Beefing it up

When I was a kid, we would travel to Canada to my grandparent’s home for Christmas. When we arrived, we would sit down to a roast beef dinner that my Grandma had lovingly prepared in anticipation of our visit. I can vividly remember how dry the roast was, and how much gravy it required.

I grew up believing that Grandma overcooked beef. As a matter of fact, it was sort of a joke with me when I cooked something too long, I would make some remark about how it resembled my Grandma’s roasts.

It wasn’t until I became an adult and I was driving to Canada myself one trip, that I realized how off schedule I was. In order to get there by car, I drive through Syracuse and Buffalo – both of which are famous for snow – and I was almost 2 hours later arriving than I had promised.

Hmmm. I applied this new knowledge to my childhood trips and realized that, no, my Grandmother did not enjoy leathered food, but she had been readying the supper for the time we claimed we’d arrive. I can almost hear her contemplating the problem, “Well, if they actually do make it on time, they’ll be hungry as bears….”

In truth, her overcooked roast was MY fault all those years, not her error in cooking judgment. I had it way out of context.

This may be a stretch for you, but that little piece of learning has helped me so much relationally. When I am ready to “decide” about a person or a situation, especially when someone behaves like leathered beef, God helps me remember that I probably do not see a complete picture. I simply do not have all the information and, admittedly, my understanding is all too limited by my own point of view.

Life requires a lot of gravy. Love anyway.

Anticipation

I have been holding out on you a little. We found out, in early July, that my husband’s 44 year old brother has Stage 4 cancer in his liver, lungs and colon. His name is Chris, and my husband shared a bedroom with him for 18 years growing up.

His family has wracked their brains for where this may have come from with no clear answers, only a cloud of questions and bewilderment. Chris is a crazy healthy guy, an exercising nonsmoker, so his diagnosis brought shock and disbelief with it.

I began to fervently pray, anticipating what God will do.

Here’s the thing though – later this week, after 8 weeks of radiation and chemo, Chris has a scan to determine where things stand. As I wait for the results of that test, my anticipatory prayers are themselves embattled. I want to have the kind of faith that anticipates ANYTHING that God allows, whether healing or otherwise. I want to be the kind of Christian who recognizes a bigger picture than the here and now. I want to really get it, you know?

But as I watch my husband, his parents, Chris’ wife & children suffer in anticipation, my yielding to God’s will falters a little and I find myself wanting to dictate to Him the right thing to do. Please make Chris better.

And even though this isn’t even close to being about me, I tell God that after Diana’s death, I’m just not sure how much more my heart can bear.

I want to see it with God’s eyes. I even sometimes do. Jesus healed some people, and He walked by others. I can’t always answer why He did so, especially when disease seems to be sitting in my lap this year, but I can acknowledge that it is true. My struggle then, is not with why God allows suffering, but why He chooses to intervene when He does – or doesn’t. And not just in my world, but in the world.

So, while I attempt to answer the unanswerable, I will declare my anticipation – believing my heart will follow.

Time capsules

While at the Family Reunion last week, my sister passed out pieces of paper with questions and fill-in-the-blanks. At the top it read, TIME CAPSULE, and apparently our written musings will be buried and then resurrected in 10 years time. She brought a colorfully decorated oatmeal canister for this burying/storage purpose, and so after we each wrote our answers, we were instructed to roll them up and put them in.

I had a terrible time with this activity. I just could not imagine what I would want recorded and reopened in 10 years. Now some of the blanks were easier to fill – favorite books, favorite movies – but even then I knew I had so many things that I marvel at, the thought of choosing one or two was daunting.

Others were impossible. “Tell us something about your current self.” I stared blankly at my page, even attempted to copy off my Aunt Ruth’s paper, but if I had plagiarized and written, “I love to do crafts and Siamese cats” it would have been an outright lie, so I went with, “I am currently great looking, thin, well-educated and easy to get along with.” It’s important to be truthful when capsulizing.

I’ll admit my answers were lame, and after I stuffed my paper into the Quaker Oats can, I took some time to consider the future. It was more than wondering who would be at the next reunion (would there be more children? Less loved ones?) it was a deep consideration of Jesus’ words, “Behold, I make all things new” (Rev. 21:5).

It really isn’t okay to stay the same. If, when our time capsule is opened in 2019, we are all exactly as we were last Saturday something will be terribly wrong. Jesus is making things new, He is changing and restoring me and His world, and by definition it means I should be different in some profound ways by then. I should be even more like Him as He reconciles who I currently am with who He intends for me to be.

When I pastored the 20somethings at our church, I used to tackle this issue like this:

Sometimes I think that we have a Friday Night Self and a Sunday Morning Self. Friday Night Self is outrageous and anything goes whereas Sunday Morning Self is a pretense of self-control and loveliness with others. We resist church (or what we view as the hypocrisy of it all), and the things of God, because we view the gap between our two Selves and we think, “I could never make the huge leap from Friday to Sunday.”

But the truth is, God isn’t asking us to. Yes, there are choices and bad decisions that we make on Friday that God wants to redeem, because often those choices hurt us and others. But He’s not much interested in the Sunday pretender either. What God really longs to do is to reconcile the two Selves midway – help us make better choices AND be a terribly honest and imperfect person too. That's why He bridge the gap between Friday and Sunday - death and new life in just three days.

Maybe you do not have a Friday Self and Sunday Self, but I’d venture to guess there are parts of you that seem impossible to fix – or perhaps you simply want the comfort and security of staying the same.

Time to capsulize. Write down the truth about who you currently are (a journal, a notebook, whatever) and start to cooperate with God. Don’t bother with the oatmeal canister because change will come in far less than 10 years. God can’t wait to start working.

The Longness of Things

I have been out of town. My Dad doesn’t like me to announce when I am going away on my blog, because he is fairly certain that all of you will conspire to rob me. That would have been okay – as long as you fed the dog on your way out.

I have been in Toronto, where my family is. As a matter of fact, we attended a family reunion while there. All of us in the same place.

I have no doubt that as the week goes on, I will pick apart our family idiosyncrasies and interactions to death (don’t you wish you were related to me??) but today I want to talk about the car ride up and back.

It is long. I don’t think I realized it as much as a kid (perhaps I forget) but as I get older it bothers me more. On the way north, we drove through rainstorms and hour long delays at the border and we were very close to being in a serious accident with a gentleman who was far more interested in his cell phone conversation than driving. The trip is usually nine hours, but we arrived twelve hours later, and my rear end was making it clear that it no longer enjoyed sitting on the middle hump in the back seat between two children. When I fell into bed at 2 am, I had fairly serious questions about whether it had been worth it.

Then I saw my family, and the longness of things became even more real. I have belonged to them a long time, and even though you would be hard pressed to believe we are from the same gene pool, there is something very deep and true and long that exists between us.

I enjoy great intimacy with some of them, and some I must confess are mysteries to me, but the longness between us is there – drawing us to meet in a park by Lake Ontario on a beautiful day to eat and play badminton and admire each other’s babies. And for one day the long becomes short and we are in each other’s presence – the ties that bind us have reeled us in close.

I have no doubt my rear end will brave the trip again – not too long from now.

Fifty words or less

My friend mentioned to me at work today that there were a lot of obituaries in the local paper today. Obituaries are fascinating things aren’t they? I always read them – sometimes before the headlines.

Summing up one’s life in a few paragraphs is a great exercise for the living, but is usually only done for the dead. Information about clubs, education, family members, hobbies and religious affiliations are all crammed into 50 words or less, but often what is not said is even more telling.

My husband has this theory that as the generations pass, your life gets summed up in one sentence by your great-grandchildren. For instance, since he is 6’7”, Steve predicts that his great-grandchildren will say, “He was tall.”

I was fortunate enough to have my great-grandmother with me until I was 40. Her name was Hannah and I wouldn’t know where to start to tell you about how great she was. It would require far more than one sentence. The verse that she used to pray was III John 2 & 4, “Beloved, I wish above all things that thou mayest prosper and be in health, even as they soul prospereth….I have no greater joy than to hear that my children walk in truth.”

Let me sum her up: Hannah walked in truth.

I wonder what my great-grandchildren will say?

Happy 70th Birthday, Dad. We LOVE you.

Road kill and other temptations

On Sunday morning, the family and I were headed to my in-laws’ church to see their Easter musical (which was great, incidentally). We were actually on time, a feat we were admiring as we sped down the road on our way.

As I looked ahead from the passenger seat, I saw a turkey vulture in the opposite lane, towering over some road kill. I do not know if you have turkey vultures where you live, but trust me when I say that they did not get in line when God was giving out beauty. Turkey vultures are some of the ugliest birds I have ever seen, they are even a tad bit scary looking.

Our Sunday friend was no different. I did not get a good look at the dead carcass, so I cannot tell you what it was dining on, but I can tell you that the turkey vulture did something unexpected.

As we neared it, I kept waiting for it to become startled or frightened by our approach, but no deal. The vulture seemed to completely ignore our speeding car as we neared. In fact, it NEVER MOVED – even as we passed directly next to it about 2 feet away.

I found this very intriguing, so as I saw a car pass us in the vulture’s lane heading directly for it, I turned around to watch and told the kids to also. You know, it was the craziest thing! It still refused to move. We watched as the car slowed at first, but then came to a complete stop right in front of the bird and its feast.

We continued on our way, trying to maintain our “on time” status, so I do not know who won the face off, but I did keep on thinking about the brazenness of it all.

Then I started to think about myself and all the times I have actually seen danger coming, but have refused to move. I think that sometimes unfortunate things come out of the blue, but often we are aware that trouble is speeding toward us but we still do not flee. That dead thing in front of us seems so attractive at the time.

Brazen.

La Ratatouille Extraordinaire

On Saturday, I got up early intending to have some time to myself. I usually read if I have a spare moment, but I just finished “The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao” by Junot Diaz, which won the Pulitzer Prize for Literature last year. It requires some process time after reading, so I didn’t plunge into my next book (which will be “The Grace That Keeps the World” by the way). Instead, I decided to find a movie on TV. It is true that I never have control of the remote, and it is also true that no one else in my home likes the kind of movies that I do (sub-titles make them all groan), so I started flipping through the on-screen Menu looking for MY choice.

Before my selection was even made, I heard footsteps on the stairs. Soon, Mia was snuggled up beside me on the couch, watching the choices click by and saying, “Oh, Mom, Ratatouille is on! Can we watch that?” Of course we can.

If you’ve never seen Disney’s Ratatouille, you truly are missing something. I have no doubt it produces different responses in different people, but every time I watch it, I want to COOK! Just in case, you didn’t understand, I mean COOK! – as in, exotic and gourmet (which I have absolutely no training for at all). Food, however, is such a creative medium.

When the movie was over, Steve and the boys were still asleep, so I moved to the kitchen to begin. Not exactly prepared with fresh ingredients, I ended up with Cinnamon Banana Waffles, covered in powdered sugar and real whipped cream (it was the best I could do considering all I really had on hand was leftover turkey). I carefully cut fresh banana slices to garnish the top, Mia called out, “Breakfast!” and the house started to stir.

The men dragged in, took one look at my masterpiece, and wanted to know if they could just have plain old waffles like they are used to. And where was the syrup? Apparently, there is only one way to eat waffles and, especially during holiday vacation times, you can only eat things that are familiar and understood.

In about a millisecond, I had a wide-range of thoughts and emotions. I went from “I should have made turkey waffles” to “cook your own breakfast next time” to “haven’t you ever seen Ratatouille?” to “I get the remote control for the whole day” to “my whole life is terrible because it lacks adventure.” This was all before 9:00 a.m.

Regardless of the fact that my family behaved badly, there’s a lot of tension between Ratatouille and real life. Movies that depict dreams coming true against all odds can lead us to believe that the everyday parts of our lives are somehow less or unsatisfying. And yet, it is in the faithfulness of everyday that the extraordinary really happens.

Great chefs create great food by ongoing experimentation and years of training (and lots of failure). Pulitzer Prize winning novelist Junot Diaz has horrific stories of the rejection of his earlier works (lots of failure). And I think people who walk closely with God realize that the discipline of everyday faith, and the embracing of lots of failure, are just as important as any epiphany or spiritual high…maybe even more so, for out of these moments the extraordinary reality of lasting CHANGE happens. Even if the way it happens isn't always MY choice.

WARNING! Do not read just before your Thanksgiving meal

The Melchior’s have the stomach flu. Well, the MALE Melchior’s do, and here’s the sordid tale:

At about 12:30 am early Monday morning, Steve started to feel a sense of unease in his stomach. Approximately 2 minutes after waking me to make me aware of his distress, another set of hurried footsteps were heard in the hall – footsteps that weren’t fast enough. Noah, whose room is closest to the bathroom, was so overwhelmed that he threw up in the hall and all over the bathroom floor. This particular turn of events was all Steve needed to ignite his pending issues, and since both could not crowd around the toilet at once, my husband grabbed the trash can.

The first violent dual episode lasted about 7 minutes, after which both Steve and Noah were too sick to do anything but climb back into bed (both in the bed that I happen to sleep in) so I was left to deal with the hall and bathroom.

As I scrubbed without gagging, I was reminded of the amazing constitution that God gave mothers. It’s amazing what we can do, and most of us would have never guessed it before our children were born.

Of course, after the time it took me to clean the walls, the vanity and the floors (not to mention the unlucky pile of clothes Noah had dropped and left outside the shower earlier in the day) I was just in time to witness Round 2. The retching and scrubbing episodes continued until about 5:30 am, at which time I sat down into a chair next to my bed (my side still occupied by my son) and patted his back in hopes that he would sleep.

Noah continued to get sick until 8:30 am, just as Steve began to experience a shivering fever and body aches and I was getting my other children on the school bus. Noah’s fever quickly followed, and at 10:15 am, the school nurse called to say that J.J. wasn’t feeling well. I was far from “public-ready” (the smell alone…) but I jumped in the car quickly in hopes of saving J.J. the embarrassment of school vomit.

To add to our collective pain, Mia’s 9th birthday party was scheduled for Tuesday, so I spent the early evening calling her girlfriends to cancel as I listened to my daughter wail in her bedroom. As I got off the phone, I put a few more dollars in her future therapy fund jar and climbed onto her bed to hug her until the sobbing slowed.

You know, I’m sure our drama would make a great illustration – something like how God never gags as He cleans up our messes (I’m actually not sure how theologically sound that is because He does mention that “spewing out of His mouth” business – Rev. 3:16) or how He never sleeps nor slumbers in our distress or the classic truth that He wraps His arms around His children as they mourn – but frankly, my brain can’t put it all together right now.

Besides, I’m feeling a little uneasy in my stomach.

Animal kingdom

I have been intrigued lately by the signs outside of churches offering “Bless the Animals” services. I have never attended one, but I’ve been told that you can take your pet to the church and have it blessed or prayed over.

My father was always the type that said, “A person is a person and an animal is an animal.” No, he wasn’t a farmer, and he dearly loved all our pets, but he just felt like there was a different level of investment you should make – people being more important. All that said, I wonder how God feels about blessing the animals and I hope my blog doesn’t get black-listed by PETA.

Over the years, I have known quite a few people battling illnesses. I used to work with a guy named Bob who was essentially estranged from his family because of choices he had made years before. When he discovered that he had cancer, several friends and I began to care for him. As he grew worse, it became evident that he could no longer care for his cat, Misty. Without asking her, I volunteered my mother to adopt the cat and, since he adored my mom, Bob had such a sense of peace that the animal he loved would be loved in his absence. My gracious mother agreed, and Misty moved in. Bob (and Misty) eventually died.

On Monday, I took Diana into the hospital for a surprise admission. She has been feeling terrible and her blood levels were dangerously low. Diana has a large, 13 year old, Doberman Pincher named The Lovely Miss Jasmine and Diana knows that as she feels ill and waits for a bone marrow donor match, it is getting harder and harder to care for her beloved dog.

I called my mom. After I got Diana settled in her room, I drove to her house and picked up Jasmine – all her toys and food and pillow and leash (which is red for Phillies!). We drove 20 minutes and I pulled up to the house where I had spent my teenage years. Right away, my parents pet her and soothed her and found a spot for Jasmine’s considerable luggage. I thought I’d stay a few minutes to make sure she was acclimated, but soon she was sitting in between my parents, in the family room, being cuddled and stroked and admired. She couldn’t have cared less if I was there or not.

Funny, but somehow the way that my mom blesses the animals actually blesses people. Knowing that their pets are safe and fed and loved is a great relief for people who are struggling and my mom’s animal convalescent home is a taste of the Kingdom, I think. In her faithful, poop-scoopin’ way, my mom is advancing peace. I certainly know how God feels about that.

Speaking of bail

My husband is away for business and I have a whole new respect for single parents. We have three children, so even when we are both at home we are outnumbered, but at least we can strategically position ourselves between each child to avert any poking or pinching or tripping that is attempted.

With Steve away, one of three things will probably happen this week, the best of which is that I will be arrested for throttling one of my own. They are making me nuts.

We all had off for Rosh Hashanah yesterday, and even though we had plans with Grandma and Grandpa, plans with friends, and plans to watch a new Blockbuster release, we couldn’t seem to stop picking on each other. Mom gets very stressed and her buffer of a husband isn’t here to, well, buffer.

Please do not misunderstand me. I love these children desperately – every inch of them. However, I need at least one more inch of rope, because I’m at the very end of mine with four more days to go.

My children don’t ever get the benefit of my party personality. You know, that persona that instantly appears when others are around, when we are all on our best behavior. I wonder what they are thinking sometimes when they see mine appear. “Man, everybody thinks my mom is so great. They should see her when the dishwasher isn’t unloaded immediately…”

I want to be a consistent person, so only one question remains. Do I let you see what happens when you don’t pick your socks up off the bathroom floor or do I start being on my best behavior with the people I love the most?

Wings Night

My children had off from school yesterday for teacher in-service meetings. So, on Tuesday night, about 20 of Noah’s friends showed up to play Manhunt in the yard. They yelled through the neighborhood until 9:30 pm and I wondered what the neighbors were thinking.

I paid them no attention, except to provide the popcorn, and just stayed upstairs watching “Dancing With the Stars.” At about 9:00 p.m., our friend Bob showed up thinking he would catch the end of the Phillies game until he had to take his son home (who was here for the Manhunt). I discovered that Bob was a Dancing virgin, so he sat down and watched Warren Sapp do the Quick Step.

There was a lot going on, with the kids running and yelling outdoors, the fierce ballroom competition on TV and the flipping of channels to keep checking the Phillies score. What happened next was completely unexpected.

As Bob, Steve, Mia and I sat mesmerized by Cloris Leachman, one of our two cats came jumping through the hole in the sliding door screen (a hole that he made to produce easy in/out access at all times). I happened to glance his direction, just in time to see that he had something in his mouth. Quickly, I alerted Steve to the situation, and my knight in shining armor jumped up to grab the cat.

Steve has lived in our town all his life, and I have lived here a few years myself, but what we saw in Bucky’s mouth was a first. I originally thought it was a bat, then a mutant chipmunk, but after closer observation (and some time on the Internet) we realized that we were in the presence of a dead Southern Flying Squirrel.

We all studied the creature with fascination and tried to recall if and when we had ever seen one anywhere. None of us could.

Steve, the mammal mafia, disposed of the body discreetly and we continued on with the evening. Parents arrived to pick up their kids and Bob eventually went home. When it was just the five of us again, still watching Lance Bass cha cha cha, the other cat jumped through the screen. Socks was also in possession of a creature, but managed to run into the living room as we all made chase.

Unbelievably, it was ANOTHER Southern Flying Squirrel and I couldn’t wait to show the boys what they had missed earlier in the evening. Until I realized that this one wasn’t dead.

The scene that followed should have been filmed, but I was far too panicked as the dear thing flew from our mantle to our dining room table, down our stairs and all over the house. J.J. was more than willing to grab it, but I was afraid he’d be bitten, so I told him that we would sacrifice Daddy to rabies instead. Mia stayed in the bedroom with the door shut, asking to be alerted when the crisis was over. Two cats, two boys, one dog and a 6’ 7” husband ran frantically through the house, ducking and bobbing, moving furniture and prodding with broom handles in a hopeless attempt to catch the scared-to-death second flying squirrel we’d seen that night. I watched and made high-pitched involuntary weenie noises.

Noah brilliantly opened all the downstairs doors, and the little guy finally found his way out, scampering across the deck to freedom.

Yesterday, I was chuckling as I remembered the whole thing, but still wondered where they came from. Out of respect, and in order to write a proper eulogy, I studied all about Southern Flying Squirrels today. Did you know:

SFS produce a high pitched vocalization above the frequency range of the human ear?

When flying, the SFS steers with its tail?

The SFS does not hibernate, but lives in close community with other SFS to keep warm in severe winter?

The SFS is profoundly nocturnal, almost never appearing when the sun is up? (which explains the fact that we have never seen one).

SFS are vegetarians?

SFS are commonly captured and bred as house pets?

They can be trained to use a toilet?

OK – so the last one is a lie, but the double visit from them on Tuesday night is not. On Wednesday night, the door was shut.

A tale of two kitties

At the risk of adding “Crazy Cat Lady” to my growing list of labels, I will today admit that we have two cats. They are brother and sister, and their names are Bucky and Socks. Bucky was named after an ill-fated American Idol contestant by my children, and Socks – well, you get it.

They are indoor/outdoor cats, kind of like Astroturf carpeting. Much to my husband’s chagrin, they have made a huge hole in the screen of the sliding door in our bedroom and they come and go as they please. Bucky is brazen and nomadic, but returns home for meals and a long afternoon nap. Socks is far more conservative, and she hangs around at home.

I was at the church one Sunday afternoon, hosting a Newcomer’s Luncheon (don’t get me started about that), when my children ran into the café excitedly and said, “Mom! Can we please get two kittens? Daddy says it’s fine as long as it’s okay with you.” The hopefulness in my children’s eyes, coupled with the fact that twenty potential new church members were staring at me, forced me to refrain from shooting my husband the look I wanted to give him. It was entrapment and he knew it.

The kittens had been rescued from a neglectful and abusive situation (yes, rescued by another crazy cat lady) and somehow Steve heard about them needing a home. We already had a dog, multiple gerbils, a rabbit and a young man trying to detox off of Methadone living in the house – not too mention the five of us. What was two more?

At first, the kittens produced and experienced all sorts of tension. The dog was unsure of them and they were unsure of the dog. We heard a lot of hissing. With three children, but only two cats, there were moments when I thought the felines might be dismembered, but each managed to stay in one piece. The cats themselves were crazy about the gerbils, but a few of the little rodents had heart attacks as a result of the looming felines. A few escapees even met a worser fate, and the cats left little evidence for forensic experts.

The kittens kept their distance at first, watching from across the room, and nervously jumping when anyone made a sudden movement. They needed to approach us on their own terms and in their own time. After awhile, and our patient care, they discovered that they (and we) were safe. Who knows what they had experienced before becoming Melchior’s, but now I can’t get them to stop sleeping on my head at night.

Now, years later, these crazy cats have taught me so much about wounded people. I have a piece of paper on my fridge that says, “Challenging behaviors are messages of unmet needs.” When we’re hurt, we are fearful and jumpy and unwilling to trust and often difficult to love. I know I am. But, wow, what happens when the world becomes safe! I think that may be the Christian’s main job in the world, you know? Just make the world safe for people in the name of Jesus. Think about it. Wherever you go, how can you make the world safe for everyone you meet? Listen? Go slow? Feed a stray? Hold someone? Patiently answer questions that you find silly? Pray with the dying? Learn someone else’s language? Accept the unacceptable? Lavish praise on someone else? Give someone shelter?

There are challenging patches, but the Melchior menagerie has just decided to love and accept each other – making our house safe – even when one of us eats another.

I'm shedding

My children started school two days ago. Noah, who started his first year of middle school, leaves much earlier than the other two. I wake him up, he jumps in the shower while I make breakfast and pack his lunch.

The lunch packing has been nerve wracking for me. I ask what kind of sandwich he wants, but beyond that, I have all sorts of anxiety about whether or not his complementary side items are cool enough for middle school.

It is important for me to tell you that Noah would never want to hurt my feelings, and would probably just suck it up if I put an apple juice box in there, because he knows how hard I have to try – not being a natural born June Cleaver. He’s a terrific kid.

On the first day, I packed PB&J, pretzels, a nectarine, string cheese and a Capri Sun which I hoped was more like a juice bag than a juice box. Noah came home and told me that after drinking his bag he was still thirsty at lunch and could I pack a bottle of water? I’m not sure if this was secret code talk or actual need for more hydration, but he had a water bottle the next day.

I resisted every temptation to walk him to the bus stop, which is the end of our driveway, or at least sit on one of the benches outside the front door. Instead, I stood fixed by the kitchen window and fretted about the Capri Sun as he stood there and waited by himself for the bus to come.

Off he went, without a look back.

It was different with the younger two. I packed all their favorites in their lunchboxes (one of which says, “High School Musical” across the front). We walked to the end of the driveway together where I took multiple pictures of them as we waited. We remembered our manners, how we give everything a try even if we’re not good at it, and that God is the One who gives us value. They both kissed me as the bus rounded the curve, and waved from their seats as it drove away.

I was just thinking the other day that I wonder what it would be like if I could shed my grown-up skin. I’m sure that I wouldn’t be such a study in contradictions, and yet I often find that grown ups are as good at pretending as kids are – if not better. As I watch Noah grow, I understand his need to do things differently, but it also makes me reflect on the growing sense of independence from God that I developed as I got older. Perhaps what Jesus meant by child-like faith, was just an acceptance of the need for total dependence on Him and complete interdependence on one other. Just eagerly waving to one another and sharing juice boxes without fretting about what anyone thinks.

Yes, I was sitting outside on the bench by the front door waiting for Noah to come home. I sort of felt like Forrest Gump. I took a book out with me, and as soon as I heard the familiar sound of the bus engine up the street, I quickly opened it and pretended like I’d been reading for hours. I only casually looked up after he was well off the bus and it had driven away.

Noah smiled at me sitting there. He walked toward me and sat right down next to me. One by one he described his teachers, his new friends, his failed attempts to open his locker and his dictator of a math instructor. I laughed and listened and realized that no matter how big we all get, we really do need each other.

In the middle

My oldest son, Noah, and I went out for breakfast together yesterday. The other two were with friends, so Noah and I headed to a local haunt called Yanni’s – just the two of us.

Noah starts middle school in a few weeks. He is a great story teller, his language is rich and full of descriptive details. He makes faces that support his humor and I LOVE to be with him. We ordered omelets and toast.

Midway through the meal, we talked about middle school. I have never sent for one of those government sponsored pamphlets on How to Talk to Your Kids about Drugs or anything, I just asked him how he was feeling about a new school, a new grade – about the new.

I remember when I was young, I would have nervousness about new experiences. I didn’t avoid them, but I gave myself little pep talks with every first step. I went to 9 schools in 12 years, so I was often the new kid, and I can still recall the feeling in my stomach on my first day – looking at the entrance doors as if they were a portal to the completely unknown.

Noah is not me. He had one orientation meeting last spring that lasted about 2 hours, but he feels like he knows the layout already. He is eager to meet new people and try out for the basketball team in late fall. He has queried some kids he knows from the higher grades and feels so excited to be a part of what they’ve described. I love it.

As we were finishing up, I looked over the booth at him and said, “You know how much I love you, right? I have all the faith in the world in you, Noah. Always remember who you are and Whose you are, because you are a great kid and you are loved no matter what.”

He made a goofy face, rolled his eyes, and said, “Who doesn’t love Noah?” I let him be a strange and awkward 12 year old boy whose mother had just gone over the line in a diner. We then talked about the MLB scores from the night before.

Our plates clean, I paid the waitress and we got up to leave. An elderly couple was leaving too, and Noah ran ahead to hold the door for them. Then, as we walked silently to the car, he grabbed my neck and hugged me in a headlock all the way.

Sleeping pale

My mother had major abdominal surgery yesterday. We knew she needed a procedure, but it ended up being more involved than we originally thought. Mia and I sat with my Dad in the waiting room while Mom was in recovery.

The day before, I asked her how she was holding up. She was nervous, but Mom has always been a bit of a weenie, so I listened to her concerns, all the while thinking about the three C-sections I have survived. She would be fine.

The doctors came out and told my Dad that the operation went smoothly, “textbook” was the term they used, and Mom would be asleep for awhile. We grabbed Mia by the hand and headed down to the hospital cafeteria – one of the best I have ever seen – and we had salads for lunch. My daughter talked Grandpa into a chocolate chip cookie as we headed back to the elevators.

Mom had been moved to a room, so we made our way to her new digs, happy to drop off the books and clothes that we were lugging around. We found the right room number, walked past her roommate in Bed #1, looked behind a curtain, and there she was.

I didn’t actually make an audible noise I don’t think, but inside I experienced an emotional hiccup. My mother looked so small, so pale, and she had all kinds of gadgets attached to her. She was still sound asleep, but her breathing was shallow and hindered by the tubes in her nose.

After a quick glance to check my daughter’s reaction (she was helping Grandpa find a place to put Grandma’s suitcase) I looked down at my mother. Her body had experienced a trauma, and I thought of how it was working frantically to heal itself, red blood cells rushing to clot and brain synapses alerting her to pain.

For the very first time, I was shaken into considering what life would be like without my Mom. I would really miss her if anything ever happened to her. Really. I stood there wanting to cry, realizing that I was, in fact, the weenie. I wanted to take away her pain and anxiety, to thank her for being great, to wake her up.

As the minutes ticked by I started to get over the initial shock of it all. I focused on figuring out how to use the TV remote, watched a cooking show with Mia, became perturbed because Mom’s IV drip alarm kept malfunctioning, had a discussion with my Dad about the new book he is reading, and patiently listened to the beautiful sound of my mother’s snore.

Good fortune

I went out for Chinese last night. My friend Diana had a rough day, so we decided to eat Lo Mein. Steve, the kids – we all went. The food was good, the friends were good, the conversation was good, the laughter was really good.

Diana fought cancer this year, and for all intents and purposes, she and God won. Her doctor says her numbers are great, she has a full head of hair, and she is back to work. I think the hard part now is dealing with the post-cancer feelings. She’s been in survival mode for so long, where does all that intensity go now?

Our lives have been busy lately and it was great to see her and great to be seen. I waited on the bench in front of our house because I was eager to see her Mustang turn into the driveway. I smiled and hugged her, and soon the kids were doing the same.

The maitre' de at the restaurant did a whole shtick while delivering the menus. He claimed that after you eat the Amazing Shrimp, you will scream for joy in the parking lot afterwards. Diana decided to test his assertion.

So, after we ate Governor’s Chicken, Amazing Shrimp, Crabmeat Cream Cheese Wontons, and Colossal Shrimp with papaya (yum), we were served our fortune cookies. The Melchior’s are kind of stupid about fortune cookies. We carefully select which one we believe is fated to be ours, then we read them one by one while the rest of the group listens.

Noah read: “You can overcome any obstacle.” I laughed inside as I thought of how my son had hunted down the phone number of the out of town girl he’d met at camp, finally asking her father’s permission (through me) to give her a call.

Steve read: “You love a challenge.” My husband, the consummate salesperson, who thinks “by commission” is the only way to earn a living.

Mia read: “An unexpected surprise awaits you,” which I wondered about quizzically until we came home and discovered one of the cat’s hairballs on the bed.

J.J. read: “You love the nightlife.” Extremely frightening for his mother, but I must admit that if any of my children will ever get arrested – it will be J.J.

Diana, who was thrilled that the cookies were dipped in chocolate, opened hers and grinned. She looked up at me and said, “This you won’t believe. Mine says, ‘God will help you overcome any hardship.’”

Besides the fact that I have never before seen a Chinese fortune that referred to God, I had this feeling in my gut that God loves a coincidence. I’m not saying He planted the fortune, but I think He loved it when she was assured.

We left and returned to my house. I had to leave (another all-nighter with my editor buddy) and so I hugged and kissed her goodbye in the driveway. She wasn’t exactly screaming for joy, but there was definitely a spring in her step that wasn’t there before she experienced Amazing Shrimp and a bit of good fortune.

My cookie? After listening to everyone else read theirs, I eagerly opened mine. They had all been so perfect, so fitting to their possessors. I was sure mine would say something like, “Your book will appear on the NY Times bestseller list for at least a kajillion weeks,” or “Oprah’s Book Club here you come!” or at the very least, “You will lose the extra weight without dieting.” You know, something ideal for ME.

But, alas, my slip of paper read, “You are attracted to ancient Chinese culture.” I'm sure God got a big kick out of that one, too.

Home again, home again, lickety split

Mia and I are going back home later today. We’ve only been gone a week, but it’s time.

I was amazed how hungry I was for news from home. Not that I was looking for any grand tales, it was the everyday stuff I wondered about. The boys would call and report baseball scores and Noah even gave me play by play of last week’s games. Steve told me what he was mustering up to feed everybody and how the boys were falling into bed dead tired each night after baseball camp.

While talking to my mother, she double checked our flight number and arrival time several times, eager to pick us up asap. She told me about her garden and some of the shenanigans my father got into this week.

My friend Diana sent me daily emails, updating me on all the Colbert Reports I was missing. She assured me that she laughed for me, so all is not lost.

And I smiled as I read Bob’s emails. Addressed to lots of people, they were reminders of game times and tournament schedules for this weekend and I knew I would be sitting with my buddies on the bleachers soon – laughing and cheering (or groaning) and doing life together.

Last night, as Mia talked on the phone to her brother, JJ, he ended his conversation with her by saying, “I love you, Mia.” After she hung up, she looked at me with an enormous smile and said, “JJ told me he loves me.” I smiled too.

It is wonderful to belong to someone.

The desert in July

I am in perpetually sunny Phoenix. People who enjoy dirty streets, elitist attitudes and the depression of the northeast, should not move here. Neither should anyone who likes colorful autumns, reading books on rainy days and/or buildings full of history.

I will be here all week as I work on a project for Crossroads Church. Great place, great people. They warmly received me in their pulpit yesterday.

My daughter came on this trip with me and I had five whole uninterrupted hours with her on the airplane. Mia is the most giving child you will ever meet – kind, compassionate, helpful, compromising. It may be because she has two older brothers and has had to learn to get along. My daughter also has auditory dyslexia, which means that her right brain hemisphere doesn’t decode sound in the same way yours and mine does. She is crazy creative, though, and most brains don’t work like that either.

On the plane, she shared some of the insecurities she feels at school. Sometimes, when she is watching something with friends, they all know what’s going on right away and she doesn’t. I sat and listened with an exploding feeling in my chest – that feeling of sadness, helplessness and jaw-setting determination to fix something – as I listened to my favorite girl’s struggle.

Almost harder to swallow is the realization that Mia’s battle is part of what makes her wonderful. Nothing comes easy for Mia, so she quickly recognizes and empathizes with the struggles of others. Her imperfections have produced a wide berth for others inside her tiny heart. I think it's called grace.

So, this morning I prayed once again for her to know that God gives her value and that I will be the mother she needs. Then I thanked God for the things inside me that don’t work.

Papa was a rollin' stone

Growing up with a Canadian father only means two things for certain. First, you will have to rely on someone else to teach you the proper way to pronounce words like garage, municipal and diaper. Secondly, you will watch a lot of ice hockey on TV. The other things, like performing an opera in the vegetable garden, raising 150 chickens in a suburban neighborhood and never having a bedtime, are not so much about having a Canadian father as they are about having my Canadian father.

My father is a wonderful man. He is gifted and fun and intelligent. Open to new ideas, my Dad has always been an adventurer, willing to go and try and dare. He raised his daughters to be upright and fair, but not shrinking violets.

My Dad is a psychologist. He is a patient listener and a consistently caring man, so it is no surprise that I can vividly remember the first time I ever saw my father lose his temper. It was, and is, a rare occurrence. Back in 1977, Dad had a red Honda Civic hatchback. One afternoon, as we drove along on a road close to home, we hit a big pothole, and the hubcap flew off and rolled away. Dad pulled the car to the side of the road (it was not a busy road), and we jumped out to hunt for our missing wheel cover. After hunting on the embankment for less than a minute, a car came flying down the road going far faster than the speed limit. Without any time to react, the driver saw my 10 year old presence on the side of the road at the exact moment he hit the pothole, and he lost control of his car, swerving and squealing his tires. The car just barely missed hitting me, and it probably would have if I hadn’t ran up into a stranger’s yard to save my skin.

When the car came to a stop, we saw a teenage boy, white from fear, in the driver’s seat. I stood there, my own heart beating rapidly too, and watched my father walk to the car, reach his hand in, grab the young man by the shirt, and, yes, pull the driver out of the car through the window. My Dad did not hit him or anything, but in a matter of seconds, this young man knew just how much ice hockey my dad watched AND how important I was to my father.

I laugh at the story now, but one thing is very true. Besides the two times (another story for another day) he almost assaulted other people, my father was intentional about modeling how to live. I grew up knowing I was important, I was heard, and I was always worth his time and energy. As a matter of fact, I have often told my father that the ways that he loved me pointed me to a healthy and clear understanding of how God loves me.

On this post-Father’s Day day, it might be a good idea to recognize how profoundly our fathers shaped our understanding of God. On a level that we may not even understand, our dads gave us clues about a Heavenly Father. If your dad was withholding with his praise and affection, you may view God as the Great Task Master in the Sky. If your dad traveled for business all the time, perhaps you see God as a distant, never-available type with a pen protector in his chest pocket. If your dad was overly permissive, never giving you healthy boundaries to help you feel safe, you may wonder if God even cares at all or rebel against any of His guidelines that help us live in peace.

So, as your cleaning the grill today after feeding your dad yesterday, take a second to honestly reflect on your father - not with the intent to criticize – but in order to better understand why you respond to God the way you do.

Just to clear things up a little, Jesus said, “Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!"

In other words, no matter how your father loved you – well or badly – how much more God wants for you! How he longs to provide you with good! He would really love to prove your misconceptions about Him wrong, and I dare you to let Him.

And, to Fred: Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Thank you for being an intentional father. Thank you for vegetable garden operas that taught me to be free and not to be concerned if the neighbors thought I was crazy. Thank you for your pursuing and tenacious love. The shirt I gave you this year does not come close to repaying the gift you have given me.