The gardener surveys her modest plot. I would have preferred something a bit larger, she sighs both to herself and to her benefactor. She has seen the large vineyards and orchards that He has given others, acres of blossoms and later sweet fruit. But for whatever reason, He has gifted her with a small flower garden, tucked away amid a few maples and a black walnut.
It really isn’t anything special, she believes, but it is hers to work the soil, plant what seems appropriate, or to abandon to weeds. It has been given to her with few strings attached, except that her time to garden, or not, is temporary and finite. She will have only as many growing seasons as the Master Gardener has planned for.
She shakes her head, sighing again. It isn’t in the location she would have chosen – too shaded, for starters. She would have preferred a spot with a little more sun and a longer growing season. Perhaps a raised vegetable garden in a warmer climate, so she could enjoy fruits of her labor year round, instead of preparing her plants for the winter weather that comes much too soon and for much too long. She laments that her flowerbed is not plainly visible to the rest of the world; very few people find their way to her little parcel. Nor does it contain the flora she would have picked. Had she the option, she would have chosen fragrant climbing roses, a deep purple clematis and perhaps even hollyhocks stretched taller than her small frame.
Instead, she was given this shady little area with nothing special about it except its deep, dark fertile soil. She didn’t have a clue what to do with it at first. She remembered feeling overwhelmed and even contemplating walking away. Someone else better qualified can turn this space into something beautiful...I can’t do it, she had thought and even believed. I have no experience in gardening, or growing or even getting dirty. Well, that part wasn’t exactly true. She knew she knew how to get dirty, just not doing the work required for this section of earth.
So, she began, taking timid baby steps at gardening, digging out chunks of sod, pulling out roots, preparing the dirt for planting. She experimented with different tools – hoes, shovels, garden claws, even rakes – learning what works and what doesn’t for the type of soil she found herself in, all the while consulting the Big Book of Gardening for instruction, however cryptic it sometimes was. She grunted her way through moving boulders to build a retaining wall at one end so she could level out the soil. Shaking her head now, she remembers how sore she was trying to move them by herself, by hand. Yeesh, thought you could do it all yourself, every last rock, she tells herself. After she finally realized how pride was preventing her from finishing her wall, she again had consulted the Big Book, only to learn that this garden wasn’t to be a solitary project. Yes, it was hers, and yes she was responsible for it, but she was exhorted to seek help from the Body of Gardeners. Within that Body, she found encouragement, advice, accountability and analysis. She also found strength beyond her own, muscles strong enough to help her with the boulders.
Many, many summers ago she began cultivating her plot. She started with a peony, added day lilies, a bleeding heart that reminded her of her grandmother’s garden and hostas she transplanted from another site. Each year, she found herself able to add more: creeping phlox, Ozark sundrops, daisies and carnations. Each season showed more signs of growth and more evidence that she herself was growing as a gardener. There were always setbacks: sometimes she didn’t want to listen to the advice given her by older, more experienced growers; sometimes she would forget to water her little parcel and her plants would become parched and droopy; and sometimes she just got sick and tired of all the dirt under her fingernails.
Each spring, she eagerly awaits the first signs of greenery poking through the mulch. Some plants survive her climate, but others succumb to the winter; She always grieved a little when a bush or perennial didn’t make it. She felt the loss of nurturing what seemed almost like a part of her - watering it, fertilizing it, caring for it and then to lose it for reasons she often couldn’t understand.
Some years, the flowers produce myriads of blooms and the gardening is enjoyable, fruitful and even easy. Some years it rains enough so she doesn’t have to drag out the hose to patiently water the thirsty plants. Other years, like this one, are just plain work. As she stands over the bed, she can see it isn’t getting any better. She is doing battle with crabgrass, pulling out the little green shoots only to have them crop back up in the same place a few days later. I thought I had you licked, she scolds them as if they are listening. It has become a daily war with the weeds – they don’t have the upper hand, but if she walked away now, it wouldn’t be long and they would take over her garden. She has found that they are easiest to pull when they are little weeds, with little roots. If she doesn’t get them right away, they become much harder to remove and often will break off at the base rather than release the root from her soil. She has weeded so much that she can recognize by sound whether the offender has come out with the root intact – it’s a bit of ripping music that helps take her mind off her aching back and tender fingers. The Big Book talks quite a bit about weeds, she notices, and not allowing them to take root. She knows that she has to keep pulling, tugging and jerking, no matter how weary she gets, if she wants her flowers to flower and her plants to mature. Once they grow enough, they will provide sufficient shade to prevent most of the weeds from seeing sunlight. Once she is able to add more plants into her garden, their fullness and sheer numbers will also keep the weeds down.
But, she isn’t at that stage in her garden yet. So, she is resigned to pulling weeds, a little every day, and nursing her aches afterward. Some days go well and she can finish quickly. Other days she barely gets started with the plucking and mosquitoes bombard her. She can swat away a few, squash several, but in a shady spot on a cool day they get a taste of blood and they swarm. Often, just when she feels like she’s getting the upper hand over the weeds in her garden, she is attacked from all sides, getting bites on her ankles, arms, neck and even her toes. Sometimes she armors herself with a Shield of Spray-on Protection and is able to work away unbothered. Other times, she simply has to run for cover inside and rely on the Master Gardener’s protection.
She will wait for a sunny day before she gets the courage to head back out again. A day like today...where she can prune in peace, deadhead in delight, transplant in tranquility, all within the sanctuary of her garden, little as it may be. She stands back again, perusing many years of growth and pain, death and learning. She smiles realizing her plot is sized just right, beautiful in its humbleness.
WIth a deep breath that takes in the mingled scents of peony and wet earth, she kneels down and gets back to her life’s work, exhaling a prayer of thankfulness for the task before her.
Sunday, July 1, 2007
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
you little stinker
Whoever coined the phrase, “There’s one every family” knew what he/she was talking about. That being – one little monkey who has the ability to outshine all the others in their monkey-shining.
I’m speaking of the youngest of our four boys. You wouldn’t think that mischievousness would already be showing up at 14 months, but believe me it is. He’s still good-natured, but other than that, I’m not so sure he’s related to the other three.
He believes it is his job to throw his dirty diapers into the garbage all by himself (and pitches a fit if he doesn’t get the opportunity). He also doesn’t miss anything. He already recognizes the word “snack” and “chip” and it only took him half a day to figure out where his Easter candy bag was. I have found him climbing shelves in the pantry to grab a fistful of potato chips. He’s bitten into raw potatoes. He’s dumped out Malt-O-Meal into neat little piles on the kitchen floor. You’re probably thinking the poor chap’s hungry, but if you saw how much he eats, you’d know otherwise. I’ve caught him on top of the kitchen table, happy as a lark, and then trying to stand up and swing from the light fixture like a true monkey. I believe it is his favorite perch in the house. But, he will try to climb on top of anything, and then stand with his arms raised, as if he’s just conquered Everest. I wouldn’t be surprised to see him beat his chest in pride.
He’s made it up and fallen off a bunk bed ladder. Then scaled it again 10 minutes later. He loves light switches and thinks it’s just hilarious to turn them off and on, especially if someone (like one of his brothers) screams because they’re sitting in the dark.
He loves phones, remotes and dials. He likes to punch in the numbers because the phone beeps each time and he even once dialed 911. Luckily the phone didn’t get turned on, so that call never went through. However I have had a few long-distance calls that were unexplainable on the phone bill. The boys have been watching a DVD or a cartoon and he’ll come along and press a random button on the remote, sending them all flying off the couch, yelling his name. A month ago, I kept getting after the three older boys when I’d come downstairs to a sauna in the morning because the electric heaters were turned up. They usually sit around in the morning wrapped in blankets because they’re cold after eating breakfast, so I assumed they were trying warm up. Turns out it was the little guy all along. Oldest brother caught him in the act cranking a heater dial to high. He also won’t leave the dehumidifier dial alone either – it’s like the light switches to him – turn it one way, the motor kicks on; turn it the other, it shuts off. Great fun.
With the weather being so nice now, today I decided to air the house out a bit, leaving the storm door closed with the screen open. He managed to stand on his tiptoes, unlatch the door and escape to the outdoors in his fat little stocking feet.
He loves to be outside, even though he constantly falls on concrete and usually has multiple bruises, cuts and scrapes on his forehead at any one time. (So many, and so often, I have yet to take his one-year pictures because he’s not been able to stay bruise-free for more than 12 hours).
He has renamed countless files of mine on my computer desktop after he climbs onto my chair and bangs on the keyboard. I’ll come around later and find my hard drive is now mijeu48jmfiji3jjjj00000007 instead of Macintosh HD. He also likes the mouse because it lights up when you lift it.
Right now, I’m keeping him occupied by bribing him with M&Ms, although I think I might be getting outsmarted. I wonder if he isn’t pulling a chipmunk routine by storing them in his cheeks so he can keep getting more, which of course I’m giving him because I’m distracted.
Grandma and Grandpa took all four boys the other day and I think they were surprised with his busyness as well. All Grandpa could say was, “Boy is he active!” (Which I think is just a nice way of saying “I’m really tired after all that!”)
I’m not saying all of this to complain, although it is busy. And, I’ve long ago figured out not to question why God planned it this way (having four boys pretty much cured that). Instead, I’m grateful he appears to have an above-average aptitude, agility and appetite. Most of it, I’m thoroughly enjoying. It is very entertaining to watch this little kid figure things out so quickly. He’s so delightful when he proudly pats his belly or rubs raspberry jam into his head. (That’s usually about the time he’ll want a hug). And I usually comply – who could resist a pink-faced, toothy-grinning, fuzzy-headed, sweet little boy? Not me.
I’m trying to use his precociousness to my advantage - like having him fetch his own diapers when he needs changing, search for his pacifier when he’s cranky, climb upstairs when it’s bath time, throw trash into the garbage and go see Daddy when he smells.
He’s extremely proficient at mimicry and has already tried to sweep floors, wipe up spills and clean toothbrushes in the toilet.
Now if he could just figure out how to grow some hair.
I’m speaking of the youngest of our four boys. You wouldn’t think that mischievousness would already be showing up at 14 months, but believe me it is. He’s still good-natured, but other than that, I’m not so sure he’s related to the other three.
He believes it is his job to throw his dirty diapers into the garbage all by himself (and pitches a fit if he doesn’t get the opportunity). He also doesn’t miss anything. He already recognizes the word “snack” and “chip” and it only took him half a day to figure out where his Easter candy bag was. I have found him climbing shelves in the pantry to grab a fistful of potato chips. He’s bitten into raw potatoes. He’s dumped out Malt-O-Meal into neat little piles on the kitchen floor. You’re probably thinking the poor chap’s hungry, but if you saw how much he eats, you’d know otherwise. I’ve caught him on top of the kitchen table, happy as a lark, and then trying to stand up and swing from the light fixture like a true monkey. I believe it is his favorite perch in the house. But, he will try to climb on top of anything, and then stand with his arms raised, as if he’s just conquered Everest. I wouldn’t be surprised to see him beat his chest in pride.
He’s made it up and fallen off a bunk bed ladder. Then scaled it again 10 minutes later. He loves light switches and thinks it’s just hilarious to turn them off and on, especially if someone (like one of his brothers) screams because they’re sitting in the dark.
He loves phones, remotes and dials. He likes to punch in the numbers because the phone beeps each time and he even once dialed 911. Luckily the phone didn’t get turned on, so that call never went through. However I have had a few long-distance calls that were unexplainable on the phone bill. The boys have been watching a DVD or a cartoon and he’ll come along and press a random button on the remote, sending them all flying off the couch, yelling his name. A month ago, I kept getting after the three older boys when I’d come downstairs to a sauna in the morning because the electric heaters were turned up. They usually sit around in the morning wrapped in blankets because they’re cold after eating breakfast, so I assumed they were trying warm up. Turns out it was the little guy all along. Oldest brother caught him in the act cranking a heater dial to high. He also won’t leave the dehumidifier dial alone either – it’s like the light switches to him – turn it one way, the motor kicks on; turn it the other, it shuts off. Great fun.
With the weather being so nice now, today I decided to air the house out a bit, leaving the storm door closed with the screen open. He managed to stand on his tiptoes, unlatch the door and escape to the outdoors in his fat little stocking feet.
He loves to be outside, even though he constantly falls on concrete and usually has multiple bruises, cuts and scrapes on his forehead at any one time. (So many, and so often, I have yet to take his one-year pictures because he’s not been able to stay bruise-free for more than 12 hours).
He has renamed countless files of mine on my computer desktop after he climbs onto my chair and bangs on the keyboard. I’ll come around later and find my hard drive is now mijeu48jmfiji3jjjj00000007 instead of Macintosh HD. He also likes the mouse because it lights up when you lift it.
Right now, I’m keeping him occupied by bribing him with M&Ms, although I think I might be getting outsmarted. I wonder if he isn’t pulling a chipmunk routine by storing them in his cheeks so he can keep getting more, which of course I’m giving him because I’m distracted.
Grandma and Grandpa took all four boys the other day and I think they were surprised with his busyness as well. All Grandpa could say was, “Boy is he active!” (Which I think is just a nice way of saying “I’m really tired after all that!”)
I’m not saying all of this to complain, although it is busy. And, I’ve long ago figured out not to question why God planned it this way (having four boys pretty much cured that). Instead, I’m grateful he appears to have an above-average aptitude, agility and appetite. Most of it, I’m thoroughly enjoying. It is very entertaining to watch this little kid figure things out so quickly. He’s so delightful when he proudly pats his belly or rubs raspberry jam into his head. (That’s usually about the time he’ll want a hug). And I usually comply – who could resist a pink-faced, toothy-grinning, fuzzy-headed, sweet little boy? Not me.
I’m trying to use his precociousness to my advantage - like having him fetch his own diapers when he needs changing, search for his pacifier when he’s cranky, climb upstairs when it’s bath time, throw trash into the garbage and go see Daddy when he smells.
He’s extremely proficient at mimicry and has already tried to sweep floors, wipe up spills and clean toothbrushes in the toilet.
Now if he could just figure out how to grow some hair.
Friday, April 20, 2007
finding my balance
I'm ready to retire. Well, retire to bed never to crawl out. Life has become crazy. Chaotic. Challenging. Even cantankerous. (And so have I.)
My calendar makes me cringe. My cell phone won’t stop calling my name. I'm drained. Distracted. Demanded. And I have no down-time.
Nothing on my plate is inherently bad. Women’s Bible study. Small group. Retreat meetings. Coop get-togethers. A building project. Rental showings. Oh, and did I mention home schooling? Try to add dentist appointments, chiropractor visits, swimming lessons and the fact that my oldest has needed shoes for about two months is very nearly tipping the scales out of my favor. And the kids are noticing.
“Mom, you never do anything fun with us anymore!” or “Mom you never have time for us!”
Ouch. Although, to be honest, in my head I responded, “Do you want breakfast and clean underwear every day?”
My calendar probably isn’t as crammed as most, but for me it's too much. Life is getting out of control even though I have tried to be very conscientious about keeping blank white space in those little boxes. So, acting on instinct as much as feeling led, I started emptying my schedule. It helped, a little. But, I couldn’t take laundry, cleaning toilets and trying to teach a five-year-old to read off the list.
I'm still sick and tired of being tired. But the only time I have peace and quiet was late, late at night. I’m a night owl, so staying up till midnight knitting is a real trade-off. Enjoyable yes, but not so much when your toddler awakes at 6 a.m. ready for the day. I can't function without a nap in the afternoon, which can only happen if the rest of the boys were quiet, which can only happen if they watched a movie.
I think they know every line in Cars by heart.
It wasn’t until I recently had a heart-to-heart with my cousin that I realized how far I’d let myself go. In all senses of the word - physically (both inside and out), mentally and spiritually. All I wanted to do was sleep. She helped me realized a couple of things:
1) I needed a break now and then for my own sanity.
2) I needed sleep.
3) I needed to take better care of myself.
If you came over to visit me on let’s say a Tuesday afternoon, you’d likely find me still in my pajamas. I probably ate cold cereal for breakfast and half an avocado for lunch. I likely forgot to brush my teeth. In fact, I probably haven’t showered for a couple days. (Yes, you can feel sorry for my husband now!)
My cousin told me to “get out of the house.” I was shocked to realize that the last time I’d been alone doing something just for me was eight months ago. So, I took her advice. First, I got myself some good supplements. Then I took a nap. Then, I started eating regular meals. Then I took another nap (just kidding). I’ve managed to set aside the knitting or that good book and go to bed at a decent hour. And, I’m planning a day to get out of the house, by myself. In the works will be some sort of regular exercise.
It’s slowly working. I’m no longer feeling like crawling into bed at 3 p.m. and I had a salad for lunch instead of potato chips. I kept the boys quiet with Play-doh so I could do a very short devotion and if all goes well I might even be able to still knit a bit tonight.
I know that finding balance will be a process and that I will fail. But, I also know that being aware of the need for balance will help me find a healthy medium. As will having someone hold me accountable. The good news is that it also enables me to say yes to the things I feel called to and no to the ones I don’t, without having to feel guilty either way. I’ve already been tested on that one, and am happy to report that I gulped and said yes to one request, no to another (while feeling peaceful about that decision) and signed my two older boys for TaeKwon Do.
For that exercise part, I probably should join them.
My calendar makes me cringe. My cell phone won’t stop calling my name. I'm drained. Distracted. Demanded. And I have no down-time.
Nothing on my plate is inherently bad. Women’s Bible study. Small group. Retreat meetings. Coop get-togethers. A building project. Rental showings. Oh, and did I mention home schooling? Try to add dentist appointments, chiropractor visits, swimming lessons and the fact that my oldest has needed shoes for about two months is very nearly tipping the scales out of my favor. And the kids are noticing.
“Mom, you never do anything fun with us anymore!” or “Mom you never have time for us!”
Ouch. Although, to be honest, in my head I responded, “Do you want breakfast and clean underwear every day?”
My calendar probably isn’t as crammed as most, but for me it's too much. Life is getting out of control even though I have tried to be very conscientious about keeping blank white space in those little boxes. So, acting on instinct as much as feeling led, I started emptying my schedule. It helped, a little. But, I couldn’t take laundry, cleaning toilets and trying to teach a five-year-old to read off the list.
I'm still sick and tired of being tired. But the only time I have peace and quiet was late, late at night. I’m a night owl, so staying up till midnight knitting is a real trade-off. Enjoyable yes, but not so much when your toddler awakes at 6 a.m. ready for the day. I can't function without a nap in the afternoon, which can only happen if the rest of the boys were quiet, which can only happen if they watched a movie.
I think they know every line in Cars by heart.
It wasn’t until I recently had a heart-to-heart with my cousin that I realized how far I’d let myself go. In all senses of the word - physically (both inside and out), mentally and spiritually. All I wanted to do was sleep. She helped me realized a couple of things:
1) I needed a break now and then for my own sanity.
2) I needed sleep.
3) I needed to take better care of myself.
If you came over to visit me on let’s say a Tuesday afternoon, you’d likely find me still in my pajamas. I probably ate cold cereal for breakfast and half an avocado for lunch. I likely forgot to brush my teeth. In fact, I probably haven’t showered for a couple days. (Yes, you can feel sorry for my husband now!)
My cousin told me to “get out of the house.” I was shocked to realize that the last time I’d been alone doing something just for me was eight months ago. So, I took her advice. First, I got myself some good supplements. Then I took a nap. Then, I started eating regular meals. Then I took another nap (just kidding). I’ve managed to set aside the knitting or that good book and go to bed at a decent hour. And, I’m planning a day to get out of the house, by myself. In the works will be some sort of regular exercise.
It’s slowly working. I’m no longer feeling like crawling into bed at 3 p.m. and I had a salad for lunch instead of potato chips. I kept the boys quiet with Play-doh so I could do a very short devotion and if all goes well I might even be able to still knit a bit tonight.
I know that finding balance will be a process and that I will fail. But, I also know that being aware of the need for balance will help me find a healthy medium. As will having someone hold me accountable. The good news is that it also enables me to say yes to the things I feel called to and no to the ones I don’t, without having to feel guilty either way. I’ve already been tested on that one, and am happy to report that I gulped and said yes to one request, no to another (while feeling peaceful about that decision) and signed my two older boys for TaeKwon Do.
For that exercise part, I probably should join them.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
little mister sassy pants
Grandpa took Boy #3 ice fishing last week. This was a special event - getting away from your brothers and of course, Grandpa has much better snacks than at home. And he lets you eat as much as you want. (Unlike some mean mommies we know.)
Well, apparently Grandpa was going the extra mile and provided pop for our precocious little three-year-old. Only, it got partially spilled. Then it had to be set down while the men did “serious” fishing. And then (I think I got this story straight), lines were tangled, which isn’t hard to imagine when you think of fishing with a preschooler. So Grandpa was trying to do it all and somebody decided he wanted a drink. Now.
Well, Grandpa said no, not now. Little Sassy Pants replied in a huff, “Fine! I’m never coming fishing with you ever again!”
(At this point, hearing the story, I am completely mortified. Then I wonder how I can blame those genes on my husband...)
Grandpa took the attitude in stride and replied, “That’s okay - your brothers will come fishing with me.”
(I hate to even write this...)
“No, Grandpa, they’re not gonna come fishing with you ever again either!”
I’m pretty sure his two older brothers wouldn’t agree with #3’s statement, but he was positive about it. At least Grandpa has been laughing about the whole thing and doesn’t seem too put off by the grief his grandson gave him.
I find it endlessly fascinating and very embarrassing at how emphatic and bold this child is. He can look me straight in the eye after I’ve told him to pick up his toys and say, “No!” without so much as a twinge of remorse - until he sees the Tabasco sauce bottle come out.
He is so quick to justify his behavior, to demand his demands, to spew, “Fine! I don’t like you anymore!” that I worry it’s more than a stage. Part of it I know is his personality - he is simply quick-witted - and part of it I suppose is just human nature.
We are selfish, demanding, unsympathetic and sassy at times - even to God. We make demands during our prayers and huff if they’re not answered. We whine about what we have to do and sniffle about whatever ails us. We sometimes aren’t all that happy and we let God know all about it. We’re as impossible to please as an ornery three-year-old. Especially when we don’t get our way.
“Fine! I’m not coming fishing with you ever again!”
I wonder if God has Tabasco sauce.
Well, apparently Grandpa was going the extra mile and provided pop for our precocious little three-year-old. Only, it got partially spilled. Then it had to be set down while the men did “serious” fishing. And then (I think I got this story straight), lines were tangled, which isn’t hard to imagine when you think of fishing with a preschooler. So Grandpa was trying to do it all and somebody decided he wanted a drink. Now.
Well, Grandpa said no, not now. Little Sassy Pants replied in a huff, “Fine! I’m never coming fishing with you ever again!”
(At this point, hearing the story, I am completely mortified. Then I wonder how I can blame those genes on my husband...)
Grandpa took the attitude in stride and replied, “That’s okay - your brothers will come fishing with me.”
(I hate to even write this...)
“No, Grandpa, they’re not gonna come fishing with you ever again either!”
I’m pretty sure his two older brothers wouldn’t agree with #3’s statement, but he was positive about it. At least Grandpa has been laughing about the whole thing and doesn’t seem too put off by the grief his grandson gave him.
I find it endlessly fascinating and very embarrassing at how emphatic and bold this child is. He can look me straight in the eye after I’ve told him to pick up his toys and say, “No!” without so much as a twinge of remorse - until he sees the Tabasco sauce bottle come out.
He is so quick to justify his behavior, to demand his demands, to spew, “Fine! I don’t like you anymore!” that I worry it’s more than a stage. Part of it I know is his personality - he is simply quick-witted - and part of it I suppose is just human nature.
We are selfish, demanding, unsympathetic and sassy at times - even to God. We make demands during our prayers and huff if they’re not answered. We whine about what we have to do and sniffle about whatever ails us. We sometimes aren’t all that happy and we let God know all about it. We’re as impossible to please as an ornery three-year-old. Especially when we don’t get our way.
“Fine! I’m not coming fishing with you ever again!”
I wonder if God has Tabasco sauce.
Friday, December 15, 2006
when i'm an adult
This time of year, one can’t help but wish to be a kid again. The wonder and anticipation of Christmas is all too real for children. They clammer about the tree, snooping in presents, shaking stockings...
Oh, wait that was me. I was the nosy one, expertly peeling back Scotch tape from gift wrapping and sliding the paper off the packages to get a peak inside. I was so good at it, I could replace the wrapping back on the present without any rips or tears. I could even line the creases back up to the sides of the box and match the tape to its orginal position. If the tape lost its stickiness, I scrounged up another piece and placed it directly over the old one - viola! Re-wrapped present! What a devious child was I. The trouble was, in all of that peaking, I don’t remember finding a single one of my own presents. For some reason, I always ended up opening one of the my brother’s. Perhaps Mom didn’t label gifts back then?
It was good to be a kid at Christmas-time. If the anticipation of gifts didn’t kill you, having to pose for family Christmas photos might. No one ever smiled at the same time and by the time 15 pictures had been taken, no one had smiles left.
The holiday excitement was usually dampened by having to trudge through preparations for the annual Sunday school program. Practice, practice, practice singing carols, filing out of church pews, fighting for position in front of the microphone (oh, that was me too). I remember being forced to wear a new dress for the Christmas program (oh, how I hated dresses!) and mortifying my mother by somehow managing to put a gigantic run in the front of white tights right before it was my grade’s turn to sing. There I was, curled hair sticking out every which way, navy blue dress making me very uncomfortable, a two-inch streak running up my left leg and I wasn’t giving up an inch to the right or left of the prime property in front of the mike. I was going to SING! If I remember correctly, there were at least three girls in my class that had the same intentions come program time. Sometimes it’s cute when kids belt out into the microphone, but playing tackle-the-mike stand isn’t so much.
Ah, yes. I could probably go on and on with all my memories of Christmas time, but I wouldn’t want you to think poorly of me. I really did enjoy most parts of the holidays. (Did I mention the toys?) To this day, I can’t get the Toys R Us jingle out of my head: ”I don’t want to grow up...”
I wish I could can some of a child’s enthusiasm over snow, Christmas, putting up a tree, etc., and drink it down like a Coke. Maybe then I’d be a little less “adult” about toys and gifts and shopping and baking and family get-togethers.
That’s why I have to chuckle at my boys when they believe all their problems will be solved when they get bigger.
Boy #3 got upset with me last night when I wouldn’t let him have a snack before bedtime. I sent him to bed for the third time and pulled out the last two pieces of chocolate cake for me and hubby. Like most children (okay, okay, like me) he somehow sensed there was a snack out, ready to be devoured. He was out of bed within 15 seconds, down the stairs, and peeking over the railing. “Why do you get cake?” he demanded.
When our usual platitudes about being Mom and Dad didn’t please him, he huffed back up the stairs, muttering, “When I’m a dadult, I’m having cake!”
Boy #2 has been wondering what he should be when he grows up. I told him he’ll figure it out soon enough (he’s five) and not to worry, but that advice fell on deaf ears.
“I just don’t know what I should be. I think maybe a police man, and I’d really like to be a rock star.” I had visions of the Village People in my head so I’m really praying for Divine Discernment for that child.
It’s just incredibly interesting to me how we, as humans, and no matter how young or old we are, tend to think our problems will be solved by growing up, getting rich, getting smarter or even doing X, Y and Z.
We can’t comprehend sometimes that when we get bigger, we let our problems get bigger as well. We have pie and we want cake. We have a perfectly nice dress and we want to wear pants. We want to be big, bigger than God. So much so, that we often forget that He is the ultimate problem-solver, answer-giver, present-gifter and love-offerer.
This Christmas, perhaps we could recapture some of the excitement of children by simply doing two things: giving and receiving.
Give glory. Give worship. Give praise.
Receive love. Receive love. Receive love. And, who knows, maybe even a new dress.
Oh, wait that was me. I was the nosy one, expertly peeling back Scotch tape from gift wrapping and sliding the paper off the packages to get a peak inside. I was so good at it, I could replace the wrapping back on the present without any rips or tears. I could even line the creases back up to the sides of the box and match the tape to its orginal position. If the tape lost its stickiness, I scrounged up another piece and placed it directly over the old one - viola! Re-wrapped present! What a devious child was I. The trouble was, in all of that peaking, I don’t remember finding a single one of my own presents. For some reason, I always ended up opening one of the my brother’s. Perhaps Mom didn’t label gifts back then?
It was good to be a kid at Christmas-time. If the anticipation of gifts didn’t kill you, having to pose for family Christmas photos might. No one ever smiled at the same time and by the time 15 pictures had been taken, no one had smiles left.
The holiday excitement was usually dampened by having to trudge through preparations for the annual Sunday school program. Practice, practice, practice singing carols, filing out of church pews, fighting for position in front of the microphone (oh, that was me too). I remember being forced to wear a new dress for the Christmas program (oh, how I hated dresses!) and mortifying my mother by somehow managing to put a gigantic run in the front of white tights right before it was my grade’s turn to sing. There I was, curled hair sticking out every which way, navy blue dress making me very uncomfortable, a two-inch streak running up my left leg and I wasn’t giving up an inch to the right or left of the prime property in front of the mike. I was going to SING! If I remember correctly, there were at least three girls in my class that had the same intentions come program time. Sometimes it’s cute when kids belt out into the microphone, but playing tackle-the-mike stand isn’t so much.
Ah, yes. I could probably go on and on with all my memories of Christmas time, but I wouldn’t want you to think poorly of me. I really did enjoy most parts of the holidays. (Did I mention the toys?) To this day, I can’t get the Toys R Us jingle out of my head: ”I don’t want to grow up...”
I wish I could can some of a child’s enthusiasm over snow, Christmas, putting up a tree, etc., and drink it down like a Coke. Maybe then I’d be a little less “adult” about toys and gifts and shopping and baking and family get-togethers.
That’s why I have to chuckle at my boys when they believe all their problems will be solved when they get bigger.
Boy #3 got upset with me last night when I wouldn’t let him have a snack before bedtime. I sent him to bed for the third time and pulled out the last two pieces of chocolate cake for me and hubby. Like most children (okay, okay, like me) he somehow sensed there was a snack out, ready to be devoured. He was out of bed within 15 seconds, down the stairs, and peeking over the railing. “Why do you get cake?” he demanded.
When our usual platitudes about being Mom and Dad didn’t please him, he huffed back up the stairs, muttering, “When I’m a dadult, I’m having cake!”
Boy #2 has been wondering what he should be when he grows up. I told him he’ll figure it out soon enough (he’s five) and not to worry, but that advice fell on deaf ears.
“I just don’t know what I should be. I think maybe a police man, and I’d really like to be a rock star.” I had visions of the Village People in my head so I’m really praying for Divine Discernment for that child.
It’s just incredibly interesting to me how we, as humans, and no matter how young or old we are, tend to think our problems will be solved by growing up, getting rich, getting smarter or even doing X, Y and Z.
We can’t comprehend sometimes that when we get bigger, we let our problems get bigger as well. We have pie and we want cake. We have a perfectly nice dress and we want to wear pants. We want to be big, bigger than God. So much so, that we often forget that He is the ultimate problem-solver, answer-giver, present-gifter and love-offerer.
This Christmas, perhaps we could recapture some of the excitement of children by simply doing two things: giving and receiving.
Give glory. Give worship. Give praise.
Receive love. Receive love. Receive love. And, who knows, maybe even a new dress.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
bottomless pits
This is the downside to boys. My three and a half are draining our pocketbook, our fridge, our pantry and our freezer. And they’re draining what little energy I have because there are no longer any leftovers left over.
Gone are the days when I can make a pot of chili that will last two suppers. Gone are the days when a casserole will stretch for a couple days. Gone are the days when the bread got moldy before it was all used up.
The three point five juvenile stomachs (bottomless and unfillable) can gobble down an entire loaf of bread during one lunch.
Don’t believe me? Here’s what three boys devoured for lunch yesterday. Each had one ham, cheese and mustard sandwich (two slices of bread), one peanut butter and jelly sandwich (two slices of bread), half a peanut butter sandwich (one slice of bread) half an apple, two fistfuls of chips, three pickles, two dilly beans, a glass of lemonade, eight carrots and 12 grapes. (Yes, I counted, because these children have some sort of unconscious radar detection system that immediately senses and goes ballistic if one child gets one more grape than another.) It’s a bit scary.
Where does all this food go? Worse yet, how can they still want more after wolfing down enough food to feed a large family in a third-world country?
I hear, “Mom, can I have more to eat?” after EVERY meal. (Unless it’s something they don’t like, which is very rare.) These vultures will eat just about anything - olives, sauerkraut, broccoli, cottage cheese, fried cabbage, Chinese, venison and all those things many kids turn their noses up at.
I can’t figure out if their metabolisms are just that high, if they’re just that active, or if they truly do have bottomless pits for stomachs. (But, they’re boys, so it could be all of the above.) I enjoy food as much as the next person, but this consumption in our house is bordering on ridiculous. The sad thing is that others have assured me it will only get worse with teenage boys - more food, bigger messes.
Wonderful. They’re just going to have to learn how to fish or raise chickens for the family larder. Now I know why my parents raised their own beef. (I have five brothers.)
I got to thinking about not living on bread alone (I dare say my boys are making a pretty good attempt at it). I seem to always have an appetite for food, but not so much for what God considers “living bread.”
I wish I salivated over Isaiah and Romans and James the way I do over BBQ chicken pizza. (Put it that way and it sounds like I’m a cannibal, but I’m trusting you get the idea). I wish I satiated my hunger in the morning with Psalms instead of Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch. Most times, if I’m being honest, I would rather consume a cheeseburger than stick my nose into God’s Word.
We are to hunger and thirst after righteousness, but I wonder if we sometimes aren’t more concerned with our hungry bellies. There’s a delicate balance there - too hungry and you can’t concentrate on anything but your grumbly tummy, too full and you tend to get sluggish. Either way food can be a distraction.
My physical hunger will never be satisfied, only temporarily. My spiritual hunger shouldn’t either, but sometimes, well it just is. I get lazy and comfortable and satisfied with where I am and how little of the Word I’m feeding myself. Often, I don't even have an appetite for it. You can want to have that craving, but that’s a bit like wanting to desire sushi if you can’t stand the thought of eating raw fish. It might work to force yourself to eat sushi to develop a “taste” for it, but I’m still not sure that would make you crave it. It might also work if you knew sushi was good for you, but again that’s probably not enough to make you dream about eating it or make your mouth water for another bite.
That desire has almost got to come supernaturally. Each of us has unique taste buds. Some of us love jalapeños. Some of us actually like pickled herring. Some people love seafood. (That one I still don’t understand.) At some point, a person had to sample the above items in order to know whether or not they tasted good. Some of those foods we’ve had to acquire a taste for, other foods we simply love the minute we put it into our mouths. (I’m thinking about chocolate, Krispy Kremes and ice cream in particular.) Some people might simply have an intense desire to get in the Word after one taste test; for most of us, that hankering has to come with repeated nibblings. Either way, the key action is: the Word has to get into our mouths to be tasted to see if the Lord truly is good.
I’m humble enough to admit I’m not there yet. I know that it’s not a simple aversion to God’s Word like my disgust for seafood. It’s more akin to the fact that I haven’t put it to my senses often enough to savor it. Let me put it this way, it’s kind of like broccoli – I know it’s good for me, I know how to eat it and I even like it, but I don’t LOVE it. I don’t want to eat it every day. I wouldn’t choose it over a cup of steaming coffee laced with chocolate mint truffle creamer or a bowl of maple nut ice cream. Or over fried chicken and mashed potatoes.
Somehow, I’m hoping I can either learn to relish broccoli like French silk pie (read: change my perspective) or experience God’s Word in such an personal, deep, pleasurable way, that it would be just like eating French silk pie. Both are possible if I just get out of the kitchen and into the Good Book.
But, first I’ve got some pits to fill.
Gone are the days when I can make a pot of chili that will last two suppers. Gone are the days when a casserole will stretch for a couple days. Gone are the days when the bread got moldy before it was all used up.
The three point five juvenile stomachs (bottomless and unfillable) can gobble down an entire loaf of bread during one lunch.
Don’t believe me? Here’s what three boys devoured for lunch yesterday. Each had one ham, cheese and mustard sandwich (two slices of bread), one peanut butter and jelly sandwich (two slices of bread), half a peanut butter sandwich (one slice of bread) half an apple, two fistfuls of chips, three pickles, two dilly beans, a glass of lemonade, eight carrots and 12 grapes. (Yes, I counted, because these children have some sort of unconscious radar detection system that immediately senses and goes ballistic if one child gets one more grape than another.) It’s a bit scary.
Where does all this food go? Worse yet, how can they still want more after wolfing down enough food to feed a large family in a third-world country?
I hear, “Mom, can I have more to eat?” after EVERY meal. (Unless it’s something they don’t like, which is very rare.) These vultures will eat just about anything - olives, sauerkraut, broccoli, cottage cheese, fried cabbage, Chinese, venison and all those things many kids turn their noses up at.
I can’t figure out if their metabolisms are just that high, if they’re just that active, or if they truly do have bottomless pits for stomachs. (But, they’re boys, so it could be all of the above.) I enjoy food as much as the next person, but this consumption in our house is bordering on ridiculous. The sad thing is that others have assured me it will only get worse with teenage boys - more food, bigger messes.
Wonderful. They’re just going to have to learn how to fish or raise chickens for the family larder. Now I know why my parents raised their own beef. (I have five brothers.)
I got to thinking about not living on bread alone (I dare say my boys are making a pretty good attempt at it). I seem to always have an appetite for food, but not so much for what God considers “living bread.”
I wish I salivated over Isaiah and Romans and James the way I do over BBQ chicken pizza. (Put it that way and it sounds like I’m a cannibal, but I’m trusting you get the idea). I wish I satiated my hunger in the morning with Psalms instead of Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch. Most times, if I’m being honest, I would rather consume a cheeseburger than stick my nose into God’s Word.
We are to hunger and thirst after righteousness, but I wonder if we sometimes aren’t more concerned with our hungry bellies. There’s a delicate balance there - too hungry and you can’t concentrate on anything but your grumbly tummy, too full and you tend to get sluggish. Either way food can be a distraction.
My physical hunger will never be satisfied, only temporarily. My spiritual hunger shouldn’t either, but sometimes, well it just is. I get lazy and comfortable and satisfied with where I am and how little of the Word I’m feeding myself. Often, I don't even have an appetite for it. You can want to have that craving, but that’s a bit like wanting to desire sushi if you can’t stand the thought of eating raw fish. It might work to force yourself to eat sushi to develop a “taste” for it, but I’m still not sure that would make you crave it. It might also work if you knew sushi was good for you, but again that’s probably not enough to make you dream about eating it or make your mouth water for another bite.
That desire has almost got to come supernaturally. Each of us has unique taste buds. Some of us love jalapeños. Some of us actually like pickled herring. Some people love seafood. (That one I still don’t understand.) At some point, a person had to sample the above items in order to know whether or not they tasted good. Some of those foods we’ve had to acquire a taste for, other foods we simply love the minute we put it into our mouths. (I’m thinking about chocolate, Krispy Kremes and ice cream in particular.) Some people might simply have an intense desire to get in the Word after one taste test; for most of us, that hankering has to come with repeated nibblings. Either way, the key action is: the Word has to get into our mouths to be tasted to see if the Lord truly is good.
I’m humble enough to admit I’m not there yet. I know that it’s not a simple aversion to God’s Word like my disgust for seafood. It’s more akin to the fact that I haven’t put it to my senses often enough to savor it. Let me put it this way, it’s kind of like broccoli – I know it’s good for me, I know how to eat it and I even like it, but I don’t LOVE it. I don’t want to eat it every day. I wouldn’t choose it over a cup of steaming coffee laced with chocolate mint truffle creamer or a bowl of maple nut ice cream. Or over fried chicken and mashed potatoes.
Somehow, I’m hoping I can either learn to relish broccoli like French silk pie (read: change my perspective) or experience God’s Word in such an personal, deep, pleasurable way, that it would be just like eating French silk pie. Both are possible if I just get out of the kitchen and into the Good Book.
But, first I’ve got some pits to fill.
Saturday, July 1, 2006
falling in love again
I’d forgotten (until recently) how quickly one can fall in love with a newborn. And how deep the love can be.
So, needless to say, I’m thoroughly enjoying having a five-month-old in the house, especially once he started sleeping mostly through the night. (His timing couldn’t have been better either - right after we got home from a two-week vacation and right when I most needed the sleep!)
A happy, smiling, cooing baby who chews on his toes is a complete delight. (Aren’t I lucky?) I am completely in love with him - all 17 pounds and especially the chunky thighs.
I love the grunts he makes constantly. I love the way he bounces and bounces in his Johny Jump-Up. I love his chubby cheeks and toothless grin. I even think his sweaty feet are adorable. I don’t even mind getting up in the middle of the night to give him his pacifier so he’ll go back to sleep. I love that I have an excuse to have baby lotion in the house (one of my all-time favorite smells). I love how quickly he recognized me (and Dad and brothers!) I love little giggles when we do Pat-A-Cake and when I blow on his belly. I even love how he splashes water all over during his bath.
It seems the rest of the boys are equally as smitten. They have been fighting non-stop to sit next to him since we got a minivan. It got so bad we finally had to put an end to the wars by giving them seating assignments. Boy #1 lucked out and got the coveted spot. Boy #3 threw a fit (that was expected).
All three boys have so far, not tired of giving the baby his pacifier, talking to the baby, and trying to feed the baby Cheerios (you guessed it, Boy #3!)
But, once the hungry screams start, they will mostly skidaddle - love doesn’t cover ear-splitting shrieks that can only be stopped by food.
From what I can tell, this falling in love business appears to be quite common among the female gender. Maybe we’re genetically predisposed somehow to “suffer” from this condition.
I tend to think that’s been done on purpose.
If God meant for us to be saved through childbearing, it seems only natural that we would also be quite attached to the children we bear. (Even when they’re unbearable).
What is really interesting, though is that women also enjoy babies that aren’t their own. We flock around the newborns like they were made of chocolate. We get our “baby fixes” as often as possible. I’m not sure if holding a baby somehow reassures us that life is a gift, a blessing, and a miracle or if we simply are attracted to innocence.
Either way, I’ve been happy to indulge anyone who asks, “Can I hold him?” because I know how good it feels to cuddle a baby – especially when he smiles at you like you’re the most attractive and intelligent person in the world.
Life is good. How lucky we are that God allows us to enjoy it - and all those babies.
So, needless to say, I’m thoroughly enjoying having a five-month-old in the house, especially once he started sleeping mostly through the night. (His timing couldn’t have been better either - right after we got home from a two-week vacation and right when I most needed the sleep!)
A happy, smiling, cooing baby who chews on his toes is a complete delight. (Aren’t I lucky?) I am completely in love with him - all 17 pounds and especially the chunky thighs.
I love the grunts he makes constantly. I love the way he bounces and bounces in his Johny Jump-Up. I love his chubby cheeks and toothless grin. I even think his sweaty feet are adorable. I don’t even mind getting up in the middle of the night to give him his pacifier so he’ll go back to sleep. I love that I have an excuse to have baby lotion in the house (one of my all-time favorite smells). I love how quickly he recognized me (and Dad and brothers!) I love little giggles when we do Pat-A-Cake and when I blow on his belly. I even love how he splashes water all over during his bath.
It seems the rest of the boys are equally as smitten. They have been fighting non-stop to sit next to him since we got a minivan. It got so bad we finally had to put an end to the wars by giving them seating assignments. Boy #1 lucked out and got the coveted spot. Boy #3 threw a fit (that was expected).
All three boys have so far, not tired of giving the baby his pacifier, talking to the baby, and trying to feed the baby Cheerios (you guessed it, Boy #3!)
But, once the hungry screams start, they will mostly skidaddle - love doesn’t cover ear-splitting shrieks that can only be stopped by food.
From what I can tell, this falling in love business appears to be quite common among the female gender. Maybe we’re genetically predisposed somehow to “suffer” from this condition.
I tend to think that’s been done on purpose.
If God meant for us to be saved through childbearing, it seems only natural that we would also be quite attached to the children we bear. (Even when they’re unbearable).
What is really interesting, though is that women also enjoy babies that aren’t their own. We flock around the newborns like they were made of chocolate. We get our “baby fixes” as often as possible. I’m not sure if holding a baby somehow reassures us that life is a gift, a blessing, and a miracle or if we simply are attracted to innocence.
Either way, I’ve been happy to indulge anyone who asks, “Can I hold him?” because I know how good it feels to cuddle a baby – especially when he smiles at you like you’re the most attractive and intelligent person in the world.
Life is good. How lucky we are that God allows us to enjoy it - and all those babies.
Thursday, June 1, 2006
making memories
Tomorrow we will be heading out for a cross-country road trip - first vacation we’ve taken since I was pregnant with boy number three more than three years ago. It took this long to get up the guts to cross the state border. I’m still not sure if it’s bravery or insanity.
Right now, I’ve been trying to pack and plan how to keep all four boys occupied for the 26 hours we’ll be cooped in a vehicle on our way to Washington.
It’s been quite an ordeal - snacks, toys, books, books on tape, more snacks, crayons and coloring books, Adventures in Odyssey CDs, an atlas to track our progress west (typical homeschool mom trying to make this trip educational!) and of course, wet wipes.
I’m really not sure if any of this will help. I let the boys pick out their own snacks today at Wal-Mart - things I never normally buy. A total of $147 later, the cart was filled with Oreos, M&M’s, goldfish crackers, licorice, juice boxes, one bag of smushed potato chips (thanks to boy number three), candy necklaces, cheap toys that I can throw away when we get home (if they last that long) and even some of the cool animal crackers that come in their own little boxes.
The three who can comprehend the idea of snacks were catapulting with excitement in the middle of the snack aisle, much to my chagrin.
“Thank you so much, Mom!” I heard over and over. Who knew kids could get so excited about their own containers of Chips Ahoy and Nutter Butter cookies?
“Boy I can’t wait until Saturday!” one boy bellered, causing the lady in the aisle next to us to chuckle aloud.
I’m guessing by the time we hit North Dakota, the vehicle will be sticky with spilled juice, McDonald’s French fries and an assortment of cookie crumbs.
I keep telling myself “We’re making memories along with the messes.” That and reminding myself that my parents took seven kids cross-country in the opposite direction in a Plymouth Horizon hatchback in July.
And they survived.
Those were the days before seatbelt and car seat requirements. Maybe that explains it. Either that or we were just such well-behaved children that it was no big deal to take a family vacation in a vehicle smaller than one of our four-wheelers. (Somehow I doubt that).
I remember ice coming through the vents from the air conditioner. I remember writing signs on notebook paper to hold in the window as we passed cars. I remember waving at all the other vehicles from the back window - everyone had such big smiles. Back then, I thought people on freeways were just extraordinarily friendly. In reality, I’m guessing they had reactions much like my husband’s coworkers and many of my friends have had about our trip.
“Look at that! Look at all those kids! Can you imagine travelling with that many children? Are you crazy? Do you have a DVD player? No? Can’t you borrow one?”
Then they find out we’re camping on the way - for more than one night. That really boggles most people.
“Building memories,” I mutter, trying to convince myself at the same time.
There are four of us that are excited about camping along the way. (Yes, I would be the lone hold-out for a stay in a comfortable bed. Indoors. In a heated hotel room).
But we’re making memories.
I hope they include 75-degree weather, no rain, no bears, no bugs, no whining... Well, I can dream, can’t I? I wish I had even a tenth the enthusiasm about life that my boys do about “our vacation.” Wouldn’t this trip called life be exciting if we could look at it as a daily adventure?
Okay God, where are you taking me today? What big adventure do you have in store for me (if I’ll just open my eyes to see it)?
I wonder if he tires of hearing us whine, “Are we there yet?”
He’s planned our entire course with great care. The journey is almost as important as the destination. I think he too, likes to make memories.
Right now, I’ve been trying to pack and plan how to keep all four boys occupied for the 26 hours we’ll be cooped in a vehicle on our way to Washington.
It’s been quite an ordeal - snacks, toys, books, books on tape, more snacks, crayons and coloring books, Adventures in Odyssey CDs, an atlas to track our progress west (typical homeschool mom trying to make this trip educational!) and of course, wet wipes.
I’m really not sure if any of this will help. I let the boys pick out their own snacks today at Wal-Mart - things I never normally buy. A total of $147 later, the cart was filled with Oreos, M&M’s, goldfish crackers, licorice, juice boxes, one bag of smushed potato chips (thanks to boy number three), candy necklaces, cheap toys that I can throw away when we get home (if they last that long) and even some of the cool animal crackers that come in their own little boxes.
The three who can comprehend the idea of snacks were catapulting with excitement in the middle of the snack aisle, much to my chagrin.
“Thank you so much, Mom!” I heard over and over. Who knew kids could get so excited about their own containers of Chips Ahoy and Nutter Butter cookies?
“Boy I can’t wait until Saturday!” one boy bellered, causing the lady in the aisle next to us to chuckle aloud.
I’m guessing by the time we hit North Dakota, the vehicle will be sticky with spilled juice, McDonald’s French fries and an assortment of cookie crumbs.
I keep telling myself “We’re making memories along with the messes.” That and reminding myself that my parents took seven kids cross-country in the opposite direction in a Plymouth Horizon hatchback in July.
And they survived.
Those were the days before seatbelt and car seat requirements. Maybe that explains it. Either that or we were just such well-behaved children that it was no big deal to take a family vacation in a vehicle smaller than one of our four-wheelers. (Somehow I doubt that).
I remember ice coming through the vents from the air conditioner. I remember writing signs on notebook paper to hold in the window as we passed cars. I remember waving at all the other vehicles from the back window - everyone had such big smiles. Back then, I thought people on freeways were just extraordinarily friendly. In reality, I’m guessing they had reactions much like my husband’s coworkers and many of my friends have had about our trip.
“Look at that! Look at all those kids! Can you imagine travelling with that many children? Are you crazy? Do you have a DVD player? No? Can’t you borrow one?”
Then they find out we’re camping on the way - for more than one night. That really boggles most people.
“Building memories,” I mutter, trying to convince myself at the same time.
There are four of us that are excited about camping along the way. (Yes, I would be the lone hold-out for a stay in a comfortable bed. Indoors. In a heated hotel room).
But we’re making memories.
I hope they include 75-degree weather, no rain, no bears, no bugs, no whining... Well, I can dream, can’t I? I wish I had even a tenth the enthusiasm about life that my boys do about “our vacation.” Wouldn’t this trip called life be exciting if we could look at it as a daily adventure?
Okay God, where are you taking me today? What big adventure do you have in store for me (if I’ll just open my eyes to see it)?
I wonder if he tires of hearing us whine, “Are we there yet?”
He’s planned our entire course with great care. The journey is almost as important as the destination. I think he too, likes to make memories.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
all marked up
We have need for establishing a marker-free zone at our house. I’m seriously considering banishing the tools of color for good - mainly because the color is ending up everywhere but on paper.
Boy #3 has been at it again. But, before I cast all the blame at his feet, I should note that Boy #1 and Boy #2 have a bad habit of leaving temptation out in colors like electric lime, blue lagoon and infra red where eager hands can grab them and run. They are at least partly at fault for the condition of our home.
A few days ago, I wandered into the boys’ bedroom (not by choice - I generally try to avoid it unless absolutely necessary). A sheepish little boy greeted me at the door with about seven markers uncapped and ready for war. Apparently, part of the battle had already taken place.
Purple streaks covered the table and chairs that I had laboriously painted for Boy #1’s third birthday. (That was five years ago). The set had somehow managed to survive the first two hooligans with little to no major damage. But that had all changed now. All the cute little lettering and stars I had painted on the top was graffitied over by scribbles. The chairs had the same matching streaks down the legs and across the back. Next to the table, on the wall (which was previously a nice shade of sage green) were more lines and swirls of varying colors. Even the light switch didn’t escape being vandalized.
I closed the door and nearly jumped out of my skin. The backside of the door was covered in a two-foot patch of colorful sketches only a two-year-old could make.
But, it didn’t stop there. His brother’s closet door had scribbles. The floor had scribbles. The two-year-old himself had scribbles up and down his arms and on the sides of his face.
He received a mighty good lecture, a little discipline (okay maybe a lot). And then I attempted to scrub off his marker job. Nothing worked. Soap. Water. Elbow Grease. Comet. All it did was fade the colors somewhat; the stains refused to budge.
Each boy received a good talking to and I thought the matter was resolved until I went to clean up the living and dining room a few days later.
My brand-new red tablecloth now sports blue lines on one corner. The off-white carpet has an attractive turquoise splotch in front of the TV cabinet. I found another spot of the same color next to one of the end tables.
None of these stains came clean 100 percent. The only thing this child colored that managed to come clean was his tongue. He decorated that with a black marker, but his mouth looked good as new after lunch that day. (Where’s the justice in that - I almost found myself hoping he’d get marker poisoning, or at least a slight case of indigestion).
Instead, I’m left with a room to repaint. The only way to solve the problem is to brush Kilz (a stain blocker) over the offending marks and then paint. Without the stain blocker, the marker marks will bleed right through any new paint.
Actually, my life isn’t all that different.
I get myself and my life all blotched up with marker marks – some visible, others not. Words. Actions. Thoughts. Anything I do that I’m not supposed to do and ought to know better than to do.
The result is discoloration on myself or sometimes even on others. Then I can’t remove the stains. I can try to scrub and scour myself, but it generally isn’t much more effective than to white wash what’s there or perhaps fade a stain a bit. I then kid myself that it isn’t any more noticeable than the faded purple streaks my son left on his bedroom walls.
There’s only one way out of it. It’s not a terribly easy way either if I can’t admit that I’ve got marks.
I need a real stain blocker. Something that will prevent the marks from showing up again. Ever. Period. Then, I need a fresh coat of paint to look new again. It’s a little process called forgiveness that can clean me up. My stain blocker is blood red and available 24-7. It literally does “kill” the marks.
Guess I shouldn’t be so hard on a two-year-old who’s doing nothing more than I did at his age. I actually distinctly remember drawing stick people with big fists on the back of my brother’s dresser. Mom said when I learned to write my name, they found it everywhere in the house – on walls, on furniture and probably even on my brothers.
Maybe this son will be the creative one of the bunch. In the meantime, I better stock up on paint.
-------------
You’ll think I’m making this up, but sadly it’s true. As I was finishing up the last lines of this column, I heard the boys yelling at their little brother. You guessed it - #3 struck again. I had taken the market bucket out to find the names of those cool marker colors and told #2 he could draw a picture with them.
Big mistake.
Boy #3 got a hold of a black marker and promptly colored both of his palms. He then invented a new form of finger painting by wiping the black marker on my living rooms walls, a yellow chair and a white pillow. By the time I had reached him, he also had black streaks on his sweatshirt, his cheeks and over his eyes when he tried to hide his face.
The good news? Somehow, this time he chose a WASHABLE marker! What a great invention! I’m guessing the creator also had a Boy #3 at home.
Boy #3 has been at it again. But, before I cast all the blame at his feet, I should note that Boy #1 and Boy #2 have a bad habit of leaving temptation out in colors like electric lime, blue lagoon and infra red where eager hands can grab them and run. They are at least partly at fault for the condition of our home.
A few days ago, I wandered into the boys’ bedroom (not by choice - I generally try to avoid it unless absolutely necessary). A sheepish little boy greeted me at the door with about seven markers uncapped and ready for war. Apparently, part of the battle had already taken place.
Purple streaks covered the table and chairs that I had laboriously painted for Boy #1’s third birthday. (That was five years ago). The set had somehow managed to survive the first two hooligans with little to no major damage. But that had all changed now. All the cute little lettering and stars I had painted on the top was graffitied over by scribbles. The chairs had the same matching streaks down the legs and across the back. Next to the table, on the wall (which was previously a nice shade of sage green) were more lines and swirls of varying colors. Even the light switch didn’t escape being vandalized.
I closed the door and nearly jumped out of my skin. The backside of the door was covered in a two-foot patch of colorful sketches only a two-year-old could make.
But, it didn’t stop there. His brother’s closet door had scribbles. The floor had scribbles. The two-year-old himself had scribbles up and down his arms and on the sides of his face.
He received a mighty good lecture, a little discipline (okay maybe a lot). And then I attempted to scrub off his marker job. Nothing worked. Soap. Water. Elbow Grease. Comet. All it did was fade the colors somewhat; the stains refused to budge.
Each boy received a good talking to and I thought the matter was resolved until I went to clean up the living and dining room a few days later.
My brand-new red tablecloth now sports blue lines on one corner. The off-white carpet has an attractive turquoise splotch in front of the TV cabinet. I found another spot of the same color next to one of the end tables.
None of these stains came clean 100 percent. The only thing this child colored that managed to come clean was his tongue. He decorated that with a black marker, but his mouth looked good as new after lunch that day. (Where’s the justice in that - I almost found myself hoping he’d get marker poisoning, or at least a slight case of indigestion).
Instead, I’m left with a room to repaint. The only way to solve the problem is to brush Kilz (a stain blocker) over the offending marks and then paint. Without the stain blocker, the marker marks will bleed right through any new paint.
Actually, my life isn’t all that different.
I get myself and my life all blotched up with marker marks – some visible, others not. Words. Actions. Thoughts. Anything I do that I’m not supposed to do and ought to know better than to do.
The result is discoloration on myself or sometimes even on others. Then I can’t remove the stains. I can try to scrub and scour myself, but it generally isn’t much more effective than to white wash what’s there or perhaps fade a stain a bit. I then kid myself that it isn’t any more noticeable than the faded purple streaks my son left on his bedroom walls.
There’s only one way out of it. It’s not a terribly easy way either if I can’t admit that I’ve got marks.
I need a real stain blocker. Something that will prevent the marks from showing up again. Ever. Period. Then, I need a fresh coat of paint to look new again. It’s a little process called forgiveness that can clean me up. My stain blocker is blood red and available 24-7. It literally does “kill” the marks.
Guess I shouldn’t be so hard on a two-year-old who’s doing nothing more than I did at his age. I actually distinctly remember drawing stick people with big fists on the back of my brother’s dresser. Mom said when I learned to write my name, they found it everywhere in the house – on walls, on furniture and probably even on my brothers.
Maybe this son will be the creative one of the bunch. In the meantime, I better stock up on paint.
-------------
You’ll think I’m making this up, but sadly it’s true. As I was finishing up the last lines of this column, I heard the boys yelling at their little brother. You guessed it - #3 struck again. I had taken the market bucket out to find the names of those cool marker colors and told #2 he could draw a picture with them.
Big mistake.
Boy #3 got a hold of a black marker and promptly colored both of his palms. He then invented a new form of finger painting by wiping the black marker on my living rooms walls, a yellow chair and a white pillow. By the time I had reached him, he also had black streaks on his sweatshirt, his cheeks and over his eyes when he tried to hide his face.
The good news? Somehow, this time he chose a WASHABLE marker! What a great invention! I’m guessing the creator also had a Boy #3 at home.
Wednesday, March 1, 2006
boy oh boy!
As of February 1, I am officially the mother of four boys. Gulp. That even looks tough on paper.
Number four arrived fashionably on time (on his due date), but I really would have appreciated an early appearance.
The two older boys were thrilled to have a brother, but only because the boys would then outnumber the girls on the Larson side. They seem to think only in terms of wrestling and beating up the girls and can’t quite comprehend that by the time this one is old enough to fight, his girl cousins will be graduating from high school.
The former baby of the family has not been so excited about the new addition. He hasn’t pulled any two-year-old stuff like poking baby’s eyes or trying to smother him (although I’ve kept a close eye on him, just in case). Instead, he has become a master of the word “No!” and has been almost unbearably stubborn. Any time he gets disciplined for calling me “stupid” or “dumb,” he then insists that it’s all my fault. Logic of a two-year-old is interesting.
Thankfully, this baby has been our calmest by far. He eats, sleeps, poops and burps and spends the rest of the time wide awake, observing the chaos that constantly surrounds him.
I wonder if he’ll stay calm forever, or if he’s simply taking it all in, waiting for his chance to prove “anything you can do, I can do better,” which seems to be the motto around our place.
I’ve already pulled out “Bringing up Boys” - Dr. Dobson’s Bible on male children to re-read. Pretty sure that it will have to be kept out for permanent reference as I muddle through this raising boys business. My only complaint is that there are no chapters in the book about how to cope with never-ending laundry piles, potting training boys who dribble on the floor, and how to keep boys from biting each other.
Maybe I need to write my own book - a mother of boys survival guide. Between all the noise, the competition, the outrageous amounts of food they eat and the toys they accumulate, there has got to be a silver lining somewhere. If not, perhaps I can make some money selling my new-found and hard-learned expertise.
I probably wouldn’t know what to do with a girl baby anyway, so perhaps in a way God’s looking out for me. One more male in this already testosterone-overloaded house isn’t going to make much of a difference.
Hopefully, those future daughter-in-laws will thank me some day that I forced my boys to eat (of all things!) tomatoes, onions, sweet potatoes and sauerkraut. I know I’m grateful my hubby isn’t picky about what he eats.
I’m also hoping they’ll appreciate boys who aren’t shy about singing to strangers, too embarrassed to wear patched jeans, love vegetables, adore their grandparents, are polite enough to say thank you, but not uptight enough to keep from burping out loud and laughing about it. They (so far) seem to enjoy the few chores we make them do. (We even discovered that #2 actually likes to sweep the floor and wash dishes!! Believe me, we’re taking full advantage of that.) They aren’t easily bored and can watch “The Incredibles” five times in a row without going nuts. The only one going nuts is me, when they argue about who has what super-powers as they chase each other around the house.
For some reason that I haven’t figured out yet, we’ve been chosen to have four boys. So far it seems to be working. I’m still somewhat sane. The washing machine still works. The vacuum cleaner didn’t self-destruct after sucking up a Lincoln Log last week. And, I’ve got plenty of hand-me-downs for boy #4.
Now if I could just get some sleep...
Number four arrived fashionably on time (on his due date), but I really would have appreciated an early appearance.
The two older boys were thrilled to have a brother, but only because the boys would then outnumber the girls on the Larson side. They seem to think only in terms of wrestling and beating up the girls and can’t quite comprehend that by the time this one is old enough to fight, his girl cousins will be graduating from high school.
The former baby of the family has not been so excited about the new addition. He hasn’t pulled any two-year-old stuff like poking baby’s eyes or trying to smother him (although I’ve kept a close eye on him, just in case). Instead, he has become a master of the word “No!” and has been almost unbearably stubborn. Any time he gets disciplined for calling me “stupid” or “dumb,” he then insists that it’s all my fault. Logic of a two-year-old is interesting.
Thankfully, this baby has been our calmest by far. He eats, sleeps, poops and burps and spends the rest of the time wide awake, observing the chaos that constantly surrounds him.
I wonder if he’ll stay calm forever, or if he’s simply taking it all in, waiting for his chance to prove “anything you can do, I can do better,” which seems to be the motto around our place.
I’ve already pulled out “Bringing up Boys” - Dr. Dobson’s Bible on male children to re-read. Pretty sure that it will have to be kept out for permanent reference as I muddle through this raising boys business. My only complaint is that there are no chapters in the book about how to cope with never-ending laundry piles, potting training boys who dribble on the floor, and how to keep boys from biting each other.
Maybe I need to write my own book - a mother of boys survival guide. Between all the noise, the competition, the outrageous amounts of food they eat and the toys they accumulate, there has got to be a silver lining somewhere. If not, perhaps I can make some money selling my new-found and hard-learned expertise.
I probably wouldn’t know what to do with a girl baby anyway, so perhaps in a way God’s looking out for me. One more male in this already testosterone-overloaded house isn’t going to make much of a difference.
Hopefully, those future daughter-in-laws will thank me some day that I forced my boys to eat (of all things!) tomatoes, onions, sweet potatoes and sauerkraut. I know I’m grateful my hubby isn’t picky about what he eats.
I’m also hoping they’ll appreciate boys who aren’t shy about singing to strangers, too embarrassed to wear patched jeans, love vegetables, adore their grandparents, are polite enough to say thank you, but not uptight enough to keep from burping out loud and laughing about it. They (so far) seem to enjoy the few chores we make them do. (We even discovered that #2 actually likes to sweep the floor and wash dishes!! Believe me, we’re taking full advantage of that.) They aren’t easily bored and can watch “The Incredibles” five times in a row without going nuts. The only one going nuts is me, when they argue about who has what super-powers as they chase each other around the house.
For some reason that I haven’t figured out yet, we’ve been chosen to have four boys. So far it seems to be working. I’m still somewhat sane. The washing machine still works. The vacuum cleaner didn’t self-destruct after sucking up a Lincoln Log last week. And, I’ve got plenty of hand-me-downs for boy #4.
Now if I could just get some sleep...
Friday, July 1, 2005
where chaos reigns...
A couple weeks ago some friends of ours stopped by unannounced. Ordinarily this would be a welcome surprise. This time it wasn’t. I honestly was GLAD that Hubby and Oldest Boy were suffering from the flu so I had an excuse to tell them they might not want to come in. (I didn’t even let them past the front door).
Why? Well, let’s just say I probably would have died of mortification right then and there.
There were exactly 14 pairs of shoes, sandals and boots piled in front of the coat closet. I’m estimating about two pounds of sand and dirt was compacted into entry rug -most of which was highly visible. My desk was piled so high with paperwork, phonebooks, etc. that the printer wasn’t even visible. My kitchen floor hadn’t seen a mop in, well... I’m not sure I’m going to confess that one.
The house was quite literally, complete chaos. (My husband will back me up on that one).
We had shipped the boys into the bathtub so at least three messes were clean - which unfortunately left a nice black streak in the tub once the water drained out.
I know that housework is a matter of priorities and some people place a higher priority on it than I do. Either that, or they actually enjoy cleaning. I know all about discipline, but yet I just can’t find any myself.
So, I decided to do what seemed like the next best solution - make the kids be more disciplined.
Now before you think that’s a real cop-out, let me explain something. I had to do chores when I was a kid. My husband had to do chores when he was a kid. Our kids are not doing chores. It has been, up to now, too much work to make them do anything on a daily basis beyond brushing their teeth and putting their cereal bowls away.
There is little more aggravating than having the entire house spotless and then three little whirlwinds come along with dirty socks, dirty clothes and all their Legos, Tinkertoys, Lincoln Logs and matchbox cars to mess things up.
I might have to borrow a trick of an aunt of mine who used to lock her doors during the summer and force the kids to play outside. I used to think that was horrible torture. Now, I’m beginning to realize that perhaps it was the only way she kept her sanity and her house clean.
I’m not sure I’m ready to go that far yet, but I have decided that the boys are going to learn to do chores. By the time I’m done with them and they’re 21, they’ll be real catches for their future wives because they’ll know how to cook, clean and hopefully, pick up after themselves.
Is it possible? Well, we’ll see. I haven’t exactly put this theory into practice yet. But, this afternoon, Number One will be learning to sweep the food crumbs from the kitchen floor and Number Two will be wiping off all the toothpaste on the bathroom sink. (Notice how both messes were made by the kids anyway?)
There’s no reason they can’t feed the kittens, scrub the toilet, weed the garden and at the very least, pick up their things!
The tough part is that it takes discipline to discipline. But, the feeling of embarrassment is a very good motivator for me - I’m hoping it will be my ticket out of a house of chaos. It probably won't put me on the couch eating bon-bons, but it might allow me to walk across the kitchen floor without stepping onto sticky goo or crunchy cereal.
Now, I just have to figure out whose chores are whose.
Why? Well, let’s just say I probably would have died of mortification right then and there.
There were exactly 14 pairs of shoes, sandals and boots piled in front of the coat closet. I’m estimating about two pounds of sand and dirt was compacted into entry rug -most of which was highly visible. My desk was piled so high with paperwork, phonebooks, etc. that the printer wasn’t even visible. My kitchen floor hadn’t seen a mop in, well... I’m not sure I’m going to confess that one.
The house was quite literally, complete chaos. (My husband will back me up on that one).
We had shipped the boys into the bathtub so at least three messes were clean - which unfortunately left a nice black streak in the tub once the water drained out.
I know that housework is a matter of priorities and some people place a higher priority on it than I do. Either that, or they actually enjoy cleaning. I know all about discipline, but yet I just can’t find any myself.
So, I decided to do what seemed like the next best solution - make the kids be more disciplined.
Now before you think that’s a real cop-out, let me explain something. I had to do chores when I was a kid. My husband had to do chores when he was a kid. Our kids are not doing chores. It has been, up to now, too much work to make them do anything on a daily basis beyond brushing their teeth and putting their cereal bowls away.
There is little more aggravating than having the entire house spotless and then three little whirlwinds come along with dirty socks, dirty clothes and all their Legos, Tinkertoys, Lincoln Logs and matchbox cars to mess things up.
I might have to borrow a trick of an aunt of mine who used to lock her doors during the summer and force the kids to play outside. I used to think that was horrible torture. Now, I’m beginning to realize that perhaps it was the only way she kept her sanity and her house clean.
I’m not sure I’m ready to go that far yet, but I have decided that the boys are going to learn to do chores. By the time I’m done with them and they’re 21, they’ll be real catches for their future wives because they’ll know how to cook, clean and hopefully, pick up after themselves.
Is it possible? Well, we’ll see. I haven’t exactly put this theory into practice yet. But, this afternoon, Number One will be learning to sweep the food crumbs from the kitchen floor and Number Two will be wiping off all the toothpaste on the bathroom sink. (Notice how both messes were made by the kids anyway?)
There’s no reason they can’t feed the kittens, scrub the toilet, weed the garden and at the very least, pick up their things!
The tough part is that it takes discipline to discipline. But, the feeling of embarrassment is a very good motivator for me - I’m hoping it will be my ticket out of a house of chaos. It probably won't put me on the couch eating bon-bons, but it might allow me to walk across the kitchen floor without stepping onto sticky goo or crunchy cereal.
Now, I just have to figure out whose chores are whose.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
long live the potluck
I love potlucks. I love the sight of dish after dish of various macaroni casseroles (We grew up saying “hotdishes.”) I love the smells that all combine to form one scent that doesn’t quite go together and yet somehow it just does.
My high school science teacher taught me that those odors come up from the church basement because of diffusion. (Can you believe I actually remembered that!) By the time church is over, my stomach is rumbling and my feet won’t go anywhere but toward the scent of 15 kinds of warm food.
I can’t explain why goulash, green bean casserole, Jello salad and pickles all taste just right together. Makes no culinary sense, but boy is it appealing to my taste buds.
I love any excuse to visit and have potluck get-togethers. Growing up, church potlucks always meant more choices than you could fit on your plate (and always at least one tuna noodle casserole that we turned up our noses up to). There was (and usually still is) the three-bean or six-bean casserole. (If you’re lucky, it might even have hamburger and bacon in it.) There usually was about 12 kinds of hamburger/macaroni/spaghetti sauce dish - each a little different but still pretty much the same. There were at least two or three different shades of Jello salads (why they call it a salad is beyond me). And someone usually brought that 24-hour layered salad. Mmmm! Best of all, we often got Finnish flat bread, already buttered for us. And if we were good, then came a choice from six different kinds of bars.
I can’t get enough of potlucks. I love to sample bites of other people’s cooking. I love to find the perfect recipe to try making for it. Best of all, I love to have a four or 10-course meal without having to do all the work myself. Clean-up’s easy too.
I really think it should be written in the church bylaws (somewhere under outreach or worship service order) that they be mandatory once a month, at least.
Did I tell you that I love potlucks?
So, when I read recently in a Christianity Today weblog that churches are facing legal problems because of potlucks, I nearly fainted. Aaaaah! Tell me it isn’t so!
But, nope...the piece was even subtitled, “State governments increasingly regulate church potlucks” (The title “Food Fights” was more clever than mine, but considering I’m writing this at 1:04 a.m. you’ll have to humor me.)
Anyway, back to potlucks. Yikes.
The writer, Rebecca Barnes, stated that U.S. churches are facing more and more legal hurdles to holding potlucks. And the first state mentioned was (surprise!) Minnesota, where apparently potlucks are exempt from food safety inspections only if food is not prepared in the kitchen. Churches in Wisconsin that have more than 12 public food events per year may have to get a restaurant license!
Churchgoers and civic groups in Indiana were banned from having potucks when a new law took effect that required nonprofit groups to hire certified food handlers. (It apparently was an inadvertent error and one that has those same lawmakers scrambling to fix). Illinois faced a similar problem until Governor Rod Blagojevich signed a new law that exempts all potluck dinners from state and local health regulations. He was quoted as saying that potlucks, “are a long-standing tradition that do not warrant government intrusion.”
Amen! Please pass the hotdish. And the salad. And the pickles.
---------
“The term potluck comes from the traditional practice of never throwing anything away. Meal leftovers would be put into a pot and kept warm, and could be used to feed people on short notice. This practice was especially prevalent in taverns and inns in medieval times, so that when you showed up for a meal, you took the "luck of the pot."
How’s that for some trivia?
My high school science teacher taught me that those odors come up from the church basement because of diffusion. (Can you believe I actually remembered that!) By the time church is over, my stomach is rumbling and my feet won’t go anywhere but toward the scent of 15 kinds of warm food.
I can’t explain why goulash, green bean casserole, Jello salad and pickles all taste just right together. Makes no culinary sense, but boy is it appealing to my taste buds.
I love any excuse to visit and have potluck get-togethers. Growing up, church potlucks always meant more choices than you could fit on your plate (and always at least one tuna noodle casserole that we turned up our noses up to). There was (and usually still is) the three-bean or six-bean casserole. (If you’re lucky, it might even have hamburger and bacon in it.) There usually was about 12 kinds of hamburger/macaroni/spaghetti sauce dish - each a little different but still pretty much the same. There were at least two or three different shades of Jello salads (why they call it a salad is beyond me). And someone usually brought that 24-hour layered salad. Mmmm! Best of all, we often got Finnish flat bread, already buttered for us. And if we were good, then came a choice from six different kinds of bars.
I can’t get enough of potlucks. I love to sample bites of other people’s cooking. I love to find the perfect recipe to try making for it. Best of all, I love to have a four or 10-course meal without having to do all the work myself. Clean-up’s easy too.
I really think it should be written in the church bylaws (somewhere under outreach or worship service order) that they be mandatory once a month, at least.
Did I tell you that I love potlucks?
So, when I read recently in a Christianity Today weblog that churches are facing legal problems because of potlucks, I nearly fainted. Aaaaah! Tell me it isn’t so!
But, nope...the piece was even subtitled, “State governments increasingly regulate church potlucks” (The title “Food Fights” was more clever than mine, but considering I’m writing this at 1:04 a.m. you’ll have to humor me.)
Anyway, back to potlucks. Yikes.
The writer, Rebecca Barnes, stated that U.S. churches are facing more and more legal hurdles to holding potlucks. And the first state mentioned was (surprise!) Minnesota, where apparently potlucks are exempt from food safety inspections only if food is not prepared in the kitchen. Churches in Wisconsin that have more than 12 public food events per year may have to get a restaurant license!
Churchgoers and civic groups in Indiana were banned from having potucks when a new law took effect that required nonprofit groups to hire certified food handlers. (It apparently was an inadvertent error and one that has those same lawmakers scrambling to fix). Illinois faced a similar problem until Governor Rod Blagojevich signed a new law that exempts all potluck dinners from state and local health regulations. He was quoted as saying that potlucks, “are a long-standing tradition that do not warrant government intrusion.”
Amen! Please pass the hotdish. And the salad. And the pickles.
---------
“The term potluck comes from the traditional practice of never throwing anything away. Meal leftovers would be put into a pot and kept warm, and could be used to feed people on short notice. This practice was especially prevalent in taverns and inns in medieval times, so that when you showed up for a meal, you took the "luck of the pot."
How’s that for some trivia?
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