Readers' Favorites Series - Success By Any Other Name

Please enjoy these re-posted blogs - the top 5 favorites of my readers. Happy reading!

I was voted most likely to succeed in my high school class. Well, most likely to succeed, or smartest. I don't really remember, and it's not worth digging out my yearbook to find out. To be honest with you, it didn't mean a whole lot to me then, and it still doesn't today. In fact, I haven't even thought about any of that stuff in over 10 years, until it was brought to mind in a somewhat jarring fashion today.

A colleague of mine recounted a conversation she had recently with  someone who 'knew me then'. When this woman found out that I was spending my time changing diapers and helping fellow home schoolers, she shook her head and said of me, "she had so much potential..." Apparently, at least according to her, I could have really been someone. I guess that's a nice vote of confidence, but I was as disappointed by her statement as she must have been by my lack of "success".

See, all this time I've been laboring under the misconception that I am not just someone waiting to be, but that I already am someone important. I guess I figure that I have been living up to my full potential - making a difference in the world in a meaningful way, doing good deeds, living a life of purpose and importance. A life of wiping noses and cleaning up spilled beverages, to be sure, but an important life, none the less.

I can't really blame her, I guess. I know that, by the standards of this world, I have failed to achieve the success that I could have. I don't have a high-falutin' job or a fat paycheck. I don't have a big, fancy house or an expensive car. I don't even have cable. My children still wear hand-me-downs, and I shop at secondhand stores for clothing, and discount stores for everything else. How can I be sure I'm meeting my full potential when I don't even meet any of the standard measures of a success these days?

Well, it turns out that there are better measures to be found. Just this evening my youngest child came up to me, in all of her innocent, earnest, three-year-old wisdom, and asked, "Mommy, how tall do you weigh?" I replied (in what I thought was the most appropriate answer to such a question)  "I weigh 5' 10".

Apparently I was wrong. She said I weigh 22 minutes, and that that's too big. Hmm.Who knew? Just goes to show you, even valedictorians get the answer wrong once in a while. (Ok, technically I wasn't valedictorian of my class, since I graduated early and wasn't eligible to be considered for the honor, but it fit into the theme of the blog nicely, so I just went with it.)

I know, I know... my three-year-old's unit of measure doesn't make any sense. (And, who said that 22 minutes is too big, anyway? Sure, I could stand to lose a few seconds here and there... But, I think that I'm very healthy at 22 minutes, especially if you take into account that I'm a tall girl - I do weigh almost six feet, after all!)  Anyway, her unit of measure may be not be logical, but neither is any other if you think about it. The fact that I had the time to talk with my daughter tonight is worth far more than a six-figure salary. Having her help me make supper was better than a power lunch any day, and the fact that she really knows me and I really know her are far, far better things than any amount of fame or world-wide notoriety I could have achieved.

When I graduated from high school, I was ready to take on the world. To leave my mark in life. I wanted to reach for the stars. I wanted to succeed.  I finally realize what that all means. What good is it to gain the whole world, but lose your soul by selling out, giving in, and giving up what matters most? How can you leave your mark in life when you are so much like everyone else that you don't leave a lasting impression?  This summer I laid on the lawn with my giggly girls watching a meteor shower. My five-year-old would gleefully reach up and try to catch God's fireworks as they shot across the sky. We may have failed to actually ever reach any of those blazing stars, but the fact that we were there and trying together is its own kind of success...

 

Getting My Hopes Up

You're all aware, I'm sure, of the contest I've entered to win a six-month blogging contract for $30,000 and a laptop computer. (I mean - you are aware, right!? You're voting every day - aren't you!!??) Well, winning this contest, clearly, is a long shot. And yet, I am as giddy as a a thrifty shopper at a half-price sale. I can't seem to wipe the smile off my face. Certainly, much of my excitement is due to the overwhelming response that people have had to my requests for votes. Frankly, I'm both astounded and deeply humbled to have so many  folks doing so much on my behalf. Seriously - Me. Little ol' me...

However, there is another element, besides just all the help and support and the thrill of the contest itself that is keeping me grinning from ear to ear. This is just one area in my life right now where God has recently been expanding my horizons. In a very real way, He is renewing my sense of possibility. Awakening my dream gene. Getting my hopes up, so to speak. That last expression - it's a curious one, isn't it? I have often warned my children not to get their hopes up.Told my friends that they should be realistic in their expectations.  I've even been angry at myself for hoping to reach a goal that ended up, ultimately, being beyond my grasp. But, why? Why do I do this to myself?

In all of my years of knowing God, He has never been stingy. The earth is the Lord's, and all that it contains. He is our good father, and it is His delight to give us good gifts. He doesn't say that if we seek His Kingdom first, a few things, or even some things will be added to us, but all things that we as humans need and seek in righteousness. Don't get me wrong - I'm not preaching a prosperity doctrine whereby every person will have a mansion and a garage full of luxury cars. God promised salvation and eternal life through Christ, not 40 acres and a mule. But, I'm also saying that we should not limit our almighty father to the things that we have determined are sufficient for us. Rather, shouldn't we dream big things and submit them to Him with a willingness to receive whatever He chooses for us? Read that last sentence again. Are you sure that you're really willing to receive what He grants for your life - even if it is good things beyond your wildest imagination?

I live with a poverty mentality. I have already spent each paycheck in my mind before it even hits my account, and I worry over where we will get enough money to cover the gaps that I imagine will pop up. I horde half-broken and obsolete items because someday I might need them. And, even though I claim to be in the world but not of it, I sure find myself willingly conforming to the limited opportunities it affords me. Again - why do I do this to myself?

Granted, as a family we've been through some tough times financially, and carefulness in handling finances is wise. But, worry is not. No matter how hard things might have gotten, we've never gone hungry. There has always been enough money to cover our need, and it was never my fears that caused things to work out alright in the end. And, while I've occasionally found myself very, very grateful to have had just what I needed just when I needed it because of something I had saved back, most of my stockpile of the 'potentially useful' ends up just being a burden I carry instead of a blessing that sustains me. If Peter - who was fully in the world and subject to its natural laws - could live in the reality of finding the money to pay his taxes in a fish, why should I also not believe that my God is big enough to not only provide for my every need, but to also surprise and amaze me while doing so?

All too often I find myself with tunnel vision - going to work, paying bills, putting food on the table. These are good things, and were given to me by a gracious Father, and I thank Him for them daily. But, while I am aware of them being a miraculous provision from Him, maybe others around me are not. Maybe God wants my simple life and gratitude to be a testimony to His goodness. Or, maybe - just maybe -  He wants to use my life to bring Him glory in a different way. Maybe he wants to do great things to and through and for me so that, through His actions and my acknowledgment of His actions, the world can be reminded that God is still big, and He still moves mightily, and He is still both willing and able.

If I do not win this blogging contest next month, I will still be grateful to God for His miracle provision of the steady jobs, warm home, and food on the table that He has already provided. If tomorrow God sees fit for my husband or myself to lose our jobs and for our family to be faced with real financial hardships like we have never known before, I will still be grateful to God for His miracle provision, which I know will always be what sustains us, no matter how hard things may get. However - today I am choosing to get my hopes up. To look up from my everyday miracles and be open to the God of hope and accept whatever else He might want to give to me - even miracles beyond what I've already received.

I will dream big dreams, and crawl up in my Daddy's lap to whisper those dreams in His ear. And, unlike the advice I have unwisely given to my children, my Father doesn't ever tell me not to get my hopes up. Instead, He smiles and shows me greater things than I could ever have imagined, and in doing so confirms my faith, expands my horizons, renews my sense of possibility, awakens my dream gene, and gets my hope in Him up in a new and fresh way. For, just as it would be wrong of me not to thank God for the provisions He's given up to this point, it would be wrong to be unwilling to accept more in order that He may be glorified. So, God - for your glory, bring it on!

Shameless Self Promotion

I've used this blog to whine, to celebrate, to complain, and to expound, among much else. It's been an outlet for so many different things, that I thought I'd go out on a limb and use it for shameless self promotion.

See - there's this contest. A supplement and herb company (and you know I'm all about natural health!) called Nature Made has decided to hire (yes - HIRE - for PAY) a blogger under a six-month contract. Said blogger would be writing about (wait for it....) good mood things, like joy in everyday life. (Hmmm... don't I have a whole category called that? Isn't that what most of my blogs are about? Doesn't this sound like the absolute perfect fit for me?) So, here's a contest that's right up my alley, that I'd be really good at (if I do say so myself) and that would give me the chance to help others look on the bright side and see the humor in this roller coaster ride called life.

Oh, and did I mention the financial incentive? The winner, in addition to fame, fortune, and the opportunity to spread joy, would also receive $30,000 for their six-months of blogging (that's right - $5,000 a month) and a brand new laptop. I think this is my dream job.

However, there's a catch. (Isn't there always!?) In order to win, I have to receive among the top 20 votes of all the contestants. Basically, in order to go on to round 2, you have to pass the popularity contest that is round 1.

Wanna help? (Oh please, oh please, oh please!!!!!?) Here's how:

1. Go to http://www.sam-e.com/job/entries/595 and vote EACH AND EVERY DAY between now and November 10th. If you have 2 computers, vote from each one. If you work at a place that has a whole bunch of computers, vote from each one every day! If you neighbors leave their doors unlocked during the day, go in and vote on their computer. (Ok - not really, but you get the idea...)

2. Tell you friends. Tell your family. Spread it to everyone you know in your email account. Put up fliers. Hire a skywriter. Whatever it takes - it's not that I'm exactly desperate, per se, but I'm begging for your help!

Think of it this way - not only would you, my faithful readers, get the chance to read my inspiring brain droppings five days a week, guaranteed, for six months straight, but I'd also be able to afford some more stylish clothing and be more likely to be generous at birthdays and Christmas with an extra $30,000 at my disposal. Thanks in advance for your vote today (and tomorrow, and the next 14 days after that.) I'll keep you posted!

Corrupting the Youth

Socrates and I - we're like two peas in a pod. We both like to hang around all day in comfy clothes, have a little bit extra around the middle, and have been accused of corrupting the youth. For him, of course, the outcome of such accusations didn't go well. (Note to self : stay away from mobs and Hemlock.) Thankfully (at least, so far) no one in any official position who could cause me anything more than minor annoyance has questioned my motives when it comes to teaching. Faithful readers, I am going to let you in on a little secret that some of you might not know - though I am fully trained, licensed, and equipped to be a standard classroom teacher, I would rather take a sound beating than do so.

Let me be clear - I have nothing but the utmost respect for public schools and their superintendents, principals, teachers, etc.... But, I've seen their job, and I do not want it. I don't envy them the gags and tied hands that come with mandated curriculum, the endless carrot and stick of chasing standardized test scores, and the ceaseless internal politics inherent in the system. No, I'd rather circumvent all of that and spend my time corrupti...er, uh, teaching the youth. At first, I started with my own. After all, who better to experiment on than flesh and blood? I'm ultimately responsible for them anyway, so I figure I have the right to corrupt them as much as I want. The thing is - they loved it. Positively thrived. We did all sorts of unorthodox and heretical things - like teaching division before multiplication, coloring outside the lines, introducing ancient history before we even studied basic maps skills, and going out into the world around us to learn about the world around us. It was nuts, but it was working. And, aside from the occasional query about socialization or prom, most people were cool with our choice in lifestyle and education. That is, until the chicken incident.

When I was 25 years old, I embarked on a grand new adventure.. And, because we like we like to do stuff together, my then five-year-old and one-year-old came along for the ride as well. In fact, it was totally a family affair, with three generations of us present and excitedly peering over what I immediately recognized as one of the most powerful science lessons I'd ever taught - the innards of decapitated hen. That's right, the family that butchers together, stays together... or something like that. We processed around 20 birds that day, but the real 'meat' of the experience for me (couldn't help myself there - sorry) was the learning.

Do you know how cool the inside of a chicken looks? Are you aware of the amazing similarities (and differences) between chicken anatomy and human anatomy? If you are, you'll know what a privilege it is to see God's handiwork laid out in front of you even as you experience it silently humming away inside of you. If you're not, you're probably still worriedly wondering where your gizzard is. At any rate, just as our roundabout explorations of division and multiplication had taught me more about math than I had ever previously known, and our forays into the real world taught me more about life than I had learned in my 17 years of formal education, that one day showed me the reality of the scripture that says we are fearfully and wonderfully made better than just about any other thing I had experienced during my first quarter-century of life. Wow. I was hooked.

I started telling everyone I knew about the experience. My children excitedly chimed in in the background, "tell 'em about the guts, mommy! Tell 'em about the guts!" However, instead of being met with enthusiasm or curiosity, people looked at me like I was covered in innards, and not just talking about them. Apparently, not everyone is on board with allowing children to see nature at its best. In fact, one person suggested that I was damaging my children's psyches, and another went so far as to suggest that this was borderline child abuse. There I go again - corrupting the youth. Socrates, my friend, I feel your pain.

Well, wasn't this a fine mess I'd gotten myself into? What was I to do? On the one hand, I could choose to deny myself and my children the opportunity to learn about the glorious handiwork of our Creator in order to shield them from whatever unpleasantness it was that such opportunities supposedly contained. On the other hand, I could - well - just not. I could just not care what people thought. I could just just not worry about the opinions of others. I could just not take the conventional road. Hmmm... what to do, what to do?

Our next butchering experience was even more fantastic - hogs. Wow! We then moved on in quick succession to sheep and goats. It was glorious. Not only did we get to enjoy (and learn about!) the lifecycle of animals raised in fresh air and sunshine, but we also got to give our beloved livestock a quick, painless, and humane end. (And, of course, there was also all that fresh, yummy, healthy meat.)  My kids can tell a spleen from a kidney. They know not to contaminate the work surface with bile. And, more importantly, they also know where to find the bile and what it looks like. We have poked and prodded, stuck our fingers down aortas, tested the strength and stretch of various tissues, and even laid out whole body systems to explore.

After a while, the enthusiasm my children had could not be contained, and they began (once again) telling friends and family about their experiences. Slowly, reluctantly, even painfully people started coming around to at least being willing to be curious, if not entirely certain about whether to join in the fun or run for the hills. Eventually, with much coaxing and encouragement, butchering day at our house became a social occasion. There would be curious eyes and tentative fingers everywhere as we talked our way through anatomy and biology and chemistry and theology. It had happened - I had branched out beyond just corrupting my own youth, and had started doing so to my children's friends as well. When would it end?

I suppose there must have been a point at which Socrates knew he had crossed the line. Somewhere along the way he had gone from being an educational pariah to a local hero because of his unorthodox traveling classroom and his endless rhetorical questions, but he had to push it. He couldn't be content just raising awareness, introducing new ideas, and living outside the status quo.  Boy, do Socrates and I ever have a lot in common! I, too, have kept pushing. I speak openly, now, about how much fun it is to home school. I no longer fear to tell people that we choose real-world experiences (even butchering!) to augment our learning. And, just last week, I did the unthinkable and brought a set of sheep lungs, complete with trachea, to forty or so young children between the ages of five and twelve. That's right - I was no longer taking the children to the guts, but had branched out into taking the guts to the children.

It was a beautiful specimen - very pink and healthy and fully intact. The initial 'ewwww's changed to 'oooohhhh's when the kids first got to see the lungs up close and experience their beauty and magic. The best part of the day were the excited 'aaahhhhhh!'s that came when I inflated the lungs to their full capacity. Now those kids fully and deeply know what I learned and my kids learned during our first day of butchering - indeed, we are fearfully and wonderfully made.


So, I guess I have a choice to make once again. Am I going to learn from my buddy Socrates and back off before the disapproving crowd rushes in, or will I (like he) continue to corrupt the youth every chance I get? Tough decision. Hmmm.... what to do, what to do? I guess I'll have to get back to you on that. Next week I'm supposed to be teaching about the nervous system, and if I'm going to have a brain to take in, I need to start making phone calls.

(p.s. - I really did inflate a set of sheep lungs, and it really was a rockin' experience. You can see the video for yourself here. Science and learning are cool.)

Milestones

Today is sort of a big day. You see, I just marked the one year anniversary since I started this blog. Today I am making my fiftieth post, and it is also the six-month anniversary of my mother-in-law's passing. Important milestones, one and all, and each significant in their own ways. The fact that I have been able to sustain doing this blog for a whole year is big, because I usually am a strong starter, but not so strong when it comes to keeping things up. Maintaining, for me, is a dirty word. And, making fifty posts in one year means that I averaged almost one a week. (Not that I actually achieved my goal of posting once a week consistently, but at least I have hope that it might be possible in the coming year - at least in quantity, if not in timing.) And, I often hear people speak about how hard the first year without someone else  is- all the 'firsts' you experience. It's hard to believe, but we're at least halfway done with those difficult firsts without my beloved mother-in-law. My, how time flies.

Of course, it's easy to notice big milestones and use them to take stock of where you've been and where you are. But, if we're really honest with ourselves, there are plenty of other important roadsigns all around us besides just the milestones. Today was the first time I'd ever ridden in a combine. A few nights ago was the second time I'd ever slept out under the stars. Tonight will be the third time I've ever cooked a venison roast. A few moments ago I reminded my youngest daughter to say, "please" for the fifth time today. And on, and on, and on it goes.

Those things may not be anything worth getting out the video camera for. Hallmark doesn't make a card for them, and I've never yet seen anyone bake a cake to mark those occasions. But, I think it's fair to say that the things I am doing for the sixth or thirtieth or hundredth time are equally as indicative of the importance of my life's journey (indeed - perhaps more so) than the big 'firsts' that are so much more celebrated, but perhaps not really as significant. The fact that my three-year-old points out the moon to me each and every night is no less endearing now than it was the first time. Isn't the comfort of a nightly bedtime story better than the excitement of the first? A thousand humble meals eaten with loved ones much more rich than one tremendous feast eaten alone? The hurried hugs and stolen kisses from my life-long sweetheart so much more passionate and filled with love now than our dizzying first kiss could ever have been?

I remember the first time I became aware of the fact that a birthday celebration is actually marking the end of an era more than the beginning of one. On your first birthday, you turn one year old, but you've already lived a whole year. The vanity of women who want to hold on to their claim of being 29 becomes doubly ridiculous when you consider that a 29th birthday really marks the beginning of a person's descent into their third decade, and not the last year in a person's delightful and tumultuous second decade of life. Likewise, other special events - be they first communions, graduations, wedding ceremonies - they are a momentary marker of an event that signifies the end of something more often than the beginning. These big milestones we celebrate, in truth, are a way of looking back at what has been - the miles we've already covered - and hoping that things will go well for us on the road ahead. Perhaps mile markers aren't really all that helpful after all.

The earthly destinations I am ultimately headed for are still a mystery to me. I don't know how long my journey will be or where it will take me. Therefore, knowing that I've passed a certain number of miles - or events, or activities, or special days - really isn't nearly as important as knowing that I'm still on the right road, or how fast I should be going, or when there is likely to be a curve ahead. For those things, I must learn to focus on the other roadsigns on the path.  The tenth spontaneous snuggle from my six-year-old this week? Yep, I'm still on the right road. A liltingly-spoken request from my three-year-old (coupled with two dark brown eyes looking up at me with utter trust and love) for one more story? Yes, I really do need to slow down and enjoy the ride. Philosophical questions that I still struggle with myself being asked of me by my beautiful, blossoming ten-year-old? Watch out - the road is about to get curvy.  But, it's ok. I may not be able to see what's ahead, but I'm going to remember to focus on more than just the milestones we've passed and see the truly important signs of a life well lived instead.

Back Up On the Horse

I'm dieting. Again. I have become the ubiquitous thirty-something woman who is trying desperately to shed unwanted pounds, and that's ok. I've struggled with my weight my whole life, and have only had a BMI in the 'normal' weight range for about thirty seconds total - when I was eighteen, naked, and dehydrated. I try really, really hard not to look down on those women who struggle to lose that "last ten pounds." Seriously? That's like worrying about your mansion not being as nice as the mansion next door, isn't it? If I was within ten pounds of my ideal weight, I'm afraid I'd be walking around nude to show off what hot stuff I was!

No, on second thought - I guess I would not. In truth, I would probably feel just as insecure and unhappy with the way I look as I always have. When I got married I was 70 pounds lighter than I am now, and ten dress sizes smaller. I was, most likely, within that last 10 pounds of being at an ideal weight (give or take a few pounds). But, was I happy? Was I ecstatic? Was I walking around nude? Or, even in trendy and cute clothing? Of course not. I was worrying about what I was eating and how I looked, just like I had been fifty pounds earlier, and just like I would be seventy pounds later. I cannot blame those ladies who fret over their last ten or fifteen pounds any more than I can blame someone for fretting over an extra 30, 50, 70, or even 100 pounds. Let's face it - it's not about weight, is it?

I'll tell you - the moments in my life when I've felt the best about my body came when I stopped focusing on how it looks and took the time to appreciate all the things it does for me. I've created, nurtured, brought forth, and nourished three beautiful people. I might not like my hips, but my babies sure fit well there. I wish that my thighs were a little less dimpled, but they have never yet failed to carry me through life. I might grumble when I see floppy arms and thick shoulders in the mirror, but my friends and family never complain when they are encompassed in a heart-felt hug. And, though I might not be happy with the way I look, my husband is, and making his eyes light up and a smile slide across his face is one of the best things that this old body is able to do.

So, I'm trying to find the balance. I don't hate my body anymore, but I also know that I'm probably never going to love the way it looks, no matter how much weight I lose. I, like 99.999% of American women, have a love-hate relationship with my physique. It's a game I've gotten comfortable playing. I know the rules. And, though I'm not quite sure you ever really win, at least I've learned how not to lose at it. I think I've become a better player as the years have gone by. I've traded in starving for savoring, binges for bites, and trends for the tried-and-true. So, why am I dieting again? Simple -  I'm working towards dropping a few pounds in order to stay healthy enough to keep playing this game for many, many more years to come. After all, I may never get to where I look great in my birthday suit, but I want to able to at least keep enjoy the cake and parties for many, many more years to come!

Autumn!

Of all the equinoxes, the autumnal really is my favorite, by far. (Ok - I know. There are only two equinoxes, but it sounded so good in my head that I just had to give that opening the chance to live, in black and white, for at least one brilliant, blazing moment.) It's true, though. Fall is my favorite time of year. Granted, there are some parts of fall that I could do without; namely raking, football, and the impending doom of winter. The last one is especially heinous, but I've chosen to overlook it and maintain Autumn as the season I look forward to most of all anyway.

What is it about this glorious time of year that is so refreshing? I love the crisp air and the cool evenings. After a summer of humidity so thick you can chop it with a cleaver, it's nice to be able to sit outside and declare casually, "You know - it's a bit chilly out tonight. I think I might need a sweater." The best part, of course, is that you never actually get up and go and get said sweater, opting instead to be chilly just for the novelty of it. The thrum of the cicadas is replaced by the hum of the combines, their lights burning away, late into the night, in ever smaller circles on distant, hilltop fields. The heady scent of chlorophyll and pollen is replaced by the more demure aromas of dusty apples and (unfortunately) heavy-laden ragweed plants. The sunsets are softer. The pace of life slower, and there is an expectation of the end in the air. Ahhh - the end! That, really, is what I love most of all about Fall.

You see - I am a starter. If ever you should find me grinning with a group of friends in a jail cell, you will know that whatever plan got us there was probably hatched by me. I am always leaping before I look. Getting my cart before the horse. Counting my chickens before they hatch, and whatever other idiom applies to people who don't have the sense to stop and think a moment before tearing off down the road toward some new adventure. I guess the way I see it is that Autumn is God's annual loud-speaker announcement to me that it is alright to stop. Cease. Desist. Rest - even in the middle of a project. The gentle droop of my tomato plants and the dry rustle in the corn fields is not a signal to God to work harder, to do more, to try one last thing to bring forth fruitfulness in the earth. When fall comes, all things find closure - from the tired tomatoes, to the worn corn plants, to the budding weeds just staring to grow in the path. In His goodness, God truly did ordain a time to plant, and a time to reap.

So, fall is when I take a step back from the hundreds of little projects that I have set before myself, and take time to reflect. What things in my life have proven fruitful and deserve, now, to have their rest? What seeds and new things have I been busily collecting, sorting, storing, preparing, that now I should plant and walk away from for a season? What budding pet undertaking is it time to acknowledge as a weed in my path and let it go, promising and exciting though it may be? What things should I let die away in order to put my energy into the vital roots that must go deep if I am to survive the winter ahead?

It was chilly this evening as I walked out to shut my hens in for the night and check on the baby chicks, huddled under their heat lamp. On the way past my garden I noted that the annuals seemed to be the saddest of all the plants left. Their vigor and energy and ability to always set on a new fruit or stem seems to have left them, and they seem left startled to have come to the end of themselves and their own abilities and desires. God, I pray that I might not just be a busy annual. The biennials, likewise, are despondent. There is a hint of desperation in the last growing season of these two-year wonders. Wise enough to conserve for one winter, they fail to plan for any more, and end up all used up by their own initiative and pursuit of desired outcomes. Lord, let me be more than a short-lived burn out in your garden. It is only the perennials who maintain a hint of dignity and a promise of future usefulness this time of year. To be sure, they are tired like all the others, but rather than dreading the killing frost, they welcome it as a signal to stop their labors and take their rest. In that rest will come renewal, and with it is the assurance of  season upon season upon season of new starts and fresh tasks ahead. Lord, grant that I may learn the Autumn lessons you labor to teach me, so I can be rooted and find my rest in you and be perennially fruitful for your glory.

Moving On

My grandfather was an antique dealer, and I grew up going to auctions with him. I loved the rhythmic rise and fall as the auctioneer cried for a higher bid. I loved the colorful patchwork of decades of someone's life splayed out on hay racks and folding tables. I loved the smell of auctions - oftentimes part old lady, part wood shop, part fresh fruit pie from the lunch wagon, and just a hint of mustiness in the mix that clung to your fingers after you thumbed through piles and poked around in boxes.

Grandpa had a knack for knowing what things were - the things that no one else would be able to identify. The auctiongoers around us would pick something up gingerly, examine it, and turn it over in their hands. Often the item would have a hidden spring or recessed hinge that would cause it to dance briefly and unexpectedly, and the holder to jump back in startled surprise, then look around sheepishly to see if anyone had noticed. My grandpa always noticed, and covertly pointed out the incident so we could share in the fun together.  When it was time for the item to be held up in the ring, the auctioneer would stumble along, searching for an explanation, until he finally pulled out one of the standard favorites, like, "You don't find many of these around anymore..." or "I don't know what it is, but it's a good one. Who'll give me ten dollars?" And off he'd go.

After bidding once or twice against a hesitant and curious opponent, my grandpa would invariably win the prize, and be invited to share what it was by the auctioneer. Then, eyes twinkling, he'd bring to life a piece of rustic, primitive American history for the gathered crowd with both his practical demonstration and his earthy, comfortable storytelling. After taking it home and cleaning it up, he'd write out a tag for it in his meticulous handwriting, and it would be sold within a day or two - a piece of someone's past rescued for another generation to treasure. He was a mover of goods in the best of possible ways. I still turn to find him and share a half smile or a quiet chuckle when I see someone puzzling over a mysterious piece of Americana at my local auction house. But, nowadays the joke is always on me since he's been gone for almost ten years. I miss him terribly.

I am thinking of him this evening because, I, too have been given the task of moving goods, and I am at a loss. Just like my grandpa, I know all too well the value and importance and history of the items before me, but I am finding myself unable to preserve the treasure, as he did so well. So, instead, the things I am tasked with moving will be packed into boxes and given away -  no meticulous label, no way to convey what they mean to me.

I did fine with the underwear and socks. The cosmetics didn't even give me pause as I threw away what was used, and donated the rest. The nondescript, long-sleeved shirts and black leggings were easy to fold and lay aside. However, when I got to my mother-in-law's jacket an hour or so ago, I had to stop. As I pulled it from the hanger, I was caught up by the smell of her coat and the sound of her coat and feel of her coat, and could almost imagine that instead of me wrapping my arms around an empty garment, it was her wrapping her arms around me. I wanted to believe that when I opened my eyes I would see her smiling in more than just my memory - wanted to have one more moment with her, even if it was stolen out of those difficult, painful last few months. But, it was not meant to be. The coat hung slack and vacant in my hands, and the smell of her perfume dissipated in my living room and soon disappeared entirely.

To be honest, I was surprised to have had to leave the coat hanging over a chair and take time to cry and remember. This is most likely her last batch of clothing - the last of many, many that I have gone through and moved on since she died in April. It was indescribably difficult to walk away from a consignment store rack filled with her colorful dresses and signature vests this summer, and I thought that by having achieved that task I was done with the grieving, done with the difficulty, done with the memories. I guess I was wrong. I know, now, that I am not my grandfather, and it is not my gift to be a mover of things.

In the letting in and letting go, the moving out and moving on - in this auction called life, where we all, at times, find ourselves bidding on the unknown and praying for a kind storyteller and a merciful auctioneer to come to our aid when we are suddenly lost and bewildered, I think that I am meant to be a mover not of goods, but of memories. It's true - I cannot keep her coat forever, but will always know what it felt like to be hugged by her, to be loved by her. That coat itself could never convey those things to anyone, but perhaps I can. I will trade in meticulous handwritten tags for late-night, hurriedly-typed blog entries, and know that the outcome of the two tasks is ultimately the same - a precious piece of the past, rescued for future generations to treasure.

Bypass the Good to Reach for the Best

I can never seem to get over just how busy life is, especially at the start of a new school year. There are classes to fit in, books to pick out, field trips to attend, new friends to meet, and so much more. I am blessed beyond my wildest dreams with opportunities to learn, grow, share, play, dream, volunteer – the list goes on and on. It seems like every day brings new, wonderful activities into my life. The question I often face isn’t what can I do, but what should I do? Or, more accurately, what should I do without?

It occurred to me one evening this past week, as I dove into bed, utterly exhausted, after midnight, that I had had a wonderful and productive day. Sure, my school time with the girls was shorter and more rushed than I would have liked it to be, and I ended up having to grab a fast-food lunch because my morning appointment went longer than expected, but I had gotten so many things done – good things! As I lied in the state just between dreamland and the real world, I looked back at all the good things I’d done during the past week, and the many more good things on my calendar for the weeks to come. Many, many more good things. Suddenly I was more than just tired. I was weary.

How was it that I had come to dread the busyness of my days, when they were filled pursuing what I knew to be fruitful endeavors? As I started to go over the responsibilities that I had for the next day, I realized that I need to gather the library items that were due. We make a trip to the local library each Friday. It’s a highlight for my children, since books hold such magic and possibility. Library day is like Christmas to them. For a moment, I was absorbed in the happy thought of how much fun we would have on our weekly ritual together, until I realized that the best part of library day for my girls isn’t picking out the books, but the promise that we will read them together.

You see, it isn’t the place or the people or even the books themselves that makes library day one of their favorite days of the week. It is the fact that checking out a book, to them, is like putting down earnest money on snuggle time with mom – no distractions, no schedules, no phone calls. My heart sank when I realized just how many of those books from last week had been left unread because we were busy doing other things. Good things, mind you, but things that got in the way of the best thing of all – just being together. Had I really been trading in my best life for the many good things that had fallen in my path?

The only way I finally found sleep (and peace) that night was to make a promise to myself to do something about this profound night-time revelation. It has not been easy, and I have been amazed at how much of a constant struggle it is to say, “no” to things that are worthy and good in order to save time and energy for the best things – the ones I know are what I want to pursue. Difficult, to be sure, but worth it. I measure my success over every lingering lunch and snuggly story book - far greater rewards than I had felt in all of my busy good deeds.

Parents - I invite you to join me this school year in acknowledging that there is only so much of you to go around, and that’s ok. For this brief period in time we have a heavy responsibility to a few precious people who deserve all that we have to give them. To those who don't have children, or who have already blinked and seen their children grow up, I invite you to join me as well. After all, perhaps in the end the sign of a truly successful life isn't necessarily in how much good you did, but how much of the best you reveled in. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some children and a husband who want to be with me, and I can't imagine anything better than that.

Canning

Tomorrow I am going to introduce my dear, life-long friend to the mystery and alchemy of canning. Just like the 'scientists' of yore who labored over bubbling pots and boiling beakers, I like to think of canning as a mystical art form. The perfect beauty and bounty of summertime being distilled and preserved forever (or at least a year or two) - making it possible to taste June in January, sunshine in snowstorms, green growth in grey skies.

I am (don't tell!) actually pretty new to canning. I put my first pears and peaches into jars just a few years ago - busily humming away late into the night, paring knife flashing, canner steaming on the stovetop. I was hooked from the first 'pop' of a sealed jar. My mom canned some when I was a kid, as did her mother before her.  I have vague but comfortable memories of it. I like to think that this, like so many other things I do, is a return to something important from my heritage - something I have grown up enough to now be proud of.

Last summer my daughter would sneak upstairs and sit on the counter next to me as I worked. It was late, and she should have been in bed, but I couldn't help but feel, deep in my bones, that it was more important for her to be putting in the memories of canning as I put the peaches in the jars than it was for her to get enough sleep - at least for that night. So, we canned together. I washed the fruit, blanched it, and squished the skins off, the sink turning a murky pink color. I let her halve the peaches and remove the pits. We both had juice dribbling down our chins and off our elbows, nightgowns smudged and damp. It was well past midnight before the last jar sealed and we went to bed. I don't remember what we said, but I know it was good. Surrounded by fresh fruit and jars and history and heritage as we were - how could it not have been wonderful?

I know we're staring off small - just a few pints of homemade salsa - but I hope my friend gets hooked on canning, just like I did. Not only because I want someone I can share recipes with and trade produce with and ask to borrow a jar lifer or a canning funnel from once in a while, but because I want the people I love to get the very best from life. And, I can't imagine anything better than that late night with my daughter, the satisfaction of a cupboard full of gleaming jars, and knowing that you have been a part of something important from the past, and are making it possible for that something important to continue in the future.

Besides - it means I'll get to spend a whole afternoon in the kitchen with my dear, life-long friend and six children, watching our progress wide-eyed and eagerly, and grinning in delight when they hear the jars seal. What could be better than that?

Home is Where the Scraper Is

I come from a pretty small family. My mother and father each only had one sibling. My maternal grandmother was an only child. My paternal grandfather was one of just two in the family. My dad's mom came from the biggest bunch, and there were only 5 of them in all. You know what this means, don't you? It means that I cannot expect a big inheritance check from some long-lost great aunt. That is why I have been outside scraping my house today rather than just hiring someone to do it for me. Well, that, and because I really do love this old place, and I know you would too.

I live in an old one-room schoolhouse smack dab in the middle of old-order Amish territory. There is a field that surrounds my house on two sides. The other two sides are flanked by dusty gravel roads, each of which is bordered by lovely pastures  with grazing, wide-eyed cows. The sky above is always big, whether it's filled with fluffy clouds or surging storms, and the breezes are never cooler or the stars ever more abundant than they are in my side yard. We have a swingset there, complete with a two-seater that I like to lay back in and watch the world go by. It's right next to our hen house (former outhouse) and the chickens will gather and cluck conversationally in my general direction when I sit there. It's a great place to pass an hour or two, or even a whole afternoon. Our yard has hideouts around the LP tank and in the overgrown bushes. It has sunny expanses to play ball in, a patch of cement to draw on with sidewalk chalk, shady corners to lie in, and a pasture complete with tall grass, Maples to climb, and a mulberry tree you can stand at for hours and get increasingly purple, full, and happy with every passing minute.

And, that's just the yard. The house itself is, basically,  a 30' by 30' square, except that it has a 12' by 8' bell tower tacked on to the south side. When you come in through the blue door in the bell tower, you are taking a step back in time. This is where almost 50 years' of school children started and ended their industrious days, and eagerly went out and came in from recess. You can go downstairs (to your left, and past a large, sunny window), or upstairs (to your right, and also past a large, sunny window.) When this house was a school, the basement was mostly just a place to house the boiler, coal hopper, and other mechanical equipment. There was a ping pong table for the kids to play on if it was too wet to go outside, but not much else. Today the basement has a family room, two bedrooms, and a combination bathroom/laundry room. Despite the many windows, it is cool and shady, and pleasant down there. It has a sense of stillness that I think comes from it having been largely forgotten by the kids all those school years ago.

Upstairs, however, is where the magic happens. The steps from the entryway still creak and groan in a satisfying and familiar fashion, just as I am told they did from the beginning of this old school. Up the stairs and through the doorway you find yourself in a great room, and I mean that in both senses of the word. Three-fourths of the 900 square feet on that floor are all open, including our dining room, our kitchen, and our living room. The ceilings, which are sixteen feet tall, are paneled in pine. There are three big skylights and eight enormous windows - enough to let in that giant sky and all the lovely breezes and stars. The old wood floors and plaster walls may be a different color than they were back then, but they still echo the whispers and recitations from years gone by. It's hard to explain, exactly, but I know that this old schoolhouse is happy. It was loved and a part of something sacred and important for almost a half a century. I guess you could say it still is. What we are doing here - raising our children and living out, the the fullest, the act of being a family - is also sacred and important work, and we couldn't ask for a better backdrop for it.

See - I told you you'd love it. Everyone who comes here falls in love with this happy schoolhouse. Maybe it's the architectural uniqueness - the fact that it's not like every other house these days. Maybe it's because of its historical importance. After all, there has been a schoolhouse on this site continuously since 1864 (though this is the second building), and this was the last public one-room schoolhouse in Iowa to close, maybe even one of the last in the nation. Maybe you, like me, love this place because it is a chance to slow the rhythm of life and fall in pace with a simpler time and era. Maybe it is the memories, or the promises of what's yet to come in this home that make it so lovable. I can't quite pinpoint my favorite thing about this house because there is so very much to love about it. Enough, in fact, that I'm willing to dangle precariously off ladders, wear the ends of my fingers off with sandpaper and scrapers, get bumped and bruised and banged up, and even battle the occasional nest of yellow jackets just to ensure that it will be around for another generation to enjoy as well. Now that you've fallen in love with it, feel free to join me. I'll be the one clinging to the south side, scraper in hand. :)

Laundry

Well, here I am, in the middle of laundry. Again. Or, maybe more accurately, still. It seems to be a never-ending process at my house. I realize, of course, that the odds are stacked against me, since there are 5 people living here, three of whom still regularly spill any liquid or semi-solid they are responsible for conveying any distance farther than one micron. (I will not divulge the names of these people in the interest of protecting my fifth amendment rights.) So, our baskets overfloweth. Of course, not all dirty clothes are created equal. Last week I had to wash the same shirt four times because it was so filthy. In the end, I went ahead and threw it in the dryer anyway, despite the fact that the stains were still there. At that point it's easier to try to convince the smallish person who owns it that it always was that shade of grey than to waste any more laundry detergent, stain remover, energy, or time - especially time. Plus, grey goes with everything, so it really was a win-win situation.

I have the same problem with laundry that I do with dishes and our annual tax return - there are just so very many steps involved! Isn't it enough to gather the clothes, carry them to the laundry room, sort them, check for stains, and pop them into the machine? Apparently not. There's also the transferring, the drying, the folding, the putting into the baskets, the carrying into the rooms, and - the piece d'resistance - the putting away! It's enough to drive a person crazy. I mean, I often skip several of those steps (and not always the ones you might expect) in an effort to save time and preserve my sanity, but the process is still way too long, and nudist colonies have been looking more and more attractive to me in the last several years. That is not to say, however, that the feelings are necessarily mutual. I can only guess that my appeal to a nudist colony has waned in the last decade or so, even as my interest in them has grown. Because of this inverse relationship, I will continue to be a slave to my washer and dryer.

Perhaps the real problem at our house is not the amount of laundry, but the amount of clothing. That may sound paradoxical, but follow me on this for a minute. My middle daughter has 23 t-shirts in her drawer. Her three-year-old sister, I believe, owns even more than that, but it's hard to tell. (One time saving measure I have taken up to lighten my laundry load is to have the girls put away their own clothes. I only know that the basket comes back empty, but still haven't quite figured out where she is stashing all of her things.) Anyway, this overabundance of clothing means that we can, quite literally, go two weeks or more without having to switch on the ol' Maytag. And, often we do. Ergo, the next time we have laundry day, it's a real whopper. I suppose that, when you average out all the time I spend doing laundry over the course of a year, it might be about the same as everyone else spends. I guess when it takes a week and half of sorting, washing, drying, and folding to catch up on two week's worth of laundry, I'm not really saving myself much time after all.

It would seem logical, then, that the answer to my little problem, would be to get rid of some clothes. I should just figure out how often I want to do laundry, and then make sure we have exactly the right amount of clothing for that time period. Therefore, if I want a five day break between washes, I think we should pare down to 5 outfits, 2 pajamas, and 2.876 towels each. (That includes a bath towel, a hand towel, two wash rags, and the appropriate number of kitchen towels we would need for five days, divided among all five family members.) But, let's be honest - I don't really want to do laundry every five days. Maybe once a week? Once every ten days? I've got it - how about once every two weeks? Of course, that would require everyone to have 23 t-shirts and... wait... now we're back to square one.

No, I don't want to do laundry for a week and a half straight every two weeks, but I also don't want to have to do laundry every day. Just between you and me, I'd prefer to never have to do laundry again. Of course, that means that we can't have any clothes, which takes us back to the whole nudist colony dilemma. Perhaps if I could find one where everyone was terribly nearsighted. Or, better yet, we could just start out own. Unfortunately, that would require a lot of research into state and local laws, zoning regulations in this county, which SPF is most effective for which areas of the body, etc... And, of course, I don't have time to do any of that research because the dryer just buzzed, and I've still got 42 loads of laundry to do before I'm off the hook. If you'll excuse me, the laundry cycle is calling my name...

In the Good Old Summertime...

My dear, adoring public - I must apologize. I have used this blog for many purposes. It has been my sounding board. My confessional. My soapbox. My diary. It has housed my deepest thoughts, and the wildest wanderings of my cerebral frontiers. And now, I must admit to you that I have allowed a terrible a injustice to occur right here in these hallowed pages. (Well, characters, more accurately.) I can stand it no longer. Justice must be served.

You see, I have complained bitterly about winter in this blog - whined about it, some might say- and, alternately, have been in ecstatic raptures about spring in previous posts. Through all of the weather writing, I have neglected the blissful bounty of summer, and I think it's time for summer to get its due. After all - living during these fleeting three months in Iowa is like no other experience in the world. This year we had a very wet latter part of spring, and it has blossomed now in these past few weeks into a glorious, sticky, sun-drenched July. It's hot, it's humid, and it's glorious - everything summer should be.

This morning I picked green beans - ice cream bucket after ice cream bucket of them from my friend's garden. She shared her bounty with me, just as a neighbor did when they dropped of a bag of summer squash on my doorstep. I will return the favor to someone else with something from my garden, because it is summer. In Iowa. That's what we do. The soil here is so rich and alive that anyone can grow anything, but there is something mystical and satisfying about being a part of 'the club.' Whether it's a backyard container with a single tomato plant, or a half-acre survival garden, we are all part of that group, whose membership is made possible by our beloved state's benevolent weather and good, clean dirt. And, it's a good club to be a part of it. There is something inherently wholesome about sun-warmed, dirt-fresh, dimple-fleshed produce from the garden, and the grubby fingernails and toes that go along with them. They makes you want to do the right things - like eat better, read a bedtime story to your children,  go to church more often, and make homemade ice cream.

Of course, it's not just the produce and gardens that inspire goodness. It's in the air. Yes... We do have more than just humidity in the air, though sometimes it can be hard to detect. Listen... listen.... can you hear it? That sound - just now? It is the frogs in the neighbor's pond. The crickets in your basement. The cicadas thrumming away in the top of your maple trees. It is the crack of a bat, the whir of a child's bike tire, the distant rumble-grumble of thunder. It is summer, singing its endless and humble song. From the percussive rattle of metal wheels and horses' hooves on my gravel road, to the woodwind's mellow refrain as the wind blows through the pasture grass - it is summer. If you're not paying attention you will miss this concert, and it's playing its heart out just for you.

This week I made it a point to take a break from the beans and the weeding and the work. I wiped my hands on the kitchen towel, slipped into my worn sandals, and stepped outside of my air conditioning and busy life. I chose to spend an hour or so sitting on the swing with my friend during the hottest day we've had in years. The sun and humidity were intense, but the joy even more so.We heard laughter in the forefront and lawnmowers in the distance. It was nice. Tonight I found myself returning to that swing because of the delight of an enraptured three-year-old, who proudly pointed out that she had found the moon. Indeed she had - a more important and astute discovery than most people make their whole lives. We lingered for a while as the yellow, new moon skimmed across the sky, listening to the breeze in the corn. When the lightning bugs showed up and the whole sky was lit with star upon star upon star, I knew they were simply the flashbulbs and marquee that come with any headlining act, for I was in the presence of greatness.

They are dedicated and capable, practiced and finely-tuned, but don't be fooled - this band has been booked for a limited engagement. I'm ever so blessed to have been given - free of charge! - a front row seat (and a swinging one at that) for this multi-sensory, life changing, outdoor musical extravaganza. They have the biggest stage, best acoustics, most talented musicians, and most outstanding special effects you'll see anywhere. When the kitchen is empty and the clothes have been left half-folded, you'll know where to go looking for me. After all, it's the social event of the season. I surely do hope to see you there.

What's in a Name?

Shakespeare waxed poetic about the beauty of Juliet. In the story, of course, Juliet was in love with the handsome Romeo, who also dearly loved her, even though their families were bitter rivals. Juliet pined about the fact that her only love (Romeo) was sprung from her only hate (the family Montague). It is her famous "What's in a Name..." soliloquy that many eager young thespians memorize and recite. Yesterday I, too, was thinking of Juliet (well, at least a Juliet) and, like her, pondering the nature and meaning of names.

See, we have three kinds of chickens in our little flock. Our old hens (which are a breed known as Production Reds) were purchased from a neighboring hen house after their peak function was past. They had been housed with 1200 other Production Reds and lived only to eat, poop, and (of course) lay eggs. These kinds of ladies are known, without any effort at romance or honor, as 'spent hens' after they are around 18 months old. Remember, there is no glass ceiling or social security program for poultry. They were lucky to have been brought to our green yard and cozy hen house, where they have been allowed to live out their days eating bugs, being given swing and sled rides (sometimes against their wills), and laying the occasional egg as they chose to do so. Since arriving here, my girls have called this batch of chickens Henny Pennies.

Why Henny Pennies? I don't know. Though some of them did have their own names (including Le Morte and Mr. Chicken - I am not making this up), it is rather difficult to tell one spent hen from another, so it made the most sense to my girls to name them as a group. Plus, it distinguishes them from the two other types of chickens we have. Besides the Production Reds, we also have two white hens. One is a Leghorn, and the other a Californian. We came by both of these gals separately and in a somewhat strange fashion. Tracy came first. She had been purchased along with 29 other tiny, day-old white chicks by a friend of ours. The others in her group quickly grew fat and sassy, since they were Cornish Rock Cross - a breed that grows 6 pound birds in 8 weeks. Alas, there was one lone, mis-sorted Leghorn chick in the bunch. It soon became apparent to my friend that 'Mini-Hen' (as she had been dubbed by the resident namer at their house) was better suited for a hen house than a freezer. So, she came to live with us, and was promptly renamed Tracy.

The other white hen was part of group that we chicken-sat for over the Christmas holidays. (Hey - don't laugh. You would do the same for your dog or cat, right?) When the owner of this bunch came to pick his ladies up, he couldn't tell the difference between our Tracy and his white hen. (I find it incredibly insensitive of him to not be able to tell one white girl from another, and am infinitely glad that we got to keep this hen so she didn't have to go back to her obviously racist owner.) Anyway, her new name is Not Tracy. So, we find ourselves having conversations like this:

Me: Did you put the chickens in tonight?
Child: Yes, all the Henny Pennies are in, but not Tracy.
Me: Do you mean not Tracy, or not Not Tracy?
Child: Yes.
Me: But which one did you...
Child: [re-donning shoes] I'll just go out and put her in so I don't have to explain, ok Mom?

Our last group, which started out as a batch of 15 half-grown, mixed-sex (11 hens and 4 roosters) Rhode Island Red chickens purchased from Craigslist, have been affectionately known as Juliets. (I told you I'd eventually be talking about Juliet...)  Their numbers have since dwindled to six. We lost four hens to predators and cold this winter. One rooster was hit by a car. The other three had to be 're-homed' after they got a bit aggressive with the girls. And, alas, we lost one Juliet hen to a hawk yesterday. So, we're down to just six Juliets now. Our Henny Pennies have suffered some serious losses this past year as well, and now number only two. With those eight, along with our pair of white hens (who, of course, each already have their own names) it is looking more and more like we could move from group identity on to individual monikers for my lovely laying ladies.

Since it is my children who come up with the names (and spend the most time with the chickens) I'll have to check with them and see what they think. I'm inclined to keep things simple. And, since I'm able to both distinguish between and remember the names for Henny Pennies, Juliets, Tracy, and Not Tracy, I'm content to keep to keep things the way they are. Plus, as amusing as it can be, the process of getting the girls to agree on a name is rather like giving birth. There is much yelling, fist clenching, and the occasional Lamaze-style breathing through pursed lips. Just yesterday we travailed to bring forth names for our two new goats, which had to be agreed upon by three young girls. The process is harder than you might imagine. But, at the end of the labors, we were presented with our bouncing, brand new names - Marshmallow and Kid. The girls are happy, and the goats are indifferent, so I think it was a success. But, I'm not sure that our insurance will cover another naming for at least a year, so perhaps the hens will keep their current classifications after all.

Playing Grown Up

Well, here I am attempting a second time to write a post with more of myself included. I am no longer pontificating... have stepped down off the soap box. Is it more human and approachable this way? Perhaps I'll consider this a group therapy session. After all, you must be reading this blog for a reason. If it's to search to answers, I can only tell you, in all honesty, that I do not have them. But, perhaps we can discover some together. I'll go first.

Hi. My name is Andrea, and I feel under-equipped to deal with life. I suppose there are so very many more things I could admit to - over eating, over sleeping, over doing. But, I think I've come a long way by being able to really distill what's going on down to such a pithy and provocative statement. You see, I've always been the one able to handle it all. Keep all the balls in the air. Keep all the plates spinning. Now I've come to realize that those things are what the analogy implies : games - just part of an act. It looks good (and feels good) on stage, but when the makeup comes off and the costumes are put away at the end of the night, there are still children to raise, souls to save, bills to pay. Life is not the circus act.

My best friend and I (both of us turned 30 this year) were wondering together on the phone the other day why no one warned us of what it means to be a grown up. Why did no one tell us how serious and earnest this thing called life can be? Why did no one think to warn us that we would endure indescribable difficulties even as we enjoyed unparalleled joys? Why didn't anyone let us know that this is what it would be like? I've been trying to abdicate my adult responsibilities for years, but they keep coming back. All this time I've had the sneaking suspicion that this thing called life is perhaps a bit more serious and taxing than I wanted to let on.

For my friend, it all started with her first vacuum. You see - it wasn't her mother's vacuum. It wasn't borrowed. It wasn't temporary. It was hers. Forever. You don't buy a vacuum unless you need it. You don't need a vacuum unless you have a home. You don't have your own home unless you're a grown up. See the connection? To this day I think that vacuum causes her pause on good days, panic on bad ones. It's a sign that she - all of us, really - is inextricably engaged in the forward march of life, and that can be a sobering thought.

I, on the other hand, didn't have the sense to pause and consider the implications of my first vacuum. I was very young and idealistic when I plunged headlong into life. It wasn't until sometime after a college degree, two home purchases, a brand new car, three children, and a dying loved one later that I started to have the sneaking sort of panic that my friend's small appliances stirred up in her. Now I find myself very much entrenched in this thing called life, and feel ill equipped to handle it. Who am I to hold the hand of the dying? What do I know about helping those left behind in their grief? What words can I offer to bolster my brave husband, who faces the world with the weight of his family on his shoulders each day? Where will I go for the wisdom to bring forth these children that I feel so fiercely proud of and responsible for? How did I end up here?

Some days I think I'll wake to discover that it's all been a game of house. We (the good children, intently engaged in our play) will be called back to reality by our parents. We will put aside our drama and aprons and vacuums and go have a snack under the watchful eye of a capable and caring adult. Our vain striving over who is in charge, which person says what, where things will go, what we will do... it will all be forgotten. After all - if we are honest with ourselves in the deepest and darkest places in our hearts, we somehow sensed all along that it is foolishness to pretend we are really adults, don't we? Ahhh.... but what can be done about it? Therein lies the trouble.

And so, I will continue to be a little girl her mother's high heels. I will pray for wisdom in bringing forth and carefully preserving the treasures in my husband. I will shore him up on the days when I can see that he is a little boy in his father's tie and suit jacket. At least there is much comfort to be found in knowing that I am not playing this game alone. I will trust the promise God gave me that when I open my mouth, it is in wisdom, and the teaching of kindness will be on my tongue. When that promise is stretched thin and looks like it will run out, I will go to Him for a fresh slice of truth and a cold glass of grace. (Perhaps there is a kind parent who watches over this game of house after all...) I will guide and guard, praise and raise, teach and treasure my children each and every day. And, I will never, ever tell them what it's like to be a grownup - how earnest and serious life can be, and what indescribable difficulties and unparalleled joys you discover along the way -  because they deserve to discover it on their own.