Thinking

Guy 3 likes to think. He thinks about "Danny: Champion of the World", the last book he read. (If, by the way, you missed reading that in your 11-year-old history, he highly recommends it.) He thinks about how magnets work. He thinks about how to bother Girl 3. He thinks about making a snowman then knocking the head off the snowman and naming it "Goliath". He thinks about his AWANAs memory verses. He thinks about the cockroach collection he used to keep in his bedroom in Hawaii. But mostly, he thinks about being 12. That seems just the sort of age that should come next, don't you think?

"Thinking"
by Guy 2
© 2008
RPE
All rights reserved

Recycle: A Green Post

In response to "To My Parents", one of my parents (the one that can be found wearing clown wigs and unmatching socks around the house... or out of the house) wrote this poem (between the hours of 1:30 and 3:30am I'm sure).



Recycle

I never liked boxes;

they're all quite confining.

So why must we always

be clearly defining?

And who is the one

that decides how things ought

to be done or processed

or be written or thought?

A box is for sending things

padded with peanuts,

not living and loving...

I sincerely mean it.

If someone is used to

being properly boxed,

tell them to just try

wearing non-matching socks.

Then after they're out of

the box they were in,

go recycle the cardboard

and try on a grin!

© Mrs. E. ~ 2009

To My Parents: Who [still] Think Outside the Box

My parents have many ordinary parent virtues. They loved us, provided for us, bought us red tricycles, etc. There is a time and place to extol these ordinary virtues and thank parents for them, but that time is not now, in this posting.

This quality I have long admired in man, woman, and child: the ability to think outside the box. To approach a problem or situation and not assume that the usual course of action is the only course of action. Yesterday, at the grand old age of 24, it occurred to me that my parents both display an immense quantity of this quality.

Examples beg to be presented.

When facing daunting dental bills, they had some dental work done in Mexico. Dental work is cheaper there.

I've heard women speak of bringing the outdoors inside. Mom did that literally. Complete with Ficus benjamina trees in giant pots and clouds sponged on the sky blue living room ceiling.

Seven year olds are not generally brought to business dinners, Building Industry Association meetings, accountant consultations, or candidate's speeches. Dad thought we might learn something if we tagged along and we'd at least have a good talk in the car on the way home.

Why was there a random used car salesman at Thanksgiving dinner? Dad met him the day before (yes, at a used car lot) and found out he was new in town. I guess my parents thought outside the box about "family gatherings" too.

It didn't occur to my parent that they had to stop having children after the second one. They thought kids were fun, so they had four more. Hence, 6wayintersection.

My parents didn't only think of their own little munchkins, though. With the new birth of each of their own children, they began sponsoring a Compassion child or local crisis pregnancy center. As they prayed about how to become more involved in supporting women who chose life for their babies, God led them to become foster parents. Babies came, cried, were loved, and went- for years.

Rolling black-outs were common in the early '90s on the Big Island. When the black outs stopped, we missed the spontaneous story and board game nights. Easy fix. Dad and Mom randomly announced "Black Out Night" and turned of everything except the refrigerator (which couldn't be opened for the evening). Instant family night.

Dad thought outside the box about breakfast. He dumped leftover spaghetti into omelets, for example.

For any of the unique gifts above (except possibly the spaghetti-eggs), my parents would not take credit. It's nothing they drummed up on their own, it's Christ through them, the Hope Of Glory in their hearts (which is why they named our homeschool H.O.G.S... go figure)

Spaghetti Prayers

Her husband usually doesn't beat her.
The one 12'x12' room they share with their two boys has only a little mold on the walls.
Although she quit school in the fourth grade, she can read, and read well.
The drinking isn't quite constant, and he promised from jail last month he would quit... soon.
When she falls to the end of her rope with caring for two babies (ten months apart), her husband's grandma will watch the littlest one for a night.

I ask my friend to help Girl 2 make spaghetti.
"Spaghetti?" She repeats, uncertain. "I can't cook. I'll get dizzy or something."
She shifts her foot away from the direction of my small kitchen.
"You are a capable woman, and Girl 2 need some help. Let's go make spaghetti."

Girl 2, my sweet sister, loves and teaches and loves and teaches.
"So, when the pot of noodles starts to boil over, I just lift it off the burner, like this."
"My grandma always says that it's important to eat well-balanced meals. She's good at having a side of vegetables with every meal, but sometimes I forget."
"To see if the green beans are done, I just bite one!"
"Here, you season the meat, just dump these spices in. It will taste great."

How does she love so sincerely and teach so graciously without sounding bossy?
I guess I'll never know... since I'm an oldest.




I pray, but I don't know how to pray.
I don't understand.

~~~

I remember other women I know.

One married to a man who desperately wanted a son. She infertile, he looked elsewhere. When questioned about his wife, he lied to another man. Twice. They never really settled. One year here, another year there. Suddenly, she looked around and realized she was old.
God, the One Who Knew her heart, changed her name and blessed her beautifully.

One a competent woman on the surface, homeowner of a house with a view. But the wealth came through what she most despised, prostitution. In a moment of crisis, she works against her own government.
God, the One Who Knew her heart, kept her safe, kept her family safe, and provided an out to a fresh town and a fresh life.

One beautiful young woman, already a widow. She experienced the debilitating loss of both her children. Leaving the home of these memories, she moves in with an angry woman, her mother-in-law. A below minimum-wage job provides bread, but not much else.
God, the One Who Knew her heart, sustained her. Caused a decent, kind sort of guy to become interested. It worked out between them. Her mother-in-law even brightened up after a while.

These women I don't know from college geography classes, soccer teams, or Moms' support groups. I know their stories from the living, breathing word of God.

When they sought God, He answered their hearts' cry.
He treasured them.
And they knew they were treasured.

I know a little better how to pray. At least, my prayers are full of hope.

Ignoring the Still, Small, "Smash the Alarm Clock" Voice

This morning I got out of bed two hours before my eight o’clock class… This was not a normal day, it was however a beautiful day. I stepped outside at 6:00 am into 60o weather and an amazing blazing orange sunrise. (Sounds like a marketing deal, “The Amazing Blazing Orange Surprise!”)

I went to the gym for a little while, but instead of running on the track I decided to run outside, it was after all, irresistible. I spit in the creek, kicked some ducks, and got some clarity for the first time since… since the last time I got up or stayed up early enough to see a sunrise. After a leisurely breakfast and a tall frosty glass o’
OJ, I decided to write this note.

My goal? To get you pumped enough to ignore the still small voice that says “SMASH THE ALARM CLOCK!” every morning at seven. Instead, set it back in time and cruise outside.

"What a brilliant idea!" I said to myself. I was still quite happy about my morning revelation until I got to psychology class, borrowed Brittany’s text book, and flipped it open to study.

Right there, in some inanely brilliant coloured box (I’m just bitter)
“At around 20 years old, most people begin to make the switch from being an evening ‘owl’ to being a morning ‘lark’”

Gosh… how old am I anyways? Turning nineteen in may...

I felt very predictable. I was so sure I had invented something. It almost made me want to stop getting up in the mornings.

Almost.

B-L-O-G: A Guest Post

Blog...

You're kidding. Is this a real word. Apparently so.

When in doubt, google it, right?

So here's the abbreviated version of my research on the origin of this word. Ready? It's just "weblog", cut and pasted, missing the first two letters in transition.

But you must understand something. In one short evening, in spite of it's ridiculously uninviting sound as it rolls of the tongue (go ahead, say it out loud... blog), I have fallen in love with this word. Why?

Let's rewind a bit to gain perspective. I'm a grandmother. In order to attain this rewarding and prestigious status, I first was conceived, then born, then grew through childhood, was married, had 6-way intersections, then one of them finally came through for me, providing me with this new-fangled identity. You can imagine just how many years this must have taken (mind your p's and q's, now, you young whipper-snapper).

A short number of years ago, my short people gave me a long introduction to basic applications of our computer using short words and long sighs. The long and the short of it lead, amazingly, to acquiring my own computer, my own e-mail account, and the ever-hesitant toe-dipping and occasional wading into the quieter waters of the world wide web. I always thought spiders were creepy.

Now, fast forward to the "I'm a grandmother" part again. You can always identify a grandma, because they use outdated words like "dial" the phone, "type" a letter, "rewind" or "fast forward" a conversation, or "That Suzie is a 'carbon copy' of her mother!" This is because we lived, laughed, and loved way back in the days of dial phones, typewriters, and VCRs. Some of us even have fond memories of using a razor blade to correct a mistake we made while typing with carbon paper between two sheets of typing paper. Eat your heart out, Xerox! (That's grandma-speak).

So, where was I? Oh yes! Blog. Did I tell you that I'm in love with the word blog?

Legally, I'm not supposed to write for 6-Way Intersection because I'm not one of them. But in the true spirit of the law, do me a small favor... humor their mother.

Imagine walking into the kitchen, rummaging through the drawer, withdrawing a can opener and a fork, reaching for a can of something with a label you don't recognize. Hmmm, you think, as the seal pops and hisses, then creaks as the lid is misshapen and bent backward. Smells delicious.... and then you taste....

You outsiders who occasionally tune in to 6-Way Intersection for a good read may enjoy what you find. But to me, it is infinitely more.

It fills my heart with a thankfulness that I cannot begin to express with words... to see my own children, my own flesh and blood, pour the contents of their hearts into words on a blog that lift praises to their Creator and Saviour, that search the depths of souls, that draw tears of joy and laughter, and words that offer the wwworld an invitation to the same.

Thank you, my 6 little intersections. I am so richly blessed. Listen to Jesus... and keep blogging.

I love you.

Mom

........ and don't forget to wash behind your ears and change your socks and say please and thank you. Some things never go out of style.