Appreciation

If I ever thought I wasn't appreciated, the last month has me eating my words, as well as lots of cake.  A month ago, I turned 40, and my husband orchestrated a surprise birthday party for me.  We're not just talking about a nice dinner party with my 8 closest friends.  This was a party attended by family, friends, colleagues, and parishioners, totaling over 140 people.  What?!  I guess I didn't even know 140 people liked me.  Must've been the free food, I figured.  :)  But I was incredibly humbled and grateful that so many people came to celebrate with me.

I have confidence in many things about myself.  I know I write well.  I'm a good mom.  I have a nice singing voice.  But I was very shy as a child, and it's never been easy for me to make friends or get to know people.  People have often perceived my shyness as snobbiness. I work in the church, so I feel like people think I'm dull, weird, and judgy.  For these and other reasons, I've never been confident that people actually liked or appreciated me.  But I suppose we've all got an insecure 7th grader threatening to burst out of us.

Yesterday, our congregation had a potluck to celebrate that we've now done ministry at Our Savior's for 10 years.  100 people came, and many others wished they could've come.  Numerous people came to tell us how much they appreciated us and how we've touched their lives in these 10 years.  We got verbal and written greetings beautifully sharing people's gratitude and excitement about continuing to do ministry together in the future.  It was almost surreal.  For most pastors, such appreciation is saved for their farewell party.  When we left our previous call in Montana, the most stoic, quiet people who hardly said a word to us in our 3 years there, came and tearfully recounted the reasons that they loved us and would miss us.  Yesterday, we heard, "We're so blessed you came here.  Thanks for all you've done for us."  It sounded very much like what we heard in our last call, but there was no, "Goodbye and good luck" at the end.  Because they're going to see us next week.  And next month, and for a long time after that.  I don't think I was prepared to hear such rich words of love and gratitude from people who I'll continue to preach to, worship with, laugh with, and cry with in the foreseeable future. 

I think pastors expect to be underappreciated.  So much of what we do goes unseen.  After all, "Pastors only work on Sundays," right?  But in the last month, I realized that I was unprepared to hear how deeply we are appreciated.  We put a lot of time, creativity, energy, and thought into ministry.  Often, just doing ministry is enough to satisfy and excite me.  But hearing how much people appreciate what we do and who we are to them, has been a most unexpected delight.  It reminded me of the power of words and gratitude, and inspires me to verbalize my thanks even more often.

So who do you most appreciate in your life?  Have you told them?  Why not tell them now?

I'm Pedi-"Cured"

You know how some people say, "You can't tickle yourself,"?  They're wrong.  My feet are so ticklish that I can easily tickle myself.  Before you take this as an invitation to tickle me the next time you're in my presence, understand this - when people tickle me, I want to slug them.  Seriously.  Some people find tickling to be fun and cute.  And don't get me wrong, I love the giggles that erupt out of my children when I tickle them from time to time.  But hear this now - if you tickle me on purpose, I cannot be responsible for what harm may come to you.  Being tickled flips a switch inside me that makes me want to lash out.  I feel immediately irritated and angry, and my teeth, jaw, and fists clench.

This is the #1 reason I was never interested in getting a pedicure, closely followed by the utter lack of understanding of why any human being would choose to minister to the feet of strangers.  Yeah, I know that Jesus washed the feet of his disciples, and I've washed people's feet before.  But to make a career out of cutting toenails and sanding callouses off other people's feet is outside the realm of my comprehension.  Sure, it can be fun to polish somebody else's toenails, but the rest of their job gives me a big case of the icks.  I love shoes.  I do not love feet.  They're goofy-looking, often dirty and smelly, and just plain gross sometimes.  I never understood why people would get pedicures - I can tend my own feet and polish my own toenails, thank you very much. 

My first pedicure was a gift from my parents, just before Scarlett was born.  I was terrified.  I was just certain I'd kick the woman in the face.  Repeatedly.  Honestly, there were several moments of sheer ticklish terror, as she sanded the bottom of my feet.  But overall, it was a pleasant experience.  I can't say that it was relaxing, as I was too focused on not jumping or squealing, but at least no injuries ensued.  And my baby was born to a mother with soft, pretty feet.  Phew!

I've had a few pedicures since then, and it gets a little easier each time.  It's nice to have someone care for me in such a unique way.  As I got the above pedicure while on vacation last week, I started thinking about the people (mostly women) who earn their living by caring for other people's feet.  It's not a glamorous job, but it is an intimate one.  They see where we're sensitive and where we're toughened.  Pedicurists may not know where we've been in life, but they see how our paths have affected us, in a small way.  They cradle and massage the parts of our body that get us to important places in our lives.  So last week, I looked upon my pedicurist with a profound respect.  This woman probably doesn't make a lot of money, nor does she get much respect in the world, but she cares for strangers in an intimate and quietly profound way. 

So can I finally find pedicures relaxing?  Not quite.  But I have a deeper understanding of why people get pedicures, and a true respect for those who give them.  You might even say that I'm pedi-cured.

Forty Years

I'm in my 30's.  For about 9 hours.  Or 22, if you take into account the actual time of my birth.  On my 30th birthday, I was sung to by a whole congregation of people, just before I had to tell them that Erik and I would be leaving 4 weeks later.  Not my favorite birthday memory, though my 30's have truly been the best decade I've ever had.  I got 2 fantastic kids, a great congregation, a better sense of who I am, and some special friendships out of my 30's.  Not too shabby.

I'm not bothered by turning 40, so bring on the, "Lordy, Lordy, Jennifer's 40!" if you must.  What other words rhyme with "forty" anyway?  Sporty, shorty, snorty, warty, Gordy, Morty.  Not a stellar selection of rhyming possibilities.  Even if you're a little bit more creative with words, I'm not sure I need a birthday rhyme about the health of my aorty or my fondness for Havorty cheese.

In thinking about everything I've experienced in 40 years, I started thinking of what else I could've been doing.  A lot of things happened in the Bible "for 40 years."  Just think, I could've been wandering in the wilderness for 40 years, eating manna and quail and complaining about everything.  Several passages talk about how the Israelites' clothing and shoes didn't wear out in those 40 years (wow!), and apparently, their feet never even swelled while doing all that wandering.  I also discovered that the length of my life is the same as the length of David's reign and Solomon's reign.  And in Judges "the land rested for forty years" a whole bunch of times. 

I'm thankful for the amazing people and experiences I've had in the 4 decades of my life.  Since I'm not a beer-lover, I'll slightly twist the lyrics of the popular country song, and then it's a pretty good representation of things: "God is great, life is good, and people are crazy."  Crazy keeps life interesting.  My life is plenty interesting. 

I'm confident that my 40's will bring me fewer diapers to change and more sleep.  I'll worry less about whether I'm doing well enough at all my roles, and I'll be more confident in what I'm able to do well.  I'll spend less time wondering if people will like me for who I am, and I'll spend more time trying to get to know people for who they are.  I expect I'll accumulate a few more wrinkles and a couple more pounds in my forties, but even if they do come, I hope they'll be wrinkles coming from joy and pounds coming out of great fellowship.

I guess that's enough for now.  I've gotta go enjoy the rest of my 30's.  The 40's are coming, and I'm ready.  Almost.

The joys of home ownership

When Erik and I were first married and living in a parsonage in Montana, all we wanted was our own house.  We watched HGTV constantly and talked about what our first "real" house would be like, and what we'd do to it.  Then we got our opportunity.  When we were called to Beloit, we had a long weekend to find the house we wanted to buy.  This house was cute, had many features we liked, and would fit all our furniture.  We moved in nearly 10 years ago and quickly repainted several rooms.  Having black or dark teal baseboards in the upstairs bedrooms didn't particularly agree with us.  The previous owners must've been especially fond of dark teal.  It was everywhere - front door, shutters, trim, wallpaper, even the bathroom carpeting.  Plush carpeting?  In a bathroom?  That didn't last long.  Over the years, we've done a great deal to the house - new siding, new windows, a new shower. We installed a fireplace, French doors to the bedroom, water softener, and a bathtub in the master bath.  We replaced flooring, appliances, garage door, and replaced the deck with a patio.

We've had our share of home-ownership issues.  In the last year alone, we've had raccoons in the attic, a branch that knocked a hole in our roof, (leaving our bedroom ceiling a lovely leak-brown color), a broken water heater the day before Easter, and a leaky floor in our basement.

As I've mentioned, we must have bad appliance karma.  We're on our 3rd washing machine and 3rd dishwasher.  In 10 years.  Our brand new dishwasher was delivered 2 weeks ago.  It looked shiny and beautiful...sitting in the middle of our kitchen for 2 weeks.  It didn't fit in its space.  What?!  It's standard size, so it's not that we bought a behemoth.  It turns out that when our kitchen was remodeled, years before we arrived, folks cut some corners.  Apparently, when you install cabinets, you leave an inch between the cabinets and the counters, to allow room for the dishwasher.  And since the old dishwasher was slightly shorter, they didn't see the need for that.  I expected that we'd need to replace the counters or at least cut out the countertop over the dishwasher, and replace it with butcher block.  But our handyman first tried cutting out the tile floor in the dishwasher gap.  No good.  He finally brought in a friend, and they detached our counters and put in the 1-inch space, put the counters back, and trimmed it out.  Not a job that elicits, "Oohs and ahhs," from people, but at least the dishwasher is in its eternal home, our dishes are clean again, and my dishpan hands can be a thing of the past.

I've breathed a sigh of relief and hope we're done with endless handyman visits and major complications for a while.  Wait...I hear scratching in the attic.  We'll just pretend it's the home ownership fairy, doing a healthy house dance for us.  Yeah, that's it.

Maytag Mutiny

I think I was meant to live in simpler times.  My (our) history with household appliances is rather tragic.  I don't know what it is, but we have a tough time keeping appliances as long as they should last.  When we moved here, we bought a front-loading washing machine.  It died after 4 years.  We bought another.  It died 5 years later.  My parents tell me that they've had their washing machine almost as long as I've been alive.  What do I do to jinx our washing machines?  I haven't put any pets or children in there, nor do I wash bricks or rocks with any frequency.

The garbage disposal whimpered to a low hum in the last year, so that was replaced around the same time as the washing machine.

The day after Good Friday (a rather busy time of the year for us), our water heater died.  It was pretty clear that it wasn't going to be raised to new life with Jesus that Easter morning.  Nor did it die to save the world from sin.  Instead, its death inspired sinful and colorful words on that already stressful Holy Saturday.  Luckily, some saints from our congregation helped Erik to install a new one, so we wouldn't have to go without hot water on Easter morning.                   

And now the dishwasher is dead.  Not dead, exactly, but close enough, unless you ascribe to the philosophy that if something is merely touched by water and soap, it's clean.  Our dishes are most certainly not clean.  Spoons come out looking so much like they did when they went in that we could probably identify who used it last, by the lip-marks in the thin layer of yogurt on it.  The wash cycle seems to only make leftover food cling more stubbornly to the plates, rather than washing it off.  And transparent glasses are now translucent at best.

We bought this new dishwasher about 7 years ago, when our dishes weren't getting very clean.  After we got it, we noticed cloudy dishes.  The repairman said, "The dishwasher can only do so much.  What you really need is a water softener."  So, much to my husband's chagrin, we got a water softener, which makes him feel slimier in the shower and leaves his skin feeling softer afterwards.  Oh, the horror!  :)

A year ago, tines started breaking off the lower dishwasher rack due to corrosion.  Argh.  I called the company to order a new rack.  Get this - a new dishwasher rack would cost over $200.  What?!  We said, "We'll deal with a few broken tines."  But now, it looks like we'll not only get a new rack, but a whole new dishwasher, unless we want to spend $300 for a new pump, in addition to labor costs.  And it won't arrive quite in time to do dishes for Sierra's birthday party on Sunday.  Yeah, that's about right.

Here's hoping our appliances are done being drama queens for a while.  I like meeting new people, but I'd rather not meet any more plumbers or appliance installers for a long time. 

No limp fish!

I met Ted Sprinkman about 25 years ago.  My friend Susan wanted to take tennis lessons from him, and she asked if I'd want to take them with her.  So one Saturday morning, her parents drove us to the tennis club, where we expected to significantly improve our skills.  I had a new racquet, and I was all ready to show Ted my stuff.  He walked up to me with his hand extended.  I shook his hand as I told him my name, and he groaned.  He shook Susan's hand and groaned again.  He said, "Put your racquets down.  You won't need them for a while.  The first thing I'm going to teach you is how to shake hands."  Susan and I rolled our eyes.  For the next 10 minutes, Ted did just that.  "Put your arm straight out.  Grasp my hand firmly.  Webbing-to-webbing.  No limp fish handshakes.  Why are you looking at the floor?  I want eye contact!  Always look the person in the eye when you're shaking their hand."  Susan and I thought it was the biggest waste of time ever.  What did this have to do with tennis?  But then Ted said, "Tennis is about mental strength as much as physical ability.  You start a match shaking hands, and in that 5 seconds, you communicate whether you're confident or not, and you can learn the same about your opponent, just from their handshake.  So what do you want people to learn about you when they shake your hand?  Do you want them to think you're insecure, weak, and apathetic?  Or do you want them to see your confidence, strength, and passion for life?" 

At the time, I thought Ted was kinda lame.  But as I grew up, I learned that he was absolutely right.  We communicate a great deal when we shake somebody's hand.  By a simple handshake, we can communicate confidence, professionalism, forgiveness, warmth, compassion, gratitude, or we can communicate the opposite of those things.  The choice is ours.

It was my first year as a pastor, and I was preparing a group of confirmation students for Confirmation Sunday.  I'd walked them through the service, and I lined them up in the Narthex, where they'd be greeted after the service.  Knowing that teenagers aren't always well-schooled in etiquette, I told them to be prepared to shake hands, and to be gracious to the people who came to congratulate them.  I shook one student's hand to demonstrate.  He looked at the floor as he put his limp hand in mine.  As I opened my mouth, Ted Sprinkman flew out, "No limp fish!  And I want eye contact!"  I quickly reigned in my inner tennis pro and gave all the students a handshake lesson.  "Grasp the person's hand firmly...no limp fish...no bone-crunchers...look the person in the eye...be prepared to shake lots of hands...smile...your cheeks will stop hurting eventually."  I remember at least 3 sets of parents came over and thanked me.  Since then, every time I do Confirmation rehearsal, I give the kids a handshake lesson.  They look at me like I'm lame or slightly crazy, but I'm hopeful that someday, they'll get it, and they'll realize "Crazy Pastor Jennifer" wasn't quite so crazy.

Ted Sprinkman would be so proud.

Anonymity

I'd stink at being a famous person.  There's something inside me that doesn't want to be well-known.  Every week, one of our worship services is broadcast on a local cable channel in town.  Not everybody has that kind of cable, so our audience isn't all that broad.  I'd guess if we had an Our Savior's Broadcast Fan Club, we'd be nearing the teens.  But every now and then, I'll meet a stranger who has seen me on TV.  I can't tell you how weird it feels to hear, "I watch you on TV!"  I didn't major in broadcasting, I didn't sign up for game show, nor did I agree to appear on some reality show.  I just went to seminary.  They don't teach about local access cable fame in seminary.  No lessons on choosing the right lipstick so you don't look like death warmed over on TV.  No classes teaching you to tolerate the sound of your own goofy voice coming through TV speakers.  No advice on how to gracefully and subtly tell your acolytes to stop using their cinctures like lassoes because the greater Beloit cable audience can see them. 

One of the happiest days of my life was the day we got a different kind of cable, so we could no longer see ourselves on TV.

Sometimes I'm able to forget that people who I don't know, might know me.  That is, until I'm evaluating my mayo options in the grocery store and a strange woman walks up to me and says, "Hi Jennifer!  How are the girls?  I'm so glad your husband is better.  I watch you on TV every week!" 

Sometimes I really enjoy being anonymous.  I love going to a shopping mall and being fairly confident that nobody there will know me.  There's a strange kind of freedom being somewhere where not a soul knows you.  The girl at the pretzel stand has no idea if I'm a pastor or poker dealer or a barrel rider.  The man in the shoe department has no clue that I can't fit all my shoes in my 3 shoe racks.  The woman at the card store hasn't seen my successes or my failures, on camera or off.  I can truly be nobody, and I like that.  It's like hiding, in plain sight.

Don't get me wrong.  I cherish the gifts of community, of being "where everybody knows your name."  I think it's what many of us love about being part of a church.  There are people there who know us and care about us in ways that nobody else does.  I love that church people ask me how Sierra's liking 3rd grade and rat out Scarlett when she's hiding in the library with a bottle of grape juice from the communion fridge (this only happened once, by the way).  I like being known within my faith community, because I know people care about me there, and I care about them.  Our knowledge of one another is relatively mutual, which is different than the one-sided relationships with our cable fans.  I'd love to know the people who watch me on TV as well as they seem to know me.  I respect celebrities, who deal with this on a grand scale every day.

I love what I do.  I love my congregation.  I love that we're able to reach people who can't or don't come to church.  But I'll probably always think it's a little weird that strangers know me.  So I guess when I want to be anonymous or not be noticed, I'd better find an actual hiding place. 

Banana Angels

A few weeks ago, I told you about my difficulty in quickly preparing myself for Scarlett to go to school full-day, instead of half-day, as we had expected.  I believed it was very important for Scarlett to be in a structured classroom environment with other kids, but a big part of me still wanted her home with me, at least for part of the day.

Then Scarlett got sick.  It started with the croup and likely turned into some other kind of virus.  She had a terrible cough and a fever that went on.  And on.  And on.  It only got scarily high a couple times, but it was persistent.  We had sent her to school for half a day the first week, thinking she was better, but when we got her at lunchtime, she had a fever again.  So we started realizing she would miss most of her first week of school.  We never anticipated she'd miss her entire second week of school as well.  Her fever just wouldn't let up, so she got to know the Nickelodeon and Disney Channels' line-ups really well.  She played lots of games on the computer.  We read oodles of books.  We played many games.  We made bread and jello, just for fun. 

And I suppose, in an ironic Murphy's Law sort of way, I got what I wished for.  I had Scarlett home with me, for 2 whole weeks.  Erik and I took turns staying home with her, with some help from friends.  But each day, I wondered what she was missing and whether the kids in her class would even care when she came back.  I had mini-meltdowns about her not being able to go to school, just like I'd had mini-meltdowns about her going to school a few weeks earlier.  Be careful what you wish for, right?

The doctor was pretty concerned about how long this supposed virus was lasting, so she ordered some tests last week.  I'll spare you the details of the experience of holding a 4-year-old during nasal flu tests and blood tests.  In the end, everything seemed normal.  And finally, 3 days later, Scarlett's temperature had gone back to normal, and she started to look like her normal perky self again.

I think I knew Scarlett was all better the other day when she was eating a banana for breakfast.  She had peeled down the sides and was shaking the whole thing up and down.  I asked what she was doing.  She said, "Look!  It's an angel!" as the flapped the banana peel wings.  I asked, "What do angels do?" to which she replied matter-of-factly, "They fly around.  And they watch over me."  I smiled at my imaginative daughter and her fantastic banana angel, and thanked God that she's finally well again and able to go to school. 

I'll handle it just fine, because when I start missing her, there's a whole bunch of bananas I can peel to watch over me too.

FOMO

It's been a tough week.  I mentioned last week that our 4-year-old, Scarlett, got the croup on the day before school started, so she missed the first day of school.  I was excited to send her to school on the 2nd day, but when we picked her up after lunch (to ease her into the school routine), she had a fever again.  The fever continued all week and all weekend.  I didn't think there was a chance she'd miss any school this week, and it's turned out that she's missed every day.  When we saw the doctor on Monday, she said it was likely a slow-moving virus.  Other than a cough, she feels pretty good, so she's her usual good-natured self, just unable to go to school.  She'll head back to the doctor today, and hopefully they can give us some hope or some kind of treatment to bring her back to her healthy, happy, active self.

I know Scarlett will be okay.  I just don't know when, and it's driving me crazy.  She's a bright kid and one of the oldest kids in her 4-year-old kindergarten class.  So I don't worry about her missing the academic part of school.  But I keep thinking about how her classmates all know each other's names now and have made friends in the 2 weeks she's been gone, and she's been cooped up at home. 

A friend introduced me to the term FOMO, which stands for "Fear of missing out."  I think we all have FOMO attacks every now and then.  I remember as a kid, having to go to bed while my parents had friends over.  I'd lie in bed, listening to their muffled laughter downstairs, wondering what fun I was missing out on.  Sometimes, I've gone to events I wasn't particularly interested in, just because I feared that something interesting would happen, and I'd miss it.

Scarlett's been a real trooper.  Though she knows she's missed a lot of fun things in the last 2 weeks, she doesn't complain about missing school or swim lessons or Sunday School or Kids' Club.  But I think I've got some FOMO on her behalf.  I wonder what her class is doing each day, the things they giggle about, the routines they're getting used to while she gets better acquainted with Elmo and Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.  I wonder which kids will be her friends when they finally get to know her.  I know in a few weeks, this frustrating fortnight will be just a distant memory.  I pray she returns to health very soon, because I can't wait to hear the stories she'll have to tell of all the new friends she's making at school.  And after she's back at school, I can deal with FOMO for different reasons.  :)

Best-laid plans...

"The best-laid plans of mice and men oft go astray."  Incidentally, that's from a Robert Burns poem called, "To a Mouse."  That's right, you've come to the right place for useless trivia.

As long as I'm on useless trivia, here's more.  We learned in a tour of London, that long ago, when folks were condemned to death there, they were put on a wagon to be delivered to the site of their hanging or beheading.  On the way, they were allowed to get off the wagon to enjoy one last alcoholic beverage.  If they rejected their last drink, the guard would shout to the driver, "This one's on the wagon!"  So apparently, the terms, "on the wagon" and "falling off the wagon" come from that colorful time in British history.

But back to the best-laid plans.  Parenting has taught me that best-laid plans oft go astray.  You buy a kid a fancy toy, and she'd much rather play with the box.  You put your baby in a fancy dress to show her off, and she poops through it all, causing you to put her in a stained sleeper from the diaper bag.  I've spent the last month trying to quickly get used to the idea that Scarlett would be in school full-time this year, rather than just during the mornings.  It's been a little tough.  But I finally came to accept it.  I prepared myself, so I knew exactly what to expect.  So Monday night, I went to bed, prepared to get up early, get Scarlett dressed in her new school outfit, take her first first-day-of-school picture on the porch, standing next to her sister, then I'd take my baby to school for her first day, after which I'd cry, then I'd go to work.  But best laid plans...

Scarlett woke up 10 minutes later, gasping for air.  She was crying and sort of croaking, and we couldn't get her to settle down.  We did the hot steam thing, but in the end, I took her to the ER at 10:30 p.m.  By the time we arrived, she had settled down, though her breathing was still labored.  The ER folks were wonderful.  They gave her several treatments, and she was finally able to breathe without so much difficulty.  The Dr. said it was probably the croup.  What?  Other than a slight sore throat before bed, she'd been fine.  The Dr. said it can come on fast.  "Fast" is an understatement.  So as they treated her, I watched the clock hit 11:00 p.m., 11:30 p.m., 12:00 a.m.  And I started to see my best-laid plans unravel.  Even if she was all better by the morning (highly unlikely), she would be much too exhausted to go to school.  It started to hit me that the first-day picture wouldn't be what I expected.  Sierra would again stand solo on the porch, while Scarlett's new outfit still hung on her closet door, her new backpack hung on the coat rack, and Scarlett laid on the couch.  I'd have to explain that she would miss the first day of school, I feared her disappointment, and I realized my disappointment that there would be no first-day-of-4K stories that night.

But in the end, everything went okay.  Scarlett spent the day healing, and Sierra had a great first day.  My expectations and plans had gone astray, but as they say, "Life is what happens when you were making other plans."  And today, Scarlett stood on the porch in her new outfit, her new backpack threatening to topple her little body over, and a big smile on her face.  When her teacher came outside to get her class, she jumped up and down with excitement.  I think her first day will be even better than she expected, because she had one more day to get excited about it.  And maybe it's easier for me, since I had one more day to prepare.  So now I need to figure out how to spend some extra hours in my week.  But I don't think I'll make any firm plans soon, because we know what happens to those.

Maternal angst

I tend to be a pretty laid-back person.  I don't typically stress about things I have no control over.  Erik has been through many tests with his 2 bouts of cancer, and my natural philosophy for awaiting results is, "I'm not going to worry about something until I know there's something to worry about."  The words, "But what if..." don't bounce around my head very often.  My Grandma Dorr was a champion worrier.  While we climbed trees in her yard, she'd warn, "You're going to fall!  I can't even watch!"  I think we were less worried since she was a nurse, and Grandpa was a doctor.  I can still hear her famous warning, "Don't lie down with gum in your mouth!"  And if we had to drive in snow, it was better to just not even tell her, or she'd worry until she heard we got there safely. 

Before you start thinking Bob Marley supplies the soundtrack for my life ("Don't worry about a thing, cause ev'ry little thing gonna be all right..."), you should know that there are exceptions to my no-worry policy.  There are times when I'm totally susceptible to maternal angst.  This upcoming school year has rendered me a melty puddle of Mom jello.

We were expecting Scarlett to be in 4-year-old kindergarten 5 half-days a week.  But it turns out that since they offered a full-day option, almost nobody wanted half-days.  Since she was already counting on going to Sierra's school this year, in the last month, I've had to get used to the idea that she'll be in school all day, a year earlier than I was prepared for.  It's been hard.  I know she'll do fine.  I'm just not sure I will.  Other than missing her joyful energy and her quirky sayings, I think I'm facing a bit of an identity shift.  I've worked 1/2 time since we've served here, largely so I could take care of our children better.  And now they're both going to be in school time.  What am I now?  A half-time pastor and half-time bon-bon-eater?  I have plenty to fill my time, but it's going to feel odd.  I may actually miss saying, "Eat over your plate!"  What will I do without the constant plea for snacks?  I may have to watch Playhouse Disney after she goes to school, just to ease the withdrawal. 

Sierra is eager to begin 3rd grade with the same teacher and many of the same classmates she had in 2nd grade.  The main difference - her class of 18 this year includes only 4 girls.  While that sort of ratio is great if you're a girl looking for a prom date, it's not great if you're looking for a wide assortment of good girl friends.  Sierra's a bit upset.  Her best friend from last year has moved to another school, and another friend will be in a different class.  There are several great boys in her class that she likes just fine, but girls like to have girl friends at this age.  I'm worried.  Girls can be petty and cliquey, even in 3rd grade.  And when there's only 3 to choose from, there's bound to be some problems.  I just want her to have a wonderful experience in 3rd grade, but I keep imagining all the afternoons when she comes home in tears because she was excluded by the other girls, or somebody said something nasty to somebody else.  Sigh.  I know she'll have a great year, but my maternal angst is working harder than it needs to.

I wonder if Bob Marley ever wrote a song for parents to listen to during the first week of school.  Parenting sure ain't for sissies.    

Childlike excitement

We're on excitement-overload right now in the Jelinek household.  Unlike many other school districts, school here won't be starting until after Labor Day.  So the next week and a half seems like an eternity to our girls.  Sierra will be going into 3rd grade and will have the same teacher she had last year, which she's overjoyed about.  She begs to go to the Farmer's Market every Saturday, in hopes that we might run into her teacher there (which we have).  Scarlett will be going into 4-year-old Kindergarten, at Sierra's school.  She's super-excited about being at the big school with the big kids, and though she hardly knows her teacher, she's already drawn her several pictures, making sure to scrawl her teacher's name on the bottom of each.  By Sept. 3, her teacher may have enough Scarlett masterpieces to wallpaper the whole classroom.  This morning, she drew her teacher a crown and demanded that I cut it out so her teacher could actually wear it.  Oh, to be so adored.  :)

There are times that our daughters get so excited about something - an activity, seeing someone they adore, going on a trip, that they simply can't contain their excitement.  They have to do a little dance, sing, squeal, and repeatedly ask, "How much longer?!" just to manage the overflowing excitement.

When is it that we adults lose that sort of excitement?  And why do we lose it?  Perhaps in our teenage years, we think it's uncool to be excited about anything.  Maybe as adults, we figure we should be beyond such childish displays of excitement.  In high school, I remember learning about Stoicism.  I'm sure I missed a lot of the main point of the Stoics, but at the time, I thought it was a pretty smart way to live.  Better to hide your emotions than to let the world see your vulnerability.  I decided to try being stoic.  

I wasn't particularly successful, and I'm glad.  I know now that my philosophy was full of crap.  Why is it better to mask one's excitement?  What good does it do us to hide our pain?  As humans, we need to express our emotions.  We need to feel excited about things.  Showing excitement isn't childish.  It's child-like, and I think it's perfectly okay (and often desirable) for adults to do childlike things.  It keeps us young and helps us appreciate things in our lives.

I must confess that I still get that overflowing excitement feeling sometimes - anticipating a trip to Disney World, the beach or other fun places, jumping in a jumping castle (yes, I jump along with the kids), hearing from good friends, seeing joy in my children's faces, and finding that perfect pair of shoes.  I'm not the most expressive person, but my children have taught me the joy of excitement, and I've resolved to let my excitement shine, rather than hiding it under a serious, grown-up façade.

When's the last time you bubbled over with excitement?  There's nothing quite like it.  Whatever brings you joy and excitement, I pray that you feel childlike excitement again, very soon. 

Irishness

Why is it that Americans are a little obsessed with Irishness?  It's true that there are many Americans with Irish ancestry.  We learned while in Ireland that approximately 2 million Irish folks emigrated (many to the U.S.) during the Irish Potato Famine (including my great-great grandparents). But St. Patrick's Day's is hugely popular, not just for those with Irish ancestry.   I'm not sure many people even think about St. Patrick on St. Patrick's Day.  I think Americans appreciate the Irish spirit - their spunk, their wit, and their love of a good "spirited" celebration.  I mean, these are folks who commemorate loved ones' deaths, not just with solemn reception lines at funeral homes, but with beer and toasts to the deceased.  Guinness, anyone?

I've always enjoyed Ireland for its incredibly green beauty, in addition to how friendly and entertaining its people are.  It's a place that doesn't take itself too seriously, and I appreciate that.

It's Irish Fest in Milwaukee this weekend.  If you're not familiar with Milwaukee festivals - there's a large festival grounds right on Lake Michigan, where they host not just Summerfest (a huge music festival each June-July), but various ethnic festivals, including Irish Fest, Festa Italiana, Bastille Days, Mexican Fiesta, German Fest, Indian Summer, etc. 

Since 2 weeks is a long time for us to be away from all things Irish, we decided to go to Irish Fest last night, to get a fix.  I'm quite certain I've never seen so many people wearing green in one place before.  Nor have I ever seen quite so many men in kilts (and we've had family weddings where the wedding party wears kilts).  No, I didn't ask any of them the question going through your minds right now.  Don't ask if you don't want to know.  There were many music stages with various styles of Irish music and dancing.  There were restaurants serving shepherd's pie, Irish nachos, reuben rolls (think egg roll with reuben filling - mmm), sausage rolls, lamb stew, and every kind of Irish beverage you can imagine.  They had Irish games for the kids, a leprechaun village, and a separate tiny turnstyle for leprechauns to enter by (see the picture at the top).  The Irish parade was entertaining, and it featured a couple Scottish bagpipe bands, so I got to experience that part of my ancestry as well.

We met Liam Lynch, a real-life "super-sized" American leprechaun (his words), who initiated Sierra and Scarlett into the Leprechaun Society with a way-too-long oath and secret handshake.  When Liam heard we'd just been in Killarney, he told us tales of his last time there, when he made it to all 11 pubs in 1 night and had a pint in each.  It took him 2.5 hours to walk back to his B&B, which was 20 minutes away.  He said that unfortunately, there weren't any "lepre-cans" on the way back, so he figured that's what all the stone fences were for.  Gotta love the Irish.

It was a fun way to spend an evening.  I'm quite certain not all those present were Irish (including my English/Czech husband).  But for that one night (in addition to St. Patrick's Day), we were all Irish, celebrating the gifts of family, music, storytelling, celebration, and joy. 

On parenting and pastoring

Leaving on Sabbatical scared the crap out of me.  I knew we'd have great experiences, I knew our congregation would be cared for, but I wasn't sure what it would be like to be away from our congregation for 6 weeks.  When I had my daughters, I was away from the office for 7 weeks, but I was still in worship.  So it was interesting to experience being completely away from the worship life of our congregation.

Erik and I had some hopes and fears when we left for Sabbatical.  We hoped folks in the congregation would be welcoming and helpful to the pastor who filled in for us, and my hopes were fulfilled.  We feared that some people would see our Sabbatical as an excuse to take their own Sabbatical from worship, a fear that was probably well-founded.  We hoped we would be missed, but we feared that we'd return to discover that our congregation didn't quite know what to do "while Mom and Dad were gone."

Leaving our congregation for a Sabbatical felt a little bit like the early days of leaving my children with a babysitter.  Of course, I wanted my babies to be with someone wonderful who would care for them well.  But at the same time, I didn't want the babysitter to be SO good that my children wouldn't miss me at all. 

But over time, as a mother, I realized that the more caring people my children had in their life, the healthier and more confident they'd become.  Sure, there have been babysitters who almost make my kids say, "Mom who?" but as I've become a more confident mom, I've become incredibly grateful for them.  I don't want to be a helicopter parent (a hover-mother who is over-involved to the extent where her children can't function without her), so it's essential that my children spend time with other adults, and form deep connections to people other than their parents.  They learn and grow when they spend time with other people who have different personalities, ideas, and experiences than we do.  I will always be their mom, but I feel blessed that they're exposed to so many other people who contribute to their growth.  Because in the end, what I want most for my children is for them to become compassionate, intelligent, grounded, confident, independent young women.  Now, I've got many years before they'll be leaving the nest, but when they do, I want to feel like they'll be mostly self-sufficient, because we've given them what they've needed to grow up into mature, independent adults.

As a pastor, my calling isn't so different.  The goal of parenting is to raise children into healthy, independent adults.  A main goal of ministry is to help raise people into healthy, faithful, compassionate Christians.  Sometimes, it's easy for pastors to become "helicopter parents" of the congregation, causing members to feel like they can't function without the pastor(s).  I know I'm not going to work myself out of a job anytime soon, but I want to continue equipping the saints for ministry, so they realize that ministry is our calling, not just my calling.

The somewhat selfish part of me is a bit happy to say that we were missed while on Sabbatical.  But the more selfless part of me is overjoyed to say that there are some wonderful people who carried on the ministry of our congregation in our absence.  I may be a pastor, but we are all ministers.  I look forward to continuing our ministry together, making disciples, sharing God's love, and serving those in need.  Because none of us can do it alone.  And it's much more fun to work together anyway. 

Worship

In our 6 weeks of Sabbatical, we had the unique experience of having 6 consecutive weekends off.  I wondered how we'd spend our Sunday mornings while we were off.  It would've been easy to stay home, sleep in, or go do something else we can never do on Sundays.  But we also realized it was an opportunity to actually worship together, something we rarely get to do.  And we just might be fed and inspired in ways that we aren't otherwise.

The first Sunday, we worshipped in Savage, Montana, at one of the 2 churches Erik served when he began his ministry.  It's a cute little church in a town of a couple hundred people, celebrating their 100th anniversary, so the sanctuary was packed with worshippers.  It was wonderful to feel the spark of excitement among them, realizing that these faithful families were largely responsible for the century of ministry that church had done in that community.  While they haven't had a full-time pastor for several years, these are committed people who know that even though many pastors and leaders have come and gone in their 100 years, THEY are the Church and will continue to be.

The next few weeks, we enjoyed worshipping at the congregations of some of our clergy colleagues, experiencing different styles of worship and different ways of doing things.  It was fun to sit in the pews, noticing things from that perspective.  I noticed the family with the 3 little girls under 6.  It was 9:00 a.m. on a summer Sunday morning, and they were a little frazzled, but they were there.  It was a full-time job to keep the 3 little ones happy and relatively quiet, but we later heard from others how much they appreciated that family's devotion to bringing their daughters to worship, even in the summer.  We experienced welcome at all 3 congregations, and Sierra experienced 3 different ways of receiving communion.  Every week, she'd ask, "Why don't they just do it how we do it?"  It was nice to broaden our children's horizons, so they realize that there's no 1 "right" way to do things.

While at a conference in Dallas, we experienced a more evangelical style of worship.  There were praise bands with professional musicians and leaders, hands raised in the air, massive screens with fantastic graphics, and the sense that you can't really have worship without music.  In fact, our worship there was almost entirely music, with perhaps a prayer or two.

How different it was from our final week in worship.  We were in Ireland, so we attended a Catholic Church with hundreds of people.  It was as crowded as Christmas or Easter are at most congregations.  The presiding priest welcomed all of us, and we were swept into the liturgy, which was almost entirely spoken by memory, which left us Protestants at a disadvantage.  I was struck by the fast-paced nature of the service.  Prayers spoken together were done so faster than I could keep up with.  When it was time to sit down, I made sure I wasn't going to sit on any children, but by the time I actually made contact with the pew, I was about the last one to sit.  They stood up as quickly as they sat, as it turned out.  I surmised that the Irish must have better knees than us American Protestants.  There wasn't a single musical instrument used in that service.  The 1 hymn and few sung pieces of liturgy were led by the priest, and the congregation chimed in when/if they knew the song.  It was fascinating to be surrounded by so many voices that have been joining together in that beautiful church for hundreds of years.

Today is our first day back from Sabbatical.  We're preparing for this weekend's worship services.  And as we do, I think my mind has been opened again to what it's like to be in the pew.  I hope to lead worship better after our breadth of experiences, and I can't wait to be in community again with all the people we've served with for nearly 10 years. 

Ireland Part 3

Ireland, Part 3.

There are a number of things I've truly enjoyed while being in England and Ireland - too many to count, really.  I love listening to the various accents - English posh, English cockney, the lilt of the Irish accent, as well as the many accents of other travelers.  It's been really interesting to be in places with people from so many different countries.  I think while we were at our B&B in Killarney, there were people staying there from Israel, Switzerland, Poland, and Canada.  I heard a lot of German, Italian, and Spanish spoken.  And, as I've often heard, almost everybody else in the world speaks multiple languages, while we Americans look at foreign immigrants with disdain if they speak English with their own native accent.  Learning another language is not easy, and I have the utmost respect for people who try.  I appreciate knowing some Spanish, because it helps me pick up bits of Italian and French, though pretty poorly.  Then there's Gaelic, which looks and sounds like nothing I can identify.  Thankfully, almost all Irish folk speak English.

One thing I've missed a great deal is the absence of any sorts of clocks in our hotel rooms.  We're in our 4th hotel in 8 days, and not one of them has had a clock of any kind.  It's a bit disorienting. We wake up, having no clue what time it is, and if we need an alarm to wake up, we generally set our phones as an alarm.  I've wondered why alarm clocks aren't standard issue in the British Isles places of lodging, and I suppose I can only come up with 1 answer.  Time simply isn't the addiction that it is for many of us Americans.  The hotel staff probably figure that we're "on holiday" - what do we have to get up for?  While I still haven't gotten used to having to turn on my Kindle to find out the time in the morning, I have started learning to chill out a little bit.  So what if we wake up a half hour later than yesterday?  As long as we don't have a flight to make, we'll be okay.  So it's been a good exercise in truly relaxing, and letting the time take a backseat to enjoyment and experience.

Don't get me wrong - I'll be very excited to get home.  I miss being at restaurants where you get a glass of water without even asking for one (and conscientious waitstaff who constantly refill your glasses).  I'll be happy to return to "bathrooms" and "restrooms" instead of the somewhat crass-sounding "toilets."  I'll be happy to only have 1 country's currency in my purse, to avoid the embarrassment I had today of trying to pay for something with British pounds, when it required Euros (the currency in most of Europe, and in Ireland).  I know Erik will be happy to return to wider roads, which easily accomodate 2-way traffic, in addition to driving on the right-hand side again.

But I'm so grateful for this experience, both for Erik and me, as well as for our children, for whom this was a whole new experience.  I'm sure I'll have lots more to share.  Thanks for joining us on our Irish journey.  Now it's back to London, then back home again.  I can't wait to have some fresh sweet corn.
 

Ireland Part II

Part II

I'm not sure any of us have slept as well as we did our first night in Killarney.  The windows were open, the cool country air was refreshing, and frankly, we were just wiped out.  We began our second day by touring nearby Ross Castle - a castle built in the 1400s that was largely destroyed over the centuries, but has been lovingly restored in the last 30 years.  We learned that a whole family would typically sleep in 1 room in the castle - the parents in a bed, and the children, servants, and other family members, on the floor, lying perhaps on a thin bed of straw.  The parents would usually sleep sitting up, because they had a hard time breathing while lying down, due to all the smoke in the castle, from the primitive heating system - fireplaces and braziers.  Pewter dishes (tin + lead = pewter) were very fashionable at the time, but what the castle-dwellers didn't realize was that the lead in the dishes was slowly poisoning them.  So if the smoky air didn't get 'em, the trendy dishware would.  On the 3rd level, there was a "toilet."  It was a 4-foot-long opening on a ledge, where up to 3 people could sit and do their business at the same time.  Charming.  Even more charming was the fact that the fumes from the primitive privy would often come back up the chute.  But the residents used that to their advantage, hanging their clothing in the hallway, knowing that the ammonia odor would kill any lice hanging onto their duds.  Clever, huh?

In the afternoon, we drove to the village of Kenmare, which is on the Kenmare River, which is more like a long bay that leads to the Atlantic.  We took a seal-watching cruise with Captain Ray.  We thought it would begin at 3:00 and would be done by 5:00.  In actuality, it began more like 4:15, and ended around 7:45.  It was a rather late dinner, and late night for us early birds.  But we learned a lot on the cruise, and we got to see wild seals in their natural habitat, at incredibly close range.  They were stunning.  Baby seals were born about 3 weeks ago, so we could observe the mamas teaching their babies and even nursing them.  If ever I needed a telephoto lens, it was then.  We could see well, but the pictures we took don't do them justice.

Though we'd dressed for the cool sea air, we were chilled to the bone by the end of the 45 minutes that we watched the seals, so Captain Ray's crew brought out coffee, tea, and "medicine" for the grown-ups.  No, it wasn't Irish whiskey - it was something more Jamaican, with a good seafaring name.  Never had tea with rum, but since I'm not a big fan of tea anyway, the rum certainly helped.  We had some cookies (very needed at such a late hour with no food served), and somehow Scarlett also found the sugar cubes meant for the tea.  Let's just say she had more than 1 lump or 2.  She probably could've pulled the car back to Killarney on her sugar high.

So that was Day 2.  Quite the adventure all around.

Ireland Part 1

I write today from the living room of a lovely Irish family - Maureen & Paudie Donovan.  We've been staying at their B&B which probably accomodates at least 15 people.  The property is just outside of Killarney, right by Killarney National Park, and it's a riding stables, in addition to a B&B.  They have 3 puppies in the barn, 2 pigs, 5 rabbits, 3 goats, a couple ponies, lots of chickens, 1 sheep, and probably a dozen horses.  It's a wonderful place.  Our daughters have so enjoyed visiting the animals.  Each morning, we're served a traditional Irish breakfast - Irish bacon (like Canadian), klonakilty sausage, fried egg, grilled tomato, and toast.  It's a pretty traditional breakfast in England as well, except you might get some baked beans as well, to get your day started off with a bang, I suppose.

We arrived to a great amount of rain, even by Irish standards.  They went nearly a month without much rain, but the last 2 days had made up for it with non-stop heavy rain.  Maureen was rather weary of the rain by the time we arrived.  But in our first outing, the rain stopped for a bit, and there was a beautiful rainbow over the city.  Welcome to Ireland, indeed.  I didn't find a pot of gold or a wee man, but then again, those leprechauns are sneaky, knowing that we're always after their Lucky Charms. And why wouldn't we?  They're magically delicious.  We've seen several rainbows since we arrived - probably more than we'd see in a whole year anywhere else.

That first night, we checked out some of the shops in Killarney, particularly looking at the beautiful sweaters Ireland is known for.  Erik and I spent a night (and a bit of money) on the Aran Islands 11 years ago, a remote location where cars are not allowed.  It's a  region known for its sweaters and for keeping up the traditional Irish way of life, speaking mostly Gaelic and doing a lot of things the old-fashioned way.  We're not going back to the Aran Islands this trip, but I definitely wanted a sweater from there.  After eating a bit of "pub grub", we explored a waterfall not far away from our B&B.  It was simply stunning, and a great uphill hike to burn off some calories.

I'm sure I'll have more Irish adventures to share soon.

Ireland-bound

Another day in London almost gone.  How time has flown.  Today we Tubed-it to the Tower of London to hang out with Beefeaters and ogle the Crown Jewels.  If any of y'all are thinking of coming here for such a sightseeing trip, take the advice of our pal Rick Steves and head directly for the Crown Jewels first.  We got right in, but 2 hours later, the line was hours long.  I'm quite sure that even the Bedazzler-addicted have never seen quite so much sparkly bling as is housed in that place.  We took the tour with our appointed Beefeater, which was bloody, funny, and entertaining for adults. Scarlett wasn't a fan of standing still in a mob of 200 people, and Sierra kept saying, "Tell my WHY you think this is funny."  No, beheadings are not particularly humorous, but the way that he told the stories of those who lost their heads, often was.  The moral of the story - don't cross a medieval king of England.  Period.

After a quick stop to see Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, and Westminster Abbey closer-up (from the outside), we returned to our hotel to repack our things and to catch a bus north.  Tomorrow morning, about the time y'all are going to bed, we'll be waking up to get on a plane bound for Cork, Ireland.  Since we're flying out of a smaller, more remote airport, we opted to stay overnight nearer to the airport.  Won't make 3:15 a.m feel much better, but it will reduce our travel anxieties a bit.

Erik and I went to Ireland about 11 years ago.  I think it's still the favorite place we've ever been.  It's just so green and lovely and peaceful.  We're hanging around the Irish countryside, avoiding the hustle and bustle of the big cities, because that's what we've found to be the most refreshing.  We'll watch Erik get acclimated to driving on the wrong side of the road (and car) again, we'll see lots of sheep, and we'll just breathe in the beauty of SW Ireland.  It'll be an entirely different trip with our daughters along, but I feel certain that they'll enjoy more space to run and play.  And Sierra needs to practice her Irish accent, since she feels she's mastered her British accent.  :)

As an aside - the other day, Sierra turned on some BBC station, and The Smurfs were on.  She watched the show for at least 5 minutes, and when I said, "Are you really watching The Smurfs in German?" she said, "No.  I don't think so.  Wait...well, maybe."  I'll just chalk it up to being tired.  Or maybe she innately understands Deutsch.

I'm so looking forward to being in the country where our souls have felt at rest before, with 2 kids who might not give us rest, but they do give us joy.

Top 10 Random Thoughts on Great Britain

- I can't look at one of the trademark London red phone booths without getting Maroon 5's "Phone Booth" stuck in my head.  Thanks, Adam Levine.

- I love that baked potatoes in Great Britain are called "jacket potatoes."  

- I'm thankful that many street corners have the words, "Look Left" or "Look Right" painted on the pavement.  Foreign pedestrians like ourselves need all the help we can get, trying to figure out from which direction crazy drivers may potentially maim us.

- I simply cannot hear a Scottish accent without immediately saying, "There is a piper down!" (in a Scottish accent and under my breath, of course)

- I get that fries are called "chips" and that chips are called "crisps," but I'm sorry, I still like ketchup with my chips/fries, even if it makes me look like a tacky American with no culinary sophistication. 

- While on the subject of dining out, I don't quite understand why it's more expensive to "Eat in" than to "Take away."  Are we that much of a nuisance sitting in their restaurants, as opposed to taking food out?  Even fruit at cafes is marked up if you plan to eat it there.  Perhaps it compensates for a lower expectation of tipping.

- I also don't understand why it's necessary to flash the yellow light along with the red light to alert drivers that the stoplight is about to turn green.  Perhaps Americans are better at anticipating the green (by going several feet into the intersection while still on red) than Brits are.

- I don't mind "minding the gap" at Tube stations.  The Tube is truly excellent.  

- If I haven't walked enough this summer, I'm making up for it this weeks.  Calves of steel, coming right up.  Sorry, I should say - calves of steel, coming straight away.

- I'm addicted to Lion candy bars.  It's a good thing they don't sell them much in the U.S., or I'd eat them every day.  As a matter of fact, instead of blathering on, I think I'll have one now.  Cheerio!

Greetings from London!

Greetings from jolly olde England!  I had hoped to blog sooner, but our internet has been a little iffy, and who has the time with all we've been doing?  

On Saturday evening, the 4 of us boarded a Virgin Atlantic plane and were wowed by their wonderful  hospitality.  Earplugs, eye mask, blanket, pillow, toothbrush & toothpaste, pen, and the longest, brightest red socks I've ever seen.  We were served complimentary drinks (even spiked ones), as well as dinner and breakfast.  A far cry from the airline we flew the day before, where soft drinks were $3, and I have no idea if they'd actually give you the whole can.  The girls were delighted that they got their own TVs and had a huge selection of shows and movies to enjoy.  I'm sure they'll be even more excited on the way home, since they'll be awake for that whole flight.  I think we all slept for a couple hours on the plane.

Our first day in London began with an accidental tour of the Paddington area, as we searched for our hotel.  After being turned in the right direction, we arrived WAY too early to check in, but hey, a girl can hope, right?  We left our bags at the hotel and went off to explore nearby Hyde Park.  There was a playground right at the entrance, so the girls had fun there.  We checked out the beautiful fountains of Kensington Gardens, and found a place for brunch.  After Scarlett nearly fell asleep in her fried egg on toast (not a big fan of the yolk, as it turns out), we were able to get into our hotel room to nap a bit.  God is good.  :)

Jet lag hit us around midnight, when we all woke up for an hour or more.  I felt like we should've had a jet lag party or something, but I found myself without any refreshments.  Where are tea and crumpets when you need them?  

Monday was a gorgeous day, the perfect day for a double-decker bus tour of London.  We saw many of the famous sights - Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly Circus (which to Scarlett's dismay, has no acrobats or elephants), Big Ben, the Globe Theater, the London Eye, and Buckingham Palace.  Monday evening, Erik and I went to see Rock of Ages, which was a fabulously fun show in a theater completely devoid of air conditioning.  It was probably 70 degrees outside but at least 85 in the theater, which made it a little less pleasant.  But they still rocked.  It's been a very 80's summer, entertainment-wise.  Rad, man.

Today we spent a little time at the National Gallery, viewing a lot of classic masterpieces, which apparently featured far too many naked people for our daughters' tastes.  How does one explain why so many important pieces of art feature nude people?  I told Sierra, "It's because the artist thought they were beautiful," to which she responded, "Well, they were wrong."  

Finally, we spent a little while at the British Museum, which could fill 3 days on its own, but mega-crowds, overheated spaces, and tired children kept our trip short.  We traveled through ancient Egypt, Ancient Greece, Ancient Rome, and a number of other ancient things, in roughly 30 minutes.  30 minutes was also roughly the amount of time we then spent waiting to use "the loo."  We did get to see the Rosetta Stone and some Egyptian mummies in our time there, so we were pleased.  Try explaining mummification to a 4-year-old and an 8-year-old.  "They took dead bodies and wrapped them up so they could keep them?  That's disgusting."  Probably.  But they're older than Jesus, so that counted for something.

It's been a good few days.  I hope to keep you updated on our travels again soon.  

Random Observations While Being Stranded at O'Hare

1. Plastic-wrapped toilet seats may be more hygienic, but they’re certainly not designed for bum-comfort.
 
2. The countdown to automatic flushing could be really helpful for Scarlett, who’s always anxious about the unexpected flush.

3.After making a big production of hocking up a loogie into an airport bathroom sink, I’d suggest that you just leave quietly, rather than striking up a conversation about jewelry with your audience.

4. There is an airline that will actually give you a refund if your flight is delayed several hours and you need to get out of it.

5. Grown men should not wear purple Elmo T-shirts.

6. 4-hour delays are much more fun when you’ve got friends to be goofy with.

Mom-in-Training

Our 8-year-old daughter Sierra is a mommy-in-training.  Or a mommy-wanna-be.  She’s always been a responsible, conscientious kid, but after her sister came around, her mothering skills kicked in.  She didn’t try to change her sister’s diapers or carry her around, but she’s always felt the need to take over as disciplinarian when she feels her sister has strayed from the right path.  I’ll never forget the time when I heard, “Scarlett!  Put away your toys.  Now!  One…two…”  By the time I got there, she was on “two-and-a-half,” and I said, “Sierra, why are you counting?”  She said, “Scarlett’s not putting her toys away like I told her to!”  I said, “What were you going to do if you got to 3?”  She wasn’t exactly sure, but I was quite sure she wasn’t able to carry her sister upstairs for a time-out, the typical consequence of “the big 3”, in the few times her actual parents have actually gotten to it.

I can’t tell you how many times we’ve had to tell Sierra to let us do the parenting.  I’ve actually asked her, “Are we that bad of parents, that you feel like you have to take over for us?”  I find it to be a little amusing, because we are neither lazy parents, who don’t discipline our kids for anything, nor are we super-strict parents, who discipline them for every little thing, like Sierra seems to think we should do.  For her sister.  So was she born with this instinct to parent and discipline, even when it’s not in her job description as an 8-year-old?

I think she was born with the instinct to help.  When she was 5 or 6, she declared that she wanted to help collect communion cups at our 11:00 worship service, since we had no acolytes.  So for almost 3 years, we’ve had a pint-sized cup-collector (and often a similarly-sized friend) at that service.  She started helping set up and clean up communion when the scheduled volunteers would let her.  She even helped train a new volunteer, simply because she knew exactly what to do and when.  This past year, Sierra declared that she wanted to host coffee hour.  Now, this is a multiple-hour commitment, which often requires baking ahead of time.  But she was determined.  So two different Sundays this year, she’s been behind the serving counter, her head just a little higher than the counter, making sure worshippers have goodies to eat.

Sierra is a wonder to me.  Where did she get this from?  While Erik and I are both concerned with hospitality and caring for others, we most certainly didn’t encourage her to do any of these very grown-up things.  Frankly, I never thought an 8-year-old would want to be involved in ways that often it’s hard to get adults involved.  But she’s delighted when she gets to help at our church’s free lunch, something even I have rarely done, since I’m committed to other things.  Sometimes I wish she’d enjoy being a kid more than she seems to, but most of the time, I’m just humbled by the maturity and compassion of this child who is proving anew to me that kids aren’t just the future of the Church – they’re the Church already.  Thanks be to God.

Stop & smell the daylilies

Our daughter Scarlett is a character.  She's four (and a half!) and has more energy than the rest of us combined.  She has a creative mind and a vivid imagination.  Her stuffed dog named Martha is often "responsible" for things I was unaware that stuffed animals were capable of.  We often have to threaten to make Martha sleep outside, because we've found that she "barks" at bedtime, which keeps poor Scarlett awake.  Scarlett also has a whole houseful of imaginary animals - Max the dog, Sam the cat, Towerlick the fox, Kuchina the ladybug, and others.  Thankfully, they don't shed or eat much.

It doesn't take much to keep Scarlett occupied.  She's content to tell stories as she runs around the back yard, and she can turn a stick or a box into a whole afternoon of fun.  The problem is, she has so much fun playing by herself, that she doesn't always have time for kids at her school.  If they don't want to play what she's playing, she'll just play with her imaginary friends and have a fun time.  We're trying to affirm her imagination, while encouraging her to learn to play with others.

This summer, she's had lots of time to play with other kids, during her sister's softball games.  There's a bunch of other younger siblings who run around the sports complex, playing together.  There's no playground, and they're not the type of kids to sit and watch the game, so they make their own fun.  I think they created at least 3 different activities with the rocks they found near a walkway.  Granted, one of those activities involved throwing the rocks, but we put an end to that quickly. 

Last night during a game, Scarlett came over for a drink of water, and I looked at her face.  Her whole nose was crazy-yellow.  Did she take a bite of somebody's hotdog and put her nose in the mustard?  Then I realized what happened.  Scarlett's a kid who can't pass up a puddle that could be jumped in.  She hardly passes a flower without smelling it.  And she found the only batch of daylilies in the whole sports complex, stuck her nose in good, and took a big whiff, covering her nose with pollen.  It turns out that pollen sticks on skin pretty stubbornly, so she sported the yellow nose for most of the night.

Sometimes, Scarlett's curiosity and free-spirited explorations get her into things I'm not crazy about.  But more often, she reminds me that there are a lot of things we grown-ups don't take time to enjoy in the summer.  We don't take time to climb trees, catch fireflies, walk barefoot through puddles, or smell the flowers near often enough.  So for the weeks that are left of summer, I've resolved to enjoy some of it like a kid, because it sounds much more fun than just talking about the weather.  So go ahead.  Stop and smell the daylilies.  I don't know if they're very fragrant, but you'll get an awesome yellow nose.

Forgetfulness

Being on Sabbatical, we've had some times of relaxation, times to travel, and times to work on things we wouldn't otherwise be able to work on.  There are some writing/editing projects I've wanted to work on - things I haven't had time for otherwise.  In hopes of being more productive, I've tried to get away from home a few days to work on those projects. 

So yesterday, I drove from Beloit to Cedarburg, WI to visit my parents and to do some writing at their house.  I was more than halfway there when I realized I hadn't put my purse in the car when I left.  I had my overnight bag and my computer bag, but I never grabbed my purse.  Immediately, panic set in.  What would I do?  Turn around and drive 50+ miles to get my purse?  Continue driving and survive without it for a day?  I opted to do the latter, but I've felt a little naked ever since.  Not to mention feeling like a gigantic idiot.  Who forgets her purse on an overnight trip?  Duh.  I kicked myself around the block and back again.

Obviously, this isn't the first time I've forgotten something.  I've forgotten my pajamas or a toothbrush more times than I care to remember.  On one trip to a conference, I forgot deodorant.  I was alone in an hotel far away from convenience stores, I didn't have a car to go to a store, and the temps in that city were going to be around 100 the whole week.  Yikes.  I could just imagine people at the conference sniffing the air suspiciously, then shifting 4 seats away from me in disgust when they discovered I was the source of the odor.  Fortunately, after I settled down, I discovered that the hotel sold overpriced deodorant downstairs, so KC was spared from the B.O. Incident of '11.

I suppose we all forget things.  How bout you?  If you've got amusing "Here's what I forgot" stories, feel free to share.  This little forgetful episode adds to my anxiety, because next week, we'll be leaving on a trip that will actually be 2 trips.  We head to Dallas for 4 days for a conference, and after a night in a hotel near O'Hare, we retrieve our children, repack suitcases, and fly to London and Ireland for 9 days.  What if I forget something at home?  It's a long trip with very different climates.  What if we leave something in the car?  Our kids would freak if we forgot their blankets.  What if we leave something in one of the hotels we're staying at in the next 3 weeks?

The anxious "what-ifs" could easily overtake my sanity in the next couple weeks.  But I'm not going to let them.  I'm going to do something very un-Jennifer-like and get fiercely organized.  I'm going to summon my latent anal-retentive powers, and I'm going to make lists and check them twice and thrice, and then I'm going to say, "Good enough."  There are things I can control and things I can't.  So I'll focus on what I can control, and then I'm going to let the rest go, trusting that things will work out, and God will continue watching over us.  So I invite you to join me.  Think of 1 thing in your life that's stressing you more than it should.  Find creative ways to deal with the parts of the issue that are within your control.  And consciously work to let the rest go.  It may not be easy, but it's so much healthier and will help you learn to "chill out" about things around you.  So as I try to organize, then chill out, I wish you the best luck as you try to do the same.   

Bon Jovi

When I was in Jr. High, we did not have school dances.  We had Polka Parties.  Seriously.  Yes, I grew up in an area with many folks of German heritage, but still, having a “Polka Party” at a public Middle School seemed odd.  We were 80’s kids with pinned jeans, Valley Girl expressions (“Gag me with a spoon” comes to mind), and high altitude Aqua-Netted bangs.  Oddly, I’m not even sure if they ever played polkas at these much-anticipated events.  But by the time I was in 8^th grade, a DJ or a (non-polka) band played these Polka Parties.  My theory is that the principal was concerned about how serious “school dance” sounded, because we were too young for slow-dancing close, so Polka Party sounded more age-appropriate, even if it wasn’t all that accurate.

My 1st Polka Party is my 1st memory of Bon Jovi.  I must’ve heard Bon Jovi songs on the radio before that, but hearing “Livin’ on a Prayer” blaring from giant speakers in my school cafeteria made an impression on me.  My college roommate was a big Bon Jovi fan, so we listened to her CDs regularly and slept with a large “Keep the Faith” poster watching over us.  So how could I not become a fan?  It certainly didn’t hurt that he was dreamy either.  I’ve continued to be impressed with their music that’s continued into this century as well.

For Christmas last year, Erik got us tickets to the Bon Jovi concert at Soldier Field this past Friday.  I’d never seen them in concert before, and it was awesome.  They sound good, look good, and put on a really great show.  As I stood there, I was taken back to all those points in my life – ‘80’s Polka Parties, a ‘90’s dorm room, 2000’s as an adult.  But what struck me most was the age range of the audience.  There were children of the 80’s, like ourselves, which I expected.  There were children of the children of the 80’s, who seemed to love the band as well.  There were parents of the children of the 80’s.  Every generation was well-represented.  It was cool to see the 70-year-old man with his Bon Jovi tour shirt from 1989, and the 6-year-old with his brand-new Bon Jovi t-shirt.  Bon Jovi has been around for 30 years, and they impress me because they continue to put out great new music (not just the greatest hits from the 80’s), and they bring together people from many generations.

Uniting generations that have little else in common with one another is something I deeply appreciate.  It’s one of the things I love about the Church.  There aren’t many places in our culture where young and old come together and participate as equals.  But just as we stood, singing old and new Bon Jovi songs on Friday night, we weekly stand together singing old and new hymns in worship.  And as we do, there is no distinction between young and old, male and female, no distinctions of race or class or lifestyle.  We come to worship God as we are, which is good enough for God.  We unite our voices in praise, breathing as one, being united by Christ, and reminded of God’s grace.

What's Behind Us

If you think this post is going to be a profound reflection on the things that have happened in our pasts, you might want to stop reading now.  You're going to be disappointed.  And possibly a little shocked.  Because I'm writing about something else that's behind us.  Consider this Friday (Eve) Frivolity, if you like.

My children are totally amused by their butts.  AKA - bottom, bum, rear, behind, derriere, hinder (a family fave).  Our younger daughter Scarlett (4) frequently announces that she's got a wedgie in her bootie, and she thinks it's hilarious.  I'm not sure what it is about the posterior that is so humorous, but a lot of our funny moments in this house have to do with that particular feature.

I don't even remember what happened to whom, but one of the girls fell and cried, "I think I broke my butt!"  When I said, "Oh no!  It's got a crack in it!"  Sobs turned to laughter.  Gotta love the classics.

A couple weeks ago, Sierra (8) was in the shower.  We have glass doors, and once the doors steam up, it's fun to make handprints, footprints, and nose-prints on the glass.  And well, you know what came next.  That particular day, she made 2 butt-prints and said, "Look, Mom!  If you make 2 butt-prints, it looks like a butterfly!"  This is an observation I'd previously been ignorant of.  And today, in the shower again, Sierra made her butterfly and said, "Mom, is that why they call it a BUTTerfly?" 

I'll have to Google that.

There's nothing quite as amusing as bath time at our house.  Because neither child can get out of the bathtub or shower without doing "a bootie dance" for the other, prompting her sister to laugh hysterically.  I suppose I should tell them it's inappropriate, but frankly, it's just way too funny.  And they do know that similar dancing elsewhere is not appropriate.

As adults, we try to be more serious and mature about what's behind us.  We sit on it faithfully, but otherwise, we try to ignore it, or we're critical of its magnitude or topography.  But today, I was particularly grateful for my behind, as a slippery floor and gravity got the better of me.  I could've been seriously injured, but thanks to my posterior cushioning system (PCS), I'm fine, other than the aforementioned crack.  And frankly, I thought it was pretty funny (other than a sore toe).

In the last 8 years, I've learned to see the humor in a lot of things that really didn't seem funny before.  My children introduce me to hilarity I'd never see on my own, and I'm grateful.  So, my friends, laugh.  It's healing.  And fun.  And essential.    

Red Shoes

I have not always been a shoe-lover.  For most of my life, shoes were just another piece of apparel that were necessary for everyday life.  And frankly, to this day, I'd much rather be barefoot (as I am at the moment) than to be wearing shoes.  I bought shoes for comfort and practicality.  I never wore a pair of heels until Prom, and I hardly owned even one pair of heels for another full decade. 

Why?  Because I was too tall.  At least in my mind, I was too tall for high heels.  While 5'7" isn't all that tall, in junior high I grew like a weed, passing up all the girls and most of the boys in my class.  Being taller than almost everybody (for a few years) made me very self-conscious and conspicuous at a time when I would've rather blended in.  I had this sense that I was some sort of freak and figured that boys didn't and wouldn't like me because I was too tall.  So, even after my classmates grew and I didn't stick out so much, I still wore my flats and slouched a bit to seem shorter, all the way through high school, college, and seminary.

I regret the time I wasted, feeling like my height was something to apologize for.  I spent a lot of time hiding, rather than being and becoming the person I wanted to be.  I finally learned to appreciate my height in my mid-20s, partially after marrying a man who I'd never tower over, no matter what shoes I wore.  And one day I saw a pair of scarlet-red satin heels (now known as my ruby slippers) and said, "I don't care who I tower over.  I want to wear those shoes."  And so it began.

I loved how I felt when I wore those shoes.  I finally felt like I was embracing the person I've been all along, and not being afraid of letting people see me.  Now, I own at least 3 pairs of red heels, and many other heels.  My shoes have become one way that I express my style and my personality, which isn't always easy when wearing a drab clergy shirt and robe on weekends.  I like being 5'7", and I like the added height that heels give me.  Where once, my height was embarrassing to me, now I find it empowering.  If I can teach my daughters nothing else, I hope I can teach them to love themselves for who they are, and to wear the red heels (whatever the red heels are in their lives), no matter what anybody else might think.