From the Mouths of Babes

Two conversations recently overheard:

Ellie: Meg, I'm going to teach you how to be a safe driver, because I want all my kids to be safe drivers.
Meg: Okay.
E: When you are driving, if you see a car in front of you, go around it.  Because if you don't, you can get in an accident.  And if you get in an accident, you can die.  Do you want to die, Meg?
M: Um, no . . .
E: Well, in a few years, when you're older, you're gonna die.



Ellie (to Meg, playing the role of Grandma): Grandma, why do we need sunscreen to go in the hot tub?
Meg: Because it's hot.

Signs Fall is Approaching

* Pinky-orange leaves on the big maple tree on the way back from the cottage

* Orange leaves caught on the wind

* Two weeks of football covers on Sports Illustrated

* Sneezing and itchy eyes

Overheard Sunday at Church*

Ah, what random questions parents must field on Communion Sunday when there is no Children's Worship.

"What?  Jesus died?  Did God die, too?"

"Is the blood of Christ really juice?"

"That's the body of Christ?" 
"No honey, it's just bread." 
"Oh, can I touch it?"

"Is that blood?!"
"No.  It's juice."
"Well it looks like blood.  I think it's blood."

"You aren't going to heaven any time soon, are you?!"

"What's an orgy?"

* Names withheld to protect the curious children and frustrated (or alarmed) parents.

What Do I Know Of Holy

I made You promises a thousand times,
I tried to hear from Heaven, but I talked the whole time.
I think I made You too small. I never feared You at all. No.
If You touched my face, would I know You?
Looked into my eyes, could I behold You?

What do I know of You
who spoke me into motion?
Where have I even stood
but the shore along Your ocean?
Are You fire?
Are You fury?
Are You sacred?
Are you beautiful?
What do I know?
What do I know of Holy?

I guess I thought that I had figured You out.
I knew all the stories and I learned to talk about
How You were might to save.
But those were only empty words on a page.
Then I caught a glimpse of who You might be.
The slightest hint of You brought me down to my knees.

What do I know of You
who spoke me into motion?
Where have I even stood
but the shore along Your ocean?
Are You fire?
Are You fury?
Are You sacred?
Are you beautiful?
What do I know?
What do I know of Holy?

What do I know of Holy?
What do I know of wounds that will heal my shame?
And a God who gave life its name?
What do I know of Holy?
Of the One who the angels praise?
All creation knows Your name
on earth and heaven above
what do I know of this Love?

What do I know of You
who spoke me into motion?
Where have I even stood
but the shore along Your ocean?
Are You fire?
Are You fury?
Are You sacred?
Are you beautiful?
What do I know?
What do I know of Holy?

--Addison Road, "What Do I Know of Holy," Addison Road


My daughter couldn't have a more beautiful name. And my children couldn't have a more beautiful Hope.

Three Months?!

My blog is the first of three home pages that greet me every time I open my web browser.  Every day I think, "You should post something today.  People are counting on you.  You have something to say."  While it may be untrue that people are counting on me, I should post "today," and I do have something to say.  But every day life takes more time than the sun and moon are willing to allot.  So every day I say nothing.

The other day, though, I looked at FunnyWriterMommy when I opened my web browser, and I thought three months?!  THREE MONTHS?!  Seriously?  Something must be done.  Three months is a very long time. 

That was one week ago.

I didn't know when I began that day what the day would bring, had already brought.  And, reflecting on the past three months, I didn't think about what that amount of time really meant.

Three months is, indeed, a long time.  But, somehow, by the end of last week Monday, it seemed like a very short time.  Three months ago, we baptized Addison, giving her to God, acknowledging that she had always been His, and thanking Him for the short life of Baby Zion.  Then, we got back to living our lives.  Since then, Addie has learned to eat "real" food.  She has learned to roll over from her front to her back and back over again.  She babbles now, and she giggles.  Megan speaks much more clearly now and is learning to potty on the toilet, and Ellie has really learned to read.  For us, it has been a long time.

But for one family, the time was too short. 

Three months ago, Vaughn Arthur Barckholtz wasn't sick.  He was just a healthy, four-year-old boy learning to enjoy books and loving his mom, his dad, his cousins, his flashlight, and his every day.  He was full of life.  Then he started to get bruises.  He started to have pain where he didn't before.  He started to get sick.

Less than three months ago, he was diagnosed with ALL Leukemia, and he was sent to the University of Michigan Hospital in Ann Arbor.  In March, he beat his leukemia.  But then he got RSV and pneumonia.  He beat the RSV, though his lungs were severely damaged, but he couldn't beat the pneumonia.  It was diagnosed as MRSA.  Then, by a miracle, he beat that, too.  Machines were keeping him alive as treatments tried to fix his lungs.  But he was alive.  And he was free of all those letters that had tried to take him from his family.

Then, on a Saturday, he started bleeding.  Doctors couldn't understand where the bleeding was coming from, or why.  Two days later, one week ago today, his heart rate skyrocketed while his blood pressure plummeted.  His family gathered, and they told him they loved him.  Because they did.  The last three months hadn't changed that.  But it wasn't enough.  For reasons we won't understand until they cease to matter as we stand at the feet of our Savior, God called him home.  Just a couple of days shy of 4 and a 1/2 years after God delivered him into the arms of his parents, God called him home.  That wasn't long enough, God.  It just wasn't.  How can three months seem like such a long time while 4 1/2 years isn't long enough?  And how can three months be a long time for some but be far too sudden for a little boy to go from healthy to gone from this world?

I don't know.  But I know that Beau's cousin Chad and his wife Sarahbeth will never fully recover from this three months.

O God, whose beloved Son took children into his arms and blessed them: Give us grace to entrust Vaughn to your never-failing care and love, and bring us all to your heavenly kingdom; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. 

Most merciful God, whose wisdom is beyond our understanding: Deal graciously with Chad and Sarahbeth in their grief.  Surround them with your love, that they may not be overwhelmed by their loss, but have confidence in your goodness, and strength to meet the days to come; through Jesus Christ our Lord.  Amen.

Taken from The Book of Common Prayer, The Burial of the Dead: Rite Two, "At the Burial of a Child"

Four Small Roses

Sunday, January 10, 2010.  Baptism Day.

It was a special day on its own.  The day that we would present our newest daughter to God, acknowledging that we are sinners, vowing that it is only Jesus' blood that makes us clean, and committing ourselves to raise our little one in that Truth.  A day when we are reminded that God chooses us, not for anything that we can offer, but simply because we are His.  It would have been a beautiful day any way you looked at it.

It became much more than that.

Since I learned that I would deliver two children, one living and one truly alive, I have wondered what baptism would bring.  And I wanted it to be about three children--the one who is living, the one who is truly alive, and the One who is the Life.  I wanted to celebrate Addie Maye and her place in His world, in His heart.  I wanted to celebrate Zion and that baby's place in our eternal Home.  And I wanted to celebrate Jesus, His birth, His death, and His life, as the hope that we can give Addie that she will one day know her beautiful twin again.  I talked a bit about it, but I never mentioned "memorial service."  That's what I wanted, though.

And, because God knows my desires and can do all things, that's exactly what I got.

We placed a single pink rose, in a vase bought just for the occasion, on the organ.  It stood in front of the screen displaying the words to "Precious Lord, Take My Hand" (on my "play at my funeral" list) and "In Christ Alone."  We saw it as we beseeched God to help us stand in His power from life's first cry to final breath when He takes our hands and leads us Home.  That was Zion's rose, and it is Addie's vase.  It will hold a rose on every birthday and all of Addie's special days, and it will remind us of what we have lost and also what lies ahead for us.

I also asked our pastor to say a simple prayer for Zion when he prayed for Addie after my dad finished baptizing her.  His words brought tears to our eyes.  As he said, "We also think of Zion, this silent twin who is anything but silent in Your presence," Meggie saw my tears and climbed into my arms to dry them.  Seeing that she couldn't, she nestled in to my neck to hold me.  Precious one.

That was what we planned, though both meant more than we could have dreamed.  What we didn't plan was even more beautiful in a way.  And it came in two parts.

The bulletin had a note about the rose, which I requested.  But it went on from there:

We give thanks to God for his grace as we celebrate this opportunity to baptize Addison Maye.  The rose on the organ is in memory of Addison's twin, Zion, who passed away in utero.  The sprinkled water of baptism is God's prescribed visible expression of his assurance that we are cleansed through the scandalous wounds, shed blood, and death of Jesus on the cross.  God knows and chooses us long before we are coneceived.  He told Jeremiah, 'Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart.'  Scripture makes it clear that God delights in children, especially pre-born children.  Could there be special grace for those who are taken home to their heavenly Father before they are born?  John Newton, an eighteenth-century Anglican and the author of hymns such as 'Amazing Grace,' wrote, 'I cannot be sorry for the death of infants.  How many storms do they escape!  Nor can I doubt, in my private judgment, that they can be included in the election of grace.  Perhaps those who die in infancy are the exceeding great multitude of all people, nations, and languages mentioned [in Revelation 7:9] in distinction from the visible body of professing believers who were marked on their foreheads and openly known to be the Lord's.'  The gospel, made visible through the sacraments and heard through preaching, is God's gracious provision for the storms that Beau, Beka, and every one of us will not escape.

Then there was Tuesday.  We came home from a long day of work to flowers on our front porch.  There were from someone in our church, someone we know but don't really know well.  And they were a beautiful gift from the Body of Christ, which grieves when we grieve and rejoices when we rejoice.  The card said it so simply and so profoundly at the same time:

Four small roses in your hearts: three will bloom here, and one will bloom in Heaven. 

Indeed.  And amen.

June-December 2009 -- According to me

I should have written my Christmas letter this way. Somehow it says so much:

Rebekah

* wants to eat pie and drink Coke.
* can dodge a wrench, so she must be able to dodge a ball.
* enjoyed a very productive day. LOVE this weather.
* is once again enjoying a cold breakfast, which would be fine were it Raisin Bran. Eggs not so much.
* is pretty sure Addie wishes Meggie loves her just a little bit less.
* simply cannot stand Chutes & Ladders.
* has a mouse in her house. Again. So begins winter.
* could stand to be back on a routine.
* just thought Addison was choking. Turns out it was Ellie spitting. In my living room. Who needs a son?
* is very proud of her husband.
* can't wait for Addie to smile and quit looking quite so bored with me.
* needs to get the house cleaned up. Again. Happens every day.
* would like some abs to replace the jello middle.
* and Ellie feel like they're fallin' for fall.
* is one happy mama . . .
* is feeling run over--physically and emotionally.
* wishes some things lasted forever . . . like Pull 'N' Peel licorice.
* is trying to explain the difference between football and baseball to a four year old who is cheering for the Tigers while watching the Jets.
* just put in the order for my new dishwasher. WOO-HOO!
* feels a bit like summer came at an annoying time.
* just found out that I can also play fantasy COLLEGE football. That's probably a bit more than I need.
* just got tutored by Ellie in how you properly drink in Spanish. Um.
* is off to clean toilet paper out of the bathtub . . . too bad Meggie can reach the roll from her bath.
* has a friend having a baby right now.
* is the wife of the newest Foremost employee . . . pending the drug test, I suppose.
* finally finished cleaning her room . . . only four weeks after she started.
* just overheard Ellie telling Moose A. Moose, "No, we didn't see any of those at the zoo, but we did see X-rays."
* does not have to buy new baby clothes and is accepting donations for the weddings fund.
* thinks it probably doesn't matter if it is Christian rap. It's still a bit loud, neighbor boy.
* finds it comical that Meggie has taken to toting a bag of potatoes around the house.
* is not sure how to react to the fact that Megan earned her "crying badge" but is pretty sure Ellie shouldn't reinforce her whining by presenting her with a necklace.
* always worries about the children . . . even a wacky (though talented) dad is better than being fought over for money.
* is listening to Ellie tell Josh that he can't go upstairs without an adult, a princess, or a king.

{taken from my Facebook statuses from today looking back to June}

Parenting

When I entered the title of this entry, it looked more like "pARenTing." That's been my reality lately.

I'm writing with a Boppy pillow (how do you parent without one?!) on my lap and a baby (how do you parent without one?!) on top of that. The baby is sleeping--thankfully--with her fist clenched around my necklace--a wedding present from my husband--and her face tucked into the inside of my left elbow.

The pillow is on my lap so the baby can be on my lap while allowing me to continue working on the computer. The baby is on my lap so she will sleep. Again allowing me to continue working on the computer. I'm mostly successful, though I don't have full mobility of my left hand. Hence the extra capitalization, and my inability to easily stretch for the keys outside of "Home" for that hand. It's the best I can do when she won't sleep anywhere else.

I certainly wouldn't be naive enough to state that Sweet Baby has colic. I wouldn't want to belittle the pain of parents who have really had to endure that nightmare. I hear they walk for hours snuggling their young ones to no avail. We get the break. Sweet Baby sleeps from time to time and when she hasn't given way to precious rest she is mostly just fussy, whimpering and occasionally crying out in her kitty cat voice. We just have to hold her to get her there.

And that means we do what can be done with a Boppy pillow and a baby on our laps. Reading. Watching TV. Vegging out. Cleaning is impossible. Folding laundry is buried somewhere underneath the piles of clothes that get washed in the morning before the gassy nights begin. Computer time is designated for work because typing is a challenge at best.

It hurts to see and hear her discomfort and pain. I wonder if we will give unwrapped gifts for Christmas this year. I imagine Ruth will bang on my door soon for my Fourth Focus article. And I'm pretty sure the hearing damage caused by pain too severe to sleep or "Meow" through is permanent.

But it is worth it all, Sweet Baby. Unspeakably worth it.

Danger, Will Robinson

Addie would not fall back asleep last night. She slept 6 hours after her bottle, so I did get to sleep until around 4:00 this morning. But then she wouldn't go back to sleep. Normally this would be okay--I'd just sit up with her--but today we're headed out after school. That means the girls will nap in the car, and I should probably NOT nap when they do.

So I sat up for a bit with her. While I was rocking her, I read. I'm greatly enjoying On Writing. Today, for really the first (and only?) time, Stephen King gave a writing assignment. He delivered a situation, and then he instructed us to sit and write it down without plotting it. As Addie was falling asleep, I was thinking. Characters were coming alive. Without me plotting it (which is the way I prefer to write anyway), a story was being born.

She fell asleep, but she didn't stay that way. Dear Husband ended up sleeping in the chair and holding her for the rest of the night. He's better at that than I am. They both slept. I slept, too. But then, during my shower, the characters came back. It turns out that the husband (not mine) is not such a great guy after all, and it may not be entirely her (not me or Addie) fault.

The danger is this:

We have a busy, busy day today. How am I to write down what's in my head with no time before bed to sit and do it? How can I keep the characters from moving on without me? How can I be certain that when I do sit down, I'm still as surprised by whom the characters are rather than forcing them to be whom I think they should be?

Of course, I could have started now, but I knew I could blog about it in the five minutes I have before feeding Addie, taking Meg to the sitter, bringing Ellie to school, and rushing to the doctor's office. A story . . . well, I could get lost in that for hours.

So, thanks a lot, Steve. And thanks a lot, Muse. Could you and Addie maybe sleep a bit longer--or pick a less busy day to strike?

Let It Snow!

For the third year in a row, I have decided to undertake the Kent District Library's "Let It Snow!" winter reading program for adults. It's a bingo board of different genres of books, plus some random things like "Read a book or author starting with the letters 'K,' 'D,' or 'L'." The first year I got about two books read. Last year I completed two full bingos. This year I'm gonna make it!

I've been spending some of my nursing time reading On Writing by Stephen King. It's a humorous take on the craft of writing, and it keeps me up during Addie's 3 a.m. snack time. I'm enjoying it. One of the tools King says every writer must have in her toolbox is a library (at home or at the actual library) full of read books. He says we learn much from "bad" books, perhaps more than we learn from "good" books. So this year I'm gonna make it through all my bingos, even the genres I don't like.

I just finished the second book--my "Award Winner or New York Times Bestseller"--Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy by Gary D. Schmidt (who lives in Alto. What the . . . huh?!). It turns out that I am the last in my immediate family to have read the book, which I borrowed from my parents who, as it also turns out, happen to own a library full of read books. Including, I believe, every book Stephen King has ever written.

When I set out with Lizzie, I wasn't much of a fan. "The Buckminster Boy" happens to be the son of a preacher who happens to be a bigot. Or so I thought. It turns out instead that he is just a scared man who wants, at all costs, to keep the proverbial boat from rocking. Most of the other characters in the book truly seem to be actual bigots . . . except for Turner (The Buckminster Boy), Turner's mom (one may wonder why she married "Buckminster" in the first place), Mrs. Hurd (who paints her shutters and her doors a nonChristian color), and Mrs. Cobb (who reminds me of my grandmother). I hated that preacher even more than I hated his church and town full of bigots. I hated him because he didn't have an excuse. And then I declared that the book wasn't very good and I would finish it only for my bingo.

Then I paused to think about it.

An author, and subsequently a book, has to be at least halfway decent to make me so strongly dislike someone by the third page of the book. And it has to be even better than halfway decent to make me so strongly like him by the end. And besides, maybe the reason I hated him so much was that he was maybe just a bit too much of me.

As it turns out, this Gary D. Schmidt from Alto, MI, can write a book that made me love and hate characters who, in the end, are far too human. And this Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy was a good book after all.

Who knows what other treasures I'll uncover between now and March 31. Two down. Fourteen to go.

Giving Thanks

I was preparing to write our annual Christmas letter when I came across last year's letter. I closed it with words my dad wrote for a Thanksgiving litany some years ago at the church he pastors. The fact that it is December instead of the fourth Thursday in November should not prevent us from giving thanks for this year that was up as much as it was down.

For all the times we laughed until our sides ached; for all the times we were troubled and friends we didn't even know we had sprang up from nowhere and cared for us; for all the times we could have chosen evil over good but didn't; for all the times we could have been hurt but weren't; for all the times we could have died suddenly and unprepared but didn't; and for what would have awaited us even if we had--O Lord, we thank you!

. . . For all persons who love us unconditionally and in whose presence we can drop all pretense and still be accepted; for the one who calls us long distance and the one who calls us "Darling"; for the one who calls us "Mom" or "Dad"; and for the one who will one day call us into eternity--O Lord, we thank you!

Surreal Wednesday

What the . . . huh?!

World AIDS Day

Far from here, though not as far as some may want to believe, a child sits alone. Crying. Longing for a mother, a father, anyone to pick him up and comfort him. But he lives in a family alone. More than 15 million children worldwide face this reality every day. Most of these children live on the continent of Africa, but that has no less impact on us.

Today, may God bless those who have stepped in and adopted one of those blessed children. And may He continue to hold those little ones who wait.

Just down the road and in cities across this country and villages around the world, a woman lies alone. Dying. Longing for a hand to hold, longing for hope. But she has been abandoned. AIDS is the number one cause of death for women worldwide.

Today, may God bless those who have stepped in and held the hand of one of those blessed women. And may He continue to hold those beautiful ones who wait.

Across the world millions will, in some way, mark this day. Living. Remembering. Holding hands and standing together. Gaining knowledge. Getting tested. Will you?

Today, may God bless those who get a positive test result and those whose test is negative. May He bless those who are abandoned by the ones they love and those who are embraced. And may this day be the day that even one person gets informed and stays safe and another person finds a cure.

In 1990, Ryan White was dying, and I was a 7th grader following his story on the front page of every newspaper I delivered. The day he died, I cried. The next year I gave an oral report on AIDS in my English class. My class laughed at me. It didn't matter.

Today is the least that we can do for him . . . and them.

Sites to learn more or get involved:
Product (Red)
CRWRC Embrace AIDS
AIDS Information
What's Going On video
AmFAR

First Birthday

Today I started (and brought up to date) Addie's first year calendar. I'm late on it because my mom bought it for her "for Christmas" (even the newborns are not exempt from calendar gifts!), and she gave it to me on Thanksgiving. So today I dated the undated pages, placed stickers to mark each month's aging and first holidays, and wrote all that we have accomplished in just under six weeks.

Six weeks is surprising to me. I feel like she's always been here. I also feel like I've been on maternity leave for months and months, rather than just six weeks. In fact, six weeks from tomorrow I was busily finishing our website edits thinking I still had another week. Funny how one day can change everything.

For now her only calendar notes are growth and new visitors. Her "firsts" consist of bottles, babysitters, and church services.

Oh, how that will change in the months to come. I have stickers to mark her first time rolling over, her first attempts at food (which will mostly result in her 80th-100th baths), her first waves, her first words, and her first steps. Oh, the changes between now and her first birthday.

As I filled in the dates and noted the holidays and family birthdays, I found myself longing for a place to note Baby Zion. To prove that the baby existed for more than just those first few weeks with Addison. But there isn't room on the calendar. We received a beautifully hand-decorated photo album for Addie, and the woman who made it thoughtfully left space for the few pictures we have to show that there were twins. There is room in the album. But the days and weeks and holidays and firsts aren't there. No stickers are needed to detail fourteen and a half weeks of existence, despite the lifetime of missing they created.

Oh, the changes between now and Addison's first birthday, which is also the first birthday of the day that we really had to say goodbye to Baby Zion. God willing, there will be many birthdays for Dear Addison. She'll count them down on a calendar and celebrate them all with pictures that she can put in an album filled with her memories. And somewhere, tucked away in our hearts, there will still be room for Baby Zion.

A Fine Line

Ellie has been talking to herself lately. A lot. The really crazy part is that she is arguing with herself. It's interesting to eavesdrop on those interactions.

Beau asked me if it was normal or if we should be concerned. I told him that imaginary conversations like that are a mark of creativity. He said they are also a mark of schizophrenia. This is true, I said. There is a fine, fine line between creative genius and lunacy.

And there is. John Nash is a perfect example. Albert Einstein once said, "A question that sometimes drives me hazy: am I or are the others crazy?" Many authors and artists have stepped over the line into lunacy, and their art had a price to pay.

I have obsessive compulsive tendencies. I count stairs, and I obsess over things. Fixate on them. I also have sensory defensiveness, which is a sensory-integration disorder on the autism spectrum. I talk to myself regularly, and there is always some sort of imaginary world in my mind. I blame it on being a lover of words.

So what of my children? I'm not saying anything either way about them, but the older two are proving creative beyond imagining. We prayed that they would be. Each of them exhibit some form of sensory defensiveness, though (thankfully) it seems to be much less broad spectrum or severe than mine. What of the OCD and whatever else lunacy may lurk in their brains? And what of the fact that it just may be that all of us are a few hormones shy of being committed?

Who knows. All I can see is that they are creative. And I must note that there is a fine line between genius and lunacy. I'll walk it. But I'll always wonder if I'll be the one to cross it. And I'll always pray that my art--and theirs--doesn't ever pay the price.

May my dear children always be lovers of words and taking pen (or colored pencil) to paper. May they always be creative beyond imagining. And may their grip on reality always be tenuous enough for their art to be genius but strong enough to keep them sane.

'Tis THE Gift to Be Simple

I have been thinking lately about being "simple" or "living simply."

I'm not certain if the reason for this is that I'm completing Christmas wish lists and contemplating all of the new toys and pieces of furniture that are about to move into my already cluttered and messy house. It might be that the reason is that another person has moved into our house, and I am again lamenting the loss of space my husband and I have endured as a result of the first two little people who moved into our house. They take up a lot of room, and they carry a lot of baggage. (Or maybe that's me.) It could be that I'm sensing a lot of emotional lessening that I need to do, and that is carrying over into my physical life. Or it could just be that I watched just five minutes of Hoarders the other day. That freaked me out.

All I know is that I want to simplify. I go through this phase from time to time, and my husband hates it. I always fill up the garbage or the basement "garage sale" pile or bags (and our living room!) with items that I continue to forget to drop off at Goodwill. I just want less. Less stuff. Less needs. Less stress. Less debt. Less. Less.

But how do I get there? And then how do I stay there. Because inevitably I purge and then I binge. There's always more that I want just as there is much I long to lose.

I have long sung an old Shaker dance hymn, though I discovered today that I have sung it wrong. I sing it more as a reminder to myself or in an effort to convince myself that it really is true. Every time I have sung it, I have replaced the essential word with a word that changes the meaning completely. I am not alone in this, but I still lose what Brackett intended. It just doesn't work to say, "It is A gift to be simple." As if to say, "There are many gifts, and today I choose another." Brackett wrote, " 'Tis THE gift to be simple." The only one there is. Everything else flows from this gift to be simple, this gift to be free. This gift to come down where we ought to be.

Dear Lord, grant that I may somehow find a way to simplify. In this world that pulls at my heart and creates longings I do not want for things I do not need, help me to live simply. Open my eyes to see that all I need to live is already mine. Amen.

A Life of Gratitude

Today I am thankful for second chances. And for family. And for friends and good movies and turkey and football. And for my mom's apple pie.

Forever I am thankful that God has set eternity on the hearts of men. And that Home is where Jesus and Baby Zion wait for me.

Surreal Wednesday

Ellie announced that she wants me to get a Smooth Away.



Victim of advertising or embarassed by her lazy mom?

It's not me, it's my Coulrophobia.

It's official, and it's real. I like validation. Thanks to Criminal Minds, I actually have it. The validation. We're not sure where it actually came from.

For some people it is the result of a bad personal experience. Unless I've blocked it out, I can't say that I've had that. For others it stems from a sinister portrayal in the media. I know I've had that (thanks a ton, Stephen King), but this came much earlier than that. Wikipedia informs me that it is more common in children, but sometimes it occurs in adulthood. It does in this adult.

Now that we have it named, I have a complaint to lodge. Obviously I'm not the only one with this debilitating (I'm not exaggerating) condition. One in seven of us (and the rest of you are nuts!) have it. So can I call Johnny Depp and P. Diddy to help me form some sort of class action suit against the Garmin people? Their new commercial leaves me paralyzed in my chair. Oh, and now I can't even watch How I Met Your Mother without seeing it. And it isn't the friendly one that certainly appears harmless, though we aren't sure what's hiding under that big, red nose. Both Garmin and HIMYM have identified it by its name: Scary Clown.

And yet . . .

They keep. On. Showing. It.

I need a drink. Or some kind soul to ban it from my television. Please. For the love of all that's holy. I am begging.

While we're at it, I understand that it will soon be Bowl season. I very much like to watch college football. For those of us whose phobias extend beyond those with painted faces and into the masked devils, can we please discuss a ban on mascots? Take a tip from the University of Notre Dame. That little leprechaun is cute. And also my Masklophobia will thank you.

"Everything happens for a reason . . . except for clowns. I mean, seriously, what the hell?!"
--Anonymous flair on Facebook

Willing to Relocate

Beau had a meeting with his supervisor last week, and they did some goal setting and talking about Beau's future in Corporate America. Now, let it be said that we really like Corporate America so far. Coming from Nonprofit World it isn't hard to be enthralled with the beauty of Corporate America. Especially when they reward hard work.

Beau came home from said meeting and told me, "I said I'd be willing to relocate." I thought, yeah. I've been telling God that for ten years. Obviously I was pleased that Beau said that. There have been times that I've wondered the same thing about him.

Then he asked me where I want to relocate to, if we had our choice.

Where wouldn't I go would be an easier question. Florida. Down south. I don't like humidity, and I really have no desire to move to Texas, Oklahoma, or Arizona. Nevada either. Most of those southern states hold little appeal for me. I think I would also decline the midwest. Why leave Michigan to go somewhere else exactly like it?

My quick answer to Beau was New England. He claims the winters are bad, worse than here, but I love the history. I've never gotten into Michigan history. We moved from here in 3rd grade, just as they were starting to teach it. And we moved back here in 7th grade, just after it was all over. So I know nothing. I can count the number of times I've even seen the Mackinac Bridge, and I once cut a college class to go to the Michigan Capitol Building in Lansing. It was the only time I've been there.

Michigan isn't "home" for me. When people ask me where "home" is, I tell them it's somewhere on the road between California and Michigan. The truth is that there have been three times I have felt "home" when arriving in a specific location. The first was when my mom took me to Oxnard, CA, in between my freshman and sophomore years of college. I was born there, and I think I'd like to die there, too. The second was when I crossed the bridge in between Washington and Astoria, OR. My dreams were born there during endless watching of The Goonies, and I nearly did die there. (Okay, a bit dramatic, but the story is a good one.) The third was when I visited the TeKrony farm outside of Castlewood, SD, for the 4th of July. Sometimes it's people that feel like home.

So I'd pick New England every time, because I love American history. And it's so rich there. Or maybe I'd pick Colorado. Ooh, or Utah. The mountains, snow . . . but I hear I'd need a big dog to keep away the rattlesnakes when I'm hiking. The Pacific Northwest is a gimme. I'd move there in a second. I also hear San Diego is lovely this time of year. Every time of year.

Now I'm restless again. Longing to relocate. Beau could have told them that, and I wouldn't have minded. "My wife is longing to relocate." Especially if Corporate America is willing to pay for it AND sell my house. Sign me up. But I'm not really looking for home. My parents taught me how to make it wherever I am. With my husband and my kids. With my pictures and my books and my dreams. With whatever friends I am lucky enough to have. Because there have been three times in my life when I felt "home." But none of them were really Home. I'll get there one day . . . and, yes, God. I'm willing to relocate.