Mustard Seed House

2009 YEAR IN REVIEW!

2010-02-01T22:00:00.001-06:00

So I have been a REALLY bad blogger in 2009! Hopefully 2010 will be better, especially after I graduate in May(!). Until then, here is a 2009 Year in Review (mostly for my mom since I forget to send her pics of the kids!) In my defense, we usually are in the same town so she sees them all the time, but still . . . sorry mom! So here they are: (I will probably break this into several posts since manipulating the pics gets unwieldy.)

JANUARY

After watching Bean be a flower girl several times, Bear finally had her turn when El Guapo's cousin (a former Army helicopter pilot -- the bride, that is!) asked Bear to be in her wedding. What an honor (and what fun!)

It was a little hard on Bean not being the center of all the attention, but she looked just as lovely since she was able to wear her flower girl dress from one of my cousin's weddings the previous winter.

Bear had fun blowing bubbles at the happy couple.

Beautiful sisters!

Both girls spent quite a lot of time on the dance floor!

A RARE Chica sighting!

January ended with a bang. Ben made his second trip to the ER for a cut to the corner of his mouth. A papoose board and four stitches later, he was good to go!

2010-02-01T21:30:00.002-06:00

MARCH

So this is what "spring" looks like in Illinois. . .

but Scout was happy to cuddle up with the kids and keep them warm . . .

and our view was brightened by the promise of a real spring thanks to my aunt and uncle in Minnesota, who understand probably better than most just how flowers can lighten the mood on those long, cold days, so they send us flowers every Valentine's Day.

And speaking of buds, here is Bean the budding artist whose Kachina Doll was selected for the district-wide art show, complete with special exhibition and reception.

2010-02-01T21:00:00.002-06:00

APRIL

I actually posted pictures of Easter last year. That post can be found here.

Garden dreamin' . . . . Just one of the many reasons I was a very bad blogger last year! These are the BEFORE pictures.

2010-02-01T20:30:00.001-06:00

MAY

So it might not be the same kind of canal that was behind my condo in the Cayman Islands, but our waterway to the river is pretty sweet. Spring has finally sprung!

Luna enjoys prowling the yard. She is especially keen on trying to catch our "hogger" (groundhog) who has lived in the yard since we bought the house. She has never even come close, but it keeps her busy.

Even "dinny-pid" Oreo enjoys the warmer weather!

El Guapo and I spent Memorial Day in the Big City rooting for our favorite team (they lost!). I especially enjoyed the extra patriotic touches for the day: representatives from all branches of the military, Challenger the bald eagle and. . .

Mr. T in red, white and blue pajama pants singing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame"!

We didn't take this video, but this was the same game we were at.

2010-02-01T20:00:00.002-06:00

JUNE

Lazy summer afternoon.

JULY
A bumblebee so "drunk" on nectar, that he can't move.

How I spent my summer vacation . . . "Square Foot Gardening." I built the beds, mixed the special soil mixture, grew all the plants from seed and made the trellises all by myself (ok, with just a little help from El Guapo!).

"Pool ball" squash -- like zucchini, but round and the size of a billiard ball.

Cauliflower

Sugar snap peas

A closer look . . .

Ever wonder what broccoli flowers look like?

2010-02-01T19:30:00.002-06:00

AUGUST

Every year, we find monarch caterpillars, feed them until they turn into chrysalises and then set them free when they hatch. This was Lily.

One of the highlights of the summer is going to a local fair in a neighboring agricultural county. This year was even better because my parents, brother and his family and my aunts, uncles and cousins and their families were all there!

Bean
Bear

Bug

The corn dog company should send us a check to use this in their next advertisement! Aaaaahhh, the taste of summer.

Bug shares my farmer dreams. He wistfully longs for sheep. Can't you tell?!

Cousins and second cousins. (and sheep)

Gorgeous gals.

The cutest critter in the petting zoo!

The fair was so awesome, it even had tigers!

My pride and joy -- my first garden including my sunflower that I grew from a tiny little seed!

Let's get a little closer look. . .

And a little closer. . .aahhh. . .my "fourth baby!"

These beauties just glowed and brought me joy every morning.

We also celebrated Bean's 8th birthday by having a party with all of her girl classmates.

"Boola" and "Blito" (Abuelita and Abuelito) were also there!

No party is complete without a pinata!

Cousin Iceman braved Girl World! (and survived).

2010-02-01T18:30:00.004-06:00

SEPTEMBER

For Labor Day, we headed north to a resort town and lake for the day. We hadn't planned on the day being so nice or the kids wanting to "swim," so at the end of the day, we let them head into the water in their clothes. Of course, the original idea was for them to just wade. "Don't get too wet . . ." Right.

Doesn't Bug's face say, "What's the big deal, mom? It's just water." I ended up agreeing!

Our town has Touch-A-Truck day with dozens of big trucks, construction equipment, firetrucks, school buses, Red Cross vehicles, you name it. If it's big, impressive, on wheels, it's there and the kids (and parents!) can climb all over them.

Every little guy's dream!

The girls loved it too!

Firefighter . . .

Big rig driver. . .

Paramedics. . .

SWAT team member . . .

And a good time was had by all!

At the end of September is the largest World War II re-enactment in North America. It is held about an hour away from our house and it is one the highlights of my year! This year's weather was gorgeous and we had an awesome time (ok, I had an awesome time).

Bagpiper

Every where you look are vignettes that look like the 1940s.

A jeep, a gun and the girls! (and if you look closely, you will see that I wore a skirt . Wonders never cease,)

A soldier and his dog.

Bug had a great time!

There are dozens of large military vehicles in working order -- pretty impressive.

Chica in a WWII front lines foxhole. I want one as a fort in my back yard!

Bear ready for battle.

The ZamFam comin' attcha!

The day ends with a large-scale re-enactment of a real battle or engagement complete with Hollywood-style pyrotechnics. It is incredibly loud with the explosions pounding off your chest -- exhilarating! El Guapo took these pics from the back with Bug. The girls and I were sitting right along the string-line -- front row seats.

Throughout the day are other minor skirmishes. This one took place in a German-occupied French village, but the Allies prevailed. (To preserve the realism, they don't always.) This is a Scottish force complete with our bagpiper and a guy in ghillie.

Hands up, Krauts! Check out the guy in the tam o'shanter and kilt!

This guy was trying to escape and the Scots had to subdue him. They really hammed it up and audience was roaring.

Our final outing in September involved an informal tour led by my aunt to several organic/cottage industry farms in a nearby county. This was dream-fodder for me, since I would love to have a small farm with some animals. I think Bug shares the dream. We called him the Goat Whisperer because the goats in this pen followed him everywhere! He'll always have the career option of goatherd!

If you are interested in seeing pictures of our 2008 trip to WWII days, I have placed them chronologically in 2008, but they are newly posted (today!), so check them out here.

Veteran's Day 2009

2009-11-11T12:44:00.012-06:00

I walked into the school gymnasium and as my eyes scanned the room taking in red, white and blue decorations dripping with glitter, glue and "thank you's" scrawled by chubby hands, I started furiously swallowing the hard lump in my throat that had suddenly appeared. And through teary eyes, I only dimly saw the old men in faded uniforms pinned with once-bright ribbons who held the hands of their white-haired sweethearts. As we all faced the enormous flag on the wall, hands over beating hearts, I managed to utter about every other phrase : "I pledge allegiance . . .and to the republic. . .one nation, under God (really choked here) . . . with liberty . . . for all." And someone could have probably mopped me up off the floor as the preschoolers belted out a surprisingly good "God Bless America." When we were asked to sing on the second round, stronger voices joined the chorus, but mine was not one of them, although I did manage to croak out a few words . . ."my home sweet home." I could not love Miss Pam, the principal, more for getting choked up as she dismissed the children and said thank you to the veterans and had the kids hand out homemade thank you cards to everyone there.

As I surveyed this Rockwellian scene, I couldn't help but think that sixty-some years ago, these men and women, young and fresh, were flung far afield charged with the mission of saving the world. And for all the gratitude I carry in my heart, I couldn't help but wish that we had more to offer by way of thanks than an annual lunch in the gym, some shy thanks, a sweetly-sung song and a teary pledge. But the very nature of the folks dubbed "the greatest generation" dictates that this is enough and it is why as I pulled out of the parking lot, I had tears streaming down my cheeks because a proud white haired man wearing the uniform of II Corps (North Africa unit) waved and smiled at me as I drove away.

Thank you, veterans of World War I. You fought in one of the worst conflicts the world has ever seen and overcame.

Thank you, veterans of World War II. You did nothing less than save the world.

Thank you, veterans of the Korean War. What you sacrificed is not forgotten.

Thank you, veterans of the Vietnam conflict. We ARE proud of you and your service.

Thank you, veterans of Desert Storm. You answered when duty called.

Thank you, veterans of the War on Terror in Afghanistan and Iraq. My children sleep safely in their beds at night because you are not sleeping in yours.

Thank you, veterans of all of the other conflicts -- Bosnia, Grenada, Somalia and the myriad of other places where Americans have been on the ground righting wrongs and fighting evil.

Thank you, families of service men and women. You have lent America your very best.

Never have so many owed so much to so few. You are heroes. God bless.

Reprise: Riders Up!

2009-05-02T10:29:00.000-05:00

It's that time of year again when I am distracted by funky names, post assignments, sound conformation and compelling stories and then subject you, dear readers, to it too! Today is the 135th running of the Kentucky Derby and the 25th time that I have reveled in Louisville University's rendition of "My Old Kentucky Home," thrilled to the bugle fanfare, crossed my fingers at the "Riders up!" and held my breath for two minutes minutes as fragile three year old horses and skilled jockeys hurtle themselves down the one and a quarter miles at Churchill Downs.

My favorite aspect of horse racing, aside from the visceral magnificence of the animals themselves, is the moving back stories of either horse, jockey, trainer or owner. It seems every year is a tale from knacker (horse meat man) to track or a 93 year old lady who has dreamed of having a race horse her whole life and finally gets a Derby colt. Call me a softie, but I love those kinds of stories. This year does not disappoint as it offers the combination of an everyman's hero of a horse and his tenacious owner/trainer. So indulge me. It's Derby time!

First of all, you must know that horse racing is big business. It is a commercial enterprise where horses are bred for speed, trained by folks who answer to wealthy owners. Trainers' careers rest on being able to land big purses in the right races creating horses that command even larger stud or brood fees. And if racing is a hobby, it is the pastime of sheiks, not school teachers, since Derby horses are bought and sold for hundreds of thousands, if not millions of dollars. They are more expensive than the finest cars, not the price of a Taurus. That is the backdrop for our story.

In 1955, a college student hopped a bus, went to his first Kentucky Derby, watched Swaps beat Nashua and a love affair was born. Since 1962 Tom McCarthy has dabbled in racing, a racket he loved, but that never loved him back. Retired as a high school principal since 1990, McCarthy has been racing in obscurity rising at 3 a.m. to go to the track, working his one or two horses, then leaving for school by 7, nobody paying him any attention. In all that time, he never won so much as a stakes race. None of McCarthy's horses have ever been very good and in the nearly half century he has been racing, he has only won a total of $229,020 in purses. That has all changed with General Quarters, the star of McCarthy's barn, the only horse in McCarthy's barn.

McCarthy saw him first in 2007, as a gangly one year old colt at the Keeneland Auction where the most expensive horse of the day went for $3.7 million. McCarthy had to bow out of the bidding when it rose over his ceiling of $20,000 and that was the last he thought of the leggy grey fellow with the white diamond splashed across his face. In fact their paths crossed again at a claims race where the winner could be purchased for the price of the purse. The winner? The grey colt now a little more grown up and dubbed General Quarters. The purse? $20,000. The luck of the Irish was with McCarthy that day because two other claimers wanted him, but McCarthy won the "shake" when his form was drawn. General Quarters was his.

McCarthy, 75, is nothing but patient. He is in no hurry. He is an unglamorous, old fashioned trainer in a fast-paced, glitzy world. He says that as a young trainer he lacked the finesse to be successful. With General Quarters, he was determined to rush nothing. "When he was a 2-year-old, he was very anxious," McCarthy says. "I just had to slow him down and begin to allow him to grow up and get away from all this fast and strenuous work. So I just let him go along and grow. I thought I had something that was fairly nice and I was in no hurry. That's the patience I've learned after so long. ... You've got to take your time, and with this one, I did."

And he still does. McCarthy is the hot walker, stall mucker, groom, masseuse, trainer, owner. He slips his pocket knife out each morning and slices a carrot into General Quarters' feed and an apple into his dinner rations. He is a throwback to the days of Seabiscuit where a small team brought an unlikely horse into the hearts of Depression-weary America. Rival trainers with dozens of horses to keep track of walk by his barn and see a horseman who lavishes attention on his lone colt the way they wish they still could. After the post-position draw, Hall of Fame trainer Bill Mott, who's won more races at Churchill Downs than anyone else, introduced himself to McCarthy, looked him in the eye and said, "You're a natural. Good luck."

McCarthy stood there for a moment and took in the scene. Around him, the rich and the powerful milled about in suits and expensive cowboy boots, swapping stories about the vagaries of running operations he could only dream about. McCarthy was still wearing the while polo shirt he had on early in the morning, spotted with flecks of blood and mud as he massaged his horse, filled his own feed buckets and even raked the gravel outside a rented stall. "I've seen this race come and I've seen it go," he said finally, a note of wonderment softening the usual gruff tone. "But I've never been a part of it before."

In a cut-throat industry where trainers have eyes only for their own charges, McCarthy is a sentimental favorite. "Here we all thought it was just some principal who hit the lottery, and it turns out he was training quarterhorses with an uncle at Rillito Park in Tucson before I was even born," Hall of Fame trainer and three-time Derby winner Bob Baffert says. "How cool would it be if he won?"

How cool indeed. In a world where cash is king, McCarthy has been offered millions of dollars for General Quarters. He said he hasn't been tempted."I told one guy, I can't sell my dream," McCarthy said.

So this morning in the cool mists of the Churchill Downs backside, if you were to meander past Barn 37, you might see this: "There's only the hint of a shake in his hands as he pulls the leather straps up from under the belly and buckles them, before turning to the bridle. The colt's blanket lies folded to the side. It's not the typical garment of a Kentucky Derby horse. Worn thin, the orange wrap was red when McCarthy's kids gave it to him years ago. On each side is sewn a rectangular nylon patch to hide the name of a horse that wore it previously. A peek inside reveals the name, Silent Victory." Before this year, those were the only kinds of victories McCarthy knew.

So join me today to root for the longshot because today, millions of dollars worth of thoroughbred horses will go to the post in the 135th Kentucky Derby. And McCarthy will be there, too, with his $20,000 claimer and a million-dollar smile.

Other Derby News:

In addition to rooting for General Quarters, I also like Dunkirk. "General Quarters" is the call to battle stations on a US Navy ship and Dunkirk was the site of an epic WWII struggle, so aside from the compelling Cinderella tale, how could I not root for those two?
I think Pioneerof the Nile (correct spelling with the "of" not spaced-funky names, remember?) also has a good chance.
Friesan Fire out of Eight Belles' stable will be the final Derby entry for trainer Larry Jones. He's had enough and wants to spend time with his grandchildren.
There will be a brief memorial time to remember Eight Belles, last year's second place finisher who tragically outran her legs and died on the track.
A new bronze memorial to Barbaro will be unveiled.
The nineteen horse field is a big one and for that reason, dangerous. Track conditions are expected to be wet, so it could be anybody's race and a real nail biter. Fingers crossed for safe trips for everyone.
I Want Revenge, the 3-1 morning line favorite, was scratched just hours before the run for the roses.
All this and mint juleps, big hats and gorgeous horses too? And you ask why I love horse racing?

Full disclosure: Under normal circumstances writing on this blog is 100% my own (or credited otherwise). Due to this being my final day of the semester, with a large project due and wanting to post this before the Derby start time, I selected a few quotes from other sources. Since this is not a term paper, they are not cited. And since about five people read this, I don't think anyone will care. If you do, contact me.

Happy Easter

2009-04-24T10:28:00.008-05:00

We had a blessed Easter: a moving Easter service, a wonderful meal at my parents' house with family and glorious weather for a little egg hunt.

Bear, Bug and Bean in their Easter finery. . .

Bug loves Cousin M . . .well, after he got over his great surprise at seeing her at OUR church. She met us during the service and when she showed up with me after church to pick him up from his class, he was so surprised that he whimpered and hollered and wouldn't go anywhere near her until we got to my mom's house. What a goof!

Egg hunt!

And yes, I do coordinate the girls' dresses. I never get identical dresses, but ever since Bear was born, I have gotten them Easter dresses that match. This year, El Guapo's boss Lady J gave us Bear's dress and I just adore the colors. (Anyone who knows me in the real world knows I LOVE brown.) So I was just thrilled to find Bean's dress in the identical colors (and on sale).

There must be some eggs around here somewhere!

"Getting dressed up stinks. Just give me my Lightning McQueen shirt and I'll be happy!"

She's Baaack!!!

2009-04-09T11:49:00.003-05:00

So what excuse is there that anyone would care to hear for being absent and neglectful for FIVE MONTHS!?! My fingers were crushed in a horrible farming accident and I couldn't type. I had severe post-election depression and have been institutionalized and over-medicated. I was cultivating a new-found romance with France and all things French. Priorities shift, deadlines loom, creative outlets get pushed to the periphery no matter how dearly they are missed. . .

Spring is a time of new beginnings. It's good to be back . . . .

Ode to Chickens

2009-04-09T09:18:00.012-05:00

I have fancied chickens for as long as I can remember. Yes, the cluck, cluck, scratch, scratch variety. Don't ask why because I don't even know myself, but I just love chickens. Who can resist a chicken? Plump and soft, devoted mothers, fierce fathers, attractive hens, magnificent roosters, useful without being used up.

Honey gold Buff Orpington Stalwart Plymouth Rock Classic Americana Rhode Island Red

Old World Barnvelders (Check out the gold lacing pattern on the hen!) Sassy Wyandotte

One of my earliest chicken memories is of sitting in the backseat of my parents' car with my Grandma E, a former chicken farmer. I was about eight or nine and we were discussing all of the vagaries of raising chicks. Well, the discussion was more like a recitation of every chicken detail, fact or tip that I had memorized by checking out and reading every book our library had on chicken husbandry. As I talked about incubation, the specifications of a variety of do-it-yourself brooders, the correct height for the lightbulb used to keep new hatchlings at an optimum temperature (and how to tell), what to feed them and how to prevent them from drowning in their water AFTER you have dipped their baby beaks in to teach them how to drink, my grandma exclaimed, "I think you know more about chickens than I do!" What a compliment! I must have glowed for hours.

About an hour away is a world-renowned museum featuring a chick exhibit with incubated eggs at different stages so that every day, every hour, there are chicks hatching that people can watch. As a child and now as a parent with my own children, I have watched those chicks shake and quiver and struggle then rest and then shake and quiver and struggle some more to break free of their eggshell prisons. If you visit, your eyes will lock on one mini-struggle for life and if you have any sort of soul, you will not be able to walk away until you have seen "your" little fellow through his birthing ordeal. And if you are like me, a tear might slip down your cheek as you realize that watching something, anything, being born is one of the few true everyday miracles.

So you might think that with this great chicken love-fest going on here, Mustard Seed House must be home to a flock of chickens, real or otherwise. I wish I could report that I have a happy klatsch of ladies in my backyard, but alas, city ordinances being as unprogressive as they are, backyard flocks are banned. (If I ever run for local office, it will be on a chicken platform -- "A chicken in every yard!") But that is not to say that I have not dreamed of clandestine coops and fantasy flocks (if guys can have fantasy leagues, why can't I?!). My gals even have names: Selma, Matilda, Frieda, Bertha, Erna, Dorothy and Gertrude in honor of my grandmothers' and great-grandmothers' first and middle names. I envision misty mornings, going out to release my girls from their coop where they have cozily roosted all night, scattering some feed at my feet as they jostle their plump feathery bodies to scratch and cluck and hunt for bugs, gathering warm eggs in a rainbow of dusky colors and creating simple, yet divine, egg-based dishes that friends and family clamor for. Oh the life!

While this may sound crazy to some (or MOST -- including El Guapo!), I have found a chicken-loving soulmate in a co-worker, Divine Miss M. DMM is further along in her chicken dream than I since on the Tuesday after Easter (this is in just five days!!), 50 hatchlings will be arriving at her parents' house in the country and she is going to be in charge of their egg and meat production. I am experiencing the thrill vicariously and am almost as excited as she is for Tuesday to arrive! I'll keep you posted. I have already been saving egg cartons galore; this has not been a problem since we go through several dozen eggs a week. (If El Guapo's blood tests come back showing high cholesterol, I guess we'll know why!)

And before anyone starts anonymously sending chicken brick-a-brack, knick-knacks or other paraphernalia, our decor is not chicken-coop-chic; it is more late-millennial Salvation Army in neutral colors with accents of hand-me-downs. I don't actually collect anything since I have discovered that for myself anyway, collections breed discontent. Even when you add a new piece, you are always on the hunt for one more thing, always wanting more, always pining for something you can't have. So no collecting (I do have a book addiction problem I can write about some other time, though!). But I do have a couple of chicken-related items that bring me great pleasure.

This is a salt and pepper set from my Grandma D. They are filled with antique grime and impossible to clean without possibly damaging the painting, but I love their whimsical design.

This is one of my favorite things, one of those everyday items that brings me unexplainable pleasure and joy every time I look at it. I agonized over buying him at the Kriskindle Market one winter. He is German hand-cast, hand-painted pewter and could be used as a pin or brooch. We passed the stall several times, but it was at a time when the budget was really tight, so even though he didn't cost that much, it was hard to spend the money. I am so glad we did. About a week after I brought him home and hung him near my kitchen sink, I was listening to the radio while putzing around the kitchen, and I heard a most amazing tidbit that has forever enshrined chickens in my heart (as if they weren't already!).

In Jesus' time and in the times of the Early Church (the 2-3 centuries after Christ), believers would etch the icthus (fish) symbol on their doorposts as a subtle symbol to other believers -- kind of like hobo codes letting fellow travelers and pilgrims know they would be welcomed with hospitality. As persecution increased and officials became more hostile to Christianity, believers had to forgo the icthus symbol as it was like a signpost saying, "Come beat this door down and feed me to lions." They used a different symbol, rich in meaning. The rooster. As in the cock that crowed after Peter denied Christ three times on the night of Jesus' arrest and trial. As in every time we look at this rooster, let's remember to never deny our Lord or who we are. Even today in countries where Christians are tracked down, hunted, tortured, killed for their faith, the rooster is a vibrant symbol identifying like-minded souls to each other and admonishing them to take courage. So I love my colorful fellow who keeps me company as I wash dishes, wipe counters, prepare meals. He is a reminder to me: Brothers and sisters live in chains -- pray for them. Peter denied Christ, but was forgiven -- forgive others. Peter denied Christ, but was redeemed -- there is hope for me. Peter denied Christ, but others have not -- take courage and live boldly. Happy Easter.

Happy Birthday, Bug!

2008-11-19T08:29:00.004-06:00

Look at this handsome fellow! Here is the guy who keeps us young and gives us grey hair all at the same time!

Your first sentence was "I am SPEED!" (from the movie Cars) and it could not be more apt. If you are not sleeping, you are climbing, running, dancing, clapping, smiling, MOVING! It is more entertaining watching you watching a movie than it is to actually watch a movie. You are a sparkling delight, my son.

When I was discouraged during my pregnancy with you, I distinctly remember driving in daddy's Jeep, telling God all of my woes and sorrows. It was not an audible voice that I heard, but just as clear when God said, "Let me BLESS you with this son." You are only two, but God has truly blessed our family through you. As you lie in your crib each night, I pray over you blessings in return. I pray that God will reveal His path to you early in life and that once you set your foot upon it, you will never stray. I pray that you will be a young man after God's own heart, and that you will continue to grow healthy and strong. You are challenging that part! Only two and the only one of the kids to visit the ER twice and the only one to have ever gotten stitches! Such a boy. . .

Your name means "son of my right hand" and is so appropriate and God-breathed, it is as if you could have been given no other name. The story behind this is highly personal to our family, so we will tell you one day when you are older. Just know that you hold a special place in both my and daddy's hearts. And while you will always be a little brother, I envision the young man you will someday be and my heart already swells with pride. Defender of Your Sisters. Right Hand of Your Father. Heart of Your Mother. You are my son. May God richly bless you always, Bug.

Happy Birthday, Bear!

2008-11-11T12:01:00.005-06:00

Happy Birthday, Bear! It was four years ago today that I called Daddy at work after he had only been there for about twenty minutes and said, "I think you need to come right now!" Sure enough, it wasn't too long until you were born -- right at lunch time. You had the most hair of all three kids and when you were a baby it went everywhere. No matter what we did, you looked like Einstein so we called you "Bear-Bear Crazy Hair" for a long time.

You are named after my grandma who was an amazing woman. She was a tiny lady with a strong spirit and passions for Jesus, baking, gardening, taking care of people and loving her grandkids. She has had an incredible impact on my life and who I have become. We so wanted to honor her by naming you after her. She had a short name, so instead, we gave you a longer version of that name with the intention of calling you the shorter nickname, just like Grandma E. The summer after you were born, we went to a family reunion where we brought out the old family Bible. Right there was written your name, the longer version we had given you, as Grandma E's real name! Even Grandpa, who had known her since she was five years old, had not known that her real name was the same as yours! I still get goosebumps when I think of it. Your name was meant to be!

Your first name can mean "light" or "God is my strength." We think this appropriate for a lovable little person who we call "Iron Fist in Velvet Glove!" You are quite the character: funny, sweet and smart. Also stubborn, opinionated and not easily swayed (or bribed with "stittas" stickers)! Your middle name is the same as Bean's because as she is, you are a "precious and undeserved gift from God."

Before you were born, I worried, "How could I possibly love anyone as much as I love my little Bean?" (Especially after I was so sick for most of the time you were in my tummy!) It sure seems silly now to have ever worried about that. Of course, we love you like crazy!! We are so excited to see what adventures your life holds. In your four short years, you have amazed, delighted and entertained us just by being YOU. You have expanded the love in our hearts and our family. You are an awesome little sister to Bean and a loving big sister to Bug. Happy Birthday, Bear!

A Prayer for America

2008-11-04T16:00:00.004-06:00

I couldn't let election day pass by without comment, but I have promised that I would only write the one political post, so I want to be a person of my word. So this post doesn't specifically address the current election, but it is a good representation of true conservative beliefs.

Actually, Paul Harvey read a version of this prayer on air, and it has circulated as an email for a while, but this truly is "the rest of the story." The email is not entirely accurate, so I looked up the official source. (As an aside, do not pass on emails without checking them on Snopes. Snopes is a very reliable source of information regarding the veracity of all those emails that circulate!)

Back in January of 1996, the Rev. Joe Wright, senior pastor of the 2,500-member Central Christian Church in Wichita, was invited to offer the opening prayer at a session of the Kansas House of Representatives. The prayer he offered was this one (which differs somewhat from the version being circulated on the internet):

"Heavenly Father, we come before you to ask your forgiveness. We seek your direction and your guidance. We know your word says, "Woe to those who call evil good." But that's what we've done.

We've lost our spiritual equilibrium. We have inverted our values. We have ridiculed the absolute truth of your word in the name of moral pluralism. We have worshiped other gods and called it multiculturalism.

We have endorsed perversion and called it an alternative lifestyle.

We've exploited the poor and called it a lottery. We've neglected the needy and called it self-preservation. We have rewarded laziness and called it welfare. In the name of choice, we have killed our unborn. In the name of right to life, we have killed abortionists.

We have neglected to discipline our children and called it building self-esteem. We have abused power and called it political savvy. We have coveted our neighbor's possessions and called it taxes. We have polluted the air with profanity and pornography and called it freedom of expression. We have ridiculed the time-honored values of our forefathers and called it enlightenment.

Search us, oh, God, and know our hearts today. Try us. Show us any wickedness within us. Cleanse us from every sin and set us free. Guide and bless these men and women who have been sent here by the people of the State of Kansas, and that they have been ordained by you to govern this great state.

Grant them your wisdom to rule. May their decisions direct us to the center of your will. And, as we continue our prayer and as we come in out of the fog, give us clear minds to accomplish our goals as we begin this Legislature. For we pray in Jesus' name, Amen."

The prayer Rev. Wright used wasn't of his own crafting; it was a version of one written in 1995 by Bob Russell who offered it at the Kentucky Governor’s Prayer Breakfast in Frankfort, Kentucky. Either way, it is a prayer that would serve us well, these thirteen years later.

"If we ever forget that we're one nation under GOD, then we will be a nation gone under." -- Ronald Reagan

God bless America.

Beautiful Hands

2008-11-04T08:50:00.005-06:00

I have ugly hands. I was waiting in the car the other day, looking at them and noticed the raggedy cuticles, the scraggly edges of my fingernails, the redness of my knuckles and the overall roughness of my hands. "Wow, I could really use a manicure!" I thought to myself. But as I mulled it over, I realized what a hopeless cause it is. I am really hard on my hands. I garden without gloves, wash dishes in scalding water without gloves, strip furniture, do craft projects, lift heavy loads of books at work, repair materials with harsh chemicals and glues, all without gloves. Not to even mention all the times in a day I wash my hands while cooking, cleaning, changing diapers, taking care of pets, children, and household. Yes, a manicure would last unchipped for about, oh, maybe fifteen minutes. And you know what? I don't care if my hands are raggedy, scraggly, red or rough! (Poor El Guapo!) And here's why:

This will make me sound like I am eighty-seven years old, but I used the McGuffey's Eclectic Readers as one of my main literature books in primary school. For those of you not familiar with McGuffey's Readers, they are what hundreds of thousands (if not millions!) of Americans grew up reading in school since the 1800's. They are aptly called "Eclectic Readers" because they contain a whole host of reading samples from poetry to expository selections on animals and natural history to stories and fables with moral lessons. A little selection in McGuffey's Third Eclectic Reader is called "Beautiful Hands." I must have been about ten or eleven when I read it, but it has stuck with me ever since. In the conversation that is the story, Daisy walks home with her teacher and comments on the course-looking hands of classmate Mary. But Miss Roberts tells Daisy that Mary's hands are the prettiest in the whole class. Miss Roberts goes on to explain that Mary's hands are rough because of all the hard work she does around her house and lists all of the grueling chores that women and girls performed in the late 1800's. And besides work, Mary's hands are used to be kind to her younger siblings and those less fortunate. Miss Roberts goes on to say that, "They are full of good deeds to every living thing. I have seen them patting the tired horse and the lame dog in the street. They are always ready to help those who need help." But my favorite lines are the last two. After Daisy hears of Mary's many good works, she feels remorse at having said that Mary's hands are ugly. Her wise teacher instructs, "Then, my dear, show your sorrow by deeds of kindness. The good alone are really beautiful."

I remember reading that story for the first time, and purposing in my young heart that I wanted to have the kind of beautiful hands that are set about meaningful work. This is not to say that caring for oneself or even having nice, manicured hands is a bad thing. For me, though, my hands are a visual reminder of what is truly important. That the outward appearances are much less important than the inward spirit and attitude. So if it takes having ugly hands to remind me that setting about kindness and goodness in my daily life is my goal, than I will keep them as they are and be content.

Often our bodies show the stories of our lives. Sometimes we reveal poor habits or unhealthy living. Other times we hint at our obsession with the superficial and the temporal. We can reveal if we have a low opinion of ourselves or too high of one, if we are modest or proud, if we are scared or confident. When you see people who bear the scars of hard work or hard knocks or hard living, how do you judge them? Think of the etched face of Mother Teresa. She was no beauty by earthly standards, but the lines on her face, the stoop in her walk, the cracks in her hands were testaments to the principles by which she lived her life. I think of One whose body most showed the way He lived His life -- all the way to His death on the cross. Jesus bears the scars of sacrificial love. I am so not even close to living out my love that way. But I'd like to move in that direction more and more every day.

Lastly, I have thought about this little story many times over the years. It has literally been woven into the very fabric of who I am and has impacted how I see the world and others. And it was this last time reflecting on it that something new was driven home. Oh, how the little things can impact who we become. What are my kids filling their minds with? How will those things shape who they become, how they see others, how they view world? What careless words do I say that will burn into their brains? What do we value enough to impart? What are they being "fed" each day to help them grow? So excuse me now. I have to go attend to Bear and Bug -- and turn off Sponge Bob!

Why I Am NOT Voting for Obama -- PART II

2008-10-14T07:00:00.005-05:00

If you did not read yesterday's post, STOP. Read that first. Then we can still be friends!

I believe in LIFE. Yup, I think that we kind of skip over that part of the Constitution about LIFE, and jump straight to “liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” (Please notice that we are NOT guaranteed happiness, just the right to PURSUE it, but that is a different post for a different day!). I hate being reduced to a one-issue voter, though. I am deeper than one issue. I have thoughts about the war, the economy, health care, gun control. Thoughts that I have formed through long and hard consideration, opinions that are well-reasoned and dearly-held. But once again, this year, I will be voting primarily over one issue and frankly, it kind of irks me that I will be forced to do that AGAIN. But I am left with no choice because the issue is fundamental to the core of my being.

Am I pro-life in the anti-abortion kind of way? Yes, I am. And again, I speak from a well-reasoned point of view. I was an unwed woman with an unplanned pregnancy and at the time, my life would have been a whole lot “easier” if I had just exercised “my choice” and made the whole situation go away. I would be a liar if I said I didn't consider it, but I must say that it was only for a fleeting moment. It's amazing how those bedrock principles you think you hold dear really hold up when the opportunity presents itself to actually put them into practice! I literally thank God everyday for my beautiful daughter and the clarity and sanity that prevailed in choosing life. But even the abortion issue is not what I am writing about. I think that most people have pretty clear views on that one way or another and are not going to be swayed. So be it. (I am also one of the few pro-lifers I know who think that Roe vs. Wade will never be overturned. I think it is foolhardy for pro-lifers to think it and alarmist for pro-choicers to say a political candidate will accomplish it.)

Indeed, Obama believes in abortion. At a townhall meeting on March 31, 2008, Obama said of his daughters (in the context of a conversation on HIV/AIDS and sex education), “I am going to teach them first of all about values and morals. But if they make a mistake, I don't want them punished with a baby." Wow. Look into your kid's eyes and see if you could ever think of them as “punishment” or "mistake." But even this is not why I am not voting for him. I am not voting for Barack Obama, a senator from my home state, because he has on several separate occasions voted in favor of infanticide. Yes, killing babies. This is NOT an abortion issue. This is about live babies, with BIRTH certificates, being allowed to inhumanely die without being given any medical care or intervention. I'm sorry, but in a gray world, this is a black and white issue and it is WRONG. And for me, it is unforgivable. Recently the media has picked up on this issue a little, but I have known about this since 2002 and have been stewing ever since.

While Obama was in the Illinois State Legislature he voted against the Induced Infant Liability Act which would have mandated medical attention for any baby born alive. It sought to offer equal treatment under the law for babies who survived premature inducement for the purpose of abortion and wanted babies who were born prematurely and given life-saving care. It was virtually identical to the federal Born Alive Infant Protection Act signed into law by President Bush with only 15 House members opposing it and unanimous Senate support.

The language in both bills meant it would have NO IMPACT on Roe vs. Wade. NARAL Pro-Choice America released the following statement when it was being debated at the federal level: “Consistent with our position last year, NARAL does not oppose passage of the Born Alive Infants Protection Act ... floor debate served to clarify the bill’s intent and assure us that it is not targeted at Roe v. Wade or a woman’s right to choose.”

But Obama voted against the Illinois version of the bill twice and killed it in committee a third time. (To be fair, he voted “present” the first time and “no” the second. Same thing!!) This was just six short years ago. Does he truly support infanticide? Does he merely lack good judgment? This is a bill that was supported at the federal level by the likes of Hillary Rodham-Clinton, Ted Kennedy and other uber-liberal, pro-choice senators. Either way, Obama is totally out of touch on this issue, and it is not one to be taken lightly.

This is LIFE. BABIES. Children who were left to die in laundry closets, cold and alone. I wouldn't treat a puppy that way, let alone a child. And frankly, I have no ears to listen to anyone who would say that this is okay. Ignorance is not an excuse. Protecting Roe vs. Wade has been proven not to be a valid excuse. There is no excuse. This is America. We are a culture of life. We are not China, Saudi Arabia, Iran, North Korea. Life is woven into the very fabric of our Constitution. At the Saddleback Civil Forum, Pastor Rick Warren asked, "At what point is a baby entitled to human rights?" Obama dodged the question by responding, "Answering that question with specificity is above my pay grade." Well, that's just great. Wherever you are on the pro-life/pro-choice issue, I think we can all agree that if you are born and have a birth certificate, you might be alive and therefore have "human rights." But apparently in Obama's world, that's not enough.

Even so, I know that my vote is not going to count. Illinois is always a blue state and especially this year, will go to Obama. But I believe in personal responsibility when it comes to civic duty, so I will go the ballot box this year and cast my vote and pray and hope that against the odds, McCain will win. I hope a lot of Illinoisans will vote and make the race close so that Obama knows that his home state doesn't give him a carte blanche mandate.

Finally, I have posted this video after much soul-searching. I don't like being manipulated emotionally, and I don't like to emotionally manipulate others. I don't think that Obama is a closet Muslim, and I don't care that his middle name is Hussein. I don't believe that he as president would have all that much power or be able to make even half of his promises come true so my underwear is not in any kind of a bunch! I also believe in the sovereignty of God and that he “allows rulers their thrones.” But I do believe that it is morally imperative to vote your convictions, and more than any other topic, I believe in the sanctity of life. For me it is not a political issue, but a moral one, akin to the slavery issue of the 19th Century. So I post this video with the caveat that I do not necessarily agree with all of nohussein.org's tenets, but the testimony of the nurse and the final visual of the baby is just too powerful not to be seen.

Why I Am NOT Voting For Obama

2008-10-13T14:29:00.007-05:00

Wow. Here you are, just thinking you’ll pop on over to friendly MSH to see what that crazy ZamFam is up to and you get a giant political smack in the face! Well, before you get all riled up, please read the next two paragraphs. Sit down, relax and let me tell you a little story from when I was a kid. (No politics, I promise!) And then decide if you want to read the rest. . . .

I grew up living in an unincorporated neighborhood on a gravel road. We were an eclectic bunch of folks living in an odd assortment of houses that included one that was meant to be underground, but was built above ground due to permit problems; a couple of Swiss-style chalets; a multi-level house built in a sort of circular style; a house whose front looked like a giant glass pinwheel; a Tudor mansion; and an old Girl Scout camp lodge. Our house was my parents' dream home, a plan they got in a magazine with soaring cathedral ceilings, spectacular hillside views and finished with salvaged items.

In an era before such groups were common, we had a neighborhood association that was responsible primarily for contracting for services to grade and add gravel to the road in the summer and plow in the winter. My dad would come home with spectacular stories about the “fireworks” at these meetings. Get a group of eccentric folks together with their equally eccentric ideas, toss in some hot-heads and watch the fun ensue. One of the hottest was a red-headed, red-faced German named Martin. He was formidable – big, loud, intimidating, prone to swearing while clenching his smelly European cigarettes in his teeth. And that was before he got to these meetings. Apparently he was quite passionate about various issues that came up and wasn't afraid to let everyone within a ten mile radius know what he thought. Then, on cold, January mornings, he would be at the top of our hill, waiting to drive the neighborhood kids to school, all gruff smiles and German-accented pleasantries. I remember asking my dad about this, how you could be at such loggerheads with someone one moment and still be friendly with them later. I knew my dad had deep moral convictions about how to treat people, so I wasn't asking so much how my dad did it, but what about blustery Martin? Martin himself had explained to my dad that Europeans were different from Americans in many ways, but one notable way was that Europeans were perfectly willing to fight about ideas to the death, but when the arguing was over, it was time to shake hands and head out for a beer -- the old “let's disagree agreeably” that is so easy to say, but so hard to do.

I write this rather long introduction partly because it was fun for me to remember our old neighborhood and its interesting inhabitants, but to also illustrate how I hope that friends, family and acquaintances who read this blog and also know me in real life will take what I post today. First this will be the only post this year about politics unless something totally bizarre happens like McCain or Obama turning French. Let me say that I am a “rah-rah” American, probably one of the more patriotic people you’ll ever meet. I am unabashedly proud to be American and think that the United States is the greatest nation ever to grace the face of the planet. Please don’t write to tell me about all the ways America has screwed up or how much we suck. I know that America is not perfect, has screwed up and sometimes even sucks. I’m just saying that other countries are even less perfect, screw up more and are suckier – take France for instance. . . . Just as a crazy aside: I actually like the new French president Sarkozy, so maybe I’ll move to France if this election doesn’t turn out how I want.

And I know it is not polite to discuss politics or religion, but since I already talk about my faith, I guess one political post won’t kill anyone. This is not a blog about politics, work or rants, but it is MY blog, so I reserve the right to write about what I want and occasionally that will be on some of these topics. I write because it is cathartic for me and it helps me solidify and order my thoughts. I have gotten into many discussions about politics this year, even though I avoid them like I might avoid a stranger in a dark alley, and I have walked away feeling frustrated that I wasn’t better able to articulate what I believe. Depending on how happy I am with this post when I’m done, I think I might carry around little cards with my blog address and if people ask me what I think, I’ll just smile, say nothing and hand them my blog address card!

I also know there are several people who know me in the real world who are going to differ with me. I already know you disagree with me (even if you don’t know I disagree with you!) and I like you anyway! I hope we can all be grownups and celebrate the fact that we live in America where we can dissent and not end up in jail or friendship purgatory. Let’s do like the Europeans and disagree like crazy and then all go out for beer together afterward and chum it up. With us it will have to be figurative beer since I only like British ale on tap and not really that much. How about coffee? Whiskey?

And if you want to argue with me in cyberworld, that’s fine too. You can even comment and tell me about it. Let’s just not call names or be reduced to slinging insults (that’s reserved for the French). Frankly, I don’t intend to have a long drawn out discussion about this. This is my manifesto and you’re not going to change my mind. It’s not that I am not open minded. I was. I have researched this situation, formed an opinion and now my mind is closed. You won’t dissuade me from my position. My job as “information bounty hunter” has served me well because my mind is geared toward gathering and synthesizing information. I have gathered, synthesized, ordered, formulated and to use an Olympic metaphor – here is my “stuck landing.”

So now this post is crazy long and I haven't even written about what I actually believe! So I will post my “Why I Am NOT Voting For Obama PART TWO” with the actual “meat” of what I wanted to say in a separate post. You have been warned. Read at your own risk. See, that wasn't so bad, now was it? How about that coffee?

(Part II is written and will auto-post tomorrow . . . stayed tuned . . . then back to regular programming!)

Chica's Big Day Out (or how I took years off my kids' lives. . .)

2008-10-02T16:03:00.002-05:00

One of my enduring passions is World War II, mostly because I do believe that the "greatest generation" did nothing less than save the world. The 1940s-era holds endless fascination for me, and I never tire of hearing stories from both the front lines and the home front of the courage, ingenuity and heroism.

So it was with great excitement that the ZamFam5 headed out to the largest WWII re-enactment in North America. It is held every September about an hour away from our house. When we arrived, we were met with all the sights and sounds of a German-occupied French village. Trying to get our bearings, we pulled off to the side of a dirt track that ran through the center of town only to have a volley of gunfire erupt mere feet away! We had inadvertently found ourselves with a front row view of one of the many skirmishes that are held throughout the day. It was deafeningly loud. Bug was so scared he turned completely white, went totally stiff and held his mouth open in a silent scream. The girls kept looking at me wide-eyed for assurance, but shouting at them didn't really convey that everything was okay. El Guapo had a priceless expression on his face that said, "Don't look at me. This is all your mother's doing!"

Before the battle, occupying forces patrolled the streets.

Their friendly and casual demeanor gave no indication of the gunfire that was about to erupt in moments!
The gunfire reports were so powerful, you could feel the concussions on your chest. Awesome!
Some Allied troops had taken up in the General Store and were trying to battle their way outside. We thought the rifles were loud and then they rolled up with this baby! Percussive! In the interest of realism, not all of the battles end with Allied victories and in this instance, the good guys were captured and marched away. Then the occupying forces packed up and rolled on down the street.

There are home front and front lines exhibitions, as well. Here the girls are in the area showing the role of the Red Cross.

Everywhere are period vehicles and folks in costume. So authentic.

This could be on a street corner in 1944. Love the uniforms!

The front lines area is divided into Allied and Axis zones. Visitors hike through the woods to view various encampments. Can you imagine living like this?

There are many impressive military vehicles.

This officer was impressive and realistic with his dapper uniform and dour expression.

Not a real fan of posting pictures of my girls with a N**i, but the horse in the picture is a movie star. He played John Adams' horse in the HBO miniseries. (If I ever run for public office, I might have to remove this one -- can you imagine what someone could write?!)

This is my favorite picture of the day (thanks, El Guapo!) because it so perfectly captures that even though conditions were most difficult, British will, order and patriotism still thrived. Brilliant.

Walking on Broken Glass

2008-09-18T16:02:00.006-05:00

I often listen to the pastor from Moody Memorial Church on a local radio station. After I have gotten El Guapo and Bean out the door to work and school, dropped off Bear at preschool and am ready for a strong cup of coffee and some breakfast, Erwin Lutzer comes on. My favorite breakfast is eggs, and it's funny that even if I hear him at some other time of day, I suddenly will get a hankering for eggs as soon as I hear his voice. We have spent that many mornings together! He has a distinctive voice that El Guapo is not very fond of, but I have come to find such a sweet familiarity there, it is like sitting down with a beloved friend over coffee each morning and getting eloquent and humble teaching.

A few weeks ago he spoke about Paul admonishing us to walk circumspectly and to illustrate what this looks like, he gave the following word picture. When he took a trip to Africa, he noticed that most houses and buildings had high solid fences around them. To offer further security, bottles and glass had been broken and then embedded in the top of the concrete to discourage people from climbing over.

He then vividly recalled seeing a cat walking across the top of one of those walls. As it walked along the jagged shards, it picked its way carefully, mindful of each step, placing each paw in a safe spot. It was hard for the cat to always find a foothold, but Lutzer was impressed when the cat reached the end of the wall and leaped gracefully down, with nary a scrape or cut. He had traversed the broken glass unscathed!

(Imagine glass shards on top!)

Of course, the parallel is that we should walk in our own lives as carefully, contemplating each step and choosing the wisest course. I sure need to practice that more! How my life would change if I could just not open my big mouth as much, but use more restraint and reflection! I tend to be more like this:

You know, running headlong, tongue lolling out, stepping in who knows what! So even though I am a "dog person," I guess I need to be more of a "cat person," if only in this one way: to ask God for wisdom at each juncture of my day and to put into practice those things that I SAY I believe, but don't always act on. I guess this is the journey to authenticity that I'll be on for the rest of my life.

"Be very careful then how you live -- not as unwise but as wise, making the most of every opportunity." -Ephesians 5:15

ZamFam Road Trip: Part 4

2008-09-11T16:40:00.006-05:00

See, Bug did actually have fun on vacation. This is chillin' East Coast style! Can you believe those eyelashes? They cast shadows! And you heard it here first, folks. That outfit is prophetic. My boy is going to be a world class baseball player (mostly because I have forbidden him from playing football!)

Uncle Randy's world famous, gut-busting sundaes! Yeee--ummmm!

The proud American (extended) ZamFam at the Washington Monument. We went to Washington, D.C. for the day to walk around the monuments in the mall. The theme of our trip seemed to be insane humidity and crazy heat, but we had an awesome time. We walked our feet off, but even in the heat, D.C. was moving and invigorating. We are definitely going to try to get back and spend MUCH more time. There is a definite atmosphere about Washington that exudes power and drive.

If you know me for about ten minutes, you will know that I am a World War II buff. This memorial was the main reason I wanted to visit Washington. It alone was worth the visit and exceeded my expectations. I found it so incredibly moving that I left everyone at the reflection pool and walked around by myself with tears streaming down my face and a huge lump in my throat. I must have looked strange to some people (I wouldn't really pass for a WWII vet!), but I didn't care.

This is the view of the memorial from the top of the Washington Monument. It is one of the most gorgeous, well-designed public spaces I have ever seen, full of symbolism, gravitas and import -- so befitting the people and events it memorializes. It is amazing to me that this memorial is so new, that we didn't have a national monument prior to 2004. Fittingly, it was begun in September 2001 and was funded primarily through private donations. (Tom Hanks and Bob Dole spearheaded the fundraising. Thanks, Tom and Bob! -- Yeah we're on a first name basis.)

"HERE WE MARK THE PRICE OF FREEDOM" (and here is where the tears flowed even more freely). This is a reflection pond with the above inscription in the foreground and a field of blue studded with gold stars in the background. Each of the 4,000 stars represents 100 American lives sacrificed (400,000) in the war that saved the world from tyranny.

The oval is flanked by two pavilions representing the two theaters of war -- the Pacific and the Atlantic. In the center of the memorial is a large fountain which drowns out street noise and offers a fitting background for contemplation. Fifty-six large columns offer the roll call of the nation -- one for each state and territory that united in the effort. The wreaths on each pillar are of oak and wheat symbolizing the nation's industrial and agricultural strength which were essential to the success of the global effort. There are also quotes and inscriptions throughout the memorial from key battles.

On the floor of each pavilion is a large medallion of the WWII Victory Medal that all who served received. Suspended from the ceiling are four bronze victory eagles holding laurel wreaths. So spectacular! I had a headache when I left because I was swallowing so hard trying not to just burst out weeping. I'm sorry my picture descriptions sound so "guidebook-ish." I just cannot convey how meaningful it was for me to visit this memorial. Never before have so few sacrificed so much for so many. (And just imagine my poor nephews who were with on this trip. They would offer the following advice: never go on a vacation to Washington, D.C. with your aunt if she is a history teacher! If you think this is bad . . . )

We also went to the Vietnam War Memorial. The famous Wall is beautiful as it is not a wall just jutting out of the ground, but is a graceful arc that starts thin, culminates at over six fee tall and than narrows back down to a few inches. It is built into the side a small rise and has the name of each soldier who was killed, captured or missing in the war. If the name has a diamond after it, that soldier is confirmed dead. If there is a cross after the name, that soldier is MIA or captured. There are over 1000 names on the wall designated as MIA/POW. I found this mind boggling, as did Bean, who poignantly asked, "Why did people invent war?" Good question.

The Korean War Memorial was also incredible. "The Forgotten War" is memorialized by a fitting inscription: "Our nation honors her sons and daughters who answered the call to defend a country they never knew and a people they never met." As a former history teacher, I knew the dates of the Korean War (1950-1953), but until I saw the memorials all together, I didn't realize the ramifications of the fact that the Korean War was just a short five years after the end of World War Two. It was also one of the first major tests of the newly formed United Nations (not a real stellar legacy if you ask me -- considering the present situation with North Korea) and the first time US troops went into battle as UN forces. In three years of conflict the US lost over 36,000 soldiers in addition to 92,000 wounded, 8200 MIA and 7100 POW.

Statistics like these and those from WWII and Vietnam really put the Iraq War in perspective for me. Any casualty is one too many, but on this day of remembering patriots, we really should think about all that our troops have accomplished in Afghanistan and Iraq and with some of the lowest troop casualties of any war the US has ever fought.

I have a few more pictures from D.C., but I will post them in one final "Road Trip." Our trip to the nation's capital was amazing and with family living so close to it, we plan on many returns. I'll leave you with one final picture for today:

America. Land of the Free. Home of the Brave.

Waxing ever patriotic,

Never Forget

2008-09-11T13:22:00.004-05:00

Do you remember where you were on September 11, 2001? Do you remember what you were thinking and feeling? Do you remember what you were afraid of, afraid for? Do you remember who you wanted to be with, who you wanted to call, who you wanted to embrace? Do you remember the bravery, the heroism, the patriotism?

Pause for a moment of reflection. Fly your flag. Give a loved one an extra hug. Call your mom. Kiss your kids. Praise God for simple blessings. Thank a hero. Never forget.

Bear's First Day of Preschool

2008-09-08T16:00:00.001-05:00

ZamFam Road Trip: Part 3

2008-08-25T22:03:00.005-05:00

After getting to Baltimore around 3:00 a.m., we went that Sunday afternoon to an Orioles game at Camden Yards, or as the locals say, "Dah Yahds." I'm not sure if it's always as hot and humid as it was the week we were there, but all week was in the nineties and it was close to 100 degrees at the ballpark. We had a great time anyway, even though the Orioles lost to the Detroit Tigers. Most pleasant was how easy it was to get to the park and how clean and gorgeous it was. Other highlights were the air conditioned gift shop and the free hotdogs after last call in the seventh inning!

Here's Bean keeping cool at Dah Yahds.

Here's Bear trying to keep cool.

Again here's Bug having a rockin' time. He loved every outing, as you can tell!

Bear kept asking, "Why are they called the Oreos?"

Here's our godson passed out on his daddy's shoulder. A good time was had by all!

Don't Drink The Kool-Aid

2008-08-25T10:31:00.020-05:00

At the risk of sounding like a wet-blanket, a curmudgeon, or you can insert your own insult here, I am interrupting the report on our ZamFam Road Trip to opine on the Olympics, specifically China hosting them.

I look forward to the Olympics every two years, mark the opening and closing ceremonies on my calendar, and lose tons of hours of sleep in between. (I am so looking forward to a Winter Olympics in our hemisphere if only for it being closer to our time zone!) But it was with mixed feelings that I thought about China hosting the games this year. Actually to be totally honest, my feelings weren't/aren't that mixed. Actually, I feel pretty strongly about this great "coming-out party" for China, and I have to say, "DON'T DRINK THE KOOL-AID!"

To be sure, the opening and closing ceremonies this year were phenomenal, incredible, jaw-dropping spectacles of which I enjoyed every minute. Fantastic, bravo, well-done! The venues are architectural wonders, marvelous to behold. The Bird's Nest is spectacular, and the Water Cube defies description and invites cliche.

When you have over a billion people at your disposal (literally--as in they tap your shoulder and you goose-step, er skedaddle, as fast as your slippers can take you) and a government machine with over $40 billion dollars to throw in Beijing's direction, this is what you get. I feel bad for London having to follow in Beijing's footsteps and yet, I will revel in whatever a free and democratized society has to offer the world because it is much more than an uber-controlled display of power, ahem, Olympic stage show.

While the Games went off without a hitch and NBC gushed about all things Chinese and Barack Obama said he could understand why businesses would see this Olympics and the sanitized Beijing and want to move there, don't be fooled. Pick your poison. Whether you are liberal or conservative, you can find a bone to pick with China in the human rights category: China has no freedom of speech, the press, religion or movement; China admits to executing about 10,000 people per year (the figure is almost certainly higher and is the 7th highest per capita in the world after the likes of Saudi Arabia and Sierra Leone); the one-child policy causes gender imbalance, forced abortions and sterilizations and untold heartache--think of the parents who lost children in the recent earthquake--they were all one-child families; the annexation of Tibet; the saber-rattling toward Taiwan, a free and democratic Asian nation which cannot compete in the Olympics as "Taiwan" but rather as "Chinese Taipei;" the organ harvesting and "extrajudicial" execution (read MURDER) of religious prisoners that has recently been confirmed by both Sky Television and Christian Science Monitor. And that's me just getting warmed up, but I'll stop for now.

Sadly as I watched the closing ceremonies last night with the spectacular five-story human tower, I couldn't help but think about the biblical Tower of Babel and man's arrogance in the face of God. This was China, a godless society, shaking its fist in God's face and saying, "See what we can do without You. We are powerful. We are sovereign. We are mighty." A fearsome sight to behold, indeed. But what can you expect from a country that venerates a man responsible for the deaths of 40 million countrymen, who was willing for up to half of China to die for the cause of Cultural Revolution and technological advance? Of course I speak of beloved Chairman Mao, the man whose visage graces every street corner in China. Holding the Olympics in Beijing is akin to holding them in Germany if Germany were still the Third Reich and Hitler a beloved grandfather figure.

Yes, I know that the Olympics were held in Munich in 1936, with Hitler as Fuhrer, but please go back to your (un-revisionist) history books. As they say, "Hitler made the trains run on time." This man, inventor of the Volkswagen ("car for the people"), lifted up a depressed and repressed German people after the punitive effects of the Treaty of Versailles virtually guaranteed a future conflict with an awakened Germany. I am not defending Hitler by any means! We have 20/20 hindsight; prior to the 1938 Kristallnacht attack on Jewish businesses, the world was woefully blind to the true nature of Hitler (although he spelled it out rather clearly in Mein Kampf!). Time Magazine was so dense, they declared Hitler "Man of the Year" in 1939. Just a short nine months later, he would invade Poland and start World War Two. Bravo, Time!

All this to say, can you imagine if Hitler had won (the horror!), we're now 60 or so years later and holding the Olympics in Germany with pictures of good ol' Adolph smiling benevolently from every corner? The venues would be spectacular to be sure. Albert Speer's Inside the Third Reich (he was Hitler's architect) shows the grand plans that Hitler envisioned in a revived Roman Empire. Gorgeous buildings, gridded streets, broad avenues, parks, gardens, monuments, zoos, beautiful homogeneous people everywhere. . . .

The people's Republic of China was established in 1949. Mao died in 1976 -- thirty two years ago. Needless to say, as much as I like Bob Costas, I wanted to gag every time I saw him sitting in front of the background that had Mao smiling down over his shoulder. And kudos to President Bush. Hey, I'm disappointed in him too. (Some of you hate him, I know.) At least he had the, um, guts, to speak out about Chinese human rights. And China told him to mind his own business. Well, we should be minding our business, by not sending it China's way. We are arming our enemy. Yes, enemy is a strong word, but I am old enough to remember when Communists were considered a threat, not cozy bedfellows, and people who loved freedom would not dream of sugar-coating the truth to swallow a lie. To borrow a description from Jesus, China is a "white-washed tomb" clean on the outside with a dirty secret inside.

Look, I enjoyed the spectacle of the ceremonies, marvelled at the architecture of the venues and revelled in the competition of the Games. There were just too many "Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain" moments for me. Please don't accuse me of being xenophobic. I'm just saying, let's not be fooled by the eye candy we were meant to see. There was a special protest area set up by the Chinese government for people wanting to speak out at the Olympic Games (far away from venues or international camera crews). Seventy seven groups filed applications, none were granted. That says it all.

So, now back to regularly scheduled programming until I go off on something else. I actually have a political piece I have been developing for several months. When it hits my blog, it will probably hack off so many people, my readership will be cut in half. So here's to the two people who read me. I'll really miss one of you in the next couple of weeks!

Road Trip: Part 2

2008-08-21T22:15:00.004-05:00

As you can tell by the smiles (Bean and cousin), we did get tickets for the Maid of the Mist boat tour. The crowds were crazy which was a little nerve-wracking with small kids. People were shoving, jostling for position, even little old ladies were elbowing past. And they say Americans are rude . . . The heat was brutal, but just as we arrived at the gangway and donned our nifty rain slickers, it began to rain. We didn't care! We were going to get soaked anyway! It was a welcome relief from the heat. (The only drawback was the gross smelly shoes, ahem El Guapo, when we got back to the car and had to ride nine hours with the damp kid, moist clothes, soaked shoe smell.)

Apparently, the ZamFam guys are too macho to wear glorified garbage bags, but we all had a blast! And we got soaked! It felt awesome to get so close to the Falls and to just be on the water in a boat. For someone who prefers sailboats to power boats and a few people to a large crowd, I was surprised at how much this moved me. I guess it just goes to show what a water dog I am and also that in the face of awe-inspiring creation, one cannot help but have your own moment even if you are in a crowd.

After our brief interlude in the Great White North, we headed for Rainbow Bridge and the USA. The border is in the middle of the bridge and US border patrol is at the opposite side. This is all well and good except that we had to wait an hour on the bridge to get through. I am very afraid of heights and rather nervous crossing bridges. Matters were not helped with El Guapo saying every few minutes, "Whoa, did you feel THAT? Can you feel the bridge moving? That felt worse than the one before." Other helpful observations included "I wonder what the weight limit on this bridge is? I mean, there are two lanes of traffic all at a standstill plus the other two lanes in the opposite direction. I'm just saying . . . ." I just made like Magellan and kept my nose buried in the maps.

The view from the bridge was incredible. And see that tall, green tower jutting out from the left side of the picture? That's where totally insane people on the American side go out to get a better view of the Falls. I'd have to be sedated and in a straight jacket before you got me out on that thing!

This picture is probably illegal. MY SIL TOOK IT! So please, Homeland Security, please do not haul me away.

Back in the good 'ol US of A. Except that you enter the armpit of America -- Buffalo, New York. No offense to Buffalo, but good grief! I remember visiting Niagara Falls as a kid and being so ashamed at the New York side because the roads were all pot-holed, the buildings run down, the city half-dead. After seeing the manicured grounds, show-stopping flowers, gorgeous stonework and beautiful parks in Canada, it was appalling to see the American side. I thought that after twenty plus years, maybe something would have changed. I'm disappointed to report that it is still as bad as I remembered. This is tragic because people come from all over the world to see Niagara Falls and their first impression (hopefully not their only one!) of America will be of a gritty city that has lost its pride. Buffalo, you may be named after a mangy beast, but do you have to look like one?

I hate to end on a sour note. We had an awesome time at Niagara, and El Guapo and I would love to go back, maybe in the off-season. The Falls as ice is too amazing to contemplate. There is also a light show every night, as well as the occasional fireworks show. That would be something to see.

Who Are They KIDding?

2008-08-21T15:18:00.005-05:00

If these girls are sixteen (one is supposedly twenty!), I weigh what it says on my driver’s license.

Thanks, Shawn & Nastia! We stayed up many late nights rooting for you and it was well worth the lost sleep! Thanks for showing the world the meaning of the word “class.”

The ZamFam Takes a Road Trip: Part 1

2008-08-20T11:44:00.019-05:00

When I lived on Grand Cayman, we used to get what was called "rock fever." Living on an island only 7 miles wide and 32 miles long, you couldn't get very far. A few toodles around in the black blazer and you were just seeing the same flat ironshore and scrub brush you'd been looking at for the past several months. Most people living above the subsistence level, which was everyone except ex-pat teachers and Jamaicans, would take advantage of $49 fares to unwind in the chilly northern climes of Miami, but we poorer folk were left to languish on some secluded Caribbean beach, perhaps in a hammock slung between two palm trees, faithful dog and good book in tow and dream of a road trip. As with so many things in life, the dream is often better than the reality. In fact, I once read a book called The Art of Travel whose entire thesis was that the anticipation of travel was better than the reality of it. I'm not sure I agree completely, but the author may have had a point.

We did take the longed-for road trip and was the dream better than the reality? Did the ZamFam survive Routes 94, 80, 72 and the Pennsylvania Turnpike? What about the dreaded border crossing? Well read on, armchair sojourner, and you can venture to some of the most touristy places in North America with a most un-touristy family. So strap in and imagine yourself hurtling down the highway in a ubiquitous mini van with two girls, ages 6 and 3 and a little guy 1 and 1/2 strapped in the back. Girls are bickering, whining, coloring themselves with marker. Said little guy is squawking, throwing toys, kicking the back of your seat. This can all be tuned out with practice. You get plenty of practice during a fifteen hour ride. At one point imagine peace and quiet. Girls watching charming Madeline movie, Bug peacefully sleeping. Chica is reading a tear jerker to El Guapo, both adults choked up a little. . . Flash to the next moment, Bean hollering, "Bear just wrote on the DVD screen with pencil!" Mother flying through the air to the very back of van in a single bound, shrieking, "Why did you do that?!" Bug waking up screaming. Welcome. You are now in your very own mobile pod of hell. Welcome to the ROAD TRIP.

We loaded up the ZamFamVan (ha ha, I'll stop -- maybe or maybe not. Dear K just returned from Zambia and said they joked ad nausea about things being "zamtastic," etc. I just might commandeer that and drive my whole universe insane. waaahhhhhaaaaaaa!) and headed out with El Guapo's sister's family to visit El Guapo's other sister who lives in Baltimore. We decided to caravan along a northern route and see Niagara Falls on the way. We hit the Canadian border, identification in sweaty palms, around midnight. We drove right up to the guard booth and were greeted by a crisp young Canadian woman. We were toying with the idea of saying we were "Just oot and aboot" when asked the nature of our visit, but with our hearts thumping in our chests, we spoke through gritted teeth that we were just wanting to visit Niagara Falls. Our Canuck was all business as she went through each of her checkpoint questions, and we breathed a sigh of relief when she said everything appeared in order and to enjoy our visit. Not wanting to arouse suspicion, El Guapo said, "The car behind is with us . . ." Before he could finish asking where we could pull over to wait for them, the guard said with a mischievous glint in her eye, "Do you want me to give them a hard time?" Awesome. Who knew Canadians were so much fun? She was obviously not French Canadian . . .

Aaaahhhhh. The next morning we headed to the long-awaited vista. The destination of honeymooners from around the globe. The Wisconsin Dells meets Branson AND Gatlinburg. All for some water falling over some rocks. Some gorgeous bottle-green water rushing past and plummeting 170 feet down into an 180 foot deep pool at a rate of 6 million cubic feet of water per minute! Incredible. As I must have said a thousand times, much like the Grand Canyon, no picture can do it justice. It is so grand and amazing, one must experience it in person.

Spectacular, isn't it? It doesn't look as big in pictures as in real life, but trust me, this is just amazing up close . . .

Ok, Ok, just kidding. This is what it looks like approaching the giant drop of Horseshoe Falls. What is really funny, is that in a slide show (real slides in a projector), my dad played this same (lame) joke back when I was a kid, and I didn't remember it until just now. Insert cliche here about the apple not falling far from the tree, great minds thinking alike or both eating the same retard sandwich!!

I snagged this picture online, but it shows just how beautiful the water is. That is one of the things about the Falls I love best, the color of the water -- almost Caribbean blue, almost. . .

If I would have sent you a postcard, it would have looked like this.

Here are Bean and Bear with a real Canadian Mountie of the non-French Canadian variety. How do I know? Because it was almost 100 degrees that day and this woman was wearing a full-on wool uniform and was not sweating a drop! Amazing, and definitely very un-Frenchlike to be able withstand such hardship with grace and aplomb.

Here's Bug's impression of Niagara Falls. It was so moving, he was driven to tears.

My own little maids of the mist. Here's where I was having a heart attack and a stroke. See that tiny little rail? It's about 170 feet down into Maid of the Mist Pool directly back there (a difference between the US and Canada -- if this were in the US, you would have to look at the Falls through a telescope. They would never let you get that close!) Can't you tell they were having a great time, though, at "April Falls?" (Bear-speak for Niagara Falls/April Fools which somehow got smushed together in her brain!)

Speaking of Maids of the Mist, all afternoon, "We want to do that!" was ringing in our ears. We're on a budget, we're not real touristy, we need to head down to Baltimore . . . . Did the ZamFam 5 make it onto the Maid of the Mist? Were their plans foiled by a lightning storm, a Canuck run amok or a hairy, smelly Frenchman? Stay tuned.

And all that talk about the dreaded border crossing? The guard did joke with us, but we weren't nervous. I mean c'mon, it's CANADA.

Au Contraire

2008-08-11T12:24:00.004-05:00

What was that, Mr. Bernard? Could you please speak up? I think you said, "The Americans? We're going to smash them." Did I hear you correctly? Ummmm, I think when you trash talk, you're supposed to actually be able to back it up. So Mr. Lead-Croissant-In-Your-Speedos, what's it like to taste defeat? Oh wait, you're French. That's the feeling you live with everyday. . . .

Thanks for bringing home the gold, guys!! Victory is always sweet, but even sweeter when it's against trash-talking Frogs!

August 2008 Recap

2008-08-10T15:55:00.001-05:00

Summer sunset -- outside my front door.

Happy Seventh Birthday, Bean!

Bean's first day of Second Grade.

Happy Birthday, Bean!

2008-08-05T13:31:00.008-05:00

Seven years ago today at 5:00 a.m., I became a mom. I remember it so vividly because it was like a literal switch was thrown inside my soul. I suddenly realized not only how much my own parents loved me, but also began to understand how miraculous it is that God calls us his children and how that just begins to touch the depth of His love. I remember envisioning a mother lion defending her cubs and thinking that I would do anything to protect you.

We gave you a first name that means "peace" because through your birth, we made peace with God. Your middle name means "undeserved gift from God" because you are such a precious gift. Your dad and I are so proud of you, Bean! We love you, even when you look like a silly jack-o-lantern with no teeth!

Wordle ?!

2008-07-13T00:37:00.004-05:00

This is a "wordle" made from this blog's text. A wordle is something for people who are total nerds and either love words, Internet, technology or themselves too much. But it was fun. (Thanks Andrea for putting this on your blog so I could steal it!)

A couple of things I noticed: I say "like" and "really" way too much, but I like that "can," "think" and "read" show up well. At the bottom right it is weird that "dead friends now" is strung together -- yuck. But "one pulled summer" and "friends choose right dog" are funny to me. Sorry for nothing deep or interesting. I am finishing my last day of summer semester tomorrow and then I am free!!

Pulling Weeds & Feeding the Dog

2008-06-23T12:38:00.005-05:00

"I swear I pulled that very weed two days ago!" Do you ever feel like this? Well, in my case, I probably had pulled that weed two days ago, because due to time constraints, my weeding philosophy (yes, I actually have one!) has been to pull weeds so that the bed looks good and not worry about getting it all the way down to the root. I'm more interested in my native prairie plants looking neat and tidy, than worrying about what is actually going on under the soil (this year, at least!). I can hear all you Real Gardeners groaning out there . . . .

As I was pulling the same weeds today that I pulled a few days ago, I started thinking about how much that is like life. How we all have things that really should be rooted out, but often we are more concerned with appearances and not actually getting down to the heart of matters. I rarely have these kinds of quiet moments where I can think like this (Bean & Bear are at church day camp all week -- THANKS, MOM!! and Bug was napping -- one of the sweetest words in the English language), so as I let my mind wander around with that thought for a while, I did stumble on a couple of other ideas moving within the same metaphor. For instance, this year, we took precautions by putting down weed cloth and mulch so that what weeds did grow would be easier to yank out. I also weed almost everyday, so the bane of my existence, (creeping charlie-the blasted stuff!) is smaller and less. This got me thinking about what precautions I need to take in the rest of my life to avoid letting garbage fester and bad habits take over. Forcing more peaceful moments each day with just my thoughts and God might be a good start! One more reason to start getting up earlier . . . .

And finally, all of this weed pulling and thinking and hot sun congealed into a crystallized moment (I think that is a mixed metaphor since congealing things aren't really crystallizing -- but just go with me here!) that has nothing to do with gardening. I don't know about you, but I have character flaws (frankly, this should read: SINS) that I think I will deal with until the day I die. But I was reminded today about a metaphor from C.S. Lewis about dogs. He likened our physical, natural character to a black dog and our spiritual, God-attuned side to a white dog. Whichever dog you choose to feed becomes stronger, while the other starves. I have found this to be so true. Even though I may never fully triumph over some issues in my life, if I choose not to feed that wrong desire or fault, it will become weaker and weaker in its pull on me. When I cultivate my relationship with Christ, I become stronger and more able to resist and flee temptation. To be honest, I recently failed in fighting an old issue that I thought was dead and there it goes, gaining in strength again. Starvation mode is now in full swing. I want to put that sucker down for the count!

So today, as I finish up some yard work and take care of Luna/Yu-Ya/Woo-Da/Lerda (that dear, sweet soul from Cayman who comes to a variety of names), I'm going to be thinking about what other things I might need to root out and starve and what needs to be fed more. I need to more concerned about what is going on in my heart, than what other people perceive about me. Just because I can say the right words or put up enough of a facade to keep people from seeing the real me, does not mean that everything is weed-free and pristine on the inside. That needs to be the never-ending quest of life --pulling out the weeds and starving that bad, bad dog.

Of Dinny Pids and Other News

2008-06-12T15:12:00.006-05:00

I have been so devastated by Big Brown's Belmont loss that I have been in mourning and unable to write! Seriously, you don't think I'm that big of a nerd, do you? Oh, don't answer! It was an unbelievable loss for the favorite to come in dead last and the biggest long shot to lead the entire race. Amazing. As Big Brown's jockey observed, it just goes to show what “freaks” the previous eleven Triple Crown winners really were. The only good thing is that now you probably won't have to read about horse racing from me until next May! (Unless I decide to write up something about “Big Red” -- Secretariat. I just love that horse!)

So as my title suggests, there is a new addition to the ZamFam! We are all taken by the new critter Oreo who has taken up residence in the girls' room. I'm not big on using living creatures as bribes, but Bean was rewarded for her excellent report card and for finishing first grade with no discipline issues with a new pet, so we now have a “dinny pid” (Bear-speak – say it out loud if you can't figure it out!). He is the silky soft Peruvian variety, and I'll let you guess what color he is by his name.

El Guapo is both blessed and cursed by being incredibly busy at work these days, so the poor guy is pretty beat when he gets home at night. That hasn't stopped us from attempting to get some major yard work done, though. You might think that having a horticulturist-wanna-be (I was accepted to Purdue's horticulture program in 1991, but ended up going into English/ history/education instead) and a strapping, not-that-old Mexican living in the same house, we'd have the best lawn/landscaping combo on the block. Well, you'd be wrong! Just ask the neighbors. We decided this is the year to change that, so we have been tearing up planting beds, laying down weed cloth, installing edging, planting and mulching like crazy. I think we have finally struck a plan that will work, and by “work” I mean require almost no maintenance after this year and not look like a weed patch. We went with a garden plan we found online that is based on native prairie grasses and other low-maintenance options. We splurged on some solar- powered lighting, and I've planted up some annuals for color in Mexican terracotta pots we've collected. We even added a windchime. Now the bronze turtle I got for mother's day looks right at home out there!

With school out, I do a kind of summer camp for the kids each morning with a different theme each week. We start each day with a nature “hike” in our back yard. Bean documents our finds in a notebook, Bear is awesome at describing (with great enthusiasm) what we've seen and Bug mostly picks dandelions (maybe he'll be the lawn guy in the family . . . ). Some of this week's nature highlights were seeing a spit bug nest (to recreate our experience, spit on a plant –seriously, that's exactly what it looks like!), some giant spiders and their spectacular webs (think “Charlotte”), and black-winged damselflies up really close. (I also make the kids pick weeds. Shhhh, don't tell! I make a game, like “Who can pick the most weeds while I count to 50?” or “Who can pick 10 weeds the fastest?” I am so sneaky like that!) We then read books from our theme (being a librarian can be really handy that way!) and sing songs (Bear's favorite is “Three Blind Mice.” Ironically, she thinks it's “tyute.”) or do a craft. Bean is also working on some workbook-type stuff so that her academic skills don't leak out of her ear over the summer. We also try to exercise each day. Grandparents who take their grandkids swimming are really helpful in this department, but so are sneaky competitions, like “Who can run around the house the fastest?” -- except when they backfire and the kids come up with challenges like jumping jacks. We were all laughing so hard at ME that we almost fell over!!

And while this is not a “rant blog,” can you indulge me for just a moment? The weather has been really crazy around most of the country lately and here has been no exception. Last Thursday, Bear, Bug and I went on an adventure that started out, “Hey guys, did you know that our garage has a hole in it? Do you want to go down there and check it out?” We spent about 25 minutes hunkered in the crawl space with snacks, water, flashlights, books and blankets while some mean-looking weather blew through. Which brings me to the rant. The next day, I was at work and the tornado sirens went off. I'm not afraid of much, but bad weather freaks me out, so I pretty much just wanted to run and hide, but since I was at work, I was partially responsible for herding patrons into the basement. Even though we made an announcement over the PA and you could hear the sirens blaring, people were arguing with us about moving. This is the basement of a library that houses meeting rooms and a bookstore, so we are not talking about some dank, dirty place here. People actually thought that fifteen more minutes on MySpace or standing and staring at the DVD shelves was more important than getting to safety. I wanted to scream. Mostly just scream, but I also wanted to say something like, “I've got babies to live for! I don't know what your problem is, but I'm going to the basement.” Of course, we have to be professional and calm, so we must politely persuade the idiot patron to kindly come to the basement or LEAVE! Oh, the joys of working with the public!

And finally, I don't believe in karma, but if I did, El Guapo was the recipient of the instant variety this weekend. While we were standing on the front porch watching a howling rain storm, our cat scrambled out from somewhere caterwauling to come in. El Guapo thought that it was hilarious to toss him back out into the rain in the general direction of the overflow from our gutters. With no other shelter available, Scout's only option was to return to the porch, only to be unceremoniously dumped back out into the rain. (Sorry, cousin M, I know this is paining you!) Well, after a few times of this, the poor cat is drenched to the bone. (Please do not write to PETA about this, it was only water for goodness sake!!) Well, the final time, El Guapo's back goes out – total pain in his lower back from gently (I said GENTLY) heaving the cat into the rain. So, we all come inside, sopping Scout included. Normally he takes refuge in Luna's bed (which she hates), but that night he sneaked into our room, found a pile of towels on the floor (I know, I know) and buried a huge load in them. Fast forward to bed time and a room that smells worse than any cat box. Cue frantic search for aforementioned load, disgusting discovery, lovely white towels into the garbage. I think that's called instant karma, El Guapo. I also think that might put an end to the tormenting-your-pets-for-your-amusement episodes at Mustard Seed House. But maybe not.

Happy Birthday, El Guapo

2008-06-03T00:04:00.001-05:00

Dubya called and wanted me to tell you, “The celebrification of a person's bornfulness is a rightitude we hold dear in this nation.” Happy Birthday, babe!

Happy Summer Reading

2008-06-02T21:01:00.013-05:00

If you know me in the real world, gentle is probably not a word that would immediately leap to mind if you were asked to describe me. Loud, opinionated, prone to sticking my foot in my mouth -- those might pop to mind, but not gentle. It's one of those “fruits of the Spirit” that I am still working on (and will be for a while.). So it is ironic that someone who played “communist” (don't ask, it's a LOOONG story) with neighborhood friends, established indoor beachheads in my mother's living room with G.I. Joes on rainy days and longed for camouflage pants (one of the first things I bought when I went away to college!), loves to read a genre called “gentle reads.” Before you start thinking granny underpants, cardigan sweaters and fuzzy cats, let me explain. (And hey, I have more than one of those items, but I won't show or tell!!)

Gentle reads are defined as “books brimming with a simple, old-fashioned flavor and populated by endearing, intriguing, and very often eccentric characters. They can be charming, touching, poignant, humorous, or spiritually uplifting. They can be highly literate or a hoot-and-a-half. The stories generally contain little graphic violence or sex and provide a pleasurable reading experience” (from “The Reader's Advisory” -- don't worry about it. It's a librarian thingy.) So are you bored yet? Still thinking granny underwear? Well, stick with me here, because I have two series to recommend that will just open up your literary world and make you thankful for that first grade teacher who taught you how to read.

The Penderwicks and The Penderwicks on Gardham Street by Jeanne Birdsall are actually young people's books, but are so phenomenally written, they are worth the read and sure to become classics. The subtitle of the first book is intriguing and enticing: A Summer Tale of Four Sisters, Two Rabbits and a Very Interesting Boy and that is exactly what Birdsall serves up. She is able to create rich characters and enchanting plots that remind you of everything that is delightful about a carefree, warm July night. These two books, of which I hope there are many more, chronicle the adventures of four sisters and their Latin-quoting, botanist father. As “children's” books, they offer just the right amount of stretching vocabulary while still being approachable and engaging. And while they are filled with the trials and travails of young girls growing up after the death of their mother, they are not filled with some of the oh-so-trendy angst and darkness of some other modern selections. For adults, the stories may end up exactly as you predicted, but this is so satisfying and so hoped-for that you won't mind. In fact, I predict you'll be delighted.

And speaking of delightful, you will not find a more appealing heroine than “traditionally-built” Precious Ramotswe of Alexander McCall Smith's The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency series. I just finished reading the ninth installment The Miracle at Speedy Motors, and I have never been disappointed by Ma Ramotswe, her sidekick Ma Makutsi or mechanic-extraordinaire JLB Matekoni. Set in spectacular Botswana, Smith has created a series that is charming, eloquent, insightful and life-affirming. They revel in the simple pleasures of life and the details of rain, cattle, desert sounds and acacia trees. They also prove that most of life's problems can be solved with a little time and the perfect cup of tea. Marvelous and big-hearted, Ma Ramotswe and friends dispense wisdom, advice and universal truths as they ponder the mysteries of humanity and solve cases involving cheating spouses, missing family members and dog-eating crocodiles. Absolutely brill!

They can be read in any order, but for maximum enjoyment, start at the beginning. You won't be disappointed.
The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency
Tears of the Giraffe
Morality for Beautiful Girls
The Kalahari Typing School for Men

The Full Cupboard of Life
In the Company of Cheerful Ladies
Blue Shoes and Happiness
The Good Husband of Zebra Drive
The Miracle at Speedy Motors

Happy summer reading!

King Filly

2008-06-02T20:24:00.005-05:00

I was going to apologize for writing another horse racing tome here, but I've decided not to. The story I am telling today is so great that even if you are a smelly, unshaven Frenchman who eats horse meat, you will be moved. If you're not moved, well, check your pulse, you may not have a beating heart.

I mentioned Ruffian in passing in my post on the Kentucky Derby, and in light of the Belmont Stakes this weekend and the hopes that our hero Big Brown will be winning a Triple Crown title, we'll talk about another champion who never felt the dirt on her face.

Foaled in 1972, Ruffian was a spectacular, leggy, almost coal black racing machine, thought to be an even better horse than great-of-all-greats Secretariat. She won all ten races in which she competed, always in the lead, breaking or equaling every track record she ever raced on. As a two-year old she aced her maiden race in record time by 15 lengths. In 1975, Ruffian captured the Filly Triple Crown (now called the Triple Tiara) and was dubbed “Queen of the Fillies (that's a young girl horse for all you non-equine folks out there!).

Her eleventh race was run at Belmont Park on July 6, 1975, before a crowd of 50,000 and a television audience of over 18 million. It was a match race against that year's Kentucky Derby winner, a colt called Foolish Pleasure. This “equine battle of the sexes” was eagerly anticipated, and interest was compounded by the fact that the regular jockey for both horses was Jacinto Vasquez. He chose to ride Ruffian in the match race considering her to be the better horse.

As the starting bell sounded, Ruffian slammed her shoulder into the starting gate. Faltering for only a moment, she blazed ahead, completing the first quarter mile in a blistering 22 seconds, ahead of Foolish Pleasure by a nose. Never having a race so close, our big-hearted gal hammered ahead, pulling in front by half a length when suddenly her right foreleg snapped. Vasquez heroically kept her upright, but was unable to force Ruffian to a complete stop. So unaccustomed to seeing another horse in front of her, she continued running on three legs, pulverizing her sesamoid bones and grinding the gritty sand of Belmont into her open wound. In the age of the Internet, one can find film of her tragedy online, but the tape was deemed so gruesome that Ruffian's demise was censored by media outlets and never aired on public airwaves again.

She was attended to by a team of veterinarians and surgeons who labored for three hours to try to repair the damage. As she came out of the anesthesia, Ruffian attempted to win her match race, flailing around on the ground and thrashing wildly as if running. The intense movement smashed the cast against her elbow crushing the joint to bits, breaking off the cast and reopening the surgical site. Knowing that she would not survive a more extensive operation, her team decided to euthanize her.

Her spectacular performances in 1975, earned her the Eclipse Award for Outstanding Three-Year-Old Filly and in 1976, she was inducted into the National Museum of Racing and Hall of Fame. Since Ruffian's death, no match race has taken place at Belmont Park, where she is the only horse buried in the infield, near a flag pole, facing the finish line. Ironically, her trainer Frank Whiteley, Jr. died the day after Eight Belles went down at the derby. He was 93. To his dying day, he believed that Ruffian was the greatest horse he had ever trained and never allowed her stall to be occupied saying, ''There'll never be a horse worthy of entering it.''

Why do I love horse racing? Because tales of heart and heroism are not limited to the human race. So, again, fingers crossed for a safe race this weekend and go Big Brown!

Tribute and Aspiration

2008-05-27T12:54:00.006-05:00

My ninety-six year old grandfather is ailing. He is the patriarch of our family, my only surviving grandparent and one of the most magnificent men I have ever met. He is a Jesus follower, poet, nature lover, gardener, carpenter, brother, father, grandfather, great-grandfather. Reams could be written and not scratch the surface in describing this deep man. Mr. Rogers carried the following quote in his wallet as a reminder of what kind of man he wanted to be. My grandfather embodies this. Without any further comment:

He has achieved success who has lived well, laughed often and loved much, who has enjoyed the trust of pure women, the respect of intelligent men and the love of little children, who has filled his niche and accomplished his task, who has left the world better than he found it, whether by an improved poppy, a perfect poem or a rescued soul, who has never lacked appreciation of Earth's beauty or failed to express it, who has always looked for the best in others and given them the best he had, whose life was an inspiration, whose memory a benediction. ~ Bessie Anderson Stanley

True Greatness

2008-05-27T11:49:00.012-05:00

Remember Mr. Rogers? That friendly, soft-spoken, cardigan-buttoning, Keds-wearing guy on PBS? Sadly, they don't air Mr. Rogers Neighborhood on our local PBS station anymore. He is probably too tame for the tastes of today's kids (and even I was never a big fan of the puppet portion in the Land of Make-Believe). Whatever you think of the show, you must appreciate the man. In a day when we see the moral failings of public figures every night on the news, vulgarity everywhere (everywhere!) and even commercials that make you cringe if you're watching them with your six year old, you have to admire someone who states their values and then lives them out with integrity. Since his death, his widow has compiled and published some of his quotes and sayings. Whenever I see these little gems come across the circulation desk, I check them out and often find myself faithfully copying them in the Flotsam Jetsam Journal. (You'll see lots of them!)

While I was thinking about the heroic sacrifices and courageous deeds of our military yesterday, (even though Memorial Day is not actually until Friday -- so I am not late, I am early!) I remembered a Mr. Rogers quote about American history. In answer to the question, "What is the greatest event in American history?" he replied:

"I can't say. However, I suspect that like so many "great" events, it was something very simple and very quiet with little or no fanfare (such as someone forgiving someone else for a deep hurt that eventually changed the course of history). The really important "great" things are never center stage of life's dramas; they're always "in the wings." That's why it's so essential for us to be mindful of the humble and the deep, rather than the flashy and the superficial."

The humble and the deep. In a culture steeped in and obsessed with the flashy and the superficial, we need to be on the lookout for something different and it seems increasingly hard to find. Well, maybe not. For the sacrifices made, for answering when duty called, for standing on the wall so that I could lie safely in my bed, for staring death in the face and sometimes meeting him, for being afraid but saddling up anyway, thank you men and women of the armed forces. Thank you. The "little" things you do each day, add up to greatness.

Let's Dance!

2008-05-21T16:25:00.002-05:00

Quiz Time : What do these titles have in common?

Chant by the Benedictine Monks of Santo Domingo de Silos
Exactly what it sounds like except instead of being as cool as you think it will be, it's more creepy. Like the soundtrack to a haunted castle.

Big Band Music of the War Years
The soundtrack for my life if I would have been born a few decades earlier.

Deep Forest by Deep Forest
C'mon you've got to remember this techno classic where somebody got the brilliant idea to combine traditional African Bushman chants with classic early 90's techno beats.

Diana Princess of Wales: The BBC recording of the funeral service
Yup. There is a CD of Princess Diana's funeral. And I have listened to it. More than once. And sung along.

Dragon: The Bruce Lee Story Original Motion Picture Soundtrack
Awesome for a kick butt workout routine!

Ray of Light by Madonna
Actually a good album despite the fact that I am not a big fan of people with fake British accents.

Legend by Bob Marley & The Wailers
Totally reminds me of living in the Caribbean and is great for chillin' in the backyard while the grill is going.

Big Calm by Morcheeba
Also reminds me of Cayman because I first heard these guys at a little beachfront restaurant called the Blue Parrot with my friend G. Totally mellow.

S&M by Metallica
Metallica teams up with the San Francisco Symphony. No, seriously . . .

77 by The Seventy-sevens
An alternative Christian band that we thought was all crazy and rebellious because they had a song called "Naked" about being bare before God. When Jesus freaks go bad. . . .

These are all CDs in my schizophrenic collection. (I also have more "normal" titles.) With the advent of MP3 players, or in my case, the hot new technology of AM talk radio, I bet there are a lot of folks out there who haven't tucked into that old CD stash for a long time. I would also venture to guess, knowing who many of you are, there are some pretty crazy titles in those dusty collections of yours. (ARF, you probably have a cassette of One Bad Pig or remember The Violet Burning? And KMC, do you have any Stryper left hanging around? Yellow & Black Attack!) Well, dig them out, pop them in and crank up the volume! I want my own kids to think of me every time they hear U2 or Casting Crowns since to this day, I can't hear Peter, Paul & Mary or the Beatles without thinking of my dad or Jim Croce, James Taylor or Cat Stevens without thinking of my mom.

So in the spirit of some good old fashioned nostalgia (which is probably a really redundant phrase!) and in the interest of just getting the blood pumping a little more than usual, we popped in The Beatles One album (27 #1 songs) on Monday night and boogied! In a universal phenomenon among people three feet tall who are not self-conscious, we were grooving to the music and throwing our hands in the air like we just didn't care. Bug especially went totally nuts and would slam into the back of our couch so hard that the rebound would send him flying off the couch and onto the floor. We were just dying of laughter. It was the ZamFam Tumbling Troupe, Beatles mosh pit all in one.

Now I'm trying to decide which old CD to try next. U2 is always a safe bet with me. Though I probably won't be slipping in the Princess Diana funeral CD. . . .

The Faith

2008-05-19T11:20:00.010-05:00

I'll be honest. Even though I am generally in the midst of reading several books at any given time, I rarely read Christian non-fiction and only occasionally read Christian fiction. In the non-fiction department, I enjoy getting teaching through the radio or directly from my own study of the Bible. With fiction, I am often disappointed with the quality of the writing or the level of preachiness that I find cloying, annoying or fake. (There are some exceptions, that I will write about sometime, because there are a couple of current Christian fiction writers who rank up there with some of the greatest authors from any genre.) So it is unusual, but not unheard of, that I am finding one of my current reads so life-altering. I would go so far as to say that wherever you may be on your own spiritual journey whether skeptic, seeker, new believer or longtime Christ follower, you should read The Faith by Charles Colson.

The subtitle of the book pretty much sums it up: What Christians Believe, Why They Believe It and Why it Matters. For those unfamiliar with Christianity, Colson presents a succinct overview starting with the basic premise that God Is. He then presents the centuries of thought and evidences through the ages of the existence of God. Each chapter is in a similar format, a tenant of the faith followed by evidence in an engaging and highly readable style.

Unfamiliar with Christianity? How can anyone be unfamiliar with Christianity in America? Well, I would humbly posit that not only are most Americans woefully ignorant of what true biblical Christianity is and is not, but so are many Christians. We see the words “Christian” and worse, “evangelical,” bandied about in the realms of media, politics and academia where their meanings are misappropriated, misused, mischaracterized and ultimately misunderstood by believers and unbelievers alike.

The Faith presents a very clear picture of what Jesus taught and what true belief looks like. I can't think of any better way of describing this book and what its mission is than to quote a story directly from the book jacket (Hey, these people are professionals who write this stuff—how can I hope to improve upon it!?)

“Moments before a tormented man took the lives of five young Amish schoolgirls in Nickel Mines, PA on the morning of October 5, 2006, two of the girls, Marian and Barbie Fisher, asked to be sacrificed so that the others could be saved. The killer did not spare the sisters; instead he attempted to murder Marian, Barbie and all eight of their female classmates. Five survived. And in the days after the tragedy, as the world watched in numbed silence, the parents of those girls and the entire Amish community did something seemingly incomprehensible. They forgave the killer and supported his family with their prayers and their financial resources. While their response shocked many, those parents and that community were actually practicing the love that every Christian ought to practice. They were living what they believe.”

And that's why Christians should also read this book. We need to be living what we believe in such a manner that we are so radically different from the natural order of things that people are shocked. We should be “seemingly incomprehensible” because what our Savior did was so incomprehensible and sacrificial and radical. Let that be said of me.

Five Down, a Lifetime More to Go

2008-05-19T10:14:00.004-05:00

Happy Anniversary to us! Saturday was our anniversary -- whew, we've made it another year! Five years already and it only feels like five minutes . . . . . underwater. (Just kidding! And credit where credit is due -- I stole that from my sister-in-law's dad!) Actually, we both feel like this is going to be our best year yet. We have plans and dreams and most importantly, each other. And that's enough of that -- I don't do mushy too well.

I'll just sign off with this little observation I wrote on 17 May 2003 after our outdoor ceremony was everything I hoped it would be. The day seemed like God's stamp of approval after a long road that wasn't very straight or smooth. “ . . . an azure dome spread out above us with trees as columns holding it up, their branches stretching like arms to the heavens; the sighing winds and rustling leaves praising God more sweetly than any chorus.”

I am no poet, but I am thankful.

Oh, and Big Brown won the Preakness! Woo-hoo.

Stupid Parent Tricks

2008-05-14T12:12:00.002-05:00

The two most useless words in the English language: “Stop crying” -- rendered even more useless when coupled with “right now.”

My other favorite is “Why did you do that?” Ummmm, I think the answer is “Because I am 18 months old.” Of course, this is also the answer to the question, “ Why aren't you answering me?”

Did you feel that? The earth just shifted a little on its axis. Dear, sweet Bug (I call him “dear” and “sweet” to remind myself that these are adjectives that perhaps one day will again describe my son) went on a learning binge today. Thomas the Tank Engine Activity Table makes a great stool – especially when you want to use it to climb up to door knob height, enter your sleeping sister's room and hit her in the head with a singing Barney toy. (Thanks, Aunt G!) Bug also finally figured out how to escape from his crib. This is bad enough in a normal household where small children do not sleep in laundry/storage/pet supply rooms. It is disastrous in our situation where an escape can mean naughty, I mean adventure-minded, little boys can find all kinds of trouble, I mean adventures, to get into.

Well, I must skedaddle so that I can denude the room of anything remotely resembling fun, interest or danger to my little man. When I am done, I am hoping the room looks like one of those rubber-padded rooms in psych wards, although I doubt anything in my house could ever resemble anything so . . . sterile.

Dreamin'

2008-05-13T11:48:00.006-05:00

To thee I'll return, overburdened with care;
The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there;
No more from that cottage again will I roam;
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.

-- John Howard Payne from "Home Sweet Home"

Somedays we get discouraged about our little house, but it is HOME. Mustard Seed House has its own name, but if we ever move, this poem inspires me to name our next house Traveler's Rest, with the hope that there will be some traveling that requires some resting from! . . . And if I ever have a sailboat, she will be christened Wanderer. . . . And if I ever buy my dream car, it will be a Mini -- British Union Jacked to the max! I can dream, can't I?

Actually, I will settle for having all of my shoes be the slip-on (or OFF!) variety. Shoes are right up there with the French . . . .

Riders Up!

2008-05-13T11:11:00.011-05:00

"And God took a handful of southerly wind, blew his breath over it and created the horse." -- Bedouin legend

This Saturday is the Preakness Stakes at Pimlico Racetrack (it's also our anniversary, but I'll write more on that later) and the ZamFam5 is rooting for Big Brown (named for the big brown UPS trucks!). I was born the year Secretariat won the Triple Crown, and there have only been two other TC winners since then (Affirmed in 1978 was the last), so we are hoping that this gorgeous guy will go all the way! I have been meaning to post on the Kentucky Derby since May 3, but have suffered from end-of-semester time crunch and severe writer's block, so here it finally is:

Anyone who knows me, knows what I will be doing the first Saturday in May. I've watched almost every Triple Crown race and especially every Kentucky Derby since 1984. I just love it. Which is kind of goofy – watching three hours of television coverage for a two minute race – but what a thrill when the race is on and fingers are crossed for a safe ride. . . .Which is why I haven't written on the derby until today, because as most will know, it had a terrible ending with the filly Eight Belles going down and being euthanized on the track. Now I still don't know what to write, but I couldn't let the moment pass and not comment at all.

I had planned to post on Saturday before the start of the race and list the ZamFam5 picks – we were of course rooting for Z Fortune (we love Zs!), and we liked the favorite Big Brown and were excited about a girl running against 19 boys especially on the the 20th anniversary of the last filly derby winner Winning Colors. But I just couldn't come up with anything witty or even that interesting to write. And then the tragedy. I'm not ashamed to say, several of us here were watching with tears streaming down our faces.

What is it about horses, dogs or ships going down that I find so unbearably sad? Well, that Saturday was absolutely horrific, and it's taken me this long to formulate some sort of coherent thoughts about it. Some might think, why care that much about some horse, and to be honest, I myself could not answer that question right away either. But here's my best try . . .

I think the tragedies of horses like Ruffian, Barbaro and Eight Belles are bringing to light the sad side of this sport. As with sports in general, where athletes are pushing for more speed and power even to the point of drugging, horse racing is suffering from a lack of vision. In the past (and even today in Europe), horse racing was a tactical event, where endurance and strength were prized over sprinting speeds. Now we see full-tilt suicide runs at breakneck speeds run by youngsters whose bodies aren't even fully developed. NPR's Frank Deford puts it best when he says, “Thoroughbreds are such incredibly fragile creatures, half-ton beasts born with a burning desire to run but on candlestick legs.”

Today's barns are pumping out horses that are expected to only run a few races and then be put out to stud; whereas in the past, horses had long careers, developed loyal followings and made the bulk of their money through purses, not stud fees. Tragedies like Eight Belles are also a symptom of the terrible inbreeding that has permeated American Thoroughbreds. All twenty derby horses had Native Dancer as an ancestor, a horse that only died fifty years ago – this is dangerous and foolhardy by any genetic standard. So there's my two cents. We are letting our greed and obsession with speed permeate and contaminate the “Sport of Kings.” These majestic animals deserve so much better, and so does the cadre of fans who for those two minutes hold their breath, cross their fingers, cheer their champion and revel in the visceral delight of seeing these creatures in such awesome motion.

So here's fingers crossed for a safe race this Saturday. Go Big Brown!

(And thanks for your indulgence. I know not everyone is that into horse racing. OK, I don't actually know anyone personally who is as into it as I am, but when you get your own blog you can write boring things about whatever you want!)

Whisper Sweet Nothings

2008-05-05T09:30:00.003-05:00

So I forgot to mention in my family update last week that I have been sick. Some nasty bug that has been going around hit me pretty hard with fever, chills, body ache. (Hey, haven't I seen a commercial about that?) Anyway, the tail end of it hit me in the ears – with an ear infection in one ear that migrated to the other and then finally ruptured my eardrum. I'll spare you the details – pretty gross. Let's just say, you won't rupture an infected eardrum and not know it! Until it heals, I can't hear as well as normal, so now one of my favorite things to say is “What?” which El Guapo just loves. That is a frequent exchange between us anyway because he is soft-spoken (read: doesn't E-NUN-SEE-ATE!), so I am always asking “What?” and he rolls his eyes and says “Forget it.” On top of it, now certain frequencies of sound really bother me – like most of the sounds the two little ones make! Their screeches, squawks and shouting are like ice picks in my ears, but then my Bear said the sweetest thing I think anybody has ever said (get the Kleenex ready . . .) and made the whole world right again.

“Mommy, I don't want to watch Barney. I HATE Barney.”

Simple Pleasure

2008-05-03T23:49:00.006-05:00

Last night we gave into the pleas of the kids and sat down by the creek that runs along two sides of our yard. I am so glad we did! What simple joy we had as a family while Bean scrambled up and around on the bridge, picked up garbage (she's becoming the greenie in the family!), poked sticks into the water and discovered tracks down in the mud. Bear and Bug started wading in deeper and deeper until Bug inevitably plopped down in the mud where he discovered rocks that could be thrown with a satisfying ga-lub into the water. This was a wondrous discovery to him, and it reminded me that even after three kids, one of the best parts of being a parent is getting to see the world through the fresh eyes of a child.

My favorite part, though, was splashing El Guapo from my side of the creek by heaving large rocks across to his side sending sprays of cold, dirty water all over him while he squealed like a girl. OK, not really like a girl, but he doesn't have the same affinity for water that I do, so he was kindred to Queen Vicky and was thoroughly not amused.

If you haven't just sat by the water and chucked stones lately, give it a try. I really recommend it as a stress reliever, even if you don't have someone to splash (but that helps!). There was extra laundry to do, and I found rocks in the washing machine afterwards, but it was totally worth it. Here's to long summer evenings and lots of rock tossing.

Untameable

2008-05-03T22:59:00.013-05:00

I just watched Narnia again. I love that movie! Little Lucy reminds me of my Bear and is so cute, it hurts to look at her. And I just wish I could get away with wearing that green dress that Susan wears. I love it, but I don't think fantastical medieval wear is really a trendy look right now, so I'm probably not going to be picking one up.

By far, though, my favorite character is Aslan (which is Turkish for lion -- I'm sorry, I can't stop being in librarian mode!). Aslan is spectacular. The line "Aslan is on the move," gives me chills every time. But the best parts are how he is described. Mr. Beaver warns the children that when they meet him, their knees might knock so badly they won't be able to stand. Lucy asks, "Then he isn't safe?" Mr. Beaver replies, "Safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he is good." And that message has clearly sunk in for Lucy who becomes the closest to Aslan of the children. As Lucy cries at the end, Mr. Tumnus says, "You musn't miss him. He isn't a tame lion." Lucy is the one who replies, "No, but he is good."

Entire books have been written on the allegorical references in The Chronicles of Narnia, so I won't even begin to delve into the richness of meaning that Lewis wove into his stories, but I love the picture of Jesus that Aslan portrays -- the dual nature that is missing too often in Sunday school. Jesus did say, "Let the little children come unto me," and Aslan demonstrates this gentle, loving side especially in his relationship with Lucy. But Jesus is also called the Lion of Judah and the King of Kings. He is no milk-toast wimp, and I love that the dangerous Aslan shows this powerful, but good side.

For the first time, these favorite lines reminded me of another favorite line from a song we sing at church. In Chris Tomlin's "Indescribable," the lyrics attempt to hint at the unfathomable greatness of God and say

Indescribable, uncontainable
You placed the stars in the sky and You know them by name.
You are amazing God
All powerful, untameable,
Awestruck we fall to our knees as we humbly proclaim
You are amazing God

I love that word untameable. God is no gentle lapdog who does our bidding, nor is He a safe, domesticated creature who we keep on a leash. He is a force greater than anything we can imagine. And I don't know about you, but I am moved by a God that mighty and powerful.

News from the Homefront

2008-05-02T08:43:00.012-05:00

Sorry for being so lackadaisical on posting lately! I promise I will get better. So today will just be a quick update on the ZamFam5 since I have neglected all of my friends and family this semester (especially lately).

Mr. Wonderful wants to be called Zorro on this blog, to which I have firmly put my foot down. No way! I might go with El Guapo or El Gordo, but that is the extent of my Spanish. The second one, didn't go over too well . . .

Ladies who have had babies, do you remember when you're in your ninth month and people who see you infrequently say things like, "Oh, you're still around," or "When IS that baby going to be born," like you somehow needed to be reminded that you were as big as a cow who just swallowed a whale. I always wanted to shout, "Do you think I am not counting the SECONDS until my due date, and if I am not at least a week early, I might kill someone, anyone and you look just as good as anyone?!" OK, so maybe that was just me . . .I HATED being pregnant. Well, in the same vein, I am finishing up my first year of grad school and tons of people say, "So is this your last semester?" NO! I am not graduating until 2010 which sounds like a thousand years from now. Are you happy?! Actually, though, if I had to choose between ever being pregnant again or staying in grad school for the rest of my life, I would so pick grad school.

So, yes, I am finishing up my first full year of grad school. The end of this semester has been a bit stressful because I have this little disorder called procrastination. I was doomed from birth, though, so it's not my fault. I was born a week late which just happens to be during National Procrastination Week. Here's a glimpse into this terrible, terrible disease: We had eight assignments for one class that were doled out throughout the semester, but not due until April 28. Yah, just guess when I started working on them? Wow, that was one crazy weekend! I did get a 100% on all of them, just so you know. I work best under a deadline, yah, that's it.

Another "for instance," I had to shadow a reference librarian and then write up a report. I did the job shadow during the last week of March. The report is due May 5. Well, I guess I've got about three days to get that done. . . And don't you know what an exciting report it will be -- the life of a librarian -- does it get any more riveting than that? You should have read the other paper I wrote this semester (the day before it was due!). It was called From Mexico to M-----y - Organizational Structures in Limited Spaces: A Brief Study of La Rosita Carneceria and M-----y Public Library. I really do try to amuse at least myself in these assignments. I described the boulevard of soda and the dryer lint and twigs in a baggie (horehound spice?!) that was for sale at the local Mexican grocery store. I haven't gotten a grade on that one yet. Maybe the prof was not as amused as I was. (I can send out copies if anyone suffers from insomnia.) For my final project, I am cataloging my GI Joe collection. Back when I was spending my 75 cents per week allowance on them, who knew to what heights they would take me!

So onto Bean. Last night we went to the off-Broadway production of Bugz, starring Bean as a Firefly! OK, so maybe it was just the local first grade production of Bugz, and Bean was one of the firefly dancers, but she was the cutest little firefly there. I was just glad she wasn't a ladybug -- eek. It was kind of creepy. The ladybugs did this hip sashaying "I'm a lady" dance that made me suck my teeth. If I were in her first grade class, I would have wanted to be an army ant because they got to wear camo. But the firefly dance was perfect for Bean since she is the light of my life.

Bear is her crazy little self. Two days ago she colored herself blue with marker -- literally solid blue on one hand almost to the elbow. Then, when she cried because I made her throw the marker away (it was chewed beyond repair), her tears and blue arm combined to color her face a corpse-like shade. She also cannot pronounce the sounds that are made toward the back of her mouth, so "c" and "g" are usually "t" or "d". She was trying to say "glue" yesterday and kept saying "da-loo." This was inordinately funny to me. Her current favorite toy is a beanie baby beaver that my dad brought her from Germany. She doesn't go anywhere without her "beav-a."

Bug is obsessed with escaping from the asylum. He has tried to push the screen out of the front window and if the storm door does not close quickly enough, he's faster than the cat, skedaddling out that door, shimmying down the front steps and on down the driveway. That's as far as he's ever gotten, but the busy road or the mucky, murky creek are likely destinations. He has even skooched the large Lincoln Log tin (did you know they were invented by Frank Lloyd Wright's son?) all the way to the front door and climbed up on it to try to engineer some sort of escape. If he could just figure out how that handle works, we'd really be in trouble. His vast vocabulary consists mostly of "Lerda, Lerda," which is what he calls our dog Luna. Poor, long-suffering soul that she is, she has been Yu-Ya with Bean and Woo-Da with Bear and a few unmentionable words from Mr. Wonderful -- especially after Tuesday night when she dragged her 10 year old bones on an overnight tour of the neighborhood and came home the next morning reeking of roadkill and creek muck. Yum!

So that's the news from the homefront. Hope you and yours are well. If I haven't heard from you in while, drop me a line. I might even respond after May 5!

Wanderlust and St. Augustine

2008-04-28T12:53:00.009-05:00

A lot of our extended family is traveling right now. I am not jealous at all . . . okay maybe just a little. My brother, just returned from Japan, is now in California taking in the majestic sequoias (did you know that is one of the only words in the English language that contains all five vowels?) with his wife and baby daughter. My folks are with friends basking in the desert beauty surrounding Tuscon. My in-laws are at the ranchero in the gorgeous mountains of Mexico. I am coming off of a homework marathon of three days watching gloomy, cold April rain slide down the windows.

I credit my parents with giving my brother and me the bittersweet gift of wanderlust. We took our first family vacation in 1980 and have been traveling ever since. I'll have to write some other time about that first trip. Even though I was only 7 years old, the details are burned into my brain and memorialized by my Young Author's Conference award winning book Bobcats, Thunderstorms and Me. It's hilarious, and the title hints at just a few of the misadventures we had on that camping trip to the Badlands of South Dakota.

So today, I will enjoy the sweet memories of trips gone by and be thankful for them. And as I scale mountains of laundry and contemplate countertop landscapes of dishes, I will meditate on the words of St. Augustine:

"People travel to wonder at the height of mountains, at the huge waves of the sea, at the long courses of rivers, at the vast compass of the ocean, at the circular motion of the stars; and they pass by themselves without wondering."

Thought on a Rainy April Day

2008-04-26T13:20:00.005-05:00

The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful. -- e.e. cummings

A Moment in the Life

2008-04-25T11:05:00.010-05:00

I don't usually write “cute” mommy stories, mostly because my kids are not cute. Oh wait, my kids are the most adorable children since the dawn of humanity, even more darling than yours! Actually, I haven't posted many since I don't want to reveal that saccharin sweet side that every mom has (even if I keep mine well-hidden). I also know that these types of stories are sweet to parents and grandparents while friends and extended family politely nod as they inwardly die of boredom. But just in case you get the wrong idea that I think deep thoughts or read great literature all day long (actually I think Mr. Wonderful-still waiting for a new moniker-used to think it was “watch Oprah and eat bon bons” – but it's really “watch Man vs Wild or Shark and eat peanut butter cups,” but ANYWAY . . .)

While I was locked in the closet, I mean working on homework, I heard the most blood curdling, horror flick shriek coming from the girls' room. I leaped over piles of (clean? dirty?) laundry in an (almost) single bound (actually it was more like scaling Mt. Everest) to go see what the trouble was. Bear was shaking and about to dissolve into a puddle. Bug was on top of the dresser with his footie jammies unzipped and stepped out of. They are green so he looked like a goofy superhero – “It's a bird, it's a plane, it's a frog!” So he's on the dresser half-naked, dancing to the song “My Baby Hippo” with his big white belly hanging out, but this is not why Bear is screaming. “A spy-doo, mommy! A spy-doo!” The “spider” turned out to be an ant of microscopic proportions (yes, I had an ant in my house, so what?!) The ant was smushed. The day was saved. Now I must go. The Frog Man calleth.

Flotsam Jetsam

2008-04-25T09:33:00.009-05:00

If I were pressed to say what one activity I find most relaxing, it would be beach combing. Living in the Midwest, I don't often get the opportunity anymore, but when I lived in the Cayman Islands, it was one of my favorite pastimes. It's totally addicting! I would walk the beach with a friend or my dog and my eyes would be constantly scanning the sand for a glint of sea glass, a sea bean from Africa or some other flotsam. I found bottles, pieces of roof tiles used only in Europe, driftwood in unusual shapes and sea glass of all colors including cobalt blue and lavender. Hearing a tropical storm whip the palm trees and pound rain on my windows only excited me because I knew that the next day, the beach would be littered with all kinds of new treasures. And each beach had its own specialty. Old Man Bay on the north side held Caymanite and rare shells, while the eastern shores were where the magnificent finds from afar washed ashore. It was on these stretches of sand that the idea of flotsam and jetsam first penetrated my brain.

Some very astute observers may have noticed the “Flotsam Jetsam” tag on some of my entries. Normally the terms flotsam and jetsam have somewhat negative connotations, a sense that they are debris and detritus left from a storm or shipwreck. But I witnessed that after the storm or the wreck, all kinds of treasures can be found and this is what led to my Flotsam Jetsam Journal.

Believe it or not, as much as I like to write, I have never been one for journals. I have friends who have diaries, prayer journals, gratitude journals and don't get me started on scrapbooks! I have a Flotsam Jetsam Journal. I turned thirty right after going through a pretty crazy eight years that stripped me down to the very core (I'll perhaps share that story some other time.) As I reflected on my life and legacy at that critical juncture of turning thirty, getting married and being a new mom, I happened to read a book by Frances Mayes called Swan. It's a pretty good book, not totally earth-shattering, a mystery novel written by a talented writer no more, no less. One of the main characters, however, kept random journals that were later found by her kids and it sparked my imagination. Here's a part of what I wrote as my first entry:

“I turned 30 two days ago and for a while now have been obsessed with leaving a legacy. Of course the greatest legacy I could ever leave is the one I myself was given which is a knowledge of and relationship with Christ. That is my greatest hope and prayer for my dear Bean and any others yet to come. . . [little did I know!]

This, however, is a legacy of a more mundane sort. I love to collect quotes, clippings, odds & ends, bits & pieces, ideas and “jottings.” For a while these have been collecting in “paper boxes” in grade school, file folders, binders, flotsam & jetsam in drawers, purse bottoms, pockets and crummy notebooks. So this journal is a new attempt at “organizing” all the clutter into a single place. The idea is not to be too organized, though . . .” And so was born the Flotsam Jetsam Journal.

So the entries tagged "Flotsam Jetsam" are just my way of marking the miscellaneous ideas that have come from this source, and in doing so, I guess this blog is an extension of the FJJ and a way of sharing some of the little trinkets I find after the storms on the beaches of life.

National Geographic and the Ambulance Man

2008-04-24T09:23:00.009-05:00

I have had a life-long love affair -- with National Geographic. Ever since I was a little kid, I have loved poring over those glossy pictures and imagining the thousands of adventures that hide between the pages. I have also never had a subscription to National Geographic. My ninety-six year old grandfather does, and he passes his copies on to me. When I was younger, this bothered me; I wanted my OWN. But now, I like that connection we have had since I was a little girl. (Back in the 1930's, Grandpa had the opportunity to buy a lifetime subscription for $150. That was a lot of money during the Depression for a farmer/carpenter, so he wasn't able to take the deal. National Geographic sure would have been the losers!)

One of my most favorite recent articles is "Pakistan" from the September 2007 issue. Not only did this article offer a fascinating and succinct history of the country, but it profiled a man from Karachi named Edhi who runs a charity that helps children, women and the extremely poor. He has a crib in the street outside of his office door with a sign that says "Don't Kill Your Baby" where he receives about ninety infants a month. Edhi also scours the streets for the dead and dying so that he can offer a dignified death and burial. Imagine a city where human life is so devalued that dead poor people are just left in the gutters! He refuses to accept donations from organizations or government sources as he wants to be beholden to no one, but his most poignant quote was about not even accepting car rides from anyone. "I travel by ambulance, in case someone needs help along the way."

I thought that this was a beautiful picture of how we should travel through life -- as if in an ambulance looking for people who need help along the way. And it reminded me of what Jesus once said when people were grumbling that he hung around with the "wrong" kind of people, "It is not those who are healthy who need a physician, but those who are sick; I did not come to call the righteous, but sinners." (Mark 2:17)

Meditation on Salad

2008-04-16T10:43:00.006-05:00

We've been trying to do a little spring downsizing of ourselves here at Mustard Seed House with varying rates of success. Toward that effort, we have been consuming quite a lot of green leafy things and bits of plants previously known only to bunnies and "hoggers" (Bean-speak for woodchucks). Now I love a good salad, but frankly, all the parts that make it "good" are all the things that make it bad for you! I hate that! As I was contemplating the irony of salads, I recalled one of my favorite quotes from a very odd and intriguing book called The Debt to Pleasure by John Lancaster. Let me preface it by saying that as much as I am Franco-averse, I am even more passionately an Anglophile. British = Better, except in the areas of dental hygiene and some cuisine. In the case of salad, we Americans have inherited the horrid English version as described below:

". . .a few melancholy slices of cucumber, an approximately washed lettuce (iceberg, naturally), which appeared to have been shredded by wild dogs, two entire radish heads (served whole, presumably to avoid the risk of their proving edible in sliced form), a pale and watery quarter of tomato, the whole ensemble accompanied by a salad cream that at least had the virtue of tasting 'like itself' -- that's to say like the by-product of an industrial accident." (page 145, attributed to Captain Ford, 1846).

Go eat your vegetables!

Refiner's Fire

2008-04-15T11:34:00.007-05:00

My dear friend A. shared this story with me. I'll share it with you, as it has been a great encouragement to me.

How is silver refined? The silversmith places unpurified silver into a small cauldron and then lowers it into the hottest part of the fire to burn off imperfections and impurities. Knowing that if the silver is burned too long, it will be destroyed, a bystander asked how the silversmith knew when it was time to take the silver out of the fire. He replied, "I stand by the entire time and remove the silver when I can see my reflection."

"He will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver . . ." --Malachi 3:3

The Diving Bell & The Butterfly

2008-04-14T10:44:00.029-05:00

So maybe thrillers about the imminent demise of the world as we know it are not your "cup of tea." Well, how about a book about someone who can only blink one eye? Actually, a book WRITTEN by someone who can only blink one eye.

However, before we go any further, there is one point that must be clarified. I will continue to count "French bashing" as one of my many hobbies. My positive review of this book changes this fact in no way, no matter how un-Christian it is of me to be Franco-averse. I have been a student of history far too long to let slip my steadfast conviction that "Going to war without France is like going deer hunting without an accordion. All you do is leave behind a lot of noisy baggage." (This quote is attributed to everyone from Schwartzkopf to Churchill, but who cares? It's true!) If you have any doubts as to the veracity of the overall crumminess of France in all areas besides w(h)ine and cheese then Google "French military victories" and hit the "lucky" button. So far, I think the score is France-zero, the world-17, but who's counting. . .

I feel so much better now. I always find it cathartic to write off an entire nation of people in one tiny paragraph, hop onto my high horse and ride into the sunset! (And Mr. Wonderful thinks I'm sarcastic.) So how does one transition gracefully from caustic to charitable? I'll have to ask Ann Coulter, oh wait, she's always just caustic. . . . Ok, Ok I'll stop right now. Period.

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly by Jean-Dominique Bauby is such a great book , that it deserves a better introduction than the one I gave it. It is truly an inspiring and life affirming memoir. Bauby was the editor-in-chief of the French version of Elle magazine when he suffered a rare and usually deadly stroke in his brain stem. Upon awakening from his coma, he discovered that he had Locked-In Syndrome which is exactly what it sounds like. He was fully cognizant and aware, but completely trapped in his body only able to blink his left eye and turn his head a little. He "dictated" this book by having someone read through the alphabet and then blinking at the letter he wanted transcribed. While this book may not be Les Miserables in length, its strength lies in the simple beauty and buoyant humor of Bauby's prose.

With the sharpened view of his single eye and the forced contemplative nature of his condition, Bauby looks back on his life with a razor focus. He hones in on friends, acquaintances and family and explores the fleeting nature of life. Some have criticized this work for not being a "complete" memoir. The Diving Bell does not start out, "I was born on . . . ," and Bauby does not delve into the fact that he was apparently quite a womanizer and playboy, a domineering figure who ruled his magazine with an iron fist. I don't think this is a fair criticism as this memoir does not purport to explore every facet of the man's life. I would offer that, in fact, when he found himself "locked-in," Bauby was distilled down to his very essence and stripped of the extraneous trappings and labels that others saw. This book is that reflection.

I saw a little of myself in his tale. We are all trapped in a "diving bell," those things that weigh us down, threaten to crush us, defeat us, suck away our lives -- that physical part of us that is consumed with temporal cares, the fleshly side of our natures. Yet, all of us are spiritual beings, that when connected to God, can rise above the circumstances and experiences of life. We can become new creatures and be reborn like the butterfly.

Sadly, I don't believe that Bauby came to true salvation before his death in 1997. His book, however, is a lesson to everyone about the buoyancy of the human spirit, about humor in the face of darkness and about the celebration of the simple pleasures of life. As Bauby says, "If I must drool, I may as well drool on cashmere."

The Last Jihad

2008-04-11T09:30:00.013-05:00

Are you as interested in politics and the next election as we are? It is non-stop political coverage around here. We have seen every debate, town hall meeting, speech, sound bite and video clip. We have viewed all the analysis, listened to the banter on talk radio and watched The Soup . . .oh wait, not a political show. . . I mean O'Reilly Factor. This trend is mostly due to my husband's (formerly known as Mr. Wonderful) intense interest which has taken our house by storm. This is a humorous role reversal for us, since now I am the one saying things like, "Not another debate! Can't we just watch The Bachelor-London Calling, pleeeaaase?" (So far, I like Noelle & Amanda!)

All this to say, whether or not you are interested in politics, the election or the fate of the world as we know it, you might enjoy a book series I have been reading. Yes, I am a reader of epic proportions. Wait, that came out wrong. I am not of epic proportions (although I could stand to lose a few pounds!). Ever since I read Frog and Toad Are Friends in first grade, I have been a voracious reader. (I used that line in my essay to get into library grad school!) Now reading is like breathing to me. So there will probably be quite a few "book reviews" on this blog. Here's the first:

Right now I am reading the series by Joel C. Rosenberg that starts with The Last Jihad. These are amazing geopolitical thrillers, that have caused some critics to call Rosenberg a modern-day Nostradamus. In these meaty and fast-paced novels, he has "predicted" the fall of Saddam, airplane attacks on Washington D.C. and the death of Arafat. The way they tie into current events and global politics is eerie as they deal with Biblical End Times prophecies (which does not really become overt until the third book). Rosenberg has given me a very interesting lens through which to view world events as they unfold.

Besides the fact that they are superbly written and have heightened my interest in global crises, the main reason I am compelled to mention these books is that they have changed how I live my life. This afternoon I am digging a bunker in the crawl space and organizing my stockpile of food. Just kidding. But they HAVE changed my life. Maybe we are in the "End Times," maybe not. But either way, I want to live my life with an eternal perspective. I want what I do each day to count for something. Maybe I will "just" wash dishes, do laundry and change diapers today, but if I do those tasks with the attitude that I am building into my family, serving others and being a blessing, then these very acts can take on eternal significance. And beyond my mundane chores, I want to break out of daily routines and stultifying doldrums to view the opportunities around me for reaching out to others. None of us know the number of our days, but I want each one I have to count.

The Last Jihad series in order:
The Last Jihad
The Last Days
The Ezekiel Option
The Copper Scroll
Dead Heat

On April 10, 2008, Joel Rosenberg hosted a conference in Jerusalem celebrating the 60th anniversary of Israel's nationhood called Epicenter 2008 . There were some very interesting speakers, and you can view all of the video from "gavel to gavel" at the Epicenter link above. (His introductory speech is particularly good.)

God bless and happy reading!
BC

New and Improved Mr. Wonderful Coming Soon

2008-04-11T09:12:00.006-05:00

Mr. Wonderful has informed me that he does not like being called Mr. Wonderful. He thinks I am being facetious. Who me? Sarcastic? Never. . . So stay tuned. We'll get you a new handle, good buddy. Ten four. Over.

Also, on a technical note, I will eventually figure out how to create expandable posts with a "Read More" button so the page is not so long. Bear with me. I am an HTML newbie.

Mustard Seed House

2008-04-10T11:58:00.016-05:00

My house has a name. I've loved naming things since I was a little girl. Anything was fair game. Animals -- real & stuffed. All of my model horses. Family cars -- Bluebell, Penny, PJ (Puddle-Jumper) and Tanya (?!). Giving my children names rich in meaning and import has been one of the greatest joys of my life. And ever since living in the Cayman Islands and seeing spectacular homes with names like "Sea Grape House" and "Kailypso," I have wanted to have a named house. But named houses are generally rather pretentious, and our house could be called a lot of things, but pretentious is not one of them.

Mustard Seed House is a little house -- about 1000 square feet. There are five of us sheltered in this small space. My girls, Bean and Bear, share a bedroom which is not so bad, but my son, Bug, sleeps in the laundry room. Or should I say, we do laundry in my son's room, er, the "multi-purpose" room. And we literally live in our living room, all five of us all the time, except when Mr. Wonderful is out in The Lair.

The area rug that was in the living room when we bought the house has migrated out to the garage, as has Mr. Wonderful's rabbit-eared television from his high school days, an ancient wooden office chair from my grandmother and an old table from my other grandmother. And don't forget the Cubs pennant; we are eternal optimists, if nothing else! This cozy tableau is situated right next to the cat box and bins of hand-me-down clothes, and it is where you will find Mr. Wonderful when you have scoured through all the other vast wings of the house looking for him. I guess, every guy needs his own space.

But I digress. Why is this blog called Mustard Seed House? Well, like the paths in my brain, the answer is a little complicated, convoluted and difficult to follow. But I'll try to do my best leading you through my meandering thoughts.

First of all, I don't want to live with an ungrateful spirit. My grandfather lived with a much larger family in a 12 x 12 log cabin with a lean-to kitchen and an uninsulated sleeping loft for thirteen years in MINNESOTA! They would sleep under horse blankets and wake up with snow covering them. ("When I was your age . . .") Who am I to complain? If we stay in this house forever, I'll still probably live better than 95% of the people on earth. So the mustard seed is a perfect metaphor and reminder to me that my small house holds huge potential. Potential in my children. Potential in my marriage. Potential to bless others and each other. Potential to grow into something beautiful and strong.

It is apropos that I stumbled across the mustard seed metaphor in a recent article. One of my favorite items inherited from my great-grandmother is a small mustard seed pin. Apparently mustard seed jewelery was all the rage decades ago, much like the WWJD phenomena a few years past. The allusion is, of course, to Matthew 17:20 where Jesus says, "I tell you the truth, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there' and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you." That's the kind of faith that I want to foster in my home. Faith that can move mountains and do the impossible.

So welcome to Mustard Seed House, where a little faith goes a long way. As I sojourn here, I hope you'll join me for the journey as I look to grow my faith, celebrate the little things and find abundance in simplicity.