Greener Pastures

It's summer in Iowa, which means that it's pretty safe to assume that I've either just mowed, am getting ready to go mow, or am trying to figure out how to avoid having to mow. I'm sure you can relate.

To the outside observer, it would appear that I mow the same way I vacuum - infrequently, haphazardly, and with no discernible pattern. (I'm pretty sure the reason aliens have never landed on Earth is because the mismatched patchwork left behind my mower clearly indicates that there's no intelligent life down here.) Despite the way it looks, however, I actually have put a of thought into my mowing habits.

My first experience with a mower was when I was a kid, roughly 10 years old. It was my job to mow the front yard, side yard, back yard, and Little Nebraska. (This was a shadeless, barren, endless wasteland of grassy uniformity. My apologies to the great state to the west of us. But, you are a tad bit boring.)

I managed to do a passable job with the yard as a kid, but didn't really master it until years later, when we bought the home (and yard) from my parents.  After almost 5 years as mistress of the house, I finally got the point where I could mow that yard with my eyes closed. I had figured out the best pattern, exactly where to turn the mower around, and even how to get done mowing Little Nebraska in the fastest possible way without having to actually run. (I don't really like running.)

It was at that point that we moved.

Same story, different location at our last house. It boasted a front yard, side yard, back yard, and yet another Little Nebraska. Perhaps it was the experience I had gained at the last house. Perhaps it was just the fact that I'd matured. Perhaps it was just that I was more motivated, since the yard was bigger, but it only took about 3 1/2 years to get my 'system' down there.

It was at that point that we moved.  (Do you see a pattern here?)

And, would't you know it - this house also has a front yard, back yard, side yard, and a Little Nebraska. (Though, admittedly, even though the actual Nebraska looms larger here than ever before since we are so much closer, this Little Nebraska is the smallest I've ever had to deal with. Hurrah!)

So - here we are - a mere 16 months later - and I've already got this yard allllll figured out. You know what that means, don't you?

Yep - it's time to move.

This time, however, our 'greener pastures' are a bit father afield, you could say. Like, in Guatemala.

That's right - God has called us to the mission field, and we couldn't be more excited! There are still a lot of details to be worked out (we're not planning on leaving until next summer), but we are ready and willing, and we know that He will make us able.

If you want to find out more about what we'll be doing, or how you can help us with our mission, check out our website at:

http://farriersoffaith.org

or our mission-specific blog at:

www.farriersoffaith.blogspot.com

Now, if you'll excuse me, I really must be getting outside to mow the yard. Just because I've figured out the best way get the job done, doesn't mean I actually want to go out in the heat and do it...

Guatemala Trip - One Week Later

These are the people who changed the world,
just by showing up... 

It's been a week now, since we came home from Guatemala. All of our clothes have been washed and put away. We are back to our normal routines. The sharp edges of our memories are beginning to dull a little. Dull, perhaps, but still ever present. I can tell you this - we are changed. We will never be the same again. The trip - the country - will always be with us.

It's hard to sort out what had the most impact on me. Knowing how much need there is for the women's shelter where we painted? Thinking about young people learning God's word in the classrooms we (literally) laid the foundation for? The persistent, intense faith of the pastors and congregants we met? The beauty of the land and people? The hearts of our host family?

In the end, I think that what sticks with me the most - beyond even all of these memories and experiences - is the quiet whisper from God saying, "keep showing up."

Many years ago I found myself in a strange and intimidating place, facing a task that was far beyond my abilities, the outcome of which was of vital importance to many people. (Sound familiar?) I found favor there and succeeded - not because of anything special about me, but because God was faithful since I obeyed him and showed up. He made very real to me in that experience that the world is run by the people who show up.

He made the same thing real to me in a new and deeper way again when we were in Guatemala.

In the cities and villages we were in, it was very clear that someone is always running the show. Someone is showing up. In some places, the forces showing up were things like poverty, ignorance, hopelessness, greed, corruption, fear. In other places, though, it was people like you and me who showed up. Good people. People with the love of Christ to share. People without any particular skills or talents, except for a willingness to be God's hands and feet, and to speak his words. We show up. He does the rest. It's a powerful partnership, and one that we shouldn't take for granted.

We shouldn't take it for granted in places like Guatemala, where our very presence (or prayers, or financial support...) can be the thing that changes hearts, lives, and eternities. We shouldn't take it for granted in our communities, where we might just be the difference between hope and helplessness for our neighbors and our friends. We shouldn't take it for granted in our workplaces and schools, where we have the chance to form relationships and change lives for the better. We shouldn't take it for granted in our families - the most intimate and powerful of all institutions God created on earth. We shouldn't ever take for granted - no matter where we are, or who we are - that our willingness to show up in our everyday lives is meaningful. It is powerful. It is Godly, and blessed, and will be richly rewarded.

Someday I'd love to return to Guatemala. I will always treasure the time I had there, pray for the people we met, and I hope we can visit again soon. Until then, though, I'm going to be sure that I'm showing up in the here and now, where I live, with the people God has put in my life today. I can't encourage you strongly enough to do the same. After all - someone's going to show up and run the world you live in. Don't you think it'd better be God, through your willing presence?

Potato Salad School

We have friends and family coming over tomorrow, so I've just finished making a giant batch of potato salad. It's my mother-in-law's recipe, and it's the only one I ever make anymore. Of course, it hasn’t always been my favorite. It was love at first sight when my husband and I met. I fell in love with his family as well. Their taste in food, however, was another story. The goulash was good. The nachos were great, but I just couldn't understand why this family insisted on putting green olives in everything. I’ve often heard that they are an acquired taste. At that point, I still didn't care for them much. Imagine my surprise, then, when they even showed up in the potato salad! I was beginning to worry I might starve at family functions.

Fast forward many years. My husband and I had been married for almost a decade. We had three beautiful children, and I had learned to love green olives - especially in Cathy's potato salad. She was called upon to make it for all the picnics, potlucks, and gatherings. The last few get-togethers had been difficult, however. My mother-in-law had cancer, and it had begun to manifest itself in interesting ways, including some we did not expect. There was, of course, the fatigue and nausea. But, there were other things, too – more campout weekends together; the re-telling of childhood stories; the increasingly-frequent exchange of wan, knowing smiles.  

She arrived at my house one afternoon with three huge bags of supplies - potatoes, bowls, special kitchen equipment, and (of course) green olives. Apparently, Potato Salad School was in session, and I was ready to be a diligent pupil. Because it wasn't a recipe she had ever written down, but rather a labor of love each and every batch, we mixed, and chopped, and tasted together. I took copious notes. By the end of the afternoon we had a big bowl of what was unquestionably her special potato salad, I had a recipe in hand, and she wore a tired but triumphant expression.

It was then that I really stopped to take a good look at her. Her hair had been short, wavy, and black before the chemo. The wig she had chosen that day was a chin-length, blonde bob. (Even in the face of such loss, she chose to find the bright side, experimenting with hairstyles she never would have been able to achieve otherwise.) She was thin, and didn't have the stamina she used to. In that moment, I suddenly realized Potato Salad School was about far more than just passing along a recipe. It was one part rite of passage for a daughter-in-law, one part passing-of-the-torch for a mother-in-law. It was, in short, the assurance that her potato salad - and all that it entailed - would continue, even if she did not.

Cathy passed away about a year later. It had been a long, hard process, and we were blessed to be by her side during the weeks she was in the hospital and Hospice. The whole family gathered with my father-in-law back at their house the morning after she died, numb and unsure of what to do. I found myself drawn to the kitchen, and began dragging out her giant bowl, methodically peeling potatoes, and hunting around in the cupboard for the jars of green olives that I knew I would find there. After all - the family was together, and that meant someone had to make the potato salad. I’m not sure it tasted as good as hers, but it was a comfort to have it there anyway.

Since then, I’ve been the one expected to make it for all the picnics, potlucks, and gatherings, and I couldn’t be more pleased. Every second helping and satisfied “mmmmm” are reminders of my beloved mother-in-law, all the love she had for her family, and our special afternoon together where I learned so much more than just how to make potato salad. 

Image courtesy of Simon Howden/ FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Chasing Butterflies with Sarah

Listen up folks - I've got an important announcement to make. I've been saying it to my children for years, and have even lectured students in my classes about it. It's time I sit you all down and have the talk with you as well. Get comfy, 'cuz there's some preachin' comin' your way.

If your life isn't poignant, you aren't paying attention.

That's it. Do you need me to repeat it? If.your.life.isn't.poignant.you.aren't.paying.attention. It's as simple as that. Go ahead - let it sink in for a minute.

I think it's important to start off with a good, solid understanding of what poignancy really is, and what it isn't. Most of the time this word evokes feelings of deep sadness or mourning for people. And, it can be that. But, it's so much more, too. Merriam-Webster dictionary describes the word poignant as piercing, deeply affecting, cutting, designed to make a lasting impression. There can be pain in the poignant, to be sure, but there can also be unfathomable joy, peace, revelation, desire, empathy, epiphany... the list goes on and on. The best moments of poignancy, if you ask me, are the ones that contain both ends of the spectrum - the comfortable and the uncomfortable - at the same time. Those highly acute moments - which stretch our emotional muscles to their fullest, until they are positively taut and buzzing - are the places where we truly experience what it feels like to live; where the most complex things in life are boiled down into one self-contained, momentary emotional high note.

Let me give you an example. The other day I took my girls to the zoo. We ambled through the ape house, traipsed by the tigers, and loitered in front the baby lions. We shared happiness, jokes, questions, gestures, and memories. These things were good, but they were not poignant. That didn't come until we sat ourselves down in the theater, giggled at each other in our goofy 3-D glasses, and watched as the a movie scrolled across the giant IMAX screen in front of us. Typically, I do not find that screen moments = poignant moments, which made it all the more painfully and startlingly wonderful when I looked over and saw my youngest child chasing the butterflies that appeared to leap off of the screen toward her.

She is allllllllllllllmost six years old. That means something. Anyone who has ever had kids, and watched them grow beyond that age, or anyone who honestly remembers what it was like to be a child of five years old, knows that five is significant. It is special in a way that no other age is. (Yes, yes... I know that can be said equally of every other age as well. But, that doesn't make it any less true.) Since she is our last, this is the last time I will be a mother to a five year old. In the fleeting days of this year of her life, in the shadowy darkness of that theater, I witnessed the special gift of five-years-old in the most poignant of ways possible. All of the innocence and incorruptible curiosity that is five was positively leaping from her dancing eyes and outstretched hands. Elation! Abandon! Freedom! Excitement! It was all there, on display, for what I knew would probably be one of the very last times ever for her as my child, and me as her mother. As I watched her, I couldn't help but feel an immensely proud pain in my heart. It was as though that bubble of joy that she exuded was being drawn up with the rushing winds of time. I could not experience her five-ness without the immediate and stinging realization of her imminent six-ness following behind to swallow it up. The moment was as delicate as the butterflies she was chasing, and every bit as fleeting, as well.

That was poignancy. It was dropped into my lap like a bittersweet gift. Thankfully, I've learned enough to savor such moments. When Sarah's joy had subsided, and she took her seat again, I looked around and noticed a handful of other beautiful, young children reaching toward the dancing images. A few parents took note, wearing knowing smiles like my own. Many shushed their excited kiddos, coaxing them to sit down once again and be quiet. Most, however - most! -  missed the experience entirely. That is why I am lecturing you. I don't want you to miss out.

It seems to me that so many people today, tired of their lives of quiet desperation, seek the calm, the smooth, the easy, the expected. Contentment is enough. Complacency. Sameness. Equanimity. I understand the urge to have these things. We should know them well, and live much of our lives in their comfortable embrace. However, a heartbeat requires peaks and valleys. Without them, we are flatlined. We are dead. It is the same for our emotional hearts. Relying on the safety of the known narrows our capacity to feel the highs and lows; to learn from what they have to teach us, to be filled with the knowledge and reality of their existence - even when painful.

I guess that's it. Lecture over. I truly hope you either really enjoyed it, or really didn't. Whichever it is, I win, since either reaction causes a bit of a blip to the heart rate on the ol' emotional EKG. Like any good teacher, I can't leave without giving you some homework. Below are several opportunities for you to work your poignancy muscle. I hope they help you hit some peaks and valleys, in order to get warmed up for the rest of your day, the rest of your week, and the rest of your life. Trust me on this - poignancy is out there - all around you - all the time. I truly believe that there is beauty, love, pain, grace, mercy, challenge, joy, etc, etc, etc. in every circumstance and every life. In short, the poignant is all around you. At least, the capacity for it is. Whether or not you allow yourself to find and experience it is often more about whether you are willing to look, than where, or even how hard.

Oh, and one more thing - there will be a test on this. It's called life, and I sincerely hope you do well on it. 

Not Your Typical Sports Report

1.) Read synopsis. 2.) Look Through Photos. 3.) Think and Be Moved

Big Baby, Little Baby

The Ending to an Old Fashioned Love Story

A Day at the Park 
And Yet, He Loves Us Still

Almost a Miracle?

I've struggled with whether or not to publish this on my blog. It is about an intensely personal, yet very shared experience I had just over six months ago. It's taken me a while to sort through my feelings, work up the courage to contact the family for publication permission, and figure out just what I'm supposed to do in my life with the events that transpired that night. Perhaps this piece is the answer to that last question. I hope it is a blessing to you.

Something about the way he stumbled caught my eye. Even with the noise of my children playing in the backseat, the buzz of conversation from my cell phone, the distracted thoughts bouncing around in my brain, and the task of getting us safely home in the twilight – something about his fall caused me to pause. I hung up the phone, turned the car around, and pulled in the driveway to within 15 or 20 feet of where he lay. As I surveyed the situation and replayed what I had seen, my mind exploded with ‘what if’s’. What if he had fallen because he had been shot? What if the tank that was hitched behind his running truck, with its driver’s door agape, was leaking a toxic chemical? What if this was a trick to lure trusting passersby into a trap? What if? What if? What if? I prayed silently for wisdom, and scanned the area. My senses were all attuned, but the overwhelming thought that ruled all others was that I had to help this man. 

I told my girls to sit tight – that I’d be back in a minute – and got out of the car, letting the door close quietly behind me. Before I’d even let any words asking how he was escape, I already knew the answer. I heard him take a shallow, rattling breath as I walked over, knelt down, and put my hand on his shoulder. I shook him gently, asked if he was alright, and only got silence in return. Swallowing hard, I slipped my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed 911. The rest is a bit of a blur.

 I recall the reassuring voice of the dispatcher, who seemed so utterly confident in me that I couldn’t help but believe that I could do the things he was asking me to do. That I could roll this stranger over, check for breathing, do CPR. Mostly, he made me believe that we could keep him alive - together. And, he was right. After what seemed like an eternity (but was really more like three or four minutes) an EMT arrived on scene and took over doing the chest compressions and rescue breathing with a confident, practiced air – so different from my awkward, unknowing attempts.

 She asked me to retrieve his cell phone from his pocket and find a family member to call. I fumbled around, trying to discern the right number from his call log. This felt like a complete violation of this stranger’s privacy – even more than the rescue breathing and CPR had been. That was somehow clinical. This felt personal. I was a bit relieved when I was unable to reach the faceless ‘Jane’ whose number I had dialed. Then I felt guilty, thinking of how much I would want to know if it was my family member lying there.

Within a few minutes more, the ambulance arrived. The intimate silence of the driveway was suddenly shattered by a crew of professionals, each one doing his or her job efficiently and nobly. I saw them shock him. I felt lost in the hum of activity, and headed back to my car. I was pulling out into the road as they loaded him onto the board and into the waiting ambulance. It all seemed like a dream, but I recall the EMTs thanking me – saying what a miracle it was I had been there when he fell, and had stopped to help. A miracle.

I spent the rest of that evening in a daze, processing my thoughts and trying to figure out what it all meant. I have believed in God since my childhood, and witnessed His power in many situations. But, by His grace, I had been allowed on this night to be a part of His mighty works. I had been allowed to participate in a miracle. 

At some point the 911 dispatcher called to let me know that the man had made it to the hospital and was still alive. Though his prognosis was uncertain, he wanted me to know that any chance of survival the man had was because I had just happened to be in the right place at the right time. The next day an EMT called and let me know that - against all odds - this unknown stranger was still alive. Alive, indeed, and with a family that wanted to meet me. 

A few days later, the name I had seen on his cell phone became more than just bits of digital data on a display screen. Standing in the waiting room, I felt instantly connected to her as we embraced. She shared with me that the doctors had declared him dead a few hours after arriving at the hospital that first night. The roomful of family and friends had been told that he was gone. As she sat in the silence of his room, grieving the loss of her beloved husband, she had felt an insistent pulse arise. Ignoring it at first as the fanciful wishes of someone unprepared to trade in the title of wife for widow, she had only dared to believe once she looked up and saw his ashen face flush with color. The doctors had rushed in, asking what had happened. Her tearful, joyous response was that it had been a miracle. E.R. doctors and nurses who had witnessed the events of the evening had had no choice but to agree. Another miracle.

This man, who had been in a fitful coma ever since returning to life, was a testimony to God’s healing power, and I was getting to be a part of it.  I had been privileged to be there when he fell and start CPR. Privileged to hold his hand and pray for him while the EMT worked. Privileged to meet his family and hear their wondrous story of him coming back from death. Privileged to pray with them, and to be drawn into their lives. I was privileged, above all else, to witness the mighty hand of God as He worked a miracle that boldly showed even doubters and unbelievers His unshakable power. I was thrilled because the world needs more of that. I needed more of that my in my own life, too. 

The day after I had visited him and basked in the light of the miracles of his story, the doctors told the family that his MRI results showed very little meaningful brain activity. A few days later, he was moved to the palliative care wing of the hospital. The next day he passed away - surrounded by his wife, children, brothers, mother, and friends. I do not have any right – in light of their suffering – to speak of my own devastation. Yet, it was as palpable for me in the following days as my excitement over his miracles had been. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had somehow participated in an unfinished work, and I didn’t understand it. 

I learned long ago that God doesn’t answer to me. His ways are not my ways, and His thoughts are not my thoughts. But, that doesn’t stop me from asking questions and seeking answers. I prayed earnestly, pleading with God to help me understand why He had chosen to have the man die, when his testimony and the story of his experience could have touched so many lives and hearts. I felt burdened for the family he left behind – his grieving mother, wife, and teenage children. I prayed over and over again for some way of understanding why I had been brought to that place at ‘just the right time’, and been allowed to participate in something that I had come to think of as almost a miracle. It was at that point – when I had come to doubt the perfect and complete acts of the almighty God– that He reminded me of the truth. 

It was a simple scripture that I had read a thousand times before, but never understand so well until that moment. Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints – Psalm 116:15. Upon reading those words late one night, it suddenly occurred to me that every moment of this man’s life and death hadn’t been overlooked by God – as I was starting to believe – but, rather, overseen.   I was reminded of the story of Jesus coming to visit Mary and Martha after Lazarus’s death. Though He knew before He even left on His journey to their home that He could (and would) bring Lazarus back from the dead, the scriptures are very clear that He wept anyway – moved by his compassion at the grief of the two sisters and their friends and family. I believe it was that same compassion that drove God to order the events of that evening when my life intersected another in a very powerful way. 

Because this man was precious in His sight, God hadn’t wanted him to be alone as he lay dying. Because he is a tender heavenly father, God allowed the man’s earthly family time to grieve and reconcile with their new paths in life. Because He is ever-ready to woo the hearts of men, God allowed this amazing, faith-filled family a week to demonstrate what mercy, love, grace, and peace look like – a powerful testimony indeed. And, because He knew I needed it, God allowed me to participate in the greatest miracle of all – helping escort one of His beloved into the throne room. 

I have finally come to believe that there is no such thing as an ‘almost’ work of God. His perfect plan was completed 2000 years ago on a barren, wind-swept hill outside of Jerusalem.  There is nothing – not time, distance, or circumstances – that can take away our access to that all-sufficient work through Jesus. No life is hopeless, no person unseen, and no act of God will ever be an ‘almost’ miracle because of the moment that Christ proclaimed, “It is finished.”

On Getting Older

I'm getting older. At least I'm in good company, though. Turns out, you're getting older too. We all are. Despite scientific, medical, pharmaceutical, cosmetic, and even surgical advances,  you cannot stop the onslaught of time. It is relentless. I have recently come to discover that it is hairy, as well. Allow me to explain.

Picture it - Mother's Day. After church my adoring family had announced that they were going to take me out to the restaurant of my choice to celebrate my role as matriarch of our little clan, since that's what tradition (and Hallmark) require on this made-up May holiday. A few minutes later we were perched on greasy seats at a wobbly table in a local fast food joint.  (Yes, that's what I chose. Partly because I love their burgers so very, very much, and partly because the faster we ate our food, the sooner I would be able to go home for a  much-anticipated Mother's Day nap. Don't judge me.) 

Anyway... the sun was streaming through the window. My children were grinning in my direction (they liked that I chose the fast food place too.) My husband was staring intently at me. I was just thinking how lucky I was to have a healthy, happy family, and a man who still found me beautiful after so many years of marriage, when he leaned forward, brushed my cheek softly, wrinkled his brow, and said, "Is that a hair?" I paused, french fry in midair.

"Is what a hair?"

"That." He pointed. "That thing. On your mole."

Oy. Now those are words you don't ever, ever want to come out of anyone's mouth about you. Especially not your husband's. Especially not on Mother's Day. Especially not in public. My greasy hand instinctively went to my face. (Which, in hindsight, wasn't such a smart thing. Who wants a pimple on top of a hairy mole, after all?)

"I think it is. I think there are two, actually." He said, with great interest.

"Nu - uh!" I gasped in horror, and excused myself to rush to the bathroom. 

In the ladies' room, I locked the door and peered into the mirror. He was right. Though the hairs were blonde (thank goodness!), they were there, nonetheless - long, mocking, and a reminder of the fact that I was getting older. I think all women eventually come to the place of thinking they've either turned into hideous old crones, or (even worse) their own mothers. That's how I felt. I plucked the hairs, washed my hands (because touching mole hairs is gross, you know), and returned to the table. My husband grinned, and inspected my face closely.

"You got 'em, eh? Nice job!" He offered an upheld hand for a high-five.

I figured that since I had officially turned into a witch, I would be able to vaporize him on the spot with one glare from my wizened, cloudy eye. After all, though he hadn't technically caused my facial follicles to explode, he had been the one who noticed them doing so. Same difference, right? When I realized that my pouty stare hadn't worked, I couldn't help but grin back at him, though, and return the high-five - an action typically reserved for victors in sporting events or for moments of great triumph or importance. In retrospect, I realized that it was the perfect gesture.

For one thing, life is a great race. The most we can do is endeavor to run our race well, to the very end, until we cross the finish line and share the fullness of the victory of Christ. The mole hairs and other unpleasantries we get along the way are simply indicators of the mile markers passing by. High five - you're still running your race! And, the fact that I have someone to share my life with - even the unpleasant bits - who loves me through thick and thin is a great triumph in and of itself. High five - there are people in your life who will run your race with you, from the highest highs, to the lowest lows, even if you turn into a troll.  That's pretty sweet stuff indeed.

Since then, I've discovered a few more signs of age, and I'm sure that trend will continue. But, it's all good. Every hair, sag, and wrinkle I come across is another reminder of the fact that I'm still here, and still going strong. Life may not always be pretty, but it certainly is something to celebrate.  I'm getting older. But, I'm in good company. You're getting older too. Can I get a high five for that?

Lee Ann

It's my best friend's birthday, and I want to shout it from the rooftops! (Actually, six months and three days ago, when I first started this blog post, was my best friend's birthday. But one of the many reasons I love her so much is that she tolerates my procrastination.) I have a really good plan for a really cool birthday gift that I'm really going to make for her eventually. Really. Honest. But, since I am a procrastinator and always run late (see previous sentence), I at least wanted to take this chance to tell all of you (my devoted, faithful readers) about my best friend, Lee Annie.

Ok - first off, her name is just Lee Ann, not Lee Annie. But, she and I have been like two peas in a pod since I was born (and she was six weeks old), and we used to giggle in utter abandon and delight about how well our names fit together -  just like us. We would skip through the park, hand-in-hand, in our matching, hooded capes when we were little and be content in the knowledge that we had the world by the tail. To be honest, I still feel that way when we get to hang out (though the capes no longer fit, and matching clothing is a bit strange for honest-to-goodness grownup ladies like ourselves).

It helped, of course, that we have a shared red-neck upbringing during our tender, formative years. Though, truth be told, if push ever came to shove, she'd out redneck me in a competition any day of the week.After all, I've never had a pet raccoon, squirrel or alligator. Let alone several of each. She has. True story. Anyway - even if that were to happen (is there such a thing as a redneck competition?),  I'm pretty certain that our attachment would survive. I think it can make it through whatever life might throw our way. In fact, it kind of already has. We've done everything from living a few blocks apart, to having several states separating us. Even more amazing, we've even survived living together! (Briefly, and when we were very young. There were no squabbles over the division of rent or utilities, but the nightly arguments about whose turn it was to wash and whose turn it was to dry was every bit as rough as any adult disagreement could ever be. I'm sure of it.)

Despite such seemingly-insurmountable challenges, our friendship is holding strong. I'm sure there are a lot of reasons for that. First off, our mothers are still friends. Our children are as well, which makes us the gooey center of a lovely, multi-generational friend sandwich. We also, finally, have the joy of being buddies within fairly close geographic proximity (not as close as we were before I had the nerve to move to the other side of the state, mind you...) But, most of all, we are still friends because we both know waaaay too much about the other to leave the friendship without serious fallout. I'm pretty sure either of us could ruin a potential presidential campaign for the other, for example, just from the information we know about the other's teenage years. The thing is, though- we wouldn't.

I know I can trust Lee Ann to keep my secrets - from what I looked like the one and only time I wore a two-piece swimming suit, to just how ratty I let my undergarments get before buying new ones - to the very end. She still chuckles at my lame jokes, and guffaws at the really good ones. Hearing her ring tone on my cell phone is enough to cheer me up. When I pulled the first nasty, long hair from a mole on my face, I texted a picture of it to her (along with a friendly reminder that I might be turning into an old crone, but she is 6 weeks ahead of me in the process, since she's the older one.) And, I'm pretty sure the only reason we haven't each jumped the parenting ship and headed for the border is because we remind one another - on a daily basis - that it's normal for children to scream and whine, that it doesn't mean we're bad parents if our children scream and whine, and that if we don't stick around for the long haul we won't be able to re-tell the stories of when our children screamed and whined when they are listening to their own children scream and whine. And that, my friends, is what real friendship looks like.

Finishing Well

I recently engaged in a very personal and meaningful ritual - my annual eve-of-the-hard-frost harvest. It is my chance to go out and love the plants I've tended so carefully one last time, and reap their final benefit to me for the season. It is a sad thing, in many ways, but not without its joys. Yes, I will miss the warm breeze and the feel of sun-baked soil under my toes as I picked ripe tomatoes from the garden for supper. But, I will not miss the sweat-dripping, head-pounding, mind-numbing monotony of pulling weed, after weed, after endless weed. Can I get an amen on that?

This harvest, ostensibly, is simply an act of salvaging what little good is left on that patch of dirt before it gets abandoned. In the past, that is exactly how I've thought of it. This year, however, I'm trying to be more contemplative. (Apparently I am going to get in touch with my inner philosopher in my thirties. Who knew?) Though harvest is about salvaging what is useful, it is also a time to reflect. I made sure to focus, as I picked the last few peppers and tough-skinned eggplant, at how abundant our garden had been this year, how nicely it looked because I took the time to keep it maintained, and how many happy hours it had provided me. I guess you could say that the ritual this time was focused equally as much on the figurative fruits my little plot had provided in life, as it was on the literal ones it had provided for my table.

More than that, however - beyond living in the glorious abundance of that moment, or reflecting on the goodness and benefit of the many months prior -  I also turned my thoughts to the future. Most importantly, I turned my efforts to it as well. You see, in the past I have never put my garden to bed well. Like a thief fleeing from the scene of a crime , I tended to pluck my goodies and run for the hills, leaving the fallout of tangled vines and withered weeds to be worried about the following spring. This year, I left only a clean, bare patch of dirt behind in order that I might be productive next spring when life is bursting forth, rather than scrambling to prepare.

Yes, my garden has been good to me. I planted peppers and egg plants, and harvested wisdom and life lessons. Funny how it works that way, isn't it? Perhaps there are more similarities than we care to admit between finishing a growing season well in your garden, and finishing a growing season well in your life. Babies grow up. Friends move away. Jobs come and go. Relationships change. I don't claim to know all the answers, of course (far from it!), but maybe some of the lessons I learned while scratching around in the dirt this year might be useful as you face your own seasons of life. For example:

This year, I chose not to close my eyes to the inevitable change that the chilly air around me signaled, because the warmth of my eagerly-wished-for sunshine cannot protect me from the frost.  I chose to recognize that sometimes you have to clear things out of your life in order to leave clean and fertile soil for something new to grow - even if those things have been fruitful for you in the past. And, though the freeze may have robbed my garden of the chance for any further growth this season, it certainly doesn't mean that it did the same for me. After all - the end of one season always signals the beginning of another. I'd say, all in all, it's been a good harvest, and I'm very grateful for the fruitfulness it has provided in my life.

Applied Mathematics

Well, I got sidetracked again. Go figure. I was 3/4 of the way through a rather inane post when I got a touch of writer's block. Thinking that a bit of inspiration might do me some good and get the juices flowing again, I checked in on some of the blogs I follow. Guess it worked. Not only are the words and inspiration coming fast now, but prayers and a few tears are as well. I continue to be blown away - time and time again - by how much need there is in the world, and how relatively easy it is for ordinary people to meet those needs, if they're just willing.

In less time than it takes to watch a TV sitcom, I read about a couple who rescued a child from a life of certain poverty and neglect, and are bringing her up in a home filled with love, joy, and goodness. I read about missionaries in Haiti who struggle with feelings of guilt as they enjoy a wholesome, but modest, meal. Despite the fact that they are dedicating their lives to helping those around them, and making a tremendous difference every day, it still pains them to know there are thousands in their city who are malnourished and starving. I also read about a young midwestern girl who put her fears and sheltered upbringing behind her in order to touch the lives of desperately-poor Mexican villagers. In just thirty minutes, from the comfort of my own couch, I read about movers and shakers. Life changers and life savers. People who are passionate, and committed, and live life with an open throttle and no regrets. And, they are all.just.people - just.like.me.

Yep - not a superman or wonderwoman among them. They have fears and doubts. Misgivings, weaknesses, imperfections. They have them all. But, somehow they don't let that stop them from rushing headlong in the direction of their hearts. It makes me wonder what more I can give. What more I can do. What more I can be. Yet, that's not how these people think of themselves - as ones who give, and do, and live abundantly. No, the overriding theme from these men and women who have profoundly challenging lives and who have witnessed unspeakable things, is gratitude. More than that - it is gratitude about what they have received, even beyond the gratitude at what they've been able to give. And, I'm not talking about false-modesty gratitude, where someone flashes an insincere grin and quips about how they're, "...just happy to be able to help..." These people have bone-deep gratefulness for their daily blessings - no matter how meager they may seem to someone like me. They are overcome and overwhelmed by how honest-to-goodness wonderful their lives are. It gets me to thinkin' - perhaps they're on to something.

So, now what? I'm on fire more than ever with a realization of how much need there is, but I'm also equally ablaze with the fact that little-ol'-me really can make a difference in the world. The big question is - how? Should I emulate their awesome examples by rushing out and adopting a child? Planning a mission trip? Moving to a third-world country? Maybe. Or, maybe not. Perhaps it is not the actions of these everyday heroes that most need to be duplicated, but the attitude. What if - just go with me on this for a second - there was an outbreak of gratitude in our hearts and homes? Would that, alone, be enough to make the world a better place?

I think so. In fact, it all seems like a rather simple issue of arithmetic, if you ask me. Let me explain: I often find myself saying, when I'm feeling particularly happy with how my life is going, or see something in the news about how hard someone else's life is, "I have so much." And, while that's true, it is also a rather loaded statement. Most often, these four little words are a superficial and glib way of excusing myself from having to think too hard about either my own blessings, or the sufferings of others. Like a rote and disconnected prayer, I say it to absolve myself from responsbility, hoping the phrase itself will invoke someone else to provide the solution to a problem I don't want to acknowledge.

Mathematically, however, the statement takes on new meaning. "I have so much" is not the dismissive solution we may think it is. Instead, it is a problem in and of itself - a problem that begs to be solved. Think about it - how much is 'so'? Substitute a variable for that crucial little word, and it's easy to see that this common phrase is not a matter of economics, or morality, or theology. It is basic algebra, and by solving for 'x' we might just be solving some pretty big problems.

See, it is only once you know what you have, that you truly start to become rich. When we can honestly take stock of our blessings - and choose to be grateful for each and every one - we are able to quantify the goodness of our own lives. That 'so' from the glib phrase abov,e that slips out so easily, is not an unknowable variable, but a distinct and unique quantity for each and every one of us. Once we know it, it both compels and empowers to us to act. Like I said - simple math: The difference between our quantity and what we see in the lives of others equals how much need there is. It also shows us just how much we really do have to give, which is often much more than what we would have imagined.

So, I say, if we want to change the world, what we first need is an epidemic of gratefulness. May the act of acknowledging all the good things in our lives spur us to also see the need we don't want to admit exists, as well as our abundant ability to fill it. Looks like those folks really were on to something after all - the humble act of being grateful can lead you to the most wonderful of blessings...

But giving thanks is a sacrifice that truly honors me. If you keep to my path, I will reveal to you the salvation of God. - Psalm 50:23

 

The Pajama Conundrum

I have *finally* finished the last two (of many) loads of laundry today. Hooray! Every week I marvel at how five people can wear so many clothes - and we're not even layering yet! As I watch the stacks grow ever higher, it never ceases to amaze me that the pajama pile is usually the highest for each of us. Granted, that's partly because PJ's are kind of the standard uniform for home schoolers. However, it got me to wondering - how many sets of clothing does a person need exclusively for drooling and dreaming in? Come to think of it - how many clothes does a person need at all?

This is kind of a dangerous train of thought for me, and I often get myself into trouble when I start to ask such questions. You may recall that I have blogged in the past about my struggle with 'stuff'. I used to have a real problem with it. ("Hi. My name is Andrea. I'm a stuff-a-holic.") Like most recovering addicts, I have becoming something of a zealot, much to the chagrin of those around me. I don't try to be preachy, but sometimes I can't help it.

Over the last two years our little nuclear family has been through a lot - much of it spiritual, and perhaps a tad cerebral as well. The long and short of it is that we have been searching for who we are, and what we're supposed to be doing in life. In that process, we've seriously considered everything from building on to our home in order to have more space available, to packing up and moving to a tiny island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. (I'm still praying earnestly for that last one to come true, by the way. Just a heads up.) Anyway, in the process of examining every possibility, God has asked us to lay everything at His feet, and hold nothing sacred but Him. This is why I'm wondering how many nightgowns we really need.

I have never felt more rich in my life than I do right now - when I have the least amount of items that I've ever owned. I gotta tell you - it's a good feeling. My home is less cluttered. My schedule is less cluttered. My heart and mind are less cluttered. And, my relationships (including with God) are less cluttered than they ever have been before. The open space that was created when I got rid of so much junk has since been filled with wonderful things. It's enough to make me want to rent a dumpster, open wide the doors and windows, and chuck all of the rest out, in order that I might be emptied to be even more filled with God's goodness.

But, that's the problem. I honestly don't know where to stop. I wasn't being rhetorical in asking how many jammies a person needs. I think that, as a modern, middle-class American, I am not well equipped to make a decision like that. Here's just one reason why: according to an article by MP Dunleavy of MSN, one in ten households in this country rent storage space - almost double what it was 15 years ago. Considering that houses now have, on average, 60% more square footage than they did just a generation or so ago, and the number of people living in those houses has gone down 20%, you have to wonder what they're all squirreling away. I bet at least some of it is PJs.

Want another reason why I'm ill-equipped to make decisions about physical possessions? I recently came across a blogpost about a beautiful and challenging book by photographer James Mollison, entitled Where Children Sleep. In it, there is no spin. No storytelling. No statistics or guilt trips about modern American life. Instead, there are only pictures. On one side of each page is a photo of a child from somewhere around the world. On the other side, a picture of where that child sleeps. What stunned me was the near-absence of personal belongings in most other countries, and the overwhelming glut of it in pictures from the United States. Even (or - more accurately - especially) in images of  children in the U.S. who are living in abject poverty, there is still stuff everywhere. It is clear that most modern Americans are well 'equipped' for life, but are we better off for it?

So, what's a gal to do? I suppose, in trying to decide how much stuff our family really needs, I could follow Madison Avenue's suggestion and buy even more clothing, in even more luxuriant styles, and with even bigger price tags attached. But, I'm pretty sure that ship has sailed for us. On the other hand, we could divest ourselves of all of our worldly goods, though the winters in Iowa do get a bit cold to be without any pajamas at all. Plus, a decision like that would only further my reputation as a zealous ex-addict.

Instead, I'm trying to take a more balanced approach. We clean out rooms and closets frequently - considering the difference between 'need' and 'want' as we do so. We weigh the pros and cons of each item we own or buy, including how much time and energy it will take to properly care for it. We remind each other (and ourselves) that we don't have any responsibility to our inanimate possessions, and that we only want to surround ourselves with things that truly bless and enrich our lives. We pray. We ponder. And, I blog - in hopes that you (my faithful readers) will know exactly how many sets of PJs (or anything else, for that matter) each of us really needs. I do sincerely want to hear your opinions and thoughts. And, if you could get back to me before the next laundry day, I'd appreciate it even more.

Movement

I've missed you!!! Have you missed me? I don't know how it happened that this blog dropped off the face of the universe for four months. (17 weeks, give or take. Seriously, what was I thinking?) Worse yet, anyone unlucky enough to have actually chanced a visit or two in that duration was greeted with my last post, which was about my daughter getting sick.

So, there you have it. In my irresponsibility I have gone and left my Musings covered in puke for the past one hundred and twenty-three days. (That, by the way, is why we can't have nice things around here.) I understand if you're upset. But, before you boycott the blog entirely and nickname your neighbor's messy, lazy dog "Andrea", the least you can do is listen to my excuse. Here goes:

I, like many people my age, have been struggling to find myself. Or, reinvent myself. Or, get in touch with myself. Or, whatever new-fangled thing people call it these days. I don't think it's a mid-life crisis per se, but our family has definitely been in the process of trying to figure out who we are, who we're supposed to be, and how to cover the distance between. One thing my husband and I have discovered - we're not kids anymore, no matter how much we may feel like it inside. I have waxed eloquent [whined] in the past about what a shock it is to discover that you have become (much to your consternation and bewilderment) a full-fledged grown up. On the best of days, it can feel like swimming in jello from the moment your feet hit the floor in the morning until you fall into bed in an exhausted heap at night. More often, though - when the going gets really tough - adulthood is downright immobilizing.

Let's face it - isn't movement one of the things we're most concerned with, after all? Am I making progress? Am I getting anywhere? Did I take the gifts and talents I was given and use them to inch closer to my goals today? Did I move my little bundle of self and the unique treasure I contain a little bit further down the road?   Really, they're all terribly important questions, but also terribly hard to  answer. My problem, all too often, is allowing myself to believe that associating  with the 'right' movement will move me in the right direction. Sound like double talk? Allow me to give you a couple of examples.

I've always wanted to be a part of The Urban Homestead Movement. According to an article from the 'Edible East Bay' e-zine, it's a movement that's come of age. How exciting! Sounds perfect for someone like me, who is also coming of age, so to speak. What draws me to this movement is their advocacy for local sustainability, wise use of the land, back-to-basics lifestyle choices, reinvention of traditional community values, and a dress code the typically includes bib overalls and floppy hats. These are people who are speaking my language - let's keep things simple! I did a bit of research and was almost convinced to sell everything I own except my canning jars and garden tools, and move to an old abandoned warehouse in downtown Chicago, when I smelled a rat.

You see, Urban Homesteading is becoming more and more popular. So popular, in fact, that people are now arguing (threatening lawsuits, if you can imagine) over who started the thing in the first place. And, since the two main contenders in this 'which came first' battle have slightly different approaches and ideals, their followers passionately and emphatically choose camps just as readily as they do. There are "Blumian" Urban Homesteaders, and "Dervaes" Urban Homesteaders, among many others. Seriously? How would I choose? What if I found myself (just like in a scene from Westside Story) facing down a gang of known Blumies, ready to steal my garden gloves and spill my seeds, just for being a Dervee? I mean, just think of the possible ramifications of wandering into the aquaculture building of a rival homesteader on accident on your way to a farmer's market. Do I really want to throw my lot in with people who think they can trademark and capitalize on back-to-basics and bib overalls? Hmmm....

Ok, so the Urban Homestead Movement is out, at least in its entirety. I can still follow the Organic Movement, the Slow Food Movement, the Homeschool Movement, the Unschool Movement, the Attachment Parenting Movement, or a million others that have tangents that interest me. Better yet, I can go to Wikipedia and get a list of over 100 other recognized social movements. Surely one of them will be the perfect fit - right?

Can you see why I haven't had time to blog? It seems that the act of seeking of the right and perfect movement to follow will ultimately leave you spinning your wheels. Now, I'm not saying there aren't good things to be found in each of these pursuits. And, I'm certainly not mocking the dedicated, sincere individuals who keep such important goals, traditions, and lifestyles alive. In fact, it is within these many movements that we can most often find the encouragement, support, fellowship, and inspiration to move our own lives further down the road each day. Plus, I will be eternally in debt to the Urban Homestead Movement (whoever may have started it) for making floppy hats fashionable again. Thank you.

Ultimately - and, here's the important part - the problem with joining any movement is that my path is not your path. And, I'm becoming more and more convinced that there ain't no way that we're all meant to herd together and roam around in packs our whole lives. We may have the opportunity to walk together for a while, or have a similar route or destination, but just as each of us has a unique and special treasure within, we also have a unique and special road to follow.

That, my friends, is really what our family has spent the past four months pondering. Thanks for your patience during that time. I don't know that I have answers to give or any real light to shed on the subject. All I can tell you is this - I appreciate the role each of you has played in our journey this far, and we'll keep you posted step-by-step as we learn more. I sure hope you'll do the same for us.