tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3694664912810075342024-03-12T20:02:28.646-07:00Reckon We'll Shine.Christihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515018669403064554noreply@blogger.comBlogger55125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-369466491281007534.post-87041653337983325132024-01-03T07:18:00.000-08:002024-01-03T07:24:55.358-08:00Same Coin, Two Sides<p>Back in my days as a new believer, my Christian mentor was an
essential part of my journey. I had a
small collection of dear Christian friends, but Beth was more than a
friend. She taught, she listened, she
answered my questions, and provided so many resources for me to
answer my own. She helped me build a
foundation, she shared gifts so generously, and I look back now on this period of time with such tenderness.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Mentorship. It can benefit in <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">so many facets of life. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCuwzB6U-GJdo3tOWCD3ON_1UocZajxrTlQphHdrm-GfbbVpezwg8a-qBXapK20SDytL-92Qcgl6zrIPCT6R0SGT_JUXmXtkqyKsEkJPQgPPiUksg0KZsHjnQb4YllPENo0R3H6mZJ1P-Ew1uEzBnCLdYXKD2gUsIjsjiEXO7mtnzADTfPz5mZF1heEdyq/s640/IMG_0258.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="455" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCuwzB6U-GJdo3tOWCD3ON_1UocZajxrTlQphHdrm-GfbbVpezwg8a-qBXapK20SDytL-92Qcgl6zrIPCT6R0SGT_JUXmXtkqyKsEkJPQgPPiUksg0KZsHjnQb4YllPENo0R3H6mZJ1P-Ew1uEzBnCLdYXKD2gUsIjsjiEXO7mtnzADTfPz5mZF1heEdyq/w229-h320/IMG_0258.jpg" width="229" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baby Charlie</td></tr></tbody></table>I was several years into my goat raising journey before I met the
person whom I consider my goat mentor. I use that term very loosely. Nina’s
knowledge of Nubian goats and the care they need is as vast as the ocean is
deep. And, she is apt to share all of
that knowledge with you in one single setting, oblivious to the children doing
a potty-dance around your feet, begging to be anywhere else than at her goat
farm for one minute longer. I learned early on that conversations with Nina were better held via texting, where I can take in her knowledge piece by piece. Nina texted
this week with a goat she’d like to rehome before the goat is killed by other,
bigger goats as her herd has gotten a little out of hand. That can happen easily when an animal reproduces
exponentially and your heart locks on to each and every little goat. A couple of years ago, Nina texted with a tiny
little buck, Charlie-same situation. We
took Charlie in his little goat sweater and raised him. He turned into a great buck and our momma
goats had some beautiful baby goats out of him, but two years later, the time
came for him to leave. I texted Nina and
asked if she’d like Charlie returned, or (the better option for her) would she
like me to post him for sale in one of the online goat groups. Nina thought about it. It made more sense to sell him, but she didn’t
want him going to a place she didn’t know on the chance he could be
mistreated. She decided to take him back
to her farm. She would keep him as a
pasture-pet. She asked if on my way
returning him, would I mind stopping by the vet to have his hooves trimmed and him castrated? It would be billed to her<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfAljz1d71Nyfq6_IKy-rS8dUVtiphicBFiPuT3MNm-_hMhN3JM5kOzxym9-HRXmWw4j6GSLQkieAlh3mVh7lGIpBPz8UB_FfCtFNZboyxLxUNC5KCe8FbVr7U9tfQXjDWpJAz2SkNcT8l3z769gkM7PWhC6D2ZLk_C90sROQ475IeO0gmnVcE6o2IWa8D/s640/IMG_2936.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfAljz1d71Nyfq6_IKy-rS8dUVtiphicBFiPuT3MNm-_hMhN3JM5kOzxym9-HRXmWw4j6GSLQkieAlh3mVh7lGIpBPz8UB_FfCtFNZboyxLxUNC5KCe8FbVr7U9tfQXjDWpJAz2SkNcT8l3z769gkM7PWhC6D2ZLk_C90sROQ475IeO0gmnVcE6o2IWa8D/s320/IMG_2936.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Big Charlie</td></tr></tbody></table>. This was on account of Nina’s larger vehicle being broken down since I had known her and her car really wasn’t accommodating for a ride along with a full size buck. (At this point one may find themselves questioning my carryover of the title <i>mentor </i>from one situation to this other and I would agree with that). I agreed to detour by the vet, desperate as I was to have this stinky buck off of our
farm. Charlie and I made it to the vet’s
office where Dr. Duemler was waiting with some tools.
Slightly confused about what was happening, I didn’t want to ask
any questions to give away my naivety regarding the situation (great qualities
for a drug mule as I think about it).
Dr. Duemler did inquire why I'd decided on this visit rather than making goat
sausages out of Charlie. I responded
that this was actually Nina’s goat and not my decision to make. Dr. Duemler took out his tools and explained
in detail each step as he proceeded to anesthetize, then remove Charlie’s
testicles one by one. I stood by in complete shock. <i> How have I found myself in this situation? </i><i>That’s what they look like? This is how they do this? How much more time from my day is this going
to take? </i> Dr. Domeler held a large testicle in his gloved hand out
towards me, “Did you want to keep these?” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Eventually, a slightly traumatized Christi and a very traumatized Charlie made
their way from the veterinarian office to Nina's farm to deliver Charlie where he lived out the rest of his
happy life until he died the following Spring of some goat illness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll never get that time back but try
to look back on it as a learning experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What I learned beyond the up-front anatomy lesson, I can't say given my response to Nina’s most recent text asking if we could take one more of
her goats:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjepdSJZM9jUx_L0fw_VcnskpYaNpg6uKCsmDh2SgmU1yCVjDzZ62D2ZrY4zxCveDx04mbS-Gh1RELTq7IGXoiqbxen8LAcgWkmmrP8NXogRrhA0rFSTFUVW7-TOfC3MihyphenhyphenBQ4ruP61Syoe03AQqd5ukei90u_bWh447gAw2FWQ2VJLOogKHOf6fx5jAZKD/s640/IMG_0259.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="424" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjepdSJZM9jUx_L0fw_VcnskpYaNpg6uKCsmDh2SgmU1yCVjDzZ62D2ZrY4zxCveDx04mbS-Gh1RELTq7IGXoiqbxen8LAcgWkmmrP8NXogRrhA0rFSTFUVW7-TOfC3MihyphenhyphenBQ4ruP61Syoe03AQqd5ukei90u_bWh447gAw2FWQ2VJLOogKHOf6fx5jAZKD/w212-h278/IMG_0259.jpg" width="212" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></p>Christihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515018669403064554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-369466491281007534.post-31619322874174347632020-03-27T07:00:00.000-07:002020-03-27T15:14:13.286-07:00Observations<br />
The other day I bought a miniature drain snake at Walmart, and
today I used it to unplug all of our sinks that were draining<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>slowly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Which amounted to all of the sinks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They are now draining faster than I’ve ever known them to. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
I also helped teach Aiden how to multiply fractions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You’d think this would be easy because he
already knows everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But he didn’t
know how to make sure his answer was in the simplest form, and this made him very
angry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ridiculous, so I left him to work on his own
and colored a pretty picture instead.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
A few weeks ago, when this terrible virus was still across
the ocean and we were still going about life at full speed; before Sheltering-In-Place, my sister and I chatted over coffee about a college applicant she
had recently interviewed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As an alumni
of her university, Carrie occasionally interviews high school seniors as part
of their application process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love to
hear the recaps of these interviews; stories of the up and coming great minds
right here in our community.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her most
recent interview was with a young man whose genius was beyond description.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In her mind, he ranked higher than all of the
students she had interviewed over the years: the top of the class, super-volunteering,
non-profit founding college hopefuls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
level of impressed-ness was a testimony in itself to this student’s intelligence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it was difficult for Carrie
to articulate what was so special about him; he just thought at a higher level
than other people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>According to his own report, he’d started out
on a different path.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On track to be a
real regular level thinker until making a conscious decision to start observing and studying
the behaviors of the people around him.<br />
<br />
Well, pass me
some binoculars and point me down the road towards greater intellect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I made a conscious decision of my own to try to remember to watch people more and see where it got me. </span>Unfortunately, (besides the obvious fact that my
brain is already heading in a different sort of direction) my decision to start observing the
mannerisms of those around me came at a real low point in human behavior.<br />
<br />
At the grocery store, I stood watching the lady blocking the aisle
in front of me as she filled her cart with boxes and boxes of medicine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Looking a little closer, I saw that it was
nasal spray. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of the nasal spray.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As she put the last box in her cart, she
shifted her weight and glanced over her shoulder at me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> T</span>hankfully, I wasn't even needing any nasal spray.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We stared at each
other flatly.<br />
<br />
I observed my neighbor observing me trying to back the
cattle trailer into my driveway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Neighbor was on his afternoon walk, mostly watching his phone but
occasionally glancing up to see that my truck was halfway in the ditch and
blocking the road on account of I can’t back up a trailer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I rolled down my window as he neared to say hello
but he made a careful circle around the truck as if we weren’t the only two
people on a country road with one of us literally blocking the other’s path and
halfway stuck in a ditch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> He half chuckled, "Can't be too careful" while studying his phone, and I wasn't sure if he was mocking my driving or talking about social distancing. </span><br />
<br />
I saw a family friend finishing up his shift while on another trip to the grocery store and reminded him to stay well during all of this. I was already in my car when I saw him leaving the store in his wheelchair, which is how he’s gotten around
his whole life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I watched from my car as
he wheeled himself a few spots past the empty handicap parking spaces to where his car was
parked and maneuver himself into his car to drive home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not a big thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A little thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> T</span>hen why did I start to cry?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe a little thing that was also big.<br />
<br />
Perhaps I’m doing it wrong, this people studying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But they are out there, the ones worth
observing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess you just have to keep
your eyes open long enough to see them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigf00uCffehvN0TuFoAmrzfujVVRSbDVhACLUMaeouPIInky3YMAQ4krl3wDvXKG4OjEKFN5YnyY2ZAgSammm95bL71UVoFwP2DUuEWlwNAixfBbL8rCaNyZziVgZPK2OYas-5GgM4fbGD/s1600/rainbow2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigf00uCffehvN0TuFoAmrzfujVVRSbDVhACLUMaeouPIInky3YMAQ4krl3wDvXKG4OjEKFN5YnyY2ZAgSammm95bL71UVoFwP2DUuEWlwNAixfBbL8rCaNyZziVgZPK2OYas-5GgM4fbGD/s320/rainbow2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<br />
<br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Christihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515018669403064554noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-369466491281007534.post-28048797000684029062019-03-26T14:13:00.002-07:002019-03-27T05:10:19.530-07:00The Inherent Nature of Birds and Other Entertaining Conversations<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was in high school, my mom bought a cockatoo that she named Walter. So much time has <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcravoDR39r9pCUYk1g-XlcPvTBDuktVnguEBixb2KQXGmJl1-Mu_trCZdi-0xdTD4w6QzH_P3-_RbYjEVXWTrBqdiCrrNeoeTZjBaiCTXCX5e3EB_jTQGP4HXoWTx712mSy_VDyMItPCs/s1600/cockatoo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcravoDR39r9pCUYk1g-XlcPvTBDuktVnguEBixb2KQXGmJl1-Mu_trCZdi-0xdTD4w6QzH_P3-_RbYjEVXWTrBqdiCrrNeoeTZjBaiCTXCX5e3EB_jTQGP4HXoWTx712mSy_VDyMItPCs/s200/cockatoo.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't be fooled.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
passed since my days with Walter and that period of my life in general that it’s hard for
me to recall many meaningful details about him.
What I do remember about Walter is that he hated me. As much as a bird can hate a human, which I
think is a lot. To be fair, I was a
rather spoiled teenager and wasn’t too fond of Walter from the start. Walter lived in a large cage in our kitchen
and when he was safely locked away in this cage he was playful, amusing, and
whimsical. He entertained visitors by chirping
words in his sing-song-y way. Through
his sweet bird hypnotics he would fan his white feathers, luring people into
letting him out of the cage, perching obediently on their arm until he would
spy me somewhere, fix one of his beady eyes on me and bird-run towards me
intent on destruction. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bird bites really hurt, and with each assault I was
reminded of a similarly venomous but unnamed rooster on my other parents’ farm who
would hide in the bushes or around the corner of a building and wait patiently
for his prey (me). I’d venture
cautiously into the yard, anticipating his strike. Rooster would remain in hiding until the
moment I let down my guard at which point he’d lunge, chasing terrified
children around in circles. I say <i>children
</i>to include my younger siblings, but I was well into my teenage years and fully
aware of how ridiculous I looked which further added to the sting of the
attack. Eventually, Walter the cockatoo was re-homed
to a bird sanctuary, although this was well after I had left for college. Rooster met an earlier and more tragic
ending, which left me equal parts relieved for my safety and grateful to be a
vegetarian. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While not comparable to any sort of real tragedy, these
unpleasant experiences of my youth were enough to plant in me a disdain and
fear of feathered animals. Yet, here I am to attest to the power of reformation. And, while it
took me the better part of four decades of life to understand, I eventually
learned two of life’s important lessons that I will share: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1) Birds are not fundamentally bad (I never claimed to be any level of profound, friends). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2) You can remove a fear of most anything with the right tools, and in the case of birds this means a pair of gloves and a stick. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So far removed am I from my former life as a
saucy and bird fearing teenager that currently my only social circle is a neighborhood chicken lady club. Conversations with my favorite
people bounce evenly between motherhood, Jesus, and speculating the cause of
death given a description of a remaining chicken carcass. And, I just barely protested last month when my husband ordered 65 baby chicks. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA_JBZ0vRYpkboDf2jkSXmoMTfcyY6RFMHloevhwHFwcf2lsEBdPuOCzoGX5lJmBrb2XX5QNQ2jDpJLtmzrxCJYCYyBgX0LFzhuBICGP2oPB4wauEYj4EySz4pv8YUFTRAuapM2R6B6CQH/s1600/chicken4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="523" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA_JBZ0vRYpkboDf2jkSXmoMTfcyY6RFMHloevhwHFwcf2lsEBdPuOCzoGX5lJmBrb2XX5QNQ2jDpJLtmzrxCJYCYyBgX0LFzhuBICGP2oPB4wauEYj4EySz4pv8YUFTRAuapM2R6B6CQH/s320/chicken4.jpg" width="261" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chickens. In our kitchen. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheRgYjmjjoQ5YVmUmSWSOwmnZ9eK8zV_9TqkrTiZJ4Z6ffjssBSJCYdZF3ijxviWUTRPBPoq1ncdD22-qa6heDVXNLSbYKB2wI0YiU41c292BVBnB8R0bnYLGFoCP8kKxpnZyFLVrjrHFi/s1600/chicken+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="615" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheRgYjmjjoQ5YVmUmSWSOwmnZ9eK8zV_9TqkrTiZJ4Z6ffjssBSJCYdZF3ijxviWUTRPBPoq1ncdD22-qa6heDVXNLSbYKB2wI0YiU41c292BVBnB8R0bnYLGFoCP8kKxpnZyFLVrjrHFi/s320/chicken+5.jpg" width="307" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seemingly sweet, however the chicks are actually <br />very, very hot so that was my bad. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Last week I brought a baker's dozen of these baby chicks to the school where
I work, earning the unfortunate and hopefully
temporary nickname, ‘Chicken lady’. We
read the book, <u>Chickens to the Rescue</u>, an absolutely ridiculous story of
chickens rescuing humans and animals from a variety of situations. It was
repetitive and predictable which fit my lesson’s needs, but really…as if a chicken
could save a runaway truck. Almost as juvenile as assuming that a bird is masterminding a vengeful plan against a teenager, I suppose. Birds are not heroes. They are also not villains. They are birds with a brain the size of a pea
and chickens will quickly peck one of their own to death if they sense a drop
of blood on a wounded in their flock (a truth generally withheld from children’s
story books). Closing in on the end of the school day, I
walked down the hallway and was alerted by the school secretary as I passed the
office,<br />
<br />
“Are you the chicken…I mean speech lady?"<br />
<br />
"Yes." How kind of you to notice as I've been working here for six months now.<br />
<br />
"The teachers are looking for you…one of your
chickens has escaped its pen and everyone is terrified.”<br />
<br />
Remembering my place as a former fearer of birds,
I gave only a little regard to the momentary heroic rush felt as I fast-tracked to the therapy room to retrieve my little escapee.
Chicken lady to the rescue. <o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrBWp6Y6lhx2UC6wW9URtilyg-5e5WXEZGSPPYtWzsj3sXUHvg_5jGhxpal6IMKTYvVDTyjX8ALPvPzg5QjPk544yB4ZKHo-vhZTbl1JS-mqf5Dgu9D_K_vDJ3nRuoMN_0I2q8KK1fYMvm/s1600/chicken+ladies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="900" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrBWp6Y6lhx2UC6wW9URtilyg-5e5WXEZGSPPYtWzsj3sXUHvg_5jGhxpal6IMKTYvVDTyjX8ALPvPzg5QjPk544yB4ZKHo-vhZTbl1JS-mqf5Dgu9D_K_vDJ3nRuoMN_0I2q8KK1fYMvm/s320/chicken+ladies.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Neighborhood flock.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Christihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515018669403064554noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-369466491281007534.post-32206454758745534672019-01-27T10:58:00.000-08:002019-01-27T10:58:40.061-08:00Sidebar Impressions<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
When writer’s block has you in its clenches…you resort to
telling other people’s stories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Celia was Isaiah's grandmother and had been raising him since
he was a baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I first met Isaiah when he
was a little over a year old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Isaiah, like most
toddlers in my unbiased and professional opinion, was adorable (a fact that remains true despite having to change names in compliance with patient privacy laws).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sharply dressed; his collared shirts only slightly disguising the fact that one of his shoulders sat significantly higher
than the other, his hair braided neatly against his head, his big brown eyes
communicating what he couldn’t with his words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Among Isaiah's challenges, and the reason that I was working with him,
was the fact that although he was almost two, he would not eat any solid
foods.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Celia’s home was one of those
homes fragranced with the warm smells of roasted chicken, cookies baking, and
soups simmering throughout the day, and her grandson’s resistance to eating so
much as a Cheerio was distressing to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Week after week Celia and I worked together teaching Isaiah approaches to
get him to taste foods.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Isaiah was not
always agreeable to this and sometimes needed breaks within our session to gather
himself together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During one of these
breaks, Celia happened to mention her adult son who was often in and around
the house during my visits to their home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Mentioned his brain injury when he was younger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I continued working with Isaiah that day, but
her comment lingered with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Unable to resist a good brain injury anecdote, t</span>he next
week I inquired about her son at the end of our session, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Was he okay? Had he recovered from his accident?” and Celia
proceeded to drop her whole precious story in my lap which I’ve carried around in my head for the past year. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Celia remembers being, in her words, 'overprotective' with her son, although I suspect she was probably 'regular-protective' coupled with an 'overzealous to be a big-kid' child. Same here. Eventually, they compromised on the matters of being more independent, meaning he went on about his business of being more independent and she agreed to let him attend a
summer day camp at a nearby park.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although the camp lasted the whole day, on one
of the days Celia found herself driving by the park around lunchtime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Celia could see her son from a distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Saw him horsing around with another child,
then saw the exact moment that a golf club smashed into her 10-year old son’s skull, sending him crumpling
to the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I imagined time standing
still for Celia, the world becoming deliberate and silent, save for the roaring
sounds of the inner workings of the body-swishing, thumping, beating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Running towards him from her car, Celia
recognized a woman on the ground with him, rocking him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As she reached her son, the woman was gone
and Celia held her son’s head in her lap until the ambulance arrived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
They transported Celia’s son to the hospital where
the doctors informed her grimly that her son would not survive the injury.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That the golf club had shattered the skull like
a broken egg shell and his brain had swollen beyond the confines of its frame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> C</span>elia remembers falling to her knees, sobbing as she heard
the news that her son was going to die.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She was still on her knees when she heard a voice. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A voice commanding her to be still and reassuring
her that her son would be healed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
nurse came to her. Hands covering her face, Celia looked up between her fingers and saw the nurse standing over her, dressed in a white nurse’s uniform and hat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> She</span> gave Celia specific instructions to
transfer her son to a different hospital, giving her the name of a specific
doctor to see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Celia managed herself to her feet,
found her team of doctors, and requested to have her son transferred.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The doctors reassured Celia that her son was
in the best place for his care.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
wouldn’t survive an ambulance ride across town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The doctor that she spoke of was already in surgery for the day and
wouldn’t be able to see her son.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Celia
insisted, describing the nurse that she had spoken to and relaying her
instructions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She must have been
mistaken, they told her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no
nurse by that description and the nurses in the hospital wore scrubs, not the uniforms
and hats of the past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Glancing around, Celia
realized that the nurses were, in fact, wearing scrubs and made the connection
for the first time about her encounter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The doctors were likely side eyeing each other at this point, familiar
with the various levels of panic that grieving family members experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Celia, by all regards one of the most
agreeable and pleasant women to walk this Earth, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">insisted</i> that her son be transferred and her request was granted,
the doctors shrugging their shoulders at the rejection of their medical advice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Celia’s son did survive the ambulance ride to
the hospital across town and-miraculously-the surgeon’s scheduled surgery had been cancelled moments before they arrived at the new hospital.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her son underwent immediate brain surgery and
not only survived but was able to talk within a few days and went home within a
week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shortly after he had recovered
fully from his injury, he suggested that he and his mom to go next door to pay
a visit to Mary, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>their neighbor, not knowing
that she had passed away several months ago from cancer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Celia had not mentioned Mary's passing to her
son and when she explained it to him he was puzzled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because, she had been there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Holding and rocking him gently when he was
hit; he remembered her comforting him with her words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Celia then remembered having seen a familiar
face from a distance as she had been running towards her son, although Mary had been gone when she
got there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why Mary had been chosen to be her son’s angel, Celia still
does not know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We only see a
sliver.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXyQ5IA1cC1k0A3tUD8FoPYsCRqUADmUKsiJTp1J-UQBu5vnElYoNeIA7OVnaKYPqM6Tz9E9gfPojfM-Y_92ckQ729_84YY2LxjGoa23OVXVrDaq9Je4PZm9BfFiqhlZN-bMXS4Esrl4za/s1600/angel-clouds-statue-sparkle-light_credit-Shutterstock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXyQ5IA1cC1k0A3tUD8FoPYsCRqUADmUKsiJTp1J-UQBu5vnElYoNeIA7OVnaKYPqM6Tz9E9gfPojfM-Y_92ckQ729_84YY2LxjGoa23OVXVrDaq9Je4PZm9BfFiqhlZN-bMXS4Esrl4za/s320/angel-clouds-statue-sparkle-light_credit-Shutterstock.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
During the hospital stay, Celia’s medical team, her family,
and even her pastor were concerned with the state of Celia’s mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How could she be so calm, so…<i>joyful </i>with her young
son’s head swollen three times its normal size?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Their pastor explained to her family that Celia was in a state of grief
called shock and tried to offer her console.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Celia asked her pastor to leave the hospital and not come back. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>[I should add that Celia’s pastor had a change
of heart and later relayed to their congregation that Celia was highly favored
by God-a position that Celia also objected to and I’m not so sure about this
pastor].<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Celia shared her story with me
with no knowledge of my personal faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She did not try to convince me of its truth or persuade me in any
direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was just telling her
story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, as she explained her
reasoning in casting out her pastor from the hospital and even sending family
members home, she looked at me and preached with the voice of authority:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Negativity
will take away your faith.</b> And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i>
is the part of her story that I’ve carried with me for the past year-God
revealing Himself to me through Celia’s words, giving me permission to excuse
myself away from the dark haze of negativity when it rises around me rather than standing ground and choking
on its fumes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Celia, as warm and
welcoming as the smells in her home, and able to stand firmly against her family,
doctors, and pastor under the authority of God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is a story to be told.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Christihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515018669403064554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-369466491281007534.post-42821787967646844552018-04-15T19:33:00.000-07:002018-04-21T05:27:32.332-07:00Goats and Grandeurs <br />
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While I’m just itching to write a blog about the
implications of micro-plastics in our environment on a child’s developing
neurological system, it’s come to my attention that all people want to talk
about these days is goats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
include myself in the general category of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">people</i>
and offer the observations from my journal over the past year as evidence of
this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><b>March 30, 2017: </b>We've started milking Hazel twice a day. Strong hands are in my future and I look forward to this day because right now they cramp painfully halfway through milking-it's agonizing, but not worth mentioning because no one would understand, save for a rock climber or an orange juicer. Hazel jumps and kicks if Aiden, Ella, or Chad try to help me. She chews on my hair while I milk her. Despite all of these factors, I love milking. Especially when it's early, early and still dark and the rain on the metal roof echos loud through the barn. Serenity. </span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">April14, 2017</b>: Hazel
squats and pees every time she sees me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every time. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">May 14, 2017:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chad offered to milk Hazel this morning as a
Mother’s day gift for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Milking takes about 4 ½ minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Chad was gone for over 20 minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I anxiously
watched the clock, but didn't want to go out to the barn at the risk of undermining his sweet gesture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he finally came back in he explained
that he took so long because he and Hazel almost got into a fight. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">June 1, 2017:</b> The
other day I was milking Hazel while she chewed on my hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Without
warning, she stuck her nose into the pocket of my sweat jacket, grabbed a latex glove, and ate it
before I could grab it back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I haven’t seen any sign of the glove in her droppings and now she has stopped eating her grain. I am quite distressed. </div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">September 30, 2017:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hazel has started heat cycles every 21
days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve been charting her behaviors
in my work calendar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After much
consultation with the Franseens, (who operate largest dairy goat farm in the
region and likely have many other things to be doing than responding
to my concerned text messages regarding my one goat’s cycle) I, along with four
children, loaded Hazel into the cattle trailer and took her to their farm to be
bred only to be told, much to my embarrassment, that Hazel was not in
heat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am certain they are wrong about
this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think she just has very high
standards. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">October 31, 2017:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found another goat farm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s better to embarrass myself with people
that I don’t know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The farmer gave me a
buck rag – a cloth scented with the disgusting aroma of a buck to help bring
Hazel into heat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It worked
immediately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cancelled dinner with Beth
because of my goat’s coming into heat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">November 12, 2017:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Uncle Terry told me during coffee hour at
church that he placed a pair of his dirty underwear under Aunt Loretta’s pillow
after my telling him about Hazel’s buck rag and it did not have the same effect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He just wanted me to know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">January 8, 2018</b>: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think Hazel is still having heat cycles
despite my having been present whilst she was bred with the goat farmer
narrating the process to me as I stood by uncomfortably.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
called the vet and he told me to bring her in for an ultrasound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is getting a little out of hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried to put Hazel in the back of my Jeep
and she would not have it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is
ridiculously stubborn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I recalled a
story that my Grandma told me-I think it was about a colt, but same idea-and I
remember her saying that a colt will always walk behind a car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hooked Hazel’s leash onto the hitch of my
car and started to drive slowly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hazel
walked easily behind the car, no pulling, just like she’d been planning to walk
that way anyways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought about
driving all the way to Broadhead like that, but wasn't sure how it would go with traffic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, I pulled into Brad and Phylis’s
driveway and asked Brad if he wouldn’t mind helping me lift my goat into my
car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I often wonder what my in-laws
really think of me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">January 9, 2018</b>: Hazel
isn’t pregnant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m handling it as well
as can be anticipated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also, the vet
bill was $10.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t plan to have any
more children, but if I did, I would be hard pressed not<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to ask my veterinarian to be my obstetrician.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXgHlRuT4njM6JeLtS9EcMJn71w5AQ4VhTYc0HNxwe8Y2m5Rp1B6SuLS_HfKM0q3_wbezi3UwdjXz4LQnOovPTWf-XjHI8UhSyrxRSaCR6IeWHwrkVfv4UUZQcpDHocpJ7aUlc4YXtB1YH/s1600/IMG_7202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="472" data-original-width="480" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXgHlRuT4njM6JeLtS9EcMJn71w5AQ4VhTYc0HNxwe8Y2m5Rp1B6SuLS_HfKM0q3_wbezi3UwdjXz4LQnOovPTWf-XjHI8UhSyrxRSaCR6IeWHwrkVfv4UUZQcpDHocpJ7aUlc4YXtB1YH/s200/IMG_7202.jpg" width="200" /></a><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">March 3, 2018:</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hazel needs
company, and if she isn't going to kid this year, we need to get her a friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chad insists on going with me<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to all of the visits I schedule to see goats. It's like there's no trust. We compromised on buying just two goats. Dottie and
DeeDee, except we renamed DeeDee because I work with a
DeeDee and no one wants to have a goat named after them. I'm not wanting to create any office gossip. DeeDee is now Toothy because she has the marking of a large molar on her side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a ridiculous name, but I was
outnumbered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><b>March 10, 2018:</b> Hazel is a real jerk. She pushes Dottie and Toothy around and won't let them eat until she's had her share. She's rubbed a bald spot onto her head from ramming into these poor new goats. Everything I've read on the internet tells me I'm to stay out of it. This is very difficult. I try not to get directly involved in their quarreling, but instead yell at Hazel through my kitchen window. Today I saw Chad watching me with a concerned look on his face. </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<b>Today: </b>Thankfully, the goats seem to be getting along better now. And while I'm sure no one suggested to Jane Goodall that she take a break, our family is in agreement that Momma is in need of a little vacation away from the farm. As if finding a goat sitter is going to be an easy task. </div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbTPnd45IY-spg2vr83OKtcfTlPSRKSuUAgzqdm9AJ14o3H4iLddB7G9x6xD3EDj4NfFCppQo997ykkfKtV9MFKYpbzviofJJe0b6jRwYzzWnkGDHI_pW81x5fqpkYQH0DDe4RFgSGLExm/s1600/goat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbTPnd45IY-spg2vr83OKtcfTlPSRKSuUAgzqdm9AJ14o3H4iLddB7G9x6xD3EDj4NfFCppQo997ykkfKtV9MFKYpbzviofJJe0b6jRwYzzWnkGDHI_pW81x5fqpkYQH0DDe4RFgSGLExm/s320/goat.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">During this period of documenting my goat's behaviors, my baby learned to <br />
walk. I'm not sure when because I forgot to write that down. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Christihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515018669403064554noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-369466491281007534.post-50250515155593840092017-12-26T05:30:00.001-08:002018-01-05T14:22:59.485-08:00Walking Home<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8_7ShT4BXJfRUNpDZ_KZRHUDaZLcEnka1Jzerbz-0lfTFwdccrDm3cgjFNadoy00R1d6MQLe0vY5pepu4dU5yCy_YbomyE31bAJi1HgYJ97kFZUjUpaApiHCx36q6b1oYxp7I4i_GOZOZ/s1600/painting-Emmaus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="313" data-original-width="448" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8_7ShT4BXJfRUNpDZ_KZRHUDaZLcEnka1Jzerbz-0lfTFwdccrDm3cgjFNadoy00R1d6MQLe0vY5pepu4dU5yCy_YbomyE31bAJi1HgYJ97kFZUjUpaApiHCx36q6b1oYxp7I4i_GOZOZ/s320/painting-Emmaus.jpg" width="320" /></a>It was a few Sundays after the Sunday that my sweet Poppy decided to run giggling
down the aisle at church and plop her little self down beside the pastor
mid-sermon, smiling so big at my burning red face from her spot at the pulpit. We took a little hiatus from all things life after that, but on this particular Sunday there was unexpectedly a
nursery attendant for second service and I found myself audience to a beautiful
look into the Road to Emmaus in the Gospel of Luke. Two
disciples are walking to the village of Emmaus, grief stricken and discussing
the death of Jesus and the empty tomb that had been discovered on this, the
third day after the crucifixion. Jesus
joins them in their walk and conversation. In their grief, these two completely
miss the fact that Jesus-now risen-is walking with them, although later they can
remember a burning in their hearts while He spoke to them. Their walk begins in sadness and cynicism,
but ends in joy, love, and devotion. So parallel to my own. As
time does to my poor memory, I’ve since forgotten the details of the pastor’s sermon, and unfortunately there are no podcasts in our rural
ministry. But, what grabs me each time I've read this since is the part when they remember their hearts burning. Ah yes, the heart voice, I know it too! </div>
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I went to Africa once.
Already it has become a long time ago.
It was an amazing adventure. I
stayed with a group of volunteers at a kind of hostel a few miles outside
of a town. Every morning after breakfast
we would head out to our various volunteer sites in town. We’d be back early every afternoon, before
the heat of the day became too intense.
There were taxis-called tro-tros-available and you could get a ride to
town for the equivalent of one penny in our American money. My fellow volunteers could not believe
it. One penny! Many of them would take a taxi back to town
each afternoon to buy food, sight-see, and use the internet (like I said, it
was a long time ago). I, along with a
couple of others, would walk to town on our own. The ones that took the taxi didn’t understand
why I would walk. It was about a 40-45
minute walk alongside pineapple fields, lush hills, and a huge African
sky. It would have taken about 30
minutes, but when you encounter another person in Africa, it is social
etiquette to greet someone with the following: <i>Hello!</i> <i>How are you? How did you sleep? How is your mother?</i> in the same way it is customary in America to
nod or say <i>How’s it going?</i> as you walk past someone, except that in
Africa, you are expected to pause and respond to each question or risk being
perceived as very rude. I would think
myself lucky if I only encountered three or four people on my walks to
town. The white volunteers were
something of a novelty in Africa and strangers would hustle across the dusty
dirt road, their bundles balanced high on top of their head, to offer their
greeting and ask me if I’d slept okay. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Just ride to town!”, the other volunteers coaxed me. “It’s the equivalent of one penny, I’ll pay
for your ride!” So I did. I climbed in the tro-tro and the taxi driver
asked me about my sleep and my mother and then drove me along the bumpy dirt
road and I was to town in no time and it was great. But, I preferred to walk. And the people who took taxis just never
understood why the people who walked would ever like to walk in the African
heat especially when the taxi was such a bargain. And the people who walked knew that they
could never get the people who preferred to drive to understand why they
walked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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One day, shortly after I met Chad, he asked me if I wanted to
take a walk. It was fall time and cool
and sunny. We walked the border of his
field and followed the tree line over to his brother and sister-in-law’s
field where they and their son, Griffin were chopping up some wood. We walked some more along the
pasture, the changing leaves coloring the horizon, up to the road where his dad was out working by the barn. And, I'll tell you what. Africa is so magnificently beautiful, but in
that moment I had never seen a more beautiful place in the whole world, and I
couldn’t believe Chad had gotten to live his whole life there. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I look back on the roads I've taken in life and clearly remember the moments that my heart was burning even before I knew to look for God's direction. Gratefully, my eyes have been opened as the disciples' were when Jesus broke bread with them. Gazing down the road ahead; while I don't know the details, I do know the path that I will follow. And why it’s even better by foot. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Christihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515018669403064554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-369466491281007534.post-53440826224598708042017-12-12T17:42:00.001-08:002017-12-12T20:29:24.692-08:00Year In Review<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKaMKfqqpPmCY_ipoXlGiDIQBGxR29I-NKS6f3WeZ2OY5HoxWmpfoqEWOIouLtm01N-qf1SrkIKdbbo7NWw_aZyjuMVMrPvAioLztke_gFGc-qnoOXAI-dO7n5rPEqavsvhWJf8B1iu6Ft/s1600/bday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKaMKfqqpPmCY_ipoXlGiDIQBGxR29I-NKS6f3WeZ2OY5HoxWmpfoqEWOIouLtm01N-qf1SrkIKdbbo7NWw_aZyjuMVMrPvAioLztke_gFGc-qnoOXAI-dO7n5rPEqavsvhWJf8B1iu6Ft/s320/bday.jpg" width="240" /></a>I just love a good Christmas card. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And although this is not one of those, our year could best be described by telling the story of
Aiden and Ella’s birthday party earlier this fall.<br />
<br />
It rained. The only rain that northern Illinois saw from late August to mid-October was a 2 1/2-hour stretch of showers that happened over the course of our 3-hour birthday party. I had known it would be raining when I wrote out the invitations-in the way a very old person feels the rain deep in their joints well before the forecast. When the party day arrived and it rained everyone commented about the
poor luck of this. <i>It hasn't rained in months! </i> Maybe I would have
been a little dismayed if I hadn’t already known that it would be raining, but Ella
said that the party was even better BECAUSE of the rain which reminded me of
why it is great to be nine. Twenty-some
children were in agreeance and soaked themselves through as they played tag and football, pet calves, and
chased chickens for the duration of the birthday party while adults snacked
and visited from the shelter of the barn.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMNC3Ikbe6PwaSlOfkCEPQB-19NbFabxyWTEPrddMYSBulf39ZbwrKH73BcUFLnzOexvIcvmcidCUU-HFskgbO6JSWTF_y8qFPc4evyXGMxawaNAVXWtA8sr6zkqONLZ0NiflasKf7_Z_Z/s1600/IMG_6223.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMNC3Ikbe6PwaSlOfkCEPQB-19NbFabxyWTEPrddMYSBulf39ZbwrKH73BcUFLnzOexvIcvmcidCUU-HFskgbO6JSWTF_y8qFPc4evyXGMxawaNAVXWtA8sr6zkqONLZ0NiflasKf7_Z_Z/s320/IMG_6223.jpg" width="240" /></a>The rain eventually did mellow to a light drizzle and Chad was
persuaded to fetch the hay wagon for the
last 15 minutes of the party. He
obliged, but only after switching to the tractor with a cab so
that he wouldn’t get rained on. The children clambered aboard and the traveling circus started down the field behind our house
through the wet alfalfa. The tractor
followed the perimeter of the field, making a big square and when we reached our barn again, rather
than stopping, continued on up the driveway and turned out onto the road. Waving our greetings to the parents
arriving to pick up their kids from the party, we chugged slowly up the hill. As the tractor reached the top of the hill
it started down the long slope past Chad's parents' dairy barn and began to pick up
speed. The kids shrieked in excitement as
the wagon began to sway side to side behind the tractor with the acceleration. Moving faster
down the hill, I alarmingly noticed a few chunks of wet manure
fly off of the tractor tires and into the sky.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Slowww down!” I shouted, but my words seemed to pause in the air as they met an avalanche of
manure droplets that showered everyone aboard the wagon.
I turned to my sister beside me, screaming in panic. My sister, not one to take this life quite so seriously, did not share my panic, and wasted
no time laughing as loud as she could at the events
as they played out: Frantic girls
shrieking at the mud on their clothes, then shrieking even louder when they
realized that it wasn’t mud. A parent sitting across from us, chuckling
as one chuckles when they really want to be crying.
A gaggle of boys stretching their faces as far as they could towards the
flying manure. I jumped up and ran to the middle of the hay wagon, waving my
hands frantically in the air, screaming,</div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqIcFJkfeo6wh9aTtygvmsob6LmU3_v1a-yvRgwjtktia19RZUSYLNECf-YzyV30uUH0jtGflYx3_cHcVLKAsiFaxYd3mMxCYVS42OhcQ8ER-TMRevcHa5IjPEZVoYYvCPknrmB-PpFWQa/s1600/IMG_6208.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqIcFJkfeo6wh9aTtygvmsob6LmU3_v1a-yvRgwjtktia19RZUSYLNECf-YzyV30uUH0jtGflYx3_cHcVLKAsiFaxYd3mMxCYVS42OhcQ8ER-TMRevcHa5IjPEZVoYYvCPknrmB-PpFWQa/s320/IMG_6208.jpg" width="240" /></a>“Noooo! Chaaaad!
Slowww down! Stop! Manuuuure!” but I was silenced by a rogue fleck of cow poo that landed in. my. mouth. dear. me. The tractor continued on
with Chad unable to hear my desperate shouts from inside the tractor and only
able to see the faces of five boys in his rearview mirror, standing at the
front of the hay wagon and having the time of their lives. Looking back, I suspect that had he heard me, the hayride would have continued speeding on without interruption as Chad is of the opinion that what ails kids these days is not enough time playing in the dirt. He is also of the opinion that manure is basically smelly dirt. Having
exhausted all other options, I joined my sister back on my straw bale, howling in laughter till tears
ran from my eyes at the unpredictable turn
of this perfectly planned birthday party.
When the tractor finally pulled
back into the barn driveway, all of the parents stood waiting for their children,
save for the unfortunate dad who’d been talked into joining the ride by his
son. I doled
out baby wipes and apologies as they left and most were pretty good-natured
about the situation. I assumed any parents who did not express their annoyance were just being polite and was surprised to see my phone alerting with a text message the next day while cleaning up the tables and chairs from the party: <i>Matthew would like to come over to play today if you are free. </i>While little Matthew most definitely did <i>not </i>come over to play that day, I was quite happy that his mom was brave enough to send him back to our home and was filled with hope for the next generation.<br />
<br /></div>
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2017. There is a lot
of bad poo flying around in this world and we are doing our best to find the
joy and laughter in the midst of it. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhevD3Asxr4_e5_LfCzBwNuBlTRPwqjDYofhK5unc-cVULqD9PrNaufYQ190zaHAYUQHIc-Ndh92Ci6tmCUYL1hw-ZWYHUQbyzeESPKv1vsFN-Zk1aMMWBXzvn4TRqaRceL87Zblh3BZgib/s1600/IMG_6242.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhevD3Asxr4_e5_LfCzBwNuBlTRPwqjDYofhK5unc-cVULqD9PrNaufYQ190zaHAYUQHIc-Ndh92Ci6tmCUYL1hw-ZWYHUQbyzeESPKv1vsFN-Zk1aMMWBXzvn4TRqaRceL87Zblh3BZgib/s400/IMG_6242.JPG" width="225" /></a></div>
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Christihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515018669403064554noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-369466491281007534.post-28778805004842986532017-06-06T19:44:00.001-07:002017-12-12T04:37:33.756-08:00Friendship in the Age of Texting<div class="MsoNormal">
Dear Rebecca,<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Please tell Daniel that I’m glad he was not at all interested
in helping me trim my goat's hooves and I do thank him for letting me know that hoof trimmers trim hooves for a <i>herd</i> of animals, not one goat. I will remember this going forward. It was for the best though because as it turns out, you can learn anything
from YouTube. Annnnd…you wouldn’t believe
it unless you’ve already tried it, but trimming a goat’s hooves is even more
fun than cleaning out built up hair from the bottom of a vacuum cleaner. And if you wonder if cleaning the bottom of a
vacuum is really fun, then maybe we just aren’t meant to be friends. I came away from the whole experience with only a small nick along the side of my thumb which didn't really hurt, but the bleeding was enough to make me put the trimming shears away. It was for the best because I was starting to get a little carried away as is the case when I start a task such as this (read: Christi's eyebrows). <o:p></o:p>Plus, the smell-although very very foulsome-reminded me of my childhood and the time my dad threw an old cow horn to me and made me smell the worst thing I’d ever smelled, promising me that I wouldn’t be able to get rid of the smell for three days. He was right. </div>
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<br />
Also, do you have any openings for a haircut in the next
couple of weeks?</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Love, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Your friend Christi<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcrdhWMVuliV1SuG5TFOS5Rg3IzF9g_srfzEZeWfQueC7rcAWvgRhyphenhyphenq0Bg4T02_aRBIizGEVEaiB2YfAHy-qbAxQw0tOJiieJVOfAQLBA0YG-MBKVGVsMzbWS0vUZea_984IB4m-V-V1tf/s1600/FullSizeRender+%25287%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcrdhWMVuliV1SuG5TFOS5Rg3IzF9g_srfzEZeWfQueC7rcAWvgRhyphenhyphenq0Bg4T02_aRBIizGEVEaiB2YfAHy-qbAxQw0tOJiieJVOfAQLBA0YG-MBKVGVsMzbWS0vUZea_984IB4m-V-V1tf/s320/FullSizeRender+%25287%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I didn't mention this in my text message, but if
you can<br />
<i><u>learn</u></i> anything from
YouTube, you can <i><u>do</u></i> anything
<br />
if you have an Aiden who is the. best. helper. in the <br />
whole world and who received a shearing himself <br />
shortly after this photo was taken. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
Christihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515018669403064554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-369466491281007534.post-85264470415451311602017-03-17T08:34:00.000-07:002017-12-12T04:38:52.858-08:00Cheer Mom<div class="MsoNormal">
If only I could go back in time to meet my 18-year old self. Just for a minute. I’d love to see my younger me's reaction when I informed her that in 20 years she'd become… a Cheer Mom. Yes, young Christi, the anti-cheerleader,
someday you will be coaching young girls on the proper way to clap. Then, I’d sit myself down for a quick lecture on sunscreen and a heart to heart about Jesus before heading back to the present. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt1m3U1FvegJlqwD8jhyphenhyphenfLDsSYHwT-6w-MB7-_D3iMVUvmJf9ZMDeTFUdO6L2NEjrqnodlgUZHkqkZ3RcBgH_Zg8KVStWE1wFb7C2RKpUgMRSLdHeXBLxbZ3-CLEwIqP_e13FRM_50TCu7/s1600/FullSizeRender+%25285%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt1m3U1FvegJlqwD8jhyphenhyphenfLDsSYHwT-6w-MB7-_D3iMVUvmJf9ZMDeTFUdO6L2NEjrqnodlgUZHkqkZ3RcBgH_Zg8KVStWE1wFb7C2RKpUgMRSLdHeXBLxbZ3-CLEwIqP_e13FRM_50TCu7/s320/FullSizeRender+%25285%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a>It’s true. Cheer
coach. Me. Turns out, the absence of any cheerleading or
coaching experience, a wardrobe limited to gray and black, and an introverted personality are not disqualifiers when it comes to being an assistant cheer coach. Imagine my surprise. Also surprising is my inability to say ‘no thank you’ when asked to volunteer for <b>anything at all</b>. Now, before you think ‘poor children’, I’d
like you to focus on the word ‘assistant’ and remember that there is someone
who actually knows what they are doing that is really in charge. And she is <i>really</i> good. I’ve been learning so
much about cheerleading...just at a much slower rate than the actual cheerleaders. Recognizing this, Real coach printed this visual aid to help my brain remember where the girls are supposed to stand on the court. I love her. She's the ultimate cheerleader and says things like, 'Wow-you look SO young for your age!' So cute.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCxUAg7vrwKK6vHBYAIgOxzQxs8ruaTwTCDqGnlb8NoPGBpznnLY84yDWyhjD-aeokj7J9hVsbJX9GcPYdjPRvaufszoWrgdH-mtR6yEvjBKlqJiDVFMtdqKpKnbDrLEHTNxOYFT3qPABI/s1600/EPSON011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCxUAg7vrwKK6vHBYAIgOxzQxs8ruaTwTCDqGnlb8NoPGBpznnLY84yDWyhjD-aeokj7J9hVsbJX9GcPYdjPRvaufszoWrgdH-mtR6yEvjBKlqJiDVFMtdqKpKnbDrLEHTNxOYFT3qPABI/s400/EPSON011.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
‘Coaching’-if that’s what you’d call the frazzled lady hovering behind
the squad with a baby on her chest-has proven to be a difficult
challenge-although not how I initially expected. There is, of course, the familiar struggle of stepping
out of my comfort zone. Add to this the task of managing to grab a two-year old by her leggings just before she escapes onto a basketball court week after week. However, the unexpected challenge I'm finding is with navigating the delicate balances of parenting: providing opportunities
for learning but not overscheduling; raising independent thinkers while fostering obedience; discerning a behavior problem from a bad day. A challenge I'm up-close and personal with as I coach my eight-year old daughter in a brand new experience for her.</div>
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After I had written these words, I reflected for a few days (weeks), neither knowing how to grasp this balance nor write about it. Then came an unexpected gift in my mailbox from a friend. A book (I love books!) with answers to my unspoken parenting questions complete with diagrams that despite hours of effort will not appear straight on this page. Please be understanding and tilt your head.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJIAq9o9QvA6qqBkJO_zbOWYPoXd4EDG0MlAl7nhXuxaF1eKot44VNkhBNQ6_jIQKhgaFOoRVdFNkUNe7WFzOs5CbQPW2JrsfN4IK6k2dlA_lq3RHFvLk-E69XXTSRU0ccnzemPj-bcIFV/s1600/EPSON014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJIAq9o9QvA6qqBkJO_zbOWYPoXd4EDG0MlAl7nhXuxaF1eKot44VNkhBNQ6_jIQKhgaFOoRVdFNkUNe7WFzOs5CbQPW2JrsfN4IK6k2dlA_lq3RHFvLk-E69XXTSRU0ccnzemPj-bcIFV/s400/EPSON014.JPG" width="237" /></a></div>
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If only all prayers could be answered so literally. It was the guidance that I needed to help me in my parenting intentions. Balance is essential and stumbling is to be expected. And how this balance plays out in our day to day families is fluid with ebbs and flows. Here I go sounding all coach-y, I know. But, I was reassured. Reassured that while I may have missed out on the experience as a teenager, there may be no better season in my life to be a cheerleader than during motherhood. Although I'm quite lacking in the actual athletic part of cheerleading, one can't be too critical with oneself. Not only am I enthusiastic as a result of coffee running through my bloodstream, but I'm an encourager-, just as is every other mom who manages to coax sleepy children from warm beds to the school bus each morning with minimal dramatic outburst. More importantly, I am a teacher and a student-and coaching has been a humbling opportunity to practice both. </div>
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<span style="text-align: start;">But, in all honesty, next basketball season I will stick with milking my goat. </span></div>
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Christihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515018669403064554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-369466491281007534.post-12148789548041731792017-01-09T05:43:00.001-08:002017-01-12T12:20:02.686-08:00Preparations.Anyone who has ever owned a dog and lost it knows the feeling. I can search for the words to describe it or I could just write--the feeling of losing a pet after 15 and a half years together--and those who have been there will feel the little twinge in their heart and understand.<br />
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After 15 and a half years one would think I'd be prepared for the inevitable, but a little part of me thought Spencer might have figured out how to be the exception to this silly little rule of life. I know that he will never ever be replaced, but I've learned it's best to keep my eyes forward. So, I went out and got a new dog...Hazel. She's no Spencer, but anyone who helps cut down on our grocery bill is welcomed in our home. </div>
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It seems all that they say about goats is true. She's cute, friendly, and noisy. And in less than two weeks, through no fault of her own, dear Hazel has wrought havoc in my family. Let's pray this does not escalate, but so far we're off to a rocky start in the goat farming business. For one, I suspect my in-laws now find me to be ridiculous as they are real farmers and I have one goat. They haven't said so. They don't need to, I am fully aware that dairy farmers carry the street credit in these parts and I am filled with shame for my yuppy farming ways. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicPZ0pFtikXh7OrBE6n96yrw10HuqZqdZaQ7SAeyPdBnYkU0aFWW_l-B99ysbj2U2idonDdr-FK8K355cErt06fELikUbGgkGaskaUOs-yfNcJaF_JThehcRpIhWgh9BoW2ljJ9qt15GYm/s1600/FullSizeRender+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicPZ0pFtikXh7OrBE6n96yrw10HuqZqdZaQ7SAeyPdBnYkU0aFWW_l-B99ysbj2U2idonDdr-FK8K355cErt06fELikUbGgkGaskaUOs-yfNcJaF_JThehcRpIhWgh9BoW2ljJ9qt15GYm/s320/FullSizeRender+%25282%2529.jpg" width="282" /></a>Additionally, I've discovered that my husband will not lower himself to milking an animal by hand. I did not know this about him until now and sort of wish it had come up in conversation during our courtship. There is no need for a milk machine for one goat. Milking takes all of three minutes. Granted, we are only getting about a half cup of milk, but we get it in no time at all. I give this half cup of milk to Ella, who last year was diagnosed with a cow milk allergy. I am hoping that in a few years when Ella becomes a teenager and hates everything in the world she will remember the time her mom went out and bought. a. goat. for her to have milk each morning and feel loved. Ella finds goat milk to be delicious whereas everyone else in the family finds it to be somewhere along the spectrum of kind of palatable. She proudly carries her little thermos of goat milk to school each day. Today she came home from school and reported that the milk was a little warm at snack time when she drank it and by evening she was curled around a toilet vomiting up goat milk smelling yuckiness. So there's that. <br />
<br />
There is a learning curve to farming that I am slow to climb. Chad has brought up the word <i>impulsive</i> a time or two since Hazel showed up at our door. And with all respect to my husband, he is wrong. There was much thought given to all things goat for months before Hazel was purchased. I believe the word he is looking for is <i>unprepared</i>. Because I am that. I will remind him it is part of my charm. I have made it through most of my life so far by winging it and each day find things like the weather to be such a surprise. I'm in no way saying this is a good thing, and as I speed read through goat books I realize that a little preparation may have helped here. At least with regards to preventing the possible listeria my daughter may have picked up (ugh!) which she may very justly hold against me during her teenage years. I suppose I have plenty of time to get prepared for that.<br />
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<br />Christihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515018669403064554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-369466491281007534.post-77870093867327882582017-01-06T08:23:00.000-08:002017-12-12T04:41:39.378-08:00The Christmas That Poppy Caught On Fire<div class="MsoNormal">
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A few months or so ago there was a guest caller on Wait
Wait…Don’t Tell Me. She was a mom. I know this because when asked what she did
for a living she listed her job as a mom first, then mentioned her other
full-time job which I don’t remember because she listed it second. I liked the way it sounded and made note to
do the same going forward, although I have yet to practice this as I rarely engage
in conversations with new people...or any adults for that matter. But, it’s definitely on the conversational itinerary for
future interactions. What I also
remember about this mom caller is that she got an answer to one of the game
show’s questions wrong. I don’t recall
the actual question, but I remember her perfectly timed response when she found
out that her answer was incorrect: ‘Well, that’s not my fault’. I chuckled, but Peter Sagal only paused, then moved on to the
next question-for despite his wit, mom humor appears to be lost on him. I don’t
know why I’m being such a copycat of this random NPR guest, but I’ve since taken to using the 'not my fault' mantra right along with my 8-year olds. And I don't mean it with a deeper context of carrying burdens beyond the cross kind of not my fault. I've just found it's much more
entertaining (to myself) to parent with sarcasm. Burn
dinner: It’s not my fault. Late for
everything: It’s not my fault. Children
grow up to be entitled with no awareness of accountability: I may have to own a
little bit of that one. So, I guess I’ll
have to stop and go back to plain old mom’ing-which is fine…I’m
not that funny anyways. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ42lEzELEPkoh-iB84aTeAHwzqoelAQOnH7mh99osgJMGPyk0x1HwL8bh_tESbvHK9L3SMhyTHAxoo22w3vjA-QGzDoem2EnxvKRomGVMvfS86zmUq2-Kf7mDPKreqt_JGoH38kejNpTq/s1600/FullSizeRender+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ42lEzELEPkoh-iB84aTeAHwzqoelAQOnH7mh99osgJMGPyk0x1HwL8bh_tESbvHK9L3SMhyTHAxoo22w3vjA-QGzDoem2EnxvKRomGVMvfS86zmUq2-Kf7mDPKreqt_JGoH38kejNpTq/s200/FullSizeRender+%25281%2529.jpg" width="150" /></a>Before I completely abandon the blame casting, I will quickly
mention that it’s not my fault that Poppy caught on fire this Christmas. She's totally fine. It's just unfortunate that we have to remember this
season by such an event. If she hadn’t caught on fire, I might
otherwise have remembered this Christmas as the one where Harlyn was born and
my heart was more filled with joy than I ever imagined possible. And if not that, then I might have marked it
as the Christmas that I started wearing the same shade of pink lipstick that my
Grandma George had always worn. Milestones. Instead, we have to remember it as the
Christmas that Poppy caught on fire, which as I mentioned wasn’t my fault. I do accept
partial responsibility which Chad is more than willing to share; reminding me
as we walked out of the warm church into the night’s icy parking lot that ‘We
really need to be more careful with her’.
To which I reminded him that I <i>am</i> careful with her and would never give a two-year old fire thankyouverymuch. But, I was happy to take some of the fault as Chad felt very horrible about the whole thing and also had noticed my new lipstick earlier, placing him in my good graces. I should have intervened. Watching an adult hand over a burning candle to a two-year old…any other mother would have stepped in. But, I felt there was a real spiritual moment going on between a father and daughter: the congregation singing Silent Night, lighting their candles one by one, the overhead lights flickering off and being replaced with the soft glow of candlelight, their eyes fixed on each other. The traditions of my Christmases being etched into their memories. So, I refrained.</div>
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Perhaps what I interpreted as a spiritual moment was really
just Chad’s love of fire as I am apt to read a little too deeply into
things. Either way, Poppy held out her trusting little
hand and accepted the candle from her dad only to immediately snatch it back in
a reflexive action. Very unfortunately though, the candle was
still in her hand and before I could react, her golden hair caught on fire in a
quick burst of flame, which Chad denies ever happened and I would believe him
if it weren’t for the unforgettable smell of burning hair that accompanied the spark. I grabbed Poppy, rocking her tightly in my
arms as her howls echoed through the church, drowning out the chorus of Silent
Night. Thankfully, her crying appeared
to be mostly out of fear as there was just a small wax burn near the corner of her
left eye which I kissed, leaving a bright pink lipstick mark on her face, just
like Grandma’s. Except that Grandma never
actually had to kiss a burn on my face because my parents never gave me candles
to play with. Not that I’m blaming
anyone. </div>
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Christihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515018669403064554noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-369466491281007534.post-40276593153527547432016-08-24T12:16:00.000-07:002017-12-12T04:40:53.132-08:00Developmental Norms<div class="MsoNormal">
Some reflections about language development if that's okay? <br />
<br />
A child’s development is marked by different levels of play. In the very early stages of play a little one will find absolute joy in aimlessly scattering the toys (and food) in front of
them only a few months later to become fascinated with putting these items into--or
in my children’s cases mostly taking out of--containers. These
progressions continue throughout toddler-hood, eventually culminating into imaginative play which further expands as a child’s language skills develop. It’s an absolutely fascinating process to watch
unfold in children-similar and yet unique in each little body. Oftentimes my job involves reassuring parents that these seemingly strange types of play
are in fact important stages of learning and helping them see the awe in these
little milestones. Sometimes, however, a child can get ‘stuck’ in a developmental stage and a 2 ½ year old will still be quite focused
on sorting and lining up toys. While this was an appropriate skill ten months prior, the child now disregards his or her world around them
in order to focus on this type of play. This calls
for intervention and the need to ‘teach’ a child how to play appropriately in
an effort to get back on track with their development so that all of the other
skills can fall into place as they should.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghDFyzyRnoDsb9pl2N86a9F3yke4vMkhejZBRlBow0q0j4LftXUpQGVTbB4aSeEy65BnDC4nfcjyEjglggx_OjkfcK677dA_VjdwR1AzeyxWrHF2XMGurP379VslTUiTCP1pnIJsrTgSUR/s1600/poppy+berry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghDFyzyRnoDsb9pl2N86a9F3yke4vMkhejZBRlBow0q0j4LftXUpQGVTbB4aSeEy65BnDC4nfcjyEjglggx_OjkfcK677dA_VjdwR1AzeyxWrHF2XMGurP379VslTUiTCP1pnIJsrTgSUR/s320/poppy+berry.jpg" width="256" /></a>Poppy is in the sorting and grouping stage of
play. With the fervency of a
worker bee, I watch as she moves and organizes her toys from one pile to
another, redirecting briefly to distribute items to family members, then collect them back and reorganize them on the floor.
She will imitate different types of play: feeding her baby dolls as she has seen Ella do and driving tractors along the floor with her brother, but given a bucket
of toys to explore on her own, this is how she will spend most of her time
playing.<br />
<br />
As I watch her, I wonder how my own day to day routines
would look through the eyes of an observer.
The repetitiveness of my daily activities. My sense of urgency about what is in the big
sense quite insignificant. Are there any developmental
norms that continue into adult-hood? If
an expert in such things were to observe my daily routines and behaviors, would
they reassure me afterwards, “Oh, this
is a completely appropriate behavior at your stage of development. Over the next several years, you will begin
to prioritize what is actually important and develop more patience for the
people that you love.” Or, perhaps they
would comment, “Some of the behaviors observed are a little…what we call ‘atypical’,
meaning you are showing some skills that are appropriate, but others that we
would have anticipated you would have moved past by now.“ I suspect it’s easier to get ‘stuck’ in a developmental stage as an adult, but that's likely because I am an adult and find adulting to be quite difficult at times. <br />
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Earlier this year, I began to focus on Scripture
memorization. This has shown to be a real in-your-face way to become aware of cognitive
decline. Not that memorization has ever
been a strength of mine, but taking six months to memorize two verses is a bit
ridiculous. I reassure myself with the
reminder that this is my children's fault. But, I keep on and <i>fiiinally</i>, the words chisel in there to stay. Nestled deep into the sulci of my brain where they can absorb and do their work, the verses rise to my consciousness--my own little Intervention team--helping <i>me </i>get back on track when I become too focused on this world around me and begin to disregard the things of the Spirit.<br />
<br />
Within the birth to three population, 'therapy' looks more like play-a not infrequent complaint among parents. <br />
<a href="http://i.gifntext.com/24283-and-engage-in-pretend-play-when-you-forg.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://i.gifntext.com/24283-and-engage-in-pretend-play-when-you-forg.gif" height="180" width="320" /></a> But, blowing bubbles catches a toddler's visual attention, guiding little eyes to mimic an adult's smile and mouth movements for speech. And singing 5 Little Monkeys (my jam!) connects the right hemisphere of the brain with the left, helping a child stimulate the neural circuits for speech. Lots and lots going on under the surface. Similarly, memorizing a few words many not seem like an important use of very limited time. But, to know God's purpose for me in everyday circumstances and to hear His word rise up and answer my questions as I ask them has been an invaluable tool. And that's the best sort of therapy I’ve found. <br />
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<i>For those who live
according to the flesh set their minds on the things of the flesh, but those
who live according to the Spirit set their minds on the things of the
Spirit. For to set the mind on the flesh
is death, but to set the mind on the Spirit is life and peace.</i> Romans 8: 5-6<o:p></o:p></div>
Christihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515018669403064554noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-369466491281007534.post-11684682496265178342016-06-07T09:11:00.003-07:002017-04-08T10:10:51.408-07:00Love Thy Neighbor<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiLiQSuGAwxM1M0IZoWNLTUgqOc_Oc7V-mXlJHcTaQ1sMwf20gdLwofBHPo7s4KJgtdzl5uqicT-P9hxK6PFnxZUtf4J6UJfIlbh3g9dgcLbaByYYNupPjJTtwD_Gy9BC0VHcm7ItsOprn/s1600/farm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiLiQSuGAwxM1M0IZoWNLTUgqOc_Oc7V-mXlJHcTaQ1sMwf20gdLwofBHPo7s4KJgtdzl5uqicT-P9hxK6PFnxZUtf4J6UJfIlbh3g9dgcLbaByYYNupPjJTtwD_Gy9BC0VHcm7ItsOprn/s320/farm.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brad and Phylis before milking</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Perched on a hill alongside their barn on a road named after the family,
Chad’s parents, Brad and Phylis sit in the grass before milking time, soaking in the summer shade. <i>So peaceful</i>, I think, but when I comment so they inform me they're just waiting for the fumes to clear from the fly spray so that the poisonous air doesn't burn their lungs quite so bad. It's how they've spent every afternoon and morning for the better part of their lives, milking cows together-for better and for worse. Chad and I dream of such a
romantic life, but thus far his parents have staunchly refused our requests to
take over the job of milking when they retire, claiming it to be a miserable
and grueling existence. So cynical,
these two. We are determined to win them
over someday, but in the meantime are quite content to help ourselves to
gallons of delicious fresh milk and buy their bull calves to raise in a few calf hutches
put up in our backyard which is just across the road from their farm. </div>
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The family farm is nestled in the rolling hills of northern
Boone County, one of the most serene places I’ve seen in my life. The <i>only </i>downside to living in this beautiful
farmland is that other people-namely real estate developers- have also
discovered this secret oasis. Several
years ago, long before I came around here, the sunset views to the west became slightly clouded as a
subdivision of sprawling McMansions popped up.
And the road directly to the north is now peppered with enviable country
homes, a smattering of acne across what was once clear, porcelain skin. Many neighbors to the north are friends who have farming in their families. But several of the homes are occupied by
suburbanites who were searching for a life in the country but have no
understanding- or desire to understand- farm life. They love the views, but have disdain for
the manure smell and lack the patience to wait in their cars as the cows cross
the road each afternoon heading from the pasture to
the barn for milking.</div>
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This summer, we’ve decided to expand from being small-time
beef farmers to medium-time and are in the process of having a small barn of
our own put up. We’ve also had an influx
of bull calves welcomed into our world.
Our calf hutches are full, Brad and Phylis’s barn is full and having no
more room, the latest little calf has had to spend a few days tied to the grain elevator outside of the barn while awaiting a hutch of his own. He’s a little red and white Holstein whom Aiden has appropriately named ‘Cute’. The kids have really taken to the little guy and now that they're on summer
break from school spend their spare moments feeding and checking on him throughout the day.
Someone else took notice of him, too.
Our neighbor, who lives on the road just to the north of us. I met this particular neighbor shortly after
moving to my new home when he called my cellphone while I was out at an
appointment with my children. </div>
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“Hello?”</div>
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“Hello. I believe
I’ve found your dog. Your number is
listed on the dog’s tag. Spencer?”</div>
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“Yes, that’s my dog…is he okay?”</div>
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“Well, he’s here outside at a house”. He read off the address.</div>
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“Oh. That’s my
house. He’s at home. We just moved in.”</div>
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“Well, it’s way too cold for your dog to be outside.”</div>
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I paused. “Oh. Well, he let himself outside. The garage door should be cracked for him and
if you like, you can put him inside.”</div>
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This time he paused. “Well, it’s way too cold for a dog to
be in a garage. I tried to put him in my
car, but he ran away from me.”</div>
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“That’s because he’s at home. He has a heated bed in the garage and a
heated water dish in there. He really
should be fine, he actually likes it outside.”</div>
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“What time will you be home?
I suppose he’ll be okay for another hour or so. But, this is my phone number so please call
me when you get home so that I know he is safe inside?”</div>
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Now, there is nothing that riles up a mom more than someone
insinuating that one of their own is not being cared for properly. Especially when they are being properly
cared for. But my freakishly ingrained social graces prevented me from responding as I should have. And yes, I even called him when I got home to let him know Spencer was safe and warm, kicking myself for doing so. I wish I could say this was
our only encounter over my old Spencer dog.
It wasn’t, but this was the conversation that replayed in my head as I
saw Neighbor going for a walk by the barn one day, turning his head to study
the little calf tied to the barn. And
later, that evening as he rode by the farm on his bike. And again the next day, as he drove his car down our road. His thoughts
were visible across his face. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm7NJblDmnUxRbTFu9uQP9j1anDCv8B069DLDwGKBebVkA-XZXkmUY1rhg3F6hHBJdUxBCQq2I-3nxx9k0bnnlV7636GUC94PqLOnrw9qHoqI1uZmxC3GIhrA1FziltRsA7ddtSQU3QxR1/s1600/farm2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm7NJblDmnUxRbTFu9uQP9j1anDCv8B069DLDwGKBebVkA-XZXkmUY1rhg3F6hHBJdUxBCQq2I-3nxx9k0bnnlV7636GUC94PqLOnrw9qHoqI1uZmxC3GIhrA1FziltRsA7ddtSQU3QxR1/s320/farm2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sure enough, he stopped by to pay a neighborly visit with my
in-laws. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Did you know that you have a calf out?” he asked, peering
into the screen door of the kitchen, where Phylis sat eating her lunch. Luckily for Neighbor, Brad was resting on the couch and decided to stay there as he listened to the exchange going on in the other room. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Where? Across the
road?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No. Just outside
here, tied up to the barn.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh...yeah we know
he’s there. We tied him up there.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, I think his rope is too short.” Phylis, who my dad describes as the salt of
the earth, explained in a patient-but not meek, apologetic way as I would have
done-why the calf was outside, why he was okay there, and why he needed a short tie rather than a
long rope to tangle and choke himself on.
After his questions were sufficiently answered, he lingered on making idle chit-chat while Phylis attempted to finish eating her chicken. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Neighbor would have been wise to have left the issue alone
after speaking with Phylis and taken his cause up in other places, such as finding
suitable shelter for the wild turkeys or trying to cage up all of the
rabbits running rampant across the country roads. Instead he persisted and the next day as
I saw him driving south past our house I had a troubling feeling. I didn’t hear Brad’s shouts from
inside my house, but Phylis did from hers and quickly moved out of sight so as not to get
caught in the middle of an argument.
Because, there’s not much that riles up a farmer more than calling into
question the care put into his animals.
And considering that Brad has worked seven days a week since he last took a day off in 1990,
he’s got a pretty short fuse for such nonsense. I saw Neighbor’s car hastily retreat back home shortly after it initially passed by. A minute later I heard the four-wheeler start up and a very angry
looking Brad peeled into our driveway with a large bull calf across his
lap. He drove around the house to the
backyard, and as he stopped the calf tumbled onto the ground. Brad promptly tied him up to
our deck. Our problem now. He heatedly recounted the story of Neighbor’s
insinuating visit, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I mean, do I go to his house and question why his dogs are
locked in a kennel all day?!” he fumed."I should have gotten my gun,” <i>Now</i>...just a second Brad. This seemed a little extreme. I know Neighbor had crossed the line with his
nosiness, but... “and shot the calf right there. Then asked him if that was better, if the
calf seemed happier now. What would he
have said to that?” His light blue eyes
squinted as he and Chad laughed and laughed and my stomach turned. Worried that this internal response to a joke swayed me
more into Neighbor’s category of person, I went ahead and forced a little chuckle. Not that jokes about shooting baby animals are all that funny, and not that Brad would ever do such a thing (at least I'd really like to believe this), but my instinctual response left me wondering if I was more like Neighbor than I wanted to admit. And No. Because, while I clearly lack the grit required to be a real farmer, I am well aware that farming is only idyllic on the surface. It's idyllic exactly up until the moment you get a tail full of manure flicked in your face or an unprovoked kick to the head from a pretentious cow. I know that I can not make the difficult decisions that go along with farming. I can barely make a decision about what to eat for breakfast. But, I am able to make peace when these decisions are made by those who know better even when they don't initially sit well with me.<br />
<br />
Cute has his cozy straw filled home now and the excitement has slowed on the farm for a bit. Now, if I could just convince my dog to come inside we could fly under the neighborhood watch's radar for a minute. </div>
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDmWzduc54VmJ2LjTGebPPL84_Grdbxgi0DaS18EmdU66MlFbasLazorJLhD2TdLV4Ri0vIPfvfDn9CoaeVLIxGSTsGwR9VCdKnKp0ZQfzvEdSBjduAPpDYlh4MnIPLzbetFqrwIVntaq1/s1600/spencer1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDmWzduc54VmJ2LjTGebPPL84_Grdbxgi0DaS18EmdU66MlFbasLazorJLhD2TdLV4Ri0vIPfvfDn9CoaeVLIxGSTsGwR9VCdKnKp0ZQfzvEdSBjduAPpDYlh4MnIPLzbetFqrwIVntaq1/s320/spencer1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Spencer, come here! Come here, boy! Come inside!" And no. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Christihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515018669403064554noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-369466491281007534.post-89792623417633421482016-01-30T10:43:00.000-08:002016-06-05T06:16:02.505-07:00Thoughts Caffeine Gives Me.<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimIiek0Hf1PokLeqERlNSFdkydgHYs7P7YRf6aEOhQJ8L1mPjmUbs_G3KA_7jFIkW1irO4bxYfnqUostXClfNYX7d6EA2M1yzqXJxq_EIkQatQkqX9OFVKhDgr4QdGBOJaTEazN6fLSXwg/s1600/coffee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimIiek0Hf1PokLeqERlNSFdkydgHYs7P7YRf6aEOhQJ8L1mPjmUbs_G3KA_7jFIkW1irO4bxYfnqUostXClfNYX7d6EA2M1yzqXJxq_EIkQatQkqX9OFVKhDgr4QdGBOJaTEazN6fLSXwg/s200/coffee.jpg" width="160" /></a>Over the past several years-in an effort to be more financially responsible-what were
once near daily stops into coffee shops, have decreased to no more than a few visits
each year. I’m quite okay with this as
I’ve come to love my own brew from my own mug on my own couch the
best. That said, I was not disappointed
that a post-Christmas collection of Starbucks gift cards necessitated a trip to
my old stomping grounds on a recent rainy morning. The
aroma welcomed me like a warm hug as I walked in, flicking drips of water from
my coat, and headed towards the register. I placed my order and was handed a cup of
coffee which I slid down the counter, along with my banana to wait for my cup
of ice water. I continued to
wait-apparently the shift from coffee making to pouring water had thrown the
baristas off of their game, so I snuck off to the bathroom in the interim. As I returned towards the counter to pick up my completed order,
I saw a man holding and inspecting my coffee.
He had a beard (redundant to write I suppose, because coffee shop) and thick glasses and I smiled patiently as he glanced over his
shoulder at me.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m just trying to see…”
he offered.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, it’s my coffee” I responded, assuming he’d also just
arrived at the counter and had mistaken it for his.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, but I just am…”
he continued to study my cup.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, it’s my coffee” I reiterated, and if I sounded a bit
harsh I didn’t mean it. It was just that
he was the only obstacle preventing the caffeine from being in me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, sorry” he said, not sounding very sorry at all. He set my coffee down and stepped to the side
to allow me room to pick up my snack. Confused,
I saw that there were now two bananas on the counter. This puzzled me for longer than it should
have, on account of not having had enough caffeine. My friend, the coffee stealer, offered his
observation, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, I got a banana too.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course you did. “Which
one is mine?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He chuckled, “Well, that really doesn’t matter,
does it?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I paused. Now, this
was the kind of comment that deserved a long sit-down conversation over a cup
of hot coffee. But, doing so would
result in my being quite late for work, a risk I just couldn’t take despite the
potential philosophical learnings behind such a statement. And so, with a glance, I grabbed <i>my </i>banana--the
early yellowed one, still with a hint of green along one ridge, likely of the
California variety and left behind the larger, but more golden-hued banana with
flecks of brown and a small bruise developing near the stem for my friend. In that half-second I also thought about
leaving him with the better of the bananas, an instinctual mom response, but
decided against it. I bid my friend a
good day and headed back into the rain towards my car. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One obvious component of a job in home-care is the immense
amount of driving time involved. This
would be your answer if you find yourself wondering how it is that I harmonize
so well with Justin Bieber. In addition to radio karaoke,
when I allow, these drives also give me some quiet time alone with my
thoughts. Imagine, up to twenty minutes
at a time of uninterrupted thinking: my
children, where I might have left my checkbook, what to make for dinner, my future, my
past, my to-do list, the book of Hebrews, the Kardashians, the environmental
implications of plastics, which country I could move to if Trump is elected
president, my prayer list, vacation dreams, work thoughts, and who
I can get to babysit this weekend. These
thoughts float randomly in and out of my head as I merge between traffic lanes,
unless I am thinking about focusing in which case I try to just concentrate on that. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, not on this day.
This rainy December day, I thought about the Starbucks guy who implied
that one banana is the same as the next. <i>That
really doesn’t matter. </i>Can you
imagine? Certainly, there are many
things that matter <i>more</i>; I’d give him that. But to imply that choosing a banana is the
same as picking a stick of gum out of a pack? I'm sorry sir, but no. Likely, he was just being
polite, having been caught off-guard by my interrupting his attempted coffee
lacing. Or, maybe his super-thick
glasses were an indication that he wasn’t able to see the subtle variances in
the fruits and really believed them all to be the same. Possibilities ran through my brain as the wipers
squeaked back and forth across the windshield in a gentle cadence. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few days later, my caffeine buzz wore off (no more Starbucks, Christi!), but not before I actually googled bananas and discovered to my dismay that they are, in fact, all genetically the same. (Here's the part of the blog where we learn something! <a href="http://piecubed.co.uk/bananas-facts/">http://piecubed.co.uk/bananas-facts/</a>) I was quite embarrassed to learn this given my earlier rant and waste of precious thinking time. But then, I remembered a few years back when I was shopping for groceries in the Dominican Republic where I was on a mission trip. The man working at the market apologized for the state of their unsightly bananas as he handed them across the counter to the missionary I was shopping with. They were already speckled with brown, smelling all fragrant and banana-y.<br />
<br />
"Wait about a week to eat these, please", the grocer pleaded with the missionary who later explained to me that in the Dominican, they wouldn't so much as consider selling a banana with a hint of green on it. <br />
<br />
This recollection turned my stomach a bit, but helped me to circle back to my initial thinking which is to say that: <b>I am right</b>. I'm not going so far as to suggest that a banana is <i>better </i>if it is less or more ripe (although we all know...); I'm just saying there is a <i>difference </i>for crying out loud! Even if genetically they may all the same-which is pretty strange if you ask me-they are still unique. Just as is each beautiful sunrise that rises each morning by the same sun in the same sky where I watch from my couch while drinking my coffee. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
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Christihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515018669403064554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-369466491281007534.post-64874988832344010142016-01-27T08:12:00.001-08:002017-12-12T04:40:06.396-08:00A Wedding And A Funeral<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixhZkjn05VVAIURyOyqvl1XLls2UUCOYI6kRihNfKPtj74PET-ZC6xkamWwiy_O3lOv2j9odXtelJglyDMky3IjDJ_dau17A0efZryS_9J81XpXcjAqtnaO0EbsyN_Kfx6HUnMncaU53ac/s1600/100_1068.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixhZkjn05VVAIURyOyqvl1XLls2UUCOYI6kRihNfKPtj74PET-ZC6xkamWwiy_O3lOv2j9odXtelJglyDMky3IjDJ_dau17A0efZryS_9J81XpXcjAqtnaO0EbsyN_Kfx6HUnMncaU53ac/s320/100_1068.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
I bring sad news to this blog entry. My Grandpa has passed on. This is sad in the scheme of life, but I am writing it here because in relevance to this blog, Grandpa was one of my biggest encouragers. He, along with his wife Louise (who as a pair accounted for approximately one-third of my blog reading audience), were such enthusiastic supporters of my writing at a time when I really needed a cheerleader in my life. As I prepared for his memorial service last week, I thought about what a gift he had in recognizing and drawing out strengths in others. And as I listened to his eulogy, my uncle shared this same observation, tying it to the successes in his career. What a wonderful thing to be remembered by in life and it is embedded right there along with my other memories of Gramps: a bowl of grapefruit in a sunny kitchen, a slow cruise in a convertible car, and golf on the television. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/0BwHmRLLkgMTwYlRzSUdRZXpMd2c/view?usp=sharing">Robert George's eulogy of his father, Pete George</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ten days before he died, I spent a joyful day getting married. This too, has relevance to my little blog. Several years ago now, I remember wanting so much to share stories about my journey with Jesus and my children, but lacking a listening ear. Solution: the internet! I write less often now, and it's in a good way because I have someone in my life who can listen to my ramblings and can listen to my quietness. Someone who understands without any explanation why I grow wistful each year at the winter wheat harvest. But please, remaining readers, do not sign off yet as sometimes I tell my new husband a story that invokes a blank stare. The puzzled, curious gaze one might find themselves making while watching a grown woman shooing a snapping turtle out of a road. And these stories, my friends, I'll be so happy to share here (see: next blog entry). </div>
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Christihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515018669403064554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-369466491281007534.post-14745078317787415272015-11-16T04:32:00.000-08:002015-11-23T17:46:45.957-08:00The Morphing Of A Mom<div class="MsoNormal">
As much as I adore every little morsel of my sweet children, some remote area of my brain has resisted the movement into motherhood. It digs its heels in when it comes to even
the most sensible transitions that a mom should make, such as carrying a mom-purse, branching out from the junior's section in stores, or making a meal of half-eaten granola bars discovered in the crevices of a car seat (just kidding-I totally do that!). When it came time to buy a new car a year and
a half ago, my children commissioned for a minivan, spelling out the
practicality of it. I heard them loud
and clear. And then I bought a Jeep. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“A compromise car,”
my friend, Melissa offered. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sure. A compromise
car.” At the time I bought it they
couldn’t even open the doors on their own let alone climb in without my
hoisting them up. No my friends, this
was no compromise car, but rather a selfish clinging to the freedom of my youth.
I did think to pile extra blankets in the car when we took the top off, but would still catch
glimpses of them through the rear view mirror looking less than pleased as the loud wind whipped their hair around while we drove, not fully sharing in their mother's joy. Good news for the kids though because
apparently this part of my brain is shrinking (right there along with all the other
parts) which I realized when I threw myself into full on mom mode last week.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were Target-ing later than usual and with the days
getting shorter, the sky was already darkening as we exited the store. I was tired and stretched thin, having worked
all day and skipped dinner to make it to the store before bedtime. Plus, shopping with three kids-I’m not alone
here or Target wouldn’t be starting to serve wine in their stores. As we transitioned from the familiar fluorescent
blare of my most favorite store into the evening shade, the weight of the day was
heavy on my tired shoulders. I turned
toward the parking lot and was met by a group of teenage boys coming into
Target who walked toward us, jeering each other and spewing filth from their
mouths. Three little heads turned to stare at them in fascinated
awe, not understanding, but innocently absorbing their words. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Boys!” I snapped, my voice icy. Surprised, they stopped in their tracks, looked at me,
then glanced quickly at my children. They
paused, sheepish and for a single moment I saw the look of understanding. Then, they became teenagers again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sorry.” They
continued walking and the filthy words continued to spew from their
mouths. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, I know this is America. I know all about the Freedom of Speech thing. But, this was Target.
Which was basically like them being in my living room. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>Hey</i>!” I called
sharply. They turned back to me. I could vaguely see other shoppers pausing,
although my vision was razored in on the potty-mouths heading into the store,
the rest of the world being a bit of a blur. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i>Enough</i>. There are kids around. Watch your language.” For the record, I’ve never before scolded
people I don’t know and I am far from one to pass judgement on people using colorful
language. This admonishment came out of
me without my control. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The boys claimed Tourette’s and I decidedly refrained from
lecturing them about the seriousness of language disorders as my adrenaline had
slowed and I was beginning to realize what I was doing. Embarrassment set in, but also a motherly
feeling of wanting to and hug these boys (kind of like, air-hug them really...from a comfortable distance...because, teenagers) and fill them in on the wisdom that I’ve
gained since my teenager-hood. I remember
with regret being a disrespectful, smart a--
teenager myself back in the day. I
wanted to let them know this about me… </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Boys, I
used to be just like you, </i>(Yeah right, lady)<i>. You don’t know it now, but it
gets better. Someday you won’t need this
armor of defensiveness to be comfortable in your own skin but will see the
importance of using your words only for building up and giving grace to those
who hear. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t do anything of the sort, of
course. Besides, they were already in
the store and on their way to steal electronics. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We continued on to our car.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s <i>cool</i>.” Aiden said, riding along in the buggy of the
cart and trying out some tough guy language of his own. Ella’s eye shifted nervously to me, clearly
wondering if I would turn my wrath to them next.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Aiden. That was <i>not</i> cool!” She watched me to make sure I understood that
they did not share the same opinion on this.
Her eyes looked for my reaction
as she spoke, “Those boys were being
naughty!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No. I mean <i>Mom</i>.
Mom’s cool.” And together, they
began to create a (totally uncool) chant about their mom yelling at naughty
boys. I smiled to myself at the
irony. Just you wait, little ones. You haven’t seen anything yet. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwY83kWXlezG6Pf3LyVV1UQ4LhPxcZOs__sP4eBS_2pPjSzDNdoOM5YnuEy9zgzcmZlVzBVp8vHASWJlqSYLqFXDt_DoQhvw8RAFTxsQJ8BhvU1qDlXGYGHUaCXH6DDwPpq4zFm5TdMuqu/s1600/target.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwY83kWXlezG6Pf3LyVV1UQ4LhPxcZOs__sP4eBS_2pPjSzDNdoOM5YnuEy9zgzcmZlVzBVp8vHASWJlqSYLqFXDt_DoQhvw8RAFTxsQJ8BhvU1qDlXGYGHUaCXH6DDwPpq4zFm5TdMuqu/s320/target.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sometimes we eat Panera- in the parking lot of Target- with the top off- and I wonder if life could get any sweeter. </td></tr>
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Christihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515018669403064554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-369466491281007534.post-34230857285841747402015-09-27T18:17:00.002-07:002016-03-01T18:54:03.071-08:00Bike Rides and Diesel Fumes<br />
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Something so very sad has happened. Aiden and Ella. Their teeth. The cute little ones all fell out and in grew these oversized gangly ones, too big for their dainty little mouths. I shared my remorse with Ella.<br />
<br />
<br />
“You guys used to be so little and say the cutest things…and now you’ve got these big teeth and back-talk me.”<br />
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“Yeah,” she replied, flipping her hair, “now I’m more into <i>texting...</i>and...<i>Rock and Roll</i>”.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9iFWgjnu_e799lAM35oOFZtaNFjWnYgptH5tX1gvayJYRU6YYKu8s2v3ly0CQM5t13_VUeaJSk0KQexlZAu8Ft5PWqIyhEqqiu2zi0_0pLBWpAf3RgwuExeBmDDprbc0coq2gKyRTKtby/s1600/aiden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9iFWgjnu_e799lAM35oOFZtaNFjWnYgptH5tX1gvayJYRU6YYKu8s2v3ly0CQM5t13_VUeaJSk0KQexlZAu8Ft5PWqIyhEqqiu2zi0_0pLBWpAf3RgwuExeBmDDprbc0coq2gKyRTKtby/s320/aiden.jpg" width="320" /></a>I should mention she is six. So, I suppose I have a few more years of them saying cute things. But, the dreaded years of teenager-hood seem looming ahead of us. With this sudden awareness of childhood slipping out of my sight and the corn as tall as it would be getting for the summer, I decided it would be the perfect afternoon for a long bike ride with my soon to be teenagers. It actually wasn’t the perfect afternoon. It was the middle of a heat wave with a humidity level high enough to grow gills (Ha! Joke credit…the internet!). But, once I get an idea in my head, sometimes it’s hard to reason it out (I’m currently in the midst of similar battles with reason regarding decisions of whether or not to get eyelash extensions and if I should I buy a goat herd). Chad tried,<br />
<br />
"You can’t go for a bike ride today. That’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard. It’s, like, a hundred degrees outside.” He spoke each word slowly and deliberately- although this didn’t matter. I’d lost him at the word <i>can’t</i>. Chad doesn’t know that about me yet, I suppose. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIcRt3Y7FoeuCmpKliy3F2A2gW6cN5T9fgjY8e9LPJSnFEx6W_KwjDyad1_kVxsCN6dPyqc_z6aB2kJ3uNZ6PBjFby21Hddgq1HBy_2WNbsAs85Py15muXDYfbb0K-0W49cASi4Bn2K1a7/s1600/IMG_20150914_213535.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIcRt3Y7FoeuCmpKliy3F2A2gW6cN5T9fgjY8e9LPJSnFEx6W_KwjDyad1_kVxsCN6dPyqc_z6aB2kJ3uNZ6PBjFby21Hddgq1HBy_2WNbsAs85Py15muXDYfbb0K-0W49cASi4Bn2K1a7/s320/IMG_20150914_213535.jpg" width="320" /></a>The kids, on the other hand, were elated at the idea of spending some quality exercise time in the hot sun with their mom. We climbed onto our bikes and set out for my brother’s house-he’d invited us over for dinner that evening. As one who isn’t great with numbers and measurements and such, I reasoned that this was probably a six mile bike ride, but if we made good time we could be there in about three miles. Chad would drive our little sweet P and meet us at my brother’s later. Off we went. You know how these things go. Yada, yada, yada…the kids were whiny and tired…yada, yada…more hills that I remembered in Illinois…yada, yada…how are there still this many mosquitos in 2015? Eventually, we coasted down some hills and the warm air snuck into our helmets and my children were all giggles again. A couple of miles into our ride, I recognized the sound of Chad’s truck coming down the road and he coasted up beside us.<br />
<br />
“Hey!” he smiled, leaning across the seat. “Want to throw your bikes back here and ride the rest of the way together?”<br />
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Aiden immediately declined. He’d recently (yesterday) decided to try out for the show, American Ninja Warrior. He had only 15 years until he’d be old enough to do so, and he was quite determined to train every day of his life until then. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnkPPUjqeirG0B4BUlTdpd99bRazA8MDhh8op3sVeqU6432R3be8PDDOYLp_iOiPUWkKsRd4Pt3P2WVg0eTB8aj5oGJLbfs2V2Gm5NNHmsAc9f24Qy_0moM2YCLuMRMoz9lre8I_B90KY2/s1600/IMG_20150914_214033.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnkPPUjqeirG0B4BUlTdpd99bRazA8MDhh8op3sVeqU6432R3be8PDDOYLp_iOiPUWkKsRd4Pt3P2WVg0eTB8aj5oGJLbfs2V2Gm5NNHmsAc9f24Qy_0moM2YCLuMRMoz9lre8I_B90KY2/s320/IMG_20150914_214033.jpg" width="320" /></a>“Ella, go ahead in the truck and we’ll meet you there.” I offered.<br />
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“No thanks! I’m riding with you, Mom!”<br />
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“Are you sure?”<br />
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“I’m sure. I’m just getting warmed up.” She held tight to her Hello Kitty handle bars, cheeks flushed and eyes determined. <br />
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Chad shrugged and drove on ahead. Not a minute later, we saw in the distance a car heading towards us. We pulled our bikes to the side of the road to let it pass, complaining about all of the traffic this time of day. The car slowed, then stopped, and a familiar face climbed out. Mrs. S, the elementary school secretary. <br />
<br />
“Mrs. S!” the kids shrieked, their bikes clattering to the ground as they ran into the road to hug her. As you can imagine by that sort of reaction, Mrs. S is more than just a school secretary, as I suppose most good secretaries are. I'd guess she’s about as much of ‘a school secretary’ as Bill Gates is ‘a computer programmer’. Her morning hugs were often the highlight of my daughter's school day. Although we had just come to know Mrs. S over this past school year, it felt as though we’d known her much longer than that. Probably because we’d become well acquainted with her sisters and they all look so very similar to each other, as sisters often do. In addition to being neighborly and kind, these sisters-for reasons unbeknownst to me-seem to have been designated as some sort of guardian angels for my children, popping up unexpectedly just when they are needed. Although it saddens me a little bit that despite my best intentions my children would need guardian angels, one doesn’t scorn their children’s guardian angels. One of the sisters and her husband had been my landlords when I first transitioned into country life and had spent the past three years responding to my calls to rectify emergencies that I was not equipped to handle, such as a doorknob handle coming off in my hand or a water heater that needed switched on when I didn’t exactly know what a water heater was or where its switch might be. And another one of the sisters and her husband towed my car out of the snow that horrible winter before last. A lot. They did the towing of my car so many times that now I look back in embarrassment and wonder-<i>Why in the world did I keep trying to drive in the snow?</i> But, they were kind enough to never ask me such an obvious question. And now, there is the sister that keeps watch over my children while they are away from me at school. I think there are more of these sisters, but I am patient to wait until the next chapter of my parenting misadventures to find out.<br />
<br />
After a school year of loaning my children matching mittens and doling out band aids, I was so very happy for Mrs. S to see me having this nice, bonding bike ride with my children. She hugged them tightly and smiled,<br />
<br />
“Wow! A bike ride! Where are you off to?”<br />
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I explained that we were heading to my brother’s house for dinner. <br />
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“Well, I hope you brought lots of water. It is really hot out!”<br />
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Oh, um. Water? “Yes, well, we had a really big glass before we left home.” I so hoped this was true as I try never to tell a lie and come to think of it, it was really hot out.<br />
<br />
“Can I give you guys a ride?”<br />
<br />
“I want to ride with Mrs. S!” both children raced to call out, as if they’d forgotten all about our fun and relaxing family bike ride going on here.<br />
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“Oh, no. We are fine. Thanks though.” I glared at my little traitors and climbed back on my bike as an example.<br />
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“Mom, I want to ride with Mrs. S.” Ella persisted. Not five minutes ago, she had adamantly refused a ride with Chad who was actually heading in that direction. <br />
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“No, Ella. You’re fine.” <br />
<br />
“Oh, I can give Ella a ride. She looks a little tired there.” Mrs. S looked upon Ella with worry in her face. I followed her gaze and saw that, having taken her helmet off, strands of wet hair clung to her now unnaturally fuchsia tinted face. I felt an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach.<br />
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“Uhhhh…no thanks.” I stuck stubbornly to my initial decision, not wanting to disrupt Mrs. S’s travel plans or acknowledge my mistake in judgment, “Chad will probably be by in a few minutes to pick us up. But, thanks.”<br />
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“Oh good! Do you want to call him?”<br />
<br />
“Uh, sure. I think we’ll just get over that next hill, then I’ll call him.”<br />
<br />
“Do you have a phone with you?” Of all the… <br />
<br />
“Um, no. But I’m really sure Chad will be right by and I’ll have him give the kids a ride.“<br />
<br />
“Well, I have my phone. Why don’t you use it to call him?” <br />
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“Okay, uhm. Well, this is kind of embarrassing, but I don’t actually know his phone number. It’s just programmed into my phone.” Things were not looking good for my mom of the moment feeling and I was beginning to wonder if a DCFS hotline call was going to be in order. <br />
<br />
In the end, I wavered and agreed to let Mrs. S drive E-who had miraculously perked once she’d climbed into the back seat of Mrs. S’s sports car- to my brother’s house. [I later found out that my brother really helped paint the picture of my children’s upbringing when they arrived and he shouted at Mrs. S and Ella through the front door, “Don’t come in, I don’t have any clothes on!” Thanks for that, Richard.] As I helped Ella off of her bike and into Mrs. S’s car, I whispered through my teeth,<br />
<br />
“Ella. Chad just drove by. If you were so tired, why didn’t you ride with him when he offered??” <br />
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“I didn’t want him to think I couldn’t finish the bike ride. I wanted him to think I was tough.” Well, now. I gave my silly little prideful mini-me a hug and sent her off, saying a little prayer that she wasn’t having a heat stroke. Mrs. S said she’d tell Chad to drive out to check on Aiden-- obviously having realized that Chad had no intention of ‘swinging by’ as I’d led her to believe. I didn’t mean for that to be a lie either. Who knows? I mean, he could drive by. He’s his own person and apt to driving around the countryside. Maybe he just would. One never knows these things. <br />
<br />
Aiden and I continued on our ride and had wonderful conversations about barns and soybeans and Ninja Warriors. The air wasn’t quite so hot now, and the mosquitos weren’t quite so bad, so long as we kept moving. Another ten minutes passed and I saw Chad’s truck coming towards us. He slowed and looked at us, puzzled. <br />
<br />
“Where’s Ella?” <br />
<br />
“What do you mean? Didn’t you see her at Richard’s?”<br />
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“I’ve just been driving around the countryside” he said. (See!) “No one was home at your brother’s.” Well, someone was home, just preparing his birthday dinner in his birthday suit apparently. <br />
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“Can I ride with Chad?” Aiden asked.<br />
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They loaded Aiden’s bike. And as I was dog-gone bound and determined to finish this blasted bike ride, Chad drove his truck slowly along beside me the last mile so we could talk through the engine noise and fumes while I pedaled, feeling stubborn and foolish and oh-so happy inside. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnYzeFw_xGroWbz8R2aocj_RBHWZoi_3jmsKCPG-2TapDcHWaP5ubnJlIHMsXno-QsVRpWylf08geP0vC5nfhozQroUARKDiRp2vSc2WCOlHMsNtDUJyaOewzZiCzO_EqsD2wRpqbPDgpB/s1600/IMG_20150712_164309.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnYzeFw_xGroWbz8R2aocj_RBHWZoi_3jmsKCPG-2TapDcHWaP5ubnJlIHMsXno-QsVRpWylf08geP0vC5nfhozQroUARKDiRp2vSc2WCOlHMsNtDUJyaOewzZiCzO_EqsD2wRpqbPDgpB/s320/IMG_20150712_164309.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Because every story should end with a baby this cute.</td></tr>
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<br />Christihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515018669403064554noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-369466491281007534.post-43236535431947970822014-09-01T13:48:00.002-07:002014-09-01T18:25:23.533-07:00<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">“You're off to Great Places!</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Today is your day!</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Your mountain is waiting,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">So... get on your way!” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">― <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/61105.Dr_Seuss" style="color: #666600; text-decoration: none;">Dr. Seuss</a>, <i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/2125304" style="color: #666600; text-decoration: none;">Oh, The Places You'll Go!</a></i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">They whined and pleaded, "Can't we just ride the bus?" on this, their first day of kindergarten. "NO." I hmphed, crossing my arms and pouting. I did <i>not </i>want to share and found myself having my own little Kindergarten temper tantrum to illustrate this. I wanted those last few moments with them all to myself; those final moments to hold hands and pray quietly with them before they opened the doors, stepped out of the car, and ventured into the echoing gymnasium, loudly reverberating with the excitement of a new school year. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">I think these little twins who were busy rallying against me would be just a little more understanding if they realized what I <i>really </i>wanted wasn't just to drive them, but to disguise myself and follow them around their new school from a safe distance, guarding them from the bad kids, drug pushers, and playground pedophiles. But once at school, the knowing principal kindly ushered the left-over lingering parents out of the gymnasium as the students made their way, wide-eyed to their classrooms. Standing in line with their classmates, my children broke form and ran across the gym to give me one last kiss, then ran back to their places and the line trickled out of my sight. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">To be fair, I'm not usually such a helicopter parent. I mean, I check in every few days to make sure their teeth have been brushed. And I do ask plenty of questions about their bowel movements, just because it makes me feel like an attentive mom and a little doctor-y all in one. I really do see the value in their strides towards becoming independent little people. So, I was a little surprised to feel my eyes burning with tears as I was sure they would most definitely <u>not </u>do when this day eventually arrived. But, I was quick to realize that they weren't <i>just </i>sentimental first day of school tears. They were tears for the end of this season, the season of the three of us. It's hard to explain, this feeling that I've held for the past few years. A feeling of exhaustion and anxiety, yes- but also a very deep regard for the sacredness of this time. I've held very close this awareness that however difficult these past years may have been at times, they were not to be rushed. Five brief years to quietly lay the foundation before the world stepped in and bombarded them with all that <i>it </i>wants to teach them-both good and bad. Through the challenges and the chaos of the past five years, a quiet intensity has tied us together and now I have to prepare myself for its slow unraveling as they venture out slowly on their own. Good thing they allow for room moms. </span></div>
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</span>Christihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515018669403064554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-369466491281007534.post-84835515909331782792014-04-16T05:13:00.001-07:002014-04-16T05:22:48.160-07:00And a Match Ain't One.-My Messy BeautifulI'm in the upstairs bathroom trying out some new dance moves in front of the mirror that hangs from the bathroom door. I'll be honest. I'm trying to twerk. In mom jeans. I'll be honest again. I don't actually know what twerking is. But, I figure if I just practice a little I ought to get decent enough to try it out on the dance floor at the next wedding I attend. <br />
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"Mom", an annoyed voice calls from the bathtub. My five-year-old son, who is in the middle of acting out a water war with his Power Ranger figurines rather than cleaning behind his ears as he takes a bath.<br />
<br />
"What are you <i>doing</i>?" he asks, seemingly irritated by this interruption in his bath time. <br />
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"Oh. Just...um, dancing."<br />
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"That's <i>not </i>dancing." He's right of course. I'd more liken it to the wretching movements of a cat heaving up a hair ball. I hitch my mom jeans back up to my belly button and venture downstairs to the clean laundry pile still spread across the living room floor; still unfolded; still waiting for me. Laundry. My arch nemesis of household chores. The Newman to my Seinfeld. Laundry is just one of those chores than <i>can</i> be put off, so usually I do. I mean, the kids <i>have </i>to eat every day. The chickens <i>have </i>to be let out of their coop in the morning. The toilet <i>has </i>to be scrubbed (only because my kids won't go if it looks too gross inside). Reports <i>have </i>to be completed for work the next day. But laundry can be tucked away in its nice little closet for days on end. Okay, weeks.<br />
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What results from this procrastination is that we have no matching socks. Like, ever. Thankfully, my kids are not yet in school and think nothing of this. They don't know socks are even supposed to match. I just recently found my daughter on her way out the door with two different shoes on her feet. She just overgeneralized the little sock rule to all things that go on her feet. Silly kids.<br />
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Although we're getting by just fine in our mismatched footwear of a home, guilt plagues me about this sock stuff. What kind of a mom can't find A match to a sock? <br />
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We opened our home to a little baby last fall (hence the <i>looong </i>neglected blog). Beautiful little K was two days old and still in the hospital when DCFS called and asked if I could take her. Crazy, right? It's an amazing story of being led that I will love to share once a coherent thought enters my head and I can put together the right words to tell it. But, I did want to mention this little baby's socks. K came into our home with a full garbage bag of little baby socks. Teeny tiny <b>matching </b>socks!<br />
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I found myself hard pressed to find a reason that a mom with all of those matching baby socks would be unfit to care for her baby. Of course, these thoughts were just my own maternal insecurities shining through as many times I'm hard pressed to come up with a reason that <i>I</i> am a fit mother. I can't fold a load of laundry in a timely fashion to save my life. I accidentally kind of twerked in front of my child. And on some days, I am overwhelmed by the responsibility that parenting carries to the point that I can't breathe. In her article, "There's more to Life than Happiness", Emily Esfahani Smith elaborates on the differences between living a happy life, living a meaningful life and which category parenting falls into (I'm sure you can quite easily guess). She cites Victor Frankl, author of <i>Man's Search for Meaning</i> as saying, "Being human always points, and is directed, to something or someone, other than oneself--be it a meaning to fulfill or another human being to encounter. The more one forgets himself--by giving himself to a cause to serve or another person to love--the more human he is." Reading her article serves as a both a wonderful deterrent from any time that I could be spending folding laundry as well as a reminder<span style="background-color: white;"> to <i>trust</i>, to know that despite the stresses of the mountain of laundry and all the rest, through the one who is greater than me, I am able to teach these little people the important lessons that will, in turn, give them the confidence to trust God's work in their life and choose the sometimes more challenging and meaningful road. </span><br />
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Little baby K has been with us for five months now. And as you might guess that ginormous bag of matching socks has dwindled down. She has exactly one matching pair left in her drawer. Like the last dollar bill in my wallet that I don't want to spend, I'm saving that precious pair of matched socks in her drawer not to be worn. It gives me this weird sense of undeserved pride each time I get her dressed in the morning.<br />
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<a href="http://m.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2013/01/theres-more-to-life-than-being-happy/266805/" style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">http://m.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2013/01/theres-more-to-life-than-being-happy/266805/ </a><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: x-small;">credit CB</span></div>
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<!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F4.bp.blogspot.com%2F-giJwYHDRYgs%2FU0q5zu0cr6I%2FAAAAAAAAAcU%2FGPGUjIwinvI%2Fs1600%2Fsock.jpg&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" with "https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcSaf9vNuCJgzYuxTxk1VdWX9yoX0Y3MyQ8zXEM-2hk8bq7DbfrurSLd1FChIRcb3xHmttshmv6C1zgco4xmzY6eYqfFXlux2BnBhrmmxUBBONnFOrp_OY7adgTHC7BKhUBfl5ynvyUGMv/s1600/sock.jpg" -->Christihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515018669403064554noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-369466491281007534.post-1154237551429095932013-10-21T17:12:00.003-07:002016-08-28T06:17:00.481-07:00Worth Fighting For<span style="background-color: white;">It was shortly after the letdown of my introductory gun class. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">After firing a gun left me with shaking hands, </span><span style="background-color: white;">I realized that to sharpen my fight I needed to dig a little deeper. Life isn't just curling up on my couch and reading <u>Pilgrim's Progress</u> with a cup of weak tea</span><span style="background-color: white;">, you know? I needed to be ready to protect my home from critters and the like. I did a little researching and made some calls to local schools of martial arts. Taekwondo...raccoon deterrent...anyone with me?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white;">The woman returning my call had an accent that foretold of new and exciting adventures. Unfortunately, maybe it was <i>my </i>accent or perhaps my faltering telephone pragmatics, but I </span><span style="background-color: white;">found myself on the other end of the phone trying to explain that it was </span><i style="background-color: white;">me </i><span style="background-color: white;">interested in Taekwondo lessons, not the 4-year old who had answered the phone when she called.</span><br />
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"Yes, yes!" she responded to my explanation. "Come tomorrow. 5 o'clock."</div>
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"Me?" I tried to clarify. "Or my son?"</div>
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"Yes. Both of you. 5 o'clock."</div>
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"Well, it's actually three of us. But, it's just me that wants to try the class. And if it goes good, you know, down the road, I'm looking for something for all of us."</div>
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"Yes, yes. 5 o'clock."</div>
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This was going nowhere. "Umm, okay. See you then."</div>
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Naturally, I was a little uneasy come 5 o'clock the next day. And as we walked in the door, my uneasiness swelled to full fledged sweaty anxiety as I gazed around the class, taking in the floor to floor mats, punching bags, and a room full of miniature students already hard at work. I tried to inconspicuously herd my children to the chairs reserved for parents and onlookers along the side of the gym, however the head instructor swooped in with a smile and invited A and E to join the class. My kids looked at me suspiciously, suspecting sabotage, having been under the assumption that if anything, <i>they'd</i> be watching <i>me </i>in class. I nodded and gestured that they should go, feigning a bright<i> Go ahead, you'll have a great time </i>smile when, in fact, I was becoming a little uneasy watching these little tykes pummel boxing bags and kick the air higher than they stood. We were lovers, not fighters, my family and I--when would I just accept that? But, as I watched the class the next 45 minutes I grew more and more intrigued with the discipline of it all. The synchrony and grace of the forms. The uninhibited dramatic flair. It was like watching dancers, but without all the glitz and sparkles, and E especially fell into it immediately.</div>
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At the end of the class, we were summoned into a small room by the grand master. She sat across from us at a large desk in an office that was filled with photographs of champion competitors including herself and tall trophies which my children eyed eagerly from my lap. The grand master's eyes were friendly and she wore a warm smile, but I couldn't quite get comfortable around her knowing that she could kill me with her bare hands if she were so inclined. It was exactly how I wanted people to feel around me. She pushed some paperwork across the desk towards me. Contracts, plans, and numbers, all of which make my brain go kind of fuzzy. Already intimidated, I looked down to make sense of some of the numbers in front of me. The air left my body. Well, this would be an easy decision.</div>
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"Thank you for letting us come to watch", I looked up smiling nervously. "But, I'm sorry, I think this is out of our price range. I'll give it some thought and get back to you." I added the last part halfheartedly, knowing there would be no getting back to anyone.</div>
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If only it were that easy.</div>
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"I give you discount." she stated matter of factly. She made some fast marks on the paper. I tried to take notes and add figures in my head.</div>
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"You sign the three-year contract, and you get even more discount."</div>
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"No, no. I can't do a three-year contract," I whined. "I haven't even tried a class yet. Can I get out of the contract if I don't like the class once I try it?"</div>
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"Oh, you'll like it. And of course, if you move away or break a leg I can cancel the contract." </div>
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E wiggled down from my lap and started rifling through a box of t-shirts on the floor. A took it as his cue to hop up and start poking at a four-foot trophy precariously perched on the desk in front of us. I was too stressed to restrain them. </div>
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"Taekwondo very good for discipline."</div>
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My Achilles heal. I signed.</div>
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I drove home feeling like a sucker. How ironic that I was taking classes to mentally and physically strengthen myself from instructors who saw my weaknesses and immediately pounced. <br />
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<b>Naturally, I blamed my mother. </b></div>
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I spent that evening distracted, sleeping fitfully with the knowledge that I'd be spending much more than I pay each month for my car to take lessons in humiliation, learning to hammer kick little nine-year old black belts. But, I'd signed a contract. In ink. I recognized this as having given my word. My stomach turned and tightened... my internal signal to stop the worry; stop it all; pray; listen; read.</div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">So we say with confidence,</span></div>
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<span class="text Heb-13-6" style="position: relative;">“The Lord is my helper; I will not be afraid.</span><br />
<span class="indent-1"><span class="indent-1-breaks" style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 0.42em; line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Heb-13-6" style="position: relative;">What can mere mortals do to me?”</span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: small;"> (Hebrews 13:6)</span></div>
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Just the reminder I needed. The notes of my study Bible indicate that this verse applies the idea of trusting in God for more than just financial needs. I woke with stomach pains gone. I made the call in the morning and ventured back to meet with the instructor the next afternoon. I did not feel confident, but felt no fear. I knew what I had to do.</div>
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"I'm sorry." I started kindly once she'd led me back to her office. I explained my situation. She offered more discounts.</div>
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"I really am not trying to get you to lower your price." I tried again. "Your price is fair. It just isn't in my budget right now."</div>
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She nodded. "How much can you afford?" I told her honestly. It was the number I'd come up with two nights ago, trying to figure out how to work it all out, realizing it wouldn't be worth mentioning to her as it was so far below their tuition it might come across as insulting.</div>
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"Okay." she said to my utmost surprise. I must have looked dumbfounded.</div>
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"Listen," she continued. "You need this. This is good for you. Good for your kids."</div>
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So all this happened. We're off on a new adventure. And a certain Taekwondo grand master is getting herself a whole lotta eggs for Christmas. But the goodness out of it; the wondrous goodness was that great big awesome reminder that any strength that comes <i>out </i>of me does not come <i>from </i>me. And that is good.</div>
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Christihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515018669403064554noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-369466491281007534.post-43545121960167931162013-08-30T20:58:00.001-07:002013-09-07T19:12:36.980-07:00Lace 'em upIt's hard not to be prideful watching my children's early learning achievements. I fight back the first thoughts that bubble to my consciousness, <i>Oh I see he's got that knack for early reading from my side of the family, </i>and <i>She's so musical; obviously a trait from me, I'm quite the whistler you know. </i>When really, I should be just be praying that I didn't pass on this overwhelming tendency for self-righteousness. Genetics aside, I'm finding true enjoyment in the whole process of teaching my kiddies the things that they need to know in this big world. Now, I'll be the first to admit, potty training was not my finest hour. Not hardly. But, a year of country life has slowed me and I'm grateful that I can approach these new learning milestones with a bit more patience. And is there anything that requires more patience than learning to tie shoes? Really...is there? If so, tell me now because I'm going to start stockpiling small amounts of patience in a patience savings account for the necessary time. Oh wait, I just thought of one: driving. Ugh. Teaching driving will likely take a lot of patience. And maybe some Valium. Just being realistic here. <br />
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Back to shoe tying. Yes, prayer and quiet life in the country have been slowly building in me the abilities needed to patiently teach my children. That is to say prayer, country living, and a big slice of humble pie. You see, I pulled up a youtube video just to use as a teaching aide before we entered into this learning adventure. Turns out, there's a <i>new </i>way to tie shoes. So far's I know, that makes three ways you can tie a shoe. There's the <i>right </i>way (the way I learned). There's the two bunny ears crossed under each other way. Then, there's this <i>new</i> way. Magic fingers it's called. Here it is, if you're so inclined:<br />
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Looks super easy, right? Always trying to be hip and in the know with the latest shoe lace tying teaching styles, I decided to give it a whirl before I took my instruction to the streets. I worked diligently, but I might as well have been trying to tie my shoes with ten frozen thumbs using only my upside-down reflection to guide me because it just. didn't. work. I tried and tried. Well, for about 45 seconds anyways, before stopping out of embarrassment and on account of I was hungry. I learned an important lesson this day:<br />
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<b>Learning is so hard when you're old!!! </b><br />
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Which led me to realize this:<br />
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<b>Learning is so hard when you're young!!! </b><br />
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Which makes it just so great to see how much my kids love learning! <i>They get this from me, of course.</i> And, which makes me just that much more empathetic as I teach them, waiting patiently as they flip out in frustration (having just done this as a 35-year old myself), willing my tremoring hand to stay by my side and let them struggle through and fail, when it wants to just jump in and just finish off the knot for them. And then, this morning, much faster than this old brain would have mastered such a novel task... success. E came running in from the mudroom, one daintily tied shoe on her foot.<br />
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"Mom! Mom! Look!" she called, breathless. "I tied it myself!" <br />
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"What?! That's <i>awesome</i>! Let me see! Can you do the other shoe??" <br />
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"Yes! Watch!" I followed her out into the mudroom and sat to watch. I was nearing critical lateness for work, but this was a moment. A real moment. The first shoe tie. E struggled to recreate what she'd just done moments ago. She tried once. Then twice. Maybe it was something about her jumpy handed mother hovering over her and breathing coffee breath down her neck that threw her off her game but soon she was kicking her shoe off in a fit of rage. Now, back in potty training days, I might have responded with the like, but this was the wiser and more restrained Christi. I kept my calm, retrieved her shoe and helped her through, holding the bunny ear in place and gently instructing her through a proper loop around and pull through once she had regained herself. <br />
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By the time we got to the sitter, E was over her frustration, and now reveling in her initial success which she excitedly shared with the sitter as soon as she entered her home.<br />
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"Wow, shoe tying! That's great!" the sitter eyed me respectfully. "Where did you learn to do that?" I smiled, doing my best to appear humble and not at all prideful as I knelt down and helped E out of her shoes. <br />
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"Oh, a video from the computer," she responded simply, standing up and walking past us on her way to a pile of princess dolls. <br />
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Ahem. Right then. Super lovely. I'll just sweep up that big mess of pride that's spilled all over the floor here and be on my way. Parental pride has been appropriately put in check. <br />
<br />Christihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515018669403064554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-369466491281007534.post-82169848346173912602013-08-12T18:24:00.001-07:002013-08-12T18:25:07.793-07:00Camping<br />
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Tryin' On Clothes</h1>
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I tried on the farmer's hat,<br />
Didn't fit…<br />
A little too small — just a bit<br />
Too floppy.<br />
Couldn't get used to it,<br />
Took it off.<br />
I tried on the dancer's shoes,<br />
A little too loose.<br />
Not the kind you could use<br />
for walkin'.<br />
Didn't feel right in 'em,<br />
Kicked 'em off.<br />
<br />
I tried on the summer sun,<br />
Felt good.<br />
Nice and warm — knew it would.<br />
Tried the grass beneath bare feet,<br />
Felt neat.<br />
Finally, finally felt well dressed,<br />
Nature's clothes fit me best.</div>
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<br />
By any other measure, it is bedtime. The day is done. It is 7:30 and time to tuck these sleepy kids in for the night. But, that closing in feeling of the end of summer is gripping me and instead I'm hurriedly loading up the trunk of the car. Racing the setting sun in hopes of having the remains of its light to aid me as I put together the pop-up camper. It was 7:00 when the urge to sleep under the summer sky hit. And amazingly, the same little boy and girl who drag themselves to the car in the morning missing a shoe and wailing that they can't brush their own teeth without assistance have packed up two heaping suitcases and are carrying them on their backs like miniature Sherpas to the car within minutes of my mentioning the words 'camp out'. <br />
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A few hours later, I lay surrounded by the cool night air and listening to the music of crickets harmonizing with the deep respirations of my sleeping children. I think of friends sending their littles off to college and sink into my covers holding onto the quiet chaos of this brief season. </div>
<br />Christihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515018669403064554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-369466491281007534.post-19751765087696436462013-06-08T11:15:00.000-07:002016-08-28T06:15:31.519-07:00Lend Me Your Eyes, I'll Change What You See<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
This post has nothing to do with farming or my kids. Well, it shouldn't. But, watch how quickly I can switch any topic into one about my children. It's a gift, really. Makes you want to sit down and have a conversation with me, I bet. About my kids, that is. Anywho, I am just so giddy that I have to share my news as I am seeing the world with brand new eyes today! I'm two days post Lasik. So, I guess they aren't new eyes. Rather they are my same old eyes, but with some part of the cornea burned out. Not really sure about the exact surgical details and all that medical-y stuff. I mean, I did some research, but eventually everything just started fuzzing together in my brain as I was very tired, and I realized the details couldn't be all that important, right? They're just eyes after all. And I'm certain Groupon must do some sort of doctor screening before allowing a promotion on their website. I'm sure of that. <br />
<br />
Two days post surgery, my eyes are still a little scratchy and foggy at times, so truth be told, it doesn't feel all that different from the dirty four month-old contacts I'd been wearing prior to this. Which is not to say I'm not totally thrilled that I did this, because I am. The whole procedure, the whole day actually, could not have gone better. My dear sister and little H, my one-year old nephew took the better part of their day to chauffeur me around, which would have made for a wonderful day in itself. Adding to that, the joyous news that 27 years of glasses and contacts are potentially behind me. Plus, a special bonus, I made the fortunate discovery that if I am ever to become a drug addict (which <i>of course</i> I'm not. I'm just saying, you know, just in case...), I've already picked out my drug of choice: Valium. <br />
<br />
I was sitting in the pre-op room and the nurse bustled in with some water and a pill. I took it from her and put the pill to my mouth, then paused. <br />
<br />
"What is this?" I thought to ask. <br />
<br />
"Valium," she responded briskly. "To help you relax." It was her turn to pause. "Do you not want to take it?" <br />
<br />
<i>No, I don't want to take it!</i> <i>I can't take Valium! I have kids to take care of after you all are done lasering my corneas. I have dinner to cook! And the door slid off of the chicken coop that I've got to get back on before it rains! And the lawn isn't just going to mow itself! </i><br />
<br />
"Ummm. Yes, I'll take it. Thanks.", I managed just before gulping down the pill.<br />
<br />
<i>[I should interject here, in the event that my Grandma and Grandpa are reading this and alarmed that I may be heading down an unfortunate path into prescription drug use. This story has a point. Well, maybe not a point, but it does end. Stay with me.]</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
To be honest, the Valium did nothing for me during the procedure as I was still a basket of nerves. Who wouldn't be with their eyes taped wide open and a laser pointed at them guided by a heavily tattooed ophthalmologist with only the smell of burning skin as a distraction? But a few minutes post-op waiting to be released, I did notice that I felt a little less edgy. Totally normal otherwise, just without usual underlying anxiety that typically lies just below my surface. I was released to go home after a few minutes. Eyes covered in bubbly, plastic shields, I made my way to the car, relaxing quietly as Carrie drove. A few minutes into the drive, she began to gently attempt to stop H as he entertained himself by flicking his root-beer float around my car with his straw. <br />
<br />
"Don't worry about it. He's fine." I shrugged. "I'll just clean it up tomorrow." Carrie looked at me like I was on drugs as a little splatter of ice cream breezed by my head and landed on the passenger side window. "Seriously. It's not a big deal." <i> </i><br />
<br />
Crazy, right? But, I was so serious about this, you guys! I was...I was easy-breezy Christi! I like her! She's the mom that my heart wants to be, but that just never comes out. Driving home from the eye doctor, okay maybe it <i>was </i>the Valium, but not freaking out felt so much better than freaking out! It was at that very moment that I saw my role as a mom through brand new eyes. I'd slowly been sliding the other direction, increasingly rolling my eyes, snapping, <i>How many times have I told you</i>-ing, and even yelling about spills and messes. It's an embarrassing admission. I <i>know</i> that spills and messes are part of learning. Part of exploring and growing. I <i>teach </i>this, for crying out loud. But, just as my idea to run a 10k sounds refreshing and energizing and once in the race I am crying out for it to be over, the idea of exemplary parenting is warm and comforting and easy to type while curled in a chair and my children soundly snuggled in their beds for the night. In actuality it can be trying and exhausting and can feel like I'm running in place on a treadmill and not getting anywhere at all. But on this day, through my new eyes I was able to clearly see the simple steps to become more of the mom I wanted to be.<br />
<br />
That night I made a resolution. No more yelling at my children for spilling. Baby steps. Every day I pray. And every morning, I pray for patience. But that evening after my surgery, I prayed thanksgiving for these new eyes. New eyes. New ways. <br />
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From Julie Silander:</div>
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Yes, time flies.</div>
But I don’t want to stop it. I want to climb on its back and soak up every inch of the scenery. I want to drink in the laughter, the tears, the soccer games, the visits to the ER, the blues skies and the torrential rains that this world has to offer. For when the cosmic clock is finally grounded, I will climb off its back, grateful for the wild and wonderful (full-of-wonder) ride.</div>
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So enjoy your toddlers, your teenagers, your grandchildren. Don’t miss one bit of the ride due to fear or regret. For the day is coming when the tarnish of time will be removed from us all. And underneath will be revealed the beauty, the creativity, the wonder, the whimsy, and the perfected love that was imprinted on our souls from the very foundations of the universe. <a href="http://www.storywarren.com/time-flies/" style="background-color: transparent;">http://www.storywarren.com/time-flies/</a></div>
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<br />Christihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515018669403064554noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-369466491281007534.post-76656543352414734522013-05-09T19:44:00.001-07:002013-05-09T19:50:39.851-07:00Celebrate<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=369466491281007534" name="_GoBack"></a>Time to dust off the vases and prepare them for the bottomless bouquet of dandelions! One of my most favorite holidays is
here upon us...Mother’s Day. This year my children are at such a fun
age that they have great anticipation for each and every holiday, even when
said holiday does not celebrate them. That's okay, because I celebrate them. For me, Mother's Day is a chance to sit back and giggle to myself still in awe and wonder that <i>I</i> am a <i>mom.</i> A <i>Mom!</i> Sometimes I still can't believe it. Although to be honest, I approach Mother’s Day with more of a quiet reverence rather than as a day to
justify kicking back with my feet up.
(Oh, don’t get me wrong though, I <i>am </i>getting a pedicure.) But, each year around Mother’s Day I am
reminded of a time when a day that has become so celebrated, was once my least favorite day of the year, a day I wanted to stay in bed and hide under my covers until it was
over. Longing so badly for
children, my heart grew resentful of this elitist club that I couldn’t join. Resentful of the basket of flowers and the lady at church who handed one to each and every mother. I wanted one of those darn flowers so desperately, and yet couldn't have one. Well, I could have had one. They weren't heavily guarded or anything. I once or twice thought about grabbing the lot of them. Grabbing the whole basket and bolting out of the church, sprinkling them down the road as a flower girl walking down a wedding aisle would. But, I digress. What I mean to say is, Mother's Day was a really tough day for me not so long ago. Yet God blessed me with two precious gifts despite my
ignorance to all things He knew, and I am forever humbled. Motherhood has been the pleasure of my
life. </div>
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So this Mother's Day, I celebrate.
As I celebrate moments of each day. Waiting for these children placed in me a joy for parenting I may not have otherwise
known. It also left me with an empathy that I might not have otherwise known.
I remember noticing the heartbreak in a co-workers eyes when the news of
my pregnancy was shared at my office five years ago, an invisible flicker in
her eye that maybe she wasn't even aware of, but I felt it. And I cancelled my plans to buy out every funny maternity t-shirt with clever jokes spread across the bump. I don’t hide my joy about motherhood, but I
am sensitive that for many, including three special moms I know, this Sunday is a
heartbreaking reminder of a gaping hole in their lives. Posted on my refrigerator is a phrase written by Ann Voskamp. I read it to
remind myself when the days are long or when I’ve had a particularly trying
workday:</div>
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<i>Motherhood is a hallowed place because children aren’t
commonplace. Co-laboring over the
sculpting of souls is a sacred vocation, a humbling privilege. Never forget.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Happy Mothers Day, Mommas.</div>
<br />Christihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515018669403064554noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-369466491281007534.post-39934229848332434262013-04-05T20:01:00.000-07:002013-04-06T05:34:11.463-07:00In PursuitAt what age, I wonder, do we begin to remember events from our childhood as adults? Age four? Earlier? Well, that's quite unfortunate for my children. Unfortunate that this morning I forever left them with a vision of their crazy mom in a foot chase with a large raccoon across a barren, muddy field. First of many such memories, I suppose. But, it would seem that the first memory of your mom in all her crazy glory is the hardest pill to swallow, don't you think?<br />
<br />
It started out innocently enough. Kids buckled in the car, we ventured out ten minutes later than intended, as is typical, en route first to the babysitter and then on to a conference for work. Pulling out of the driveway and onto the road, my eyes caught a glimpse of something lumbering out of the ditch and into the field that borders our home.<br />
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<a href="http://www.stevecreek.com/">www.stevecreek.com</a></div>
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"Guys, look! Is that the biggest raccoon you've ever seen, or what?" Was it even a raccoon? It loped through the field. I ran through my mental list of critters and couldn't think of any other rodent that would match its description. <br />
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"Maybe it's a coyote?" A offered.<br />
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"I think it's a 'possum!" E's squint matched mine as we watched the critter running towards our yard. <br />
<br />
Wait. Towards our yard?!? Suddenly, it registered. Giant raccoon. Unassuming chickens. This was not good. <br />
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You know that flight or fight response we all have? Mine is flight. You name the emergency, I'm running from it. I scream and cower when so much as startled so often, I'm hardly even embarrassed about it anymore. I'm not exactly high on the recruitment list for volleyball leagues, which is fine; the adrenaline rush of leaping frantically away from each ball volleyed my way is just way too overwhelming for me. So tickle me powerful when without warning, I found myself veering the steering wheel sharply, pulling over to the side of the road and leaping from the parked car, in hot pursuit of this granddaddy of all raccoon whom I assumed was after my precious flock. I raced furiously through the field after it, flinging up clumps of mud behind me with each bound. I called for reinforcement from Spencer-dog who had no idea what all of the commotion was about, but was certainly excited to wait for me at the edge of the yard, wagging his tail excitedly as I galloped his way.<br />
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What a sight this must have seemed to any passerby. And oh, how I hope there were no passerby. Gratefully, I did not catch the raccoon. (No one is surprised by this, right?) Spencer-dog gladly took on his role of watch dog as I ran back to my car to find my children squealing delightfully: <i>Yee-haw-</i>ing and <i>Go Momma</i>-ing at this unexpected rodeo. I buckled in sheepishly, my adrenaline rush slowing and my analytic brain washing back in control and questioning my sanity. Worse than being potentially insane, did this escapade push me into new terrain? Had my life down the unconventional road less traveled suddenly swerved me into hillbilly territory? </div>
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<a href="http://greenbeanclub.blogspot.com/2011/12/pot-and-kettle-and-hillbillies-who.html">http://greenbeanclub.blogspot.com/2011/12/pot-and-kettle-and-hillbillies-who.html</a></div>
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(Have I already linked you to this story? If so, it's because it's one of my faves.)</div>
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If I were totally, totally honest though-and I try so hard to be-deep down I found myself so very grateful that I actually have a fight instinct after all. Not that I want to use it. I prefer to be spending my efforts working towards a more spiritually driven life than chasing critters about the Midwest. I mean, really, how many spiritually sensitive souls do you find so trigger happy that they run out, yippee-ki-yaying after a poor raccoon out for a morning stroll. John Edmiston writes about mastering our emotions by combining faith, courage, decisiveness, and balance...<span style="background-color: white; color: #000066;">The alternative to the fight or flight response is to achieve mastery of the situation. Jesus always demonstrated mastery of any and every situation He was presented with. He neither fought the soldiers who arrested him or fled them but rather throughout His entire trial demonstrated an amazing degree of personal mastery. At no point in His life did Jesus give in to the adrenalin-filled panic of a fight or flight response. He could have gathered an army but He did not. Perhaps He could have fled hostile Israel and gone to Greece and been welcomed as a philosopher, but He did not. There were times when He avoided Jerusalem because of the hostility and because His time was not yet come yet at no point did He react from instinct alone. </span><span style="color: #000066;">http://www.biblicaleq.com/12mind.htm</span><br />
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Still a long way to go. Still in pursuit. I'm trying though. Aren't we all? <br />
<br />Christihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14515018669403064554noreply@blogger.com1