Wake up with Morning Snuggles

I’m very excited to share with you that I have an article posted on catapultmagazine.com This is the first time ever that I’ve had an article published! I met the great folks from Culture is not Optional at the Festival of Faith and Writing a few weeks ago. They publish Catapult Magazine online every other week, as well as host Practicing Resurrection weekends full of camping and gardening. I’d love to go sometime!

My article is “Morning Snuggles” in which I wrestle with being a night owl and overcoming guilt to find peace, finally, in the mornings. Be sure to check out the rest of the articles in this issue themed “Wake Up” as well.

Thanks to Rob and Kirstin for the great online magazine!

The Waiting Room

I sometimes see God working in places when I’m completely not expecting it. Like the dentist’s office, when I’m just trying to read a book while patiently waiting my turn.

I was there for a consultation visit, to meet the staff and decide if I wanted to make this place my home for dental care. I arrived at 1:30 p.m. along with three others. We sat in the waiting room waiting for the staff to return from lunch, and I attempted to scarf up the few minutes of peace in a  good book. I found myself staring at the same sentence for the next fifteen minutes as quite the scene developed around me.

A gentleman in his fifties had arrived escorting a smartly dressed elderly woman on his arm. He began to fuss over her.
“I see you put on your royal attire today. Purple is the color of royalty, you know. Your purple blouse is lovely.”
She smiled but didn’t say anything in return. He moved a piece of hair out of her face. “There, there, now you just look so great today!”

With every phrase and movement he demonstrated upmost respect and care, with a slightly light-hearted flair. She then began to question him as to why they were there.

“What do they do to you at this place?”

“This is the dentist office. They clean your teeth,” he replied.

“My teeth?” She looked bewildered at the thought that someone would need to clean her teeth.

Yes, they clean your teeth and take good care of your pretty smile here.”

She still must have looked unsure (I was still staring at my one sentence) because he continued to re-assure her, “These are my friends. I trust them. They’ll take good care of you here.”

That seemed to satisfy her and she settled down in her chair comfortably.

I wondered how he knew her – if he was a friend just running her on her errands, or if he was a family member assisting in her care. The ease of their relationship showed that even with her failing memory, she knew enough about him to know she could trust him. It was a scene that become more beautiful in the coming moments.

A young man walked in, and the gentleman in his fifties jumped to his feet, recognizing a friend. He then introduced the elderly woman as his mother-in-law. My heart melted. The woman then informed the young man that her son-in-law had just been entertaining them at home with all his funny stories. The son-in-law teasingly replied, “Now, mother, what happens at home must stay at home!”

I assumed that he and his wife took full care of their mother and that they did it with love and respect. Not an ounce in his being displayed a hint of frustration, exhaustion or burden. Caring for this woman who had raised his wife was his pleasure. An outing with her to the dentist was and adventure to be enjoyed. I could only imagine how well he treated his wife is this was how he treated her mother.

My glimpse of human beauty was further opened when a boisterous man in his seventies then joined our cast in the waiting room. He walked in wearing a light purple sport coat over a high-collared white dress shirt with a purple rhinestone fastening the neck closed. Navy dress slacks completed his spring ensemble. His personality was as colorful as his coat. He greeted the room with a hearty “Afternoon everyone!” I apparently was so engrossed in pretending to read that same sentence, that I forgot to return his greeting. Soon, right behind my ear I heard, “You there young lady in the chair.”

Since I was the only “young” lady in the room I knew I’d been had. I raised my head and eyebrows and looked at him with wide yes. He read my expression and answered, “Yes, you! You didn’t reply!”

“Oh! Um, yes sir! Sorry! Good afternoon to you!”

“There, that’s much better.”

Satisfied, he shuffled on to work his way around the room. Something about his mannerism and demeanor made me think he was a preacher. Not a pastor. There is a difference. I somehow knew that if he was a man of the cloth, he was “Reverend Last Name,” and not “Pastor First Name.” I say that with great respect. I grew up under a Reverend Last Name. This man seemed to fit the bill.

The staff returned from their lunch and the Reverend continued his hearty hellos. They all expressed pleasure to see him again. The receptionist told him he was “as pretty as an easter egg” in his purple coat. He got quite the pleasure out of the compliment.

Soon my name was called, and I was sad to exit the show stage left. I was still processing the events of the past few minutes when I sat down in the office to discuss my dental history. As if knowing it was impossible to ignore, the receptionist began to give me some history on the Reverend.

“That dear gentleman is a preacher.” (I knew it, she used the word preacher!) “He’s had a hard life, but he has handled it so well. He never has an appointment. He just shows up, and we always figure out a way to work him in.” She said the whole thing with a genuine smile and without the slightest hint of annoyance. She was sincerely happy to see him show up again.

Before she said another word, or anyone took a look at my teeth, or explained their high tech procedures, before they offered me a warm neck wrap or lemon-scented towel to help me relax, before I learned the dentist was a fellow Ohioan or received a hand-writen follow-up note from the tech, I had made up my mind. This would be my dental home.

Before I had analyzed their practice of dentistry, I had seen how they treat their patients – the ones who throw a wrench in the schedule, the ones who to some might be seen as an obnoxious intrusion, who some might remind once again that you need to have an appointment first. They saw him as a human, with a history and a heart. They saw him not just with dental needs, but with personal needs as well. This was the kind of office that a son-in-law would trust with his failing mother-in-law, that he could assure her even when she didn’t understand, that she could trust these people, because he trusted them.
In fifteen minutes, in the most unlikely of places, I’d seen a glimpse of heaven – people treating each other not as burdens they carried around, but as people to love and care for, as people made in the image of God with great worth and value – even when they can’t remember what a dentist does, or step outside the social norms.

Whether this case of characters knew it or not, they displayed the aspects of humility that Paul encourages those who follow Jesus to display:

“Do nothing out of selfishness or vain conceit, but in humility, consider others better than yourselves. Each of you should look out only to your own interest, but also to the interests of others.” Philippians 2:3-4

That’s a community I want to be part of whenever I can – even if it’s only twice a year when I get my teeth cleaned.

Book Winner!

T-Rex drew the name for the winner of the book Picking Dandelions by Sarah Cunningham, and the winner is Heather! I’ll be sending you an email! Thanks to all of you for participating. Pick up the book if you’re able – here it is on Amazon

Weekend of Festivals and Foxes

You just never know what you’ll find in small town America. Our country is dotted with small towns, yet all the attention goes to the glamorous (or not so) big cities. We’ve lived in both. I kind of like the small town, as long as I’m within 5 minutes from a grocery store, and a Taco Bell.

This past weekend we attended one of the great small town festivals – Vermontville’s Maple Syrup Festival, which is celebrating its 70th anniversary. According to the all-knowing Wikipedia, the idea for a Maple Syrup Festival was discussed in 1940 in the local barbershop, the locale for all great small town ideas. If you don’t believe me, watch some Andy Griffith. According to the 2000 census, Vermontville’s population was just under 800. It is the epitome of Small Town, U.S.A. with a quaint little library, the requisite few churches and a tree-lined downtown street. The Syrup Festival started as a way to promote the town’s local maple syrup producers, and it has turned into a weekend full of carnival rides, games, parades, craft shows, and of course – all things maple. I’m convinced that all 800 residents show up, along with many more from surrounding towns.

Take your pick of all-you-can-eat pancake breakfasts, naturally. We sat in the bays of the local firehouse and doused our pancakes with all the syrup our sweet tooth could handle. If that’s not enough maple for you, walk down the street and get some maple flavored cotton candy, or maple cream, or maple candy that is so sweet you can’t eat a whole piece in one sitting. And if you don’t get your fix at the festival, here’s a page full of recipes that you can use with the jugs of syrup you purchased. I personally am intrigued by the maple sauerkraut.

We sat in the grand stands for the parade which consisted mostly of politicians shaking hands and tossing candy in hopes of gaining votes this fall, local residents showing off their sports car of choice, the jr high and sr high bands, and tractors. Lots and lots of tractors. I do think the tractors were my favorite part, especially the orchard tractor. It makes me want to have an orchard just so I can drive a pimped out, low-rider orchard tractor. While wearing a pink cowboy hat, of course. But the funniest part of the parade was when the emcee called one politician a “she” who was actually a “he.” His notes were a little inaccurate. It made the parade that much more entertaining!

However, the most memorable part of the day happened while eating our pile of pancakes. An older man walked in wearing a hat made out of an entire fox’s skin – head, 4 legs, body and tail. The kids sat and stared at him wide-eyed. He caught their eye and told them they could pet his hat, which Little Miss did. As we were headed out, my path took me past his chair and he looked up at me with a twinkle in his eye and said, “My hat is named after you – Foxy!!” I laughed about that all day long. I  asked him the story of his hat, and he was more than happy to tell. I mean, really, you wear a hat like that because you want to draw attention to yourself . He said he makes walking sticks and a few years back a man wanted a stick but didn’t have any money, so he traded the man a walking stick for the fox hide and a tooth from a grizzly bear (which he was wearing around his neck). The fox was an Alaskan red fox, and he found a place in Minnesota that turned it into a hat, which has to be the warmest hat ever. And now you know if you ever end up with a random fox hide, turn it into a hat and you’ve already got the best come-on line ever!

Are there any festivals that your family likes to frequent? Please share!

Picking Dandelions – Book give away!

Last week at the Festival of Faith & Writing, I had the pleasure of meeting Sarah Cunningham whose spiritual memoir Picking Dandelions:The search for Eden among life’s weeds was recently published by Zondervan. I had stumbled across Sarah’s blog a month ago and left a comment. We exchanged a couple e-mails, and I have her to thank for making we aware of the Festival. Zondervan was handing out copies of her book at the Festival, and since I already have a copy of my own, it’s my pleasure to share it with one of you today! Just leave a comment on this post by Monday 5 p.m. EST, and I will announce the winner that evening. This drawing is open to U.S. and Canadian residents only.

I had to chuckle at the title Picking Dandelions because there were many, many spring days in my childhood when my parents sent my younger brother and I out into the yard and the open lot across the street to pick dandelions until our hands were thoroughly stained yellow. My great-grandfather made dandelion wine. Yes, dandelion wine. Now, this culinary delight was not for the purpose of inebriation. Oh no. This wine was a cure-all. No matter what your ailment, dandelion wine would cure it. I confess, I have never been brave enough to try dandelion wine, but my brother has. And he, like the rest of my family, swears by it. Ahem. Back to the book….

Sarah’s narratives of her early life growing up in Pennsylvania and Michigan as the daughter of a Baptist minister made me chuckle and brought up fond memories of my own childhood in the Midwest. She shares poignant stories of her internships in Chicago working with the homeless, and of the time she led a team from her church helping with relief efforts at Ground Zero days after 9/11. Through all of the stories there is an undercurrent of the necessity for spiritual change in our lives, how our salvation isn’t just about a prayer and a moment in time, but a lifetime of growing and walking with Christ.

In the last section of her book, I felt like God did a sneak attack on me. As Sarah reviewed a period on her own life where God revealed areas that she needed to be more like Christ, I felt sucker punched as I realized, I too had been avoiding some of those areas of change. In the days after finishing the book, I began to take my thoughts captive, so much more aware of my own areas of weakness that I needed to turn back over to God’s loving hands.

Picking Dandelions is a delightful read, spotted with humor and poignancy. I believe you will enjoy it as much as I have. Leave a comment below for your chance to win my extra copy!!

Home is where the family is

It’s been over 12 months since we’ve had a place to call our own. Twelve months since we boxed up all the dishes, candles, books, and spices and put them in storage. Twelve months since we crashed my in-laws house. Twelve months of breaking their glasses and dishes and irons and realizing how incredibly clutzy I am.

It’s been a process of letting go. Letting go of my expectations – how long it would take to sell our Florida home, how much everything would cost, how long it would take us to find a new home – and in general just letting go of my will.

After so much time and distance from familiarity and from all my “stuff,” I can’t even remember what color my dishes are, what pictures I own to hang on the walls, or what color my cloth napkins are. There are a million little things that seemed so important to my identity at one time, so important to making a “home.”

But now, I’ve realized I really do just need one thing to be home. Actually 2 little people and 1 handsome man. When I arrived at my parents’ home after attending a conference and not seeing the kids for 4 days (our longest stretch apart to date), T-Rex came bouncing down the sidewalk and jumped into my arms. He snuggled into my shoulder and stayed there, falling asleep in a matter of minutes. I know this year-long transition was hard for him. His little mind couldn’t wrap around what we were doing, and for a long time he asked if we were going to pick up our Florida house, put it on a truck and put it in Michigan. Now, a year later, even he seems to know what home really is – family. Togetherness.

As we start to wrangle paint colors, and furniture arrangement, and a craft room, and a laundry room, and finding just the right spot for the glasses and silverware, and designating a junk drawer and space for the piles of mail, I hope to maintain a healthy distance from my stuff. I want to always remember I own it, it doesn’t own me. That the right paint color doesn’t make my home a safe haven. That perfect furniture and photos on the wall don’t make me hospitable. That what matters most is the people inside the four walls, whether they be guests or residents, and that my love for them, and our love for each other is more important than how perfect my stuff looks.

Humility, humility, humility

I just attended the Festival of Faith & Writing at Calvin College in Grand Rapids, Michigan last week. It was AMAZING. I’m still processing everything, and I think it will take me 2 years to let it all sink in.

Eugene Peterson (the gentleman who wrote the Message Paraphrase) gave some fantastic talks. His spirit is so….deep and wise and deep. He said that the three most important things for a writer are humility, humility, humility. I say that there’s no one to keep you humble like your family. Especially if you add a 5-year-old to the mix.

Apparently, after 33 years of living, my body has decided to develop allergies. I don’t quite understand it. I lived in Florida for more than 5 years where the pollen is so thick that it will coat your car giving it the appearance of a giant, green, powdered doughnut. Yet, I had no trouble with allergies until I moved back to Michigan.

As a result, I’ve been spending a small fortune in co-payments at the eye doctor’s office. The allergies are also thwarting my attempts to re-join the contact-lens-wearing population. I woke up one day last week with a bright, red right eye that made me look like a freakish character out of the Twilight saga. Little Miss Sunshine asked, “Mama, why aren’t you wearing your contacts? You look so much prettier without your glasses, and why is your eye so RED?” Remember what I said about humility? Nothing like a 5-year-old to tell you the truth. “Honey, I have allergies, and I can’t wear my contacts when my eye looks like this.” She started to back away from me as if I might start to suck her blood.

I traipsed to the eye doctor once again, and she gave me a sample bottle of steroid eye drops to help shoo away the white blood cells that were causing my eyes to be so red and irritated. She also said ,unfortunately (but with a smile), that she’d have to do the final fitting for my contacts at a later date.

My right eye cleared up, just in time for my left eye to inflame. I spent the weekend walking around the writing conference, making all sorts of wonderful, new friends, while looking like a freak from Twilight. Every time I would go to the bathroom and look in the mirror, I nearly scared myself at how terrible my eye looked. Then I would think that I should be explaining to people as I meet them what is wrong with my eye. But since no one had mentioned it, I hoped that meant it wasn’t as noticeable as I feared.

When I showed up at my parents’ house to re-join my children, nearly the first thing out of everyone’s mouth was, “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOUR EYE?” I went through the allergy spiel once again, and when I happily relayed that no one had mentioned my eye at the conference and hoped that meant no one had noticed my Dad replied, “Oh, they noticed alright.”

Like I said – there’s no one to keep you humble like family.

That night as we were getting ready for bed, Little Miss looked at me and said, “I think I’m going to ask Grandma for a sleeping bag and I’ll sleep on the floor.” I looked at her and said, “There’s plenty of room in the bed, honey, we can share it.” She started to back away again and said, “No, Mama, I don’t want my eye to get red like yours.”

Sigh. Humility, humility, humility.

The porthole to heaven

I found a delicious little porthole into heaven today- a Tim Hortons/Coldstone combo. I was driving along Interstate 75 in Ohio in desperate need of lunch and caffeine, when I saw a sign for Tim Hortons. We don’t have Tim Hortons in our part of Michigan. Oh what good coffee they have. And doughnuts. And soup. And doughnuts. And sandwiches. And doughnuts.

Lo and behold, when I pulled up to the pearly gates, Coldstone was also present. Be still my heart. I actually didn’t get any ice cream with my lunch, but just the prospect that I could was sheer bliss. The signs boasted that for ONLY $.99 I could add a scoop of ice cream to my coffee order. Sugar coma? Yes, please! And the sandwich combo? I told them “wheat bread, please” quite intentionally so I could feel less guilty about saying “YES!” to the chocolate glazed cake doughnut instead of replacing it with an apple.

I’m so thankful that God blessed some people with brilliant business and marketing minds and genius ideas to combine such wonders as good coffee and doughnuts and ice cream all in one stop. I smiled all day long. Seriously. Granted, the joy may have been from the sugar/caffeine buzz from the coffee and doughnut, but I don’t really care. It kept me wide, wide, wide awake for the last 2 hours of my 5-hour solo drive.

There are 2 routes from our house to my parents house. We can go through Ft Wayne, Indiana which has less traffic, but no Hortons/Coldstone combo. Or we can to through Toledo/Findlay, Ohio which has more traffic, but DOES have the Hortons/Coldstone combo. Coffee, doughnuts and ice cream trump. Sorry, honey – we’re fighting traffic from now on just so we can pass through the porthole to heaven I found .2 miles off I-75 in Findlay, Ohio.

Here’s a link to all where you can find Tim Hortons/Coldstone combos

The 18 hour journey

I was a self-absorbed seventeen-year-old American girl when I stepped onto a passenger train in Moscow the sumer of 1994. My travel companions and I were disgruntled that the 10-hour train ride our itinerary had boasted from Moscow to Samara was, according to our guide, actually going to be 18-hours. What were we supposed to do on a train for 18 hours? We could only play so many card games, and even teenagers can only sleep for so long. We were fast-paced Americans used to getting our food in under five minutes and zipping about the countryside in our parents’ cars without noticing the scenery. We were about getting places and doing things, and fast – not necessarily about enjoying the journey.

I slept off the travel exhaustion and itinerary frustration to the gentle rocking of the train. Rested and refreshed, I found myself standing in the hallway of my sleeper car staring out the window at the scenic countryside as we lumbered our way to Samara. I was mesmerized. Farmlands rich with dark soil, forests thick with green, and the blue, flowing Volga River wrapped their fingers around my heart. Having grown up in suburbia, I had never seen so much open land – pristine, uncultivated, uninhabited, and most likely as beautiful as the day it was born.

It didn’t take long to realize the 8-hour discrepancy in the trip had little to do with the slower pace of the train or the distance, but that we stopped at every little town along the route. Every couple hours, we felt the rocking train slow. Word traveled faster than we did, and by the time the wheels stopped, it seemed half the town had gathered at our doors to see the two cars full of young Americans onboard. They came not just in hopes of selling us their hand-made dolls and clothing, but to get a glimpse of so many Americans. We, the tourists, became the attraction.

By the time we reached our final destination, we were a different group than had boarded the train the previous day. The journey had transformed us as we took in the beauty of the countryside and the faces of each town. Our disgruntled dispositions had been replaced with grateful appreciation for those 18-hours – for the chance to slow down and view a chunk of countryside we never would have experienced at 30,000 feet in an airplane. We had fallen irreversibly in love with Russia’s exquisite land and friendly faces that greeted us at each stop.

Sixteen years later, I carry the lessons I learned during those 18 hours with me in every journey: Most often the best moments happen unscripted and off the itinerary. Relax, let the moments happen, and savor each one, for you may never get to experience anything like them again.

This post has been entered into the Grantourismo-HomeAway travel writing competition.

Spring’s Arrival

We woke up this morning, and it seemed that overnight the trees have all bloomed. As I headed to the eye doctor (AGAIN), I wanted to get out every block and take pictures. After living in Florida for nearly 6 years, I don’t think I will ever take for granted the beauty of spring and fall. These transitional seasons are so short, but packed with beauty. I’m afraid to blink in fear I’ll miss something.

Last year this time, I posted Spring Reawakening, and I found my words just as true this year as we still wait (sometimes) patiently for the conclusion of our own transition period. Last week was a long, dreary, cold week. The blooms today were a vibrant reminder that rain is necessary to bring new life from the dormant ground. The storms refresh the earth bringing vital nutritents as God works to make all things new again. And so, for one more spring – I stand in the rain, accepting that this transition period has been good for my growth. It’s been vital for the lessons I have learned – in patience and faith and fortitude and simplicity. God is bringing new life from my dormant soul.