Jonathan is with Jesus

Dear Friends who read this blog,

Please pray for my cousin Craig's family. This past Friday morning, their son Jonathan died of leukemia. He was three years old.

Jonathan was the third child of Craig and Deanna (pronounced "Deena")Chang. They have Christine (11), James (7), and baby Carolyn (5 months). My Aunt Belva (Craig's mom) has been living them since Jonathan was diagnosed a year ago.

Jonathan underwent many rounds of chemo and had ups and downs. James was a perfect match as a blood donor, and together he and his brother went through the transplant process in December. Jonathan came through the procedure so well and responded quickly to his brother's lifesaving gift. His remission was remarkable but brief.

Craig gave him a blood transfusion this past Monday, but sadly, Jonathan's body did not respond. They brought him home Wednesday and held him as he slipped away. Craig prayed and cried alone in his backyard, "Lord, if there's ANY OTHER WAY to stop his suffering.......but Your will be done....help me accept it....it seems so wrong, so wrong."

Please share their burden in prayer whenever you think of them.
Thank you.

Yook! Pyre'man, Pyre'man

Spiderman is Joel's favorite superhero. (And Buzz Lightyear.) Imagine how excited he is to get to wear Spiderman Pull-ups. We bought this bag of Pull-ups that contains a mix of Spiderman and Hulk (which he calls Mo-Hulk.)

Outside the activity center at our resort was a true Godsend--a Spiderman ride. Put the quarter in, press a few obnoxious sounding buttons, smile big. All was well and good until day 2, when Joel--oblivious to all onlookers--pulled down his shorts, pointed to the character on his "undawear" and then pointed to the ride.

"Yook! Pyre-man...Pyre-man!"

Reminds me of Karen's elderly friend, Miss Louise, giving the world a similar show of red!

High-Pitched Holiness

Joel is the youngest of four. But there's a noticeable decade's gap between him and my third child. So he is constantly observing the lives of high schoolers around here. His two brothers have deep voices. His sister's and mom's are, thankfully, higher.

At church we sing "You are Holy" which has a part that echoes. The men sing first, and the women echo. The other night my husband took out his Taylor guitar, gathered the family for some worship time, and spread two songsheets out in front of him to refer to the chords of songs he'd chosen. One of those songs was "You are Holy."

Joel LOVES to "be a boy" and make his brothers "be de guhls." He forces his chin onto his chest and sings deeply, "You are ho-wee" and orders them to "sing high, 'you are ho-wee'".

Ben and Stephen complied. You should have heard those falsettos. I was sure I was hearing Michael Jackson and Mike Tyson singing a duet.

(If they read this post, it might be the LAST time I hear Mike and Mike! Sorry, guys, you all amuse me, no matter your shoe size.)

Making the Connection

Joel turned three on Valentine's Day and is pretty successfully potty-trained to do, shall we say, #1. Yesterday en route from Disney World, we stopped for gas somewhere in North Carolina.

My husband, Paul, announced, "All right, whoever needs to stretch or get some candy, do it now."

Joel hopped out of his carseat and answered quickly, "I don't need candy, Daddy, but I hafta pee weally bad!"

More on Masculinity

So the voice thing is a big deal right now. Joel is more aware of his high, 3-year-old voice than my older ones ever were. Even in puberty, Ben and Stephen rarely commented on their changing larynxes.

Two nights ago I was holding Joel's hand as we plodded through the deserted parking lot of our Disney hotel. He was tired but wired, having spent ten hours at Mickey's famous place. So he let out a loud, happy scream.

"I fream yike a guhl," he said.

"A girl? Well, how does a boy scream?" I asked curiously.

"I don't know," he replied, "but I don't fream yike a boy."

"Oh, Herbert"

For as long as I can remember, my daughter has enjoyed inventing names. It's a girl thing, I guess. Names for stuffed animals, baby dolls, "customers" in her play store, "patients" in her play "hostible" (which is how she pronounced "hospital" when she was little). She has also named her future children many times over.
Her names have always amused me. At age 16 she is still imagining what people's names are.

Yesterday my 17 year old was northbound on I-95 as we drove home from Florida. (It was a day I imagined with no uncertain fear from the time he started driving the lawn tractor on my dad's lap.) Ben was cruising along and, by God's grace, I was asleep in the back of our minivan. Suddenly I awoke to the feel of a swerve and the sound of a simultaneous "toot!toot!" from the SUV next to us.

I awoke to see a man flippin' the bird at my son, giving Ben a sinister,Joker-esque grin for what seemed a whole mile.

"What was THAT all about?" I asked Ben.

"I have no idea," he said. "I didn't do anything."

Sarah was laughing. "Did you see how OLD that guy was? I mean he was really old! He must've been as old as Pappaw. Men that age aren't supposed to give you the finger. He was probably embarrassing his wife. She was saying, "Oh, Herbert, what'd you do THAT for? He's just a kid."

Swick Sway

This is just the adorable way Joel pronounces "Chick Fil-A." What I love to hear him say is, "I love Chick Fil-A's lemonade." It comes out, "I yuv Swick Sway's yemminade." (Say THAT three times fast.)

You Wanna Play What?

Joel thought ping-pong looked like so much fun. His older brothers played it many times at our resort this past week. (Don't ask me who in Marriott decided to place a ping-pong table OUTDOORS, under a CEILING fan, but anyway...) The thing is Joel was mispronouncing the name of the game, much to the embarrassment of Ben (17)and Stephen (14). Very loudly--on several occasions-- in that inimitably loud staccato voice, Joel exclaimed, "I! Want! To! Play! Ding-dong!"

Yes-bleed

Sarah, my 16 year old, suddenly got a nosebleed after a ride on a rollercoaster last week. Three-year-old brother Joel asked her, "Is that a nosebleed or a yes-bleed?"

We'll Talk Yater

This past week we vacationed to Disney World. My 3 year old, Joel, loves Buzz Lightyear and was also primed with excitement for "Mickey's House." He got to shake hands with both of them two days ago. On our 10 pm busride from the Magic Kingdom back to our hotel, I asked Joel, my 3 year old which one he liked better, Mickey or Buzz.
Overly tired but still rational he mumbled, "We'll talk yater."

Oh, if only I would remember those three little words of wisdom when I'm too tired for pleasant conversation.

Hospitality Corner

New blog! It's for everyone who wants to post anything hospitality-related (from personal experience). Check it out at www.hospitalitycorner.blogspot.com
and see what it's all about. Please post! Like we used to tell the gas-station attendant in the olden days, "Fill 'er up!"

Lilacs and Lilies

The heady fragrance of lilac is wafting this way. The neighbor's bush has grown so large and lush over the fence that it shades part of their pool. Every time I smell lilacs I am a little girl in Kansas, stopping in the sandy alley at the back of Mrs. Fair's house.

I don't know how old Mrs. Fair was then, in 1975, but she was deaf as dirt, rich as a Rockefeller, and sweet as syrup. Her deafness meant she couldn't hear the herd of mischievous kids on her wraparound porch chasing each other and leaping off it into her spirea bushes. Her richness meant there was always a jar full of treats at her house, and her sweetness meant that even if she witnessed my being rowdy, she never told my preacher daddy. She had a big, white Victorian house near the center of town, complete with magical turrets and surrounded by towering oaks and climbing ivy. I used to think that Jack (of the beanstalk fame) was perched in the south-facing vines at the tippy-top of the roof).

Lilies don't have any particular nostalgic pull on me, but my all-time favorite flower is the stargazer lily. Call me morbid, but I have told my family that I want stargazer lilies on top of my casket when I die. I love their form: confident, open, sturdy, elegant. I love their deep pink canvas striped with sparing white accents and spritzed with those adorable, nearly indetectable dots. (I can almost hear God the Artist saying at creation, "All right, just a few more dots here...and... Lily, you're done!")

Objectively, I wish lilies smelled good and cost less. As a gardener I love perennial flowers most of all, but hate to spend much on any one plant. I know you're supposed to plant groups of flowers for impact, not loners, but year after year I just "consider the lilies" and then sadly put them back in favor of less expensive ones. (It's at those times I long to be the rich-as-Rockefeller Mrs. Fair!) One year I bought one stargazer lily. It still gorowss all by its lonesome along the sunny border of my otherwise shady woodland garden. Impact is lacking for sure!

Both lilacs and lilies remind me of God's love. The lilies don't toil and fret; they know Who cares for them. Lilacs bushes are like a country church full of praying saints--fragrant offerings to Him. I want to remember that God does not get weary from hearing my prayers; they are as welcome a fragrance to Him as lilacs in spring are to me.

My Firstborn Gets His Driver's License

I didn't cry. I didn't fret. I did, however, take the Taurus through the car wash and vacuumed it before his appointment at the MVA. Cleanliness and order bless lots of people; my firstborn ranks those very high on his list of comforts. I wanted him to be as comfortable as possible for his driving test. This was the day he's been dreaming of for years, the day I had been dreading for years. At least I thought I'd dread it.

But today God gave me inexplicable peace. I waltzed into the MVA with my firstborn, watched him handle the paperwork and answer a few administrative questions, and then sat and waited for A86--our assigned number--to blink up on the overhead screen. I read a bit of literary criticism on Virgil's The Aeneid; my son fought post-nasal drip from a sinus infection. A gentle breeze blew in every time someone came through the front door. Sweet spring air.

He had worried yesterday and today that he might get a nasty guy who "had it in" for teenage guys, who lived to fail them. I said this morning, "Have you prayed for a nice, gracious one?" (I was remembering back to my own driving test at age 16; I took well over the allotted three minutes to parallel park, and fogged up all the windows from panting nervously inside the car on a cold November day as I kept hitting the curb. The kind old fella said, "Well, I'll pass you anyway.")

My towering teen got in the car with a diminutive, easy-going brunette who looked my age. I just sat peacefully on the bench and watched. He was so smooth. The parallel parking took all of 20 seconds. His 3-point turn looked great from where I sat. (He later told me the lady said he needed to "keep the car in the box" but that he was fine.) He stopped behind every white line, and always remembered to signal.

"He passed, " the nice MVA lady told me with a smile. "Let's go back inside and he can get his licencse."

He tried to hide his excitement. So did I. Public parental displays of excitement can be embarrassing. I actually felt excitement and a sense of pride. Not dread. I waited with him and then watched him again handle the next step of maturity: posing for his license picture. He was pleased with it. (The hair looked good.)

God, please give me peace again tomorrow when he drives alone for the first time. Keep him safe to and from school. Send a legion of angels while he's on the road tomorrow. Thank You.
Thank You for giving us a happy, beautiful day.

Dwop de Wise Man!

Remember the old cowboy song that starts, "O give me a home
Where the buffalo roam..."? Well, it popped into my head this morning when I woke up, except the words were revised:

O give me a home where nice teenagers roam
And the dog and the three year old play
Where seldom is heard a discouraging word,
And the skies are not cloudy all day.


"We're going to try something new, " I told my husband this morning as he was rooting through the refrigerator for stuff to make his lunch with. "Starting today, we will only say encouraging things to one another."

With a wide, mischievous grin and a sing-songy tone, he said, "That fridge would sure look nice cleaned out! Is that encouraging?"

"No, " I replied. "I'm afraid you'll have to rephrase it. Try , 'We sure are blessed with many leftovers, and a large trash can and curbside pick-up.'"

He perfunctorily repeated after me. He's a fast learner. (One of his many endearing attributes.)
Then he added, "You might wanna pray with the kids right after announcing this new thing." That is true.

He left for work and I headed to the living room to catch up on some Bible study homework. I am working through a study called "Seeking Him," by Nancy Leigh DeMoss, and have reached chapter 10 on Spirit-filled living. One of the lines is my food for thought today. (I will paraphrase: Most Christians understand that the cross removed the penalty of sin but have not grasped that the cross also frees us from the power of sin." )

The verses I was looking up on the ministry of the Holy Spirit were so apropos to the "new thing" I had planned, so I abandoned my regular homeschool "Bible curriculum" today.

The kids and I gathered in the family room after breakfast. Feeling very much like a combination of Ma Ingalls and Pollyanna, I announced that we would only be saying encouraging things to one another today, that if we couldn't say something nice we wouldn't say anything. (I tried not to sound like a character from Bambi.) Then I assigned them verses to read aloud, starting with Philippians 4:8 , where we're told to THINK on these things." Thinking precedes and directs speech and behavior. So I reminded us all that we need the Spirit's power to do what God asks of us.

Our holy moment was interrupted by a "shepherding opportunity" as my friend Priscilla calls disciplinary action coupled with a speech, a spanking if necessary, and a prayer with the offending child. This opportunity involved a three year old dumping Diet Dr. Thunder on the coffee table.

Back in the family room (remember where nice teenagers roam) the list of ministries of the Holy Spirit was long, but hardly exhaustive. I said, "Pick ONE area to thank God for and meditate on it today." One child needed hope for change, another wanted joy, another power to share the gospel, and I said I was thankful to be reminded that Jesus is praying for me, and the Holy Spirit is interceding for me, praying what I cannot put into words.
The fourth child (the three year old) was sort of in on the conversation, but was distressed about the plastic nativity figurine presently lodged in our golden retriever's jowls).

"Dwop de wise man, Molly! Dwop de wise man!" (Here is where Ma Ingalls starts giggling.) Our family's best attempts at seriousness sooner or later dissolve into bouts of laughter over things the little guy says. I managed to rescue the purple priest from the hound's teeth, and then asked my youngest if he would pray with me for Jesus to help him obey today. "I already did that after my pankin' in de yiving woom."

"I know, but we need to do it again."

So we did.

Card Ministry, Anyone?

Two weeks ago I was driving through my neighborhood, en route to my friend Bonnie's house. Coming up the hill as I went down was another friend, Donna, with her 3 year old son, Nathaniel, in their SUV. We stopped and chatted long enough for her to say, "I was rereading old cards from when Nathaniel was in the hospital, and yours was among them. It meant so much to me. Thank you for taking the time to write it."

Another friend, Ruth, once told me, "Zo, I've saved every card you've written me. Except one. That's because I think it was in a stack of mail on the counter and my cat must've swooshed it into the trash."

My husband, who is NOT a saver of sentimental things, makes an exception: notes and cards from me and the kids. Early in our marriage I was fairly consistent about hiding Post-it notes in his brief case under his lunch. Just to say, "I love you. Praying for you today." (I should return to that practice and see if I notice a lift in his spirits.) I've come across cards that I sent him on men's retreats, business trips, performance evaluation days, or given for special occasions.

All that not to brag on myself, but to remind myself --and maybe you--of how meaningful the gift of a card can be. It really doesn't take me longer to write a card (if I have one handy) than to shoot an email. My kids know that when they are flipping through the mail and I ask, "Anything good?" I don't mean a rebate check. (Although it ranks a close second!) I mean, "Anything personal?"

Some of the best cards I've received have been when I have been flat on my back, either physically, emotionally, or both. My friend, Therese, sent me a card of encouragement when I was battling the blues a few years ago. I put it in my kitchen window sill and read it every day till the depression lifted. Another friend, Sandy, who is also a heroine to me because she tenderly mothers a 29-year-old severely autistic son, sent a thanks-for-dinner card and said that she and her husband were really refreshed from the fellowship. My dear friend, Barb, lives in Kansas and we rarely see each other, but she never forgets my birthday or Mother's Day, and reminds me of her love for me as a friend on Valentine's Day. It's mutual. We don't take each other for granted.

My husband has often said I should send out more cards. My main excuses for not following through have been:
1) selfishness/procrastination ("I'm too busy," "I'd rather get something done," "Maybe tomorrow")
2) unpreparedness ( lack of "encouragement" cards or stamps)
3) unbelief ("it won't matter that much if I don't send her one; I'm sure she's getting them from other people")

Can anyone identify? If so, and if you would like to join me in a card ministry, please leave a comment. I used to buy cards from Integrity; they are artistic, scripture-based, have lots of blank space for your own message, are printed on high quality card stock, come in a variety pack, are reasonably priced, and you get to choose the frequency of delivery to your home (something like 8-, 10-, or 12-week increments).

I am ready to reorder. As for my procrastinating, today's sermon prompted me spefically in this area: "Encourage one another while it is called Today." I can think of at least four people right now who would feel God's presence through a card this week. I bet you can, too.