6 Way Intersection

Irish Inspiration

2010-11-07T18:00:00.000-08:00

I was trying to think of what I should create for a history assignment about a church in Ireland. I knew I wanted to paint, but I couldn't see the painting in my mind. It was getting late and I was tired of trying to think about it, so I just went to bed.

I had a dream that I walked into an art gallery and saw a painting that I thought looked right for my assignment. Then girl 2 shook me awake. I could still see the painting in my mind. This is what came out of my paintbrush...

girl 3

Thinking Deep on a Drive

2010-09-22T16:39:00.000-07:00

The other day while I was driving and I started thinking about the people in life I respect the most.

Why do I admire them so much? What was it about them I appreciated so much that made them stand out from all the rest of the people I know?

Then I began thinking of who in life has had the greatest influence on me. People that I have wanted to emulate, be like, copy--even become. Why did I want to become them? Had I?

Humility. Of the traits I found myself both admiring and desiring to imitate in my own life, what stood out to me was that many of the people I loved so much are humble. What does that even mean?

"God created the world out of nothing, and as long as we are nothing, He can make something out of us." -Martin Luther

Luke 22:26 says "The greatest among you should be like the youngest, and the one who rules like the one who serves."

This verse might as well have never left the original language it was written in. It has for the last twenty-two years of my life had absolutely no bearing on my life whatsoever. I'm sure every time I've ever read or heard that verse spoken it has had little or no weight on my heart. Now I look at it and wonder, how do you live like that?

How can I, a naturally selfish person who out of impulse looks for the shortest line, changes lanes frequently and ends prayers quickly because I'm hungry even BEGIN to understand what this means?

Luke 5:8 Peter cries out "Go away from me, Lord; I am a sinful man" which is how I've lived my entire life.

It is the fullness of the Spirit that makes me take in Christ and live as if He is in my life. Not anything I do.

Andrew Murray writes, "...the reality is that external teaching and personal effort are powerless to conquer pride or create the meek and lowly heart in a person."

Jesus came as a man not to be served, but to serve. That is key. The connection I am beginning to realize is that it is not through my own empowerment I am redeemed, but through riding the wake of Christ that I begin to realize what humility truly means.

I have been given a tremendous gift of grace, a learning curve in life that allows me to pursue relentlessly becoming exactly it is that Jesus has for me to be. Unlike drag racing, I do not have a straight line I need to adhere to, but instead the freedom of the law to live in. I can chase after becoming a godly man and discovering what it is God has for me without worry that I'm going to mess things up or fall short.

It isn't about the end goal, it's about the journey. It's about following Him moment by moment.

James 4:6 says "God opposes the proud." This directly affects and deals with me, as I am by nature of my humanity, prideful. But this is not a stand alone statement. "God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble." And it is there I must live.

I suck at the daily tasks of submission. Serving, praying, thinking about holy things, these things don't come naturally to me. But God delights in me, His child, somehow anyway. I am promised this, told this, shown this, and time and time again reminded that it isn't about me. It isn't about me.

It isn't about me.

It's to the glory of God.

Donald English says in his book The Message of Mark, "At the source of all Christian service in the world is the crucified and risen Lord who died to liberate us into such service." Our service then, my service, is not what brings about humility. It is the act following the submission of my heart to His, recognizing that I am not deserving of any pride. None.

I cannot serve my way out of this prideful hole my life so often exists in.

Instead, I need to recognize my position as recipient to a huge kingdom, my place being to serve that kingdom and in as many ways as possible, effectively communicate the love and sacrifice that Jesus is to our hurting world.

What I have admired most in the people I respect are their humility, how effectively they communicate, how often they choose to serve, and their love they have for others.

These things come from a perfect Savior who promises the same to me. I can become what I see and long for.

It starts with the decision to realize with humility that I have been given much; many opportunities to serve, many chances to love, and more than both combined to live the way Jesus has asked me to.

Originally posted by guy1 at tastedangerouslyrandom

Tableux from Ephesians

2010-08-26T16:02:00.000-07:00

Jesus Christ, standing in the corner of a thistly, barren field, arms outstretched, holding uplifted a single living structure, his church. (Ephesians 2:19-22)

~~~

Angel rulers focusing, peering into this living church, amazed to see the many-faceted wisdom of God on exhibit. (Ephesians 3:10)

~~~

Dead men wandering about the field, following a prince of the air. Chasing after each want of their flesh, each self-centered desire, each sick curiosity. (Ephesians 2:1-3)

~~~

The Father, rich in mercy, reaches in and lifts a man out of death and into life in his church with Christ. And another. And another... (Ephesians 2:4-10)

~~~

Christ loves, washing his church with the water of his word, cherishing her by smoothing every wrinkle of her garments. (Ephesians 5:25-27)

~~~

Now, fully loved by Christ, we choose to walk as though we are indeed fully loved.

Hidden sexual immorality, impurity, consuming thoughts of what does not belong to us, crude talk and thoughts... once part of our every day life, now we expose. We now bring these into the light to melt. We choose to walk as ones fulfilled by light, not darkness. We choose to walk as ones cherished. (Ephesians 5:1-15)

photo © RPE 2010

In Love? Wear a Tribal Symbol

2010-08-05T10:35:00.000-07:00

Why do they do it?

Good question.

Every person above the age of 37 has wondered that completely original thought since facial jewelry started to come with an "imbedded" option.

Ears, nose, cheeks, ears, lips, chin, tongue, eyebrows, ears...it can all become a strange and wonderfully magnificent meeting place for all types of metallic and plastic infection inducing works of human art. (The word “ears” is used three times because there are three times as many places in your ears to pierce than the whole rest of your face combined.)

I often wondered why on earth people of a non-ethnic minority chose to wear bones in their nose and ears. You know, the curved ones that are pointed on either end...sometimes big, sometimes bigger.

Then it came to me. They were simply hopeless romantics.

Yes, the kids walking around jingling like Christmastime in enough metal material to subdue a small country were chivalrous, idyllic, imaginary dreamers.

The cartilage-like matter dangling from their faces and ears meant they were in love.

“Sweetheart, I will love you with every bone in my body.”

Thats what they told their girlfriends. Every one of them, scared that they wouldn't be able to give enough love, added just a few more bones to their bodies.

Notice, no one actually asks these kids why they have chosen these piercings, for fear the individual will take out their iPod headphones and have an intelligent conversation with them, shattering their stereotype of the subculture.

I've had my lip pierced... in the same spot. Three times.

“Why did you do that?” you ask. Well, its like this.

I don't really know.

I'll list responses in order that I think them up.

1. There was something comforting in the knowledge that I was never to be bored again, having endless entertainment there at my lips. It was like a friend just waiting to be played with.

2. After getting it, I had to change the way that I spoke to allow for the irregularity on the left side of my mouth, and after taking it out each time, it threw me off completely.

3. “Dance, Dance,
We're falling apart to half time
Dance, Dance
And these are the lives you'd love to lead
Dance, this is the way they'd love...”

4.The ability to psyche people out when I had it by conversing intelligently with them made my day every time.

But that is the perspective of a guy with one big logical fallacy for a brain.

When He Speaks

2010-07-29T09:37:00.000-07:00

There are many questions that the Bible does not answer. It doesn't disclose what God thought about Abram sending his servant to choose a wife for his son. It doesn't say whether the animals hibernated or raised a ruckus on the ark (or whether they had babies). It doesn't foretell the year that Jesus will sweep the church off her feet.

When my ESV Study Bible reminded me to search for what the Bible does say, instead of what it doesn't, I was slightly surprised, then relieved. With this refreshing view, Genesis 1 fit hand in hand with John 1.

Question: How does God create new life?
Answer: Genesis 1
He speaks. He says out loud, "Fruit trees," and there are figs, peaches, and starfruit (Gen. 1:11). He speaks, "Swarms of Living Creatures in the Sea," and there are orcas, swordfish, and electric eels (Gen. 1:20-21).
(For a pictureful, well-told story, try the "Jesus Storybook Bible".)

Q: How does God create new life?
Answer: John 1
He speaks. He gives his Word (John 1:1-5, 9-11). His Word, his action, his reaching out and speaking to man, is his Son (Heb. 1:1-2). And in people who receive his Word, his Son, he creates new life (John1:12-13).

To Him who is the same yesterday, today, and forever (Heb 13:8).

photo © RPE 2009

Montana

2010-06-25T15:11:00.001-07:00

Montana
by Girl 3

Over PBJ and Carrots

2010-05-29T14:40:00.000-07:00

How Joshua (2) prayed over PBJ and carrots this noon,

"Dear God, Thank you for God. Thank you. Amen."

May I pray this way sometimes too.

Lunch

2010-04-28T11:00:00.000-07:00

I've just walked past nine booths lined up on either side of me displaying the pictures of hungry, dirty children with the most beautiful eyes and smiles you could ever hope to see. In our marketing culture of small payment plans, redit lines, sex appeal and sales that draw us in, at the heart of it all is our culture. We are a culture that spends. We buy comfort, love, health, laughs, counseling sessions and new movies.

Hand-in-hand with every taste or preference you have is an opportunity to serve or an outreach to join with. If you want to build a well, adopt a child, buy incredible photographs to support a given cause or travel the world in service, the opportunities are there. On this planet with networking now so extensive I can identify with someone four states away who just posted an update about doing their taxes at the last second possible just like I did, there is literally a limitless, infinite number of available chances to serve or give.

We pull up in our Buick Rendezevous careful to park with an even space nest to both sides of the vehicle, get out and lock it with the push of a button, then go inside the Youth Ministry Conference to get our badge for the week. We walk by the ministry tables and smile courteously, making a mental note to avoid that section of the conferencing area from now on. I glanced then walked by to lunch, and so, so many people reacted that way.

Jesus said "there will always be the poor." This may or may not surprise you, but He was speaking the truth. I contend, however, that He was not providing an escape route. We are not called to serve everyone in the world tirelessly and care about every single outreach, He was also clear about that. We are given specific gifts, passions, intuitions and abilities. But what Jesus did say, and what I saw a startling lack of, is compassion.

"Caring" and "getting involved" are not synonymous with compassion. Compassion is sincere, scriptural, and an aspect of our faith that is both unique and powerful. What does it look like to be compassionate, to have compassion for those who hunger for and need it more than a well, medical help or an education? Every single answer to life as we need is found in the bible, and we have it as an open book to refer to as often as we like, no holds barred. That should be where we learn to sift through hundreds of organizations, thousands of people passionate about them, and the millions of needs that are represented. What is it that God is calling me to, how can I encourage these people and what they do? How can I use the gifts I've been given for His glory and learn how to become more compassionate and full of grace?

I saw many people give the booths they walked by the same look I imagine they give homeless people asking for a dollar, and it was so apparent the difference between what a hardened heart looks like and what compassion comes across as. A hardened heart shuts out each booth and makes the person feel a slight twinge of guilt as they walk by and later push a button to unlock their 2009 SUV. A compassionate heart sees the unity in Jesus through grace and is open and honest as they interact with the individuals who are so drawn to those needs, joining them in prayer and through fellowship with the Holy Spirit whether or not they adopt a child for $38.00 a month.

originally posted by Guy 1 on Taste Dangerously Random

Medicine Cabinet Mistakes

2010-04-19T11:34:00.000-07:00

Grammy Morgan was 85 years old the day she told me "I learn something new ev'ry day".

Here's what I learned this week:

#1) Don't keep the Desitin next to the toothpaste.

#2) When the two year old has a sunburn on his neck, double check to make sure you've grabbed the small bottle of clear aloe, not the small bottle of clear hand sanitizer.

Boring? No. Insightful? Yes.

2010-03-12T16:17:00.000-08:00

Book Look

In the Name of Jesus: Reflections on Christian Leadership

I stereotype books about the Christian life as boring, but I loved In the Name of Jesus from the introduction. It is honest, simply worded, and encouraging. Six pages later, the book started scaring me.

Challenge...

The biggest hurdles I had to overcome while reading the book were the same things that prevent me from showing love: relevance and wealth. One of the main themes of the book is resisting relevance. On the other hand, one of the main themes of popular Christianity is embracing relevance. Nouwen sees relevance as a way to hide behind one's own accomplishments and abilities. Giving that up means being vulnerable and unattractive, but it also defeats prejudices that prevent us from loving. It is very true in my own life that relevance leads to prejudice.

I read relevant magazine. I choose friends that listen to my music, dress like me, and talk like me, because that is what I value. Nouwen challenges that the love of God and the needs of people have to be enough. When Nouwen says that "the Christian leader of the future needs to be radically poor, journeying with nothing except a staff (84), it makes me nervous. Case in point: there is a Godly, pleasant, pretty girl of my acquaintance that I have no interest in dating. Why? Because she is madly in love with Kenya and has no desire to stay in America. Of this, my flesh is afraid. Nouwen convinced me of this when he wrote that "the servant-leader is the leader who is being led to unknown, undesirable, and painful places." (81).

Temptation...

My family jokes in church that the pastor has bugged our house when he chooses the topic that dominated our week. In the same way, Nouwen seems to have a direct line to my brain. The temptations that he described are the same that plague me.

He sounds like a psalmist pouring out frustration as he writes, "I have found over and over again how hard it is to be truly faithful to Jesus when I am alone" (85). This truth has especially painful consequences in my life because I am an introvert: People drain my battery, even happy people. Every time I get alone, though, I have to deal with myself. Therefore I fear quiet times. I fear what I need the most.

Brokenness...

Sufjan Stevens sings a song about the serial killer John Wayne Gacy Junior. The last line sung as the music fads is, "In my best behavior, I am really just like him. Look beneath the floorboards for the secrets I have hid." It is a truth I should not hide, I am broken. How I fight against my quiet sins is for me to confess them. "Future leaders... must always be persons always willing to confess their own brokenness and ask for forgiveness from those to whom they minister" (64). In context of his own Catholicism, he clarified that confession to one's own priest is not enough. The people I serve need to know who I am.

Encouragment...

In the Name of Jesus gave me a vision for how things could be. Random statements he made reached inside of me and made me joyful.

"We are sinful, broken, vulnerable people who need as much care as anyone we care for" (62).

This admission of his feels like chains dropping off my ankles.

"Through contemplative prayer we can keep ourselves from being pulled from one urgent issue to another and from becoming strangers to our own heart and God's heart" (43).

Prayer: time spent walking directly toward Jesus

Shocking, Indeed

2010-03-04T16:29:00.000-08:00

Dear James,

I picked up your letter, sir, because I remembered you having mentioned something about holding one's tongue and a brief introductory bit of encouragement to get through trials. This morning, however, your first three paragraphs gave me quite a shock.

Must you say "trials of various kinds" (James 1:2-4)? I can imagine stealthily paddling a river boat through a closed country in Southeast Asia, smuggling a Bibles that have covers made to resemble some nationalist propaganda, getting bitten by a mosquito, and counting that itchy spot joy for the sake of the gospel. It's quite another story when you insist I consider my husband's lack of full-time work hours, my uncle's pancreatitis, and the daily bout with dishes and laundry... joy. When I am expecting, I routinely lose my breakfast, lunch, and supper and most of the water I drink for four months, then lose just my breakfast for another four. (I don't expect you to understand this, obviously never having been in that condition yourself). I assure you, it is most uncomfortable. Am I to consider this joy as well? You say that this testing of my faith brings steadfastness (James 1:3-4). I am accustomed to spending more time thinking about the trials themselves and less time thinking of what those trials could produce in my faith.

You recommend asking God for wisdom, if I lack it (James 1:5-8). Alright, I concede. I do lack it. However, in the past, I have found it most expedient to first ask my friends at sewing group and my husband. Their answers are prompt, and require less searching the Word and waiting than His. This will require quite a change of habit.

Your third paragraph was a bit easier to digest, "Let the lowly brother boast in his exaltation, and the rich..." (James 1:9-11). Of courseI read this from the perspective of a "lowly brother", or at least, a "middle-class brother". We live in two bedroom, 1,000 square foot home, certainly not in the best neighborhood. I only occasionally shop for clothes, and then only at second-hand stores. I am not at all discontent with being...
Oh! Please excuse me. I've just looked up some statistics that rather change my view. Apparently, in our current situation, my family is more wealthy than most of the families in Estonia, Czech Republic, Poland, Lithuania, India, Japan, Denmark, Mozambique, South Africa, and approximately 200 other countries. From this, I assume you would consider me one of the rich (James 1:11)? As I read on, I will try to read with this understanding, then.

Your letter is well worth reading, in spite of your affront to my pride. However, I think three paragraphs at a time is enough to set me reeling.

Sincerely Yours

Wonder

2010-02-19T15:00:00.001-08:00

Thoughts well worth reading
Written by Aunt Joyce

I sat beside her just a week ago at our last meeting of Solemn Assembly. I turned to her and said: I love you, Nancy. She looked at me and said: I love you, too, Joyce.

A few days later she was in the Father’s House. ‘Eye has not seen nor ear heard, neither has entered into the heart of man the things which God has prepared for those who love Him….’

Unaccustomed to the dazzling light of Glory, so lately come was she

From earth’s dark labyrinths of shadows,

With eyes of wonder, she beholds the beauties

Of celestial majesty spread out before her;

With heart so full of indescribable delight

She hears the sounds of harmony she’s never heard before!

But wait – What now does her eye behold?

The Wonder has centered in the light-filled eyes of One she knows and loves

Yet Who up to now she has not seen - except with the eye of Faith!

With awe and worship she gazes upon His Holy Beauty,

Such love overwhelms her soul, she listens to a Voice as of many waters, saying:

Welcome Home! You have come, He said, in answer to My call.

For your delight and joy in every way, these things have been prepared –

Things your earthbound mind could not imagine but which now you see and hear.

Look and listen and glory in their beauty for they are yours because - you love Me.

But wait, that’s not all, He said, My brightest jewels are coming through the gate!

Come with me and see the precious eager crowd of My children there.

They have just arrived from Haiti and I wanted you

To stand with Me and welcome them Home!

They’ve come through trauma and loss of all around them

To the Heavenly Home of warmth and joy and fulfillment at last;

Where hunger and sorrow, earthquakes and tsunamis, cannot touch them ever again.

And so she stands, with arms outstretched beside her Saviour;

In awe she contemplates the Salvation He has completed for His own.

She gathers to her heart these little ones once lost and far from God.

For He has called them, too, from living in the Shadowland outside the Gate

Into the Reality of His presence – into the Fulness of Life in His Father’s House.

Together they raise their voices in Praise to Him!

With such multitudes streaming through my Gate just now, He said, I wanted you

To join my welcome Team – to stand with me to greet my other sheep whom I love,

To hug the little ones, to reach out a healing hand to my wounded ones –

To watch with me as they become strong and whole in My Presence.

Yes, she said, there is no greater joy than to be a ‘ministering angel’

In the courts of my Lord! My heart responds to His voice –

This is what I’ve been practicing for lo, those many years on earth!

To serve Him in His heavenly Kingdom is my highest calling.

I fall in worship and praise at the feet of my Lord.

Amen! Blessed in the eyes of the Lord is the death (Homecoming) of His saints!

written by Joyce Wiebe ~ at 2 a.m., Friday, January 15, 2010 ~ for Nancy who has gone from the Shadowlands into the shining Presence of His Glory

Chamber Music in a Barn

2010-02-09T17:27:00.000-08:00

Swashbuckling Heroes

2010-02-03T22:09:00.001-08:00

“And the people of Israel did what was evil in the sight of the Lord and served the Baals. And they abandoned the Lord, the God of their Fathers, who had brought them out of the land of Egypt. They went after other gods, from among the gods of the peoples who were around them, and bowed down to them...” Judges 2:11-12

So the Lord gave the Israelites over to plunderers, who did what plunderers do best… plunder. The Israelites fought back in their own strength. And lost. Several times.

“Enough!” they cried, “We want you back, Lord, save us.” The Lord listened. (This phrase shocks me whenever I see it in the living Word). The Lord listened.

The Lord chose judges to rescue his people. Judges beat back the enemies of the people of Israel… sometimes with a two edged sword, sometimes with an oxgoad, sometimes with jars and torches. If ever you know a twelve year old boy looking for a book of violent adventure, he need look no further.

But as I am older than twelve, and never was a boy, the pattern becomes discouraging.

“Whenever the Lord raised up judges for them, the Lord was with the judge, and he saved them from the hand of their enemies all the days of the judge. For the Lord was moved to pity by their groaning because of those who afflicted and oppressed them. But whenever the judge died, they turned back and were more corrupt than their fathers, going after other gods, serving them and bowing down to them. They did not drop any of their practices or their stubborn ways.” Judges 2:16-19

The judges were swashbuckling heroes. They rescued the people of Israel time and time again from their enemies. But that’s all they could do. The judges couldn’t rescue the people of Israel from their own corrupt hearts. In the end, it seems the judges couldn’t even save their own hearts from corruption. Disobeying God, falling for wives of the bad guys, it’s what judges do. Gideon got my hopes up. Humble, hospitable… but that was in the beginning of his story. In the end Gideon’s son slaughters 68 of his other sons.

The accounts of these judges leave my soul feeling bleak. How can one rescue other when he cannot rescue himself? This question pushes me upwards for a breath above the surface. One does rescue me. “For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.” 2 Cor. 5:21

Lullaby for the Innocents

2010-01-21T21:20:00.000-08:00

Lullaby for the Innocents
© 1989 Birdwing Music

(never to be sung)

Hear now a lullaby
You'll never hear
For your life was something
That wasn't held dear
You need not a lullaby
For you do not weep
Nor love's arms to hold you
In death you do sleep

What your life might have been
We'll never know
A miracle happened
But there's nothing to show
We're left with this sorrow
But hope all the same
That in heaven there's Someone
Who knows you by name

From the Mind of 1884

2010-01-19T15:41:00.000-08:00

This Christmas my brother and I drove from Washington to Montana. During our trip we sang songs, took turns driving, argued about the effect of autotuning on the music industry and it's downfalls/benefits, drank energy drinks, sang anthems loudly, peered through a snowy windshield, yelled at passing semi-trucks, and actually used the restroom maybe twice for the whole eight hundred miles, a topic of great pride.
One of our stops was a ten minute drive back the way we came off an exit to find a rumored bookstore.
We found it.
Upon arriving at the front door that jingled merrily, we saw floor to ceiling every square foot of the place covered in books. Treasures. Invaluable and intoxicatingly joyful treasures.
We dispersed, went our separate directions, and dove headlong into the past. An hour later I emerged with one of my most prized finds. See, since dating this incredible girl who has all but renewed my fire for reading and literature as well as old books, I found a gem among the dime novels, outdated text books, and editions of past National Geographic. It was titled "the Human Body and It's Health" by "Smith." Copyright: 1884. Marked in penciled old lady handwriting was the price "7.95" on the inside cover.
She took five dollars.
I walked away with my heart light and my hand filled with a tiny little "reader" for elementary students of the past, a surprisingly well versed and detailed overall entailing of the human body.
I will share with you a short paragraph titled "Effect of Alcohol and Tobacco."

"Section V. --1. By the action of alcohol, muscle is sometimes changed, in part, to fat. It thus becomes flabby and feeble. Alcohol affects the muscles indirectly, by affecting the digestion and the blood, and so spoiling their nourishment. The athlete training for a prize, knows well, that, if he indulges freely in alcoholic drinks, he will surely fail to bring his muscles to a hard and vigorous condition. Total abstinence from alcohol and tobacco is important for his success.
2. Firm and active muscles are desirable for every one. The boy who thinks it manly to smoke, is, by doing so, lessening that muscular power which is an admirable and manly possession. The pale faces, dull eyes, and flabby limbs which this practice tends to produce, give no sign of manliness. It is true that men distinguished for strength of body are often users of intoxicating drinks or tobacco. But it is also true that such men frequently become diseased, and die before their time. They have squandered the powers which nature has given them."

I found the article surprising and concise...even if the science behind it was only speculated, not proven.
Be ye warned, young males: drinking makes for flab.
Flab just isn't sexy.
Nor is dying of disease.

At least we know Harry Truman, John McCormack and Eleanor Roosevelt weren't born from drunks in 1884 with this quality education being taught in New York and Chicago at the time.
The world needs more little green elementary reader books and less Ludacris lyrics about "gin and juice."
Well, maybe. Or maybe it's that back in the day people were tough.
Like...I would so not mess with this group of people. They could all totally outrun my flab, and I rarely, rarely touch the stuff.

Post-note. I can't be certain, but I think the subliminal messaging behind this elementary reader is that if you drink or smoke, these people in the above picture will come back from the past and point their finger at you.
Drink and smoke at your own discretion.

Kangaroos and Buffalo

2009-12-02T15:38:00.000-08:00

My imagination has always been, and is to this day, a ravenous beast in a peaceful wood that will never be silenced.
Take a left off the highway and go along the main drive through town eventually making several turns. It is here you’ll find the “Barn House.”
We lived in a two story house with features that for some reason my older sister and I attributed to a barn. And so it was called the Barn House. I’m twenty-one now, and to this day we will refer to that particular home as the “Barn House.”
There were always next door neighbors. It wasn’t until I was in high school and learning to separate myself voluntarily in attitude and behavior from the normal world that I learned the practice of knowing and being friends with one’s neighbors was decidedly unpopular.
These neighbors had a son my age, and we did stuff together. All the time. Or not that often. I can never remember.
He wore a red shirt sometimes. I think.
His mom was a short lady and had curly hair.
Their house was blue.
And there was definitely a stone wall, about two and a half feet tall that divided our property and theirs.

Dad owned a garage door company, and it was in the early years of its becoming…whatever it is that companies become.
This meant that since we had little-to-no warehouse space for the doors, we stored them in racks in our garage. Dad had a small office located somewhere else he left for to go to work each day.
When I was six, he came home one day and wearing his signature Hawaiian shirt and khaki slacks, sat me down on our blue, felty-feeling couch with big buttons all over and said “Jimmy, I’ve got some pretty exciting news.”
This had to be important. Really important. I know ‘cause Mom was sitting across from me with the camera all ready.
My older sister put her pencil down and completely abandoned the homeschool math sheet she was working on. She could add seventeen minutes to three-thirty pm later.
Dad wasn’t mad at Jimmy, and her eight year-old mind didn’t already know what Dad was going to say, so she had to listen.

“Well Jimmy, one of my customers wanted a garage door. But this was no regular customer, this guy had a very special job. He goes to work every day and takes tourists for helicopter rides up the side of Mauna Kea and takes them right over the volcano.”
My Dad probably said more. I’m guessing what followed was he told me about how the customer traded him a helicopter ride for part of the payment for his garage door. I’m sure my Dad told me when we were going, and that it was at least several days away. There is no doubt in my mind that my sister waited until the opportune moment when she and Mom were alone in the kitchen, then she asked her how come Dad was taking me and not her, and she maybe even cried about it.
All I know is the seconds flew by and then I was dressed in my favorite Sher-kahn t-shirt from the jungle book that a Vietnamese lady who lived in an apartment building made for me, climbing into the cockpit of a helicopter.
Another second or two and I was adjusting my headphones, telling Dad and the pilot that I could hear them both.
Then we were moving smoothly over hundreds of acres of grass and cattle. Roads, tiny little cars and pretend-looking buildings passing relentlessly below.
To this day I’ll swear I saw kangaroos and buffalo. I can see them in my mind just as I did the day we flew over them on our way to the Volcano. I only wish they existed.
Then we were there. I could see the smoke rising angrily, billowing dark and other-worldly from the most deadly and dangerous thing a little boy’s mind could conceive of.
Lava was more dangerous than the ocean.
People died in lava.
We were at the edge of the volcano. I could see it bubbling and spurting orange and red liquid fire out at me. What if it burned a hole in the plane.
In a horrified, fascinated panic I gripped the arm at the edge of my seat and leaned back from the window.
The pilot was going right over the lava.
“Whoa, its getting pretty hot in here, can you feel that Jimmy?” I could feel it. I could smell certain death below. We were going to die. People died in lava. We were right over it and the pilot was steering us so that now we were totally over the lava. What if the helicopter stopped spinning and we dropped into it? Me and Dad were gonna die. And the pilot too.
“Wanna go down a little closer to the lava?”
“No Dad!”
The laughs in my headphones were no competition for the loudness of my imagination.
I didn’t want to die. Other people already died in that lava down there, and Dad wanted to go closer!
I could feel it all over my skin as I sank into it. It felt just like the jacuzzi I got into at the hotel before one time. Then a security guard came over and told Dad no kids allowed in it, so Bethany and I had to go play in the pool while Dad got to talk with the older tourist people from Canada with funny accents.

Somewhere a gasp and another dip in the rotors later, we landed at the airfield in Waimea. It was cold and rainy, fog covered the small private airstrip we drove away from. I was cold and numb from my mind out to my still crawling skin.
We had flown over the Volcano.

Dad had done what the imagination of a little boy could not have conceived in a million little boy years.
My sister graduated first, married first, and had the first grandchild.

But I flew over the Volcano.

Einstein, Ann of Green Gables, and Hurricane Katrina

2009-11-15T20:39:00.000-08:00

After looking around at the house, I settled on the couch for a delicious read. I knew this weekend stay with friends would be refreshing. The air was becoming fresher by the moment as the sun stretched its long arms across the valley. It was going to be a gorgeous autumn day; I could feel it.

When my neck stopped cramping from viewing the sunrise over the sofa back, I heard the bathroom door slam. A small boy hummed “How Great is Our God”. A few seconds later the toilet flushed and the wordless tune turned to a yodel. Bare feet padded slowly toward the living room making propeller sounds between choruses. I watched as the mighty ship battled the waves and I listened as the captain reassured the first mate that he had complete control over the boat in the awful storm. Mid-sentence, the captain broke out in song, “How gre-e-e-a-a-a-t-t-t is our God… Brrrrrr-vroomvroom-brrrrrrrrrrr-put-put-put-brrrrrrrr-put-jdjdjdjssshhh. Oh no! We’re out of gas, Captain! Quick, turn her around…Sing with me-e-e-e-e, how gre-e-e-a-a-a-t-t-t is our God…”

At this point, Gary was with in a few feet of my living room observatory and still did not know I was in the vicinity. So, not wanting to scare him, I quietly said his name. He jerked and looked at the door, puzzled. I repeated his name. This time he found me and ran over with a grin, “Wow. Hi there. I didn’t even know you were here; you’re pretty quiet. Why are you here? How long are you going to be here anyways? Can you sleep in my room? What are you reading? Is that a big-kid book? I can read SOME big-kid books but not the big-kid books that have really long words. Like this long (showing hands a foot apart). I bet I could read that book. Hey! Maybe you could read it to me!”

Thus, my weekend with a 7 year old, a 5 year old, and a 2 year old began. When I say 7, 5, and 2, don’t think of kids. Think of Einstein and Leonardo De Vinci mashed together, given red fruit punch, and told to stay inside an unsuspecting 7 year old boy. Think of Anne of Green Gables and Lucille Ball enslaved by Cinderella’s stepmother, given one room to share, and told to stay inside a theatrical 5 year old girl. Think of the Three Stooges and hurricane Katrina handcuffed side to side, given boxing gloves, and told to stay inside a brilliant 2 year old bundle of rosy cheeks, spring, and giggles.

After breakfast on the first day, they taught me how to write Egyptian hieroglyphics and we made secret letters to each other. I gave 5 year old Penny her letter and she asked me to read it to her. It said something along the lines of, “Dear Penny, How are you? I am fine. I like staying at your house. Love, D”. She strutted around the kitchen reading the letter to herself; a letter which was probably no longer from me but from some prince far away who was wholly devoted to her.

Gary and Penny sat resembling gargoyles while I read them “20,000 Leagues Under the Sea”. Every nanosecond or so, little Paige would punch the book out of my fingers so I could see her face. Each time she was more thrilled with herself than the last.

Finally, I dodged her tiny fist, “Paige, it’s time for you to do something else now. Right now I am reading to Gary and Penny. Later on I will play with you.” She immediately raised her eyebrows to unbelievable heights and pointed at my lap, “Me?” “No, Paige. You can’t sit in my lap right now.” She bounced off the couch and proceeded to point at each item in the room that she could lift her saying, “Me? Me?” All the while raising her eyebrows and cocking her head. When she found that I said “No.” too many times, she sat down to shatter the hopes and dreams of the captain and first mate.

Later that afternoon, I had to go to work and went to the bathroom to get ready. I got dressed, put up my hair with one of those huge clips that looks like a claw and opened the door. Right outside was my little 5 year old friend looking starry eyed and wistful. She looked me up and down saying “Oh!” and making big motions with her hands. The inspection ended with her asking me to turn around and kneel. I did as she asked and was rewarded with a tiny shriek of excitement. “Oh,” she squealed for the 11^th time, “I love your hair. It looks so professional! Can you do my hair like that?” I checked my watch, “Sure, but we’ll have to do it fast. I have to go soon.” “Ok.” She hurriedly searched through her mother’s hair-thing box trying to be as businesslike as possible. Finding what she wanted, she ran back to me. I did up her hair as fast as I could while she expressed how lovely it was and how her mom was going to be astonished by how professional she looked. Her mother was very impressed, so Penny marched through the house proclaiming that she was a professional now. She ended our hairdressing appointment with a request for me to let her help me work at the office. Unfortunately, that didn't work out.

After many different escapades with the three, I came to a conclusion; Gary builds a masterpiece, Penny writes its life story, and Paige owns it.

Dewdrops turn Factories into Fluffy Clouds

2009-10-20T13:38:00.000-07:00

Life from a different vantage point

Dewdrops turn factories into fluffy clouds

Cameras turn fields into photographs

Sunshine is sneaky

Islands don't live only in oceans

My room and metaphysics have a barely cordial relationship

A Letter to Faith

2009-10-17T14:16:00.000-07:00

Dear little Faith,

Hi my beautiful girl. Yesterday, you turned three weeks old, but it seems like you've been in my heart forever. What it it like, being plunged from darkness into oh-so-bright light? Were you surprised how solid and colorful everything seemed? There's no going back to the dark, squishy place, you know, even if you want to.
We've got a lot to walk through, you and I. You see, I've never had a little girl before and I don't quite know what I'm doing. Sometimes I'll be grumpy and glare and say things I shouldn't. Sometimes you'll be grumpy and glare and say things you shouldn't. Then we'll have to forgive each other and start fresh again.
I want to know you, and I want you to know me, but mostly, I want you to know my Jesus. He's worth knowing. There's so much I want to tell you about Him, but we've got time; I'll be your mom for quite a while! I love you, daughter.
Guess what? I pray for you every day. I pray for you to rest, I pray for you to be safe, but my strongest, deepest prayer is for you to one day give your whole heart to Jesus and let him make you fresh and new.

When you do, He'll say something like this:

Hi my beautiful girl. Your new heart is only one day old, but it seems like you've been in my heart forever (Jeremiah 31:3). What it it like, being plunged from darkness into oh-so-bright light (Ephesians 5:8)? Were you surprised how solid and colorful everything seemed (2 Corinthians 5:17)? There's no going back to the darkness, you know (Colossians 1:13-14).
We've got a lot to walk through, you and I (John 16:33). Don't be afraid, though, I know all things about you (Psalm 139:1-6). Sometimes people will still be grumpy with you and glare and say things they shouldn't (John 15:20). Sometimes you'll still be grumpy at people and glare and say things you shouldn't... Then you'll have to forgive each other and start fresh again (James 5:16, Luke 17:3-4).
I want to know you, and I want you to know me, but mostly, I want you to know my Jesus (Ephesians 3:17-21). He's worth knowing (Colossians 1:15-20). There's so much I want to tell you about Him, but we've got time; I'll be your Father for all eternity (1 John 5:17). I love you, daughter (Isaiah 54:10).

Mums in Season

2009-09-15T14:26:00.000-07:00

Taking a deep breath, there was the sound of denim on leather as he slid out of the bucket seat of his 1976 Chevy pickup. The door slammed hard, maybe just a little too hard.

Booted shoes laced up to the ankle plodded softly on the cemented walkway.
A single petal from the bouquet of Mums (her favorite flower) dropped to the ground unnoticed.
Somewhere several hundred yards to his left a frozen pine cone dropped with an echo that resonated over the frozen creek bed.

Almost there.
Heavy breathing.

He started to slow, realizing that it was cold outside.
His fingers tugged at the zipper that always seemed to catch halfway up his worn leather jacket.

Everyone he knew thought it was unhealthy for him to go and see her again, but he didn’t care. He had to. He’d promised her.
She was his everything. He lived for that smile, the laugh, the look in her eye that she kept special for him alone.
And every time he visited her, he got to see those again.

“Hello sweetheart. I missed you so much this week. So much happened that I haven’t gotten to tell you about.
Before I go any further though, here. I got these for you, I know they’re a little gone by, but they’re Mums. I had to."

“I was late to work again on Friday. Luckily Aaron didn’t say anything, but I know he noticed. He just gave me one of those smiles that said, 'lets not have this conversation.' I really like him, and I know you do too. You were so happy when I got that job, I remember you lit up like a Christmas tree and practically squeezed my lungs flat. Then you called all your family and everything…you’re amazing. You never fail to make me feel like the most important man in the world.”

“All the other men at work talk about how their wives gossip about them or nag all day. I got to come home every day to the most beautiful woman in the world with eyes that said I love you. You got excited with me, you made me laughed and laughed at my jokes, and your favorite thing was to just be with me.”

“I got a phone call from Christine the other day. She said she’s doing well, she likes college, and she’s taking a ton of hours but that there’s this guy that makes her take a break and go for a walk or to the movies every once in a while. I’ll have to get your opinion on him.”

“You are without a doubt the smartest, loveliest woman I know. If something big in my life happened, I couldn’t wait to come home and tell you about it because I wanted so badly to know what you thought about it.”

“I’m thinking about selling the truck. I know it was your favorite, but its getting old like us, and I’m going to need something more reliable soon. Especially since its winter time. Should I go with another truck or a car? Truck? Of course. Heh heh, the first truck I ever bought was because you told me it was attractive to see a man driving around in a truck. I’ll never know why you decided I should be your attractive man. Its not like I was in your league. I guess the truck was though.”

The sun had gone down and it had gotten eight degrees colder while he’d been talking to her, but he’d gotten much warmer.

On and on he spoke. And still she listened with her soft smile and eyes that held something special for him alone.

Eventually the flowers froze in his gloved hands, the scarf wrapped around his neck preserving him against the snow that had begun to fall.

The distant streetlights at the entrance glistened on her grave, reflecting on the iced-over tombstone that had her name, age, and favorite quote chiseled on its face.

Saying goodbye, he kissed the floral arrangement tenderly, then dropped them beside her.
Getting up off his knees, he trudged slowly through the wind that had just picked up, and head down, arms wrapped around his chest, headed back towards his truck that would go for sale in the morning.

As always, even though he knew instinctively what she’d say it was so important that he asked and heard her opinion.

He respected it more than anyone else’s in the world.

A solitary tear fell to the frozen ground.

The truck coughed once, then turned over and came to life with a roar.

Sheep in Deep Kimchi

2009-09-12T10:41:00.000-07:00

"Beep! Beep! Sheep in a jeep on a hill that's steep."
And so it begins.
A tale "guaranteed to tickle every reader's funny bone" according to Amazon's review.

Sheep in a Jeep has become a cornerstone of literature in our family. True story: when guy 1 (last month) wanted to send a gift to a girl he likes, he sent her not only Sheep in a Jeep, also Sheep on a Ship and the one and only Sheep out to Eat. Apparently, the books spoke friendship in a way roses never could.

Given the almost-two year old's affinity for farm animal noises, I thought the time was right. He could now appreciate Sheep in a Jeep. I read the words, he supplied the appropriate sound effects (extra beeps, baaaaaas, nasal pig grunts, and "uh-oh"s). As the plot tension mounted, he became knit his eyebrows. His little voice sniffled. He literally understood the sheep's transportation predicament. To almost-two year old, Sheep in a Jeep is not comedy, it is tragedy.

Guess we'll wait a while to introduce Shakespeare.

Ravens and Water

2009-08-29T17:50:00.000-07:00

God gives him a mission, something to say. He says it. Nobody wants to hear it. They'll most likely kill him if he sticks around.
God says, "You don't have to stick around" (whew, what a relief) "Hide yourself by this brook." (gurgling, burbling, could be relaxing)
God provides for his needs.... water in the brook and bread and meat delivered by ravens twice a day (ravens? the precursor to pizza delivery?).
Then, the brook dries up. (dries up! God's perfect provision DRIES UP?)
God enters again, "Go to city X, where I've told a widow to feed you".
He goes.
He meets a widow.
He asks for water. She says yes.
He asks for a morsel of bread. She says no. (wait, this isn't how I imagined it going)
A little flour and a little oil is all she has left and she thinks she and her son will die.
God intervenes, gives flour in her jar and oil in her jug whenever they run low.
All is well?
All is not well.
The widow's son becomes ill until there is "no breath left in him". She is bitter, angry, remembering old sin.
Elijah cries to God. God listens. The boy lives. The widow believes.

And this is just 1 Kings 17. Elijah's life takes more turns and goes through more upheaval. God does not always seem present, but He always is present.

I expect my life to follow certain paths and take certain courses. I trust my Father to provide. But maybe it will not be as I expect. Did Elijah anticipate ravens with bread, a disappearing brook, a contrary widow?

Oswald Chambers said it this bluntly,

"Let me say I believe God will supply all my need, and then let me run dry, with no outlook, and see whether I will go through the trial of faith, or whether I will sink back to something lower. Faith must be tested, because it can be turned into a personal possession only through conflict... Faith is unutterable trust in God, trust which never dreams that He will not stand by us."

A Delivery of Accidental Irony

2009-08-19T11:50:00.000-07:00

He wore a look that only young men who have had to take their Father's place as man of the house can wear.
A scraggly goatee, tanned features, and eyes that gleamed with teases of maturity taking shape told me that he was several years older than his age of 18.
I sized his bloody face up. "What happened to you?"
Obviously he had the crap beaten out of him.
"Three guys jumped me."
My fingers pulled at his swollen cheek bones, spread the cut above his brow apart, and prodded around his eyes.
"Ow, shit."
I stopped for a second to acknowledge his glare.
"You are allowed to think whatever you want, make up any name for me you possibly can. You cannot curse in front of your sister. I know it hurts, I'm sorry."
He stared.
"She's heard it all already."
"I didn't ask that. Don't move your head, just follow my finger with your eyes."

Another few moments and I stepped out of the room.
Just under two minutes to gather up a basin, saline solution and nice expensive medical soap, scrub sponge, towel, gloves, and inform the doctor his patient was ready.
Knocking, then I pushed open the door.
"Okay, I'm just going to clean you up a little so when the doctor comes in to take a look he can see a little better what's going on. This is just expensive soap and water, and here; feel this sponge, see? It's not rough, it's soft. But it'll still sting some."

The ever present question.
"Will I need stitches?"
"Most likely. It looks like four, maybe five, but I doubt it. It'll need to be closed though for sure."
He grimaced, then a flurry of threats and harsh words came out of his mouth against the people who did it to him.
The room grew quiet as Mother and daughter watched his face slowly reappear, the crimson disappearing into the sponge and drips.
No warning whatsoever.
Just a question, his voice low and startling sincere.
"What would you do? I mean, how would you handle the situation if you knew who did it to you?"
The sponge froze on his forehead.
Every particle in the room stopped moving as Mother and daughter stared at me.

I've never been attacked by three people who used my own bicycle to beat me, who kicked me in the head while I was lying on the rough pavement being punched, who laughed and got into their car and drove off.

"Do you know who did this to you?"
"Yes."
"Where's your Dad?"
"He lives in Michigan."
"I think you need to ask him."
"I don't talk to him."
"Do you have an Uncle, Grandpa, some family here? You need to ask them."
"No, just my Mom and sister and two Aunts."

Caked blood from his ears made the water in basin officially too murky to see through.
"What would you do? Would you just let them get away with it?"
He looked at me fiercely, his query cutting and relentless.

The doctor came in and spent several minutes asking his own questions, voicing concerns and clarifying statements.
"We'll use 4.0 vicryl for him...I'll write up the orders and we'll send him to get a CT scan, I want to rule out any possible internal trauma, although it seems like he's fine."
Lidocaine and Marcaine took any discernment for detail from him and his cut was soon ready to be closed.
As the needle dove in, hemostats gripped and twirled in a choreographed dance that tightened and looped, flipped spun and tied, our words did the same as we talked man-to-man.

"Sit tight. I'm going to get a wheelchair and then I'll take you to get your head scanned."
It came out negative.
The damage would be bruises, cuts, abrasions, swelling, throbbing, anger, frustration, and the battle for making an incredibly tough decision few have encountered.
I shook his hand and had him sign at the bottom by the "X."
"You're free to go, hope you feel better man."
He smiled, a first for the evening.
"Thanks."
He shook my hand firmly. Of course he had a good grip.
"And don't come back in here to get stitched up again without bringing me a pizza."
He looked at me and rolled his eyes, ice pack held to the back of his head.

"That's what I was going out to get when this happened."

Meeting Pandora

2009-08-02T16:35:00.000-07:00

What first alerted me to their presence next door was an the heavy aroma of spices that spilled around and over the slightly cracked door, allowing the thick scent of curry to fill the entire hallway. As I walked past their door carrying an excess of luggage that belied my eight months of traveling I picked up the faint murmur of a foreign language.
Both were both scent and sound were legitimate and strong.
Exhausted, I slid my key-card into the door and got...red.
Trying again...still red.
Impatiently I threw down my luggage, wanting green. Green, not stupid red.

Her tiny voice startled me.
"You shouldn't throw things. That's how you break stuff."
I turned sharply around and saw a short olive-skinned girl with long black hair and beautiful eyes. She was smaller than most five year-olds but spoke with the authority of at least seven birthdays.

"Be careful. You're making a lot of noise."
I was completely put in my place.
"Sorry. I'm super tired and my key isn't working. Whoops, there it goes, see? I wanted green but it kept giving me red."
She stared up at me completely unimpressed.
"So. You don't have to throw things Army man."
Now it was my turn.
"Wrong. I'm in the Air Force."
"Same thing."
If I hadn't already, I was going to lose a huge battle with someone a third of my age and more than that smaller than me.
Completely unacceptable. So I changed topics.

"Your dinner smells good, were you the cook?"
She smiled at me, finding it humorous. Whew.
"No, its supper, and I didn't cook it. I get to eat it now though, and it's going to be so good. Bye!"
With that she turned on her heel and exited the conversation and hallway.

...
A week or two passed as each evening I returned to ever diverse meal fragrances.
...

I stood waiting for the insultingly slow elevator to arrive, my basket of laundry weighing more as my boredom grew.
"I bet you can't tell what we've been saying. It's in another language that you don't know."
This time I knew better than to give her the first hit of astonishment, regardless of whether she deserved it.
"You're right. I don't. You know an entire language that I don't know?"
"Yep." The smug look on her face was pronounced. What was it I did to deserve this relationship again?

"Wow. Guess what."
Instead of answering, she looked straight into my ignorant eyes and spoke several sentences of her native tongue, whatever it was.
"No, I'm serious, guess what."
The only way for me to avoid annihilation was to ignore her shots across my bow.

The elevator door opened and closed.
I set my laundry down.

It was on.

"What."
"I know another language too."
"No you don't."
"Yes, I do. I'll prove it. You ready?"
"Yep."
I smirked at her.

I crouched down and pointed to her stomach.
"What is this called?"
"Its my tummy."
Nope. Not even close.
"Nope, not even close ma'am."
She challenged me.
"Then what is it?"

I began pointing at her tummy, guessing roughly as to where things were located.
"Here's where your duodenum is, it's the beginning of your intestines. Here's your colon, and you have mucosa and submucosa all through there. Your pancreas should be about here, and this is your gallbladder. Hey look, it's your liver! Not. You can't see it, but it's there. And here is where your stomach is."
She looked at me.
"Yep, I knew all that."
"No you didn't. Just like I didn't know what you were saying."
Win or lose, she wasn't going to lose.
"Fine."
And with that she turned around and scootered off down the hallway.
As I leaned over to pick up my bags, her father followed in his daughter's footsteps and scared the living everythings out of me.
"You know, I am quite impressed. She's usually very shy but for some reason she gets along with you. That is very good!"

I smiled at him and backed into the elevator.
"Thank you, your daughter is very sweet."
The doors closed and I caught myself audibly snorting.
Shy? Sweet?
No...neither one of those.

She was...acute, calculating, clever. Aggressive, daunting, and fearless, intelligent, small and...
she won.

When He Left

2009-07-30T21:21:00.000-07:00

Hot sun melting below the horizon. End of a long day.
More sick come. More healing. More demon-possessed come.
This is taxing on the body and soul.

And so He left.
Woke up in the morning and instead of rejoining the needy, He left.
Left for a desolate place.
The Son of God left.
Left the people, left the needs, left the crowds, left the friends.

Of course, one can't leave for long (you know it's true).
The curious found him and "would have kept him from leaving them."
There was a "must" imprinted on His soul, so instead of serving the same crowds, he left to follow the Father's will.
Luke 4:40-44

Two boats, two brothers, enough fish to sink a boat.
The two brothers set aside for a time homes, jobs, families, all for Him.
A man bitterly diseased: healed.
The media got wind of this action. More people needed Him. More people wanted to listen.
So... he left.
And not just once, over and again.
"But He would withdraw to desolate places and pray."
Luke 5:11-16

Religious leaders stunned, academics offended, puzzling questions answered, societal guidelines ignored. He taught in the fields, He taught in the homes of wealthy, corrupt men, He taught the "religious" on Sunday mornings, too.
Right smack dab in the middle of all this teaching,
He left.
Hiked a mountain to pray all night.

Day came, He knew exactly what He needed to do: Name the 12 men who would follow him until his betrayal. Eleven would follow him after he rose.
Luke 6:12-16

My carpet hasn't been vacuumed this week. O.K., it's been longer than a week.
One and a half year olds who are learning to pee in the toilet need affirmation, attention, "Llama Llama Red Pajama" stories, hugs, naps, time-outs, crackers, yes, more time-outs.
There are friends I need to call, Father's day gifts I need to send (and not because I'm thinking ahead to next Father's Day), blueberries that need to be washed and frozen before they mush forever, a Greek alphabet I need to learn, and roughly 69 boxes to pack this month.
Shall I reconsider?
In light of Luke 4, 5, and 6, I reflect.

The Son of God,
the Rescuer of sinful man,
the Perfect One,
left
to
pray.

The Training Instructor's Favorite

2009-06-27T10:34:00.001-07:00

My first day of basic training I was told to sit perfectly still until my training instructor returned. He came back after just over five hours. I'd rather be hit in the face with an agitated puffer fish then ever try to sit still for that long again.

By the end of basic I'd hands-down been in trouble more often and had to do more push-ups than anyone else in my flight of 56 guys. I was also the training instructor's favorite. I know this because he told me, right before I got sent outside to move four hundred sandbags for no apparent reason other than I was his favorite.

One time I got in trouble for dancing in the kitchen while on KP duty. My punishment was... unpleasant. I say "one time" because that is not the kind of thing you want to get in trouble for twice.

Inside our bathroom was a vent that went up, over, and down into the girl's bathroom of our sister flight. Needless to say when our respective instructors were absent, there was much communication through the vent. I won fifteen dollars for doing an imitation of our First Sergeant into that vent. Word somehow reached our instructor and the next day I found myself doing that same imitation, only not into a vent.

My job in the flight was to roll shirts. I figured out a way to use two drawers side-by-side that made every shirt turn out immaculate, far above what was expected for inspection. Every guy had five PT shirts, six white undershirts and six tan undershirts. Times sixty.

One night for no apparent reason my entire body broke into hives. To this day I have no idea what caused it. Bees?

I don't remember ever feeling as proud as the day I had my name tag sewn on my uniform. It's strange to me how strongly I felt and still do feel about it.

My sisters sent me letters that occasionally had pictures in them. I'll never forget how powerful a letter or a picture can be.

During the six weeks when I'd never seen so much hazing (or public ridiculing), cursing or anger in my life, God turned what started out as two of us praying together every night into well over twenty guys gathering every night in the shower... the only place we'd all fit without waking the others up.

And I will never forget the day my drill instructor walked up behind me at breakfast and said
"You might want to get up. Now." Then flipped our entire table full of food into the air.
I'm pretty sure none of the cockroaches survived the fall.

How Do We Speak of God?

2009-06-19T10:38:00.000-07:00

Dietrich Bonhoeffer watched as hundreds of years of church tradition crumbled. The German church had become an arm of Hitler. Few within the church even dared voice questions. Imprisoned in Tegel military prison, he penned these words,

"What is bothering me incessantly is the question of what Christianity really is, or indeed who Christ really is, for us today... We are moving toward a completely religionless time; people as they are now simply cannot be religious any more. Even those who honestly describe themselves as 'religious' do not in the least act up to it, and so they presumably mean something quite different by 'religious'. How can Christ become the Lord of the religionless as well? Are there religionless Christians? If religion is only a garment of Christianity - and even this garment has looked very different at different times - then what is a religionless Christianity... What do a church, a community, a sermon, a liturgy, a Christian life mean in a religionless world? How do we speak of God?..."
"Dietrich Bonhoeffer: Letters and Papers from Prison" Edited by Eberhard Bethge

Bonhoeffer was right. In many ways, Europe adopted a "post-Christian" society after WWII. I sit within my own culture, watching the gods of Self, Entertainment, and Affluence displace reverence. Because my Christ continues to change lives in this context, Bonhoeffer's questions ring true: What do a church, a community, a sermon, a liturgy, a Christian life mean in a religionless world? How do we speak of God?

Morning at the Medical Clinic

2009-06-09T15:47:00.000-07:00

I had finished opening the medical clinic and was wandering around, waiting for something to capture my attention. My eye fell on the Doctor's stethoscope hanging near my desk. On this particular morning, the Doctor was not in yet and no patients had arrived. I carefully picked up the ancient stethoscope and placed the ends in my ears. It was a tiny bit big so I had to hold it in my ears while I pushed it on my wrist. Nothing. I moved it to where I thought my heart should be. Strike two.

I tested different areas of my chest until a vigorus tattoo came to my ears. I grinned and held it there thinking of my unborn niece's heart beat I had heard not 2 months before. Just then my eye started pumping as it sometimes does. I wondered if I could hear my heart beat from my eye. Like a dork, I shut my eye and pushed the stethoscope against it.

A loud cough echoed through the room and I jerked around. An old, stately woman cocked her eyebrow at me with a puzzled smile. How long had she stood there? Quickly, I shoved the stethoscope away, "Oh, hello. Sorry about that, I didn't see you. How can I help you today?" She ignored my question and stepped farther into the room, "Does your scope work, Doctor?" Ouch. I desperatly wanted to bruise my head on a wall in some hole elsewhere. "Yeah." I smiled sheepishly, "It works."

Roadnoise will drown out an enchanted childhood

2009-06-02T15:01:00.000-07:00

Many people have said "There's nothing like family."
Do they know what they're saying?
Think about it for a moment, what is a family? Family is proof that God exists, and that He has a sense of humor. Family is one of the least logical ideas in the universe.

The process of family-making in America goes something like this:
Take a person, and have them meet randomly and fall in love with another person.
Boy and girl get married.
Soon another person comes out of the girl.
Voila, family is made.
The person coming out of the other had no choice in the matter.
The child is bound by the law of "family" to the kissy couple, and is for 18 (or a nerdy 35) years of their life under their authority.

When the child needs to be fed, the kissy couple that had him/her will feed him. Every time.
When the child throws up or does something equally disgusting, the kissy couple that had him/her will clean up and hold him/her.
When the child does something wrong, the kissy couple that had him/her will be responsible for him/her.
For 18 (or a nerdy 35) years.

This I ask of you. Why does it make sense? It doesn't. It isn't so much duties carried out by a kissy couple as it is love and dedication.
An endless cycle of selflessness to the end of seeing the success of others.
Yum.

Think for a moment about the role of parents... get a job and hold it so that your family may have income to feed and clothe the children, as well as provide for their wants and needs.
What inspiration. It makes no sense, but all across the world, in every tongue, tribe and nation, it is a complete idea practiced by all.

And yet when someone sits behind the wheel of a vehicle, the last thing on their mind is the fact that a kissy couple has dedicated their life to their success as an individual.
The furthest thing from their thoughts is that they were born into a loving household, provided for their every want and need for 18 years, and the amount of love they were shown.
The person behind the wheel might as well have been born into a family of wolves.

They want to kill you.

They sit behind you on the freeway traveling at one mile an hour faster then your 71 mph, two feet behind you mouthing not-nice words and shaking a fist that someone once called "adorable, so small, and delicate!"

Not anymore it isn't.

In a cruel joke of a personality switch, the person driving behind you just left the baby shower where they were swapping embarrassing stories, exchanging laughs over presents being opened by a soon-to-be mother of twins, and they probably even grabbed a handful of napkins to clean up the accidental spill of apple juice on the lunch table when it was knocked over by the passing of hot dogs from one end to the other.

The person driving to your rear was once given a trip to Disneyland as a surprise birthday present.

Recently, the person behind you now swerving lane to lane trying to get as close as possible so they can hopefully cause personal harm was given the opportunity to speak at a conference on Leadership and Management of Self.
The five points in the speech each with ten minutes of sub-text and illustrations accompanied by humorous stories were as poignant as any well-delivered sermon. Most who attended that session left with at least a page and a half of good notes.

It never fails to amaze me what the wheel of a car will do to some people.
Put them behind it, and their family, their careers, and their love of life all grow strangely dim in your headlights and they become homicidal land sharks on wheels.

As Plato once said..." ."

Well, Plato said nothing about being cautious you don't set aside your humanity to become the picture of ferocity every time your speed exceeds 35 mph.

But he should have.

Ransomed from Futility

2009-06-01T15:01:00.000-07:00

The dream first started in the midst of a spoiled fish stick induced fever. I was ten. It recurred during other fevers or linguistic finals induced stress. The dream is a nightmare because of the terror it pours on my soul.

Whether a dream is a nightmare or just a dream does not depend primarily on the events that occur in the dream, but on the emotion that the dream carries. A rabid midnight black grizzly may chase me for hours, but if I am not truly afraid of the grizzly, it is simply a dream.

In the recurring dream, there is no person but myself, no concrete object. There is only knowledge. Knowledge that I must do something, be something, and I absolutely, totally cannot. That's it. Some nightmare, eh? It is when I awake sweating and crying.
I must be righteous. It is beyond impossible.

The Corinthians were messing around with theology. Some of them tossed an idea up in the air "Hey, what if there's nothing after death?" Paul wanted the Corinthians to feel the terror of their logic: "If there is no resurrection of the dead, then not even Christ has been raised. And if Christ has not been raised, then our preaching is in vain and your faith is in vain... And if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile and you are still in your sins." 1 Cor. 15:13-17

I need the righteousness of Christ as a man who is floating on a plank in the ocean needs pure water and food, desperately.

"But in fact Christ has been raised from the dead... that God may be all in all" 1 Cor. 15:20-28

In light of this, I told my dream to take a hike.

"When the perishable puts on the imperishable, and the mortal puts on immortality, then shall come to pass the saying that is written:
'Death is swallowed up in victory.'
'O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?'
The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.
Therefore, my beloved brothers, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain." 1 Cor.15:54-58

Question Asker Strikes Again

2009-05-16T14:07:00.000-07:00

My friend Jesse is a question-asker. She is a thinker, that one. Her questions are not of the typical "How-are-you-I'm-fine" variety. She's also a ridiculously good baker, but that is beside the point.

One day last month as I scrubbed the stove, wedging the cell phone that contained Jesse's voice between my ear and shoulder, she asked, "How did your parents raise you to know Jesus as a child?" That question made me think for approximately 27 days.

Almost five years ago, I acquired a second set of parents, my husband's dad and mom. I am not capable of summarizing the parenting journeys of my four parents in a sentence or two, so I shall fall back on my hobby: list making. That fabulous English word they shall vaguely refer to one or two or three or four of my parents. Us shall refer to my husband or I or our siblings. Who did what is irrelevant. How and why are more valuable to ask.

1. They prayed for us daily, starting before we were born. Instead of mainly praying general "God bless our family" prayers, they prayed specific prayers. "God, help our son to come to know his sin and your forgiveness at an early age." "God, prepare a Christian husband for our daughter."

2. Every night as they tucked us into bed they prayed with us.

3. They sang hymns and praise songs to Jesus with us. Kids understand the words younger than you'd think.

4. They made their own relationships with God a priority. I remember watching my Dad read his Bible as he walked on the treadmill. My husband remembers the chair his mom would sit in to read her Bible and pray.

5. They came to us (little kids) and asked for forgiveness when they sinned against us (for example, speaking harshly or having a rotten attitude). So we learned that big people sin too, and a healthy response to sin is to apologize and ask for forgiveness.

6. They prayed with us after we "got in trouble" (for example, for giving a brother an "indian burn" then lying about it) to show us that seeking forgiveness from each other is good, but seeking forgiveness from God is most important.

7. They treasured their relationship with each other. How did they show us this? Going on dates even when we didn't want them to leave, going away for weekends as a couple, never using the word divorce, backing each other up on discipline issues, never deriding the other to us.

8. On car rides, they suffered through (or... possibly enjoyed?) countless tapes and CDs that communicated God's love to children. "Donut Man" "Adventures in Odysey" "Patch the Pirate" "Psalty the Singing Songbook" "

9. They read Children's Bibles to us.

10. They gathered a "library" of God centered resources for us to enjoy: children's devotional books, Bible story books, Christian chapter-books, dramatized Bible on tape, etc.

11. Our dads lead family devotions in the living room after dinner. (Ahem, don't start to get the wrong idea here. A joyful family with the 3 and 5 and 7 year olds sitting perfectly still reverently listening to their father read from the King James Version at least 6 nights each week - NOT - alright, erase that mental image and let's start over.) "Family Devotions" consisted of reading a Bible story book, or reading an actual chapter in a readable translation of the Bible, or singing some Bible songs together (clapping and jumping ones preferred by the younger set), or asking "What are you thankful for today?" or "What challenge are you facing tomorrow?" then praying together, or discussing a verse. The littlest one would be roaming, mom would be falling asleep in the recliner chair, one brother would be touching another brother with his toe, etc. But there in the once or twice a week consistency, we saw our dads heart for God and their desire for us to know God.

12. They told us when God answered their prayers.

13. They celebrated Christmas traditions that reflected Jesus. Example: Each Christmas, we put a cattle "feeding trough" in the living room. Before we went to bed each Decembery night, we each placed a single piece of hay in the trough. By Christmas, it was brimming with hay. When we woke up Christmas morning, baby Jesus (a dark-skinned, lifelike baby doll) was lying in the manger.

14. They celebrated Easter traditions that reflected Jesus. Example: One year we made a small tomb out of paper mache. On Good Friday, we wrapped Jesus' body (made of popcicle sticks?) with white strips of cloth and placed him in the tomb. Then we found a large rock to seal the entrance. On Easter morning, we woke up to find the tomb open, Jesus body gone, and the white cloth lying in the tomb. (The fabulous thing about 4 year olds is that they can imagine a popcicle stick person to be almost a real person, so the sequence of events above is meaningful).

more to come

Bob: The T-Rex

2009-05-06T12:35:00.000-07:00

Sibling rivalry, adventure, chicken dinosaurs... This story's got it all. If you shy away from gore, this story may not be for you. But if you're all about redeeming endings, read on.

by Guy 3

Once there was a T-rex. His name was Bob. He loved to eat chicken dinosaurs, especially when they were fresh from the kill. So his dad taught Bob to fight.

Bob loved to fight, especially with his older siblings. His siblings didn't like it, but Bob did... He also liked to roar at the top of his lungs and scare the wits out of cavemen. The cavemen screamed and yelled. Bob loved their reaction.

One day Bob roared at the top of his voice, and the cavemen didn't scream and yell. He roared again and again, but they ignored him. So Bob decided to eat a caveman. So Bob chased a caveman and caught him by the arm. He thought it tasted great. Remember, Bob is a T-Rex, and they can get pretty tall and fat (but don't say that to Bob; he might bite your head off).

Now Bob's favorite food was caveman. He ate alot of caveman. It was like ice cream to Bob, except cavemen were a little bit messier. (Fair reader, you were warned. Now that you've gotten this far, you must read on to the plot's resolution.)

...Bob weighed fourteen tons. He liked to ram other dinosaurs. But Fred, his older brother, rammed him so hard he was knocked over to the ground. So he didn't mess with his older brother, Fred, at all. But he liked to practice on his pet pterodactyl, but the only problem was he still desperately loved cavemen.

One fine morning he was eating the most delicious caveman he had eaten in a very long time. "Yum, this is the yummiest caveman in the whole world," he thought to himself as he ate the last of the phalanges, then all of the sudden he felt sorry for the caveman so he decided to do them a favor and get them a big meal of fish. They seemed to like the fish very much. So Bob started fishing at once. He probably ate more fish than he saved, but never the less he saved some and that was a big deal for 'ol Bob.

He made a make-shift bucket and put all the fish in it and took it to the cave where the cavemen stayed and left the bucket of fish there and went home never to eat a caveman again.

The End of the Story

Pass Me by World, My Nose is to the Window

2009-05-01T14:03:00.000-07:00

The other day I rode on a jet plane again. I’d forgotten what a spectacular experience it is; soaring high above twin-engine Cessna planes… gliding atmospherically in a manner that was way, way above my allotted privileges as a two-legged wingless mammal.

Glancing around me at the dignity-starved individuals surging towards a doorway too small for the mass of shoving and selfishness that abounded, I couldn’t help but rudely marvel to myself.
“Huh. That little teeny, tiny plane out there is going to get him (large guy), him (another pretty hefty fella) and HERRRR? (uh…) up in the air?
What science plus technology and a few rubber wheels can do these days.

Then my mind jolted back to reality. Ah yes, it was time for me to go to my seat.
4A.
Priority seating?
Weird.
I strode casually past throngs of mobbing pulses and jumped in front, flashing an i.d. and proof that my random, entirely accidental superiority complex of priority could in fact take a physical form.
“Thank you sir, enjoy your flight!”
Oh, I would.
Four ay, bay bay!

My bag barely fit in the overhead compartment.
No, wait! If I turn it this way and shove with all my might, it might just…
AW MAN!

Oh, those moments we feel alive.
“Sir, I don’t think it will fit. Would you like me to take it to the back?”
There was no condescension in her voice. Not just a little bit that made me feel like a million yen.
“Sure, that’d be great thanks!”
Feigning obliviousness to the possibility of appearing like a moron, I handed her the blue road-runner bag.
“No problem.”

Fifteen minutes later our wheels lifted off the ground, the world became obtusely angled for a few moments, and we shot into the air.
Subconsciously I did my part as a good passenger and lifted my seat-end off my seat, hoping that we’d at least be light enough to not crash immediately.
By some miracle of consistent laws, lots of oxygen and nitrogen and extensive money/engineering, we made it alive into the air.
A two hour and forty-five minute flight.
My seat-end sighed as we leveled out, and I scooched and squiggled, reaching that point where I was deceived into thinking I was relaxed when in fact my knees were driving the person the next seat through three rows into the cockpit.

The squirrelly guy sitting next to me glanced at me once…twice…three times, then ILLEGALLY put his headphones in, and took out a Stephen King novel.
What if we crashed, killing several dozen people because of his stupid Stephen King headphone antics?
Uncool.
This guy was totally and irrevocably out.
Out of my universe.
See ya bud.

“Can I get you a beverage?”
“What’s a beverage?”
This lady was smart enough to ignore me.
“We have Coke, Diet Coke, Ginger Ale, Dr. Pepper, Sprite, V8…” Her voice trailed off and she stared at me like there was a mole growing on my cornea.
“I’ll have orange juice…please.”
I slid down a nanometer in my chair, and like a foot and a half on the inside, reaching the appropriate internal height of the four-foot eight I was acting like.
“Here you go Sweetie!”
Her energy was infectious. I was back.
“Thank you ma’am. Could I have a third bag of pretzels?”
She didn’t miss a beat, even though no drum was in sight.
“Nope.”
She wheeled her cart an inch and a quarter, and out of my universe entirely.
“Sir, can I get you anything?”
Entirely out of my universe, she was asking the gentleman behind me what he would like.

My forehead spent the next hour and thirty minutes pressed against the plastic window as Texas, Arizona then Nevada slid by silently down below.

Ah, it felt good to ride in a plane again.
There’s nothing like seeing seamlessly perfect circular and square fields of whatever far down below.
What ARE those things anyway?
They’re so puzzling when you’re in the air; you literally hurt your head trying to figure out how they’re so exact and who keeps them up, but when you get back on the ground you never think about them, or if you do you can’t find them.

They’re SO out of my universe now.
Entirely.

Unexpected Call

2009-04-24T14:35:00.000-07:00

The true-story sequel to an earlier post.

"Doodley-doo-doo... doodle, doodle doodle doo..." Cell phone rings.
Some out of state area code. I push the phone away.
A gear catches in my brain, or maybe in my heart.
I reach for the annoying plastic object that seeks to interrupt my life.

"Hello"
"Hey! Remember me?"
Pause. I shift my feet and knit my eyebrows, reaching for another fork to wash.
"Help me remember... where did we meet?"
"It's Talina! Don't you remember?" Her voice sounds tired.
Memories flood back. I drop the fork.
"Talina, this is a different number. Are you still in Washington?"
"No, I'm down here in Arizona now."

I want to ask about the baby, but I'm scared. In Washington state abortions are legal beyond the first trimester. I know she changed her mind after that first phone call, but I know she may have changed her mind again. Pregnancy swirls emotions into a confusing heap, after all. I know her husband divorced her after he found out she was expecting. I know she wanted to be a nurse, and thought a baby would change her plans. I know she had trouble finding a roommate, and had to move three times in three months. What I don't know is what has happened in the six months between then and now.

"Guess what?"
"What, Talina?"
"I had the baby last week!"
"I'm so excited for you! Was it a little boy, like you wanted?"
"Nope. A girl. And she's beautiful. I just want to look at her all day long."
I hear about her barely-made-it-to-the-hospital birth story. I hear about her mom's sweet obsession with her first granddaughter. I hear about her sleepless nights and sleepy days.

At the end of our chat, my little phone receives a picture text message. In the picture is a tiny girl with dark, curly hair. Her white dress and trusting brown eyes capture me.

"But you, O Lord, are a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness." Psalm 86:15.

Now I know the rest of the story. But I suppose this is not the rest. It is only the beginning.

Two Bright Shades of the Same Color

2009-04-19T16:08:00.000-07:00

Her “good morning” lit up every one of their already joyful faces.

They’d come trundling in with their backpacks by ones and twosies, filing into the classroom and going directly to their wall spaces to put their lunches up, then sit down in their seats.

Watching them talk animatedly, she smiled.

Innocence could not be duplicated.

“Teacher, teacher, look!”

The words always preceded a marvel; a captivating accomplishment of either God or mankind that demanded full and undivided attention.

Bending a knee, taking a seat, walking over to them with her skirt swishing silently taking naturally feminine footsteps to make the conversation more sincere, she met every child at their level and brought them up to where they should be.

“Wow, look at that! You drew that? Did you have any help?”

Her eyes sparkled teasingly.

“Nope. I did it all by myself. Brandon, he’s my older brother…”

“I know Brandon. I met him, remember?”

“Oh yeah! Um…Brandon, uh, he helped hold the paper some while I drew it, but I didn’t trace it. I just drew it…all by myself.”

“It’s really pretty. I like the colors you chose. They remind me of Easter. Did you do Easter with your family on Sunday?”

She paused briefly to turn away for a moment.

“Good morning Michaela!”

No preschooler made it through the doorway unnoticed. Each was as much an individual as any adult, if not more.

“Yep. We hid eggs and Skyped Grandma. She’s in Iowa er…somewhere. See, here’s where I messed up on my paper. I didn’t mean to use purple but I did.”

The embarrassment was genuine.

“So I see. Great job, I like purple, it’s my favorite color!”

“Really? Thanks!”

“Now go find your seat and wait for the pledge.”

Through compassion and an unwavering firmness each year she fought sniffles and coughs, the occasional unreasonable side of parents who could be extremely demanding, and paying her bills.

Each year she fought to stay awake after several hours of inputting grades online with several hours left of work.

She fought her way through the snow early in order to make it in time to greet her pupils as they filed through the door all flushed bright red and bundled up tightly against the cold.

She fought the gossip in the break room.

She fought through any monotony, unpleasant or boring material, and she fought the random rampant bad attitude that fumbled its way into her classroom.

She fought with grace, with beautiful blue-green eyes, and a heart that was absolutely in love with each and every one of her students.

She craved that look in their eyes when they lit up with a sudden understanding the concepts.

Her creative side thrived as songs, posters, field trips, reading aloud, colors, the floor, the table, and each brightly colored child-sized chair all served as tools, outlets for them to learn.

The designer of the first in-flight, unmanned, military aircraft refueler jet.

A filmmaker.

The first person to invent a self-contained underwater breathing apparatus that created 90% recyclable oxygen for longer, deeper dives.

A computer scientist who built the first hard drive based off nano quantum mechanics.

Those and hundreds of others throughout her career grew up to become great things.

…

Her name was Anna. Some said she was the victim of down-syndrome.

Anna didn’t see it that way.

She had her own personality, her own sharp mind that was on fire with a will to learn just like every other student she wasn’t the same as.

She stood quietly on the outside edge of the playground watching the other children play. Their coordinated games of tag or hide and go seek were not familiar to her, but she was visibly focused and concentrated as she carefully studied their behavior.

After five minutes, which would have been an eternity to any of her peers, she dove into their world. Moments later she was jumping, sliding, laughing and yelling just all the rest of her class.

Maybe she was a little louder.

Not all of the children included her in their activities.

She might’ve tripped a few more times than the rest.

But nothing escaped the pen and hand of her teacher, sitting on a bench silently journaling the activities of the beautiful girl.

By studying the trend of her pupil throughout the year she’d noticed a retreating wait time before Anna played with the other children.

Anna began needing assistance with most simple tasks, but after patience, a healthy dose of frustration and her incredibly strong will, she was walking to the child-sized fountain and filling her own water bottle.

Then she used the restroom completely of her own accord, completing all the necessary tasks with no help.

Most of the time.

And every day as she played on the padded steps, spongy ground, underneath the sun and watchful eye of college interns, her teacher journaled, strategized learning plans and set goals.

Anna learned best through sign language and hands-on games that sent multiple learning sensations to her memory through sight, feel, smell, taste or joy.

So they did math in the gym.

Hula hoops taught Anna how to count to five.

The beanbags inside the hula hoops helped her get to twenty.

She signed she was hungry, she signed she was mad, she signed numbers, her letters, and dozens of words.

Her colors didn’t come to her easily, but when she realized how many places colors could be found in she ran throughout the room pointing out and signing yellow, pink, blue, green, grey,

black…but her most excited unintelligible squeals of happiness came when she found purple.

It was her teacher’s favorite color too.

by Guy 2

c 2009

Shocking Seasons

2009-04-16T17:29:00.000-07:00

Rainy Season, Dry Season.
Ten Degree difference.
This was the terrarium I thrived in.

My first taste of all four seasons right in a row is in progress... and it's different than I thought it would be.

Seasons evoke stereotypes, right?
Fall = leaves & orange
Winter = snow & Christmas
Spring = flowers & growth
Summer = warmth & sun

During fall, happy woodland creatures busily gather nuts in preparation for their winter hibernation, right? This is what I assumed.
When winter actually arrived though, our squirrels forgot to hibernate. Their pleasantly plump little selves continued foraging, playing in snow, and digging up my daffodil bulbs. They never got any thinner.

Winter contained other surprises too. Do you know what happens when snowmen melt? Their heads fall off. For reals. Cruise suburbia on a warm day following a snowfall and what shalt thou see? Goliaths after the battle. Dozens of them.

Spring is bringing overwhelmingly pink flowers. It's bringing warmer days. And it's also bringing noise. Imagine that... one season being louder than another. Lawnmowers, road construction, neighbors speaking to each other, and birds. I'm sorry birds, for three months I did not realize you were gone. When you came back though, I noticed you were back.

The Shadow, the Deadbolt, and the Missing 2 Inches.

2009-04-10T10:54:00.000-07:00

The one year old is growing inventive, but in disastrous ways. He knows a) Doors open b) the front door opens to the great outdoors, where live squirrels, raccoons, tree frogs, and funny neighbors.
Fortunately, he is a) too short to reach the deadbolt b) unable to turn the door knob.

This morning, after discovering his shadow and staring at it suspiciously for fifteen minutes, he resolved in his mischievous mind to... open the front door. Tried. Realized that last night's growth did not afford him the extra 2 inches he needs. -Click- -Whirr- -Mind gears in motion- That's it! Something to stand on. Perfect: The inflated $1 bouncy ball Daddy bought him from Wal-mart.
Did not work out so well.

Thankfully, one year old attention span timed out.

Free Us to Think

2009-04-10T10:14:00.000-07:00

When we die, we are just that: dead.
Some say this. The Sadducees said it (Matthew 22:23)
This is logical if you know neither the Word, nor the Power of God (Matthew 22:29).

Jesus simply said, "He is not the God of the dead, but of the living." (Matthew 22:32) God does not want his children dead. The dead do not celebrate, do not relate, do not rejoice.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a German Christian imprisoned during World War II for his part in an assassination attempt on Adolf Hitler, penned these words from prison on Easter day, 1943, "Good Friday and Easter free us to think about other things far beyond our own personal fate, about the ultimate meaning of all life, suffering, and events; and we lay hold of a great hope."* Bonhoeffer died less than two years later, hung in a Gestapo prison.

The faith of Bonhoeffer, our strange faith, is based in these three days: Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Death, Emptiness, Shocking Life (1 Corinthians 15:12-21). In these strong verses, I rejoice (1 Corinthians 15:50-56).

*"Letters and Papers from Prison" by Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Edited by Eberhard Bethge.

This Week, So Many Centuries Ago

2009-04-07T17:17:00.000-07:00

The darling of the highest court died
While his father looked on and cried
Tears of blood to match the pain
That flowed from wounds like crimson rain

An aged earth deformed with war
Took out her anger on her lord
Fixed his son to a cruel machine
And mocked the one and only king

"He saved others; He cannot save himself."
They laughed and promised to believe
They asked for one last show
He hung nine hours
Then died

He was foreign to wrong, a perfect man
Yet the marks of sin were on his hands
He had seen the world in all her shame
But loved her enough to take the blame

The light of love shone down, even on
The dark side of earth, a glorious dawn
To color the fading earth once more

Thinking

2009-03-28T20:24:00.001-07:00

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

2009-03-25T16:27:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-22T17:25:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-16T19:39:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-07T12:08:00.000-08:00

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

2009-03-06T11:40:00.000-08:00

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.

A Boat is a Boat, but a Mystery Box could be Anything

2009-02-20T15:33:00.000-08:00

Life has a very different flavor when you don’t sleep at all…
After about 24 hours of life I was happy beyond all reason. I had perspective! My work was done and the sunrise was spectacular! After 25 hours and one biology class, happiness gave way to wasted-ness. I fumbled my way across campus and dumped onto my mattress. I was tripping on air.

Thus I was only slightly surprised when I instantly found myself in a dark room late at night. I woke up to the sound of the dorm intercom blaring, “ALL RESIDENTS OF NORTH HALL, R.H.A. HAS A SURPRISE FOR YOU IN THE THIRD FLOOR LOBBY.”

Fortunately I didn’t care what lame thing they were doing so I stayed in bed.
The End.

Okay. So maybe I am a sucker for surprises. The room was full when I got there and the surprise... flavor tripping.
What?
That’s what I said, flavor tripping. A tablet that you put in your mouth that messes over your taste buds so that everything tastes sweet. Vinegar, pineapple, potato chips, grass, it all tastes sweet! Or so I am told. It was only a preview for a flavor tripping party (oh silly Christian college) so only five people got to try it.

The five were not crowd pleasers. They stood around a table in front of fifty people and delicately sampled the array of food, making quiet comments. COME ON! I’m Hungry! The least you could do is throw in some good old fashion exclamation:
“Jumpin’ Jehosephat, tis like ice cream!”
“Sweet nectar of the gods!”
But no, they just quietly let their minds flip out inside their heads.

In case you're wondering...
here's how it works.

The Death of Africa: Part 2

2009-02-17T22:31:00.001-08:00

...A continuation of The Death of Africa: Part 1

The dream-clouds around us seemed to tighten and turn black: The cell phone stayed off.

Panic welled inside me; I threw the phone to its grave and knelt beside Africa. Her convulsions slowed until she lay motionless on the dry grass. I racked my brains for something I could do to save her for her stillness was even more frightening than her seizure. After a few seconds I recalled a “fix-it-all herb” which, supposedly, could cure any ailments.

My dream seemed to know what I wanted and its swirling fog produced an herb garden not two feet away from us. The dark clouds scooped me up and deposited me directly in front of the herb. It was as if time had slowed. I leisurely chose three of the best sprigs off the plant. When I came to her, she still lay quietly on her bed of dead grass, gasping for breath through the blood and froth.

I reached down to rip a piece off my shirt but paused when I saw that this was my favorite and most expensive blouse. Instead, I threw my shoe down with the cell phone and pulled off my sock. Cradling her head on my lap I wiped away the foam around her mouth with my sock. The dreamy mist came nearer as her eyes fluttered open for the last time. I crooned gently to her as I fed her the herbs, “Everything will turn out ok. It always does. Just eat one more and you will feel better. It’s alright now.”

Everything did not improve; Africa wouldn’t eat one more. I did not notice her inflamed skin touching mine. I did not notice the lice crawling on me. I did not even notice that now she had just two clingy rags left. I only noticed her breathing. It had stopped. My eyes closed as despair surged up from my toes and ripped each thought apart, shoving panic to the passenger seat. Africa had died.

Pushing aside any caution concerning my favorite blouse, I immediately started CPR. Not remembering the correct organization of pumps and breaths, I settled with five breaths then fifteen pumps to her chest. It took five minutes of repeating that process to snap my last thread of hope. I flopped down beside her still form, weeping uncontrollably; I had failed.

A deep voice echoed from the dreamy haze, “My child, why do you weep?” Still weeping, I croaked, “Lord, Lord I am weeping for the one I could not save!” “You could not save?” He gently inquired, “Child, please tell me what you did to save Africa.” “Lord God Almighty, I called for a doctor, but my phone was dead. I fed her some herbs but she wouldn’t eat them all.” I paused, “Then, when she stopped breathing, I performed CPR as well as I could remember.” My tears wet her cold face in despair. My Lord asked, “Did you not turn to Me for help?” Another flood of tears fell when I whispered, “No.” He aggrievedly whispered back, “Why do you call Me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ and do not do what I say? (Luke 6:46) The only escape from death is through My Son” I only wept harder. Then He spoke in such a comforting way that I could almost imagine His arm around my shoulders, “Stop weeping, for she has not died, but is asleep.” (Luke 8:52b)

His still small voice cut off my doubt, “Do not be afraid any longer; only believe, and she will be made well.” (Luke 8:50b) “But Lord, shouldn’t...” God’s voice boomed like thunder, “Child, do you still not believe? Am I to be subject to your doubts?” He quieted, “Child, knowledge has been your downfall today; do not let the knowledge I have bestowed upon you be used again without My wisdom.

Africa stirred in my arms and her eyes fluttered open. I smiled. She wearily sat up and smiled back. The Great Physician’s words reverberated inside my head: The things that are impossible with people are possible with God.

Luke 8:50 “But when Jesus heard this, He answered him, ‘Do not be afraid any longer; only believe, and she will be made well.’”

Luke 8:52b [Jesus said] …“Stop weeping, for she has not died, but is asleep.”

Luke 6:31-32b [Jesus said] … “Treat others the same way you want them to treat you. If you love those who love you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners love those who love them.”

Luke 6:46 [Jesus said] …“Why do you call Me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ and do not do what I say?”

Luke 18:27

“But He said, ‘The things that are impossible with people are possible with God.”

Why I Must Write

2009-02-05T14:53:00.000-08:00

Ephesians 5.8-10 “...for at one time you were darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Walk as children of light (for the fruit of light is found in all that is good and right and true), and try to discern what is pleasing to the Lord.”

When I try to discern what is pleasing to the Lord in my life, I feel a strong impression on my heart that it is pleasing to Him when I write, when I raise my son in thinking, feeling God-centeredness, when I support my Husband in unity, and when I pray, work, and write on behalf of the children slain each day. This season, this moment, this is how I walk as a child of light. Do I fail? Every day. But you see, I am already a child of light, He sees me cloaked in Jesus' light, and His grace covers me beyond (another word should follow beyond... beyond what... I know not what, I simply know His grace covers beyond).

How do you walk as a child of light this season?

Ephesians 5.15-17 Look carefully then how you walk, not as unwise but as wise, making the best use of the time, because the days are evil. Therefore do not be foolish, but understand what the will of the Lord is.

"Days", nasty little imps with dark sunglasses and a bushy mustaches are running, and as each runs it picks up speed. In spite of "days", this verse presses with a sense of joyful urgency. Urgency, because time passes relentlessly, and my days on earth are numbered. Joyful urgency, because this verse encourages my heart that I can understand the will of the Lord.

Do your "days" wear dark sunglasses too?

1 Corinthians 9.9-10 For I am the least of the apostles, unworthy to be called an apostle, because I persecuted the church of God. But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace toward me was not in vain. On the contrary, I worked harder than any of them, though it was not I, but the grace of God that is with me.

I am not worthy of His affection, yet I receive it. God's grace in my life is not in vain. Here, I am what I am. What a releasing phrase. In God's grace, I am what I am. This thought does not deflate me to stagnant apathy. It releases me to heart-bending, exuberant worship. I am what I am, and I praise his grace through writing.

Through his grace, you are who you are too.

1 Corinthians 15:56-58 The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. Therefore, my beloved brothers, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain.

- girl 1

"Peace"
by R.P.E.

The Death of Africa: Part 1

2009-02-02T17:46:00.000-08:00

Somehow the very atmosphere of my dream reeked with the undeniable fact that she was African. The air whispered that she was Africa. I dreamed I stood on the edge of a clearing filled with tall, dead grass. The clearing was about one acre and squatting in the center was Africa: a wrinkled old lady.

Looking closer, I saw she wore not more than four or five scanty rags. The rags clung to her diseased body in a half-hearted way. I flinched and stepped back though I could not tear my eyes from her hunched form. Her thin body was covered in some horrible disease’s handiwork that decorated her skin with splotches of purple and red flesh. My stomach heaved but could not give one drop to the parched grass between my toes.

It was not because I was ashamed at her conditions that my stomach heaved, but because I was ashamed at my conditions that could have changed hers. I have at least nine sets of clothing and consistently buy more. I have immediate medical help of any kind to use any time I so desire. I spent seventeen dollars on a cute top that I could have spent saving her. As I berated my past actions and wealth, she twitched with the start of a seizure. Then, I stood, helpless as she violently convulsed in pain and fell writhing on her face.

The winds of my dream carried my screaming doubts to and fro: I am no doctor! What should I do? My First Aid class was more than ten years ago! I ran to her side. Her three teeth repeatedly gashed her gums as her arms and legs flailed through the dream’s fog. I wrung my hands as I struggled to think clearly. I had to save her, but how?! I fumbled through my pockets as foam began to bubble out her mouth.

When I felt a cold, hard rectangle in my back pocket I shrieked my relief; now I could call an ambulance! Africa would be saved, and I would be her savior! Not wavering a bit, I pressed the “ON” button.

Beautiful Destruction

2009-01-30T22:28:00.000-08:00

Walking was ice skating.

Driving was suicide.

Every individual blade of grass encased by 1/4 inch of ice. The field became a sea of coral polyps.

Intensely Beautiful.

© 2008
RPE
All rights reserved

Shoestring budget...

2009-01-26T22:27:00.000-08:00

I used to babysit, therefore I know the going-rate for babysitters 8 years ago. And I cannot afford the going-rate for babysitters 8 years ago, so I do not inquire as to the going-rate of babysitters this year.

Last week, we were determined, babysitter or no, to go on a date. A real date, not the buy a frozen lasagna, put the one year old to bed early, and eat it by candlelight in front of a movie kind. Those dates have their place, but last week was not their place.

A long time ago, in a distant tropical land, in a Mexican restaurant called Bandito's Cantina, the Farmers dropped a jewel of wisdom before me. At the time, I did not perceive the immense value of that jewel, but in my hour of need, their sage advice came to mind, "We always come to this restaurant because the waiter gives each of our boys a balloon." Sheer genius.
"We are not living on a shoestring budget," thought I, "we are living on a balloonstring budget."

As husband and I played cards and savored brick oven baked calzones, one year old sat in a wooden highchair, tugging joyfully on the string of his gravity-defying red balloon.

Call 911! Oh, wait... that's me.

2009-01-24T22:19:00.000-08:00

As I sit on an office chair subconsciously turning it in it slightly from side-to-side, my phalanges (fingers) drum the table absentmindedly and I take in everything my instructor is teaching.

"You have a geriatric (elderly) patient who complains of not being able to breathe.
She is breathing at 34 bpm (breaths per minute) and shallow. She has no radial (wrist) pulse and her carotid (artery in the neck) pulse is weak. What oxygen will you administer and using what mask?"

I raise my hand.
"Yes?"
Each time I raise my hand I take time to make sure what I'm going to ask makes sense. It does again this time.
"Ma'am, couldn't we just call 9-1-1 and let the professionals take care of the situation?"
She stares at me blankly.
"You ARE the professional."
"Oh."
I remember my hand is still up and pull it back down.
A second later it shoots back up.
"Yes?"
This time I've really got it. This makes perfect sense.
"Sergeant, one time my dad ran over his own leg with his truck. See, he'd parked it on a hill and it was a manual truck and he'd forgotten to put the emergency brake on, so when he tried to stop it it ran over his leg."

"What does that have to do with administering oxygen?"

"My dad breathed into a paper bag all the way to the hospital and he made it alright. Maybe the geriatric patient could breathe into a paper bag."

She stared at me.

I don't think that was the answer she was looking for.

So I gave it one more shot.

"Sergeant?"
"Yes?" She was a little bit um...irked at me I think.

"I would administer 15 liters per minute of oxygen through a non-rebreather mask to the patient."
She smiled.
"And what would you do if the patient became unresponsive?"
"I would administer CPR with a pocket mask, one way valve and supplemental oxygen until my patient became a Republican."

In a world where my days are fully occupied cramming my brain with medical terms such as "oropharyngeal" "respiratory arrest" and "man shot in the face during a hunting accident", humor is how I survive this new world of insanely difficult schooling.

To be able to look at someone in my class and call them "glucose zygomatic" and they look at me quizzically before realizing that it means "sweet or sugar cheeks" is my ultimate entertainment.
Day after day I sit, focused and attentive, absorbing material that is WAY smarter than I am.

The military pays me to be in school full time and after I graduate a person with severe chest pain who calls 9-1-1 will have me show up at their door.
I'll be expected to assess the scene and patient, administer whatever emergency care is needed, then transport them safely back to the hospital.
It's enough motivation for me to be...scared spitless. (Commonly referred to as "parotitis")

I now live and breathe a language where "BID" means twice daily, "q" is every and there's blood in just about everything (except hopefully BRP, which means bathroom privileges).

There is no longer any race, because we are all equal, have the ability to go into cardiac arrest (heart stops functioning) and we are all...pink.
Every nail bed, every oral mucosa (inside the lower lip) and every conjunctiva (inside the lower eyelid) transcends all language and cultural barrier.
If any one of those is pale, cyanotic (bluish), flushed (unnaturally red) or jaundiced (yellowyish) then you are unhealthy.

As I agonize over every test question becoming increasingly diaphoretic (the symptom of sweating) I take a deep (good tidal) breath and pause.

I am growing closer every day to becoming a Nurse.
God is incredible.
My frontal lobe (section of the brain responsible for memory) buzzes as I overwork the poor, ignorant fool.
I. Love. Life.

A Truck, Not a Conversation

2009-01-22T10:25:00.000-08:00

It was a simple compliment directed to him with the intent of being outgoing and perhaps initiate a conversation.
“I like your truck.”
His features changed suddenly and he became harsh and rough in his tone of voice.
“No, it is not nice truck. It’s terrible truck. It’s not even mine. I had to borrow it to come here.”
Startled, I attempted to smooth things over.
”I wouldn’t say that. I would say it’s an…exciting truck. Look at that bed, they don’t make them like that anymore. And those seats with the red velvety material? Heck yeah!”

“You like it? Then take it. I don’t want it anymore. I hate it. You want to know something? I had a nice truck once. Last year.”
My gaze shifted momentarily to his hands as my eyes caught their movement. His hands were slowly clenching into fists, and he stepped a little closer to me as he spoke forcefully and bitterly.
“I had a Ford F-150. It was a 2004 model, and it was silver. I decided that I would go home one year for Christmas to visit my family across the border in Mexico. I fell in love with a beautiful woman there. I tried to take her home and the border patrol, they took the truck from me, and put her in jail.”
His eyes flashed in anger and his chest heaved as he spoke passionately.

“Forty-four days she stayed in jail. Then they deported her right out of the country, back to Mexico. That was three years ago. Every month I try again to get Visa for her, but they will not let it go through.”
He paused, as if waiting to hear my excuses, my defense, or even just my response, but none came. I was speechless and even slightly confused. How do I reply to that?

“I’m sorry, that’s awful.”
Completely understanding the inherent strength in a silence, he didn’t respond.
He simply turned his back to me and got back in his truck.
Taking a step backwards, I found myself still trying to find something to say to him, even though he’d already closed the vehicle door.
The engine stalled, once, twice, three, four…five…six…times.
He opened the door to say something to me, and I immediately offered “would you like me to push the truck for you, sir?”

“No, its okay. But do you see? This is not a nice truck.”
The Hispanic man who couldn’t have been more than in his late thirties waved me on, dismissing me.
“Buenos noches” I called out to him before heading back inside.
He looked up briefly, nodded, then as the engine turned over and finally caught, he closed his door and drove away with the roar of the clutch bridging its first and second gears.

Feeling empty, I spent the remainder of the evening chiding myself for not saying something encouraging or apologizing for what had happened to him.
Three days later, sitting at my computer writing and still attempting to process through what had been said in the parking lot that night, I came to a conclusion.

There are some things in life that should only be heard, not made into conversation.

Cloud Chase

2009-01-17T21:04:00.000-08:00

Guy 2 contemplated the view.
The blues were to crispy to be left in the open air. They would fade within hours to a dull night.
"Someone must steal that view," he thought, "And paste it on canvas."

"Cloud Chase"
© 2008
RPE
All rights reserved

Birthdays are Scary

2009-01-12T23:39:00.000-08:00

Shhhhh. Don't tell Mommy I'm writing on 6wayintersection. I'm not one of the original six.
Guess what? Last week I had a birthday. Birthdays are scary. Don't have one.

That morning, Mommy swept all my cheerios off the floor... that always means company's coming. Mommy bought 2 folding chairs. Must be important company. Sure enough 2 families showed up. They brought little kids that Mommy calls my "friends". They played with my toys.

After dinner, Mommy put fire on a cake. Everybody suddenly started singing a loud song and staring at me. I said "down" but nobody listened. Then she put the fire right by my face! This is the same mommy that says "No, little bug, don't touch, it's HOT!" whenever I look at the big fire in the living room. After the grown ups laughed at me, Mommy blew the fire out. I thought life was getting better.

But it was getting worse. Daddy put something else on my tray. It was frigid, wet, and gooey. Then it dawned on me. This was snow in disguise! Snow makes me cold. "Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice..." Was this the end of the world?

When they finally pushed a wet rag all over my face and set me down, all the grown-ups wanted me to rip paper. Mommy teaches me not to tear my books or her ecli... elci.. eclitrissty bills. I gave them what they wanted, I ripped the paper. There were boxes inside! Small boxes, big boxes, funny shaped boxes! Silly grown-ups threw all the boxes away and tried to get me interested in toys. I was too tired to have any more "fun".

So, if anybody ever says, "Hey, wanna have a birthday?" Just say no.

But if you go to a restarant and it's the day after your birthday, ask for a helium balloon. Daddy asked for me. Maybe the waiter will draw a funny face on it. Maybe they'll let you hold the string all dinner long. Maybe they'll give it to you again when you wake up the next morning. Maybe your daddy will breathe in the air and talk like a squirrel.

Think. Consider.

2009-01-10T17:53:00.001-08:00

O young babes in Bethlehem

Lying lifeless in their innocence

Slain in vain they lie

Slain for a goal not achieved

Matthew 2.16

Weep, Rachel, weep

Refuse to be comforted

Weep, Rachel weep

Your children are no more

Jeremiah 31.15

Think on this and cry for mercy

Let your heart awake and mourn

Even beasts nurse their young

Not so, with our daughters

Lamentations 4.3

People, lift your hands to Him

For the lives of your children

Slain in vain they lie

At the head of this street

Lamentations 2.19

Weep, Rachel, weep

Refuse to be comforted

Weep, Rachel weep

Your children are no more

Jeremiah 31.15

This I call to mind even now

Remember the steadfast love of my Lord

His mercies new again and again

Therefore I have hope

Lamentations 3.21-23

c. 1510 - 1512 sketch by Leonardo do Vinci

Two links that have impacted my life:
Think. Consider.

The Dying Time

2009-01-06T22:31:00.000-08:00

At 4:35 pm I cannot see my to do list unless I lighten the house
Now, house alight, I stop "to do-ing" and resign myself to night
This is winter

Snow, in all it's shocking purity, fell in inches, then in feet
We rejoiced until the slush took on the character of its cousin, mud
This is winter

Christmas, the anticipated, came, unafraid of skinny budgets or icy roads
And then Christmas left.
This is winter

***

This is winter, the dying time
My fuchsia, the hummingbird coffee shop of last summer
Is gasping for warmth

This is winter, the dying time
My friends (of the stay up till 2am talking sort), to our joy, were near to marrying one another
Friendship withered, though, and died, I think

This is winter, the dying time
The occupation I loved most (aside from being a mom, of course), God asked me to lay down
And when I laid it down, He took it away.

***

Malachi, the oracle, wrote to a people who lived in the heart of the dying time
The priests didn't care, the marriages were faithless, and God didn't matter
Malachi decried the winter, but he also spoke of spring

***

While my fuchsia fades
(No better for the nasty fall it took while the pot was transported from one patch of kitchen sun to another)
I sketch my garden plot for Spring

My friends
(Who still bestow all their hope on Christ, and even more so now)
Are free to follow desires He has placed on their hearts, for university or home or other friendships

Though my spirit is not free to teach, it is free to write
(Pleasant thought: one must have a spotless house in which to tutor, but not in which to write)
And free to make forts out of sheets and chairs to play with one who will soon be one

I think this dying time
Is useful to my soul
Indeed

***

"But for you who fear my name,
the sun of righteousness shall rise
with healing in its wings.
You shall go out
leaping like calves from the stall."
Malachi 4.2

image credit

Northwest Culture: Part II

2009-01-03T12:07:00.000-08:00

Reasons I love the Northwest:

Mount Rainier the magnificent
Pacific is not too far away, neither is the rest of the mainland
Snowflakes astound me
Sledding is thrilling
Ferry boats
Islands
Giant pumpkins*
Forests of evergreen trees
"Natural" lifestyles
Transparent, honest people
Squirrels

For all the highlights of this land, it does have a few quirks. I'll only discuss one today. For reasons beyond my understanding, Pacific Northwesterners rarely tip their garage door technicians. Why? Possibly they are bitter about Oregon removing the citizen's right to pump one's own gas and in retaliation against the make work scheme have stopped tipping gas station workers and everyone else in society. Or maybe their father's never tipped garage door service technicians, so they just don't know any better.

In Hawaii, the Aloha spirit often translated into cans of soda, mangoes, bananas, and cash tips for husband. Alas, not here. You can imagine his suprise when this Christmas season, a customer offered him a bottle of water and a cash tip. Husband hardly knew what to say, so great was his shock. Maybe these Washingtonians were generous after all. Maybe times were just tight this year, what with the economy jazz and all that. Maybe Northwesterners were generous mostly at Christmas time. As he was leaving, he noticed the handpainted sign above their front door:
"Please remove your shoes before entering. Mahalo."

*If you are ever given a giant pumpkin... just say "No". Do not attempt to cut it in half, fit it in your oven, realize it's a giant pumpkin (duh) and won't fit, spend 2.5 hours slicing it, boil it, mash it by hand, realize pumpkins are stringy, blend it painful batch by batch in your 16 oz blender, and boil in more to make something no one has ever heard of for Christmas gifts (pumpkin butter), can it, then realize that's not a good idea due to the pH of squashed pumpkin (did I say that? I meant pureed pumpkin), then place numerous jars of boiled, blended, cinnamon-ed, "canned", pumpkin in your refrigerator, limiting the number of groceries that will fit in your refrigerator during the months of November and December.

Two Tiny Voices

2008-12-26T14:57:00.000-08:00

Seven Christmases ago, my mother spent the month of December caring for a baby. The violence between his birth parents had disturbed the neighbors for long enough. The state, now his guardian, placed him in our family temporarily, just through the Christmas season until his Grandparents 2,000 miles away could prepare their home for a little one. Out of this arose a poem of hope, "Two Tiny Voices".

One tiny voice cries on throughout the night,
Amid despair and anger acted out,
'Til those outside the walls hear every shout.
Two distant hearts, in fit of rage, take flight.

Approaching sirens split the night sky.
Amid pain and confusion, voices calm
'Til soothing comes; the touch of healing balm.
In strangers arms, the babe ceases to cry.

Then, likened to a bird without a nest,
The little one stays here awhile, then there,
Instinctively desiring love. But where
Could someone without someone's love find rest?

***

One tiny voice cried on throughout the night
Amid the bits of cloth to shun the cold
And damp. For long ago in days of old,
Each innkeeper blew out his welcome light.

To think, that the Creator of the earth
Took on Himself an earthly form and face
And we beheld him, full of truth and grace.
Yet those He came to save denied his worth.

Then likened to a bird without a nest,
The King of Kings stayed here awhile, then there,
Expressing love as only God can share,
Knowing firsthand the need for peace and rest.

The unloved humbly washed His holy feet,
The palms of His hands dispelled rejection,
Our hearts lifted with the resurrection;
His compassion and love became complete.

So now, let us adore this holy Child.
Said Jesus to each one, "Come, follow Me."
I AM the poor, the longing to be free,
The weak, the helpless baby, the one defiled.

© Mrs. E. ~ 2001

"For God did not send His Son into the world to judge the world, but that the world should be saved through Him."
John 3.17

Snow

2008-12-21T16:36:00.000-08:00

"Fall on the earth."
He speaks to us.
If you could hear the thunder of His voice
And the rumbling of His mouth,
You would fall too.
(Job 37.1-6)

We fall on the earth
And it sings anew and life breaks out
Because we fell.
His word falls on your heart.
Do you sing anew and flourish?
(Isaiah 55.10)

If you wash your own hands with us
Scrubbing them with lye,
Still you will not be pure.
Still you will dread.
Still you will fear.
(Job 9.30-35)

Appearing as lightning
And clothed by us
Appears one announcing
"Do not fear.
He is Risen."
(Matthew 28.1-6)

The washing
And the purging
Are His to perform,
Are yours to receive.
A heart as pure as we are.
(Psalm 51.7)

Though you are crimson,
Stained scarlet since your birth,
He intervenes.
Restores.
And you become like us.
(Isaiah 1.18)

Northwest Culture: Just a little different

2008-12-16T15:29:00.000-08:00

Two members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints came knocking on my door one Wednesday afternoon. In white shirts and ties they announced that they would soon be opening a vacuum shop down the street. They offered to clean a patch of my blue, 70's carpet with their machine. They invited me to try out their magical cleaning products.

Slowly, a realization dawned on me. These friendly chaps weren't Mormons. They were vacuum cleaner salesmen.

Growing up in the Aloha state, the only men I had ever seen wear a tie on a daily basis were lawyers and Mormons. Well Toto, we're not in Hawaii any more. Welcome to the mainland, where people dress up.

Guy 3, my little bro' from Hawaii, visited us this fall. Tromping through Seattle, somewhere between Pike's Place fish market and the space needle, a friend quietly noticed, "Guy 3's backpack is covered in pink flowers."
Aha.
Looking around, I noticed something new: Northwestern men don't wear flowers.

Luckily, 11-month-old has a limited vocabulary. Therefore, he didn't have a say in what to wear to Husband's much-anticipated Company Christmas party. It's almost as anticipated as the "Company Vacation"... but that's another story. Over his wintry garb, I dressed 11-month-old in a red and green aloha shirt (with flowers).

As we meandered through neighborhoods, looking for lights after the Christmas party, rain fell on our car. Rain danced. Rain flurried. It wasn't rain!

Back home at midnight, Husband and I tucked 11-month-old into his cozy pack 'n play and headed out to tromp circles through our snowy backyard.
I wouldn't trade this winter for the world... but I might trade a day of it for a spam musubi.

Meaning of the Darkness

2008-12-11T12:25:00.000-08:00

Vision

by Guy 2

First you see the angel, then you notice the silhouette of a man beneath.
And next, if you were closer to the ink print, you would begin to find meaning in the black surroundings. A dragon, fire, a cross, men, buildings, a swan...
What does it mean?
Guy 2 is not sure.
Any suggestions?

© 2008
RPE
All rights reserved

Unintelligible Fun

2008-12-10T22:13:00.000-08:00

Guy 2 graduates from U.S. Air Force boot camp this week.
Boot camp was crazy. Babysitting was crazy too.

"Okay, have fun! I'll see you whenever you get back."

The door closes, and three eager faces look at me, wondering "What're we gonna do?"

I had built up this whole babysitting thing with the cousins, and now it was time to deliver.

The Characters:

The 2-year-old: Loves to communicate in unintelligible languages urgently. I'm convinced she speaks a mixture of a South African dialect, a little French, Dutch, and then sprinkles English on top to mess with my mind. It works.

The 6-year-old: Very sharp, loves to get a kick out of something I really didn't intend to be funny, laugh hard for a good long while, then bring it up all the time. It's like I'm a smaller person than her. She's nothing above 4'2", and I'm over 6 feet. But yet I still often feel left out, or that what goes on with her is way over my head. It puzzles and intrigues me. It must be a skill.

The 8-year-old: Avid reader of anything she can get her hands on, plays piano, has bright red hair but a fairly complacent personality, loves dancing and singing above all other sports (including eating, breathing, and keeping a regular pulse). She really, really loves to dance.

Me: Older cousin and babysitter now being stared at expectantly.

"Okay girls, are you hungry? Feel like pizza?"
Their excited response was encouraging, but not enough to pull me out of my small low I'd just tripped into realizing that painfully un-original me just played the stereotypical babysitter and offered the girls pizza. It was a hard hit to take, but after a moment, I swallowed a glass of water and moved on with my life.

Over glasses of milk, chips with salsa that was too hot (the animated and over dramatized yelling that happened on the two-year-old's side of the table was a poster on the wall that said "salsa. dumb idea. she's two.") I had seen her eating it earlier that day, but unfortunately the salsa didn't make it into the long-term memory part of her brain, because the first thing she did was ignore the pizza and go right for the mild, piling it all on a single pathetic corner of a chip, and plunging into her pallet before I had an opportunity to finish praying.

"In Jesus name..."
"yaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh! hot! hot! hot!" the two-year-old yells.

"Amen. Two-year-old, no more salsa. Eight-year-old, could you pass it to this end of the table so she can't reach it? Thanks."

A few moments later, I look over at 6-year-old next to me, who isn't touching her pizza. "Hey, what's going on girlie? Can I cut up your pizza for you?"

"Sheesh, I thought you'd never ask. And I'm hungry too."

Feeling pretty bad I hadn't thought of it sooner, I cut her pizza up into bite-sized pieces for her.

"Oopsies" I said, then kept cutting. "Sorry Bob. Shoulda asked you sooner 'bout that pizza."

Then up from her toes came an incredibly loud roar of laughter, and hair flew all over the table as the six-year-old threw her face onto her plate and started cracking up hardcore.

"Sorry Bob! HAHAHHHAHHAAAAAAAA! He said 'Sorry Bob!'"

Perfectly even toned, not gracing the 6-year-old with the least bit of inflection, the eight-year-old coldly responded "It wasn't funny."

Your imagination can fill in the rest of the meal, and it probably wouldn't be that far from the actual dining experience I had.

Next task at hand: clean up dinner, then decide that cleaning up dinner was very boring. So we stopped cleaning, and skipped right to the dancing portion of the evening.
Take two cups of ballet and put them in the center of the room.
Next find one egg(head), give him a guitar, and tell him that no adults are around, he can act as dumb as he likes.
Then, take three tablespoons that are totally dirty, and set them on the counter where they will be ignored as the rest of the events in the evening unfold.
Add a half cup of general noise provided by two-year-old who could care less about the Tarzan soundtrack music, if people were dancing, she was too.
Sprinkle ever so slightly a little mosh action the girls picked up somewhere...from someone else other than me who didn't teach it to them the last time I babysat...
Then douse it all with hyper-ness, bake at a million degrees for about 45 minutes, and you have...

Me getting schooled by three girls who KNOW how to dance and all together don't add up to his age.

Thankfully after the girls went to bed, I still had an hour or so of quiet, danceless time which I used to clean the areas that looked like Katrina happened twice in. It made the house look really good when I put the furniture back where it belonged.

As I slowly drifted off to sleep that night, the sounds of the 80's still ringing in my ears and my legs aching from the many times I jumped into the air purposelessly, I thought to myself...

"Did you leave the oven on?"

Sleep didn't come so easily after that, because trying to drift off again having just gone from a relaxed horizontal position to a leaping, running, stove-checking frenzy of action brought my pulse rate up in a decidedly unhealthy manner.
The stove was not left on.
Good.
But I was no longer tired.
Crap!
Oops, I'm totally not allowed to say that.
I meant "aw man!"

© 2008
By JPE

White (sock) Flag

2008-12-05T22:42:00.000-08:00

The epic battle he fought since infancy. Today, he signed a peace treaty with his socks.

The 11 month old has a history of removing socks. 4.5 seconds flat, both feet. Never mind wet grass, rain, or sleet. No matter what.

Today, somewhere between exploring the Poulsbo boardwalk in 40 degree weather and walking on almost frozen concrete to a Viking statue, he waved the white (sock) flag in the air and called a truce.

Back in our toasty living room, he sought out his sock and sat, pressing it to his foot. After my shock wore off, I disbelievingly slid the sock onto his foot.

Step, step, step. He walked (he walked!) to the second sock, wanting it too.

He has reached peace with his socks, and is now asleep with warm toes.

Penguins Rock On

2008-12-03T16:57:00.001-08:00

"Penguins Rock On"
by Guy 2

© 2008
RPE
All rights reserved

2:36pm

2008-12-01T23:19:00.000-08:00

Radiation treatment.
For her 13 year old son.
The battle with a malignant brain tumor should not have to be fought by one so young.
She knows this, and she fights to always be by his side.
Every treatment, every surgery, every anesthesia, she is there.
Until 3 weeks ago.

2 months ago another child began to grow within her.
3 weeks ago, she found out.
Now the Doctors won't let her near during radiation treatment. And her heart is torn.

She walked into Planned Parenthood at 2:36pm this afternoon. Except it wasn't.
It was different sort of place to get a pregnancy test.

The ending to Elyana's story? And her son? And her unborn child?
I don't know.
She asked her counselor to call her, but not until Friday.
By then she will know the results of the blood work and she will know how much radiation her son has to endure this year. and next year.

The poem Transportation brings my soul to this refreshing awakening.
I am simply a stretcher bearer.
And I serve the God who Knows.

Transportation

Be there to bear the stretcher
For those in need of Him.
No need to be the doctor
Or give judgments on a whim.

What people need is Jesus,
His love and healing hand,
And they need transportation.
This, then, is His command.

Mark 4
© 2001, Mrs. E.

Wal-Mart: the dirty, low-down... wait a minute

2008-11-28T12:09:00.001-08:00

I stayed with my grandparents in small-town Arkansas this weekend, and this morning grandma and I went down to Wal-Mart for the much anticipated Black Friday madness.

We were inside the store when grandma said,

"Last year I came in here on Christmas Eve and they were playing Silent Night," she pointed up, "'Christ our savior is born!' and they were only doing it for money!"

My first reaction was, Wow, can Wal-Mart do anything right?

But then I realized how right she was. She claimed that Wal-Mart was wrong doing good because of its motive, and that idea carries over to all of mankind.

Our motives transform any redeeming qualities we have into something despicable. We are hypocritical and decieve ourselves when we do what is right without the right reason. What is the right reason?

Hebrews 11:6
Without faith it is impossible to please him, for whoever would draw near to God must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who seek him.

Thankful for Crayons

2008-11-27T22:07:00.000-08:00

This week
1 rebuke from a close friend
+ 1 emergency room visit
+ 2 Work days that lasted well into the dark
+ 2 Miscommunications over Thanksgiving plans
= 1 downright surly Thanksgiving morning

A non-almondine green bean casserole loomed in the oven. A two-toothed 10 month old snarfed green beans from his cheerio encrusted high chair. I tried green beans for breakfast. They didn't agree with me. Husband opted out of the green bean trend and boycotted breakfast. Neither he nor I became more amiable.

Until...
Until we sat, each of us on the floor.
Sat around butcher's paper, each armed with 2 crayons.
10 month old enjoyed the non-toxicity of Crayola while husband and I paused...
to scribble,
To name the things that make our hearts cry to God in Thankfulness.
"Almost 4 years with the wife of my youth"
"Mount Rainier"
"A job, a place to live, and a church in 1 month"
"My parents' 25 years of marriage"
"Our son"...
and we agreed on the highlight of our list:
"Jesus gives our lives meaning"

The cheerio encrusted high chair has yet to be cleaned and we lost a crayon in the process, but it is well with my soul.

Worship Redefined

2008-11-23T18:05:00.001-08:00

This is what I did to worship God in my quiet time today.
Took pictures of his critters.

~ Guy 2

Pictures © 2008
All Rights Reserved

Today I Swore

2008-11-23T01:06:00.001-08:00

Today I made one of the biggest commitments of my life.

Barring my decision to accept Christ or my upcoming baptism... it was the most sincere thing I've ever done.

I swore with my right hand raised, repeating these words after a retired Lt. Colonel of the Army, and I joined the United States Air Force Reserve.

"I, ~~~ , do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God."

Ever since I was in Junior High I'd imagined myself in the Air Force, even when I didn't really want to do it in college.
Out of college and working various jobs, it looked like the Air Force Reserve could help me get back on track with my life and help me meet my goals of becoming an E.R. Nurse.
And it would be an opportunity for me to serve my country for six years.

Six years.
I've never committed to anything for that long before.

But more than anything else, today as I sat and signed papers stating that my life insurance policy was five hundred thousand dollars, and it would all go to my Dad; as I decided that my emergency contact was my Dad, and that in the event of any kind of death, accidental or in the line of duty, my Dad would get all my possessions and my last paycheck... five words choked me up.
Five words that I never signed below, five words that never appeared on paper.

But it was these five words that caused my hand to be steady, my words to remain clear, and my heart to beat against my chest as I spoke the pledge.

"I'm proud of you son."

Guy 1 penned this two months ago, now he's one month into boot camp.

1 four-legged creature, 1 startled counselor

2008-11-17T22:52:00.000-08:00

Two construction workers lumbered through the glass doors of the pregnancy resource center today. One looked fifty-five, with long hair. The other looked sixty, with long hair and a beard.

"Here to deliver the door, ma'am."

As they walked through the accounting room carrying their 40 lb. burden, another visitor walked through. The center's counselor-on-call hovered between the front desk and the door "Is this... someone's dog?"

"Oh. Yep, that's her all right. Sorry about that. She's friendly enough, but she sheds a bushel."

"I see." [awkward pause] "Maybe she's here for a pregnancy test?"

"No ma'am. This dog will never be pregnant."

ARTiculate

2008-11-16T22:57:00.001-08:00

"Evening of the Arts"
by Guy 2

© 2008
All rights reserved

Breaking News Update

2008-11-14T01:04:00.000-08:00

Breaking News Update:

The 10 month old may be a genius. He says two words. Sometimes.
The first word is "tickle."
The other word is "Daddy."

When tickled, he sometimes spontaneously begins chanting, "Ti-ko, ti-ko, ti-ko..."

1 day later:

The 10 month old may no longer be a genius. He seems confused about sentient and non-sentient beings. There is evidence that 10 month old thinks his stuffed seal puppet, "Furry", is alive. There is also evidence that he thinks he himself is a stuffed seal.
On the Amtrak train to Portland, 10 month old chanted "Ti-ko" while tickling the train window. The train window didn't laugh. 10 month old was surprised.

3 days later:

Socks are designed to keep both feet warm in 40 degree rain. 10 month old appears not to understand this concept. He keeps one sock on his left foot at all times, and the other sock in his mouth. This picture snapped in the 10 second interval between socks on both feet and sock on only left foot.

4 days later:
Have come to this conclusion: Am indeed grateful that 10 month old's value doesn't come from his potential ability or intelligence. Glad his value comes from being made in the image of God. Also glad for the invention of footy pajamas.

Bring on the Rain

2008-11-11T22:22:00.000-08:00

Autumn awed me. To my inexperienced tropical mind, it was a sunset that lasted 29 days.
Now the sunset has fallen; Let the northwesterly rain commence!

"Well, you're gonna hate the winters here." My neighbor confidently confides.
"Come about February, we all just get to wanting to kill ourselves." Husband's co-workers claim.
"Not me. I just want to kill other people." Husband's ex-marine co-worker says.

Husband got off work early today! It was already dark.
This is strange indeed.

Strategy #1: Christmas lights.
No obnoxious hollow Santa... just twinkling, cheery, a bit too early Christmas lights.

Strategy #2: Candle.

Strategy #3: Hot tea.

Strategy #4: Bright pictures of the whole wide world tacked above the kitchen sink.
Of sunny places where people need Jesus.
And I will pray for Bobbie Jo in India, Marie in the middle east, James and Vangie
in Kenya, and children in East Timor (know a missionary there? tell me!)

Strategy #5: Hike (walk, explore, spelunk) in spite of the drizzle.
Almost 1-year-old is taking this advice to heart and trying to walk.

Strategy #6: Build amazing gutter system.
Water runs down gutter, flows down staircase, runs along smooth ledge,
ripples over copper, covers river rocks, then drains into small garden bed.
Husband thinks this project should wait until next year.

Over Thanksgiving weekend, husband plans to camp in the rain. This will give he and a friend the opportunity they've been waiting for to hone their "starting fires in the frigid rain" skills. They will be prepared with waterproof matches in a waterproof case, a lighter, Swedish fire starter (the preferred term for flint), Odwalla bars, and backpacks full of survival gear.
Fires will start and fish will die.

Any girls want to come hide from the rain with me? (tea, Christmas lights, and board games provided)

Bounty of the Destitute

2008-11-06T12:03:00.000-08:00

Girl 1 skips around in books... you know the type: the ones who can't get through the first chapter, jump to the middle and scan through the long paragraphs, -and the greatest atrocity of all- read the last few pages before they've earned the right.

When, at the ripe old age of 7, I began naming my future children, meanings mattered.
Amy means "loved".
Amanda means "she who must be loved".
Sarah means "Princess".
Kathryn means "Pure".
Nicole means "Victory of the People".
The most common meaning of my name is ridiculous. Moving right along.
The other meaning of my name is "house of poverty". My seven year old heart gave a sigh.

My Utmost for His Highest invited me to jump inside and read for these few quiet minutes as my 3/4 year old sleeps like a stink bug with his bottom in the air and his arm twisted upside-down. I couldn't read today's entry (I read that yesterday). On to the obvious choice... my birthday!
God spoke to my soul of the "Bounty of the Destitute".

The Gospel of the grace of God awakens an intense longing in human souls and an equally intense resentment, because the revelation which it brings is not palatable. There is a certain pride in man that will give and give, but to come an accept is another thing. I will give myself in consecration, I will do anything, but do not humiliate me to the level of the most hell-deserving sinner and tell me that all I have to do is accept the gift of salvation through Jesus Christ.

We have to realize that we cannot earn or win anything from God; we must either receive it as a gift or do without it. The greatest blessing spiritually is the knowledge that we are destitute; until we get there Our Lord is powerless. He can do nothing for us if we think we are sufficient of ourselves; we have to enter into His Kingdom through the door of destitution. As long as we are rich, possessed of anything in the way of pride or independence, God cannot do anything for us. It is only when we get hungry spiritually that we receive the Holy Spirit. The gift of the essential nature of God is made effectual in us by the Holy Spirit; He imparts to us the quickening life of Jesus, which puts "the beyond" within, it rises up to "the above", and we are lifted into the domain where Jesus lives (John 3:5).
by Oswald Chambers

I have felt the resentment of pride. I have stood on the false, rotten floorboards of independence. But today I only want to feel destitute. To open the windows of my house of poverty and let the Son stream in and warm my toes and fill my hunger for Him.

Furry with Salt

2008-11-05T16:05:00.000-08:00

As you exercised your American freedoms yesterday at the ballot box, Guy 1 strenuously exercised with little freedom. He's surviving boot camp.
Here's a post he wrote last year.

Returning a large french fries to the manager behind the McDonald's counter, I politely explained "I'm so sorry, but these french fries were really, really salty."
"How salty were they?" she responded. (I like to think she was trying to gauge the damage her product might have wreaked on my poor hungry tummy.)

"Furry with salt" I carefully responded, so she would know just how salty they were.
"I'll bring you out new fries in a sec'."
"Thanks!"

Approximately ten minutes later, she walked over to my table.
"Here are your fries, sir. I made them, then stirred them with only the salt that was left over from our last batch, so I hope they're not too furry this time."
She placed the overflowing triangular box on my tray, then stepped back and waited expectantly.
Then, my greatest performance.
I took a fry, placed it delicately in my mouth, bit, chew, and swallowed. Careful to keep my expression pleasantly suprised, I said happily "tastes great! Thanks again!"
She smiled and walked back behind the food service door to continue making fries.
After she had left, I did the only thing I could.

I added more salt.

© JPE 2007

Her Son

2008-10-29T17:29:00.000-07:00

A bag.
The bag holds clothes
for her grandson,
the son of her son.

Her son, the one who found out she was pregnant
the day after dad left,
his dad.

That was the day she cried
not in the arms of a strong man
cried with her son,
tears he shouldn't have seen.
He was a year shy of eleven then,
her son.

Do I write this story
because I want to?
I write it because I am compelled.

That was the day she decided
She must end the child's life
within her.

Her son,
the ten year old son who shouldn't have known all this was happening,
did know.
And he set down his Lego blocks
and told his mom she had to keep the baby.
When she explained why she couldn't (which took a little while, because she was a grown-up)
he insisted,
"I'm gonna help you, mom. So that's how you can keep the baby."

The bag is slung over her shoulder.
In it, a Power Rangers jacket and warm socks for her grandson.
"So when I called the hotline,
well, that's how I met Helen,
Thanks again for the clothes and..."
Interrupted by the ring of a pop song
"That's her now."
Her now.
The sister of her son.
Her daughter
Who is 13, and beautiful,
and alive.

A Glance Inward can be Disgusting

2008-10-27T11:43:00.000-07:00

You've got to be joking. I was going to be late again.

So frustrating.

Not forgetting to make sure my clothes matched, my teeth were brushed and my hair wasn't looking like Amy Winehouse when she first wakes up, I floored it through the kitchen, down the steps, out the door and onto the freeway.
Traffic.
On a Sunday morning.
Of course.

Let's just paraphrase the next few minutes by saying the person driving my car wasn't happy, feeling worshipful, or honoring to God.
In fact I was quite angry.
I made lots of sarcastic and cutting comments under my breath to no one in particular as I looked for a creative way to make a fifteen minute drive into a seven minute drive.
Instead, I was able to make it just under twenty minutes.

It was that premature left turn to "shortcut" what I thought was construction.
Whatever.
Pulling into my carefully chosen parking stall, yanking the e-brake and jumping out, not forgetting my bible and my smile, I strode quickly to the front door.
Finally.
Church.
Yes.

"Good morning!"
It looked like he was sincere. I bet he had the same crappy morning I did.
"Good morning, how are you?"
"I'm great! Welcome, need a bulletin?"
I thought about it. Was I standing in front of him, expectantly staring at the stack of papers he held at waist level?
Yes.
"Sure, I'd love a bulletin! Thanks!"

Walking inside to where the worship music was already playing, I chose a seat that was two spaces away from the people on either side.
Room to breathe.
Wow.
What a morning.
God, I'm so sorry that I'm so frustrated.
I'm here, I made it, and here I am, opening myself to you.

I sang, and closed my eyes.
I listened and prayed along with the speaker.
He spoke, and I mentally noted many of the points that he made.
I took the sermon to heart.
And I opened my heart to the scriptures that were read.

Then the communion worship song began.
As I closed my eyes and turned my focus inwardly, I was interrupted by the slam of a chair as someone right behind me stood up suddenly.
Turning my head slightly, I caught a glimpse of someone.
What. The. Heck.

She looked to be in her late forties, maybe early fifties.
Her hair was matted, oily, and she was wearing baggy sweatpants and a massive t-shirt that bore the proud crest of Corona.
She stumbled into another chair, banging her knee into it. It became quickly apparent that she was either drunk or her equilibrium was suffering from nonexistence.
She was drunk.
Completely distracted by this woman, I watched as she staggered down the middle of the aisle.
Then to my surprise she turned to her right and complimented a young woman on her beautiful child.

I involuntarily shook my head.
What was happening? Who let this woman in?
I mean, this is church, we're here to minister to people like that, but why was she allowed to just do whatever in the middle of the service.
My judgmental and abhorrently Pharisee-like mind attacked this woman in the moment, before I even realized what was going on.

She made her way to the communion table and reached for the bread.
Her filthy, grimy hands ripped off a piece and she crossed herself in front of three hundred people in a Protestant church.
Then she started munching on a portion that would have made two sandwiches.
I stared shamelessly.

Appearing seemingly out of nowhere, someone two rows back from the front stepped into the aisle, walked to the woman's side, and picked up the remainder of the loaf, grabbing the two other loaves that were on the table.

I watched as she gave the homeless woman a huge hug.
Then she stepped back, handed her all the bread that had been on the table, and put an arm around her shoulder, guiding her to the back of the church.

God, how selfish am I?
I'm so, so sorry that I do not respond in a manner that reflects the heart of Your Son.
My mind reeled with the immensity of what just occurred in front of me, shattering my comfort zone and ripping apart who I say I am to reveal who I actually am.

God, take my heart away from me.
I want to be someone who moves on the wings of your Holy Spirit, no longer held captive in the talons of my own vicious self-centered heart.
Make me someone who will never, ever throw down such disgusting condescension on those who deserve your love and grace just as much as I do.
May I never again narrow haughty eyes in glances that condemn those you gave your life for.

When we had finished the communion song and were sitting back down again, I cleared my eyes enough so that they weren't so blurry and looked behind me to the back of the auditorium.

There sat the homeless woman on a chair, eating her bread happily and talking with the woman.
.. ... ..

"Take me into the Holy of Holies, take me in by the blood of the Lamb.
Take me into the Holy of Holies, take the coal, touch my lips, here I am."

Candy Party

2008-10-25T23:33:00.000-07:00

It is the time of year for Christian families to again re-evaluate their position on celebrating - or lack of celebrating - Halloween.

Grand ol' trick or treating?

Harvest Festivals?

Reformation Day?

Turn out the lights, pretend we're not home, and play board games by the fireplace?

This year, our church opted for a Costume Party that doubles as a fundraiser for the local Crisis Pregnancy Center.

A friend publishes this memo each year to explain the reasoning behind such celebrations:

Candy Party.

http://electronicmessaging.wordpress.com/

College: Just Plane Wierd

2008-10-10T12:38:00.000-07:00

Guy 2 is loving his first semester of college.
His little brother writes occasionally... under duress.

"Dear Guy 2,
Happy Un-birthday to you!
How are you today? I am doing fine.
Mom said I had to write this to you and not Girl 2, so I am.
I just finished math. That is why I am writing this right now.
Is college fun or is it just plane wierd?
Do you have a fun proffessor? Does he teach you algebra three or four?
Love, Guy 3"

Nature's Whisper... yum.

2008-09-12T13:43:00.000-07:00

My son - eight months old with gusto - likes to lick the wall. He has access to all the cheerios and applesauce mixed with mashed peas that his little heart desires, but he still likes to lick the wall. That semi-gloss (or is it satin), textured, "Nature's Whisper" white rental-duplex paint is his second-favorite thing to lick. His favorite thing to lick is the toilet. When I once committed the mortal mommy sin of glancing away for an instant to wash a fork he found his way to the toilet base. Guess it feels cool on his little tongue on a northwest summers day. In the midst of such discoveries, a poem by my Mom reminds me to pray for this great and mighty man.

Every Great and Mighty Man

Every great and mighty man,
Each man accomplishing so much,
Displaying his artistic touch,
Inventing wheel or tool or crutch,

Every great and mighty man,
Each man who dares be first on wings,
Expressing wonder as he sings,
Maintaining, honing, fixing things,

Every great and mighty man,
Each man who tills his field of wheat
Preparing food for friends to eat,
Encouraging whome'er he meet,

Every great and mighty man,
Each man who breathes,
each man who lives
Began with what his mother gives

Each mighty man was born.
What great and mighty man is this
Who nestles safely in your womb?
And making his appearance soon
Be nurtured with the rising moon?

Upon your breast and in your care
He will be wholly contented there.
Could greatness be in one so fair?
What great and mighty man is this?

© 1997, Mrs. E.

Talisman of Power to Wichita Kansas

2008-09-11T13:50:00.000-07:00

Guy 2 started college this fall. Between a more than full load of freshman classes, a phone-a-thon job asking alumni for money and listening to their sob stories, a graphic design job figuring out how to make the college newspaper look way cooler than last year, midnight till 4am games of Texas hold'em, and microwaving frozen lumps of spaghetti sent by Grandma, he rarely calls. That's why we're glad he writes... so we'll know what he's thinking.

John Brown University is home to a talisman of great power. Three times a day, hundreds, if not thousands of students and faculty make the pilgrimage through the café to catch a glimpse of its marvelous power. The conveyor belt may be small and unassuming, but it has a unique characteristic. Plates, cups, chicken bones, power aid, half finished mostly melted ice-cream sundaes with two spoonfuls of chocolate topped with nuts and cherries all slathered in ketchup; all these and more are loaded on and sent chugging down the belt and into a portal. Where the portal goes is a mystery. Does it open into the cold of deep space? Does it warp to the clammy depths of the ocean? Antarctica? Midway? Wichita Kansas? Some say that there are a hundred gnomes that stand up on tiptoe to grab the load, wash it all, and carry it back to the café, listening to rock music and shining it with their beards as they go. The next day, clean plates, cups, and utensils show up in the café and a thousand souls make the pilgrimage once more.

I have always been curious; how does a material-dimensional portal transmit sound? Maybe you should try sometime: say thank you through the portal and listen for the gnomes.

AbsUlutely

2008-09-09T22:31:00.000-07:00

A guest post by the one who instigated this whole staying-up-till-2-in-the-morning-writing-furiously habit, our mom.

AbsUlutely

(with U in the middle, something seems wrong)

The earth is round.

But if you say

The earth is flat,

Well, that's o.k.

And two plus two

Is four, unless

Your view of it

Is more... or less.

And apples may fall

On your head,

But some apples

Fall up, I've read.

And did you hear

That water'll freeze,

Now and then,

At twelve degrees?

Oops, Did I

Mispel a werd?

Aw, that's alrite,

The thawt waz herd.

No imputation

Need I make

Because I believe

A mistake.

I just try hard, and

That's enough.

I sometimes quit

When life gets rough.

And there are times

When I am right

To lie, to cheat,

To steal, to fight.

For after all,

When life is o'er,

I win, because

I keep the score.

It simply is

The natural end

When absolutes

Begin to bend.

For when the truth

Is set aside,

The first guest to

Arrive is pride.

When pride convenes

With human reason,

Justice becomes

What is pleasing.

Lust and logic,

Hand in hand,

Construct a life-house

On the sand.

In knowing what

Is right or wrong,

We cannot trust

The human song.

Good and evil,

Wrong and right,

Still battle on

Throughout the night.

Yet don't forget;

The victory's won

O'er the lie

That Satan spun.

The truth is not

In me, you see,

But rather in

The Trinity.

Absolutes

Are only found

Where Grace and Truth

Share common ground.

Reality is

Soft of voice.

The truth demands

Only one choice.

The time will come

When God will say,

"What have you done

With My Son today?"

He who caused

The earth to be,

Who loves each one

Eternally,

He spoke. It was.

And it was good.

He is the "I am."

Understood?

Keep Her on the Line

2008-09-04T16:14:00.000-07:00

"Hi, could I schedule an abortion?"

Deep breath.
I'm supposed to have a well thought through response to this, but I don't.
Keep her on the line. Keep her on the line.
It's the mantra running through my thoughts.
Keep her on the line.

Short, power-packing words dance by.
"Rape."
"I was drunk."
"My husband doesn't know."

Stories. I tell stories... about my friend Lina* who has a pair of deep blue baby pajamas hanging on her bedroom wall to remind her why she's living in a cramped apartment downtown, sent away from her parents' home, kicked out of her boyfriend's house... and Lina knows her little Blazen will be worth it.

Adoption. I talk about adoption...
"Oh, no" Resolution in an otherwise quivering voice, "I could never do that to my child"

But mostly, I just listen.
Not the patient listening of a wise, removed counselor.
The frantic, praying, pleading listening of one who doesn't know which words will hurt and which words will bring tiny shreds of hope.

Every idea is a step onto melting ice. If she listens, I take another step out, feeling my way with numb, shaking toes. If she pulls away with her words, I...
Deep breath.
I'm supposed to have a well thought through response to this, but I don't.
Keep her on the line.

"I just want to save my marriage. Marriages are supposed to last longer than a year, right?"
"I lost a baby at 2 1/2 months last year, and my husband is still upset about that.
"I just want to save my marriage. I just want to save my marriage."

Would she come in to the pregnancy resource center to talk more?
Not a chance.

Would she like to meet for coffee somewhere? Just hang out after work tonight?
And texts flew back and forth from my little flip-phone to a satellite in space to her little flip-phone. And a few awkward phone calls interrupted loads of laundry. And when we met for dinner one week later she told me how excited her little brother is to be an 8 year old uncle and how the ultrasound picture pinned on the office bulletin board looks like a gummy bear. And the sense that I am just a bystander watching the hand of God at work washes gloriously over my soul.

Sometime I'll write about the next time the telephone rang. I'll write about Ashley* who demanded an ultrasound to see if she was "too far along" to rid herself of the baby. Apparently 4 months along wasn't too far, for her baby disappeared last week Wednesday.

But not today. Today I'll write from a rejoicing heart about the beating heart of a single baby.

*Names changed for privacy.

How are You? I'm Snuffy.

2008-09-04T13:48:00.001-07:00

Dear Aunt G (girl 3),

How are you? I'm snuffy. Mommy's snuffy too. Are you snuffy?
Even though I'm snuffy I still like to get inta stuff. Today my favorite stuffs to get into are... ummmm... the computer cord, and the computer, and the kitchen. I'm not disposta go in the kitchen, but I just go anyways. Me an' my lizard. Mommy keeps sayin, "You and your lizard get out of the kitchen!" but I just grin. 'Cause I'm cute. Cute and snuffy. The lizard doesn't grin 'cause he's made of plastic. But he would if he could.
So, do you like bein' on a big trip? Do you have to stay strapped in your carseat the whole time? Do they give you Cheerios? Oh wait, I forgot, you're a grown-up. Sort of.
Mommy wants to know where you are in the Bible readin'. She's in Exodus 6.
When you get here I wanna read stories with you, and eat stories with you, and eat Cheerios with you, and show you my cheesy monkey-face, and, ummmmm, we could go in the kitchen!?

love,
Half-year old

Babies are Weird

2008-08-28T11:06:00.000-07:00

The half-year old, who is now 7 1/2 months wiser than the day he was born, was introduced to Cheerios yesterday. It was one of those, your-baby-food-is-defrosting-and-you're-hungry-NOW moments. I placed a Cheerio in his mouth. With minimal gagging and sputtering, the sport of Cheerio eating had begun.

Later in the evening, I, in a moment of wild freedom, snuck (yes, my spell-check insists on "sneaked", but as I am human, and my spell checker is not, "snuck" remains) out the door, childless, into the wide world to buy cheese. While I was gone, Husband coached half-year old and the art was perfected. Half-year old now ranks in the "professional" category for Cheerio eaters... as far as chewing and swallowing go.

Getting the Cheerio into his mouth on his own is another matter. He picks Cheerios off his tray with ease. And stares at them. And tosses them between his fingers. And forgets about them. Not so with leaves, airsoft bb's, bugs, and other bits of foreign matter he finds hiding in the carpet. If there's a tiny dead beetle 20 feet away from half-year old, he pinpoints its location instantly (How... smell? Sonar?), makes a beeline for the nasty creature, picks it up in one fell swoop, and slaps it in his mouth without any hesitation. And yet, he can't pick a cheerio up from his tray and get it to its destination. Maybe I need to smush cheerios and leave them strewn about the carpet.

As my mother-in-law aptly pointed out over skype, half-year old just might fit in well in rural Kenya. Ants over Cheerios any day.

1-Upper

2008-08-20T17:10:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, I honestly hate true stories. This is one of them.

His name is Kenneth.
He's worked in the Post Office for eight years, the Military for twenty-five, and the FAA for five years.
I know all this because he told me.

Kenneth is a "1-Upper."
Everything anyone tells him, he has heard, seen, done, or smelled before.
Case in point:

Jamie- "Whoa. I went to bed at like midnight last night, then had to get up at 4:45am to come to work this morning. I'm exhausted."

Kenneth- "I woke up at 3:30am this morning and just didn't go back to sleep ever."

Jamie- "Oh."

*Pause.
*More pause-yness.

Later.

Jamie- "Weird. They're using only push-backs to move the aircraft out."

Kenneth- "I know. When I was in the Military, we didn't do it like that at all. We used Electro's, and...blah blah blah....more blah blah blah...

*Pause.
*Heavy breathing.
*Counting to ten.
*Somewhere someone in Asia is brushing their teeth.

Later.

Kenneth- "Did you know that they way they use their baggage carts here at Skywest is different than we used to use with our old prop planes?"

Jamie- *Blinks.

Kenneth- "Sure. What we'd do is we'd blah blah blah....blah blah....more blah."

Jamie- *Retreats to happy place located in a black hole somewhere.

*Silence at last.

I try hard to think of something he hasn't done before. Surely there is no way on earth -even if he was in the Military- he has ever sat in the cockpit of a B-1 Bomber.
What are the odds of that?
Very, very slim. Any other plane, whatever. I don't care. There's no way in heck he's ever sat in the cockpit of a B-1 Bomber. It's way to specific. Not even if he was in the FAA.
Take this, llama nest egg-stealer meanie.

So I tried it, and it worked.

Jamie- "When I was a little kid, my Dad took me up in the cockpit of a B-1 Bomber and I touched some of the controls and moved a couple of knobs when he was checking out the bomb bay in the back."

Kenneth is quiet for a moment. I totally have him. There is no way he could beat this.
I sat in the cockpit of a B-1 Bomber when I was a little kid. And I moved some of the controls around.
Ha.
Ha.
Ha.

A moment later, and I found myself grabbing a monkey-wrench and tearing into the side of a brick building with all the wrath and fury I could muster in my wrecked, destroyed little body.
The air grew smoky with cement dust as I savagely released pent-up frustration.

"Wow. I used to build those."

© J.E., September 2007

Friends Think He's Mad

2008-08-16T12:53:00.001-07:00

A man's retiring
3 sons
Wife of his youth
Life full and complete
+ God steps in
Working overtime
Friends think he's mad
Days trapped in a windowless cell
...A fresh start for humanity

-----
A man's getting rich
Living near family
In a beautiful land
The American Dream
+ God steps in
No place to call home
Famine
Strangers eying his wife
...All nations blessed through his obedience

-----

A girl's engaged
A quiet life
Preparing to be
The wife of a carpenter
+ God steps in
An unplanned child
A relationship threatened
A forced move
...Jesus Christ is born

We Just have to Take the Grace

2008-08-15T00:59:00.001-07:00

August, 1981
"Quicherbellyachin E." threatens to toss the young bride into the swimming pool next to the wedding reception hall.
The groom and bride slip away, their faces aching from too many smiles.

-----

1981-1985
A smörgåsbord of construction jobs, college classes, selling strawberries, antiques... anything

-----

1985-1990
My first memories of you flicker in. It's "cowboy Bob" (now I know it was really just Daddy) dressed in a cowboy hat - come all the way from the wild west just to visit me.

-----

Oct, 1990
A small amount of American cash, a telephone number, a business plan, and God's leading. You were on the plane to Hawaii only 2 weeks after deciding to start the business.

-----

1990 - 1998
McDaddy's breakfast on Saturday mornings. Daddy-Daughter dates to have tea or attend a George Winston concert. Building go-karts. Long rides to and from jobs in Hilo full of conversations, "So, now that you're nine years old... have you thought about the type of man you might marry someday?"

-----

This theme recurs over and over through my memories: You love Mom. Every year, all the kids were farmed out to family and friends while you and mom snuck away. A voice was often heard bellowing in tune through the house, " I love my wife."

-----

February 1998
You left the Big Rock for the City Isle. Dozens of employees, late night inventories, managing managers, T-R-A-F-F-I-C: this so your own dad could retire.

-----

1998 - 2008
Dad, you work harder than almost anyone I know.
Even when you're sitting at your desk, surrounded by papers, and screens, and a day-planner the size of Texas, and a water jug only slightly smaller than the day-planner, and two co-workers that are helping you solve a problem, and pressure to complete a task for Corporate, and telephone rings from track work customers who urgently need... even then, I never hesitated to walk into your office. I knew you'd set it aside to talk with me, 'cause I'm your daughter and you love spending time with me.

-----

I have a vivid memory Mom sending me in to talk with you. There was an awful feeling in the pit of my stomach. I had done something deserving grounding for 75% of the rest of my life. Funny, now I don't even remember what the something was. What I remember was your response. "O.k.... (pause too painful for words) I'm going to offer you grace. That means you don't have to pay for what you did." It seemed so wrong. I wanted to pay, to make it right somehow, to be miserable for a while for the thing I'd done. But you explained that Jesus, God's Son dying on the cross, offered us grace. We can't pay off our sin of ignoring God and going our own way... we just have to take the grace.

-----

Thank you for loving Mom. Thank you for working hard. Thank you for showing me Jesus.

Beauty and the Beast

2008-08-05T13:50:00.000-07:00

I don't know what to think,

You're God
.....

Yet You chose to come and die for me.

You took great pains to let me see.

I turned away,

But still You say,

Come back, come back to Me.
.....

Since I am a human beast,

I say, "No, no: let me feast

Here on my shame,

There on my blame.

You're the beauty, I'm the beast."
.....

I must cause You pain and grief;

My visits to Your door are brief.

I've done bad things,

But still You sing,

"You're Mine, I took your grief."
.....

"I took your burdens and your sorrow,

I'll take them again today and tomorrow.

Give Me your will,

It's a weary mill

Turning slowly around your sorrow."

.....

Give Me your soiled and dirty gown;

I'll trade: My white for brown.

It will never stain.

This, you will gain,

I will see you, Beautiful, in My shining gown."

.....

I think I've come to understand,

There's no way that I can withstand.

I am giving up my sin,

Saying I can't win.

.....

Now relief is replaced by belief,

As I hear my God and Savior say...

.....

"You are MY beauty,

I will take the beast.

Yes, and I'm still here,

Come back,

Come back to Me."

.....

How I Ended Up on the Other Side of the World... Without a Diaper Bag

2008-07-29T12:06:00.001-07:00

I used to despise overhearing mothers discuss their babies bowel movements. That was then, this is now. On Saturday, I called my friend Jesse, who lives over 2,000 miles away with an urgent - you guessed it - baby poop question. So if this has become such an important part of my life, how did I end up on the other side of the world without the diaper bag?

It all started with the missing lawnmower. When we recently became the proud tenants of of a duplex that has a yard full of dandelions, I spent 3.5 hours weeding a 1' x 2' patch. I had some profound thoughts about the importance of Jesus pulling sin out of our lives from its very roots... and decided we needed a way to mow those dandelions. Somewhere out there was a lawnmower with our name on it. We just needed to find it and buy it.

Simple solution: Drive less than 4 miles to Wal-Mart and purchase a lawnmower. I could hear the Farmers voices subliminally echoing through the recesses of my mind, "The Farmers never pay full price." Simple solution vetoed. Look out craigslist, here I come.

Option A: Drive a mere 30 miles to the bellybutton of nowhere to pay almost full price to a respectable farmer for an almost new lawnmower.
Option B: Drive east (ooooo, I'm using "mainland language") 6 miles, embark on a ferry, meet an unknown entity on the other end, and buy his cheap lawnmower.
Yep. Option B.

Unknown entity (sounds like a big black guy) says, "Well, I could meet you in about an hour at the ferry docks, but no later."
"Sure." I reply calmly. - hang up - "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa"

Snatch up half-year old.
Husband and I leap into the car.
30 seconds gained by using remote for automatic garage door opener (thank you, husband).
Drive west to ATM. Drive east to ferry docks. Park as ferry is about to leave.
I grab the "stuff" and the baby, Husband pays for parking.
Run down the ferry ramp (half-year old thought this was hilariously funny).

Ah, triumph. I feel the wind in my hair as I taste the salt spray and watch an island of evergreens float by. I love ferries, and summer in the northwest, and my family, and I... just forgot the diaper bag.

We step off the ferry in suburbia and walk right past our lawnmower. The big black guy phone voice was actually a little white guy. Go figure. We find ourselves on the ferry docks with a lawnmower, stroller, half-year old badly needing a diaper change, and 1.5 hours to kill. I thought it would be hilarious if husband pushes the lawnmower while I push the stroller in our search for civilization (aka diapers), but a ferry-angel locks the lawnmower in a storage closet for us instead.

One mile later, we find Joe's , a restaurant that changes it's theme and menu every quarter. Guess what Joes current theme and menu is? Hawaii! Discovery: poke made in the northwest does not taste like poke made in Hawaii. Here, I also spot a family with 2 babies... and where there are babies, there are diapers.

This picture compliments of the ferry ride home.

Now I have a memory, a lawnmower, and a diaper in my purse.

When a Dim Light Goes Out

2008-07-28T17:00:00.001-07:00

Reaching to the back seat, she handed a Kleenex to the diapered and runny-nosed boy that sat calmly in his car seat, nasal discharge flowing down his upper lip.
"Here Aiden, use it please. No, no! Don't throw it. Now, here's another one. I want you to wipe your nose just like I showed you. You're a big boy, you can do it. Good job Aiden, now you have a clean face again! You're such a big boy! Now hand Mommy the Kleenex, thank you sweetheart.

Smiling and kicking his feet against the seat, Aiden's bright hazel eyes looked out the window in constant desire for toddler stimulation. Watching the trees pass by, he suddenly yelped "Mommy! Mooooooooo!"

Glancing to her left, Christine saw the cows her son had picked out from the vast expanse of greenery. "That's right, those are cows! What do the cows say Aiden?"
This time his response was even more passionately delivered. "Moooooooooooooooooooooooo!

"Aiden, be quiet. I'm reading. You don't hafta say 'Mooooooooooooooooooo', you can just say 'moo',” a disgusted voice announced, “That's what the cows say anyways.”

Hiding a smile, Christine corrected her oldest son.
"Chevelle, your brother is learning, and its important you don't correct him. That's my job, I'm the Mom. What's your answer?"
Less than enthusiastic, Chevelle answered with the well-practiced disdain of a seven year-old boy. "Yes Moth-er."

Almost immediately forgetting the incident, Chevelle looked outside and noticed that something was different. "Hey Mom? Where's Old Tiny Tim?"

Taking full advantage of the red light, Christine scanned the freeway underpass that they passed by on their way to and from school each day. The crippled, stinky homeless man they called "Old Tiny Tim" was nowhere to be found.

He was always there with his cane identical to the one in the boys' Christmas Story movie, holding a sign at the intersection that said "Anything helps.", waving a blistered, dark-brown, leathery hand at the vehicles that passed him by. Several times Christine had given him something... a handful of change collected from her husband's pockets while doing laundry, some produce, or a box of canned fruit. Each time he received the gifts with a "Thank you ma'am, God bless."

Strange, he had been at that particular corner every school day for the last four years.
"I don't know honey, maybe he's gone to eat or take a nap. It is really hot outside."

As the SUV began to move at the bidding of the green light above, Chevelle answered slowly.
"No Mom, he always has his mat in the shade over there by the fence, remember? He hasn't been there all week. I wonder if Old Tiny Tim's okay."
With a roll of her eyes, Christine responded, "Okay, tonight when Aunt Joann comes over to play games with you Dad and I will see if we can find him before our date. How does that sound?”
More than thoroughly satisfied that the situation was in good hands, Chevelle responded,
“We'll be playing Monopoly. Only Aiden hasta' be on Aunt Joann's team this time. Last time he swallowed the car - my piece."
Christine laughed quietly to the windshield. They were quite the family.

Pulling out of the driveway that night, Christine filled her husband in on the events of the day.
"We'll just go to the corner he's always at, and if he's not there still, we'll try downtown." Guess there would be no movie this week.

Fifteen minutes later they left Old Tiny Tim's intersection. Five minutes after that, they took the downtown exit, discussing which streets they should cruise, possible homeless shelters to visit, and whether this was just a waste of time. In the following hours, their perspective changed drastically.

They drove slowly down back streets perpendicular to alleys where dozens of homeless slept each night. As the SUV cruised slowly through downtown, young men and not-so-young men wearing huge jeans stood in the shadows or next to their classic pimped-out vehicles, shop owners swept dirt out their back doors, and massive, bald, suited men guarded the entrances to minor-prohibited establishments, but not a homeless person was to be found. The discarded mattress city below the freeway overpass was completely vacant.

Christine's initial concern turned first to worry, then an unsettling uneasiness, then alarm as street after lonely street they passed became a soulless shadow of the previous street.
"Should I call 9-1-1?" Christine asked her husband. He always seemed to know what to do.
"I'd like to go down a few more streets, then I'll step inside a bar and a shelter, but if we haven't seen any homeless by then, we'll drive to the police station.

An hour and ten minutes later the authorities were notified. Three hours later not a single blue-uniformed officer was successful in finding a single homeless person. They had all vanished in a single night. By five o'clock the next morning local newscasters were interviewing shelter volunteers, bartenders, social workers, and church outreach coordinators. By seven o'clock, as the state of Indiana left for work, anyone who drove or rode a bus was aware of what was now being called a "state of emergency". By ten o'clock that day, the world became aware that the entire United States had, in a horrific single evening, lost every homeless person in the country to an unknown act of God or terrorism.

The statement issued at three o'clock that day by the President, though full of condolence and resolve, was severely lacking information. That evening analysts laid on the table every possible explanation for the world to consider. As country after country turned its conversation to the topic, hearts were heavy and fear hung contextual to the event that had transpired.

Guilt and questions flew for months on end as confusion and frustration turned to hopelessness, memorials, speeches, even empty grave sights dedicated to those who vanished. Four years later eighteen hundred documentaries, television specials, and film events, had been created to examine and give tribute to the terrible loss that America suffered. Eight years later the resolve had dissipated into a textbook lesson and speech transcript of the President and homeless began to repopulate the cites. And eleven years later Chevelle graduated high school and gave his salutatorian speech on what had come to be known as Tragic Monday.

It read,

“Some of the most hated, loved, and ignored people on earth are our homeless. They existed by the millions taking from society and giving nothing back. Nothing, we thought, until they disappeared, leaving a part of our lives so many of us never knew existed, empty. And so
America tasted en masse, compassion.

Our guilt, our helplessness, and our lack of answers to the questions that arose from this terrible phenomenon awakened us to our actions, or lack thereof, and we came to realize that every form of life is a gift, whether or not it contributes to society.
"Every soul, every personality, every human is a fantastic creation not to be pushed aside" Tragic Monday told us.

We are united not by color, by race, or by belief. We are all one because we are all living, breathing images of God; participants in this limited time on earth we share together."

~Chevelle Michaels

Thoughts upon the African Slave Trade

2008-07-22T23:59:00.000-07:00

Following are selections from "Thoughts upon the African Slave Trade" by John Newton, a slave captain in the 1700's. Newton stopped directing slave ships for personal medical reasons, but later recognized the horror of the slave trade.

The Works of the Rev. John Newton

If I attempt, after what has been done, to throw my mite into the public stock of information, it is less from an apprehension that my interference is necessary, than from a conviction that silence, at such a time and on such an occasion, would, in me, be criminal.

...rather unsuitable to my present character as a believer of the Gospel, to consider the abortion trade merely in a political light.

...the dreadful mental, emotional, and spiritual effects of this trade upon the minds of the doctors, nurses, and mothers who are engaged in it. There are, doubtless, exceptions; and I would willingly except myself. But, in general, I know of no method... which has so direct a tendency to efface the moral sense, to rob the heart of every gentle and humane disposition...

A boyfriend, telling her he loved her, got her pregnant with a "fine child", just several weeks old, in her womb. In the night, worry for the future overwhelmed the boyfriend, and disturbed his sleep. In great anger, he swore, that she must have an abortion. At length, he rose up, and drove her to the clinic. The worry was silenced indeed, but it was not so easy to calm the woman... he was obliged to bear the sound of her cries, till he could leave her for another woman.
I am persuaded, that every tender mother, who feasts her eyes and her mind when she contemplates the infant in her arms, will understand the pain of an abortion. - But why do I speak of one child, when we have heard and read a melancholy story, too notoriously true to admit of contradiction, of more than a hundred thousand children, thrown out...

Perhaps someone may suggest that such treatment would indeed be cruel, to infants; but infants not yet born are fetuses, tissue, that have no idea of life or pain. I dare contradict them in the strongest terms. I have lived long, and conversed with doctors, and carried a fetus in my womb. The unborn experience life, and can experience pain and death.

After a careful perusal of what I have written, weighing every paragraph distinctly, and knowing the offense that I may cause some of my friends, I can find nothing to retract.

Though I will not ever condemn an individual person for their mistakes - For I am full of awful mistakes and gross sin, and am only saved and whole by the blood of Jesus Christ, not by any good thing in me - I cannot be afraid of offending many, by declaring the truth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Approach, my soul, the mercy seat,
Where Jesus answers prayer;
There humbly fall before His feet,
For none can perish there.

Thy promise is my only plea,
With this I venture nigh;
Thou callest burdened souls to Thee,
And such, O Lord, am I.

Bowed down beneath a load of sin,
By Satan sorely pressed,
By war without and fears within,
I come to Thee for rest.

Be Thou my Shield and hiding Place,
That, sheltered by Thy side,
I may my fierce accuser face,
And tell him Thou hast died!

O wondrous love! to bleed and die,
To bear the cross and shame,
That guilty sinners, such as I,
Might plead Thy gracious Name.

“Poor tempest-tossèd soul, be still;
My promised grace receive”;
’Tis Jesus speaks—I must, I will,
I can, I do believe.

"Approach My Soul, The Mercy Seat" by John Newton
Olney Hymns (1779)

"Mama" means WHAT?

2008-07-11T13:28:00.000-07:00

My man-child celebrated his 6 month birthday this week. This half-year old is developing quite the personality. For instance, when he wants to be picked up, he coughs. How he figured that out, I'm not sure. I don't cough to get attention, and neither does his father. The half-year old has never had a coughing sickness in his short life. Ah, the mysteries of communication.

There is a chant he recites mainly when on the changing table. "Mamamamamamamama". This is not the only noise he knows how to produce. Half-year old actually produces constant noise during waking hours and occasional noise during sleeping hours. However, this is the noise he consistently makes while being changed. Keep in mind, this creative being doesn't say "mama" to get attention... he coughs.

After breakfast, half-year old was rolling about the blue carpeted living room floor between board books and a white stuffed tiger when he suddenly froze, looked me in the eye, and said "mama" with urgency. Was this the long awaited moment? His first word? 6 months did seem a little early... but maybe, just maybe, he knew my name! I went back to unpacking books, but the meaning-filled noise did not stop "Mama, mama" he repeated. Slowly, the meaning dawned on me. I checked his diaper. Yep. He was stinky. So "Mama" means poop. Great.

Hey... It was a Good Idea

2008-07-11T10:48:00.001-07:00

Most recent escapade...driving through Kansas, again.

*Sigh.
Why does it have to be right in between Arkansas and Colorado? Why couldn't they put it inside Texas, since that state is soooo big and soooo great?

Rule of life: Don't trust a state with no roadkill dotting the highways.
It has to mean something. Something must be very wrong if there are absolutely no furred or feathered remains.

Heading out from Arkansas at around 10:45pm, I launched off into the great sub-Ozarkian disheveled horizons of Oklahoma, another state in the way of Colorado from Arkansas.
I'm not bitter. Not even a teeny-weenie bit in my left toenail.

A blurred and characteristically eventful five hours of car problems and unscheduled stops in epithet-inducing out of the way locations, I arrived at a gas station.

This was a gas station that deserved my respect.
Here's why.
The windshield washer squeegee in that square bucket on the side of the pump…remember those? Yeah. This one had soap in it.

No, you're wrong. Most of them don't have soap in them. Only water, providing an unpleasant experience for the bug-splattered vehicle driver.

I was so excited I jumped up and down, wriggling in uncontainable ecstasy. Woohoo! My windshield might possibly get clean!
As a matter of fact, my excitement took the physical form of tingling warmth running pleasantly down my right leg, the puppy in me coming out.
What? You can do anything when all your belongings are in the car and you're alone.

Finishing up the windshield, I looked at my hood. It was kinda a lot dirty. Like…disgusting enough that I would make my pet fly “Doobie” wear shoes if he wanted to walk on it.
So I squeegeed the hood of my car. Ewww. Look at that front bumper. Corpses all over it.

Yup. Squeegeed that too.
While squeegeeing the front, I happened to glance at my front right quarter panel. Well, maybe if I...*squeak squeak sploosh (dunking the squeegee again) squeak squeak*
That looks a lot better. Only now the door looks really dirty. Oh, and the driver’s side window could use a good squeegeeing.

You’re not a moron. You understand exactly what happened next.
I squeegeed my entire car, right there at the gas pump.

Walking inside to grab a nice cold bottle of caffeine to keep me awake, I laid my assorted quarters and denarii on a cigarette ad smothered counter. The old dude behind the counter looked at me and said with a smile,

“I’m really impressed. I’ve never seen that before, and it worked pretty well.”

”What?”

He cocked his head sideways and smiled at me kinda funny.
“You washed your whole car with that windshield washer.”

I was so embarrassed; he’d watched me the whole time. So I said the only thing I could.

“You're only supposed to use it on windshields?”

The Road Leads Not

2008-07-06T01:53:00.000-07:00

The road leads not

Where I thought it would.

All my dreams lie broken,

Dreams I thought were good.

Where are you leading?

I can't see through the mist.

Confused and praying,

What point have we missed?

Won't you lead our hearts together,

Though I know not where?

Give us a single vision,

Oneness rare.

My heart breaks to give up

Visions past, hopes sweet.

I don't understand why,

But you'll direct these feet.

And wherever we are

Only let us stay with You.

I don't want to go alone,

But learn and grow through...

Whatever you may bring.

I fall on my face.

Father, You are holy.

Let me rest in your embrace.