Last of my Vacation Vignettes

In no particular order...Forget the waves, Joel loved boogie-boarding on the beach.
Stephen's favorite buffet is called the Giant Crab. A very entertaining Irishman greeted guests at the door and sang corny little ditties like "Who Let the Crabs Out?"

Paul and I posed for a picture before heading to the pool. I got a bad burn the first day but it was worth it. Ben got a call from his friend Steve here in Maryland just as he was getting strapped into his go kart. I sneaked up on Sarah giving her littlest brother a piggy back ride in the hall.

Allan is a ham. Needs no sneaking-up on. Where he's pictured in these roaring waves, doesn't it look like he has told them how to position themselves around him? He even accentuates the man-made props, like squeeze mayonnaise-- and I can't figure out why mayo. He hates it!

Joel begged to swim into the deep end. It's kinda scary being mother to a fearless wonder. Sarah met him at the rope for a spontaneous kiss. Stephen's like, "This is the life" on the Lazy River.


A pleasant way to end a pleasant week. The family bought me a Fudge Brownie Turtle Cake and sang to me in barely-detectable harmony.

And then there was the long, long, LONG van ride home when everyone is sunburnt, traffic is jammed in multiple spots between Myrtle Beach and Baltimore, Paul has a major migraine, and while Joel is entertaining himself with a can of tennis balls, he keeps saying, "But I want to go back to vacation!"

Holidays or Holy Days?

I couldn't get my comment to post on Beth Young's site, so here goes. Unorganized and unedited.

I grew up in a Christian home and my dad even pastored a church, but my parents were not legalistic about Halloween, Christmas, or Easter. In the little town of Alden, Kansas,everyone knew everyone, so we walked door to door dressed up with friends. I was Marilyn Monroe one year and Miss America the next. (Used L'eggs eggs for boobs when I was Marilyn Monroe; bobbing for apples I lost one in the water bucket and have since called the game "boobing for apples.") When older we lived way out in the country and it would have been a hassle (and not cool in middle school then) to trick-or-treat. We have never let our kids trick or treat because we see it as celebrating Satan's holiday and had a hard time saying, "Okay , we'll celebrate Christ 364 days a year and Satan on one." We thought it was confusing at the very least. (Even though I didn't mind them dressing up around the house on that day cuz I love costume parties. ) We had tires slashed on both cars one Halloween night and only money to replace them on Paul's for a while. Chesapeake has had Hallelujah Night--lots of fun. Youth have Harvest Parties, and some dress up; I have no problem with that. My angst as a parent of teen? I am always a bit leary about who is sharing the road late on Oct 31. Easter eggs don't bother me; I like to color them. They are a symbol of life, and we talk about life in Christ not the Easter Bunny. We've also done Resurrection Eggs from Family Life Today. Everyone loves a good hide and seek game.

Christmas is a holiday I am wrestling with. I have intentionally made it more and more simple the past few years, and have come out feeling more peaceful. My parents started keeping Hanukkah two years ago, which I first got really angry about because it was a huge, foundational change in tradition for us. But I have come to appreciate how much more deeply religious it is than Christmas per se. Christmas never seemed like a truly Christ-focused holiday until two years ago. Sad, but true.

Changes? I would like a costume party in July, Christmas presents in September, simple nativity celebration in December, and keep Passover as we've done for many years that really makes my heart ready for Easter!

I Want, I Want, I Have, I Have

Every morning at Myrtle Beach I found a different spot to read my Bible in the morning. (The one that always put me to sleep was the bed.) The first morning I found the sleep sofa still open at 7:30--teen boys had hit the beach at 6:30!) and I starting complaining in my spirit. I was discontent with the cheesy sleeper sofa; there wasn't a horizontal space on the mattress anywhere. It took up virtually the whole room, the only room besides the "dining room" where we could all hang out at the same time. There wasn't enough comfortable furniture for everyone to slouch on, so occasionally I'd get up and go elsewhere so one of the kids could have my spot.

I would have liked to be able to afford all our meals out.Why did I have to pack food, plan meals, go grocery shopping, and do dishes? After all that's my duty at home. I was truly wanting to be served everything, all the time. No work, no nothing, just a fully catered lifestyle for one week. I knew better; I thought I had resolved in my heart before vacation that it would be about serving others, namely Paul first since he "needed" it the most, and then the kids for the sake of good memories. It hadn't really occurred to me that serving others on vacation would be for the glory of God. (Elementary, my dear Watson. But then again, I've never been mistaken for Sherlock.)

After surveying the lumpy, lousy sofa bed, I criticized the decor. Cheap 80s look, I said to myself, all peach and blue with dumb wicker fish on the white walls and dime-store seashells in the lamp base.

Restless during devotions. Ever experienced that? I got up and looked out the sliding glass door toward the ocean. I could see a little of it from our condo. Why did we end up on the first floor anyway? We said anything but the first floor and they had said they couldn't guarantee it. I wanted to be able to take pictures from up high, and also not feel creeped out by being level with the parking lot.

I wanted to get up early and watch the sunrise. Problem was, our room was very insular. Dark, quiet, on the hall side, not the exterior side of the building, and no natural light. And no alarm clock to set. I wanted to get up and take a great sunrise picture one morning. Just one. Paul was more than happy not to have an alarm clark anywhere there, and he wasn't about to use his cell phone as one. He's fine just looking at other people's sunrise pictures. Sunsets, too, for that matter. So every morning I missed sunrise. I grumbled that there was no alarm clock for me for just the one day I wanted it. How much could it set back an owner to provide one?

I wanted to take long, romantic walks on the beach at sunset with Paul-- initiated by him. "Watch Joel till we get back, " I fantasized him saying to the older kids. "I'm taking the most beautiful woman on the beach out and I can't tell you when we'll return. Help yourself to the Twinkies and stuff." My fantasies continued...he'd look into my eyes, the golden red of sun touching his muscular bronze shoulder, his long fingers caressing my well-toned copper shoulders...and he'd tell me how glad he is that I'm his wife, and that he'd been saving this little birthday gift for this perfect moment, and then he'd reach into the pocket of his shorts and present me with a one-carat diamond necklace which he'd place around my long, sleek neck while nibbling my earlobes.

Okay, some of you who know me and mine are wetting your pants from laughing with me. (Or at me, I'm not sure which.) Can you even believe it's been over 20 years since I read a romance novel? It hasn't been that long since I read Song of Solomon, but that's a whole 'nother blog.

Anyway, my fantasy jolted into reality once again as I perused the vehicles outside our sliding door, and coveted other people's car-top carriers. Those 200-dollar models. They were as sleek, hardbodied, and aerodynamic as Olympic athletes. Ours was a canvas jobbie from K-Mart on sale for 25 bucks. Holds more, probably, but looks like a heap of coal.

Two ladies about my age and the age of my dear friend, Barb, were heading to the beach in their cute little tankinis and bright flip-flops. They had not a pinch of fat on their behinds. I wanted to look like them from any angle. I also wanted Barb there. If Ben could have a guy friend, why couldn't I have a girlfriend? She'd understand the whole sunrise thing even though she's up at 5 every morning to go to work and see sunrises in Kansas five days a week.

Complain, complain, complain. And I'd only been up 10 minutes. This was not a good start. I opened my journal to see where I left off my Bible reading the day before. I was up to Exodus 20.

Exodus 20? I said. Not that chapter, Lord. It's the Ten Commandments. I'm on vacation, for crying out loud. And that's all I did was cry out loud --waa,waa,waa--until I plunged into the familiar passage. I would love to tell you that I read every verse as if it was fresh for the first time but I was honestly ready to check it off my list and move on to feel-good passages in the New Testament.

"Thou shalt not bear false witness against your neighbor....." Check.
'Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain...." Check.
"Thou shalt not ....covet."

Lord, I'm on vacation. Can we not have conviction while I'm here?

At about this time, Joel woke up and shuffled into the living room and up onto the bed between my Bible and me.

"Can I snuggle you?" he asked.
"Of course you can snuggle me!" I beamed and hugged him close.
He stroked my cheek. "I love your face, Sweetie," he said to me, "There's nothin' softer. You're SO beautiful!"

When my four-year-old says these things to me, I can believe him. He is the most affectionate person I know, and the most sincere and nearly superfluous with compliments. He looked absolutely cherubic sprawled across my Bible and journal when he let go of my neck.

Suddenly I wasn't coveting anyone or anything. I have all my children. I have a husband with a good job that he is not married to and who wants to spend time with his family, I have never once doubted his faithfulness despite my insatiable desire for more romance, I have plenty good health even if I have an unsightly backside, I have the freedom to vacation anywhere in America without a passport or armed guards at state borders, I have a vehicle big enough to squeeze in my crew plus one, I have the Holy Spirit never leaving me or forsaking me, not even on vacation when I need Him just as much if not more for conviction.

I have, I have, I have. I'm grateful. I'm grateful. I'm grateful.

In my Abba's lap I had found everything I could ever want, and there's plenty more I can't even imagine.

It Doesn't Get Much Better than This

Mamarazzi Moment

Sarah and Stephen are not fond of my camera. They love to use it, but hate to be the subjects in its viewfinder. So at Myrtle Beach I had to be coy in order to catch them in a picture. The beach was the hardest place, especially since I was being protective of my camera (using it and then walking it back to the condo). To capture this partiular shot, I hid behind that tall dune grass that looks like a green Mohawk on a bald head. I waited for my chance. Felt sort of dirty, ya know, like one of Tinseltown's paparazzi climbing a gated wall to get a single million-dollar morsel for the tabloids. But I have to admit, it was a
lot of fun for me.

Surfer Dudes

Left to right: Allan, Ben, Stephen. When they weren't in the water, they were on their cell phones. (Ben and Allan, I mean.) We joked they sat on the balcony talking to each other on their phones. When they weren't in the water or on the phone, they were primping. They spent more time in front of the mirror than you can shake a boogie board at.

Back from Vacation

Rested and refreshed. That's how I feel. For the first time in recent memory, I wasn't ready to pack up and come home on our last day of vacation. Normally I am craving home after five or six days away, but not this time. I could have stayed at Myrtle Beach another week, though I would have preferred two days completely alone with my groom. (We got two hours of solitude on the beach and in the waves on our last full day there, thanks to Sarah and Stephen.)

As it was, there were seven of us. Our family plus Ben's friend, Allan. He's an easy keeper, good company for Ben, quiet, never whines about food or schedule, and even wanted to spend the night with us when we got home Saturday. That shocked my flip-flops off.

I took 207 pictures, thus earning the nickname Mamarazzi. In fact, my MO was very stealthful at one point; I had to hide behind tall grass and pop out to get a shot of Sarah on the beach. Felt like Miriam in the bullrushes along the Nile. Of those 207, I'll spare my dear viewers by posting only a basketful.

I'll also be posting some funnies over at my other blog, Kidbits, where I track mostly Joel's humor and antics. He provided plenty on this trip.





Paul on the Lazy River. Doesn't he look great? I can't believe he's 45 and still that ripped!
Funny picture I didn't get: him sitting in a tube in the Lazy River, reading a book called Green with Envy. I didn't get the shot because I was floating along on my back ahead of him. It was the most relaxing hour of the whole trip.


I have been trying to post some with the rest of us, but I keep messing up. So does Blogger. I've got some back-to-routine grocery shopping to do now. For some reason, appetites around here don't take vacation.

Acts 1:3 "To them he {Jesus} presented himself alive after his suffering by many proofs, appearing to them during forty days and speaking about the kingdom of God. "

When I read this today, the thought came to me--no doubt by the Holy Spirit--to take a challenge.

Forty days. Speaking about the kingdom of God.

Forty straight days of meditating on the kingdom and speaking to God, to myself, to my children, my friends, and whomever the Spirit prompts me to speak to about the kingdom of God.

Would you like to join me? I will start a separate blog to start September 1 and run through October 10th.

I would love to hear your thoughts, read your scriptures, links, testimonies, questions, and so on as they pertain to the kingdom of God. I am not suggesting you drop your plans for studying or reading other things in the Bible. Perhaps this topic, however, might become a 40-day topical study for you. No rules, no guidelines except to commit to setting your mind on the kingdom of God, and if you have something to share or ask, post it.

Also, I'd love to input on what to name this new blog. EVery new baby needs a name.

Quilt Lovers, Ya Gotta see This

EVen if you're not a quilter or an artist, these beauties are eye candy. In fact a whole mall of eye candy. They make me drool.

I love the one called "I'm Puzzled."

http://www.gammill.net/?m=showcase&p=5

10 Aromatic Pleasures

1. Wood burning in the fireplace
2. Cinnamon rolls baking
3. Men's cologne, almost any
4. Cut grass
5. Horse sweat
6. Baby Magic
7. Coffee brewing
8. Leather seats
9. Newspaper
10. Tire store

I'm tagging the following 4 people to post your Ten. No other reason than because you have "-an" in your first name, like me.
Bethany, Briana, Leanne, Danielle
Would you post yours and then tag 4 people for whatever reason you choose?

"That They May Serve Me in the Wilderness"

Did you know that this is the second half of a well-known phrase?

The first half is "Let My people go." (Exodus 7:16).

"That they may serve Me in the wilderness." I never paid attention to this part until a couple weeks ago when I started reading Exodus carefully at the same time I got a worldly perspective of taking a paid position vs. homemaking on a recent post. I read the post again, the comment again, and the verse again.

God was calling His people out of Egypt not to a park-like Eden--not yet anyway, not immediately to a "land flowing with milk and honey"--but to the wildernerness to serve Him. Hot, dry, nondescript, unremarkable, same old same old every day.

Who would notice their service out there? What profit would they gain? Same questions I've been asking myself about staying in the routine of homemaking full time versus working part-time. Not that home is the wilderness in the sense of hot, dry and nondescript, but there is a "same old-same-oldness" to homemaking that I wrestle with. I like change more often than it happens.

I Need Your creativity, Lord God, to infuse into my heart how good I've got it. To break out of routine takes creativity. To keep little minds and hands growing happily takes creativity. Cooking new meals that people want to try takes creativity, even if it means copying someone else's creativity--a new twist on an old thing.

"That they may serve Me in the wilderness. " Not serve self, but God. Not in the palace, but in the wilderness.

The world won't understand. "Boring," I've heard other women say a lot. "Routine.I'd wither up if Iwas home 24/7. I mean, how much time can housework take--two hours? Then what would I do with the rest of my day? Wipe snotty noses and think up ways to keep kids out of trouble? No thanks! I'm a much better person when I give myself space from them . Besides, they need to learn to be happy away from Mommy all the time. I figure I can love them better if I love myself first. They have to find out sooner or later the world doesn't revolve around them. I didn't have much growing up. I want my kids to have more. "

I've heard all these lines and, at times, have bought into them. There is at least an ounce of truth in each one.

Truth #1: "It's so routine." Granted, routine is part of homemaking. But it's a part of life. No job is clicking with excitement and variety all the time. Even a supermodel has to sit day after day for a hair and make-up session. Even an ER nurse finds routine in the drama of her job. How many different ways can you dress a wound?

Truth #2: Housework only takes two hours. Yes, if you stop there. But can you do up evening dishes by 9 a.m.? Wash, dry, fold, and put away all clothes by 9 a.m. on the same day?

Truth #3: "Wiping snotty noses and keeping kids out of trouble" is thankless. Mothering has its share of snotty noses and keeping kids out of trouble. I daresay there's a lot of love that goes into being gentle with a tissue. ("Leave some skin on, Mommy!"). Keeping kids out of trouble is the wrong perspective. Keeping them developing their character and God-given bents takes enormous reserves of time and energy for 18 years. Shepherding them when they find (or create) trouble is exhausting.

I don't see how I could come home from a job where adults were demanding something of me all day to kids and husband wanting something from me all evening. Where would I find the energy day after day to come up with nutritious dinners, to read or play with the little guy, hold meaningful conversation with my bigger kids, help with homework, give a bath and get the youngest ready for bed? I would constantly be shoving them aside or grumbling --I do it sometimes now when I'm not pulled at by adults. I did it when I worked from home a few months when Ben and Sarah were little. My motto was, "Not now, honey, Mommy's busy working."

I loved socializing with women so much that I prioritized service to them. I went out of my way to deliver cosmetics to them, and don't remembering ever saying, "Not now, Mrs. Customer, I'm busy making memories with my children."

Thankfully the Holy Spirit spoke to me, and so did my husband. The Holy Spirit reminded me that customers wanting make-up would always be there; children would not. Paul asked me if pushing two babies off my lap for four bucks an hour after taxes was good stewardship of time.

More truths tomorrow. I am off to make a memory with my teenage daughter-- creating a colorful bedroom with her. I've been getting emotional about this, realizing that she has been practicing making her own nest for 17 years. Now her baby blue walls with pink bow wallpaper are changing. She's feathering a brighter nest. Time with her in ours is getting shorter and shorter.

It's funny. There are lots of nests in the wilderness. And I haven't heard a single momma bird complain yet. How about I think "serve God in the wildernest" instead of "wilderness"?

A Very Good Day

Today was one of those above-average days. First, while reading in Exodus today, things I've read before were popping out at me. I'll probably do a whole separate post on that.

Then my dad came over and helped Sarah paint her room. Folks, the colors she chose are definitely not muted. I teased her that she might never get to sleep again. I warned my dad, as he was hauling his ladder and stuff up the steps, "Hope you have sunglasses." Three walls are Green Crush (like a lime-ade Slushie) and one is deep purple. The closet doors are going to be a sort of cobalt blue. Trim will be ultra pure white. Curtains will be hand towels I found on clearance at Target for two bucks each and will sew up. They are all the right colors! It was definitely one of those times you say, "Thank you, God, for caring about the littlest things like purple,lime, and blue swirly towels on clearance when I neeed them."

In the middle of cleaning up the kitchen I decided to check the mail. There was an early birthday present on the porch from my wonderful friend, Barb, who lives in Kansas. She had told me it was coming and I waited like Winthrop for the Wells Fargo Wagon. Barb knows me so well, she could be my personal shopper. She sent scrapbook papers and stickers that are perfect for the next things I have in mind--boy pages, beach pages, Operation Gummi Worms pages, and she sent a sticker keeper to organize my long strips.

During a break in painting, Sarah called Michael's and got good news. Check out her blog.

I got some more bags delivered to Goodwill without giving in to the tempation to shop there.
Instead , I made a beeline for Target! No, I had to return some Roman shades to Lowe's that just didn't look as good at the window as in the box.

Target is right across the street from Lowe's...so it only made good sense with the price of gas and all...to pop in while I was in the neighborhood... and I was thinking of Sacha when I dropped in to look for a purse. (Believe me?) I actually saw a petite bronze number on clearance for $7.48 to tell her about. I did not see a peridot purse for which I'm on the hunt (for under ten bucks, I might add). Saw one at Kohl's the other day that I adored, but it was $16, and I kissed it goodbye out of extreme self-control. Now it is not there.
But pondering one's resistance to her earthly gravitational pulls makes for some happy time.

Then I got my bedroom dusted and vacuumed, still not quite the haven I'm going for just yet, but greatly improved. I think it was just what my hubby needed to come to after a very bad day on his job.

Joel named a doll after my dad. It's actually a girl doll dressed in blue pinstripes, but unless you look closely to see the neckline is dotted Swiss eyelet, you could think this is the boy of a twin set. (The other is dressed in pink pinstripes.) Oh, BTW, these are Sarah's old dolls. Joel usually shuns dolls and even corrected Pappaw (who raised only girls) that Spiderman is not a dollie, he's an action figure. But anyway, the doll is now named Robot Lyle.

The final good thing was the way the soup turned out. I pulled my White Chicken Chili out of the freezer a couple days ago to thaw. Tonight Sarah added the chilies, beans, and mushroom soup, baked some biscuits and cornbread (25 cents each from BB's--another happy reminder) and I sold and mailed homeschool books in record time!

Just reviewing my day is making me look forward to tomorrow.
I have seen God's hand in every pot!

Stephen is All That--and Much More

It's August 12th, the day Stephen was "supposed" to have been born in 1991. I'm glad God had mercy and sent him to us early.

This one bearing the name meaning "crown" would also be a clown. My first hunch, if you've read my posts this week, came in utero. Remember the three times he joked around about being born and finally came the fourth time he was "called"? (That hasn't changed.) It was like a series of bad knock-knock jokes. (Are there any good ones?)

Knock-knock.
Who's there?
Baby.
Baby who?
Baby Not Yet.

Knock-knock.
Who's there?
Baby who?
Baby's coming.
Baby's coming who?
Baby's coming another day.

Knock-knock.
Who's there?
Baby with blue eyes and curly hair.
Baby with blue eyes and curly hair who?
Baby with blue eyes and curly hair but not yet.

Knock-knock.
Who's there?
Baby girl.
Baby girl who?
Baby girl, I mean boy.

He has always loved humor. I knew he had a penchant for puns when he was only two. I was teaching him to say parts of this face when I pointed to them. He wanted to know all the details, even the names of the hairy arches above the eyes. I told him they were eyebrows. Next time we went through the "forehead, nose, mouth, eyes" routine, he pointed to my eyebrows and said, "Eyebrowskis."

He memorizes the monologues of favorite comediens. His all-time favoric comic is Brian Regan. Stephen can remember and tell jokes like no one else in our family. And when I bombed a joke once, he redeemed the bombed punch line as his screen name on IM!

Stephen loves the Bible and doctrine. He does not shy away from hard questions, nor does he charge God with "why" when his own life is faced with hardship. Two years ago he was riding his skateboard home from a friend's house. Our neighborhood is all rolling hills. The streets are paved rolling hills. He wasn't wearing a helmet (that's a whole 'nother post) and could see that he could wipe out and get a head injury if he didn't bail off. So he jumped. He landed so hard on both feet in an upright position that his quad muscle --which is attached to ligaments and bone below the knee--snapped a chunk of his tibia tubercle. (On boys that chunk is quite noticeable just below the knee.) Down he went, but he says in the midst of the worst pain he'd ever known before or since, God flooded him with peace. The result of the accident was emergency surgery, bedrest for weeks, and physical therapy for months. Instead of charging God for his own error in judgment, he thanked him that the accident happened in August when he'd already had his 13th birthday and two good months of outdoor play, especially basketball--his favorite sport. He thanked God for our neighbor, Gerry, who carried him to the truck and drove us to the ER. He thanked God for a surgeon who had great skill and a dry sense of humor. He even thanked God that his orthopedist was Dr. Wright, not Dr. Wrong. He thanked God for his pastor, Jason Reyes, who came by not only to pray with him before the next day's surgery, but also brought Sports Illustrated and some Popables candy. (Stephen's got an insatiable taste for candy. Guess that's why he's so sweet.)

Stephen is gentle. I think it's one reason little children and handicapped people are instinctively drawn to him. His spirit is easy-going and compassionate. He tends to attract the socially-backwards type of kids because he is not concerned about how they make him look or feel. He is gentle when he rebukes, also. He can discern truth easily and speak it kindly. He can silence a room by a gentle scripture with laser precision about an otherwise nebulous issue.

Stephen is a servant. I've seen him time and again sweep the kitchen, cut the grass, take out the trash, set the table, play with Joel, fix my computer problems, fill the gas tank, vacuum the carpets, make dinner and bring me meds and water when I'm sick. I've seen him help in the 2-year-olds classroom, set up and take down chairs at school, paint there with his dad, and dozens of others little acts of service. Yet still I frequently hear him ask, "Is there more I can be doing?" He really enjoys serving. The next way he's looking forward to it is by being a drummer in the youth band. As his mom hearing him practice, I can say he'll soon be ready, if he's not already. (Why did I let him get drums? Well, I heard there's an extra jewel in the crowns of drummers' mothers when we get to heaven. I like jewels. I think it'll be a great reward for all the repetitious noise I put up with day in and day out.)

I could say so much more about my Stephen, but suffice it to say I feel extremely thankful that God made him for us. Well, I mean I know God makes all things for His pleasure, but He shares very lovingly. I am selfish about Stephen: I would not want any other family to have him. I'm willing to share, but not to give. You know, when you get a crown, you kind of like to keep it!

I love you, Stephen,very much. And I'm not joking.

Mom

Crowning Moments

This is Part IV of "Happy Birthday, Stephen" and we are up to the moment of delivery.

I had finished telling Paul to put away the baby name book he was intently reading. We already had a name. He kept saying, "Well, just in case it's not a girl." I scoffed. Of course it's a girl. My mind and heart told me it was a girl. Not that I was emotionally set on a girl, and I would not be disappointed with a boy--I had one of each and loved each one! I would just be really super shocked that my intuition was wrong.

I got to the hospital on the night of August 7th around 9:30, I think. The anesthesiologist gave me the supposed butt-tingling epidural which never made anything tingle, but it relaxed me to the core from navel to toes. If this was what paralysis was like, I hated it. I liked being pain-free at such a time as this, but I wished for a little pressure. It would've heightened the antipation --and participation, actually. I felt like an audience volunteer who was told to push but didn't know what she was pushing because there was no touch sensation. I had to trust from the monitor and nurses that contractions were getting harder and that my pushes were working. I had to think about pushing, something my two previous birthing episodes made me unable to forget.

The clock seemed to move unusally quickly, and so did painless delivery. At 2:14 on August 8th came these words:

"I see a crown. It's the size of a quarter!" said the doctor. Paul leaned in closer. My sister leaned in closer. She was amazed, giddy, a little apprehensive, astounded at the canal's ability to expand on demand.

A couple or three pushes more and out came my baby. I never felt a thing. I felt cheated, a feeling I still get once in a while when I think I missed that thrilling, indescribable feeling of a slippery, squirming head/shoulders/body and legs slipping out of my body and into our waiting arms.

Out she came.

I mean he. He. Heehee.

"It's a ....BOY!" they announced.

"What? Are you sure?" I said stupidly. (I mean, you only have two choices and I was fairly confident in the medical personnel's ability to distinguish gender. Still, I was numb from shock.)

"A boy? A boy?" I kept asking. Hope Kathryn is not a boy.

"Call him Reuben," said Rachel. "It means, 'Behold, a son!'"

I said, "Nah, it's also Paul's favorite deli sandwich."

I held my boy...my boy...close. I stroked her--his head and cheeks. I counted his toes. I marveled at her--his--paper-thin fingernails. I adored his big intelligent blue eyes. I saw no hair on his head at all, until I turned him over. There, in the nape of his little neck, was a beautiful, soft, blonde answer to a prayer. A tiny curl. Now I wept. What more did God have in store that I had asked Him for? And that I hadn't imagined or had faith to ask for?

But there was a problem, Houston. This child had no name. So in the hours ahead, while the baby slept, we searched the Bible, I called our then-pastor Chuck Jennings who was a Bible scholar, to help us. I asked my parents.

All I knew were characteristics I believed endowed this child. I wanted him to live his name.
I told Pastor Jennings to please search for names that meant healing, comfort, salvation. "I picture this child having the spirit that lifts people up when they're down, laugh when they're too serious," I added.

I wanted him to have "Jo-" is his name, but not Joseph because Paul didn't like the nickname with our last name. I wanted the characters for whom the baby would be named to be associated with mostly--if not all--good reports in the Bible. Paul said, "But nothing weird. A name he can live with." And since he was blonde, and I associated "Jo-" with dark hair, I said, "Jo-in the middle name cuz his blonde hair doesn't make me think Jo-. So I started down the list of possibilites I liked for a middle name starting with Jo-. "Joshua?" No, his cousin was just named that. Jonathan? No, another cousin had that name. Jonah? No, not a great role model there.

My pastor called and said he had names for the character traits I'd given him.

"How about Hananiah?" he asked. I could hear his grin.

"Hananiah?" I asked, looking up at Paul from the phone. We both cracked up. "I don't think so, Pastor. I mean, we appreciate your research, but Hananiah? Remember the 'not-too-weird' part of our request?"He lauged out loud with us and said he was only kidding. He'd never name one of his boys that. Jehosaphat maybe, but not Hananiah.

The pastor tried a few other names out for me and they didn't fit. Finally he said, "What about Josiah? He was crowned king at age eight and purified Israel through many reforms, chiefly ridding them of idols and insisting they worship God alone. After that, the nation experienced great healing. Josiah means "Yahweh supports."

I was hooked. It was everything I wanted. But as a middle name, because Paul didn't want Josiah shortened to Joe, linked with our Polish last name. He had grown up with a whole host of Joe _______ski pals in Catholic school. He didn't want to be the father of one.

So Josiah became our baby's middle name.

Then, after much deliberation, we landed on "Stephen" as a first name. It meant "crown" or "crowned one" and it fit this bald blondie with intelligent eyes. I adored the one curl on the back of his crown. But mostly I loved the fact that his biblical namesake had such godly qualities. He was a deacon, a server of tables in the church. He loved God and was bold to proclaim messages from God. When he was being stoned to death, Stephen asked God to forgive his abusers. When he died, Jesus stood up at the Father's right hand. Nowhere else in scripure had someone been given a standing ovation by Jesus. My mom said it's hard to think into the future about the way a person may die when he's just a tiny baby, but dignity in death is so important. What more dignity could a soul receive than Jesus' applause and "Well done, good and faithful servant"?

So, after two days of praying for a name for our son, our surprise of the masculine kind, we felt God helped us choose "Stephen Josiah."

Happy Birthday, Stephen, "Crowned One" Part III

Hope Kathryn was going to be this baby's name. Hope because I loved the name and its meaning (very important to me) and Kathryn for my Grandma Dauber who gave me special love and care from the day I was born. She encouraged my singing and piano, modeled mercy in both real life and in our "baby doll" nursing care play together, and always asked my dad, "Which one of these girls are you gonna leave with me today, Lyle? You have three girls and I have none today." She asked me the same question when she had Alzheimer's 15 years later(when I was the only granddaughter she recognized and remembered). I had two children at the time, and she kept asking which one I was going to leave in the nursing home with her. I teased, "whichever one has a messy diaper when I'm ready to go home, Grandma."

So for nine months I thought this baby in my womb was a girl. I had no sonogram; didn't feel the need for one, and kind of wanted a third surprise anyway. My sense was that this child would be one who'd make people smile just by walking into the room. I prayed she'd be evangelistic and able to handle God's Word effectively, and I sensed she would bring comfort to many. The composite sketch in my mind was a gentle, bold, intelligent, humorous girl. I also asked God for two special physical features for her: curly hair and blue eyes. Not that I'm partial to blue eyes, but my first two have them and I was going for "3 for 3". That may sound silly, but God knows my heart, so that if the words didn't come out my mouth, He still knew I would feel very "heard" if this baby had a head of curls and eyes of blue.

My due date was August 12th. By the middle of July I wanted her to have an out-of-(my)-body experience. By July 31st I thought God was going to make that happen, because contractions started while Paul were on what we thought would be our last date before the baby came. We were eating ice cream at Scoops in Dundalk when, mid-sentence,I couldn't speak another word. I doubled over and breathed hard. He had seen this behavior two and three years before. He called his dad and I called my sister, Rachel. She had no children and was not married, and I had invited her to witness my baby's birth in case it never worked out for her to have her own experience.

My sister met me at GBMC. I was all excited, and so was she. Until they checked me and said this baby was nowhere near ready and neither was I. How would THEY know? I mean, clinically, yeah, but let's define our terms. I was more than ready. They sent me home. Not funny.

August 4th came and so did more contractions. We called Rachel, we met up at GBMC, I walked the halls, I got sent home. Not funny a second time either. Actually a bit embarrassing for third-time mother not to know when she was truly in labor.

August 6th came and I thought, "Third time's the charm." I called Rachel and she said, "Call me when you're ready." I hate that word to this day. Would I call you out of an otherwise relaxing evening in front of the air conditioner to watch me huff and puff and push and claw if I wasn't ready? But I didn't say what I was thinking (for a change). "Okay, I'll call you from the hospital when I'm at 7 centimeters dilated, 99% effaced, and totally out of my mind ready to birth this baby." She waited. I didn't call. They told me different numbers: 2 dilated, 70 effaced. But the last part was still true. Had been since mid-July, remember?

So I had a joker on my hands. Or in my belly, I should say. The third time I was sent home, I remember getting to the car so angry that I threw my purse into the car with all my might. "They're sending me home, honeeeeeyyy" I wailed. "I don't want to go home. I'm gonna sit in this parking lot till kingdom come if I have to." Well, kingdom didn't come, but my hubby managed to assure me that the baby would, in God's time. Sounded so cliche I could've kicked him if I could've seen my feet and lifted one at the same time.

August 7th arrived and I was in no mood for jokes, riddles, or games. I refused to answer the phone, didn't want one more person to ask, "Didja have that baby yet?"
But when the contractions started this time, I couldn't think straight, let alone talk intelligibly. Paul called Rachel and his dad. Rachel met me at the hospital and PopPop came to our house to watch Benjamin and Sarah Grace. (She still wasn't smiling often at age 2; her nickname became Sour Grapes.)

I had already decided to get an epidural, mostly because I didn't want Rachel to watch me scream or be mean at Paul in a moment of serious pain and delusion. Nor did I want a repeat of my hard 22-hour labor with Sarah. I remember the anaethesiologist. His name was John and he was about 50 years old and quite relaxed (I guess it comes with the access to one's supplies, eh?)

I remember him saying that shortly after my injection, my butt would tingle.

He returned in 10 minutes and I could feel nothing from the waist down. It was great!

"Does your butt tingle?" he asked.

"No," I blurted, "Does yours?" Well, Rachel and I choked on our own saliva we were laughing so hard. Paul was strawberry red. I was in trouble.

"Why'd you say that, Zo?" he asked, but I was still laughing.

"If I don't laugh I could cry, honey."

He asked why I could cry and I said, "Because I don't wanna feel nothing, I just don't wanna feel pain."

Happy Birthday, Stephen, "Crowned One" Part II

(If you haven't read Part I yet, the post is below this one. )


I skipped into the house and found Paul ironing a shirt for work and watching TV. Normally upon my return home from the center, I was "down"--so burdened by the cares of the clients that I stayed down for two or three days. In fact, Paul asked me later to think about volunteering every other week so that I (he?) would have a few more days "off" between sessions. (I saw the wisdom and soon obliged.)

But this night,as I said--this cold December night a couple weeks before Christmas--I skipped in and nearly bumped into the hot iron.

"What are you so happy about?" he asked.

"About giving you your Christmas present early."

"Is it something I asked for or a surprise?"

"Both." (He had asked the Lord for four children, but he hadn't asked for the third one in recent memory.)

He looked puzzled. I handed him the little gift in blue angel paper. He said, "Yeh, so? It's a white stick with a plus sign on it."

"And..." I coaxed. "What does a plus sign mean?"

"Addition. More. Positive. I dunno."

My radiant smile turned the mental light bulb on. He paused, looked at it again, looked at me as if I'd just bought a 400-dollar purse, and said, "Nuh-uh."

"Yes-huh," I said, "and you'd better move the iron before you scorch your shirt."

We hugged, kissed, laughed and cried--well, I cried, he didn't--and after a while he did what he always does upon receiving news of my pregnancies (or other blessings): he prayed with me to thank God.

Happy Birthday, Stephen, "Crowned One"

Part 1: Flashback to late December, 1990:

When I found out I was pregnant with him, I cried. Not out of happiness at first, but because I felt overwhelmed. Granted, I had just started wanting another baby, but Benjamin was not quite 3 and Sarah not quite 2. I had been through terrible post-partum depression with her, wondering if I was even a "fit mother," but too ashamed to talk openly about it to anyone. I felt housebound and no longer attractive, and only had two hands, two legs, two ears, and two of nearly every other body part a mom depends upon to take care of children. On the count of three, I would be outnumbered. I was scared. I was also afraid to announce my pregnancy because of all the potential comments such as, "What else do you and Paul do for fun?" (They were not just potential; they were kinetic, if you know what I mean.)

Ironically (if irony and sovereignty are compatible) I was volunteering at the Greater Baltimore Crisis Pregnancy Center as a counselor. I had counseled hundreds of young women and girls with one simple fact: no matter how unplanned their children were by them, God had already planned them from the foundation of the world. Now here it was my turn to receive truth.

Candace was my counselor. She was a gorgeous personal trainer and former model. I wasn't sure she could possibly understand me, or why I didn't hate her for her beauty and strength (just kidding) but I bonded with her. She wanted to know why I was crying so much at every little thing that night (counselors were supposed to be able to "hold it together" while with clients) and if I was feeling out of sorts. I joked at first that I'm always scatterbrained and a little emotional, but she probed and drew me upstairs to a quiet room. There I poured out my heart to her and sobbed and sobbed that I thought I was pregnant. How could I ever handle three kids? And so close together? Yes, I always wanted four, but spread out over 10 years, not three of them in the first four years! My husband's reaction would eventually be a happy one, but we were barely making ends meet with his $19,000 salary. Diapers alone were $10 a bag and we had two in diapers already. Our house was a little two-bedroom duplex with a dinky yard. I had a close friend, Kathy, with multiple children and knew she would be thrilled. I also had a friend, Kim, who had been infertile for years, and I dreaded telling her. I vowed not to tell her, but to just let her find out from someone else.

Candace, lovely and loving Candace, heard my fears and then gently stopped me on the heavily pitted What-if Trail. I don't remember her exact words, but the gist was, "Let's just take a test. You don't know for sure, and why put yourself through all this when you don't even know if the test is positive?"

She ran a three-minute test. While it was running, as was our custom as counselors with clients, we talked more about the future. Somehow she pointed me to the grace of God, to His blessing us even in our unworthiness, to the what-ifs for the life of this child. He or she might bring many sinners to Jesus. Might teach God's Word or comfort the suffering. Might discover the cure for cancer. She helped me see much farther beyond the helpless baby in the crib to see a glimpse of his purpose in being born at this time, to us.

In the three minutes it took to run the pregnancy test, my heart had changed. No longer was I scared, but now I was at peace. In fact, I had joy. I had been chosen to be the mother of three! I was not inflicted with babies, I was chosen to mother them. A privilege, not a problem! Imagine, maybe a third pair of blue eyes looking back at me in the rearveiw mirror. A third pair of soft cheeks to stroke. A third baby to nurse, to play with, to snuggle, to share with grandparents, to name, to teach, to train, to take to church, to lead to Christ.

Or maybe not. Let me see that test! Suddenly I couldn't bear the thought of it being negative.

Then I beheld a glorious plus sign. God was adding to our number.

Tears of thankfulness and hope and joy ran down my face like summer rain. What three minutes in the presence of Truth can do to a soul!

Candace hugged me tightly and said, "What a Christmas present, huh?"

"Got any wrapping paper around here?" I asked her, and she scrounged up a scrap of blue Christmas angel paper in the office, with which--some readers will find this gross-- I wrapped up the positive pregnancy test. I practically skipped out to my car afterwards. (Candace knew I was probably less good for clients as I left than when I'd come in! There's nothing more absentminded and emotional than a pregnant woman.)

I could hardly wait to tell Paul he was about to be the father of three.


Next: Part II: The Daddy's Reaction and What Happened Next

Happy Music

Betcha can't NOT like these "Maple Blues" (unless you let it go on and on).

Okay, I am editing this now that Joe has had been unable to open it, and neither can I. Sorry. Try this: www.quilterscache.com/QuiltBlocksGalore20.html.

Caribbean Chicken Salad

Several people have asked for this recipe. I put it in my comment box under the most recent post, but then decided to make it a post of its own. Here goes. I've made it several times and don't use a recipe anymore. The original is from Eating for Life, by Bill Phillips. I may be missing something, but here's my version:

chicken breast (boneless, skinless)
Montreal chicken seasoning (shake it moderately over both sides of chicken)
romaine lettuce
mandarin oranges
pineapple tidbits
red onion
grape tomatoes
cucumber
shredded cheddar
dressing (recipe below)

Grill the chicken. Drain the canned fruit. Chop the onion. Peel and slice cukes, halve the toms, chop lettuce. Combine all in big bowl. Mix dressing in thoroughly just before transferring to large platter for ideal presentation. Top with chicken and cheese. Serve immediately. (One caveat: salad goes soggy quickly, so be careful not to make too much.)

Dressing: honey, Dijon, veg oil mixed vigorously by hand-- or in blender for best results. (I forget proportions: try 1/2 cup oil, 1/4 cup honey, 3 Tbsp Dijon. Adjust to taste.) Of course you could substitute w/ storebought honey-Dijon dressing, but I prefer this homemade taste.

I took a picture of this salad once, and it did not turn out looking appetizing. But trust me, it is delicious.

Fruity Place "Cards"

A couple of weeks ago I served Caribbean Chicken Salad to the Blum family (new friends from Israel). Our theme went tropical. Lemons, bananas, and limes made colorful place "cards" with each guest's name written with black Sharpie.

Julia laughed when she saw them. "Why do you write on fruit? This is American tradeetion, no?"

"No," I said. "I just saw it in a magazine and thought it was cute."

"It is cute," she said, shaking her head, still unable to get over the novelty.

Two nights ago they came over again. Not wanting to heat up the kitchen on a 99-degree day, we grilled hamburgers on the deck and served storebought potato salad. Since there were 15 of us, including my parents, sister, and brother-in-law, I also opted for paper goods.

When Ya'el walked in (she's the sweetest 18 year old girl I know), she asked if there was any way she could help.

I was about to ask if she'd write names on cups. But I only got as far as handing her the black Sharpie when she asked, "Are we writing on vegetables tonight?"

Winner or Loser?

I'm not sure how to re-date the post I drafted on July 31st to show today's date, but wanted to point out that I am really confused about whether I am the loser or the winner of a recent dejunking contest. Please scroll down, read it, and then give me your verdict. If I win, I get a china hutch but have to treat Bonnie to dinner. If I lose, I get the china hutch and she picks up the dinner tab.

Boy, that looks terrible on paper. I do consider myself a winner no matter what my jury of peers decides, but I really want you to deliberate this matter and present me with your decision. Thank you.

Cleaning Tips

Danielle is sharing fashion tips. I'm appreciating those.

I'm wondering if you all could share cleaning tips as well.

What I'm looking for are cleaning tips to be left in my comment box. Each tip should be fewer than 25 words long. (You may, of course, leave more than one tip.) Tips can run the gamut from helpful products to ways to speed up the jobs. The one "rule" is that your tip has to work for you. That is, it must be from the "test kitchen" of your own home, not something you read on a clening guru's website or observed in your mom's routine. If you've adopted those as your own, that's fine, but I don't want links and "this is how my mom did it but I do it differently." I want your tried-and-true tips for efficient housecleaning.

This post may sound dull and uncreative, but I submit that this is where I live. One author calls it The Corner of Mundane and Grace. I consider tips to be part of the grace from living in community while tending to the mundane.

So, in 25 words or fewer, let's have tip #1.

Shabby Chic, Anyone?

Purple Heart took everything but the furniture. (I didn't realize they only took what fits in boxes or bags.)

If anyone reading this wants a glider rocker (white wood frame, 1980s beach-house upholstery) or a small old dresser, an old wood end table (currently a blue-grey paint) please say so today.You have till 6:00 to pick it up. After that I'm taking it to Goodwill.

Bar-B Cups

This recipe comes courtesy of my friend Priscilla. I don't know if it's exactly the way she told me, but I've been making it like this and have no regrets. It's a quick recipe to make either from scratch or with leftover Sloppy Joe mix.

You'll need a 12-muffin tin. Spray it with Pam. Preheat oven to 350.

2 cans crescent rolls
1 pound hamburger
1 can Manwich
shredded cheddar (a couple handfuls)


Make Sloppy Joes according to directions on Manwich can.
Roll each crescent triangle into a ball.
Press the ball down into the muffin cup and a little up the sides (to hold the meat mixture in better).
Plop a couple of spoonfuls of Sloppy Joe meat mixture on top of that.
Sprinkle some cheddar cheese over that.
Top with another pressed-down ball of crescent roll.

If you want to simplify it eve more, use a pie plate or square baking dish instead of muffin tin. Use one can of rolls as a crust, the second as a top.

Bake 11-13 minutes or until tops are golden brown.
I like to serve this with applesauce or chilled, canned peaches or pears.

Kids like to make these. Just be sure to explain that "Bar-B" means barbeque, not the doll. I made the mistake of NOT explaining to my 4-year old son first. I asked Joel if he wanted to help me make them the other night. He said, "Barbie cups? I'm not touchin' those girl things!"