artists bring definition to the mosaic of the human soul. With each creation we have a glimpse into who we all are as human beings. When we see into ourselves, we are moved, we are stirred. This explains why the words of a song from a person you don't know stir your own soul.

We tend to think of artists as only those whose medium is paint or music but I would challenge that thought. I think artists are all around. People are constantly creating, releasing their expression into the world.

I think we are God-like when we are acting like "artists". God's very nature is to create and to release. One of the most godly things we can do is to create, to release that "thing" from within us into the world. It takes courage to do this because this releasing is so incredibly personal. This releasing exposes you to your very core. But we can't keep it in, we have to get it out.

Just a few thoughts on artistry...

--
Posted by David K to Contemplative Mom at 11/9/2004 03:27:22 PM

November 8, 2004
Yesterday evening I attended a public conversation among three thoughtful people, including Howard Gardner (Multiple Intelligences guy), Andre Dubus III (author of House of Sand and Fog), and Renita Weems, an author, educator and minister. The moderator was author Scott Russell Sanders. The resulting discussion was fascinating.

At the very end, Sanders asked a question for us all to ponder as we consider how to make a difference in the world, and I found it hopeful and provocative. Usually when people consider how they might change the world, they're thinking "What can I change?" or even "What am I opposed to?" and one might go so far as to ask "What can I get rid of?"

Instead, Sanders posed the question in the positive: "Ask yourself, 'What do I want to see more of in the world?'"

He offered a starter list, to get us thinking. "Do you want to see more laughter?" he asked. "More happy, healthy children? Do you want to see more green space?" He had more items than that on the list; those are the only ones I can recall just now.

I loved the hopefulness of the question and how positive it felt.

What do I want to see more of in the world?

As a believer in Jesus Christ, this takes on an even more interesting slant...what does the Lord Himself want to see more of in the world, as far as I can ascertain from Scripture. Then, understanding that, what do I hope to see more of in the world and suspect that He might be calling me to be part of bringing it about?

It's a big question that I'm not sure I'm ready to answer.

November 6, 2004
This is a little silly, I'll admit, but sometimes I reach for my cell phone and realize I didn't really have a person I needed or wanted to call. I set it down, then, and realize I'm wanting to hear from the Lord.

It happens online sometimes, too, when I'm doing research. I'm looking up something in Google that leads me to something else and then I end up with big, huge questions. My cursor blinks on the entry line with the big G-O-O-G-L-E letters hovering above, and I think, "The only place left to look for the answer to this is the Lord." And then I sit for a moment thinking how nice it would be if the Lord had a system like this where we could type in our questions and issues, click "go" and pull up articles that represent His thoughts on the matter. How nice it would be if we could indeed pick up our cell phone and dial Him up to chat.

I hate to be too simplistic, but I think it really is sort of like that, otherwise what is prayer?

As for looking up subjects on a divine search engine, well, that's not so easy. For that He's given us Scripture and the principles they represent, but I find that harder. The wide range of interpretations are indicative of that, and I happen to be studying Judges right now. My class instructor is giving us some background to understand it better, but it's still hard. He has us back with Milton again, John Milton, reading Samson Agonistes. I don't expect Milton to serve as God's search engine, but he did meditate on that passage enough to address two theological concerns I had while reading the biblical rendition of Samson's life.

I have a list of questions I'd type into God's heavenly search engine, some of them more personal and private, and some more broad and theological in nature. I do ask, on the divine cell phone, but I haven't had very many of them addressed yet.

November 5, 2005-morning
Well, I slept and woke up, so it's the next day for me even though the date is the same on my heading. I just got a link to the Willow Creek Community Church website. They have discussion guides for each of Lee's shows, including this week's.

Click here for discussion guides

Also, I can't seem to get into my Blogger version of these posts to fix a typo or even post a new one. If this continues, I may just give up and stick with this.

November 5, 2004
It's technically the 5th, though it's actually still Ann staying up too late and thus the end of the 4th. I got this interesting response from a friend in New Mexico who owns a theater and is producing (and performing in) edgy, experimental work, at least I think that's how you'd describe their personality as actors and artists. I haven't actually seen any of their shows, so I'm going with the tidbits I'm piecing together. Anyway, I asked her thoughts on being an artist, because she's so committed to it. Here's what she wrote:

"What is it that makes us artists?  Of all the artists I've met (and I've met quite a few), the thing that makes them artists, in my opinion, is their constant and unrelenting pursuit of their work. How this plays itself out is in their constant questioning and (like Waugh) unwillingness to go with something just because it's 'in'. I've known some that LOVED technology, some that eschewed it, but really the issue was not technology but the why behind their choices. A lot of people like to say they are artists because they think its tres chic, but what I've found is that a life in art is very uncomfortable, a lot of hard work that mostly leaves you feeling in constant doubt about everything: Including whether you are an artist or not."

Don't forget I'm double-posting at another site where you can comment on these things! Let me know if you like that version better than this one.

www.contemplativemom.com/blog/ 

November 4, 2004
They say that reading blogs was an effective way to get up-to-the-minute information on the election. They weren't, I'm certain, referring to my blogs. You may have noticed I've remained silent on political matters. Much more intelligent people than I were discussing those matters in-depth on their own blogs, so I decided to stay quiet about it. I hope you didn't mind. I figured you could find more interesting information elsewhere.

Have you watched Lee Strobel's show yet, Faith Under Fire?

You should really check it out at least once. He hosts several mini-debates about a wide range of topics with guests representing opposite (or at least quite different) points of view. I've missed a couple of weeks, so I may have missed some good topics.

This weekend he has Hugh Hefner on as a guest. Isn't that an attention grabber? The only thing you have to get used to is how short the segments are (and how awful the commercials are, which of course Lee has no control over). Just when the guests get rolling and developing their point of view, it's over. I guess it's just to whet our appetite (and keep things moving, if you don't care too much about that particular topic). I'm tuning in to find out what Lee's going to ask Hefner.

What would you ask Hugh Hefner?

It's on PAX, Saturday nights. 10 p.m. EST & PST, 9 p.m. CST & MST.

November 2, 2004
More comments on the Evelyn Waugh post:

Reviewing the original post I wrote: Today's Writer's Almanac had a piece about Evelyn Waugh, whose birthday it is today. Toward the end, they tell us of Waugh, "In his later life, he grew to hate everything about the modern world--modern music, modern art, modern inventions. He never drove. He used an antique pen that had to be constantly re-dipped into ink, and when his hearing went bad, he refused to buy one of the new hearing aids. Instead, he started carrying around a giant horn that he held up to his ear...Waugh lived in a huge house out in the English countryside, as far away from the modern world as he could get, and he kept a pet pig named Glory."
#######  ><>  <><  ><>  #######

Ann,
I just had to respond to this.  When I went to school in Germany we had inkwells and "real" pens.  We even made pens out of duck and geese (goose) feathers.  My Opa "grandpa" lived with us and we had to talk to him through a horn.  I really don't think it was that big but probably 10 to 12 inches long.  He died when I was about five years old.  The one strong memory I have of him is when he would slaughter a goose.  I would watch him and learn from him.  When he died my mother was with him and he said, as he was dying, in German, "I can see the light."   What a memory for me and what a testimony.

I can't wait to get away from this modern world when we move to our new home.  I won't have a pig but probably chickens, rabbits and maybe a goat or two to keep the weeds trimmed.

--P.W.

And then this (from my mom):

Just finished reading your latest...what I have to add probably doesn't mean anything, but it is something I have been thinking about, probably because something recently made me remember last fall's visit to Winchester Cathedral (now my favorite) where Jane Austen is buried. As you know, she is my favorite author, and has been since 1954, when I was "forced" to read "Pride and Prejudice" in a college lit class. She is kind of the "in thing" right now, but I mention that to show I am not just "flopping along with the flow." When I mentioned, in that long-ago lit class, that I thought she was very funny, most of the others thought I was crazy. But she is, subtly, very funny. And in a very modern way. Jane lived about 200 years ago, yet her work is still very fresh, and very true to human nature, which she seemed to understand as well, and better, than anyone since. She wrote under the most difficult conditions, scratching her excellent novels out in quill pen, hastily shoving the pages out of sight if anyone came into the room, because writing novels
was not what well-bred young ladies did in those years. Apropos of what you were saying, I'm not sure how this fits in, except Jane was very forward-thinking in her day, to the point that after 200 years she is still not out of date. But she didn't have any modern technology to aid her, nor even any societal (is that a word?) approval. It humbles me, I guess, because I think I like to write, but today, even a manual typewriter seems too difficult, my time seems too limited, and I like to be more sure of eventual rewards! I admire you, in that respect, because I can't seem to write "on spec." I have hardly ever written anything that I wasn't pretty sure would be published, and me paid for. I don't know if this makes any sense at all....

P.S. Eccentrics like Evelyn Waugh are the "spice" of life, but wouldn't do for most of us for the day-to-day grind.

November 1, 2004
I don't watch much TV these days, but I started tuning into Extreme Makeover: Home Edition on Sunday nights.

Man, o man, if you don't watch this show, just try it once. This coming Sunday night is a two-hour special where they are going to renovate a home for a family that has one son who is blind and another who is deaf.

The show selects families who send in videos to explain their plight, and the team swoops in with volunteer help to transform "homes" (some of them are in such terrible shape I hesitate to use that word) into wonderlands, havens, oases. It's a powerful show that demonstrates how changing an environment can change a life.

There are theatrics and entertainment involved to make it fun to watch, so it's more than establishing a safe and healthy home; they also want it to look cute and appealing esthetically. For the same amount of energy and investment they could probably build 45 Habitat for Humanity homes, but I'm not complaining. No, I'm advocating it as positive television demonstrating how people can make a tangible difference. It's so much more exciting to watch than other reality TV shows that are about greed and gaining. It's about sacrifice and giving. I'd love to see more of this, more of the power of human beings pouring into each other's lives. Media can do this, if those with the power are willing to take the risk, and it seems that they are.

Bravo to ABC, to the folks putting this show together, and for all the companies donating stuff and time and energy and skill so that families in need can be blessed. Sure, the blessings are all things that you can't take with you in the end, but they are also things that breathe hope into people's spirits. For example, this past week highlighted a single woman who adopted two children who were born addicted to drugs. She nursed them to health and has raised these outstanding boys making tremendous sacrifices and dealing with dismal circumstances. She contacted the show because a contractor had bailed on them leaving their home in shambles, uninhabitable. They were renting a one-room attic space with the mom sleeping on a chair. The boys were twelve years old.

At the end of the show, after touring their new space, the contractor announced that they are pledging a scholarship so that the boys can go to college. So it's more than colorful drapes and ingenious fireplaces. It's about generosity from big hearts.

And it's fun, too.

October 30, 2004
Still later in the day...

I read this in today's Writer's Almanac, and it seemed to potentially address the questions raised with the last one I excerpted:

"[Ezra] Pound was set on supporting innovations in all kinds of literature."

[So he was a forward-thinker, supporting forward-thinkers.]

"He critically and financially supported writers like James Joyce, Robert Frost, and T.S. Eliot. He said he had 'to keep alive a certain group of advancing poets, to set the arts in their rightful place as the acknowledged guide and lamp of civilization.'"

I thought you might appreciate the flip side, the idea that artists are the guide and lamp, out in front, illuminating the path, advancing literature or the fine arts or visual and musical arts or whatever arts you can think of. Call these people what you like: forward thinkers, innovators, explorers, risk-takers; maybe they're techno-wizards like Stephen Spielberg or maybe they're anti-technology like Barbara Kingsolver and Wendell Berry...whichever direction they go, they are most likely not flopping-along.

Perhaps that's my fear, of being status-quo; of just going with the flow, not really thinking about life, not really making choices...just letting things roll over me by default. Maybe that's it.

****************************************************
Okay, I had a great conversation with my husband about this (read below). He summarized it better than I. He said, "Forward thinkers aren't trend-followers. You're saying that you're against flopping along with the trends, and he's saying a forward thinker isn't flopping along. You're both right." Forward thinkers are ahead of trends, perhaps setting the next new one. That's quite different from following what's already out there. Artists, the really great ones, which I'm not, are out in front leading the way. They have their machetes out, whacking their way through the dense, unexplored forest of the future. I shuffle along in their wake, padding my way along the half-worn path. This is a good distinction. I wish I were an artist like that. Not only am I *not* on the half-worn path behind those with machetes, I'm way back in the clearing having tea, safe and comfortable.

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

In an effort to cross-post, here is a response that someone offered on the Blogger site (there's another fascinating one I need to fold in about "Cold Mountain," but I'll flesh this out first). In response to my Evelyn Waugh post, I got this reply:

I am different. I like all things modern. I like the new, the different. I like the newest gadgets. I love innovation. If I have "foward thinking" am I just "flopping along"? What if I want to get rid of my old typewriter. What does that make me?

Since when do we call those resistant to change "artists"?

--
Posted by David K to Contemplative Mom at 10/30/2004 12:55:01 AM

Here is what I wrote back on Blogger.

In response to David K, I just want to say a couple of things by way of disclaimer.

1.) I'm not a fan of Evelyn Waugh.
2.) Please understand that I'm not saying that "I'm and artist and I don't like technology, therefore artists don't like technology."
3.) I think I'm saying, rather, "I don't like technology. I like to work at being an artist. Isn't that a curious observation. I wonder if it means anything for me?"

In other words, I'm not trying to make blanket statements about artists and technology. It's more a personal exploration, pondering my "self." In fact, I may gravitate to quotations like Waugh's just because I otherwise think there might be something wrong with me. When I come across something that feels similar to me, I slow down and read it again, thinking, "Okay, here's another person who shares something in common with me. Can what they say help me understand myself?"

Still, you pose an interesting question, and it may be why I'm worried about myself. I think technology and artists marry very well. Artists, ethicists, sociologists and scientists are groups that come to mind as needing to explore the new, different, innovative, forward-thinking things of the world, for totally different reasons with totally different conclusions, most likely.

We do have marvelous movies being made with the newest technology, so there are active artists really creating powerful stuff there.

Perhaps I worry that I'm behind the times and actually like it there. My kids are surely going to roll their eyes. "My mom is SOOOOOO out of it."

October 28, 2004
Today's Writer's Almanac had a piece about Evelyn Waugh, whose birthday it is today. Toward the end, they tell us of Waugh, "In his later life, he grew to hate everything about the modern world--modern music, modern art, modern inventions. He never drove. He used an antique pen that had to be constantly re-dipped into ink, and when his hearing went bad, he refused to buy one of the new hearing aids. Instead, he started carrying around a giant horn that he held up to his ear...Waugh lived in a huge house out in the English countryside, as far away from the modern world as he could get, and he kept a pet pig named Glory."

So he was anti-trend, you see.

Perhaps I should get a pig?

Anyway, they ended with this: "People called him a snob and a reactionary, but he said, 'An artist must be a reactionary. He has to stand out against the tenor of the age and not go flopping along.'"

Perhaps I, too, am a bit of a snob when it comes to current trends and the tenor of this age. But really, like Waugh, I don't want to go flopping along. I don't know that I'm any great artist, but I want to think rather than live by default. If I were living by default, I'd flip through JCrew catalogs and pick up Lucky magazine from time to time to discern trends; I'd own at least one piece of furniture from Pottery Barn and pay for cable television or satellite TV--and I'd watch it, too.

Instead, I toss the catalogs in the recycling bin, shop second-hand stores for both clothes and furniture and occasionally tune into the sparse offerings of network television. I'm not exactly standing against the tenor of the age, and I don't think I'm going so far as to be dubbed reactionary, but I seem determined not to go flopping along.

I'm not consistent, however. I do use a computer, even using the Internet, as you can plainly see. I don't have high-speed access, however, or a laptop. Though I confess I want one. So I'm not so strong in my choices. I would probably buy a hearing aid instead of using the giant horn.

October 25, 2004
I'm thinking about emergent churches again. A few months ago I interacted with some folks at a small church in Florida. This was before I'd read one article about emergent church, so I was just operating in ignorance. I was so moved by these people and how earnest and open they were, I even pondered moving down to join them in whatever they were doing. Little did I know they were doing emergent things, pushing couches into their meeting space, lighting a few candles. What I did notice was that they were keeping things simple, focusing on Jesus. We attended a beach service that included several different churches including theirs, and I felt so drawn to them that I wrote them a note telling them how their contribution was what affected me the most. They wrote back a gracious and humble reply saying something like, "I wish I could say we're emergent church on the cutting edge, but we're really just a bunch of ragamuffins huddling together trying to figure out life." It was charming, disarming, and honest. I looked for the letter, because I saved it for weeks. Unfortunately I can't find it. There's something especially appealing to me about that attitude, however, with the idea that they don't have everything figured out and they're just trying to help each other live out their faith in Jesus Christ day by day.

On a completely different note, I'm going to try double-posting here and at Blogger. If anyone has opinions on which is preferable, please let me know. You can email me (see above). Here's the link:

www.contemplativemom.com/blog/

October 24, 2004
Every few months I try to find something to attend that's for writers. Sometimes I've found the speaking engagement of a favorite author, or a writing gathering of some sort. This past weekend, I went to a small "colloquium," as they called it, that offered workshops led by Vinita Hampton Wright, Lil Copan, and Phyllis Tickle. I admire all three and it was close, so I signed up with an old college friend of mine. I realize how isolated I am as a stay-at-home mom when I get out to something like this; I'm deeply affected by hanging with like-minded people, and there's a huge part of me that needs the like-mind of writer-reader-thinkers. When those writer-reader-thinkers are also fellow believers in Jesus Christ, it's even richer.

The colloquium was held on a small college campus, so my friend and I opted to buy a meal ticket and eat at the dining commons. We are now over 15 years away from our own college experience, so it was a nostalgic choice. In our opinion, the food was great! There were far more choices than we ever had way back in '85, let's say. In this particular setting, it seemed that most students were vegans. The vegan options were set apart, separated by a wall, even. Cubes of tofu were offered on the salad bar and potato bar, along with lentils and hummus. Vegans would have been on their own to choose wisely among the sparse selections at our dining commons at our Big Ten university in the 1980s.

A part of me wanted to go back to school, take graduate writing courses, and become a vegan.

Instead, I'm back home fixing bacon and eggs for my kids for breakfast; writing a blog, a few e-mails, and a non-academic book project.

I'm grateful for an escape now and then, a chance to dream of different lives and possibilities. But I'm grateful, too, to come home to this life and the possibilities within it. A creative life works within restrictions and boundaries, using what's available to invent, build, form and experiment. That's what I must do. To keep up my writing in the context of motherhood, I must work within certain "restrictions," if you will, though I don't like the implication that kids are restrictions, so that's not the right word. It's just that the way I'm choosing to be a parent results in time limitations. Within those self-imposed boundaries, therefore, I must experiment with when and what and how I might write.

And so I shall.

October 15, 2004
So many books, so many thoughts, so little time...

1. What shall I read next, a book highly recommended by my O.T. instructor, called The Way of the Modern World?, or something by Anne Tyler? Or some Flannery O'Connor? Toni Morrison? Simone Weil? Wallace Stegner?

2. What is going to come of this election??

3. If I could spend a weekend alone, what would I do?

4. How can I keep up with the laundry?

5. Why won't my preschooler stay in bed for a nap?

October 13, 2004
My son was at a store with his father, with whom I was speaking about picking up tortilla chips (to replace those consumed by the children during tea time), and asked to speak with me. My son got on the phone and evidently didn't realize I'd actually be on the other end. He began one of his fake conversations. "Oh, hi, Mama...mmhmm...yes, I see...hmmm....okay, that's fine..."

"Um, are you there?"

"Oh! (giggling) Oh, hi Mama. I was just talking to you."

October 12, 2004
We're in the busy stage of parenting...oh, so busy.

Yesterday a friend dropped in and we tried to sit and have a cup of tea and a little conversation. We were instead interrupted numerous times: the kids wanted tea, you see, and then they wanted milk in the tea. The jug was too full to pour on their own, so I had to pour. Then they needed spoons, sugar, and come to think of it, maybe they wanted a little apple juice in a separate cup and of course by then they don't really want the tea after all, then while pushing it aside they spill the tea, then they spill the milk, the fridge is open ("Please shut the fridge all the way!"), then "Can we go out and ride bikes?" "No," since we're all inside, but then they cry, then they get over it, then they get out chips and dribble chip crumbs all over the table and floor, and then they drag out books to read--all at the same table where I'm trying to sit alone with my friend and have a conversation. Oh, then they wanted to show my friend things in another room, and then Chinese jump rope--each person wanted a turn to show off, including the visiting neighbor girl who at some point in the chaos knocked on the door and entered the fray. Jumping rope was slowed by the interruption of a preschool-aged brother who kept throwing them off, so my friend and I attempted to continue our discussion while watching kids jump back and forth through the circle of rope. Eventually, however, it got so ridiculous that we just had to stop and say good-bye.

Later that night we went out for dinner; just two grown women out for an uninterrupted meal, some coffee, even dessert.

But the best part, as you can imagine, was being able to complete a sentence. Even two or three in a row.

October 11, 2004
I'm back in business thanks to a tech-Superman, and can publish blogs the old way, by publishing on my website. Turns out I didn't need any tech-superpowers to solve the problem, however; it was a typo, a wrong number.

In the meantime, while waiting for Superman, I experimented with Blogger. It has pros and cons. Someday I may switch. For one thing, it would allow people to comment on these crazy little thought-splotches.

Guess who is back in my life? John Milton, the blind bard. My OT Survey instructor, who has inched his way up to Joshua and Judges, assigned Samson Agonistes for the Judges portion of the class. I just got it from the library a few days ago, started a few pages one night, and felt sad for Milton. He seems to have, at least at the beginning, zeroed in on the blindness...if I'm not mistaken, Milton was blind by the time he was writing it, dictating to his daughters who served as diligent scribes. He must have related to Samson's prison of darkness so much that he decided to begin at that point in the story. An interesting choice. He didn't tell it chronologically, then. I'll hold off any further comments until I've actually finished the thing. I'm writing too early, before I really know what's going on.

October 5, 2004
Lee Strobel's launched a new show called "Faith Under Fire" on PAX. Thankfully, even this cable-free family can get PAX, but it was pretty fuzzy at times. For a few seconds at the beginning we were still monkeying around with the antenna and couldn't see anything; the screen was blue! Finally we got a reasonable picture and began to watch. Lee had people talking about all kinds of topics, letting people spar over topics like theology and politics.

It airs at 10 p.m. Eastern and Pacific, 9 p.m. Central and Mountain. I read on WorldNetDaily that Tony Campolo and even Hugh Hefner will be on future episodes! I think the idea is to have a wide range of opinions presented in a fast-paced format. They certainly whet my appetite. I'll be tuning in again this coming Saturday.

One of the questions was, "Is God a Democrat or a Republican?" Sojourners, too, has had a campaign that claims "God is not a Republican...OR a Democrat." At the end of "Faith Under Fire," Lee suggested with a grin and chuckle that perhaps God is an Independent.

I may not have the interpretation right on this verse, but it reminds me of the moment when Joshua comes face-to-face with the angel of the Lord in Joshua 5. It says, "Now when Joshua was near Jericho, he looked up and saw a man standing in front of him with a drawn sword in his hand. Joshua went up to him and asked, 'Are you for us or for our enemies?'

"'Neither,' he replied, 'but as commander of the army of the LORD I have now come.'"

It seems that this angel doesn't really even get the idea of taking sides...he simply does what the LORD commands.

If only we could be more like that angel. "Are you a democrat or a republican?"

Neither. I'm just hoping to obey the Lord.

October 9, 2004
Will this ever work again??

September 28, 2004
Last night I was at someone's house for a birthday party and ate at least four potatoes' worth of chips...with dip! Talk about abandoning South Beach! But I resolved to return to the basic diet this morning, especially after my husband got his results back from a recent cholesterol reading. He had terrific numbers, so I thank and esteem the good doctor. Thanks to the South Beach Diet, our family doctor said medication won't be necessary. Cool.

September 22, 2004
Recycling thoughts: why don't we do it more?

A friend of mine is working to bring our attention locally to recycling, in hopes of making us more aware of environmental concerns in general. In a recent e-mail, she wrote:

"My friend who runs the recycling center in N-- basically told me that it's hard to get anywhere in [this state], and that until everyone starts dying of diseases from pollution, nothing will be done. He said whole subdivisions are built on landfills and that vile gases escape from underneath people's homes. Places in the river bubble up from buried filth. People won't bring in their paint cans and hazardous wastes to be disposed of "properly" because it takes time. And others just pour these things down storm drains in the streets so it goes into our rivers. New York used to dump all their garbage barges into the ocean. It all makes me nuts. I feel like I'm a lung cell who can't get the body to stop smoking."

Pause for reflection. Powerful analogy, eh?

So. Where are your old batteries? What do you plan to do with those leftover paint cans? No, I know that everyone who reads my blog is an responsible citizen and knows his/her hazardous waste disposal location. Perhaps it the neighbors we could help out? "Hey, I'm heading over to the hazardous waste disposal place next weekend. Here's a list, if you'd like to know more about where to take your old paint cans and other hazardous stuff." I'll bet my kids would like going door to door with information sheets!

We've got to start somewhere. It may not make a huge difference, but these small things surely spread an awareness. There's a self-proclaimed "crabby environmentalist" in my life keeping me honest. I like that. She keeps me on my toes. I think about how to reuse things. I go ahead and rinse out my old ricotta cheese containers (from that nasty dessert the South Beach Diet had us making), and stick them in recycling.

I use both sides of copy paper for my drafts. I even rinse out cheapie resealable plastic sandwich and storage bags before tossing them into the recycling bin...not that I'm bragging. I'm just becoming more aware.

September 17, 2004
The Teaching Company has produced a CD series called "Great Courses." They've selected some of the top professors in various disciplines from universities across the country to record their lectures for lifelong learners like myself to listen to in cars while commuting to work, or in my case, while folding laundry, unloading the dishwasher, and transporting children to soccer practices. They moan when I put one in and have offered their portable CD players for me to use so that it isn't broadcast within the entire van.

I've sampled several courses, and the best by far is Robert Greenberg's "How to Understand and Listen to Great Music" It is the best course I've listened to, and I'm only through part one! I'm waiting for part two to become available through the library. If you've ever felt intimidated by listening to concert music of the past written by Western composers, Greenberg's course is empowering and entertaining.

September 10, 2004
"We're a little bored," whispered one of the kids.

"How about you learn some origami?" I suggested. I'd come across the idea in a little book of math games, so it was tucked away in the front of my mind, over to the side, for a rainy day.

"Ori-what?"

"Origami. Japanese people fold paper into shapes. You get some paper, and I'll get the instructions. Let's see if we can figure it out together."

The first instructions were easy, so we made folds that we could puff air into and blow up to become a cube. The kids made about a dozen of these, scribbling numbers on each side of some to be dice.

They wanted more. Thank heavens for the Internet. I searched for easy folding instructions and found a swan. It was perfect. They made dozens of all sizes, learning to make smaller squares of paper so they could create tiny baby swans, all colors.

We tried a little boat and a crane, but they didn't go so well. It was beyond our beginner's minds. But it delighted them, which delighted me. I mentioned that I had a kimono in my closet, a gift from my mother-in-law. She'd brought it from her mother's apartment. My husband's grandma was a missionary in Japan for years. I can pull out several Japanese items--a beautiful doll, some plates and bowls, some writing. It could make for some interesting exploration.

September 8, 2004
We think our kids could do an emergent church thing at our house. Just set out some paper and crayons or cray-pas pastels, or watercolor...a little artistic expression right there, modeled by uninhibited worshipers. I think they could lead the way, a multi-generational experience. And a little child would lead them! Perfect.

Oh, and of course there's always the clay. Molding, working that stuff, to express ourselves. Yep, Emergent Church led by the kids. Why hasn't anyone thought of this? The third- and first-graders could inspire the preschooler, and we'd be singing and molding and coloring in no time. "Come on, Mommy! Color with me! Here's Jesus, this is you, this is me, and we're singing, see?"

I can see it, yes, I can.

September 7, 2004
If you scroll down to August 18, just a few entries south, you'll read about the magic trick, the disappearing book trick, as performed by our six year old.

Well, today, as inspired by Calvin and Hobbes, she has created a "Transmodifier" out of a cardboard box. She cut a perfectly lovely arrow out of cardboard, asked me to poke a hole in it so she could insert a brass fastener, the kind we used to make homemade clocks in elementary school math class. She attached the arrow to the top of the box, er, the Transmodifier, that is, and wrote various creatures in a circle. The arrow might land on, say, "tiger," or "parrot." Whatever she puts into the box turns into the item that the arrow pointed at. Using Beanie Babies for her experiment, she placed one inside, spun the arrow, and pulled out the modified creature accordingly. "Look, it's now a parrot! This is tiger, but he's a parrot, see? He's transmodified!" And on it went for much of the afternoon.

Then she came up to me, and this is the second time she's made this wishful comment, "Wouldn't it be neat if I asked Santa to bring me a magic kit for Christmas, and I really could transmodify things?"

"I've told you before, the magic kits show you tricks that look like you've changed things, but you haven't. It's not real magic."

"I know," she says, still smiling. "But if I could, I'd turn myself into a bluebird, so I could fly. And then I'd turn a bunch of pebbles into worms so they'd be right where I need them to eat during the day, on top of the box. Wouldn't that be a good idea?"

An older sister had been listening in. She turned to me, "What would you turn something into, if you could?"

It's an interesting question. What would I want to turn myself into? What would I like to turn something else into, for a day, perhaps, or just a few hours?

September 3, 2004
I'm on Phase 2 of the South Beach Diet. Oh, please, stop calculating the days. Yes, I know, it's a few days short of the two weeks, but I'm sick of this stupid diet. They said I'd stop craving carbs within two days, but that's a joke. I do. It's not like I want a bag of potato chips or something. I just want some oatmeal. Is that so bad? So I'm moving on to Phase 2 and inviting a few healthy carbs into my life. Maybe a little fruit, too. Tonight my dear spouse has to go out and buy a new mailbox (the door is hanging from one bolt that he'd already used to rig it up the last time it fell apart). I think I'll ask him to pick up some scales while at Lowe's. I hate to have scales around, micromanaging my weight loss. To remedy that, he suggested we stick it up on a shelf so that it's a hassle to pull down. If we have some scales accessible, I can confirm if I've actually lost anything. Based on what I see when I stand in front of the mirror, well, there's just no change. So I'm going to happily eat my bowl of oatmeal tomorrow morning and move on.

August 31, 2004
I'm on the South Beach Diet. I know, I know. Stop laughing at me. We've already established that I'm anti-trend, but if you actually read the article I directed you to, you'll recall that South Beach has been out too long to be trendy anymore. So I'm okay. I'm in the post-trend-phase of its lifespan, and only just read it while in South Carolina visiting my uncle. The cover had a little star-shaped notation, "Lose Belly Fat First!" and I thought, "I've got to read this thing!" Having weighed myself on my uncle's scales (we don't own any), I was appalled. Aghast. "Lose Belly Fat First!" sounded like just the ticket, especially since I'd gorged myself on shrimp the night before while devouring my cousins "Frogmore Stew."

Sidebar: Frogmore Stew is known to non-locals as "Low Country Boil." There are many ways to prepare it, but the main ingredients are shrimp, smoked sausage and corn on the cob. It's not really a stew. I ate a shameful quantity of shrimp.

So, South Beach Diet. Today is the start of Week 2 of Phase 1.

I miss bread.

I miss oatmeal.

I miss sweet snacks and corn and a little sugar in my tea.

It's not that I miss white bread. I'd given that up years ago. I miss really thick, grainy, homemade bread with a light bit of butter on it. Maybe a bit of jam. Oh, man, I've got to stop writing about it.

I miss oatmeal in the morning, or cereal. And I'm not talking about Fruit Loops or Lucky Charms. Those aren't my thing. I like healthy cereals and I miss eating them.

And I miss Trader Joe's chocolate covered raspberry sticks. Oh dear, those are trouble. I can't even have those in the house.

Fortunately, in a week I can have oatmeal and healthy cereal again. I can have fruit again, though I haven't missed that as much as I thought I would. I can have my wholesome homemade bread again, too, just not half a loaf.

In the meantime, I'm eating protein and vegetables, mostly. And that crazy little ricotta cheese dessert they invented, supposedly to satisfy one's sweet tooth. But let me tell you, it looks pretty gross and doesn't compare with the desserts I prefer. Nice try. And Jell-O? I like it, but it isn't dessert.

So I suffer a little, in hopes of losing some belly fat. Frankly, I don't see a marked difference yet, this first week. We'll see what happens in another week's time.

I have to watch the kids wolf down homemade macaroni and cheese while I nibble on a salad tonight.

August 28, 2004
What a happy birthday boy we have!

We took him shopping at Target yesterday. At the end of an aisle was a wall of Matchbox vehicles. He started shouting and pointing, "That one! That one! No, no, not that one. THAT one!" So we began to pull them off per his precise instructions and hand them to him. He would gaze at each one through the plastic cover, enthralled. This was at least a ten-to-fifteen-minute process, picking and choosing, evaluating, putting some back and getting others, then convincing him to let us place them in the back of the cart and that maybe he'd get them as surprises at his party. He picked out some helicopters, too, and some military vehicles. It was quite a masculine outing. I'd never spent that much time in those aisles ever before.

One of his sisters wrapped each one of the cars, so he'd have a lot of presents to unwrap at the party. Believe it or not, he didn't rip into them. Instead, he carefully unwrapped each one, grinning as the paper started to reveal the packaging. Then he'd exclaim, "Wow! I LOVE it!" delighting and "wow-ing" over it, elated. He'd unwrap another, as if he didn't know what it would be, then: "OH! Oh! I LIKE this one!!" It was getting ridiculously Pollyannalike, but so charming.

His thrill over every dinky gift prompted my sister-in-law to lean over during the hubbub and suggest, "Okay, tell the truth. These are the first presents you've ever bought him, aren't they!" What kid could sustain ongoing astonishment over ten individually wrapped 94-cent cars? One who truly only wanted a few 94-cent cars, I guess.

Oh, that we were all so easily satisfied, let alone ecstatic!

August 18, 2004
I just started the new novel that I picked up from the library. I'm too nervous to recommend it, it's so...so...irreverent! If someone is simply bursting with curiosity, they can contact me by e-mail and I'll tell them the titles and author.

In the meantime, I managed to put together a meal for a group of friends last night, which as those who know me well, is not my forte. It came off well, and we had a great evening eating on the porch by candlelight. Certain small people in my family had some final entertainment, singing "We are the Pirates Who Don't Do Anything," from Veggie Tales. And a certain person who is crazy about Scotch tape did a little magic show.

"I can make a book...disappear!" she announced.

"Oh, really? Could you do that for us," I asked.

"Yes. Close your eyes," she instructed. Everyone obediently did so. "Now," she continued, as she put the book behind her back, under her shiny pink cape, "Say, 'Make the book disappear.'"

"Make the book disappear," we chanted.

"Open your eyes." We did, and it's true--the book was nowhere to be seen.

"Okay, now close your eyes. Say, 'Make the book reappear!'"

"Make the book reappear."

"Open your eyes!"

And darned if that book wasn't in front of her, in her hand, for all to see!

Spectacular showmanship. The cape was a great touch, as was the long "magic" stick she had picked up in the yard.

August 15, 2004
I just came up with two book suggestions that I'm afraid I may find irresistible. I'm going to track them down at the library. I can't go recommending them until I know what they're like, so I'll have to leave you in suspense. The only clue I shall leave you with is that I read a book by this author years ago and it was witty and irreverent. Today I just learned that he wrote two sequels that I was unaware existed until this moment.

In addition to this surprise novel I'm going to look for, I'm pondering what Great Course on CD I might tackle. I began the World Philosophy course. I may have to get there and decide on the spot whether to go with History, Philosophy or something completely different.

My littlest one, about three years old, was on the kitchen floor playing with Play-dough. The Olympic basketball game was on in the background as white noise. I hadn't spoken about it at all, not a peep. They weren't watching it, either. It was simply there. So hubby walked in the door and said, "Hello, everyone!" And immediately our little 3yo looked up from the Play-dough spaghetti factory and exclaimed, "Puerto Rico, Papa! Puerto Rico!"

It is kind of a catchy thing to say. The "Rico" part has punch. Try it: Puerto Rico, Puerto Rico.

See?

August 14, 2004
I'm trying to finish a couple of books before launching a new one.

What shall I read?

I was thinking of Pearl Buck's The Good Earth. A friend recommended that along with a long list of other authors and titles (Wallace Stegner, Watership Down, Grapes of Wrath, Carson McCullers, Of Mice and Men). I'm having to read some books for the kids' school year, to be able to discuss with them, so those will be on the stack.

I picked up a copy of Mortimer Adler and Charles Doren's book, How To Read a Book. I really liked instruction on how to read fast to get the idea of a book, how to "own" a book by interacting with it (writing in the margins, taking notes, writing summaries). I think back to all the books I've read over the years and how little I've retained. If I read books applying suggestions like Adler's, I'd have much greater retention.

I'm also thinking of doing more with vocabulary development. Phyllis Tickle's book challenged me in that area. She uses big ones. I should have had a dictionary next to me the entire time I was reading The Shaping of a Life.

Oh, and I intend to go to the library to pick up some of those Great Courses (from the Teaching Company), and work on that.

I'm a housewife with the lifelong learning itch.

August 11, 2004
At risk of being accused of rationalizing difficulties in Christianity, which has happened to me recently and is a healthy challenge, I offer this link to an article discussing some of the assumptions put forth in The DaVinci Code. Everyday people are dependent upon people who do their research. Bold generalizations and assumptions don't help us make informed decisions. Dan Brown may have written a captivating story, but how do his accusations about the canonization of Scripture hold up to historical research? Before buying his ideas hook, line and sinker, consider the following.

For a shorter explanation, click here to read: Breaking the DaVinci Code

or you can click below to read what one of our pastors presented. Put on your thinking cap before you begin. It's a sermon given earlier this year. I posted it on my site, so the top says something like Poetry, because I don't know how to fix that without the help of my graphic designer, but when you scroll down, it says "Special Feature":

Special Feature

August 10, 2004
Finally, after about a year, I've broken down and purchased my own copy of The Divine Hours: Prayers for Summertime and The Divine Hours: Prayers for Autumn and Wintertime. It appears that my used copy of the summertime prayers was part of the Crossings book club, so someone probably got it for a penny along with ten other books when they joined and decided they didn't need it. I'm also finishing up Phyllis Tickle's memoirs and was struck by this paragraph:

I know for a fact that I was worshiping the God of the Hebrews in the words of the Hebrews all those years [she prayed the Psalms], but I was just as naturally accessing the place that is prayer through the name of Jesus, the Christ, not of Moses and the Prophets. I know that I was willingly submissive to Christian principles of conduct and an earnest, if rather self-taught, student of Christian doctrine...What I had not yet done...or else had done so incompletely as to not perceive it in myself...was make, much less accept, the demanding but required connection between my Jesus crucified and the code, between the Son of God and the Son of man, between the relief of looking up and the risk of looking eye to eye. If that be true, and I think it is, then it is also true that it was in Pelzer where my soul first began to become Christian. (pp. 342-343).

Those phrases, "the demanding but required connection between my Jesus crucified and the code" and "between the relief of looking up and the risk of looking eye to eye" struck me. This is such a mighty leap for some people. They may believe in Jesus at some level and they may even pray to God. But have they turned from the relief of looking up to taking the risk of looking eye to eye? So simply put, this captures the critical difference--it implies a relationship with Someone; not religion; not a set of beliefs; not codes and ethics to live by; not a cosmic, unknowable God. Rather, her phrases capture the reality of a God who, through Jesus Christ, wants to relate to us so intimately that it can accurately be described as eye-to-eye. This God who knows us, wants to be known.

August 4, 2004
I was on the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, relaxing, on a vacation. I was reading (and haven't yet finished) Phyllis Tickle's book The Shaping of a Life: A Spiritual Landscape, her memoirs.

Tickle is the one who put together The Divine Hours, a book series based on the Book of Common Prayer that has been helpful to me, so I was predisposed to like Tickle. But what really convinced me to buy the book was that I was standing in a bookstore looking at it with Lauren Winner, back on that evening we had coffee after she spoke. Lauren pointed at it and said, "That is such a great book. I loved it." Enough said. I bought it that night. I'm enjoying memoirs a lot these days. I think I like to hear of other people's real-life struggles and successes and that they are living lives and thinking thoughts that are not unlike mine...or are quite different and thus challenge mine. It makes me feel less alone.

I'm only halfway through the book. She was a spunky seeker when she was young, and is a great writer now.

July 22, 2004
Hip to be square article

This is that anti-trend story my friend told me about.

July 21, 2004
I was with some friends this morning, talking about selective memory. Well, it came up. Then I asked the philosophical question, "What is reality, then?" And really, I wish sometimes that I knew more about philosophy, because I wonder about this a lot. If a person's friend is changing the way she recalls her past, then what is that friend's reality and what is actual reality?

Makes me think of Alzheimer's patients. What is reality for them? Or with people who are dealing with psychological issues, like they explored for us all to ponder in the film "A Beautiful Mind." What is reality when your mental reality is what you have to operate on (and it's different from everyone else's)?

An acquaintance of mine had some condition (maybe from medication, I can't remember what brought it on) that caused him to feel like spiders were crawling all over his body. His wife said, "But you know that there aren't any, don't you? You can see that there aren't any spiders anywhere near you?"

"Yes, but if I feel like there are spiders all over me, what difference does it make if there actually are any or not? "

Hm. Good question. What is reality, then?

If we all witness an accident, we all see it from different angles and so our perception is different--sometimes a little bit, sometimes drastically. It reminded me of a Madeleine L'Engle quote that went something like this: on any given situation, you have a point of view, I have a point of view, he has a point of view and she has a point of view.  But only God has...View.

Only God knows what actually happened circumstantially and only He knows all the psychological, emotional, hormonal (etc.) things were motivating the inside of the people involved, too. Only He has View. Only God comprehends the whole she-bang. Every little piece of it, inside and out.

So is that the only reality there is?

What does that leave us time-and-space-restricted humans with?

I picked up a "Great Courses" CD series on World Philosophy from the library. I hoped that hearing what mankind has been questioning since the beginning of recorded history will reassure me that there isn't one answer. By hearing several theories, perhaps I can find some, um, reality in which I can abide.

My gravitating toward the L'Engle quote reveals my bent.

I do believe in God. I believe that through the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, I am made right with God and have access to Him. I guess for now, with my theological bent and my lack of philosophical finesse, I'll have to say that I'm trusting that by associating with the One who is and comprehends reality, I'm in about the only real place there is.

Maybe part of heaven, being finally united with God through Jesus Christ in every way, will be about seeing things as they truly are. Maybe He'll give us a glimpse of life as He sees it, with View. Time won't exist as we know it, which is another point that L'Engle likes to explore. We're in chronos, God is in kairos. When we're with Him, we'll be in some kind of state that we've never experienced before, some timelessness (she points out we don't even have words for this way of existing because all of our words to communicate types of time are tied into chronos, chronology, linear time).

Okay. I need some PhDs helping me out here. My sister-in-law is just about to get her PhD in Philosophy. After watching "A Beautiful Mind," I posed some of these questions about reality to her. She wrote back months later, "I'm so sorry I haven't responded. I just kept thinking about what I might say to summarize, but I got overwhelmed. You asked some big questions that I never could get around to answering in depth, at least not in an e-mail."

Madeleine L'Engle is fascinated with physics, which is why we get such accurate scientific information backing up her fantasy series. And it's why she can ponder chronos and kairos. She reads up on black holes, Einstein's theory of relativity and other such scientific concepts I can't wrap my brain around.

One of my friends this morning was a science major. I should have picked her brain about that.

Maybe I scare people off from having coffee with me?

July 18, 2004
A friend has challenged my thinking about the emergent church thing. She asked, "Are you simply anti-trend?" She may be right. Last night another friend told me of a newspaper article she read. The article illustrated that the current trend is to not be trendy! So does that make me trendy, to be anti-trendy?!

On the other hand, I'm totally busted when reflecting on my past. When it comes to church trends and "movements," I faithfully attended every pastors' and leadership conference offered by a certain suburban, seeker-driven mega church in the late '80s and early '90s. So I was right in the thick of that trend. I was chatting just as analytically as Jack and Joe were in my previous blog, trying to figure out how we at our church might be able to see lives change.

I mustn't be all high-and-mighty about this, just because I'm in a different place in life. Besides, I argued that God moves in us regardless of our trends or styles or choices, if He chooses, and by that statement I've just opened up the door for just about any style of worship to be okay.

As long as those involved are responding by faith to the Holy Spirit, glorifying God the Father and Jesus as Lord and Savior, consciously placing Him at the center (as opposed to their own needs and longings or even their very selves), and are listening to Him in such a way that He is invited to move and change us, maybe we're free to choose within those kinds of parameters. (I know that there are many faiths and denominations that would argue me on that, and it would be instructive to me to hear their point of view!).

Maybe there are more critical elements, but those strike me as minimally essential: remember Who all of this church stuff is for, Who is in charge, and Who will hold us accountable for it in the end.

As we make various choices, we should all try to respect one another. And that may be one of many things I need to confess and work on with the help of the Holy Spirit. I don't know that I was being respectful to those who feel called to do the couch-and-candle thing at their church. If they are led by God to do that as they pray and seek His will, then who am I to criticize?

So my apologies. I'll reflect on that today.

Lord Jesus, have mercy on me, a sinner.

July 14, 2004
Emergent church. This is the new thing, I guess. The new topic of conversation, the new trend to analyze and categorize and define and dispense in neat little seminars and gatherings to people hoping not to be behind the times. I've gone online looking for hints. As I've read some of the commentary and analyses, I'm pretty turned off.

It seems that sometime in the past decade or so, somewhere, something organic took place. Something real. Something lovely between a group of people and God Almighty, speaking through the Holy Spirit, directed by Jesus Christ, our Lord.

Forgive my blunt cynicism here, but it sure looks like a bunch of aging baby boomers who got tired of the "big show" type of church service started feeling uneasy, and word started spreading about these folks who are experiencing something lovely and real with God Almighty. And so someone from the "big show" church went to visit the organic thing. They reported back to their friends.

"What was so lovely, Joe?" they asked.

"Well, something really incredible was happening. People were praying, they were singing, they were changing."

"We pray, sing and people change, sometimes. What was different? After all, we want people to pray, sing and change even more! What were they wearing? What did the stage look like?"

"No stage, Jack. Just a bunch of couches. Oh, and they had candles everywhere. Seemed like some old cathedral with all those flames flickering, but it was kind of nice. I liked it. Set the mood, you know?"

"This is great, Joe. I'm taking notes. Go on."

"Well, they had some really cool video stuff."

"We have video. How was theirs different?"

"Oh, I don't know. They had some young guy making it himself. It was really fast, you know, with lots of gritty pictures of people downtown walking around, all sped up, you know, like this." (demonstrates)

"Ha-ha. You're funny, Joe. Did you ever think of taking up impersonation as your night job?"

"Ha-ha-ha. It was funny. I didn't get it. But everyone there loved it. They kept talking about it when they were hanging out with coffee on the couches next to the lava lamps."

"Lava lamps? Like we had in college?"

"I didn't have one."

"And couches, too. Candles, lava lamps and couches. Got it. I'm glad we have coffee already."

"Yes, we have coffee, but theirs was better."

"Hey! I make the coffee around here!"

"I know, Jack. I'm sorry, but it was true. Everyone was standing in line for coffee when they weren't making clay worship thingies."

"We've got to get good coffee, then. Because we want something real to be happening here. Thanks, Joe, for your honesty. Now what's this about clay?"

"Well, they had places where people could just worship with artsy stuff, you know, like clay and paints."

"Did you do any of it?"

"I felt pretty stupid with the clay. I made Mr. Bill with his hand upraised, you know, praising."

"'Oh nooooo! Here comes Slugger!'"

"Ha-ha! You're funny, too, Jack!"

"Thanks, but Mr. Bill? That is pretty stupid, Joe, if I can be honest with you."

"Well, I was honest about the coffee, so I guess I was asking for it." (Nervous chuckle)

"Ha-ha. Well, this is great stuff, Joe. Great stuff. I can't wait to tell my buddies."

And so Jack told his friends at the next pastors' conference held at a mega church in Los Angeles, and they talked about this other church Downtown and so on and so forth. Word spread. Couches were snatched up by the hundreds. Lava lamps were bought in cases from Target, plugged into extension cords in the multipurpose rooms of churches across the country.

I don't know if this comparison works, but it's as if someone heard about Moses' burning bush conversation with God and decided everyone could benefit from hearing about the burning bush, in fact, everyone ought to aim for their own burning bush experience if they want to be hearing God's voice and direction. And so everyone bought sandals they could take off. Everyone planted the right kind of bush. Everyone tossed some sand all around and kept a few sheep in the side yard.

And God is so gracious and longsuffering and loving and literally condescending in that He wants to be known and received by us in our loopy states, He meets with us. He meets us anyway. Whether we have stages or couches or pews or kneelers. Whether we have digital sound systems or overhead projectors or theater seating, He tries to get through. He tries to meet us where we're at, literally and figuratively.

Then we have the audacity to think that it was the couches that did it. Or the lava lamps. Or the clay.

When all along it was just a gracious, loving God who decided to reveal Himself to us regardless of our choices and decisions and conference directives.

That's just my first reaction to all of this. I'm sure as I gain more information, I'll be persuaded along with the rest of those following current trends. And of course I don't want to be an old fuddy-dud. I want to appreciate what really is going on, what people are responding to. I respect the reality of people coming to an understanding of God's great power and love and sacrifice through Jesus, our King. However that happens, I'm game to listen.

In the meantime, and in a way, I like being relatively ignorant. Here I am raising kids, wiping snotty noses, buying ice cream from the ice cream truck, setting up the Slip-n-Slide in the back yard. I kind of like coming at all of this from this fresh, naive perspective. No one has invited me to go to an Emergent Church Conference (it seems like a contradiction in terms to me--if it's organically emerging, why and how would you put together a conference on it? As soon as you can package it into 40 minute messages, it stops being the neat, cool, organic thing that it was...but that's just me).

Staying a little distanced from all of this talk is good. My life, my real life, keeps me grounded. I don't get so easily sucked into the trendy stuff when I have to make late night runs to the 24-hour supermarket for bananas and diapers. My life isn't the leisurely Starbucks life of some of these emergent church bloggers. But it's the life I've been given.

And guess what? God meets me here. He reveals Himself to me in the laundry room while I'm folding glittery T-shirts from Target, and when I'm baking chocolate chip cookies like some kind of '50s housewife. I don't even have a lava lamp, and still, thanks be to His grace, He allows Himself to be known by little old me.

I had a chance at a lava lamp; an original, even. Mom dug one out of the basement and set it up on the kitchen table many years ago, but the lava was all goopy at the bottom and it didn't work very well. We must have just thrown it away.

I do have a couch.

And a few candles.

I'll set up a little modeling clay station at the kitchen table, for those inclined to worship that way. Just clean up after yourself. I'm tired of picking bits of that stuff out of the grooves in the kitchen floor.

Anyone want to come over and try to emerge a church in my family room? My Belgian-raised husband makes a mean cup of coffee, and he'll make enough for everyone.

July 12, 2004
I keep thinking about a conversation I had last week with some new friends of mine in a discussion group formed to dialogue about spiritual issues. They don't know me well yet, so they don't know if I'm well read or an ignoramus. The discussion is lively and spirited, and sometimes it's hard for me to figure out where I might interject a comment or thought. As a result, they really haven't heard a lot about my point of view.

Also, our discussions about spiritual questions have occasionally grown intense. This past week we had talked about a wide range of topics, and my mind was exploring each of them, but I hadn't articulated any of them out loud. These topics piled up inside of me as the evening went on, and at one point, they all spilled out like marbles dumped from a bag, spinning off in every direction across the coffee table. I was talking top speed, as if I had only a tidbit of time allotted to me and was trying to cram in every thought on every topic along with disclaimers. To say I was incoherent may be an understatement.

At one point, I was trying to explain the Jesus Prayer to them. One person already knew about it, but in case the others didn't, I was taking way too long explaining the source of this prayer. It comes from Luke (18:9-14), when Jesus tells the parable of the tax collector and the Pharisee going up to pray. The Pharisee prays proudly, but the tax collector beats his chest humbly, begging for God to have mercy on him, a sinner. This phrase, "have mercy on me, a sinner" has been used by many contemplative-types over the millennia as a phrase to pray to the Lord, adding Jesus' name. Thus, the Jesus prayer is usually, "Lord Jesus, have mercy on me, a sinner," or, "Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me a sinner." The placement of Jesus' name may vary slightly, but I spent a long time explaining that adding Jesus' name made it slightly different from the biblical reference. It wasn't really my point at all. What I was trying to do was say that in praying this way, Jesus often reveals more of my need for Him. I realize who I am in light of who God is.

I'm not sure how it came out.

Earlier in the evening, before I launched my word-explosion, someone had said that they felt that Christians condemned non-Christians for their sin, and that they made it seem that God condemned people, too. The leader had read a passage illustrating that Jesus doesn't condemn. And I was merely trying to point out that I didn't, as a believer. I was trying to say that condemnation wasn't on my mind at all, and that humility before God on my own part was a big focus.

Through things like the Jesus Prayer, I daily see my neediness. I don't have the pride to pick on others, or I shouldn't, when I see clearly my own need for God. Praying in openness and humility, I see clearly that apart from Jesus, I can do nothing. When I walk with Him daily, however, I see the fruit of His work in my life. I see patience when on my own there would be none. I see self-control when I know that my personal bent would be to explode in frustration or anger.

I don't think, however, I got that far. I was still talking about how the phrase "Jesus Christ" wasn't in the actual scriptural reference. After my long stream of words, I don't have any idea what came across, quite frankly!

The person who was familiar with the Jesus Prayer had spoken earlier that he was quite certain that God would not want us going around riddled with guilt for our past sins and mistakes. I thought later that perhaps my comment about spending time praying the Jesus Prayer might leave him thinking that I myself was seeking to be riddled with guilt. But that's not it. That's not the purpose of asking the Lord to have mercy on me, a sinner. It allows me to sit with an open attitude toward the Lord, recognizing my need for a Savior, for life and for salvation (and I don't just mean eternal life when I die...I mean life today, in its fullness, right now).

It's so hard to explain my relationship with God, through Jesus Christ, to people who may not necessarily agree with me or believe it at all. It probably sounds loopy or weak or something. And the fact that I was incoherent probably drove home that opinion, if they had it. And I did talk about being weak and needing Him. So for those who think of Christianity as a crutch, I probably affirmed that, too, feeding the impression that Christianity is for weak people who need something to believe in.

How I longed to reassure them that my faith very much involves understanding and not just passionate naïveté. I wanted to tell them that I really have engaged my intellect over these years of following Jesus. But I couldn't even draw a conclusion on one of the multiple points I'd brought up. I didn't just speak of the Jesus Prayer. I also spoke of the life offered to us through Jesus, and I talked about how the Bible is God's attempt to reveal Himself to us and that even if I knew and understood everything in those pages, that it isn't God Himself...but that at the same time it's a pretty darn good resource He's given us to know Him and learn about our own need for Him, if we take the time to dig into it.

But as I was saying that, I realized that earlier they had suggested that perhaps the person leading the group didn't read enough about other religions to see the merit and truth in them. He admitted that he knew more about the Christian Bible than other religious books, it's true.

So during my spilled-marbles-babbling I added a disclaimer mid-sentence that I have indeed read a little about other religions and that I know some basic ideas of Islam, Buddhism, a tiny bit about Hinduism, a bit of New Age and some native American beliefs. But it's true, I'm not an expert on any of them and couldn't debate about them. I have spent much more time in the Christian Bible because it's my source of truth, wisdom, and revelation about the God who has sought me out and drawn me to Him, as He is lovingly trying to do to everyone (without forcing them), but I'm not opposed to reading and learning about other faiths. I want to appreciate and respect other people's beliefs, just as I hope people would appreciate and respect mine. That's what this group discussion has done well, I think. The discussion can get agitated, but overall there seems to be a respect that pervades and allows us to continue our growing friendship.

It's one of the most stimulating gatherings I get to be part of. I love it. And perhaps in a few more weeks, I'll be able to pick just one thing to talk about. Just one. :)

They were so nice. They tried to follow me. They really did. But a lot of marbles were rolling every which way, and if I had been one of the others in the group, I wouldn't have had any idea which ones to catch.

As I left, I said, "I'm much better at writing my thoughts than expressing them verbally." They just smiled. Perhaps they were thinking, "I should hope so! It wouldn't take much to be clearer than what we just heard tonight!" They didn't say that, though. They just gave me a hug, and I drove home feeling goofy.

July 7, 2004
I found an old list one of my kids had made regarding manners: "Do not call after 9:00. Be plite to gests. Do not get mad at gests. Do not leave frends or sisters out in games. Do not slouch."

It's a start, I suppose.

July 6, 2004
We've had a guest for one month. We just finished up our fourth of July cookouts and parades and such. Husband and son actually appeared on the local TV news station--cute kid in his dad's lap. Just a quick flash before going to the next thing; a millisecond of their fifteen minutes of fame.

Just came home from a fascinating discussion group. I'm in a group of people from several different backgrounds and belief systems, meeting to dialogue about these beliefs. It's so interesting to hear where people are coming from, what they're thinking about, what brings them to a particular faith or lack thereof. It's sometimes heated, but I'm always impressed with the fact that there is an overriding respect that so far has bound us together.

I've also been in an e-mail discussion with an old friend from high school, catching up and discovering that we have a lot we can learn from one another, as we are in very different places in life. As my friend said, "As long as we keep talking and questioning I feel there is hope for us silly humans." This is how I feel when I come out of the discussion group. It's how my conversations with her make me feel. I have another group just forming, and I hope it's the same there. And then there are discussions with my dad and brother and other friends. As long as we keep talking and questioning, perhaps there's hope. Especially if we are able to respect one another. And really listen to understand and appreciate one another.

At least it's a start.

But how many of us humans are doing that?

June 22, 2004
We have Peter W. to thank for this link. For a 20-second break from your crazy schedule.

http://www.nobodyhere.com/toren.hier

June 19, 2004
Started a few books, but they are all bad. Not Wendell Berry, but other stuff. And guess what? The Divine Hours were all there, three-in-a-row. Picked up summertime. I also pulled out Phyllis Tickle's memoirs and pondered making it my next read. Lauren Winner highly recommended it. And I want to read what Lauren reads...except all of her hefty history books.

My Old Testament Survey instructor said his daughter was accepted to Columbia University's med school. She's not sure if she should take it, and he said, "Do you know how many people I know who have been accepted to Columbia (he knows a *lot* of people)? TWO! Just TWO!"

I had gone on and on about Lauren during break one class, so they knew who I was talking about when I said, "Well, that's where Lauren Winner was. She's finishing up her PhD there while teaching at the University of Virginia." Smart girl.

I'm trying to figure out when and where Kathleen Norris and Barbara Kingsolver are speaking in Fall 2004 in hopes that they might be within driving distance from me, but I can't seem to find anything.

June 16, 2004
Whoa. Check it out! Two blogs in a row!

I just read through Wendell Berry's interview interview in Sojourners. Makes me want to rush out and borrow Life Is a Miracle from the library. When I went to hear Lauren Winner speak, she said that the conference was trying to get Wendell Berry, but it fell through, so Lauren was their second choice. She said that she was flattered, if she was second to Berry. I realized I knew nothing about him, except that his name rang a faint bell in my head.

June 15, 2004
What? Oh, that's right. I used to be a blogger. Fairy regular, I recall. Then I got distracted or something. Today, on my drive back from a trip we took to Tennessee, I resolved to write more in these blogs. I think they help me preserve bits of life better, in some ways, than my journal. I tend to be a very interior person, so my journals are actually extremely useless for posterity (and a bit bizarre). I've tended toward real-life events in these blogs.

I thought of you when we were driving to Clingman's Dome, the highest point in the Smokies. Scotch tape girl asked, "Are we going to the top?"

"Yes, we are."

"The very top?"

"Yes."

"The very, very tippy top?"

Sensibility responded this time, "Yes to that and to all of the following questions, too!"

"It's too bad I didn't bring my wings, because I could just jump off the tip top and fly, fly, fly, couldn't I, Mama?"

"Well, mountains are good to leap off when you have the right gear, the right wings. But you don't have them, so don't try. It's a long way down without wings."

"Right. But if I had them, I could really fly."

Yes, I guess you could. Someday.

May 27, 2004
"Mama, is it possible to sew a zipper into paper?"

"No."

"It isn't? Shoot. Oh, well."

"Why do you ask? What did you have in your mind?"

"Oh, nothing. I just wanted to make an elephant costume, but now I can't make it. But wouldn't that have been great? People would really think we were elephants!"

I'm not saying who, but someone in this family thinks a homemade paper elephant costume would be a convincing disguise. I wish I had enough paper, and a paper zipper, and the ability to climb inside her head to make it a reality. Wouldn't that be great?

I suppose with heavy paper and a good machine, someone in this world could sew a zipper into paper, but I doubt if I could do it with my machine and the computer printer paper she's planning on using.

Sorry for my absence. Some of you have asked where the blogs are. They are in me. I'm living them and thinking them, but I'm not writing them because I've instead been very busy, along with the rest of the world, it seems. All of my online friends have been occupied with end-of-school-year activities and such.

May 19, 2004
This note and photo came to me from a family member. He wrote this:

A family in Oregon found this fawn on their front steps and took this photo. The white spots on the steps are apple blossom petals.  As you know, deer hide their fawns and go away for awhile.  The fawns have no odor yet, and naturally stay absolutely still.  Isn't this an amazing photograph?  A great job of camouflage! The fawn stayed there all morning, and the mama came to get it after 4-5 hours. Kudos to the people to left the fawn alone, knowing mom would be back.

May 14, 2004
"Super Size Me" (click title for Christianity Today review) is a documentary created by Morgan Spurlock, a human guinea pig, who pigged out on three meals a day at a certain fast food restaurant for 30 days straight. The results of his experiment? This healthy 33 year old gained almost 25 pounds, sky-high cholesterol levels, and a liver functioning like that of an alcoholic. I haven't seen it, but it seems like he brought to life on film some of the issues brought out in Fast Food Nation. I was talking to a friend about this film, and she said, "Why are we so surprised? We've known all this for years!" And it's true, but to see such a compressed and dramatic change in someone's physical health is a healthy reminder of what that stuff will do to you. I've got to find out where it's showing. It's not rated, so I can't guarantee he won't say something inappropriate, but it's getting high ratings.

May 5, 2004
My mother is keeping me honest. She wrote,

"I know someone who tried to hatch a baby duck in a rag-filled box in her
bedroom closet........"

Yep. Twas I.

I wrote back, "I know. I should put that in there. I was thinking, regarding Scotch tape girl, what if it worked? What if we suddenly had a gaggle of geese in our back yard?"

Because I would be motivated to get information from the Web or from a book at the library about incubators and help her set something up. My mom wisely let me set about it any old way, knowing there'd be no duck to worry about. Unattended rags in a shoebox aren't the best egg-sitters when you're off to school all day, or wherever I was.

Mom knew what she was doing. I finally gave in after a very long time with no hatched duck. I cracked the egg. I don't remember it smelling rotten. I remember the tiny hint of veins forming, but that egg wasn't going to become a duckling, not in my shoebox, at least.

Ah, to be filled with that kind of hope.

We got books on flight from the library today, and my daughter was inspired all over again when she found an empty box from some utility shelves my husband assembled. The cardboard was very tall, or wide, depending on how you're envisioning it's application. She cut out two long pieces to try again, "These will be really long, like those hang gliders," she said. I think she's going to crease them a little bit, to get air under them, like David MacAuley demonstrated in his "Flight" video.

Tomorrow I'll probably be witness to another test flight, feeling like my mom must have felt when she glanced down at that shoebox all those years ago, knowing full well no duckling would hatch. Sometimes moms let a dream live for a while. Sometimes they let a kid hope.

May 4, 2004
Many have commented on the wings blog. I thought I'd post a little follow-up.

Scotch tape girl has since tested her wing design and let me witness it all. She did the cardboard version, taping sticks to the underside to hold onto, then stood at the top of the very short slide and jumped. I asked if I could watch, and she said, "Sure! Because what if I just take off and start flying, wouldn't that be so cool?
I want you to see that!"

But of course she dropped like a bowling ball. Plop. Onto her bottom. She didn't give up, however. She went back up and tried again and again. "Maybe I need a little more wind." Her hopeful sister suggested they build a long ramp for her to run up.

"Like a runway?" I asked.

"Yes!"

"You'll have to talk to Papa about that."

I helped with a few design ideas on the wings, then eventually broke down and told them about hang gliders and parasailing. Scotch tape girl didn't want to do parasailing, because she actually wants to be the one flying...alone! No help from a boat. Hang gliding seemed much more interesting to her.

At the library I found a videotape on flight, one of those David Macauley things. It was very short. She came back upstairs after watching and said the wings had to be curved. Another sister suggested she watch "Fly Away Home," because the girl teaches some Canadian geese to fly by using one of those ultralights that are like hang gliders with a tiny engine. So we borrowed it, too, but have yet to watch it. It may be that she watches that movie and shifts interest. She may go from the idea of flying, to hatching baby geese in her dresser drawer like the girl in the movie.

Would that be any easier?

April 30, 2004
Here's a link to a personable interview with Sara. I'm so tickled that she admits she's not a very good cook, but that if we opened her fridge at that moment, we would find some leftover quiche. I'm not a very good cook, either, and although you wouldn't at this moment find a quiche in my fridge, it is actually something I would choose to make if I had free time and the guarantee that people would eat it. In this house, there's no guarantee.

http://www.cmcentral.com/interviews/303.html

April 29, 2004
Sara Groves. In concert. Tonight, in the multi-purpose room of a small-town Methodist Church. The attendance was an improvement over the sparsely attended Anne Lamott speaking engagement, because tonight, that multi-purpose room was packed, I tell you. We sat on metal folding chairs that were scratched and banged up, mismatched and dented. The sound guy did a great job, especially given that mixing sound in that room was like mixing sound inside a giant soup bowl, very clattery. Fortunately, it turned out pretty well in spite of the conditions. He was able to let her voice ride over the top.

After her first song, I think it was "All Right Here," she paused and said "One of my favorite writers, Anne Lamott, said once that she's really only sure of one thing in life, and that's Jesus Christ." I turned to my friend in shock--no one around here seems to know who in the world Anne Lamott is, and I had just referred to Anne as we were waiting for the concert to begin, just as I did at the beginning of this blog. My friend grabbed my arm and whispered, "I can't believe she just said that!" Then Sara began to sing a song inspired by that line from Anne, and it's wonderful, of course, because Sara is amazing.

It's late or I'd drag this story out forever (which bugs my dad who was trained in the inverted pyramid style of journalism). So I'll get to the big ending.

The lady working the sales table who sold me my new Sara Groves CD said Sara would come out and sign them, so I was waiting in the lobby where a few people were milling around. Another young woman was waiting for the exact same reason.

Several minutes passed, and Sara didn't come. So we went back into the multi-purpose room and waited there while the band tore down. While I was there, I saw the man who performed my wedding ceremony. He was chatting with the bass player.

I said to the gal with whom I was waiting, "Oh my goodness! That's the guy who married me! I mean, the guy who married me would be my husband and that's not my husband, but you know what I mean, right?"

"He would be the pastor?"

"Yes, well...yes."

So I caught up with his life a little, introduced him to the friend I came with who had been patiently waiting for me all this time as I waited for Sara. I asked Sara's husband if she was coming out. "She'll be out, oh, in about 10 minutes." Cool. I could wait that long and my friend would, too.

I chatted with the pastor, I chatted with my good friend, I lost track of the other gal with whom I was waiting for a signature. Finally, after a good 20 minutes or so, my friend stood up, headed through a doorway and came back in with Sara. My friend assures me she didn't haul her in just for me, but it sure did look that way. My friend was saying that I wanted to meet Sara, and it was true. So I did. I shook her hand and introduced myself and then introduced my friend-with-initiative, my former pastor, his daughter, and a teenage kid who was with them.

We actually chatted for a few minutes about several things, and I asked if she really was working on a book, and she said she was, describing the concept (it sounds terrific, of course). Then my friend, not wanting the opportunity to be lost, said, "Well, Ann's a writer."

The pastor added, "She wrote a book, and it's called The Contemplative Mom."

"Oh!" Sara exclaimed, "I've read that book! And I gave it to my sister, too!"

She's read my book. And she passed it on, too.

My friend insisted I tell Sara my plan. I've mentioned it here, too, in my blog. So I did. "Well, my dream is to get you, Anne Lamott, Lauren Winner--have you discovered Lauren yet? (she shook her head) Oh, well, you'd really like her. But I'd like to get you three together and then, in a perfect scenario, we'd invite Madeleine L'Engle, too. We'd sit around and I'm not sure what we'd talk about, but I'm sure there would be no lack of subject matter. Maybe we would pull quotes from everyone's work and comment, but whatever we'd do, I'm sure it would be fun and fascinating."

She talked about reading Madeleine's book Walking on Water, and I suggested we might have to go to Madeleine, due to age and from what I hear, she's becoming less mobile. The last time I heard her speak was about nine years ago, and even then she was limited in how long she could be up and speaking. Sara said she was trying to calculate Madeleine's age, but we weren't sure.

Sara said Madeleine and C.S. Lewis were her two favorite authors.

We'll have to wait for heaven to coordinate a gathering that includes Clive, but I wonder...could we go to Madeleine? I was just joking when I wrote it in my blog all those months ago, but now I wonder if it's actually remotely possible? I've met Lauren and Sara. Madeleine's probably impossible. Anne probably is, too.

I don't know, but in the meantime, I'm thrilled. I've had coffee with Lauren. I've heard Anne and Madeleine speak. And tonight, I met Sara Groves. I shook hands with her, we chatted, and she's actually read my book.

It was a very good evening.

April 21, 2004
My sister-in-law told me that her favorite age range for kids was five to six years old. I asked her why. She said, "Because they think they can do anything."

I think she's right. I have a six-year-old who embodies the phrase "I can do anything!" and would affirm her theory. My little girl uses sticks and strings and glue and paper to create all kinds of amazing products. She made a tiny paper backpack with staples, tape, string and glue. "It really worked," she exclaimed. One of her sisters nodded. "It did! I tried it and I could put things in it and carry them around."

My six-year-old frequently constructs lopsided or top-heavy kites and runs across the backyard with them flopping behind her. If she made it out of paper without a lot of weighty decorations and runs really fast, they sometimes wobble in the air about the same height as her ponytail. She swears they are flying. "It worked! My kite was flying!"

She uses a lot of tape for all of her projects. That used to bother me, seeming so wasteful. Then a friend of mine pointed out, "If I buy the store brand, it costs me, like, 30 cents apiece. I figure that's a pretty cheap thing to keep a kid busy for hours." I cocked my head and thought, "By George, she's right." And so I started buying tape in three-packs and let them all, especially her, use as much as they like.

The other day she asked for scrap paper. Lots of it. So I gave her a thick stack. She asked for glue, also, and I requested she put newspaper under it. "I don't want a lot of glue on the carpet," I warned. "And don't leave it out. People step on it, your brother will tear it apart and it'll be ruined."

"I'll be careful," she promised. "And I'll put it away."

I finished up something of my own and passed through the room where she was working. She was gluing the sheets together along the edges, forming a big sheet of paper, wide and long. She was letting the glue dry before adding on more.

"What are you making?" I asked.

"Something. A project."

"What kind of project."

"Just something."

I looked up at Phil who happened to be standing nearby. He shrugged. I raised my eyebrows. It didn't look like much, certainly not as involved as her usual kite creations. We left it there, even though it was spreading out and growing into the traffic pattern of that particular room.

Later we asked her to pick it up and put it somewhere. While I was vacuuming, I saw it in her room. The glue sticks are still with it. This is an involved ongoing project.

On our drive back from their evening Bible study program, we were talking about flying. "I don't know anyone who can fly," one of the sisters said. "Me neither," said the other. Slight pause.

"I can."

It was the scotch tape girl.

"Really? And how are you going to do that, in an airplane?" I asked.

"You know that project I'm working on with all the scrap paper I'm gluing together? I'm making wings."

Wings. My six-year-old wants to fly.

"A lot of people have dreamed of flying," I said. "Leonardo da Vinci dreamed of flying. He was always watching birds and sketching them, trying to figure out how they do it."

"You have to be light," one sister offered. "You're too heavy. Gravity will pull you back down."

"I'm going to fly. I just need more paper."

"Well, I've got a lot of paper. I just came across another big stack last night."

"I'm going to need a lot of sheets. And more glue."

It was quiet for a moment, then the most sensible daughter spoke up. "It's highly unlikely you will ever fly," she stated.

"I will. I'll fly," she resolved.

Another more lengthy pause. Sensibility spoke up again, "Well, if you're making wings, you should make them out of cardboard. The paper will just rip."

"Really? That's good, because I'll just need scissors for that."

We talked some more about flying. I admitted that I dreamed of flying all my years growing up, and there was one spot in the pond field that dipped down. If I ran my fastest, flapped my arms and leaped, it felt like I was flying, at least for a foot or so. I didn't tell them that I was a long jumper in high school. I set a county record at 17 1/2 feet. I'm sure all those years of dreaming that I could fly helped. Long jumping does feel a little like flying, but it's hard on the knees.

The other sister admitted to standing in the yard and flapping her arms as fast as she could, but not being able to fly. Only pretending. The scotch tape girl admitted to the same. They've had nighttime dreams of flying, too. So did I.

Perhaps we'll watch parasailing more closely on our next vacation. And one day, when they are much, much older, long past the "I can do anything" age, I'll rent a video about hang gliders.

In the meantime, we'll let them flap their hearts out in the back yard. I hope I get to see it. Sometimes she conducts experiments when I'm not looking. I'd like to have a memory of that, of my six-year-old dreamer, wide white paper wings along each arm, flying.

April 13, 2004
Back from a week of camping in Florida. I'm tan. I wore shorts and T-shirts for a week. I was outside riding my bike, jogging, walking along the beach. I was very happy, even a little tan. Then I came home to 40 degree daytime temperatures and wondered why we don't just pack everything up and move south, at least for the winter. Is it possible to live like that without being retired? It's cold or too cool for my taste many more months here than it is warm. And an ocean is at least 10 hours away. My husband doesn't mind too much where he lives. I think I was born a *place* person. I just haven't found my place. I suspect, however, that it is closer to the equator than my current location.

April 1, 2004
I wish I were feeling all perky and clever so I could play some kind of April Fool's joke on you, but I'm neither perky nor clever today. I'm feeling old, actually: wrinkly and overweight. A friend and I met at a gym to jog on the treadmill this week, and I had to assure her that I was not expecting a baby. What she saw was strictly flab. This winter has felt like hibernation for me, and it shows.

Just a comment on Fast Food Nation--I haven't been to a fast food restaurant of any kind since I finished it. A couple of years ago I read an essay by Barbara Kingsolver about purchasing local food. It impacted me greatly (turns out Lauren Winner even cites it in her book, Mudhouse Sabbath!). Among other compelling points, Kingsolver writes that the fuel used to transport foods from all over the nation and even the globe just so we can have out-of-season fruits and vegetables, for example, is contributing to environmental problems and simultaneously forces us to depend on oil companies even more. Our supermarkets are dependent upon the criss-crossing of semi-trucks across the nation delivering navel oranges from California to Hartford, Connecticut, and strawberries from Florida to Detroit, Michigan.

I'm not making a very good case for this. I should pull out the essay and quote from Barbara. But after she does a great job convincing me that I need to do something about it, she explains how she chooses to grow most of her food in her garden and buy the rest from local farmers. She had a radius she tried to stay within, buying nothing outside, let's say, a 40-mile radius from her home. I really like this for a multitude of reasons, including the fact that it supports local farmers and the state. It's often a more humane process for the workers because it's done on a small scale and not being mass-produced.

The next town over hosts a farmer's market on Saturday mornings in the summer, and I like to go down there to pick up my vegetables for the week. After Fast Food Nation, I am making a bigger commitment to this. Besides, I can ride my bike down there, and that makes it extra fun, healthy and easy on the environment! I feel so guilty having two large vehicles to haul our fairly large family around. Any small effort I can make toward eliminating an outing in one of them makes me feel a little bit better.

One lone woman and her family can't topple the fast food industry. But in the next few months I'm going to see if I can break our own habits and create new ones--fun ones, even, and in so doing eliminate any trips to pick up fast "food" for our meals. We can't break the dependency of an entire nation, but we can break our own. My hope is to be organized enough to plan ahead even just a tiny bit, packing lunches in a big basket or cooler and toss out a big, friendly quilt at a park so we can have picnics with sandwiches made from locally baked bread with chicken bought from the farmer's market, let's say. I'm just imagining at this point. It may be challenging. I'll have some habits and changes in mindset to redirect in myself and my kids, especially. Fast food is just so easy. Too easy.

And so, so awful.

Don't read the book.

March 26, 2004
Have you heard of the book Fast Food Nation? I hadn't until my Old Testament Survey instructor mentioned it. We were talking about the care of creation, and he was saying that he believes that God's anger is increasing with our choices that show little regard for the life of what God lovingly created and called "good." I suppose someone reading this will disagree and cite Manifest Destiny, but humor me and read on. During this discussion, he suggested we read Fast Food Nation, a book reflecting several years of first-rate investigative reporting (and excellent writing) by Eric Schlosser.

As I read the book (I'm not quite finished), I can't help but boycott fast food. He covers every aspect of it, from the history to today's marketing ploys; from workplace conditions and training (or lack thereof), to an expose of the potato, chicken and beef industries. During many sections, the only thing I could think in response to what I was reading, was: Barf. You should think twice about every package of meat you pick up at the grocery store. Chapters 7, 8 and 9 have caused me to seriously consider becoming a vegetarian and relying as much as possible on my own garden!

Other sections on the horrifying work conditions and disregard for human dignity left me speechless. I'm still processing what I've read, and I still have a third to go. It is so thorough, so detailed, and so well-constructed that this tour of the fast food industry and how it's changed our entire world (I do not exaggerate, especially given that I am in a chapter describing the worldwide explosion of fast food) is a riveting report.

I don't quite know what to do with this knowledge. I know what personal choices I can make, and I know that I'll strongly urge my family to make the same choices. But this book has the kind of information that makes one--well, it makes me--have to consider if there is something else to do. Is there some action to take in a broader sense?

Here's an excerpt from a UK review:

This myth-shattering book tells the story of America and the world’s infatuation with fast food, from its origins in 1950s southern California to the global triumph of a handful of burger and fried chicken chains. In a meticulously researched and powerfully argued account, Eric Schlosser visits the labs where scientists re-create the smell and taste of everything - from cooked meat to fresh strawberries; talks to the workers at abattoirs with some of the worst safety records in the world; explains exactly where the meat comes from and just why the fries taste so good; and looks at the way the fast food industry is transforming not only our diet but our landscape, economy, workforce and culture.

Both funny and terrifying, Fast Food Nation will make you think, but more than that, it might make you realize you don’t want a quick bite after all.

March 24, 2004
I was so happy to learn how positive Lauren Winner felt about The Divine Hours, by Phyllis Tickle (a most unfortunate name--tee-hee), a book that takes the Book of Common Prayer and combines everything for a person to "pray the hours." I discovered it all on my own at my library. It comes in three volumes, divided by seasons. Each day includes morning, midday and evening prayers, and compline for the month. Midday combines the "little hours." Anyway, how delightful to meet someone who not only knew what in the world I was talking about, but had actually seen and used it and was giving it a rave review, especially for me as someone who isn't in a weekly liturgical worship setting. The structure has really been helpful. Other than Lauren, no one in my circle has ever heard of it (unless I tell them about it, as I am now). I take that back. One friend had heard of it, but she didn't really like it. Anyway, I've been too cheap to buy the volumes for myself, so I just check them out of the library and renew them twice, which totals 9 weeks of free usage. I had used up my nine weeks and had to return the winter/spring volume, but immediately missed it once I'd returned it. I was getting used to that rhythm of connecting with the Lord. So I went back today to pluck it off the shelf again, assuming I am the only one in the county using The Divine Hours.

Gasp!

It wasn't there.

The other two volumes sat side-by-side, but the current volume was clearly missing. I couldn't contain my surprise, "Well, I'll be!" I exclaimed louder than I should have in that section of the library. "I can't believe it!" Then, more quietly, I commented in a whisper to my two-year-old, "Can you believe that someone else is actually using The Divine Hours?" I'm telling you, he was aghast. Then, I looked up (there's probably some spiritual application to that phrase, but I mean it literally, not figuratively). Two shelves up, there sat The Divine Hours: Winter/Spring. Whew! NOT that I mean to keep anyone else from praying the hours, God forbid! But it was a relief. For a minute there, I thought I was going to have to pay good money for the thing!

March 21, 2004
As a belated birthday gift, my spouse sent me off to hear Lauren Winner speak. She was going to be at a conference about an hour away, and was speaking Thursday night and Friday morning, so I planned to spend the night. Out of the blue, while these plans were in the works, an old friend from college was writing to me and asked, "Have you ever heard of a writer named Lauren Winner? I just love her book, Girl Meets God." I just about fell out of my chair. No one in my circle of friends and acquaintances seems to have heard of Lauren Winner unless I've told them about her. "YES! And I'm going to hear her speak--want to come?" So we went to hear Lauren together.

We were so excited to be on this outing, we arrived quite early and tried out several different seats in the auditorium to imagine which might be the best. We were a little giddy, I'm afraid, and an older woman grinned at us as we popped up and tried seats across the room. Another older woman looked at us with disdain. We didn't know whether to feel ashamed, or to go on feeling giddy, free from motherhood responsibilities for 36 hours, enjoying the thoughts of a writer we admire.

It seems we opted for giddy.

As I said, Lauren spoke on Thursday night and was signing books afterwards. We stood in line and asked a really sweet, fresh-faced college girl to take our picture with Lauren, and as we made plans for the picture, my friend and I began feeling more and more like total geeks. Inching-toward-middle-age giddy, geeky moms on an outing without kids. Anyway, we stuck out our books and didn't say much. Just smiled. Lauren asked our names and we told her how to spell them (I'm an Ann with no "e" and of course that brings on the Anne of Green Gables comments). She signed, the fresh-faced girl took a snapshot while we stood on either side of Lauren feeling sheepish. The camera, one of those disposable deals, took no less than 20 full seconds to warm up before the flash would work, so we stood shoulder to shoulder with Lauren with big, stupid grins, wondering why on earth we decided to have a picture with her. This, I'm sure, is the same question all the other people still standing in line had on their minds, too.

We got our books and the disposable camera, then walked out to get in our car and kick ourselves for our geekiness. As we approached the car, we realized that we had planned to get some coffee, and the most happenin' place on campus seemed to be the coffee place in the same building we'd just come from, where we had our picture taken with Lauren. So we drove my suburban-mom-minivan around to that building again and went in. Lauren was finishing up with the last few people, and we walked past the table and stopped to consult with each other. "Should we ask her to coffee?"

"What would we talk about?"

"I don't know. I feel like I have a million things I want to ask her, but I can't think of one of them right now."

"You ask."

"No, you ask."

"I'm not going to ask. Coffee with Lauren was your idea."

"How would we phrase it?"

"Um...how about, 'We wondered if you would want to talk about some of the things you brought up in your talk'?"

"Oh, that's good."

"So, you'll ask?"

"NO! I thought you were going to, since you just came up with what to ask her."

"I'm not going to. I'm sure she thinks we're total geeks."

"Well, what do we have to lose? I'll ask."

So we walked back up and my friend asked, "We were wondering if you had plans or if you would want to go get coffee someplace?"

Lauren scooped up her bag and said, "Sure! Let's go!"

Okay! So, we took off with Lauren Winner sitting in the seat behind me in my minivan; my friend, nearly speechless, riding in the passenger's seat. Behind her was a new acquaintance of Lauren's, a 20-something young woman, a poet who admired Lauren and volunteered to take Lauren out to dinner the night before, I guess, or out to get a drink. Anyway, here we four gals were, driving to the downtown section of a small, midwestern town. We arrived at a bar and coffee shop, at least I guess that's what it was. That's how the poet described it. We parked outside and looked through the plate glass window at a punk band setting up their gear to play a set. The lead singer had a 1980s purple, spiked Mohawk that projected at least seven inches from his head in sections shaped like slender triangles. The drummer was playing standing up. As they warmed up, we all agreed it wouldn't be the most relaxing atmosphere in which to relax with a drink, so our poet-host directed us to a Christian bookstore with a coffee shop. We sat and talked about Lauren's next book, the poet's old boyfriend, and books. I mentioned that I'd written a book. I was trying to describe the difference between her book and mine. Her book is narrative memoir (I'm thinking of Girl Meets God rather than Mudhouse Sabbath). Mine is more of a how-to book with lists and Scripture verses, that kind of thing. Well, it didn't come out quite like that. Instead, I said, "Well, I think the difference between your book and mine, Lauren, is that mine is helpful."

They burst out laughing, and to tell the truth, I was fighting a sinus infection, so my brain felt kind of blurry. It took me a few beats to realize why all the laughter. Then I got it and hurriedly tried to clarify, but it didn't matter, they were totally ribbing me for it.

Finally Lauren was fading, so we decided the evening was coming to a close. I still had a thousand questions I wish I thought to ask. Usually I'm great at pursuing people, but I was pretty sluggish. We bought a book or two and drove her back to where she was staying. We dropped her off, dropped off the poet a block away, then headed to our overnight place. My friend and I stayed up way too late talking about church and books and Christianity and my next book idea. Eventually, perhaps around 2:00 a.m., we fell asleep in spite of a clanging heater that clattered on and off throughout the night.

Next morning, we showed up at the building that had the coffee shop and there was Lauren again. She was speaking with the conference organizers. When we came walking in, she said to them, "And there they are right now!" We strode up and she said she was telling them about last night. "Did you tell them I totally put my foot in my mouth?" I asked. She looked at me with quizzical brows. I refreshed her memory, "When I told them how my book was so different from yours?"

She laughed, "Oh, I had completely forgotten about that, but now I'll never forget!"

"Oh, great," I muttered.

"Do you want to tell them, or shall I?" she asked.

"Oh, by all means, you tell them. I would love to hear it from your perspective."

So she told them the story. And could I leave it at that? No, I leaped in at the end, after the punch line, "my book is helpful." In an effort to not seem so foolish, I said, "What I was trying to say was that my book is different in style because my book is full of ideas." Now everyone was laughing: my friend, Lauren, the conference organizers. My mouth dropped open, Lauren looked at me like I was a total idiot, which, of course, I had just proven to them all, and, too late, to myself. "Oh, brother," I said, "you can see why I'm a writer--it's because I'm so good with words!"

Oh well. We ate a donut and drank some juice and arrived way too early to chapel to hear Lauren. We got great seats, though. She read from Girl Meets God, the chapter on Lent. What a great writer. Wow. I read her stuff and think, "How does she do that?" I said that to her over coffee, and she just chuckled. I compared her to Anne Lamott and she seemed genuinely surprised. I know they both work at their writing, but there is a certain gift that can't be forced. They both have it. I think my brother does, too.

I have the gift of foot-in-mouth, evidently. I thought of that famous quote, I think attributed to Abraham Lincoln, "Better to keep silent and be thought a fool, than to speak and remove all doubt."

March 17, 2004
Top o' the mornin' to...you...well. I guess everyone is saying that to you this morning, eh?

Here's a short thing about St. Patrick, the historical stuff, not the legends. http://www.saint-patrick.com/history/. Legend has it he chased the snakes out of Ireland. Maybe in a way he did chase a few metaphorical snakes, in that he went to spread the Christian gospel to the Irish and minister to them. Maybe in so doing, some evil departed as the good news spread?

Here is a link sent to me by P.W. in California. It has nothing to do with St. Patrick's day, but it's cute. He wants me to be happy, and I want you to be happy, so here you go. A little grin for your day.

http://www.klub-odgik.org.pl/bajerne/be_happy.swf

March 14, 2004
I'm reading two very different books, both excellent for what they are. One is a book on organizing (Organizing Plain and Simple Amazon link), the other is a biography of Amy Carmichael, written by Elisabeth Elliot (Click here for Amazon link).

The book on organizing is packed with ideas, and every once in a while I come across one that I can immediately appropriate. For example, one thing that has frustrated me over the years that I never took the time to solve was the issue of little notes. Tidbits of information such as gardening ideas, website addresses, books to read, and movies to see would present themselves and I would scribble them someplace. Sometimes they would be in the margin of my journal, other times on a scrap of paper in my purse. Sometimes I'd grab a post-it note and scribble it there. Sometimes I would actually have a little notebook, but it wasn't specifically for that purpose, so it would get buried under a stack or snatched up by the kids and I wouldn't think of doing anything other than ripping out the tidbit of information and putting it on my desk. I lost many interesting tidbits this way. Occasionally I was overrun by them. At any rate, I had no simple solution.

Seeing as I have no PDA and don't intend on having one for quite some time (this was Phil's suggestion for how to deal with those bits of information), I needed something else. The author suggested buying a very small 3-ring binder, pocket-sized, even, and carrying it all the time. Put A-Z tabs on the pages with a few blank sheets after each letter. Then the tidbits can be written on those pages under the most immediate or obvious letter designation. Movies to see under M, of course, Books to read under B. If someone gives me an address at an inopportune moment when I don't have my  master address list with me--into the 3-ring binder it goes, instead of being lost at the bottom of my purse, or shoved into the pocket of my coat.

This small suggestion has already helped me, and I only bought the notebook two days ago. Several times I have had occasion to whip out the notebook and jot down the tidbit that I otherwise would have either forgotten or scribbled on something temporary that would get tossed in the trash by accident.

Isn't it wonderful to discover some small thing that brings greater peace to one's life? It's a bit silly, I suppose, to be gushing over so small a solution to a problem most people have probably resolved on their own. I seem so unable to figure these things out on my own. It's a strange and somewhat embarrassing thing, really, how hard it is for me to solve my own minute, everyday problems.

Commentary on the biography of Amy Carmichael is yet to come.

March 9, 2004
How can I keep up with the blog? I think I write a big long one and then can't imagine doing that every day, not reminding myself that they don't have to be that long. I guess I want to be sure they are somewhat interesting. I don't want to waste people's time. But, of course, what with Pizza Hut and all, I can't be pretending that I'm a really fascinating read or anything.

Something didn't go quite right at a restaurant the other day, and I remarked to my husband, "They just don't know...I write letters!"

I need to get better at the whole meal-planning thing. I'm getting closer. Probably the worst thing is having most of the people sitting at the table staring at the meal with a look of, well, maybe fear. Maybe disgust that they are trying to hide. Maybe they are swallowing back a gagging feeling. Anyway, it's hard to get excited about meal-planning when this is the reception the meals tend to get. Oh, and they are such horrifying menus, too, let me tell you. Mashed potatoes, oh, can you imagine? Mashed potatoes all fluffy and a little dollop of cream cheese mixed in. Does it give you the willies to imagine being served the tiniest speck of mashed potatoes and being expected to actually *eat* it? Well, my kids get the willies. The serving spoon hovers over their plates, and they wince, worried that the serving will be larger than the pea sitting next to it that we also expect them to eat. One or two, maybe. They do eat bread products, and I make fantastic biscuits. They love the biscuits. We can get an extra pea or two down them in exchange for another biscuit.

The two-year-old, on the other hand, this very evening was shouting for food, pointing, panicking that we wouldn't serve him fast enough or in huge enough quantities! So it's a relief that there is at least one person who laps up the meal with energy and gratitude.

This is my life.

March 4, 2004
My birthday was a few days ago, and we had a perfectly delightful brunch with some friends--two families. The kids all played together and the grownups talked and ate until we were bursting at the seams. Then we all rode bikes. The day was unseasonably beautiful, warm with a turquoise sky and golden sun beaming down birthday greetings to this woman who hates the cold. The men went racing off on touring bikes into the countryside west of our home. The women took all the kids down a trail made especially for walking, jogging, rollerblading and biking. We also had with us a Segway. It was certainly generating a lot of discussion. I was lagging behind with the slowest cyclist, one of my daughters, with my 2 year old in the Burley. I had the pleasure of hearing the delayed reaction and responses people had who witnessed the girl on the Segway. It was a perfect birthday party for me. Eating, talking, biking, fresh air and a blue sky with warm temperatures.

Today is gloomy and rainy, but the temperature isn't too bad. I just got done speaking at the school to the grammar school kids. I spoke about writing. I thought I would have an hour, but it started late and had to end early, so I found myself speeding up and zooming through some things I would have liked to lingered on. And I had an entire section prepared that I had to drop completely.

I hope it was inspiring. I was certainly animated. This works well with a young audience. They sat so still, I thought they might be falling asleep, but I think that some of them actually were listening and interested!

I'm exhausted, however, from gesturing wildly and trying to fit it all in, which I didn't even end up doing. To prepare, I had to think through the writing process. Because I do so much writing in an intuitive way at this point, I don't always think through the processes. I was happy to pass on some of the helpful ideas people have given me over the years. There's so much, though. Shoot, I could probably teach a six-week class on writing, with all there is to say. And if they did some writing exercises, too, then who knows how long it could go on?

February 26, 2004--Following "The Passion"
After the flurry of figuring out my daughter's last-minute homework assignment, Phil and I headed out the door to join the brick-church crowd for our complimentary viewing of "The Passion of the Christ."

We left a little late due to the homework panic, but we were still 15 minutes early.

Not early enough. The place was packed with only scattered seats here and there. We would have to sit in the second row with our necks tilted back against the headrest the entire movie, or be separated from each other. It was showing at the same time in another room across the hall, so I saved our craned-neck seats while Phil ran to the box office to see if there were any seats left for the other show. I saw him nod to me, so I vacated our seats and offered them to some other couple--perhaps legitimate seekers?--as we headed to the other theater to sit in full-price seats.

We slipped into the next theater and found some perfect seats with a straight-on view of the screen. A friend we hadn't seen in a few years was a few rows up. I thought that a team of people from church were supposed to attend this one, but evidently they didn't show up. The movie began with no previews of coming attractions (thank heavens!). A friend warned me this afternoon, "Take Kleenex!" so I had a pocketful of tissues, just in case.

And it began.

After living through so many other people's retellings, it was strange to feel like I've seen it without previewing even one scene. I have all kinds of artistic  thoughts about creative choices and writing finesse, but I'll save those for a later date.

Then there's the power of it for anyone who professes Jesus of Nazareth as the Christ and their Savior. I can see how pointless it must seem to an atheist, how scary it must be for a Jewish person, and how there must be as many different reactions and thoughts as there are people who see it. I can only speak for myself, but I was filled with gratitude, humility, awe over Christ's sacrifice and the power that I believe He set aside as He allowed Himself to submit to the Father's plan, horrifying as it was. And I thought about my Old Testament Survey teacher's point as we talked about the sacrificial system. He said, "We have got to understand atonement as the Jewish people understood it before we'll ever come close to understanding the atonement through Jesus. It doesn't make sense without it."

But here is the most astonishing thing that happened to us.

In the movie, Jesus is slowly lowered from the cross and into His mother's arms. Mary Magdalene is there at His feet, John is leaning in a little closer, near Jesus' knees. The final tableaux after all of the suffering is Mary looking straight out at the camera after softly touching Him, only lightly, barely even touching His beard. With her left hand, she cradles Him, an arm under His shoulders, as her right hand rests against His chest, palm up, with a slight sense of surrender to the gesture. The wind is whipping their clothes. The scene slowly fades to black with music swelling. It's hard to tell what is happening next. As the camera pans around the rough texture of a cave's interior, we see a slight curve of sunlight. The sound of rock against rock, as it is being...hm...is it being rolled shut just after He's placed in there? Or is it being shoved away and open on Sunday morning? It's too hard to tell. Too dark. We can't wait to see, though what I just described only took maybe 10 seconds in movie-time. Then--

The sound of a machine slowing, slowing, stopping. The screen goes to black. The lights in the auditorium come up. There's no resurrection. No credits. Just the winding down of a machine. We all sit. Surely there's more? We've all read enough and heard enough to know that there's at least a little bit of resurrection! I'd heard there was 27 seconds of a resurrection scene.

We sit for a full minute. Two. Nervous chatter is heard here and there. Three minutes. I lean over to Phil and whisper, "We should have stuck with the free tickets." Another minute passes. I lean over, "This is punishment for being so cheap." Some people are putting on their coats to leave. Just as they are trotting down the last few stairs, the machine winds up again and gives it a go. "Oh!" they say, turning around to go back to their seats. An older gentleman sits back down. The machine slows again and stops. I turn to Phil with big, round eyes and a mouth dropped open. "I can't believe this! This can't be possible!" He shakes his head, "I can't. I can't believe it." Another minute. "Phil!" I whisper, "this can't be happening. Not this movie at this very moment!" (Aren't you glad you don't go to movies with me?) Some people leave. The rest of us sit there for at least a full 7 to 10 minutes waiting for what I know is going to be less than 27 seconds of film. Finally the machine cranks up and shows no more than 10 seconds. He does get up, in case you were wondering. But I don't know precisely what happens from the time He is taken down from the cross and the time that He exits the tomb. Of course, no one really knows anyway.

But I would have liked to have seen what Mel thought happened. Or I would have liked to have seen the inside of the cave. Were the grave clothes crumpled and the head cloth folded to one side? I don't know. Was there an angel sitting there? I don't know. I DON'T KNOW because the MOVIE STOPPED! The movie of the passion of Jesus Christ stopped--and I mean came to a pathetic, slow-motion stop--just before Jesus rose from the dead: the exact opposite effect the movie intended.

Maybe we got a Saturday experience tossed in there or something, that long, mournful waiting time.

We left the theater and walked into the lobby. A manager was standing there with a big roll of tape or something in his hand. Emboldened from the Pizza Hut experience, but concerned that I speak in a reasonable, Christian tone of voice, I strode up to the man and asked, "Are you the manager?" "Yes, I am." I asked, with a voice still full of disbelief, "Did you hear what happened in there?"

"Yes, I did."

"I mean...that was...can you believe that? I can't believe that!"

"I know. I heard."

"Don't you think...don't you think you should, I don't know, maybe try to compensate in some way?"

He quickly tore off two red tickets from his big, fat roll. "Here. You can use these tickets any time for any movie."

"Okay. Thanks. Maybe we'll come back and see the movie in one continuous flow."

He nodded.

After we left the building, I turned to Phil, "Hey, don't you think he should have been in that room handing those free tickets out with a big apology? I mean, it ruined our experience!"

I guess it didn't totally ruin it. But my experience certainly didn't leave me sitting dumbfounded over the picture as a whole. I was fully engaged and captivated up to the "Pieta" tableaux, then dumbfounded that the movie stopped before we saw the Resurrection. Then we sat for whatever--it felt like 15 minutes, but I think it was only 10--and then saw it. I mean, wow. Kind of steals the power of the end a little to spend 10 minutes watching people be confused, whispering, looking back to the projector booth.

There's one other thing that sticks out in my mind from this overall experience. There was a guy who came in with an enormous tub of popcorn, bigger than any other tub of popcorn I've ever seen in my life. And a Coke, too. I just couldn't believe that. Someone was going to sit through the flogging, kicking, beating, crown of thorns, the nails, the pierced side...they were going to watch all that while munching on popcorn?

It was a strange evening.

February 26, 2004
I made punch a week or so ago, and as I was rinsing the punch bowl, the bottom popped completely off! It was a fairly clean break, for glass, and there is sat at the bottom of the sink while I held the rounded part. So strange! I dropped it in recycling and kept the cups because I do have another punch bowl. Then two days ago I was driving down a road I don't travel on much, glanced to the left and realized that the peculiar tan house built into the side of a hill, with two sets of stairs going down to the left and right, was the same house where I'd bought that now-broken punch bowl at a garage sale. I bought it there ten or 11 years ago. One of those interesting brain-connections, I guess.

February 21, 2004
Are you going to see "The Passion of the Christ"? People are asking me this question.

Yes, I'm going. In fact, I got a card in the mail that read, "Free tickets to see 'The Passion.' I thought, "Cool, free tickets!" It said there was no catch, that they are just passionate that people see the film. It was hosted by a nearby church. So I slipped into the office and sure enough, they handed me some tickets. Well, it turns out there IS a catch. I had to fill out my name and address so they can contact me. I wasn't thinking quickly enough, or I would have concocted a false name and phone number. Instead, I wrote out my own. Rats. And then she said it's an outreach thing. "Oh?" I said. "Yes, an evangelistic event." Hm, I thought. What if I really was someone who didn't believe in Jesus that they were hoping to reach out to. Would I want to hear that it was an "evangelistic" event? Someone better give that gal some suggestions. I felt like a target. And they shouldn't say there's no catch on the card.

I should just give the tickets back. I told her I'd donate some money to the church as a thank you for the tickets. It's guilt money, I guess. I feel like I'm taking a seat from some person they are actually hoping to "evangelize."

I thought of inviting someone else to go with me, pick up some more tickets for them, but write down a bogus name and number on their card. Then they can see the film for free and I'll field the phone calls. They can relax. There'd be no catch for my guests. Just a free movie and a chance to talk about it with a friend.

Anyway, guest or no guest, I'm going. Courtesy of the big brick church down the road.

February 15, 2004
Happy Valentine's Day! We had our yearly Valentine's Day Family Love Fest, as inspired by my friend Sharon, and it was a big hit. We all made homemade Valentine's cards, ate reddish food (pizza, strawberry jigglers, cranberry sauce, punch that no one really liked that much, and strawberries). We had candles, I bought flowers, we spread out a white tablecloth. It was really nice. I was telling a friend about it and said, "Our theory is that if every year we do this up right, do it up BIG, that one year when our kids are starting to have love interests, and maybe one has a date and another doesn't, maybe this will be a somewhat satisfactory consolation prize. Maybe by then we'll have a pool table and other really neat things to make it special to be together." He snorted, "Ya, right. Sister gets a date, and I'm stuck at home with my parents! Nice try, Ann!" And I thought back to my high school years, and I had to agree. He's probably right. It'll still probably stink to stay home when a sibling is out at a party or something. Ugh. I am *not* looking forward to those days one bit. Another friend, Tim, suggested Phil begin collecting firearms in anticipation of our eldest maturing to the age when she can date. I enacted us meeting the prospective suitor at the door. "Hello, I'm Isabelle's mother, and this is her father. Why don't you come in and sit with us a moment. I have a five-page questionnaire to go over with you, and he has a gun. Isabelle is upstairs getting ready and if all goes well, she'll be down shortly." The only way to bypass the questionnaire would be to willingly and happily attend the Kroeker Family Love Fest, nibble the Jell-O jigglers without complaint and play a game of pool with Isabelle's father. I think that's a pretty good compromise. We're fun people to be around, in fact, we're going to be really cool parents. I'm just sure of it.

February 5, 2004
The Pizza Hut chapter of my life is closed. They have compensated me for my trouble and dealt with their technical glitches. And I received a personal note from Pizza Hut CEO, Peter Hearl. The first letter I received following my three-page story was from his assistant. I wrote a follow-up to emphasize that the regional manager did a good job and I felt that she shouldn't be held responsible. I felt that the problems began with the national call center. The regional manager was the only decent human being who was trying to make things right. So then I received a short note following my regional-manager-follow-up, and it really does look like Mr. Hearl signed it with his own pen. You know how you can tell if it's computerized? Maybe I'm naive about the realism of technology, but this one sure does look like the real thing. Wouldn't that be something? Little mother in the Midwest gets the attention of a CEO? It's like gaining an audience with a king or something, or the capitalist equivalent.

February 4, 2004
Now that it's over, I can say that I was involved in a surprise party for one of my dearest friends, and it was a total success! She was surprised, blessed, toasted, and celebrated for the treasure she is.

This afternoon I drove Downtown where I met with my book editor, who was in town for a convention. We met at a coffee shop, and as I sipped chai, I felt myself become increasingly animated with the jolt of caffeine. I was chattier and more giggly than I intended, gesturing wildly, hands flinging, punctuating sentences with raised eyebrows or goofy half-grins for effect.

We talked about potential projects and she described some of the projects she's enjoyed working on. She said one of her favorites was a book coming out by Charlie Peacock. Then, about half an hour later, here came Charlie Peacock walking past us. "Hi, Charlie!" she said as he approached. I uttered a reflexive, "Oh!" Then she introduced us! So I can say I've met Charlie Peacock. We shook hands. At another point in our conversation, a woman passed us, and I said, "She looks familiar to me. Should I know that woman?" And she said, "That's Liz. Liz Curtis Higgs." I leaned in and in a shocked whisper, "Liz Curtis Higgs! I can't believe it! Can I meet her?" "Sure!" So she took me over, introduced me, and I said that she and I had an unusual connection in that my mother had met her in Scotland when my mom was over there doing some family genealogy research. Liz was researching the setting for a novel she wrote. My mom, her brother, and Liz all had breakfast in the inn of this tiny Scottish village, chatting about their respective reasons for being there. Then my mom and uncle asked her if she knew of any good sights to see, and she told them to visit the ruins of an abbey, which they did later that same day. They ended up being there when Liz herself came, and Liz told me she was delighted that they actually took her advice!

I felt so rejuvenated from this time with my editor, talking about books to read, books to write, authors we love, and then the bonus fun was saying hello to two creative people--authors--I truly respect. Days like this are so rare. Ninety-eight percent of my life is spent in the trenches of motherhood, scrubbing the bathtub, changing sheets, folding a load of whites. It's fun to have two percent that is so different. But the caffeine is wearing off now. And I got a parking ticket because the meter ran out.

And I have to get off the computer and...well, to tell the truth, I have to go fold a load of whites.

January 30, 2004
By now everyone has heard the buzz about the Mel Gibson movie coming out, "The Passion of the Christ." I've been quite intrigued by Mel's faith and his own passion to see this project become reality. I was taken by surprise to get a phone call just after Christmas from my friend Garry Poole contacting me to help with some ideas for a book project he was working on with Lee Strobel. They have put together a discussion guide for friends to use after seeing the movie. Typically, people who have previewed the film sit in silent awe, or maybe even a type of spiritual shock, trying to take it all in, all the torture and brutality, the suffering Jesus went through. The film doesn't give any context leading up to it, nor does it give any answers. It just artistically presents the horrific torture Jesus endured. Viewers aren't given a neat and tidy ending (though the resurrection is depicted). People from any walk of life, even lifelong Evangelicals who know their Bible inside and out, will be left with many questions or at least powerful images of what Jesus went through on earth.

Garry and Lee want to provide a resource that can be used after the film, after the awe, the shock...something that capitalizes on the questions. With this discussion guide, friends can gather together to grapple with some of the tough questions that will naturally arise upon viewing the scenes of the flogging, scourging and crucifixion of Jesus Christ. As the group members use these books, someone would facilitate the discussions--discussions that will likely be animated and energetic with those visuals from the film emblazoned on their minds.

I was honored to be able to participate in this project, even in a small way, and I hope that these guides are used to help people process the passion of the Christ.

The guides are being printed even as I type and should be released very soon (in time for the film's release, even though the website is saying March). Let me paste in an explanation of the product. This information can be found at the Zondervan link below, which also includes a photo of the cover art.

You’ve seen the inspiring movie about the passion of Jesus

Now find answers to your most pressing questions about the event that changed everything.

More than ever, Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection are stirring tough issues and challenging questions. Here’s a provocative guide designed to help you explore:

• Who Really Killed Jesus?

• What Crime Did Jesus Commit?

• Did It Really Happen Like That?

• Why Did Jesus Suffer and Die?

• What Did the Resurrection Accomplish?

• How Is This Story Relevant to Me?

Whether you’re somewhat skeptical, already convinced, or somewhere in between, this book will engage you and your friends in dynamic, life-changing discussions.

Investigate the implications of the most important episode in history—and experience how the passion of Jesus can transform your life and your future.

Zondervan 1-800-727-3480 or www.zondervan.com/Books/Detail.asp?ISBN=0310259320

January 21, 2004
I don't have a good way for people to respond to the blogs like the official online blogspots programs have, but I'm happy to just paste them in for your reading pleasure!

January 19, 2004
Thursday I had bagels with a good friend. I updated her on the latest Pizza Hut interaction and got to laughing so hard I nearly spit out my tea at one point and had to excuse myself to find something to wipe my eyes. She had been following this thing since the beginning and suggested, "Maybe it's the macaroni? You always followed up the non-existent pizza with a quick dinner of macaroni. Make the macaroni first, and maybe you'll actually get the pizza!" I realized I was planning to take the pizza to my children's school to eat for lunch, and if I didn't get the pizza again, I needed to have a backup plan anyway. So I grabbed the Tupperware container of leftover macaroni and threw it in the car. My friend's theory proved correct. We got the pizza. I ran in to the carryout store and there was the regional manager, a little sore from her accident, but happy to hand me an actual pizza. She introduced me to the store manager and urged me to take any of my future problems to her, rather than the CEO of Pizza Hut. She was joking, well, kind of. She said that the very next day she was meeting with two other people, other managers, with the top gun lady who represents Mr. Hearl to talk about "the letter." Yikes! This regional manager said, "I told [the other manager] 'If you ask me, this meeting is going to be about that ineffective national call center!'" And I agreed. "You should! That was the start of all this. If I had phoned this store directly, you would have told me, 'Oh, we don't deliver north of 146th Street' and I would have said, 'Oh, okay.' And I would have driven down and picked it up and that would have been the end of the story. I think the national call center is precisely the problem, because they also didn't seem to give a hoot what my problem was when I followed up." So I hope they resolve it in their ineffective system.

My brother is in advertising and has said that just one letter can change everything. They have a joke in advertising. When they work with a client and put together a campaign, they'll have a meeting later to talk about how it's going and the client will start expressing concern about all the negative impressions they're getting from the public because...the letter started coming in. Not letters, just letter. One lone letter can scare a company owner and change the course of an ad campaign. It's frustrating to the ad people, but empowering to the letter writers!

On a completely different note, I got a great response from someone who read my decluttering blog entry and gave me the link to www.bookcrossing.com. I had heard about it for the first time only a few days prior to the note because FlyLady had mentioned it. It's a fascinating idea. You go to the website, take an assigned number for the book you're letting go of, then give it to a friend, leave it in an airport lobby or in the waiting area of Great Clips. Then as this books changes hands and if people take the time to do so, they can make journal entries at the website about how the book affected them. You get to sort of "follow" your book. I like that idea a lot. I've not done it yet, however, so I don't know precisely how it works.

If anyone would like to respond to an e-mail, you know you can write an e-mail to me. I don't have the respond function that most bloggers have. I was thinking I might even post responses so you can all read the responses. Isn't that part of most people's blogging experience?

January 14, 2004
I fully intended to move on from Pizza Hut, but tonight's installment of the ongoing saga was so amazing, I had to include it.

Remember the regional manager? The one I thought was going to save the day? She checked in with me today. It appears that my lengthy missive sent to the CEO of Pizza Hut, Mr. Peter Hearl, came to the attention of one of his, oh, I don't know, top guns, let's say. The top gun gal contacted the regional manager and told her to phone me. I suspect the regional gal got bawled out, but that's just a suspicion. She didn't let on.

Well, she phoned and told me that I'd been heard from the top. I told her I merely wanted to talk with a manager when I spoke with the national customer satisfaction employee. That person didn't give me a next-level contact. She gave me Mr. Hearl's address, so that's who I wrote to. Anyway, the regional manager said she felt worse than before and asked what my dinner plans were. Well, I had to take my kids someplace, so I was planning an early meal before I headed out the door at 6:00 p.m. Macaroni and cheese was my dinner plan, to be precise.

"Well, if it's okay with you, I would like to personally deliver a pizza to you, Mrs. Kroeker. My treat. It's a small token of how terrible I feel that you've just been through so much with this." (I guess I laid it on pretty thick in my letter to Mr. Hearl.) I started to feel guilty. I agreed to the pizzas, ordered two cheese and two pepperoni...little pan pizzas. She said it was a new product they are introducing where you can have four six-inch personal pizzas in one box. We were to be the first people in the area to have them!

I set the macaroni box back on the shelf and cleaned instead of cooked. The clock was ticking. I helped a daughter study her vocabulary words. I changed a diaper. I checked e-mail. One of the girls said, "Where's that pizza? We have to go soon!" I checked my watch, and it was true. We had to leave in about 20 minutes. I quickly threw the macaroni in water and got that going. Still no pizza.

"Kids, quick! To the table!" As they downed the macaroni, there was a knock at the door. I glanced out the little windows next to the door and saw a car by the curb. I opened the door expecting to meet Ann, and two little boys were standing in front of me with a clipboard.

One little boy said, "Hello. We're with the Indians Team and we're selling homemade pizzas that will be delivered to your door in time for Superbowl Sunday. Would you like to order one or two?" I started laughing! I couldn't help it, I started laughing because the pizza I ordered hadn't arrived for a second time, and here stood a boy asking if I wanted to buy, of all things, PIZZA!! I got to laughing so hard I was crying! I finally blurted, "I'm sorry. I've already ordered some!" I wiped the laughter-tears from my face as they walked away wondering who that crazy-crying-anti-pizza lady was.

I scribbled a note to the regional manager and stuck it on the door, in case she had the time wrong and showed up after we left. I took full responsibility for communicating it wrong. What else could have happened?

We got back and I checked my phone messages. There was one from the regional manager.

She'd been in an accident on her way to bring my my pizza!!

A minor one. She says she's fine, but the company car is going into the shop. Now I felt terrible! She had an accident on her way to deliver my pizzas!

I relayed the explanation to Philippe. His eyes got wide and he suggested in a low and solemn tone, "I'm not one to over-spiritualize things, but do you suppose we're getting to some supernatural level with this thing? Do you suppose there is some divine intervention and we simply aren't supposed to get those pizzas?"

I don't know. All I know is we definitely don't have any pizzas.

I phoned the regional manager and made some last-ditch plans. She's going to be at a local store for the lunch hour tomorrow and offered to have some pizzas ready for me. I added one for myself, too, and tomorrow I plan to swing by and pick up these pizzas myself, in my own car, with my own two hands. I'll then carry them to school for my kids' lunch.

Please pray for me.

January 12, 2004
It finally came. The Pizza Hut check. Yep, they finally reimbursed my credit card for the pizza we never received. What prompt customer service--why, it only took just under a month!

Moving on to other more fascinating topics, such as de-cluttering. I read a book about organizing and the gal who wrote it described her bedroom when she was a teenager. It sounded like mine. She couldn't even see the floor, it was so carpeted with stuff. And when her parents asked her to clean it up, she did the exact thing I did when mine asked me to do the same: instead of tidying, which is what our parents really wanted us to do, she went to her closet and started trying to organize everything. This required her to drag out the contents of the closet in order to evaluate and clear the shelves so that she could put things away with some degree of order. But the clock was ticking, she was sidetracked by reminiscing about items she'd forgotten or thought she'd lost, and by the end of the day, the room was worse than it was when she began. That's exactly what I did.

She says the problem is that she never developed a plan, she never had a strategy. That's what I was always lacking. That's, um, what I'm still lacking, I think. With this author's help, however, I think I may be coming up with one. I'm evaluating what is working--systems, storage, etc--and then figuring out what isn't working. I'm prioritizing those things that aren't working and diving into those first. I'm easily sidetracked, however. I need to learn how to be more productive and focused. I need to get that plan and stick with it.

I'm happy to report, however, that I have not dragged the contents of my closet onto the bedroom floor. In fact, some days I am taking it no more than one shelf, one drawer at a time. What is most astonishing is what a family of six can accumulate in a few short years. The clothes and toys alone are mind-boggling. Then there are all those other items. What can I call them, other than "stuff"? Oh, and my book obsession doesn't help matters.

To set the pace, I'll have you know that I truly am weeding out some books. I donated some, but I'll post titles from time to time. Maybe someone will want to pay for shipping to get a free book!

January 6, 2004
You aren't going to believe this. If you've read last month's blogs, you know that I've had this thing whole Pizza Hut saga. I thought it was over. By now I thought I'd get my money back and be munching on free pizzas, wiping pizza sauce off of Daniel's chin at the local Pizza Hut restaurant (since I now know they can't deliver two extra blocks north).

Sadly, the saga continues. It is still unresolved!

I waited to receive the check and two free pizza coupons that the national customer service representative promised me. The check was the reimburse me for the charge that was made for the pizzas I never received in the first place. The two coupons were in response to my suggestion that, you know, maybe Pizza Hut might want to do some small thing to smooth over this communication nightmare!

Well, it's nearly a month later and I've received a whole lot of nothing! Even the impressive regional manager person hasn't followed through.

So I phoned again tonight and had to revisit the saga (no kidding, I had to tell the story all over again). The regional gal told me that the national people were supposed to take care of it, and that if I didn't get anything she'd take care of me. The national people told me, yep, you guessed it, that the regional gal should have taken care of it. No one really wants to take responsibility. They're all just cogs in an enormous corporate wheel.

Well, the person at customer "satisfaction" today told me she wanted to resolve this (um, yes, I think that would be nice!). She said it was company policy that I could receive either the refund check or the free pizza coupon. I reviewed this with her, just to be sure I heard her right. "You mean you're telling me that I can either receive the money that's rightfully mine in the first place or receive a free pizza?" "Yes. That's the policy. We can't give out both." I asked if there was a manager I could speak with who might be able to just waive the company policy for me, since it was now close to a month that I've been waiting to receive a refund check AND, silly me, two free pizza coupons? She put me on hold while I listened to some middle-eastern style Muzak, then she came back on. "I'm sorry. I can either give you the refund or the pizza coupon." Ohmygoodness. I just can't believe it. A multi-billion dollar corporation can't say, "I'm sorry, ma'am. How about a pizza on us, for all your trouble"?

I asked who I might write to, to express my astonishment at this policy, and she gave me the name of the CEO and the address. Poor Mr. Peter Hearl. He's going to suffer through the whole three-page saga in two to three business days.

You know what's really a bummer? Pizza Hut pizzas are my kids' favorite! The family boycott isn't going to be an easy one. We've tried two other companies so far, but neither has been as yummy.

January 4, 2004
Happy New Year! We've enjoyed Christmas parties, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day with all its people and food and gifts and fun, hosted guests for about a week, attended a big wedding, reclaimed the house (for the most part), taken down the tree, vacuumed the needles, put away the Nativity scenes and Advent wreath, exchanged a duplicate gift I got for my mom and hit a sale or two. Now we're settling down for a long winter's nap. No, actually we're starting up the regular routine again. So I'm back here again, on the blog.

Every year around January 1 (give or take a week), I get that resolution-hankering. I reflect, evaluate, worry that I'm frittering my life away. I haven't actually made a list of goals, but I'm thinking about them. There are the expected categories--continuing to get organized, lose weight, exercise and eat healthy, further develop my writing, finish painting the downstairs sometime in this year--but then there are the other things, the things that matter more, the things that are harder to write down on a list. I want to build a closer relationship with my children, one in particular who is sometimes more distant. I long to have an ongoing, continuous intimate, contemplative life of rich relationship with the living God, completely submitted to Him daily. I'd like to see my marriage strengthen even more in the next year. I can write down ideas and goals for attaining these more relational things, but I hate to trivialize it, or make it seem like rich relationships are attainable within a year by breaking them down into ten easy steps. At the same time, I realize that practical ideas can create an environment where the possibility for these things is greater.

I've never been good at developing a master plan for my life. There was a trend for a while in the '80s, where a lot of my friends were using various programs to write out goals for their life, for the next decade, for the next year, month, day, hour, minute...I don't know. I couldn't relate. I know a lot of successful people still do that. I just can't figure it out. Or maybe I can, but I just don't want to live like that. But when someone reminds me of that old saying, "If you aim at nothing, you're sure to hit it," I start thinking about those Master Plan planners my friends used to have. I start wondering if I should be more systematic and intentional. I feel a twinge of guilt, like I squandered the '80s and '90s for not joining them in the quest to break down one's life into attainable goals.

My sister-in-law brought up a haunting question. She said she found herself at a certain age this year and realized, "Wow, there are things I may never do again..." She listed some of them. I finally blurted out, "Well, at least you can say there are some things you may never do again!" My list is very long, and it is of things I may never do at all, EVER!"

I think one can easily get stuck in a rut, as my neighbor said (with a sigh), when I posed the same question to her. And it's hard to think creatively about one's own life sometimes, looking for ways to break out of the rut and achieve some of those simple dreams. Being the parents of four kids, one of whom is still quite young, feels limiting. We don't have people who can baby-sit for any substantial length of time, so some dreams are unattainable at this stage of life.

The biggest goal it seems that I need is the freedom to think creatively about my own life, admit my dreams, pick one and make it happen.

I've always wanted to go on a big bike trip. Anyone want to baby-sit for a week while I pedal down a coast?

December 21, 2003
Pizza Hut District Manager Demonstrates Outstanding Customer Service

This is the headline in the latest detail of my Pizza Hut saga. I received a phone call from a regional manager who sounded like a real person who truly felt bad that things turned out badly that one night, and also that the national representatives of customer service were so bad. She apologized that it happened, took responsibility even though it wasn't her fault, and is going to make it right. If we don't receive our free pizza certificates in the mail, she's going to personally see that I get that and more. She said she'd call tomorrow or Tuesday to follow up, if that was okay with me, given that it's the holidays and all. I love this woman! I told her I had really relaxed about everything and was sorry if I came off as a kooky customer, and she said not at all, that she truly felt terrible and my story just proved what she tells her employees, that you never can tell how a simple pizza can be a gift to someone. And you never know how you can affect their day.

Amen!

I didn't say that to her, but it's true. What was supposed to lift the burden of mealtime preparation when my husband was sick and my kids were in jammies, became instead an even greater burden. She's right. You never know how a simple pizza can affect a person's life. I guess that's what you can say about anything, big or small. Reminds me of a short story, I think by Raymond Carver, called "A Small, Good Thing." It's about a birthday cake that was never picked up, and warm rolls, a small, good thing. It's about compassion and grief and the impact one person has on another.

A pizza can be a small, good thing. As can a pleasant, humble return phone call, and an earnest "I'm sorry." And a Christmas card. A jar of jam. A balloon. Maybe even...some way, somehow...a blog?

December 18, 2003
Well, I really put the heat on Pizza Hut. They had one wigged out suburban housewife leaving messages, so they knew they'd better phone fast! Ha. Seriously, I had to phone them twice, and when I finally actually spoke with a person, she half-heartedly apologized. They're sending me a credit for my charge and then I told them of my sorry evening of kids hanging by the door watching for the pizza delivery, the husband who was sick upstairs, and the harried housewife who wanted, just once, not to cook dinner...and how it was due to their poor process that my evening was totally stressful and so on, sob story, poor me. She wasn't stirred at all, but she did say she'd send out coupons for two free pizzas.

So, it wasn't L.L. Bean, where I feel like a queen. And I had to dog them at customer satisfaction (I wasn't satisfied, but they didn't seem to care). I know that this is totally an American thing to be upset over being charged for pizzas I never got, and then upset because I can't get anyone to talk with me about it. But, well, I am in America, and usually in our country, companies do want to keep their clientele happy. I guess I was surprised. I expected them to want to make things right. Maybe that's why I made a bigger stink out of it than I normally would. It's really not a big deal, and I know that.

So I guess everything's okay. I'll get the money back from the nonexistent pizzas, and then I'll get two more for free sometime.

This time, however, we'll do carryout.

December 17, 2003
Pizza Hut representatives still haven't contacted me. I think L.L. Bean and Trader Joe's have spoiled me, making me think that the service industry is interested in making sure I, as a paying customer, am taken care of. Silly me!

Other than making sure I don't get charged for the non-existent pizza, I'm getting over it. I'm resigning myself to the reality of big-business apathy.

And I'm making a list of local pizzerias.

December 15, 2003
I'm trying not to fall into that oh-no-only-ten-days-till-Christmas panic! But there are only ten days until Christmas and I have a child's birthday to slip in before then!

The big story of my day was my Pizza Hut saga. I phoned the number in the phone book for deliveries. I asked when I got the gal on the phone, "Is this the best way to order, or should I phone the restaurant directly?" She assured me this would be perfectly fine, so I placed our order by credit card and waited. She said it would be 30 to 45 minutes. We waited. And waited. And waited. The kids were very excited--I know this may be hard to believe, but it's been at least a year since we last ordered pizza to be delivered to our house, so this was to be a big event. They were hanging out by the door, watching, waiting, jumping excitedly when a car turned down our cul-de-sac. It was the neighbor.

An hour passed, so I decided to follow up by phone. I was pleasant, just wondering where my pizza was. They switched me to someone in customer service who said she was clueless as to why they would have sent me to her because she has no idea where my pizza is. I started to get a little more frustrated when they switched me to the network systems department or something. "I don't know why they sent you to me," some gal said. "This is the computer center. I have no idea where your pizza is, and I have no way of finding out." I was getting frustrated and the children were hungry. I made spaghetti and as I did, I was put on hold at the delivery store for 20 minutes. I called the original people again and so on.

Two hours later, I finally got the scoop. The local Pizza Hut doesn't deliver this far north (we are one measly block north of their delivery zone). I guess no Pizza Huts deliver to our house. We didn't know that. And they didn't tell us that. We waited two hours before we learned this information. This is not good. This is the kind of thing that makes me want to hold a grudge. The kids were very patient, I must say, and even though they were disappointed, they didn't complain. They voiced their disappointment, then ate the spaghetti, brushed their teeth and went to bed.

I got online, pressed the "contact us" link on the Pizza Hut website, and filled out the form. I told them the story. I sounded upset because...I was. Based on the unapologetic, apathetic people I spoke with on the phone (except one really sweet girl who overheard me say, "I'm sorry, girls, but I don't think we're eating pizza tonight after all." "Oh, no!" the gal on the phone said, "Oh, I feel bad. Let me try to get you someone who can help!" But the person she sent me to was absolutely no help), I will be very curious to find out how they plan to make this dissatisfied customer happy again. In the meantime, I'm going to support local pizza places exclusively until we find a cheese pizza we like as much as Pizza Hut's. I'll find this place, dial them direct, and tip the the delivery guy well. I never have liked conglomerates and national chains. What do they care if one mom in the Midwest was left without dinner?

December 14, 2003
The two-year-old has taken to singing solos with various "microphones." He found some crochet hooks, snatched one up and started making rhythmic sounds, swaying back and forth, throwing in "Ding-dang-dong" every once in a while. We have a box of shapes that fit together, and one is a ball that he fits onto a tiny barbell shaped piece. When they fit together like that, voila: He makes another mic; we get another serenade. Interestingly, we watch very little television or even videos. I can't figure out where he's picked up all these smooth moves. He spins, sways, bobs his head, jumps, wiggles his bottom. He keeps it at the level of a soft-rock solo star, maybe James Taylor or Sting, for the moment. If I am having a phone conversation or trying to speak to another family member, however, the volume rises, he punches some notes, starts to sway less and jump more, sort of, um, oh no. I can't think of any contemporary rock stars! I was thinking Van Halen, but that dates me. Oh well. The point is that when the kid's got the spotlight, he wants to keep it!

December 13, 2003
One of our kids is sick. We're spraying down doorknobs, washing hand towels, scrubbing the toilets and changing the sheets. We all got the flu shot back in late October, before the long lines of panic were forming, so I'm hoping it will be abbreviated for us.

December 11, 2003
Merry Christmas from us!

(art by Nathalie, age 5)

December 10, 2003
I'm trying to send some art, and it's not working. I have nothing else interesting to say about my life right now, so that's why it's kind of quiet.

December 5, 2003
I finally have gotten around to updating my reading list. I'm still not done; there are more to add. But I've been resisting finishing up the last few details of this website because my designer turned it over to me and I was too nervous to learn the technology. With Amazon.com's help, it turned out to be "hyperlinks for dummies." I was able to plop the stuff right in.

Those books are from the "Recommended Reading" section in the appendix of my book. I think I'll be able to finish it up this weekend. When I went to check on how they turned out, I saw that it took a long time to load some of my pages. I feel like I should apologize to the world wide web or something!

For family and friends, here is a photo of all of us from last summer's family camp. 

[photo removed for security reasons]

December 3, 2003
My friend told me a teensy bit about Mel. He said Mel was really cool. Of course he was! And I bought chicken from the supermarket and made a really great pot of rice.

December 2, 2003
I'm feeling kind of Hollywood today. Here's why: one of my good friends flew to L.A. and this very day got to preview "The Passion," Mel Gibson's new movie. I think he got to hang with Mel afterwards. Well, it may have been more formal than that. Or, maybe with Mel, even if you're doing an interview, you just hang. I don't know. Anyway, I am confessing envy, as I shuffle around doing mom-stuff, sighing. Someone I know well is in Hollywood with Mel Gibson, while I heated up a frozen pizza for four children, none of whom liked because it had olives on it. This feeling came upon me a few years ago, as well, when a former boyfriend was on national television twice, once as a potential contestant on "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire" (he never got past fast-fingers to be in the hot seat). This same ex-boyfriend was also on a Peter Jennings special about mega-churches. I was folding white T-shirts and underwear while sitting on the matted old carpet of my family room while watching my ex-boyfriend, again, feeling rather Midwestern and matronly.

Then, to top off this Hollywood thing, on Sunday someone arranged to have a screenwriter visit our church. His dad is on staff at our church, and the guy, Jeff Jurgenson, was in town for Thanksgiving. He was the creator of "Agent Cody Banks," and he was telling his story of how he saw his vision for this film become reality. It was fascinating to sit with this guy and hear his ideas, energy, creativity and persistence. During rewrites, he worked with Jason Alexander, from "Friends," and I guess he met all the stars, even though they are too young for me to be overly impressed. He is also an outstanding photographer, and he just got a job with Scholastic Magazine to interview and photograph Nelson Mandela! So there he sat in Room 111 of our church while we peppered him with questions, and the next day or so he was flying off to South Africa before returning to his beach house in California where he was finishing up a third script and working on the filming of his second. He's going to star in one of his own films, too.

And I?

I shall continue to fold underwear, heat up frozen pizzas (though I'll probably go back to cheese only, to improve my popularity), mop spilled juice and hope that someday we'll be able to get the kitchen painted.

November 28, 2003
Hey, where have you been?

Is that what you're thinking? Well, I was working with a friend on a big project that's completed, so now I'm back to normal life. Thanksgiving with my parents was very yummy, very starchy, with very few raw vegetables represented. No, I take that back. We did have some at the beginning to munch on while all the high-starch/high-carb dishes were baking.

Several of you have mentioned to me the story of Daniel and the trail mix. My mom, who loves to delight her grandkids, wow'd us all by delivering an enormous biscotti container filled pretty much to the top with trail mix--heavy on the M&Ms, I might add! Daniel's eyes were wide as he unscrewed the lid and began cupping handfuls of the mix into his mouth. He sank down into her lap with the big tub of trail mix in front of him, scooping it out without having to dig at all for M&Ms, which are pretty few and far between in our own modest-sized trail mix canister. We gave him a bowl of his own as we took the tub and set it aside. We had to take it away from him--he was working his way through it like popcorn. I thought we had the tub someplace way out of reach, but he managed to locate it, haul it down without our noticing, I guess, and several minutes later someone found him in the corner of the family room with the lid off the tub, munching away. Shrieking ensued when we confiscated it the second time.

Someday I hope to own a digital camera and can download pictures onto this blog. Until then, any photos worth posting will always be about a month old.

November 19, 2003
Yes, well, I thought a picture might be fun to add, but obviously I've got to work out some bugs. Something didn't go right yesterday. I think I've got it now.

[Photo removed for security reasons]

November 18, 2003
I thought a picture might be fun to add. I've never done this before, but my father-in-law got a picture CD with our last film processing order. A friend took this one and sent it digitally.

November 16, 2003
Just got through a week of hostessing, even changed the sheets in the afternoon when one person left to get ready for someone else due to arrive that same night. I don't think I would cut it as a bed-and-breakfast owner.

I wrote a piece several months ago lamenting how my mind seemed to have dissolved to the consistency of runny Jell-o during and after my last pregnancy. I think it came back, for the most part, though ask my friends and they'll laugh at how many issues are lingering.

Anyway, I read this article. I'm not sure if it could possibly be true, based on my experience. If it's true for rat-moms, is it really true for us?

http://aolsvc.health.webmd.aol.com/content/article/77/90343.htm

November 11, 2003
We're on a trail mix kick these days. I'm a particular fan of it, so when I find it on sale or in bulk, I often scoop it up. We bought a big container of it from Target one time, and I've been filling any other bags I find into that. We always buy the kind with a few M&Ms in the mix. Well, Daniel has discovered that of all the items in the mix, the M&Ms are clearly the tastiest. So the other day I unscrewed the lid to let him nibble, and he decided to dump the entire, very large tub of trail mix onto the table and pick out all the M&Ms. Nathalie called out, "Mama, I think you'd better come in here and see what Daniel did!" I came in, scolded him, made them put it all back into the tub. As we were cleaning up, Nathalie said, "I think it was an accident. He was probably leaning it to one side to get some out, and it probably tipped and spilled." I smiled. I knew. But I praised her for giving him the benefit of the doubt; innocent until proven guilty. I was impressed. But we both knew. Maybe she suggested that because she knew he had a good idea and she might like to do that someday...someday, when we get more trail mix with M&Ms, since we now have trail mix with only raisins and nuts. When we do, she can dig them out and blame it on gravity. "It tipped over and out it all came." Sure it did.

November 8, 2003
"Our forecast emphasizes volatility, including cold snaps in the Northeast, and colder-than-normal weather in the Midwest and Plains," said Matt Rogers, manager of energy weather for EarthSat in Maryland."

I read this online and got even more depressed about weather than I normally am this time of year. It's a favorite season for one of my friends, she loves fall. I just hate it because it represents things even worse yet to come, a dreaded Midwestern winter. Bleh.

November 4, 2003
Well, my father-in-law flew in from Belgium, which is big enough news for our little family. He's on his way to a missions conference, then he'll stop by for a few days on his way back before flying out again. He told us that the big family news is that his brother--as you realize, that would be my husband's uncle--has been appointed by United Nations Secretary-General Kofi Annan as police commissioner for the U.N. mission in war-torn Liberia. He will command a 1,100-member, multinational civilian force.

Story about Mark Kroeker

November 3, 2003
The weather has me a little giddy! We're having an Indian summer--can I call it that?--with temperatures up to the mid-70s (Fahrenheit). I wore shorts and a T-shirt yesterday, as did the kids, as they leaped into leaf piles and ran around all afternoon. I could live like this. Where in the world can I live where it won't go below 55 degrees Fahrenheit? I don't mind heat as much as some people, so it can go up and stay pretty hot. I just can't stand being cold. As soon as it's below 40 degrees, I feel like icicles have replaced my metatarsals. The cold feels that deep, like it started there and moved out and then I'm cold through and through. A friend (one who doesn't mind the cold, by the way) suggested fleece-lined slippers. I still prefer the idea of a temperate zone.

I'm reading two fascinating books: How to Read a Book, by Mortimer Adler, and Uncle Tom's Cabin, by Harriet Beecher Stowe. They are, of course, fascinating in totally different ways. The how-to book is filling in the gaps I never received on how to study. It's geared toward people out of college who are reading to learn, to continue developing themselves, but I really could have used some training like Adler's before I entered high school, and definitely before college. I don't think I ever really learned how to intellectually own a book. As a result, I have poor retention, which is a shame since I was an English Literature major and probably read, oh, two hundred books? Can I remember any of them? Don't ask.

Of those many books I read, I was never assigned Uncle Tom's Cabin, even though it's one of the most famous books in all of American literature. So at the suggestion of a friend who recently read and loved it, I plucked it from the shelf and started it. The preface reminded modern readers not to discount the book on account of its old-fashioned style, where the narrator breaks in with editorial comments, or moralizing comments. It's a shocking reminder of our not-so-distant past, and I'm ashamed that it took us so long to outlaw slavery. I tried to think of current justice issues, and one thought was the sweatshops where people are making stupid plastic toys that are stuffed into Happy Meals. And places where there's oppression. Then I started to think about injustice in my own country, my own state. I thought about how an article in our newspaper pointed out that there are very few grocery stores in the urban center, while we have here in the suburbs three or four mega-super-centers selling at discount prices, vying for shoppers, within a five-mile radius. Our church is trying to wake us up to the injustice right in our faces, and I'm trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do myself, and what our family might do. I haven't gotten too far into the book yet, but the Quakers in Indiana who are taking in the escaped slaves are very impressive. With quiet courage, they are risking themselves for justice, willing to take the punishment that the state may impose upon them for breaking the law to house a fugitive. I wonder if I would have the same courage to put myself and my own family at risk for the safety of another?

October 29, 2003
It feels so nice to be just a tiny bit more organized. I'm so disorganized, it doesn't take much to improve the situation. The other day I realized I needed to organize the notebook I carry around with me. It's not exactly my day-planner, though it has a calendar in it (I carry a small one as my main calendar that I can stuff in my purse). It has papers for various meetings I attend, notes about school events and things I'm supposed to send with the kids. I put some note cards in there, stamps, and my addresses. It's turning out to be a portable office, in a way, and although it's a bit bulky, I think its value for my overall life efficiency outweighs the bulk. It's a three-ring binder that zips shut. Zipping shut was a key feature, because my old notebook would occasionally lose pages or things would fly out of it when I snatched it up too quickly. To haul this office around, I bought a new black bag, too, that I can use for that and other necessities, such as books to study and journals and markers and pens. I'm staying very open to the Lord right now, wondering if I need to consider the life of a student again, even if it is self-study, or if I'm to be developing some other area of life. Regardless of His answer, when or if He provides me with direction, better organization can only help.

October 24, 2003
Our family played miniature golf then went to Friday's for dinner. We were standing in the lobby and someone came around to face me and said, "Didn't you used to be Annie Hopper?" She was a good friend of mine when I was growing up, but we'd lost contact for years. I was impressed! "Wow, how on earth did you know?" She said, "Well, I looked at your little girl and thought, 'Wow, that really looks like Annie! I wonder what her mom looks like.' And so I looked, and it really was you!" She looked great! And I looked like a mother of four in a sweatshirt who had just gone putt-putting with her fairly large family. My hair was crazy, I hadn't bothered to touch up my makeup. I was in my worst pair of khakis and a sweatshirt. I often feel frumpy in sweatshirts, I'm not sure why. Maybe because they bunch up right around my middle, making me feel gooshier than I already am. It was a bit humbling. Turns out that she lives around the corner in the next subdivision over from ours (a nicer one with bigger houses, but she is a lawyer with no kids). She handed me her card and suggested we e-mail each other. Perhaps she didn't want to get together in person, given that I'd obviously be dragging four kids along! I've been trying to consolidate all of my recipes onto a computer file to print out and make a personal cookbook. Just yesterday I typed in the recipe for "Chocolate Popcorn" from a card I'd copied out when I was probably 13 years old. When I spent the night at this girl's house, one of my favorite treats was when she made chocolate popcorn. Yum! I mentioned this to her, that I thought of her just yesterday when I was typing out the recipe, and she laughed with delight! In honor of my friend, I'm going to give you the recipe:

Chocolate Popcorn
1 C sugar
½ C corn syrup
¼ C butter or margarine
1/3 C water
1 t salt
1 square chocolate

Simmer till soft ball stage, then pour over popped popcorn, mixing as you pour. Form into balls and let cool. Wrap with plastic wrap to save or give away.

[for the popcorn, pop about 2/3 C; 1/3 C at a time]

I'm not sure why that 1/3 C note is in there. It must have been something about popping popcorn on the stove that I needed to know when I was 13. I remember dropping the mixture into cold water to watch it form balls. What an exciting moment! I think I might make some on Sunday.

October 22, 2003
I'm beginning to ponder teaching the younger three at home again, and keeping the oldest in this school. It's the first time I've actually felt like I wanted to or could. I need to organize this crazy house, get some good routines in place, and declutter over the course of this school year. Then summer will be here and we may know more.

In the meantime, I'm enjoying being a parent to kids who just go to the park and play on the playground, play with Thomas the Tank Engine and Playmobil, and eat Cheerios for a snack.

Besides, before we can make any decision, I've got to make it through another Midwestern winter. We'll see how that goes before I make any long-term commitments.

October 21, 2003
I'm so proud that my friend Jim Poole is one of the Veggie Tale voices! About a year-and-a-half ago, I saw him at a conference and asked for confirmation. Someone told me she thought he was doing a lot of the voices. That someone was wrong. Jim is only the voice of Scooter, the take-off on Scotty from Star Trek, who speaks with a Scottish brogue. He's in a couple of the videos and we're enjoying his cameo on the "I Can Be Your Friend" song on our Veggie Tales Greatest Hits CD that Sophie just got for her birthday. We crank up the volume when he comes on, singing, "Aye, that's where we've got feelin's, and we're verrry much the same!"

Someone wanted me to confirm who FlyLady is. In case you're wondering, too, here's the link: FlyLady website

When you sign up to receive her e-mail reminders, brace yourself. You get reminders and testimonials about everything. But they have helped. Her reminders get me up doing 15 minutes of activities such as clearing off "hot spots," where paper accumulates, or checking the laundry so it doesn't end up souring in the washer. She covers just about everything that has to do with home maintenance and also a bit of life maintenance.

October 20, 2003
Sometimes I wonder how people can pull off such amazing lives. I was just at someone's house for a meeting, and it was beautiful. Perfect. Spectacular. She has amazing kids, is incredibly talented, works on staff at our church. How does she do it? This morning I overslept due to an enthralling dream that was so realistic, I think I thought that the dream was reality. Maybe I thought I was awake? So I didn't have time to shower before tossing food into the children's lunch bags, standing there in my jammies while telling the kids to get themselves in gear. I'm sure they must look at me and if they knew the word, think, "hypocrite." Then I baked some muffins and put together some food for that teacher's luncheon I was obsessing about in a previous blog. Yes, I survived it. Chili and corn muffins, apple slices and caramel dip, pumpkin pies. There was no lack of food. It turned out to be a warm day (I planned it on a crisp, fall day when chili sounded perfect), and I should have gone with the suggestion of a friend: chicken salad. Oh well.

Anyway, how do people do all of those things and do them well? How can other people whip together a menu effortlessly, without stress and fear of failure? How can people keep their houses spotless while fixing these stressless meals? How can their children have clothes that are clean and match? How can they develop their talent? How can they work and keep their vans clean and their cabinets wiped down and their counters clear? How can they make appointments and get their kids to practices on time?

I know someone reading this will be tempted to shout, "They don't, Ann! They don't do all of that!"

But they do. Some of them do manage to do all of this. You think I'm deceived, but I really do know people who do it all. And they do not seem to have a Superwoman complex. They just do it all and do it well.

All I know is that when push comes to shove, I want to get my "contemplative" life right. I want to be right with the Lord. I want to have spent time knowing Him through His written Word, praying, dialoguing with Him. I want to read books that help me understand the life of faith. I want to be His.

Some days, even that gets less than it (or, rather, He), deserves. And the counters are surely sticky those days, and the mirrors are splattered with water spots, and toothpaste is in a crusty stream halfway down the sink. The Fisher Price people are scattered throughout the living room and the laundry needs to be folded.

If anyone can tell me how to do it all, other than FlyLady (and she is helping), let me know.

October 17, 2003
Back when I was just coming out of my postpartum fog, wondering if I could ever write or think again, I got a phone call from a good friend of mine, Garry Poole.

Garry and I worked together when I was in college. He headed up a college ministry at a church that reached out to the students, and I was one of the students! He led small group discussions in dorm room lounges. I attended one and was so eager to get my questions answered. I had a lot, and I always felt like he listened and that my questions mattered and weren't stupid. Not only did Garry lead those small groups, but we also had a weekly event called Primetime, modeled after a Willow Creek ministry.

Garry worked with me to develop a drama ministry for Primetime, so I learned to write little scripts and direct the actors. It went very well, and with other team members in music and activities, we had a great program.

My junior year, Garry was hired as the senior pastor of a startup church. He invited all of us on the team to consider moving up with him. He wanted us to choose it on our own, with God Himself leading us, so there was never any pressure or pleading. He simply made the opportunity known and let us think and pray about it. Many of us chose to go. Some of us were on staff, while others simply moved there to work in the workplace and volunteer. I was one of the staff, working as an administrator (not my greatest strength) and creative program person. I worked with the drama and wrote everything that needed to be written. It was a great experience, and we all enjoyed continuing to work together as a team.

A few years later, during a difficult time in the history of that startup church, several of us (including Philippe and I) felt we needed to leave. Garry left, too, and was hired by Willow Creek Community Church, one of the largest churches in the nation. It was a perfect fit for him, and he was able to work in their evangelism department. He worked closely with Lee Strobel, John Ortberg and Mark Mittelberg, some of the biggest names in contemporary Christian publishing, who were on staff at Willow. Garry is now the director of Evangelism, and has developed a ministry called "Seeker Small Groups."

These groups are for people who have questions about Christianity, God, Jesus Christ, the Bible, and would like to explore answers to those questions in a relaxed, fun setting. Garry is a great small group leader. I remember sitting on a couch in that lounge listening to everyone's ideas, and Garry listening, too, interjecting a well-timed question here and there to head our discussion in a new direction. I always felt heard. I always felt like he truly cared about everyone's question. He listened, and then when we were all needing a little input, we'd turn to him and ask for some. He'd suggest a Bible verse that would get us going again, and it went something like that week after week, with him letting us help each other discover a lot of truths. We had our Bibles open. I was reading mine a lot, hesitantly interjecting an idea now and then, with Garry encouraging me. He'd do the same with everyone. I've never met anyone who leads in this way. Most leaders like to give out information. Most leaders make you feel like there's definitely a "right" answer, and so in groups like those, I was always nervous to offer a thought. What if it wasn't "right"? Garry never made us feel like that. It was just a discussion, and everyone's input was important.

Well, by the time Garry was leading our groups at the university, he'd already been honing his leadership skills for years. He's a natural, but he also really learned active listening skills. He cares so much about people's ideas and opinions, he wanted to be able to learn how to make sure they were heard and that he would never make people feel steamrolled in conversation or discussion.

Since that time, especially at Willow Creek, Garry's been leading groups and training others to lead groups with this same loving, sensitive, listening leadership that really changes the participants. People from all walks of life are finally finding a safe place to ask their most difficult questions about the biggest issues in life.

Garry has been wanting to get his ideas on paper and available to people for years, and the time is finally right. He wrote a book called, simply, Seeker Small Groups. In it, he explains how he has learned to really listen to people and help them discuss these issues in a vibrant group setting where they don't have to sink into their seats for fear of saying the "wrong" answer. Instead, he helps people learn to lead in a way that breeds trust and care. When people feel they can trust the leader, and that the leader cares about them, they can ask any question, offer any idea, laugh together and seriously dig into these critical questions.

That phone call I received from Garry at the end of my postpartum fog was a request to help him with some interviews for the book. He took a risk with me. I told him I had trouble even finding the right word, but since they were interviews, we decided that as long as I could get a decent question out there, it wouldn't depend so much on my own ability to compose thoughts; it would depend on the other person's transcript. So I interviewed a few people for the book and was honored to be part of his project.

He sent me a copy, and I just finished reading it. It's really helpful as a step-by-step guide for starting up a small group for people with questions about faith. Some of his ideas and principles are transferable to any setting or situation, especially for leaders, but even for any relationship of any kind. His sections on learning to listen are worth reading even if one doesn't read the entire book. We could all stand to listen better.

So now you know a little bit about my history, and about Garry's new book. Once you read it, you may wonder why you've never thought of it before! And you very well may feel like calling up your friends and neighbors to start a group right away.

He has some complementary materials, too, like The Complete Book of Questions and the Tough Questions series he wrote with Judson Poling, which can be used as a curriculum guide or resource for people who want to organize a group like this. It seems like groups like these would be irresistible to people these days. Everyone seems to be looking for answers. They might not come to a church, but I'll bet they'd go to their friend's house. It might be a little scary for them, thinking they might not know anyone except their friend, or it might be weird. But Garry's ideas for the first meeting would alleviate all their fears and they'd be clamoring for more. "Finally! A place to ask my questions and not feel embarrassed!"

I may just have to think about starting one myself.

October 14, 2003
October FOURTEENTH? How did that happen? Well, the weekend was filled with soccer games and birthday parties and cookouts, then there was Monday, which I'm sure goes about the same for everybody. Whoosh! Poof! Gone.

Here it is, today. Tuesday. The end of Tuesday, even.

This afternoon I dropped the younger two kids off at school and slipped into the cafeteria where my older two were finishing lunch. The fourth-grade teacher was monitoring and we spoke briefly about a note I'd written her about a minor math issue. "You should know something about our family," I explained. "I'm not at all strong in math. In fact, I've pretty much tried to push all math out of my mind after I graduated from college, I was so relieved to be done with it!" I grinned. "I'm exaggerating a bit, of course. But the other thing is that my husband learned all of his math in French, so even though he's a whiz, sometimes the American terminology throws him off." She said, "Oh, I was helping my daughter with her Algebra and one of the instructions said to do the problem in a way I'd never heard of before. I told her, 'I think I know how to do it, but we never called it that.'"

In an attempt to carry on the conversation, I stupidly asked, "Oh, what was it? What did they call it?"

I think she used the phrase "synthetic division." I said, "And what did it turn out to be?" (as if I would know!)

Oh, it was...she used a phrase I couldn't recall in the least. Then illustrated it by saying, "You know, when you have to divide, let's say, 4xy by 6xy and you take the polynomial and multiply it by the misnomer to the second power then pile up a bunch of geodes next to the polygon and..."

Those of you who learned synthetic division, or whatever they called it back in your time, know what she was doing. "Okay," I admitted, "I really did put that out of my mind. I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about." She laughed. Sort of. I think she thinks I'm a total idiot, which, maybe I am. Especially with math.

One time I had to work with a really smart guy gathering statistics for a message he was giving at church. I had to gather data; you know, numbers. I told him I might work myself into a panic if I had to do this without anyone else helping me. If I had to calculate something, determine an average or draw any mathematical conclusion as a result of the data and distribute it to the 6000+ people who attend our church, at risk of being wrong, I just might develop a spontaneous ulcer. He helped me. At first he thought I was exaggerating, but I wasn't. Eventually he saw that I wasn't, and told me to relax. He'd go over it. "It'll be okay, Ann. Really, it's not that big of a deal."

I hate that I fit that classic girls-hate-math stereotype, especially with three girls watching me as an example. But I'm trying to spin it as a personality thing, a weakness that anyone could have, male or female. Then I try to deliberately blast other stereotypes anytime I can. For example, when I got a flat tire one afternoon, I resisted the urge to phone my husband. I got out the owner's manual of the car and followed the directions, drawing from vague memories of my dad demonstrating it in the driveway back in 1982 or '83. And I did it. Three girls (and my newborn son) watched me jack up the van and put on the spare. I even had to get air in the spare, then get it to the tire store, and not one man had to help me. Interestingly, not one man even offered to help me, though several passed me by, young mom with three young children and a newborn, trying to change the tire of her minivan. But that's a different story, the story of chivalry drying up. The main point of this story is how Ann is attempting to raise strong women who can attempt things they don't think they can pull off. Like car care. And math.

I suppose, for the sake of my brain, I should look up what a polynomial is.

I think I'll start a good novel, instead.

October 11, 2003
Ahhhhh...can you hear my contented sigh? That's post-book-sale-Ann knowing that three big bags of books sit in the house waiting to be unloaded, flipped through, prioritized and stacked up by my bedside. My friend--the one whose birthday is today--showed me the section with cartoon collections of Calvin and Hobbes, Peanuts, Garfield, and the Far Side, so I picked up some of those for the kids. They're hooked already. To and from soccer practices they were poring over them. I'll have to stop by there every time now. I got an Anne Lamott novel, a copy of the Chicago Manual of Style, some Pearl Buck novels, a bunch of theology stuff that looked like it might be helpful, given my new studies. I found some books in French, some light novels (I passed by Camus), because if the storyline is obvious, it's easier to read and comprehend. It helps me gain vocabulary. Philippe may have started to shake his head in disbelief--I'm pretty sure I caught him doing that--but he stopped himself and grinned. "Only three bags this time?"

On a completely different note, here's my Old Testament Survey update: The instructor said that in his other class, all they wanted to talk about was the fact that if you do the math, Methuselah would have died in the Flood. That's sad to think about, isn't it? And Tim reminds us that we have to get rid of the idea that everything in the Bible has to be good. The Bible instructs and reveals many things, often through things gone bad. Things had gone very bad by the time of the Flood.

Speaking of the Flood, you know when Noah made wine from his vineyard after the Flood, and Ham came busting into the tent and found Noah lying there uncovered and exposed? Well, it's tempting to imagine Ham as some smart-aleck teen-ager running out to his brothers, "Hey, you guys, get over here quick! Come on, you've gotta see Dad!" But our instructor pointed out that the sons would have been, what, 300+ years old and Noah would have been 600-some-odd years: Ham should have known better. He would have known that it was wrong.

Let's hope so. I like to think that at 300+ years, I would have gained quite a bit of wisdom and discretion. Not that I'm picking on Ham or anything, but Tim said that the Israelites who were hearing this for the first time would have loved this story, because Ham was the father of the Canaanites, the people whose land they were about to enter after escaping Egypt and wandering in the desert. It gave them an idea of what the Canaanites might be like, descended from Ham, the little rat who called attention to his drunk dad lying exposed in his tent.

October 10, 2003
The black Banana Republic wool sweater is now in the closet of a friend. I hope it works, and I'm happy it has a good home. I'm sure it will be very happy there and will keep my friend plenty warm. She probably won't have headaches, a scratchy throat and watery eyes when she wears it. She'll just feel trendy and hip, with that satisfied feeling that accompanies a "deal." She and I are frugal zealots, so this sweater has become a dreamy symbol of a "deal."

You know that I'm playing up this sweater thing for effect, don't you? Please tell me that you know I wouldn't really get this worked up about an article of clothing.

I'll tell you what I really get worked up about, and that's a good library book sale. That's where I got my "Advance Uncorrected Proof" edition of Girl Meets God. That's where I got my C.S. Lewis treasure, English Literature in the Sixteenth Century Excluding Drama. I still can't believe that one, that small miracle that reminds me of God's love for individuals.

I'm a little worked up, because tomorrow...I'm going to the library book sale! With one of my closest friends on her birthday! I'm not sure it could get much better than that, unless maybe if it was my birthday. These library book sales get Philippe a little worked up, too, more from anxiety than delightful anticipation, as he mentally recalculates how many floor-to-ceiling bookshelves he's going to have to construct to house my obsession. The number of 4x8 sheets of plywood he'll have to buy increases with every outing. At library book sale prices, however, he doesn't complain. It keeps me happy. If forty bucks and six bags of used books can keep me giddy for about six months to a year, I'd say that's a pretty good deal. I think I'm a pretty low-maintenance woman.

October 9, 2003
I forgot to write this--in fact, I've been sitting on this information for nearly a week. Time for a drum roll:

I know the son of the man who perfected the epidural!

Okay, maybe that doesn't sound like such a big deal after all.

I was in a group setting when I heard this, so I whispered to the person next to me, "I think I ought to write him a nice thank-you note!" And his son, who overheard, said, "I've been with him when women have come up to him on the street and exclaimed, 'You're Dr. _____, aren't you!' And they've kissed him!"

I thought the son, the guy I know, said that his dad invented the epidural, but when I asked him to clarify, he said that his dad and his dad's partner were the first people to figure out a safe and reliable way for the epidural block to be given as a routine procedure. "Even my dad will tell you that he didn't invent the epidural," my friend told me. "But he was responsible for making it a common medical procedure. He brought it to the masses at a time that no one else was particularly interested in dealing with its intricacies."

So, perhaps all contemplative moms reading this could sign a communal card. I'm happy to give it to his son, who I'm sure will hand deliver it to him. Anyone?

October 7, 2003
My mom reminded me that my great-grandmother died from an infection caused by a wool allergy. It's my destiny, my DNA, my curse! Wool can kill me! I seem to have an allergic reaction to vinegar, watermelon and cantaloupe, too. It's sort of embarrassing. Wool and watermelon? What's that all about?

As for the warmth dilemma, Mom's reminding me of chenille, and a dear online friend also suggested cotton sweaters from Land's End! Thanks to the concern of friends and family, it looks like I may be kept insulated from the fierce Midwestern winter after all! I found two sweater possibilities at my second-hand store, but nothing as dreamy as the black Banana Republic sweater with the tie.

The younger kids and I went apple picking again, while the eldest child had her lesson. We bought a small pumpkin for our small boy, and I'm happy to report that there were no emotive incidents, other than the joy of a long tractor ride and two full bags of Red Delicious, Ida Red, and Rome apples. Joy is good.

October 6, 2003
I sat in the sunshine and finished a book I'd borrowed from the library. It was called At the Corner of East and Now, by Frederica Mathews-Green, about her Orthodox church. It explained their worship and beliefs, yet was presented through her eyes, her family, her story. It was an interesting blend of personal belief, history, theology, and memoir. The book is subtitled: A Modern Life in Ancient Christian Orthodoxy. I was talking with a friend about it, and she said someone she knows well who lives in Colorado just converted to Orthodox Christianity and attends a church in Colorado Springs. Maybe it's a trendy thing, for young people to be looking to ancient faith. I feel like it's a personal curiosity that has caused me to check out books like that, but maybe I'm being affected by the tide around me without realizing it. It is certainly fascinating to read a book like that while taking the church history course. In fact, it's fascinating to attend any church while taking a church history course, because it's inevitable that one begins to look at the choices and beliefs of one's church in light of how things have branched out, out, out from the first Christian church.

Today at the grocery store I had a lot of doubt as to what I should make for that crazy luncheon. Now I'm thinking about Mom's casserole, a chicken cacciatore dish, lasagna, chili, and even turkey! I pulled out a turkey from the freezer a few days ago and baked it today, and it smelled so good and provides so much meat that I thought it might not be a bad idea to feed all those weary educators.

So I'm trying to manage this meal-planning crisis.

Life is not too bad, if that's one of my biggest complaints. There are things I don't include in these blogs, not wanting the whole world to know, but as far as my own little family is concerned, things are okay for the moment. Well, except for my wool allergy. Every fall and winter I try to tell myself I can't really be allergic to wool. So I try on a wool sweater and keep it on, enjoying the wonderful heat, until I get the headache and have slight breathing problems. I picked up a wonderful, beautiful, trendy black sweater. It was Banana Republic, and it was 100 percent wool. It was that long style with the tie that was "in" about two years ago. I've wanted one for awhile, and there it hung in the used store I frequent, in perfect condition, my size (my real size, not the size I thought I was...see previous blogs for an explanation, I think from around mid-August). I snatched it up, tried it on, and bought it. Had it dry-cleaned. Pulled it off the hanger and slipped it on, oh, did I feel stylish! I wore it half of one day until I realized I was getting an almost flu-like reaction to the wool. I couldn't breathe deeply. Scratchy throat, headache. Surely not, I thought. Surely not. So I let a few days pass, and on a day when I wanted to feel warm and cozy, I tried it again. Breathing issues and headache. I'm allergic to wool. It's so embarrassing, not to mention inconvenient! What can I wear to keep warm? If I wear acrylic, my hair sticks out from static. I guess it's time to pass on my Banana Republic treasure. What a letdown. What a bummer. To finally have something just a little bit stylish, only to have to let it go.

Now I'm back to frumpiness.

October 3, 2003
Here's my mom's suggestion to solve the luncheon dilemma.

Marcia’s Poppy Seed Chicken

4        cups cooked chicken, cubed
1        can cream of celery soup
1        cup (8 oz) sour cream
2        tbs. Poppy seeds
1        stick margarine
36    (1 tube) of Ritz crackers, crushed 

Mix chicken, soup, sour cream and poppy seeds and pour into a greased casserole. (I use the round kind for this one). Cover with cracker crumbs and drizzle melted margarine over the top. Bake 30 minutes at 350 degrees. Serves 6. 

September 30, 2003
I'm having trouble knowing what to write in these blogs. They aren't exactly diary entries, because I'm fully aware that they're being published and read by a few friends and family members, and quite possibly any number of people I don't know personally. As a result, I'm never quite sure what kind of life details I should include. What would be interesting? What would be excruciatingly boring? For example, I'm currently looking for a recipe that I can use to serve the teachers at the school where my kids attend. I had to sign up once to fix a meal for this monthly luncheon. I figured I'd best get it over with. I'm really not very good at this kind of thing, but I am so grateful for how the school has already transformed our lives (for the better), I really want to treat these teachers who are spending nearly eight hours with my children! They are so great at their jobs, so devoted to the Lord, the school, the children...I want to bless them with a yummy menu. But I don't have to prepare food for 20 adults very often, so it's feeling a little overwhelming. I got boneless, skinless chicken breasts on sale at the dirt-cheap price (around here, that's $1.99/lb), so I stocked up on some packages for us and for this big luncheon thing. I wanted to cut the chicken into small pieces and cook it so that it makes a sauce (or could be served with a sauce) over rice. But if I start to get too intimidated by the chicken, I may resort to a big pot of chili and pans of cornbread. I guess I wanted to class it up a notch or two. So that's my very mundane dilemma in life.

Oh, and there was a pumpkin issue today. While one of my daughters was at a lesson, I took the others to a local orchard. A tractor ride to the pumpkin patch resulted in four fine choices in pumpkins which we plopped onto the trailer for the ride back to the front. I saw that the line was long. "Can we pick out different pumpkins?" they asked. "You've got fine pumpkins. Why would you want to switch?" "Pleeeeeaase?" "Well, okay, but you have to be back by the time I'm up to pay, or no pumpkins at all. Okay?" "Okay!" They run off, I pay, no pumpkins. Tears. Weeping. Wailing. "We'll come back next week and pick out pumpkins. There's no hurry." Louder wailing, shrieking, and tears. Then I was mad. "Stop it! Stop shrieking! There will be NO pumpkins the ENTIRE season if you don't stop this madness right this minute!" Sniffle. Sniffle. Silence. "Fine. You may pick out two more pumpkins in five minutes or less, because we have to go." They did. I bought them, begrudgingly. Oh, I didn't mention the mini-lecture on "not being satisfied and always thinking there's something better out there." So this is my life. Chicken recipes and pumpkin purchasing.

What a contrast my reading material makes! For the church history course, I'm reading about the religious strife through Europe, England and Scotland during the Reformation. The sacrifices both Catholics and Protestants made for their faith are horrific! The massacres, the executions, the treachery...what have I had to sacrifice in order to believe?

September 29, 2003
I missed an appointment about a month ago, and decided I needed to manage my calendar better. I bought a small white board and hung it next to the kitchen desk area, where I'm trying to keep track of school papers, assignments, phone numbers, coupons, etc. On this white board I write out each day's activities. I can usually fit the work week on, five-days' worth of places to go, people to see, things to do. Yesterday, I wiped off the rest of last week and started writing out this week, and I was struck with how my life was erased with a swipe of a paper towel. Swish!

Gone.

I couldn't help thinking of Psalm 144:4, "Man is like a breath; his days are like a fleeting shadow." We're just scribbles on a dry erase board, wiped away with a wet paper towel. So, I asked myself, how am I living these brief days on earth? Am I making the most of them?

Sometimes I ask that and I dream of "bigger" things I might have done or might be doing, big humanitarian aid dreams or even ideas of success. Fortunately, I'm quickly reminded of what's really "big" in the sense of important, and I realize that as I wake up each morning, it starts with the way I greet my husband, my children. It's how I respond to a friend. It's how I pray, how I honor and glorify God with the simplest things. I think it really is that simple, contrary to what I might imagine. If big humanitarian aid can happen through me, that's wonderful! I'd be thrilled! And if worldly success would come upon me for something (hopefully not by notoriety), I hope and pray that humility would accompany it.

And I think those seemingly small actions are how humility is practiced. The way I had to serve my son this morning, for example, which involved a fair amount of sterilization and laundry soap, keeps me humble. It reminds me that I'm here to serve, to love, to speak with kindness and encourage.

The fleeting life so characterized by my white board should cause me to examine the things I've said, done and thought each day. And to be sure I'm not missing an opportunity to love.

I know I miss them all the time. Perhaps with enough red dry erase markers, I can remind myself. Perhaps I'll draw hearts all over the board. That might remind me of what matters as these days fly by.

September 25, 2003
Last night was the first night of Church History, and tonight was the fourth--is it the fourth?--week of Old Testament Survey. I feel like I'm in a dream world, gobbling up this information like a homeless kid at Old Country Buffet! I can barely scribble notes fast enough to preserve all that so fascinates me.

I finally figured out my teacher's opinion on Milton. He LOVES him, and took an entire course about Milton...IN ENGLAND! Earlier today I toyed with the idea of giving that topic a try for my paper, but not any longer. The guy knows more about Milton than I probably know about my own children, so I don't think I should go there. I don't even have time to read Paradise Lost once through, let alone ponder the sections pertaining to the Fall. He'll think I'm a wimp, but I already told him I was a wimp, so that will merely confirm what I'm trying to tell him. He's probably been teaching this course over and over, waiting for the person who would take the challenge of writing about Paradise Lost, and thought he had her, finally, the English Major. What he needs is my brother. Now HE could write a paper about Paradise Lost (or anything under the sun) and make a person think. And my brother could pull it off without having to read the book. He'd skim it, let's say, and that would be enough. I never did figure out how he got around it. Maybe he's just a really good guesser, or he'd elaborate so creatively on the two points he did actually notice while he was skimming that the professors would forgive the fact that he ignored three-fourths of the material.

I ran outside this afternoon on a beautiful fall day after spending some time at the library reading Milton and a few other things. It was so gorgeous, that I knew I had to get out and get in a run, or I'd kick myself for the next three days. Afterwards, I drove over to pick up my kids and found out that my two youngest kids had been bitten by another kid in the class! Turns out the child who bit my kids had himself been bitten this past weekend in Sunday school, and evidently thought that it was the thing to do. Eek! When the caregiver told me about the incident, my first thought was a phrase from some first aid class I took at some point, "Human bites are the most dangerous." I hope this doesn't start a domino effect, and my son doesn't in turn go off to bite someone. I might tell the church staff on the weekend, just so they know. He was bitten from behind, so he may not realize specifically what caused the pain.

Oh, motherhood is not for the faint of heart.

September 23, 2003
I'm sure everyone will be thrilled to know that I sustained the stepping for 23 minutes this morning. An otherwise dormant set of muscles has affirmed this throughout the day, and I'm so thrilled not only to have a cross-training option, but also to have a cold weather (or getting up too late) exercise option!

Tomorrow I begin the Church History class, so two nights per week, I'm in student mode. And I have to write my first paper for the Old Testament Survey class, so I've been pondering it on and off all weekend. One of the options is to talk about Milton and compare his poetic, imaginative depiction of the Fall in Paradise Lost with the account in Genesis, with a particular exploration of how helpful (or not) Paradise Lost is to an evangelical Christian. It's a four- to six-page paper. How on earth can I define an evangelical, talk about Milton adequately (Paradise Lost is a difficult piece of literature for a modern person to comprehend with all of its allusions to other great literature--all I catch are the mythological characters), make the comparisons with Genesis, and then manage to form an opinion on whether or not it is helpful, confusing, enlightening or dangerous for evangelicals? It's too HUGE! I know Tim will be disappointed; I'm sure he expects the English major to tackle that one, but there's another question. I might just give up and write a cover letter explaining how overwhelming it seemed, and how inadequate I felt. He'll wonder why I didn't take that option. I've gone online and read people's papers and learned all this stuff about Milton's politics with Cromwell and all that, and then there's the Calvinist/Arminian thing again (it's baaaaack) that he was addressing in other writings. Some people are saying we have to take it in the form it was given: as poetry. Others can't resist assuming that he was offering theology. Some say there are political issues interwoven.

Four to six pages. Right. There were several colleges offering semester-long courses just on Milton, and some just on Paradise Lost!

I'm overwhelmed. My cover letter explaining why I didn't choose to tackle that topic will probably be longer than four- to six-pages long!

September 21, 2003
My dear friend and neighbor is loaning me her stair-step machine for the bad weather ahead. She's using a stationary bike and said the machine was sitting unused in the basement. So we hauled it over, stuck it in front a TV in the basement, and I've got an alternative to piling on layers and running outside every day, or driving 20 minutes one-way to the YMCA. So cumbersome. I like the idea of slipping on any old pair of shorts and a T-shirt, shuffling to the basement and doing the step machine for 20 minutes or so. Nathalie was wondering why I didn't just go up and down the stairs. Good question. Why don't I? I suppose it's because I live in the 21st Century, and that just doesn't feel like a workout.

Tonight was one of my big grocery trips. I hate to shop, so I try to do it when the kids are in bed and no one is at the store. Then I buy as much as I can afford, stock up, and then only go for fresh items as needed. This mega-trip can keep us going for over a month, with only small trips for bread, milk and fresh fruit...maybe eggs. I don't know why I hate the grocery store so much. Of course, I pretty much hate cooking, too, and they are intimately intertwined.

The day I go to the grocery is the day I have to write down meals for as far into the month as I can manage. It's the only day I remember what's in the freezer. So I must excuse myself. I need to look up some recipes and write down some menus.

September 20, 2003
Well, I was going to offer a link to an interview with Anne Lamott that was forwarded to me by a friend in my discussion group, but I wanted to listen to it first. Didn't want to send people there if it was, you know, PG-13 or worse. But my computer was having trouble, cutting it out, "buffering" and so on, until I'd waited so long it was way past my bedtime. I gave up. So I'm not giving the link (but it was with MPR Arts and Culture or something like that, if you wanted to search for it yourself and have cable connection).

Well, I had a couple of days that weren't out of control, but when lived at a steady pace, didn't leave a lot of free time for sitting and reflecting on life. Then, well, let's say that brings us up to today, which maybe I left out a hunk of my life (I mean in terms of time, not my spouse), and we had soccer games and church. Here I am, late Saturday evening, reflecting, if you can call it that.

The Old Testament Survey class is one of the most humiliating and exhilarating experiences I've had in a while. It is both at the same time. I realize how little I know, even how little I remember from basic reading and self-study of the Old Testament over the years. Then Tim brings out these amazing facts about archaeology or literary features I never would have gotten, even with another reading, two, or three, of the same sections. I probably wouldn't have really been able to process it if I had access to a great textbook. He brings it alive with his enthusiasm for the subject matter. The humility comes from feeling like a little child and agonizing over my arrogance to think I ever knew anything about the Old Testament, in spite of frequent readings. The exhilaration comes from feeling like every class is a treasure of understanding and enlightenment. That's a strong word, but it really does feel like that. He'll explain something, define a word, let's say, or provide some historical context from the ancient world, and boom! I'll realize the implications. My appreciation for and understanding of the passage are enhanced a hundredfold.

We all have to write a paper in a few weeks, and I'm feeling intimidated. I've done a lot of writing, but Tim is so smart, and unfortunately he thinks I'm smarter than I really am. So I feel some pressure I might not feel under a different instructor. I feel like I'm in Professor Edelen's Shakespeare 205 class. My brother is brilliant, and sailed through that course four years ahead of me as a star student. Professor Edelen remembered my brother when I came through (four years later at a Big Ten university with 30,000+ students), and expected the same wisdom and wit from me. In the large lecture hall, I was humiliated dozens of times, as he would call on me and I had no idea what to say. I had no comment. I didn't understand. I just didn't get it.

I'm not fighting the legacy of my brother in this survey class with Tim; only his image of me as a more intellectual, better read woman than I really am. I try to manage his expectations, and he laughs me off like I'm being overly modest. Perhaps this paper will knock him with the reality that I don't really know much at all. And maybe I still won't "get it." He had us take what would appear to be an Old Testament trivia test, though he says it isn't. Each of the questions hit on things we'll cover in the course, and he merely wants us to see that we'll all get 100% at the end of the course. But I literally failed. I knew I couldn't remember much, but it was part of that humiliation process.

And I have to think that Tim is beginning to see me for what I really am.

Average.

I'll probably start having dreams I might loosely drop into the same category as those old post-college dreams of forgetting to attend class all semester, but then being forced to take the final exam? I may start dreaming that my brother appears in my Old Testament Survey class, turning in a brilliant 4-6 page paper, to be read aloud by Tim, copies handed out to everyone in the class as an example of what he's looking for.

I'm enjoying being a student again, but how is my self-esteem going to survive?

September 15, 2003
Surprise! I'm writing two days in a row!

Today's Writer's Almanac celebrated the birthday of Agatha Christie. They said, "She was an incredibly prolific author, but her strategy was simple: she said, 'The secret of getting ahead is getting started.'"

Yes! Oh, well, now that I mention it...I guess I'd best get started.

Don't skip reading my road trip story below, yesterday's blog.

September 14, 2003
I'm not yet comfortable posting to the world my schedule. So I didn't mention in advance that I was preparing for an outing on Saturday. A friend of mine and I drove to the Midwest Literary Festival to hear Anne Lamott speak! If you've read my blogs for a while, you may have remembered that she's on my list of people I'd assemble, along with Madeleine L'Engle, Sara Groves, and Lauren Winner. One day someone asked if I'd ever heard Anne L. speak, and I said, "No." And as soon as I said no, I thought, "But why not?" So I typed into Google something about Anne and speaking, and hoped an event would come up that would be within driving distance. I couldn't find a schedule posted at that time, but they did list the agency that represents her and organizes her speaking engagements. I told them where I lived and asked if she would be speaking nearby. They told me that Anne would be at this festival, in Aurora, Illinois, in September. I started rounding up friends whom I knew enjoyed her writing and ended up with a good list of women. The road trip was forming.

As the day drew closer, more and more of the women said they couldn't work out the details with kids and husbands and other obligations. One by one, they dropped off, bird by bird, until only my friend Beth and I were left. But the two of us were going no matter what. We planned to meet in my driveway around 6:00 a.m. and drive straight there. This should allow about 45 minutes to an hour before Anne started. We were worried the place would be packed out early and considered buying VIP tickets that guaranteed us tickets in the first two or three rows. They were $25 each. We decided to take the risk.

All the way up there, we chatted about everything under the Tuscan Sun (new movie--the movie premiered in the Midwest at this festival because the author of the book was one of the keynote speakers), er, Midwestern sun. We found a good parking space on the street and asked a kind gentleman where the Paramount Theater was. He said we were about a block away, explained precisely where to walk, and we were off, not knowing what we would find when we stepped through the doors to hear Anne. We didn't have as much time as we hoped. We were both secretly worried that maybe we wouldn't even get in and that we'd driven all this way only to stand outside the door, perhaps, or get stuck in the balcony.

The ushers said we could sit anywhere, so we grabbed our programs and rushed to the doors. Some grey-haired guy was droning on about self-publishing. The time was running short. I wondered if I had the time wrong. Maybe Anne was speaking at noon instead of 11:00, and we'd have to keep sticking quarters in the meter to pay for this guy's boring presentation.

No, the program said she was speaking at 11:00. We slipped into a seat toward the middle, not wanting to interrupt the man's presentation on which thirty or so people were hanging, taking notes and asking questions. If a person passed me by to sit closer, I would swing around to see if there were throngs being held back by ushers. Nope. Just a few women trickling in.

Finally enough people passed us that I nudged Beth and said, "I just can't stand it any longer. Let's go on up to the front." So she picked some seats about two rows back from those $25 VIP rows, directly in front of the podium. Close enough to make eye contact with the speaker. The grey-haired guy looked right at me, perhaps when I lost control of my pen and it flew under the chair in front of me, almost into the second row ahead of me. I apologized as I muttered, "Excuse me," to the woman in front of me, "um, my pen seems to have..." she bent over and got it. I made a goofy, sheepish face. She smiled and turned back to her notebook and the grey-haired guy's very tentative answers to all the questions posed to him.

It was nearly 11:00. In fact, I think it was already 11:00. I wondered if someone was going to come out and say Anne wasn't coming. As it crept past 11:00, that thought grew until I was convinced she wasn't here. We'd driven four-and-a-half hours to Aurora, Illinois, and Anne had canceled. After all, the auditorium wasn't even half full. Maybe everyone else had heard about the cancellation. Maybe we were the only uninformed ones.

Around 11:10, she showed up. The woman who introduced her said she was familiar with Anne's work for about a week, and already she was a devoted fan. Beth and I looked at each other out of the corner of our eyes. It was hard to fathom someone introducing Anne Lamott who had only cracked open one of her books last Saturday. After all, we not only had read many of her books, we'd just driven four-and-a-half hours to hear her speak for forty-five minutes!

I looked around. The people in the room seemed enthusiastic, but it wasn't full. Beth and I were relieved we hadn't spend an extra $25 for seats in those empty rows just in front of us.

Anne spoke just as she writes, with conviction on things she feels passionate about, with compassion toward people, and with wit that sometimes has an edge. Right-wing conservatives might squirm in their seats every now and then. She is an unapologetic, funny liberal, weaving a political "dig" now and then into her talk about the writing life. She does it in such a winsome way, I don't know that anyone could do anything but join her in a laugh.

She talked about having a pen with her all the time, because people will say, "If it was important, you would have remembered it." That's a lie, so carry a pen or hundreds of very important things will be lost forever. You never know when they will come to you. Someone might say something that needs to be preserved for a potential novel in the future, or a title or character's name may come to her. Carry a pen in your back pocket at all times, and index cards. Carry a pen and an index card and write things down. If you consistently lose all the ideas and phrases and solutions that God is offering, you never know--He might give up on you and start sending these wonderful treasures to that cute little Anne Lamott in California. "I'll send them to her," He'll say, "because she has a pen."

Shortly after she talked about pens and moved on to terrible first drafts, I pulled out my pen to jot down a thought, stuck the cap back on to put it away, missed the slot in my purse, and the pen flew out of my hand and directly under the same chair in front of me. The lady who retrieved it the first time noted it, but let it lie. I was glad I wasn't in one of the $25 seats, or else Anne might have noted it, too, and worked in an impromptu joke about pens. Perhaps God was tossing not only lost ideas from Ann Kroeker to Anne Lamott, but perhaps He was also sending her the pen, to boot!

I had another pen, thankfully, and held it so tightly as I wrote a few more notes later that my knuckles jutted up, all white and witch-like.

The content was wonderful, but it was the way Anne said it that delighted. So attempting to note the main points wouldn't do the event justice. She was worth the four-and-a-half hours' drive, and even though we would have kicked ourselves for buying the $25 advance seating tickets, she was worth far more than $25. I wanted to preserve the day somehow, with her signature on a book or something, but I didn't remember to bring one of her books. Duh. Beth and I joked that she could sign my khaki pants. We passed the long line, and I impulsively pulled out my camera, poked my head in an opening between two women, and snapped a picture of Anne signing someone else's book. I pulled down the camera and felt stupid. I wished I hadn't taken the picture, but at the same time was glad I would have one. I guess I'm still a junior high kid at heart. A fan.

We talked to some guys in the back who were taping her, asking if they would be selling cassette tapes. They said they were working for C-Span, and that this message would be broadcast on their authors program in a few months. What do you know? I wonder if they panned back before my pen flew two rows in front of me a second time?

The same gal, without my prompting, picked up the pen when Anne was done. She handed it back to me. "Perhaps you should consider some Velcro," she said, grinning. Beth suggested a pen-on-a-rope.

We ended up visiting Beth's sister, then driving to Willow Creek Community Church to their Saturday night service. Beth had never been, so we thought since we were there, we might as well.

On the drive home, as Beth and I reviewed the day, we kept wondering why the place wasn't packed? We were either so extremely cool that we were the types to attend an event that was cooler than anything the ordinary public would think of attending while they lay on their couches watching college football games, or we were freakish people on the fringes of society. I don't know that I like either option all that much. I don't really want or need to be cool--neither does Beth--and neither of us really wants to be freakish. But maybe that's the way literary festivals unfold in the Midwest. Maybe here, only a few faithful used-bookstore owners, a few writers, and a few fans attend every session. Maybe Anne is only a big-name draw on the East and West Coasts.

Or maybe Beth and I are super cool, and there's not a thing we can do about it.

Oh well. Maybe being cool will turn out to be a pleasant thing. I'll have to work on pen-handling. Super cool people don't lose control like that. Not twice. And they probably don't snap pictures of their heroes.

On second thought, maybe I'm just a geek.

September 12, 2003
I loved today's notes on H.L. Mencken on the Writer's Almanac. Two brief excerpts:

"Most of all, he attacked Puritan morality. He called Puritanism, 'the haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be happy.'"

"When asked what he would like for an epitaph, he wrote, 'If, after I depart this vale, you ever remember me and have thought to please my ghost, forgive some sinner and wink your eye at some homely girl.'"

Also, I signed up for an Old Testament class that I'm taking at my church, and last night confirmed that I've been craving the kind of detailed background and approach to studying and interpreting Scripture that our instructor and the textbook are going to provide.

I conversed for quite awhile with our women's ministry director in the hallway yesterday afternoon about these interests, and we talked about one seminary in particular that appealed to us both. We will see how this class goes, and at the end of it, I wonder if I'll pursue distance education through that school? I don't know. It may not be the time in my life to do so. I won't worry about that right now. Instead, I'll focus on being given my daily bread in terms of feeding that place in my soul that's felt hunger pangs. Last night's first course was delicious.

September 10, 2003
Nathalie and I played mancala twice. I won once, and she won once. We played dominoes. She won twice. We played Monopoly, and when we stopped, she was richest. Now I'm back to writing, she's sitting for a few minutes with Sesame Street, the baby is napping, and it's nearly time for lunch. These slow-moving days are a gift to me...a bit of peace. Few days are so leisurely. Some days are frantic. I feel so vulnerable, so easily swayed by outward circumstances. But I don't think I'll dwell too long on my weaknesses. Instead think I'll say a prayer of gratitude, make myself a cup of tea, and read.

Later today...
Daniel eats a grilled cheese sandwiches and many raw carrots for lunch. He drinks milk. He drinks apple juice. I take the tray off the high chair and lower him down, then cross back to the table and continue my conversation by telephone with my friend. I'm about to tell her about a class I signed up for, when Daniel toddles over to me, says, "Mama! Mama!" then leans over and vomits all over me and the floor. "Oh!" I exclaim. "What?" my friend asks, concerned, "What happened?" I'm still sitting. I can't quite fathom that it happened. "Well, my son just walked over and threw up all over me." "Oh!" "Yes! I, um, I guess I'd better go." "Yes, I'll talk with you later." It's all so calm, it's almost comical. I strip the boy down, race upstairs, step in the shower with him and hose off my legs and his body, scrub him down and put him to bed. Then I mop the floor down, start a load of laundry, and I think how odd it is, that one minute can be so quiet, pleasant, peaceful, and the next can set off a half-hour characterized by such an extraordinary digestive event. Yet, the preceding peace allowed me to approach it as a matter of fact. There you go. Time to mop.

September 9, 2003
I really liked today's Writer's Almanac. I slipped my life right into the poem, a nice fit. And the overview biography of Leo Tolstoy was fascinating.

http://www.writersalmanac.org/

September 8, 2003
My mom forwarded this to me via e-mail. It's about being the mom to multiple kids. The first two categories are for biological moms, then it broadens to all. Mom pointed out that it didn't even explore the humor of a fourth baby.

Clothes
1st baby: You begin wearing maternity clothes as soon as your OB/GYN confirms your pregnancy.
2nd baby: You wear your regular clothes for as long as possible.
3rd baby: Your maternity clothes ARE your regular clothes.

Preparing for the Birth
1st baby: You practice your breathing religiously.
2nd baby: You don't bother practicing because you remember that last time, breathing didn't do a thing.
3rd baby: You ask for an epidural in your 8th month.

The Layette
1st baby: You pre-wash newborn's clothes, color-coordinate them, & fold them neatly in the baby's little bureau
2nd baby: You check to make sure that the clothes are clean & discard only the ones with the darkest stains.
3rd baby: Boys can wear pink, can't they?

Worries
1st baby: At the first sign of distress -a whimper, a frown- you pick up the baby.
2nd baby: You pick the baby up when her wails threaten to wake your firstborn.
3rd baby: You teach your 3-year-old how to rewind the mechanical swing.

Pacifier
1st baby: If the pacifier falls on the floor, you put it away until you can go home and wash and boil it.
2nd baby: When the pacifier falls on the floor, you squirt it off with some juice from the baby's bottle.
3rd baby: You wipe it off on your shirt and pop it back in.

Diapering
1st baby: You change your baby's diapers every hour, whether they need it or not.
2nd baby: You change their diaper every 2 to 3 hours, if needed.
3rd baby: You try to change their diaper before others start to complain about the smell or you see it sagging to their knees.

Activities
1st baby: You take your infant to Baby Gymnastics, Baby Swing, and Baby Story Hour.
2nd baby: You take your infant to Baby Gymnastics.
3rd baby: You take your infant to the supermarket and the dry cleaner.

Going Out
1st baby: The first time you leave your baby with a sitter, you call home 5 times.
2nd baby: Just before you walk out the door, you remember to leave a number where you can be reached.
3rd baby: You leave instructions for the sitter to call only if she sees blood.

At Home
1st baby: You spend a good bit of every day just gazing at the baby.
2nd baby: You spend a bit of everyday watching to be sure your older child isn't squeezing or hitting the baby.
3rd baby: You spend a little bit of every day hiding from the children.

Swallowing Coins
1st child: When first child swallows a coin, you rush the child to the hospital and demand x-rays.
2nd child: When 2nd child swallows a coin, you carefully watch for coin to pass.
3rd child: When 3rd child swallows a coin you deduct it from his allowance!! 

September 7, 2003
Floaters. I didn't know a thing about them until my last visit to the optometrist, when I asked about them. She said basically the same thing as this website, jokingly suggesting one befriend the little buggers, naming them or doing something to accept them, because they are going to float around in my vision for a very long time. Might as well make them feel at home.

Floaters and Flashers

September 5, 2003
Sometimes it's hard to consolidate the ideas and thoughts that pop through my head like so many kernels of popcorn. I'm just one big kettle of questions, minor revelations, intellectual and theological explorations, and a few dead ends. Mix 'em all up, and there's a lot of noise under the lid, and a few unpopped kernels rattling around at the bottom. That's what I'm like these days. I read things that inspire, raise more questions, confuse, delight. It's a good place to be. Sometimes I wonder why I never "took" to the academic life? Maybe because I don't have any really concentrated interests. Maybe my broad, scattered, easily distractible nature would never have made it through even one year of graduate school. I found a seminary that posted some syllabi that included reading lists. Before I start shelling out hundreds of dollars to take a distance course, I decided I could at least poke my nose inside some of the textbooks. Plus, I can always fall back on my C.S. Lewis course, with my imaginary professor. Oh, and the kids had an awesome native-speaking French teacher who just resigned. She's going to...I just couldn't believe it, given where I'm at in life...enter a master's program. I don't know in what field of study, but doesn't that just figure? I'm so drawn to more study, and so thrilled my kids have this opportunity to learn from a former Parisienne, and now my kids have lost their teacher and she's the one who gets to study! I hope it's some field of study that completely disinterests me, like physics or chemistry, else I'm going to have to confess envy. Now I'm networking with my friends to see if we can find a bored French housewife whose husband was transferred here for two years with some company that has an office in Paris or Brussels, who would enjoy inspiring kids to speak her mother tongue. Otherwise, they may vote me, as wife of a native-French-speaking man, as substitute/interim teacher. Oh-la-la! Quel disastre!

September 4, 2003
I asked my discussion group if they could explain how to properly iron a shirt, and someone suggested I visit Martha Stewart's website. So I did, and not surprisingly, Martha had instructions for ironing a shirt. Here they are:

Martha irons shirts

September 3, 2003
I think maybe I had a birthday hangover, too! I'm only just now feeling like I can get busy on some writing, including my blog. I'm starting up some reading and research, just on my own, not seminary work. ;)

I read this commentary from Chuck Colson--now, I know that some of you don't care too much for Chuck Colson, but ignore the name and read the thoughts. Barbara Kingsolver has made almost the exact same argument against the news. This is a bit painful, given the fact that my parents invested their entire lives in producing daily and weekly newspapers! And I would argue that there is a place for the local story about a 10-year-old winning the prize for the winning pumpkin, so I'm not in total agreement. I just found it interesting, especially considering the continual news coverage offered by some stations.

Breakpoint Commentary

August 31, 2003
I think Daniel has a birthday hangover. Yesterday he turned two, and all the excitement and thrill of opening presents, defending his new possessions, playing with them with intense concentration, eating cake and entertaining family left him in need of sleep. Lots of sleep. He slept in practically until lunch, got up to defend his gifts again, and is about to go down again. It's not unlike the pattern of a college sophomore.

I continue to be enthralled by Thomas Merton. What a story! What humor and insight and spiritual emptiness met with spiritual craving and eventually, great depth. The guy knew people who worked for The New Yorker, was in an era when he could talk about T. S. Eliot, for example, being a contemporary. He tried to send something to a literary magazine Eliot published, but he didn't know that it had just folded, prior to the war. I'm just up to his first visit to the monastery that eventually will become his place of residence, his calling to be a Cistercian monk. He thought he wouldn't be able to make this spiritual retreat at the monastery because a few weeks prior, he was called to show up for his medical examination to be drafted in WWII. After the anguish of anticipating it, turning over the morality of war and praying earnestly about what he should do, finally deciding to enlist as a non-combattant objector (I think that's what they called it), he finally felt the Lord's peace in his decision. He showed up for the examination, which was as to be expected until the doctor looked in his mouth. The examining doctor called over another doctor and asked if he should bother finishing the exam. The other doctor shrugged and said, "Might as well." Merton was turned down. He didn't have enough teeth. He had teeth removed over the years--one was abscessed, another impacted. Bumbling dentists in Italy and France pulled the first ones, then an American got the impacted wisdom tooth. Anyway, what a reason to be turned down! This, I'm sure, is pretty goofy in my awkward retelling, but it is magnificently presented, especially with the tooth-extractions dotting the storyline throughout the book. One never expects the turn of events caused by lack of teeth.

August 29, 2003
A teenager was busted for inventing an Internet virus "worm." The story told how he didn't try to hide himself. There were several easy ways to trace it to him and his address in Minnesota. When people finally figured it out and tracked him down, they arrested him. Those who try to debug worms were clonking their heads against their computer screens in frustration at having missed such obvious clues.

From the article: ''It's kind of embarrassingly simple,'' said Nick Fitzgerald of New Zealand, a widely recognized expert and contributing editor to the Virus Bulletin newsletter. ''I guess we should praise the Lord for stupid people, right?''

August 28, 2003
Okay, did that last blog make any sense at all? It all kind of streamed out. Sorry. I'll try to be more coherent.

Over the last two nights, we watched the Shackleton film with Kenneth Branaugh. The endurance required during their ordeal makes my complaining about jogging at 6:00 in the morning seem pretty lame. I think I'd be a very bad survivor. A complainer. If I were on an expedition like that, someone would probably shoot me to put me (and them) out of misery, and then fry me up for dinner. No one on that expedition died. The only thing they shot and fried up for dinner were seals and the sled dogs. That was sad, the dogs.

Both Philippe and I agreed we are not explorer-types. We aren't thrill-seekers. We'd be more like a support-team, keeping things going at a base somewhere, perhaps, while the braver ones take off into uncharted territory.

I continue to read Seven-Storey Mountain, and it continues to be a marvel. He is funny, astute, honest without being self-indulgent. The things God used to draw Merton to Himself are books, poetry, even a Hindu priest of a cult said something that continued to turn Merton toward God (interestingly, this Hindu man pointed Merton to the one, true God, not a Hindu god). The Hindu insisted that Merton read Augustine's Confessions, and Thomas a Kempis' The Imitation of Christ, two books Merton had heard about, but not yet read. It's been years since I've read either of those, but there have been two occasions where I've thought I wanted to bring out The Imitation of Christ again. I wonder if I can read it concurrently with Merton's autobiography without losing the impact of focusing on just one?

August 26, 2003
I have been drawn to the idea of taking a seminary class. When I asked a friend what she would study if she pursued a post-graduate degree, and...have I said this before? Well, she said forestry, perhaps. Her undergraduate degree was in engineering. My first response was to pursue theology. Not that I want to do anything formal with it. I don't want to be a pastor. I don't even want to work full-time at a church, though I did many years ago. I just want to learn more in a deliberate fashion instead of the haphazard approach I tend to have about most everything in life. I also like the idea of having a professor to whom I can direct my many questions, and the chance to write papers and pull together ideas. My guest this past week has been auditing classes at a seminary, and I was a tad jealous. It's the same person who helped me with my style. Perhaps it was the Calvinist/Arminian thing that came up, revealing how little I knew, that made me think about it more seriously. Then my friend talked about the courses she's auditing. I told her about a C.S. Lewis book I picked up at the library book sale last year. I'd read in a biography of Lewis that he'd written a book about British literature, and was impressed with the references they cited and the concept. So for years I looked and looked for this book. It was before the time of rare-book searches on the Internet, so using conventional methods locally, I came up empty and eventually gave up. Then I was standing at a section in the library book sale racks with a friend, staring at the section that might have been where Lewis' little-known book would be shelved, and told her the story. "All these years," I concluded, "and I've never found it. I've pretty much given up." A guy was standing there, listening. He pointed and asked, "Is that it?" I gasped. "Yes! Yes, that's it!" "I happened to stop on it just before you came around the corner, and then when you were describing it, I thought that might be the book." "It IS, it IS! Oh, I could kiss you! (I didn't) Thank you, thank you!" I can be quite demonstrative when I'm excited about something, and so I was wide-eyed and flipping through the book, amazed, shocked, thrilled, and grateful. I wanted to buy that guy something nice, but then he was checking out and I was still giddy and I forgot to follow up. So, all of that to say, I have this neat college textbook written by C.S. Lewis, and in my desire to continue my education, I've been considering using it as my text to track down the books and plays and pretend I'm taking a course with Lewis as my professor. I was explaining this to my friend who audits the classes at seminary and told her, "Be glad you have this chance to satisfy any lifelong learning bug you may have. Otherwise you could end up like me, working up a scheme to have an imaginary professor for a year just to keep from losing her intellectual edge." "Isn't it nice?" my friends may say to each other, "how Ann has her imaginary playmate? Um, what do you think...maybe we should sign her up for an extension study program somewhere?"

August 23, 2003
My guest is gone, and she was my laundry fairy. She did all the laundry while I handled all the cooking. I think she did much better at laundry than I did at cooking, but I did my best to get us all nourished. Now that she's gone, it's up to me to do the laundry again. (Heavy sigh.)

This same friend is a style gal. She knows how to put outfits together, even on a tight budget. So I thought, "Hmmmm...I wonder if she would help me piece together my disastrously outdated wardrobe?" I asked if she'd let me model the few things I have, and would she please veto items that need to visit Goodwill and make a list of things I ought to add. She agreed.

I came out in the meager combinations I had. After being pregnant on and off since 1993, I have fat-pants, hopeful-pants, and today's pants (bleh). I pulled out anything I could squeeze into with the tops I had. She did it! She helped me decide what goes with which item, what is interchangeable, and what few pieces I need to look for in the future. It was a wonderful feeling! I've never been much on style (Mom, stop shouting "Ha!" at the screen). My mom can tell you how I was growing up. She insisted I wear a dress to church, so I would oblige, but only for the duration of church. As soon as we were in the car and driving home--and I mean as soon as I could possibly get by with it, which means a mere block or two from the church--I would slide out of that thing and into a T-shirt and jeans. It's always been comfort over style for me, hands down. This is what my style-friend was facing--a woman who values comfort-first.

This is no surprise to anyone who knows me--that is, SEES me--but my friend's first comment was that I need to start buying things that fit. I always buy things at least one size too big (comfort first, you see). I hate it when I feel like my bottom is form-fitted, or if the sleeves squeeze my arms the slightest bit. She told me what size I am, and I shook my head vehemently. "No, I am at least a size (one size up from what she said)." She shook her head. "I'm really good at sizing people up, and you are a size (much smaller than I could imagine)." So she gave a thumbs up to two jackets, but advised me to take them to a tailor so that they fit. "Nothing fits, Ann."

So after she left, I had a few hours without kids and decided to go to a resale shop and see if she was right about sizes. I grabbed the sizes I thought I was, and I grabbed items in her size.

Guess what. She's right. I never imagined I could comfortably fit in the number she gave me, but she had it. She had my number. In fact, I bought two blouses in the size she recommended, took them home, and realized even they probably ought to be taken in slightly. I don't know what all of this hemming and adjusting is going to cost, but I think I've experienced a style-awakening.

The other big thing is thinking "Garanimals." You know those mix-n-match kids' clothes? She said that's how all her clothes are, mix-n-match, adult Garanimals. With that in mind, I picked up a few new, um, used, pieces that mix and match and it's a really nice discovery.

And I'm sure my mom is about to do some cartwheels upon reading this. Mom, I'll fill you in on the details next time I see you. But your daughter may finally be wearing a few things that fit.

I'll give you my friend's address and you can write her a personal thank-you card. I know I've caused you years of style-grief. Please forgive me for the church-dress thing.

You know I still hate dresses, though, don't you?

And I'm seriously considering Birkenstocks.

August 22, 2003
Whoa. I just woke up from one of those naps that feel like your head was flattened by a tractor tire. Not only do I have the pillow lines slithering across my skin, but my head, my brain, feels heavy. It's going to take a while to adjust to the school schedule, I daresay. I've tried to jog most mornings. Today was the first day I missed because my alarm didn't go off. Looks like I need to take a trip to Target for a new one. I'm using the black plastic radio alarm clock that I used when I was 16 years old, so it's old.

In my spare moments, I'm reading Thomas Merton's autobiography, and I can't get over the writing talent, the storytelling ability, and the way he slips in what is in essence teaching, in the logical sequence of the writing. He is being quite a gentleman in telling about his misspent youth, only alluding to the specifics. So far, there's no wretched details to make me squirm. The writing is so superb, I can hardly put it down. His diaries--he must have regularly kept them throughout his life--must have included every sensory detail imaginable of the more significant events of his life. This guy remembers smells, wallpaper, books he read and his reaction in a room on a certain couch. I wonder if I could dip back so accurately and bring up those kinds of details?

August 19, 2003
Guests. We have guests. Haven't been on the computer and won't for another day or so. We're sitting around talking about G. K. Chesterton, frugality, Thomas Merton, beaches and trees. So. It's nice.

August 16, 2003
Well, I'm currently trying to grasp the basics of Calvinism and Arminianism without taking any courses in theology. Fortunately, there is much online I can read to figure it out.

Why, you may ask? Because someone asked me about churches, and I recommended one that I thought might be a good fit with what they said they were looking for. "Is it reformed?" the fellow asked. "What?" "Is it reformed," he repeated, "Are they Calvinist, Arminian? What's their stance on predestination?"

Um, are you asking me if I know whether a church is Calvinist or Arminian or some other -ism? I was impressed that he knew the doctrine he was looking for, but a little, well, surprised that those were the first questions he asked. I was also impressed that he thought I might know the answer to that question.

But I didn't. So I went online afterwards to see if I could find some quick answers, and there are some out there. It was both fascinating and aggravating to see how nice and neat theologians can box up their faith. I'm not sure how to personally respond to it.

August 14, 2003
I just started Thomas Merton's Seven Storey Mountain. His writing is clever, his memory detailed, and I'm intrigued by his childhood, especially his return to southern France where he was born (before moving to America for several years). I'm not far along. If I remember correctly, I think I'll find in a few chapters that he was quite the prodigal before eventually becoming a Trappist monk. For the moment, the descriptions of southern France are so appealing, it makes me want to move there, just as Peter Mayle's Provence (A Year in Provence, Toujours Provence, etc.) books did. Philippe says that the places in France I pointed to on a map were the middle of nowhere--I was pointing to the villages and areas Mayle wrote about. Philippe thought I'd get bored that far away from civilization.

Maybe I would. I'm probably romanticizing everything. Although I've traveled, I've never lived anywhere but here, and there's a big part of me that wonders, "What would it be like to live someplace quite different and then choose to return here?" I'm here by default. Same state in which I was born, about 40 minutes from where I grew up, and two hours from where I went to university. Of course, if you told me I was moving someplace else, I'd probably panic and start to enumerate all the reasons I want to stay. Sometimes it's hard to see what you've got until you don't have it anymore. I've never not had it. But it's not really a good time to take risks, so we stay put and I pull weeds and twice daily shake the Japanese beetles into a bucket of soapy water. They are my new aggravation. The chipmunks and I have called a truce. The one in the garage is, um, no longer a problem. I won't elaborate. The ones in the front are still digging holes, but I'm going to let them alone. There's no snake that we've seen. But the Japanese beetles have decided to dine on my butterfly bush. I'm not a landscape perfectionist (ha! understatement-spotters can indulge in 45-second belly laugh), but these Japanese beetles are nasty imports with no natural predators to speak of, unless you count those pheromone bags that dangle from people's trees and bushes. So the simplest advice is to go outside twice daily and shake, snag, grab, and drop those nasty, crunchy creatures into a bowl or bucket of soapy water. Seems about as productive as pulling up dandelions one-by-one in a yard that's not been sprayed for weeds. These beetles are nasty. I've knocked hundreds into my soap-filled buckets, and hundreds more arrive to munch on the bush.

Ever since I read Prodigal Summer (not that I recommend it, however) and thought about the food chain, I've been wondering about a lot of things, like the way spraying is breaking down the food chain and messing up pollination and all kinds of things. And then it makes me wonder, Where did all the creatures go? The Midwest used to be dense forests filled with bobcats and bears, foxes, and maybe wolves? Where are all those creatures now? Where do they live? Sometimes I just wish I could reforest my little suburban plot of land here, and see the trees grow strong, fat and tall in my lifetime (too late now, unless they are sugar maples or some pines). Sometimes I wish I could move out into the woods and live with minimal impact on the environment, but there's always an impact. I wouldn't want to give up running water, for instance. But is there a way? Sometimes I wonder.

I'm borderline granola-girl most of the time.

What I need about now is a good pair of Birkenstocks.

August 12, 2003
Well, I'm quite happy to offer those crazy essays to the world to read. Now I feel free to pursue some new writing ideas that have been germinating and maybe even incubating a bit over the past weeks, months...I don't know. I may have been considering one for years!

I've been reading some interesting books. I just read one called Divine Mosaic. The author, Paul Gordon Chandler, has traveled around the world with International Bible Society and Billy Graham ministries and was a missionary kid who grew up in Africa, so he has a wonderful "take" on things, not restricted to a Western point of view. He takes the reader to various places in the world and helps us learn from Christians in those places. Amazon link to Divine Mosaic

I wish in the last chapter he had synthesized the various themes and suggested how we Western (he's living in England now) Christians can change for the better as a result of valuing all that our brothers and sisters in Christ around the world bring to their faith. I purposefully read this after reading a book about postmodern Christianity. It seemed like a good fit. Chandler didn't set out to write a postmodern book, which is why it was extra-fascinating. He seemed less self-conscious about writing to address the needs of postmodern Christianity than those who purposefully set out to do so, yet he provided incredible ideas that apply directly to what postmodern analysts are exploring. He was just writing about what he observed and shared what he thought we could gain; I think he touched on some powerful insights.

I wonder how the church is going to change in the next decades? I wonder how ideas from Christians experiencing powerful relationships with Jesus Christ will infiltrate and enrich how we worship, learn and pray? The ideas were so simple. For example, he talked about how Russian Christians approach God with such awe. They are never flippant or take for granted the privilege of knowing God through Jesus Christ. He had an occasion when he was going to pray with some men who were ready to commit their lives to Christ, and they fell prostrate on the floor. They knew that this God to whom they were about to give their entire lives, was the One, True God worthy of all honor, glory and praise! They didn't want to mess around just leaning forward in their chair with their eyes closed. They responded like so many places in Scripture where people fall face down in the presence of our holy God.

He touched on other cultures in which the Christians there cherish God's mystery and ability to work miracles. And other cultures where they seem to exude the joy of the Lord in every way. And other places where they know what perseverance means to a degree we can't possibly currently understand. He provided biblical comparisons, examining situations and people who exhibit the same traits or saw God in the same light.

So it was a great tour of Christians across the world and how they see/experience/approach God. It's a reminder that none of us has it all figured out, and God is not neatly boxed into liturgy or theology or style of worship.

He is God, and there is no other.

August 11, 2003
The last essay is up, called "Egghead." No one has commented on whether they find them readable, interesting, helpful, awful...so feel free to offer thoughts. Be sure to put "contemplative" in the subject line so that I don't accidentally delete you, thinking your note is spam! Click here to read "Egghead," "Those That Have Young," Flab," and "Mommy Sisyphus"

August 10, 2003
I uploaded another essay to that same page. The editor never saw this essay. I'm just giving my friends a peek at everything. You'll get to know the early-Ann-mom through this one. It's called "Those That Have Young," and I'm simply pasting each new essay above the last-posted one. They are in one long stream on one page. You have to scroll down to see "Flab" and "Mommy Sisyphus," if you missed those. Maybe I can figure out a better layout someday.
Click here to read "Those That Have Young"

August 9, 2003
Another of the essays is online at the same link.
Click here to read "Flab"

August 8, 2003 addendum
Just received word that my publisher isn't interested in a new project I proposed. I'm posting just one "essay" that might have been part of it. It's under "essays." You can click here to read it. It's called "Mommy Sisyphus" (when the page comes up, it says "poetry--trees," but that's a small misnomer. Sorry for the confusion):  Click here to read "Mommy Sisyphus"

August 8, 2003
Oh! I forgot to post. I'm still in vacation mode, limited technology, slow-motion, paying no heed to the clock or the calendar...well, that's not true. It's actually back-to-school time, working on preparation for all that.

I had to wrestle my flab into a swimsuit yesterday to take the kids swimming, and it was at that moment that I resolved (again) to run and try to get rid of the stuff. I know that one of the neighbors, who was there with his kids, thought I was expecting again. I could just tell. And I can't say that I blame him. I look about four or five months pregnant, but it's just flab. Can't shake it. Well, I can shake it, which I won't elaborate on, but I can't get rid of it.

I jogged last night and ate light. I plan to again tonight.

This is the shifting middle-age metabolism paying me a visit, I do believe. I had friends tell me that they passed the 35 mark and it was all downhill. I seem to be right on track. In the old days, in the 27-34 era, I could start jogging a little bit and eat normally and still keep my weight down. Looks like those days are gone. I'm going to have to be a more diligent dieter and persevere with regular exercise.

I'm off to try to organize a section or two of my house. Sigh. I wish I were born organized.

August 5, 2003
I'm back! Back from a week at family camp. I read three books, wrote in a spiral-bound notebook, hiked, laughed, rested, and ate three meals a day that I didn't have to cook. It was all provided, and for the first time since being a mom, I felt like I had a true vacation. No cooking. Wow.

I also realized how drawn I am to the outdoors and somewhat modified communal living. We camped in our popup, but there were some central gathering places for meals and discussions, and I really like that space to pull away and be alone with time to join with others and socialize. I could live like that. My suburban lifestyle doesn't really allow for that. Some of my friends seem to have more friendships formed in their cul-de-sacs and streets, having cookouts and borrowing this and that. Around our streets, people seem to keep to themselves more. Maybe it's just me, but that's my perception and if I'm correct, I want to honor that. I want to give people their space.

Anyway, for a few days that week, I was seriously pondering how we could work in outdoor ministry somehow. Philippe humored me, knowing I eventually abandon my unconventional dreams and go back to hauling the kids around town in the minivan, begrudgingly joining the status quo.

I read A New Kind of Christian, by Brian McLaren and Clowning in Rome, by Henri Nouwen and Velma Still Cooks in Leeway, by Vinita...um...can't remember her last name. Three very different books, all enjoyable in totally different ways.

Still slowly working my way through Orthodoxy, confirming with each page that my mind was not made for philosophy.

A friend of mine and I posed to each other the question, "What would you study if you could go back for post-graduate work?" Her answer was forestry. Mine was theology. But as I read more and more of Chesterton, I wonder if I could really handle it?

July 25, 2003
A head cold in July seems as out of place as an iceberg bumping against the beaches of Barbados. But I've got one. A head cold, that is. It translates into a series of contradictions: swimsuits and Kleenexes, home-grown tomatoes and Echinacea supplements, sunscreen and Vicks.

Unrelated to the head cold, I'm taking a week off: Radio silence, technology-free, blogless.

I'll have much to download after that time span. A week of life will pass by and I'll try to summarize all the accompanying revelations in a good old-fashioned spiral notebook. That's tough. I prefer to splatter them onto the screen.

I'll post a report afterwards.

July 24, 2003
Does anyone think to prepare women for motherhood? I was meeting with our pastor today and in the course of the conversation, I told him that in considering working full-time I realized I just couldn't. My kids are still too young. I told him that I rhetorically asked Philippe one night, "How much does a woman have to sacrifice to be a mom? How much more do I have to give up in life?"

He winced and then said that he wants to talk with his daughter about this at some point, to prepare her. I was so impressed. He recognized her gifts, her skills, her passion for leadership and creative abilities. And while he winced a little for me, it was primarily for the future woman his daughter will be. If she marries, she may likely face the same issues of giving things up in order to be the mom she feels called to be. "I want to prepare her for that," he said. "I dread that conversation that I intend to have with her in a few years."

No one had that conversation with me, so I bumbled along for the first years trying to figure it out on my own. There's a dreadful silence about how being a mom changes absolutely everything. The knowledge and wisdom passed on through societies where moms and grandmas and aunts and cousins are all jumbled together sharing insights wasn't there for me.

I read an article about Mick Jagger's daughter. She argued that women should have children when they are younger, rather than waiting, because then they figure out how to work with kids, weaving it all together, instead of establishing work habits and patterns and introducing kids into that. She said it better than that, but what an interesting point. Of course, I'm sure she has nannies and housekeepers and limitless other resources at hand as a millionaire designer and daughter of a rock star. But the principle is applicable. Your life pursuits and a potential career can be invented in the midst of motherhood.

But there are still a hundred sacrifices, a hundred deaths, and grief to accompany them all.

Then Nathalie looks up with chocolate ice cream smeared around her mouth and whispers, "I love you, Mama." And Daniel imitates his Papa at the table and then grins and giggles. And Isabelle gives me an extra squeeze, lingering in our good-night embrace. And Sophie blows me a kiss.

Hugs and kisses and squeezes and giggles make it easier. The sacrifices seem so worth it. I was gone all day today helping out at church. When I got back, I realized I hadn't seen my kids for hours. That is so unusual. I'm usually with them nonstop. Continuous childcare has been my life for the past nine years. Okay, there are occasional breaks, but nothing consistent.

But today's revelation was how much I missed them. Just one day apart, and I missed them. I missed a summer day with my children, and I realized that this is what I'm about right now. I'm a mom. Sure, I'm experimenting with several things, but I'm a mom. And it is good.

July 23, 2003
Today I was going on and on (imagine the Peanuts adults "Wah-wah, wah-wah-wah-wah...") about the house and how we need to get things in order or we're never going to make it through the school year and the shoes are in the middle of the floor when we walk in the door and wah-wah-wah, wah-wah...

So somewhere in that harangue, when I was complaining that they don't do things, nobody pitches in, we live in chaos, etc., Sophie says, "Well, Mama, when you sit at the computer and tell us what to do, even though I know you clean in the evenings, it would be easier if you would pitch in with us and help. Then it wouldn't feel like we're doing everything and you're doing nothing."

Ouch. Thank heavens she mentioned my evening work. I decided to expand on that. I couldn't help it. I was feeling defensive. "So, even though I fold and put away three loads of laundry every night, wipe down the counters, mop the floor, pick up all the games and junk you got out earlier in the day, vacuum and dust and swish all the toilets after you're in bed, you still want me to get up in the afternoon and work alongside you?"

"Yes," she stated boldly. "It would be easier. You could just do all your computer work at night when we're sleeping, then, and clean when we're awake."

"Oh." Long pause for thought. Good idea. Doggone it, she got me on that plan. It made good sense. I couldn't argue it. Afternoon is the low point in my day, however. I sit at the computer to survive...to catch my breath...to be off my feet for a few minutes. It will be hard to give that up.

Nevertheless, I decided to meet her--well, all of them--halfway. "Okay, let's try it. We'll all pitch in and do some major cleaning on a couple of afternoons every week. Deal?"

"Deal."

We'll see how that goes. I'd like a cleaner house. I'd like to model good habits. And I sure don't want to be known to my kids as a lazy, bossy mom.

The last thing I want is to imagine one of my girls sitting on the floor of her college dorm room, saying, "You know those old Peanuts cartoons, when the grownups talk?" I can just see her pinching her nose and offering a nasal rendition to the laughter of her roommate. "That was my mom. Every day. Clean the room, no one helps me, shoes everywhere, socks in the floor, 'Wah-wah, wah-wah-wah...'"

I can clean in the afternoon.

July 22, 2003
I just archived some old blogs, so if you want to read the older entries, I think this link will get you there: Ann's archived blogs

Do you think we could all just have, oh, maybe seven clothes items in our closets and four in our drawers? I'm sick of laundry. Two of my children will be wearing uniforms to school this fall. For this, I occasionally pause while folding to sigh gratefully. The kids will have no more than, say, two blue bottoms, two khaki bottoms, and four white tops. Voila. Done. That's less than a load for the week.

I'm always stretched with domestic concerns, but laundry seems to be the worst of all. Besides, I shrink everything. I just folded a T-shirt of Philippe's this morning, and gasped. It looks like it would fit my nine-year-old daughter. I also washed a small rug on cold, no dryer. It shrank.

People look at me like I'm some kind of domestic idiot, asking the same investigative questions, like, "You wash colors in cold, don't you? Do you use the coolest setting on your dryer?" Yes! Yes, I wash colors in cold and dry them on the lightest setting. Still, things shrink dramatically. Oh, except for one cotton blouse that I would like to shrink. It is determined to stay at its original size, about two sizes too big for me. And even when I carefully sort reds from yellows from dark colors like blues, I pull out some piece of clothing that has streaks from something with colors that bled. I ruined a baby blanket, two of Philippe's favorite T-shirts, a pair of jeans, and several shorts that way.

My battles are with all things domestic.

July 20, 2003
If you ever want to respond to my blogs, feel free to e-mail me at ann@contemplativemom.com. Put the word "contemplative" in the subject line, or I might think you're spam.

Book update: I finished Prodigal Summer. It's a biodiversity novel. It was a chance for Kingsolver to use her leverage as an author to get on her environmental soapbox, and I think her passion for biodiversity bullied the storyteller in her, because the quality wasn't as strong as other novels of hers that I've read. I'm pretty open to environmental topics, and by the end, I was sick of her characters educating me, er, some character or another, about the rights of predators and the tragedy of genetic engineering. I'd rather read all of that in one of her essays. In fact, several of her essays in Small Wonder are about just that, and somehow it's easier to take in her views when she comes at them straight on. I know one's passion and world view can't help but find their way into a novel or story, but in this case, I think she went to far. The story was merely a vehicle to go on and on about her views. I felt like I was reading an Ayn Rand novel, who wrote stories to convey her philosophy. In that case, I went into them knowing what I was getting--I knew I was going to learn about a philosophy through the entertaining vehicle of story.

With Kingsolver, it felt like a dirty trick. I thought I was reading a neat novel. Silly me. I was reading environmentalist propaganda masked as a novel. What a let-down.

Besides, there were a lot of, as I said earlier, "bedroom" scenes. She seemed to be tying it all in to a "circle of life" kind of mentality, we're all tied together by the food chain, by courtship rituals and mating, survival of the fittest. I can't say that I recommend it. If she hadn't been quite so preachy and the story were stronger, I might have said to go ahead in spite of the mating, in spite of the extreme environmental views. As it is, I'd say to go ahead and pass on it.

July 18, 2003
This is birthday month: Philippe, my mom, my sister-in-law and her son, my nephew, practically the entire Clark family who are some close friends of ours, and a dear friend in Missouri. And the trouble is, I'm terrible at remembering birthdays and cards and celebrations. I'm lucky to make it to a party on time, let alone remember a gift. If I manage a gift, it never has a card, and sometimes not even an identifying label on it. Anyway, I feel like I've been singing "Happy Birthday" nonstop. But it's fun, too. It's hard to fit everything in, but it's fun.

July 15, 2003
Yesterday, Daniel reached to the top of the dryer for a full container of laundry detergent. While I was preparing dinner, he decided to unscrew the lid and see how that stuff pours. It pours very well, he discovered. It overflows the cap and spreads out over the entire laundry room floor, he discovered. At some point, after half of the liquid oozed under the washer and dryer, he decided he'd discovered all that the liquid detergent could do, so he moved on to other items of interest. Then I discovered what he had discovered. I was not happy, and Daniel clearly understands now that seeing how the laundry detergent pours is not something that he should be doing again. I sopped up that detergent, towel, after towel, T-shirt after T-shirt, shorts, dish towels, anything within reach that was headed for the washer was part of the sopping process. I got all I could see. When Philippe came home, we had to use the Shop-vac on the water feature with a squirt of defoamer. He lifted the dryer and scooted out the washer and we sucked and swiped and mopped that stuff up. The laundry room floor is the cleanest it's ever been. But this is the kind of thing that makes a person feel like all progress is negated. In fact, it's worse than simply canceling out any progress I might have made that day; I'm actually operating in the negative here, you know?

July 14, 2003
We needed to weed the garden this weekend. With the rains we've had, everything has grown to rain forest proportions, most of all the weeds--taller than the corn, I tell you! In making our plans, I mentioned to Philippe the large holes in the garden, including the word "snake." Nathalie overheard. "Snake?" Her eyes were wide with excitement. "Did you say, 'snake'?"

"I did. I think there might be a snake in the garden."

"But maybe not," Philippe interjected. "It's probably nothing." He's good at managing expectations.

"A snake!" she exclaimed. Next thing we knew, she raced upstairs to put on some work jeans then grabbed two plastic Wal-mart bags. "Here, Mama. This one's for me to put the weeds in, and this is for you."

"Oh, Nathalie, there are far too many weeds--enormous weeds, and lots of them! They aren't going to fit in this little sack. We'll need some big black trash bags, too."

"Oh, yours isn't for weeds," she clarified. "That's for the snake. When you catch it, you can put it in there."

"Oh, really?" I asked. "Alive?" Philippe was grinning. He knew I had begged him to go out with me with a shovel in hand to chop off its head. I didn't want to meet a snake alone, and I surely wouldn't catch it and toss it into a plastic Wal-mart bag single-handedly.

"Yes!" Nathalie exclaimed. Then she sobered a little. "Or you can kill it. How will you kill it?"

"Papa will chop of its head with a shovel. Then we can stuff it in that bag."

She grinned. "Okay! Let's go!"

So much for respecting and caring for God's creation with an air of reverence. Off with its head!

We weeded the forest of growth the entire morning, Nathalie hovering nearby with her Wal-mart bag. "Is this where the snake hole was? Am I near it now? Have you seen the snake? Did Papa kill the snake yet?"

The day ended with a tidy garden, but no snake. Nathalie wandered off after awhile and changed into a swimsuit to try the Slip-n-slide. Then she sat under an umbrella and sang songs to herself while staring at the fluff-clouds puffing across the sky. Philippe and I finished weeding and tying up the tomato plants, spreading mulch under all the plants like we should have when we first started the garden.

There was one exciting moment when I put my hand down near the frog-shaped sprinkler that we had put in the center of the garden and forgotten about. In a flurry of gasps and exclamations, Nathalie came racing over. When I showed her the resin frog with the sprinkler hole, she laughed at me. "You thought it was a snake! You thought it was a real frog!" Yes, well, silly me.

No snakes, no frogs, not even a toad. The ladies in my discussion group (contemplativemoms@yahoogroups.com) suggested it was a toad hole. Wouldn't that have been humiliating? It was bad enough that I was startled by the enormous, fake mutant-frog-sprinkler when I unearthed it, but if all that snake to-do was over a humble, warty toad, well, I would have been humiliated.

This evening I watched a baby rabbit hop the perimeter of the garden. I wondered if he would find the hole on the outside of the fence, squirm into it and emerge on the inside to nibble all my plants, solving the mystery, but he hopped through a hole in the neighbor's fence to munch her lettuce leaves.

After a thorough examination of the evidence before me, in my expert suburban analysis, I have narrowed down the culprits to the most logical suspect.

Chipmunks.

The chipmunks have fallen into disfavor lately anyway. We discovered another one scampering in the garage again. I think it's chipmunks who dug the three holes, maybe even creating another chipmunk network, an underground metropolis weaving around the roots of my tomato plants and corn stalks.

I love home-grown tomatoes and corn.

This may mean war.

July 13, 2003
Honoring the Sabbath, for modern protestants attending suburban megachurches takes a certain inner determination and willingness to be different. And defining "rest," as well as "honor" in relation to what a Sabbath should be is also sticky. "Rest" to a person living 3000 years ago is quite different than "rest" to a person who has modern conveniences and cooks dinner with electricity using food purchased at a supermarket. People who work at computer terminals all day might actually need to get outside and work in the garden to "rest" in a broader sense. I'm not sure what's right and true. This is yet another thing that will require some exploration, research, study and then figure out how to apply it. For now, I think I'll take a nap.

July 12, 2003
You're going to stop visiting if I take this long to post! Well, the bees are gone. The chipmunks and we have agreed on a peaceful coexistence, as long as they stay out of the attic and garage. If they venture in, however, it's all-out war. The weather is perfect, for the moment, with temperatures in the 70s and a beautiful sunny sky. The toddler's runs have subsided. Now I worry about a very large hole discovered in the garden. A snake?

Also, I've been working a few hours for my church on some writing and editing projects. This has been a wonderful experience, reawakening those skills and interacting with adults for a few hours each week. The kids are having a blast with their babysitters, one of whom donned a swimsuit and did Slip-n-slide with them! I'm too old for that; there are advantages to paying someone to have fun with the kids.

My brother is in Iceland.

On July 9, I read this on Writer's Almanac e-mail: "It's the birthday of English novelist Ann Radcliffe, born in London, England (1764). She lived a quiet and unremarkable life. One biographer tried to write her life's story, but gave up for lack of material."

While I don't want a life of fame or fortune, I do sometimes worry that I might end up living an "unremarkable life." My friend Sharon said that she and her husband have been praying for about a year for a "bigger story," an experience of stepping out in faith in a way that they might see God at work in ways bigger than their current life. It reminds me of that famous D.L. Moody story. Moody heard Henry Varley say, "The world has yet to see what God can do with and for and through and in a man who is fully and wholly consecrated to Him." Moody was deeply moved by these words and said, "By God's grace, I will be that man." Moody was a shoe salesman, and God used him to become an evangelist and speak of God's grace through Jesus Christ to thousands. That's a dramatic story, but I think that if I am a mom who is fully and wholly consecrated to Him, my life may or may not appear unremarkable on the outside, but I'll be living a "bigger story," seeing God working.

Well, before I sign off, I have to report on Prodigal Summer, by Barbara Kingsolver. I wasn't but two pages into the book when I said it was on my reading list. I just want to report back that there is a "bedroom scene" (though technically a front porch scene) in the first few pages. My, my, Barbara! I knew from her book of essays that she had written her first full-fledged "bedroom scene," but I didn't know it appeared in the first pages of this book. Surprise! I didn't want anyone else to be taken off-guard.

July 9, 2003
A huge nest of ground hornets by the air conditioner that isn't working on days when the temperature is above 90 degrees. Chipmunks digging under the house, the siding, the sidewalk. A toddler with the runs.

The last few days have been tiring.

July 6, 2003
Currently reading: Prodigal Summer by Barbara Kingsolver, because it's been too long since I've read one of her novels. Someone said that reading this book pushed her out of her comfort zone in some way (she didn't elaborate). I want to see if it'll do the same for me. I just started it yesterday.

Orthodoxy, by G.K. Chesterton. I'm taking notes. My super-smart sister-in-law who nearly has her Ph.D. in philosophy said it was a must-read. She told me that about nine years ago, and I'm only just now getting around to tackling it.

The Acts of the Apostles. Boy, those apostles prayed continually and couldn't keep quiet about Jesus! And the word of God kept on spreading and the number of believers increased by the thousands.

July 5, 2003
I want to honor the little person that my toddler is. I don't want to embarrass the future boy he will be, but he just threw the biggest tantrum I've ever seen in my entire life!

It happened two days ago. I made the fatal mistake of stirring up a yummy blend of yogurt--two of his favorite flavors--and then offered to feed him. "Mama will feed you, Daniel." I smiled really big and held out the spoon hopefully.

He shrieked and dropped to his bottom. He slammed his hands over his ears and screamed louder than a siren, then he slapped his hands over his eyes while tears started dropping out--no, almost forcefully popping out--of his eyes. He stood, ran himself into the wall--kaboom! He bounced backwards, stumbling a few steps, then hurled himself onto the floor and knocked his head a few times against the wood. Then he pounded his hands and feet a second or two, then stood, ran against a short railing and grabbed two rails and tried shaking them like King Kong stuck in a cage, practically howling. He ran back and plopped back down in front of me.

He wanted to feed himself, you see.

By this time, I'd already put the yogurt away. The girls, Philippe and I had been looking at each other in amazement during this outrageous display of anger. We plopped a few raisins in a baggie and told him to come along, we're leaving.

He stood up, stomped several steps toward a sippy cup of juice that he must have hurled in his fury, picked it up and tucked it under his arm. Then he stuck his fingers in his mouth to suck on them. The storm abated as quickly as it had blown in.

He's right on schedule for the "terrible two's," even a little advanced. His second birthday is just a month or so away. We're so proud.

July 3, 2003
Fellow writer, mom, friend, Natalie Y. has given me a link to Barbara Kingsolver's site.

www.kingsolver.com

I've been reading the FAQs and finding answers to questions I've wondered about for years after reading The Poisonwood Bible and recently reading her essays. I think I might read Prodigal Summer this summer now that I have insider information.

Thank you, Natalie!

June 30, 2003
"You shall know the truth," wrote Flannery O'Connor one time, "and the truth shall make you odd."

Odd, indeed. My enthusiasm for Jesus--the Way, the Truth and the Life--makes me odd to the world. Part of me feels at home in being different, out of place, even a tad quirky. My brother suggested that both of us have that inclination, that desire to stand apart. Maybe everyone does? But the "oddness" that comes from knowing Christ, being known by Him and talking openly about my relationship with Him isn't the same kind of odd my brother referred to. I think my brother was thinking more of our thoughts of moving to a farm and having horses, chickens and a milk cow. Or our dreams of living in Europe for a few years so that our family can learn French and eat baguettes slathered with Nutella every morning for breakfast. Or the passing fancy of spending a few years in California investing in at least one pair of Birkenstocks for everyone in the family and considering which redwood we might fasten ourselves to in order to save the forest. I've always lived in the conservative Midwest. Around these parts, interests and ideas like those are bold indicators that we are odd.

This is not the kind of "odd" that O'Connor was suggesting.

Whatever discomfort or inconvenience or future persecution may arise from the resulting oddness of belonging to Christ is worth the knowledge that I have found in Him all that I have ever wanted and all I will ever need. Someday I would like to track down and read the rest of O'Connor's letter, the letter in which she penned that amusing wordplay based on John 8:32, which actually states, "Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free."

I am free, and I am odd. This is yet another paradox of the Christian faith among so many others. Yet those paradoxes--the first shall be last and the last shall be first; whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for Jesus' sake will find it; the kingdom of God belongs to those who are like little children--those are the very things Christians build their faith upon. They form the basis for orthodoxy, for creeds, for church doctrine. There is mystery in them, which the logical, reasoning people of the world find very uncomfortable and very odd.

I believe these things, these odd truths. I have built my very existence and banked my eternity on them. The teachings of Jesus and writings of the apostles form the basis of all that I am. Jesus Himself is all that I am.

In a world intent on finding "self," that is very odd. "I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me," I read in Galatians 2:20. "The life I live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me."

Most people think that's very odd, believing that Christ lives in me, through the Holy Spirit whom He sent. Believing that He has bought me with a price and in a sense "owns" me. It's odd that the Son of God (that is, God Himself) loved me and gave Himself for me. But that's the truth that I believe.

If that makes me odd, I shall be odd indeed.

June 29, 2003
Where in the world is East Timor? Some of you may be wondering from yesterday's blog. It's where our most recent bag of coffee is from. Philippe thinks it's fine (the coffee, that is; he doesn't know enough about East Timor to know if it's fine). I didn't like it all that much (again, the coffee). But where did these mediocre beans come from?

World Atlas info about East Timor

From that site, I found this summary: About the size of the U.S. State of Connecticut, East Timor was ruled by Portugal for over 400 years, and when the Portuguese pulled out in 1975, it was annexed by the country of Indonesia. This speck of land, this half of the island of Timor, has finally gained its hard-fought independence after decades of struggle with Indonesia. It is now the world's newest nation, one recognized by the United Nations and the other countries of the world.

Pretty cool, eh? Too bad about the beans.

While I'm on the topic of coffee, my mom, who is now reading my blogs, suspected I may have exaggerated the coffee story (see June 16th's coffee update), about my miserable coffee-making skills and my brother nearly gagging on a cup of it. Now, I will confess that I have been guilty of slightly exaggerating a story for comedic effect from time to time, but in this case, I did not. I intend to defend myself! Today we were able to confirm it. We were all together for dinner, and I asked my brother straight out. Did he gag? Did he have to gulp down two glasses of water to get rid of the taste? Was it terrible? He nodded with a grimace. So it's official: the coffee was undrinkable. He softened it by saying that he prefers his Starbucks even to his own home-brewed coffee. "I'm a coffee snob," he confessed. Well, that's fine, but I'm still not making any more coffee, not even if Madeleine L'Engle shows up on my doorstep and begs for it. If Philippe isn't home when Madeleine arrives, however, I might phone my neighbor and pay her a large sum of money to drive to Starbucks for me.

To conclude the coffee confirmation issues, for the record, my mom confessed that she drank only a little before she, too, found it too bad to finish. During the discussion, Philippe interjected that there were some measuring issues involved, citing the yellow scoop -v- black scoop mistake. Who knew that the yellow scoop was strictly for the beans? Who knew? Who knew... (she trails off, shaking her head, turning to the tea bags for consolation)

June 28, 2003
Coffee Update: East Timor...nope. As much as I would like to support small co-op coffee growers, I can't say that I would order any of these based on taste alone. Maybe justice would cause me re-order the best of the five choices. But none so far can beat Belgium's Douwe Egberts. It was interesting to see on the Sara Lee site (which owns Douwe Egberts) that they claim to be purchasing from small growers to fulfill a commitment to making a positive impact in Third World countries. (Click here if you're curious about Douwe Egberts global responsibility.) It appears that they're trying to stick to Fair Trade policies. So I don't feel so bad about buying theirs, now. And it sounds like even Starbucks has a Fair Trade bean, though some question how "green" it really is. We haven't tried it yet.

Chocolate Update: I found more milk chocolate chips. You may wonder where I'm "finding" all these chips; you may be concerned about the state of my cupboards. Well, what happens is that I'm too cheap to use the entire bag of chips on one recipe of chocolate chip cookies. So I use about half, then twist-tie the bag shut and tuck it into a box on a shelf in my baking cupboard. Well, these half-bags are kind of small, so they drop behind things, or something new gets plopped on top of them. For example, I found this most recent half-bag of milk chocolate chips under a big bag of brown sugar. I try to combine all the quarter- and half-bags into a plastic storage container, but sometimes I get in a hurry and just drop them in the bigger organizer. Anyway, it's both a curse and a wonderful discovery to have found this little treasure. Mostly a curse.

June 26, 2003
I have an explanation for my silences these past three days. In fact, I'll sum it up in just three letters:

VBS.

Yes, Vacation Bible School week is pretty consuming. My apologies for not blogging, if any of you have been waiting with bated breath. You'll have to wait at least two more days for more news. I need some sleep. I will, however, share something I posted to my discussion group:

Lately, Daniel (almost 2) has been making this mean old face: eyes narrowed, eyebrows scrunched up, mouth kind of pursed. He looks mean and mad! "Daniel, what is up with you?" I'd ask. "Boy, he looks mad as can be," one of the girls would remark. Then one time I was changing him and he did something gross and naughty. "Daniel!" I scolded. Then I became aware of my eyebrow-muscles flexing, and watched as Daniel immediately made his "face," his mean, old, mad, ugly face.

Oh.

It was mine all along.

June 23, 2003
This article about Frederick Buechner is by Lauren Winner. I subscribed to regeneration for awhile. It's postmodern. I felt young reading it.
http://www.regenerator.com/6.1/buechner.html

June 22, 2003
Visit the Trapdoor Society. There, women are discussing movies they've seen, books they've read. It's a place to exchange ideas with ordinary people, not just eggheads. It's the lifelong learner types who prefer to keep the synapses firing as long as possible instead of falling into intellectual atrophy.
www.trapdoorsociety.com

June 21, 2003
Here's what I would do if I had enough money and clout: I would get Lauren Winner, Sara Groves, Anne Lamott and Madeleine L'Engle in the same room at the same time and just see what happens. That's what I'd do. I'd videotape the whole thing and serve tea, not coffee, even if they begged for the coffee, because I really wouldn't want a coffee fiasco with these current heroines of mine. I'd stay very quiet except for asking questions or throwing out a controversial statement now and then, just to see how they respond. Yes, that's what I'd do. And then I'd write you all about it.

What? You don't know who they are? Okay, hang on. Let me find some links.

Sara Groves:
http://www.familychristian.com/music/interviews/groves_conversations.asp
Anne Lamott & Lauren Winner in one, fell swoop: http://www.christianitytoday.com/ct/9t2/9t2076.html
More on Anne Lamott from a different CT author: http://www.christianitytoday.com/ct/2003/001/8.56.html
Madeleine L'Engle: Oh, for heaven's sake! You mean to tell me that you don't know who Madeleine is? Just go to the library. Her Crosswicks journals (a set of four) are wonderful.

I would also take a conversation with any one of them at any place and time. I'd fly almost anywhere to sit and talk. I hung out next to Sara Groves' tour bus after a concert one time, just to see if she'd come out and chat. But after a few minutes, a friend accused me of stalking her. It was a joke, but my other friend and I decided to leave. Didn't even get to wave. But I sat within spitting distance of her during the concert.

Come to think of it, that other friend stayed back near the bus after I left. Hm. Who's the stalker now?

June 19, 2003
Cindy Sumner, MomSense Magazine’s Contributing Editor, asked Christian musician Cheri Keaggy, “How do you balance the demands of your artistic endeavors and your family?”

Cheri Keaggy answered, “I believe that if you have work you feel called to do, as I feel called to music, that the Lord will give you what you need to carry out that calling. One of my favorite quotes is: 'God doesn’t call the equipped, he equips the called.' Striking a balance in my life means making day-to-day choices. I am sensitive to the fact that my time at home has to be spent wisely. That helps me prioritize my days” (p. 9, August/September 2001, MomSense).

I've been wondering about this.

June 17, 2003
Don't ask yourself what the world needs; ask yourself what makes you come alive. And then go and do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.
- Harold Whitman

What makes you come alive?

June 16, 2003
Chocolate update: I ate no chocolate on Father's Day. None. Not the tiniest chip, drip or morsel. But today I found another chocolate bunny from Easter and ate half of it dipped in peanut butter for my version of a peanut butter cup. I'm so weak. Oh, and I was given permission from one of the ladies I work with at the church to raid a coworker's drawer, which resulted in two Hershey's kisses--a little brain food to boost my editing.

Coffee update: We broke open the Nicaraguan bag with great anticipation; a coffee taster ranked it quite high, as good as anything they offer. It therefore held great promise. But I made the coffee twice yesterday, and I made it too weak--so weak, in fact, that my brother tasted it, then leaped up and drank two glasses of water in a row, leaving the coffee on the table untouched. Mom said she had to let it cool, but I'm not sure she ever finished hers, either. I give up. Don't ask me to make coffee. I do tea. It's all I do. This morning when I announced I was completely through with coffee-making, Philippe said, "It's not an art; it's a science. Five scoops for five cups of water. You can do that."

"No, I can't," I answered. "I did that and it was terrible. It was undrinkable."

"Did you use five scoops?"

"Yes. Charlie almost threw up. He drank two cups of water to get the taste out of his mouth, poor guy."

"What scoop did you use."

"The one in the can. The yellow one."

"That's not the right scoop. You use the black one in the cabinet"

"Then WHY is the yellow one in the can?"

"It's just to scoop out the beans before grinding them."

It was a set-up; I was destined for failure. Now I simply refuse. No one drinks coffee in this house unless the primary coffee drinker is available with his perfect little black scoop.

Justice update: I ran into Chris, one of our church's outreach directors (yes, we have more than one), at Panera Bread this morning. We talked about his presentation this weekend. He told a story about a homeless person, then announced we were doing a food drive. When I was working with him on the inserts, we talked quite a bit about the food drive and other things. He said, "What would it be like if we challenged people to buy an extra bag of groceries every time they go to the store? And what would it be like if they started thinking about doing this for Jesus, and if they were buying food for Jesus, would they buy the no-name brands while they ate the name brands? Why not challenge people to fill that bag with the best stuff!" Of course I would serve Jesus the best I could afford! So...why not serve the best to the least of these whom He loves so much and in whom He is somehow present. Wow. That was so challenging. Chris didn't say all of that from the front on the weekend, but I've been thinking about it ever since he mentioned it. We already eat store brands of most things. I think it will be a good spiritual/emotional exercise to buy nicer, more expensive things to give away while I go on serving my family the store brands. Also, to buy an extra bag of groceries every week will be hard to get started, but I can start by buying an extra one every month and add on over time. It's a simple challenge. Can I eat even more frugally in order to give away my savings in the form of a grocery bag of supplies for food pantries in my own city?

Father update: You'll have to wait on this one. I wrote about my husband on Father's Day and said I'd write about my dad today. But to honor my dad, I don't want to throw something together. Give me a day or so.

June 15, 2003
If you want to read the older, archived blogs, I think this link will get you there:
Ann's archived blogs

Happy Father's Day to any dad who might be reading this...I know of at least one, and it isn't my husband who couldn't care less what I'm posting to the Internet as long as he ends up sounding like a superhero, which some days I do think he is. Except the day I was complaining about my flab and instead of saying, "Babe, you look terrific," he said, "We'll figure out how to get you out jogging again." WRONG ANSWER! He knew it, too. As soon as he said it, he tried to backtrack, but it was TOO LATE, bub. He was so busted. But normally, he really is superhero status, or approaching sainthood. He digs in and changes diapers, unloads the dishwasher, scrubs a toilet or two, folds clothes, does the whole bedtime routine with the kids. I think he doesn't stick his hands in the kids' mouths to floss. Not that he wouldn't. He just doesn't feel confident. But that's about it. He makes the bed the one or two times a year he's the last one to roll out of it. He mops better than I do. He does all those things AND the manly stuff, too. I think I hear the hammer even as I type. Oh, and he speaks fluent French on demand.

Two of the girls bought him Snickers bars with their own money. One bought him batteries with my money. They all bought him a decent T-shirt that says "World's Greatest Dad" in nice embroidered typeface. Today when Mom and Dad were visiting, he pulled it on and Mom read it aloud. "'World's Greatest Dad.' Well, now, I think there are some people in this room who truly believe that, some girls who pretty much adore him." It's true. Our three girls adore their Papa. I adore him, too.

I didn't post anything today about my own dad, but I think I'll save that for tomorrow and let this highlight only one dad at a time.

June 13, 2003
Dave Barry's blog sent me to this. He wrote, "Evidently the Swedes also have a lot of spare time." If you, too, have a lot of spare time, you can amuse yourself for about four minutes.

Something to click on when you have nothing better to do...

June 12, 2003
I just archived my old blogs, so any interested readers will have to contact me personally if they are simply dying to see what I wrote over the past couple of months.

Feel free to email me [please put "contemplative" in the subject line] at: ann@contemplativemom.com

In my contemplativemoms yahoo group, someone asked how motherhood has made our lives richer. This was an excellent exercise. Here's what I wrote in response:

The first thought that came to mind is that I've learned humility. Maybe that's another "dig" on motherhood, because the humility has come from performing the horrible, nasty jobs of motherhood (as well as the mundane, repetitive ones that aren't really nasty, but certainly not rewarding by the world's standards or mentally stimulating). Today I had a diaper that made me gag a bit, one that required a shower (for the toddler, not me, though I've had diapers that have required me to change clothes!), and a sterilization of the crib. That kind of daily work makes washing the disciples' feet seem pretty tame by comparison. In a backwards kind of way, that has made my spiritual life richer.

Similarly: servanthood. I mentioned that already, but I feel like I'm appreciating that Christ came not to be served, but to serve...so we, too, should be here to serve.

Another thing is the communal living of a family. I thought about this when I considered the "monkish" idea behind the word "contemplative" when I was writing the book. We are in a commune of sorts, where we all have to live together and make things work. We have to work together, live together, eat together, serve one another...help the weak and small ones along. Along with that, again in a backwards kind of way, I've learned to really, really appreciate my times of solitude and quiet. When I do have them, creatively and sporadically as I may find them, they are more precious than gold due to their rarity.

Patience, of course--already mentioned in the character department--is tested daily (coming up short quite often).

Walking by faith, too, really trusting and turning to God--I don't do it as continuously as I'd like, but I get to practice it. Like you said, Nichole, I get those, "Oh! I suppose this would be a good thing to pray about!" moments when I'm nearing personal meltdown.

Learning to see my faith simply and communicate it simply, too. Communicating to the kids what is true and what I've learned as I walk with them through life is a very good practice. As someone who enjoys thinking and analyzing, I can get things all muddled if I'm not careful, making something unnecessarily complex. Being with the kids helps me cut to the chase. Not that I oversimplify, however. I try to be honest about some of the mystery and complexity of some issues. Well, now I sound like I'm contradicting myself. See? This is what can happen to me when I'm talking with adults. The kids help me keep it simple.

I want my kids to think outside their own little worlds, and that in turn helps remind me to keep myself thinking outside my own little world. We dropped off some things at a women's shelter the other day, and they asked what this place was. Evidently when I've dropped things off, I've just said, "This is such-and-such a place," and they never questioned what it was. This time they asked. So I tried to delicately explain it...that these women married someone who didn't cherish them and treat them as they should be treated and loved as Christ loves them...and sometimes they even hurt the women or even the children. It made me so sad as I explained it. My kids must not have ever realized that some papas actually hurt their children or wives. As I pulled around to the back of the building to the drop off spot, I finished up with a phrase like, "So the shelter is a place for them to be safe if they have to leave these men who are hurting them. The people here take care of them and their kids and give them a place to stay and food to eat and even clothes to wear." I stopped the car and turned around to grab the first bag, and there was one of my girls staring at me with eyes as wide as saucers. In a quiet voice, nearly trembling, she asked, "So why are you here, Mama?" OHMY!! I quickly reassured her, "Oh, honey, your papa is an excellent man, an amazing husband, kind, gentle, loving...no, no, no...we're just dropping off some dishes and toys and baby swings and stuff that the women and children can use."

Boy, was that a moment!

But that kind of experience and interaction keeps me grateful. It makes me appreciate all that I have. It helps me see things differently, through the eyes of children.

Oh, I'm going to be thinking about this for quite some time, I think. It's a good and healthy thing to ponder.

June 11, 2003
I forgot to mention that we got our shipment of free trade coffee for my husband to taste test. He started with the Columbian. Keep in mind that he is spoiled by his Belgian upbringing where he drank some of the best coffee in the world! Some of their supermarket brands outperform even Starbucks, with all due respect to Starbucks fans. So he brewed a pot of the Columbian and it was good. Not amazing, not fabulous (compared to Belgian coffees). Just good. He suspects that two of the others may be better, so after we finish the Columbian we'll break open another bag to try and give a report. If we hit the jackpot and discover the most amazing coffee ever, I'll give you all the information you need to support coffee growing cooperatives in Third World countries. But I'm not going to send you there for the Columbian just yet, unless, of course, you have a personal passion to help the poor in Columbia. They could surely use the help.

Another interesting thing has happened in my personal journey toward justice: I'm working on some inserts for the church bulletin that go along with the messages. As a result, I'm discussing the topics at length before the fact, living with them, studying them, reading the driving Scripture passages. Well, this coming week the message is on: Justice. If I think to, I'll report back here at Blog-Central and let you know how the weekend goes...see if God instructs me in some specific way in my life. Maybe for now my justice actions will be about coffee and tea. Or maybe the Lord will require more of me. I don't know. I can barely keep the laundry done, so I'm not sure how to do that and be super involved in issues of justice. But I want to have God's heart and obey. So I'm listening to Him, trusting that He'll tell me if I need to do more.

Oh, and I just ate five milk chocolate chips (and one mutant half-chip) that I dug out of the bag. But that was it. No cookies, no candy bars. I ate sensibly today and only consumed five chocolate chips. It's progress.

June 10, 2003
This made me feel like a total wimp.
Fit Mom article

June 9, 2003
(Back from a camping weekend)
In Small Wonder, Barbara Kingsolver's book of essays, she's writes about poetry, "Poems are everywhere, but easy to miss." Then she explains how thoughts for poems come to her while she's changing the baby, chopping onions, doing the ordinary things of life, but usually the thought just rolls away under the bed among the dust bunnies, forgotten. Then she adds, "Years ago I got some inkling of this when I attended a reading by one of my favorite poets, Lucille Clifton. A student asked her about the brevity of her poems...Ms. Clifton replied simply that she had six children and could only hold about twenty lines in memory until the end of the day. I felt such relief, to know that this great poet was bound by ordinary life, like me." (p. 229)

This has rattled around in my mind while I myself have changed diapers, chopped onions, and wondered about the lost poems, essays, articles and books chapters that are likely rolling around under my bed or couch, cavorting with dust bunnies in my very dusty house. I love imagining a mom-poet walking around with 20 lines of images and ideas in her head to record at the end of the day. I wonder how I might manage to hang onto them that long?

June 6, 2003
Oh, those blasted chocolate chips! I just ate the last two cookies today. But I felt bloated, so I paid for it. And I had to write it down along with the handful of yogurt-covered raisins my mom left here. It's so humbling. Plus, I'm posting to the entire free world all the junk I'm eating. That's a little bit of accountability.

Overall, in spite of the chocolate issues, I'm feeling the tiniest bit refreshed. There's the health aspect--I'm starting to jog a few times each week. Okay, maybe only two times/week, but it's better than nothing! I'm getting enough sleep and I'm eating better in the off-chocolate hours.

Spiritually there is also some improvement. I think it's coming through realizing the basic things I have to learn and relearn an embarrassing number of times. Things like:

My life is not my own. It's the Lord's to do as He pleases, so I yield to Him and see my whole experience differently as a result.

Similarly, I'm His servant. Serving this family and these kids is part of my place in this world. I was thinking about it as I mowed the lawn this afternoon in the rain. For those few minutes, I was this home's/family's groundskeeper. When I came in, I had to mop the floor, so I was this home's/family's housekeeper. The list goes on, of course, as you can imagine, with the laundress and the cook and the gardener and all that. But it really was a simple perception shift to remember that I'm a servant of the Lord. So when I'm in these extremely humbling servant roles, it's good to remember that I'm doing it all as unto the Lord. I'm serving Him. Man, is it easy to forget that and turn into a martyr.

And the other things I'm realizing is that even though it feels like I have little left over to give the Lord after giving to all the rest of the kids and people who need me...I've got it all wrong. When I'm busy, working, serving the kids and my neighbors and friends...I'm busy, working, serving the Lord. It's that least of these thing. "When did I see You, Lord?" "When you did it to the least of these." When I hand out that cup of water with ice to the toddler, I'm doing it to the least of these and Christ is there.

So He's getting all of me, not just when I pull away to pray or study. He's getting all of me even when I'm mopping. Ideally, I'd pay more attention and interact with Him, recognize His presence and all, but even when I'm not, I'm still serving Him ultimately. Right?

So in the end, as usual for me, it's a slight shift in perception. Little else changes in my circumstances, yet the perception-shift causes my whole attitude to change.

God does this over and over, drags me confused and wandering around in left field back to the basics, the rock-bottom basics of walking with Christ and walking in the Spirit.

Someone told me once that there are really two messages any Christian speaker or preacher ever needs to give:

1) Turn to Christ in repentance and become a believer, and
2) Walk in the Spirit.

This message from God to me was number 2. Walk in the Spirit, Ann. Remember? I just told you last week, and the week before, and the week before.

Maybe this is why the Israelites had to remember and commemorate events and repeat the stories over and over.

Because we all forget.

At least I do.

Remember, Ann....remember...walk in the Spirit every day. You belong to Christ Jesus, who bought you with a price. Your life is not your own; let Christ live in you and through you. Submit; serve. Work as unto the Lord.

Remember.

June 4, 2003
It's a satanic plot: This morning I unearthed two bags of Easter candy I confiscated in late April. I had tossed them up high on the shelf of my closet and they'd fallen behind my stacks of T-shirts and shorts. This morning I resolved to straighten the stacks which had long since slid into unsightly heaps. As I did, drool, there were the bags. Just when I thought--as reported yesterday--that I was down to the least desirable treats--those semi-sweet chocolate chips--some full-blown candies appear. I'll have to confess to my food journal that I ate four of those candy orange slices...and...another Cadbury egg.

Pause, as the reader sits in stunned silence, horrified.

Yes, I ate an entire, gooey Cadbury egg. And it gets worse. You might want to sit down for this. Better yet, you might want to jog three miles just for thinking about this: Those stupid semi-sweet chocolate chips kept popping into my head, so tonight I offered to make chocolate chip cookies for my sweet-craving husband. He nodded enthusiastically, "Yes, yes, yes! Please make the cookies!" So I did. I made them. And I ate some dough. Two spoonfuls. And I ate two of the baked cookies.

Clearly, I have a problem.

June 3, 2003
A visit to www.realage.com was an eye-opener. I've been wanting to take steps toward a healthier lifestyle, and someone told me that this test is a great reminder of things that help and hurt our health that we do/don't do. I've neglected exercise, which used to be a priority. I've been eating huge portions and lots of desserts and chocolate. My body shows it, too. I'm toting around an extra 10-15 pounds. Plus, I've been tired a lot. I think it's all related, and I've gotten by with it in the past because I've been fairly active and younger. But I've crossed the 35 mark, and many women tell me that's the age when they started to fall apart. So I'm keeping a food journal, which is supposed to be effective because it is so humiliating to write down, "Chocolate chips" over and over. That's the only chocolate I have left in the house after eating the children's chocolate Easter bunnies that they seem to have forgotten about. That's after eating a Cadbury egg I found hidden behind a box on the snack shelf. That's after eating brownies I made when we had company. There's nothing left but chocolate chips, and I ate the last handful of milk chocolate ones tonight. All that's left for tomorrow's raid is semi-sweet. After writing down "chocolate chips" day after day, and having nothing left but semi-sweet chips, I guess the food journal is supposed to stare me in the face, revealing my weaknesses. When I review my entries like, "I wasn't hungry but I ate anyway and now I'm bloated. Yuk," that's supposed to stop me from overeating. When I read, "I exercised three times this week and feel great!" that's should compel me to keep at it. I'm not very good with goals, but I need to set some. Otherwise, I'm going to continue expanding like the blueberry girl on "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory." Unless I change my ways, my kids will have to roll me out on the lawn like a giant beach ball.

May 29, 2003
Last night I had dinner with a friend, and the night before I met someone for coffee. After each night was over, I walked away thinking how powerful friendships can be. Both of those women, just by being who they are, made me want to walk closer with the Lord, talk with Him more, trust Him more completely. They shared about things they are confused about, learning, struggling with, and in the issues that they described and explained, I saw how they sought God and responded to Him. I got a glimpse of the Holy Spirit guiding them into all truth. I realized that Jesus was giving them hope, even in the situations where there is no obvious hope. It's not only these two friends who give me this gift--many of my friends do the same! It's just that over the past two days I've experienced it in specific ways with them. God has used them in my life. I hope that the Lord gave to them, as well, blessing them back for being a blessing to me.

May 24, 2003
Small Things
What small things can I do from my suburban house that can make a difference in the world? I'm willing to do big things, if that's what the Lord tells me to do. But without changing my life that much, I'm beginning to see that I can do something right now. I've been praying about it, thinking about it, researching online. I'm starting to see some small things, small changes, I can make. These things are a drop in the bucket when the needs are so great. But if I do some small things, and ten other people do small things, and a few people do big things, it does add up. Likewise, the negative side of this is this: if I sit and do nothing simply because I think my little bit won't make a difference, then there is one less person making a difference. If we all think the same way, then no one does anything and nothing changes. So I've decided to make these small changes and let the Lord do what He will with them. He was pleased with the widow because she gave all that she had. I suppose He might also be pleased with a suburban housewife who gives, too, even if to start with it's just a little.

One small thing: Buy fair trade products. It doesn't change my life that much to pick up a pack of Equal Exchange tea and coffee, so I'm starting to do it. I just found that Equal Exchange's English Breakfast tea is great--I'm drinking it at this very moment!--so that's what I'm switching to. We're placing an order for coffee to do a taste test for my Belgian-born coffee-drinking husband. We'll see which one he prefers and begin to order that regularly. It's a small change. It may only make a small difference, but it's a difference nonetheless. To read more about Free Trade, you can go to this website and read their articles. It may take awhile, but it does give a good overview. http://www.friendsofthethirdworld.org/

Another small thing: Educate myself. I'm reading as much as possible about fair trade, world hunger, justice. There are plenty of organizations and churches that are already doing the work. Many of them have informative websites. Just the process of educating myself helps me actively aware of world issues and my own attitude and contribution. I read Barbara Kingsolver's book of essays, Small Wonder, which inspired me to pursue the fair trade purchasing. They are essays, so it takes awhile to stick with her as she develops her arguments. I also found that www.bread.org is an informative site. I haven't made it through all their documentation yet. I found a site with an article on economic justice in Africa to be helpful, with suggestions at the end that inspired me. http://www.crwrc.org/programs/justice/sept2001/sept2001-2.html. The home page for that same organization is: http://www.crwrc.org/index.html.

Yet another small thing: Write legislators about issues like world debt relief, AIDS in Africa and other things that I hear about through organizations I trust. I always doubt what impact my letters to Congress or my senators make. But, I wrote a letter to my state senators, and the $15 billion AIDS bill passed on May 16! Here's an excerpt from the full article found at http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A63348-2003May16.html

The bill, which passed by voice vote, would provide $3 billion a year for the next five years for AIDS treatment, prevention and palliative care. [Senate Majority Leader Bill] Frist called it "the first major step in reversing this greatest of humanitarian challenges of the 21st century."

I wrote my letters, and the bill passed. That was kind of motivating. I got my information from www.datadata.org, a site promoted by Bono, of U2 fame. It has great suggestions and guided me through the content for my letters. I guess I haven't been much of a responsible citizen. Those were the first letters I ever wrote to my legislators. I'm kind of ashamed I haven't done much in the political realm. If there's one small, simple thing I can do from my suburban computer, it's to write a letter to Washington! I got so enthusiastic and motivated, I even wrote a letter to the President about an issue that concerned me!

A big thing: Pray. I don't think I've been praying enough about issues of poverty and justice. One of my sisters-in-law is devoted to promoting justice and working with the poor. You'd think after knowing her for 14 years I would have been more deeply convicted. Shame on me. I hope that the Lord can make up for lost time as I now open my eyes to see poverty and injustice the way He sees them...and to respond in whatever way I can, no matter how small.

I knew when I married my husband that I was choosing a lifetime of good-byes. If we move to Brussels, we would be separated from my family; if we stay here, we're far from his. The visits are precious, but the good-byes are painful. We never know how long it will be before we see them again.

When the children were younger, one of our girls had a particularly difficult time saying good-bye. She would visibly grieve for a long time, sometimes weeping because she hadn't said good-bye the way she wanted. For awhile, we were baffled: she would insist she hadn't said good-bye, but we would have watched while she hugged and kissed them. What more can one do for a good-bye? Turns out she needed to develop some internal rituals unique to her that somehow held the degree of finality she needed in order to let go. It involved numerous hugs and kisses, far more than we could have imagined were necessary. But it allowed her to carry on, tearfully, but without hysterics.

Today, she didn't need that ritual. In fact, I worried a little, wondering if she has grown a little callous or stoic. Maybe that's what happens in families that have to say good-bye a lot. Maybe kids learn to build an emotional wall so that they don't feel the pain. Saying good-bye slams you headlong into grief, so I can imagine wanting to avoid that. The pain of parting is deep. Whether we weep openly like my next-to-the-oldest daughter, or stand quietly, still, absorbing it but not revealing it, like my husband often does, I kind of hope for the pain. I want my family to feel and express the pain, because I don't want them to build a wall that keeps them from experiencing love. It's the love that intensifies the pain, and love is far too precious to lose in order to avoid pain.

This time another of our daughters, the youngest, was the one with tears and a quivering lip. We blew final kisses and waved our arms high in the air one last time before Grandpa's head disappeared in the crowd around the metal detector. I scooped my grieving five-year-old into my arms. In a shaky voice, she said, "It'll be fun to ride down the turning thing in the parking garage, but it won't be fun to be missing Grandma and Grandpa." I whispered in her ear, "You're right. It won't be fun to miss Grandma and Grandpa, but it's okay to feel sad. We're all missing them and we all feel sad. So you go ahead and cry, sweetheart. That's part of the love we feel. We love being together so much, it makes saying good-bye extra hard. So go ahead. Go ahead and cry."

And with my sniffling little daughter leaning against my shoulder, our family of six turned and walked slowly past the airport snack bar, the ticket counters, out the automatic doors to the curb, and over the pedestrian bridge to the parking garage. We climbed into the van and looked at each other. Some of us shed more tears than others, but we were all feeling sad. We were feeling the pain.

My husband climbed in the driver's seat and drove us down the "turning thing" from the parking garage...and as we curved around and around to the ground level, the kids laughed through their tears, and I was glad. I was glad that we could laugh, and I was glad that we could cry. We're grieving as we go, and I know that for now we are still letting ourselves feel love.

May 19, 2003
A lady came up to me after I spoke this past weekend. "I almost didn't come," she admitted. "I got in the car to drive here," she continued, "and I thought, 'I don't need to go to another parenting seminar and hear about all the things I'm doing wrong. I already know I'm messing up. I don't need someone else telling me I'm a failure.'" The young woman who organized the event and I stood, waiting, hoping there was a punch line, since the event wasn't at all a parenting seminar. The event was called "Contemplating God: A Mother's Morning to Ponder." We leaned in as the lady continued, "But as soon as you started talking, I was so relieved! I could see right away that it was nothing at all like what I was expecting!" The organizer and I breathed a sigh of relief. "Maybe," I suggested, "it's because I started out with a bunch of stories of what a failure I am myself! Maybe you realized you couldn't possibly be as bad off as that messed up speaker!" We laughed, but it's true that I didn't set myself up as an authority at all. I didn't say I'd figured much of anything out. I told about how defeated I was at several points in my life as a mom. The victories weren't about how brilliant I'd become or how many problems I'd solved. The victories were only about calling, humbly and broken, on the Lord Jesus Christ, and how He loved me in the middle of it all. I spoke about how there is nothing I can do to make Him love me any more, and there's nothing I can do to make Him love me any less. Any successes I've experienced in life are only about having the wisdom to admit my need and respond to God. That's about it. I don't have much else figured out. But it was so encouraging to me to know that we can be honest about our limitations and failures and sins and the goofy mess-ups of life and free others up to do the same. It's not meant to be a tell-all session, where everyone starts airing their dirty laundry (although dirty laundry was a recurring theme of my first talk). It's meant to be...freedom. Freedom to be needy and recognize that our walk with God is full of stumbles and mishaps on our part, and that struggles and brokenness are part of the story until we escape this world of sin. I love to take the hand of a fellow broken mom and walk with her to the throne of grace, where we can receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need. It was a good weekend. I think we all took that walk together, that walk to the throne, where we were lavished with God's mercy and grace. Yes, it was a very good weekend.

May 15, 2003
First, Dad phones. I miss the call and listen to his message: "Seventy-mile-an-hour winds and golf-ball-sized hail are coming your way. Maybe a tornado. Turn on the TV and you can see for yourself." I turn on the TV and sure enough, a big storm is moving toward our county. The emergency sirens go off down the road, which I always interpret to mean: Imminent Danger! Seek shelter immediately! The newscasters reinforce this by advising viewers to move to an interior portion of the lowest level of their homes. Images of Oklahoma City tornado damage flash through my head, so I take no chances. I poke my head into the guest room to tell my in-laws we have to go to the basement. I wake the kids up. They grab their comfort items--blankets, beanie babies and pillows--and go downstairs in a surprisingly orderly fashion. I scoop up the toddler and take him downstairs. Then I phone my husband who is at the church helping with some weekend preparations. Another big team of people is there, including some children involved in the service. He hangs up the phone and tells the leader of the big team that there is a tornado warning in Boone County, just west of us. A little girl about the age of my oldest daughter bursts into tears. My husband wonders if he should have handled it differently, then jumps in the car to try to beat the storm home. He does. We're in the basement watching for weather updates while snatching snippets of the season finale of "The West Wing." The weather reporters are eager for a big story, but the storm weakens. Some loud rain falls and one of my daughters swears it must be hail, but it's only rain, and it doesn't last. Our heightened sense of emergency ebbs away. We wander back upstairs. It's raining lightly. My in-laws affirm that it was a good drill, good practice, just in case. I feel I may have overreacted. The girls climb into bed. The toddler complains about being placed in his crib. The in-laws return to some computer work. My husband and I finish watching "The West Wing." As the show ends and I'm brushing my teeth, I can't help wondering about the little girl at church who was so scared she was crying as the storm came and went. I can't help wondering if maybe I'm maybe somewhat responsible for making her cry. I'm worried as I climb into bed, worried that I am becoming too much like my dad. I picture myself adjusting the reception on my TV when I'm 70 years old to get the clearest image of the weather station, staring, transfixed, at the Doppler radar, phoning all my children wherever they are in the world, panicked, advising them to seek shelter. I wonder if my grandchildren will huddle unnecessarily in their musty basements, crying, because of my phone calls.

May 14, 2003
I just missed hearing Dallas Willard on Midday Connection, the Moody Radio show. He was speaking about the theme of his book Renovation of the Heart. Yesterday I made a mental note of it (but I didn't write it on my calendar), and because I am extremely forgetful these days, I would have missed it completely if my mother-in-law hadn't mentioned his name at 12:50 p.m. today. I gasped and ran over to the radio and flipped on the station. "This is Dallas on the radio, right now! Only five minutes left!" I exclaimed. We leaned in and listened to the last six or seven minutes before they closed out the show. I was so disappointed. I'm sure it was wonderful.

I was trying to find an online audio transcript of the show, but I can't figure it out for the life of me. I found Moody Radio/Moody Broadcasting, but everything is so slow with a dial-up connection that I couldn't seem to get anything to work. I did, however, find Dallas Willard's personal website www.dwillard.org. On one of the pages he listed the projects he's working on. At the top, he said he was listing them in hopes that the reader would pray for them. Oh, how I could use prayer for my projects! My projects are less impressive than Dallas Willard's, but they are as precious to me as his are to him. So if anyone feels like taking up a little prayer project for me, I would like to list three things:

1. Speaking engagement this weekend
2. Writing and other work for the church (and necessary childcare provisions)
3. Second book (the sample chapters need divine intervention!)

May 12, 2003
Isaiah 40:11 says:

He tends his flock like a shepherd:
He gathers the lambs in his arms
and carries them close to his heart;
he gently leads those that have young.

That last line, "he gently leads those that have young," is such a sweet gift to moms! Isn't that wonderful and tender of Him? The Lord takes extra-gentle care of moms. My emotional, physical, and spiritual tanks are emptied almost every day by the responsibility of mothering four children. What a relief that the Lord, like a shepherd, leads me gently. I immediately link this with Psalm 23, because it, too, says that the Lord is my shepherd...He makes me to lie down in green pastures, He leads me beside the still waters, He restores my soul. He restores my soul. The shepherd gently leads moms like me to the quiet, green places where their souls can be restored.

This morning began with a quiet time of confession and thanks. The day unfolded less manic than it usually does. It was a simpler, restorative day. I even--and maybe this sounds goofy, but--prayed about finding an outfit for an upcoming occasion, and I found it. At Goodwill. That thrilled me, too. That was like walking along some still waters, going slow, receiving some gifts I asked about as a sort of refreshment (and I found a book that I wanted there, too! Bonus!). Tonight, I put on a cozy sweater, made some tea, read some Scripture. That's like lying down in green pastures.

For the moment, my spirit, that restless place that gets so easily ruffled and upset, is still.

He restores the souls of those that have young, and I'm so grateful. For the moment, I feel restored.

May 11, 2003
Happy Mother's Day to every mom who reads this!

Sara Groves' CD "Conversations" is playing in the other room. She performs two killer mom-songs. One is about how I can pass down a curse or a blessing to future generations. That doesn't sound too melodic, but it's a powerful, haunting song about the impact I can have on my children, my children's children, and so on. She offers a blessing to her great, great, great granddaughter: Live in peace. And to her great, great, great grandson, same thing: Live in peace. On her album "All Right Here," she sings an aching, true, perfect mother's ballad/lullaby called "You Cannot Lose My Love." One reviewer described as "the purest form of parental devotion I have yet heard." http://www.ninetyandnine.com/Archives/20020902/review.htm

For copyright reasons, I can't quote her lyrics or I'll have to pay her something like $25, and I don't feel like going through that rigmarole. But she basically says to her son, "You're going to lose a lot of things (including your baby teeth), like your confidence, your common sense, your innocence, but you can't lose my love." I paraphrased. You can read some of the lyrics at the site I cited above. Better yet, if you're more internet-and-technology-sophisticated than I am, you can try downloading it at this site: http://www.inorecords.com/freeccm/ They actually offer "You Cannot Lose My Song." Free! Go figure. I'd have to pay her just to stick a few lines on my website, but you can download the whole song for free! It's a strange world, isn't it? I wonder if the reviewer paid Sara the 25 bucks? Shoot, maybe I should go ahead and quote Sara and pay her the $25, because she is surely worth it. I've bought all her CDs. Do you think that's enough for now?

May 10, 2003
Okay, so I'm the first to admit that I'm carrying around about ten extra pounds, but as long as I'm not in a swimsuit, I don't feel too conspicuous. Not until now. While I was at the YMCA yesterday looking at myself in the mirror, I was grossed out. I determined that I really must work at getting rid of it. Swimsuit season is almost here, after all, so there won't be any way to hide it at the neighborhood pool. The big trouble is the hunk of squishy flab left over from the last pregnancy. I can usually shove it into a pair of jeans and if I suck in and zip, it stays put. (I treat jeans as the modern woman's girdle.) So that brings you up to today. I wasn't wearing jeans for the soggy, boggy soccer game at 8:00 this morning. Instead, I was wearing shorts with an elastic waistband in the back, and a baggy T-shirt hanging over the top. The very nature of my outfit made it impossible to contain my squishy flab, so it flopped around unhindered underneath that baggy T-shirt. Then, it happened: One of the moms said, "Oh, I didn't know you were pregnant again! I wasn't sure, but now I can see that you are!" Ouch! What a slam! I had difficulty responding graciously. I pictured myself at the Y, disgusted with my form, and this just rubbed it in. I glanced down at my baggy T-shirt. Did it really protrude so much as to look like I'm pregnant--pregnant enough to actually comment on it? "Well, no, I'm not pregnant," I muttered. I focused on wrestling with my folding chair, because I couldn't look her in the eye. "I'm just about ten to fifteen pounds overweight." She tried to make a joke, and I tried very hard to smile. Surely she was mortified? I don't want her to live with that forever as her answer to the question, "What's your most embarrassing moment?" Then again, maybe it'll be my answer to that question.

Feel free to email flabby me [please put "contemplative" in the subject line] at: ann@contemplativemom.com

May 9, 2003
I'm reading a book by Lauren Winner called Girl Meets God. So far, I love her style (and content). In one chapter she discusses an article in The Atlantic by David Brooks about Red America and Blue America and the things we don't understand about each other. http://www.theatlantic.com/issues/2001/12/brooks.htm

Both Winner's book and Brooks' article remind me to examine myself carefully to make sure I'm not lumping cultural and political stances in with theological and spiritual realities/truths, treating them as one and the same (and then--gulp--judging people accordingly. Not good. Very bad.). It's a healthy process; stopping myself from poking around at other people's perfectly harmless specks of sawdust and scanning instead for long, awkward planks that might be shooting out of my eyeballs.
http://www.biblegateway.com/cgi-bin/bible?passage=Matthew+7%3A3-5&NIV_version=yes&language=english

I wonder if I do this culturally stretching exercise more frequently than some of my neighbors and friends because of my international relatives? I try to periodically read European newspapers and magazines to gain perspective on every major news event in order to get an idea of what many other people in the world are exposed to and the opinions they may be forming. It's a good exercise. Winner and Brooks remind me to keep it up.

Feel free to email momentarily plank-free me [please put "contemplative" in the subject line] at: ann@contemplativemom.com

May 7, 2003
The up-side to this garage sale is that I moved a lot of "stuff" out of my house, out of my life. This first layer of release has really brought an element of freedom along with the grief. And in this first attempt at purging, I've found myself wanting to explore simplicity even more. I've always been drawn to that theme in my life. Perhaps I've been held back by the sheer volume of junk that I have to wade through? How can I live a simple life in the suburbs, where kids like to be in lots of scheduled activities and people like meetings and groups and Bible studies and so on? Where is the balance in scheduling, in the home, and in things like groceries and eating? There are many levels and many motivations for pursuing a simpler life. I'm already living more simply than many of my suburban counterparts, but I'm beginning to wonder what are my reasons for wanting to do more...or, rather, less? This will be a process, this wondering and reasoning. I hope I can gain some insight that will help my family and I make decisions. If we realize our strongest, shared motives and see a greater goal, then it will be easier to make choices that may not be "normal" when compared with friends and neighbors. How will frugality fit in? I think it will all be intertwined. I want my simplicity and frugality to result in generosity. A few books from the library plus a Scriptural study on these kinds of themes will be some first steps, as I pray and listen and wait for insight, talking with my family to hear what they are learning, too.

May 6, 2003
Well, I hope the kids are forgiving years from now when they ask where their favorite _____________ is. The shock of what a goober I am is passing as I deal with the reality of items lost to us forever. As I talked with a friend about it today, she helped me realize that one of the problems is that I haven't taken adequate pictures to chronicle these years that have been passing in a blur, so the items represented the moments more than they might have if I had pictures of a given child wearing it/playing with it/sitting on it, etc. Today, I pushed my young son in an umbrella stroller I haven't yet sold. He was wearing a cute yellow romper that I can still save. I did save back some dresses and the teensy homecoming outfits. There's still plenty of "stuff" around. I'll bet I can dig up some memories without too much trouble.

May 4, 2003
Why have so many days passed since I last posted a blog? I have two words for you: Garage Sale! We've been drowning in "stuff" for years, and I finally decided to be firm with myself. We put piles of stuff--many outgrown baby items--in the garage on tables and lugged some big things onto the driveway for this neighborhood garage sale, which sees a lot of shoppers. I priced things very low and the stuff was toted away by people with happy faces. Then, about 11:30 last night, it hit me: grief. Little items popped into my head that held a memory for me,