Visiting the Family Farm

I spent my Memorial Day weekend at the Family Farm. (And on the LO-O-ONG drive to and from the Family Farm.) My dad's family had a reunion this weekend. So did my husband's mom's family, but just he and the girls made it to that one -- I stayed at the Family Farm for a memorial service for my aunt who died suddenly Friday morning. (This required some complicated arrangements for me over the weekend, but that's another story.)

Anyway . . . the Family Farm. In Gem, Kansas, just outside of Colby. Western Kansas. Farm country. My sisters, being older than I, spent a lot more time at the Family Farm with Grandpa (who died when I was a baby), Grandma, aunts, uncles and cousins. I went to a couple reunions there when I was young and occasionally visited the aunt and uncle who moved in when the grandparents moved out.

But I'm a city girl through and through. The Family Farm was kind of an abstraction to me. A nice place to visit, but I didn't necessarily feel a personal connection to it, as much as I appreciated the idea of it.

At this visit, however, I was an adult . . . and the weekend was all about remembering my aunt and dad and grandma and hearing others remember other family members who have left us that I never knew . . . and it was much more meaningful for me than past visits.

Things That Stood Out to Me This Weekend About the Family Farm:

- My grandparents apparently first acquired this property and started living there in 1921, two years before my dad was born. I'm not sure why that fact was so remarkable to me, but wow. A lot of history there.

- There's a gas pump by their driveway. I never noticed this. Apparently, that was a "duh" thing for everyone else there. Of course they have their own gas pump. Gotta fill up the tractors and so forth. Geez, so much I don't know about farm life.

- My aunt had a big shadow box on the wall (see the picture to the right) with things that, out of the corner of my eye, looked like dried flowers or weeds. Nope. Turns out, those were crocheted items made from . . . the hair of my deceased female relatives. No lie. It seems this was a common thing back then. Women would save the hair from their hairbrushes and use them like thread to crochet decorative items, like these little flowers and such. Several had labels attached with the name of the woman whose hair was used for that item, but all but one label were faded now. Kind of cool and kind of creepy at the same time.

But it reminded me of how differently the Greatest Generation lived. My parents lived through the Depression. They used everything until it completely wore out. I remember my mother rinsing out plastic bags and hanging them out to dry so she could use them over and over again. That was a bit extreme, but the wastefulness of my generation is extreme, too.

- As I said, I never knew my Grandpa. I only know him from pictures. But in most of the pictures I've seen of him, the bottom half of his face is very, very tan -- so brown that he almost looks like the old comics who did blackface. His forehead, on the other hand, was white. A farmer's tan, from wearing hats out in the fields all day. That's the image of my Grandpa in my mind.

And I was struck this weekend, while looking at old pictures of my dad and his siblings when they were young, how often the boys had the same white foreheads. Early twentieth century farm families . . . the boys worked on the farm all day, too. We have lazy, privileged kids these days. I'M a lazy, privileged kid.

- The farmhouse seemed so small. I realize that this was because for most of my visits there, I was so small. But I couldn't quite imagine how a family of nine had lived here. (And in fact, my mother told me that when she met my dad's family, the farmhouse wasn't even built yet. They were all living in the basement.)

- The farmhouse seemed so sweet. I don't think I thought much of it when I was young, other than it seemed old and it had features I was completely unfamiliar with, like the big heating vent on the floor you had to be sure not to step on with bare feet in the winter. But this weekend, it felt cozy and homey and sweet. I kept thinking, I could live here. And I know I've never thought that before.

- The air is so fresh and clean. We had perfectly gorgeous weather for the reunion, and the windows in the house were open so a breeze could blow through every room. Lovely. Refreshing. I want to live like that.

- The world is so huge. The sky is enormous! Until you've stood on a dusty road in western Kansas and scanned the horizon in every direction, you simply can't conceive of how big our world is. I remember traveling with my dad in forested and mountainous areas and hearing him complain that you couldn't see anything because all the trees were in the way. I always thought that was the most bizarre statement; I get it now.

One of these days, my aunt and uncle are not going to be able to live on the Family Farm any longer. I kept hearing this weekend that one of their sons would be moving in then. I'm glad. All of a sudden, it is very important to me that the Family Farm stay in the family.

Je Suis Bilbo

My middle school students are assigned a "Home Reader" each quarter, a book they are supposed to read at home and complete a response form about. I don't choose the books for their Home Readers, and several of them were new to me this year. I've spent a significant amount of my reading time keeping up with my three grades and all of their readers.

The 7^th grade class read The Hobbit third quarter. That's one I have read before, a long time ago with my eldest in homeschool, but I didn't really remember any of it. And I only saw the first of the movies, so I figured I'd better go through that one one more time.

And . . . it was alright. I think that, for whatever reason, J.R.R. Tolkien just isn't my cup of tea, which surprises me, because he sounds like something I would be all about. Hubby and I tried to watch the first Lord of the Rings movie and never finished it – which is something we never do. It just didn't grab us. I probably will try reading the books sometime and see if I like them better.

But returning to The Hobbit: as I said, it was . . . alright. Some fun parts, some dull parts, nothing that jumped out and really inspired me, frankly.

Other than Bilbo. I can relate to Bilbo. You know what it is about him that I can relate to? He had absolutely no interest in going on an adventure. He was quite content sitting in his little hovel with a very calm, predictable life for the rest of his days. It was comfortable. He liked comfortable. I like comfortable.

Now, once he got out and experienced some excitement, he enjoyed it. He was proud of what he was able to accomplish on his adventure. But when it was over, he was quite ready to go back home to his calm, predictable, comfortable life.

I can't say that I'm happy about the fact that I'm like Bilbo. That's not the kind of person I want to be. I see these people with all this energy and enthusiasm doing all these exciting things and kinda wish that was me. But not so much. I need a shove. I need a Gandalf to come in and say, "What's wrong with you? We're going to do this. This is what you were made for. Let's go."

Lately, it seems to be my kids that inspire me to get out and do. Too often, it has been the case that if I want something available for my kids -- a homeschool drama program, an English class at their school, a book club, a Bible study -- I have to go out and make it happen myself. I'm much more likely to put myself out there for the sake of my kids than for my own sake.

'Cause I'm Bilbo. The comfortable.

But someday soon (too, too soon!!), my girls will be gone, and I won't have that shove. What will I do then? 

Maybe when I get my sleep problems taken care of (when? if? not holding my breath), I'll have more energy and want more excitement in my life. Right now, I love my home and my sofa. I love them a lot.

"Bother burgling and everything to do with it! I wish I was at home in my nice hole by the fire, with the kettle just beginning to sing!"

Me, too, my hobbit friend. Me, too.

Getting Rooted at the Right Now Conference

Last week, I had the privilege of attending the Right Now Conference in Dallas and hearing some amazing speakers (Francis Chan, Eric Metaxas, and others). I've been digesting what I heard for a couple days and want to summarize the most pertinent points here -- for your and my benefit.

- The parable of the mustard seed. Note that, when we plant a mustard seed, our end goal is . . . well, mustard. But in the parable, what God accomplishes is a huge plant in which birds build their nests. We have one goal -- God uses our work to accomplish another goal, often something that never even occurred to us. God's purposes are far beyond what we have in mind. Cool. (From Mark Batterson)

- If the Spirit lives in us -- if we really and truly believe that -- why don't we allow Him to live through us more often? Why do we insist on doing things on our own strength? (Pete Briscoe)

- We pray best when we're most aware of our sin . . . when we involve our bodies (knees, anyone?) . . . when we pray our gut-honest desires (which is risky and takes courage) . . . and when we remember God's grace. (Jen Pollack Michel)

- Plagiarism is taking credit for another person's work and words. How many of us commit spiritual plagiarism every day? Taking credit for work that was actually God's. ALL THE TIME . . . (Bryan Carter)

- Larry Osborne spoke about Daniel being a model for the Christian in this post-modern age. He teaches us how to live successfully in Babylon. So much to glean from that. Daniel had humility with the pagans around him. He never copped an attitude about how wrong they were; he spoke with respect and graciousness to them. He made Nebuchadnezzar a better king and a better person, just being with him. He had the wisdom to pick his battles rather than fighting everything wicked around him.

Something interesting he pointed out. Daniel and his friends were brought to be trained "in the language and literature of the Babylonians." That means, they were being taught Babylonian religion -- paganism and the occult. And not only did they not refuse to participate in that education, but God gave them "knowledge and understanding" of what they were learning and more, to the point that when their training was evaluated by the king, he found none equal to them. And this was the only reason that they were allowed to be in the service to the king, that they were put in places of such tremendous influence, that they had ANY credibility with the most powerful rulers of the world at that time, and that we even know their names today. A great argument against the "cocooning" so many Christians do today -- as if knowing the theory of evolution or the basic tenets of Islam will transfer heretical germs to the believer.

- When you accepted Jesus, you accepted the call to missions. Period. No further call is needed.

- Eric Metaxas talked about William Wilberforce. When Wilberforce was saved, he assumed he would need to give up politics (which at the time was an even dirtier profession that it is today). But his pastor, John Newton, told him to stay, to be a light in the place where God had put him and with the gifts God had given him. Again, no cocooning ourselves from the world's dirt and grime: go engage, and learn, and salt, and shine your light.

- God's desire is for us. (Francis Chan) Why do we need to be reminded of that? But we do. Often. God's greatest desire is not for a just society or sinless followers or miserable people or even happy people. God's desire is for a relationship with us. Everything else is either a means to that end or a result of that blessing.

Yep. A good week. Thanks, Paul and Jackie.

Too Lazy for Due Diligence

I'm not normally a . . . you know . . . activist type. But I had a thought while driving home from Kansas this past weekend.

About an hour north of Austin on I-35 (Austin! I-35! Oh, Texas friends, you know the insanity, don't you), our traffic slowed to a crawl for about twenty minutes. On a Sunday night after 10pm, I couldn't imagine what would be causing a traffic jam other than an accident, and hubby saw some flashing lights way ahead of us, so we assumed that was the case.

But as we neared the problem area, we saw that the flashing lights were on some kind of construction-looking vehicles, not emergency response vehicles. And these vehicles were empty and not moving; they were way off to the side of the road cushioned by three lanes of traffic blocked by orange barrels -- those orange barrels they use to block off construction areas.

Yet, we saw no construction. No construction work going on, of course (as if they'd be out fixing our roadways at night on a Sunday, the least busy traffic time on the highway, as would be logical). But there wasn't even any evidence of construction in progress. Three perfectly good, very drivable lanes were simply blocked off for no apparent reason, and all the Sunday night traffic on I-35 (north of Austin! Insanity!) was funneled into one lane . . . again, for no apparent reason.

Now, I know you all are thinking, "OH, yeah, I see that all the time. Drives me crazy." Because yeah -- we do see that all the time, don't we? Traffic lanes blocked off for "potential" construction zones although they are completely passable at that time and it seems they will be for the foreseeable future. And the flow of traffic is drastically disrupted because of it. We are all aggravated about that.

And my question is, why do we put up with it?

Doesn't the Department of Transportation work for us? If everyone who drove through that single lane of traffic Sunday night -- or even just half of the people -- wrote or called the state highway officials and complained about the situation, wouldn't they have to do something about it? If everyone who ever finds themselves in such a situation contacted the officials to bring the problem to their attention, wouldn't just the extra phone and email traffic be annoying enough for those officials to make more effort to prevent such scenarios from occurring in the first place? You would think so.

So why don't we make such calls? I submit two reasons. One, we are lazy. Two, we assume there is a reason for the blockage that we just aren't aware of. The first reason is obviously unacceptable; citizens cannot be lazy in a democracy. And I'm not sure the second reason is acceptable, either. We're not stupid. We can look at a piece of highway and tell if it is drivable or not. Why do we assume such incompetence from ourselves?

It concerns me a bit that we have this tendency to look at situations created by our government agencies -- situations that seem to all intelligent observation to be useless, wasteful, inefficient, perhaps even unethical or illegal -- but we don't trust our instincts about that. We give our government the benefit of the doubt. Do they deserve that benefit? Perhaps. But I think we lose something important in our lack of diligence in their oversight. And it starts in the little situations . . . the three lanes of traffic blocked off for no apparent reason.

But I'll admit: I'm too lazy to do anything about it. Sigh! We deserve the government we get.

Burnin' Rubber, Baby

You don't have to know me too terribly well, I don't think, to recognize that the local drag races is not a likely spot to find me on a Saturday night. And yet, there I was. In fact, there we all were – my family of four. Hubby seems determined to give our girls a well-rounded education. "We should go to the races sometime," he said. So we went.

We had no idea what to expect. The website was pretty vague; we weren't even clear about what time the festivities started. We showed up at about 6:30 and parked in the grass, as instructed, so we wouldn't be mistaken for a racer. 

Cuz this was apparently a "run what ya brung" night, as my FB friend called it. Anybody can race any vehicle they want. For an extra $8, we could've added our van to the mix of competitors. It amused us that the woman at the gate asked to clarify that we were just there to watch. Did she really expect us to race our old minivan? Surely she was joking.

So. My first impression of the San Antonio Raceway? Burning rubber STINKS. Phew.

There were only a smattering of people in the stands, and frankly, our family seemed to be one of the most animated of the clusters, due mainly to the great classic rock music playing over the loud speakers. (Just take those old records off the shelf! . . . We will, we will rock you . . . More than a feelin' . . .) And probably to the fact that nobody was sitting close enough to us to pay any attention to what we said or did or how clearly ignorant we were of the proceedings.

Our youngest spent the first half hour or so wanting to be the announcer – which would have been hilarious considering she doesn't know a darn thing about cars. "And now, folks, we have a . . . pretty little red thing in the Napa Auto Parts lane, and a black car with some contraption on the hood in the other lane . . . yeah, I don't know what that is, but it looks like it might make the car go fast. On a side note, you can see Yours Truly in a production at Crystal Sea Drama Company August 1^st and 2^nd; buy your tickets now!" The rest of the time she focused on her eerily accurate predictions of racers' times when they crossed the finish line. Wish that was a marketable skill.

Our oldest admired the purple flames painted on two of the racing vehicles (one of which pretty much smoked its competition every time). She also got quite riled up every time a race between a Chevy and a Ford was announced, rooting wildly for the Ford (after asking her father, "Which one's the Ford?"). She also got tickled imagining her sister running down the track with a dog chasing her and spent ten minutes or so cracking herself up over that.

A few cars had little streams of steam shooting out of their hoods at the starting line. The announcers used the term "purging" to refer to them. Hubby googled that on his phone: something about . . . nitrous . . . something . . . I just labeled them the "bulimic" cars. We'll figure out the details when we're studying chemistry next year or something.

We enjoyed some interesting t-shirts. "F-- Your No Skateboarding Sign" (uncensored) stood directly in front of us for quite a while. (Wish I could  channel that passion into a more meaningful cause.) Another gentleman informed us in huge letters across his front, "I LOVE BEER," prompting my husband to threaten to wear a shirt next time saying "I LOVE PINOT NOIR AND A SMALL SLICE OF CAMEMBERT." We would probably be the only ones amused at that.

In the end, we spent two hours (in remarkable pleasant weather for south Texas in July) watching cars drive as fast as they could down that quarter-mile stretch – and a couple motorcycles, one of which gave me heart palpatations when it crossed the finish line going 150 mph (that's insanely dangerous, people!!). And I was amazed at how fast the time went and how entertained we were. I even got used to the burnt rubber smell. Gettin' a little less prissy all the time, people.

Weekend Wonderings

And it's Monday morning again. And again, I don't know what to blog about.

We had a busy weekend, and I could tell you all about that, but frankly, I know most of you don't care. I mean, okay -- you care . . . you're not cold, heartless people. But you don't want to hear the details of our social life.

And you probably don't want to hear this, either. But what I'm going to write about is a couple little things I found myself wondering over the weekend.

We went to the Texas Renaissance Festival on Saturday, and I found myself wondering about the people who do this kind of thing on a regular basis. First of all, can you really make a living at this stuff, or is this a hobby that you support with a boring "real job" the rest of the year?

But also, what kind of person is willing to take on a persona like that and live that way every weekend? I mean, I'm an actress; I understand the fun of being a different person for a while. But some of these are odd folks, my friends. Have you been to a Renaissance Fair? Interesting, yes -- entertaining often -- but also pretty freaky.

I've thought before that my ideal retirement job would be to volunteer at a historical site somewhere, giving the tours and informational talks in character. I would love that. But were I to do that, I would not choose the type of character these folks were playing. This had nothing to do with history -- this had to do with having an excuse to be outrageous and outlandish and get legally paid to do so.

I also found myself wondering, if an actual person from the Renaissance jumped forward in time and showed up at one of these events, would they recognize anything? Would they be just as freaked out by the weirdos? Or was the Renaissance really as weird as all this?

And weren't knights and jousts from the middle ages? A few centuries before the Renaissance? Does anyone at these events really care about the timelines here?

Anyway. On to other wonderings from the weekend.

Yesterday, our school held a fall festival to raise money. Adding on the secondary school has proved rather costly (we have a new 9th grade class this year and will add classes as they move up). A high school is much more expensive than an elementary school. And a brand new high school needs to prove itself before it gets enough students enrolled to support the program through tuition. Thus the need for a lot of fund-raisers this year.

Here's what my husband suggested and what I keep thinking: there are some incredibly wealthy people out there. Lots of them, really. People who could give up the several thousand dollars it takes to run this secondary school for a year and never miss it. And some of those people have a real passion for education. Some of them have a real passion for the faith, and for young people being raised up and trained as warriors for the kingdom.

There is a person out there somewhere who would love nothing more than to pay the operating expenses for this school for a few years until the enrollment is such that it can support itself. We just don't know how to find that person. How do you find that person?

This I wonder.

Fredericksburg and Shops

Last Saturday, our family drove the one-hour jaunt up to Fredericksburg, one of the many little towns around here that we keep hearing we need to visit. There happened to be a Food and Wine Festival going on -- we didn't even know until we got there, but we didn't participate in that anyway.

We took a peek in an old, old Catholic church right by where we parked (I love looking inside old churches). We spent an hour or so at the Pioneer Museum -- well-kept, but similar to other such museums we've been to. Then we walked up and down main street seeing the sights . . . which were mainly people and shops.

Lots of shops. What's the word for the kind of shops I'm talking about? Maybe it's "specialty shops". Cute little stores packed to the ceiling with cute little things. There was a dog specialty shop we stopped at to see a million and one unnecessary and costly dog accessories. There was a Christmas shop where we saw five million and one beautiful and excessive Christmas decorations. Seven blocks or so of such places, lining both sides of the street. Plus all the German biergartens and chocolate shops.

It was a cute little town. I kept thinking how twenty years ago, I would have just eaten this up. I loved "specialty shops." I could have spent all day long looking at the items in these stores. I probably wouldn't have bought much, but I would have wanted to -- or I would have come away with ideas for things I wanted to try to make myself for cheaper.

Because I used to be a crafter, or at least fancy myself as one. I still have a stash of craft supplies in storage left over from those days, just in case I need something again. I loved the idea of making some cute little item to beautify my house with my personal touches. I often said I'd rather decorate my home with something I made that is of slightly lower quality but would have meaning to me, than with something fabulous that I just plunked down some money for.

There's probably a remnant of that sentiment still in me somewhere. But not much. Somewhere along the way, I lost the urge to make little things. Even more so, I lost the urge to HAVE little things sitting around my house looking pretty. As my mother was known to say, "It's just more to dust."

So, walking through these stores made me examine myself and my new set of values. I'd like to think there's something somewhat . . . I don't know . . . philosophical about this change in me. I looked at the stuff in there for sale and thought how astonishing these seven blocks would be to someone from a third world country. Or even to someone from this country a hundred and fifty years ago. My daughter is reading a biography of Laura Ingalls Wilder, and looking through the Christmas store, I remembered the Christmases she described in her books -- getting one small toy item and a candy stick that they sucked a little bit every day for weeks to make it last. The Christmas feast that would hardly seem like a hearty meal for some of us. I don't remember her mentioning decorations at all.

Laura would have walked through this Christmas store with her jaw on her chest. The very idea that people could have as many Christmas decorations as they do and still walk through this place wanting even more.

When there are people not eating. When there are people dying of curable diseases. When there are children who can't read. I've just lost my appetite for more stuff in my life when there are so many uses for my money that could actually make an eternal difference in humanity.

But then again, maybe it's really only about not having more to dust.

Surprised in San Antonio

Our family has lived in San Antonio for a little over a year now. Last night, we were discussing some of the more interesting or surprising things we have discovered about our new hometown during that year:

- The need for layers -- in the summer. As incredibly and consistently hot as it gets here during the summer months (and lingering into the fall), if you are leaving home and going to be entering another building and spending any significant time in there, you need to take a wrap of some kind. Church, grocery store, restaurant, Target . . . it doesn't matter. They keep their indoor temperatures at refrigerator levels around here during July and August. Good heavens.

- Mediocre BBQ -- We have yet to find a BBQ place that knocks our socks off . . . or even one that just makes us really want to have BBQ for dinner tonight. They're not bad, just meh. Which is really a bummer when you're in Texas, for Pete's sake.

- The RiverWalk -- I expected it to be pretty. But seriously, every time I'm down there, I'm struck all over again by how truly lovely this stretch of land is in the middle of a major metropolitan area. SO pretty. And so well-kept by the city. It's enough to make me wish I lived downtown so I could just spend all my evenings wandering along the river path.

- The 90s are liveable -- It's not as humid in San Antonio as we expected; I guess we're far enough south and west in the state to miss the sweep of moist air that floats up from the gulf as far even as Kansas (where hubby and I grew up with hot, humid summers). And because it's relatively dry, the heat is relatively tolerable. If you're not exerting yourself too much, and if you're in the shade, and particularly if there's a breeze of any kind, you can be outside quite comfortably for any length of time. I enjoy sitting in our courtyard even in the middle of the day (well, I would if I wasn't a veritable feast for every biting insect in the county).

- Fireplaces still have value -- It actually does get cold enough in the winter to light a fireplace indoors. Once in a while.

- The taco vs. burrito thing -- This has been a controversy in my daughter's class all year. A certain taco chain in town has an item on their menu: beans and cheese wrapped in a tortilla. They call this a bean taco. And my daughter cannot bear this. That is a burrito. That is, in our experience, practically the definition of a burrito. And I've already written about the breakfast taco/burrito question. Yeesh.

- Spursmania -- Okay, admittedly, this may have only been a surprise to me because I don't follow NBA basketball. But good heavens, this place is Spurs-nutso. Especially when they are doing well at the end of the season, which they usually are. After watching some of the championship game they won this year, I understand the loyalty and excitement now; I may even get swept up in it myself pretty soon.

- Long ballots -- I think I already mentioned how I was surprised at the offices I had to vote for in the primary elections this year. Railroad commissioner? Seriously? That's an elected office? And one of the hot contests as well! And all sorts of other minor positions were on the ballot, too. I'm kind of bracing myself for the November ballot which I assume will be more thorough than the primary election ballot was.

- No basements -- Having grown up in tornado alley in Kansas, and having heard all my life about tornadoes ripping through cities in Texas (also part of tornado alley), this one threw me. Apparently, the ground is too rocky in San Antonio to dig deep enough for a basement. Nobody has them here. However, most of the houses we looked at (and the one we bought) have decent-sized "game rooms" on the upstairs floor. "Texas basements", they're called. Only they're of no use to you if a tornado comes.

- Texas pride -- Yes, we knew Texas was about being Texas. But sometimes it feels like Texas is ALL about being Texas. Lone stars everywhere, folks. If the state were to secede someday, it should surprise no one.

. . . And probably our biggest surprise . . .

- No cowboys -- Nor any southern accents. At best, I have one friend I can think of who has a bit of a drawl that she will exaggerate for effect on occasion. This is Texas, people! Where are the ten-gallon hats and big-hair ladies? Where is the country music and line dancing? Where are the cowboy boots? (Well, you do see some of those around.) Where are the "y'alls" and "ain'ts" and the "yee-haws"? I wasn't expecting to live in the midst of a hoedown, but come on, friends. We're in TEXAS!

Yes, but we're in San Antonio. Tamale country. More "holas" than "y'alls" around here. And that's fine. We like San Antonio. But I'm going to have to throw out a "y'all" once in a while.

Lovin' Technology Today

My first significant trip away from home, away from family, was a week at church youth camp some summer in the middle of my junior high years. I remember being very nervous before we left and very nervous for the first couple days when everything was new and awkward. But by the middle of the week, I was adjusting to new stuff, even the stuff I didn't like (public bathrooms with mass showers? Ew . . . ), and having a great time. But by my last night there, I was done, ready to be home again, which is a good point to get homesick if you're going to.

My youngest had her first big trip away from us last week: a week in Washington D.C. with her class at school. They stayed at a bed and breakfast outside of the metro area and took day trips to Mount Vernon, Gettysburg, and three times into the D.C. mall area. They saw the Capitol, the National Archives, the Supreme Court building, the Library of Congress, the Smithsonian's U.S. History Museum, the Crime Museum, Arlington Cemetery, and several memorials around the area. And probably more that I'm not remembering now.

They had an amazing whirlwind trip, and my daughter loved it. She also was homesick and ready to be done by the last night, but it was a great experience for her.

But the big difference? Cell phones. And social media.

When I was at camp that week, I had NO CONTACT with my parents. None. I sent them a letter while I was there, but I think I got home before the letter did. That was hard on me, but now I'm thinking about how hard that was on my parents. To have no idea what I was doing, how I was doing, if I was enjoying myself or miserable, if I was sick or injured . . . were they stressed out? I wish I could ask.

My daughter, however, had her cell phone with her. We were able to text her at almost any time during any day and find out exactly how she was doing. She and several others from the group posted photos to Facebook every day, so we knew exactly what she was doing and where she was going and what she was seeing and how much fun she was having. Her dad was even able to send her a short video of her dog when she started missing him.

And I'm wondering, is that better than a week with no contact? I'm sure it was easier for her (and us), but was it better? Did I get something out of that week of complete separation in junior high that was good for me (and maybe my parents) and that would have been good for her (and us) to experience? Might we all have learned to worry less and trust more if we had been forced to let go of each other more completely for that week?

Maybe. But right now, I'm just grateful as all get-out for cell phones.

Letting Gratitude Win

We have an injured one in the house today. Our youngest was at a camp retreat this weekend with the junior highers from her school and fell off a Blob. What's a Blob? Apparently a large inflated thing that you jump on to knock another person off the other end into the water. Great fun -- if you jump to land on your bottom. Kiddo apparently missed those directions.

The good news is, it looks like it's not a terrible injury. The swelling went down pretty quickly, so it's likely just a sprain or something and not a fracture. We're hoping we won't need to get an x-ray today.

The other good news is, the incident prompted her to say, "I have such good friends!" They rallied to her side when she was in pain and having to miss the fun. One friend packed her stuff for her. Others made her laugh to distract her. She does have good friends. So glad God brought us to Summit.

The bad news: she hurts. At least she did for a while. The doctor at the camp gave her ibuprofin and she was quite comfortable on the way home. When that wore off later in the evening, however, she was in serious pain. And the first pain-killer we grabbed out of the cabinet was acetaminophen. Not the same stuff at all, apparently. It did little or nothing to curb the pain. Poor girl was absolutely miserable all night until we figured out our mistake the next morning. Ready to eliminate the Tylenol from all of our bathroom cabinets. Worthless stuff.

The other bad news: she can't walk. We're hoping that won't be for long, but it is for now and it is a huge aggravation for her. I sympathize so much. I had surgery on my foot several years ago, and I vividly remember the pain (they finally gave me happy drugs that made me wonderfully loopy and entertaining) and the hassle of trying to live life on one foot.

You can't carry anything when you're using crutches. You have to slide on your butt up and down stairs. Going to the bathroom is a hassle even. She said yesterday that a couple days ago, she would have loved the chance to do nothing but sit on the couch all day . . . and now she was dying to get up and go someplace else.

That's one of the lessons I learned in my time on crutches: gratitude. Gratitude for the little things. Just being able to put weight on two feet is a little thing we all take for granted, but it's huge. How difficult life gets when you can't do so, even for a short time.

Our daughter is learning that gratitude now. I was feeling it in full force from the minute I got the phone call from camp. It's a minor foot injury. Hallelujah! It could have been terribly broken. She could have broken her whole leg. She could have whacked her head or landed funny on her spine and shattered something there. We could have spent Saturday evening sitting around her in an emergency room, praying desperately. Such visions floated through my head when I was listening to her principal tell me over the phone, "Eastin's had an accident . . .

But it's only a minor foot injury. Hallelujah!

Gratitude and aggravation. I'm joyfully letting the former win out in my heart. But then, I'm not the one on crutches today.

Saturday Night

Christmas 2013 just ended for me last Saturday night when my husband took me to see "Wicked" at the Majestic Theater. No, I had never seen "Wicked". Yes, that's kind of weird for someone as into theater as I am.

The evening started out with dinner. Since I picked the show, I let hubby pick the place to eat, and he chose a Mexican spot in Alamo Heights. And here's where our homebody tendencies show: we didn't build into our evening's schedule a 30-40 minute wait for a dinner table. Forty minutes? And then waiting to be served? Not happening -- so Mexican was out. We had Five Guys. Which I think I probably liked better. Mmm . . . Five Guys.

And it was a good thing we didn't try to make the Mexican place work, because as it was, we barely got there in time for the curtain to rise. Downtown traffic in San Antonio on a Saturday night? Unbelievable. We spent a full twenty minutes driving one block down Houston street. Luckily, I knew where a parking garage was and we turned off Houston, praying there was still room inside. There was -- at the very top. So we parked and hustled our well-dressed booties down the elevator and down crowded Houston street to the Majestic Theater.

Ah, the Majestic Theater! Beautiful. Just beautiful. Maybe one of the most beautiful theaters I've been in. Of course, I couldn't see much from our seats: the absolute top row of the balcony (the only seats left by a few days before Christmas when I received the gift from my husband). But I took a good look around at intermission. Bee-yoo-tiful.

And even that top row was a relatively pleasant experience. We had top row balcony seats for "Les Mis" in Philly one year, and my husband had to leave at intermission. The seats were so tightly packed in and it was so hot that high up that he was absolutely miserable. We had some nice cool air blowing on us at the top of the Majestic.

The show was fabulous. The theater was packed. And of course, one of the disadvantages of being in the top row balcony of a packed theater is being behind everyone else trying to leave when the show is over. But even then, the crowd moved along pretty efficiently, spilling us all back out onto Houston street.

Which was STILL crowded. And loud. Not until we saw some folks wearing ridiculous green hats did it occur to me that this was St. Patrick's Day weekend and maybe that accounted for the huge crowds. Of course, we've never been in downtown SA this late on a Saturday night, so maybe this is typical weekend stuff.

But if so, remind us to never go downtown that late on a Saturday night. The traffic!  Holy cow!!  It took us over an hour to move the eight blocks or so to get out of downtown and onto the highway. We sat . . . and sat . . . and sat . . .

. . . and watched people going into clubs. I've never been to a "club" on a Saturday night. I'm not sure I've been to a "club" at all, actually. I looked at these people dressed to the nines, a few already stumbling a bit, heard the music blaring, saw the flashing bright lights, and I thought, "There is nothing appealing about that scene to me at all." Nothing. I have an old high school friend who has played at clubs -- I might enjoy listening to his band sometime. But other than that, clubbing looks hellish to me from the outside.

Is this because I'm an old fart? Maybe. But I think even as a young fart, I would have chosen a quiet evening at home over that.

But young fart or old, I'll fight the crowded, noisy streets for a great night of theater. At least once in a while. Definitely worth it.

Drinking in Mexico

I'm back! I wasn't expecting to take this hiatus from blogging, but I had very unreliable internet access while I was in Cozumel last week, so I took a week off.  And because . . . you know . . . I was in Cozumel.

Which was nice, but sounds a little more exciting than it was for us. It was kind of a business trip -- a reward thing for the company's brokers and such, and we got to go along. So, although the weather was lovely and the ocean was nice and we got to golf, get a massage, and take a submarine trip to look at the coral reef, our evenings were spent in long dinners socializing with people. Nice people, but hubby and I aren't social butterflies really (we much preferred our time alone or with just each other).

Mainly, though, I couldn't appreciate the trip as much as many of the others did because I don't Drink. Now, I do drink -- a bit. I can sip a glass of wine with dinner. I discovered that I like pina coladas on this trip (I don't like pineapple or coconut, so I never tried one). But I simply drink . . . on occasion.

But many of these people Drink. Not that anyone got wasted or anything (at least, not while we were around, but we went to bed and others partied on, apparently). But for a good number of these people, alcohol seemed to be their focus for the week.

Example: on New Year's Eve, our evening event was to start at 7pm. When hubby and I got there at about 7:15, only a handful of people were milling around, which we thought was very odd. Turns out, they didn't start serving alcohol until 7:30, so everybody went over to the bar to get drinks until then.

Now, I don't mean to sound judgmental if I do. These people were on vacation, they were away from children and with their significant others (for the most part), and nobody was having to drive anywhere. They seemed to be drinking responsibly, so there's no reason they shouldn't have been drinking -- especially on New Year's Eve. I have no moral issue with what was happening amongst our little group in Mexico last week.

I bring this up merely because this is a cultural thing I really can't relate to: Drinking. Centering your evening's (or afternoon's) activities around the beverage in your hand. I have friends who I know plan their entire weekends around opportunities to consume alcohol. I just don't get that.

Most likely, this is because I've never drunk enough alcohol to even get a buzz.  True fact. I grew up in a Southern Baptist home where alcohol was simply unacceptable. Never drank in college. Never even interested in trying anything alcoholic, really, until I'd been to enough of my husband's business events to start feeling really uncomfortable being the only one in the room with soda in my glass. (One thing I'll say for the people in hubby's more recent companies vs. companies he's worked for in the past: they don't seem to take any notice of what's in your glass. It's been several years since I felt like the oddball church lady at a work event while I sipped my Sprite.)

Maybe if I got good and tipsy once, I'd see the appeal. But I doubt it. I've seen enough people I liked and respected turn into idiots at parties; I have no interest in chancing that. And I've yet to see anyone whose personality improved after the application of significant amounts of alcoholic beverage. It would be very upsetting to me, frankly, to find that I needed the help of inebriation to be an engaging person to others. And if I need the help of inebriation to enjoy the environment I'm in . . . well, I'll go home.

I also don't like the taste of alcohol enough to drink enough of it to affect me. I did like those pina coladas, but after two, I couldn't drink any more. I was desperate for ice water. El agua, por favor!!

So, to sum up, I drink -- occasionally -- but I don't Drink. And I don't expect ever to do so. I still hold to a conclusion I came to during my college years: there is nothing beneficial you get from alcohol which cannot be gotten from another source that is not responsible for the destruction of lives on a regular basis.

Just sayin'.  Cheers. And Happy New Year!

Mexican Breakfast Dishes for $400, Alex

An imaginary conversation with your standard Texan:

“What did you have for breakfast?”
“A breakfast taco.”
“Ah – I've had breakfast burritos, but breakfast tacos are new to me. What's in a breakfast taco?”
“Eggs, bacon, sausage, potatoes, cheese, salsa. That kind of thing.”
“Same stuff that's in a breakfast burrito, huh?”
“But it's a breakfast taco.”
“So, the tortilla is folded in half instead of wrapped around the filling.”
“No, a lot of times it's wrapped around it all.”
“Like a burrito.”
“Yep.”
“But it's a taco.”
“Yep. A breakfast taco.”
“Not a breakfast burrito.”
“Nope.”
“Why isn't it called a breakfast burrito?”
“Sweetie, you're in Texas now.”
 
The Lone Star State – where you can call a burrito a taco just 'cuz dat's whut it is, y'all. Sometimes, it seems that Texas is just all about being Texas. 
 

Define Your Audience

On our drive home from a weekend visit in Kansas yesterday (and it was a lo-o-ong drive, I'm tellin' you), I saw a couple huge billboards up next to a church:

"THE KING IS COMING! ARE YOU READY?"

"PRAY AND ASK JESUS TO COME INTO YOUR HEART AND LIVE!"

Now, I essentially agree, of course, with the sentiments of these messages, but as we sped past them down the busy I-35 corridor through Texas, I had to wonder who exactly their intended audience was.

Because the only people who could really make any sense out of this message (beyond the vague idea that here are some Bible-thumpers trying to save my soul) are people who have had enough exposure to church and Bible-teaching to know what King they're talking about and what's involved in being ready for him. They would also need to have some idea of what it means to ask Jesus to come into your heart.

I suppose it's possible that random Unchurched Harry and Mary could be headed down from the Cowboys game, see the sign and say to each other, "King? There's a king coming? I don't know what that means, but I'm sure I'm not ready! Should we pray and ask Jesus to come into our heart, whatever that means? Yeah -- better safe than sorry." But would anyone really think such a "confession of faith" is legit?

No, really, the only people such signs are going to be effective with are those who have grown up in the church and wandered away and are in a place where God is convicting them and wooing them back and this gives the final push at the right moment. Not that there isn't value in that, but I don't know that they're getting a lot of bang for their buck with those billboards.

My friend in NJ used to talk about this being the first post-Christian generation in America.  That rankled me a bit at the time, but I think he's right.  A couple generations ago, someone you were witnessing to might disagree with your assertion that Jesus Is The Answer, but they would at least know the Question. Not so today.

The seeker-focused church model has something going for it in that it assumes a post-Christian generation and starts from there. The traditional church needs to pay attention to that. But the seeker-focus unfortunately can go too far by trying to attract the seeker not with Christ, but with the seeker's own idols. We cease, at that point, to be a Christian church and become simply a spiritual social service club.

We're still looking for a church here in San Antonio.  My prayer is for a church full of genuine worshippers -- not a spiritual social service club.

The Mega-Church Experience

The church search -- one of my least favorite things about moving.

Yesterday, we visited Cornerstone Church, the 20,000-member mega-church here in San Antonio pastored by John Hagee.  Now, I don't know a lot about Hagee, other than he's a well-known conservative pastor with a television ministry that reaches world-wide and who stirs up a lot of controversy on occasion.  I googled him Saturday night and, of course, found a lot of criticism of his lifestyle and teaching and so forth, but I really tried to go with an open mind.  After all, my eldest daughter is going this fall to Cornerstone Christian School, founded by Hagee, so I probably should know something about the man and his church.

So, some observations:

- The music was pretty fabulous.  I mean, just look at the picture of this choir!  It was like an old-fashioned southern revival.  Not all of it was the style of music I'd prefer -- a couple numbers were like the caricature of a cheesy TV preacher's worship service.  But much of it was big and bold and great.  And the congregation sang with enthusiasm, also.

- But then, this congregation would be enthusiastic no matter what, I imagine.  It was a rather charismatic group -- lots of hands in the air, amen-ing and hallelujah-ing.  A new experience for my daughters.

- And I will say, this was perhaps the most racially integrated congregation I've ever been in.  And THAT was an awesome thing.

- I didn't notice this until Hagee started preaching, but there were two men standing on the floor on either side of him facing the congregation the whole time.  Security guards.  Wow.  So, has Hagee said stuff that makes him worry for his personal safety when he's up in public like this?  Have they just had issues with that big of a crowd and they learned they need people there prepared to handle the unexpected?  I'd love to hear the story behind that.

- I couldn't argue against much of anything Hagee said during the service (although he toed awfully close to the Prosperity Gospel line at one point).  In fact, his sermon was an amen-worthy flat-out gospel presentation, for the most part.  But his manner . . . I couldn't help but think that I should have had my two actors who played the character of Evangelist in my productions of "Pilgrim's Progress" watch videos of him for inspiration.  The epitome of over-the-top cheesy TV evangelist style.  Content: fine.  Delivery: not for me.

- He had an invitation at the end (of course) and about a hundred people came forward.  And this is where I got troubled, strangely enough.  Everyone else in the building was amen-ing and hallelujah-ing over the crowd gathered at the front.  I was praying, Lord, please let these decisions all be sincere.  I'm so conscious anymore of how people can be emotionally manipulated into saying the right words, raising their hand, getting dunked in the baptismal tank (they have a baptismal service there every Sunday night and these people were being invited to come back for that) . . . and in the end, it was all just lip-service.  These people think they just signed on for some fire insurance to save them from hell and now they can go back to their lives as usual.  I pray to God that wasn't what was happening in this crowd.  Unfortunately, I'm pessimistic about this stuff anymore.

All in all, an experience I'm glad we had.  But I don't anticipate making this my church family.

However, when their Christmas pageant rolls around in December, I am there.

On the Road Again

The first post I posted on this blog was on October 8th, 2008.  I wrote it from a hotel in Somerset, PA on the first night of our trip driving from New Jersey to our new home in Sioux City.  I realized that last night as I talked to a friend about our leaving Sioux City today for our trek to our new home, San Antonio.

Something feels a little surreal about that.

I started this blog strictly for a way to keep our Jersey friends informed about our new lives, so I didn't have to write fifty or sixty emails to all the people who wanted to know how we were settling in.  Certain topics invited more personal reflection on my part, and I soon got feedback on those posts that my friends were really liking them.  My pastor even read part of one during a sermon, I was told.  So when I got to the point that we were settled in and there wasn't much transitioning to be reporting about, I let the blog kind of evolve into something of a public journal . . . fully expecting to lose most of my readers.

I didn't.  And as the years have gone by, I've gained many, many more.  I've said this over and over: I never cease to be amazed that there's anyone out there who is interested in the weird workings of my brain. 

So this blog has, in a sense, helped define my time in Sioux City. Now that I'm leaving, it makes me wonder if anything will change in the blog.  I was tempted to sit down last night and read through all of my posts, just to relive my Sioux City experience . . . but there's 652 of them, and I've got too much packing and cleaning to do.  But just glancing through some of the titles reminds me of how much I -- and the rest of my family -- have grown and changed over these five years.

I'm going to cry as I drive away today.  Closing doors and ending seasons is always hard.  And I have a daughter who will be grieving in a serious way who will need my strength and comfort.  But we've done this before, and God has always been faithful.

And in all honesty . . . I can not WAIT to see what God has in store for us in San Antonio!!

Bracing and Embracing

We fly back home today, and when we leave home the next time, it will probably be for good -- that is, it will no longer be home the next time we return.  The reality of that has started to sink in.

Sioux City has been a good place for us.  Lots of great things happened there.  Lots of trying times, too.  All four of us are different people than we were when we arrived almost five years ago.  God has done mighty things in our lives in our time there.  When hubby first lost his job, I didn't feel ready to leave -- I was too happy with the life we had.

But after a year and a half of closing doors and anticipating change, I'm ready for the change.  I'm ready for a new start -- a new house, new schools, new work, new church, new activities, new weather, new recreation, new friends . . . all of it.  Not that I won't miss the old, but we've moved enough to know that God always has wonderful things in store for us in a new place.  I've been very excited anticipating the new things.

Now it's time to close the final door on the old things, though, and I'm preparing for the grieving that will set in for the next couple of weeks.  All the "lasts".  Last Sunday morning at Sunnybrook.  Last party with the drama kids. Last shopping trip at Hyvee.  Last night sleeping in our bedrooms.  Many tears are coming. 

Bracing myself for the tears . . . but also trying to embrace the tears.  The sadness is only an indication of how important to us the things are that we are leaving.  And we want to celebrate the things in life that are important to us, that change us, that make us who we are.  No way to avoid the sadness, so we may as well indulge and let it wash over us and do its complete cleansing.

So, I don't know how much I'll be blogging in the next couple weeks . . . or how insightful they will be.  I may just be a blubbering, stressed-out mess for a while.  But whether or not you continue to read through my blubbers, I'd appreciate any prayers you think to shoot up on our behalf.  Transitions are hard.

Safety and Formula in Worship

Moving to a new town means finding a new church -- a process I don't enjoy at all.  Hubby has visited two churches now in San Antonio.  One was John Hagee's Cornerstone Church.  He said, "It's quite a performance.  I don't think it's where we want to go, but it's probably something you'll want to experience."  He lost me at performance.

The other we visited with him again last Sunday.  It's a small (by Texas standards) Baptist church near his apartment.  We both grew up Baptist, though we haven't attended a Baptist church for about 20 years for various reasons.  However, doctrinally, I think that's still where we live, so it might be kind of nice to come home to a Baptist church again.

This is not your ordinary Baptist church, though.  They said (in their visitors' materials) that since there are so many churches in the area that offer the high-energy, loud, praise-band style of worship (and I don't doubt that), they intentionally made the choice to focus on the more reverential, traditional style.  They have a full-choir, in robes, with piano and organ.  They sing traditional hymns and sing them with gusto, according to hubby (he said their passion while singing was moving in itself).  Last Sunday was Children's Sunday and the kids choir led the service, so the girls and I didn't get to see the whole enchilada, so to speak, but it was still a breath of fresh air.

Now, here's what threw me.  The pastors wore robes.  I've never seen a Baptist pastor in a robes.  And they apparently follow the traditional "church calendar":  last Sunday was Ascension Sunday -- next week is Pentecost Sunday.  I've NEVER heard of a Baptist church following the church calendar.

And I've never attended a church that followed the church calendar.  And I'm wondering if I want to.  Much as I liked so many things about the church, the teaching aspects of the service felt routine, ritualized . . . safe.  Too safe.  The Holy Spirit is not routine, nor ritualized, and most definitely is not safe.  (As Mr. Beaver said about Aslan: "Safe?  Of course he isn't safe.  But he's good.")  Not that every other worship style doesn't have their routines and rituals and safe zones . . . so maybe my hesitation is just about the newness, not the formulaic-ness.

I've become rather weary of the mega-church, programmed worship model, so I'm up for something different.  Whether this is it, I don't know.  But I would love to hear from friends who do the church calendar thing and find out how that works for them.

Texas-Bound

So, for those who didn't get the word via Facebook, hubby accepted a job offer last Friday!    We'll be moving to San Antonio soon.  Very happy about this job and very happy about the move . . . although a bit anxious about all the details involved.  Moving is a stressful thing, even when it's a good thing.

Because I know I have friends and readers who are also pray-ers, I'm going to be selfish and ask for a lot of prayers over the next few months.  Specifically, here's my list:

1) A new home.  An important decision in so many ways.  And there are some factors of that decision that we don't have much control over.  I would love for us to live in a neighborhood where we connect with the neighbors -- but we won't know if that will happen until we move in.

2) A new church.  Nothing at all against the wonderful churches we've been members of over the years, but personally, I'm kind of tired of the seeker-focused mega-church model.  I'm feeling hungry for something else.  I suspect, however, that we're going to find a lot of the mega-churches in San Antonio.  Everything's bigger in Texas, right?  But, church isn't all about me.  God will lead us where he wants us.  I just hope he leads us there quickly.

3)  New schools . . . ??  Lots of educational choices in San Antonio.  Homeschoolers abound, as do programs for homeschoolers.  The girls could almost do their entire high school career through co-op, plus all the extracurricular opportunities.  On the other hand, there are also a lot of private Christian schools to explore.  And we'll make a point to live in an area where the public schools are good, too, just in case.  More choices are good . . . they also make life more complicated.

4) New friends.  My biggest prayer right now.  It is so hard to make friends.  And we'll be moving in the summer -- a hot Texas summer when people don't leave their houses much.  I so want the girls to find people who get them, who understand them, who connect with them, who will help them grow.  I want that for hubby and me, too, but the girls . . . teenage girls need BFFs. 

Neither girl is happy about leaving Sioux City (particularly the eldest -- the boyfriend can't come with us).  But they do remember the move here: they were DEVASTATED to leave New Jersey four years ago, and yet, they survived -- and thrived.  Hopefully, that memory will sustain them.

I'm sad to leave friends here, too.  But I'm ready for a new adventure.  I'm also ready for sunshine.  Did you know it snowed last night here in Iowa?  Snowed??  On Easter?  Sigh!  So ready for spring . . .

Putting Her in God's Hands

My eldest had a friend who was supposed to come over on New Year’s Eve.  He never showed up.  She found out yesterday morning that this was because he had been arrested for drunk driving and was in jail.

Sigh.

It’s not like I didn’t know that kids drink.  It’s not even like I didn’t know that my daughter has friends who drink (they know she doesn’t and make a point of not even inviting her to activities where there will be alcohol). 

I think what disturbs me to my core about this is that the boy was very possibly on his way to our house when he was stopped.  And that he was so sure he was sober enough to drive.  And that he could possibly have invited my daughter to go with him somewhere that night after he arrived.  And that he could have crashed the car . . . and killed someone . . . another driver . . . himself . . . or my daughter.

I also wonder if there were adults at the party where he got the alcohol – adults who knew that there were kids drinking.  I know there are parents out there who don’t try to stop their children’s alcohol consumption.  They even buy it for them.  They argue that the kids are going to drink anyway – better that they do it at home where the parents can keep an eye on them and see that they’re safe.  Except that doesn’t always work.

I don’t drink, really.  I sip at wine once in a while.  I’ve never had enough alcohol to even get a buzz.  This is probably why I don’t understand why so many people think fun evenings must include a beer in their hands or they're not really fun.  When you look at the dangers involved in over-indulging – and the tendency so many people have to over-indulge – I’ve never understood the appeal. 

Luckily, both of my daughters feel the same way.  I just hope they always do.  Now, if I could just ensure that everyone who drives them anywhere agrees.  And everyone else driving on the road around them . . .

Sigh.