Seasoned

I watched a young missionary who was seated on the front pew opposite mine.  His posture leaning toward the older minister who was delivering the sermon from the pulpit. Every now and then the young man would jot a note or two on the page in front of him, then return his gaze to the preacher. The man in the pulpit, the one whose preaching I've been sitting under for almost a decade now, had never before seemed an older sort of pastor to me...until that very moment.

Sure, I've seen him care-worn, tired from studying far too late into the night, weary from a hectic schedule, but until now, it hadn't struck me that he'd become perhaps a little...seasoned?

I wish I could have snapped a picture from my vantage point, my Man in the top left of the frame and the young missionary in the lower right, separated by twenty feet or so and almost as many years. Both men with a call on their lives, both with families of their own to care for and to minister to, and both with God-given faith families to care for and to minister among.

There is much of life that is lived within a span of twenty years.

"Give us this day..." my pastor Man preached that day. This day...these days...time marching with a loud step and shining a bright light on a son entering his teens, a daughter becoming much more a young woman than a young girl, and our two littles, they aren't very little...at all...anymore.

While I was busy gaping, open-mouthed as my children high-stepped in the parade of time, I'd failed to notice that my Man and I are marching in the very same parade. Certainly we aren't stepping as high as the children, and maybe not as fast, and most likely, we are marching to a different drummer...but like our children, we too march with time.

We tease now and then, my Man and I, about growing old, and when we laugh about it, I see laugh lines in his face and a happy sight those are, evidence that joy and laughter have been present alongside of the weariness and wakefulness in his seasoning.

The young missionary asked my Man about his favorite books over a shared meal and I loved the sound of the conversation and the light in the older man's eye. A day later, I too asked him a bookish question:

"What books are you loving lately?"

"Oh," he considered, "I've got quite a few started that I'm really interested in right now. There's the biography of Charles Simeon that I've been telling you about, one on leadership, there's one about overarching story of the Bible and how it all fits together, a prayer book by Bounds, then there's one called The Practices of a Healthy Church, and one on midlife by Paul David Tripp, also---"

"Hang on. Did you say you were reading a book about midlife?" the minister/missionary picture rushing to mind in rich color, "You?"

"Yes, me. It's supposed to be an excellent book."

"Hmmmmm," said I, gazing at the image in my head, "how 'bout that."

And then I told my pastor about the picture I'd wanted to take earlier that morning.

(The first chapter is called "MidLife: A Portrait." No kidding.)

Working Out: What I Know Now...

I was huffin' and puffin' on the tread mill this afternoon, trying to work my jiggles off. It had been a week and a half since I'd last walked. I was headed round the belt at a fairly frantic pace, trying to make up for lost time and realizing how very much this exercise has become a vital part of my days.

Five months ago, my Man actually said to me, "Do you think Meg can handle the little girls for an hour in the morning so that we can go to the gym together?" but what I heard was, "Hey babe, I wanna spend some time with you in the morning, do you think you'd like that?" 


I immediately answered, "Yes, sure. Let's go." Love, to me, is best spoken to me as time. If you love me, you'll be in the room with me, in a conversation with me, looking directly at me, and it would be best if you laugh at something I've said. (Notice all of the "me" in that last sentence...clearly I'm a first born child with issues :-).

The next morning I found myself at the gym on a treadmill beside my Man who was also on a treadmill. I was walking at a lively clip a podcast playing in my ears, he was running at a pace that exceeded 6 miles per hour, listening to music. Every now and then I'd try to tap him on the shoulder to call his attention to something remarkable on the TVs in front of us and he'd grin and nod and run. Hardly date night, but we were in the same room, which is always a plus but not always the norm!

For the first two weeks, Darrin would drive me straight from the gym to the coffee shop and reward me for my efforts, then after he was confident I had formed a good gym habit, the coffee shop trips happened less often, but another reward began to make itself known, and then another, and another.

After five months of exercise roughly two to three days each week, here's what I know:

1. I am healthier. I can carry Molly up the stairs and not be out of breath! This was such an encouraging development after just a few weeks and was early proof to me that what I was doing was actually making me healthier.
2. I don't feel the constant need for a post lunch nap or at least an afternoon cup of coffee. I didn't always get to take the naps I felt I needed, but oh did I ever feel like I needed them!
3. I've not found a better time to praise God than when I'm walking on the treadmill. I'm tempted to raise my hands right there in the gym as the praise music plays in my ears, but I'm very afraid of: 1) all the cool kids thinking I'm a nut and 2) falling off of the treadmill! I cannot recommend Mandisa's album What If We Were Real highly enough! It's perfect not only for working out but also if you're just sitting on the couch. It is a treasure. What a message! Click the play button below to hear my favorite song from the album.
4. I've discovered I'm not the only one who benefits from my taking a bit of time for my own benefit. I'm generally happier and nicer, my head is clearer and my perspective brighter when I've gotten to workout. That's good news for everyone in my own little world. It took me a very long time to learn this, and until I did, I felt guilty for not doing laundry, scrubbing floors, washing the very smudgy windows, or some other necessary task instead of going walking.
5. I'd love to add weight-loss to this list, but alas, the scales haven't moved dramatically. That could be a result of the Mango sorbet I've grown rather fond of this year however. I am much more aware of how many calories my junk food contains because the treadmill estimates just how many calories I burn with each work out. I know, for example that it takes a walk of approximately 2.5 miles at a pace of 3.8 miles per hour to burn off 16 ounces of sorbet. Some days, it's worth it, some days I make a better choice! My Man frequently reminds me, it's not about pounds, it's about being healthy.
6. I still dread waking up on gym mornings, but I know that if I lay out my workout clothes the night before, it's much easier to get my tuchis out of bed and down to the gym. Those clothes seem to shame me into them and from there its much easier.
7. I've learned that having gym buddies, at least at the beginning, to encourage you, makes a big difference. When Darrin was out of town last month, I was very tempted to skip the gym for the week. My son had other plans and prodded me each workout day until we were on our way. There were many other mornings during the last months when, if my Man or son had not said, "Hey aren't we going to the gym?" I wouldn't have gone.

You're waiting for me to say that one of the benefits of a regular workout has been spending time with my Man but I'm not gonna. Now that the nice weather has come, he has forsaken me the gym for the out of doors! He got me hooked on that wonderful feeling of regularly working out and then he took off for the sidewalks of our fair city, and really, that's fine. Our time side by side on the treadmills was nice, very nice, but there was no laughing and no conversation and little eye contact.

My new gym partner (really he's been with us since the beginning) is the other man in my life, who joins me: 1) so that there aren't too many indian chiefs at home while I'm gone, and 2) because he benefits LOTS from running about shooting baskets on a regular basis!

And that's why I actually missed the stinky, smelly, sweaty gym last week when I was nursing a cold. What began as a way to (I thought) make my Man proud of me (he is) and spend time with him (I did), has developed into a habit that has greatly enhanced my life! Who knew?

Apparently, my Man did!

"And if anyone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles." ~Matthew 5:41~

(...verse used very much out of context, but I just for the record, I feel very Biblical about the whole thing!)

Dear Coach...

This baseball/softball season, we've got one kiddo playing ball and she's having a blast. Kate loves to play catcher and it's all because "you get to wear all of that extra stuff"! 

During her game this week (not pictured above), she even got to wear "eye black" under her baby blues which thrilled her all the way down to her knee pads. 

{A few years ago, I posted the entry that follows in tribute to volunteer coaches everywhere who put in long hours and untold amounts of patience into kids like mine!}

Dear Coach,

     I'd like to begin by saying thank you.  Thank you so very much for volunteering your time and energy to coach my son's baseball team.  Where would Little League world over be without the volunteer coaches and their helper coaches?  


     When I say "my son's baseball team" I am in no way implying that the team belongs to my son.  Nor do I feel that my son is the rock upon which the team stands.  I appreciate the team spirit that you encourage in the game and only make the distinction "my son's team" to differentiate it from any other baseball team where my son is not on the roster.  (Every now and then, however, I may say to a grandparent or two that "my son's team" won the game or that "his" team is undefeated.  In this case I may mean to imply that my son may have had a large part in the victories.) 

     I'd also like to thank you for your delicate handling of the parents of the players that you coach, especially those particular parents who aren't as knowledgeable of the game as most.  For example, I'm sure you remember the email from a concerned baseball mom after her son sat on the bench for an entire game without taking the field even one time except to take his turn at bat.  I  was heard that she was a bit miffed and emailed you to see if there was a problem with her son.


     I thought it was so nice that the first line of your responding email was NOT "Duhhhhhh!  Your kid was the designated hitter for the game that night lady.  Get a CLUE!"  I heard that your email simply explained the advantages of using the "DH" (that's Designated Hitter for those of you who don't know baseball lingo like I do) one of which is allowing more players to have more playing time.  I'm very sure that newbie appreciated not being talked down to.
     
     I also appreciate all that you do to entertain the crowd of onlookers at the games.  All those signs and signals that you give to the boys as they bat and run bases are fascinating.  Sir, the macarena has nothing on you!  I'm amazed that this system works for eleven and twelve year old boys.  In my experience, it is difficult for these fellows to pay attention to even their mothers for more than 4 seconds at a time, yet you are able to flash them seven or eight signals which hold their attention long enough for them to understand. 
    
      Since you seem to possess special skills and secret signals with which to communicate to my son, I'd like to ask a favor.  Could please tell me what the signal is for...pick up your socks!  Exactly what hand motion would communicate ...PLEASE don't talk to me now, I'm on the phone!   I've attempted many, many signals for this one, but absolutely none of them have worked.  While we're at it, how would one signal Quit fighting with your sister or I'm gonna stop feeding you?  The sooner you get back to me with those, the better off we'll all be.  I'd really appreciate it.

     Finally, the most important thing.  I appreciate the type of character you are displaying in front of these young men that we've placed under your authority at practices and games.  I believe that those are the lessons that will carry these boys further into adulthood than will their batting averages.


I really believe that this...

(Cole's team 14, the other guys 3)

has a little something to do with this...

Thanks Coach, you're doing a great job!

The Parents

Making Dinnertime Memories...

OK, defrost the chicken, chop the cilantro and jalapeño and add to processor. Now, where are those cashews I made a special trip to the store to get...alright, add a cup of those to the processor, get the garlic and toss it in with the oil and the soy sauce, squeeze guts out of lime...warn the girls of impending loud noise...blend until paste is achieved. Shoot! I forgot the brown sugar...there...blend again...paste again...Voila! 


On and on droned my internal narrator coaching me as I prepared a nifty new meal for my family who had not enjoyed a real-life everyone-at-the-table-no-meetings-after dinner for what seemed like forever.

If I do say so myself, I had it all together. I'd begun the meal prep in time to allow the chicken to marinate in the above concoction for the prescribed amount of time. I had assembled a wonderfully diverse pair of side dishes that were sure to please.

There was the obstacle of Kate's softball practice smack dab in the middle of dinner time at 5:30, but I was working around that and surely practice would be called for rain...or not.

Kate and I scooted in the door as the clock neared 7 and, channeling my inner Rachel Ray, I promised my gang dinner in thirty minutes or less. I turned on the oven, stopped to inform a lovely child that even though tomorrow was swimming day with our homeschool group, we would NOT be going to the store tonight to purchase a new bathing suit. "I am NOT leaving this house again tonight!" I announced and turned to heat the vegetables on the stovetop. After that, I headed to the porch to light the grill for its inaugural performance of the season.

Put the chicken on the grill, oh listen to that sizzle, smells good, might be a keeper? Back to the kitchen to check oven...fine...veggies...check. Time to turn the chicken...back outside to the porch...WHO thought it would be a good idea to build the porch off of the living room and not off of the kitchen??? 


Just as I was mentally reengineering the layout of my home, the sight of smoke outside of the back door caught my attention. Hmmmmm...."Honey??? Can you peek out here a minute? Is it normal for fire to be coming from that part of the grill?"

"No. No, it's not."

"MEGAN, bring us a large cup of water!!!"

"Wait," I said, picking up a piece of chicken with tongs and blowing it out, "we can have a New Orleans theme tonight...blackened chicken! I can scrape most of the charred part off..."

"Gretchen, turn off the grill. NOBODY is gonna be able to eat that chicken."

"But the other side isn't completely ruined. Surely we can make do?"

Or not. The chicken was pink inside and thick-crunchy-black on the outside.

Megan appeared with the water and we were able to douse the flaming grill pan and blow out the rest of the chicken much like one would blow out candles on a birthday cake. I placed each piece of chicken on a plate and carried it back into the house, still smoking.

"Why is da chicken on fiya?" asked an already pajama-clad Molly.

"Oh, Molly, it's not on fire...anymore."

"Somebody get clothes for Molly, everyone else get shoes on and get into the car," the assistant fire chief directed.

Well then, another one for the memory books. The family dinner I had planned with the whole gang ooohhhhing and ahhhhing over my snazzy new chicken creation had quite literally gone up in smoke, but a family dinner happened all the same.

 The oooohhhhing and ahhhhhing still happened too, only it was focused at the very spicy salsa and queso we were enjoying at our favorite Mexican restaurant.

NOTE: If you, like me, missed the part of home ec class where "Getting Your Grill Ready for Grilling Season" was covered, there is a spiffy little article here which will tell you just what you need to do to avoid arriving at the local Mexican restaurant precisely at your three-year-old's bedtime.

There is also another enlightening piece here by Consumer Reports that discusses what may have been the cause of my enlightened chicken...The Five Most Common Grilling Mistakes.

Education, folks, is the key. Now I'm off to get a lecture from Smokey Bear...

Benched!

On her way out the door with the rest of my family, Molly marched into my bedroom and handed me her stuffed horse. "You're in charwge here, but we're all yea-ving so I brawt you him to be in charwge of till we get back, okay? When we get back, you give him back." And with those instructions, serving to identify exactly which one of us was actually in charge, Molly joined the rest of the gang in the car and I was left on my own, here at home, in bed, alone...with a stuffed horse and a cold.

I've been blissfully (but for the cold) in bed for most of the day, listening to life continue right along with me not at its center, but rather at the edge, on the other side of a closed door. Molly's been hanging about with her dad and the older three children have been working on their lessons. I hear feet thumping up and down stairs, history timelines being recited aloud from creation to World War II and beyond, a computer math lecture posing questions in the dining room, giggles and a spat or two, a squeal here and there, and possibly a wrestling match.

This concert of sound is interrupted once or twice when a tentative knock on the door is followed by a puzzled face and a whispered question. Whispered I suspect, because they've been given orders not to disturb, but it is urgent and do they really have to draw the earth's layers and am I quite certain that the word project really has more than three meanings and therefore three different synonyms?

Otherwise, I was on today's sidelines and cushy sidelines they've been...reading a spy novel I've not had time to enjoy until now, watching a marathon of my favorite TV show, snoozing under a heavy comforter on what has turned out to be a strangely cold day for late April, and eating my favorite cornbread made by Cole and Meg as they prepared dinner for later this evening.

I'll be playing first-string again tomorrow, getting back to real life as the perscription my Man picked up for me first thing this morning takes effect. There's a softball uniform to be laundered, spelling sentences to be dictated, things to be baked, and stories to be read.

Today, however, I'm benched. Me and this here horse...

10 Tips for Stealing Candy from Your Kids' Easter Baskets

It's a few days after Easter and my defenses are weakening. I can stand it no longer...those candy-filled baskets are callin' my name and it's high time to answer back. I can claim more than a few years of experience lightening the candy load from my children's Easter baskets and I thought I'd share my knowledge for those of you who may be newer at this than I.

1. Become familiar with the basket, or as they say in the big house, case it, like jewel thieves do on TV. Know which kind of candy lives within each plastic egg. This knowledge is vital for stealth missions.
2. Have a working knowledge of which child enjoys which candy the least. Begin by eating the least liked candy from each basket. If they don't relish the candy, they'll never miss it...probably.
3. After the theft, hide any candy wrappers skillfully in the garbage so that they don't discover your  crime.
4. If you get caught with a mouthful of sugar, run to the bathroom as if you are having a digestive emergency and finish your prize in peace. (Don't forget to lock the door behind you.)
5. Be prepared to lie, but only if its for a Cadbury Creme Egg, don't soil your soul over ANYTHING less, it's just not worth it.
6. Only pilfer a Peep if you feel your window of time will allow for the cleaning up of all of the sugar that will remain in the basket, on the table and most unavoidably on your face.
7. The easiest candy to steal = jellybeans. No noisy wrappers, no crunchy chewing, and if your are already a bit full in the cheeks, you can hide them easily if taken in small quantities.
8. My favorite candy to swipe this year has been the Mini Cadbury Creme Eggs. Other than the pesky foil wrapper, it's perfect. Small enough to eat in one bite and they pack lots of sweet goodness in their small size. AND because of their very small size, if you get caught eating one, you only have to tell a little white lie instead of the big one required for the full size Cadbury Egg. It's just a good all-around set up.
9. If all else fails and you need a late afternoon sugar rush, put all children in time out on trumped up charges and pillage those baskets at your leisure.
10. Finally, the classic: bide your time...wait until after bedtime and dig in!

A FEW FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS: If you become too skilled at candy thievery, you will most likely experience eventual guilt and may be tempted to replenish the candy in the baskets of your little angels.

Fight that urge.

By now, the Easter candy is no longer in the stores, it sold out yesterday when it was on sale for a quarter per bag. You will find yourself paying full price for three bags of candy which will equal the proverbial arm and leg, the same arm and leg that have increased in size substantially as a result of of all of that stolen Easter candy you've been eating and that's just way too much to pay.

Trust me, you and your little ones will be better off the moment all of that candy is out of your home. The end of the obsession is near.

If your children bring your candy crime into the light of day and confront you, do the right thing and blame your husband confess. You may or may not wish to include in your confession that you were only seeking their best interests by saving them from painful trips to the dentist and from a life-long addiction to Peeps (I know whereof I speak). You may also find it helpful to have all Scripture references dealing with forgiveness of one's fellow man at hand for quick reference.

That's it. That's all I know. Happy hunting!

**Please note: the author of this post realizes that lying is wrong and does not plan on getting caught and being forced to lie. The author of this post does not necessarily feel the same way about taking candy from children, however {wink}.

Fun for Your Friday

I woke up the morning after a fairly rough day (see previous post :-), and found myself eye to dark-brown-eye with Molly. Kate, who had been my bed buddy during the night, had vacated the warm blankets in search of a perfect outfit for the day, but she left her baby doll behind. It took Molly absolutely NO time to notice.

"Why do you have a baby doll in your bed?" she asked me suspiciously glancing at our beloved Ethel.

"Kate slept with me last night and she left her baby when she got out of bed," I explained gravel-voiced.

"Kate slept in your bed all night?"

"Yes, she did." I confirmed.

"WHAT a WOMAN!" said my shocked three-year-old.

I do not know which of us it was, Kate or me, who had so impressed Molly. Neither do I know exactly WHAT we had accomplished that had gained her praise, and at that early hour, I was too sleepy to ask!

Have a super weekend!!

New Mercies? Yes, please.

She's snuggled down amidst pillows and sheets and blankets in the spot where her Daddy usually sleeps. Waiting for me to crawl in beside her, a life-sized baby doll rests in the crook of her arm, eyes closed tight in sleep just like hers.

I agreed to let her sleep with me tonight hoping that time spent together in rest can heal the time spent earlier in the day in angst.

It's good practice to watch a child sleep in peace especially when that child's waking hours were less than peaceful.

I denied her request to sleep with me last night, wanting to enjoy time on my own, alone in my big girl bed, free of kicking feet and chasing covers, but tonight was different. Tonight I needed to be near to this child, she, on the receiving end of most of my day's exasperation. So tonight, when she crept timidly downstairs in her fuzzy robe, doll awkwardly in her grasp and dared to ask once more, I said yes.

It seemed like it might help to iron out the wrinkles we'd placed in each other today, both of us a bit off-kilter from the slight imbalance of a missing person in our dailyness. Could it be that laying my head next to hers as we sleep will perhaps negate all of the head-to-head moments we'd both endured during the day?

I can only hope.

I move the baby doll aside and scoot blanket-warmed body parts over just enough to allow space for me to sleep too, but not far enough away that I can't feel the warmth of her and hear the sound of her soft breathing or smell the sweet scent of her hair.

Sighing, I am reminded that tomorrow begins fresh for the both of us, clean slates, rested bodies, cleared minds and fresh resolve. The only thing from today that we need to carry into tomorrow is the knowledge that our Father loves us both dearly, and that He is able because, as today has proven, we are so very not. Tomorrow will dawn with all of its potential, all of its promise, all of its blessings, and all of its challenges and I and this child, who, even as she sleeps, has snuggled tightly against me, will meet it head-on first thing...together.