We met our goal! Kids going to school. Hallelujah!!!

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Spring Break, 2013

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Three lunch bags sit stiffly on the counter, their mouths yawning wide like baby birds. I fill them, feeling a bit like the mama bird, though I wonder if mama birds analyze their mundane tasks as much as we human mamas do. 

One kid asks for peanut butter and jelly, and I dig around in the fridge for seedless raspberry jam, her favorite kind. Does the mama bird dig for the best worms the way I do condiments?!

Purpose is more important than need. 

So says Flora, far far away in Kenya. Not just a friend, really. She's more like my sister.

One time, not that long ago, she was a preteen girl in Mathare, who happened to be asked on camera what she wanted to be when she grew up.

"I'd like to be president of the World Bank," was her answer.

My parents, recognizing a fellow optimist when they saw one, took her for her word. They pay for her tuition each term, and pray for her like they pray for their other daughters. Her picture sits framed on their bedside table, right there alongside rosie-cheeked grandbabies. None of Dad and Mom's biological children mind sharing love that multiplies exponentially as it's given, perhaps because we know Flora's need is their purpose. Most of her facebook posts are in Swahili but this one - her personal motto - speaks to me.

Purpose is more important than need.  

I slather peanut butter on bread and consider this. When her needs have been so great, how can she stretch herself to find purpose beyond survival? Self-preservation isn't such a selfish goal, is it? What do I know of self-preservation anyway? Have I ever had to choose between a need and a purpose as she probably has? Is it any wonder she is inspiring to everyone around her, having been refined by these sorts of choices?

But what do you do if the only need you have is for purpose?If these have never been in true conflict?

The mandarin oranges peel in my hands and I pry the pieces into bites, tuck them in to their bed of Ziploc. The sweet smell of orange lifts upward with my prayer, like incense. "Might our kids find purpose, more than need, to move them." In a bit of courage, I pray the same for myself.

I'm interrupted as a little one pleads for hot soup for lunch and I fill a Thermos. Pack a plastic spoon.

These three children of ours - their view of the world is sweet, innocent, picturesque.

I don't feel guilty about this. But I am grateful - oh, so grateful! - as I send them off to school, their heavy backpacks lurching side to side with lunches, clean water, and books rustling.
 
This is a first for me, and them - this morning, school-day rush to find purpose more than need, and to stretch upwards and outwards at an "official" school. The shnookums are in great hands being shaped in wonderful, creative ways.

Here they are after the carpool drops them off.

Real Gil and I are still shaking our heads in wonder as we see the growth our kids are exhibiting in this new learning environment.

What parent would not want this for their kids?

Parents here want the same thing for their children.

Mathare Slum, Nairobi, Kenya.

If you are one of the 600, 000 people to live within this 3-mile square slum (considered one of the oldest and worst slums in Africa), you are no less inclined to want good for your child, just less hopeful of actually acquiring.

My mother's heart can't help but be torn when I consider the odds of kids here in Mathare gaining an education, lumbering to school with full bellies and backpacks.

That's the exciting part though... because kids are beating the odds. Gaining an education. Perhaps more deserving than any other students in the world, the Kenyan students who receive scholarships through Bridge have overcome seemingly insurmountable circumstances and are excelling, planning, dreaming, and leading. Not just academically, either. We are in awe as these students reach out to others around them, seeking tribal reconciliation, spiritual growth, and opportunities to serve.

Here are our current students. Doesn't this picture just shout the truth - we're beating odds!

Andrew and Stephanie Onguka's incredibly consuming task of interviewing our newest year of students - all who are worthy of scholarships! - is almost complete.

 

The applicants are many, the scholarships ready. How do you choose? Though I see this picture of applicants and feel a bit desperate for each of them, thankfully, Andrew and Stephanie know their purpose and do it well. 

I can't wait to meet the roster of chosen students. Already, I am praying for them...and for those who are not accepted too. Can I trust that God takes care of them too?

Today, Mom and I talked on the phone. Well, I talked and she tried not to cry as she saw the picture of this year's scholarship applicants. She reminded me of the story of the starfish on the beach. We might be overwhelmed by the big picture, but we can make a difference for this one, and this one, and this one...

Mom and I - not in the Valley. And not cooking!

So, we are thankful for our own very small purpose here in the Valley.

The shop has officially closed for the season, but there is a check in the amount of  $14,152 written in wobbly, excited cursive from Hallelujah Toffee. That's 100% of our profits. Accompanied with it goes all the enthusiasm, energy, and wobbly purpose of Mom and I, and our amazing team of volunteers.

 

 

Over thirty volunteers helped with the actual production of 1,100 pounds of Hallelujah Toffee this year.  Sales teams, set-up crews, babysitting daddies, logistical support folks, and lots of enthusiastic shoppers made our season the best yet. (I promise to do better with pictures next year! Sorry to those of you who didn't get your picture taken!)

We even had enough to hand some out to our local marines during their Christmas party.

Marine Christmas Party with our "elves" and a wagon of Hallelujah Toffee

As you can see, it may not be certified education, but we are doing our best to include the younger ones in these endeavors.  

So many reasons to rejoice, I think, as I wipe down the counter's crumbs, put away the lunch fixings, throw away orange peels.

Though there are definitely moments when I feel like nothing more than the mama bird (Do baby birds ever stop to say thank you!??), the gift of gratitude - and purpose - is one that can be received whether I am packing lunches, toffee, or suitcases for Kenya.

I pray the same is true for you today. 

Resting Here,

Karen

Hallelujah Toffee 2012

Yes, I've disappeared for a FULL YEAR.

But I have many partially legitimate reasons - the most recent of which is Hallelujah Toffee.

Last year, we earned enough to sponsor FIFTEEN students, all well-deserving potential freshman high-school-age kids who just needed the tuition for school paid. (High School in Kenya is like our college in America.)

First an update: these students are all finishing their first year of high school. Despite the many adjustments and transitions required of them to move from the Mathare slums to their respective boarding schools, they are excelling, just like we knew they would. Here's a few of them...

Reagan was born in 1994. His father died in a boat accident, he was taken in and raised by his uncle in Mathare slums. Despite pain, loss and hardship, Reagan is full of gratitude; his trust in the Lord has been a source of peace, stability and inspiration in his life. He enjoys social studies and hopes to use his gifts and talents to help others. Reagan scored 408 marks in KCPE 2010, becoming one of the top students from Mathare slums. During his years in primary school, he was appointed  as a "Prime Minister" of Mathare children's parliament; he gave a moving speech at the 2010 International Labor organization conference on child labor in Africa, held in Nairobi. With his education at Dagoretti  High School underway, Reagan is currently thinking through different future careers. We have no doubt that Reagan has what it takes to achieve his dreams in life. 

This is Vivian, born and raised in the Mathare slums. Both of her parents died and she along with her four siblings were left under the care of an uncle who lives in the slums. Vivian says that she misses her parents but also grateful for the opportunities she has been given. She says that she feels like she belongs and is encouraged to work hard in her education. Currently enrolled at Chakol High School in Western Kenya, she is adjusting to the new pace of boarding school life, enjoys mathematics, and hopes to become a pilot. 

Gabriel, also known as Oloo, was born in 1993 to a single mother who died in 2000 when he was seven years old. Oloo and his elder sister are the only ones left in the family after their younger sibling died shortly after their mother's death. After all these tragedies, Oloo and his elder sister were left to face the harsh slum life with no one to care for them. They both struggled to make ends meet with no hope in life. Despite the hardships, Oloo has been very resourceful; he graduated at the top of his class in KCPE 2010 exams and was invited to join Londiani Boys High school where he has contnued to perform at the top of his class. [Biographies courtesy of One Life Africa's website. Thanks, Andrew and Stephanie!]
  
There are twelve more inspiring stories where these came from, but I'll try not to be the mother at the grocery store who has the wallet full of school pictures of "her kids," as I refer to them. I'd like to brag on them all day long, but I'll restrain myself.

Suffice it so say, these kids are so far beyond where I thought they would be in one year. So, as exciting as it is to look at their progress over this past year, now we're looking forward to this upcoming year.

Now, we're working on sending them to Term 2 (sophomore year) for the year. The scholarships provided include the students' school fees for the year, all room and board, a summer camp in their off-time, a mentoring program with like-minded adults, and even a small emergency medical fund in the case of a medical emergency for any of the students. (For those of you interested in the financial side of things, the students' scholarships are $1000 for an entire year. This also includes all of their school supplies and a Christmas party.)

So, if you've got a hankerin' for handmade candy, some great Christmas gifts, or business basket fillers, you can purchase it here in the left-hand column or on our website. 100% of our work is voluntary, and 100% of our profits are donated.  Call it a modern-day sewing circle, if you want. We call it the best Christmas tradition of the year!

Resting Here,
Karen

Hallelujah Toffee

We were hiking in "The Ditch" - the Little man and I. And although it felt like we were going in circles, that aimless feeling of mine was only one-sided. He informed me that he knew exactly where he was going, the empty oatmeal bucket tucked under his chubby arm. Inside the vast depths of that cardboard cylinder lay treasures, soon to be deposited in a well-speculated location. Priceless things like bottle caps, two golf balls, one broken water gun, a piece of Trident gum (unchewed), some paper clips, and one of Mom's Gladware lids. It was an amateur "geocache" in his mind and with confident strides, we meandered around the bushes until the Little Man found the exact place to deposit it.


Job done, we walked back towards our home because I had been informed that it was time to draw the map.

An old man soon overtook us on the walking path, our small steps quickly passed by his long and surprisingly brisk stride. He pointed to my son and smiled at me over his shoulder, only slowing a bit.

"Do you know how many of those I delivered?"

"How many?" Was he speaking about kids, oatmeal boxes, or treasures untold?

"I stopped counting at 5,000 babies," he announced, his sneakers firmly planted and no longer moving forward as he spoke.

"I stopped counting at 2. I think I have three or so," I quipped. He didn't laugh, but he did move back towards us.

"I was the only baby doctor between Boise and Salt Lake City..." Somehow, this old man in sweat pants and a golf invitational t-shirt couldn't come back from the past. After regaling me with stories of women delivering twins and breach babies, he meandered like the Little Man on a hike, wandering to topics like malpractice insurance and educational standards and Halloween candy.

When my son's whine to go home and get a drink shook the doctor from his nostalgia, he waved good bye and sped away, his white sneakers squeaking on the black asphalt as he picked up the pace.

I wondered about that number later on. 5,000. That's all I seemed to remember out of our conversation. A number. And I felt bad that the old man wasn't memorable for just being himself, that it was his work that stuck with me.

Then, I wondered about that whole Dr. 5,000 thing. How do you deliver that many babies and still feel the marvel of each baby? Each forming life? Surely there were days when the work was drudgery, not awe. When mothers came for checkups and nausea complaints and it all just blurred together, and Dr. 5,000 just wanted to get home to barbecue or watch Sportscenter. Did the reverence of new life give way to monotony somewhere around 3,200? It's the thought I have had with every prenatal exam. It's not because they make me feel irrelevant. If anything, they always try to assure me how relevant I am. But sheesh, really? After delivering that first 1,000 babies, doesn't it all blur together? (It's obvious to you all why I am too jaded to be a medical professional.)

Before I could get too judgmental towards Dr. 5,000, I looked at my own little life. As I lug the baby and diaper bag and purse and siblings with lollipops out of the office, might those medical professionals wonder how I survive another day of monotony, so glad he or she doesn't have to understand my drudgery as he or she goes about another exciting day in the office?

And I wonder if the only thing that keeps it all from becoming a blur is the unique moments, in and of themselves. The treasure walk, the stranger on the path, the child right here in front of me. When there is a face to it all, suddenly it is so much more than a number. I'm not sure which number our children were in the long line of baby deliveries our ob/gyn had racked up, but we sent them a baby announcement for each of our children. Because they were ours, and that was something to shout about!

Perhaps because it's the individuals that make the day-in-day-out life suddenly pop with...well...with life.

Other numbers are resonating in my head today - it's the curse of loving numbers mixed with a little obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Thirteen stairs to the bonus room. Four fingers tapping seems so much better than when you try to throw the thumb in there to make five.

In the overwhelming fight against poverty, numbers like 27 million (the number of people living as modern-day slaves) or 26% (the percentage of people worldwide that live in extreme poverty - this is an improvement from 52% only 30 years ago). These numbers don't really make sense to me. If I'm supposed to be encouraged that only 21,000 children die each day from preventable causes instead of 40,000 (the rate in the 1980s), it's still such an unfathomable number.



Until you put a face to it.

Suddenly, you can never lose count, even after 5,000...because they have faces and stories. Life beckons with something more than a number.

Number 15 is Benard, and he is our family's newest member.



So, he's no longer just Number 15. He's ours. My kids talk about him like he's a brother living in another state, they pray for him at night, we write to him when we know he can receive an email.
He tells us to be careful of the bears in Nevada!

An orphan living in the Mitumba slums of Nairobi, there was no hope for this sixteen-year old. With good school records but no funds or family, Benard was certainly facing insurmountable odds.

Picture taken by Greg Burns, Nairobi, Kenya.

Odds - those funny things. Another math term I love, or hate, depending on the context.

In this case, though, odds could not predict what would happen to Benard. God Himself intervened and Benard is now in a boarding school, all food, books, and other necessities supplied. There is a tidy amount of money available if he should have a medical emergency. There is a bi-annual summer camp held where Benard sees friends in the program, and sees life outside of the congested city. Perhaps best of all, Benard will soon have legal guardians, the closest thing to parents he has had in a long time. And not just any legal guardians. These two.


Andrew and Stephanie.

While Compassion International must draw the line somewhere and stops sponsorship of children after the eighth grade in Kenya, Bridge Ministries now comes alongside and sponsors these older at-risk and orphan kids who would otherwise be left behind.

For many years, we have watched Andrew and Stephanie prepare for their God-given mission to these young people. And we have prayed as Bridge Ministries came alongside to support them.

But I have felt a bit powerless. I'm a stay-at-home mom. My income for the year - $0. When your heart is so moved by something, and you have very little power to help, sometimes you almost wish you didn't even know about it.

However, this year might be a little different. Finally, I think there might be something I can do. And maybe you can too!

My family has a secret toffee recipe that we love to stir up at Christmastime. This year, we are selling it, and all of our profits will be going to OneLifeAfrica. Hooray! For every 70 pounds of toffee that we sell, one more student will get food, education, school supplies, mentoring, even summer camp.

If you are local and would like to help, you don't have to have a large bank account to be a part of this. The goal is not to just make money for these kids, but to spread the message.

• Come pack toffee on October 29th or November 5th (email me for location and confirmation).
• Come out and buy some toffee at the Minden Gazebo Lighting and Santa Parade (Dec. 2-3). Or the Douglas High School Craft Fair (Dec. 3, 9-3). We are selling Hallelujah Toffee in 1-pound and 1/2-pound sizes. Check out hallelujahtoffee.org for more information.
  
• Throw a Christmas party and offer toffee samples. Tell the story of what we are doing. And if anyone wants to be a part of it, they can throw their own Christmas party or purchase some online.
  
• Pray for these students. Their names and stories are listed at OneLifeAfrica.
  

Last week, Andrew and Stephanie came and ate hamburgers at our house. Funny, huh? Next month, they will be in Nairobi and we sat around eating burgers and watching the kids show off for the guests. We talked about Hallelujah Toffee and they smiled big smiles, dreaming of what it might mean for their students.


Join us if you would like.

We love because He first loved us. Such freedom here.

Resting in Him,
Karen

When You Become Twitter Fodder

I know, I know.

I'm a slacker. If you want an excuse, the truth is that I watched movies on the couch this summer instead of writing. It was t.o.u.g.h. All that browsing channels and turning the volume up and down. I'm exhausted just thinking about it.

Not only were my fingers busy with the TiVO remote control, but I was often knee-deep in summertime spontaneity. You should see the mileage I got out of our swagger wagon, and that one endless bottle of sunscreen. [Have you ever had one of those - where you think to yourself, "This bottle can't possibly have any more liquid product in it?" and then, you proceed to lather skin for entire months? I even offered it to a complete stranger at Dollywood when I saw how burnt she was becoming. (Spontaneity gone wrong.)]

The entire summer is a big blur of campfires, cameras, soccer cleats, ice cream, packing, unpacking, packing, unpacking...

And now, just this morning, I gave myself the "Let's get back to normal" pep talk. Then, I went to Wal-Mart.

I should've known that wasn't going to help my odds of normalcy.

Like the Titanic heading out for her maiden voyage, I set out with utmost confidence - predicting that I'd be home no later than 12:30. "Maybe even earlier," I told my husband. A smile and a wave at Daddy and we were off, me and my little three-year old son. Looking back, I wonder if Real Gil knew the disaster coming. How do you stop somebody you love? he must have asked himself...

Settling the Little Man into the blue WalMart seat with ease, deftly steering with one hand while the other held my well-organized 3x5 grocery list, I even rebelled a bit by entering through the EXIT doors, just to be carefree. Then, of course, my not-so-carefree personality took over as I spent a full sixty seconds to swipe germs with that little antibacterial wipe. Or two. Okay, I stole from WalMart. It will not be my last offense. Read on, my friends.

First to the prescription counter, where Little Man smiled expectantly until Maria gave him a lollipop. Then, it was chew toys for the dog...Captain America paper products for someone's birthday party on Saturday...milk, buttermilk, sour cream...candy treats for camping... One by one, I carefully checked items off of my list. I even compared the prices, calories, ingredients. Then, after bagging two perfect little limes in the crowded produce section, I maneuvered my overloaded cart towards the front of the store.

That's when the Titanic metaphor really sunk in. (Har, har!)

The checkout.

I'd like to call it indescribable, but that just won't do in a blog post. So, I'll try my darndest.

Remember that game, Catch Phrase? Let's pretend we're playing a round, okay?

I tip my head to the side, lick my lips, look up, then I look you straight in the eye. "Prolonged... Colossal...Um...Opposite of fast." [Dramatic pause. I lean forward.] "Like doing an internet search on the World Wide Web when my computer screen was blue and the cursor blinked...Like watching Teletubbies indefinitely..."

Oh, I know it! LONG!!? No. Torture?!

The iceberg looms.

I chose a line, diving for one like it was a lifeboat. And the clock ticked. Five minutes later, I was officially late and still four deep in the line.

Oh yeah, this is funny too. I was supposed to be home because - crazy as it seems - 1) my dear husband works in the afternoon. "Puh-lease," I say with a roll of my eyes. "What's that all about? Calm down, boss man." 2) I had a high school girl coming to our house for algebra tutoring. (I included that second one so that I sounded smart.)

Two silly-I-know deadline thingamajigs.

Anyways, for one reason or another, all exterior signs of a relaxed supermom out on the town with her son were gone. In its place was a territorial bargain shopper with a looming deadline and a low tolerance for standing still. A friend of mine happened to be right in front of me in line. I'm pretty sure God put her there so that I wouldn't start yelling inappropriate things. It didn't stop me from glaring at the smart lady in the front of the line with her wad of coupons, all tightly wound together in a knot of rubberbands. I'm pretty sure she knotted those on purpose, so she could unwind them slowly, every twist of her wrist smacking us non-couponers with her sensible thriftiness. "Silly people [smack!] throwing away money with your full-priced Cheerios [smack, smack!]. I haven't paid full price for cereal in 22 years.[smack]"

As the knot came loose and her wad unfurled, large gusts of coupon-fluttering-wind hit my grimaced face. Coupons? Come on, people. Throw money out the window, shower it from the rooftops. Waste it readily. Really, what's more important - you saving money or me getting through this line? I hate to imply that you are being self-ishhhhhh, with your little two-for-one, then double-off with the cloth bags so you get 5% more discount.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a glorious sight. So unassuming, they were, and yet, so enticing. Four blue lights with little numbers on them - 1, 2, 3, 4. All glowing, welcoming me closer like a mosquito near a bug zapper.

Vacant. All of the self-checkout counters. And I'm an optimist. Surely I could slap bar codes across a glowing, red laser beam with surer speed than this line. Waving goodbye to my friend, I stepped out of line and right into the wreckage of my day.

There's that saying: experience is something you don't get until right after you need it. It was sometime around the $120 mark when I realized I might have needed it. Self-checkout means self-sabotage. Obviously, I had not received this diagram in the mail.

Someone sighed rather loudly. That's when I looked up and saw about ten people standing behind me in line for the self-checkout. One of those four "most-inviting blue lights" was out, and my zucchini was not under the Z's in the touchscreen menu.

"Can't you open something else up?" complained one loud voice.

The dear little attendant marched right to me, thank you very much. If anyone was in doubt as to who was holding things up, I'm pretty sure she enlightened them all. She might have even pointed to me and rolled her eyes, but I wouldn't know because I was wrestling with the plastic bag holder.

She promptly licked her thumb and forefinger, and opened one of the bags for me. "Try this trick," she said with a smack of her gum and a smug look on her face. EW. Like I was going to lick my fingers after touching that oh-so-convenient touchscreen dozens of times. Type A, people.

She stepped back and even hollered at the line. "If you have one item only, come directly to the podium."

Left unsaid was, "The rest of you, stay. Balk. Laugh at the silly flibbertigibbet with her 66-cent yogurts. Take pictures if you would like. Twitter away."

I can see her back in the staff lounge still laughing at me, her beehive hair moving in time with her guffaws. "You shoulda seen this freaky lady in my line today. She had the audacity to haul all her junk through my empty line. But I got her good - I brought in that group of fake shoppers we have hidden over in the Vision Center, gave 'em all some foul breath and told 'em to breathe down her neck. If that weren't enough," she chortles, taking time to wipe her blue-lined eyes. "I moved zucchini off the z's and put it under the 's' for squash! That's funny stuff..."

My total climbed steadily, and I've never been more excited about it than today. But the items in my cart seemed to be regenerating, doubling before my eyes. When Beehive Lady came to help me again, I actually suggested, "I'm thinkin' about just paying for what I've already rang up and just ditching the rest." She looked at me like I had suggested a new hairdo, or a bottle of Purell near the self-checkout line. So, I put my head down, like a donkey to the plow.

Evaporated milk $1.04

Lunch napkin $1.62

Kids paste $2.28

When the bottle of toothpaste exploded on the scanner AFTER I had rang it up, I actually looked up for the Candid Camera folks to pop out. Silly me. The only cameras were the ones on folks' cell phones - the ones pointed at me. I swear, I heard a click. If you see me on some bash-WalMart-idiots site, I can explain.

Worse than the idea of a cell phone camera was the unmistakable sound of smartphone typing. I could see the twitters flowing fast, faster than water into a capsizing ship. "I'm gonna drag this lady and her snotty kid to the arcade and make her lick germs." "I'm gonna key this lady's car. Or pop her kid's birthday balloon." Can you twitter the California Howdy at people? If so, they did.

Right about then, my friend from the "traditional" checkout line stopped with her cart to see if she could help me. I smiled at her and waved her concern away. "Oh, nah. I've got it. Thanks anyway..." While the computer slowly garnered its last bout of energy to calculate my ever-growing total, I glanced longingly at her groceries so carefully organized. Cold items in one bag, dry goods in one, produce in another. My groceries were spilling onto the floor, and purple toothpaste oozed down the sides of two plastic bags. I looked over at the original checkout lady and whispered my apologies, like the prodigal son. I may have reached out an empty hand but then grabbed it tight against my heart.

At $257 dollars and 46 cents, I paid. There may have been cheering behind me. I pretended I didn't hear it. My receipt eventually printed and Beehive lady only said, "Stop pulling on the receipt. It's printing as it spits out. Wow! That's a long one!"

Bless her heart.

I'm home now, and in retrospect, everything looks a little clearer. When it comes right down to it, do you think the folks in line are actually thankful for me? I made them all look smart, savvy, shrewd, normal when held so closely against my abnormality. And anyways, everyone likes to complain about WalMart, especially on facebook or twitter. I just gave them more fodder. To that, I say, "You're welcome."

I'm going to bed now, and I'm hoping sleep can get that persistent and boorish phrase out of my mind.

"Unexpected item in the bagging area."

Oh yeah, that's just my self-respect, dripping off the checkout counter. Pshaw. Just leave it there with that coagulated wad of purple 'bubble-mint flavored' toothpaste. Drip, drip, drip.

I gotta find me some coupons.

Karen

Summertime Flurries, Duly Noted

My post title might imply there was snow in the summertime. That's hilarious, just stinkin' funny. Unless you are my family and decide to go camping in the mountains in late June. Then, there's snow on said mountains.


But there are other types of flurries about, these days - the best kinds. There's the flurry of summertime activities, the flurry to pack and unpack swimsuits and sunscreen, the flurry of small, muddy feet in the backyard, the occasional flurry to get somewhere on time. It's all good.


In the midst of our summertime flurries, I've mentally noted to myself a few times, "You've got to blog about this." So, here I am, duly noted.

• I've learned something so deeply Bananagrams-ish this summer that I must share it. Apparently, when Gil and I slap steaks on the barbecue, we are not eating "barbecue." I have come to understand, we are eating "grilled steaks." I officially apologize to all of our southern friends, who have now clarified that my vernacular usage of the word has caused inconvenient drooling and angst when I throw the term around loosely, as in "Come over; we're gonna barbecue." When I slap a pre-made hamburger patty on a bun and call it "barbecue," their faces sag as low as their now-sagging paper plates. Evidently, in those far-distant lands of sweet tea and collard greens, the term "barbecue" is a noun and a verb, as in "Let's eat barbecue - the food I started cooking three days ago and is finally seasoned, smoked, chemically massaged to perfection." Here in the big-sky west, that sounds like you're going to stuff a Weber grill in a hoagie roll and call it dinner. Which is probably what my "barbecue" would taste like if I had to cook anything as long as they cook Southern barbecue. Anyways, enlighted. That's me. And so culturally aware, y'all. Because I've watched Larry the Cable Guy.
  
• One delightful flurry was an impromtu visit to see my only niece, the baby that sleeps and smiles. I'm not even sure she eliminates poop and pee; I think she just sleeps and smiles. Oh wait, I feel a picture-moment coming... Here she is...sleeping.
  

Goody, goody! Want another one? Here she is... sleeping.

• There may be a little jealousy issue going on here, centered around the fact that this little darling sleeps through the night already... and that my children didn't do that until they were twelve months old and I almost lost my sanity and one time, I threw Tupperware cuz I was so tired and I've spent the last five years trying to make my little sister understand how hard the diaper years were and then she goes and has the perfect baby... Sheesh, that'd be so juvenile, to be jealous of my little sister.
  
• Anyways, I did something very, very bad. No use putting it off - here it is. In an intimate conversation - that I'm sharing with the world now - my little sister asked what type of birth control we used after having each of our babies. With sober face and perfect eye contact, I told her that the best method is to just breastfeed your baby. It's guaranteed to keep you from getting pregnant. (Sin, my friends.)
  

• While I'm at it, I might as well confess this month's full-fledged lie. In my defense, my jaw was forced open with some kind of wire scaffolding and there were two sets of fingers prodding, poking, and drilling inside my mouth. At one point, my dear dentist smiled around her face mask and said, "You look great for having three kids. Do you work out?" My options were slim - it was either a nod "yes" or a head-shake "no." Once a week, once a month, once when I lost a kid at the playground and had to sprint around the parking lot - these were not options. So, I nodded yes. And I've felt guilty ever since.
  
• Blueberry muffins are a great idea, unless you're in the midst of dinnertime, chaotic flurry. Then, you forget the blueberries on accident and serve blueberry muffins, sans the blueberries. The worst part was that I didn't realize it until after the meal, when Sugs referred to them as coffee cake muffins.
• My childrens' random acts of kindness continue to amaze us. We shake our heads and wonder, "How did we get such kind children?" Like when we visited some wonderfully hospitable people with a wonderfully beautiful pool. Our son vowed not to pee in their pool. I shake my head, even now, thinking of his amazing aptitude for kindness.
  

• Just tonight, I prepared three kids for an evening bike ride. While priding myself on the forethought to apply bug spray, one anonymous child accidentally let the dog leash go. Five minutes later, with bug spray so adequately applied, we realized Ginger Pye was missing. I threw bike helmets on kids, closed the yawning van door that revealed to the neighborhood how dirty my car interior was, and went hollering down the bike path. Thirty minutes and four sets of vocal chords later, I herded three almost-hysterical children back into our yard. (I was perfectly calm. Unflappable, really.) The two younger ones skipped away to the backyard (hysterical) while something in my eye had me all teared up - unflappable, really. I went to grab a box of Kleenex out of the my swagger wagon when a little, white head popped up in the backseat. I opened the van door to reveal a fifteen-pound ball of fur and quickly took back all the horrible things I had thought about our dear dog that "done run oft: r-u-n o-f-t." She was hot, but unharmed. I was able to calm down the kids, by this time playing in the backyard as I waved to them, "She's fine, I found her. Hiccup." Then, I had to track down the neighbor family that had been helping us search for Ginger Pye and sheepishly explain that I found her...in my hot car with the windows up... Dog owner of the year, thank you very much. I'm just praying she doesn't accidentally get in my dryer.
  
• Last in this flurrious stream of consciousness - do you like that? Like that? Flurrious-s-s-sss - I went to high-five a fellow outfielder during a summertime, co-ed softball game and I did something crazy (or is that cuh-razy, or craze-ayyyy, you cool cats out there?). I kissed him - right there in Centerfield during a church-sponsored softball game. Good thing it was Real Gil, and no one noticed except for the blushing left-fielder. When I realized what I had done, I tried to make a joke about it, saying I had never kissed a guy in the outfield; it was always the infield. Poor guy in left-field didn't seem to get the joke, good church man that he was. Real Gil seemed very unaffected by the whole thing...which makes me wonder if he had already been kissed before in the outfield. Oh well, it was flurries, nonetheless. Butterfly flurries, which is nice after thirteen years of marriage.
  

All in all, you can see that I have been away for too long. The words flowing out tonight have very little filter, as if I have to somehow document every ridiculous thing that has stumbled, sauntered, or slept their way into our lives. Slept? Oh yeah, you want to see a picture?
Anyways, as you can probably tell, the flurries of summer have left me a bit breathless. But not speechless.

Karen

Multitudes on...Tuesday?

106. Late-night and overdue gratitude lists!
107. great-grand grandmother and her great-great-granddaughter, snuggled together in a hug. They lost track of time, like two girls whispering about boys, and came to dinner, still talking about what an outhouse was.
108. clouds surrounding our valley like decadent, white frosting edging a cake
109. hard words to say and gracious ears who heard me out
110. the growing tummy on a miracle mama, one I have prayed for many times
111. three baby robins with their beaks upturned
112. Grandpa who lifted curious kids up to see... isn't this what all grandparents do? Lift children up to see?
113. a date night
114. a summer to-do list
115. a five-year old who conquered the hula-hoop
116. my son who told my mother today, "I pick you, Gramma."
117. impromptu guests who even brought dinner with them
118. the Candyland birthday party that is almost cleaned up
119. stories of school days, wash day, & deliver-cotton-to-the-gin day, told by Grandma G.G. to my children
120. Then, a look forward for this 94-year old woman, who pondered, "I wonder what my mama will look like in Heaven."
121. Weeds - really?!! - that give me the chance to quiet and dig my fingers deep next to my mom's, like G. G. and her mother would have done almost a century ago.
122. Warranty on eyeglasses, and the quick forgiveness of their owner when we broke them
123. Little voices singing to God on Sunday
124. The computer that crashed, and all my written documents with it. "As unto the Lord," I am professing (and hoping to really mean it soon).
125. Lizards - two of them - caught by the cat and rescued by Punkin, freed in the grass
126. Real Gil, who can fix computers that crash and somehow save 5 years of digital photos.
127. A freshly signed Certificate of Completion for Second Grade, and summer break commences!
128. anticipated junk shopping
129. loud chatter around Grandma's post-church Sunday table
130. this thankfulness - can you be thankful for thankfulness? - which is not my own, just His gift that overflows...as always.

Resting Here,
Karen

The Top Ten Most Awkard Moments at a Women's Retreat

I've mentioned Real Gil around here - he's the superhero in my nonfiction life.

But last week, I'm pretty sure he elevated himself to angelic, superhuman proportions, when he willingly shoved me out the door for a weekend retreat at a nearby conference center while he stayed home with The Littles.

Not only did I get a weekend away - that in and of itself would have been ideal.

I got a weekend away, with a group of my sisters in Christ. On a beach. With all of my meals prepared.

And - here's the best part - those women had to listen to me talk all weekend long. Oh yes, 'tis true. (Many of my readers are thinking, "Those women look like superheroes too.")

Could there be a better weekend for an extrovert like me? I'm still reliving my favorite moments.

But there are a few moments I'm still pondering - those inevitable, awkward moments which mark you as a women's retreat attendee.

So, here is my official top ten list: Awkward Moments at a Church Women's Retreat

10. The moment when the speaker strays from her notes: she gets this gleaming sparkle of unplanned, unprepared inspiration and suddenly, the entire audience is wishing their chairs had seat belts. Because surely, in that moment of complete vulnerability while standing in front of a room full of women is a better time to vocalize new ideas than in all of those endless hours of peaceful preparation. Surely, right then, when nerves and pride are waging war with normal digestive processes, surely that moment is a better time to do one last edit, to weave Crayola-colored rabbit trails all over that perfectly aligned outline. Yup. Awkward. (I don't know why this is in third person, except I might not be ready to admit my own awkwardness...)

9. Any moment when women come to the weekend speaker with permission to speak freely, often prefacing their words with gentle pleads that this loose cannon will not say anything about them from the podium. (Not unrelated to Number Ten). One dear friend even came to me to tell me that I had a tag sticking out of my blouse, and that I should cut that out, "but don't tell anyone I said to do it." Poor girl, she thought I'd blast her from the podium. Nah, I save that for the blog.

8. The moment when I somehow got mixed into the Grace Community Church Single's Ministry Retreat and was quickly identified as the wolf in sheep's clothing. "I think your group is in that line," one vibrant and well-rested college-age girl gently pointed to the other registration table. Talk about deflated. It was as bad as last week, when I bought wine at a grocery store and did NOT get carded.

7. The moment when one must decide how colorful to make the salad... and how well you know your roommate. I opted out of the black beans.

6. The moment I realized my hotel room guilt. There was a hike up a hill from our lakefront hotel room to Cabin #46. One step onto the sagging front porch had me silently grimacing at their misfortune. Amidst the charm of their woodsy, rustic cabin, there was duct tape holding a window pane together, bats - yes, bats - in the rafters, and one bathroom for eight people. (And I was afraid to eat beans with one roommate.) "Isn't this cute?" one of the cabin inhabitants said. And that was an awkward silence.

5. The moment my friends realized my hotel room guilt. A dear sister needed a quiet place to nap on Saturday afternoon - after a long wait in line for the one shower and a longer wait for sleep to come amidst the flurry of bats overhead - and our room fit the bill. I walked into the room and saw it with fresh eyes. "Oh, Sum. I'm sorry. I'm sorry this is so nice, and yours...isn't." Awkward.

4. The moment when I put my pajamas on and wondered to myself, "Bra or no bra?" What is more important - modesty or a good night's sleep? Two of the funniest women in the world chose that moment to come visit our room. I explained my dilemma to them, and one of them - an older, wiser woman in her early fifties - said, "Well, that's why I am wearing this bathrobe. All those young, strapping single boys with that college-age group." She added with a flourish. "I didn't want to cause any of them to lu-s-sst." Not so much awkward as just downright hilarious.

3. The rare moments when women all over camp resolved to stop talking and go to sleep. For every extrovert, this is awkward. And monumental.

2. The moment, during worship, when I realized everyone behind our front row had sat down and we were still standing, shaking our hips to the music. The only thing more awkward was that glance over my shoulder and the proceeding look of sheer horror at all the women behind me, staring at my Christian booty shake.

1. The moment prior to me approaching the podium to speak, when I was boisterously singing next to my dear friend, Queen K. She leaned over mid-song to carefully ask an awkward question, all for the sake of sparing me further embarrassment: "Is your wireless microphone off?"

Laughter - good for the soul. As was the retreat.

Resting Here,
Karen

An Array, A Hodgepodge, A Potpourri

Why is there a "t" in potpourri anyways? I'm still bitter about losing that seventh grade spelling bee.

Anyways, here's a mishmash of articles...

• Memorial Day is upon us this Monday. I appreciated this article, which encourages us to not change our plans for the day, but to go into the day thinking through the freedoms we have at each corner, at each hour of the day. Gratefulness, not sober ceremony, is perhaps what these fallen heroes would want?...
  
• I have no idea how this girl can weave God's existence, farts, and the love of a mother for her mentally challenged daughter all into one article, but she does it superbly. Read it and you're sure to giggle and nod in agreement.
  
• A great article from a liberated Christ-follower, on technology... Amen, sister.
  
• Talk about generosity - panhandling and giving it all away. I would gladly do it in Santa Barbara or San Diego, but cold, windy Chicago? Suddenly, I'm not sure I have the gift of generosity.
• I am not crafty enough to know what to do with these cute little free downloads, but some of you are. So, I'll gladly take your ideas and steal them as my own. Heck, that's what I do to Cathe Holden at least once a month!
• Check out what these volunteers did to the church nursery!
• If I had a little motivation...and someone crafty to hold my hand, I would make me one of these. I could make one of these. But I don't have anyone crafty to hold my hand. And whatever you do, don't volunteer or I won't have a valid excuse any longer.

• Sacred Sandwich always has me laughing. It's good for the soul, I say. This one had to be shared here.
• This - a great video for the hopeless romantic... Can I dream of having a son-in-law like this someday?
  

The Overflow

Many, many blessings to list, many I've forgotten that should be here, many that should be repeated every week.

92. Squeals in the grass, and cheap plastic eggs full of candy
93. A voice that held out, and the prayers that
94. piles of books - adventures, travels, nature at our hands, even spelling and language, all awaiting us
95. butterfly cupcakes and the eager lips that were covered in frosting
96. tandem bikes
97. the open road
98. pregnancy stories - all so vastly different and yet, there seemed to be no 'homebirth' or 'epidural' lines to be drawn. What freedom among these sisters!
99. laughter until my jaw hurts!
100. a lakefront weekend that took my breath away - so safe, so "tucked in," and so fun too.
101. this husband of mine that managed kids - perhaps he ended the weekend breathless too?
102. Monday morning - with the gift of established works to be done, all to Him.
103. dress-up clothes and little girls who still imagine
104. creamer, flavored coffee, and goodies all thoughtfully prepared
105. Living from His overflow - perfect rest.

Resting Here,
Karen

The Many But Not Complete Confessions of a Mediocre Motorhome Owner

What do you get when you combine

1 motorhome
2 parents
3 kids
4 helpful grandparents (2 who came in their own trailer and 2 who watched our dog)
5 bottles of sunscreen
6 cases of water
7 tickets to Disneyland
8 bicycles and scooters
9 hours on the road,
and
10 loads of laundry?

The simple answer: you get ten loads of laundry.
The more complex answer: you get three happy kids, two frazzled parents, and two delightful and delighted grandparents.
The sentimental answer: you get priceless memories.
The logical answer: you get one family vacation.
The homeschooler's answer: you get many new experiences and perspectives. And now you're going to win a spelling bee.
The mother's answer: you get ten loads of laundry, and every one of them was worth it.

The father's answer: you get time off of work, long bike rides with your kids, and one great baseball game as a finale.





In a nutshell, we had a great trip. It was a hyper hiatus, but we are home and the last load of laundry has been burned folded and put away.

I am now perfectly qualified to write a book titled "The Many But Not Complete Confessions of a Mediocre Motorhome Owner." It would include honest confessions like "I threw away a perfectly good tupperware because it was easier than cleaning out the leftovers into the trash can." Or this one: "I watched my son pull his pants down and pee on the asphalt...all while an old lady scooped up her terrier's do-do in the neatly fenced 'doggy' area. My dilemma was - do I stop my son mid-stream or do I instruct him to go in the grassy area where the dogs do their business?" Also, I would have to include one confession that distinguishes the Upper Crust motorhome owners from the Mediocre motorhome owners - bungee cords. If you have them just to look prepared, you're Upper Crust. If you have them because it's what's keeping your tenement on wheels together, you are mediocre, but you are tenacious, humble, and good at jerry-rigging. Other confessions? I'd have to admit that I stole condiment packets and one loaf of sourdough bread from a Princess Lunch at Disneyland.


Also, I forgot to empty the lint screen after doing my laundry in the RV laundry room. And we completely failed the motorhome flag test. If you are retired, you hang an American flag outside your motorhome. If you are young and mediocre, you wish you had an American flag to hang but you're too busy hanging beach towels to remember where you put it. If you are an organized and meticulous motorhome owner, you use the outdoor shower to wash off beach sand before you enter your motorhome. If you are a mediocre motorhome owner, you strip your toddler naked, scrub him good, and call it a legitimate bath.

The trip was anything but mediocre, even if we annoyed everyone in the motorhome park with our antics. But whew! It was fun.


After reviewing our pictures, I couldn't resist sharing the best string of photos ever, the ones that had me laughing in bed last night, thanks to our seven-year old Punkin who snatched my iphone and intrigued one curious orangutan at the zoo.

He was definitely interested in Punkin, who even moved away about fifteen feet to give other children a chance to see the orangutan. He followed her across the glass wall.

Then, he stared at her for a while... (Wait for it, wait for it....)

Then, he did this!

And that pretty much sums up our vacation. Goofy smiles all around!