Spoiled Camping?

I'm in California this week - visiting my sister and her hubby. I get to travel the world by visiting my sister - whose husband is in the Navy... stationed on either coast. This is nice for me and mine, as we still live in the Midwest - where I grew up.

The first couple of days here we decided corporately that RVing was a fun idea. I had never been RVing, and neither had they. So we all approached the concept with much optimism. We camped a lot when I was a child. My parents enjoyed the outdoors and they also enjoyed penny pinching - all of which made for a lot of camping trips. I have never enjoyed camping as much as it seems like everyone else in my family has. I didn't mind it as a young child, but it got less and less appealing as I grew older. I know this will sound incredibly girly and spoiled, but I don't care for dirt and bugs and smelling like campfires. I like daily showers and particularly relish indoor plumbing and all of its requisite benefits.

Why I thought I would enjoy camping more now than I did back then is a mystery. I love nature, but I'm doubtful that the feeling is entirely mutual. The first night went pretty well. I had showered the evening before, and I was able to avoid the opportunity to try out the pay showers at the first campground. These were nice showers, and had I known the kind of showers that would be in the next night's campground, I would have paid the 25 cents a minute to shower in the luxurious pay showers.

We stayed in the neatest campground - at the foot of the mountains next to a river rushing over big, beautiful rocks. I was able to find lots of geological specimens to take home to my girls - who LOVE rocks. I know if they had been there, we would have had to rent a U-Haul in which to take home our rocky treasures. We camped next to Canadians, Netherlanders, and Sweeds, which provided fun, interesting conversation and the chance to prove heroic to camping novices from foreign lands.

Lest you think all of this beauty and culture didn't come with a price... enter the showers. The showers were in a cement block building with a few core doors leading to 3' x 4' rooms. These 5 shower rooms were not gender specific and were roughly equipped with some plastic shower stalls that looked like they had been cut to fit. They were shoved into this cramped space with a dim lightbulb overhead. There were two hooks on the wall. The up side was that some of the doors to the outside even latched and locked.

It was a cold evening - in the 40 degree range that night. As I started optimistically toward the unheated shower rooms with my sister, I was met with the rude awakening of earwigs... a creature for which I have reserved a special kind of disgust within myself. They were crawling everywhere. I picked a shower with a latching door, but it had no bench on which to set my toiletries, towel, and dry clothing. So... hooks. I tried to hook every possible thing on the two small hooks provided. I was ready to give it the ol' college try. I turned on the water to disappointingly low water pressure and ice cold water. I thought it would warm up - it warmed to slightly less freezing than the water that was coming down the mountains from melted snow. I jumped in out of desperation, but all my dreams of a nice warm shower with the opportunity to sanitize and groom were all but lost. I shampooed and tried to jump out before a new and strange creature dropped into my hair or crawled up my leg. I wanted to shave, but I have been known to - from sheer distraction - shave only one leg or, even worse, shave the same leg twice, forgetting the other completely. Who knew what could happen to my poor legs under this duress. Not to mention that I also have a working theory about goosebumps making the hair on my legs grow faster.

When I got out, I did the after-shower hokey pokey. It goes something like this. You stick your left foot out; you dry your left foot off; you put your left foot in your clothes and shake it till they're on. You put your left foot in your shoe before it hits the ground. That's what it's all about. Right foot... and so on and so forth until you're dressed without ever having to touch the floor with clean, dry feet. I hadn't brought showering shoes, but those are the mistakes camping rookies make... especially when flying halfway across the country to camp.

Anyway, I sometimes wonder if other people do neurotic things like this, but I guess it doesn't much matter. I just realized as I was walking back to the RV - looking like a drowned rat - and feeling like one too - how spoiled I am. Ugh... I hate to admit that. I've even tent camped before. It's not like I don't like the great outdoors. But somehow I get the feeling, when visiting a campground, that they should be paying me to stay there. There are lots of people who live outside for free. Yet I'm paying $30/night to sleep outside, take cold showers, and eat cans of beans. All the while my home is sitting there - all paid for - with a nice, warm bed, hot shower, and good food. Ah, well... It's the experience.

(My sister and brother in law are great hosts, by the way, and fed us well and were great company - which was worth much more than we paid to camp. I say this, lest my dramatic flair and goofy rhetoric gives anyone the wrong impression about our delightful hosts.)

The next day, at Grand Sequoia National Park I actually used a pit toilet. But that's a blog for another lifetime. I am off to find a t-shirt that declares "I (heart) indoor plumbing!"

Chicken Little?

My parents are gone for the second week in Florida. During this time, my family and I are discovering that our world pretty much revolves around my mom. We've noticed this before, but it's so much more obvious when she's not there. She's the sun to our orbit. She's the glue to our cohesiveness. She's the hooves to our glue... the pig to our gelatin. In less ridiculous terms, she's important. Without her, we see less of one another. My grandparents have no doctor accompaniment, my sister and I have minimal childcare, and all of our lives run significantly less smoothly.

My immediate, in-town family consists of two pairs of grandparents, my sister and brother-in-law and their children, and my mom's sister and her husband and children. When all together with my parents, we are a group of 23. We get together on a fairly regular basis - about once a month at least for the monthly birthday party. We also see one another at church.

My sister and I decided this week to have a family get-together before my son and I headed to California for a week. We asked the rest of the family, and they were "in". My grandma (mom's mom) said she would be the hostess. We figured potluck style was good, and that we would each bring something. We often go with a main meat dish of chicken at such a gathering. I volunteered to bring the chicken.

My grandparents are getting to an age where they are "set in their ways" about a few things. Walmart chicken is the best is apparently one of these ways. I am what you might call a chicken rookie. I like chicken. I eat chicken. I cook chicken. (Although I did have to YouTube how to cut up a fresh chicken a few months back.) I very rarely order chicken. I didn't know that it could be a necessity to order it in advance of my immediate desire/need for it. If I drive through KFC, I holler into this little, round speaker - telling them how many pieces of chicken I want, what color meat, and with what kind of breading (if any), and they say, "It'll be $.... at the window. I drive up. I give them money. They give me chicken. Everyone is happy.

My grandma told me I should get the chicken at Walmart. I said, "Okay." About 45 minutes before the gathering, I called to tell my grandma I was on my way over. I asked, "Should I order the chicken now?" She said, panic in her voice, "You should have ordered it yesterday." Uh-oh, chicken rookie mistake #1. "Can I just go ahead and call them now, do you think?" I asked, which was met with a disappointed, "They're probably out. It's too late now." Hmm?? Too late? For chicken? It was 4:30 in the afternoon. Surely this was not too late for chicken.

I asked her to give me the phone number as I didn't have it in my phone. She gave me the number for Walmart that was listed in the phone book. As I called the number, I was met with, "Automotive Department". "You couldn't by chance help me get some chicken?" (Not realizing that by the time Wal-Mart was done with me, I might as well have gone back to Automotive and asked for their help running one over.) "Ah, um... they have the wrong number listed in the phone book." Ya think? "Oh, you probably get this all the time, huh?" "Yep, you want to call the main store number at ___." Huh? Apparently Walmart can't afford a calling system that transfers calls from one department, across the store to another department. I guess the small fortune I spend at Wal-Mart each year is not accompanied by phone transfer privileges. Memorize the number and call back... which I did while driving. When I received the bakery, I gladly got a very friendly lady who transferred me (possible, as I suspected) to the Deli to a less friendly gentleman.

"Can I get about 30 pieces of chicken in about 45 minutes?" After a confused stutter, he put me on hold for an even less friendly lady.

"I got 200 pieces coming out at 6:00," she said.

"Okay, is it possible for me to get 30 pieces?" I replied.

"No."

"Mmm...kay..." (pause)

"There's only 16 under the glass. So no."

"So I should wait until 6:00 then?"

"No. I only have 200 coming out then. So no."

Not speaking Walmart speak is apparently working against me at this point, because I don't understand why the 200 pieces coming out at 6:00 is not up for grabs. No thanks to this unfriendly associate. I fought the temptation to reply, "Well, I'll bet there are 30 pieces in the meat department right now. Transfer me to them, and I'll have them bring it over to you, and you can toss it in the fryer for me." I can't help but think that had she initially responded, "Well, I had a big order for 200 pieces come in, and I just can't accommodate your needs tonight. I apologize for any inconvenience," or something along those lines, I would have felt more warm and fuzzy inside - not to mention had a MUCH shorter conversation with less confusion. As it was, I said, "Okay, thanks anyway," and hung up.

Grandma was right - I had messed up. If mom had been here, this never would have happened. And everyone would have their Wal-Mart chicken.

However, I found County Market's number, and I asked them, "Could I possibly get about 25-30 pieces of chicken in (by this time) about 30 minutes." She said, "It only takes about 15 minutes in the fryer. What time is it now?" (I guess clocks near where we're taking orders is also a limited luxury.) I said, 5:05. She said, "Sure, we can do it by 5:30." From this point on, everything went fine, and we had a nice chicken dinner - in which nobody complained for lack of Wal-Mart's dry, limited engagement, poor customer service chicken. There was even a ziploc bag of 5 pieces left over that my grandma forced on me as I was leaving. They might have even seemed to have an iridescent glow about them - almost like a chicken miracle.

Now, this isn't a Wal-Mart bashing blog. I am positive that poor customer service is not limited to Wal-Mart by any means. (Although I think they can get away with it better than just about any other retailer.) However, I began to feel a little like the sky was falling when I was unable to locate a suitable main course for our dinner without mom. On the bright side, we figured out once again that we can do things without mom if we have to, and I'm getting lessons on being a little glue-like myself. Next time I will be able to respond with confidence, "Nobody panic. I'll take care of the chicken."

Communication Error

I speak English. Yes, most of the people I know speak mostly English, but sometimes even my husband and I speak a different language. I've only recently become fairly certain of one thing. I self-disclose much more than my husband does. This means he tells me about himself and his feelings way less often than I tell him about myself and my feelings. However, I figure this balances out in the long run, and I'll tell you how. I listen intently to his small, maybe 5% self-disclosure rate... then I add my own assumptions, fill in a lot of blanks, and come up with approximately (and this is a rough estimate) 35% Mark knowledge. He listens to about 50% of my self-disclosure, and forgets at least 15% of that... leaving him about 35% Marcie knowledge - even Steven. I used to think that would be so dissatisfying. You remember? Teenage dreams of a deep love - reading one another's thoughts, etc. Blech... now I'm glad I can't read other people's thoughts. I'll give you an example of why I feel this way.

Usually when someone says something that just "comes out", it isn't very pleasant. However, it was in there somewhere. I remember when my husband and I were looking at houses together (which was pure realtor torture, by the way). We were in this lovely two-story home and looking at a remodeled bathroom. There was this beautiful sink with a brand new faucet and fancy hot/cold handles. The handles were shaped in a lovely spiral/corkscrew design or so I thought until I said, "Wow, honey. Look at the faucet handles! Aren't they neat?" To which my husband, who grew up on a hog farm, blurted out to my initial shock, "Looks like a boar's _____." (<--insert part of male anatomy here). Now we hadn't even been married a year at this point, and I am still getting pig lessons... this home viewing had apparently turned into a crash course in boar anatomy for me and the realtor. He is not one to make apologies... under nearly any circumstances, and he didn't then, unless, "Well, it does," counts as an apology. But I looked around to see if the realtor was within earshot in case I needed to crawl out to the car and begin the search for a new realtor. Not to mention that the house we were viewing had become officially tainted from the bathroom out. I would never have been able to use that bathroom sink without serious qualms.

The point is, most times if we blurt something out, it's the truest indicator of what's really inside. Luke 6:44-46 says, "⁴⁴Each tree is recognized by its own fruit. People do not pick figs from thornbushes, or grapes from briers. ⁴⁵The good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and the evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart. For out of the overflow of his heart his mouth speaks." Honesty is the best policy, but sometimes how something is said is more important than what is being said. Ephesians 4:15 uses the phrase, "speaking the truth in love". It gives priority - not only to speaking the truth - but to saying it in a loving way. Truth is... what scripture says it is. Speaking my feelings is not truth. My feelings may seem true to me, but they are totally subjective.

Now there are those with whom I have the freedom to share my feelings, because they have proven that they are trustworthy with my vulnerability. However, they also have the freedom to wound me if necessary. Proverbs 27:5-6 says, "⁵ Better is open rebuke than hidden love. ⁶ Wounds from a friend can be trusted, but an enemy multiplies kisses." Those with whom I share my heart are those I know will point me in the right direction - toward the One my soul loves. I have come to a point where I welcome the wounds of my friends. I want to hear when they see I am being prideful or when they think I am wrong about something. I have chosen my friends, yes, but not because they'll fill my ears with honey - but because they'll pour in a little vinegar when necessary. However, they don't do it because they think I am wrong, but rather that they know the Lord and can see that my ways are contrary to His ways.

I guess maybe you have to earn the right to be honest with someone. Blurting is never a good idea, I've learned. It's hard to see what the end result will be, but I'm not always good at slowing down. I'm impatient, and my mind never stops thinking of words. A verse that I'm convinced the Lord keeps forefront in my mind is Proverbs 10:19, "¹⁹ When words are many, sin is not absent, but he who holds his tongue is wise." He's still working on the fewer words thing in me.

I went to a communication workshop awhile back. The premise is that full disclosure involves a sense (one of the five), thought, a feeling, a need or desire, and an action. An example of full communication would be, "I smelled fire. I thought that the house might be on fire, and I was fearful for my family. I needed to know they'd be okay, so I shouted fire and tried to evacuate the house." The person receiving the communication is supposed to repeat back what was said... giving the sender an opportunity to change anything necessary, therefore owning his own message. Then it goes back and forth. I have to be honest. When I've used this form of communication, although sometimes cumbersome, it has always, without exception, brought almost immediate end to disputes or misunderstandings.

I have found that, as a people-pleaser, I tend to have fewer words for people with whom I am completely comfortable. It's an odd thing, when I'm with someone who I feel dislikes or doesn't accept me on some level, my words multiply exponentially, and I end up babbling foolishly. When I am at ease... I can let conversation flow more naturally. I know that more words won't make me more acceptable, and, in fact, will almost surely have the opposite effect, and the little guy on the wheel inside my head is saying, "Shut up, shut up, shut up..." but my gums just keep flappin'.

Ah, well... we all have our issues. If only verbal excess was my worst vice... My husband tends to like the saying, "Better to remain silent and have people wonder if you're a fool than to speak and remove all doubt." I like that too... but I think it's too late for me. :)

Selfish in a Box

I am sitting here sharing a box of Sour Patch Kids with Levi. Candy is a guilty pleasure that I rarely allow my kiddos. They eat a lot of fruit, veggies, and whole grain snacks. My mom raised us that way. "What can I have to drink?" was always met with "Water or milk." My grandma still insists to this day that my sisters and I used to frisk her for candy when she came in the door of our house, because we were so candy deprived. Pop was a rare luxury saved for restaurants - one glass about once each month. Sweet cereals were saved for camping vacations when the variety pack of mini cereal boxes was busted out, and we all had to fight over who got the Lucky Charms. Of course, by day 3 all that was left were the Honey Nut Cheerios, and the real vacation (the one from shredded wheat, Grape Nuts, and oat meal) was officially over. My dad will mostly likely be reading this, and he will be disappointed if I don't mention the fact that when we went to McDonald's (which was a rare treat) he bought us each a hamburger, and then he made me and my two sisters share a box of french fries and a drink. He often wondered aloud why my sisters and I fought "like cats and dogs". I don't know, but I'm pretty sure that sugar deprivation and the resulting serotonin deficiency combined with the fry-sharing and fighting over the once-a-year tiny boxes of sweet cereal created an atmosphere that was less conducive to sisterly love and more conducive to fighting like wolf pups over a rabbit carcass. You do the math.

I think it's interesting how I swore I would never be like my parents, but I tend toward those ways of rationing certain types of food. I can look back and understand that it was done for my good - just like I am trying to do with my own children. I think mom and dad were hoping (as I do for my kids) that someday - a constant diet of nutritious food would result in an appetite for good things that would never go away. As my Sour Patch Kids binge would indicate, this may not have gone as planned. Don't get me wrong, my body loves healthy food, and I feel better inside and out when I eat it. It doesn't diminish the fact that I want greasy burgers, cheese fries, and Ben and Jerry's Half Baked ice cream. It almost seems worth the $4.50 a pint sometimes. My body has developed an appetite for nutritious food, but my taste buds sadly have not followed suit.

As I go through photos of my children, the only ones with them eating are with a cookie or lollypop. I guess they're more likely to smile when eating certain things. The carrot sticks and apple peels just don't bring out that smile. I guess they're called "cheesy" grins for a reason.

As Levi and I were eating the box of Sour Patch Kids I noticed I was only giving him the greens and yellows. With any luck, we'll get well past his 4th birthday before he even realizes there are oranges or reds. He doesn't mind, because candy's candy at this point, and when regularly deprived of sugar, sugar-induced delirium is a common outcome. This is clearly my own selfishness at work. I also keep pop in the garage that the children are allowed to look at but not touch. I love to grocery shop alone so that I can, on occasion, purchase a bag of Keebler's frosted animal cookies - the ones with sprinkles. Then I can hide them somewhere in the refrigerator and never have to share them. I know how my kids would love these, but they'll be 32 someday, and then they can buy their own.

I also have to be careful that I am not offering my children healthy foods but setting a bad example by eating mostly what is bad for me - the, "Do as I say not as I do," mentality. This is both a physical and spiritual concept, and, as I notice quite painfully sometimes, they are watching me.

I know that, were I to eat how I feed my children, I would probably be significantly healthier and less "well-rounded". The parallel to the rest of my life is obvious. My parents also fed me other good things when I was growing up - things like church, Bible reading, prayer, and right living. They undoubtedly hoped that feeding me these things would give me a healthy appetite for things that would be good for me. The bottom line is, I had to eventually choose those things for myself. I got to an age where no one was going to offer only those things to me anymore; I had to decide that I wanted them. For me, this didn't happen immediately - not without bingeing on the "junk food" of which I had been deprived first. After seeing that those things taste good for a time but carry with them a bitter aftertaste that sometimes lasts forever, I have had to choose to feed myself with good things. I was hoping that my body would develop more of an appetite for those things over time, and it has somewhat. Just like with my physical body - I feel better inside and out when I feed my spirit well. However, I would still much rather sleep in or watch a good movie than go to church some days. I would rather go to bed early than get my Bible out to read it. This just proves that what my flesh wants will never go away. It will still call to me like bacon bits at a salad bar.

My grandparents have discovered in their older age that healthy food doesn't just taste good and help you feel better... it is necessary for LIFE. They wouldn't go on living if they didn't eat right and take care of their physical bodies. Maybe sometimes this sense comes with age - or with the increasing probability of death. Whatever it is - it's the same with our emotional and spiritual health. "Religion" (or as I like to think of it - a relationship with our Creator) isn't just for old people. Old people just got smarter. It takes many of us a long time to appreciate the fact that some things are better for our well-being or even necessary for life.

Levi just came back and asked, "Can I have a little more of your snack, please?" I replied, "It's all gone." He said, "Can I check in your mouth a little bit?" As I opened up for inspection, I realized that, aside from the fact he doesn't seem particularly averse to eating regurgitated food - his own or, apparently, someone else's - it's okay for me to deprive my children of some foods for their own good. I'm not shoving carrot sticks down their throats or giving them tomato juice intravenously. I'm not forcing them to read their Bible or get on their knees each night to pray. I'm just offering them healthy choices. Despite my teasing of my parents, I'm a healthier person today because of the healthy choices they offered me - physically and spiritually. It helped me to realize that it was possible to live without Zingers and R-rated movies and that it feels very good to be healthy. I was bequeathed more than a good immune system, a strong body, and a shiny coat - I was given a chance at a different way of life. I was given not only the love of my parents but the love of One greater than my own flesh and blood. Maybe I've never said this to them before, but, "Thanks for the shredded wheat."

Love Me Tender...

I had sisters. I had daughters. Men have been, for the most part, an enigma to me. They still are in so many ways. My son, Levi, recently turned 3 years old. Based loosely on my causal observation, he has a few loves: sharp objects, blunt objects, fast cars, orange tractors, and a little girl... baby doll that is. Her name is "Baby". As I type, he is standing next to me feeding Baby a sippy cup, because "she's tirsty". I spent the last 15 minutes helping him hunt for Baby, as she had gone missing. He took her with us to the church to paint this morning, and he took her in the car home, but he lost her at some point after that. Where did we find her? On the seat of the orange tractor in the garage. He's tenderly caring for her at the moment. He's showing her a plastic frog he found in the toy box and explaining to her gently that this is her first frog and that frogs say, "ribbit".

A few days ago we happened to be at a friend's house, and, in his excitement over a sword toy, he accidentally left Baby behind. When we realized she was missing, we thought for awhile about where we had left Baby. When we realized where she probably was, I text messaged my friend to ask her if we had left Levi's baby at her house. She said, "Yes, but I assumed it was Violet's baby:)". "No," I replied, "she's Levi's Baby, and he's quite distraught." She responded, "Wow! He'll be a real catch someday. A tough guy with a tender side." What mother would disagree?

You might guess that this fascination with Baby began when Levi's baby sister, Violet, was born. Levi was not quite 2 when Violet was born. He was very nice to her, which is remarkable in itself, considering his treatment of nearly everyone and everything else in the house is usually significantly less than gentle. As you might notice, he has a great role model for how to treat a baby girl... his dad. Mark is tender-hearted toward his girl. Much like Levi is toward his girl.

A few days ago we went to retrieve Baby from my friend's house. My friend left her in a bag outside on their front porch for us. It was a chilly, rainy night. As I brought her back to the car, my husband (who was driving at the time) was smiling as he watched Levi's excitement at me bringing Baby toward the car. He immediately tore open the bag and hugged her tightly - patting her on the back as he said, "Aw, baby... you're so cold and scared." He looked at me, and whispered, "I have to just hold her a lil' while, 'cause she's bery cold." He spent the next 5-10 minute patting her softly on the back and whispering comfort into her ear.

At the left you can see Levi "wearing" Baby during one of our walks last summer. Daddy and Levi carried their babies for the whole walk.

I recognize that, like so very many things in childhood, Levi's preoccupation with Baby will not last forever, but it gives us great joy to watch him as he tenderly cares for her. If Baby were real, she would have quite the stories to tell, I'm sure. She has been there for all of Levi's significant life events over the past year or two. She sleeps in his arms every night. In the past few months as we have been dealing with many doctor appointments for Levi, Baby has been to every appointment too. Sometimes we take a little frog backpack with cars also, but Baby is a staple fixture in all of Levi's experiences. I think I'll be rather sad the day he decides that Baby is "not cool" or that he's outgrown her. She will be placed gently into his box of baby memorabilia - to be looked back on fondly someday.

When he had an MRI a few weeks ago, Baby was in tow. She sat up alertly and watched the process, but then fell immediately asleep as soon as she lay down next to him. (She has a funny way of doing that.) I have to admit I was a little embarrassed at her raggedy, dirty appearance. I said to the nurse, "Yes, Baby needs a bath. She's well-loved." Levi wasn't even slightly embarrassed of her, as he proudly showed her to all newcomers to his hospital room. As he was coming out of sedation, Baby was waiting for him, but unfortunately for her, she ended up wearing the evidence of his after-sedation nausea... twice. As I placed her gently in the washing machine the following day, I wondered if she would make it. Would she survive the washing? I waited anxiously for her return. Even on the gentle cycle, there are no guarantees with toys and washing machines. When she came out, her head was full of water and, when I squeezed it, it drained out, but her head was misshapen. Her head also rattled with some beads that were displaced from her bottom to her top during the washing. Levi didn't seem to notice. He was reunited with her quite happily as soon as she dried out.

Yesterday I was using a program on our new computer. It recognizes faces of people in the photo and places a box around the face and has a line underneath the box for me to type in the name of the person in the face box. This program fascinates me - how it can recognize a human face - for one thing. Furthermore, after the first time you've tagged someone in a photo, it asks in future photos, "Is this ___?" and fills in the blank with its best guess of who is in the photo. I found myself amused at how many times I would flip to another photo and see a tiny box around Baby's face with the words underneath, "Is this Baby?" I wouldn't have even recognized she was in most of the photos, but the computer did. Indeed, it's Baby. She was in so many photos that she now has her own file folder in our computer - photos of Baby.

I also have a son who is almost 14. He tends to think that Levi's fancy of Baby is a little "whimpy". I have wondered myself, having never had a son, if his love for a pink baby is odd... not that I'm worried about it. I find in the Word of God (Psalms 91:4, Matthew 23:37, Luke 13:34, Luke 1:78) that God Himself longs to gather us "under his wing" and treat us most kindly. He desires to have compassion on and to "speak tenderly" to us. A heart of compassion and tenderness is not just a gift of woman. It is also a gift to us from God. Masculinity does not preclude gentleness. In fact, it would seem as though gentleness completes true masculinity. For some reason, there seems much more strength in the kindness of a man.

I remember, when I was a child, looking up at the men around me and gaging their size. Was each one a "big guy" or not? Big guys made me feel safe and secure. As I grew up, I was better able to gage the actual size of the men I had known as a child. It seems as though the ones I often thought were "big" were actually no larger than the others. It seems it was more something about their character that made them seem larger than their physical stature. I think in a world full of text messages, e-mail, and the internet - where it is easy to be selfish and to dehumanize others - compassion is a rare quality - especially for a man. I figure a little tenderness can give a guy an extra foot or so of stature... easily.

My husband is 6'4". I'm 5 1/2 feet tall. Levi is tall for his age. Given his genetics, I imagine that he'll end up being a pretty tall grown man. That being said, it's far more important to me that he continues to be tender-hearted toward others - especially those weaker or smaller than he. That way, he can grow up to be a "Big Guy".

Broken Home

Broken home, step-family, blended family, yours-mine-and-ours... These were phrases that I never imagined would have someday pertained to my situation when I married my first husband 13 years ago this coming August. I remember wondering on that day what our future would hold - never imagining that it would hold the heartache of lost love - a "broken home". When I held my first, sweet baby in my arms I never imagined she would someday call another woman "mom".

My current husband and I married our first spouses young and, I believe, could be great motivational speakers to teens on dating/marriage... the what not to do type. Would that be "unmotivational speaking"? I digress.

Yesterday was Mother's Day. I haven't gotten to celebrate Mother's Day for very many years yet, and the years I have celebrated it has been mostly with children who are babies/toddlers from whom a mom expects very little for Mother's Day. The burden inevitably falls on the man of the house - who, just as inevitably, fails to meet my expectations year after year. I've often sat down and tried to delineate just exactly what my expectations are and if they could even be met, and I've pretty much come up with a solid, NO, because I don't even really know what I want to happen - I just want it to be spectacular. So, that being said, I've tried to lower my standards a bit. The girls came up, on their own, with a few hand-made cards which I loved. Levi managed to wake me with a sweet whispered, "Happy Mudder's Day, Mom," which I also loved. Austin was away from our house with his own mother this past weekend - for the first time since last November. Levi thoroughly disliked the implication that Austin was with his mom when, clearly, I was (in his mind) Austin's mom. He stated this several times throughout the weekend, to giggles from the girls and once a sigh, and a, "Give him a couple more years, and he'll understand," from Sadie.

Will he? The answer is no. Not really. His mind might comprehend the concept, but (by God's continued grace) his heart will never know the brokenness of the other people in our home. He has reluctantly accepted that the girls' "udder dad" (actual udders not included) comes to see them one night a week and every other weekend. He still has yet to understand why he can't accompany them when they go or why they have to be gone so often. His favorite phrase when they are absent is, "Where are da kids?"

When Mark and I both first considered getting married again, we knew that, at least statistically speaking, our marriage only had a 25% chance of survival. We took this very seriously as we considered the risks to ourselves and, more importantly, to our children. The idea that they could face heartache of divorce again was more than either of us was willing to put our children through if we could at all help it. We entered into this marriage with caution, advice from trusted counselors, and a lot of prayer. Circumstantially, this marriage hasn't been any easier than our first marriages were. In fact, in many ways it has been more difficult as we never had a "BC" era (before children, that is). We were married after only a few short months of courtship; we have moved twice; we have five children total; and we deal with our ex-spouses and their spouses and the absence of some of our children on a semi-daily basis. The truth, we have realized, is that marriage is difficult - no matter who happens to be your spouse. It is filled with the same unfulfilled needs, unmet expectations, problems, bills, disagreements, and questions as our first marriages were. The difference is that our current marriage is made up of two people committed to God first and then to one another and to our children.

The first few months of our married life were spent on Mark's family farm in Iowa. I have always loved farms, farmers, and farming, but I grew up very much in town. I reminisce about Mark explaining to me the "garbage rules" when the girls and I first moved to the farm with him and Austin. These consisted of, among other complexities, the fact that all food scraps were to be saved for the hogs to whom I was to go feed them at the end of the day. Now, if you've ever been on a hog farm you may have noted that the houses are always built upwind of the hog buildings/lots - and for obvious reasons. I relished the opportunity to feel like a real farm wife - shouting "sewweee!" to the swine with gusto. If, however, I happened to make the rookie mistake of going out to the lot to drop scraps when the wind was stirring to a different direction, I was met with the sniff and scowl when I came to bed for the evening... which meant, "Go take a shower. You smell." In addition to this newbie error, Mark found one morning after breakfast, that I had a pile of bacon and sausage separated from the egg shells and other leftovers from breakfast. He said, "What's this in a different pile for?" "Well," I replied with some amount of confidence, "the pigs surely can't eat themselves. That's just wrong." He responded gruffly (but with a slight smirk), "If one of them drops dead in the lot, the rest go over and eat it. So I don't think they'll mind a little bacon." I look back on those things and laugh, because they were bonding moments for us. Laughter has often been used as part of our bonding process.

At the beginning, when we were all getting used to our new arrangements - changed up bedrooms, houses, even states - we sometimes got bogged down with all of the "new". It struck me one day that God had put us in the ideal environment for the healing of our broken places. Each of us were now in a household with 4 other people who knew the heartache of rejection, the pain of unfulfilled ideals, and the loneliness that comes from missing another person who is (or was) part of yourself. That has become our family pep-talk. It has given us reason to have compassion for one another when we might normally feel apathetic. It has given us an unspoken bond that is our own. I always remind the children that every family has pain - for some it is illness. For some it's the death of a loved one. For some, it is abject poverty or abuse. Divorce is our family pain. It is also our family bond.

Mark and I read a lot of books and other literature when we first got married about step-families. One book stated, rather harshly I thought at the time, that "blended families" is a nice name, but it's too "touchy feely". It doesn't deal with the reality that there is no way to "blend" a family. It basically said, "You're a step family, and that's all you'll ever be. So don't expect to blend, because your identity is that of a step family." I think the author of this material was trying to keep us from the probable starry-eyed assumption that we'll be able to take two families and make them into one. That was partly right. Yesterday, when Austin came home he neglected to acknowledge to me that it was Mother's Day. However, he told me how his mother had loved the ring he picked out for her and bought from my grandpa for her. Claire also said to me that she has "two moms". The selfish side of me reared its ugly head thinking, "What about me?! I do everything for you. They don't clean your dirty clothes. They don't fix your owies. They aren't there to crawl into bed with when there's a storm outside." I don't say these things, and I feel ashamed that I even feel them sometimes. The lucid part of me knows that I am SO happy that the girls have a loving step-mother, and I'm very thankful for her. I'm also happy for Austin that he got to visit his mom, as I know that's important to him.

The following is copied from Revive Our Hearts ministry website. It fell out of my Bible and landed on the floor recently, and I found it as I was sweeping under our kitchen table.

Proud People

Focus on the failures of others

A critical, fault-finding spirit; look at every- one else’s faults with a microscope, but their own with a telescope

Self-righteous; look down on others

Independent, self-sufficient spirit

Have to prove that they are right

Claim rights; have a demanding spirit

Self-protective of their time, their rights, and their reputation

Desire to be served

Desire to be a success

Desire self-advancement

Have a drive to be recognized and appreciated

Wounded when others are promoted and they are overlooked

Have a subconscious feeling, “This family is privileged to have me and my gifts”; think of what they can do for God

Feel confident in how much they know

Self-conscious

Keep others at arms’ length

Broken People

Overwhelmed with a sense of their own spiritual need

Compassionate; can forgive much because they know how much they have been forgiven

Esteem all others better than them-selves

Have a dependent spirit; recognize their need for others

Willing to yield the right to be right Yield their rights; have a meek spirit

Self-denying

Motivated to serve others

Motivated to be faithful and to make others a success

Desire to promote others

Have a sense of their own unworthiness; thrilled that God would use them at all

Eager for others to get the credit; rejoice when others are lifted up

Heart attitude is, “I don’t deserve to have a part in any family”; know that they have nothing to offer God except the life of Jesus flowing through their broken lives

Humbled by how very much they have to learn

Not concerned with self at all

Willing to risk getting close to others and to take risks of loving intimately

I used to think that I was what was broken about our home. Now my prayer is that we ARE a broken home. That is what it will take for us to survive. That is what it will take for Levi and Violet to know - only conceptually - the pain that the rest of us silently share. That is who I pray that we will be - for the sake of one another and of our family.

By God's grace, He has blended us quite nicely. I don't know if I have ever seen anything quite as amazing. It's a miracle to me how our children love one another. I think that most days they are much nicer to one another than my sisters and I were to one another. We chose Levi's name for its meaning, "United; bonded together". It's nothing we have done. It's not due to a magic formula, and I wouldn't wish divorce on anyone, but God is taking our ashes and turning them to beauty. He is taking our broken pieces and making a mosaic. I am including some of my favorite family photos in this blog so that you can see what He is doing with us. If you think of us, thank the Lord that he placed us in a family, and ask that He would continue working to make us a "broken home".

Odds and Ends

As I glance around our house it occurs to me that less than 10 years ago most of what I see would have seemed very odd to me. There's a six shooter next to a plastic purse and gameboy on my kitchen counter island. A skein of yarn with the insides pulled out lies in a basket in the corner in two distinct pieces. A picnic blanket is set up on the living room floor in front of the coffee table. Next to that is an upside down tent nearly filled with toy cars, stuffed animals, and pillows. There's a doll shoe on my bathroom vanity. I don't know if other families' houses look like this. I don't really care. I could clean all these things up or have the children clean them up. But they remind me of something... the first day I died.

The death of Me started happening the morning I woke up and took a pregnancy test. A few days before that my husband and I had a mild disagreement about the purchase of a camcorder. He wanted it, and I didn't think we needed it. After all, we didn't have children - recitals to tape, sports events, etc. My husband and I had been trying to have a baby for a couple of years with no luck. That night I had a dream that my older sister was pregnant and had called to ask if she could borrow my new camcorder to video the birth of her child. I was MAD... dream me, that is. I woke up livid, as I struggled to sort dream stupor from reality. I cried at the thought of never having a child to record with the now-hated camcorder. I decided, for some reason, to take the last pregnancy test in the box - the rainy day test. I had, by that time, seen more minus signs on pregnancy tests than I had ever expected in my newlywed daydreams.

Well, long story short my sister got the first call, because she had been the "jerk of my dreams" the night before. She didn't even know what was coming. That was the day that I started to die. It started with the initial mother-guilt. Cutting back on caffeine and sugar... trying to eliminate processed foods and get plenty of sleep (which wasn't that much of a chore most of the time). The realization that I wasn't the only one my lifestyle choices were effecting was changing me - slowly. I avoided hot baths, saunas, and hot tubs. I even found myself worried to go to movie theaters and concerts - for fear that the loud noise would hurt the baby's developing ears. Every article I read about pregnancy made me more apprehensive about my capabilities as a mother, and the feeling of inadequacy threatened to drown me.

Then my husband asked me to quit my job. Quit my job? Okay - I've always wanted to stay at home to catch up on all my cleaning and watch TV all day. I can do that. The sadness of giving up a job I loved with co-workers I loved - also overwhelmed me. What had been my identity for several years was going away. My ability to identify myself as a working woman and to enjoy the pride of a job well done... gone. Was Me going away too?

When I got diagnosed with preeclampsia and had to quit work early to be on bed rest... when I started to look in the mirror and see twice the woman I used to be... I wondered where Me had gone. Would it be worth it?

As I arrived at the hospital to be induced at 199 lbs. I was thrilled that I hadn't hit the deuce. However, that 140 lb. frame I started with was long gone. I don't think I've seen her since. I think she disappeared along with the girl who could turn down dessert with a, "No thanks, I'm just not a 'sweets person'." As I entered my third day of labor with baby, I was still waiting excitedly for this new change. When they handed her to me, I cried. I was so relieved and happy. (I have cried with all four of my babies' births.) I was waiting for the magical transformation now - to MOM. Super mom maybe? I was supposed to know magically what to do now, right?

My aunt likes to say, "They'll let anybody take one of these home!" That's exactly how I felt. Nurse told me when to bathe the baby. But how? Oh, yeah... the fuzzy recollection of a child birth class I took a few months before this birth... it's all coming back to me. There was the big suit with the huge heavy breasts and big belly that I had hoped my husband would volunteer to wear for sympathy - yeah, right. There were all those other couples too... the older couple. I spent 6 weeks wondering if this was their first - not possible - why were they taking another class? Then the cute ones ... Mr. and Mrs. Perfect. "Is your nursery finished? Of course, my nursery has been done for 5 months. I just couldn't relax until I got all the furniture ordered... blah, blah, blah..." Then the single mom - there with her mom... at least her birthing partner new what it was like to wear the big belly suit. Oh, and then the videos - the scary videos of screaming labor. Is this supposed to encourage me to try natural childbirth? They left me wondering, "Could I just go ahead and get some demerol and an epidural right now? It can't be too soon to be well-prepared." I could remember all of those things, but the bathing lesson? Not a clue. That must be part of me that died.

The first 2 months were pure misery. Some women might tell you those were the best months of their lives. I wouldn't doubt them, but for me... it was pure torture. You name it - all those "helpful" motherly cliches that you hear, "Does she have her days and nights mixed up?" "Does she have the colic?" "You think it's a smile, but it's just gas." I wanted to scream like a maniac that someone had stolen Me. But instead I managed a polite smile and a courteous response.

After those first two months, baby started to do some things. She cooed. She smiled. She laughed. She sat up. She said, "mama". She got her first tooth. "How are you doing?" "Me? I'm fine, but look at her. Look how big she is! Look at her go." She's still going today. Me was continuing to die.

Me still rears her ugly head sometimes. Me is exasperated at a missing new box of pencils. She enjoys watching a toddler play drums with her new drumsticks. Me dislikes lots of background ruckus while on the phone. She loves watching the baby laughing on the floor while big sister blows on her belly to keep her entertained while mom's on the phone. Me is annoyed at the dead flowers in my front flower bed. She is thrilled that the first step in potty training a boy might just be letting him enjoy peeing off the front porch. (We live in the country.)

She is who I want to be. She is the kind of mom I want my children to have. After all, She sees the beauty in the chaos. She values love over perfection, rest over stress, relationships over appearances. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy order, but I have also come to see the value in the tangible reminders that this season of my life and of my children's lives is short. It will come and go in a blink. Me would have us miss out on the joy of it. She beckons me to bask in a the cuteness of a chocolate cheek, the sweetness of a syrup kiss, and a banana-slime handprint on my black blouse. These little "odds" have been the beginning of the end of Me.

I hope She continues to grow and push Me right out. If my own mother and grandmothers are any indication, Me might disappear completely once She becomes a grandma. Today, thank the Lord if you were blessed enough to have had the love of an unselfish mother. Burying Me isn't easy for anybody. What an odd end.