Lost In The Attic

That's Just What Day It Is

2011-08-18T20:20:00.000-05:00

I was so very sad on Monday. The depth of it surprised me. Last year, when I looked into my future and saw this day coming, I saw freedom, excitement, new adventures. I looked into my crystal ball and saw a clean house, more income and, of course, cuter shoes. I saw years worth of "to do" projects being marked off my list. But, instead, Monday came far too quickly. I walked down the noisy, colorful hallway full of children dressed in new outfits. I entered a cheerful room where a few children were sitting at tables coloring giant letter A's with red and blue crayons, and tried to smile pleasantly at the woman who would be taking over my job. I didn't quite succeed at the smile. I kissed my tow-headed girlie, told her she was going to have so much fun and that I would see her in just a few hours. Without even looking at me she said, "I know, Mama", picked up her own crayon and started to work. I held up my head and bravely left the room. My breath was coming in short, shallow gasps and I can only hope my tears didn't scare the little kids still headed toward the classroom. I didn't have a little hand to hold when I left the school building that day. No one needed my help crossing the street or buckling their seatbelt. No one asked me if we could have ice cream for breakfast.

I cried in the car.

My best friend dropped everything and met me at McDonald's for coffee. I told him how embarrassed I was at my public emotional display at the school.

Then, I cried in the booth at McDonald's.

I told him I hadn't cried at all when I took the other kids to their first days of school and that I couldn't believe I was turning into a complete basket case over leaving my last baby at Kindergarten. Then he held my hand and said to me, "She is your last baby and today you left her at school for the first time. That's just what day it is today. It's ok to be sad." He made me feel better. That's one of the reasons I married him.

I went to the store to do my regular weekly grocery shopping and as I walked in I heard a little girl ask her mommy if she could ride the 50 cent pony.

And I cried.

I cried when I walked down the aisle with the cotton balls and saw a mother getting frustrated with her son for pulling all the qtips off the shelf.

I cried when I passed a woman helping her elderly grandmother reach the canned soup. I cried when I saw a little girl run past the end of the coffee aisle. And I cried at the checkout counter when the cashier asked me how I was doing today.

That's just what day it was on Monday.

Today is Thursday. That's just what day it is today.

First day of school, August 15, 2011.

Mattie, 16, drove herself to school! 11th grade, Bauxite H.S.

Jenna, 11,successfully opened her locker! 6th grade, Benton Middle School

Elijah, 10, 4th grade, Angie Grant Elementary School

Daisy, 8, 3rd grade, Angie Grant Elementary School

Ruby, 5, Kindergarten, Angie Grant Elementary School

Change Kind of Stinks Sometimes

2011-07-24T22:30:00.000-05:00

Reader Alert: This entry is destined to be a downer. I'm feeling a bit lousy at the moment and have a nagging desire to throw a pity party, so pull up a glass of wine, or whine, and come drown in my sorrows.

I was raised by a stay-at-home mother, but she never really talked to us about why she chose to stay home. She was just...there. I never questioned why my friends' mothers worked and she didn't. I didn't think about it at all. And I didn't really appreciate my mother, either.

Jeff and I got pregnant with Mattie the summer right after I graduated from college. I turned 23 exactly 1 week before she was born. Up until the very moment the doctor laid her slimy body on my chest, I fully intended to be a working mom. I had a full-time job as a caseworker for families with developmentally delayed children ages 0 to 3 years old. Jeff wasn't quite finished with school. For that time in our young married lives, I was the (measly) breadwinner. It didn't matter that something broke loose in my heart when Mattie was born. It didn't matter that the thought of leaving my precious baby girl at a day care center made me want to throw up. It didn't even matter that my shirt instantly became soaked with breast milk at work when I heard another mother's baby cry. We had a house payment. And utility bills. And a truck payment.

Fast forward 5 years to the birth of our 2nd child, Jenna. Jeff had his degree and had been working in ministry for several years. I wanted to quit working and stay home with the kids full time. We had some pretty tough conversations about cutting our family income in half, oh, and by the way, I wanted to try homeschooling. But we did it. I got homeschooling out of my system after 4 years, but I've been a stay-at-home mom for the last 11 years. Sometimes I loved it, other times I hated it. Sometimes I felt like I was important to my family, other times I felt like a wad of chewed-up gum. Every day for the past 11 years Satan told me I was being selfish and lazy by staying home and that I was putting too much financial burden on my husband. However, I have always been confident that it was the best choice for our family. Since Mattie and Jenna, we have added Elijah, Daisy and Ruby to the mix and in just a few very short weeks, my baby Ruby will start Kindergarten.

And the door is about to slam shut on the baby years. No more toddlers straddled across my hip as I stand in line at the grocery store. No yellow spit-up stains on every single one of my shirts. No more diving into a kid's mouth to fish out June bugs or dog food or safety pins. No more diapers or pull-ups or plastic mattress covers. Sippy cups, monstrous diaper bags and strollers have all been sent to Goodwill. I will forever have Goodnight Moon memorized, but the kids don't request it at bedtime as often as they used to. And I am not sad about it. Not really. Except maybe I got a little sad just now when I typed it out in cold, hard letters and then had the nerve to read it back to myself.

The truth of the matter is that I don't have time to be sad about my babies growing up. There is softball practice and slumber parties and homework and they broke their bedroom door off the hinges...again. Will someone please explain to me why there is a cat handcuffed by his neck to the leg of the table? I take a deep breath and know that I am blessed because this is the way it is supposed to be. The noise, squabbles, laughter, screaming -both happy and angry- all signs of life. A life that I am glad to have. I can't be sad that Mattie only has 2 years left before she leaves for college because she is learning to drive and taking her SAT's. I can't morn the fact that Jenna is finished with elementary school because she is learning locker combinations and wearing mascara. Elijah has outgrown another pair of jeans, but he held the door open for me today. Daisy graduated out of her car booster seat, but she still delights in making mud pies and playing in the rain. Ruby is leaving me for big school in a few weeks, but she is learning to read and got her very own library card.

Life in motion is a good thing. It's just that it's changing right now, right before my eyes, and sometimes I wish it didn't have to change so much. or so quickly. When Ruby starts school, I will be going to work. I'm going to ease into it with substitute teaching, but I'm a little anxious about how I'm going to handle it all without melting my family's faces off, Indiana Jones style, when the pressure starts to get to me.

Tomorrow, Jeff and I will celebrate our 19th wedding anniversary. I'd be lying if I said we haven't had times of wondering if we made the right decision; that I've never been selfish or irrational; that he's never been crass or unreasonable. All of those things have happened, and more. But I love him a lot. There's no one else I'd rather walk through this life with. I think we'll stick it out together a little longer. You know, until death do us part. The end.

Hippy Dippy

2011-06-17T16:19:00.001-05:00

In July, Jeff and I will have been married for 19 years. In that time, we have purchased only 1 new car: a 2001 Hyundai Santa Fe. When we bought it, we only had 2 kids, so the 5 passenger capacity was perfect. 3 years later, our 6 member family had outgrown the car, and we discovered a little thing called "depreciation" and how difficult it can be to sell a car when you are upside down in the loan. Well, it all worked out fine for us, but we decided to never go in debt for a car again. And we haven't. We are also anti-minivan. Since we made our decision, we've "murdered" 3 Suburbans and a station wagon. BTW, when I say "murder" I mean that we blacked them out...black paint, black rims, as-dark-as-is-legally-possible window tint, etc. I was kind of going for the "soccer mom, but you better not cut me off in traffic" look. When I drove the Suburbans, friends joked about my "urban assault vehicle" and when I drove the wagon, my kids' friends asked them why we drove that "funeral" car. It's fun driving unique cars. People honk and wave when they see you coming and I've never lost my car in a parking lot.

On December 15, 2010, the same day my oldest daughter got her driver's permit, she murdered my "murdered" wagon. And when I say "murder" I mean she used it to render a semi truck undriveable. My awesome station wagon with the LT1 Corvette motor, now sits in a scrap yard, being stripped one piece at a time for its few usable parts, waiting for the day it will be crushed and melted. A moment of silence, please.

We had the thing on full coverage with the insurance company, so with a check for $3200 in our hands, Jeff and I had a meeting at Starbucks to discuss what our next vehicle would be. Even though I loved our Suburbans (we'd had 4, if you count the one we only owned for 6 days before it was stolen and led police on a high speed chase through Los Angeles), but Jeff was getting bored with them. I loved the wagon, but was often frustrated with its lack of cargo space. We had to use all the seats for strapping in kids, so when I went to the grocery store, we had to stuff bags in floor boards around little feet. You can imagine how poorly my eggs and produce fared on the way home. We were against driving a minivan, but the idea of a full size van was appealing. We knew we couldn't just buy one and drive it as-is... that would be dull and normal. I told Jeff that I wouldn't murder it like we've done in the past, because that would be too "A Team". I suggested that we could hippy it, thinking he would laugh off the idea. Instead, he got a gleam in his eye and said, "Mystery Machine?" To which I responded, "I SO get to be Daphne."

The following is a look at the transformation of our current vehicle.

We spent a lot of time looking at conversion vans, but because of the seating arrangement with 4 captains chairs, they only hold 7 people. That's fine for us, but I really like to let my kids invite friends to come home from church and school sometimes, so I was hoping for a vehicle that would hold at least 8. With that in mind, we started looking at 12 and 15 passenger vans, but the ones we could afford (and still have enough money left to "modify" it) had looming transmission problems. The ones in better shape left us no money for "personalizing" the vehicle.

About the time we thought we were going to have to go back to the drawing board, Jeff came across a Craig's List ad for a 3/4 ton van owned by the Conway School District. We drove the 45 minutes out to go look at it, and it turned out to be exactly what I wanted! (Granted, my version of "perfect" is a little off-kilter from the average soccer mom's definition of perfect.) It had been used as a maintenance vehicle, rather than a transportation vehicle, so the passenger seats had been removed and replaced by metal utility shelves. They had obviously been sweating pipes with a torch inside the van as there were more burn holes in the headliner than there was actual headliner. The flooring was filthy black rubber with multiple colors of paint spilled and dried all over it. On the outside, it was an ashy red all over. But, it was mechanically sound, had front and rear working air conditioners, and they only wanted $1800! See, I told you: PERFECT!

All of this happened over the Christmas break and with school starting back in January, we needed to have a car that would haul all the kids. So the first thing we had to do was find seats for it. This required several trips to several different junk yards. At the first junk yard, I found the seats I wanted for the front. I know that the high backed front seats are supposed to be a little safer, but (being a shorty) I always loved the low backed seats in my dad's 1967 Volkswagon Bug that I drove (and ultimately rolled over in a ditch) in high school. We found these seats:

In this van:

I had so much fun prowling around the scrap yards with my husband and helping him pull the parts we wanted out of other wrecked vehicles. It was like extreme recycling and became quite a sport for me! Even though it was fun, I still wanted my teenager to suffer a little. After all, it was her fault that we were having to endure the inconvenience of putting together another family vehicle. So, I made her go to the scrap yard with her daddy on a cold January afternoon in search of passenger seats. My plan backfired. It turns out she's related to me and enjoyed the junk yard as much as I did.

Mattie and Jeff scored big on that trip! They found a wrecked Dodge van with all the seats in perfect condition. Our van is a GMC Rally, but careful measuring ensured that all but the longest back seat would fit perfectly into our van, and Jeff happens to be quite a good welder, so a few nips and tucks would make the back seat fit.

Technically, there's not any purple on the Mystery Machine, but Daphne's clothes are always purple, so I argued that if Daphne was designing the Mystery Machine, there would unarguably be PURPLE. And since "I SO get to be Daphne", I decided that my seats needed to be recovered in lavender vinyl.

To make the reupholstery less expensive, we stripped the old covers off ourselves.

Additionally, we decided it would be easier for our kids to irritate and kick each other if we redesigned the seating arrangement. So we turned the front row completely around so it faces backwards. We left the back row facing forward. And Jeff used his welding torch to shorten a bench seat and we turned it sideways against the windows. (The passenger seating now resembles a letter "C".)

When we went to see our upholsterer, Jerry Mann, he had a remnant of the perfect shade of purple, but not enough to cover the entire group of seats. I did some thinking and reminded Jeff of a booth we sat in when we were eating at an A&W's in Oklahoma. It had a wavy line stitched into it with one color on top and another on bottom. We presented the idea to Jerry and he said he could do it! Here's what we ended up with:

We also had Jerry help us redo the burned headliner and Jeff installed a row of rivets right behind the driver and shotgun seats so we can eventually hang a beaded curtain. I know! Fun!

It's hard to tell from the pictures how bright the colors are on the interior, but we also went to Home Depot and picked out a lime green house carpet in the tallest knap we could find. It's not quite a "shag", but it's pretty tall.

Then we were finally ready to work on the outside of the van! But first we had to do all the boring prep stuff. Sanding.

And more sanding.

Followed by more sanding.

And did I mention sanding?

This is 10 year old Jenna. She wanted in on the action, too! And this is a cool picture she accidentally snapped while she was taking a picture of her dad.

Then I got to do my very favorite thing in the world...BONDO! Followed by (sigh) more sanding.

We wiped down the whole exterior with TSP to remove the dust and oil, and set the kids to work wiping down the interior. (We felt like it was important for the whole family to get involved.)

And then Jeff started painting! Remember, Daphne (AKA Me!) is designing this machine, so the first color to go on was PURPLE!

The next step was for Mattie to use her steady hand and artistic flare to draw the design for the next layer of paint so we could tape it off and spray.

She was going to free-hand the entire design, but the pencil wasn't working well and a marker would have been too difficult to cover with paint. So we put on our thinking caps again and came up with another idea. Mattie drew her design on a clear sheet of plastic. We went up to the church and dug around in an old storage closet and found an overhead projector. We waited until it got nearly dark outside....

and projected the image onto the van! That's our friend, Mike Kirby, who came over and helped us tape off the design.

Look at the detail Mattie put into the design. If you look at it one way, you see whimsical hearts, but if you look closer, you can see that it's two ocean waves!

The next morning, Jeff added the green.

It was so exciting to remove the tape and see the design!

Jeff thought I was a little bit silly for wanting a crown design on the hood, but, hello! Daphne designed this, remember?!

By the afternoon, we were ready for the sea foam!

And, presto! Here is my finished ride!

oops... still have to reattach the side view mirrors!

Jeff Medders is a genius with spray paint!

Mattie is magical with a pencil!

Special thanks to Mike and Jerry!! You guys are awesome!

And I get credit for being more than willing to drive this thing all over town!

Friends Are Friends Forever

2011-06-14T09:12:00.002-05:00

I had absolutely no desire to go to my 20th high school reunion last year. Don't get me wrong, I was proud to be a North Mesquite Stallion. I was proud to play on the basketball and volleyball teams; proud to sing in the choir; proud to work in costuming for the drama department. But, in the end, I always felt anonymous. At the time, North Mesquite was one of four high schools in that city that sits just on the east side of Dallas, Texas. All of the high schools were large, but North was the biggest, so those of us who were supposed to be freshmen in 1986-1987, were sent to Poteat High School to be Pirates while the school district worked on redrawing boundary lines. Sophomore through Senior years, we were shipped to North. It really wasn't that big of a deal.

I was born in Oklahoma, the oldest of four children, but my parents moved us to Mesquite, Texas, before I was a year old, so I've always considered myself a Texan (though I am required by law to shout "Boomer Sooner" with much enthusiasm at certain times of the year). I loved Cowboy Hat Day in elementary school; looked forward to standing in awe at the feet of Big Tex at the state fair every year; will never forget when my mother took me and my older cousin Chad to Austin to see the State Capitol where we stood under that giant echoing dome and stared up in amazement as the tour guide told us that the gold five-pointed star fastened to the ceiling high above our heads was 8 feet across. I remember how my heart ached when our family went to San Antonio to tour the Alamo and I learned about the brave stand taken against Santa Anna, where only one man was cowardly enough to step across the line drawn in the sand and chose to go home, while the others shouted, "Remember the Alamo" with their dying breath. Even though this red head's skin burns at the very thought of the beach, I loved our trips to Galveston, Corpus Christie, and Padre Island. Back closer to home, I couldn't wait for camping trips to the lake near Tyler or Texoma. I loved the Mesquite Rodeo, and even embraced country music for a while... but I'm over that now.

I started Kindergarden at C.A. Tosch Elementary in Mesquite, and attended there until the Christmas break of my 4th grade year. Dad worked for an oil company in Dallas, and happened to get a salary bump at the same time my mother was getting tired of living across the street from McDonald Middle School, so they built a new house in the neighboring town of Sunnyvale, where the lots were bigger, the population was smaller, and the air tasted cleaner.

The entire student population of Sunnyvale, which consisted of grades K through 8th, was housed in a single building. The original one room school house still stood in the parking lot, complete with hitching posts. By that time it was just used for storage, but we would sit out there during recess and I would peek through the dirty windows trying to imagine what it was like to have school in there back when the teacher traveled on horseback and the students walked 5 miles to school in the snow, uphill both ways.

I was placed in Mrs. Patrick's 4th grade class. It was January and halfway through the year, so even if I wasn't the only new kid to move to Sunnyvale during the 4th grade, to me, it felt like I was the only new kid ever, in the history of Sunnyvale Township. On top of that, the class was very full and there wasn't a desk for me, so I had to sit at a table in the front of the classroom next to the chalkboard. And I was a red head. Have I mentioned that before? I hated having red hair. My skin was pale and freckled and when I got embarrassed, I turned as red as a beet. So, I sat up there glowing red while Mrs. Patrick instructed the cutest boy in class (Jason Andrews) to help me gather the books I would need. Just my luck.

It didn't take long for things to change for me, though. At recess on my first day, Christy Green and Jason Kane took me on as their project and by the end of that school year, I felt like I had always been there.

My memories of the years I spent in Sunnyvale, are extremely vivid. I remember Mrs. Anderson giving us a talk about hygiene in the 5th grade and telling us that when we shampooed our hair, we should rub our scalp with the balls of our fingers instead of scratching it with our fingernails. I remember being disappointed when I first noticed that Ms. Fryer was wearing eyeliner instead of her lashes being as thick as I thought they were. I remember how cold and delicious the water from the fountain tasted after an hour of playing basketball with Coach Tarbet in the unairconditioned gym. I remember the chipped brown paint on the inside of the stall in the girls bathroom where I used to hide when I lied to my teachers and told them I needed to "go", but what I really needed was a minute or two to collect and quiet my thoughts.

Before I learned to articulate and distinguish the difference, I would have called myself a "shy" kid. Now I know that there is a difference between being shy and being introverted. As it turns out, I was extremely introverted. There was an entire world of conversation, activity, analyzation, and self-evaluation that existed in the realm of my brain. I felt pretty bad about myself. I thought I was ugly because I wasn't as pretty as Michelle Rains. I thought I was stupid because I wasn't as smart as Becky Ramsey. I thought I was frumpy because I wasn't as stylish as Angelique Hobson. I thought I was dull and uninteresting because I wasn't as peppy and cute as Paige Burkhalter. I thought I was a complete failure at the thing I loved most (athletics) because I couldn't beat Tysha Renfro at anything. I thought my teachers didn't like me because I wasn't asked to be on the annual staff.

Even though I realize other people may not have seen me the way I saw myself, this was the reality in which I functioned because it was the world inside my head. I'm not sure how much of my inside world seeped into the real world through my behavior, so I really don't know what people think when they are recalling memories of their own childhood when my path happened to intersect theirs. If they think of me at all.

The Sunnyvale years ended when our little class of 28 (or so) eighth graders graduated in 1986. It was a grand affair, complete with tuxes, fancy dresses to rival Scarlet O'Hara, limousines, and even a Rolls Royce. After that, Sunnyvale kids were swallowed up into the Mesquite school system, where most of us graduated from North in 1990, amongst a class of over 600 Seniors. (No wonder I felt anonymous.)

Maybe that's why I got so nervous this last Saturday night right before I walked up the stairs to the patio at Primos Grill on Lake Ray Hubbard to join the Sunnyvale Junior High Class of 1986 25 Year Reunion. But, just like back in the fourth grade when I only felt like a stranger until recess, my friends came through for me again. 15 seconds after reaching the top of the stairs and glancing around at familiar, yet changed faces, I was being embraced by Monti Motley, followed shortly thereafter by hugs from 10 of the best friends I've ever known. (Karen Yarborough, Erica Evans, Valerie Kimball, Brian Bell, Ami Morris, Jason Andrews, Todd Neece, Connie Bennett, Deborah Weber, and even Coach and Mrs. Hounsel) And by the time we left at 11pm, I knew that it didn't really matter what happened back then, what mattered was that we went through it together. At 39 years old, we almost all have a few scars of one kind or another, but I think everyone is more beautiful now than ever. And the spouses who braved the event have been thoroughly and completely adopted by the Class of 1986. I love you all so much and look forward to seeing you again (along with those who couldn't make it this time)!

Failure

2011-04-26T11:07:00.000-05:00

Today, I failed my Kindergarten entrance exam. Actually, a good Kindergarten teacher wouldn't use a discouraging word like "fail". What she really said was, "You've got some work to do to get caught up by August, but you can do it!"

When our first child was 4 years old, Jeff and I did some research on the local schools and ended up making the decision to homeschool Mattie. To make sure I wasn't getting in over my head, I started her on a combined pre-school kindergarten curriculum when she was 4, thinking that if it didn't go well I could still enroll her in school at age 5. I was still a Type A back then. We schooled 4 hours a day. She could read before she turned 5. She could tell you about the Wright Brothers. She could tell you the difference between a male clam and a female clam. She took gymnastics, ballet and art lessons. We went to the Fort Worth library one week, the Fort Worth Zoo the next week, and the Fort Worth Museum of Science and History the next week, then started over again. She was my only child. Life was our classroom.

Fast forward to the summer before her 4th grade year. We had 4 kids and I was still a Type A. It drove me nuts when the little kids needed help wiping while I was trying to do a language arts lesson with Mattie. It drove me nuts when Mattie needed me to explain long division AGAIN when I was trying to teach Jenna the alphabet. I was depressed about leaving Colorado. We were crammed into an extremely over-priced apartment. All that combined led me to make the decision to put Mattie in public school in the 4th grade. In the Los Angeles Unified School District... the Devil himself ran that school district, according to my hard-core homeschool friends. They thought I was going to the dark side. Mattie was so excited! I was a wreck. I knew (still know) what the general public thinks about homeschooling families. Any test she failed, any concept she hadn't grasped would be a reflection on me and my choice to teach her myself.

I passed 4th grade with flying colors. In fact, just about the only thing 4th grade did for her was nailing down long division.

Both of my sisters are teachers. Both of my parents have taught at the collegiate level. I understand that state standardized tests are more a reflection of whether or not the teacher taught what they were supposed to, in a manner that enables the students to comprehend the subject, more than it reflects on the intelligence of the individual student. I share this information with my kids when they come home from school telling me how wigged out their teachers are in the weeks before the tests are to be administered. It helps them relax and do their best because they love their teachers and they want their teachers to score well. :)

Fast forward to today. Mattie is finishing up her sophomore year of high school. Jenna is finishing 5th grade. Elijah 3rd. Daisy 2nd. Mattie is in a couple of honors classes. Jenna is every teacher's dream. Elijah is my smarty-pants GT kid. Daisy's only problem is that she thinks everything requires her input and commentary... she talks too much. And Ruby has entered the scene (making the count 5). She's been going to Mother's Day Out one day a week at the Methodist church for the last 2 years.

For me, after years of soul-searching, self-evaluating, reading and deep breathing, I have mellowed to a Type B... okay, A-... the point is that I'm way less "driven" than I used to be. The things that used to matter to me don't seem as important as they once did. My attitude used to be, move over and let me show you the right way to do that. Now, que serra, serra. The important thing to me now is that my children enjoy their childhood. That they have good memories about how fun, peaceful and happy it was to grow up in my house. I want them to remember all the trees they climbed and all the mud pies they made, rather than hours of homework and getting grounded if their grades weren't straight A's.

Mattie likes to point out how my mellowed personality has carried over to my theory on child discipline. She says, "Mom, when I sassed you, you sent me to my room, but when Ruby sasses you, you think it's cute." Jenna says, "Mom, I remember getting a spanking for putting my feet on the table during dinner. Look at Ruby! She's standing in the middle of the table and you're just laughing!"

So, my baby will turn 5 this summer and I am facing the fact that my oldest will be ready to embark on some sort of post-high school education, college, art school, something in only 2 more years. Jeff doesn't put any kind of pressure on me to go back to work, but I am feeling like I've been sitting around producing very little income for the last 11 years, and it's time for me to pony-up and add a little moolah to our bank accounts. I knew before I went to Kindergarten Round-up at the elementary school today, that Ruby wasn't anywhere near as ready to start school as my other kids have been, but I was secretly hoping they would say something like, "She'll be just fine! She knows more than some kids and less than others... she'll do great!" Instead, I got handed a packet describing the changes they are making to the Kindergarten curriculum starting this Fall. I got kind smiles and pats on the shoulder and suggestions on activities I can do with her over the summer to help her catch up. I got told that repeating Kindergarten is no big deal.

So, I'm dusting off the old Type A, digging out the old homeschool curriculum, and I'm passing up the DVD section at the library (WHY do they have to put the DVD's right by the check out counter?). I WILL have her ready for Kindergarten, even with the upgraded standards, but I suspect I won't find near the pleasure in the process that I did a decade ago.

2011-04-14T13:38:00.001-05:00

This morning, I heaved a deep, dissatisfied sigh, and told my husband I wished he would get himself fired. He was standing in a towel at the bathroom sink. He spit out a mouthful of toothpaste, looked around the corner at me and said, "I'm doing my best, Babe." (They say a good minister will work himself out of a job.)Unfortunately for my current state of mind, we have found one of those rare churches full of people who like to be challenged by their minister, think it's fun that he looks like a biker and who don't seem to be bothered that their minister's wife isn't a hugger, or a cryer, or a baby-kisser. The thing is, our life here in Benton, Arkansas, has been just about perfect. I mean, if you don't count the 5 broken arms, Jeff having to dig up a plumbing line that was dumping raw sewage on the ground, and our daughter totaling our family car by hitting a semi truck, we have had nearly 6 years of normal. My kids go to great schools where the teachers really care about them. The property we live on is pretty with tons of room for my kids to run and get loud without bothering anyone. Our neighbors are kind and helpful. We have a gazillion friends. There are just enough hillbillies skulking around town to keep us entertained without making us feel overwhelmed. Easy.

We have some friends who were rocking along with their normal lives. They had jobs and a house. He was working on a masters degree and she was expecting their first baby. Within 1 month, they both were laid off.

We have some friends who were living adventurous lives full of meaningful ministry and foreign travel. They had been married for nearly a decade, were in their late 20's and into their early 30's, when they decided they were ready for the adventure of parenthood. This was the beginning of a series of heart-wrenching miscarriages.

We have a friend (I wish I could say it was just 1 friend, but, honestly, it's 4 different friends going through the same scenario) whose spouse has looked around at their family and decided they wanted something different, or better, or easier. They took the burden of house payments, childrearing, and lawn maintenance, laid it all at the feet of the person they promised to love until death do us part, and walked away.

And here I am, complaining about my easy, normal life.

The thing is, when you are a person of faith, as I am, and as my friends are, the difficult things of life don't sideline you...at least not for long.

I love storms. Not just rain showers, but give me a huge ruckus! I've had "tornado dreams" all my life, but instead of scaring me, they made me long that much more to see a real live funnel. I got my wish a few years ago. We were living in Colorado, and I was taking the 4 kids to visit my mom and dad in Oklahoma for the 4th of July. Jeff had to stay and work, so it was just me and the kids crossing the great desolate expanse known as west Kansas, where there is one exit every 10 miles and most of them have signs posted stating "no services", which is really code for, "We don't cotton to no strangers round these parts, so just take yer new-fangled motor car and keep movin'. They might sell ya some fuel and a coke in Wichita...bunch of liberals livin' in that town." Anyway, I was driving along and the kids were all asleep when it started to storm. I didn't have the radio on because I love to count the seconds between the lightening flash and the thunder crash. A couple of cars in front of me had pulled to the shoulder, but I passed them up with a smug smile on my face as the word "pansy" flitted across my brain. I glanced out the drivers side window and thought, "That's a weird-looking cloud. It goes straight up and down and it looks dirty." About that time, dirt started raining down on my car and I instantly realized I was racing a tornado. I had a momentary adrinalin rush followed by a peek in my rear-view mirror that reminded me I was a mommy, so I did what all the other pansies- I mean, responsible drivers- did, and pulled over to the shoulder. My point about storms, though, is that it's cool and interesting to me how the chaotic wind, rain and clouds can begin to organize and become a very focused funnel of unstoppable energy.

For those of us who are blessed to have it, faith is our tornado. Faith takes the chaos of life and gives us instant focus. Suddenly, our priority list isn't confusing. It's perfectly in order with the top three being God, Family, and Friends and way far down the list are things with monetary value. Our friends who were pregnant and lost their jobs called on their friends for prayer and solid job leads. Their situation of having no kids and being willing to take any kind of work, left them with the freedom to search anywhere in the country, and because their hearts belong to God, they can go anywhere with the confident knowledge that God will use them to expand His kingdom. Facebook informed me this morning, that they woke up in their snug new apartment in the Denver area to get ready to go in to their new jobs and walked outside to discover an inch of snow on the ground. I am not even going to pretend to hide my jealousy.

Our friends who were experiencing the heartbreak of miscarriages, chose not to let sadness consume their lives and, instead, became intensely focused on being the kind of family God would have them be. They took their love of foreign travel and missions, applied it to their desire to be parents, and just finished the process of an international adoption.

Our friend going through the divorce....is still walking through some very difficult times, and probably will be for a very long time still. But his faith amazes me. He has brought more people to church in the last few months than I have in a lifetime. His focus on his son and his patience with divorce attorney's is inspiring.

So, it's not really that I want Jeff to get fired from his job, it's more about how I have a deep craving for some kind of a kick start for a fresh perspective on my life and an intensified focus on my priorities. It's more that I long to be rid of the things of life that limit my freedom to move about the world...you know, annoying obligations like house payments and keeping our children fed and clothed and insured. I am blessed, or cursed, depending on your perspective, with wanderlust. I am not at all unhappy where I am, but I really, really would like to see other places, make new friends, even learn a new language (Honduras has been on my mind quite a bit since Jeff made that trip out there a couple of months ago). And apparently, I've passed my disease on to at least one of my children. A friend called me yesterday to get the dish on why my 16 year old had broken up with her boyfriend. He was a good looking kid, who came from a nice church-going family, and Mattie seemed to really like him. A couple of days ago, she came in and gently prepared me for the news, "Mom, I just broke up with 'Fred'. Are you ok, Mom?" When I asked her why she had dumped him, she said, "Because he wears camo all the time, he wants to live in Arkansas for the rest of his life, and he doesn't want to have adventures."

I'm not sure if I will ever leave this place or not. What I do know is that I don't want to spend so much time dreaming about the future that I forget to live in the present and I also don't want to become so comfortable and complacent in the present that I forget to dream about the future. I want God to do more than use me. I want Him to completely use me up.

Gardening: Kama-Style

2011-03-18T23:09:00.000-05:00

Spring is not my favorite season. For me, it's like First Love compared to True Love. First Love is fresh, sweet and flirty. True Love is deep, warm and strong. Fall is my true love season, but I acknowledge that you can't have Fall without starting with Spring and you can't have True Love without starting with First Love, so Spring, let me count the ways I love thee....I love the warmer air and the moist, earthy scent that hangs close to the ground in the evenings. I love the bursts of color after months of a gray, mushy, wet winter. I love mowing the grass, watching the cats pretend to be fierce predators as they chase real and imagined creatures all over the property, and softball. I love girls softball. I love that for two weeks out of the year, my tulip tree sings praises to God with its magnificent blooms!

And then the same week it drops all its petals and slips quietly into its submissive role as a plain old tree, my crab apple tree decides it is going to give up being crabby and have a good attitude for once!

Frogs. I love frogs. I love listening to them chirp in the trees, watching them hop in my garden, and seeing the looks of joy mixed with terror on my kids' faces as they catch the warty critters and carry them around in buckets. But not snakes. I do NOT love snakes. Grass snakes are fine. They're just macho worms. But all other snakes are from Satan. They're bad news and should have their heads chopped off with garden hoes. I think it says that in the Bible.

But the best part of Spring is planning my garden! And that's really why I'm writing this blog entry. I love the idea of gardening more than gardening itself, but 2011 is my year! I can feel it in my bones. This is the year my garden will be a success! I always had successful gardens when we lived in Fort Worth. I even taught inner-city kids how to plant vegetables in a plastic wading pool. I didn't even try to put in a garden when we lived in the high altitude of Denver, and there was no place for one at our apartment in Los Angeles.

I thought gardening in Arkansas would be a snap. I did what Mother Earth News told me to do: I picked a mostly level spot of ground near the house that gets more than 7 hours of sun each day. My husband put up the optional cute white picket fence and then I declared war and engaged in a 5 year long, epic battle against....

....well-established St. Augustine grass. I am all for grass roots when it comes to community organization, but not when it comes to my vegetable garden. This is what I think about grass in my garden:

It had to go. So, last year, I experimented with lasagna gardening. It has nothing to do with growing lasagna ingredients and everything to do with putting down layer after layer of materials to build healthy soil. First, I put down a thick layer of newspaper and cardboard all over the whole planting surface. Then, I soaked it with water. Next, I put down a 4 inch layer of peat moss, followed by a 4 inch layer of organic garden soil mixed with manure. I didn't plant anything in my garden last year.

This year, I turned the whole garden over by hand, with a shovel, not a tiller. Most of the cardboard and newspaper had deteriorated and Mother Earth News told me to leave what was left and let it serve as a moisture-holding mulch. I added another layer of peat moss, organic soil and manure.

I still had plenty of grass to dig out, but it was way better than it has been the past few years. It was a ton of work, but I conquered!

Now, I have beautiful soil to work with! My dad came out from Oklahoma a few weeks ago and helped me get my potatoes in the ground... and he moved my blackberry and raspberry bushes and grape vines because he didn't like where I put them. And, today, I got my enthusiastic (said with only a touch of sarcasm) children to help me set the rest of my early vegetables... and a few flowers up by the driveway.

So, we've gone from this:

To this:

PS I recommend starting with plants versus seeds. It helps you feel like you've actually accomplished something at the end of the day.

Step 2: Keep it watered and no whining about how it's hot outside and I just want to stay in and I promise I'll go out and water it later after it cools off a little.... and never stop fighting the grass!

I Will NEVER Wear Pavement Again

2011-02-09T12:25:00.001-06:00

It's not our anniversary, but it is nearly Valentine's Day, and I want to tell you what we're doing to celebrate this year. But, in order to do that, I have to start at the beginning. On July 25, 1992, when we were barely 20 years old (and I mean BARELY), I married my sweet blonde boy. How was I to know he would someday grow up to be a hairy savage? I guess that's what happens when you marry someone before they're finished going through puberty. The good news is I really like Savage Jeff much, much better than Blonde Boy Jeff!

I first met Blonde Boy at church camp when we were 9 years old. He didn't make that big of an impression on me, but his mama sure did. She was the meanest camp counselor I'd ever had... of course, this was my first church camp experience. She wouldn't let my friend Kendra and me eat cheese balls in our bunk bed in the middle of the night. She wouldn't let me get on Kendra's shoulders in the lake to have "chicken fights" at swimming time. She wouldn't even give me a Bandaid to cure the lizard I nearly killed when I slammed my Bible down on it in an attempt to slow it down so I could catch it. You have no idea how guilt-ridden this 9 year old little girl felt about mortally wounding one of God's creatures WITH A BIBLE, just so I could make my scaredy-cat girlie friends scream by chasing them around with a wiggly lizard. Anyway, no Bandaid for the lizard. I just had to watch while it suffered, and then bury it when I came back from Bible class and found it dead.

Well, I really got to know Blonde Boy himself when I was 14. Up until then, my family had attended a small, conservative church that was struggling to keep from fizzling out. I have some good memories of that church: picnics, ice cream socials, having lots and lots of grandparents around to slip me peppermints during communion and tell me to stop running through the pews before I knocked someone over. But when I was 14, my parents decided I needed more Christian peers, so they moved our family to a larger, conservative church in Mesquite, Texas, that had a big youth group. Hello, Blonde Boy!

Jeff and I were an on-again-off-again couple from the time we were 14 until we married. We've been on-again, for better or worse, for the last 18 1/2 years. Every once in a while, usually after I've cooked something with lots of cheese, Savage Jeff will swoop me in his arms and declare he'd marry me all over again just for my ability to make melty, creamy, high-calorie food. (He's fairly easy to please.) He usually follows this by asking if I'd marry him again. Insert awkward moment while I think. Yes. Yes, I would, HOWEVER, I would add an addendum or two to the traditional vows I took. Because Jeff and I dated so long before we married, I think he understood the existence of these addendum, but, if I were going to do it over, I would make sure they were stated.

Addendum 1. You know that part that says, "...to love, honor and obey..."? First, "obey" can only be said out loud if you put a sarcastic inflection in your voice. Second, I will eventually "obey" (don't forget the inflection), only after you have thoroughly presented your case in a manner that will stand up to the scrutiny of the American Supreme Court system, including at least 4 pieces of indisputable physical or logical facts submitted into evidence. And, let it be known that statements I may or may not have made in the past, even as recent as earlier that same day, are considered Fruit of the Poisonous Tree (aka illegally obtained), and may not be submitted into evidence. (Special thanks to my Criminal Justice professor, Doctor Chastain.) In my defense, Jeff was a student in the Bible department at Abilene Christian University. I was on the path to becoming a minister's wife. I really wanted to think I could be a sweet, submissive, minister's wife. Little did I know I didn't have the physical or mental capacity to obey. My parents are jumping up and down on the sidelines, waving their hands in the air saying, "Oh, oh! We knew that! We knew!"

Addendum 2. "...for better or worse, in sickness and health..." Sickness is not actually considered "sick" for the purpose of our wedding vows, unless it is something that would knock ME off my feet. For example, a cold or a sinus headache, is not sickness. Take an Advil and get on with it, Man. Neither is a vasectomy. Are you kidding me? I gave birth 5 times and each time they sent me home from the hospital within 24 hours. I haven't had a full night's sleep for the last 16 years. I have had a child projectile vomit into my mouth. I managed to get the laundry done while hugging the toilet in between drying cycles. A little one-stitch snip day surgery for you does not justify laying around the house for 3 days asking me to bring you yet another pain pill. That is not sickness.

Those two addendum being clearly stated, yes, Savage Jeff! I'd marry you again in a heartbeat!

Being as young as we were, it probably won't surprise you when I break the news that we were the first of our set of friends to get engaged. We weren't the first ones to make it to the alter, but I was the first to sport a ring. I was so proud of my shiny gold band with the sparkly, round 1/4 carat diamond! I loved the way it glowed and flashed and took on a life of its' own, especially when I went outside in the sunshine. I showed it off to everyone!

My ring lost some of it's luster a few months later. Oddly enough, it happened on the same day I saw my friend's engagement ring for the first time. Her ring was a gold band with a 1/2 carat, tear-drop diamond and it was (gulp) prettier than mine. Shortly after that, another friend got engaged. Her band was white gold and the diamond was a 3/4 carat, princess cut. The next friend got a platinum band with a full 1 carat square cut diamond. I wish I could say it ended there, but, sadly, I have friends who were still paying off wedding rings after a decade of marriage. It got so crazy that even my Blonde Boy noticed. I remember when he took my hands in his and kissed my left ring finger and said, "Someday I'll get your ring upgraded. You are worth all the gold and diamonds in the world to me."

Well, here we are, 18 1/2 years later, a few days away from Valentine's Day, and, if you had been an alert observer in our small town of Benton, Arkansas, on February 7th at lunch time, you would have seen Jeff and I standing at a glass-top counter having a delightful conversation with a man wearing a jeweler's monocle, named Randy Nelson.

But, before you go jumping to conclusions about what we were doing there, let me confess and remind you of a few things. First, The Confession: Jeff was not the only one who wasn't finished growing up when we married. I am admitting, here in writing, for the world to see, that I was immature, worldly, self-centered and vain. I had not yet stored up for myself very many treasures in heaven. I was too busy snatching up treasures on earth, like a husband, a ring, an education, and status. I am not saying I have been cured of this genetic disease that infects all humans, but I am saying I'm healthier than I used to be.

Now, The Reminders. Whether you know me personally, through Facebook, or through this blog, you will know that, after much struggle with my inner "demons", I have finally learned not to take myself or my life circumstances too seriously. I am human. I make mistakes. I stick my foot in my mouth. I screw up. I embarrass myself. I don't always make the right decisions. Not very often, but sometimes, when I fight with Jeff, it turns out that I'm the one who's wrong. Seriously. But, for the most part, I've learned not to hide from my faults. In fact, these "mess-ups" are usually the things that are the most fun to post on Facebook, or blog about, because they make people laugh, put them at ease and open up dialogue. However, just because I don't take myself too seriously, doesn't mean I don't take my faith seriously. I am on a life-long quest to figure out what it means to be a child of God. I hope you are, too.

You will also remember that I am huge on social justice issues and that Jeff and I have been leading our family on a journey toward simplicity for several years now. These facts don't seem to comply with a wedding ring/diamond upgrade, do they?

I do not always understand how the mind of my preacher husband works, but, apparently, it's not all that uncommon among preacher-types. What I mean is, he doesn't just come up with something to preach about on Sunday morning, during the week before. He will have the beginnings of sermons rumbling around in his heart and brain for months, and in some cases YEARS, before they actually culminate into a completed system of thoughts presented to a few people in 20 to 40 minutes on a Sunday morning. You should see the desktop of the computer I'm typing on now. It's covered in virtual sticky notes with snippets of quotes, incomplete thoughts, Bible verses that leapt out at him during his study for other sermons that he wants to come back to and think about more deeply when he has time. Here's a teaser for those of you who go to our church: He's been on a Dr. Seuss kick lately. I know it sounds weird, but the stuff he's been bouncing off my brain is blowing my mind. It may be a long time before we hear any of this on Sunday morning, but when it comes, don't say I didn't warn you.

Anyway, a couple of months ago, as I was walking past the chair in our bedroom where Jeff usually sits to study and prepare his sermons, he stopped me, held out his left hand to show me his wedding ring, and asked, "What is this?"

"Umm, duh, it's your wedding ring" I eloquently replied.

"What else is it?" He was patiently prodding me to his point.

"It's gold."

"The Bible says it's pavement." Revelation, in an attempt to describe heaven to us in a way we can understand, tells us that the streets are paved with gold. That may sound beautiful and luxurious to us, but in the upside down Kingdom, this substance that is currently trading on the open market at over $1300 per ounce, is merely something to walk on in heaven. Jesus makes it clear that the gold that was plastered all over Solomon's temple was made precious because it was to house the Holy Spirit, not because it had inherent value of it's own. Mind-blowing. The monetary value of gold is based on the human desire to decorate ourselves with it. The more we want it, the more it costs. If we didn't desire gold, it wouldn't be worth any more than the worthless rocks naughty boys pick up on the street to throw at the windows of abandoned houses in our inner cities.

Well, if you want to know more about his Biblical line of thinking on this subject, I would encourage you to go to www.salinegateway.org and download the sermon he will preach on Sunday, February 13. I think it will be worth a listen. But, for me, I had to know more about role gold plays in our society today. What I found out haunts my thoughts during the day and my dreams at night.

The travesties of gold mining are felt all over the world, including right here in America. The largest open-pit gold mine in the world is located in Utah, and is so big it can be seen from space. These open-pit mines produce tons and tons of waste rock, devastate the landscape and destroy natural eco-systems, and habitats. In Utah, the huge mine is located in the middle of the desert, so it goes largely unnoticed by most of us. But that is not the case in other parts of the world.

Ghana, Africa pops up most often in my internet research on this topic. Ghana used to be called The Gold Coast for good reason. The land is rich with this natural resource. But, both legal and illegal gold mining is reeking havoc there. Gold mining is destroying irreplaceable rain forests. It is robbing people of farm land that has fed their families for generations. The mining companies promise to return the land to these families when they are finished with it, but the land that will be returned will be completely stripped of soil and vegetation and will be useless for 50 years or more while nature tries to undo the damage caused by mining. One source told me that as many people who died in the tsunami, die every month in sub-Saharan Africa, and 80% of those deaths are due to the lack of uncontaminated drinking water. Gold mining introduces poisons to rivers and streams, killing fish and vegetation and rendering the water undrinkable, forcing Ghanians to drink parasite-infested still water. In addition, less than 3% of the profits from gold mining ever make their way back to into the villages and communities they have injured. 30 gold miners die everyday pulling this "precious metal" out of the ground.

This is a picture of our actual wedding rings. In order to get the gold to make these rings, approximately 80 tons of waste rock was produced. In order to extract the gold from that 80 tons of rock, it is very likely that 100's of gallons of cyanide was poured over those rocks. It only takes the amount of cyanide equal to a single grain of rice to kill an adult human. It is probable that after the gold for our rings was extracted, the piles of waste rock were left abandoned to slowly leach the leftover chemicals back into the ground.

It only costs $5000 to $7000 to drill a producing fresh-water well in Ghana.

On Monday, February 7, 2011, Jeff and I went to Nelson's Jewelry to sell our pavement. We sold our wedding rings. I also sold my high school class ring, my college class ring, a pair of ear rings given to me by my grandmother, and a pair Jeff gave me, along with a few other things.

I wish I could say we got enough money for our gold to dig a well in Ghana, but we didn't. Regardless of the amount, we are donating the money the Rural Water Project in Ghana, Africa.

I want you to know that I am not telling you this to call attention to my "acts of charity" to be "admired by others" and thereby "lose my reward from my father in heaven" (Matthew 6:1-4). I am telling you what we have learned and what we have chosen to do because it has changed my life. There is no decoration I can place on my finger that would be worth the life of a single person. I am telling you this because I want my good deed to shine out for all to see, so that everyone will praise my father in heaven (Matthew 5:16).

Jeff and I still believe in wearing wedding rings. They are still a symbol in our culture of our lifelong commitment to each other. We have simply UPGRADED our rings plain surgical stainless steel.

My ring cost $3.95 and Jeff's was $7.95. We think they are beautiful! I was teasing Jeff and telling him that if gold is heaven's pavement, surgical steel was probably heaven's sewage pipes, but he assures me there won't be any sewage in heaven.

I know you're probably ready for a bathroom break after all this reading, but I want to tell you one more thing. From the very bottom of my heart, I want you to know I have no judgement for people who wear gold, or choose to keep their gold even after reading this. We can't all take on every social justice issue out there; it would be too completely overwhelming. I know people who choose to make their own clothes because they don't want to be a part of the system that exploits children in sweat shops. I know people who don't buy chocolate... and I've asked to not be informed of their reasons right now because I'm not ready to give up chocolate. Take my wedding rings, but back away from the chocolate.

For those who are interested in learning more, I can recommend you search the following:

No Dirty Gold

The Money Stone

Ghana West Africa Missions

Rural Water Development Project

and you will find lots of stuff if you search "Ghana Gold" at Youtube

Life Is Still Fun!

2011-01-20T15:40:00.000-06:00

There are about 100 things I should be doing right now, and NO WHERE on the list is messing with the guitar or playing around on the computer. However, giant chunks of sleet have just started falling from the sky, the hubs doesn't need his computer right now, and I really, really don't want to do laundry, so Self Discipline has packed her bags and promised not to return to nag at me until after lunch.

This is the year I turn 39. Exactly 70 days from today... not that I've given it much thought. The months before my 30th birthday were torturous for my poor husband. I was an emotional wreck. In my mind 30 was the age I was supposed to become a grownup. I was supposed to have a will, be saving for retirement and the kids' college, start driving a minivan, and wear sensible shoes. I thought it was all downhill from 30. It didn't help that I had somehow gotten on the AARP newsletter mailing list. No amount of calling could get me off the list, so to this day I look forward to my quarterly newsletter with great articles about Medicare supplement plans, the best places to retire, and important questions to ask your doctor when you go in to have your prescription for high blood pressure renewed.

I am happy to report that I couldn't have been more wrong. I had 2 more babies after I turned 30. I experienced living in Los Angeles after I was 30. I stepped out of a religious denomination after I was 30. Turns out, life was just getting started at 30! What a blast!

The last 8 years, 295 days, have been quite a ride. The most amusing part to me, has been watching my body age. When I was 31, literally overnight, my hair went from being straight, to having these weird, random, frizzy waves. One of the waves falls right in the spot on my head that makes it look like I've been wearing my hair in a pony tail all day. When I was 35, my skin decided to dry out and start breaking out in zits, all at the same time. At 36, I noticed that my elbows were starting to resemble elephant knees -all baggy and dry. 37 found me playing around with different shades of drug store hair colors. All of them were YUCK. Later that year, I pledged to never color my hair, and, instead, enjoy watching my hair change from red to white, naturally. I'm still a redhead, but I'm definitely a shade or two lighter than I used to be! I will NEVER color my hair, but my daughter has an appointment with a dermatologist next week and I plan to slip in a few questions about Botox (for myself, of course), for that spot in between my eyebrows that makes me look like I'm scowling all the time. Call me a hypocrite if you must, but my Avon lady will vouch for me when I tell you there is no cream strong enough to undo the damage.

Another fun thing about aging has been to realize that I am still capable of learning new things. Last year, I signed up to take a criminal justice class at the University of Arkansas at Little Rock. I was a decent student the first time around, but 5 children and 15 years later, I wasn't so sure how this little adventure was going to play out for me. Turns out, my brain is not mush; I set the curve! I've also picked up the bass guitar and the acoustic guitar. I am not an expert at either one, but I do get to play bass on the worship team at church every now and then.

I know it's starting to sound like I'm having a brag fest, but that's not my intent at all. What I want to say is that I am learning to embrace and enjoy my life. Instead of digging in my heels at the thought of getting older, I am looking forward to getting to experience everything life has to offer. And I am looking for adventures, big and small, whether it's making a new friend or moving to a new place (don't freak out, Arkansas friends, we are NOT planning a move in the near future).

And I want to encourage you to stick it out there and try something new. Don't let yourself get boring and monotonous. OK, so I'm going to stick it out there and post of video of myself playing the guitar. Keep in mind that I am a beginner. Feel free to laugh, because I am FOR SURE laughing at myself.

Our Snow Day, January 2011

2011-01-17T09:00:00.000-06:00

The steady, light rain we got overnight has finally washed away the few remaining traces of last week's snow. I am a little sad to see it go, but at least it was warm enough to get out for a run yesterday afternoon. Speaking of running, how are you doing on your resolutions? I'm decently happy with my progress. I'm exercising fairly consistently, I've read 2 books, organized the laundry room, bought painting supplies.... I'm ticking down my excessively long list. Mostly, what I want to achieve this year, is to instill a deeper, renewed sense of peace in our home where we enjoy and appreciate each other; where we encourage each other to be the best we can be, to try new things, and support each other when we fail.

I've noticed that one of the most popular conversation topics for moms is to compare schedules and compete for the title of "Busiest Mom Who Hasn't Spent Time In A Nut House...Yet." It's a fun little competition, rife with potential validation for women who feel insecure about their role as a mom, which is many of us, by the way. For the stay-at-home mom, it is proof that we aren't just sitting around doing nothing all day, parasiting off our husband's hard work and income. For the working mom, it's one of the ways she lets the world know she loves her kids and is making sure they have access to all the enriching activities available to them. But, for me, all the busyness just makes me tired and grouchy.

Our family has decided to wave the white flag. We've dropped down to less than one extra-curricular activity per child. My 15 year old girl participates in drama through her school; we've dropped community theater for now. My 10 and 7 year old girls play softball, NOT year round, and we've dropped Girl Scouts (yes! we don't have to sell cookies this year! We will still be buying them, though.) My 9 year old son isn't doing anything extra right now, although we are considering some sort of karate class that will encourage self-discipline and exercise. And my 4 year old girl, in reality, doesn't do anything, but she THINKS she does! Every week day at 2:30pm, she puts on a tutu, watches Angelina Ballerina on PBS and calls this her dance class. She goes to her sisters softball practices, throws the ball with me outside the fence and thinks she plays on both teams. She goes to Mother's Day Out for a few hours each week and calls this "school". She's so easy.

Here in the south we were forced to experience a couple of days of simplicity last week... and it was absolutely glorious! We were snowed in for 2 days, but never lost electric service. It was perfect. The whole family played in the snow for hours. We went on a short hike through the woods behind our house. We drank hot chocolate and ate millions of cheeseballs. We accessed Netflix instant view and introduced our children to shows from our day like the Incredible Hulk, A-Team, Looney Toons, and even (with much loud protesting from me) Rin and Stempy. On Monday night, when we were all sitting around the table eating homemade chili and homemade bread, Jeff asked the kids what their favorite part of the day was. Listening to their excited, happy voices retell the events of the day, was pure bliss. Even my teenager, without even a trace of sarcasm, told us her favorite thing was how we all just played together all day.

Well, everyday can't be a snow day. On Wednesday, the kids went back to school, while I went to the store to restock the pantry and started in washing all the snow laundry. That night, when I was praying with Elijah and putting him to bed, he said, "Mom, I already know you're gonna say 'no' again, but I really wish we could get a Wii. My friend was telling me about a snowball fight game he has for his and it gives you exercise because you have to move your arms and stuff." I know my sweet boy likes the idea of being able to relive our family snowball fight anytime he wants to through the magic of video. But everyday can't be a snow day. It's important to Jeff and I that our kids really experience life, not just virtually experience it. I reminded Elijah that when there wasn't real snow on the ground, there was still real dirt, real woods, real bicycles, real baseball bats, real sisters and real friends. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with having a Wii. If we had several hundred dollars laying around our house, we might buy one... you know, after we took care of the 50 other things that come before the Wii on our priority list. I'm just saying that, for us, simple is better than busy and real is better than virtual.

The IMPACT of One Man on My Life

2011-01-08T12:25:00.001-06:00

About 4 lifetimes ago, when I was in college at Abilene Christian University, I had an acquaintance named Jenny Middlebrook. I always wished to call her a friend, but, through no fault of her own, we simply remained acquaintances. We lived on the same hall in Nelson Dorm our freshman year, but we ran in completely different circles. She ran with the elementary ed, sorority, "perky" crowd, while I camped out with the social work, walk to end world hunger, social activist crowd. While she always looked pretty and sweet, pledging club, and being involved in social events on campus, I was wearing jeans, shoving my hair in a ponytail and wondering how my classmates could go through their day all happy and stuff when there was a woman across town trying to raise money to open a 10 bed homeless shelter. Didn't they know there were serious problems that required our intervention?

As social workers, we were trained about the dangers and evils associated with stereotyping groups of people, but we did it anyway. In our minds, the elementary education girls were silly, just looking for a husband, "those who can't, teach" types. WE were so mature, ready to tackle the world's biggest problems, and solve them. And when one of our own defected and changed her major to elementary education... oh, my.

Of course, I'm horrified at myself now, looking back on my attitudes and behavior. After all, I was the one who was engaged at 18. I was really just jealous. I wanted to be beautiful. I wanted to have lots of friends. I wanted the boys to notice me. I wanted to have fun. But I didn't know how. So I fell back on what came easy to me: kick-butt competitiveness, brains, social reform, and assuming that all this made me spiritually superior to my girlie, flirty peers. I was grounded, strong, and a little lonely.

Jenny was a problem for me. She messed up the stereotype. She was kind, considerate and thoughtful. She spoke to me when she didn't have to... in front of the other girls, even, like she wasn't embarrassed to be talking to the "serious" girl who was always irritated with everyone for staying up late squealing in the hallway while she (me) was being "responsible" and going to bed at a "respectful" time. And when she spoke to me, she made eye contact and didn't act like she was in a hurry to get away. I am living a happy, beautiful, fun and meaningful life now, but I suspect that if I had let down my thorny barriers a little sooner, friendship with Jenny would have added a richness to my journey.

I am thinking about Jenny this morning because a few days ago, through the miracle of facebook, we learned that her dad, Charlie, was lying in a Houston hospital, having suffered a major stroke. I am confident that there is an angel in heaven assigned to the task of keeping up with a massive list entitled "Charlie Middlebrook Changed My Life." About half-way down that list, maybe in about the 8000's, it looks like this: 8971. Jeff Medders
8972. Kama Medders

Back at good ole ACU in the early 1990's, my boyfriend/fiance, Jeff, was trudging his way through class after class in the Bible Department. Jeff loved Jesus with a depth I couldn't (and honestly still can't) grasp, but (back to my stereotyping) he did NOT fit in with the Bible Major group. Most of those boys walked around with their side-part haircuts, wearing khaki pants and button-up shirts. Jeff worked at a bait shop, turning worms, and (after we were married) at a local factory welding frames for motorcycle trailers, so you can imagine he was not as "clean" as the other boys. The Foreign Missions Majors were a little closer to Jeff's "type", but since he hadn't been born in Africa to missionary parents, and really had a heart for the people right here in the US, he didn't fit well with that crowd either. One of the Bible professors once jokingly described us to ourselves saying, "Kama, you are so pulled-together, and, Jeff, well, you're a little rough around the edges." He was trying to be funny, and I obviously took it as a compliment, but I didn't realize until much later how it hurt Jeff... mostly because it was an accurate accounting of his interactions with most of the Bible professors. Jeff's dad died during the summer between our freshman and sophomore years and he really could have used some encouragement from the adult males in his life, but (in their defense) they really couldn't have known that.

Jeff went to ACU with the hope of learning more about Jesus, what he taught, how he lived, how he loved, and how he changed the world, but most of the classes were focused on how to study the Bible, how to use commentaries and lexicons, the similarities and differences between denominational theologies and interpretations of Bible passages, and of course there were speech classes to teach persuasive and inspiring presentation techniques. Many of these classes did add value and knowledge to Jeff's life, but they were taught by men who had an extremely high esteem for education, liked to use Greek and Latin phrases and then explain their common meaning, instead of just using common language to begin with, and who didn't really think their students were fit for the pulpit until they were at least three quarters of the way through the MDiv program (Master's of Divinity).

Well, I graduated with my Bachelor of Science in Social Work in 1994, landed a full-time job working for the State of Texas, and got pregnant with our first baby, but Jeff still had to complete an internship and one more class. Because we were married, broke and pregnant, Jeff simply could not sign up for the typical summer internship in Africa, so a few strings were pulled and an internship was arranged for him at Central Dallas Ministries, a church and ministry aimed at the poor and homeless in inner-city Dallas. Jeff's very last college course was a brand new one called Inner City Missions, taught by one of the 3 founders of Impact Houston, Charlie Middlebrook. Charlie worked all week at the gritty, raw, deeply painful and highly rewarding ministry of being the hands of Jesus in the inner city of Houston, and then one day a week he made the excruciatingly long drive to Abilene to teach an undergraduate elective course in the Bible department. And for the first time in his college career, I saw my husband enjoy going to class. I saw him hunger for more teaching. I watched him find his purpose. Any woman who is married to a man who knows his purpose in life can testify that it changes your life for the better. And the fact that I was already wired up to be sensitive to social justice issues, solidified our young marriage even more.

Jeff graduated with a Bachelor of Science in Bible with a Missions emphasis in 1995, and, after a series of interesting events, we believed that God was calling us to team up our missions and social work training to start an inner city ministry in Fort Worth, Texas. We started researching and seeking advise from people we respected. The social work professors at ACU seemed interested and excited about our plans and offered helpful advise to me about not overstepping the limitations of my state licensing, but the professors in the Bible department told Jeff that the project was too big, that he wasn't ready for the difficulties of starting a ministry from scratch, that he should apply to the MDiv program in the Fall semester or at least go to work for an established ministry, instead of starting one. But we were called to start a ministry in a city that had a problem of homelessness and children essentially raising themselves in inner city neighborhoods plagued with drug abuse and violence.

And then Charlie called inviting us to stay in his home and take us on a walk-through of the Impact Houston ministry, showing us around his city, talking to us about the specific needs of the homeless. He told us about the difficulties of starting Impact, the obstacles they faced with the church community and the police and governing authorities in Houston. We sat at the dining room table in his home while beautiful Mollie served us dinner and coffee and helped entertain little Mattie, who was about 9 months old, and Charlie, Doug and Ron told 23 year old Jeff and Kama Medders that we could do it and they would help us in any way they could.

Fortress Ministries in Fort Worth, Texas, was born in February 1996. We stayed with it until we felt it was well-established and on a solid footing, financially and with the local overseeing church (which was Southlake Church of Christ when we left). During the 5 1/2 years we were there, we tried to get ACU to send us Spring Break Campaign groups and summer interns, but we ended up getting most of our college students from Harding University in Searcy, Arkansas. Fortress has undergone a lot of changes since we left, but we are happy to say it is flourishing today as a youth development center.

Fortress exists because Charlie Middlebrook encouraged a couple of kids to follow their calling from God.

We left Fortress in November 2001, to start a ministry in Denver, Colorado. We had been praying about and planning the new ministry for about 2 years, while still working at Fortress. For 2 years, we used our week-long vacation time to take 2 survey trips to Denver, and were amazed at what God showed us there. We knew we would be forming a ministry to the hundreds of homeless, runaway teenagers who made the streets of that city their home.

About 3 months before we made the move to Denver, we met Matt Wallace and Nikki Schweikard (I probably spelled that wrong, Nikki. Sorry.) Matt and Nikki had both just graduated from ACU and were trying to decide what to do with their lives. We are so grateful that they decided to join us in starting (what eventually became) Dry Bones Denver. Because of Matt and Nikki's relationship with ACU, I am so happy to say that DBD gets quite a bit of press at ACU, and college interns flock there each summer.

Charlie continued to be a spiritual and emotional support to us as we made the move to Denver, directing people our way from time to time and ALWAYS encouraging us. After 3 1/2 years in Denver, we moved to Los Angeles to attempt the start of another branch of the Dry Bones ministry, since so many of our throw-away kids seemed to travel a circuit that went from Denver, to Phoenix, to Los Angeles, and back.

While we were in LA, I slipped into an angry depression. I emailed and "blogged" (though it wasn't an official blog and the only archives are in hard copy in a binder on my bookshelf) as a way to relieve the pressure on my soul. Charlie responded with care and concern, seeing through my attempt to humorously laugh off what were serious attacks on my heart and marriage. He confronted me with straight-forward questions about what was really going on with me and he advised us to not let our marriage become a casualty of ministry. He told us that our family, our marriage had to come before ministry.

After 1 year in LA, Jeff took a job with a non-denominational church in Little Rock, and now is the Senior Minister of a church plant in the small town where we live in Benton, Arkansas. We took Charlie's advise, slowed our lives down a bit, and are taking time to raise our kids. Our marriage is healed, our hearts are healed and our kids are thriving. This isn't the end of our story, though. We have many more adventures planned and we're hopeful that we can start on one of them in the next year or two. Thanks, Charlie!

None of us know WHEN Charlie's story will end (for our sakes, we hope it won't be for a very long time), but those of us who have been blessed to know him, know HOW it will end! And what a glorious ending it will be!

Resolutions!

2011-01-05T08:46:00.001-06:00

I am sitting at the computer, going on my 3rd cup of coffee, and enjoying a rare few minutes to myself. I'm usually running kids to school at this time of the morning, but today the husband needs the car, so he's taking them. Ruby is watching The Cat in The Hat Knows A Lot About That. Mother's Day Out will start in about an hour and then I'm off to one of my house cleaning jobs.

As a side note: I've been a full-time stay-at-home-mommy for the last 10 years now, so you would think I would have come to terms with that job description by now, but I haven't. I still find myself wanting to protect my ego by noting to people that I DO have a university degree, my brain still works -most of the time-, I'm smart, sassy, wear makeup and don't wear sweats (BTW yoga pants don't count as sweats). I have dreams, goals, even a few ambitions. I respect moms who work outside the home; both of my sisters do. But for my family, not only does it make more sense financially for me to stay home, it also sits well with my spirit. I love taking my kids to school, volunteering, being the one to pick them up, hear about their day, fix them a snack, help them with their homework and then still have time and energy left to cook a dinner where we all sit down together and then hit the softball fields with my girls, while Jeff runs Elijah to baseball. But I am insecure. I need you to know that I clean houses once a week because I like it! I like the income (which, if I did this full time would be a better income than I could make with my university degree in social work) and I love helping elderly people stay independent in their homes.

OK, I'm done now, and I must tell you that I am sore.... no, not from that "I'm a good mother" rant... from keeping my New Year's Resolutions! Without one ounce of guilt or regret, I've taken the last year off from running. I had turned a stress-reliever into another competitive obligation, plus my plantar faciwhatever had really flared up and I had gotten to where I HATED running. No amount of jabbing or trash-talk from my brother could get me out the door. I thought I would get that familiar longing to hit the pavement last spring when the weather started warming up, but I didn't. That's not to say I went completely sedentary. I started doing a little yoga, played outside with my kids more than I used to, and did a few sessions of P90X with a girl friend. (OUCH.)

But that was last year. Last year, I was only turning 38. This year, I will turn 39 and that's a WAY different thing than 38. Two days ago, I went out for a brisk walk, mostly to prove to myself that it wasn't too cold and to mentally and emotionally prepare myself for the Jogging Jiggle. I'm not fat, but I have been pregnant 5 times. Jiggling tummy skin can be a bit unnerving. Yesterday, I ran! Really, it was a run/walk/run, but you have to start somewhere. And today, I'm sore. I love being sore! It's a great reminder for the next day that I asked my body to do more and I am a teeny bit stronger because of it!

I've also been spending a lot of time in the bathroom since the new year began. All that water, you know. It's impossible for me to make a list of New Year's Resolutions without including "drink more water." When people comment to me about my kids and say, "I don't know how you do it." My response is always the same: "Coffee and prayer." I blame my excessive coffee-drinking habit on my kids, but it's really just me. I love that legal addictive stimulant. I'm not about to give up my 6 to 8 cup-a-day habit, but I've also added 8 cups of water to that, so you can imagine the results have me spending a lot of time in my bathroom. I've noticed it's time to repaint in there. I'll add that as #23 to my resolution list.

I'm also going to read more this year. I love to read, so that should be an easy one. I am going to spend more time listening to God in prayer, rather than just ticking off my want list. I am going to appreciate my husband more. He's really quite an awesome guy.

Well, my time is gone. I have to get on with my day. I'd love to hear what your plans are for the new year. Who cares if we stick to it or not... I can see your heart and your intentions in the things you dream about.

2010-12-30T19:24:00.003-06:00

I'm having an end of the year writing fit. It's to be expected. All the things I intended to write about, to commemorate, to analyze, to make fun of, come rushing at me flaunting their freedom. They won't be confined to my limited vocabulary. They remain free to run wild through my imagination growing larger and more legendary with each passing moment waiting for the day that they get to take center stage in a greatly exaggerated and dramatized retelling, or to simply settle down quietly in a warm corner of my mind only to visit my consciousness in sweet fleeting feelings of dejavu, or in dreams that can't quite be recalled when I wake, but leave a smile on my face nonetheless. I wish I could jot them all down now, but already a crowd of ideas for the new year are pushing them away from my typing fingertips. There are resolutions to write, children's journals to update, lists to be made!

I will take time to tell you how we ended our year, though. Because I must. In January, my 15 year old daughter, Mattie, is signed up to take a driver's education class through her high school. In order to participate, she has to have her Learner's Permit. So, on December 13th, I pulled her out of school for the morning to take her in to Little Rock to take the written test. I am happy to report that she passed with flying colors, so I switched seats with her and let her drive herself back to school. She did a little more weaving than I was comfortable with, but she got us there in one piece. She had rehearsal for a play after school, so when it was time to pick her up at 5:30, I encouraged Jeff to bite the bullet and take his turn in the passenger seat. About 15 minutes later, I got this silly phone call from my husband asking me where I kept the insurance card and Mattie was fake-crying in the background. They have been known to pull tricks like this on me before, so I wasn't buying it. I was about to hang up on him when I heard a strange voice saying, "License and registration, Sir." Holy Moley. He wasn't kidding. And the current insurance card was in my wallet, not in the car. I jumped in Jeff's little truck and flew up there with the card and got the story. Our sweet girl hit the gas instead of the break, ran the car into a steep ditch and then over-corrected and slammed into the rear axels of a semi truck. Yes, my teenager totaled the family car the very same day she got her learner's permit. One of my friends told me I was living the cliche. I think she's right. Don't worry, no one was hurt, we were fully covered by insurance, and they were very generous on the payout for our totaled vehicle. Weird, at least for now, our insurance rates are actually going down. We have some sweet friends who loaned us their conversion van so we could still get our huge family out to Oklahoma for the family Christmas gathering. (Thanks, Jim and Beth!) But, we've had the chore of spending most of our Christmas break figuring out what our new family car will be, and then actually locating one.

When you have 7 people in your family and you would like the option of being able to invite a friend (or 2) to come home with you after school, your vehicle choices are very limited. When you refuse to buy a NEW car, ABHORE the idea of driving a minivan, and have a $3500 price limit, your choices become narrower still. Over our 18 year marriage, we have driven 3 different 1995 Suburbans, a 1985 Suburban (our favorite), and, most recently, a 1994 Buick Roadmaster Estate Wagon with a bubble-top vista roof and the LT1 motor. NOW, we have purchased a 1993 GMC 12 passenger Rally Van. :) I can't wait to show you how we're going to deck this thing out! I'm so excited! And, no, we're not going to murder this vehicle... that would be way too A Team.

Anyway, I plan to write lots of entries about our car, continue with the simplicity theme, tell you funny things about my kids, and cry and whine when I'm feeling down. Most of all, I hope I can make you laugh, or at least smile. I will feel like I've accomplished something amazing if I can lighten your load by lightening your heart. And I hope that in all of my writings you can see my belief that when God is with us, ALL worry is a waste of time and we can laugh even in the face of death. So, if I accomplish this goal, feel free to let me know.

2010-11-26T20:04:00.012-06:00

We had a wonderful Thanksgiving this year! I hope you did, too. We haven't traveled for the Thanksgiving holiday since we moved away from Texas, about 9 years ago, and as much as I love my extended family, we have treasured these nine years of having a beautiful meal around our own table without the stress of travel or of getting the house clean and rearranging sleeping quarters to accommodate guests. Some years, we invite friends to join us, sometimes it's just us. Either way, it's so comfortable and relaxed. It's my favorite holiday. It's also the traditional day we set up the Christmas tree and decorate the house. Last year, our kitten, Jinx, knocked over the artificial tree we had used for years, a couple of times and finally rendered it unusable for this year, so while the turkey was baking and we were waiting for the guests to arrive, we trekked to the back of our property to cut down a Charlie Brown Christmas tree.

It was cloudy and close to 80 degrees when we went out at about 11am, but it was raining like crazy and the temperature had dropped 30 degrees by the time we came back in half an hour later. Insane. We don't really have Christmas tree-type pine trees on our property, but we have TONS of Lobblolly Pines (the kind they make telephone poles out of), so we made the best of it! Here is a picture of the pine grove at the back of our place (I think it's quite enchanting):

In the past, we had liked the idea of using an artificial tree to keep from cutting down a perfectly good oxygen-supplier, even though storing it was a bit of a hassle. But, left with the choice of buying another one, going without, or cutting one down, we opted to cut one off of our own property. We had plenty to choose from and each of our kids had their favorite. Here are their choices. 4 year old Ruby wanted this small one.

7 year old Daisy preferred this one.

9 year old Elijah liked this one the best.

10 year old Jenna preferred this little tree. And, finally, 15 year old Mattie condescended to choose this one.

However, in our family, Mom and Dad have the final decision. In the interest of being "green" and not completely destroying a beautiful tree simply so we could hang eclectic, homemade ornaments from its branches for a month, we chose to simply cut the top 6 feet off of a 20 foot tall pine tree. Who's my sexy lumberjack?!

Well, after a little TLC and a few lightweight ornaments, this is what we've ended up with for this year:

I know it's not much, but we love it. Afterall, it's really all about celebrating Jesus and loving each other, isn't it? It is my hope that each of you will find your own way to celebrate the season with love, generosity and simplicity. Jesus was born in a stable to poor parents, celebrated by shepherds and men who gazed at stars. We are blessed by His coming. And we are blessed to live rich lives. So, spend time with your family; bless each other; and drink lots of hot chocolate.

Let the festivities begin!!

2010-11-20T06:16:00.004-06:00

I am convinced that nothing will help you get rid of clutter around your house faster than a nasty, barfing stomach virus. (Yes, I know in polite society I'm supposed to say "stomach bug", as if that somehow makes it cuter or less sinister, but there are 7 people in our house and I can assure you, there is never anything cute about it when we get attacked by this disease from Satan.) At times like these, it's so easy to say, "I love you, Sweetheart, but I'm not washing vomit out of that stuffed animal's fur, or out from between all the keys of that toy cash register, and that throw rug in the bathroom was always getting tripped on anyway." And then I usually feel like we can't just throw these items in the trash, for fear that our trash man might carry our disease all over town spreading it like fairy dust after handling our garbage, so I feel we carry the responsibility of either burning it or burying it in a sealed vault. My husband thinks I get a little crazy and carried away, but I stand my ground with him. (To clarify: I VERBALLY stand my ground as I am double-bagging the offending items and writing "Biohazard Material" on them with permanent markers to warn the trash man.)

I say all that because that's how our experience with this sickness has been in the past. However, this time we've had a break through. Our youngest daughter is 4 and I lost count after she had thrown up 9 times in one night, but... get ready.... she made it to the toilet every time with no mess!!! My baby is growing up.

Well, if you are super-sensitive like my dad is, just reading this is starting to make you feel queasy, so I will end this silly post and get back to you later. Go Germx your hands.

2010-11-12T13:26:00.005-06:00

We have 2 fairly large paper shell pecan trees on our property, but in the 5 1/2 years we've lived here, we ain't seen nary a single dad-blain pee-can.... sorry, I slipped into my Arkansas dialect for a minute. It happens sometimes, especially when I'm tired. Anyway, on Monday, one of my neighbors, Mr. Nathan, came over with a bulging bag of pecans he had just picked up from under his trees. He was so excited to tell us that his trees hadn't produced any nuts for nearly a decade, but this year they're falling like manna from heaven! We shelled, sorted and cleaned the pecans from Mr. Nathan, and then, yesterday we went out to see if our own trees had produced anything. It was a beautiful afternoon and as I watched my children searching for nuts like they were on an Easter Egg hunt and squealing and running up to show me each one they found as if they were rare treasures, I started thinking about how perfectly God provides for us. You know, since we moved here, I've never purposely watered any of my trees. I've never fed or fertilized them. I DO prune off the branches that get infested with web worms each year, but that's pretty much it. I'm thinking the Master Gardener Society won't be calling any time soon. But even though I have not been a very good caretaker of my trees, they are still blessing me with their fruit. It makes me think of Jesus talking about the flowers when he says something like, 'They toil not and neither do they spin, but even Solomon in all his splendor was not clothed like one of these.' I haven't worked for any of this bounty, but here it is anyway, just waiting to be picked up off of the ground. This experience of gathering and shelling pecans was a turning point for a couple of my kids. Yes, dear children, pecans grow in trees, not in plastic bags at the grocery store. My 15 year old exclaimed, "They look like little brains!" Well, if you haven't done it lately, let me encourage you to go outside sometime in the next week or two before the cold weather sets in. Even if you don't have a pecan tree, you can allow God to speak peace into your heart through nature. Go out and see if there isn't a blessing or two just sitting there waiting to be picked up.

2010-11-08T12:48:00.009-06:00

I have been baking all of my family's bread for about 9 months now. Most of my friends don't see the logic in this. It only costs about $1.25 to buy a loaf of store-brand bread, so why (in the name of simplicity) would I choose to spend 3 to 4 hours baking my own bread every other day? Well, to me, simple is not equal to convenient. I know exactly what my children are putting in their bodies when they eat my bread, more nutrition, less preservatives, less sugar. My house smells like fresh-baked bread several times a week. Kneading=stress reduction therapy. I love the rhythmic, meditative motion of kneading, it calms my heart. (And, yes, I make bread entirely by hand; no bread machines for me.) I love it when my kids want to help! Baking bread can be as meaningful as playtime with your kids and they are so proud of their loaf when it's finished. Plus, when I make my bread, I don't package it in a plastic bag that will have to be recycled or thrown away in a day or two. I've tried about 6 recipe's over the last 9 months, and even though every recipe I try tastes wonderful, I'm still searching for that perfect slice that won't crumble too much when I smear it with peanut butter. So, today, I am trying a new recipe for potato bread that promises to be soft and chewy. If it turns out well, I'll post the recipe for you at the end of this entry. While we're waiting for the potatoes to boil, I've brewed us a cup of Seattle's Best organic coffee, added a touch of my favorite peppermint mocha creamer, and I thought we could chat a little about all that clutter sitting around our houses gathering dust.

I clean houses for a living, well not "a living" exactly since we really couldn't "live" off of what I make... Let me try again: I clean houses to bring a little extra financial padding to our family budget. I LOVE it. It's weird, I know. When it's time to clean my own bathrooms, I have to force myself to get the job done, but when I go to work, cleaning bathrooms is part of my job, and I really don't mind it at all. This is probably because house cleaning is just a front for my REAL job: helping elderly people live independently for as long as they can. You see, I only work for senior citizens. While I am cleaning their home, I am also helping them reach something, or changing a light bulb, or commenting on the newest picture of their grandchildren. Vacuuming under furniture and getting on my hands and knees to scrub a bathtub are only a tiny part of what I do. Older people really aren't that messy, they just can't see as well as they used to. They can't see the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling, and it wouldn't be wise for them to be climbing up on chairs to reach the cobwebs if they could see them. Every week I smile as I dust literally 100's of picture frames and 100's of ceramic figurines, and plastic do-dad's that say things like "World's Best Grandma" or "To Mother With Love". Every week I carefully dust these items and replace them on shelves and tuck them back into various nooks and crannies. In my heart, I smile at the love and sentiment with which these items were given and the pride with which they are displayed. And every week I am more and more convinced that I NEVER want to fill my home with useless objects that must continuously be dusted.

It is my hope that I am teaching my children a better way to give gifts and express affection. I hope that when I am old, my children and grandchildren will give me gifts of time, visits, phone calls, emails, hugs. I want gifts of laughter, eating a great meal together, sharing stories. I loved what my husband said a few days ago. It's coming up on the holiday season, and we aren't big on tons of gifts, but we aren't opposed to exchanging a thing or two. We were discussing our "wish lists" and both having trouble coming up with anything we wanted. Jeff said, "I'm just so tired of throwing my money away on moths and rust." He was referring, of course, to the Bible verse that encourages us to store up treasures in heaven where moth and rust can't destroy. We would both rather pursue our goal of buying a piece of property and building our recycled house than waste time and money getting things like a new purse or a new set of saddle bags for the motorcycle.

We've got several new ideas we're going to be trying this holiday season, and I'll share them with you in the coming weeks. In the meantime, the potatoes are finished and I need to mix up the bread dough. I'll go ahead and post the recipe here, even though I haven't finished making it. You can try it if you want to. I found the basic recipe on Group Recipes when I Googled potato bread. I made a couple small adjustments.

3/4 c potato water

1/2 c mashed potatoes

1/4 c shortening

1 egg

1 T Sun Crystals (stevia/sugar sweetener)

1 t salt

3 c all purpose flour

2 1/2 t yeast

dissolve yeast in potato water

mix all ingredients (with only 1 c of four) with an electric mixer

then add in other 2 c of flour, stirring with a spoon

turn out onto a floured surface and knead for 10 min

shape into a loaf and place in a greased loaf pan

let rise

bake at 350 for 15 to 20 min.

Let's hope it comes out yummy!

2010-11-04T16:38:00.014-05:00

I just finished a short, but strong crying episode. I couldn't indulge for long because my niece-in-law will be here soon to pick up her little girl and I don't want her to catch me with black streaks smeared down my face and think it had anything to do with her child. It doesn't. Really.

I had picked the kids up from school (my own 5, plus 1 extra), fed them a snack while listening to all the shocking details of their school day like which classmate sassed the teacher and how unreasonable it is that they only get 20 minutes to eat their lunch, and then I sent them outside to play on this beautiful, but very windy, fall day. At last report, they were digging for dinosaur bones. While I tuned my ears to distinguish distant "Look I found a REAL dinosaur bone" screams from distant "I'm really hurt and I need you" screams, I began to surf the blogoshpere to catch up on what people are saying about living simply.

It's a journey our family has been on for the last 3 years, but I'm just recently feeling compelled to share some our experiences with you. I have a verse highlighted in the Bible I used in high school where Paul tells us to make it our ambition to live quiet lives, work with our hands, and live at peace with others. Jeff and I have truly been used by God to start some interesting and life-changing ministries. We are proud of the work that continues in Fort Worth, Texas, at Fortress Ministries (www.fwydc.org), and in Denver, Colorado, at Dry Bones (www.drybonesdenver.org). But these ministries are in our past and we claim no ownership of them now. God will do His will in these ministries and we are just grateful to have had a hand in getting them started.

I am willing to let God use me to help my husband start big ministry projects like these, but I have learned that large endeavors that involve many people tend to invite criticism, cynicism, and even attack. Stress. Given the choice, I prefer to live without it. I want that quiet, hard-working, peaceful life Paul recommends. So the last 3 years of getting our financial lives in check, simplifying our home, down-sizing our schedules, and (finally) listening to Jesus tell us not to worry about what we will eat or drink or wear, has been so healing to my heart. And we've done it all relatively quietly without drawing a whole lot of attention. At least, I thought no one was noticing.

About 2 years ago, Jeff came home from a lunch meeting with the idea of building a recycled house. The notion has been brewing and growing ever since, to the point that he feels strongly that God is preparing him to turn some aspect of this into another "big" ministry. That means going public with our new lifestyle. Inviting people to watch what we're doing. Past experience tells me that some people will be inspired and encouraged, but some will look down their noses, tell us we are being extremists and Jesus didn't mean for us to really take those things literally. They will feel it's their duty to point out where we're not quite living up to the standards we are setting for ourselves and others. We will be called hypocrits. If it will truly help people find their way to God, I will handle the negative side. But, I was having trouble seeing how living a simplified life, free of physical and mental clutter, could be a "Ministry".

Back at the end of August, just after school started, I got an email from the mother of 1 of my kids' classmates. I didn't know her well. A "hi" at school events. Standing around chatting at a couple of birthday parties. I'm not really sure how she got my email address. I won't go into detail, but she said I always looked peaceful and happy and my kids were always well-behaved (ha!) and she wondered if I would let her in on some of my secrets. There's not much that bugs me more than a Christian who walks around acting like they are superior to everyone else. If you just lived your life like they do, you could be perfect, too, although probably not quite as perfectly perfect as they are. I NEVER want to be that woman.

I agreed to have coffee with her. I assured her my life was not perfect, then told her about how I am old-fashioned enough to still believe in consistently disciplining my children and I told her about the financial plan we follow. 3 hours later, I left with a new friend.

About a month ago, I got a phone call from the mother of 1 of my teenage daughter's "friends". I say "friend" because this girl more accurately falls into that strange category of "frenemy". I blame our down-sized life for causing me to answer the phone in the first place. Because of where we live, we have to keep a land-line in order to have internet access at home. A while back, our cordless digital home phone quit working. It didn't make sense to us to spend money on a new one, when we had a working push-button phone sitting in a cabinet. Here it is:

Problem is, it doesn't have "caller ID", so when I answer the phone, I have to actually wait until the person verbally identifies themself before I know who I'm talking to. So, I answered the call only to be shocked with this request: "I know we don't know each other very well, but I'm having problems with "Suzy". Can I tell her to call you when she needs a grown-up to talk to and she won't listen to me? You seem like someone I could trust to give her advice." I do? I told her I would be happy to try to give her daughter wise advice if she ever called me with a question. As Christians, we want to live our lives in a way that reflects God's purpose, but it's still a little unnerving when people start to notice. It's a lot to live up to.

So, I was catching up on simplicity blogs today. (Bet you thought I'd never get back to my original point!) The entries I read were encouraging, 1 was particularly inspiring, but what moved me to tears were the comments people would write in response to the posts. People are being forced into simplifying their lives because they are losing their homes to foreclosure. They are drowning in debt. Their cars are being repossessed. They are acquiring all the stuff advertisers promise will make them happy and then they're not happy. Their kids sit in front of video games for hours on end and don't understand the game of baseball - because Brendan Frazier shows us in "Blast From the Past" that you must play baseball in order to understand how to play baseball. Or else they are running their children from school to music lessons to baseball practice to Scouts, cramming in homework, and then finally getting their 9 year old in bed at 10:30.

People are realizing more and more that the American Dream is actually a nightmare packaged to look like a dream. But we aren't really sure how to give up our "stuff".

I know how! Look at me! We don't have cable tv. We don't have iphones. We will NEVER buy a new car again. I don't pay for piano lessons; I trade my sister-in-law child care in return for music lessons. My teenager is teaching herself to play guitar. My kids get hands-on "scouting" experience by taking long-range walkie-talkies into the woods behind our house and exploring the wonders of nature, and then hauling their various discoveries (including snakes of questionable levels of venom-ness) to our grandfatherly neighbor, who helps them sort it all out. (The snake in this Hawaiian Punch jug turned out to be poisonous. Yikes!)

I feed my entire family of 7 on less than $140 per week. Come on! We can do this! It's really fun! Plus, you might find out, like I did, that you actually LIKE the family God blessed you with!

2010-11-02T17:08:00.008-05:00

A couple of days ago, my 15 year old daughter's friend confessed to me that she thought we were hippies. Mattie quickly chimed in with, "Mom, ALL of my friends think that." I thought this was rather humorous, so I asked Miss Jacie what made her come to that conclusion. "Because you recycle, eat healthy and drive a weird car." So there you go. If this is the definition of "hippie", I guess we are guilty as charged. However, when I was sharing this newly bestowed identity with Jeff, he started laughing and told me a similar story, with a very different ending.

About once a week, or so, he goes with some of our church members out to the Benton Service Center. This is kind of a state-run nursing home that cares for patients of all ages with greatly varying degrees of brain and motor function. Some are more lucid than others. One man, who has lived at the home for the last 20 years, called my husband over to him and asked, "Man, are you a hippie or something?" Jeff said, "I don't know. Tell me what a hippie is and I'll tell you if I am one or not."

"Dude, a hippie smokes lots of dope."

"Well, I guess I'm not a hippie, then."

The man seemed a little disappointed with this answer.

So I guess it's still up in the air whether we are hippies or not, but I do know for certain that our personal theories, opinions and behaviors regarding finance, social and environmental responsibility and our relationship to "stuff" in general, has undergone a major transformation over the last 3 years.

It all started when we finally caved in to peer pressure and signed up for Dave Ramsey's Financial Peace University class. Like most church-goers, we had been hearing about Dave Ramsey for about 82 years, give or take a decade or two, but it took a nice, hard kick in the pants to finally make us admit we weren't on the right path, financially speaking. In 2005, Jeff's rich uncle in California passed away and left us $30,000. I thought rich out-of-state uncles were only figments of Hollywood's imagination, but apparently they do exist. Anyway, we were so excited and so very responsible with the money. We used it to pay off all our debt, bought a good, used car, and sent Jeff on a rock climbing trip with some of his best guy friends to Joshua Tree National Park (it was HIS rich uncle, after all, so he should get to have a little fun). We did some other responsible stuff, too, like, you know, eating at Taco Bell and buying into a little home-based business that failed to make minimum sales quotas and folded after 6 months. Stuff like that.

Anyway, we were rocking along in our usual way of not really paying attention, when I opened the credit card bill 9 months later, to discover that we were $9000 in debt. Not hard to do the math on that. We were over-spending our income by $1000 per month. Holy Cow.

We went into the Financial Peace class with momentum and determination like you wouldn't believe. We duked it out over the family budget and let me just say that any marriage that can survive a "Come to Jesus" type budget meeting and survive, is a marriage that is going to last a lifetime! (I love you, Jeff!) Come to find out, our little family of 7 had an annual income that hovered just above the poverty line, but we were living the lifestyle of my Baby Boomer, upper middle class, dual income, parents. (A note to my church friends who contribute to my husband's salary as a minister: I am not complaining about Jeff's income. He is very well paid for a minister and we are so very grateful. Poverty lines are based on income compared to family size and, well, you know, we have a lot of kids.)

Under Dave Ramsey's tutelage we learned how to take care of all our family's financial needs, including adequate insurances of all kinds, birthdays, Christmas, sports, etc., plus we're actually saving money! AND we have been debt-free (except for our house), for almost a year now.

One of the ways I helped whip our budget into shape, was by cooking very simple meals and making everything from scratch. Bread, granola bars, pudding, all homemade. We only eat meat a couple times a week and even then, I've learned to feed my family of 7 on 1/2 pound of ground beef by stretching it with things like lentils, mushrooms, onions, even black eyed peas. My bathroom scale will testify that none of us are starving to death.

I send these homemade food items to school with my kids in their lunch boxes, so I guess this is how the rumors of our "healthy" eating started. "Your mom MADE that?" my kids' friends would ask. "Could you ask her to send 2 of those next time so I can have one?" (insert proud mother smirk here)

Interesting thing is, whipping our finances into shape caused us to start noticing other areas of our life that were undisciplined, sloppy. I do my grocery shopping every Monday. One Monday, I bought a package of 100 zip close sandwich bags. When I was making the kids' lunches for Thursday, I emptied the package. NO WAY. I realized I was responsible for dumping over 100 plastic sandwich bags every week into our local landfill. No more. Now my kids carry their chips, sandwiches, carrots, etc. in washable containers, not throw away plastic baggies. All of our plastic gets recycled in one way or another. Mostly, I drop it off at a recycling container, but the clerks at WalMart get a kick out of it when I show up with the reusable bag I made by cutting my plastic WalMart bags into strips, tying them together end to end and crocheting them into a very sturdy bag. Here's a picture of it:

I wish I had kept track of how many bags I cut up in order to make this... it was a whole heck of a lot, I can tell you that!

And this is only the very tiny tip of the ice berg when it comes to the things we recycle. We are even currently saving our pennies and drawing up plans for building a recycled home. No kidding.

The weird car we drive (the murdered station wagon) is just another form of recycling. It's not a fuel-efficient smart car, by any means, but we are keeping it out of the landfill... for now. :)

Hippies, or not, our lives are ultra simple and we are happier than we've ever been. Our precious children even think it's kind of funny to shock their friends with astonishing information such as, "Our family doesn't have cable tv" and "We don't own a Wii" and "We actually like eating vegetables"... hey, shocking their friends is free entertainment and free is good.

2010-11-02T14:37:00.002-05:00

It has been well over a year since my last blog post. By way of explanation, I must admit that I am a little obsessive/compulsive with many things in my life. I get an idea in my head, think about it for approximately 23 seconds and then run headlong until I simply run out of steam. Then it's just over. I'm done. Finished. Until the next idea comes along. But my blog Murder Story was NOT a case of losing steam. I was so very sad a little over a year ago when I had just completed Chapter 3 of my Murder story only to have my computer crash midway through Chapter 4. And when I say "crash", I mean my hard drive started making a terrifying noise, smelled like burnt hair and even the Mac experts in Little Rock couldn't revive it. Of course, I had not backed anything up. ANYTHING. Seriously, it was a Mac. Mac's never have any problems. Unless, maybe they are an 8 year old laptop that gets abused daily by a 3, 6, 8, 9, and 14 year old. I lost all my pictures of the murdering of my sweet station wagon, and I just didn't feel like I could start something else, when my Murder Story was sitting there waiting to be finished. But, that was over a year ago. I have finished grieving. I am ready to move on. So, here we go again. Of course, I have to pick the kids up from school first. Hopefully, it won't be another year before you hear from me again. :)

2009-07-22T09:01:00.016-05:00

After a month-long break, I am finally ready to present Chapter 3 of my murder story: Bondo. Though he is my personal favorite of the Bond Men, this chapter has nothing to do with this beautiful man.

However, before we go on, let's just take a minute, or 10, to pause and reflect on this striking image and the massive contribution he made to the world of fictional crime fighting and, perhaps, to my personal fascination with murdered vehicles.

*sigh*

Ok, so bondo is this amazing product used to fill dents in metal. For my feminine brain, it was easier to understand when my husband compared it to the process I go through when I get my nails done. That's one of the things that makes him such a good preacher. Down-to-earth analogies, you know? Making the complex attainable. Alright, they glue that long, lovely white tip to the end of my stubby, thin fingernail, but there's a huge ridge at the joint until they use the acrylic to build up my natural nail and smooth it all out. (It's just occurred to me that Jeff also compares foundation makeup to bondo... smoothing out the bumps of zits and the dips of huge pores. I think that particular analogy is rather rude.)

Bondo looks like Silly Putty, but has the consistency of toothpaste or wall mud/joint compound. The kind I used comes in a small paint can container. You have to scoop a little bit out and then mix it with just the right amount of the hardening agent. Once you've mixed in the hardener, you have about 4 minutes to work with it before it loses pliability. On my car, we used bondo to remedy 3 different problems. First, we used it to fill a medium sized dent on the passenger side rear fender. Second, we used it to fill the holes that were left down the length of both sides when we removed the chrome trim and the large hole from the removal of the hood ornament. Finally, we used it for a more decorative purpose when we mostly filled in the word Buick on the grill. When it was painted, it produced a "ghosted" effect so that you can only see the word Buick from certain angles.

Let's start with the dent on the rear fender. For this project, we recruited our friend Jay. Jay used to work for the paint and body department of a local car dealership. Everyone say hi to Jay, Kristin and Jayci...

First, Jay sanded the area around the dent all the way down to the bare metal.

Then, he had to get inside the car and bang the dent out without over-stretching the metal. I stood on the outside holding a flat board across the area of the dent to prevent him from pressing the metal out too far in the opposite direction. Then he tapped around on the outside until he had the metal molded as close to the original lines of the car as he could.

Finally, he applied the bondo.

The next item on the list was to take care of the damage from removing the chrome trim. When we took that trim off, we found that the factory had spot welded the brackets to the body at a spacing of 1 bracket about every 12 inches. First we had to use pliers to twist off the brackets and then I used a small ball grinder (no inappropriate jokes here, please) to grind down any metal shards that were still attached to the car.

Then I got to use the bondo. I love, love, LOVED this! It was really fun!

And then our final use of the beloved super-bondo was to ghost-out the word Buick on the grill. Here I am pretending to be that little cartoon character with the big nose that hangs down over signs... blast, I hate when I draw a blank on names. It's not Ziggy, but it kind of looks like him. Okay, I'll offer a prize: the first person who can tell me the name of the cartoon character I'm impersonating, wins the prize of me filling a dent in your car with bondo.

Here I am applying bondo to the letters, but you'll have to wait awhile to see how it turned out.

The next chapter will be all about sanding that bondo down... and sanding... and sanding... and sanding. So, for now, that is the end of the Bondo story.

2009-06-17T06:26:00.019-05:00

Stop!! This is Chapter 2 of my first murder story. Blog sites post the most recent entry first. This concept continues to baffle my husband, so I wanted to patiently explain it to you as well. If you want to start at the beginning (a very good place to start, when you read you begin with ABC, when you sing you begin with DoReyMe....), you should scroll down to the entry just before this one. Now, if you're ready to move on, you may continue reading.

I was trying to think of a seductive, intriguing title for my little novella, here, but I'm finding myself in a far too sarcastic frame of mind to come up with anything of substance. I was tempted to use "Murder She Wrote", but didn't want to end up being the target of a certain famous woman's legal team.

She may be intimidating, but she's not the only one who can play that game. Back up, Ms. Lansbury, and check this out:

You want some more? Oh, yeah, I can bring it, Girl!

Oh, dear. How did that one get here? Maybe I've taken it a bit too far. My apologies for displaying such un-Southernly behavior. Let's just move on, shall we?

My goal today is to show you Step 2 in murdering a car. (Step 1, of course, being selecting and purchasing the vehicle.) Step 2 is Shave and Strip.

Not exactly where I was going. What I meant was, you have to shave the the trim, hood ornament and luggage rack and strip the wood sticker. Like this:

Here goes the trim and the luggage rack:

It wasn't quite as difficult as Hubby makes it look:)

On to sticker-stripping: Jeff thought using the heat gun would make it release easier.

I'm not sure I agree. That sticker was STUCK. We were still left with quite a mess in some places and the only thing to do was to scratch it off with our nails one microscopic fragment at a time.

It was tedious, to say the least.

I am proud to report that I learned an incredibly valuable lesson during Step 2: No matter how cute they are, NEVER work on a car in low-rise pants.

And that is the END of Step 2 (pun intended).

Stay tuned! Chapter 3 will be all about BONDO!

2009-06-11T18:45:00.017-05:00

Consider this your personal invitation to view my documentation of a murder.

NO!! Not this kind of murder! That would be terribly wrong; not appropriate behavior for a minister's wife. Of course, I'm referring to THIS kind of murder:

You might be wondering why I am standing on top of this lovely Grandma car holding a large knife. I'm about to murder it. Obviously.

Okay, I'll back up a little and explain. First of all, you should know that I am a good girl. I have gone to church all my life. I married a minister. I have 5 children. I even homeschooled them for several years. I crochet. And quilt. On the outside, I look like this:

And that truly is me, the real me. Happy wife and mother. But it's never really that simple, is it? Because, inside me lurks another personality. She looks more like this:

Oh, hush your snickering. A girl can dream, can't she? Point is, there is another part of me that's just as real as what you see on the outside that longs for adventure and hates to be stereotyped as a minister's wife. Here's something else: I love old houses and old cars. They have so much character, personality, potential... and they tend to be cheaper than the new ones. Another plus: you don't feel quite so bad if you mess them up. They were headed for the wrecking ball or dump anyway, right?

When it comes to cars, I get into a bit of a jam. Since I have a relatively large number of children to transport, my "cool" factor takes a bit of a hit. I guess I could drive this:

I mean, a lot of moms do, right? I don't judge people who drive minivans, it's just not for me. It's too...typical. Plus, it makes me feel old and fat. Yes, fat. Don't over-analyze it, it's just a feeling and the last time I checked, women were still entitled to a large number of irrational, unreasonable feelings. Anyway, I suppose I could drive something a little more "fun":

but, then my children would run away from home and later insist I join them in family therapy sessions where I'm sure to not come off well and it will be expensive.

Though it would prevent my kids from running away, I won't even consider a bus.

That would just be silly.

In the past, I've solved my need for a cool, High Occupancy Vehicle by choosing to drive old Suburbans. In fact, my last three vehicles have been Suburbans, with extra large meats (that's tough-talk for "tires"). Two of those three were four wheel drive. I painted all of them black. Come to think of it, I had black rims put on all of them. I see a pattern developing. I just know what I like. I'm a regular ole sweet soccer mom, but I want to be able to run you over, and win, if you force my hand.

Shortly after we moved here to Arkansas, one of the dad's at my kids' school started calling my Suburban an urban assault vehicle. I liked that. I didn't realize there was an actual name for my preferred style until I heard a teenager commenting to his girlfriend about my car: "Dude, check it out! That thing is like totally murdered out. Sic, man!" That's it. I like to black out my cars. Black-out=Murder.

Sadly, all good things must come to an end. (I don't know if I really buy into that saying, but it makes a good transition sentence into explaining my switch from driving a Suburban to driving a wagon, so I decided to use it.) My last Suburban was starting to fall apart faster than we could fix it, so my wonderful husband started researching cars. He loves to do that. When he first presented the idea of a station wagon, I had very mixed emotions. My parents drove a station wagon. Gag. Brady Bunch. Double gag. "Yes, but I gave you your first kiss when we were 14 in the rear-facing seat of that station wagon..."he reminded me, with a sly grin. All right, I'm listening. He then told me that Motor Trend Magazine lists the wagon as one of the Top 10 collectible cars and another site (I forget which one he said) lists it as a Top 8 Scariest vehicle. Then he started showing me pictures of some that had been re-done. I've already told you I'm a sucker for the "potential" factor, so when he found this one in Fort Worth, Texas, for $3000, I was elated! It has leather interior and a vista "bubble top" window in the roof... not my mama's station wagon, that's for sure! And it's got the LT1 motor (for those who don't know, that's the same motor they put in the Corvette). All it needed was a good murdering and I told my dear husband that I didn't just want to stand by and watch him do the dirty work, I wanted to do it myself (at least as much as I could). So, if you're interested, I'll show you how I turned this:

into this:

Now that's more like it.

2009-06-11T17:00:00.000-05:00

I knew it had been a long time since I last posted anything on here, but yesterday when we were having snow cones, my friend Deana told me that my last entry was dated January 18th, 2009. It surprised me that she knew an exact date for my last entry and shocked me even more when I logged on just now and discovered she was right! I have at least one hundred reasons for not writing lately. The first six are: Jeff, Mattie, Jenna, Elijah, Daisy and Ruby. Though my writing has been on the back burner for the last six months, I am happy to say I haven't been completely idle. I have continued randomly plinking around on the guitar and bass guitar my husband got me for Christmas. I'm still no more than a beginner, but I haven't gotten any worse:) and I did get to play with "the girls" at a ladies' retreat. One woman at the retreat told us, "Not only can you sing and play, but you're cute to boot!" So now we laughingly call ourselves "Cute to Boot". I have moved up in rank on the church praise team from "occasional alto substitute" to "regular participant". I started running (in spite of a broken toe that no longer hurts, but is still floppy where it should be solid), and competed in the Oklahoma City Memorial Marathon on a relay team with my siblings against a team consisting of their spouses and a few stand-ins. I blogged about my training for this race until I started getting bored. My motto is: When something gets boring, quit. Not super-consistent with my Type-A personality, but it is convenient. My friend Deana that I mentioned before, along with Lana, Angie and I, chartered a new chapter of American Christian Writers. We meet at our local library on the 1st Thursday of every month from noon to 1pm. Lana is our President; Deana is VP; Angie is Secretary; and since I am the only non-real writer of the group and I manage to keep up with my own check book pretty well, I serve our group as Treasurer. But, my greatest accomplishment of the last six months is going to be the subject of my next several entries. I can't wait to share it with you! I've got pictures and everything! You're gonna have to hang tight for an hour or so while I get my kids fed and shipped off to VBS with the neighbors and then I'll be back to post the first installment of "The Murder".... don't worry, there's no blood...

2009-01-18T10:27:00.003-06:00

I'm wondering where all the silence is or if it even exists anymore. I am from a large family and I have gone on to create a large family of my own, so people might assume that constant noise and bustling activity doesn't bother me. They would be wrong.

When I was in the 4th grade, my parents built a new house. I was home from school one day with a fever after the house was dried-in, but before it had carpet. I don't know why we went out there that day - maybe my mother was painting - but I vividly remember laying a blanket and pillow on the cement floor of my new room, staring up at the ceiling inhaling the smells of fresh paint, joint compound, epoxy and hearing the sounds of absolutely nothing. The silence seemed to echo off the bare walls and floors. It wasn't scary or forlorn, it was beautiful. That day is treasured in my memory.

I was the oldest of 4 kids and as our home grew busier and noisier, I would often seek solitude by hiding under my bed. Sometimes even having my own room with my own door to shut wasn't enough. I needed privacy for my soul, not just my body. Oddly, I found what I needed when I slipped underneath my antique full size bed that had once belonged to my great grandmother. It was dark and cool behind that yellow daisy bed skirt and the commotion of the house would sink into the background as if it was coming from far away. Occasionally, I would write in my diary, but mostly I would bury my nose in the carpet, breathe in the dusty, earthy smells and just listen. I could hear my brother playing Hunt the Wumpus on his TI computer console, his twin sister talking on the phone, my other sister squeaking her clarinet into submission. Mom was clanging around in the kitchen and Dad was pulling into the driveway in his 1967 Volkswagon Bug that always made me think of little bubbles popping ... similar to the sound of George Jetson's spacecar on that cartoon in the 80's.

In those days, prayer wasn't something I thought about. Conversations with God just seemed to flow out of my heart. I would walk down the halls of my high school in between classes and have a mental discussion with my Maker about something that had just happened or something that might happen in my next class. I could be wrong, but I don't think people thought I was weird, I mean I wasn't mumbling to myself or anything like that. My spirit was just more comfortable in my relationship with God than it seems to be now.

I'm not sure if it's age, cynicism, doubt, or just plain weariness and fatigue, but the presence of God has become a thing I must fight for, seek out and demand, instead of the comfortable state of being it used to be. I wish it was still easy, but I persist in hoping that there is some value in effort. Maybe it's like exercise. Your body hits a plateau and you have to push harder or try a new activity to get the scale to start moving again.

I often find myself getting hit with waves of theological concepts. For about a year, it was the idea of spiritual warfare. It seemed that every book I picked up, old or new, every sermon, every song dealt with the concept of a real evil. Now, it's the idea of peace, silence and soul-level communication with God. The Sermon on the Mount is steeped in this concept. My minister husband recently came across an old book called The Way to Love that has me re-examining my attachment to people, things and places. I recently attended a church leadership conference where we were encouraged to seek God in silence as Elijah heard Him, not in the mighty wind, or fire, but in the still small voice.

I mostly like going to church - which is a fairly good quality for a minister's wife to have - but I will admit that I occasionally desire a reprieve from this duty. Singing on the praise team, teaching children's classes, giving my husband an honest yet kind critique of his sermon, keeping 5 kids in line while not appearing to be irritated and remembering to greet everyone with a smile, is harder to pull off on some days. I didn't really want to miss church today. I had a couple of different pleasant tasks assigned to me and one of my sisters was visiting from out of town. But when you have a 5 year old throwing up all over the house, there is no way of weaseling out of Mommy Duty.

I resigned myself to not getting to see my sister and not getting to sing on the praise team for at least another month, and I began to look forward to the morning at home. I would keep the 2 year old also even though she wasn't sick, just to make things easier on Jeff. I would put both girls in front of the Veggie Tales Jonah movie and I would drink my coffee, listen to a worship CD and read my Bible. I might even explore this idea of silence. But, alas, 2 year olds need drinks and 5 year olds need their covers spread out again and movies are too loud and too quiet, "I can't hear it at all, Mom." And girls with upset tummy's still get thirsty and hungry, but my tummy hurts, Mommy, but I'm still hungry. And warm baths sometimes make kids feel better unless their 2 year old sister poops in the tub and then there is screaming. So the tub must be drained, cleaned and refilled and the toys must be bleached.

Somehow through it all, I managed to read the book of Lamenatations. Strange choice, maybe, but just as Elton John advises to turn on those sad songs, when every bit of hope is gone, sad songs say so much... I figured since I was feeling kind of down and discouraged, reading a book of laments might cheer me up. And it worked, sort of. It helped me to be reminded that "the faithful love of the Lord never ends. His mercies never cease" and that "no one is abandoned by the Lord forever." But Jeremiah also says, "Let them sit alone in silence beneath the Lord's demands. Let them lie face down in the dust, for there may be hope at last." He must not have had kids if he thinks it's possible to sit alone in silence and today I would rather sit beneath the Lord's demands than those of a throwing up 5 year old.

Even so, "...there may be hope at last."

2008-12-15T12:58:00.002-06:00

I have always been all about basketball, softball, track, fishing, hiking, dissecting interesting creatures in junior high life science, and checking my own oil; but before you start to get the idea that I'm a complete tomboy, let me confess that nothing quite measures up to the thrill I get from new shoes. Casual, dress, athletic, pump, flat... it doesn't matter. I love them all. My favorite pair are the red, Doc Martin, European hiking shoes I got when we lived in Colorado. Those little beauties don't get out much these days; mostly stay tucked away in the back of my closet safe and snug in their original yellow and black box. And did you know that you can find shoes specifically targeted toward the activity of fishing?! See, all those tomboy activities simply open up whole new possibilities in footwear! Now, for the record, I don't indulge in shoe purchases very often on account of how committed I am to my family's Financial Peace buget (see daveramsey.com). Mostly I just dream about new shoes these days. I guess it's hereditary, though, because (and I promise I'm not making this up) this morning on the way to school, my 13 year old daughter told me that she dreamed she had murdered someone and ran into a shoe store to hide from the police. I guess there is a slight possibility that we should be seeking professional help for this, but more importantly, my calculations lead me to believe that said 13 year old's current growth rate should have her wearing the same shoe size as me in about 6 months. Do you understand what this means?! In only 6 months, I will have access to twice as many shoes as I do now!

I told you I don't indulge in new shoe purchases very often, but I am sporting a quirky-cute look today! I went and saw a new doctor this morning and I know we are going to be great friends because we instantly bonded over - you guessed it - shoes!! She does have quite a different taste and style preference from me, but I am always up for the adventure of trying something new. She suggested that I try wearing a very flat, boxy-looking sandal thingy for the next 3 to 4 weeks. It's just plain black, but I have jazzed it up with striped fuzzy socks. She is a doctor and seems confident in her opinion of it being just right for me... and something about how it will help in the healing of the toe I broke when I possibly tripped over a pair of shoes in my floor and slammed my foot into the leg a chair, blah, blah, blah. Point is, I have a new shoe! And how often is it socially acceptable to wear two different shoes at the same time?! This is awesome!

2008-11-16T14:53:00.005-06:00

My friend Kathi posted a question on her facebook status that reminded me of something I wrote this past summer. Here it is, along with a picture I took of my oak tree today... you'll just have to imagine it in the summer covered in huge green leaves :)

The Good Old Days

by Kama J. Medders

August 1, 2008

My house is not an impressive structure by any stretch of the imagination. It sits quietly at the end of a residential street in Benton, Arkansas. The neighborhood, if it is known by the citizens of this community at all, is not revered for it's modern, historic, or even quaint homes. Stated bluntly, it would probably be one of those streets in town that people only venture down when they get lost. Many of the houses sit neglected behind thick, scrubby brush and untamed tangles of oak and pine trees. Some are well-tended, old-fashioned homes with sprawling vegetable gardens in the back yards. My house is one of the cared-for ones, although I am noticing that the box hedges could use the attention of a determined pair of shears.

On this hot August day, with temperatures hovering around 100 degrees, I am sitting outside on my porch with a bottle of water watching my four youngest children playing in the shade of an enormous oak tree that has granted me the favor of growing in my front yard. The sprinkler is on and the kids are taking turns on the tire swing, swaying in and out of the luke-warm spray of water. My neighbor, Mr. Nathan Curtis - who apparently has roots in Benton as deep as those of my tree - tells me that this oak is easily 100 years old. Watching my kids playing under a tree that has seen a century of Arkansas history, has me feeling a bit sentimental. I am imagining the generations of children who played here, the young lovers who held hands or got their first kiss as they leaned against the trunk, and the man who decided to build his bride this simple home just outside the reach of it's protective branches. Ahh, the Good Old Days, when children weren't distracted by hand-held electronic games and men built houses with their own hands...

Sadly, just as I am sinking into a very comfortable nostalgic trance, I am rudely awakened by a vicious, blood-thirsty mosquito biting my shoulder. The sprinkler is still running and the tire swing is swaying, but my kids have wandered around to the back of the house. Their voices still sound happy, but my maternal instinct is telling me that a fight is brewing. My skin reluctantly pulls away from the chair as I slowly stand preparing myself to utter those age-old words of motherly wisdom, "Quit fussing or I'm going to put you to bed."

I wonder if there ever really were any "good old days," or only just happy, fleeting moments captured in black and white photographs and mothers' journals. Fleeting moments that grow sweeter and stronger until they begin to fill up an expanse of days and weeks and years in our minds. My current Norman Rockwell moment lasted a total of seven minutes in real time. The kids have already grown tired of the monotony of mere tire swings and sprinklers and are trying to figure out a way to sneak back into the house so they can plop down in front of the television to escape the summer heat. Who could blame them? They have grown accustomed to air conditioning and other contrivances of modern electricity. The truth is, I am typing on a laptop computer and have a cell phone sitting next to me here on the porch waiting to alert me that it's time to pick up my oldest daughter from play rehearsal.

I've decided what matters most to me is that my children have happy, carefree moments of innocent childhood play. Those brief moments are so precious to me that already they have filled up a span of days in my heart. The memory of seven minutes will continue to swell until one day I will have the luxury of being able to sigh deeply at the way times have changed. I will weave fascinating and magical tales for my bored grandchildren about the good old days when their parents were small and used to spend their summer days squealing with delight as the water from the sprinkler splashed against their skin while they played under that ancient oak tree in Arkansas.

2008-11-12T13:21:00.002-06:00

This past summer, I treated myself to a writing class that was offered free through our local library. Now, I don't know if you, dear reader, have ever made the choice to embark upon the unpredictable adventure of "Free Public Instructional Seminars", but I would like to highly recommend you indulge in this unique experience at least once before you die. You will walk away amazed and aghast at the things you will learn. I should clarify that I do not mean you will gain knowledge about the particular topic at hand, but I can most certainly guarantee that you will indeed be amazed and aghast at what you will learn about group dynamics and human nature in this crash-course educational setting. Yes, the adage: "You get what you pay for," holds true in the realm of free education, but you must be willing to look beyond the confines of merely gaining information and delve into the search for hidden treasure...

When I first walked into the tiny conference room in the back of the library, I was greeted by two of my fellow adventurers. The first was a lovely, dark-haired lady, maybe in her late 60's, who looked like she belonged behind the desk in the front office of an elementary school patiently conducting the symphony of children who had soiled their pants, forgotten their lunch money, or accidentally worn two different shoes to school and needed to call their momma. The second woman was a tiny little thing somewhere in her 50's, with the most delicious southern accent you can imagine. The first time she spoke to me, I was mesmerized into thinking she had just offered me a slice a peach pie to go with my glass of ice cold sweet tea. They were both sitting at the table with a notebook and pen placed neatly in front of them. I sat down, unloaded my laptop and made one final call to check on the kids before I silenced my cell phone and waited for class to begin.

At 36, I was the youngest in the room, save our instructor. The instructor, our fearless captain, was a pixie of a girl with a close-cropped boyish haircut, fresh out of grad school. She had never had anything published, but was employed in some unknown capacity by the library and was, therefore, qualified to teach us. We would soon learn that she was fond of having us read excerpts from various novels that bordered on crass as a way of helping us learn different writing styles. We also grew to understand that the more demented a writer is, the more deeply meaningful - even profound-their work is. (Oh, dear. I've ended a sentence with a preposition. I have doomed myself to obscurity. Well, what's done is done.)

As our fearless captain was passing around the first wave of handouts, the conference room door opened and the space began to fill with the penetrating aroma of Cat. Shortly after the aroma arrived, a woman wandered in wearing green sweatpants with a hole torn in the backside and a tee shirt with a bleach spot on the shoulder. Her hair was not freshly washed and her thick, round glasses rested so far down her nose as to almost pinch her nostrils shut. Surprisingly enough, your olfactory senses will begin to numb themselves after 15 minutes or so of uninterrupted exposure to an offending odor. So, I learned the valuable lesson of breathing quietly through my mouth for the first half of the class each week (a trick that has served me well several times since). And, even more astonishing over the next six weeks, was how drawn-in I became to her science fiction novel featuring a psychic cat who adopts a pet human. I will probably find her book on the shelf at my local Hastings long before I have anything published.

Ten minutes after class started, a frazzled lady with stylish, short blonde hair dashed in, apologizing for her tardiness. She was accompanied by a thick, yet invisible, cloud of cigarette smoke. A close observer would have found it fascinating to practically be able to hear the hiss and sizzle of Cat and cigarette smoke as they battled for dominance in the expanse between our heads and the ceiling. Within five minutes after this lady walked in the door, we were all briefed on her nearly-final divorce, her subsequent move to the apartment, her love of knitting and her goal upon completion of this writing class to complete an article celebrating the 100th anniversary of the cupie doll (and I am sure that she would be horrified at my idiocy in not knowing the correct way to spell /q-pee/).

Yes, that first day of class we were an audacious group of women taking what we thought were those first brave steps into the mysterious world of literary publication. But, a mere six weeks later, we had uncovered a far more precious treasure: we learned that people are beautiful, regardless of age, smell, marital status; no matter their preference for science fiction or memoirs; in spite of their collections of naked, fat dolls, or furry prowl-y cats; whether they write long-hand or with laptops. Women with dreams of leaving their mark on the world. Hold your nose if you have to and jump in with me! Do something different. Make a new friend. I had coffee and pumpkin bread with my new friends this morning and they encouraged me to leave my mark on the page even if it ends up on the bottom of a slush pile. I think I will.

2008-10-21T12:16:00.002-05:00

Golden, Colorado, October 18, 2008.

Do you really have to ask why I miss it so much?

2008-10-20T06:10:00.004-05:00

Some of you have asked why I haven't posted anything lately. Things have happened, but not stuff I can easily laugh at or make light of... kind of depressing to read, so I kept it to myself. But several of my kind friends reminded me that the boring and depressing stuff is part of life and that is exactly what they want to hear. Go figure.

Before I begin to get everyone up to date, I feel I must take care of some (not-so-very) legal issues surrounding this column-thingy. I have a sneaking suspicion that I should have done this in the very beginning. I have decided on a "mission statement" for my blog ( consequently, it's the unwritten purpose of most journals and diaries): "To help Kama extend the life of her overworked brain by providing an outlet for processing the constant onslaught of trivial, sad, and bizarre information and situations for which there is no more room in her head." And now here is the disclaimer: "Kama reserves the right to change her mind at any given moment, even mid-sentence, should she choose to do so, because this is, after all, her journal." Finally, terms and conditions: "The reader agrees to regard the words in this blog for their entertainment value only. The reader acknowledges that the ideas expressed in this document are the opinions of the author in the moment they are written and the reader agrees NOT to project any ill-feelings produced by these words upon the author's husband, children, church, parents or any other entity with whom the author is associated."

Okay, now that that's over, I'll give an overview of some of the things I haven't written about lately.

First, on the day of the funeral for a sweet lady at our church (Gateway), a lady from our "mother" church (Little Rock Church) shot and killed herself. It was her son's birthday. I considered her a friend, though not in my inner-circle of friends. I didn't - and still won't - process through this situation in this blog because so many of you also knew her (much better than I did) and you are dealing with your own junk on this issue and don't need me to add my stuff to yours.

Second, Jeff and Elijah (husband and son, Elijah is 7) were on their way in to a Boy Scout meeting when they witnessed a young man on a bicycle get hit by a man in a pick-up truck. They saw his mangled body, saw the blood coming from his head, listened to him gasping for breath, listened to the driver scream and beg God not to let this happen, listened as his friends coached him, "Keep breathing Matt! Don't give up!", they watched him die. The driver was arrested for being under the influence. He had a woman and a baby in a car seat in the truck with him. We are working through this emotional mess with much prayer and as many conversations as necessary for as long as necessary. The school counselor is on stand-by.

Third, Jeff was in a motorcycle accident that left him with at least one broken rib. For several weeks he insisted that we not tell anyone because he didn't want all the I-told-you-so's from the people who think riding motorcycles is foolish. But now that coughing (and breathing, for that matter) is becoming less painful to him, he has decided that it will be okay to talk about the accident. He had been speaking at a youth retreat up in northern Arkansas, but needed to be back at work early the next morning. He was driving down a dark, unfamiliar road around midnight when the road made a sudden 90 degree turn. If he hadn't hit gravel, he would have been fine, but as it was, the bike came out from under him and he hit the ground pretty hard. He broke the windshield and mirror, bent a foot peg and did some other minor damage to the bike. Physically, he bloodied up his knee, broke at least one rib (which they really don't do anything for broken ribs except say, "Sorry, man. It's gonna hurt for a while.") and had a few other scrapes and bruises. Jeff is an experienced and very safe motorcyclist. He always wears his helmet and leather. This kind of thing happens from time to time. Yes, it was scary. Yes, riding motorcycles is dangerous. Yes, he is okay. Yes, I am okay. No, he is not going to stop riding. Yes, I am really okay.

Finally, we just got back from a wonderful, and quick, trip to Denver. We attended the Off The Map church conference in Arvada, caught up with many dear friends, and enjoyed one afternoon visiting several of my favorite spots. I am very truly happy and content with life in Arkansas, but my heart longs for Colorado. It does me mountains of good to go back every once in a while to check on things and make sure everything is where I left it, to see how the lives of my friends have changed and stayed the same, to see how their children have grown, and to confirm that the Aspen trees do indeed still turn yellow in the fall.

PS Early voting started today. I decided to just hold my nose and go on and get it over with. You might as well do it, too.

2008-09-10T06:46:00.003-05:00

It seems like I always get on a tear about something when Jeff is away from the house. When he's around, I find myself needing his help to do things like hang a picture or take out the bathroom trash. But when he's gone and I decide I need to move the refrigerator or shift our king-size bed to the other side of the room, suddenly I'm She-Ra, Master of the Universe. The latest example of this phenomenon was last Saturday when Jeff was working an information booth at the county fair all day. I was sitting around at home feeling a tad bit bored. The weather was gorgeous and the hedges in front of my house were in desperate need of a trim. Electric hedge trimmers are a snap to run and it's really kind of fun; kind of like a DIY haircut, only nobody cries when you mess up. So, I put on my cutest work jeans, pulled out the 80 foot extension cord and found the trimmers covered in dust and cobwebs in the corner of the storage building. The job was a breeze. The scraggly twigs were dropping to the ground reminding me of the days when I used to play with the Play-Doh barber shop, trimming dough "hair" with chunky plastic scissors. Everything was going well until I came to the section of hedges that surrounds my ancient oak tree. For some unknown reason, the people who first purchased and set those shrubberies in the ground, chose to put Holly bushes in this location. I have hated those Holly's ever since we moved in 3 years ago. The kids are forever getting balls stuck in those bushes, and who has to reach in and pull them out? Me. There is a tire swing hanging from one of the low branches of the oak tree. If it veers 6 inches off-course, the kids start screaming in terror, "No, Mom! The pokey bushes!", and who has to dive into the path of the swing to protect the children? Me. When I started trimming the Holly's, I intended to cut them as low as possible so the tire swing would clear them by at least a foot. But, after the third stinging prick, I felt an overwhelming surge of rage welling up from deep inside my guts. I shut off the trimmers, and sprinted down to the barn. When I got there, I rummaged around in Jeff's car shed until I found what I was looking for: a massive tow chain. I lugged it back up to the house, lashed one end of it to the back bumper of my Suburban and the other end to the first despicable shrub. I revved my engine and yanked the entire bush out of the ground, roots and all. I moved on to the next bush. With each offending sting of those plants, my resolve grew stronger. After 28, I lost count of how many I ripped out of the ground. The children thought my display of feminine determination was highly entertaining. I made them stand back far enough so they would be safe in case I happened to snap the tow chain. They stood there clapping, giggling and cheering as the pile of debris grew larger and larger. After 2 1/2 hours, the job was complete - or at least my part was complete. I'm far too delicate a creature to load the debris onto the tractor and haul it to the burn pile. Jeff will have to take care of that. I went inside to have a glass of cold, sweet tea to celebrate my victory over the cursed pokey bushes. When Jeff got home at 10 o'clock that night, the first thing he said when he walked in the door was, "Well, I guess you got a bee in your bonnet. I'll haul it all off tomorrow after church." He thinks it's so cute when I do things like that. He loves to finish all the projects I start. What would he do to keep himself busy without me around to give him things to do?

2008-09-02T14:21:00.002-05:00

Thanks to my friend Jim, who installed wireless internet service at the house for me, I am sitting in my favorite chair by the window, typing out my thoughts for you, and enjoying the remains of Gustav as he slowly spins the blessing of soft, heavy rain over Arkansas today. I absolutely love rain. Thunderstorms are my very favorite, but I'm not getting one of those right now. The lay psychologist in me believes this positive emotional reaction to atmospheric moisture and barometric pressure combinations is probably the result of my relationship with my dad. He loves the rain, too, and when I was a little girl every time a storm would blow up, he would go out on the front porch and invite me to come watch the theatrics of nature with him. Maybe that's why storms have never frightened me. I associate them with memories of spending time with Dad. Even severe weather like tornados weren't off-limits. I remember hiding behind him and peeking my head around to watch the approach of a wall cloud when I was in about the 5th grade. My heart pounded with adventure, but I never felt fear. I simply trusted that he would protect me if the need presented itself.

Now that I'm a big girl, I have another reason for my fascination with stormy weather. There is something about raindrops falling all around me, the wind visibly moving trees, audibly moaning around the corners of my house, the thunder crashing and vibrating windows, lightening hitting power lines sending sparks sizzling in all directions that makes me feel the presence of God. He is undeniable to me in these moments; almost touchable. Tangible. So many facets of His limitless character appear in the storm: power, fierceness, passion, compassion, blessing, judgement, nurture, He is necessary to sustain life, yet deadly. I am dazzled by the spectacular display of His supremacy.

I love rain. I need it to wash the doubt from my heart.

2008-08-29T19:43:00.002-05:00

About a month ago, someone dumped a kitten at our house. She's the cutest thing. We named her Victoria and she decided to keep us. A couple of days ago, I took her to the Humane Society to have her "fixed". Daisy (my 5 year old) wanted to know what was wrong with her that she had to be fixed. I told her Victoria was going to have a small surgery to make it where she didn't have any babies. Daisy was satisfied with that answer. I'm such a good mom. I explain things to my children with great clarity. Just the right amount of information to answer the question without spawning more inquiries... The kids were all excited to pick Victoria up from the doctor after school, so we went together. As I was reading over the paperwork, I started laughing. The kids wanted to know what was so funny, so I blurted out: "Victoria is a boy! I guess we'll have to call her Victor now." You should have seen the look of horror that crossed Daisy's face. "They made Victoria a boy?!"... She may end up in therapy over this one. I'll be turning in my "Good Mom" award first thing in the morning.

2008-08-28T11:16:00.002-05:00

Today I am trying to figure out how to be a good minister's wife and not lose myself in the process. I know, I've been in this role for about 14 years, but the responsibility of it all seems to be hitting me harder now that Jeff is a "Senior Minister". Like recently, I made the mistake of sharing a tiny piece of my opinion when trying to answer a discussion question in a group setting. I was absolutely shocked at how quickly emotions became volatile when it became known that I had a differing viewpoint and how quickly the target moved from me to Jeff. I decided it would be best to not share any more than I already had, because I didn't (and don't ever) want to make Jeff's job any more complicated than it already is. But, not being able to share the questions, concerns and ah-ha moments of your life leaves you feeling a bit isolated. Especially when you are a Type A personality. I struggle with the many different Kama's that live inside me. There's the Laid Back I Can Handle Anything Mother of Five; the Drill Sargent My Kids Are Mostly Scared of Me Mother of Five; the Adventurous I'll Try Anything Once woman; the Insecure Please Just Tell Me I'm Pretty girl; the I Am Woman Hear Me Roar woman; the I Am Woman Hear Me Purr woman; the I Love Jesus With My Whole Heart Kama; and the I'm Sometimes Embarrassed to Be a Christian Because of Some of the Things People Do in the Name of Christ Kama. As a minister's wife, it seems that the only me that is safe to let out in public is the I Love Jesus With My Whole Heart Kama, but keeping the other Me's locked up is what causes me to stay "Lost In The Attic" . I'm thinking of coming up with some nom de plume's so the less-safe me's can come out and play from time to time and I'll just hope that the one-dimensional me doesn't bore people too much. I am posting this entry with a sense of security knowing that I only have about 4 readers right now and all of you mostly "get" where I'm coming from. Thanks for letting the not-so-safe me vent for a minute.

2008-08-22T10:14:00.002-05:00

I just celebrated my 3 year anniversary of living in Arkansas. Actually, I didn't celebrate. Really, I looked at the date at the top of my computer screen just now and realized that (as of August 1st) I have lived here for 3 years. I probably would have celebrated if I was the kind of girl who paid attention to things like anniversaries... but I'm just not that sentimental. Because of a child care situation, Jeff and I celebrated our 16th wedding anniversary three days early. As a result, when the real day arrived I had completely forgotten about it. But, as I was saying, I've lived here 3 years and I really do like it. Those of you who love it here and have called this place "home" in your hearts, should try to have a little patience with me. I'd heard the rumors of toothless hillbillies all my life and I simply didn't expect to ever feel much affection for this place. I have been proven wrong. In fact, just last night I reluctantly admitted to Jeff that Arkansas has moved up to second place in my personal rating system (sorry, Dallas/Fort Worth, you've just started getting a little too big for your britches lately). Congratulations should be extended to Gateway Church for clenching this silver medal position for Arkansas! Occasionally, I get little reminders of why Arkansas didn't take the Gold. Tiny little things like the time my neighbor brought a severed deer head to our house to show it off to the kids and the brawl in my front yard that pitted several shirtless cousins against each other over the fate of a plastic green sled. The most recent reminder was this morning. I had just dropped my kids off at school and switched the radio to my favorite classic rock station. The DJ's were discussing a club in Little Rock whose featured musical "artist" this weekend is to be a guy who plays an electric manure fork. They went on the describe the sound of this "instrument" as comparable to church bells. There is a Methodist church near my house. Everyday at noon, those church bells start ringing and instantly all stress begins to melt away from my mind. Beautiful. Comforting. Soothing. If it's all the same to you, I'd rather listen to church bells than an electrified manure fork. And what is a manure fork, anyway...my mind is going to a place that is causing a gag reflex in the back of my throat.

2008-08-14T15:13:00.002-05:00

Okay, so no one ever told me that blogging would be such a magical experience. Seriously, it's like having my own personal genie in a bottle! How could you keep this a secret? It seems almost mean and selfish, now that I think of it. Not a single one of my so-called "friends" who have been trying for years to get me to start a blog, ever bothered to tell me about the Cyber Fairy Godmother! It's absolutely amazing! For example, the very next day after I wrote about my car air conditioner giving me fits, poof!, my husband whisks my vehicle off to the mechanic and brings it back an hour later with a fully-functioning cooling system. The next day, I mentioned that I was interested in learning to play the bass, and, poof!, at this very moment my friend Jay is on his way to my house with a Fender electric bass! Of course, like everything in life, this new magic I have discovered isn't without it's flaws. Yesterday, I commented that I was going to get to go out to eat at a restaurant with grown-ups, but when I arrived at the church I was told that the plan had changed and we ended up ordering pizza and eating it in the fellowship room. Very reminiscent of my days in the youth group. I guess the "powers that be" realized the huge mistake they would be making by taking me out in public. So this magic does have its drawbacks, but I'm willing to give it another try. I'm trying to decide what I will wish for next. Right now, it's up between hoping someone will come over and match all the socks and dust the ceiling fan blades or having Ed McMahon knock on my door. Both would be equally thrilling.

Before I continue too much further down this frivolous path of silliness, I want to completely shift gears and acknowledge that most of my church family is grieving today. We lost Linda Nichols yesterday after a fierce battle against lung cancer. She and her husband Brooks had been married for 54 years and were instrumental in the formation of Little Rock Church and then were at the heart of planting Gateway Church a little over a year ago. Linda was one of those captivating women who was the personification of beauty. And anyone who knew Linda can attest to the fact that, for once in my life, I am not exaggerating. Mr. Brooks once told me I was beautiful. I will live the rest of my life striving to deserve that compliment.

2008-08-13T06:50:00.002-05:00

I get to have lunch at a restaurant with grown-ups today! I am so excited! I'm trying to decide which t-shirt and jeans combo will be the most sophisticated, since that's just about all I have in the wardrobe department these days. Not that I'm complaining. I actually enjoy getting to wear Casual Friday clothes to work every day. Since I'm going to a restaurant, I probably shouldn't wear flip-flops, so that means I'm going to have to gird up my loins and attack the monstrous laundry pile threatening to crush my couch, in search of a matching pair of socks. But do not fear for me. I have met this challenge successfully before.

The occasion for lunch today is the interviewing of my husband's potential replacement as Associate Minister at Little Rock Church, since he has taken the senior position at Gateway. The candidate is bringing his wife with him and in order to make her more comfortable, the LRC staff spouses have been invited to attend. Which naturally begs the question, why again did they invite me? Between me and the youth minister's wife, Deana (you should really read her blog: Deanaland) we are liable to scare her to death. I promise to do my very best to behave and not say anything too shocking or embarrassing.

I didn't think to ask where we will be dining. Probably not McDonald's!

2008-08-11T18:06:00.002-05:00

Last night, I was a Power Puff Girl. I was one of Charlie's Angels. I was Josie and the Pussy Cats. Really, I was more like Ugly Betty, but it felt so good! My sister-in-law, Kasie, plays the piano and my friend, Angie, plays the guitar. They both put their beautiful talents to use in our church worship band quite often.

Kasie inspired me to want to brush up on years of neglected and unappreciated piano lessons, so a few weeks ago, I jumped at the chance to inherit a free piano. My husband and nephew are still grumbling about how I managed to manipulate them into hefting an antique upright piano the size of a dinosaur out of one house, onto a borrowed trailer and then into my house where I had them move it into several different locations until it looked just right. But here it sits: a magnificent piece of architecture decorated with bits of easy sheet music ranging from "Tie A Yellow Ribbon Round The Old Oak Tree", to The Eagles "Desperado". (I call it "architecture" but Jeff calls it an "obstruction". I ignore his insults. He's just mad because lifting it caused him to re-injure his rotator cuff...those things heal, right?...I think he just need to get over it.) My ancient piano is horribly out of tune (in fact, there is one particular low A that makes my living room window vibrate when I hit it), but I am working at it.

Unfortunately, Angie also inspired me to pick up a guitar. How cool is it for a girl to play the guitar?! Fingering the chords isn't so bad now that I've built up some callouses on my fingers, but strumming patterns are going to be the death of me. It kills me that I've been practicing for almost three months now and I'm still not as good as Angie. Angie says I should be more patient with myself, but I think she's just being nice. Of course, if I didn't insist on trying to learn two instruments at once, I might have an easier time of it, but asking myself to choose which one to put on hold is like asking me to choose which of my children I like best. It cannot be done. So I am learning them both.

Anyway, about being a Power Puff Girl: a few weeks ago, Angie got a call from the women's ministry leader at Little Rock Church asking if she and Kasie would like to come out and lead worship for them at a ladies' event. She agreed and then emailed to ask me if I would help out by singing alto. Of course! I love doing things that make me nervous! I'm not kidding. I have never turned down a speaking engagement even though I spend the entire week before the event sick to my stomach with nerves and then am sick again for at least two weeks after it's over because I insist on reliving the speech over and over in my mind remembering every corny illustration and every weird, sporadic hand gesture. To me, it's like the soreness that comes from extreme exercise. The pain lets you know you are getting stronger. So, naturally, I agreed to sing.

Anyway, we had a great time! We rehearsed at my house while the kids played in the bedrooms. I felt like a real musician... except that I wasn't playing an instrument, but that is a minor detail. The Ladies' Night of Prayer and Praise was last night and it was such a great night! It was such a thrill to stand on the stage with The Gateway Girls (that's what they called us, but I think we can come up with something better than that) and watch all the ladies in the audience sing and praise the Lord with us. From my vantage point, I could see smiles, tears, hands raised, clapping. Women were connecting with God through praise and I got to be part of helping that happen! What an honor. What a blessing.

Angie was joking around with me and said that since I was having a hard time with strumming patterns on the guitar, it was too bad that I didn't pick up the bass instead so we could have an all-girl band. She was just kidding. But, you know, the bass is played one string at a time. Jeff has now been commissioned to find me a bass.

2008-08-09T06:35:00.002-05:00

Driving my car lately is like playing the lottery or Russian Roulette. Not because I'm a bad driver, you understand - I've only been in 6 or 7 (or maybe 8) car accidents in my entire life - but because of the situation with my air conditioner. Now, I don't mean to be dramatic, but being land-locked like we are here in Central Arkansas, with two low-altitude mountain ranges and the breezes blowing up from the Gulf Coast and over swampy Louisiana before it gets to us, sets quite a stage for mosquito-breeding muggy summer weather. It's not so bad, though. Like, yesterday I think it was only 150 degrees and 175% humidity. Tolerable. I drive a not-anywhere-close-to-new, black Suburban with two air conditioners; obviously, one for the front seat and one for the back. The back air conditioner, the one that keeps the kids cool, refreshed, energized, is working great! Yea! The front system, the one that keeps me from melting down (in more ways than one), is apparently having switch issues. Sometimes, I start the car and - praise, be! - the air conditioner works! We are going to have a wonderful day! Other times, I start the car and nothing. No circulation. It's like submerging yourself, fully clothed, in a tub full of luke-warm bath water and then trying to take a deep breath. We are not going to have a good day. I can't roll down my windows because that would defeat the purpose of the back air conditioner. So I sit in the front seat watching steam vapors rising up all around me, and I crank the back air as high and cold as it will go. The children sit in the back with streaks of frozen tears on their pink cheeks chattering, "Mama, please... it's so cold...", while I fume impassioned challenges of, "Do you want to come up here and sit shot gun? No, I didn't think so. Cool it." Yes, I could get the switch fixed, but every time I swear I can't take it anymore, the thing decides to work and I - optimist that I am - think to myself, "Oh, it's fixed now! Guess I don't have to fork the money over to the mechanic after all!" And, so, I spin the barrel of the gun again. On the days it works, I feel like I've won the lottery. On the days it doesn't, well... I'll just leave this thought dangling. The good news is that the kids don't fight over who's gonna get to ride in the front any more.

2008-08-08T06:48:00.002-05:00

I am standing alone in this silent chamber enjoying the quiet; inhaling the peace. Usually this place is noisy and crowded and cluttered. I will continue to stand and wait and soak up this refreshing energy of nothingness. I know it's only a matter of minutes now before everything and everyone begins to arrive, some demanding my immediate attention, others just needing my wink or nod, but here in this space with me, nonetheless. I can already hear the stirrings of their arrival. The coffee pot is hissing and belching; the aroma so delicious. A child's bed sheets are rustling as they subconsciously search for a cool spot on the bed. An alarm beeps. Water begins rushing through pipes. The countdown begins. I am alone in this chamber surrounded by hundreds of firmly shut doors. Behind one door is my day planner and cell phone. There are separate doors for each of my family members and one that leads to them all as a group. One door leads to my past; one to my future. One leads to my God. No, that's not true. God is behind every door, but one door leads to church. One door leads to happiness and one to sadness, guilt and regret. One door is a little more worn than the others. The brass knob is less shiny; the wood finish is scratched and dull from much use. It's my favorite place to go. Desire pulls me like gravity toward this place, but I can not go there today. My two year old daughter is shouting, "Get up, Dada...Mama...". My husband has walked through the room and said, "Good morning, beautiful" twice already...three times. Deep breath. Time to let them in.

2008-08-07T13:40:00.002-05:00

Okay, so writing my first ever entry into the blog world is a little more intimidating than I thought it would be. What do I say? How do I start? What would be the most fascinating or funny or moving? Nothing. I've got nothing. And who is really going to read this? I mean, really... my mom, maybe. So, I'm just going to post these few sentences and be done with it. The ice is broken. Next time I will be brilliant! Just wait and see.