elfing around

Update: unfortunately, the elves posting is now unavailable online.  Time to get back to those new year dreams!

-- mamatoo

I always get a giggle from these "elf yourself" creations, as do the boys.  This year jibjab has lots of different dances for the little elves in our lives.  Enjoy...

Another one included sista' K, our dear friend (I like to think of her as my "little sister").  She goes to college nearby, and sometimes even brings her friends when she hangs out with us here.  Sista' K also generously gives us the occasional free babysitting and tries to keeps us in touch with our youth - ha ha!  So, it's fitting that she'd elf around with us - disco style.

neighborly influence

As you might guess from the lack of posts here, I have been quite busy.  In particular, last week was full.  On Friday, Obi-2 & I helped out at Obi-1's school with a "Reading Well."  Basically, the PTA purchases a boat-load of books, and each child in the school is invited to come in and choose one, free of charge, to keep.  My friend was in charge, and nobody signed up to help her all day, so we dropped in and held her new baby while she facilitated the afternoon.  It wasn't very interesting for Obi-2, but he was a trooper and lovely helper for those hours.

By the end of Friday afternoon, I decided the boys (and I) deserved a little celebration.  We headed into our local Italian cafe, which is complete with those beautiful glass-fronted displays of decadent treats.  Obi-2's class had been studying the letter "S" all week, so I offered to get the boys S cookies, which excited them both.  

When we walked in, we were greeted by the incredible smells of fresh bread and pastries, and the smiling face of Grandpa Frank.  Grandpa Frank is the owner's dad, and has recently moved to the rainy northwest from New York.  He is everything sweet about an Italian grandpa, and he loves kids.  Problem is, he always thinks I have girls... and greets them as such.  He's figured out that Obi-1 is a boy, though he always asks me, "Is this a girl or a boy?  I can't tell!"    

No matter how much I hint or correct him, he always greets Obi-2 as a "baby doll" or "cutest little sister" or something similar.  I usually smile, try a couple corrections, and then move on.  On this particular day, however, Grandpa Frank and his friends made it a veritable little Italy in the cafe.  The sights, conversations, and smells just took me to another place, and so we enjoyed the familial feel of the cafe with them. Grandpa Frank took special interest in us, a mom and her two little ones at a table.  He kept complimenting the girls - and when he finally remembered that Obi-1 is a boy, he apologized but complimented his sister, anyway.

We got our "S cookies" and sat down to enjoy a little Mama-boy time.  Then, Grandpa Frank came up to our table.  He looked at me and said, "What are their names again?"  Well, I can't reveal this to you online friends, but let's just say their names are pretty basic, easily pronounced names.  They're not super common names, but they're also not odd inventions or exotic entities, either.

"You people out here have such weird names for kids!  Why don't you just name them something normal?"  Grandpa Frank admonished me for choosing names he couldn't understand.  Then he looked at the boys, especially Obi-1, and said, "Do me a favor, kid.  Next time you come in here, get a proper hair cut. You look like a girl.  You look like your sister!"

At this point, I had to step in.  "Actually, they're both boys, Frank.  Brothers."  He looked at me, looked at Obi-2, and back at me, totally surprised.

  

"You're kidding!  Then he needs a haircut, too!  Geesh, you people need to put labels or something on your kids.  I just embarrassed that boy.  They look like girls." 

No, Grandpa Frank, you didn't embarrass him, but you're starting to push some buttons.  All of this reminds me of my Bampa, who probably would have done exactly the same thing.   Unfortunately, my Bampa died when Obi-1 was a little baby.  He was the last of Mr. Kenobi's & my living grandparents, and so we lost a generation in our families.  My boys' grandpas (our dads) simply cannot get away with the grumpy-old-man routine... partly because they live too far away, and mostly because they're simply too young! 

On the other hand, Grandpa Frank has earned the age to be one of those truly treasured old men in the neighborhood.  The kind who says what he thinks, even if it's not very politically correct.  The kind who tells a 5-year old with beautiful, curly hair that he needs a haircut because he looks like a girl.  The kind who calls a long-haired, surfer-boy 3-year-old that he's a darling little "baby doll."

We all need a Grandpa like that once in a while.  Too much PC, diplomatic talk makes us soft and overly sensitive.  Plus, sometimes we need somebody to be definitive about things.  Grandpa Frank believes boys should have short hair.  Period.  This weekend, my boys got hair cuts.  They were due, and it is time to let go of the toddler locks and trim it almost above their ears.  It's not a buzz cut, and some will say they still look a little girlish, but it's cut nonetheless.

They got to watch "The Grinch" while I trimmed & cut inches - inches! - of curls from their head.  Obi-1 commented as I went, "You're kind of like the grinch, Mama, cause you're taking all my hair!"  He wasn't upset, however.  He was ready to have a cut, and thrilled to watch a movie on a Saturday morning.  I, of course, felt a twinge of loving sadness that can only be delivered by a Grandpa.  It was hard to see the curls fall, but they always grow back.  By next summer, they can be surfer boys again.

And in the meantime, Grandpa Frank (and my brother, and many others who've commented on my long-haired hippie boys) will be pleased. 

o christmas tree

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,

How hungry are your branches!

Yes, how hungry are your branches.  Thus begins a wonderful season in our life - where children make up words to holiday songs, and we all sing them together.  Obi-2 was singing this with gusto the other day, and Obi-1 chimed in, and they cannot be convinced that the lyrics are about anything but a hungry tree.  You will probably have this version stuck in your head every time you drive past a tree lot or see your lights sparkle on your home's hungry evergreen branches.

The thing is, our tree is technically not hungry... because it's fake.  This, all by itself, requires much discussion in our home.  As "fake" means "pretend," and clearly it's not a "pretend" tree, because it's standing right there!  I tried explaining that it's "pretend" in that it's not "real" or "live," but was quickly asked why a cut tree is considered "live," as it's really not connected to its roots, anymore.

So, our Christmas tree is pretending to be hungry.  Which reminds me - there is actually a lot of hunger this time of year, in spite of the fact that many of us gain cookie pounds and temporarily satisfy our appetites for stuff.  Consider pulling out a little of your holiday budget, and give to somebody who doesn't know you & may not recognize your gift.   Isn't that the idea of Christmas - a gift, undeserved, to those who did not know the Giver?  Better yet, don't just do it this month - pull a little aside throughout the next year, and find a way to be a gift to the hungry.

Then sing with us in joy & gladness: 

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,

How hungry are your branches!

mirror, mirror

We have this mirror.  It's large, with an ornate frame.  It weighs over 100 lbs, I think.  Once part of Mr. Kenobi's grandparent's home, the mirror accompanied a dining room set we inherited just after we got married.  For better or worse, it is part of my life.

Truth be told, I don't love this mirror.  It's not my style.  Because of its weight and size, it can only go in certain places of our home.  I'd paint it or get rid of it, but it is a family heirloom.  You don't mess with an heirloom, right?

I've managed to make the mirror fit, sometimes better than others, with my decor.  When we moved here, I had Mr. Kenobi hang it above our fireplace.  On the mantel, I displayed the various pieces of crystal we received as wedding gifts.  With the sunlight sparkling off the glass and reflecting from the mirror, I started to like that mirror.

Then, on the 4th of July last year, we heard a great crash from the living room.  With no explanation, the mirror fell from its hardware, cascading every piece of crystal onto the tile and hardwood floors below.  We rushed in to see shattered crystal everywhere.  Thankfully, nobody was in the room, so only "stuff" was damaged.  Still, it was my stuff.  I liked that crystal.  I had hoped some of it might make heirlooms for my own family.  As we swept and vacuumed, I was sad at the loss of all of those irreplaceable pieces.  

The odd thing was, there were no pieces of mirror anywhere.  As Mr. Kenobi moved the frame from the hearth, we realized it was completely intact.  The mirror had survived, with hardly a scratch.  Grrrr....

We put the mirror in the office, waiting for new hardware.  And waited... and waited...

Because I waited for Mr. Kenobi to fix the mirror, and he didn't think of it (unless I "reminded" him), it never got done.  Eventually, I went out and bought hardware, installed it according to the directions, and quickly realized I am a weakling who didn't want to lift that thing over my head and hang it again.  So I waited for Mr. Kenobi to hang it.

And waited... and waited...

Today, I had waited enough.  I hauled the mirror out, lined up a step stool, and lifted the mirror, carefully, while huffing & puffing, to the mantel.  There, I fiddled with the wires, trying to keep both connected with the hooks.  My step stool was just a bit too short.  So, I lined up a sturdy chair and tried again. Once I finally got the mirror hung, I realized something I really, really, should have double-checked:  the wires were slightly too long.  The giant mirror set on the mantel, instead of hanging from the hooks.  Grrrrr, again.

So, I started to lift it, carefully, off the mantel.  I stepped back off the step stool - oh, yes - the step stool.  I wasn't standing on a step stool, anymore, was I?  No, I had traded that handy stool for a chair.  A chair with a back.  A back which, when slightly leaned against, went tipping backward.

As I fell, I had enough time to think, "Seriously?!?  This mirror is going to crash and break with me on top of it after all of this?!?"  My knee caps hit the floor first, one on the edge of the tile hearth, and the other firmly on the wood floor.   The mirror, held in my hands, crashed to the hearth, and the side of my head slammed into it as we landed in a heap.

You might have guessed it - the mirror is fine.  All except a giant smear where my ear & face careened against it.  I think my kneecaps are swollen twice their normal size, and my elbow is bruised.  As is my ego.  But the mirror was none the worse for its second fall from the mantel.  After laying on the floor and testing all of my joints for a while, I finally got up.   Again, I lifted the mirror to the mantel, but propped it against the wall.  I hope we do not have an earthquake tonight, as I've officially given up doing this myself and will wait for Mr. Kenobi to return tomorrow. 

If ever there was a reason to get rid of an heirloom, I think this mirror has earned its departure from my home.  On the other hand, it's starting to have its own unbreakable place in our family.

honor

I hope you had a chance to thank a veteran today.  They often don't ask for thanks.  Sometimes they shy from the attention you offer.  Yet, thank them anyway.  Veterans have demonstrated service to us, our country, and often our world.  They do this with little pay, slight recognition, and even less time with the people and places they love.  They do what they do, often to leave their service with more scars than joys.  

My brother is a veteran.  In my selfishness, I sometimes wish he wasn't.  I sometimes wish he didn't have a calling that takes him into harm, away from those who love him.  I sometimes wish it was easier to understand his work, or support his deployments, or agree with his leaders.  Being a veteran has cost him holidays and birthdays away from his young daughter.  It has stressed his marriage with long-distance phone calls and parenting from afar.  It has sent him into months of loneliness, and moved him far from his home.  

His work has offered opportunities to earn respect and insight from some of the world's best people.  Being a veteran has given him much work, much pride, and many skills.  It has shown him the mixed reaction of citizens who prefers sound-bites and statistics over understanding the complexities of his work.  It has made him a simple and convenient image for those who want to elevate their political ideas.  It has also helped him understand the richness of his own ideas and beliefs.

If you don't have a brother, or relative, or friend who's a veteran, I'm sorry.  You may have to look to a stranger to say thanks.  They are walking & working among you.   They are also hidden.  Look in a soup kitchen, shelter, or hospital to find many who deserve your honor.  

Thank you, bro, for your service and commitment to a calling I don't always understand & sometimes don't want to support.  Thank you, veterans, for the honor you've shown us all.

listening

It's been a season of listening... and I'm finding much to hear.  The boys & I just got back from a church staff retreat (yes, I said "staff," as in "semi-employed," as in that's probably where my volunteer status is headed...)  While there, the team enjoyed some intense coaching and reflection.  We also tackled important questions, like, "Why am I?" and "Who am I?"  It was good to consider these for myself, but even better to listen to the answers, passions, dreams, gifts, and talents of the amazing people who make up this group.

I'm also listening more and more to my children.  Conversations are getting more complex around here, with reasons and wonderings and interests traveling beyond breakfast choices.  I like this stage of motherhood!  My boys are interesting, and their ideas and comments make me laugh, and sometimes make me wonder, and often make me perk up my ears to listen intently.

The neighborhood is talking and changing, as our dear Mary next door adjusts to less independence, better care, and more caretakers in her home.  I'm thankful she can be home and healthy, and even more thankful that I'm able to listen more without being a caretaker.  This is far more sustainable for our friendship.

I'm happily listening to less punditry and campaigning, and bending my ear to the realities of the next season of leadership locally and nationally.  I'm trying not to listen to those who think we're doomed, nor those who think they've elected a savior.  Neither are very balanced views, in my opinion.

I've been knee-deep (and sometimes over my head) in listening to my favorite words, too, as the boys and I have decided to memorize some bible verses together.  We started with 1 Corinthians 13, and slowly walked through its definition of love.  I enjoy this discipline of joining them in an adventure of listening and understanding.

We're listening to new toe-tapping, booty-shaking music, too.  I've just ordered the new Johnny B CD - a favorite artist we know well from our old 'hood in Seattle.  The new album looks like a lot of fun.  

Finally, I'm listening to you, my friends & family, who want to hear more often from this little update spot.  I promise to try harder in the coming weeks.  It is a delicate balance to listen well & write often, as time is hard to spend in both places.  Nonetheless, I know it's important to stay in touch, so I hereby say, "I hear you!" and will start posting more!  In the meantime, thanks for listening patiently.

much love,

MamaToo

what makes cool

The sign on the classroom door read, 

AM & PM Pre-K needs snack replenishment. 

Like all dutiful moms, I made a mental note to pick up a package of something to help my little Obi-1 and his friends stay fueled throughout the afternoon.  In my head, I wondered how I would figure out a nutritious snack that would satisfy a classroom of 4 and 5-year olds, without creating a repeat performance of the sanitizer wipes conundrum.  

And so, days later, we were in that great place of consumerism, Costco.   Upon seeing a large container of organic animal "crackers" (and let's all just agree these are cookies), I suggested to Obi-1 that they could be the snacks at his school.  I expected some sort of tribute to my cool factor and declaration that I was the best mom ever.  Okay, I just expected him to light up with excitement, as these animal cookies are pretty much a once-a-year treat for my guys.

Instead, he looked thoughtful and said, "I think I'd rather take fruit."  Fruit?  Really?!  In my own shock, I failed to remember that I was the one who has raised him to think that fruit was delicious.  Oh, yeah.  Fruit.  Good idea, Obi-1.

Since the snacks have to stock a cupboard, I looked at dried apples, raisins, and apricots with him.  Always in favor of empowering my kids to make healthy choices, I asked what he thought his class would enjoy.

"Plums.  I want to take plums."  

"Plums?  Um, but these are dried plums.  Do you think everyone will like dried plums?"

"If they don't like the snack, they can just put it in the middle of the table."  

My son, ever logical, wanted to take dried plums.  It is a wonderfully nutritious snack, and easy to purchase for a classroom.  It is also, at least I think, probably not the most requested snack for pre-kindergarten.  While my mind wandered to "what-will-everyone-else-think" ridiculousness, my son was confident that his mom would give him a snack he liked, and if his friends liked it too, cool.

Cool, indeed.  My mom & dad used to tell me that "cool" was being able to have confidence about who you were, even when (especially?) you were different from "everyone else."  Or something like that.  I was pretty distracted by trying to fit in, and may have missed some of their wisdom.

Evidently, Obi-1 has not missed the wisdom of being yourself, even if it means bringing dried plums for a snack at school.  Even when the snack cupboard is filled with crackers of all sizes, and his is the only fruit-snack in sight.  Even if a large percentage of children pile their plums in the middle of the table at snack time.

There are days when I just smile and think, "I have a really cool kid."

of little faith

Overheard this afternoon on local newscast:

"People are having a hard time knowing where to put their money...

... or their faith."

I may not be able to tell you whether your money is better placed in a stock or under your pillow tonight, but I can safely say this with confidence:

If you put your faith in a government, policy, economic system, or candidate, you are truly and seriously misguided.  Your very life, freedom, and future hangs in the balance of this decision.   Not one of them, no matter how fully you trust, will save you.  While you may cast votes and give limited confidence to those who represent your ideas and values, do not cheapen your faith by placing it in a present time or person.  They are not saviors, and they cannot rescue you when you finally realize that you need your own bailout.

  

There may never be a completely safe place for your money, but there is a safe place for your faith.  If you're wondering how to invest, ask.

In Love,

MamaToo

in which time literally flew

I know that time has absolutely flown by, when I realize it's been many days since I posted here.  I might not notice, except for friends start commenting that they enjoy my blog, but when - oh, when?!- will I write again?  Evidently, since starting this blog, I've written fewer and fewer times each month.  So are the days of our lives...

It seems that my writing just can't keep up with my living, which is good, considering the alternative.  Nonetheless, I understand it's frustrating for people who trust this spot for little updates on the Kenobi lives.    I admit, since last writing (about the second day of school), I've still not quite gotten the hang of being a parent-of-a-preschooler.  That said, nobody has missed a day or had any dramatic encounter at school, nor have we begun homeschooling to avoid hand sanitizer, so things are going relatively well there.   There are stories I've half begun to write, but they'll have to wait for publishing.

Today, I realized that I was born before two of the major candidates on our presidential tickets graduated from high school.  It's an insignificant detail, I suppose, and yet it is the one thing that made me feel old.  That, and being older than most of the Olympic athletes this year.  I'm also older and wiser, or at least older, than my husband, whose birthday is tomorrow.  This "older" status happens with Mr. Kenobi & I every year for a day, although this year I reminded him that (thanks to leap years), he's actually 365 days older than thirty.  That fact doesn't seem to keep him from taunting me with "you're older" smiles, though, so I replied by suggesting we get a puppy to celebrate becoming thirty-something.  

We're not.

Getting a puppy, that is.  We are thirty-something (or at least I am), and so we're going to have dinner together - without our darling children - tomorrow.  We'd celebrate today, but it's a school day, and a work day, which means I must do dishes. 

Friends, there are far more important things going on in my life, family, and neighborhood, but this is all I can write about today.  For all who kindly read & celebrate new posts with me, thank you.  In the words of a famous governor, "I'll be back."

second day

Having only two days of school under my belt, I can safely assert that I like the second day of school.  The first day is not all it's cracked up to be!

Obi-1 started pre-K this year.  For months, he's looked forward to this day.  I've had moments of excited anticipation, too, and less rational moments of dread.  One of the realistic reasons I've been a little anxious about school was the sheer discipline of doing the same routine every day.  I wasn't sure how this new schedule would affect our otherwise laid-back lifestyle at House o' Kenobi.   We tend to do a lot, but much of our "doing" is flexible.  I had reason to be concerned.

Monday, the first day of school, was also our weekly church staff meeting day.  Fortunately, my boys are welcome at our flexible gathering, and we get together at a home while they play soccer and color pictures.  Nonetheless, it's a lot to pack into a significant day.  I made a big pancake breakfast, followed by putting bike helmets on all and carting the bike trailer off to our meeting (blocks from school, by the way) at 9 AM.  

Biking, by the way, deserves mention all its own.  I am determined to bike to and from school as often as possible.  The school is close enough for a pleasant walk, although it would tire little legs.  My stroller(s) are on loan to parents who need them more than I do.  So, biking is a great way to do our little educational commute.  At least, that's what I tell myself as I lug 100 lbs of burley trailer & children along the street.  Seriously, I think I like the image of biking more than the reality.  This article aptly describes me, I'm afraid.

Okay, so at 11 AM, the boys & I left the meeting and bike back home.  I'd prepared a healthy tabouleh lunch with hummus and pitas, which they love.  At 11:50, we were back on the bike, determined to set the habit of arriving early, not just on time, for 12:15 school days.

Obi-1, for his part, practically skipped into class on that first day.  He hugged me an took off for the adventures.  I did not cry.  I didn't even flinch.  I watched other parents nervously hover & help their children adjust to the classroom, and I walked out the door with Obi-2 holding my hand.  We played at the park a bit while I talked to another mom, and then headed home for naptime.

Um, that is where my plan began to unravel.  Obi-2 did not nap.  He was too excited to go back and pick up his brother.  I did not nap, as child protective services frowns on mothers leaving 3-year-olds to their own devices.  No, in fact, all I could accomplish was a bit of ineffective pleading with my child, picking out a snack, and hopping back on the bike at 2:45 to go get his big brother.

This being my 5th ride of the day, I was definitely accepting the fact that my legs are out of shape, and I don't care if my boys don't weigh much, this trailer thing is heavy.  And hot.  I love the sun, but I'd rather be sitting by a pool.

Nonetheless, we got to the school and sauntered in to pick up (I imagined) a thrilled little Obi-1.  He wasn't.  He looked ready to break into tears.  I barely got him out of the building before he started explaining all the disappointments of public education.  The didn't paint.  None of his new friends wanted to read with him.  Come to mention it, they didn't learn to read at all today! They learned the letter "A," and he already knew that.  Worse, the principal didn't come to school.  Obi-1 was even beat up by a girl (evidently she clocked him on the eyelid with a block).  He did not like pre-kindergarten, and he didn't want to go back.

Good grief.  At least he wasn't upset about hand sanitizer, but my work was cut out for me.  We pedaled home, me brainstorming how to encourage my boy and him barely keeping his eyes open.  I was sure he would rest happily and perspective could be regained later.  So sure, in fact, that I was shocked & dismayed when both he & Obi-2 steadfastly refused to have any sort of "downtime" when we got home.  I served up snacks, and soon found myself trying to get out the door for violin lessons.  

Yes, violin lessons.  Because I'm just that insane - I hadn't rescheduled those for the first day of school, and dang it, if I've paid for them we're going.  Going to violin lessons, it turns out it exactly what it sounds like: going.  It doesn't imply that a child will play his violin.  Nor should we confuse going with responding to anything the teacher asks, no matter how reasonable.  We left violin lessons with me muttering something about "no more violin lessons, ever."

It was 5:30 PM.  There were pancake pans and tabouleh dishes still waiting my attention, and dinner was turning into a box of mac-n-cheese.  Mr. Kenobi took a look at me, heard a 30-second replay of the day, and insisted on taking us all out for a hamburger and microbrew.   They don't serve beer to minors, but I enjoyed mine immensely.

By bedtime, Mr. Kenobi & I had convinced Obi-1 that pre-kindergarten was more fun than he initially thought.  He had learned to draw fun block letters (the kind you could cut out of construction paper and use for bulletin boards) once his teacher saw he knew a "regular A."  He made friends - including the little girl who clobbered him.  He played on that cool playground equipment.  The principal, we assured him, was at school that day; he had simply not come into the pre-K classroom in the afternoon, but he might tomorrow.  While they didn't paint, they did lovely marker decorations on their book bags, and there was plenty of time for painting on another day.  Sure, not everyone was interested in reading in pre-K, but he could always enjoy books at home with us.  His wonderful teacher loves him. By bedtime, he was looking forward to going back to school.

The second day was much better, most importantly because we did not try to pack in too many commitments or too much bike riding.   This new routine will take some getting used to, and I'll probably have to plan our days a bit better.   Obi-1 loves learning & social opportunities, so I'm glad he gave school another chance.  I'm not sure I'll enjoy bike-commutes, but I'm learning from my boy: don't judge an adventure by its first day.

purpose

Excerpt from a debate about emotional response...

"Is birthday cake happy or sad when people eat it? I think it's sad." (Obi-2)

"I think it's happy." (Obi-1)

"But it's getting eaten!" (Obi-2)

"Yeah, but that's what it was made for." (Obi-1)

May we all age with as much wisdom as this 5-year-old perspective.

five

I'm not sure how I got here, but I have a five-year-old.  I hardly feel like I've moved much beyond that foggy new parent stage of life, until I realize that I get to sleep in while my big kid plays with legos in his bedroom.  This, among luxuries like eating my own meal and having time to write on a blog once in a while, are sweet rewards of a child growing older.

Five years ago, when Obi-1 was born, I became "mama." Motherhood was such a significant transition in my identity, it brought a new title and name.  Those first years were a challenge, and I'm certain I did not accomplish all things gracefully, but motherhood has been one of the deepest blessings of my life.  I love being Mama, because of those who call me by that name.  This is a day to celebrate, and a day to look ahead with joy.  

Happy Birthday, Obi-1.  You amaze and impress me.  Your stories make me laugh and think, your drawings make me imagine and consider, and your future is exciting and hopeful.   You are growing into a young boy with thoughts and dreams and personality all your own.  I hope and pray your fifth year will bring you many blessings.  As you grow older, part of me wants to hold onto my little baby, but mostly I'm excited to grow with you.

Our day will be filled with meeting our new pre-kindergarten teacher, finishing a (requested) carrot cake's frosting, and staging a venerable pirate party.  It is my first time to host a party with a handful of little friends without their parents.  What an adventure!  Treasure may lie buried in my backyard, but greater gifts continue to grow in my birthday boy.

silver lining

When we moved, we lost our silver.  

It was an heirloom set, albeit incomplete, passed down from Mr. Kenobi's grandmother.  We had carefully packed it in its wooden box, but as we unpacked items in our new home, it remained missing.  I couldn't fathom somebody stealing it, especially since I carefully labeled the box without indicating valuable silver inside.  No items seemed to be missing, but that silver was never found.  In any case, silver place settingsis not something we can afford to replace right now, so we've had a few holiday dinners here with our fine china and everyday mismatched silverware. 

It felt odd losing something, without choosing to let it go.  Still, that loss has sometimes empowered me to send other things (often of less value) out of my home.  If I can do without 3-generation silver, I can do without a Johnny Jump-up, right?  

Today, I felt like purging things from storage.  We had some baby items that need to go.  While I'm not claiming to be done having babies, I don't think I need to keep everything we've had - especially if some things remain basically unused from the first two Kenobis.  We were typical first-time parents, and purchased or received tons of bottle supplies, plastic plates & "sporks" for little hands.  Not only did many plans and ideas change, but Obi-1 turned out to be quite resistant to bottles.  In fact, most of our collection of this stuff remained unused.  

So, I decided the baby bottles and other similar stuff should go to somebody who needs it now, and I'll worry about replacing or borrowing items if and when I need them some day.  I was tempted to take the whole thing to a charity or friend, but thought better of it and went through items to make sure I didn't give away something I actually wanted to keep.  I hauled out the box labeled "baby kitchen items," and started loading a paper bag with things.  Suddenly, I looked into the bottom and saw a familiar wooden box.  Our silver.  There, under rarely used baby cups and plastic ware was rarely used sterling silver.

My aunt used to tell me to look for reasons to use my nice dishes & silver.  "Make a celebration, if you need to," she'd say.  "Just use that because you'll feel good about it and good about the reason you're celebrating."  

It's good advice.  Perhaps finding the box of utensils can be my reason this time.  Maybe it's the fact that I'm finally moving forward and letting go of baby life.  Maybe it's because my baby is turning five next week.   Whatever the reason, it's time to bring out the nice dishes and make a new recipe.  What was lost has now been found.

school choice

I went pre-kindergarten school supply shopping today.  For every parent who has children in "real" school, I only got a glimpse of your life right now.  Still, the glimpse brought me back to nearly five years ago, and it wasn't pretty.

When Obi-1 was born, I had planned to enroll him in daycare and continue building my career.  I remember visiting the daycare while I was pregnant, and I noticed all the wonderful, stimulating details of the environment.  I saw the program that would teach my youngster everything important - like colors, letters, and sharing.  I observed the routine followed for all babies - changing on certain hours, feeding on routine, holding each one equally, etc.  These things impressed me.

Then, a few months passed, and I was holding my baby in my arms.  Like many parents, I suddenly became aware of all the germs riding around on friends and family - especially those little children we loved - and I shuddered to imagine my bumpkin ever contracting one of those gross runny noses or awful coughs.  We enforced "hand-washing" campaigns on every one who visited.  If you were one of those, I'm sorry. 

I looked at the childcare center, and I couldn't get past all of the chances for my child to get sick.  The place followed standard cleaning routines - including bleach wipes and all, but I only saw toxins in those wipes and dozens of children we didn't know.  I started calculating missed days due to staying home with a sick child, and got a little paranoid.  I saw the feed-on-schedule and routine and realized my son would be one of many babies.  It wasn't just sanitizing wipes & routines of a large-center childcare that changed my mind about working, but I'll honestly admit that "health" is one factor in to my decision to stay home longer, work different schedules, and eventually phase out of the paid workforce.

Obviously, just a few things have changed since then.  Obi-1 has had (and probably shared) his fair share of illnesses.  As any parent of siblings can attest, whatever illness one child endures will likely be shared, worsened, and passed along throughout the family.  I'm glad there were far more (better) reasons we used in making such large life decisions for our family.  

Anyway, it should make me happy to see "1 large bottle sanitizing wipes" on the pre-kindergarten checklist, right?  It should, but alas, I nearly lost all motivation for sending my boy off to school this year when I had to make that purchase.

Maybe it was the little note at the bottom: "no need to mark items with your child's name - we'll be using them as community supplies." I thought of the kid in my classes who sneezed long, squishy remnants into his hand and wiped them on his jeans before continuing his coloring project.  I thought about the way I loved to keep my crayons sharp and ordered in roy-g-biv sequence.  My son will have a big bucket of crayons, all passing around the same snotty germs to one another, only to be generously shared back home with the rest of our family.

Wipes won't help with that.  Of course, this is the nature of public (or any) school.  This is part of the cost of getting together and learning with other kids.  I get it.  It's just, well....

There's another nutty little thing about that supply item.  My right-wing-conspiracy-theorist friends & family (you know who you are) like to say our town is a haven for "environmental wackos."  I think they include me in that terminology, so it's somewhat endearing.  Nonetheless, sanitizing wipes are rarely environmentally friendly.  In fact, I personally don't think they're good for our health, but that's probably another post.  With the rare exception of biodegradable wipes in recyclable packaging, this is not a great (or even effective) way to clean.  It's also good to note that these enviro-wipes don't come in "large container" size, as was requested on school supply lists.

True to the "wacko" bit, I don't use wipes much in my household.  I even considered suggesting the classroom use some health-friendly spray and good clean cloths.  Thankfully, I didn't say that idea out loud.  I have no doubt that enormous containers of lysol wipes will be carried into the classroom this fall.  I can only imagine the (crazy) impression my suggestion might leave on a preschool teacher.

So there I stood, list in hand, excited son counting crayons and colored pencils, and wipes staring me down from the shelf.  A thought crossed my mind, "maybe we should just homeschool."  It may be a good option for many families - I wouldn't rule it out for my own - but choosing to educate my son at home because I didn't want him using sanitizing wipes might be a little nuts. Seriously.  Nuts.  Let's all agree that this type of decision-making doesn't indicate the sort of wisdom we want in a person teach our children.  

So, we'll deliver our school supplies to the teacher next week, and try to concentrate on how much Obi-1 is looking forward to the whole experience.  And when we get home, we'll wash our hands.

beachy

I simply can't seem to keep up with what I want to write and publish.   That is, at least so long as I'm doing what I want to do!  We just got back from an amazing trip to the coast, complete with a relaxing stay in a beach house, sprawling sand castles, and much wave chasing.  I'd write more about it, but there are parks to visit and bikes to ride and pre-kindergarten preparations to enjoy right now.  

So, here are a few photos to keep you company...

Yes, the water is cold.  Yes, the weather (this day) was cloudy and cool.  That doesn't matter if you're chasing waves!

Sing with me - "Let's go fly a kite..."

Fortunately, we're a family with engineers, hard workers and folks who like to think they know everything, so castle-making offered a role for everyone.  Note MamaToo's freshly pedicured toes in the "project management" position...

It is simply not a vacation without s'mores.  Beautiful sunset from the deck is optional, of course, but much appreciated.

It's a little overwhelming - the power, depth, and vastness of the ocean, and the oh-I-wish-I-could-freeze-this-moment-forever feeling of watching my boys explore.  

There was some debate about east coast vs. west coast.  I say I'd rather have sunsets like this every day.  Mom & Dad think sunrises are beautiful to start the day.   I countered: you have to wake up to see the sun rise.  Ah, yes.

sundance

When we moved, many people prayed for the boys and I to transition easily.  They were wise friends, knowing that the loss of routine can make life difficult.  When and where to get groceries, how to run errands in the shortest amount of time and traffic, where to tune in for weather or news, and many other mundane details of life can provide comfort in a new place.  All of the new details could have easily overwhelmed this young mom of two little boys.  

In fact, they did for a little while.  I couldn't find a bulk grocery section like the one I was used to shopping in Seattle.  The freeway system crisscrossed the rivers and bridges in a confusing muddle.  The library was home to rowdy teenagers after school.  The church search - well, that was long and lonely.  And of course, all of our friends were three hours away.  More than a couple times that I sat on my steps and cried over the loss of "normal."

Then, a month of so into our move here, I went to a different place for our Monday grocery trip.  Within steps of our parking spot, life got a little sunnier.  We met Sundance, and he helped us make this place home.

Week after week, Sundance has greeted us as we headed into our grocery adventures.  At times, we stop and visit on the way in, slowly getting to know this remarkable man and his story.  I've heard about his college baseball scholarship and completed bachelor's degree.  I listened to how his sister took care of his parents, and how he'd see them around the holidays.  I've heard tidbits of the struggles he had faced in life and decisions that had lasting impact on his life.  When the boys are impatient or rambunctious, he's reminded them to "listen to their mother" as we turned in through the automatic doors.  When they are modeling for best-kid-of-the-year brochures, he says something like, "your mom must have taught you well."  I think we often all needed those little notes of humor and genuine compliments in our morning.

My friends have teased that I must take that song, "Who are the people in your neighborhood...?" pretty seriously.  Perhaps - I admit that I go to that grocery store because of Sundance, Anastasia "the samples girl," and Suzie "the checker."  There are closer, maybe even better, places to get our groceries.  These people make the trip for milk and sundries something we actually look forward to.  Who can say that about grocery shopping with little kids?

One our way out of the grocery store, we often stop to buy a paper from Sundance. Occasionally, when his short poems were published, he'd point them out with contagious confidence.  I love reading his creations, little excerpts of his personality in short, poignant lines.  When we don't buy a paper, we often pick up a little something in the aisles for Sundance.  The boys take turns getting to carry Sundance's favorite strawberry cereal bars or a tall water bottle as I push the cart past the flowers and out the door.  Sometimes we'll stop and visit some more, and other times we have to leave with a little wave and, "see you next week, Sundance!"  

"God bless you and all your loved ones," Sundance always says with a smile.  At first, I smiled and nodded, but it wasn't long before I struck up a conversation with him about his beliefs.  What did "God" mean to him?  Sundance was unashamed to answer, "I'm a Christian.  I've been following Jesus for a long time, and that's just the way I live."  His beliefs were solid pieces of his character, and his tolerance of differences was far-reaching and sincere. Every person who knew him, regardless of their own beliefs, is blessed with his signature goodbye.

Sundance's life is simple.  He once described the room he rented for $20 a day.  "I'm simple, but happy," he'd say confidently.  "I don't have a lot of the things that cause stress for people.  I don't care if gas prices rise - I don't have a car.  I love my work, and live my life."  His one little luxury is a small tv that brought various baseball games to his room in the summer.  Far from regretting what might have been, had injury not dashed his possibilities of a long pitching career, Sundance was quite content and peaceful with his life.  Once we talked about how he'd tried to apply for various other, higher paying professional jobs.  However, at his age, with some of his past mistakes, it was difficult to find an employer willing to invest in him. He wasn't bitter or even disappointed, though.  His life was blessed, and he loved the people and work he encountered each day.  Blessed, he assured me, didn't mean easy, however.  Some seasons are better for street paper vendors, and others are more difficult.  Nearing 60 years old, he knew he would probably continue newspaper sales every day for the rest of his life.  There would be no retirement, just years of days of work.

Sundance has always noticed if we missed a Monday morning at the store.  As we rounded the corner and stopped to say hello, he'd ask about our recent trips or vacations.  I've watched many conversations where he patiently listened to 3 and 4-year old boys relay their adventures.  He always seemed happy to see us back on routine.  I've been amazed and humbled thathe would know our habits so well, but I also appreciated that things had become "normal" and comfortable enough in our routine.  Finally, it seems, we have a little community in the errands and grocery trips of life.

A couple weeks ago, I went to get groceries and missed Sundance.  No other paper vendor stood out there and I assumed he must have been sick - or perhaps lucky enough to get tickets to a baseball game - that particular day.  It was unusual for him to miss a moment of his work, but I didn't worry too much about it.  I just missed him, and the boys missed giving high-fives out the side of the shopping cart and picking out strawberry bars.  I actually looked forward to the next time we'd see Sundance, so I could let him know we had missed him and remind him that he's appreciated and noticed.  

As it turns out, I won't get to tell him.  As I walked from our car last Thursday, I was greeted by a new face selling papers.  Sundance, he reported, had passed away a week-and-a-half earlier.   He had evidently gone in his sleep, or while watching tv.  

Stunned, I entered the store and tried to navigate the cheese options while I processed the news.  I've written before about minivan theology.   It's the seminary of life - where the beliefs we hold meet the questions and challenges of young minds.  It's living out my faith in the presence of little eyes, ears, and lives that soak it up and imitate me, for better or worse.  It's answering "why" to the things that seem most important, yet most difficult to articulate.   In a grocery store, between samples of hummus and various scents of dish soap, minivan theology took a new turn.  What happens when somebody dies?  In particular, what happened to Sundance?

I am so grateful for the conversations I had with Sundance over the past two years.  With confidence I could explain how his death is sad for us, but actually happy for Sundance.  I could hold back my own tears in order to let my children hear how Sundance is with God forever.  I could remember that this man, nearly sixty years old, will never have to work through old age, trying to pull together the daily rent and food costs of his simple life.  I could acknowledge that death, however gaping in loss to us, is the end of pain and loneliness, of standing in the cold rain to sell papers, of accepting the judgements of those who don't recognize the human blessing before them.  I could look at my children, and agree with them that it was "so nice" to have had him as a friend, even if we're very sad now to lose him.

Sundance was a remarkable human being.  He was a gift to that store, to every customer he greeted on that side of the automatic doors, to every ear that heard, "God bless you and all your loved ones."  He gave a new face to my understanding of working poverty - one of strength and gratitude, of love and discipline, of compassion and confidence.   

I will miss him.  I will grieve the change on that entrance to the grocery store.  I will continue to process the loss with my boys, who daily ask about Sundance's life and God's decisions.  Most of all, I will be thankful, selfishly, for the friendship and comfort I found in our weekly visits.  He helped me find "home" in this new place, and now his Maker has taken him home forever.

oh brother

Well, it's only been a scant few days, but little Obi-2 wasn't waiting around to catch up on the biking adventures.  Last weekend, we caved to his persistent requests to have his training wheels taken off.  Within moments, I was running behind him, holding on, and thinking of my dad.  

Since he's only three, I was surprised he had the balance to ride.  Riding and pedaling were no problem, but he was unable to get started and stopped on his own.  While we knew these were important skills, Obi-2 wasn't going to be convinced without experiencing it himself.  Doubting Thomas, I suppose.

So, a few skinned elbows later, we convinced him to remove the pedals.  With the seat lowered completely, he could touch the ground with flat feet and push himself along on the bike.  Once he got some momentum, he'd pull his feet up and see how far he could go without putting his feet back down for balance.  If you're teaching a child to ride without training wheels, this is definitely the way to go - at least if you want to limit their risk & frustration.

This evening, he got going the width of a city lot with ease, so we agreed that he could have his pedals back.  It was quick moving from there, as he took off and rode away, just as he had seen his brother do.  Within moments he was trying to go down hills so he could get more speed, and he quickly figured out how to turn with great control.  My nervousness increased as I watched Obi-1 and his friends try to skid their bikes into complete turns.  So, I took the opportunity to double-check our health insurance policy and confirm we have AFLAC.   

We spent the evening watching all neighbor kids ride bikes.  I'd say it was "into the sunset," except they're only allowed to go a few houses down before turning and heading back to the east.  However, by the time it started to get dark we had to remind them that when the sun goes to bed, so do they. 

It looks like I will need to watch out for the building of ramps and jumps that is sure to follow the Kenobi boys. Congrats, Obi-2, for making our home an official "training wheel free" household.  I'm excited to ride into the next adventure.

two wheels

My dad ran behind his six-year-old daughter, a dishtowel wrapped around the back of my banana-seat to hoist me up as I tipped.  Around and around the block he ran, while I yelled, "don't let go!"  Suddenly I didn't hear him breathing  behind my shoulder.  I looked, crashed, and cried indignantly, "you let go!"  

He saw that I could do it, and had confidence in me that I didn't yet have in myself.  That, and he was tired of running.

Flash forward to my life as a parent.  Obi-1, who is nearly 5, has been itching to ride a "two wheeler."  Our neighbor boy, "Li'l Joe," and his family introduced us to family biking.  I think it's fair to say they've encouraged Mr. Kenobi's commute-by-bike, showing confidence that he could do it long before we were certain.  They loaned us little bikes when all we thought necessary for a 2 year old's riding pleasure was a tricycle.  Once Obi-1 watched his friend take off on a 2-wheeler, he immediately wanted to do the same.  For two weeks, we've been trying to teach him patience, though not very successfully!  

And so you can imagine Saturday evening, while the neighborhood kids were all out riding up and down the block on scooters and bikes, that Obi-1 again asked to ride a 2-wheeler.  Without so much as a second thought, Li'l Joe's dad got up and went to his garage, returning with a smaller 2-wheeled bike.  I was skeptical, but gave Obi-1 the go-ahead to get on.  However, I looked to my neighbor and said something about hoping we didn't spend the evening in the emergency room.  

Fortunately, Obi-1 didn't share my lack of confidence.  He pushed himself along by foot for a few yards, then pulled up his feet and pedaled.  Within a few more yards, he was riding.  Mr. Kenobi and I didn't even have to leave our lawn chairs.

Sometimes you need somebody else to believe in you.  Other times, you have to just believe in yourself.

hired help

"Mama, be careful on the stairs."  

Hmm?  I absentmindedly responded to Obi-1 as I tried to find the best way to fix ribs for this evening's dinner.   Then, as if from far away, he said it again & caught my attention.

"Be careful on the stairs.  We just washed them."

This echoes the things I tell the boys when I've just finished scrubbing the hardwood stairs.  My mind races to track back through the conversation we had minutes ago...

"Boys, Mama needs your help.  We have friends coming over and I need to finish the recipe and get things cleaned up before Daddy gets home..."

I was sure I asked them to pick up their superhero costumes.  Sure of it.  Perhaps I did, but they decided to "help" by scrubbing the stairs.  I think they're wearing the superhero capes, which means they did  pick them up.  And the stairs undoubtably should be scrubbed, though they weren't on the urgent last-minute cleaning list.

In about two seconds I had raced into the front hall to survey the project.   Obi-1 held the special washcloth I use to scrub my face, a bit sudsy and dripping from his hand, and there was a puddled trail down the stairs and through the hall.  The stairs were thoroughly soaked from wall to rail, including the landing at the top.  Obi-2 held another washcloth, similarly drippy, and pointed to the stack of videos that were barricading traffic from the freshly washed stairs.

It turns out they used my (expensive, of course) foaming face cleanser for the project.  They dutifully filled washcloths with water, squirted a generous amount of cleanser on top, and trekked down the stairs to wash.

I must admit, they are clean now.  It took only a quick mop with a towel to clear the puddles, and a fresh scent of hypo-allergenic, anti-aging cleanser now greets my guests.   I'm sure it's a good thing for those 97-year-old wood floors. 

Considering the cost of this hired help, I can't complain.  

give em what they want

Dancing is to the eye

what music is to the ear.

~ Marjorie Forney, dance arts pioneer

I'm teaching dance this week at a local arts camp.  While I've assisted in a few classes over the past decade, this is the first time I've pulled out my ballet slippers in the great northwest.  Let's just say it was exciting but uncomfortable!  Uncomfortable mostly because of the wardrobe challenges: either the shoes and clothes are smaller, or I am bigger. Um, yeah.  Like that's a question. 

Anyway, about 22 kids signed up for "dance" class.  The brochure had a sentence about creative movement and introductory dance when describing my classes.  Evidently this was widely read as "hip hop dances" by the young students.  While they seem to be having fun in spite of this, I've been mildly amused at the parents who've let me know they were surprised their children were getting "ballet instead of hip hop."

"I'm excited she's getting ballet.  It's just that we thought she was going to learn some new hip hop dances.  But ballet is great.  Really."

First, folks, it's hardly ballet.  If it were ballet, there would be technique.  And bars.  And mirrors.  Have I mentioned I don't need mirrors?   Moreover, I wouldn't teach ballet to sweet, unsuspecting, introductory "art camp" kids.  I've safely proven (in my mother's studio) that I'm a strict ballet teacher, even for trained students. 

So, I'm teaching creative movement.  It's a simple combination of basic ballet, jazz, and modern technique, to give them a small taste of dance.  A wide variety of music inspires them to move with lots of rhythms, instruments, and musicality.  I hope they'll finish the week with some safe ways to warm up their muscles, several basic movements (and vocabulary) from different dance disciplines, a few short pieces of choreography, and some basic performance and theater etiquette.  Most of all, I hope they have an overwhelming urge to put on some music and dance!

What I'm not teaching is hip hop.  When done well, it's incredibly technical and impressive.  However, it's not my area of expertise and it's not something that is well taught in a 5-day kids' camp.  Let me be clear: I do not oppose hip hop dance.  In fact, I have a healthy appreciation for the cultural and artistic contribution it has provided the dance world.  That said, there are a few problems with me teaching hip hop dance to this group of 1st - 6th graders:

1.  Skill Levels.  Most of my week's students have little to no dance background.  Hip hop quickly leads to injuries if done poorly.  In this type of class structure, I can't possibly make sure everyone is using perfect technique or following complex choreography safely.

2. Influence.  Often, the hip hop seen in music videos and even dance squads is charged with provocative moves and outfits.  I can't control what ideas kids might have of this genre, and so it's hard to teach appropriate choreography and not disappoint.  Plus, one of my primary goals is to give them creative space, and I don't want the shake-yer-booty moves they have learned elsewhere influencing our time.

3. Exposure.  Hip hop is the most common form of dance most of these kids have experienced.  This being a camp and all, I'd like to offer a taste of the art of dance that they may not know.  It's a chance to broaden their horizons and expose them to something new.

So, surprise or not, we're just doing "dance."  Not hip hop, not ballet, and not really any other specific genre.  This is not going to take the place of a high quality class from a trained and experienced teacher.  It's simply a fun way for them, and I, to use our bodies as instruments - dancing with joy to the song set before us.

technology

"I'm so amazed by phones, Mama."

"Really, why is that?"

"Because you can talk to somebody next door, or a long ways away, and it's all the same on a phone."

so true.

What amazes you today?

day 6

"Love the Lord your God all your soul and with all your strength. 

These commandments that I give you today are to be upon your hearts. 

Impress them on your children. 

Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, 

when you lie down and when you get up."

(thoughts on family values... Deuteronomy 6:5-7)

Decisions.  

I make many each day without much long-term consequence.  Like whether it's better to put the peanut butter knife into the jelly, or vice versa, or just use two knives.  Let's face it, the sandwich-making decision does not change the outcome of our lives.  

Other decisions, however, seem to carry more weight.  Natural, or hydrogenated peanut butter?  Fresh fruit, or fruit snacks?  If you've read many of my food posts, you know I have opinions.  Some have gone as far as giving me nicknames or rolling their eyes.  I admit it - we have values we'd like to instill in our children.  So, the little choices start to add up and show patterns.  If I want my boys to know and follow my beliefs about nutrition, I needn't lecture on health habits.  What will they see as true in my life?  Each small decision can either reinforce or contradict what I say I believe.

The decisions can seem daunting if we put too much stock in their influence.  In writing to share this trip with you, I've been pressed to edit and cram things into short descriptions.  What results is only a tiny glimpse of the week.  Oh, how I long to share the details of the days, describe sweet exchanges, or recount many conversations that changed me!  Yet this blog is only capable of little tales, and my words are so often inadequate.  I've had to choose carefully, hoping that the things I publish will paint a scaled-down version of the larger picture.   

And so we come to this day in Mexico.  Our final day of working with the families in this village is upon us, and I'm thinking about the decision we've made to come here.  Was it a big choice?  So many people - loved ones at home and strangers here - have looked at our choice to bring a family into this work with disbelief or intrigue.  The time, the money, the travel... going where we don't know anyone... where we don't know the language well... when we have no experience, or formal training to offer...  I suppose it seemed like a very large decision, indeed.

It was, and is, a big deal.  But we also realized that this is a small piece of a larger picture.  When we say we believe each person - our children included - is uniquely and lovingly made for God's purposes and glory, then we must act accordingly.  How do we know our own strengths and weaknesses?  How do we show attention to the unique bent of each child, seeking ways to build his character?  What will we do to point him to his creator?  When given the opportunity, we must rise and stretch as a family, living out opportunities God presents with active faith.  

When these choices are consistent, a message will be clear.  There is a God, and we know him.  He is good, and mighty, and purposeful.  He has offered an immeasurable gift of life in Christ, and this life extends beyond the days we number in this world.  He is creative and in motion, and we are invited to join his work in this world.  Often this work is within the rooms of our home, or sidewalks of our neighborhood.   Sometimes it moves us with love and action in our schools, city, and country.  Once in a while - however rare - an invitation extends to take us into other countries and cultures.  

Every parent chooses his or her values.  We value traveling the world, wanting to raise children who see and appreciate the different lives on this planet.  We value hard work, wanting to raise children who will use their gifts to be a blessing, not a drain.  We value sincerity, wanting to raise children who do what they say.  We value faith, wanting to raise children to understand they are not the center of the universe - but they can know the One who is.  Without action, however, these things remain nice words written or spoken without consequence.  It is those small and slightly larger decisions, made with consistency over time, that will prove what we really believe.

Whether it was playing in the heat of the plaza with dozens of children, or sitting in the shade of a dirt courtyard, or trading life stories with new friends, our boys were with us throughout this trip.  Today I watched Obi-1 explain the gospel story to a group that included his brother and several new amigos.  It was unexpected, and I caught my breath.  It's not about regurgitating what he's been told - today I got to overhear what he believes.  For a moment, I simply found joy in a mother's answered prayer.  My children are starting to understand that they have a gift and purpose for their life, and they are acting on this belief. 

Tonight, we joined new friends and prayed a blessing on a family, household, and village.  We shared hopes that people would come and join them this evening.  The results of tonight's attendance will either encourage or squelch this family's dream to build a church in their town.  We have seen people declare a new and renewed faith this week.  We have heard voices say they believe something eternally important.  Like our children's eyes for us and ours for them, we'll look for actions that reinforce those words.

They came.  Tonight, twenty (four times the amount we had asked for and hoped for!) came to hear, read, and discuss a passage from the bible.  Household after household gathered in that courtyard together.  Children gathered around the steps and built new friendships.  Neighbors and friends helped take care of guests, holding babies and greeting each person who climbed that rocky hill in step with their faith.  Translators and team members stood at the outside, offering seating and fellowship space to those who would meet long after we return to our comfy beds and American homes.  

     

So, a decision was made to bring families into this work.  Were we building something?  What did we do with the kids while we worked?  Why were we here?

It's as simple as peanut butter & jelly sandwiches, I suppose.  Somebody was hungry.  Somebody had ideas for a meal.  We believe in providing nourishment to those around us, so we spent a week of a summer vacation in this work.  As we return home, we'll hope and wait for another opportunity to rise up and challenge us to make a decision.

Thank you, as you've supported us and come along in the journey. 

Much love,

MamaToo

day 5

"For everyone who asks receives; 

he who seeks finds; 

and to him who knocks, the door will be opened."

(promise of Jesus, Luke 11:10)

 

Today will end with a bible study at our host's home.  Any bible - regardless of denomination or language - will be useful, as they will take a brief walk through a few scripture passages and discuss it together.  It is a simple, non-threatening introduction to faith, and the hosts will welcome whomever joins them with grace and hospitality.   

While our efforts cover an entire village, our host ministry has a very specific goal: five households at the final bible study meeting.  Ours is not a mission of great revival or conversion; this is not a crusade to make hundreds of people believe like we do.  It is simply the building of a church - a body of people, believing and following Christ - and we are glad helpers to those who have a long-term investment in this place.  A commitment of five households will give our host ministry a "green light," so to speak, to invest time and resources in this community with weekly bible study meetings. With five or more committed and growing in discipleship, they will move forward in planting a church here.

This number seems so easy, but we also recognize the commitment it will take for somebody to come to their neighbors' house for a bible study.  This is not a culture that readily meets together.  The idea of studying the bible, not just displaying it in a corner, surprises and challenges many people we've met.  In order for women or teenagers to attend a meeting, their husbands or fathers will have to approve or join them.  Anyone who comes to a bible study will likely face judgement or skepticism from friends who resist change.  So, we know the goal is set with a solemn heart and faithful prayers.

We spent the day visiting with people in the neighborhood, playing another heated futball match, and presenting a simple but moving drama in the plaza.  Kids, adults, friends, and new faces have been greeting us all day, asking us our story, listening to our hearts, and sharing their lives with us.  Many people have made decisions to welcome Christ's offer of grace and forgiveness and accept His call to discipleship.  It is like seeing fishermen leave their nets - simple, yet profound.  I've never been around this sort of movement, so it is incredible to witness.

While walking over to Angel & Ed's home today, we met a man and his young son outside a store.  The boy is Obi-2's age, which creates an easy conversation for us.  We've met them before, but today we had a chance to visit a bit more.  Mr. Conche has been watching our group, and particularly our family.  He eyes Mr. Kenobi and earnestly asks questions. 

Why would you spend money to come and work here?

You could have gone to a resort.  Why would you plan a vacation like this?

I hear it's about God, but how could religion bring a family with little kids to this place?

Religion.  Yes, it's unlikely that religion would cause us to do this.  If religion is people's effort to get close to the divine, achieve goodness, and find eternal happiness, then this culture (and ours) is rich with religion.  In spite of its simplicity and poverty, these neighborhoods are filled with beautiful art, tributes, and traditions of the religious.  Religion fills the community calendar and creates reason for celebrations.  I'm reminded of the story of Paul's visit to Athens.  Like him, we have not come to introduce our religion.

Religion is fully fueled by the believer.  It is always an expenditure - an effort of people, from their own strength, to give something to another.  No matter who or what the god, religion will only present a new set of rules and behaviors, hoping to bring about change by our own sheer will and discipline.   Religion cannot feed or sustain us.  We might feel better about ourselves, but even that is fleeting.  We might think we can understand, but religion will always leave us striving for more information.   Most of all, religion is only as good as the religious person, and so it often fails and disappoints.  Mr. Conche knows this, so our presence is puzzling.

No, religion would not bring us to this place, especially with our children beside us.  We have no religion to offer - we simply have a relationship that has filled us and overflows.  What we have to offer is not ourselves or our habits.  God has already offered the only way to Himself.  How unbelievable, yet beautiful, for Him to turn religion on its head!  It is not religion, but relationship that has moved us, and this is the story we tell.

Mr. Kenobi continued this conversation with Mr. Conche after the boys and I left for lunch.  When my husband joined us later, he truly glowed from joy.  It seems that throughout their conversation, customers would come in for lunchtime purchases.  Mr. Kenobi and his translator would step back to give Mr. Conche time to do business.  Every time this happened, however, Mr. Conche would waive the customer over to another tienda or a family member, insisting that he wanted to hear more of this gospel story from Mr. Kenobi.  By the end of their time together, Mr. Conche was stepping into a new faith - a relationship built on God's efforts, not his own - and he was eager to join us in study this evening.

And so, this evening a new member of God' family - a man, husband, and father of four boys - joined us.  Mr. Kenobi sat with this new friend and brother, sharing a joy that needed no translator.   

There is much work to do tomorrow.  While we have grateful hearts for the four households who gathered together tonight, several people who indicated they wanted to join us were not there.  Our hosts & ministry leaders seem encouraged, however, and gracious to the Americans who were counting and analyzing.  They explained that many people would rather say they'll come, yet not show up, than refuse an invitation.  This is yet another cultural nuance for us to digest.  Our hosts also remind us of a more solemn problem: there is opposition to change.  Whenever God is at work, there will be challenges to those who are with Him.  This is true, whether in our lighthearted games or genuine conversations.

Tomorrow we will spend our time building the relationships we've begun.  It will be our last day in this place, and we will have another bible study meeting in the evening.   We will continue investing in the new disciples we've found this week, and we pray to see the vision of a small group, growing in relationship with Himself and each other.

day 4

"The city streets will be filled with boys and girls playing there."

(A promise and description of God's blessing - Zechariah 8:5)

Have I mentioned the children here?  They are beautiful.  They are so full of life, and evidently quite trustworthy.  At least, their parents must think so, as they have very little supervision after school hours.  Within moments of suggesting it, we easily gather a large, enthusiastic crowd for games in the plaza.

Yesterday, we invited kids of any age to join a simple program.  I was struck by a few things that contrast with our lives.  First, children have plenty of time to play, but very little stuff to play with.  My boys, like local kids, have easily adjusted to using rocks and sticks instead of the plastic gizmos that trip me at home.  They're also learning soccer - excuse me, futball - from their Mexican peers, and sharing the joys of chasing a ball around a concrete or gravel field.  So, unlike US kids' programs, which are frought with elaborate props & prizes, this afternoon was very simple.  When our team brought out an inner tube and divided the group into teams for tug-of-war, they were elated. 

The other thing that is quickly apparent is that women - even young teens - have very little time or opportunity for play.  Whenever we organize games, we have to personally invite the girls to participate, and then encourage them to join us.  Once in the game, they are delighted and intensely competitive (much like their US counterparts!).  Mothers, fathers, and curious neighbors watch from the shade as our team instructed the kids in the games.  Within minutes, everyone was laughing and relaxing - poking fun at one or cheering their favorites.  It seems, at least from this observation, that few people ever invest this sort of time in simple fun.

I'm faced with more questions today.  Women, especially, are very curious about me and my children.  What do we do at home?  What do I tell Obi-1 & Obi-2 about the world?  Why would I bring them here - to play with these children?  What could this village possibly offer my family?

The children, too, are full of questions and generosity.  They capture my heart and imagination, and I am reminded that my message knows no boundaries of age or ability.  I'm also learning treasures about this culture: after admiring a boy's necklace, he removed it and offered it to me.  Of course, I insisted I could never take it from him.  It was too special.  I truly had nothing of any value to offer him as a token of trade.  With no addresses or family name, I would have no way to return the favor later.  Certainly I couldn't take something so important from this innocent person!

Instead of the expected relief, I immediately saw a pained look of rejection, hurt, and confusion cover his face.  My translator jumped in to say that the boy truly wanted me to have this gift.  To reject the gift would be to reject the giver.  It is not an offer for trade - it is a free gift.  I can simply receive it with sincere gratitude.

I've had several more chances to share and discuss the most important topics today.   I am so grateful for this moment in time.  It is one thing to tell Obi-1 and Obi-2 that God loves people who live outside of our home or preschool group of friends.  It is simple to tell them that we have received a gift worth sharing with others.  It is quite another to show them - indeed, introduce them personally - to a world of people who are loved by the same Creator.

day 3

"This gospel of the kingdom 

shall be preached in the whole world 

as a testimony to all the nations..." 

(Jesus' promise, Matthew 24:14)

Why are we here?   

This is the question we must answer.  Certainly for ourselves, but also many times over for those we meet here.  Today our team spread out over the various areas of the village.  In a small, simple place like this, the best way to share a wide-reaching invitation is to personally visit neighbors.  Such is the way of communication here, and so we went out, family by family, with an interpreter.  Our hope was for easy introductions, an opportunity to share the reason of our visit, and chances to invite people into relationships.

Our hostess tells us that she doesn't know the neighbors very well.  She has friends in this place, to be sure, but women must work very hard at home - no dishwashers, washing machines, or other modern conveniences here.  Their time is often filled with work and family needs, so they simply wave or nod to neighbors without really getting to know them.  Men, too, are very hard working - often traveling by bus for jobs.  So, today we helped our hosts' neighbors get introduced to one another, and invited people to investigate this idea of a new church in their community.

I must admit, the day had me nervous.  Yesterday, I comfortably held a crowd while making small talk.  However, the idea of knocking on doors to help bridge a gap between neighbors carries weight.  Knowing that I will have to rely on our interpreter to do this work had my stomach in knots.  Considering my own reaction to door-to-door salespeople or political activists back home, I wondered how many folks would hide behind their tall front gates.

Our interpreter knows the culture and local community, however, and he said this is a good way to bring people together.  One of our hostess' friends also joined us in case we met some of their friends.  House by house, we were greeted with curiosity, skepticism, and sometimes outright gratitude.  Through an interpreter, we explained there would be a kids program in the plaza today, another futball game tomorrow, and other activities in the week.  When possible, we also shared that we're here to help our host family invite neighbors to their home for a bible study.  With photos of home and children beside us, introductions were quick.  We asked about their lives, their interests, and even their beliefs.  We talked about our own faith, and the faith of their neighbors who would like to host a bible study in their home.  

Sometimes, we're asked questions.  Other times, we do the asking.  The most pressing question, naturally, has to do with why a family from the US would venture into this village for work, rather than vacationing as a tourist.

Throughout the morning, I was reminded of Peter or Paul, who simply and frequently shared the gospel as they travelled.  Cocooned by the open society of the US, I often think everyone has heard this story.  So, it surprises me when we hear questions and interest to hear our faith - over and over.  When neighbors learn that our hosts will have a bible study later this week, they are curious - as if they never considered reading that or discussing its meaning.  People are especially eager to have skepticism, questions, and honesty allowed into discussions about faith.  Today reminded me that many have not heard, many do not know, yet all need to hear this story for themselves.

One of the most poignant moments overwhelmed me.  While Mr. Kenobi chatted with some young men in a doorway, our hostess' friend walked down the street to see a woman she knew.  Frankly, I was paying more attention to handing out fruit snacks to my boys than anything else.  I was a little startled to stand up and see three women in front of me.  In broken Spanish, I tried to introduce myself, but I couldn't understand what they were asking.  I greeted them politely, and looked around for our interpreter, who jumped to my aid.

"These women are asking what you believe. They heard we were here, so they came down the street to ask. They want to know why you're here, and what that has to do with God."

Can you explain what you believe?  

Do you know why you are here?  

Can you tell a stranger about the faith that brought you and your family to this place?  

When given a brief moment in history, can you explain these important things?

I always hoped I could, but that moment challenged me like no other.  It also changed at least two lives.  In the sun of an early afternoon, I gained a sister.  Not by birth or language, but through a holy adoption - a gracious, eternal gift.  Angel, a beautiful 28-year old mother of a kindergartner, received faith that none of us can ask for, demand, or earn.  I don't know what she had heard or considered before that moment, but I am eternally grateful to have seen her eyes open and her heart melt in the hands of God.  

As our conversation continued, I shared some of the things God promises.  Faithfulness... Goodness... Justice... Provision...  We are both mothers, so I vulnerably told her about God's promises to generations of those who follow him.  These promises have been gifts to my parents, then to me, and I hope my children will be blessed by the faith of their parents.  I also assured her that I was not infallible, but that I study and learn what God has to say about Himself, the world, and us.  In fact, I frequently get together with others who believe Him and want to understand the bible.  In these times, I am challenged and encouraged to grow.  

I invited her to join us the next day for a simple bible study.  This is not a new religion or way to earn favor before God.  It is simply an invitation to know scripture for herself - not rely on me or others for truth.  She nodded excitedly, and we parted with smiling cries of "hasta lluego" (see you later) - as I returned to Mr. Kenobi.

I felt like I was in a beautiful dream, but it would only get better.  Apparently, while Angel and I talked and prayed together, Mr. Kenobi had a similar experience with a young man named Ed.  As we visited on the way back, we marveled at the miracle we'd just witnessed in two people.  Then, our hostess explained another, beautiful piece of the day's tapestry: Angel is Ed's sister.  

Why are you here?