Just Remembering

Gotcha

Yesterday, we were enjoying a lovely Sunday afternoon. I was busy wrapping a few gifts. Christina's 26th birthday is Thursday and we were having her birthday dinner that night. I almost always wrap gifts in my bedroom, and this was no different. Elisabeth was sitting on my bed chatting and helping wrap when she received a text message.

"Mom, did you talk to Christopher?"

"No, why?"

"You mean you didn't get a text message from him?"

"Well, I don't know. I don't carry my phone from room-to-room. Do you know something that I should know?"

"He just sent me a text that reads 'Sweet! My car was just totaled."

"What?" I ran to find my phone. Sure enough. There was the same text message. I quickly sent him the same response I'd given Elisabeth: "What?"
I didn't wait even a second and sent him a second message, "Call me." Then I wondered what I was doing sending text messages. For all I knew he was standing in the middle of the road with his car in a million pieces. Was he ok? He should probably be checked out at the hospital anyway. I dialed his number.

"Hi mom, what are you doing?"

"Well, wrapping presents for your sister's birthday dinner. You know her birthday is this Thursday. So what is going on??????"

Silence.

Then laughter.

"April Fools Mom!"

I told him he really had me going and then he made me promise to not give it away since he'd sent that text message to everyone.

"Did you send it to Lauren?" (That is his girlfriend.)

"No, I really wanted to still be alive tomorrow." (Smart man.) It's a good thing he is a thousand miles away.

The funniest part was when Hilary came up the stairs asking about this mysterious message. I am NOT a good liar, so I sent her to ask her father. He had not seen the message. His first response was, "I sure hope it wasn't his fault." He went back outside to finish up the yard work. We watched from the window as his phone rang. Christopher was calling to finish up the fool's business. After a few moments we saw Michael burst into laughter with threats of getting even next year.

Ahhhh...we have a whole year to plan our revenge. Feel free to share your ideas.

Just For Fun

I was reading Heth's Blog and saw she had linked to this. Yes, Janice & Susan at 5 Minutes for Mom are giving away a Dyson Vacuum cleaner.

Confession: I already own a Dyson. Yes, I truly love it. So why do I need another one? Well, mine has not been working so great recently. I am hard on vacuums. Don't let that discourage you from entering the contest. The suction on the thing truly is unbelievable. But it is all plastic. I broke off the plastic hook that you wind the cord around. Now I need a new hose, as I suppose I put too much stress on it when stretching it all the way down the stairs. (It is a very long hose, but ok, maybe I became so accustomed to the convenience that I pulled it a bit further than I should have.)

The real test: Would I spend that huge amount of money and buy another one? You bet I would. It is by far the best vacuum I ever owned. (I've owned some great vacuums, and it was my 4 or 5th one.) So I thought I would share this good news with the rest of you.

Pillow Presents

For as long as I can remember, I've shared a bedroom. It isn't always easy having someone in your space, but what incredible richness it has brought to my life. Life skills were learned, negotiation techniques mastered & sisterly bonds formed within the confines of shared sleeping quarters.

Sometime before I entered the 5th grade, Laurie and I began this adventure. My parents had purchased a 4 bedroom home. The 3 girls no longer were grouped together. My brother and older sister now had the privilege of residing in their own rooms. This left Laurie and I very unhappy with the new arrangement.

We had our ups and downs, but when we climbed into bed at night, we became comrades. We'd lie awake discussing how we could divide the room to give each of us our own separate space. We chattered about our day, commiserated about the struggles with certain friends, or expressed our secret fondness for a really cute boy. We'd tickle each others feet to see who would be the first to flinch. We laughed and laughed. We needed that physical contact but even more, we needed to connect. It didn't matter what we might have argued about earlier in the day. At bedtime, we became best friend sisters.

I don't recall exactly when it happened. It might have been Laurie's birthday. Maybe not. But one night, I left a note on her pillow. It said something like, "In order to find your very next clue, look around the room for something blue." I'd made a scavenger hunt of sorts for her. At the end of the hunt, she was directed back to her pillow. Underneath it, I had placed a small treasure.

That was the beginning of pillow presents. It wasn't every night, although in the summer it sometimes was. One or both of us would make, create, or find a treasure for the other. I was better at it than she was. I was supposed to be. I was older. I loved making scavenger hunts and they always had to rhyme. Laurie made up a few too, and it was ok that they didn't rhyme. Laurie's favorite pillow presents to give me were tamales. No, not red hot tamales candy. We're talking honest-to-goodness tamales. My mom (usually with our help) would make 12 dozen tamales around Christmas time each year. She'd cook them up a dozen at a time for dinner. If any were left over in the 'fridge I received a tamale under my pillow that night. I still can't eat tamales without thinking of them as pillow presents.

Last week, on Hilary's birthday, I saw her walking around searching. I wondered what she was doing. She was on a scavenger hunt Elisabeth and Sarabeth had created for her very late the night before. At the end were some small gifts they'd purchased. (You can see one of them in the wordless wednesday photo.) That was when the pillow present memories came flooding back to me. What richness comes to sisters who have shared a bedroom. Makes me feel sorry for only children and those who have small families and never had to learn to "live" with one another.

P.S. (My dad was/is an only, and he always told us to have more than one. I did my best to have a houseful.)

Wordless Wednesday

Fear Of Failure

Well, would you look at this. Yes, I am actually posting, and yes, I realize it has been over a week since I've posted and over 2 weeks since I've really written anything. Sigh. I remember this feeling. It is de ja vu. (Ok, maybe not quite so serious and life-changing, but the feeling remains.)

It happened sometime during my senior year of high school. Classes began at 8 in the morning. At 10:45, after my 3 core subjects, I spent the next 6+ hours at "beauty school." (Wouldn't it be terrific, if we'd been learning to be beautiful both inside and out?) It was good old fashioned learn-to-cut-and-style hair school. I'd convinced my parents that when I finished, I'd have a good steady job to pay for college. Honestly, I'd never thought it through at all. It was just something I thought would be fun.

At 5:00 o'clock, I'd rush home, change into my busboy clothes and get to the restaurant as quick as I could. I didn't mind busing tables. It was interesting to watch the different people come through. Old men eating steak, would talk your ear off, but leave a decent tip. Couples were harder. Some were obviously there to discuss serious subjects and didn't want to be disturbed. Others welcomed any interruption as if bored to tears by their date.

By 9 p.m., I was exhausted, but not smart enough to go home to bed. I needed to unwind. I would go out with friends or to my boyfriend's home. Some nights I'd make it home by 11, but often it was 1 or 2 in the morning when I'd lay my head to rest. Getting up at 6 seemed to arrive earlier and earlier.

It was those early mornings that I felt the gnawing sensation. It ate away at my sense of well-being. It told me that my life was out-of-control. There was an emptiness, and it wasn't just my lack of completing assignments. Homework? I didn't have time for that. I didn't study, read, or write anything for school outside of class. I began falling behind.

The constant inner nagging left me feeling like a failure. I didn't know how to catch up. I told myself I'd do better. But nothing changed. One day I couldn't face going to class unprepared. I had an idea. Instead of attending class, I'd spend those 3 hours getting ahead. It seemed like a brilliant idea. Catching up turned into a couple of extra hours of sleep. It felt good for the moment, but only made things worse. I began attending class 2 or 3 times a week. I didn't graduate that year.

A few days of not blogging, and I start to feel that same gnawing inside. Ok, maybe it isn't quite that bad, but with each day that passes I feel like I am running behind. I am sure fellow bloggers can relate to the thoughts that come each and every day, the words that fight to get out. But when the words aren't written that day, the following day new words form and the earlier ones are pushed to the back. After a week or two, the unfinished thoughts feel heavy. It takes great effort to sort through. Unfinished assignments. It is hard to know where to begin. Instead of blogging, I lay my head to rest at night believing I will do better in the morning.

I must be tired. I sound way too dramatic without good reason. Perhaps tomorrow I will feel caught up. This is extra credit for my missing assignments. I won't be withdrawn for lack of participation. I will graduate to a new day. Hope to see you then.

Old Or Grumpy

Old & Grumpy



(I used to wonder where my kids got their sense of humor.)'
Happy 15th Birthday Hilary!

Happy Birthday To Me

I am so excited. Summer is almost here. I feel the warmth as I step barefooted onto the pavement. It is not cold. I sense heat radiating up through my toes. The air smells summery, like a hot breeze blowing about dusty hay. I imagine cool wet sand as I scrunch my toes inside my boots. I tilt my head back, eyes closed and I soak up the bright sunlight that makes me squint. I want to squeeze into a swimsuit, slather on tanning oil and bake in the summer sun.

What is summer for? It is a time for growth. Little seeds are buried into the soil and in a few short months are producing luscious, edible fruits. I mostly look at summer as a time to slow down. Long, hot days are intended for more hours to work, but I like to believe we are afforded a bit more leisure. Time for staying up late and going out for ice cream cones, for cool, refreshing swims and water balloon fights. Summer is a time for marathon monopoly games that last for days and watching hours of home videos. Let's not forget the soft, green grass for laying upon while trying to figure out what character the cloud formations have created.

Summer is just around the corner, and this year we will share it with my inlaws. They are going to love summer in Colorado.

Wordless Wednesday

I have so many things running through my head that I want to share. Unfortunately, I seem to have very little time to accomplish this. How can I squeeze more time into my day??? No, I will not get up any earlier. My body severly protests early mornings. If I stay up late, I will hate myself in the morning. (This makes my body even more unhappy than usual.) So I will have to settle for not being able to blog as much as I want to. (Insert a huge sigh here.)

A few weeks back, in the middle of dinner, Elisabeth noticed brownies sitting on the counter. "Are those FAIRY TALE brownies????"

I nodded, since it is not polite to speak with a mouth full of food.

"Where'd they come from?"

After swallowing I answered, "My mom sent them."

She scrunched up her face as if I'd said a very strange thing. "Your mom? Oh that sounds weird. I can't imagine ever saying 'my mom sent brownies."

I had to think about this for a second. Was it too difficult for her to imagine me buying & sending brownies to her and her some-day family? Could she not fathom anything but homemade brownies? Or was it because I'd said "my mom" when I usually referred to her as Gramma?

It turned out that it was the latter. I think it is hard to remember that "Gramma" is "my mom." One day "Gramma" for her kids will be "her mom." (ME!) Why is it so hard for us to wrap our minds around these thoughts?

I remember similar times through the years. Watching my grandma become a great-grandma I wondered what it would be like when my own mother was a great-grandma. It happened when Ethan was born and now she had 2 great-grandchildren. But my mom and dad don't seem old. I have a hard time imagining my parents having serious health problems, or being frail. They've always been...well, the parents. Parents are supposed to be the ones who do everything, take care of everything. Or are they?

Michael's parents are in the process of a huge change in their lives. They've lived the past 42 years or so in Arizona. This Thursday, they officially become Colorado residents. They are coming here to live out their remaining years. We feel so privileged and blessed, but I wonder what they might be feeling. I can't imagine such a huge life-change at this point in my life. What would it be like in another 35 years or so? They are leaving everything comfortable, all the familiar. Not only will the weather and altitude be very different, the only ones they will know is us. New friends, new doctors, new church, new home...pretty much everything about their lives will change. I wonder if Fairy Tale Brownies would welcome them to their new life? Nah, I think I'll go for homemade cookies and a cozy, warm, electric blanket for their bed to remind them of the Arizona sunshine.

Update of Sorts

Apparently, I don't recall what it is like having a 4 year old boy around the house. Okay, Ethan is a very special little boy, which sometimes means he is a bit more of a challenge than your typical 4 year old. But still.

I was up bright and early yesterday morning. I went with Christina to Children's Hospital. Ethan was having the nerves in his ears checked for hearing loss. He had to be sedated. Any procedure that has to be done at Children's seems like a huge ordeal, especially when the arrival time is 7:00a.m. I figured it'd be a 15 minute thing once he was out. But no, it was nearly 2 full hours of waiting. We found out that Ethan has pretty good hearing in his left ear, a bit of hearing loss in his right. Nothing that would cause his lack of speech. On one hand it is good news. But the other hand is left to wring itself out. I forgot how much emotional energy it takes to trust a child in the doctor's hands.

Today it was my privilege to take care of Ethan while Christina ran some errands. One small boy, sounds like a piece of cake. That is when my shortcoming kicked into gear. I forget I am getting older.

A not-very-well-liked dog woke Ethan up with her barking. I couldn't get him to eat anything for breakfast, despite my most equisite cuisine offerings. Two hours later I made him lunch. He did eat a few bites, but mostly because his grandpa was eating the same thing. I forget how picky kids can be.

I gave him a bath. While bathing, I gave him a quick haircut producing a horrendous mess in the bathroom. During my attempt to clean it up, he poured powder on his feet. (And all over the carpet.) I forget how wiggly boys are.

Then the bad Gramma remembered she'd forgotten to give Ethan his anti-seizure medication. She quickly mixed it into his leftover yogurt/oatmeal and tried to spoon it into his mouth. I have no idea how much of it went down. He swished it around until he no doubt tasted the bitterness, then proceeded to spit it down the front of his clean shirt. I'd forgotten how messy boys can be.

We played Power Rangers. We put his puppy outside, while we stayed in. I looked around the house. I decided to wait to bake cookies together. If I could just run the vaccuum and pick up some of that dog hair, then maybe we could do something fun. Ethan was playing with his new castle and watching Sesame Street, so I quickly got out the vaccuum and headed for the bathroom, then the bedrooms. Did I forget how fast he is?

I vacuumed for 5-6 minutes. I walked back to the kitchen. The refrigerator door was wide open, a carton of eggs atop the table. My instincts told me to find the kid. Looking up, I see what looks like raw egg whites coming out of his mouth. Pausing a split second to close the refrigerator door, I see an empty prescription bottle on the floor. The contents are spilled. I break into a full run to reach Ethan. It isn't egg white running from his mouth, but saliva. He is trying to remove the bitter taste from his tongue. It's been a long time since I've had to call poison control. I'd forgotten the number.

After counting pills I realized he probably only bit into one of them. The man on the phone assured me that he might get a headache, but nothing worse. Relieved I hung up the phone. I spent the next 20 minutes trying without success to get Ethan to eat or drink something so he'd quit gagging. Juice, chocolate milk,ice cream, pretzels...I'd forgotten how difficult it can be to coax a child to eat.

He had a seizure, and I felt sure it was my fault. I didn't know grandparents felt guilt the way a parent sometimes does.

His mom came home, and boy did I feel relieved. I could be just "gramma" and not the responsible adult. I'd almost forgotten how nice and fun it is to be a grandma.

The phone rang. Practice was cancelled. Hilary needed to be picked up from school. Did I mention it was snowing and we had about 6 inches already? I had not forgotten how icy the roads can be, nor how cold it no doubt was. I was taking a coat & the 4 wheel drive.

On my way out the door, I saw my refrigerator standing open again. To the right stood Ethan. He was holding an emtpy bottle of coffee creamer. He was covered in white liquid and the carpet beneath him was soaking it up too. The rest of the evening I enjoyed the delicious vanilla scent.

Imagine the joy when I finally saw this:



I'd forgotten the sweetness of a sleeping child.

Wordless Wednesdays

(More Wordless Wednesdays)

Survivor

How many of you are Survivor Fans? I confess, I am. I have watched every show since the beginning episode. It isn't because it is the most entertaining show. Nor is it because I am endeared to the contestants. No, it goes much deeper than that. I have a secret desire to be a contestant on Survivor.

Honestly, I really do want to be a survivor. Think of the adventure of it all. I realize there would be no morning coffee, no soft pillow to lay my head upon at night. And yes, I know my age. It would be difficult at best to keep up with the 20 something year olds. But still, I want to be a survivor contestant.

You'd think I would have already applied. I haven't. I keep waiting for just the right inspiration. I need an incredibly creative and perfect idea for a personal video to send in to the show. I haven't been inspired enough yet.

My family thinks I'm crazy. But I figure if I can survive having 5 kids, raising gerbils, lizards, hamsters, frogs, a snake, cats, dogs, caught the resident mice, had giant cockroaches run across the floor, endured...well, you get the idea. Don't I have some bit of experience to bring to a game of Survivor??? (Or maybe I'm just trying to escape it all, and it sounds like a lovely break from the mundane?)

The funny thing is, I think I know where my spirit of adventure comes from. My mom and various family members-including my son, applied to be contestants on the Amazing Race. And I don't even watch that one.

Happy 20th Birthday Elisabeth!

It's hard to believe you've closed the door to your teen years. What happened to my little Gerber baby with the infectious smile?

Very quickly, that baby turned into a laughing, forever-singing toddler. You loved singing and entertaining anyone who'd pay attention. There was no such thing as a stranger. You welcomed everyone into your world.


Remember how you'd play dress-up for hours and hours? Or making tea and crumpets with your kitchen set? Your golden brown hair, pulled up in crooked pigtails, would bounce as you "cooked." You'd talk and talk in your singsong voice as you'd offer freshly baked cookies.

I remember a girl in second grade who wanted to be a cheerleader. You went to cheer camp and performed at a high school basketball game. Two ladies in front of me saw you amidst the sea of girls and couldn't get over how cute you were. I wanted to say, "that's my girl!" But before I could you waved and curtsied my direction and they thought you were waving to them and they waved back. You brought out the best in others. It wasn't but 7 or 8 years later that you were in high school drawing the crowd to their feet.

Do you recall that summer we took your cousin Jeremy to church for the first time? You both were 8. You had such a tender heart. You loved to dance and worship. You were explaining to Jeremy what it was going to be like in service, and how much he would enjoy it. "And something happens in there," you told him "and it's ok if you cry. It's not like it's because you are sad. You're happy. But God just touches you and sometimes you just start crying. But don't worry. My mom has tissues in her purse if you need them." What you didn't realize, is not everyone experienced what you did. It was precious. I'll bet you remember getting baptized too. You kept practicing how you'd hold your nose and asking if you were doing it right. You looked so little in the tank, but turned and waved to the crowd. You then bobbed up and down excitedly until it was your turn.

In 6th grade, my little girl struggled at school. You couldn't figure out why your friends didn't want to spend more time with their families. You told me I was your best friend and always would be. I wanted to hold onto that forever.

You finally became a teenager, a bit later than your peers and phone became your new best friend. We laughed, we cried. At times harsh words flew out, but tender ones calmed them down.

Now here you are, all grown up. Being 20 doesn't mean you quit having fun. Wherever this year finds you, laughter and fun won't be far behind.

Happy Birthday Elisabeth! I love you!

Oh Ye Of Little Faith...

When my children were little I prayed for them when they were sick. For every scraped knee and bumped head, we asked for God's healing. My first goal was to get them to seek God to meet their needs. Secondly, I wanted them to realize that God cared about them and their individual needs, that he wanted them to be whole and healthy. But I also hoped that they would experience first hand that He is our healer and He still performs miracles.

I must admit, sometimes my faith was not as big as that tiny mustard seed. I remember the night we were standing in the grocery store checkout. I had 3 small children with me and I was exhausted. Distracted and not watching, I pushed the cart forward, running into Christina's little 5 year old foot. I felt awful. This has happened to me and it hurts! "I'm sorry," I blurted out. Before I finished speaking, she dropped to the floor, clutched her foot and wailed, "Pray for me! Pray for my foot! You ran it over!" Tears began running down her face.

I'd like to say I immediately ran to her and prayed. I did not. I couldn't leave the baby in the front of the cart while I attended to her. I glanced around. Everyone around me was watching. They could hear her as she began pleading again, "pray for me! Pray for my foot, I think it's bleeding!" Two year old Christopher was already poised beside her ready to pray. The commotion became louder, more heads turned. I'm sure they waited to see what I would do. In a half whisper I choked out, "can Christopher just pray for you?"

"Nooooo, pleeeease, Mom. Praaaay for me." I pulled the baby out of her seat. My cheeks felt hot. All eyes were on me. I could have been a great witness to all of the observers. I wasn't. I knelt beside my daughter, with the baby dangling to one side and said, "can we pray in the car?"

My normally quiet, non-dramatic daughter seemed to be going for an Academy Award. "Noooo, I can't walk on it. Praaaay that it isn't broken! It hurts!" I laid my hand upon her foot, closed my eyes and somewhere between a whisper and hushed voice I prayed, "Lord Jesus, please heal Christina's foot." Her sad eyes looked up as if to say, "that's it? After all the effort it took to get you to pray, that's it???" But she didn't say that. She rubbed her foot, stood up and proclaimed, "I think its feeling better."

I was deeply humiliated. Was I ashamed to let strangers know that as a mother I prayed for my children's owies? I felt like Peter, when he denied he knew the Lord. I found myself apologizing to Christina and Christopher when we got to the car for not having more faith.

I knew in my head, that God heals. I've read the stories of Jesus healing blind men, opening deaf ears, even raising people from the dead. I believed it was right to pray for healing. James tells us to pray for the sick. Friends would share glorious stories of their personal experience of being healed and touched by the Great Physician. I had not witnessed the miraculous. I continued to pray for accidents, sickness and to teach my children to pray.

In the wee hours of the morning, holding a sick baby and rocking in the chair, I'd cry out to the Lord to touch her. I'd ask Him to remove the pain of an ear infection, comfort an upset tummy, lower a fever. There wasn't anything dramatic. But I could rest, knowing that He was in charge and I wasn't. He would watch over my children. It was my job to pray for them.

The funny thing is, I had a hard time praying for myself. I can count on one hand the number of times I was so sick that I actually crawled back in bed in the middle of the day. Then I would lie in bed and pray that my family could survive without me for a few hours. It wasn't that I never got sick. But how does a mother lie in bed with 5 children to care for? It has to be bad. One time it was. I had to ask Michael to come home from work. I knew I wasn't going to make it through the day standing up. After giving him suggestions of what he could do with the little ones and what time the others needed to be picked up from school, I laid down in my bed. It felt weird, but after a bit I began to doze off.

I heard the older kids arrive home from school, still asking what was wrong with mom. Why was she in bed? Was she going to die? Christopher quietly came into my room and stood beside me. I opened my eyes.

"Sorry to disturb you, Mom. I just wanted to say I hope you feel better." Then he did an unexpected thing. He placed his hand upon my forehead and he prayed. He prayed that God would touch me and heal me. Was I filled with faith? No. I worried that he would be disappointed when I didn't immediately arise from the bed healed. I did not want him to be discouraged, but I had no idea how to encourage him. When he finished, I thanked him and he left the room.

In my head I began to question my lack of faith for healing. At the same time, I knew God could work through sickness and pain-but I don't like to suffer. Why didn't He just heal us immediately when we asked? As I lay there wrestling with my thoughts, I noticed something. My head was no longer pounding. I didn't feel feverish or even sleepy. Why was I still lying in bed? I hesitated, then sat up. I didn't feel sick. I felt fine. Out of the bed I came. I went to Christopher and thanked him for praying for me.

In my weakness, God showed Himself strong. And is it possible, that in my weakness, God spoke into the heart of a 2 year old boy? When I asked Christina if her 2 year old brother could pray for her, did God breathe life into those words? Without even realizing it, my words told Christopher that I believed in the power of God to work through him. I'd like to believe God used my lack of faith to build faith. My son's faith, in turn, increased my faith. This is what the body of Christ is all about. We need one another, whether it is a 90 year old lady who prays or a 2 year old boy. God values and cares for us all.

Phone Calls (Updated)

I want to be snug in bed right now, my head resting comfortably on my special pillow. I'd be wearing my fuzzy, soft, pink pajamas with the covers pulled up and folded neatly under my chin. But here I sit. I'm wide awake. I'm waiting. Waiting for the phone to ring.

It's nothing serious, I hope. Earlier in the evening I received one of those "mom, what should I do?" phone calls. Christina's voice sounded remarkably calm, although I suspect that was for my benefit. Ethan had choked on something. He began gagging, then vomitted. Whatever it was, it didn't come out. But he did start breathing, so it must have gone down. She wondered if she should take him to the Emergency Room to make sure he was okay. One part of me wanted to shout, "yes, get him there now!" Another part of me didn't want to be an alarmist. I suggested she call a real doctor and ask his advice. She did.

So somewhere, 70 miles away, Ethan and Christina are waiting. Waiting to be seen, waiting for ex-rays, waiting for the results, waiting to speak with the doctor. And I am waiting for the phone call that tells me everything is fine and I can go to bed now.

At 2:23 a.m. Christina sent me a text message to say that they were home and Ethan was fine. Hallelujah!

Monday is my grocery shopping day. I debated about whether or not to go, since it was a holiday for the kids. I was feeling a bit guilty that I didn't do anything special with them. It is sort of what happens during Spring Break. I hear about the trips to Hawaii, Arizona, the Cayman Islands, New York, Paris...all of the places their classmates go for Spring Break. We almost always stay home. When they were little, we'd go out to lunch, take a trip to a museum, see a movie, or drive up for a picnic in the mountains. But now, maybe I just get tired.

So, even though it was a day-off-from-school, I went grocery shopping. I found I was walking a bit slower than usual. (I think it was because I didn't bother to make a grocery list.) Not only that, I hadn't even thought about the meals we'd have this week. I was browsing.

By the time I reached the produce section, my cart looked rather barren instead of its usual brimful self. Fruit and vegetables are healthier anyway, I mused. I pushed my sparse-filled cart to the apples. I decided on 3 different varieties, but a lady and her plentiful cart blocked my way. I pushed mine off to the side, so as not to block anyone else, then wiggled my way to the apples. I carefully selected some lovely, crisp Pink Ladies, a few not-as firm Galas, and 1 very green, most-likely tart Granny Smith. I turned to place them in my cart. But it wasn't there. I turned 3 or 4 times. I knew I'd pushed it a bit to the side, but hadn't it been right here?

I heard familiar giggling as I was looking around but it took a minute to figure it out. There across a few rows was my cart. It had been kidnapped by Elisabeth, Sarabeth, and Hilary. They were no longer just giggling but laughing hysterically.

"You turned around 4 times looking for your cart, Mom! What did you think happened?"

Oh! My kids can be so funny. I didn't feel so guilty for not doing anything special with them. They seem to have managed to amuse themselves just fine without me. We finished shopping together and they loaded my groceries in the car for me. I can't imagine life with just 1 or 2 kids. Think of all the fun I'd miss out on. If anything, I should have had a half a dozen more.

Opening Night

The stage was set. The actors stood poised, ready to make their entrance. The curtain was about to be drawn for the High School Musical. Sarabeth could feel her heart beating and noticed she was breathing faster. "Take a deep breath and relax" she told herself. Afterall, it wasn't as if she was going to be seen, but still. She was responsible for left stage.

Back in November, Sarabeth tried out for the musical. It wasn't the first time she felt the sting of disappointment. When she didn't make it, she chose to become part of the stage crew. Before she had the courage to try out, she was part of the crew. She could do it again. I was reminded of Joseph, of the bible. He too was able to rise above rejection and disapointment and work hard at whatever task was at hand.

As practices began, the Director made an unprecedented move. For ten years he'd produced some of the finest high school musicals around. He is well respected in the community for running a quality show. His standards are high. He demands hard work and respect from his cast and crew, but he gives the same and more of himself. This year, he chose two Juniors as his Stage Managers. Formerly, these positions had only been held by Senior students, typically the most mature and responsible kids. Sarabeth was chosen as Left Stage Manager.

Once during rehearsal she missed giving the cue for closing the curtain. Apparently, she took to daydreaming. (She does sound a lot like Joseph. Didn't his brothers call him "The dreamer?") The director began yelling, "curtain, curtain, curtain..." expecting it to close instantly. Sarabeth froze. I have learned through the years, that she does not react well to shouts. I found out while teaching her to drive and she blew through a stop sign. Another car was coming. Yelling "stop, stop!" did not produce results. She froze, with her foot on the accelerator.

Afterwards, Sarabeth apologized to the Director for missing the cue. He wasn't angry, but replied, "just don't let it happen again." And it didn't.

I proudly sat in the audience opening night. I noticed when the lights went off and on, the entrances and exits of the actors. I listened in the dark to scene changes and paid attention to the orchestra. I'm sure most of these things went unnoticed by the others who've come to watch this performance. The audience was full of parents who came to see their sons and daughters on center stage in all their glory. But I knew it took the work of many unseen people to create this stunning production. I was proud of Sarabeth and her accomplishments.

I was reminded that in some ways, I also am a Left Stage Manager. I am responsible, as a wife, mother, friend, sister, daughter, to see that those around me achieve their full potential. God is the ultimate creator and director. I may not be chosen to be center stage, but by doing my part and giving direction in the lives of others, I can witness a glorious performance.

Love At First Sight

He smiles when I walk in the door. As we talk, I see a spark in his eyes. I know he loves me.

His embrace is warm and inviting. It's like hugging a big teddy bear.

His hands are soft and gentle. I know I can go to him for comfort and support.

There's a ruggedness about him. Strength and character abound. I can count on him for always doing the right thing, no matter what it will cost him.

Was it love at first sight? I think it was. Even though the first time he saw me, he thought I looked like a shriveled up monkey without a tail. My dad loves me.

Happy Birthday Dad! I love you!

(Dad with greatgrandson Ethan)