And now for something completely...bizarre

I've been in ministry for 14+ years.  I regularly work with people, which means I regularly see strange things.  Most don't merit storytelling, but I was recently reminded of one particular incident that is too bizarre not to share on an otherwise blah-looking Friday afternoon.  There is no moral or inspiring message to this story.  I'm not sure if I handled it right or not, but it's an incident that I'll never forget.

So it was the Sunday after Christmas, a Sunday when some folks figure the church must be closed, to recover from all the Christmas festivities.  In recent years, we've gone to 1 Sunday service on that day, to make the sanctuary seem vibrantly full, rather than being a let-down after the crowded Christmas Eve services.  Most of our regular ushers were gone, so we were making-do with the few worship assistants we had.  Erik had just finished reading the Gospel, and I was in the chancel, serving as Presiding Minister for the morning.  As the congregation began to sit down, a woman entered the front of the sanctuary and walked right up to him.  He asked if he could help her.  Chuckles came from a few worshippers, assuming there was a skit to follow. 

The woman said, "I'm here to preach!"  Big silence.  Erik said, "Well, today, I'm preaching, but if you'd like to sit down and listen, you're welcome."  Again, she said, "No, I'm here to preach!"  Then my dear husband said, "Pastor Jennifer will be happy to talk to you about that if you just step outside."  Gulp.  At the time, I was a young mother, working half-time, delighting in the fact that my half-time status meant I didn't often have to deal with the difficult situations that arose.  Yet here I was, leaving the security of the sanctuary to meet with this strange, insistent woman.  Alone.  I think when the congregation saw the deer-in-the-headlights look on my face, they started to realize that this wasn't something we had planned.

So I left the sanctuary and met the woman, who calmly asked me how she could get Erik and me booted out of the church, so she could preach.  Not knowing how else to respond, I told her it was a lengthy process, since the congregation had called us to be their pastors, etc.  I was surprised that she was talking about something so absurd in such a calm way, as if she was talking about the weather.  She said, "Can I take it to court?"  I said, "You could try."  She seemed satisfied with that and said, "Okay."  Then she started to tell me about how she'd been murdered the night before, describing in graphic detail what had happened to her.  I wanted to say that she looked remarkably good for someone who had been through all that the night before, though I held my tongue.  "Because I'm Jesus, you know," she said.  Okay.  It was at that time that two dear worshippers left the sanctuary to see if I needed any help.  I'm not sure they knew what we were dealing with, but they kindly spoke to her and listened to her, and she left shortly after.  Police officers we talked to after the incident said they knew who the woman was, and said she's got mental illness issues.

A year later, the same woman joined us halfway through another worship service.  She refused a bulletin and sat down.  During the sharing of the peace, I could see her starting to approach me, so I did the chicken thing and rushed back behind the altar, as if it was my shield from whatever this woman wanted to bring up in the middle of worship.  Oddly, it worked.  She sat down and was quiet for the rest of the service.  After the service, she made a bee-line for me, stood 3 inches away and told me she'd witnessed a murder the night before.  The people surrounding me gasped and looked panicked.  I said, "Did you call the police?"  She said, "No, there's a warrant out for me.  I'm not going to jail!"  I said, "If you call 911 from a pay phone, they won't know it's you, but you could report the murder."  She paused for a minute and said, "Okay.  Can I have a cookie?"  I gave her one, and she left.

I have absolutely no moral to this story, though I suppose it could be, "If you enter ministry, you'll never be bored." 

Pupdate

It's been a long time since I blogged, and I've been reminded that nobody's seen updated pics of the puppy I posted so much about earlier in the year.  Well, here she is, in our favorite "spread-eagle" position.  Do all dogs lie down like this?

Here are some highlights of the last few months.  After Ginger made quick work of chewing up shoes (only one really important one), coasters, pencils, toys, drinking glasses, and many other things, after twice eating her own droppings and refunding them on the carpet (worst smell ever), and after she jumped up on us one too many times, we called a trainer.  He came over for a day and showed us how to use a pinch collar.  It's amazing how well it worked in teaching her to not jump, and particularly, how to walk without tearing our arms out of their sockets.  We saw marked improvements in her behavior within days, though she still had some challenges. 

Once the mounds of snow melted in our back yard, Ginger discovered that in some places, the fence doesn't reach the ground.  And knowing that there's a whole wonderful world outside the fence, she dug out several times, to go visit neighbors, who kindly brought her back.  Soon after that, we installed a long leash, so if she's out there for a long time without supervision, she can't even reach the fence.  Needless to say, this didn't make for a happy puppy.

The other major challenge is an indelicate topic.  But as new parents discover that they can have whole conversations about their baby's poop, puppy-owners find themselves in similar conversations.  Ours weren't so much about frequency or consistency as location.  Long story short, Ginger absolutely refused to do her business while on a leash.  Didn't matter if she'd been walking for an hour or tied up in the back yard in total privacy.  She just wouldn't do it.  Ever. Several times, we had her on the long leash in the back yard, knowing she needed to go.  And as soon as we'd give up and let her in the house, she'd immediately poop on the carpet.  This does not make for joyful puppy-owners.

The good news is that after a few weeks of morning walks with Erik this spring, it seems that she's getting the hang of leash-relief.  She gets richly rewarded for her new skill.  But as she trots along, happily chomping her treat, I wonder if she thinks, "I thought I was being thoughtful by pooping in the yard.  But if carrying my poop in a bag on our walks is that important to you, who am I to question it?"    

In Meowmory of Sheba

13 1/2 years ago, Erik and I got married in my home church in Cedarburg, WI.  After our honeymoon, we drove his truck, filled with wedding gifts, to Conrad, MT, where we were serving as pastors.  On the way, we stopped at a friend's house, knowing that they had kittens they were giving away.  We met a few kittens, and a cute little gray one seemed to like us.  So we added her to our haul and brought her home with us.  Sheba was the first pet that was ever just mine.

She was part-Siamese, which made her very vocal.  Even when she was full-grown, she had a high-pitched yip and would have yipping conversations with me from time to time.  Perhaps thanks to a couple over-excited little girls she met when she was a kitten, Sheba wasn't fond of strangers.  I always described her as "curious but not friendly."  She'd often sniff people, and when they'd try to pet her, she'd decide she didn't want any of that, and would walk away.  But she always loved us, even when we tried to drug her and take her on a 2-day car trip to Wisconsin when we moved here.  The drug only served to slow her down and make her meow sound drunk.  I don't think she slept more than an hour in the car.  It was a long 2 days.  She still loved us, even when we brought screaming babies into the house. 

I took her to the vet maybe 6 months ago, and she had pneumonia.  They gave her a shot and declared her well a few weeks later.  She still coughed occasionally, but otherwise, she seemed okay.  She was less okay when we brought Ginger home.  When she saw our energetic, excited, jumpy puppy, I could see her thinking, "Really?  I'm too old for this crap."  She calmly walked away from the puppy, down to the basement, where she sleeps and eats.  And that's where she's lived, by choice, for the last month.  She's snuck upstairs a few times, and we've brought her up a few times, but she always quietly walks back down to the basement, as if to say, "Thanks for thinking of me, but I'd rather escape the puppy madness."

For the last few days, we've found Sheba in odd places - under our bed, in our bathroom, sitting outside our shower.  Yesterday, we came home from church, and she was more howly than usual in the basement.  Within a few minutes, she came upstairs to the living room, which she hasn't done in over a month.  She quietly laid down on the carpet, and within a couple minutes, she had died. 

The girls and I were shocked.  If she was still sick, she hadn't shown it.  13 isn't that old for a cat.  We talked a little about losing pets and our sadness, and we just held one another for a while.  Later, when I told Scarlett that maybe someday we'll get another cat, she said, "It would just die."  You've gotta love a 5-year-old fatalist.  :) 

Losing a pet is hard.  Sheba's been a part of our family for longer than our kids have.  We have lots of memories of her, from various stages of our life together.  We may get another cat (long after Ginger is better trained and chills out a bit), but it'll never be Sheba.  We're grateful that she was a part of our family. 

We love you Sheba - we'll miss you.

Instant toddler

I am not a dog lover.  I'm more a fan of cats.  I appreciate that cats are independent, can live fine without much help, and that they have to get to know you before they decide you're wonderful.  Dogs are a lot of work.  They make bigger messes, have bigger needs, and they lick and sniff everything, which I've never quite gotten used to.

Erik loves dogs, as does Scarlett.  In fact, we've always suspected that Scarlett was part dog.  She too, would lick and chew anything in her path.  She loves to walk on all fours, and her barks are indistinguishable from real dog barks.  Erik had a yellow lab, Dakota, when we got married.  She was a mellow dog that lived outside most of the year.  When she died about 18 months ago, we knew we wouldn't be replacing her.

But things change.  I could see how much Scarlett would benefit from having her own dog, and I knew Erik would like one.  Besides, I figured it would be good for Sierra to become less afraid of dogs.  So we decided we'd get a puppy after Christmas.  The girls were very excited, and I think their dad was too.  I liked the idea of a cute little puppy, but the pragmatist inside me kept brooding over how much work a puppy would be.

So on December 26, we went to the Humane Society near where my family lives, and we met several puppies.  We finally met "Teddy," a 2-month-old female puppy who was the same color as a teddy bear.  She seemed much more mellow than the other hyper puppies we met.  So she became the newest member of our family.  We renamed her Ginger.  She's part German Shepherd, part mystery.  We've done a little research, and it seems she may only grow to be 25 pounds.  Her mystery ancestors must be much smaller breeds.

I very quickly learned that we had brought a toddler into our home.  We had to start putting things up and away like we did when we had toddlers.  And the nighttime routine was more like having a newborn.  Erik slept on the couch for nearly a week, letting Ginger out at least 3-4 times a night.  Thankfully, she's sleeping a little better now.

Probably the most wonderful discovery in the last 2 weeks has been that Sierra is an exceptional caregiver.  For the kid who was afraid of dogs, she's now fallen in love with ours.  She jumps up to take her outside, she holds her with a smile on her face, and she loves to play with her.  It's been really fun to see how our 9-year-old mama-wanna-be has finally found something to mother appropriately.

I'm still very practical about how much work it will be to own a dog, but Ginger is one of us now, and it'll be fun to see how she grows, and how we grow with her.

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.