Tucked In

Hallelujah Toffee

2011-10-27T07:00:00.000-07:00

We were hiking in "The Ditch" - the Little man and I. And although it felt like we were going in circles, that aimless feeling of mine was only one-sided. He informed me that he knew exactly where he was going, the empty oatmeal bucket tucked under his chubby arm. Inside the vast depths of that cardboard cylinder lay treasures, soon to be deposited in a well-speculated location. Priceless things like bottle caps, two golf balls, one broken water gun, a piece of Trident gum (unchewed), some paper clips, and one of Mom's Gladware lids. It was an amateur "geocache" in his mind and with confident strides, we meandered around the bushes until the Little Man found the exact place to deposit it.

Job done, we walked back towards our home because I had been informed that it was time to draw the map.

An old man soon overtook us on the walking path, our small steps quickly passed by his long and surprisingly brisk stride. He pointed to my son and smiled at me over his shoulder, only slowing a bit.

"Do you know how many of those I delivered?"

"How many?" Was he speaking about kids, oatmeal boxes, or treasures untold?

"I stopped counting at 5,000 babies," he announced, his sneakers firmly planted and no longer moving forward as he spoke.

"I stopped counting at 2. I think I have three or so," I quipped. He didn't laugh, but he did move back towards us.

"I was the only baby doctor between Boise and Salt Lake City..." Somehow, this old man in sweat pants and a golf invitational t-shirt couldn't come back from the past. After regaling me with stories of women delivering twins and breach babies, he meandered like the Little Man on a hike, wandering to topics like malpractice insurance and educational standards and Halloween candy.

When my son's whine to go home and get a drink shook the doctor from his nostalgia, he waved good bye and sped away, his white sneakers squeaking on the black asphalt as he picked up the pace.

I wondered about that number later on. 5,000. That's all I seemed to remember out of our conversation. A number. And I felt bad that the old man wasn't memorable for just being himself, that it was his work that stuck with me.

Then, I wondered about that whole Dr. 5,000 thing. How do you deliver that many babies and still feel the marvel of each baby? Each forming life? Surely there were days when the work was drudgery, not awe. When mothers came for checkups and nausea complaints and it all just blurred together, and Dr. 5,000 just wanted to get home to barbecue or watch Sportscenter. Did the reverence of new life give way to monotony somewhere around 3,200? It's the thought I have had with every prenatal exam. It's not because they make me feel irrelevant. If anything, they always try to assure me how relevant I am. But sheesh, really? After delivering that first 1,000 babies, doesn't it all blur together? (It's obvious to you all why I am too jaded to be a medical professional.)

Before I could get too judgmental towards Dr. 5,000, I looked at my own little life. As I lug the baby and diaper bag and purse and siblings with lollipops out of the office, might those medical professionals wonder how I survive another day of monotony, so glad he or she doesn't have to understand my drudgery as he or she goes about another exciting day in the office?

And I wonder if the only thing that keeps it all from becoming a blur is the unique moments, in and of themselves. The treasure walk, the stranger on the path, the child right here in front of me. When there is a face to it all, suddenly it is so much more than a number. I'm not sure which number our children were in the long line of baby deliveries our ob/gyn had racked up, but we sent them a baby announcement for each of our children. Because they were ours, and that was something to shout about!

Perhaps because it's the individuals that make the day-in-day-out life suddenly pop with...well...with life.

Other numbers are resonating in my head today - it's the curse of loving numbers mixed with a little obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Thirteen stairs to the bonus room. Four fingers tapping seems so much better than when you try to throw the thumb in there to make five.

In the overwhelming fight against poverty, numbers like 27 million (the number of people living as modern-day slaves) or 26% (the percentage of people worldwide that live in extreme poverty - this is an improvement from 52% only 30 years ago). These numbers don't really make sense to me. If I'm supposed to be encouraged that only 21,000 children die each day from preventable causes instead of 40,000 (the rate in the 1980s), it's still such an unfathomable number.

Until you put a face to it.

Suddenly, you can never lose count, even after 5,000...because they have faces and stories. Life beckons with something more than a number.

Number 15 is Benard, and he is our family's newest member.

So, he's no longer just Number 15. He's ours. My kids talk about him like he's a brother living in another state, they pray for him at night, we write to him when we know he can receive an email.
He tells us to be careful of the bears in Nevada!

An orphan living in the Mitumba slums of Nairobi, there was no hope for this sixteen-year old. With good school records but no funds or family, Benard was certainly facing insurmountable odds.

Picture taken by Greg Burns, Nairobi, Kenya.

Odds - those funny things. Another math term I love, or hate, depending on the context.

In this case, though, odds could not predict what would happen to Benard. God Himself intervened and Benard is now in a boarding school, all food, books, and other necessities supplied. There is a tidy amount of money available if he should have a medical emergency. There is a bi-annual summer camp held where Benard sees friends in the program, and sees life outside of the congested city. Perhaps best of all, Benard will soon have legal guardians, the closest thing to parents he has had in a long time. And not just any legal guardians. These two.

Andrew and Stephanie.

While Compassion International must draw the line somewhere and stops sponsorship of children after the eighth grade in Kenya, Bridge Ministries now comes alongside and sponsors these older at-risk and orphan kids who would otherwise be left behind.

For many years, we have watched Andrew and Stephanie prepare for their God-given mission to these young people. And we have prayed as Bridge Ministries came alongside to support them.

But I have felt a bit powerless. I'm a stay-at-home mom. My income for the year - $0. When your heart is so moved by something, and you have very little power to help, sometimes you almost wish you didn't even know about it.

However, this year might be a little different. Finally, I think there might be something I can do. And maybe you can too!

My family has a secret toffee recipe that we love to stir up at Christmastime. This year, we are selling it, and all of our profits will be going to OneLifeAfrica. Hooray! For every 70 pounds of toffee that we sell, one more student will get food, education, school supplies, mentoring, even summer camp.

If you are local and would like to help, you don't have to have a large bank account to be a part of this. The goal is not to just make money for these kids, but to spread the message.

Come pack toffee on October 29th or November 5th (email me for location and confirmation).
Come out and buy some toffee at the Minden Gazebo Lighting and Santa Parade (Dec. 2-3). Or the Douglas High School Craft Fair (Dec. 3, 9-3). We are selling Hallelujah Toffee in 1-pound and 1/2-pound sizes. Check out hallelujahtoffee.org for more information.
Throw a Christmas party and offer toffee samples. Tell the story of what we are doing. And if anyone wants to be a part of it, they can throw their own Christmas party or purchase some online.
Pray for these students. Their names and stories are listed at OneLifeAfrica.

Last week, Andrew and Stephanie came and ate hamburgers at our house. Funny, huh? Next month, they will be in Nairobi and we sat around eating burgers and watching the kids show off for the guests. We talked about Hallelujah Toffee and they smiled big smiles, dreaming of what it might mean for their students.

Join us if you would like.

We love because He first loved us. Such freedom here.

Resting in Him,
Karen

When You Become Twitter Fodder

2011-10-04T20:49:00.000-07:00

I know, I know.

I'm a slacker. If you want an excuse, the truth is that I watched movies on the couch this summer instead of writing. It was t.o.u.g.h. All that browsing channels and turning the volume up and down. I'm exhausted just thinking about it.

Not only were my fingers busy with the TiVO remote control, but I was often knee-deep in summertime spontaneity. You should see the mileage I got out of our swagger wagon, and that one endless bottle of sunscreen. [Have you ever had one of those - where you think to yourself, "This bottle can't possibly have any more liquid product in it?" and then, you proceed to lather skin for entire months? I even offered it to a complete stranger at Dollywood when I saw how burnt she was becoming. (Spontaneity gone wrong.)]

The entire summer is a big blur of campfires, cameras, soccer cleats, ice cream, packing, unpacking, packing, unpacking...

And now, just this morning, I gave myself the "Let's get back to normal" pep talk. Then, I went to Wal-Mart.

I should've known that wasn't going to help my odds of normalcy.

Like the Titanic heading out for her maiden voyage, I set out with utmost confidence - predicting that I'd be home no later than 12:30. "Maybe even earlier," I told my husband. A smile and a wave at Daddy and we were off, me and my little three-year old son. Looking back, I wonder if Real Gil knew the disaster coming. How do you stop somebody you love? he must have asked himself...

Settling the Little Man into the blue WalMart seat with ease, deftly steering with one hand while the other held my well-organized 3x5 grocery list, I even rebelled a bit by entering through the EXIT doors, just to be carefree. Then, of course, my not-so-carefree personality took over as I spent a full sixty seconds to swipe germs with that little antibacterial wipe. Or two. Okay, I stole from WalMart. It will not be my last offense. Read on, my friends.

First to the prescription counter, where Little Man smiled expectantly until Maria gave him a lollipop. Then, it was chew toys for the dog...Captain America paper products for someone's birthday party on Saturday...milk, buttermilk, sour cream...candy treats for camping... One by one, I carefully checked items off of my list. I even compared the prices, calories, ingredients. Then, after bagging two perfect little limes in the crowded produce section, I maneuvered my overloaded cart towards the front of the store.

That's when the Titanic metaphor really sunk in. (Har, har!)

The checkout.

I'd like to call it indescribable, but that just won't do in a blog post. So, I'll try my darndest.

Remember that game, Catch Phrase? Let's pretend we're playing a round, okay?

I tip my head to the side, lick my lips, look up, then I look you straight in the eye. "Prolonged... Colossal...Um...Opposite of fast." [Dramatic pause. I lean forward.] "Like doing an internet search on the World Wide Web when my computer screen was blue and the cursor blinked...Like watching Teletubbies indefinitely..."

Oh, I know it! LONG!!? No. Torture?!

The iceberg looms.

I chose a line, diving for one like it was a lifeboat. And the clock ticked. Five minutes later, I was officially late and still four deep in the line.

Oh yeah, this is funny too. I was supposed to be home because - crazy as it seems - 1) my dear husband works in the afternoon. "Puh-lease," I say with a roll of my eyes. "What's that all about? Calm down, boss man." 2) I had a high school girl coming to our house for algebra tutoring. (I included that second one so that I sounded smart.)

Two silly-I-know deadline thingamajigs.

Anyways, for one reason or another, all exterior signs of a relaxed supermom out on the town with her son were gone. In its place was a territorial bargain shopper with a looming deadline and a low tolerance for standing still. A friend of mine happened to be right in front of me in line. I'm pretty sure God put her there so that I wouldn't start yelling inappropriate things. It didn't stop me from glaring at the smart lady in the front of the line with her wad of coupons, all tightly wound together in a knot of rubberbands. I'm pretty sure she knotted those on purpose, so she could unwind them slowly, every twist of her wrist smacking us non-couponers with her sensible thriftiness. "Silly people [smack!] throwing away money with your full-priced Cheerios [smack, smack!]. I haven't paid full price for cereal in 22 years.[smack]"

As the knot came loose and her wad unfurled, large gusts of coupon-fluttering-wind hit my grimaced face. Coupons? Come on, people. Throw money out the window, shower it from the rooftops. Waste it readily. Really, what's more important - you saving money or me getting through this line? I hate to imply that you are being self-ishhhhhh, with your little two-for-one, then double-off with the cloth bags so you get 5% more discount.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a glorious sight. So unassuming, they were, and yet, so enticing. Four blue lights with little numbers on them - 1, 2, 3, 4. All glowing, welcoming me closer like a mosquito near a bug zapper.

Vacant. All of the self-checkout counters. And I'm an optimist. Surely I could slap bar codes across a glowing, red laser beam with surer speed than this line. Waving goodbye to my friend, I stepped out of line and right into the wreckage of my day.

There's that saying: experience is something you don't get until right after you need it. It was sometime around the $120 mark when I realized I might have needed it. Self-checkout means self-sabotage. Obviously, I had not received this diagram in the mail.

Someone sighed rather loudly. That's when I looked up and saw about ten people standing behind me in line for the self-checkout. One of those four "most-inviting blue lights" was out, and my zucchini was not under the Z's in the touchscreen menu.

"Can't you open something else up?" complained one loud voice.

The dear little attendant marched right to me, thank you very much. If anyone was in doubt as to who was holding things up, I'm pretty sure she enlightened them all. She might have even pointed to me and rolled her eyes, but I wouldn't know because I was wrestling with the plastic bag holder.

She promptly licked her thumb and forefinger, and opened one of the bags for me. "Try this trick," she said with a smack of her gum and a smug look on her face. EW. Like I was going to lick my fingers after touching that oh-so-convenient touchscreen dozens of times. Type A, people.

She stepped back and even hollered at the line. "If you have one item only, come directly to the podium."

Left unsaid was, "The rest of you, stay. Balk. Laugh at the silly flibbertigibbet with her 66-cent yogurts. Take pictures if you would like. Twitter away."

I can see her back in the staff lounge still laughing at me, her beehive hair moving in time with her guffaws. "You shoulda seen this freaky lady in my line today. She had the audacity to haul all her junk through my empty line. But I got her good - I brought in that group of fake shoppers we have hidden over in the Vision Center, gave 'em all some foul breath and told 'em to breathe down her neck. If that weren't enough," she chortles, taking time to wipe her blue-lined eyes. "I moved zucchini off the z's and put it under the 's' for squash! That's funny stuff..."

My total climbed steadily, and I've never been more excited about it than today. But the items in my cart seemed to be regenerating, doubling before my eyes. When Beehive Lady came to help me again, I actually suggested, "I'm thinkin' about just paying for what I've already rang up and just ditching the rest." She looked at me like I had suggested a new hairdo, or a bottle of Purell near the self-checkout line. So, I put my head down, like a donkey to the plow.

Evaporated milk $1.04

Lunch napkin $1.62

Kids paste $2.28

When the bottle of toothpaste exploded on the scanner AFTER I had rang it up, I actually looked up for the Candid Camera folks to pop out. Silly me. The only cameras were the ones on folks' cell phones - the ones pointed at me. I swear, I heard a click. If you see me on some bash-WalMart-idiots site, I can explain.

Worse than the idea of a cell phone camera was the unmistakable sound of smartphone typing. I could see the twitters flowing fast, faster than water into a capsizing ship. "I'm gonna drag this lady and her snotty kid to the arcade and make her lick germs." "I'm gonna key this lady's car. Or pop her kid's birthday balloon." Can you twitter the California Howdy at people? If so, they did.

Right about then, my friend from the "traditional" checkout line stopped with her cart to see if she could help me. I smiled at her and waved her concern away. "Oh, nah. I've got it. Thanks anyway..." While the computer slowly garnered its last bout of energy to calculate my ever-growing total, I glanced longingly at her groceries so carefully organized. Cold items in one bag, dry goods in one, produce in another. My groceries were spilling onto the floor, and purple toothpaste oozed down the sides of two plastic bags. I looked over at the original checkout lady and whispered my apologies, like the prodigal son. I may have reached out an empty hand but then grabbed it tight against my heart.

At $257 dollars and 46 cents, I paid. There may have been cheering behind me. I pretended I didn't hear it. My receipt eventually printed and Beehive lady only said, "Stop pulling on the receipt. It's printing as it spits out. Wow! That's a long one!"

Bless her heart.

I'm home now, and in retrospect, everything looks a little clearer. When it comes right down to it, do you think the folks in line are actually thankful for me? I made them all look smart, savvy, shrewd, normal when held so closely against my abnormality. And anyways, everyone likes to complain about WalMart, especially on facebook or twitter. I just gave them more fodder. To that, I say, "You're welcome."

I'm going to bed now, and I'm hoping sleep can get that persistent and boorish phrase out of my mind.

"Unexpected item in the bagging area."

Oh yeah, that's just my self-respect, dripping off the checkout counter. Pshaw. Just leave it there with that coagulated wad of purple 'bubble-mint flavored' toothpaste. Drip, drip, drip.

I gotta find me some coupons.

Karen

Summertime Flurries, Duly Noted

2011-07-05T20:45:00.000-07:00

My post title might imply there was snow in the summertime. That's hilarious, just stinkin' funny. Unless you are my family and decide to go camping in the mountains in late June. Then, there's snow on said mountains.

But there are other types of flurries about, these days - the best kinds. There's the flurry of summertime activities, the flurry to pack and unpack swimsuits and sunscreen, the flurry of small, muddy feet in the backyard, the occasional flurry to get somewhere on time. It's all good.

In the midst of our summertime flurries, I've mentally noted to myself a few times, "You've got to blog about this." So, here I am, duly noted.

I've learned something so deeply Bananagrams-ish this summer that I must share it. Apparently, when Gil and I slap steaks on the barbecue, we are not eating "barbecue." I have come to understand, we are eating "grilled steaks." I officially apologize to all of our southern friends, who have now clarified that my vernacular usage of the word has caused inconvenient drooling and angst when I throw the term around loosely, as in "Come over; we're gonna barbecue." When I slap a pre-made hamburger patty on a bun and call it "barbecue," their faces sag as low as their now-sagging paper plates. Evidently, in those far-distant lands of sweet tea and collard greens, the term "barbecue" is a noun and a verb, as in "Let's eat barbecue - the food I started cooking three days ago and is finally seasoned, smoked, chemically massaged to perfection." Here in the big-sky west, that sounds like you're going to stuff a Weber grill in a hoagie roll and call it dinner. Which is probably what my "barbecue" would taste like if I had to cook anything as long as they cook Southern barbecue. Anyways, enlighted. That's me. And so culturally aware, y'all. Because I've watched Larry the Cable Guy.
One delightful flurry was an impromtu visit to see my only niece, the baby that sleeps and smiles. I'm not even sure she eliminates poop and pee; I think she just sleeps and smiles. Oh wait, I feel a picture-moment coming... Here she is...sleeping.

Goody, goody! Want another one? Here she is... sleeping.

There may be a little jealousy issue going on here, centered around the fact that this little darling sleeps through the night already... and that my children didn't do that until they were twelve months old and I almost lost my sanity and one time, I threw Tupperware cuz I was so tired and I've spent the last five years trying to make my little sister understand how hard the diaper years were and then she goes and has the perfect baby... Sheesh, that'd be so juvenile, to be jealous of my little sister.
Anyways, I did something very, very bad. No use putting it off - here it is. In an intimate conversation - that I'm sharing with the world now - my little sister asked what type of birth control we used after having each of our babies. With sober face and perfect eye contact, I told her that the best method is to just breastfeed your baby. It's guaranteed to keep you from getting pregnant. (Sin, my friends.)

While I'm at it, I might as well confess this month's full-fledged lie. In my defense, my jaw was forced open with some kind of wire scaffolding and there were two sets of fingers prodding, poking, and drilling inside my mouth. At one point, my dear dentist smiled around her face mask and said, "You look great for having three kids. Do you work out?" My options were slim - it was either a nod "yes" or a head-shake "no." Once a week, once a month, once when I lost a kid at the playground and had to sprint around the parking lot - these were not options. So, I nodded yes. And I've felt guilty ever since.
Blueberry muffins are a great idea, unless you're in the midst of dinnertime, chaotic flurry. Then, you forget the blueberries on accident and serve blueberry muffins, sans the blueberries. The worst part was that I didn't realize it until after the meal, when Sugs referred to them as coffee cake muffins.
My childrens' random acts of kindness continue to amaze us. We shake our heads and wonder, "How did we get such kind children?" Like when we visited some wonderfully hospitable people with a wonderfully beautiful pool. Our son vowed not to pee in their pool. I shake my head, even now, thinking of his amazing aptitude for kindness.

Just tonight, I prepared three kids for an evening bike ride. While priding myself on the forethought to apply bug spray, one anonymous child accidentally let the dog leash go. Five minutes later, with bug spray so adequately applied, we realized Ginger Pye was missing. I threw bike helmets on kids, closed the yawning van door that revealed to the neighborhood how dirty my car interior was, and went hollering down the bike path. Thirty minutes and four sets of vocal chords later, I herded three almost-hysterical children back into our yard. (I was perfectly calm. Unflappable, really.) The two younger ones skipped away to the backyard (hysterical) while something in my eye had me all teared up - unflappable, really. I went to grab a box of Kleenex out of the my swagger wagon when a little, white head popped up in the backseat. I opened the van door to reveal a fifteen-pound ball of fur and quickly took back all the horrible things I had thought about our dear dog that "done run oft: r-u-n o-f-t." She was hot, but unharmed. I was able to calm down the kids, by this time playing in the backyard as I waved to them, "She's fine, I found her. Hiccup." Then, I had to track down the neighbor family that had been helping us search for Ginger Pye and sheepishly explain that I found her...in my hot car with the windows up... Dog owner of the year, thank you very much. I'm just praying she doesn't accidentally get in my dryer.
Last in this flurrious stream of consciousness - do you like that? Like that? Flurrious-s-s-sss - I went to high-five a fellow outfielder during a summertime, co-ed softball game and I did something crazy (or is that cuh-razy, or craze-ayyyy, you cool cats out there?). I kissed him - right there in Centerfield during a church-sponsored softball game. Good thing it was Real Gil, and no one noticed except for the blushing left-fielder. When I realized what I had done, I tried to make a joke about it, saying I had never kissed a guy in the outfield; it was always the infield. Poor guy in left-field didn't seem to get the joke, good church man that he was. Real Gil seemed very unaffected by the whole thing...which makes me wonder if he had already been kissed before in the outfield. Oh well, it was flurries, nonetheless. Butterfly flurries, which is nice after thirteen years of marriage.

All in all, you can see that I have been away for too long. The words flowing out tonight have very little filter, as if I have to somehow document every ridiculous thing that has stumbled, sauntered, or slept their way into our lives. Slept? Oh yeah, you want to see a picture?
Anyways, as you can probably tell, the flurries of summer have left me a bit breathless. But not speechless.

Karen

Multitudes on...Tuesday?

2011-06-07T21:54:00.000-07:00

106. Late-night and overdue gratitude lists!
107. great-grand grandmother and her great-great-granddaughter, snuggled together in a hug. They lost track of time, like two girls whispering about boys, and came to dinner, still talking about what an outhouse was.
108. clouds surrounding our valley like decadent, white frosting edging a cake
109. hard words to say and gracious ears who heard me out
110. the growing tummy on a miracle mama, one I have prayed for many times
111. three baby robins with their beaks upturned
112. Grandpa who lifted curious kids up to see... isn't this what all grandparents do? Lift children up to see?
113. a date night
114. a summer to-do list
115. a five-year old who conquered the hula-hoop
116. my son who told my mother today, "I pick you, Gramma."
117. impromptu guests who even brought dinner with them
118. the Candyland birthday party that is almost cleaned up
119. stories of school days, wash day, & deliver-cotton-to-the-gin day, told by Grandma G.G. to my children
120. Then, a look forward for this 94-year old woman, who pondered, "I wonder what my mama will look like in Heaven."
121. Weeds - really?!! - that give me the chance to quiet and dig my fingers deep next to my mom's, like G. G. and her mother would have done almost a century ago.
122. Warranty on eyeglasses, and the quick forgiveness of their owner when we broke them
123. Little voices singing to God on Sunday
124. The computer that crashed, and all my written documents with it. "As unto the Lord," I am professing (and hoping to really mean it soon).
125. Lizards - two of them - caught by the cat and rescued by Punkin, freed in the grass
126. Real Gil, who can fix computers that crash and somehow save 5 years of digital photos.
127. A freshly signed Certificate of Completion for Second Grade, and summer break commences!
128. anticipated junk shopping
129. loud chatter around Grandma's post-church Sunday table
130. this thankfulness - can you be thankful for thankfulness? - which is not my own, just His gift that overflows...as always.

Resting Here,
Karen

The Top Ten Most Awkard Moments at a Women's Retreat

2011-05-27T08:05:00.000-07:00

I've mentioned Real Gil around here - he's the superhero in my nonfiction life.

But last week, I'm pretty sure he elevated himself to angelic, superhuman proportions, when he willingly shoved me out the door for a weekend retreat at a nearby conference center while he stayed home with The Littles.

Not only did I get a weekend away - that in and of itself would have been ideal.

I got a weekend away, with a group of my sisters in Christ. On a beach. With all of my meals prepared.

And - here's the best part - those women had to listen to me talk all weekend long. Oh yes, 'tis true. (Many of my readers are thinking, "Those women look like superheroes too.")

Could there be a better weekend for an extrovert like me? I'm still reliving my favorite moments.

But there are a few moments I'm still pondering - those inevitable, awkward moments which mark you as a women's retreat attendee.

So, here is my official top ten list: Awkward Moments at a Church Women's Retreat

10. The moment when the speaker strays from her notes: she gets this gleaming sparkle of unplanned, unprepared inspiration and suddenly, the entire audience is wishing their chairs had seat belts. Because surely, in that moment of complete vulnerability while standing in front of a room full of women is a better time to vocalize new ideas than in all of those endless hours of peaceful preparation. Surely, right then, when nerves and pride are waging war with normal digestive processes, surely that moment is a better time to do one last edit, to weave Crayola-colored rabbit trails all over that perfectly aligned outline. Yup. Awkward. (I don't know why this is in third person, except I might not be ready to admit my own awkwardness...)

9. Any moment when women come to the weekend speaker with permission to speak freely, often prefacing their words with gentle pleads that this loose cannon will not say anything about them from the podium. (Not unrelated to Number Ten). One dear friend even came to me to tell me that I had a tag sticking out of my blouse, and that I should cut that out, "but don't tell anyone I said to do it." Poor girl, she thought I'd blast her from the podium. Nah, I save that for the blog.

8. The moment when I somehow got mixed into the Grace Community Church Single's Ministry Retreat and was quickly identified as the wolf in sheep's clothing. "I think your group is in that line," one vibrant and well-rested college-age girl gently pointed to the other registration table. Talk about deflated. It was as bad as last week, when I bought wine at a grocery store and did NOT get carded.

7. The moment when one must decide how colorful to make the salad... and how well you know your roommate. I opted out of the black beans.

6. The moment I realized my hotel room guilt. There was a hike up a hill from our lakefront hotel room to Cabin #46. One step onto the sagging front porch had me silently grimacing at their misfortune. Amidst the charm of their woodsy, rustic cabin, there was duct tape holding a window pane together, bats - yes, bats - in the rafters, and one bathroom for eight people. (And I was afraid to eat beans with one roommate.) "Isn't this cute?" one of the cabin inhabitants said. And that was an awkward silence.

5. The moment my friends realized my hotel room guilt. A dear sister needed a quiet place to nap on Saturday afternoon - after a long wait in line for the one shower and a longer wait for sleep to come amidst the flurry of bats overhead - and our room fit the bill. I walked into the room and saw it with fresh eyes. "Oh, Sum. I'm sorry. I'm sorry this is so nice, and yours...isn't." Awkward.

4. The moment when I put my pajamas on and wondered to myself, "Bra or no bra?" What is more important - modesty or a good night's sleep? Two of the funniest women in the world chose that moment to come visit our room. I explained my dilemma to them, and one of them - an older, wiser woman in her early fifties - said, "Well, that's why I am wearing this bathrobe. All those young, strapping single boys with that college-age group." She added with a flourish. "I didn't want to cause any of them to lu-s-sst." Not so much awkward as just downright hilarious.

3. The rare moments when women all over camp resolved to stop talking and go to sleep. For every extrovert, this is awkward. And monumental.

2. The moment, during worship, when I realized everyone behind our front row had sat down and we were still standing, shaking our hips to the music. The only thing more awkward was that glance over my shoulder and the proceeding look of sheer horror at all the women behind me, staring at my Christian booty shake.

1. The moment prior to me approaching the podium to speak, when I was boisterously singing next to my dear friend, Queen K. She leaned over mid-song to carefully ask an awkward question, all for the sake of sparing me further embarrassment: "Is your wireless microphone off?"

Laughter - good for the soul. As was the retreat.

Resting Here,
Karen

An Array, A Hodgepodge, A Potpourri

2011-05-26T12:00:00.000-07:00

Why is there a "t" in potpourri anyways? I'm still bitter about losing that seventh grade spelling bee.

Anyways, here's a mishmash of articles...

Memorial Day is upon us this Monday. I appreciated this article, which encourages us to not change our plans for the day, but to go into the day thinking through the freedoms we have at each corner, at each hour of the day. Gratefulness, not sober ceremony, is perhaps what these fallen heroes would want?...
I have no idea how this girl can weave God's existence, farts, and the love of a mother for her mentally challenged daughter all into one article, but she does it superbly. Read it and you're sure to giggle and nod in agreement.
A great article from a liberated Christ-follower, on technology... Amen, sister.
Talk about generosity - panhandling and giving it all away. I would gladly do it in Santa Barbara or San Diego, but cold, windy Chicago? Suddenly, I'm not sure I have the gift of generosity.
I am not crafty enough to know what to do with these cute little free downloads, but some of you are. So, I'll gladly take your ideas and steal them as my own. Heck, that's what I do to Cathe Holden at least once a month!
Check out what these volunteers did to the church nursery!
If I had a little motivation...and someone crafty to hold my hand, I would make me one of these. I could make one of these. But I don't have anyone crafty to hold my hand. And whatever you do, don't volunteer or I won't have a valid excuse any longer.

Sacred Sandwich always has me laughing. It's good for the soul, I say. This one had to be shared here.
This - a great video for the hopeless romantic... Can I dream of having a son-in-law like this someday?

The Overflow

2011-05-23T10:37:00.001-07:00

Many, many blessings to list, many I've forgotten that should be here, many that should be repeated every week.

92. Squeals in the grass, and cheap plastic eggs full of candy
93. A voice that held out, and the prayers that
94. piles of books - adventures, travels, nature at our hands, even spelling and language, all awaiting us
95. butterfly cupcakes and the eager lips that were covered in frosting
96. tandem bikes
97. the open road
98. pregnancy stories - all so vastly different and yet, there seemed to be no 'homebirth' or 'epidural' lines to be drawn. What freedom among these sisters!
99. laughter until my jaw hurts!
100. a lakefront weekend that took my breath away - so safe, so "tucked in," and so fun too.
101. this husband of mine that managed kids - perhaps he ended the weekend breathless too?
102. Monday morning - with the gift of established works to be done, all to Him.
103. dress-up clothes and little girls who still imagine
104. creamer, flavored coffee, and goodies all thoughtfully prepared
105. Living from His overflow - perfect rest.

Resting Here,
Karen

The Many But Not Complete Confessions of a Mediocre Motorhome Owner

2011-05-11T14:34:00.000-07:00

What do you get when you combine

1 motorhome
2 parents
3 kids
4 helpful grandparents (2 who came in their own trailer and 2 who watched our dog)
5 bottles of sunscreen
6 cases of water
7 tickets to Disneyland
8 bicycles and scooters
9 hours on the road,
and
10 loads of laundry?

The simple answer: you get ten loads of laundry.
The more complex answer: you get three happy kids, two frazzled parents, and two delightful and delighted grandparents.
The sentimental answer: you get priceless memories.
The logical answer: you get one family vacation.
The homeschooler's answer: you get many new experiences and perspectives. And now you're going to win a spelling bee.
The mother's answer: you get ten loads of laundry, and every one of them was worth it.

The father's answer: you get time off of work, long bike rides with your kids, and one great baseball game as a finale.

In a nutshell, we had a great trip. It was a hyper hiatus, but we are home and the last load of laundry has been ~~burned~~ folded and put away.

I am now perfectly qualified to write a book titled "The Many But Not Complete Confessions of a Mediocre Motorhome Owner." It would include honest confessions like "I threw away a perfectly good tupperware because it was easier than cleaning out the leftovers into the trash can." Or this one: "I watched my son pull his pants down and pee on the asphalt...all while an old lady scooped up her terrier's do-do in the neatly fenced 'doggy' area. My dilemma was - do I stop my son mid-stream or do I instruct him to go in the grassy area where the dogs do their business?" Also, I would have to include one confession that distinguishes the Upper Crust motorhome owners from the Mediocre motorhome owners - bungee cords. If you have them just to look prepared, you're Upper Crust. If you have them because it's what's keeping your tenement on wheels together, you are mediocre, but you are tenacious, humble, and good at jerry-rigging. Other confessions? I'd have to admit that I stole condiment packets and one loaf of sourdough bread from a Princess Lunch at Disneyland.

Also, I forgot to empty the lint screen after doing my laundry in the RV laundry room. And we completely failed the motorhome flag test. If you are retired, you hang an American flag outside your motorhome. If you are young and mediocre, you wish you had an American flag to hang but you're too busy hanging beach towels to remember where you put it. If you are an organized and meticulous motorhome owner, you use the outdoor shower to wash off beach sand before you enter your motorhome. If you are a mediocre motorhome owner, you strip your toddler naked, scrub him good, and call it a legitimate bath.

The trip was anything but mediocre, even if we annoyed everyone in the motorhome park with our antics. But whew! It was fun.

After reviewing our pictures, I couldn't resist sharing the best string of photos ever, the ones that had me laughing in bed last night, thanks to our seven-year old Punkin who snatched my iphone and intrigued one curious orangutan at the zoo.

He was definitely interested in Punkin, who even moved away about fifteen feet to give other children a chance to see the orangutan. He followed her across the glass wall.

Then, he stared at her for a while... (Wait for it, wait for it....)

Then, he did this!

And that pretty much sums up our vacation. Goofy smiles all around!

If you need a synopsis...

2011-04-22T07:35:00.001-07:00

If your day proves to be busy or distracted, or if you are intimidated by those old, sometimes odd words, or if you have ever wondered why Christians celebrate Good Friday, here is the briefest synopsis I could mash together:

"When Jesus had finished saying these things, he said to his disciples, 'As you know, the Passover is two days away - and the Son of Man will be handed over to be crucified.'" (Matt. 26:1-2) (I love this! He knew it was coming; He talked about it openly...)

"Then came the day of Unleavened Bread on which the Passover lamb had to be sacrificed. Jesus sent Peter and John saying, 'Go and make preparations for us to eat the Passover.'" (Matt. 26:17-18)

"When the hour came, Jesus and his apostles reclined at the table. And he said to them, 'I have eagerly desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer...he took break, gave thanks, and broke it, and gave it to them, saying 'This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me...This cup is the new covenant of my blood, which is poured out for you.'" (Luke 22)

There were mind-boggling and perhaps awkward moments:

a foot washing (an act so degrading that even a Jewish slave could not be forced to do it.);
a piece of bread handed to Judas with the order: "what you are about to do, do quickly.";
a prediction that Judas would not be the only betrayer, that Peter would deny Him three times;
perplexed disciples who whispered to one another "We don't understand what he is saying.'" (John 16:18);
drowsy, confused and sorrowful disciples in an olive grove (Luke 22:45);
this Messiah pouring out honesty like blood, with hard words like "My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death" and "Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will but yours be done."
perhaps the most awkward kiss in the history of mankind, when Jesus caught his betrayer off-guard: "'Judas, are you betraying the Son of Man with a kiss?' Going at once to Jesus, Judas said, 'Rabbi!' and kissed him." (Luke 22:48)
the impulsive, badly-aimed sword of Peter, that cut off an ear and earned him a rebuke from the One he was trying to defend: "No more of this!" Jesus healed the ear.
chaotic, unorganized trials before a wicked priest, a deep-thinking governor (Pilate ends his conversation with Jesus by asking a seemingly unanswerable question, "What is truth?"), then, a curious and almost giddy Herod who receives nothing but silence from Jesus.
The screaming, riotous crowd choosing Barabbas the Bandit to be mercifully freed; for Jesus, their choice was clear: "Crucify! crucify!" (How skewed was their idea of mercy!)
The people convincing Pilate to hesitantly give them what they wanted, even taking the blame for Jesus' imminent death: "Let his blood be on us and on our children!" (Matt. 27:25) (To which I say, Amen!)
A crown of thorns, a royal purple robe to parade this King through town, then a poorly timed passerby who was forced to carry Jesus' cross to Golgotha. (Matthew 27:27-32)
"From the bullying game of Blind Man's Bluff in the high priest's courtyard to the professional thuggery of Pilate's and Herod's guards, to the catcalls of spectators turned out to jeer the criminals stumbling up the long road to Calvary, and finally to the cross itself where Jesus heard a stream of taunts from the ground below and even from the cross alongside. You call yourself a Messiah? Well, then come down from that cross. How you gonna save us if you can't even save yourself?" (Yancey, The Jesus I Never Knew, p. 260)
This Rabbi Jesus hung on the cross, no modest white cloth covering his nakedness like it was on the Sunday School coloring pages. His shame was complete. Still, he said, "Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing." Not only did he forgive his accusers, but he provided for his mother and welcomed a thief next to him - "Today, you will be with me in paradise." (John 23:43)
"King of the Jews" said the notice, much to the Jewish leaders' dismay. "No, [t]his man claimed to be king of the Jews." (Matt. 27:37) Pilate was done with them: "What I have written, I have written.
There was darkness, and weird words uttered from dry lips: "It is finished." "Father, into your hands I commit my spirit." and the most baffling of all, words that haunt me every Good Friday: "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" (These puzzling words seem to convince folks of the authenticity of the accounts. "For what reason would the founders of a new religion put such despairing words in the mouth of their dying hero - unless that's precisely what he said." Yancey, pg. 261)
In that moment, "Christ redeemed us from the curse of the Law, having become a curse for us--for it is written, 'Cursed is everyone who hangs on a tree.'" (Gal. 3:13)

On the cross, Jesus shows one of two things: that God is completely powerless or that God is nothing but Love. I choose to see it - or, He has opened my eyes to see it - as the latter.

"Power, no matter how well-intentioned, tends to cause suffering. Love, being vulnerable, absorbs it. In a point of convergence on a hill called Calvary, God renounced the one for the sake of the other." -Philip Yancey, The Jesus I Never Knew, p. 267

Resting Here,
Karen

Unbroken

2011-04-21T21:54:00.000-07:00

If you have talked to me this week on the phone or in person, you knew I was going to write this blog post. I just couldn't resist.

Because this week, I had my nose in a book.

This book:
The book I stole from the basket by my dad's recliner, the book that has the following inscription on the inside cover: "Happy birthday, ole man! Hope it's a great year, Dad." Yup, my sister sent it to my dad for his birthday and I stole it, plain and simple. Now, I have to fess up and give it back.

From a purely selfish perspective, it was the most satisfying read I have ever had the privilege of undertaking. I didn't want it to end, and yet, I couldn't get to the end fast enough. Even my kids would come and ask me, "How's that guy doin'? Did he get out of the plane yet?" The best part: it's a true story!

I'm not gonna spoil it for you, but if you are looking for a good book this spring, you can't get any better than this.

Karen

P.S. This book is not religious in any way. It is a true story and it's about war - which includes lonely, bored soldiers with potty mouths and dirty magazines; and brutal war scenes that Laura Hillenbrand brings to vibrant life in words. If it had a rating, it would be R.

Cleaning House - Oddballs Welcome!

2011-04-18T05:13:00.000-07:00

Wouldn't it be fun to clean house like Jesus did?...

From Matthew 21:

12And Jesus entered the temple and drove out all those who were buying and selling in the temple, and overturned the tables of the money changers and the seats of those who were selling doves.

¹³And He said to them, "It is written, 'MY HOUSE SHALL BE CALLED A HOUSE OF PRAYER'; but you are making it a ROBBERS' DEN."

¹⁴And the blind and the lame came to Him in the temple, and He healed them.

¹⁵But when the chief priests and the scribes saw the wonderful things that He had done, and the children who were shouting in the temple, "Hosanna to the Son of David," they became indignant

¹⁶and said to Him, "Do You hear what these children are saying?" And Jesus said to them, "Yes; have you never read, 'OUT OF THE MOUTH OF INFANTS AND NURSING BABIES YOU HAVE PREPARED PRAISE FOR YOURSELF'?"

¹⁷And He left them and went out of the city to Bethany, and spent the night there.

Philip Yancey explains it this way (excerpt from What's So Amazing About Grace, page 139, 1997):

Jesus appeared on earth just as Palestine was experiencing a religious revival. The Pharisees, for example, spelled out precise rules for staying clean: never enter the home of a Gentile, never dine with sinners, perform no work on the Sabbath, wash your hands seven times before eating. Thus when rumors spread that Jesus could be the long-awaited Messiah, pious Jews were more scandalized than galvanized. Had he not touched unclean persons, such as those suffering from leprosy? Had he not let a woman of ill repute wash his feet with her hair? He dined with tax collectors - one even joined his inner circle of the Twelve - and was notoriously lax about the rules of ritual cleanness and Sabbath observance.

Moreover, Jesus deliberately crossed into Gentile territory and got involved with Gentiles. He praised a Roman centurion as having more faith than anyone in Israel and volunteered to enter the centurion's house to heal his servant. He healed a half-breed Samaritan with leprosy and had a lengthy conversation with a Samaritan woman - to the consternation of his disciples, who knew that 'Jews do not associate with Samaritans.' This woman, rejected by Jews on account of her race, rejected by neighbors on account of her serial marriages, became the first 'missionary' appointed by Jesus and the first person to whom he openly revealed his identity as Messiah. Then Jesus culminated his time on earth by giving his disciples the 'Great Commission,' a command to take the gospel to unclean Gentiles 'in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.'

Jesus' approach to 'unclean' people dismayed his countrymen, and in the end, helped to get him crucified. In essence, Jesus canceled the cherished principle of the Old Testament, No Oddballs Allowed, replacing it with a new rule of grace: 'We're all oddballs, but God loves us anyhow.'

The Gospels record only one occasion when Jesus resorted to violence: the cleansing of the temple. Brandishing a whip, he overturned tables and benches and drove out the merchants who had set up shop there. As I have said, the very architecture of the temple expressed the Jewish hierarchy. Gentiles could only enter only the outer court. Jesus resented that merchants had turned the Gentiles' area into an oriental bazaar filled with the sounds of animals bleating and merchants haggling over prices, an atmosphere hardly conducive to worship. Mark records that after the cleansing of the temple, the chief priests and teachers of the law 'began looking for a way to kill him.' In a real sense, Jesus sealed his fate with his angry insistence on the Gentiles' right to approach God.

He opened the way for me - a woman and a Gentile - to draw near to God. In a culture that needed to wash seven times before eating a meal, I am most surely 'unclean' in many ways. Jesus didn't abolish all of those rules; He fulfilled them. And I come near.

Resting in His Nearness,
Karen

What Manner of King? Palm Sunday

2011-04-16T21:47:00.000-07:00

Words keep popping up in my head these days. Weird words like spit...cheek kisses...a baby donkey...a cup...sweat like blood...dirty feet...bully...

I could go on, but I won't yet. I'll let the Word speak for itself...

Matthew 21

The Triumphal Entry

¹ Now when they drew near to Jerusalem and came to Bethphage, to the Mount of Olives, then Jesus sent two disciples, ²saying to them, "Go into the village in front of you, and immediately you will find a donkey tied, and a colt with her. Untie them and bring them to me. ³If anyone says anything to you, you shall say, 'The Lord needs them,' and he will send them at once." ⁴This took place to fulfill what was spoken by the prophet, saying,
⁵ "Say to the daughter of Zion,'Behold, your king is coming to you,
humble, and mounted on a donkey,
and on a colt, the foal of a beast of burden.'"

⁶The disciples went and did as Jesus had directed them. ⁷They brought the donkey and the colt and put on them their cloaks, and he sat on them. ⁸Most of the crowd spread their cloaks on the road, and others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road. ⁹And the crowds that went before him and that followed him were shouting, "Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest!" ¹⁰And when he entered Jerusalem, the whole city was stirred up, saying, "Who is this?" ¹¹And the crowds said, "This is the prophet Jesus, from Nazareth of Galilee."

This week, I am focusing on Jesus. It's the "Holy Week" and I can't resist writing what moves me. Call me a Jesus freak and I just might kiss you. Join me, if you would like.

A few practical addendums:

As an amateur writer, I can't help but wonder why the Gospel accounts weren't "polished" up a bit, clarified here and there. Which is so comforting - the very "unpolished" nature of the accounts seems to lend them an air of truthful reality. Nevertheless, they can be tricky to follow the timeline. One great resource I have appreciated lately is a Holy Week timeline. With four different Gospel accounts, I found this to be helpful in understanding the sequence of events.

If you want or need more words, here are some of my favorites, from one of my favorites: The Jesus I Never Knew by Philip Yancey. If you have read it, then you know why I love the book. If you have not read the book, perhaps this week will give you a taste of it. And if you aren't sure about Jesus, just know that He may be different than what was presented on the flannelgraph board at Sunday School, vastly more than what you may feel at a church, read in a theology book, or receive at a soup kitchen.

He is life itself, and abundant life at that.

I'm resting here on Palm Sunday...

"All four Gospels mention this event, which at first glance seems the one departure from Jesus' aversion to acclaim. Crowds spread clothes and tree branches across the road to show their adoration. 'Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!' they cried. Though Jesus usually recoiled from such displays of fanaticism, this time he let them yell. To indignant Pharisees he explained, 'I tell you, if they keep quiet, the very stones will cry out.'

Was the prophet from Galilee now being vindicated in Jerusalem? 'Look how the whole world has gone after him!' exclaimed the Pharisees in alarm. At that moment, with several hundred thousand pilgrims assembled in Jerusalem, it looked for all the world as if the King had arrived in force to claim his rightful throne.

I remember as a child riding home from Palm Sunday service, absentmindedly tearing apart the palm fronds, skimming ahead in the Sunday School quarterly to the next week's topic. It made no sense. With such a throng throwing themselves at his feet one week, how did Jesus get arrested and killed the next?

Now when I read the Gospels I see the undercurrents that help explain the shift. On Palm Sunday a group from Bethany surrounded him, still exultant over the miracle of Lazarus. No doubt pilgrims from Galilee, who knew him well, comprised another large portion of the crowd. Matthew points out that further support came from the blind, the lame, and the children. Beyond that constituency, however, lurked danger. Religious authorities resented Jesus, and Roman legions brought in to control the festival crowds would heed the Sanhedrin's assessment of who might present a threat to order.

Jesus himself had mixed feelings during the clamorous parade. Luke reports that as he approached the city, he began to weep. He knew how easily a mob could turn. Voices who shout 'Hosanna!' one week can shriek 'Crucify him! the next.

The triumphal entry has about it an aura of ambivalence, and as I read all the accounts, what stands out to me now is the slapstick nature of the affair. I imagine a Roman officer galloping up to check on the disturbance. He has attended processions in Rome, where they do it right. The conquering general sits in a chariot of gold, with stallions straining at the reins and wheel spikes flashing in the sunlight. Behind him, officers in polished armor display the banners captured from vanquished armies. At the rear comes a ragtag procession of slaves and prisoners in chains, living proof of what happens to those who defy Rome.

In Jesus' triumphal entry, the adoring crowd makes up the ragtag procession: the lame, the blind, the children, the peasants from Galilee and Bethany. When the officer looks for the object of their attention he spies a forlorn figure, weeping, riding on no stallion or chariot but on the back of a baby donkey, a borrowed coat draped across its backbone serving as his saddle.

Yes, there was a whiff of triumph on Palm Sunday, but not the kind of triumph that might impress Rome and not the kind that impressed crowds in Jerusalem for long either. What manner of king was this?

(I will continue this series all week long. Feel free to add any questions, doubts, defenses, or comments in the comment section, and I'll feel free to respond or not, depending on the chaos of the moment.)

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

2011-04-15T12:44:00.000-07:00

There was a time when children slept in the beds we intended for them, all snuggled up in well-coordinated blankets and themed rooms.

There was another time when we had a mutiny on our hands, when the kids decided to buck that tradition, and sleep all together in one bedroom, often on the floor. After a few months of cleaning bedding every morning, I realized there was a solution.

So, we took down all the kids beds in our house and slapped together some bunk beds. (My husband and friend Joel will say it was more than "slap together some bunk beds," as they did the actual construction.)

Better Homes and Gardens, it is not. But I'm pretty sure they weren't coming to shoot magazine quality photos of our bedrooms anyways. So, I've let that ridiculous notion go, and with it, we now have one big bedroom for all three kids, and a new playroom/schoolroom.

My mother teases and says that is how homeschool families have to do it, all the kids sleeping in a room all together. I'm going with it. Who knows how long they will all want to sleep in the same room, but until then, here's what we're working with: (Oh, and remember who is taking the pictures; forgive please.)

The girls' room used to look like this:

And now it looks like this:

One set of bunk beds on the left and one set on the right.

There's an extra bunk for sleepover guests, or Ginger Pie, if she's a good girl.

The kids' favorite parts are the curtains on the lower bunks,
and the individual shelves and sconces for each bed.

On to the next room, our little man's bedroom used to look like this:

And now, it looks like this:

Open those doors, and look out for the chaos. Or a pop quiz.

I forgot how exhausting all of this was, until I uploaded these pictures. Whew! Glad we're done... until this girl needs a little privacy...

Until then, we're enjoying some of the changes around here, and scared every time our friend-realtor sends us a new local listing... Because we love living right here, and are thankful for our home.

Karen

The Dark Side

2011-04-14T15:13:00.001-07:00

There have been lots of changes around here - walls and stoves and bathrooms. I will post about them as soon as I catch my breath. In the meantime, I've made a change too. And if the family's reaction is anything like yours will be, I had better give you a little warning.

So, for all of you locals' sake, here's a preview so you can scream at the computer and not at me. (Although you can scream at me too. I can take it. In fact, I'm getting pretty used to it.)

And for my identical twin, who never knows what to do with her hair, here's what you would look like if you, too, choose to move to the dark side.

Thanks to Punkin's seven-year old work behind the camera, you get the half-smile thrown in for free.

I miss this place, and will be back soon.

Resting in Him,
Karen

2011-04-06T14:21:00.000-07:00

Apparently, my little niece didn't like my baby bump jokes. So, to my little sister on bedrest: read on if you want, or go play a round of Bananagrams if you don't want to.

My favorite link...

My chore-chart nagging days are ~~over~~ very reduced! If you only click on one link, this is the one I'd tell you to go check out. An actual quote you would have heard from the mouth of this mother today in this house: "Please, please. Stop being responsible, stop doing chores, just go and play!" True story. Yes! This place is FREE, it is super simple to organize, and so far, kid-friendly. You set up the chores you want done for each day, week, or specific days of the week. Then, you set up each child's account, and they can update their chart as they complete their chores. You determine the value of each chore and they can even redeem their "points" with rewards of your choice, either through ideas you have at home (ice cream date, or game night, or date out with Daddy) or even through Amazon. Our favorite part - the chance to write little notes to each of my kids on their chore list. My seven-year old was caught writing me notes back. Too fun! You can also add "extra chores" that kids can do for extra points - I found a kid scooping poop today! Check it out, or forever nag your kids. (If myjobchart.com wants to send me lots of money for this unsolicited promotion, I will gladly accept it.)

On parenting...

Good reminders abound here - like "formulas do not work!" and "Jesus' life is my example." I'm a better parent for reading this.

This daddy stayed home from work, and made me cheer at the screen!

On domestics...

If I needed a daybed, I'd be asking one amazing husband to try his hand at this. Beauty!

[Photo credit: Ana-White.com]

If I needed a guest bedroom, I'd be asking one amazing husband for this. Kevin and Layla never cease to amaze me. Oh yes, that's antique gym flooring on the wall. And I'm cheering like an
old-school pompom girl!

On faith...

"But as Christians–as followers of our Lord Jesus Christ–our allegiance is not to causes, lifestyles, diet, dress codes or social customs. Our allegiance is to Christ and His great commandment to us is to love God and love our neighbor." Great quote, great article.

Is there anything more inspiring on this Christian walk then watching the victorious walk of others? This saint has long been a heroine of mine...

"Knowledge puffs up, but love builds up." One must always come before the other. Love never fails, says Big Mama.

On randomness...

I've never been one to worry about things like radiation, but I found myself quite interested in this article, and the funny writer who wrote it. Which doctors refuse the airport scanner? What doctors willingly march through it?

About ten years ago, they built an In-N-Out hamburger joint within driving distance of our home. And I officially put away my patty-pounding capabilities. I could make good hamburgers, but theirs are better. So, I gave up. From some folks who ordered every item on the menu, the In-N-Out insider's jargon is here.

You know something is funny when you laugh at your computer screen, with no one else around. This sucker passed that test. Just ask my computer screen. Check out the hilarious comments folks made for this sacred sandwich.

Grace to You Today,
Karen

Why I'm Afraid to Talk...or Should Be

2011-03-31T15:24:00.000-07:00

A gaffe of epic proportions:

"Thank you for watching my son," I said, hanging the diaper bag on the hook and signing in my baby boy for the hour-and-a-half church service.

"You're welcome," the volunteer said, another little baby boy on her hip.

"Who is this little one?" I asked innocently, squeezing his chubby baby toes.

"Oh, he belongs to me," she answered with a smile.

Perhaps it was the way she beam-smiled at me - not exactly like a tired mama, more like a doting grandmother. Or perhaps it was the fleeting thought that her grown daughters work in town, I had seen them at a store.

"Is this your first grandbaby?"

"No, this is my son," she said neutrally, not overly mad and not overly nice.

Well, it's time to patch things up, said my brain.

"I am so sorry," I said.

Deep down, I'm still shouting to the narrator, "Don't say it! Don't say it!" But it always ends with me, tactless and unafraid:

"For some reason, I thought your daughter, the one who works in town, was pregnant."

Crickets chirp. And you can hear me slap myself on the forehead.

Her look wasn't overly mad or overly nice, just overly disgusted.

The End.

Resting Near the Delete Button,
Karen

Life Abundant

2011-03-27T20:55:00.000-07:00

My little sister has a big bump.

A scary looking bump. It can't help but draw the eye down towards her belly.

It gets me excited for her every time we talk on the phone, this new life in her named Baby Lillian. It also stirs up those nostalgic "remember when's."

As is always the case with me, even my nostalgia is plagued by misplaced mother-guilt. Just ask my little sister, she'll tell you all the ways I regret my mothering of babies - the hurrying of time, the rigor of schedules, the stiff rigidity that could not consider a bottle of formula or a snuggle in bed with Baby. Then, the extreme swing in the other direction, where I rocked at the cost of any other priority, as if to make up for lost time.

But when I look back, I realize that lack of time was never the real problem. Being present in those moments was the problem. My biggest regret in all of life - not just in early motherhood, but in every stage, every day - is in not being thankful for this. Right now, the this is a quiet moment at a dark desk, my face glowing in the reflection of a screen...sounds of kids settling into bed interrupting my already distracted thoughts...this sticky laptop that must have been witness to a lollipop annihilation...scrub that tomorrow...the smell of fresh paint lingering (and I secretly like it)... If I could say it loud without disturbing drowsy Littles, I'd shout it: I'm thankful now.

Isn't this grace, that I have been given this moment, and the hard ones too, not to be hurried or accomplished or checked off the to-do list, but to be lived? Even this, I cannot do apart from Another, who wants me to have "life and have it abundantly" (John 10:10).

"I watch the hands move grace on the clock face. I'm growing older. These children growing up. But time is not running out. This day is not a sieve, losing time. With each passing minute, each passing year, there's this deepening awareness that I am filling, gaining time." -Ann Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts, page 77

This life is not to be endured, but to be lived. Abundantly. Remind me of this during my next root canal and you just might see an example of ungrace. For sure, this abundant life is not done without Him. He makes purpose out of my irrelevant moments, sense out of my nonsense, gratitude out of tantrums, and even joy out of my regrets. Gaining time today, and praying you are too.

Resting in this Eternity,
Karen

If you haven't visited here in a while, let me explain: each Monday, I meet with hundreds of other women who are pouring gratitude out in journals, keyboards, and the backs of receipts. It's lifted my eyes upward, where I rejoice for crazy things like spilled paint and floss. If you would like to start your own list, you can start your own at A Holy Experience.

69. this goofy sticky keyboard (my finger keeps getting stuck on the ssssss)
70. puppy antics
71. good books piled high
72. fresh paint and wallpaper, and my mother who inspires, motivates, and mops up my spilled paint
73. this man I love, who comforted Punkin the best way after those puppy antics chewed up her artwork - with time, affection, and scotch tape
74. Dr. Gray, the dentist Sugs loves
75. nightly "rocket ship" rides to the top bunk and little kid vows to come home from the moon in the morning
76. a smilebox from Japan that made me, well, smile
77. Pizza with grandparents
78. Three squirt bottles and all the giggles they produced tonight
79. Willing listeners who allowed me to share so securely
80. A real tea party
81. Early morning coffee with Real Gil
82. the Bread of Life - a perfectly satisfying and strengthening meal
83. gusts of wind and these strong walls that shelter me tonight
84. the whimsy of Grandpa eating a lollipop
85. teachers like Miss Diedre, Mr. Nelson-with-the-guitar, & Miss Melody
86. staged fights (with swords and nunchucks) at noon that had us all laughing
87. snowballs thrown at our departing car and kids laughing at Grandpa
88. the long, lulling rock in a rocking chair (How long has it been since I did that?)
89. cheers at church
90. My mother-in-law cooking and serving while I...set the table?
91. Little Sister's baby bump

When Tucked In Really Means Tucked In

2011-03-24T14:30:00.000-07:00

Uncle Kenny died on Sunday afternoon.

Grandpa found him sitting in his easy chair, the television still tuned to his favorite channel, and my kids' most recent homemade works of art posted on his refrigerator. Putting down the plate of still-warm food my mother had sent Grandpa to deliver, he called 9-1-1 and checked his best friend's body for a pulse. There was none.

Let me clarify: Uncle Kenny wasn't really our uncle, he was my father's uncle. That got a little too confusing for us and even more complicated for the kids, so we all just called him what my dad called him: Uncle Kenny. More than an uncle, though, he was my grandfather's first cousin by blood (not hard in a family of seventeen kids!) and best friend for life. A single father of four adult daughters, he wasn't afraid of our family chaos or the occasional childish interruption.

Grandpa and Kenny always reminded me of Grumpy Old Men, only they weren't grumpy. They were energetic, funny, and child-like in their awe of the world. They spent endless hours hunting the high desert for ghost towns, blue rocks (requested by my daughter), and treasures untold. When we went along for the fun, they strapped kids on the backs of their quads and ventured off into the dust. A kid's heaven, for sure, as was the bowl of Jell-O Great-Grandma had made them afterward.

Uncle Kenny celebrated every birthday and holiday with our family, including the religious ones that he did not necessarily ascribe to. Last Easter, he asked my mom why Jesus was so important to the Christians. I was secretly glad he hadn't asked me after I heard how good her answer was.

Then, just a few weeks ago, Grandpa and Uncle Kenny stopped by our house. I brewed coffee and cut brownies, the kind that's thick with frosting. Both the kids and Uncle Kenny ate the frosting first.

Between stories of political woes and travesties, I shook my head and said, "The answer is Jesus, we just need Jesus." Such a cliche answer, in retrospect.

"You think so?" Uncle Kenny asked.

"Yeah," I answered shyly, but gaining momentum. "Real life doesn't start the minute we get to heaven; it starts the minute we know Jesus."

He smiled encouragingly, even nodded around his coffee cup. But I wonder what he really thought. Was I the religious nutcase that kept serving him Jesus-talk with his brownie? Was I a misguided zealot? A weak-minded intolerant conservative?

We ended the conversation with hugs, and off those two went, nagging and teasing each other all the way to the truck. It was only two weeks until my dad's birthday, when the family would all gather around my mother's buffet spread, but Uncle Kenny decided the morning of our get-together to stay home and rest. And he died that afternoon.

If I could have done it again, I would have said it a hundred more ways (to make sure he was fully convinced I was a religious nutcase!). Not because I needed to change his mind, but because God loved him, plain and simple. Why not tell a person this?

So, to all the Uncle Kenny's out there who I have yet to bravely risk embarrassing myself and them, here's what I should have said:

Jesus is the reason I get up in the morning.

Life without Him is hopeless for me.

A walk with Jesus is a walk of faith - there are no perfect proofs or scientific experiments that make it all sensible. In fact, if anything, this Christian life seems the exact opposite of logic. A.W. Tozer says it this way:

"A real Christian is an odd number, anyway. He feels supreme love for One whom he has never seen; talks familiarly every day to Someone he cannot see; expects to go to heaven on the virtue of Another; empties himself in order to be full; admits he is wrong so he can be declared right; goes down in order to get up; is strongest when he is weakest; richest when he is poorest and happiest when he feels the worst. He dies so he can live; forsakes in order to have; gives away so he can keep; sees the invisible; hears the inaudible; and knows that which passeth knowledge." (excerpt taken from Kenneth Boa's Conformed to His Image, p. 260)

No matter how skeptical you are, what do you lose by finding out more? A little time, perhaps? A little ridicule, maybe? If it's nothing, you've wasted little. If it's something - or everything - you've gained purpose, identity, love, hope, security, and life itself.

This "hidden in Christ" kind of "tucked in" I spout about cannot allow me to wallow in regret, only step forward knowing that if God could find me, He could certainly find Uncle Kenny. What a way to go - into Arms wide open, cozier than the easy chair. I hope he found that safe place, tucked in to Him.

Resting in Faith,
Karen

Locked Out

2011-03-21T07:00:00.000-07:00

I was somewhere in the midst of cereal bowls and soapy water when the doorbell rang. Before I could even dry my hands, three pajama-clad kids scampered to the front door and opened it. (So much for that "stranger danger" talk.)

The couple at the door made me smile - a young buzz-cut boy with his hand firmly enveloped in his grandma's. She shrugged her shoulders and explained, "We're locked out." Then, she laughed. In a flurry of shed jackets and excited greetings, the children went off to play, and I ground coffee beans.

I wonder, who was more excited about the unexpected guests - the children or me?! After all, when the door swung wide and I recognized her, it was I who gleefully pushed schoolbooks out of the way, not the children. It was adult conversation and it was spontaneous. I've never been so happy for those inconvenient self-locks!

Is there a sweeter place than the kitchen table? Steaming mugs before us, we drank the fellowship deeply, two sisters in Christ. She gave me the gift of words - something I never run out of - and wisdom laced - like creamer in my coffee - with humility and laughter. We talked about kids, dogs, and mothering, all of which she is decades ahead of me on. Somewhere in there, she mentioned her own mother.

Kids were squealing, catching up in their own way, when she poured out the parts I had never heard.

"In a small town, folks knew. And talked about us, my mom and her live-in boyfriends...I remember being asked to the prom by a boy whose mother said 'it wouldn't do' to take someone like me. He did anyways." She brightened at this for a moment, but quickly sobered.

"The worst part was that she always chose the boyfriend over us kids, her own children." It's been sixty years and she still seemed baffled by this woman called Mother, who did it so differently than she did.

Later, after kids put on jackets and tromped outside to conquer some unseen foe in the sandbox, she told me how she has wronged another, sought to make it right. Here is when the tears really fell, and I made note: grace makes the wrong done against her much less painful than the wrong done by her.

All too soon, keys and hugs were delivered. It was suddenly quiet again (well, quieter) and the school books moved back to their high priority position. I loosened coffee grounds from the french press into the trash can, and wondered how this woman let loose of that history, those small-town whispers. Didn't she deserve to carry just a little bit of resentment, wear it like a badge of honor? Not only did she toss the badge, but she seemed to willingly pin it on others around her, pleading for them to let loose of their rightful resentment towards her.

Does her own forgiveness of her mother preclude her willingness to ask for forgiveness? Does grace produce more grace? Of course! This math of the Father always boggles me...It's as if He would like to see how unbalanced the scales can get!

I'm so thankful that this woman of faith has chosen to act in faith - because "to forgive as we have been forgiven by God is an act of faith, since it means that we are releasing the right to resentment and that we entrust justice to God rather than seek it ourselves." (Kenneth Boa, Conformed to His Image, p. 50)

"Forgive, and you will be forgiven," said Jesus (Luke 6:37).

Resting in His Forgiveness,
Karen

51. the assurance that I am prayed for
52. the chance to pray for others
53. little families we get to grow with
54. play dates on snowy days
55. our macho grandpa dancing a goofy dance to my kids' "Happy birthday" tune
56. family meals and the gift of food
57. Grandma and Punkin singing hymns together, generations rising to call HIM blessed
58. pre-pasted wallpaper, a sturdy ladder, & one willing mother
59. flossing, lots of flossing around here
60. scrubbed puppy dog
61. forgiveness - to be given and received
62. the life of Amos
63. perfect acceptance, just like I am, by the One who should require so much more from me
64. a picky nephew who tried a new food, and brightened when it tasted good
65. the grandma who cooked it!
66. the humility of a fellow mother, who called and asked for help
67. And the opportunity to help, as unto Him. The gift is for us, not her...
68. Uncle Kenny, and the pictures on his refrigerator

In all of these, and so many more, I am thankful today...

When Sowing Doesn't Produce The Crop You Were Going For

2011-03-15T13:13:00.001-07:00

The Little Man went to the dentist for the first time today, at three-years old. Daddy did the honors, while I stayed home to 'do' school with the other two.

We pride ourselves on a fairly disciplined brushing regiment, limited sugar (sorta), and a soda-free environment around here.

So, while the returning Little Man's beaming smile warmed my heart as he came through the swinging door, the pile of paperwork in Real Gil's hand came as a bit of a surprise. As far as I know, a clean bill of tooth-health does not come with piles of x-rays and follow-up appointments.

Defeated. Yet again, at the dentist.

It's the one area in life where I really feel like "You reap what you sow" does not apply. For instance, this husband of mine flosses at least twice a day, brushes often enough to earn the chore of household toilet-scrubber (with a different brush of course), and schedules regular dentist visits every six months. I, on the other hand, go to the dentist once a year and do a shoddy flossing job. He reaps crowns and root canals, and I always get praised for "great flossing technique" by the hygienist (I feel so guilty!).

It seems our son takes after his father. Poor little guy...

It's taken a few hours, but I'm seeing gratitude even here - in the fact that we have a great pediatric dentist, we have the money to pay the bill, and Little Man made it through his first of many dentist visits. Before I can finish that sentence in this post, I find other things to be thankful for - novocaine and flavored fluoride and modern dentistry. See, this gratitude thing is contagious!

Then, I am reminded that the results are not up to me. The crop's harvest is not my job, only the sowing. Oh, and I'm grateful for this too - thank God the fruitfulness of a crop is not up to me; I can't imagine my mother-guilt if it was. So, I'm thankful, even when sowing didn't produce the crop I was going for...

Resting in the Surprise of Gratitude,
Karen

36. Words like these that bring comfort when the world shakes
37. Friends who love my kids, even after they took them for the weekend
38. A rock hunt with child-eyes to see the sparkles in the gravel
39. Warm beds
40. Surprise visitors at the front door
41. Pink smears of sunrise this morning
42. Great news!
43. The best phone call, in which I couldn't stop laughing and couldn't resist being encouraged
44. Squeals from the spa full of splashing kids
45. Facebook updates from Japan
46. Cold medicine, Kleenex, and healing bodies
47. Money to pay the dental bills
48. Grieving saints, who let me bring them before the Father (which can only be done as they share their burden, so glad they trusted us with these!)
49. My sister's growing baby tummy
50. Sugs squinty, finger-folded prayers

His Word - Our Love Letter

2011-03-13T09:39:00.000-07:00

Rejoicing with those who just received it!

The Kimyal People Receive the New Testament from UFM Worldwide on Vimeo.

Entering In

2011-03-12T06:36:00.000-08:00

This picture comes straight from Japan, about 40 miles from Sendai, where
two of my friends are missionaries. Here is their newly "renovated" church.

Sometimes I pray because it's the right thing to do. Sometimes I pray because Jesus did it so I know I should too. Sometimes I pray because I have no other options in dire situations.

But lately, I've prayed because I can't help it. It's the natural overflow of my heart, this conversation with my Father, and it is a gift, not a task. It's conversation at its best, with me being mostly silent and just scrubbing down sinks or chopping onions with lips that move. Not the most organized or intercessory of prayers, but I think He is not offended by my disjointed thoughts.

I'm thankful for this gift - prayer. The gift I thought I was giving to Him all these years is actually the gift I receive from Him, this ever-present Rock I rest upon. And I boast in Him alone, who has moved me gradually from robotic method to genuine overflow.

Like entering a vast art museum after years of sitting in the lobby, I'm both in awe of this place and looking over my shoulder to see if it's real. As if some Night at the Museum guard is going to find me and identify me as a fraud - What! She's no prayer warrior! She's just a mother! - and yank me back to the drinking fountain and restrooms.

But then, I remember Who runs things around here, how I am invited to enter, to draw near, no matter how distracted I may be. So, I wander this gallery with names, faces, and places fluttering through my mind. And the more I study on it, the more beautiful the pieces become.

If you would like to join me in prayer, here is a link to my friends in Japan, who ask us to consider a tsunami of a different kind...

I know that life doesn't always feel like an art gallery, but I am savoring these opportunities to enter in.

Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need. (Hebrews 4:16)

Resting in Him,
Karen

Links I Actually Read

2011-03-07T21:19:00.000-08:00

We're sneaking away from this sweet, wild dog and bunk beds and textbooks. I've packed games, nail polish, and swimsuits. It will be good. (Just to clarify: the nail polish is for the female family members.)

Here are some links I've enjoyed lately. They are a bit dated as I haven't been reading much online these days, but I think you will still find some treasures in here somewhere.

The coolest homemade clock! I gotta make one of these.
I'm sure you've seen Layla's website; she posted some of her favorite videos from the year and I loved watching these.
I was supposed to show you all this BEFORE Valentine's Day, but maybe we can all get a head start on it for next year. Isn't this the cutest?!
And then, there's this flower tutorial - one of these days I'm going to do more than just read the tutorials...
And how about this cherry blossom display? Susie Harris made this with fake flowers and real sticks, which is a pretty good compromise in my book.
The only thing that says spring in my house is the cleaning supplies. It might be time to add something like this - the cutest table centerpiece. If Cathe Holden was my neighbor, I'd be baking whatever it took to get my hands on one of these.

Not everything I read is as materialistic as the above links. Every once in a while, I get enough brain power to read (instead of scroll) an article. One that I had to pass on was "The 'Yes' Face" over at thatmom.com. It's okay - no, even good - to say "No" to our children, but when it's harmless (but perhaps taxing), I want to give an emphatic "Yes!"
New to me, Miss Shauna, but her words were good. Let us mothers celebrate our children - and say "Yes!" to them - but do so in ways that are sensitive to those around us who are seeking to find that the Now is enough.
I found this article tracking college student learning to be somewhat true of my own college education. And it's made me reconsider the approach to education as a whole. Is it just another hoop we jump through? Or is it authentic learning? And is my education at home any different?
I have a cousin who married this girl...doesn't that sound like I'm about to tell a lie?... Anyways, her name is Jessica and she clips coupons...so she can give it all away! One of my goals for the year is to learn how to do the coupon thing so I can join her on this mission.

Happy reading to you.

Resting in Him,
Karen

Multitudes Indeed!

2011-03-07T07:09:00.000-08:00

22. Health today (and Purell yesterday at the Children's Museum!)
23. This gift of prayer - to receive it and to give it.
24. Loving hard and sometimes tough
25. Stick swords and a homemade flag flying in the backyard
26. Whistling of my husband - is there a better sound?
27. Being spontaneous!
28. Cousin antics
29. A long-anticipated movie date, replete with candy and slushies
30. The dog with a slipper over her face - thank you for this laugh, Father!
31. Midnight rain
32. One o'clock scary dreams that dissolved and invited a warm snuggle
33. Your Spirit, always.
34. This early morning, where husband kisses with travel mug in hand and goes to work. A job, thank you!
35. This fight of faith - such a good fight to fight! And victorious already...(1 Timothy 6:12)

2011-03-05T17:09:00.001-08:00

I'm cleaning house and blog around here. I've linked to Elizabeth Esther's monthly blog link-up, you can check it out for other author favorites of the month.

Hope your weekend is one of small or big graces.

All is Rest in Him,
Karen

Sixty-Eight Balloons

2011-02-28T14:45:00.000-08:00

I wouldn't think they would be so dramatic against our blue sky, but they were.

Dramatic, but subtle too. Maybe you wouldn't even notice them if you didn't look in the right direction. But if you lived nearby, happened to standing outside around dinnertime on Saturday, and glanced heavenward, you would have seen thse floating balls of color.

Sixty-eight of them.

Representing sixty-eight years of life.

Children and grandparents shivered in the cool, heads tipped up in red-nosed delight as sixty-eight years of life spilled into the sky, colorful and impacting.

Mrs. Donna requested these balloons. Much like her, they were colorful but unassuming, surprising but subtle, almost effortless as they floated away.

Hours earlier, I juggled a toddler on one hip and a vacuum in the other, sucking up crushed Cheez-its in the church nursery. Kids played while parents remembered Mrs. Donna. A mom stuck her head in the door, and said hi to me. I asked how the memorial went and she answered, a look of confusion wrinkling her eyebrows. "It was good. I just..."

She hesitated for a moment, blushing slightly and chuckled. "I had no idea Mrs. Donna had so many special people in her life. I thought it was just me!"

As those sixty-eight balloons floated off, small personal letters fluttering from the now-released strings, I thought of this life well-lived - Mrs. Donna's - who made each friend feel as if they were the only person that mattered at that moment.

A husband of forty-plus years sends his balloon off with smiling tears. The kaleidoscope of color floats away and we head inside, family in Christ remembering with gratitude.

Rejoicing in Him,
Karen

11. Mama bird on the fence post
12. Weekly disposal service, and a chance to share cookies!
13. An undeserved, unnecessary nap
14. An empty laundry basket
15. The gift of meals together
16. Good books
17. That quirky hour of playing cards with the preschoolers in their requested location - the shower!
18. Voices hoarse from laughing and visiting friends
19. Morning pink sky
20. The Dog-Alarm, wherein Ginger wakes me...early!
21. 68 Balloons lifting off

Wherein We Decompress

2011-02-25T21:51:00.001-08:00

"How did God make those mountains?"

The Little Man does not wait for my extra-strong coffee to snap synapses together in the wee morning hours. How can his brain spin like that at this hour? I wonder somewhat bitterly.

"How do you think He did it?" I return the volley, sipping and glancing out the window at pink-topped sunrise mountains.

"Well," he says matter-of-factly. "He just zoomed 'em up there and blammed 'em down!"

I can't help but laugh, a bit groggily. "And those mountains are like your bathroom stool to Him, just little footstools..."

It's his turn to laugh. He climbs onto my lap, the mug of coffee tipping precariously as I juggle toddler and caffeine in two hands.

"Mom, you look bootiful today," he says, always the charmer. I'm sweatpants-and-slippers glory this morning.

"So do you, Son," I reply, deep lungs of thanfulness still sighing audibly after yesterday. "I'm so glad I have you."

For a three-year old, he's pretty attentive and knows what I'm talking about. "Mom," he says. "Thanks for saving me."

He's dramatic and expressive. I chuckle. "God saved you, baby."

"He did?"

"Yeah!" I answer, getting excited and forcing myself to lower my volume in the early morning hours. "The same God that 'zoomed and blammed' those mountains out there. Somehow, He saved you. I don't understand it all, but I'm so glad."

His swinging legs and frantic arms - it's an image I will never forget. Thankfulness roars over me like a gust of wind.

We've talked about details - ropes and rules and top bunk bed regulations. Now is the time to point to mountains and God. Until the Little Man moves on to other interesting topics...which takes all of one minute. There are hows and whys that only a three-year old can fathom at that hour. And I move with him, cozy in this chair.

Resting in the Grace,
Karen

A Morning of Riches - Syrup and Grace

2011-02-25T21:29:00.000-08:00

One thing about pancakes with little ones - the syrup-to-pancake ratio is unnaturally high. Smart moms pour the syrup; I believe in encouraging childhood independence, and spend the rest of the week finding little puddles of sweetness all over the kitchen table.

It was a mundane morning in which I found myself doing this very thing - wiping syrup off of the table, peeling sticky forks off equally sticky plates. The kids - fresh, morning sibling relationships and fresh, morning imaginations, both spurred on by Log Cabin fructose - these kids had all disappeared, off to the closet that had morphed into a pirate ship.

My phone rang, and I too felt fresh, visiting with a dear friend. We talked of children and germs, wondering where they got it and if they were still contagious. As only a woman can do, I held the phone and talked while cleaning, folding, and marinating chicken for dinner. As only a mother can do, I listened to both my friend, and kids somewhere in the house.

Then, I heard a small voice, crying, "Mama!"

It was not urgent and it was not a cry of pain, but it pulled me down the hall, my head crooked to the side as I walked with the phone under my chin. The friend on the line heard very little: my short gasp as I rounded the corner, a few unintelligible mumbles, then my breathless shudder.

It was over that fast.

Yet, time seemed so slow. Afterward, my body felt heavy. I sat down hard, right there on the floor, surrounded by Polly Pockets and discarded pajamas. I tried to describe the scene.

"Oh God!" I explained breathlessly. "Summer, he was hanging from the top bunk!"

My mouth goes dry, even now, thinking about it. His little three-year old body, squirming to release itself from a rope wrapped around a top bed rail. It was a blur of mother-flurry as I lifted him and released the dog leash he had hooked around his neck.

"Thanks, Mom." He sauntered out, muttering something about finding his pretend keys.

My dear phone friend had to be a mother, for she knew exactly what to do. "Hang up, Karen, and just go hold him," she ordered.

It was exactly what I needed to do. Although he wasn't so keen on the holding part, Little Man did let me hug him tightly, breathe in his little-boy syrup smell and carefully look at his perfectly fine little neck. The more I held him, the more shaky I became.

"Oh, Son," I murmured into his hair. I needed to lecture and confiscate all ropes of any kind, but for just that moment, I drank in life, pulsing through small veins, and pouring new light on my small world. Suddenly, everything seemed so focused and bright. The snow outside was blinding, the girls' laughter almost deafening. Later, I told Real Gil that my food tasted better, his pancakes sizzled more brilliantly.

Is there a more dramatic feeling than relief?

It's a rush of pleasant and dread mixed together, when the what-is mixes with the what-could-have-been. There's guilt, regret, and weak-kneed nausea, but there is also joy, plain and simple.

Better than relief was the overwhelming sense of God's grace. Would I have felt this way had our morning unfolded differently? All those days when I've asked God, "Why me?" -

Today, I asked, "Why not me?"

Why were we spared? Are we exempt from bad days?

And what about all of the other days, when I awake (perhaps a little earlier than I want to) to another day of home (perhaps a little more chaotic than I would like) and family (perhaps a little different than I had dreamed it)... On the days of mundane and routine, or on the days of sweet surprises and rich blessings, do I ask, "Why me?" What about the thousands of other days when I have had no negative reason to ask that question? When my day stretches out in a blizzard of unknown and unseen graces?

Had my morning unfolded differently, I very well could have spent my afternoon shaking my fist at God. Instead, the only posture I seem strong enough to maintain is on my weak knees. Thankful. It's revealing - the conditions I've placed on God, as if He needs to play by my rules. If He breaks those rules, He's up for a "Why me?" tirade.

There is part of me that is thankful for this Father I love, who can be approached with all of me - the honest, the angry, the downright speechless. There is another part of me that is afraid of this Father - I know He only wants what is best for me, but what if it includes something I can hardly fathom as a mother. Like a different ending to my Syrup Morning.

Does He loves us any less if the answer is "Yes" when we want a "No"? Or if our child is not spared? Does He loves us more if our child is spared? I can't believe so. He is love. All of it, all of us, all of Him.

I still don't have many answers to this deep, raw question. I still don't know why other families with bunk beds and little ones with creative minds have a different story to tell. But the closer I get to Jesus, the less important this question seems to be. Perhaps there will be a time in my life when this question will arise, yet again. Right now, however, I am almost too overwhelmed to utter the words, and in some ways, I don't want to make a theological debate out of my Syrup Morning.

Someday, I'll see it all from the other side, when time and dog leashes do not constrain. Until then, I rest in the bright, pounding heartbeat of a God who hears, sees, and today, intervened.

Resting Here,
Karen

Sounds of the Library

2011-02-24T13:42:00.000-08:00

Don't noises sound louder in the library?

Kids snow boots stomping on the industrial-strength carpet, fingers typing a keyboard, water dripping on the skylight above. The loudest sound, of course, is the front-door alarm that fires off when a book has not been correctly checked out. TSA doesn't have anything on our public library security.

There's something else that can be observed. After our most recent trip to our local library, I have deduced that you can always distinguish between library volunteers and the actual librarians (with a statistical accuracy of 2-0).

The volunteers seem to always be attached to squeaky carts and plastic gloves. (What are those gloves for anyways? Do plastic gloves keep the books cleaner? Because if so, they should raise my library fines, for I'm pretty sure the books we return are nothing but clean...On second thought, perhaps we are the reason they wear the gloves...)

And the volunteers groan. I'm still pondering why they do this. Either the volunteers are given the hardest jobs (thus the emission of various moans), or they are not used to the hard work, or they have really old muscles and bones, or they hate their tasks. One time, when I forgot my library card and admitted it to a nearby volunteer, I'm pretty sure his moan broke the library Quiet Voices Rule. He had to peel off his plastic gloves (Shhlewp! Shhlewp! So loud!) and actually touch my driver's license, poor man.

But I so appreciate the volunteers, even the ones whom I suspect are there for community service hours.

Just yesterday, as we were digging through the pictures books in section P, I heard the squeak of a rolling cart coming closer, then it stopped. Before I could gather my children, books, car keys, library card, purse, and library book list, the library volunteer asked if she could squeeze by. Then, before I could be proven wrong, she rolled past, parked the cart, and groaned.

It was loud enough that my son gave her a look, one that seemed to be a mix of "I want to ride on that cart down the wheelchair ramp" and "If I need to be quiet in the library, so do you!"

I smiled at her, still gathering various loose books and children.

"These lower shelves are just about impossible," she admitted. I'm not sure if it was a complaint, or a badge of voluntary honor.

"I'll bet they are," I commiserated.

Before I could add a simple "have a good day" to the woman, one of my not-so-shy children piped up in their oh-so-inside voice: "But that's where the best treasures are!"

She might have groaned, or grunted, it's hard to distinguish the difference, but I'm pretty sure I heard doubt somewhere in there.

Our secret was out, the trick to finding great books at the library. I nodded my agreement, and hurried to explain: "We think the best books are down low, near the ground."

Her face looked bored. That hurt, because we were in the library, after all. If someone would rather wear plastic gloves and shelve the R's than talk to you, it's pretty much a given that your conversation could be more riveting.

Then, she surprised me, and spoke again, even while she shoved Curious George books into that inconveniently placed shelf.

"Well, that's because folks know how it hurts to bend that low, all for a book!" she added. I'm pretty sure she didn't get our point.

My smile was getting a bit fake and the three-year old's disapproving face was not improving. So, we gathered up our stories, wished the lady "Happy shelving!" and checked out.

Driving home, though, I thought about this distinction, between books on higher shelves and lower shelves; between volunteers and professionals. And I remembered a recent quote I had read by F. B. Meyer:

"I used to think that God's gifts were on shelves one above the other, and that the taller we grew in Christian character the easier we should reach them. I find now that God's gifts are on shelves one beneath the other, and that it is not a question of growing taller but of stooping lower, and that we have to go down, always down, to get His best gifts."

I can't help but nod in agreement, underline the quote in Ann Voskamp's book.

The best books are down low.

And the best gifts are down low.

So, I bend and stoop, trying not to groan with the sometimes uncomfortable positions. I wipe noses, feed mouths,clean messes, pick up laundry, gather library books, clean toilets - these blessings, all mine. Every one of them, an opportunity to bend lower, serve another, serve Him.

Down further, I go.

Because my children are right: that's where the best treasures are! I don't want to whisper it in an inside voice anymore; I want to shout it in a loud, clear, outside voice!

The best treasures are down low! (Mark 9:34-36)

Resting Here,
Karen

2011-02-22T20:59:00.000-08:00

My father is famous for keeping things, using them until some loving daughter tells him he's embarrassing her. Even then, he sometimes keeps stuff. Trophies from elementary years, calculus textbooks from the seventies, the first calculator he ever owned - one that has the red numbers and cost him $200 back in 1974.

I am my father's daughter.

But I did not inherit this gene. If I haven't worn it or used it in six months, it's tossed in the perpetual and permanent thrift store box in the garage. Sentimental value is relative around here, and oft times, I'm guilty of tossing things I shouldn't. That's my gift to the thrift-store world. You're welcome.

One thing I haven't completely tossed, and perhaps I should, is a hat I used to wear - one that I thought I might dust off today, one I might have inherited from my father. It's the "Math Teacher" hat. I'm not going to be designing any bridges in the near future, but I can calculate a tip faster than I can type it all into my cell phone. (Admittedly, this is not evidence of math genius, just an admission of my own cell-phone illiteracy.) And for the record, the hat is metaphorical, I never had a hat. Or a nameplate, or a locker, or a Teacher of the Year award. But I loved teaching high school math. Although I don't venture there much any more, I still love math, maybe even more now that I'm doing it at the kitchen table with a seven-year old.

So, this is where I get all crazy-practical on you. I am officially blowing off the dust and planting the "Math Geek" hat firmly on my head. If that isn't bad enough, I'm putting on a prairie bonnet over the top that says "Homeschooling Mother." Scary, I know. But with both firmly in place, I would like to humbly offer my once-a-year educational diatribe:

Perhaps the biggest mistake that I see educators make in their approach to math is this: introducing math concepts prematurely. For instance, it is my own personal belief that children are not even mentally prepared to analyze fractions until fifth or sixth grade, perhaps even later. When we introduce ideas like adding fractions to eight-year olds, they get the deer-in-the-headlights look and completely deflate. By the time they hear the word "fraction" in high school, they break out in hives! Why do we do that to them?! Is it kind, gentle, or in all practicality, effective? Of course not! If you have a math genius on your hands, this probably doesn't apply to you. If you have an average math student on your hands, I would encourage you here: you do your child no favors by pressing them to higher math concepts until 1) they are mentally ready; and 2) the concepts are necessary for other learning to take place.
If demanding mastery of math concepts prematurely is the biggest mistake I see early educators make in teaching mathematics, the biggest area of neglected mastery are the basic math facts. I know that this is not unique nor is it popular; in fact, telling math students to learn their math facts is like the doctor telling us to eat better, exercise more. But take it from a high school math teacher who watched students - AP students no less! - panic when asked basic math facts, it is essential to success in math. A rigorous few weeks or months in the elementary years will produce years of natural success in other areas of math. I promise to tell you about my own way of teaching the math facts down below, (see nuts and bolts).
For the preschool years, I think there are two math essentials for kids: basic counting and practical number sense. The first is self-explanatory. Our kids love dot-to-dots, and a few age-appropriate ones had them counting to twenty before we knew it. The second math essential is a natural approach to numbers as they come up in life - in conversation, in the grocery store, in unloading the piggy bank, in measuring inches on the wall. Preschool Express is full of great math ideas to check out.
For all ages, games can be a great way to make math fun. Around here, we play the old card game of War with our children, wherein two people flip cards over and whomever has the larger number wins both cards. Another great game is Pass the Pig. Have you played this with your preschooler??? It's addicting! And it teaches tallying and skip-counting by fives (not necessary for preschoolers, but an added bonus, nonetheless). One other game our family loves is Maask, a wonderful wooden game that teachers matching and sorting. Our four-year old loves this game, and so does her mother.

The nuts and bolts: we have used workbooks, flashcards, and even a textbook to teach math. I have a math video and we have made rhymes. While there are many peripheral math concepts at the elementary age, the basic addition and multiplication math facts are the most important learning element. Here are my all-time favorite tricks for teaching them:

Students need to learn multiplication families, not just the facts. What I mean by this is that somehow, we need to teach kids that not only does 3 x 9 = 27 and 9 x 3 = 27, but if you are given a 9 and a 27, the missing family member is a 3; or if you are given a 3 and a 27, the missing family member is 9. If our students can get this, they have really grasped multiplication AND division. No need to learn the facts twice. What we use in our house is a flash card like this:

Then, you make a little paper "pocket" to hide one of the three numbers and your kids will have to learn the three numbers, asking themselves which number is missing.

I found all the printables for these flash cards here: www.mathcats.com.
We only do a few of these each day, and we go over them for about ten minutes or so, until Punkin really knows those numbers. Then, periodically throughout the day, I'll tease her with a question. Today's math fact was 6 x 7 = 42. I asked her this question probably ten times today, sometimes reversing the order by asking, "What's seven times six?"
The great news - this system really seems to be working!

2. Math-It and Pre-Math-It: this is an older not-quite-a-curriculum that my husband did as a kid. He's a math whiz (who beats me at calculating the tip), so it must have worked for him. The students start by playing with dominoes to learn adding numbers from 1 to 20. Once this is done, they start playing some games. The first game is called Addit, and it teaches, well, addition. Once the child can lay all of the math fact cards down on the laminated board within an appropriate time limit, you move on to the second game, Dubblit, which I think is a mathematician's spelling of the words "Double It." This one is my favorite! By the time the student has mastered the game, they know most important doubles up through 100 (e.g., double 8 is 16, double 36 is 72...). AND they flip the board over and reverse the facts so that they know most of the important halves up through 100 (e.g. half of 64 is 32, half of 24 is 12.). Lastly, they move to TimzIt - which we must forgive the author for not knowing how to spell. To be honest, this is my least favorite of the games - children memorize the location of the answers (because they are color-coded) and can get away with not really knowing the answers. All in all, though, this has been a great system, mostly student-directed, funner than worksheets, and I believe, less time-consuming too. The learning is intense and rigorous, but given in small chunks. Things I don't like about this system are twofold: first, it is not a curriculum; just a learning tool. And secondly, the manual is tricky with odd (but good!) ways to carry and borrow numbers. This can be tricky, even for some one who is fairly comfortable with math.

Whew! What a mouthful of me trying to be smart! I hope that it helps some of you who are educators, either at a school or at home.

What math tricks do you love? Games? Websites? Tutorials?

My practical side says, "Knock it off and go to bed." So, I will.

Wishing you all many battle-free math moments this week.

Resting in His Beyond-Mathematics Grip,
Karen

The Challenge

2011-02-21T14:08:00.000-08:00

In my mind, gratitude has always been a feeling, not an act. If I'm being perfectly honest, it's one of those nauseating cliche-filled artificial stunts. It brings to mind diamond-studded celebrities in front of podiums, thanking all the little people who got them up to that microphone.

But a heart of thankfulness is not dependent on my feelings (thank goodness!). After all, it comes from the heart, an outpouring of what is already there.

I've read the gratitude lists here and there, and resolved to do that "some day," when the kids can entertain themselves, wipe their own noses. But it seems, procrastination can take many forms. As I plan ahead, prepare meals and laundry, this has never moved farther up my priority list, mostly because it's not screaming at me like other demands around these parts.

You see, the urgent is not the same as the important. I read this a while back and realized I was about twenty years late in distinguishing these two. It wasn't until I had children that I realized the urgent could be vastly different than the important. When my son screams for a yellow crayon, I realize that this is urgent, but not important. And when a friend calls in tears, I realize that this is not urgent, but very important.

So, I'm taking a plunge in an area that I had considered to be important, but not urgent. Now, I find that it is both, mostly due to my voracious reading of this book: Ann Voskamp's One Thousand Gifts.

I'm taking the challenge to find gratitude - not the fake, platitude-filled kind, but the genuine heart-laid-bare kind - in everyday life, even the painful moments, because after all, "pain and joy are arteries of the same heart - and mourning and dancing are but movements in His unfinished symphony of beauty." (Voskamp, 100)

I figure the beginning - it's a very good place to start. You'll find me here on Mondays, with my slew of post-it notes and scribbled gratitudes crumpled around me on the desk. Already, it feels like coming home. If you'd like to join me, start your own list and let me know about it so I can rejoice with you.

My gifts include...

Security in Him
Belly laughs
The two of them, limping and hard of hearing, who came to visit and drink my coffee today
The smell of fresh-cut wood
The unity of the saints
Mrs. Donna, who dances a new dance, sings a new song, & lives in true reality, that we can only imagine
Chewing gum chomped in my ear while I type!
The whispered "I'm sorry" Punkin gifts my ear
Slipper days
Sweet chocolate bars, and the chocolate faces of indulgence around my table

Resting Here,
Karen

An Underappreciated Couple

2011-02-17T07:00:00.000-08:00

There are just two of us,
a simple little pair.
We sit together on the floor,
right by the kitchen chair.

Every morning at half past six,
The little pet kisses us g'day.
She slops and splatters, crunches and clatters
Through breakfast served before play.

Then, off she waddles, all-satisfied
To wrestle slipper and conquer cord,
While we stand here faithfully,
Two sentries by the backdoor.

Occasionally, the little feet stop by
To drop surprises in our basins
Because every meal is much improved
By Hot Wheels retired from racing.

Or perhaps the ever-popular Polly Pocket
Laced with pliable plastic?
Small hands willingly share
And our buffet moves from mediocre to fantastic.

Odd, though, how they share
And we offer it with flair,
But they never nibble on our kibble,
Except for the one with tail and dog hair.

Something to do with that kitchen table,
And eating proper with forks and knife.
As if our toy-infused Purina
Was inferior, (or so says the wife!).

Our tired bowls sag with rejection,
And we begin to mope,
But then, a funny thing occurs
Which gives us fresh, new hope.

Coming with sideways tongue
The wagging, shaking ball of fluff
Drinks her full, eats her portion,
As if she can't get enough.

She's thorough and satisfied,
When she licks our sides to a sheen,
And what delight at her delight!
We're tickled and we're clean.

So, whether the snobs in these parts
Accept our gifts or not,
We know our rightful place,
As dutiful minion of dog slop.

We endure the long hours of service
(Before we secretly deflate at night)
All for the joy of watching
That hungry dog chew and bite.

Every once in a while, kids flip us over
And use us as a climbing stool,
Sometimes, the pup teethes on our rim,
A surprisingly useful backscratching tool.

We are not offended in the least,
Only pleased by our many applications.
Who knew two food bowls could supervise
Such interesting ministrations?

So, we extend our bountiful wares -
Both edible and practical sorts.
Like Victorian butlers holding their trays,
Sundries we offer our cohorts.

If only we could convince that mother
To allow us a place of honor.
It's not the centerpiece we desire,
Just a humble spot by the dish of butter.

Off to the side, but certainly on the table,
We know it's not too much to ask.
After all, she aimlessly chases dust bunnies
While we do the most important task.

We continue feeding and serving
Despite that mother's snub,
And dream of life as the centerpiece,
On a table where we are the hub.

Older Boys and Shotguns

2011-02-09T07:42:00.000-08:00

I was burrowed down deep, under pink monkey sheets with Sugs. It was late and dark, her lips moving against my cheek.

"Mama, I like boys," she said.

"You do?" I asked, stalling for time. I was simultaneously praying that I wouldn't overreact, and wishing Real Gil were here to handle this before my inevitable overreaction. Then, I remembered he's the father; there'd be little help from Mr. Protective Himself.

Images of my own parents flitted across my memory, Dad in a bathrobe with a shotgun (no joke) and Mom with her finger pointed at the boy's chest while she made her seat-belt-and-slow-driving demands. Suddenly, their actions seemed so reasonable, nothing drastic about it all.

But I digress... Sugs brought me back to present-day with her forthright words.

"Yes, I like boys, especially older boys," she clarified.

I can envision the nunnery in my mind's eye, a beautiful stone lodge with long capes and virtuous women. Sugs is among them, with the word CLOISTERED stamped on her forehead...

I just listen for a while as she lists boys she likes - the boy from Nanny McPhee, the neighbor boy, some boys from church, her papa.

It's something we've observed in our four-year old long before this late-night conversation - a need to be noticed and seen by boys. Can this really start at the age of four? My heart quakes for her inevitable heartbreaks, if this is the ultimate goal.

"Those boys are nice, Sugs," I finally say. "I understand what you like about boys. But can I tell you a secret? One that might help you a lot in your life?"

The lure of a secret whispered in the dark brings her nose to nose with me. We giggle in the glow of her pink nightlight and then, I whisper: "No boy, not even the fairytale prince, can satisfy you completely, make you live happily ever after."

This does not fit into her nighttime daydreams. She looks at me like I'm the party pooper, this out-of-touch mama invading her space.

"I married the prince," I insist. "And I love him more every day, but even still, Papa can't meet my every need; he isn't supposed to. Then, there wouldn't be a need for Jesus."

I leave it there, my flat unromantic truth, as cozy in this setting as a thorn in the flannel sheets.

"But, boys are great," she adds. "And Jesus likes 'em too."

I laugh with her and I agree.

Boys are great. Romance is not to be dismissed.

But the best kind of romance I have found in my life is the kind that gives with no thought to receiving, the kind that is inspired by Christ. When He meets my needs for encouragement, comfort, love, fellowship, tenderness and compassion (Phil. 2:1), then I am free to love others selflessly, "being one in spirit and purpose."

So, I pray for my marriage, and I pray for this daughter of mine. Might she find more than Leah did...

Leah, the uglier, older bride with "weak eyes," the one who went along with her father's deception and tricked her way into marriage. I know she thought she could sway Jacob, persuade him to love her over time. Even if her sister was younger and prettier, Leah still hoped for a Valentine's Day kind of love. After giving birth to first one, then two, and finally six boys, Leah would hopefully proclaim, "Surely my husband will love me now," and "Now at last my husband will become attached to me..." After one childbirth episode, perhaps in a moment of postpartum depression when she realizes there is no hope, she admits "because the Lord knows I am not loved, he gave me this one too."

Not exactly the words I'd put on my Valentine's cards. Or in the baby book.

Leah was a real Fertile Myrtle, birthing babies and swinging her hopes from children to husband with each swing of her postpartum emotions. By her sixth child, Leah seems a bit more realistic, knowing that Jacob might never love her, but still, she insists that "this time, my husband will treat me with honor."

I'm not sure she ever predicted correctly. When the family walked into a dangerous confrontation, Jacob planted Leah and her children in harm's way first, while Rachel - the wife who was "lovely in form and beautiful" - walked at the very end of the parade, farthest from potential violence.

Tragic story, I know, but I relate to Leah in many more ways than I can relate to Rachel. Pinning all of my hopes, dreams, and heart on a man (even my beloved Real Gil) - it's always fraught with disappointment. Not because of the man, but because they were never intended to satisfy all of my hopes and dreams!

Then, if I can't find soul-satisfying completion in Real Gil, I know there have been times where I swing my attention, hopes, and dreams onto my children. What a tragic set-up for failure I give my children in these moments! If Real Gil can't meet my heart-needs, do I really think a three-year old can?

The idols I've been tempted to worship are not evil - they are treasures from God above. They are to be loved, cherished, and honored, but they are always to point me back to Him. Like the idols from the long-ago Elijah story, these idols cannot fulfill my deepest longing. No matter the frantic demands we make nor the volume with which we demand them, the answer will always be disappointing, like it was back then: "there was no response, no one answered, no one paid attention." (1 Kings 18:29)

God has my heart, which liberates me to love this family of mine. They do not complete me, but they are delightful indeed. It is so much more liberating and rewarding to love from this perspective.

I pray this for Sugs too. That she will find true love in the Only Person who can give it perfectly.

And as a true Anne of Green Gables fan, if she is still inclined, I am praying that she finds a delightful boy someday - even an older one! - that walks the journey with her. A man that does not have to complete her, just a man that makes the makes the walk more delightful.

Resting in His Perfect Love, & the Gift of Loving Others that He Gives,
Karen

"May I Have Some More Gruel, Sir? Or A Hill?"

2011-02-02T15:05:00.000-08:00

There were four days in a row on the calendar that did not have the words "work night shift" or "work day shift" on it. So, Real Gil and I hit up the grandmothers for babysitting and hopped on a plane to Chicago. If you have read other posts around here, you know we are not from the city, and it's pretty obvious. There was this nagging little weather report, but we dismissed it as overkill. Heck, we're from the mountains where it really snows, thought the proud tourists. Here's what we've learned, in numerical bullets for no apparent reason:

1. They may not have mountains or hills here, but they do have ice. And wind.

2. We are part of history in the making - perhaps the largest snowstorm to hit Chicago in forty years. We'll mark that in our scrapbook, keep that little useless fact in our back pocket to whine about whenever we feel like pitying ourselves. When someone says they got stranded in a city somewhere, we'll one-up them by pulling out this memory - the time we were stranded in a big city in a record-breaking snowstorm when we spent more time on the phone with airlines than we did our children. (Secretly, we'll remember how guilty we felt when we enjoyed these extra days. At least until the electricity went out, and we slept in our jackets.)

3. City folks do interesting things - they talk about transit and Metra and going downstairs to the laundry room. When they do laundry, they lock their front door and they take their laundry credit card with them. Also, they don't necessarily talk to you in the stairwell, or even acknowledge you. But sometimes they do. Sorta like how our neighbors in the country sometimes wave, or don't, as they drive by; it must depend on their mood. On the inside, they have homes just like us country bumpkins, except they park their cars in the basement and they even have a parking spot with a hose where you can wash your car when it gets really dirty. But you can't park your car there permanently or you'll get towed. I still have no idea how they barbecue. Or load a carseat into a taxi.

4. But who cares about the barbecue or carseats? Not me. I was on vacation. One museum, two days of shopping, and many wonderful restaurants. [burp. gasp. Excuse me!]

5. There are elements of this city life that leave me perplexed. Like why do they even get dressed, if all they ever wear around here are big, poofy jackets? Everyone looks like the Michelin Man and they don't take the jackets off when they go inside! Restaurants, stores, bathrooms, everything is done in your coat. I was left vacillating between sweating-but-cool and tourist-who-carries-her-coat, while everyone else browses the clearance racks with jackets in place. Other perplexing elements of city life? There are no mountains, which means that for the life of me, I cannot find North.

6. I'm a tourist. Evidences of this abound. Within minutes of arriving in this foreign place, a woman stopped us and asked if we needed help, explaining that she "really wants to help the tourists." I guess we were pretty obvious. I'm not sure if it was my practical walking shoes, or the ridiculous finger-less gloves I bought in preparation for our trip to Chicago. Real Gil has been teasing me for days about actually paying money for gloves that have the fingertips cut off. (To which I retort, my fingers are still feeling the residual warmth of those gloves, so much so that I can hardly type this.) Other evidences of my tourist status: my jacket isn't poofy enough, I still wear bootcut jeans with boots, I don't have animal fur (fake or real) on my hood, and my belt is hidden under my shirt, not over the top.

7. By Day Four, Real Gil and I found ourselves calling home more often than we needed to (we know because the kids did not want to talk to us!). We wandered museum exhibits and found ourselves saying, "Oh, the kids would love this!" So, we checked in online and tried to print boarding passes. Unfortunately, Southwest Airlines had been watching the Weather Channel, and canceled our flight. Since I couldn't find the mountains, this snow took me by surprise - there were no dark clouds crawling over the peaks, giving me hours to shop for milk and bread. It came with internet updates and windy gusts. Did you know that there can be lightning and thunder during a blizzard? Unbelievable. It can also come with a power outage, backgammon lessons by flashlight, and riveting window observations of traffic and snow falling upwards.

8. These poor deprived city children. My neck is actually sore from so much sympathetic head-shaking and "tsk, tsk-ing" at the horror I've observed from our window. While their parents are shoveling snow like overachieving freshman, as if the sun won't melt the snow without their help - oh wait, it won't. Anyways, while their parents shovel, these children just walk aimlessly around the street pulling little plastic sleds, some with the sticker labels still on them. "Gruel," requested Oliver Twist. Similarly, these little, city children look at me with their pitiful little sleds, as if to request, "A hill, please?" So, they climb snowplow berms and call it a hill. But I suppose there are less broken bones this way.

9. Even on vacation, eventually you have to cook. Today, we realized that every restaurant was closed, and one grocery store let us in at lunchtime, fifteen minutes before they closed. I grabbed essentials and tonight, I will cook. After I write this. Because when you're on vacation, you still get to choose the order of activities.

Perhaps we're not as essential to the world as we'd like to believe we are. Not that I'm depressed or anything, but it seems that our children, our home, and our jobs are still intact, no matter if our flights continue to be canceled. Sooner or later, we will be home, gladly home. Until then, I am thankful for flexible grandmothers, electricity, and the genius who invented the wheeled suitcases that will roll over these salted, icy sidewalks, onto the "Orange Line" (to use the local jargon!), and into the airport. Eventually.

Where ever you are, I hope your surprises are sweet tonight, your views are entertaining, and your weather is brimming with evidences of Him. No matter what, I hope you feel the welcome of His home.

Resting in this Flat Place,
Karen

Meal Plans

2011-01-30T22:20:00.001-08:00

Hello, friends. I have some exciting news (and it does not require sending me baby gifts).

First of all, I have my first male blog follower, Mr. David from HighCallingBlog. Hate to embarrass you, David, but I'm excited! Welcome.

Secondly, my twin sister is writing today. We are clones of one another, and have shared a womb, bedroom, and life's hardest lessons mostly together. Now, she lives across an ocean with her four- and three-year old sons, and her herohusband, my husband's biblestudy partner via email. Skype is therapeutic, but we are counting down months until they come back stateside, God willing.

Until then, I'd like to introduce you to Kris. She's calming, peaceful, disciplined, practical, and a very good juggler of hats (mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend). I wish we could all get together and serve her a stateside hamburger, then you'd see for yourself.

But since you can't, I asked her to show you a bit of her creative practicality. Keep in mind that she lives in a small, Japanese fishing village in a rental home. And there is no Michael's craft store down the street.

And this is what she's been working on for us:

Without further ado, here's Kris:

Hello! I'm Karen's twin sister, Kris. She asked me to do a guest blog for which I responded politely, "One must have a life for there to be anything to blog about." She seems to think I have something worthy to say but I'm not so certain. So, therefore, I think I will let her and all her English genetics (I swear she robbed them of me in the womb) do the writing and I'll do a little show and tell.

My husband is a Marine. A hot Marine. It's true. We are stationed in Okinawa, Japan which is another post in and of itself. We have two small kiddos that can give me a run for my money at the grocery store. I don't know about you all but I can't stand going to the store with them in tow. My mind is so busy keeping them from pulling the salsa off the displays, pulling hair, well, you know, that I forget things that are on the list right in front of me. See the list that my hot and OCD Marine made me in perfect order of the aisles. Yep, he's the best.

So, I decided I had to change something. I am going to the store once a week and that is it. To do so I had to get organized. How long does it take you to make a grocery list? It took me forever until now!

Now, for all you "American" crafters, just remember that I live in a country where craft stores do not exist and if you say, "Hobby Lobby" they think you're talking about hot wasabi on your sushi. Keep that in mind here, and also consider that my materials were limited (as yours may be), but this can still be done.

I took an old piece of stiff cardboard and girlied it up with scrapbook paper. I glued it on how I liked it and ModPodged a few coats. Then painted 7 clothespins with some paint I had around. When they dried, add the days of the week with a Sharpie. The best part is that in the right hand corner I put together flash cards with all of our favorite meals. On the back of each meal idea card is a list of the ingredients.

So now when I say to the hot husband, "What do you want to eat this week?" instead of the blank stare, he flips through and picks his favorite 7, I make my list, and we're done.

We have been in motion now for a few weeks and I love it!

Thanks for letting me share,
Kris

Faith and Dinosaurs

2011-01-26T22:04:00.000-08:00

It doesn't feel like twenty-seven years ago, but it was. I carried a Care Bear lunchbox and learned how to ride a school bus under Miss Mason's watchful tutelage. My twin and I were in different classes and they kept mixing us up. We'd just shrug it off. Inside my lunch box, there was always a quarter to buy an individual of milk; I'm old enough to remember when school milks came in boxes instead of plastic, and the milk tastes slightly like paper. And I'm old enough that it only cost twenty-five cents. Or maybe a dime, I can't remember.

My kindergarten teacher was Mrs. Loveit and her halo of white poofy hair convinced me she was an angel. She had a piano, a dress-up box, and an art corner rife with glitter and pipe cleaners. She taught me a lot - things I still remember. Back then, your teacher was also the yard duty so one day, she taught us how to suck on honeysuckle buds. She taught me how to color in the lines, wait in lines, and how to open the little boxes of milk in the cafeteria after waiting in line. The only thing she failed to teach me was how to skip (I almost flunked over that one).

She is also the reason that I know about dinosaurs. We cut into old shoe boxes and made dinosaur models. I learned fancy words like carniverous, jurassic, and paleontology. To this day, I know enough to be the substitute host for Dinosaur Train, should they ever come calling. All thanks to Mrs. Loveit.

Remember how Kindergarten was partly done at school, and partly done at home? I spent endless hours recounting stories and explaining my higher intelligence to my parents - parents who did not know the difference between a stegosaurus and an ankylosaurus.

I can't remember where we were driving, but it was on a freeway. (I know this because country roads like those we live on now don't have bumps, not the kind that always made me drowsy as a kid in Southern California.) From the backseat of our Cutlass Supreme, I asked my parents if the dinosaurs were on Noah's Ark. Much to my delight, this caused quite an Oldsmobile discussion. Karen the Kindergartner had stumped her parents!

Now, years later, I'm still sketchy on the answer to that question. There were times in my walk of faith that it really mattered, this sketchiness. But now, I find myself quite unbothered by the whole business of Creation versus Evolution. Perhaps that's disturbing, or refreshing to you. I suppose that the older I get, the less I dapple in apologetics, and deep, analytical defenses of my faith.

As far as I can tell, my faith doesn't seem to be hurting because of this shift in perspective from head to heart. In fact, if I might be so bold as to admit it, I'm pretty sure I resembled a small toddler, whining and arguing her point, stomping her foot when someone didn't agree completely with Creation, the Biblical Creation, the way I knew it had happened. Now, I rate the debate somewhere just above the "Happy Holidays" versus "Merry Christmas" debate; just not one I have the energy, brain cells, or need to debate.

Not that the Creator God is not worthy of defending; I'm just not sure it's the debate He's calling me to organize. His Creation is adequate enough to tell me He did it Himself. There's just this part of me that says, the best proofs that God exists are only valuable when they move hearts towards Him. Some would criticize me for being too "experiential" in my faith, but that's what Creation, and life, are all about - experiencing it!

Tonight's sunset was the kind that proved the existence of God. It poured pink stain all over the sky and messed up everyone's interior latex paint. My brown walls became purple and my blue walls became green. More than my recognition that God exists, I was struck by His beauty and goodness. The cognitive debates suddenly become almost redundant as I watch colors change across my bedroom walls.

As Charles Martin's Chasing Fireflies character Uncle Willee explained while holding a mason jar of fireflies, "'I don't think an animal can just all-of-a-sudden decide it wants to make light grow out its butt. What kind of nonsense is that? Animals don't make light.' He pointed to the stars. 'God does that. I don't know why or how, but I'm pretty sure it's not chance. It's not some haphazard thing he does in his spare time.'"

There are more important things - all unseen (Hebrews 11:1) - that prove to me the existence of God, and a loving One at that. I'll tell you my most recent top two, in a simple-minded nutshell.

Perhaps the most important proof in my own faith walk has been the evidence of God's work in my life. How else can I explain the supernatural flow of love for an enemy? The strong sense that my needs are met in Him, my life is one of peace when it shouldn't be? Of course, these are only evident when I allow Him to lead and strengthen me. On the flip side of the coin, those moments when I'm not surrendered to Him, the converse proves His existence too - hating my enemies, envying my friends, wrestling against peace that only He can give. For me, even this is yet another proof that He exists!

When I choose not to walk in His strength, I find myself wandering from source to source, looking for satisfaction. The fact that I never find it in any other source tells me that I was not made to be satisfied by this world. This thirst I have for more is really a thirst for Him. In its rawest form, the quenching of my thirst in Him alone leaves me with a very rational decision - drink more or continue the search. I have chosen to drink, and find myself deeply satisfied. In my own life, Jesus kept his promise: “Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life." (John 4:13-14)

This faith of mine is alive and real tonight. It's not perfect by any means. But it's pretty firm and rooted and observable. Like those fireflies I watched in Tennessee for the first time. Like those stegosaurus bones I've read all about. I can't help but believe in God. Though I don't understand Him, and though I might not like some of the stuff He allows, I can't NOT walk this path of faith.

As Uncle Willee goes on to say, "If God can make a firefly's butt light up like a star, then anything is possible. Anything."

Thank you for letting me believe in this safe place. And I hope you feel free to do the same.

What elements of your faith bring you comfort? Strength? What elements of your faith bring you concern and doubts? How has your faith evolved (excuse the pun!) over the years? Is it stronger or weaker?

I boast in His strength, which has even taken my faith and matured it. Can it be that He does even this for me?!

I'm resting here tonight.

Karen

P.S. I will be out the rest of the week. Thank you for letting me write, and for wandering these faith musings alongside me. Any walk is always better with companions like you.

The Perfect Welcome

2011-01-24T20:49:00.000-08:00

I should not have been surprised by the sister-like friendships between these girls. Almost twenty years ago, it only took the quickest exchanges with their mother for me to be charmed for life, and loved so wonderfully over the last two decades.

Then, this weekend arrived and so did the next generation of friends, with suitcase and toothbrushes. Mother hugged mother and daughters hugged daughters. While the eldest one stood timidly in our foyer for those first few minutes, the younger beauty spun a recently learned twirl and fluttered her eyelashes at me. I must have responded correctly because her face broke into a wide smile; her big sister smiled too. We mothers did a quick catch up, reviewing last-minute instructions like milk allergies, sippy cups and sleeping arrangements; the younger bunch - timid one included - scampered to find new Christmas presents to share (sorta). I bid their mother, and my sweet sister, a final "Happy Anniversary!" and closed the door, five little ones and their happy noise shaking the very walls as I cleaned up dinner, dished up dessert.

[Huge aside: I tease their parents all the time, something about watching their brake lines around us because their kids are so sweet, we just might take matters into our own hands. Of course, we would lose our dearest friends, the ones we've prayed through medical emergencies and spontaneous home remodels (inspired by motivators like mold and flood). So, we leave things like they are and just take them - these little bundles of sugar-and-spice-and-everything-genuine - and relish them for the weekend. ]

By the end of Day Two, they allowed me to snuggle them, brush their hair, and even let down their guard enough to earn a gentle word of correction. Although the nightly slumber parties should have labeled them drowsy, they giggle and prance their way through the weekend, both mine and hers, these girls of ours.

How else can I welcome them into our home, our hearts? I love them with an almost-motherly heart...

And yet, it was still not enough.

I know this because Saturday night, when certain slumber party participants gave in to slumber, the little one, only three years old, whimpered a bit.

"I want Mama," she cried, sleepy tears hiccuping her words.

I held her, prayed for her, and even laid down next to her for a time, until one of my own daughters needed a glass of water. Returning to the room with the Cinderella cup full of water, I wondered what had gone wrong, how had our welcome fallen short. If I'm being perfectly honest, I also wondered if I would ruin an anniversary, calling at a late hour for a mother pick-up. Tiptoes on the floor, I peeked into the room, maneuvered around sleeping children, and found the sad one in the twin bed.

Only now, there were two in the bed - a big sister comforting a little sister in a tangle of arms and whispered love.

I kissed them both good night, and carefully slipped out of the room. I climbed into my own bed, a mixture of personal inadequacy, relief, and melted heart wooing me to sleep.

Today, I ponder the weekend, especially when my oldest daughter's first words this morning were wondering when her friends were coming back to sleep in her room.

As welcome as we made these girls feel, I found our attempts fell short. They still felt foreign. In the dark and sleepy moments, it wasn't their house they missed, it was their family. And it was only in family that they found comfort.

That feeling of homesickness - which is really more family-sickness - is an ache like none other. Haven't we all felt it? No matter how welcomed I might have felt in a home, in another family, eventually that ache cropped up...

What could I have done to make these girls feel more welcome? The only thing that would have alleviated their homesickness at its core would be to make them part of the family, to either adopt them or to change their very DNA. Silly as it sounds, only becoming a true member of the household could give them that sense of belonging they were craving.

But I know that craving - to belong, to thrive in sweats and no makeup - as a secure member of a family. And yet, there were times when I've felt so foreign, both an alien and a stranger (Ephesians 2:12).

Then, when my whimpers found voice, there were arms, even better than sister-arms.

"But now in Christ Jesus you who once were far off have been brought near by the blood of Christ." (Ephesians 2:13)

I remembered this over the course of my weekend. And recognized that the welcome, the feeling of security, that I wanted to give these beloved girls can only be found in Christ, the One who stays close even when mothers and fathers have anniversaries.

"Now, therefore, you are no longer strangers and foreigners, but fellow citizens with the saints and members of the household of God." (Ephesians 2:19)

My own homesickness is cured here - in the family of God. I've not only been grafted in; my very DNA has been changed.

I'm resting in this secure place tonight as one girl who was far off having now been brought near by Christ, the perfect welcome.

Have you sensed His welcome in your own life? I pray you do! His family can be a bit odd, like Thanksgiving dinners with distant relatives that eat sweet potato pie instead of pumpkin pie (that's odd!). At times, the family tree can resemble weeds more than fruit-bearers - but even there, Christ welcomes them, and you. Have you come near? I pray that you remain in this secure home, and feel the warmth of His family.

Resting in His Perfect Welcome,
Karen

Such as These

2011-01-21T15:05:00.000-08:00

"What did I do to deserve this?" I asked for the second time in thirty minutes.

The first time I asked it, I was in the shower, one leg smooth and one leg not, when I heard crying, the real kind - the kind that pulls wet mother from the shower in a flurry of towel, bathrobe, and mad dash by windows. I ranted inwardly to myself, Is it too much to ask for ten minutes of shower!? What did I do to deserve this?

Sugs was crying, Papa carrying her with full arms and a toothbrush still in his mouth. She wanted ME - this damp scramble to be presentable at 2:30 in the afternoon. Real Gil passed me the bundle of four-year old, then he hurried to finish getting ready for work.

I clumsily carried Sugs to my rocking chair, and folded us into it. Wails became sobs, then whimpers as she explained how the misplaced toy had deliberately tripped her, thrown her head into the dresser. As she poured out tears and words, I saw the moment in new eyes. It became so much more than an inconvenient interruption to my shower reverie, a mother holding her ever-growing daughter. The indulgence of this was far greater than the indulgence of hot water.

I held her close, feeling a very guilty pleasure for the chance to hold her, (which only happens when she's hurt). The wet towel on my head grew heavy, so I leaned my head to the side and felt it slide to the ground, along with any tenacious traces of resentment at being interrupted mid-shower. Then, I adjusted my bathrobe, snuggled her in, and started rocking.

"What did I do to deserve this?" I asked, this time audibly. "What did I do to deserve you? I was just a normal girl with mistakes and grumpy days, and yet, God gave me you!"

"I don't know, Mama," she answered gravely, as if she herself did not understand this phenomenon.

"I'm so sorry you got hurt, but..." I lowered my voice to a whisper, my lips against her forehead. "I love being right here, right now with you."

She smiled, tears still peppered across her cheeks, and burrowed down deep. I suppose it was the right thing to say. Soon, she was pretending to be asleep, her tapping toes and furrowed eyebrows giving her away. But that was okay with me, because I was pretending too. She was no longer the four-year old daughter who just that morning, rode a bike without training wheels up and down our street. She was still my little baby, the one I didn't rock enough or savor enough.

Real Gil walked back through the room on his way out the door to work, his eyes brightening when he caught sight of mother and ever-growing daughter. I'm pretty sure he was envious, but he hid it well.

I mouthed one word to him: "Heaven."

He grinned wide and kissed me good-bye - not an easy feat in a moving rocking chair.

I settled in again, hearing the background noise of a computer game and a clicking mouse. Tracing her face, her not-so-little body with my eyes, I wondered how many more times I would rock her... the speeding bicyclist who needed me less and less. I wondered how terribly I'd embarrass myself, trying to keep her mine and yet, giving her wings too.

Hearing deep heaving sighs, I realized she was no longer pretending, her sleeping body relaxed.
I laid my head back and relaxed along with her. And I wondered...

What did I do to deserve this gift?

Resting Here,
Karen

P.S. Pictures brought to you by the ever-talented James Glover Photography.

The people brought children to Jesus, hoping he might touch them. The disciples shooed them off. But Jesus was irate and let them know it: "Don't push these children away. Don't ever get between them and me. These children are at the very center of life in the kingdom. Mark this: Unless you accept God's kingdom in the simplicity of a child, you'll never get in." Then, gathering the children up in his arms, he laid his hands of blessing on them.
Mark 10:13-16, the Message translation

Bad Guys, Good Guys

2011-01-19T14:02:00.000-08:00

Hot, humid days in Tennessee lend themselves well to shaded playgrounds. The afternoon pattern of school buses, discarded backpacks, and visiting mothers on benches was an established routine. Although none of my kids were school-age yet, we still joined and my little ones clambered about, mimicking older kids and scaring me periodically with high-up antics.

Boys were swinging on things never intended to be swung on, climbing, scampering. One shouted, "You're the bad guy!" The race was on, and I watched closely as always, taking notes on this foreign gender called boys.

Next to me, a neighbor sat, discussing mothering things like how to keep pacifiers out of the dirt, and who to use for termite inspections. Then, she stopped the flow of adult words, and changed to her mother-tone without skipping a beat:

"Boys, my boys, we do not play bad guy, good guy. You can all be good guys if you want, but no bad guys."

I tried to follow her redirected conversation, something about banana bread with chocolate chips, but all I could see were the deflated boys - some hanging, some standing, some mid-sword-strike - lost suddenly in an imaginary world that has no bad guys.

Fast forward to today, when my own son put on his Superman costume for the fifth time this week. Somehow, I snuck in a speed wash-and-dry cycle and got it back into his room before he requested it again. It's old, there's a hole in the crotch, and the red cape is frayed on the edges. But when the S is firmly in place on his chest, he grabs a piece of discarded plastic he calls Sword, and goes off to fight the bad guys. Sometimes, when there are sisters playing too, he becomes the bad guy, or the "nice guy who is bad," he clarifies to me.

And I remember that mama on the bench at the playground. What would she think of my son? What would she think of my mothering?

I don't know. But I know my son, I know this boy. What is the fun in playing "good guy" if there isn't a bad guy?

And I know this world - a world full of epic tales of good and bad, right and wrong... Someday soon, I'll have to introduce shades of gray, where moral goodness is not always so clearly distinguished, where there are many sides to a story. Though I don't ascribe to moral relativism, I have broken up enough tiffs in my mothering days to understand that there is more than one variable to the good versus bad equation.And there is grace, always grace, that reaches out to all of us, both good and evil, blurring the lines even more.

But for now, I am watching delightfully as he slays dragons with plastic, fends off arrows with my pot lid, and swoops down to rescue hapless, helpless victims of evil.

Resting in His Goodness,
Karen

2011-01-01T06:10:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year!

It felt like coming home this morning as I logged in here, and scrolled about, coffee cup at my elbow. I hope you are enjoying 2011 already!

Are you a resolution kind of person? Some years, I look down my nose at resolutions, and other years, I firmly plant one and work hard to conquer.

Last year's resolution was to write, to discipline myself to writing as often as possible here in this safe place. This year's resolution is to write, but to do so only when inspired, not on a strict day-by-day basis. So, I'll still be here, writing in the wee hours. But it will not be as often as last year. I sense that the relationships around me require a little bit more attention and time.

But if I can't write, I can still read. Here are a few of my favorite reads these days:

Is it too late to make snowflakes? I think not! Check out this tutorial.
We are so happy and content in our home. I love living right here. But it's still fun to dream, and if you like to browse houses like you're browsing a clothing rack, check out this website called The Plan Collection. I'll admit there were unaccounted hours spent here when I should have been wrapping presents.
Steve wrote this short and simple post that resonated with me. Who sits in our front row? Who do we honor higher than ourselves? And who do we not?
A new favorite for me is this girl, Elizabeth Esther. She writes provocatively about honest issues in mothering, faith, and life. Her article on Christmas grief was heart-wrenching, and yet, encouraging all the same.
I've always wondered why Thomas is so widely criticized for his doubt of Jesus and John the Baptist is not. Here's Hillary's perspective of John the Baptist and the glorious promise of Emmanuel.
A book I want to read - Euna Ling's survival of a North Korean prison, and more importantly, the refinement of her faith and understanding of God in the midst of brutality. Answering that question, Where is God in this?!, is a difficult (perhaps impossible) one, but I look forward to her story of finding comfort and truth.
This woman deserves a party, not a funeral! Wow!
If I had a time share, or a vacation home, I'd be donating the use of it here...

Happy New Year to you all. I look forward to writing, and sharing, in the next year.

Resting in God with Us,
Karen

Reading? Who's Got Time to Read in December?

2010-12-15T07:12:00.000-08:00

I have had such a delightful December, and therefore apologize for my inconsistent writing. Last year, I resolved to write a blog. This year, I resolve to write only when inspired. I think I've started this resolution a month early.

But I've had a few good reads lately that I thought I would pass your way.

A homemade coffee table that hides toys! Awesome!
The soup I can't wait to try, even if it has very intimidating gnocchi in them.
The funniest mom article I've read in a long time! Ninety-nine percent of the time, it's not this life that becomes difficult, it's all the ridiculous expectations I subject myself to. If you can relate, read this. (Thanks to Amy.)
Ann is always so good. I savored each word here.
When things go a bit awry in life, I find myself reaching for rules and control. Here's a recovering legalist's take on the allure of legalism.
As a Christian, I found this post interesting (though I cannot agree with number 6): Protestant Traditions Not Found In The Bible .

Wishing you all a weekend exactly the way you had it planned, unless there's something better in store for you - than I wish that for you.

Resting in His Plans,
Karen

Bob's Strombecker Train Apart

2010-12-10T13:52:00.000-08:00

It's the only time I have gone to purchase something and hoped it was not for sale.

Surely, as much as I wanted it, someone else treasured it more.

Like Woody landing in the garage sale box, part of me wanted to believe it was all a mistake. After all, across the top of the Boy Scouts' "Shoe for all Boys" brown, oxford shoebox (size 5) were the handwritten words:

Bob's Colored Wooden Train SAVE

And if that didn't convince rummaging family members to save it, the black ink on the side of the box reiterated:

Where was Bob???

Did he even know his dear wooden train set was sitting haphazardly near the edge of an overstuffed table, surrounded by chipped teacups, old Christmas decorations, and a tropical-themed paper towel holder?

I went by it for the first time and just read the label. Surely, someone put old felt scraps in a box that just happened to say Bob's Colored Wooden Train on it, right? After all, some family member, parent I surmise, specifically labeled this and wrote SAVE across the top. If ever kids were going to obey, you hope it's when they see your words in capital letters!

I meandered, and returned, curiosity pulling me through the Saturday-morning yard sale frenzy to the folding table. Feeling a bit like I was treading on sacred ground, I lifted the lid. My heart sank and soared.

Inside, like old dried bones, lay wooden pieces, colored and aged beautifully, well-used and carefully counted each time they were picked up - the full set of Brother Bob's Wooden Train Set.

Someone had decided the letters imprinted on the shoebox were no longer important. Bob's Wooden Train Set SAVE. What part of that phrase was grounds for disregard? Was it Bob himself? Had he been unworthy? Disappointing? A prodigal that had never returned? Or was it the "Wooden Train" part? The materialism of a toy, nothing more. Maybe a boring toy that Bob never even liked, a train that he never wanted but that someone else thought he needed to save. Or was it the word SAVE that was disregarded? Maybe it had nothing to do with Bob or the train itself, but with the person who wrote in capital letters for emphasis. Did the writer's word "Save" translate into materialism, or dementia, or hoarding, or awkward love for a son?

I put the lid back on the box and carried it to the man wearing the fanny pack. (You always know who is running the garage sale by this telltale sign - the fanny pack.) He turned to me and adjusted his baseball hat.

"G'morning," he said warmly.

"Good morning," I answered. "Are you Bob?" I lifted the box to show him the lid.

"Yeah. My old train set. I'll give that to you for five dollars."

My heart shouted "Five dollars?!! Appalling! Don't you see what's written across the top?!!"

My brain said, "Five dollars?!! What a deal! Sold!"

"Okay," I answered, moving both hesitantly and yet excitedly to my wallet. "Are you sure you don't want to keep it?"

Bob shrugged, and waved his hand in dismissal. "My dad kept everything we ever played with. That's why we have so much junk to clear out."

Ouch, I thought. Junk. Someday, it's what my own kids will call it all, lining it up on the sidewalk in the sunshine. And that will be just fine with me.

Except it won't be, if I wrote the word SAVE on it. Then, my word would mean SAVE. Other words sprawled across boxes will mean things too, like "Sug's Bitty Baby SAVE" or "Punkin's First Piano Lessons SAVE" or "Little Man's Green Backpack SAVE." Will they read into my words, each letter important when I'm gone? Their names, like baseball-cap Bob, I pray, will be read with Mom's handwriting speaking her heart - cherished, treasured, no matter if they are prodigals or disappointing or successful or wandering. The specific boxes contents, even these words will mean something - yes, just material possessions, but special and worth marking a shoebox and carving a spot in the attic. And that last word - SAVE. I pray that they sense my heart in that word, whether they choose to abide by it or disregard it. I don't really care too much if Sugs decides not to keep Bitty Baby for her own grandchildren, as long as she senses her mother's affection for her in the act of saving.

Perhaps we won't cherish the things our parents' cherished. Perhaps our kids won't cherish the things we cherished. But will they sense our hearts in the very words? Unconditional acceptance, love without strings...

Bob seemed to be unperturbed by the sale, certainly not a monumental moment for him. Maybe his dad marked everything with the word SAVE. Or maybe they were paying medical bills that were much more important than an old, wooden train set.

He took my five dollars and directed me towards a box of old records, should I be interested in other antiques.

I wasn't.

Just this one antique.

It meant something to someone. But not enough.

And in many ways, the man was right. It was just stuff, a mere toy.

But it spoke of a father's heart. A father who carefully marked the box, stashed it for years somewhere safe. It obviously meant something to him, nostalgia and memories on red wheels.

And now, as the Little Man and I roll "The Strombecker Train Apart" around our wood floor, I wonder. Does the passenger car go in the back or the front? Are we setting it up the right way? And what's a Strombecker anyways?

The images flutter around in my head like mosquitoes around an outdoor lightbulb, none of them really connected to one another. Father and son playing wooden train...perhaps a son unwrapping it or buying it with hard-earned money...the day someone boxed it up and knew someone else needed to be reminded, even from the grave, to save it.

Obviously, there was a father's love here. And a son's choice to let this specific handwritten sample of love go for the reasonable price of five dollars. Perhaps I'm reading far too much into it, but to this day I find myself cleaning up the Strombecker Train Apart and glancing at the lid. I even mentioned it to my mother, showing her the handwriting and surprising both her and myself with tears. "They didn't save it, like he asked them to."

But perhaps the handwriting across the top needed to be there for a son to read, to someday know that his now-gone father had kept it all of these years.

I take that thought to heart these days. Might my busy Christmas antics come from an overflow of the heart, not from demanding expectations or impressive results. No matter what the responses might be - this Christmas and in fifty years, I pray that my gifts would come with truth, not manipulative or materialistic or insincerely manufactured.

Are any of our gifts given so that we receive certain results? Are there unseen strings attached to our gifts, expectations we have?

I pray not.

Might we give generously this Christmas season. And might we rejoice in the giving, not the resulting responses to our gifts. Whether the homeless man flips you off for the hot cup of coffee (Oh yes, he did!) or whether he leans his head into your car and smiles his missing-teeth-smile at kids while saying "God bless you!" (Oh yes, he did!), let us give with hearts that shine His love, no matter what we get in return.

I'm jumping in with both feet, giving with reckless abandon as He leads me. Whether my kids sense my love, or sell it at a garage sale, it's not really about the stuff anyways. There is thought and cost in most of the gifts I will be giving, but more importantly, there will be deliberate and overflowing joy. Might this be what recipients sense.

I pray you are enjoying this season with dreams unfolding - sometimes not the way you wanted, or perhaps better than you ever imagined - and with grace, always grace. Which takes disappointments of children, and brokenness, and tense family moments, and unappreciated gifts, and pours life into these.

Resting in His Perfect Gift,
Karen

2010-12-09T11:44:00.000-08:00

It's been killing me not to share our little secret. The thing that has had me distracted and unable to sleep at night.

Finally, after keeping the secret so well, and thank goodness we didn't have to wait until December 25th, we lined the kids up on the couch. Grandparents were there too and the kids thought they were taking Christmas pictures with Uncle James...who took a picture so we weren't guilty of lying.

Then, Daddy surprised them with a box. With a dog in it.

It was perfect...The kids were shocked, and still didn't understand it thirty minutes later. I know this because one of them found me down the hall and asked, "So, whose dog is that?" "Ours!" I replied. "You mean, we get to keep it???!"

Resting Spiritually (and awake every 2 hours physically!),
Karen

Conversation Kit Questions

2010-12-07T03:28:00.000-08:00

I've been caught three times in the last three days whispering Christmas secrets. I'm happy to report that no surprises were ruined, and all schemes are in place. I can't wait to tell you (or show you) all about it!

In the meantime, someone asked for the "Conversation Questions" that I used for the Family Conversation Kits I made last year for friends with little ones. It didn't seem like such a big deal to move a Word document to a pdf file for your convenience, but apparently it's beyond my technical abilities. No skin off my nose, I take the failure in stride.

So, here's plan B: the questions are here. Just copy them to your own Word document and press print.

Trash truck is coming so I'm signing out.

Resting in the Babe,

Karen

If you could cover your bedroom with animal wallpaper, what animals would you choose?

Have you ever missed out on something you really wanted to do? What was it?

What subject do you least like talking about?

When we talk to animals, do you think they understand us?

At the amusement park, if you had to choose between going on a scary ride or watching a funny show, what would you choose?

What was the most shocking news you ever heard?

When you think about getting older, what do you look forward to?

If you could shout something really loud, what would you say?

If you could share Jesus with one person, who would it be?

What things in life do you think should be free?

If you could invent one thing that could make the world a better place, what would it be?

What’s your idea of the best adventure ever?

What’s your favorite thing to do when you’re playing?

What would you say is a big waste of time?

What is your favorite dessert? And would you share it?

What are you most proud of?

What chore would you do happily for the rest of your life?

What is your definition of strong?

If you were given one hour of homework to do every night for the next five years, which subject would you choose?

If you could learn something new tomorrow and succeed at it for life, what would it be?

If you were to exchange places with a friend, who would that be?

If the President walked into the room right now, what question would you ask him? Or her?

If you could help anyone succeed at one thing, what would it be? In what way?

If you were to describe trust, what color would it be?

What’s the yuckiest thing you’ve ever eaten?

If McDonald’s changed the color of its arches, do you think people would still eat there?

What job do you think would be fun?

What job would you never want?

If you could have a home with the most beautiful view in the world, where would it be?

You find a door to a secret attic that hasn’t been opened in 50 years. What do you find there? Besides money!

If your story could appear in any newspaper or magazine, what would the headline read?

What is your description of a godly person?

If you only had three movies in your collection, what would they be?

What one luxury item would you take with you if you were dropped (gently!) onto a deserted island?

What is the most comfortable place in your home?

What is the difference between wants and needs?

If you could invite one person to dinner, who would it be and why? What would you eat?!

What place would you go back to tomorrow?

In God’s eyes, often, the rich are poor and the poor are rich. In what ways are you rich?

What subject makes your brain ache?

What month of the year best describes who you are?

When you hear the word “competition” how do you feel?

Which do you usually listen to, your head or your heart?

What is the most important thing that has ever happened to you?

If you could change one habit, what would it be?

What would you do if you won the lottery and had only one day to spend the money?

What did you do last year that you would never do this year?

What is the scariest thing you’ve ever done?

What do you always need help with? Do you like asking for it?

What do people mean when they say “less is more”?

What’s your idea of a good surprise?

If you could have a conversation with any animal, which one would it be and why?

If the four Gospels were never written, would we know Jesus the Christ?

What one thing do you think about most often?

Describe your perfect day.

If you could stay up all night, what would you do?

What always makes you smile?

Finish the sentence “We were put on this earth to _____________.”

If you could say a special thank-you to someone, who would that be and why?

If you had $100 to give away, who would you give it to and why?

What is the thing that you fear the most?

When was the last time you cried?

If you were given one weekday to do anything you wanted with your parents ,what would you do?

Where do you like to go when you have to solve a problem?

Who is your hero – on earth and in heaven?

What is one thing you have always wanted to do?

If whatever you invented would be a success, what would it be?

If you could rent only one movie at the store right now, what would it be?

When was the last time you practiced “love one another as Christ has loved you”?

If you could ask the whole world to think about one thing for 1 hour, what would it be?

What is the difference between God’s peace and the world’s peace?

What is more important, knowledge or imagination?

What’s one thing you always buy but never really use?

What makes you know you can trust someone?

What is one thing that always cheers you when you are sad?

If you could be named after someone in history, who would it be?

People who ___________- have a lot of courage.

What do you like spending money on?

When you hear the word “unfair” what do you think of?

What is the most rewarding thing someone has ever done for you?

What is your favorite family activity?

If you could jump into a boardgame or computer game, which game would you jump into? And who would you be?

When was the last time you had to say “I’m sorry” to someone?

What is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for you?

If you could add two commandments to the ten existing ones, what would you add?

What is your favorite Bible verse?

Have you had a prayer answered lately?

What makes a good friend?

If you had a time machine and could go back in time, what year would you go back to? And who would you be?

If you discovered a buried treasure in your backyard, what would be inside of it?

If your house was on fire and you could grab three belongings (your family got out!), what would you grab?

If Jesus were coming back tomorrow, what would you do today? Who would you do it with?

What do you think was the greatest invention in your lifetime?

If you could go on a roadtrip, where would you go and with whom?

What’s your favorite dream?

What makes a perfect night of sleep for you?

If you were an ice cream flavor, what flavor would you be?

Who has been the most influential person in your life?

What’s your favorite book? Would you jump into it (figuratively) if you could? Which character would you be?

If you could wear a sign on your back, what would it say?

What do you wish everyone knew about you?

If you could go on a roadtrip, where would you go and with whom?

What’s your favorite dream?

What makes a perfect night of sleep for you?

If you were an ice cream flavor, what flavor would you be?

Who has been the most influential person in your life?

What’s your favorite book? Would you jump into it (figuratively) if you could? Which character would you be?

If you could wear a sign on your back, what would it say?

What do you wish everyone knew about you?

Gifts without Exchange

2010-12-04T15:46:00.000-08:00

Giving is one of my favorite things to do at Christmastime. I know this is not popular in some circles, where folks adopt the family tradition of giving to those in need, not ourselves. I love this, but have realized that for me personally, gift-giving is one of my love languages. I wait all year for the chance to scheme, whisper, and wrap.

So, we give gifts in this family. We do NOT "exchange" gifts, which implies you get something in return. That's not the focus at all.

In our extended family, sometimes we draw adult names out of a hat, sometimes we just give to the kids, and sometimes we go all out. I think the best guideline for giving gifts is this: give a gift if you can't help yourself and have a great idea for someone specific, but agree that if there isn't a good idea for someone, it's okay with everyone to forego the gift tradition instead of giving simply out of obligation. If you have a family of thick-skinned folk, this works pretty well. There's no pressure or obligatory giving, just genuine gift-giving.

That being said, I've got a few gift ideas I thought I'd pass your way. Feel free to take 'em or leave 'em. Another source for great gift ideas is here - at the bottom of the page, there are underlined recipients - women, men, children, grandparents, and other special people. Click on any of these and get hundreds of clutter-free gift ideas.

For Husbands: Real Gil always says he doesn't care about Christmas gifts, but in this one area, he married the wrong girl. He's stuck with all that inconvenient unwrapping and knotted ribbon, whether he likes it or not. Here are some of my favorite gifts for him over the years:

Last year, I went to Costco and had all of our old home videos converted to DVD. It was surprisingly cheap (about $30) and simple to have done.
When he first started drinking coffee on his commute, I had a travel mug customized with our childrens' pictures on the sides.
A blurb book is another clutter-free gift that is always a hit.
Vacations are the ultimate gift for hubby! We often plan something for early in the next year and leave it at that.
Real Gil loves Brian Regan, so I made quick work at the official Brian Regan store last year and a few t-shirts found their way under the tree.
Real Gil enjoys reading, if it's not bills, textbooks, or politics. So, books he has enjoyed and given to others are Manhunt by James Swanson, The Same Kind of Different as Me, and anything by Philip Yancey.

For Our Parents:

One year when our Christmas budget was very tight, I made my parents a "memory box." Inside the box, I wrote out memories I had of growing up in our home. Some of them were really light and funny, others were more personal. The tag on the box said to pull one out each day. I think they totally disobeyed, but they did enjoy the gift. Surprisingly, it did not take me very long, especially after I skimmed some of my old middle-school journal entries. A friend of mine adjusted this idea by partnering up with her brother and sister and together, they made short work of 365 memories.
A custom-made calendar. We do one every year in a matter of minutes (or hours, depending on how particular you want to be!) here for $10 (standard size) or $18 (11.5 x 14). It comes in the mail and you're done!
If you didn't have enough time to make a blurb book for someone, you can always give the a Blurb gift card so they can go create one themselves.
There have been a few years where we simply give our parents concert tickets. Now, that gift would also come with us being on-call for the grandparents who live with them while they go out on a much-deserved date.
And my mother-in-law loves Christmas, but dreads decorating for the holidays. That's when I jump in and decorate for her.
One year, we put together "Grandma's Bag of Tricks" after reading about one in Parenting magazine (all ideas come from Barbara Rowley's article, which I cannot find online!). Included in the small kit of entertaining tools for her purse to use with grandkid was gum, mints, a pen, a comb, a small pad of paper, a few crayons, a pair of cute reading glasses, a small package of tissues, one rubberband or hair tie, and a marker pen. Then, we gave her an intricate list of ideas for what to do with kids to entertain them with these items. Our instructions were from the same article (which I typed verbatim for you since I can't find the link online)!:

Let your toddler slip credit or business cards between the tines of your comb to make them stand up in a row.
Give the first player a pen "microphone." She begins a story and when she passes the pen, the next person continues it.
See how many things in your purse can roll, and which rolls farther or faster or straighter: pens, coins, mints, lipstick.
Set an open pair of eyeglasses on a table. The arch under the nose bridge is the goal; use a mint, dime, or folded-up pieces of paper as a puck and flick it through.
Lay out credit cards, photos, and business cards in rows. Hide a dime or paper scrap underneath one card and give your child three chances to find it. Then trade roles.
Show your child how to fold paper into a fan, accordion-style; make two fans. Roll up tiny balls of tissue and see who can fan her ball the fastest across the table.
Search for all 26 letters in the contents of your wallet.
Draw outlines of four or five objects in your purse. Then, let your toddler match the pieces to this "puzzle."
Stare at the contents of your purse or even the opposite wall. After 60 seconds, all players except the "memory master" look away, and you quiz them on what they've seen.
Lay a piece of paper over a coin, credit card, or key, and rub a pen or pencil back and forth over the surface to reveal what lies beneath.
You both close your eyes and draw wildly on a piece of paper, then exchange scribbles. You can finish each other's drawings or color in the closed shapes.
Hold keys, credit cards, or your child's hand on a piece of paper and help him draw around it. He can color the outline.
Have kids take turns shaking a coin in their hands and guessing heads or tails.
Play hangman!
Close your eyes and let your child hand you things from your purse. Guess what they are (penny or dime, Visa card, or driver's license, and so on). Then give him a turn. Or have your child take an item from your purse and try to figure out by elimination what he has.
Guess the color of the next passing car, the shirt of the next person walking into the room, and so on.
Give three verbal cues about a food, a color, or animal that you like and see if the other person can guess what you're thinking.
Suggest three or four characters and challenge your child to create a story that uses these characters.
Scrunch a tissue into a ball, and drape another tissue over it. Twist it below the ball to make a floaty body. Tie with a rubberband. Draw a face, and stick it on a pen or your finger. Have a puppet show!
Fold up tissue into a tight square. Color on one or two markers with a marker that bleeds through. Open to see your design.
Accordion-fold two tissues together and secure the center with a hair tie. Gently pull each ply apart to form a flower.

For Grandparents:

My favorite gift for my grandparents is the ice chest full of homemade, frozen meals. I start working on these in November (although it's not too late if you are just getting started). All I do is double my dinner recipes and freeze the meals in small dishes. I also include small freezer bags with all the toppings, like a cup of swiss cheese to melt on top of ham crepes, tortillas for fajitas, or half a cup of cashews for cashew chicken stir fry. Then, I add a few batches of cookies - either frozen dough balls or fully baked cookies. Finally, I make a list of what's inside that intimidating ice chest with instructions for preparation. Favorites have been individual chicken pot pies, homemade spaghetti sauce, homemade bread (sliced and frozen), fajita fixings, individual servings of soup, and Italian beef for sandwiches.
How about a gift certificate for grandma' favorite salon?
Or the small, local diner where Grandma loves to eat has gift certificates, thus guaranteeing she gets a healthy dose of biscuits and gravy for the year.
Our newest favorite gift idea for one of our grandmas is a Netflix subscription. Grandma loves old movies but doesn't know how to find them. So, now, she watches one and waits for the next one to come in the mail. Make sure to set up the account for your loved one and help them construct their queue.

For Kids:

My personal favorite gift at Christmas for my children is Magnatiles. They have played with them for the last four years, and I'm convinced, they were the most used Christmas gift I've ever given someone. If you are looking for a great toy for your children, this is my #1 recommendation. Just make sure that you order a large enough package of Magnatiles so that they can really work with them. These will be in our family for the grandkids.
One year, we bought the kids a bouncy house as their only gift from us. It was so much fun! I do not get it out that often (it's huge), but when I do, we are guaranteed lots of laughter and squealing.
We love giving books. There are so many favorites. For really little ones, Goodnight Gorilla is an all-time favorite around here. For little boys, our son's favorite is The Little Red Train by Benedict Blathwayt - the illustrations are much better than Thomas the Train books.

For toddler boys - and it seems, we've had our fair share of these - we always love the construction fork, knife, and spoon set found here.
5. One year, we printed lots of fun pictures of our oldest daughter. Then, I shopped the clearance on scrapbook supplies, including a small scrapbook, and packed them all into a box. Punkin loved it! And still pulls it out to work on her scrapbook pages.

For Siblings & Friends:

One year, I put together a gift bag for each of the special women in my family titled "My Favorite Things." It's not quite like Oprah's favorite things, but it was still fun. I had all kinds of little favorites from the year - my favorite lipstick, music CD, office supplies, and even my favorite brand of underwear! It was a fun, personal gift to put together.
Date nights are cheap and become a playdate for our kids. Parents get to go out and we make memories with their children.
The year my younger sister married, I typed out every recipe I loved. I printed the pages at Kinko's and put them in her own personal binder. And I made extra copies which I have given over the years to close friends and family members. Of course, it was a gift to myself too because I made one for me and my recipes were finally organized.
For a family gift, I made "Family Conversation Kits" which were about 100 questions to ask at the dinner table (or anywhere for that matter). I printed these, cut them in strips, and put them in a cute, Chinese-food takeout box with a bow and a label on the top. I'll try to convert my conversation questions over the weekend so you can steal the questions I came up with.

Whew! Well, there you have it. I know I'm forgetting a few of my favorite gift ideas, so feel free to add your own in the comments section.

In the meantime, it's off to our town Christmas parade!

Resting in Him,
Karen

P. S. If I can figure out how to make a pdf file, I'll soon attach the printables needed for the Grandma's "Bag of Tricks" gift and the "Family Conversation Kit."

I Have A Really Good Excuse

2010-12-03T14:12:00.000-08:00

For not writing lately...

There were Christmas lights to be hung.

And for the first time, I felt my insides stirring at the prospect of exterior illumination! I'm afraid I've caught the bug. What delight to watch ordinary, white bulbs twinkle, rainbows splash color!

I'm convinced that our home's exterior perfectly matches our personalities:

A little bit of Jesus...

A little bit of elegance (yeah, right.)...

And a little bit of humor.

So, there's my excuse. Now that my husband's bluejeans are firmly planted in the bushes, I'm back to blogging. I promise a long, practical post tomorrow...

Resting in Christ this Christmas,
Karen

Follow-Ups

2010-12-01T05:12:00.000-08:00

Updates have been requested. So, in a Tucked-In nutshell...

Our Veteran's Day visits were great. With two vets on our street and a surprisingly sunny day, we hit the sidewalk mid-morning. We baked cookies, packaged them in boxes, and affixed handwritten notes to the tops. One note had the four-year old words (scribed verbatim by Mama): "Thank you for shooting guns a long time ago. I wish I could come in and see your dog." No joke. Thankfully, our adopted veteran didn't have his reading glasses so he couldn't read the note until after we had left. But he made Sugs' day by inviting us in to visit with their dog, Charlie. When I finally pulled my children back out of their now finger-smudged house, Sugs ceremoniously bid farewell: "G'bye, Charlie. G'bye Veteran."

Our Operation Christmas Child shoe boxes looked so unoriginal when all was said and done. A bit mangled after all the time the kids carried them around WalMart, shoving toys in to see if they would fit or not. But I'm not sure there could be more heart in a box than these. The Little Man even started calling his recipient Jack. When Grandpa Joel teasingly asked if the shoebox was for him, the Little Man said, "Nope, it's for Jack." Grandpa approached Sugs with the same question, to which she wrinkled her nose in perfect disapproval: "It's not for you, Grandpa. It's for my friend, a brown girl."

Our two favorite elements to the shoeboxes this year were the coloring pages full of facts and questions to share with our recipients. And the potential to track our shoeboxes as they travel this holiday season. We've prayed for them now, that the children would be perfectly matched to their boxes and upon opening them, that they will sense our love for both them and Christ.

We celebrate Halloween. I read many interesting debates about whether or not it is a good holiday to celebrate. We chose to keep it simple and not make the issue too complex. I didn't lose a bit of sleep over the entire thing...except for the costume construction which had me up way too late one night. The Rapunzel wig was one-fourth of the price for a retail wig, but by the end of the night, I think I would have paid double just to rid myself of the project.

Kit Kittredge, Davey Crockett, and Rapunzel

Hawaii. What's there to say?

Resting Here,
Karen

2010-11-30T05:30:00.000-08:00

The laundry is half done and between loads, I've been putting together a few of my favorite articles and posts lately. Here are the distracting, motivating, controversial, or just doggone pretties I've stumbled upon...

The tablecloth I wanted to make for Thanksgiving...if I made Thanksgiving dinner...and wasn't in Hawaii eating kabobs with my family this year. Anyways, maybe a Christmas version is soon to come around these parts...
Amy always has great articles in her sidebar, including this one about what to give a family with new babies, and what peculiar diet one nutrition professor adopted.
How to survive serving others...poignant for this mother and wife.
The soup we loved on Day #1, and the pasta that it became on Day #2. Try this!
I'm getting the Christmas make-it-and-wrap-it bug. That's a bit scary for Real Gil, and perhaps for you when you see the results and try to hide your dismay. But with a good tutorial, I figure I can't get it too wrong. Check out Cathe's free vintage alphabets - I'm pretty sure I have a few fresh, white tea towels that are begging for some iron-on monograms... And I loved this whimsical homemade wreath. Pretty sure my grandparents had one in their house when I was a little girl. It must be made. And sprayed with sticky artificial snow.
This article was not half as interesting to me as the comments below it...if you want a little "stirring" of thoughts, respectfully debated, this just might be up your alley.
I love how Thanksgiving can be strung into words like these. And I look forward to similar words of prayer lifting above the Christmas table.
Simply put, I'm a mother of a son. And I pray there's a blog post someday like this mother's.
Monotony or excitement, might we do it with hearts that seek One.

The laundry is nagging me - this formidable mound of practicality and style and deals. So, read if you like, while I fold.

Resting Here,
Karen

Official Guest Post

2010-11-29T05:14:00.000-08:00

Sluggish, sleepy,

We're home from a great week with family - a family that doesn't need improving, but was improved by tropical beaches, salty sunshine, and Hawaiian cuisine (Have you tried Hawaiian mustard???!!!).

Daunting piles of laundry await so I'm thankful for my friend, Ben Linn, who has offered his wisdom, humor, and wit for the day. Thank you, Brother Ben, for sharing...

____________________________________________________________________

It's not easy being a dad. The crying of children drowns out the TV. Having to set a good example means no more soda with breakfast. And having to help them do things really has set back my ambitions to be a cage fighting champion (right after I finish this cake). But in all seriousness, I think the toughest thing about fathering (brought to you by Father Loving Our Pre-Schoolers – FLOPS) is the changing role of fathering these days.

I don't know if the Ward and June Cleaver model was ever based in reality, but it's clear that prior generations didn't expect a lot of hands-on child-rearing from dads. For that matter, most things related to domestic economy were once traditionally relegated to moms. In fact, as a not-too-old dad myself (33), I can see that my role is much different than my own father's. This is not to say that my dad was lazy or disinterested in home stuff, but my mom took it all on as a general rule. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, dishes, diapers, child transportation, etc. - these were all usually handled by Mom. Today, I find myself taking on a number of things with my kids that my dad typically did not do with us.

Don't let the rugged masculinity fool you, ladies. I do most of the laundry around the house. I get the kids ready and down for bed every night. I do the dishes. And if there are going to be homemade cookies in our house, they'll be my work instead of my wife's. And it's not for lack of doing the usual dad things either. I'll change the oil and fix the washing machine and barbecue sausage and hang blinds just as often. And of course, I must point out that my wife does quite a bit in her own right – grad school, helping in the kids' classes, and quite a bit of her own housework.

How did this come to be? How is it that my role as a husband and father is so different than what I saw growing up? I would like to share a radical concept... my wife and I talked about it and came up with a plan that worked for both of us. She didn't coerce or browbeat me; she just shared what she felt she needed in terms of my support, and I shared what I felt I could reasonably do. It was an exercise in compromise, and what we have works well for us.

As a sidenote, I can't say what any of my friends do around the house for their families. It's not something we can talk about. If we try to sound like we do too little, we'll be seen as a deadbeat. If we sound like we do too much, it's more like, “You'll make a nice wife someday.” Whatever the case, we husbands are called to love our wives as Christ loved the church – sacrificially and completely. If I can love my wife by hanging up some shirts, that's easy! And I know my Heavenly Father is pretty hands-on with me, so I think I should be as involved with my kids as I can be. And every family is different. So I encourage all the wives to communicate with their husbands and work out some good compromises around the house.

2010-11-22T18:11:00.000-08:00

I'm out of the of the office this week. By "office" I mean the laundry room, the kitchen, and the mini-van. My partner in the office is also gone, Real Gil says his name tag. Funny thing though - we're out of the office, but some elements of the office have come with us.

Note out the window: dark and snowing.
Note: inside the window, one tired Mama (sans makeup) and two wild kids!

That's fine by me.

We played "napkin tic tac toe" and passed out in-flight lollipops.

There was lots more in that chunk of time, but seven long hours are now blurred in Hawaii's sunshine.

After cousins reunited,
they scoped out the hotel...

they dogpiled...

and tumbled...

Then, we stripped off winter clothes, slathered sunscreen, took tags off kid flip flops, and went exploring...

So, I'm off to chase kids, reapply sunscreen, and enjoy my family. I'll see you all next week, my friends. Praying your Thanksgiving is filled with good food, sweet company, and overflowing hearts.

Resting in Christ,
Karen

When WordGirl Haunts

2010-11-19T06:15:00.000-08:00

There are times in life when I get long periods of silence, when God's Word pours over me in the early or the late hours of the day.

Then, there are the times in life where I grasp at minutes, or seconds, of treasured Word. It seems that God, always approachable and available, understands, and meets me right where I'm at.

This week has been one of the latter form. In a hurried scramble to flip my bookmark out of the way, I ran across these words.

"Oh Lord, my God, in You I put my trust." (Psalm 7:1)

So simple, so refining. Like a children's show theme song, these words resonated in my head for days. Only these were words I lingered over, sometimes with ease and sometimes with struggle.

When the letter arrived with insurance's refusal of our appeal, I shook my head, and remembered these words.

"Oh Lord, my God, in You I put my trust."

When the flat-screen TV was left on Pause for five hours and a slight picture of WordGirl embedded itself in the screen, I remembered these words.

"Oh Lord, my God, in You I put my trust."

When the ten-minute dentist appointment became an hour-and-a-half repair, I felt these words pour over me.

"Oh Lord, my God, in You I put my trust."

When Real Gil and I remembered that we disagree occasionally, and that we were never meant to fully satisfy one another's needs, I recalled these words.

"Oh Lord, my God, in You I put my trust."

When we caravanned to the auto mechanic for the third time this month, I loaded children and smiled knowingly at Real Gil.

"Oh Lord, my God, in You I put my trust."

When a little one seemed lost and I dashed around the house, only to find her sitting peacefully in my armoire...

"Oh Lord, my God, in You I put my trust."

When the sun rolled over His mountains with streaks of day in its wake, I whispered it out loud, even with little ones nearby.

"Oh Lord, my God, in You I put my trust."

I pray you see both the subtle and the dramatic evidences of His trustworthiness this weekend.

Resting in His Peace,
Karen

Traditions

2010-11-17T20:11:00.000-08:00

Have you heard that new Christmas song by Dave Barnes and Hillary Scott yet? Oh, wow. It's another reason to turn on the Christmas music in November, says I.

I promised myself that I wouldn't post anything about Christmas gifts or shopping until after Thanksgiving - disciplined, that's me. So, I will not mention any gift ideas yet. But I wanted to give you a very short list of our essential Christmas traditions. If you find that any of the ideas herein seem like good fits for your family, you might want a few weeks to throw stuff together.

Without further ado...

We read. And thanks to the advice of my dear friend, Miss Marla, we wrap all of our holiday books at Christmas, and cram them all into a big basket by the fireplace. Then, every night (if we're home), the kids get to pick one wrapped book and unwrap it. (I have a friend who then teaches gift-receiving etiquette right here - even teaching her kids to say "thank you" after they unwrap the book!) Then, we read the book. While I do not have twenty-five Christmas books, I do have some favorites. The longer, chapter books we "mark" discreetly and unwrap first. To fill up the other days of the month, I check out Christmas library books - about five at a time - and even wrap those. Here's our freshly wrapped pile of books for the season, ready to go thanks to Punkin's newly discovered gift-wrapping abilities.

Last year, our favorite Christmas book was Jotham's Journey. I have talked about it all year long, and now, we get to continue the story with the sequel. If you land a copy, don't forget to read the end-of-the-chapter summaries - for me, some of the best Christmas devotionals out there. Ask my kids how many times Mom choked up and stopped reading last year...it's a bit embarrassing. Other books we cherish include...

By Jay & Kathy Stockman (a fairly expensive, but treasured book)
Each page of this book has a door, with 25 total doors. Each door contains one element of the Christmas story. The illustrations and words are beautiful.
Just tonight, I caught my mom and Sugs snuggled up, peeking in all the doors of the book.

Another favorite...

The Christmas Miracle of Jonathan Toomey

This year, we are also going to try doing a Jesse Tree. I plan to either make or purchase the Jesse Tree Ornaments (I like these and these)
and we'll be reading Geraldine McCaughrean's The Jesse Tree.For younger children, these are two of my absolute favorites -
Room for a Little One by Martin Waddell and Jason Cockcroft,

and Mortimer's Christmas Manger by Jane Chapman and Karma Wilson.

We give. I'll share some of my favorites next week. The kids love to get in on the action and they make lots of homemade gifts, mostly all found at Family Fun.

We play. One of the best things I did was order a toy nativity set. The children always forget about it until Christmastime and then, they spend many hours playing with a "new" toy. After moving into a neighborhood with spectacular Christmas lights, we added a "Pajama Patrol" to our holiday traditions. The kids put jammies on, I grab cookies, and we go watch the Christmas light show in our neighborhood. I love what this mother did to make the Christmas light observing more fun for her kids. Our little town has a Christmas tree lighting nighttime parade which we always bundle up for as well.

We sing! Oh yes, we do. It's not good singing, but it's usually loud and fun. There's nothing better than trying to keep a straight face while a three-year old belts out "Glo-ooo-ooooo-ria!" This year, my favorite music includes my cherished Pottery Barn 3-disc Vintage Christmas Collection (a gift from Stephanie, have I thanked you enough for this!?!), anything by Dave Barnes or Audrey Assad, and my old, wrinkled sheet music Christmas carols. (Below is Audrey Assad live if you want to hear her sing my favorite Christmas song.)

We visit. Pretty much anyone who will come over, or anyone who will have us and our germs. On Christmas Eve's Eve, we pack up the entire family and spend the next two nights at the grandparents' houses, one night at each set. It's fun to wake up in the morning with family and already have the presents, food, and other general details in place. Another favorite way to visit and give at the same time has been to throw a little kid's birthday party for Jesus, complete with birthday hats and cake. The children of our friends are all invited and parents are sent on a date night, their gift from us.

We laugh, mostly at ourselves. You'll see why when we post our Christmas family photo.

And my all-time favorite Christmas tradition. I purchased a small box with a lid. Every year, I plant it up on a high shelf and walk by it, wondering what I will write this year... After all of the Christmas hubbub has calmed, I take a small chunk of time and write down the memories from the year's holiday - favorite memories, who was present, who was missing, milestones from the year, what we are looking forward to in the next year... These have been so fun to read over the years! Also in the box, we include letters to Santa or tickets to Christmas events we attended. I just reread these the other day and smiled as I read my cursive: "Big question: where will we be living in 2007?" and "In 2008, I'm dreaming of a full night of sleep!"

There are a few things that we do not do during the Christmas season. We do our best not to stress. That means that for the most part, I do not Christmas shop. I try to have the majority of the presents purchased before December 1st. I know that's crazy, but it has really freed me up to enjoy the season. Also, we do not maintain a rigorous school schedule, mostly because we do a lot of reading in the evenings so we don't do as much "official" schoolwork. One last thing: because we have so much family in town, we find that our little ones are quickly overwhelmed by all the noise and presents, and much more prone to all-out, freak-out tantrums. So, we distinguish our own little family Christmas from the extended family Christmas celebrations. Usually, we just find a day when Real Gil is not working and we plan that as our Christmas. We start the day with doughnuts in Mom and Dad's bed (our usual birthday tradition, for Jesus this time). Then, we exchange gift and spend the rest of the day together. That night, we usually go out for dinner as a family, and end the night by trying to be as sneaky as we can about leaving our once-a-year Christmas "bonus" tip for the waiter or waitress.

What Christmas traditions, books, or gift ideas do you treasure? Which Christmas traditions have you not participated in, and feel good about doing so? What advice do you have for mothers at Christmastime?

Resting in the Christ,
Karen

The No-Title Post

2010-11-16T07:00:00.000-08:00

What started out as a living-room nest last night....

... soon evolved into something much more entertaining.

Combine a pile of pillows with well-constructed furniture and too much sugar before bedtime and this is what you get:
Goofy faces. And goofy faces while jumping into pillows...

Then, it was time for a little kung fu fighting.

There. Done.
Karen

Packing this, and that

2010-11-15T06:15:00.000-08:00

Nine months ago, Real Gil gifted our family with the anticipation of beach and sunshine and family reunion. Suddenly, here the family vacation is about to actually take place!

I haven't started packing yet. Or even started the packing list.

Partly because I've been preoccupied with other packing.

The kind that warms me through and through.

And brings me to my knees for faceless, nameless fellow siblings (though they have never been faceless nor nameless to the One who ordains life and rain and shoebox deliveries, to name a few).

We are praying for His heart as we shop, wrap, and pray...

Might our gifts be perfectly matched to our recipients...

May the gifts speak - no, shout! - His love...

Might we ourselves be willing to move and to change through simple gift-giving...

And prayer - that our hearts would bring more than a spiritual grocery list, a dynamic two-way conversation with a Father who listens, hears, and delights in our voices (both audible and silent).

Before the stress of airports, suitcases, and toddlers threatens to strangle our joy, we are taking the next few days to focus on one of our favorite family traditions of the year. Whereas usually they receive my exasperated "What can I do for suffering, for the poor?" at least one child today will be packed a New Balance shoebox with love hopefully oozing from its cardboard corners!

If you would like to join us, easy step-by-step instructions are found here. The nearest drop-off location can be found by typing in your zip code here. If you "register" your box here, you can track it to its final destination. And our favorite activity for the resident preschoolers was this coloring page/letter to the recipients of our boxes. What could be more fun for kids than giving before receiving in December?

Resting in Christ Who Has Given All,
Karen

Thankful for Root Canals

2010-11-12T20:24:00.001-08:00

I've had a love-hate relationship with the dentist.

Rarely do I have pain.

And yet, every time I visit him, there seems to be up-and-coming pain that must be taken care of.

I'm so thankful that he catches stuff that my floss and toothbrush do not. But dang! This week took me from crown to root canal. But I left today after saying words I never thought I would say: "Thank you for a perfect root canal."

Whuh?!

Next time, I might just give him my credit card on the way in, while they strap that beautiful blue bib on me.

Although this might appear as a dentist-bashing blog post, tis not. As much as this family likes to black out teeth for Christmas pictures, I like my real teeth enough to appreciate my dentist. (Very subtle shout-out to Dr. Drange - many thanks!)

This post is about the real torture at the dentist's office. It has nothing to do with drills or novacaine or really cold water sprays. It's quite simple. The worst torture at the dentist's office is the torture of not being able to speak while those around you can. For an extrovert like myself, it's horrific to have the perfect quip, the word they can't think of, the name of that movie...and not be able to say it.

But something new happened today.

The dear folks who were performing root canal surgery on me were discussing the nonsense of early Christmas decorating.

What kind of fools decorate their houses for Christmas this early?!!

Hmmm, said their attentive but mute patient.

I'm sorry, were you all talking to me? Because my mouth is full of gauze, novacaine, and some poky thing that keeps me from responding.

Ah-hem.

Sidewalk Salutes

2010-11-08T20:14:00.000-08:00

It was on one of those early-morning commutes that Gil first spotted him - the older man standing in the cold.

It was hard not to notice him. While other bundled folks might have been out walking their daily route, scraping ice off windshields, or hurriedly nabbing newspapers in slippers, he stood very still on the sidewalk. With rigid posture that bespoke of attention and pride, he took a long moment to stare up, not in a hurry to walk a pet or return indoors to drink hot coffee.

Then, with a sure swiftness that bespoke years of practice and belied his otherwise aging body, he raised his right hand and saluted the American flag proudly displayed on his flagpole.

After Gil mentioned the man, we all started to watch for him, to watch for his flag. In true disciplined fashion, he has not disappointed. My children have observed him saluting the flag sometime after sunrise, and they have observed him slowly lowering it at sunset. Other than the days of violent storms, he has yet to miss a day. When the body of a local marine was escorted back to our hometown, his American flag flew at half-mast. And on the days following the Fort Hood shooting tragedy.

We knew there was a history behind this daily routine. He had to be a veteran, we all mused. One day, while he was retrieving his mail at the mail stop near our home, our theory was confirmed by the bumper sticker on his truck.

And so, the idea started to take shape in my mind. A potted plant one year, a plate of cookies the next, homemade cards from toddlers... It would have probably been easier to just deposit the little gifts on the doorstep and push the stroller back to the safe confines of my own home. But my kids would never let me get away with that. What child can walk up to a porch and not push that illuminated, rectangular doorbell button?

"What do we say to him?" Punkin whispered. Always planning ahead, she was the one child who understood a bit of my nervousness. I had thought the same question. Would he be uncomfortable with our boldness? Would he be worried about little-kid germs? Would he even understand our gesture?

But then, I remembered the salute. If ever a person could understand our simple, symbolic gesture, it would be this stranger.

"You can shake his hand," I suggested. Punkin's eyes widened in panic. "Or you can just say 'thank you.'" That suited her much better.

Sugs had no such inhibitions, her face buried behind the small potted plant that first year. When he opened the door, she did not hesitate, shoving the gift into the one hand that did not hold the swinging door.

"Shanks," she said with a smile. "For hanging that flag with the stars."

A little dog yapped happily at his feet as the man's face crinkled into a handsome, wrinkled smile. A woman - similarly marked with laugh lines - joined him at the door, shushing the dog and peeking over his shoulder at their unexpected visitors.

That gave Punkin and I more courage. She smiled shyly and added, "Thank you for fighting in wars."

I gushed nervously, saying more words than needed to be said. Thanks...our freedom...your sacrifice...the flag... I shook his hand, his weathered, bone-crushing paw firmly grabbing my mother-practical always-busy hand.

"You're welcome." He grinned widely, and I had the distinct impression he had used those dimples more than once over the years. "And thanks for this," he added, holding up the flimsy little plant.

Then, we entered that awkward stage where you either start the small talk or close the door. I spared him the dilemma and moved off of the porch, herding my children along with me. Their little dog barked playfully, even after they yelled "Good bye!" and closed the door.

We went home deeply satisfied. Perhaps, for the first time ever, I celebrated Veteran's Day by thanking a veteran personally.

With the special day approaching this Thursday, the children are already talking about what they are going to do or say to our hero down the street. I've got flour and sugar on our grocery list for tomorrow, and a cookie recipe set out on the counter. Earlier today, Punkin wondered out loud if "that old soldier" would like chocolate chip cookies, then answered her own question. "As long as we don't forget to thank him, that's all that matters, right Mom?"

Thank you. The simplest but most genuine word to utter on Thursday. Surely we will not do it perfectly or without mishap - like the year our Little Man marched through their planter and tripped over a green frog statue right as they were answering the door. But by some mysterious working, saying thank you makes us exponentially more thankful! So, we will march down the street, this ragamuffin bunch with purpose and saran-wrapped paper plates.

Resting in the Thankfulness that He Gives and the Opportunity to Express It,
Karen

2010-11-05T21:15:00.000-07:00

I hope your weekend is one of simple pleasures, sweet conversations, and beloveds.

Here are a few links that I have enjoyed this week:

Katie always brings me to my knees in prayer. Will you join me in praying for her changing family?
We are big fans of audio books, especially free ones like all of these!
Memorizing God's love-Word is always challenging, and rewarding. Thanks, Ann, for this thought-provoking and inspiring post, motivating me back to that first love.
God bids me forward in this world, and culture, but others have found a more suitable fit among the Amish. An interesting article, one that will never be written of me, but interesting nonetheless!
Anyone who starts making Christmas ornaments in the first week of November has to be linked here. Cathe awes me with her homemade beauties. Check out her stamped ornaments.
Can you believe what this girl does - with an old onesie and a sweatshirt?!!
The evolution of a farmhouse - beautiful and inspiring.
Praying for Sudan as the election momentum escalates.
Family, ahhh, sweet family. I love how this one lives it out each Sunday.
Giving is always better than receiving! It seems this couple agrees.

Resting in His Secure Solace,
Karen

When Justice Satisfies and Grace Does Not

2010-11-04T17:14:00.000-07:00

Time for another confession.

A few of you have wondered where I have been the last few days.

I'll admit, last week was a rough one, but this week, my excuse is not so good.

It was a guilty pleasure.

Usually late at night, when I would normally have been writing, I was distracted.

With a man.

Not THE man, but a man.

Called Mitch Rapp.

He's not real.

He's fictional. And he is one bad dude. I'm pretty sure the stories weaved by Vince Flynn** are biographical novels based on true events surrounding my Special Forces/Reconnaissance brother-in-law. Or maybe they're just fiction.

Any which way you look at it, whether the stories are true or not, Mitch Rapp is one formidable character -a brave, tactless, snide, strong, uncouth protagonist with a perfect shot, never-ending energy, and an ongoing list of enemies. He hates bureaucracies and injustice. By the end of one of his novels, you are just waiting for the evil, wicked enemy to finally meet the swift, just hand of Mitch Rapp.

All the cards fall into perfect place and justice triumphs. The reader - at least this one - closes the book with a satisfied 'thunk.' All is right with the world, good versus evil and the good wins out. No gray areas, just black and white and a matter-of-fact Mitch Rapp on his flight home.

Sometimes, justice just begs to win.

It's why I love the story of Joseph in the Old Testament. His bully brothers have it coming and after years of abuse, he finally sticks them with it. Well, kinda. I know he's kind and forgiving, but their guilt seems so satisfying, so necessary to me.

Or the story of David and Goliath. There is, of course, grace for David, but big meanie Goliath gets exactly what he deserves.

In my own life, grace is always welcomed. But when it comes to observing it in others, there are times when I would rather watch deserved justice unfold rather than undeserved mercy. If I am being perfectly honest, sometimes justice seems to be a much better fit than grace. When children are hurt, when innocent lives are ruined, it is hard to watch grace and forgiveness take place in the perpetrator's life. Wouldn't it be helpful if God sent a few more dependable and thorough Mitch Rapps on patrol, scooping out justice where I deem it needed?

Just the other day, I listened to a family speak in carefully chosen words about generations unreconciled - a mother dying of cancer and a son who has years and years of wounds from her... As much as I would like to see grace in the hands of this son who could choose to care for an undeserving mother, I am sure the temptation of justice entices him - to let her die alone with regrets and perhaps just a sliver of the pain he has felt over the years.

The only way I make sense of it all is to remember two things: who God is and what He has done in my own life. As Philip Yancey so aptly says it, "grace teaches us that God loves because of who God is, not because of who we are." (What's So Amazing About Grace, page 254). If He finds grace a better fit for someone, than it must be the perfect fit.

When I am seeing life through eyes that are His, I see that grace is most satisfying of all, that rights and what's fair and what should be fall away in the light of who He is. As I watch my own life enveloped in "grace upon grace" (John 1:16) - never dependent on what I do or don't do, how can I not want it for others? Anyways, "by denying forgiveness to others, we are in effect determining them unworthy of God's forgiveness, and thus so are we." (Yancey)

The audacity of God's grace is that it is offered to the victim and the bully - after all, haven't most of us been in both categories? Grace is lavished on any who will take the free gift, any who admit they need it - the abandoned children and their drug-seeking mother, the parents who adopt and the parents who give up their child. Not just the person who is in a Psalms-like storm can receive His grace; the person who is in the midst of a storm of their own choosing is also offered grace, much to the shock (and maybe dismay!) of God-followers who observe. Can anyone move beyond God's grace? Only by their own choosing, not by His denial of them.

I'm resting tonight in this unfathomable gift of grace. Its bounds are far beyond my imagination, and the Giver is perfect in His presentation of the gift.

Resting Here,
Karen

**Vince Flynn weaves a great story, but it is not for the faint of heart. For that reason, I have great hesitations in recommending any of his books here. If you were looking for a book rating, I would rate many of them R. But Mitch Rapp is tough. Just sayin'.

When It's Too Early

2010-11-02T06:15:00.000-07:00

Tonight, over slices of sugar-free pumkin pie (not good), I talked with my mom (very good). With the children "dance-skating" in their feet-pajamas nearby, we did our best to converse over their squeals and dance moves.

"So, it's November," Mom said to me.

"Yup," I answered, struggling to swallow all that artificial sweetener.

"When should I come over?" she offered with a twinkle in her eye.

"Uh. Oh," I said, shaking my head and clearing my throat. "I have Bible study at our house, Mom. They'll all know."

She shrugged. "Wanna do my house first?"

"Yes!" I pounced on the opportunity. "What day?"

"Friday? Thursday?" She offered.

"Whichever," I answered. "As long as we do your house first. Then, if anyone teases me, I can say you started it."

In an act of motherly sacrifice, she nods her agreement. "Definitely."

"But we'll still be thankful," I resolve.

And I am.

I'm thankful for November. Thanksgiving. The Pilgrims. Our God. Our families. Our country. Our home. Our health...And for hundreds of other things I could list. But if I was writing a truly honest list of thankfulness, somewhere on that list, scribbled under running water and before fall colors, I would have to admit that I'm thankful for the chance to pull down dusty boxes with my mother, and welcome in the Savior's birth season.

Don't go getting all judgmental on me, y'all.

I'm thankful, very thankful. I'm just a planner...with a super busy end-of-the-month schedule...and a mother that started playing Christmas music in August.

Resting in the Anticipation of Tomorrows Amidst the Joys of Today,
Karen

P.S. More on my Christmas preparations to come. Send me your hate mail. I promise to read every last biting word. After I get the nativity scene set up on the mantle.

Oh, The Places We Will Go!

2010-10-31T15:19:00.001-07:00

This weekend, we had the pleasure of costumes, hot chili, and many friends in our home. It was the perfect blend of relaxed parents, happy children, and safe fellowship.

One of these dear friends came to my house for the first time from a long distance away. She repeated herself a few times when she said, "I'm not trying to be overly focused on appearances, but you really need to blog about your home." At first, I was a little confused by her words, not exactly sure what she was referring to. Fortunately for me, she is a woman of wisdom and eloquence. She poured genuine kindness on me as she explained that sharing tips on literal home-making here did not have to be arrogant brag-fests, as I was always afraid they might be. I hope you know that my only goal in sharing pictures of my home is to give you ideas - mostly cheap ones - that you might want to try somewhere in your own home. The outside of our home is a very standard subdivision home. I figure that anyone rich enough can design and build their own perfect home, but it's entirely another matter to take the home God has given you and work with it to tell your own story, welcome people with your own personality. I am not a wonderful decorator, I am not here to tell you how to place your furniture, that's for sure! But if you are looking for ways to store toys, organize kid stuff, and still make a room warm and welcoming, I just might have a few tricks up my sleeve.

So, without further ado and much thanks to Rachel for holding my clammy hand, here are some pictures of my favorite room in the house - my son's bedroom. It's a "transportation" room

When I moved here three years ago, I was pregnant with the Little Man and heaved my big belly all over town looking for one-of-a-kind treasures at garage-sale prices. It's still a work in progress - and I figure, when I finally finish with the room, he'll ask me to make it Star Wars and I"ll have to take it all down. But here's where our Ticking Time Bomb sleeps, plays, and wreaks general havoc.The map on the wall is an actual, old-school pull-down map I found on e-bay. It is old enough that many of the countries do not exist anymore, so if my son's geography facts are off when he's twenty, he can totally blame it on me.

Looking left, a hand-me-down bed of the best kind from the Little Man's very own grandpa. Snoopy was Real Gil's bedtime favorite and even has a missing nose to show for it.

This antique ice chest works as a storage bin for all of our son's trains, and it also doubles as a stool next to the bed so Little Man can climb up into bed (...or climb down, doggone it!). I scored it at a garage sale for $5!

At the bottom of the bed, I hung an antique clothespin storage receptacle and we keep all the Hot Wheels in the pockets. Also, there is a toolbox I found at a thrift store that keeps books and bouncy balls in place.

Cross stitch "transportation" pictures sewn by the Little Man's now-deceased great-grandmother. For years, these hung in my grandparents' home, and then, they lay unused under my mom's bed until she stumbled upon them this year and passed them to me.

Framing these was too expensive and after I tacked them to the wall just like they were, I realized I liked them without frames.

The desk below was handmade by my husband's grandfather. Most everything on the shelf are family hand-me-downs, toys from my husband or father-in-law's childhood.

Perhaps my favorite aspect to the room is this wall of old maps. After my little sister found an old Atlas at a garage sale (I'm not the only one in the family who likes to hunt for bargains!), I ripped out the pages and tacked them to the wall. I love the texture, the colors, and the blocks of pattern all over this wall.

So that's it. Our son's bedroom. My new favorite room in the house, probably because I finally painted it. If you come over to visit, my son will take you by the hand and show you how high he can jump on his bed. And you can ask him geography questions if you'd like to watch me squirm.

That's all. Tour's over. See you tomorrow.

Resting in Him,
Karen

2010-10-30T08:18:00.000-07:00

Thanks, twin sister, for this link, the ultimate sacrifice. Check it out if you have time, my friends.

Resting in His Ultimate Sacrifice,
Karen

Clocking Out

2010-10-29T13:23:00.000-07:00

We've had a rough week. Nothing serious, just one little discouragement after another.

If it's okay with you, I'm going to clock out a little early this Friday and come back to this safe place on Monday.

So thankful that I can be honest with you about those running-on-empty days and the mound of costumes that need my attention. And I'm so thankful that I can be honest with God, the One who provides encouragement, energy, rest, and the courage to confront hard days.

Resting in His Safe Arms,
Karen

My Stumble-Upons

2010-10-27T06:10:00.000-07:00

Sacred Sandwich has some funny stuff this week. I could hardly pick one...

Since I haven't done this in a while, I thought I'd share some of my favorite articles and blog posts that I have stumbled upon lately. If any of these topics interest you, happy reading.

A fascinating story of genuine foot-washing. Learning to be a servant of all can't get any more authentic than this.
A funny girl, this Rachel Held Evans, who is taking the Old Testament biblical "womanhood" challenge literally for the next year. She has even pitched a tent in the backyard for when she is on her period and is considered "unclean" by ancient Hebrew standards. I can't help my curiosity!
I love these custom-made tiles. There is nowhere in my house for them, but perhaps you want my help in picking some for your house. [stage whisper: call me!]
Every once in a while, I spend a few minutes here...reading, praying, and thanking. You can click on the year and month to read specific stories...
Hillary had a great table on her blog comparing Authoritarian Parenting versus Authoritative Parenting. I encourage you to read it not so you feel more pressure to parent in a certain way or to try harder, but to see that the only way to really parent perfectly is to let Christ do it through you. Evidence that you are abiding in His strength will be seen in authoritative parenting, I believe. I trust in this - that I can allow Him who gives us victory in each day do what He does best - living His life of victory in our parenting.
A wonderful friend of mine is a missionary in Japan. She inspires me in so many ways. In this blog post, she ponders not who, but whose we are...
This girl defines DIY. Check out her painter's ladder shelf.
Love is actually good for our health! And perfect love casts out fear. I'm going with it.
The hands and feet of God at work. The pictures say it all.

Resting in His Grace,
Karen

Journals Without a Back-Space Key

2010-10-26T05:30:00.000-07:00

"Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry," said James (1:19).

Definitely not a verse I choose to quote often.

It's one of the most valuable qualities in my husband - this ability to listen before speaking.

Because I am deficient in listening skills and overly efficient in speaking skills, I tend to commit an overabundance of verbal crimes.

That's one of the reasons I write.

Do you know that my BACK SPACE button actually has the most smudges and scratches of all the keys on my keyboard? Perhaps that's a sign that even on paper, I tend to be overly quick to speak!

With my children, the words that flow from my lips do not come with a built-in back-space key. So many times, I have gone to a little heart and apologized for words - critical, angry, impatient, patronizing.

One place that I find to be safe for words is here:

I know it's not much - just college-ruled sheets of paper thrown together in colorful notebooks intended for math or physics notes. But in each of these notebooks, there are pages of handwritten letters. Most of them are just the ramblings of a wordy mother - humorous stories, funny memories, and lots of love-words to my kids, maybe things that they might not want strewn across a public blog. There's something so intentional about parenting with a pen and paper. I cherish the one place where I still get to do this.

My rules for the journals are few:

I write when I can, but I do not stress about getting to it in a routine manner.
Others are welcome to write if they want, but they are not free to read other entries. One time, after a particularly trying afternoon of bickering, I let the girls look at their journals and after flipping to an empty page, they drew pictures in each other's books. On their birthdays, I leave the journal out on an empty page and let family members sign if they want to. One time, Punkin weaved a story to her faithful scribe named Grandpa, who wrote meticulous letters on the nearest napkin, and even that made it into the journal.

I have no long-term goal for the journals. Someday, probably when they are around sixteen, I will hand it to them and go cower in the corner while I wait to see if they roll their eyes at me and Gil.
I try to write an entry for each child while we are on any long car rides, or on any vacation.
Anything goes in the journal! I'm not neat and there are many scribbled notes that I wrote, carried home, and glued into the books.

I try to be honest. If the kids are going through a difficult phase, I try not to gloss over it. If they are excelling at something, I try not to overly highlight it. I figure, someday they are going to be parents, and I don't want them to think all we did was sit around and play family BINGO and drink hot chocolate. Sometimes, we argued or had a flat tire on the side of the road or did math begrudgingly.
I speak often of stuff we have done. I used to think that facts were boring, but those have been fun to reread as well.
I include Real Gil whenever possible. He is welcome to write at anytime, and often will help me think of stories to include.
I always hand write the letters. This takes a bit more time - and it runs the risk of having no BACK SPACE key - but I want them to have as much of my voice as I can give them. Exclamations points, run-on sentences, hearts over the i's, and scribbled-out words are all included.

This has worked for me, a scrapbook-challenged mother of three. If you find your spoken words inadequate for little ears, perhaps you too will find value in saving some of those words for later.

Resting in His Always-Love,
Karen