Humble Offerings

Reflections on the Emerald Isle, part 6 On the road to Galway

2011-03-21T23:18:00.001-04:00

We got up bright and early the night after our time at McGann's Pub and headed toward Galway. First stop was Doolin Pier.

The sun was brightly shining and waves were crashing. I don't know why the sun and waves were so unexpected to me, but the surprise of it made the stop all more lovely.

Next stop---the Cliffs of Moher. As I stated before, the Cliffs are amazing. Massive, beautiful, breathtaking, awe-inspiring. It is truly necessary to just let the pictures do the talking.

"In memory of those who have lost their lives at the Cliffs of Moher"

Leaving the Cliffs, we headed across The Burren, an archeological and geographical wonder. Jim, being the former geologist, found this to be a special treat. Truth be told, we all found it fascinating. Tami is a Social Studies teacher, so the history of it intrigued her. Jeff and I just thought it was all wonderful. Sadly, I realize we didn't take enough pictures at this stop.

On to Galway!

Reflections on the Emerald Isle, part 5 Doolin

2011-03-19T12:44:00.005-04:00

You know, sometimes we make mistakes that unintentionally cause distress to others because we get caught up in the fun and reverie. Such was the case in a previous version of this post. My sincere apologies. Changes have been made.

I interrupt this( regularly) scheduled Irish posting for a moment from the Dominican Republic. I am presently sitting outside Hotel Casablanca in Barahona DR watching the sun rise and listening to the waves crash upon the rocks at the base of the cliffs below. As I look at the cliffs, my first thought was that I was seeing a miniature version of the Cliffs of Moher near Doolin. They aren't quite as grand nor anywhere near as high, but they are beautiful and they do overlook the Caribbean sea. I'll take it. I am here with Jim, as well as my son and his girlfriend. The original intent was to be part mission trip to work on the church in Hato Mayor and part pleasure trip. It has turned into more pleasure than work. I will take that, too. A rooster nearby just crowed "Good morning". More on this trip later.

The cliffs near Hotel Casablanca, Barahona-Paraiso, Dominican Republic

The REAL Cliffs of Moher near Doolin. These cliffs are massive and breathtakingly beautiful.

Now, back to our regular programming...

I can't believe it is taking me so long to post about the remainder of our visit to Ireland. It is not right to be so busy that I can't get this done.

We headed toward Doolin after our stop at the Rock of Cashel. We wove our way through Limerick, but didn't stop due to the advice from previous travelers. We only had a few hours until it would be dark and we were hoping to arrive sooner than that. Not to be. As they say, travel in Ireland does not go at the pace of the U.S. That's a good thing. It is just difficult when one is learning the limitations of driving on the left, in a stick shift, in the dark, in the rain.

Once we found Doolin, our task was to: 1) find a pub to have a Guinness, and 2) find a room. We found both at McGann's Pub, one of three pubs lining the road in Doolin. Doolin is the home to traditional Irish music. It is far from Dublin and just a wee bit of a town near the sea and the Cliffs of Moher. Before arriving at McGann's, we turned onto a small side road looking for a B & B advertised on a small sign post. We didn't find it, but we thought we were about to find the sea. In our car. Off a cliff. Probably more our imagination running wild from exhaustion and jet lag more than anything else. So, we found McGann's and we went inside.

Tami and Jeff enjoy Irish music at McGann's

Our hearts did a happy dance. It was the perfect little Irish pub with a bar on the left as we entered. A look to our right brought the welcome sight of a coal fire burning near a few small tables. We spied the table with our names on it, had a seat and ordered a light meal and a Guinness. The fire felt good. It was 4:30 in the afternoon.

This fireplace was the perfect spot to come to out of the cold and rain.

A combination of the hearty ale and yummy grub and we were soon ready for a bit of a winter's nap. We'd noticed that a table near us had a small "Reserved" sign on it. Hoping to return to our preferred spot by the fire, we asked if we could reserve our table, too. "No worries," said the beautiful barmaid, "we'll hold it for ya." So up the stairs we climbed to a welcome respite.

Jim and Jan, happy but tired.

When I woke with a start, it was 9:30 pm. Yikes! Did we miss the night's entertainment? Was everyone gone home to bed? Um, no. Little did we know that a late night was ahead of us. It's a really good thing we had our nap.

When we got downstairs, the pub was packed. "Too late," I thought, "we've lost our table". Sitting at 'our' table and all those in the vicinity of the small room by the fire and the three Irish musicians playing were, oh, twenty-four or so wild Irish men in town for a stag party. "No worries," the barmaid declared, "they'll be moving along in an hour's time." When we saw her deliver another round and another, we conceded defeat and chose alternate seating. Or should I say standing? I stood in a doorway, peering in and watching as the night's events unfolded.

I got their dad's permission (to the right) to take this pic as long as I didn't plan to sell it.
These were some tough pirates.

The attention of the men centered on one gentleman in particular, whom we would later learn was the groom-to-be. While everyone else around him was shirted, dear old groom was in a pair of jeans and what we thought was an unusual pair of lime green suspenders. Okay, it's his party, he can wear what he wants. As he came back from the men's room, a mighty roar was heard from his fans. Like Clark Kent entering a phone booth only to exit as Superman, the groom entered the men's room only to exit as, well, I'm not quite sure. Oh, he still had the green suspenders on, but his jeans were missing. In their place were stretch shorts, soccer shorts perhaps. He'd downed a few, so his inhibitions were waning, me thinks. We watched and laughed and laughed some more.

Tami and I weedled our way to a seat at one of their tables and we were fascinated by their stories. We soon learned we were in the midst of greatness.

Jeff and Tami and some pub dwellers.

These were some brilliant men we were meeting. PhD's here and PhD's there. Professors, engineers, ecologists. Good golly, these boys were barely 30 years old. They lived all over the world and had reunited in Doolin to share a little fun with their buddy.

The big boy in the dark shirt is Bryan. He is a BIG boy, maybe 6'6" or so. Played rugby.
Look at Elmer laugh. He often bent over to laugh.

The night progressed from there. There was singing and there was laughing and, oh boy, was there drinking. They were having a riotous good time and were incredibly gracious to let us all crash their party. It was all good fun. The groom joined us at our table and we held conversation. Not much of it made sense, but it was fun. The groom's brother, Killian explained that he was the best man and the best man gets to choose the groom's attire at his stag party. Killian just chose a cute little green number and he enjoyed every bit of his genius. The rest is history. Much shall remain our little secret. Wouldn't want to cause a stir for anyone. I've already said too much.

Message to the bride: He was a good man who did nothing to worry you. He might have been three sheets to the wind, but he never, not once, did anything to make you displeased. Aside from a little exhibitionism, he was a gentleman, through and through.

Elmer and I bonding.

This night we met some fascinating people, but our favorite was Elmer. As my little mum would say, "He had a good face," and he was just a delight. Soooo funny and he welcomed us in. He led the crowd in a song or two and we all joined in a bit off key. After the third song, I think it was American Pie, the piped-in music of the pub got turned up more than a wee bit louder to drown us out. Just more reason to laugh.

Just looking at Elmer in this picture makes me want
to laugh out loud

We closed the pub down at about 1:30 in the morning, a good two hours later than normal. The party continued down the road a bit at the hotel the group seemed to have filled to capacity. We were invited to join them back at the hotel bar, which was being kept open just for them. Killian, sweet as can be, waited to walk us down the dark road so we could find our way. We stayed a bit, me drinking a bottled water.

This video is dark, but it is Elmer leading the crowd in a pub song. I wish I could have gotten the whole thing.

I met another young couple, unconnected to the stag group, but included nonetheless. She was just as cute as a button and was a nurse who specialized in suicide prevention training. She told me about the program she followed, singing its praises. Interestingly enough, I found upon returning to work that my group of colleagues is scheduled for the same training in April. Small world. I just wish I'd gotten her email address.

Soon enough, Tami, Jeff, Jim and I headed "home" to once again rest our weary heads. We overslept, but still made it to the Doolin Pier and the Cliffs of Moher. Stunning.

I still smile when I think of our night in Doolin. I laugh out loud when I think of James and his mankini. I say a small prayer of thanks to the souls who gathered us in and, for a small time, allowed us to be one of them.

Let me tell you, gentlemen, if ever you find yourself near South Bend, Indiana, give us a ring. We'll put you up.

Heading out to Doolin Pier and the Cliffs of Moher.

Reflections on the Emerald Isle, part 4 Rock of Cashel

2011-02-21T09:37:00.000-05:00

Oh, my. Working full time, teaching two graduate level classes, recovering from surgery and planning a wedding are kickin' my tushie. I see that there might be time to breathe come the last week of July...

Now, back to our regularly scheduled programming!

We woke up on our first morning in Ireland and set out for the Rock of Cashel, the beautiful ruins of an old cathedral. The site sits high above the little town below. Legend associates the Rock of Cashel with St. Patrick, but the name comes from Caiseal, meaning "stone fort," and the hill was originally the residence of the kings of Munster. Excavations have revealed some evidence of burials and church buildings from the 9th or 10th century, but it was in the early 12th century that the Rock began to be developed into a major Christian center (thank you, Sacred Destinations) Despite a slight mist, it was lovely. We spent quite a bit of time just roaming the grounds.

At the time we were in Ireland, they were still recovering from unusually cold and snowy weather. Much of the country had experienced a freeze. Because it was an uncommon occurrence in the country, pipes froze and then burst once the thaws hit. Many towns and cities experienced a loss of water and a water curfew ensued for several days. The worst that we were personally hit was the day we were in Cashel. Everywhere we went looking for facilities, we were told "we have no water". You know, that's a little tough on someone who drinks just a few too many Diet Cokes (not me, mind you. Blech). Don't tell anyone, but one member of our little party had to desecrate the grounds of a national historic site. Couldn't be helped. Good thing the weather and the lack water kept most people indoors that day!

(More pictures below)

We ventured to find a tea shop to warm up and hopefully find a working loo. On our way, we stopped in the Cashel Woollen Store and met Inge. She was adorable and a wonderful delight! She didn't care if we bought a thing or not. Well, she probably did, but she didn't act like it. I purchased a lovely hand-woven scarf for my friend, Laura. Should have bought more.

She kept us busy with her stories and her advice for our travels. She told us all about the VAT tax and how to get reimbursed. She advised us not to listen to anyone who said we had to spend 20 or 30 euros for a reimbursement receipt. She said that they just didn't want to be bothered and hoped to keep the funds for themselves. It was this advice that caused us to irritate a certain clerk at the Guinness Storehouse in Dublin later in the week. Tee hee hee. She was great. She had a German name, but she was as Irish as the day is long!

We found our tea shop and a loo, then ventured off toward Doolin. We drove around Limerick, but had no time to stop. The days are much shorter in the winter and we had our destination in mind. This required that we boogie on down the road. Again, we traversed the narrow fence and shrub-lined roadways. Jim managed the roads well, but as the afternoon began to wane and light disappeared, the tension mounted. By the time we hit Doolin, the light was gone from the sky as we made our way in the dark. No lighted poles lined the roads as at home, making the drive a bit more harrowing. A light mist floated on the air and covered the dark ground with a moist reflection. Doolin is a teeny, yet famous town. The home of traditional Irish music had but three pubs to its name. Our little car found its way to the middle one---McGann's Pub---and so, an unexpected adventure began. Ever found yourself unexpectedly in the middle of a stag (bachelor) party? Neither had we.

That story the next time...

McGann's Pub. Ah, yes. The scene of the crime.

Where Tami fell down and went "boom".

The aftermath---wiping the mud from her boots and jeans. Just look at that sad little face.

Reflections on the Emerald Isle, part 3 Kilkenny

2011-01-30T20:59:00.000-05:00

This is it. This was the first one. It was goooood.

For our first three nights in Ireland, we had made no reservations for rooms to sleep. That was part of the adventure we looked forward to. We found a spot to park and walked in the rain along the streets of Kilkenny, a lovely and typical Irish village. We stopped inside a hotel or two along the way, but nothing seemed quite right. We didn't want fancy hotels. We wanted the flavor of Ireland and we wanted the "full Irish breakfast" we'd heard so much about. Soon enough, we went into a pub to ask and met a man named Luke. Luke sent us on to a pub called Lanigan's Pub & Hostel. It is here we had our first Guinness and licked the foam off our lips. Ah, but, I digress.

Our first night, Jim had breakfast for dinner. It was goooood.

Inside, we met P.J., the bartender. He was so helpful, but assured us that we probably didn't want to sleep in the hostel. It was St. Stephen's night and things were about to gear up fast and furious with rambunctious and raucous crowds. He directed us to a pub next door where we might find rooms, but says our best bet is Rafter Dempsey's up the road. We quickly stopped next door, but soon left because breakfast was not included. I'm telling you, we wanted that Irish breakfast and we were determined. The proprietor told us to come back if we don't have luck at Rafter Dempsey's and he'll "ring up a few B&B's". Sweet. Oh, and P.J. told us to come back once we had a room and he would let us park in his car park. For free. Luck was with us and we found a room and that Irish breakfast at Rafter Dempsey's. Food and service did not disappoint. Tami and Jeff were without heat in their room. Jeff wore a hat to bed that night and about 14 layers of clothes.

My first meal in Ireland. I was tired, cold and wet. This was gooooood.

Scenes from Kilkenny


This would be Patrick Joseph, who proffered a wedding proposal to me, hinting that he would have to kill Jim first. He was like a waif from a Dickens novel, including hat, long wool coat, a limp and a cane.

Beggars on St. Stephen's Night

I obviously felt the same as Jeff.


Street Scenes

Kilkenny Castle

Where we parked our car, thanks to P.J.

Kilkenny Castle

Reflections on the Emerald Isle, part 2

2011-01-20T05:41:00.000-05:00

Ireland is, too, green.

As the plane prepared for a landing in Dublin, I looked out the window and all I saw was white. I'm not talking about clouds, I'm talking about snow. SNOW! Five to six inches of snow. Here we'd been talking for two months about seeing green in the midst of our winter and I look out the window to see five to six inches of snow covering as far as the eye could see. Well. Dismay quickly turned to joy anyway because I thought, "People and pubs. We are really here for the people and pubs." I wasn't going to let the snow diminish our trip in anyway. Turns out, I didn't have to. On our first afternoon, the rain came and washed the snow away. We never saw snow again. While it wasn't as green as it would have been at a different time of year, it was still green and it was still lovely.

At Glendalough (glen-dah-lock)

At the Rock of Cashel

Looking upon the town of Cashel

They aren't kidding when they say the roads in Ireland are narrow.

The pick-up.

We picked up our rental car with relative ease and headed to Kilkenny for our first night. Jim drove. Yikes, Jim drove. Jim drove on the wrong side of the road while sitting on the wrong side of the car. And drove a stick shift. Jim drove a stick shift with his left hand. Oy, what an adventure. Jeff was fine. Jim was fine.

Don't let the picture fool you, he's just as nervous as the rest of us.

Tami and I were not fine and emitted many "eeks" and "ooooo-eeeeeee-aaaaayyyyyeeee!!!!!" along the way. I may have also, um, calmly told Jim to slow down. There are stone walls and fences that line the roads and I think we smoothed the edges of many of them. I don't know how there weren't scratch marks all along the side of our car. Reach out and touch someone? Heck, I could have reached out and touched a sheep.

Don't let the smiles fool you. ~~They~~ She's a wreck.

For the next three days, Jim ignored my nagging about his driving. Yup, he just blew me off. I thought we were going to slide off the road many a time. He didn't care and just said, "We're fine, we're fine." If we weren't traveling with people we didn't know (initially) very well, he would NOT have been fine. I probably would have hit him with something a time or two.

They say they were exhausted from no sleep for 24+ hours. I say this was a great way to deal with Jim driving on the wrong side of the road.

Reflections on the Emerald Isle, part 1

2011-01-16T20:38:00.002-05:00

It is always so hard to sum up a really good experience so that someone who wasn't there can truly understand and enjoy it the way you did. It's not really possible, you know. There is no way they can feel it or experience it the same way when they weren't there. As I sit here wanting to write about our time in Ireland, I am stumped with how to begin. Maybe I'll just have to do it in several posts. Whatever. I'll just begin and see where it goes from there.

At O'Hare waiting to leave.

Tami and Jeff

Jim takes his own picture.

The Irish people are lovely.

We did not meet one grouchy, cranky, or rude Irish person. Not one. Oh, there may have been two, but one was drunk and young and stupid and he was the brother of the bride at a stag party (bachelor party) which we stumbled upon our second night there. The other was a young woman ringing up our purchases at the Guinness Storehouse in Dublin. Besides them, we met not a one. In the U.S., it is a rare find anymore to find a clerk in a store saying "please" and "thank you" let alone have a smile on their face and an obvious delight in serving you. Huh-uh. But in Ireland, oh, in Ireland, I felt like a queen. The bartenders, the store clerks, the people we sat next to on a bus, the people we sat next to in the pubs, ALL of them to a person made me feel like I was doing a great service by allowing them to assist me. And they did it all with their lovely Irish lilt and grinning ear to ear, which just made it all the better. I tell you, I felt lifted up just by asking for a cup of coffee. You would have thought they had just been waiting all day for the moment I came in just to serve me.

The Irish are generous.

Jim and I are generous people. We are generous with our time and our money and our love. But during that week in Ireland, I had several experiences that have encouraged me to be even more so. Those stories will come, and more.

Suffice it to say that we went to Ireland looking for adventure through the land, the pubs and the people. We found it. The worst part of our trip was the flight to and from and that was only because KLM seats are too narrow and have too little legroom for a transatlantic flight.

A few pics to entice you:

Cancer

2011-01-07T07:42:00.000-05:00

About fifteen years ago, I learned that I have hypothyroidism and have been on medication for it since then. The medication reduced the size of the nodule that had grown on my thyroid. This fall at my annual check-up, my doctor (I love my doctor) noticed that the nodule had grown larger again. Could mean thyroid cancer. Hmm. The specialist I was referred to told me that if one could choose the cancer they got, thyroid cancer would be the one to choose because it is so slow growing. Uh, okay.

So, the first step for determining what was what was to have a needle aspiration biospsy. This wasn't a horrible experience, but it was a bit uncomfortable. The results came back inconclusive. Sigh. So my next choice was another needle aspiration in conjunction with an ultrasound or surgery to remove half of the thyroid. I chose the surgery. It seemed to me that another needle aspiration would just produce the same results and I'd still need a more conclusive measure. I chose to bypass the needle aspiration and just have the surgery. I wasn't really gung-ho about surgery, but I thought it would be better to just bite the bullet and find out. I will tell you, though, that I chose not to have it until I got back from our Christmas trip to Ireland (more on the trip later. It was a blast.)

Soooo, I had surgery yesterday morning to remove half my thyroid. It was scheduled as day surgery with the possibility of having to stay overnight. An overnight stay would mean they had to take out the whole thyroid because they found it to be cancerous. I wouldn't know until I woke up.

No cancer. No cancer. I was trying to be all cool as a cucumber prior to the surgery, but I will tell you that I felt a tremendous release of tension when I learned no cancer was found. Praise God.

I got to go home. Jim was my little haus frau and waited on me very lovingly. Today, I'm home trying to recuperate. Watching movies set in Ireland. Swayze the Dog has barely left my side. Vicodin makes me woozy. It also makes me sleepy and I've found myself dozing in the middle of emails and blogposts..............

Gratitude and relief.

Knots in my stomach

2010-11-28T17:15:00.000-05:00

Well, friends, here it is almost the end of November and I have failed miserably in my quest to write and post every single day during the month. Nope, didn't happen. Nice try, Jannie Babe. I'm not apologizing, either. It is what it is.

Knots in my stomach. I have knots in my stomach. Sometimes, when I get knots in my stomach, I become immobilized. I hate that feeling. I think I just have a lot on my plate. I'd say "these days", but I think I have a lot on my plate most days. The month of November 2011 brought me tears---tears of angst and tears of joy. The semester is winding down for my grad students and me and I think all of us are just. done. Christmas is coming and I'm going to Ireland soon. My work at the middle school is winding up for a busy number of months and next semester, I am teaching not one, but two grad classes. In addition to the two classes, I have to meet with five or six practicum students 1:1 for an hour each week. In January, I will have some minor surgery. On the one hand, I'm not worried about it. On the other hand, there are things about it that are nibbling at the back of my mind. It will all get done and it will all work out, but I will probably be a bit nuts by the end of it all. As the school year winds up in June, our family will head east to finally bury my parents' ashes after a three year wait on the Veteran's cemetery to open in my hometown area.

Oh, and did I tell you? We're having a wedding. Yessiree, Bob, my daughter got engaged on Tuesday! By Saturday, we had a date, a venue for the ceremony AND the dress. All that in spite of also preparing and having a community Thanksgiving dinner at our church. Breathe, Jan, breathe. Now, I'm just praying that we find an affordable spot for the reception. We only have seven months until the GRAND EVENT, so we are a little behind the 8-ball in getting details worked out. Many spots are already reserved, so if you could just send some good vibes our way, I'd be appreciative. :) Gracias.

On top of all that, I'm having an internal battle that is really causing the knots to accumulate. The battle stems from the aftermath of relationships. Being in ministry brings blessings and curses. I'm dealing with the curses right now. I think I just expect the best from people even though I know that churches are full of hypocrites. The rudeness and self-centered-ness of individuals just never ceases to amaze me. And disappoint. And hurt. I'm also blown away by people who use their anger to punish and control. Although I'm pretty astute at picking up on when people are trying to control me and don't allow them to, I still get the sense of being touched by their craziness. It's invasive. Actually, it feels like being touched by evil. It's yucky.

Despite all of this, I am so thankful.

There is a story my husband once heard somewhere that he shared one morning in church. I've thought of it many times over the years. The story is of a man who lamented that the cross he had to bear was too much. He prayed to be relieved of his heavy load. One day, he met Jesus and brought his concerns to him as they walked down a long corridor lined with doors. Jesus stopped before one door and opened it as they passed. The door opened into a large room. In the center of the room was an enormous hill of large crosses, crosses that others had left behind when they found the burden too great. Jesus told the man to leave his cross, so the man tossed his on top of the pile. Immediately, he felt a release of strain and stress. Jesus closed the door and together with the man, continued down the corridor of doors. Soon, Jesus stopped before a door once again. As the door swung inward, the man saw that it opened into the very same room containing the discarded crosses, his own teetering at the top of the pile. As the man stared confused into the room beyond, Jesus said to the man, "Pick one." The man looked questioningly at Jesus, so Jesus explained. "Everyone has a cross to bear. You must pick a new one." The man, now humbled, stood before the door and gazed upon the mountain of crosses before him. As he studied the pile of crosses, he saw how large each cross appeared. The more he studied, the clearer his choice became. Slowly he walked to the pile and chose his cross. The cross he chose was the same cross he had discarded. As he looked at the crosses that others had to bear, he realized that his cross was not so large after all.

And so, I carry my cross with joy (and knots in my stomach) because when I compare it to the crosses of others I know, my cross seems quite tiny in comparison.

"Hey, is anybody there?"

2010-11-16T22:53:00.001-05:00

I'm starting to feel the rumblings of a cold or something coming on. Hope not, Christmas music season is fast approaching and with that comes Christmas solos. I hate it when a cold interferes with that! Anyway.

Thought you might like to know that the two blogs I had concerns about are A-okay. Mocha Momma is just on a wee bit of a hiatus because the creation of her new webpage will take longer than expected. 9 Bartlett is back up, so I don't know what's up with it coming up as deleted last week. Weird. Anyway, all is well. I know you were all losing sleep over it, so now you can slumber. :)

Something I just saw on another blog jarred a memory I haven't thought about in a while, so I thought I'd jot down a few words about it. It was one of the funnier moments I've experienced (almost) by myself.

Waaay back when, I attended the University of Maine at Orono. I had so much fun my freshman year, I had to have a second one. First semester GPA the first go 'round was a 1.0. Second semester was a 1.6. That's when Dad and the university decided I was going to take a little time off to reassess my college education. Two years later, after having worked in Quality Control for a factory that made machine guns and shock absorbers, I returned to UMO for a second shot. Because of my stellar performance the first time, I had to re-take all the courses I'd taken before. One of those classes was Psych 101- Introduction to Psychology which was taught by Dr. Ellen Lenney. This was the 70's, and I will just tell you that Dr. Lenney never wore a bra. She was small-breasted, but it was obvious. I noticed this every single class. She always wore a really cool necklace that rested between her itty-bittys. I didn't necessarily always wear a bra myself at the time. Listen, it was the 70's, okay? But, I digress.

At that time, it was a requirement of the course that we participate in three psych experiments during the course of the semester. So, one, two, three, I signed up and participated. I can't remember anything much about them now, but I did participate as needed. I hated taking the exams for this class. They were always multiple choice exams and it was too easy to get messed up on an answer. I dreaded the long walk up to the third floor of the Psych Department a few days after each test. They would post the test and all the answers on a wall in the lobby area. One day, I made my way up the stairs and entered the hallway outside the Psych office. There was the test, posted on the glass doors of a display cabinet. It was kind of freaky being there. I mean, come on, it was the Psych Department. Weird things happened up there. So, there I was, all alone, a little creeped out, comparing the correct answers to the test with my own. I mean to tell you that I was feeling a wee bit paranoid for no particular reason.

As I read the test answers, I heard a voice call out, "Hey, is anybody there?" A chill ran up my spine and my heart skipped a beat. I seemed to stop breathing for a second or two, as well. I kept my head very still and kept looking ahead at the answers. Again, I heard a voice cry out, "Hey, is anybody out there?" As much as I wanted to keep looking straight ahead and pretend I heard nothing, I couldn't resist a look around. I tried to look like I wasn't looking for a hidden camera, but I was. Nope, didn't see anything and there was no one around. Not one person was around. By this point, my heart was in my throat, I couldn't breathe and I felt like an idiot. I was pretty sure that some sick individual had just added a fourth experiment to my requirement without my knowledge or consent. I refused to play that game, yessirree. They weren't gonna fool me and use my video in their next candid-camera-foolish-Psych-student-caught-unaware. Nuh-uh. Noooope. So, I went back to checking the answers. No sooner had I looked back at the test taped to the windows did the voice once more shout out to me, "Hey! HEEY! Hey, is anybody out there? Please? Is anybody out there?"

Just to my right, I caught something out of the corner of my eye. A brown paper towel fluttered to the ground. I couldn't just stand there and ignore it, so I walked the tens steps to where it lay on the floor. When I picked it up, I noticed writing on it that said, "Help! I'm trapped in the bathroom!" I looked up to see a door marked "Men". I gave a knock, knock, knock on the door and said, "Hello?" From beyond the door, a voice told me that he was in a wheelchair and he couldn't get out of the bathroom. The poor guy had been able to get into the bathroom, but once the door shut behind him, he couldn't angle the chair to get out and from the position he was in, he couldn't unlock the door, either. I went into the Psych office and explained the situation. Help in the way of a custodian with a key was found quickly and, soon enough, the guy was out.

We laughed and joked about it a little bit nervously and then we both went on our merry ways. I'm still not quite convinced that I wasn't an experimental dupe. I guess after 30 years, though, I can stop worrying that I made the textbooks.

I would like you to know that I did graduate from UMO with high distinction, three years after I was to originally graduate. I decided that something called "studying" wasn't such a bad idea and I reduced my number of nights at fraternity parties to one or two a week down from four or five. See? I learned my lesson well.

I hope you are well

2010-11-11T22:16:00.000-05:00

I've been thrown for a bit of a loop these last few days.

First, there is something close to me that has caused me some worry and thrown in some stress for good measure. There is nothing I can do about that, so this little control freak is having a wee bit of a problem with that. Um, I'm working through it. Not well, mind you, but I'm working through it.

Second at the moment is the fact that Dylan's dog, Swayze (now ours), is just standing next to me and staring. Every once in a while, she gives a little yawn-snort to get my attention. I can't for the life of me figure out what she wants. She's been out, she's taken care of business, and I just let her lick the ketchup off my burger plate. What? What? Doesn't she know I'm stressed!!!!! Ah, but we love that girl.

Third, there are a few bloggers I'm worried about. Mocha Mama was taking a break because she was having her website redesigned, but was planning to be back in time for NaBloPoMo. Hello, Momma! It's November 11 already and you aren't back yet! I'm worried about you. She was recently in the audience and got to talk directly to Oprah on her show about a month back. That night or the next day (the day before?), she fell and bruised her ribs badly. She also cares for her elderly mother. Her absence makes me concerned that she isn't healing well or something has happened to her mom. Mocha Momma, aka Kelly Wickham, is an assistant principal in a middle school in Springfield IL, a single mom, prolific blogger and writer for Teaching Tolerance magazine. And she's wild about shoes. That's the short list. She is truly brilliant, has great insight and perspective on issues of education, race and more, and has a HUGE heart for kids. Yeah, I'm jealous and she scares the bejeebees out of me. I'd love to meet her, but I think I would fall so short of the honor that I'll just fawn over her brilliance and wit from afar. I hope she and her loved ones are well.

The other blogger I'm worried about is Lisa, a blogger from Maine. She wrote under the blog titles "Living My Life Outside the Box" and "9 Bartlett" with an address beginning "sophie4me". When she first began blogging, she wrote almost daily: about life, about decorating, about her children, about her faith. Gradually, she seemed to get caught by the incessant guilt that appears to hit bloggers on a regular basis---performance anxiety. She found herself so focused on the "have to write a post" syndrome, that I think she lost some of her passion for the task. Boy, can I understand that. Been there, done that. I wish that I could write on a more regular basis, but life seems to get in the way so often and, sometimes, becomes too overwhelming to just sit and write. Then the guilt hits. Anyway, for the last year, Lisa's posting became more and more scarce. Some of her posts let on that there were some storms a-brewing. I could see that her heart ached. Just the other day, I visited her site to see if there was new post, seeing the last one was from August or so. Nope, not a new one. This morning, when I checked quickly before work, my heart took a little leap. The blog has been deleted. Not privatized, but deleted. Oh, no. Ooh, no. So, I worry. I worry about her son, a soldier in Afganistan. I worry about her teenage daughter who is spreading her wings and bringing angst of her own. I worry about Blue Eyes, the husband she adores. And, I worry about her. Wherever you are, Lisa, whatever you do, I hope you are well. I hope your loved ones are safe and I hope life is good. I hope that your disappearance from the blog world is for all good reasons and that you are healthy and happy. I hope you have peace.

And as for the rest of you, I hope you, too, are well.

Always,
Jan

Life Is a Song, So Sing Along

2010-11-10T22:50:00.001-05:00

Missing a post on this blog one day is similar to when I was in college and skipped a class---miss the first one and it's all downhill from there. I really wanted to post last night, but after having company for dinner and walking the dog, I had to review my grad students' weekly reports. Somehow, I keep forgetting that I have those to do on the weekends when I have more relaxed time to do so. I end up doing them the night before far too often. I thought about the writing prompt all day and was fairly ready to sit down and write. My tired body had other ideas. I like yesterday's prompt better than today's, so I'm just going to go with it anyway!

What was your favorite song this year? Five years ago? Ten years ago? Twenty?

About twenty years ago, I bought a stencil that says, "Life is a song, so sing along". In many ways, it has become a bit of a little mantra for me. My husband calls me "Jingle Jan" because I will often break out in a melody, but I usually can only sing part of any given song. I think my ADD just kicks in and I can't remember all the verses. I might be having a conversation with someone and a word or a phrase might bring the line from a song to my mind and, because my husband also accuses me at times of having diarrhea of the mouth, whatever goes through my mind has to come out my mouth. So, I sing. I have only met one other person in my experience who does the same thing, although I'm pretty sure there are lots more of us out there. He was one of the principals I worked with several years ago. He and I would often break out at the same moment with the same line from a song. It was fun when it happened because it was usually unexpected.

This year, one of my favorite songs is "You Are My Strength" by Hillsong. It's actually been a favorite for almost two years. The lyrics and the melody are really very simple. I think it's the harmony that goes with it and the people I get to sing with that make it so much better than just a good song. When we sing it during Worship at church, it's like everyone in the room pauses and drinks in the power of the song together. It really is quite powerful. We "conspire" or "breathe together" and just drink in the majesty of it all. My favorite memory of singing this song comes from the summer of 2009. I helped co-lead a 20-something retreat to Wisconsin for an extended weekend. Being a musical bunch, we volunteered to provide the music during the Sunday service for a tiny little church in a small town (Toddito--I can't remember the name!). It was just lovely to feel the warmth and appreciation of the congregation that embraced us.

In 2008, my favorite song was "Amazing Grace, My Chains Are Gone" by Christian artist, Chris Tomlin. His music is truly inspired by God. I don't think he's written a bad piece of music. Ever. When my father died that summer, I asked if Jim and the kids and I could sing this song at his funeral. Prior to the service, there had been the suggestion from a family member that the song Amazing Grace was an inappropriate selection for the occasion. When it came time, Dylan walked up to the altar and picked up my dad's guitar which sat on its stand near my dad's urn of ashes. He joined Jordan and me where we stood next to Jim, who was waiting with his guitar. While Dylan struck the first few chords on that very special instrument, Jordan's beautiful, strong, rich soprano filled the sanctuary while Jim, Dylan and I provided the harmony. Despite all the music we four have sung or played over the years, this was the first and the only time since that we performed together as our family. When we got to part of the chorus where we sang the words so strongly, "My chains are gone, I've been set free..." I felt my father be released from the bondage of lung cancer and and I knew without a doubt that Dad rose whole and strong and joined Mom, with her once again sound mind, as they walked hand in hand toward the care of another Father. It was an Awe-some moment of time and I will never again hear or sing that song without remembering it and the tears that flowed from all eyes.

Many moons ago, when Jim and I first dated, Jim played guitar at a family restaurant called the Ground Round in Bangor, Maine. He'd get paid about $35 a night to play his guitar and sing. That's how he got himself through seminary. At that time, I didn't sing anywhere but the shower, really. Well, Jim called me up on stage one night and told me I was going to sing a song. That song ended up being "Annie's Song" by John Denver. I sang the melody while Jim sang harmony. I think from the first moment we performed it, it became "our song". It wasn't planned, it just happened. We've sung that song countless times---at campfires, at weddings, just for fun. It might not be my favorite song, but it does have a special place in my heart and in my memories. When we would take high school students on mission trips, they would always ask us to sing them a song goodnight and this would, inevitably, be one of the lullabys we'd sing that week.

I always said I'd have to marry a guitar man because my dad played the guitar and it meant so much to me. I'm so fortunate that my prayers were answered and that music continues to play such a large part in my life and the lives of my husband and children.

Life is a song, so sing along.

House Dreams

2010-11-08T22:44:00.001-05:00

Side note: My attempt to write a post every single day got side-tracked on Saturday with the mom angst. I had written a post, but I accidentally forgot to hit the "publish post" button, so it actually didn't get posted until after midnight. I was so bummed. I really wanted to be in the running for some of the nifty prizes that were donated. :( Boo-hoo-wah.

Today's prompt is: What would your dream home/apartment/condo/yurt look like? Where would it be? Who'd live in it with you?

Oooh, this is fun. Fun, but lengthy.

Long ago in our early days of marriage, Jim and I hoped to buy an old home to fix up. As I've said before, we were poor as church mice. Add to that the fact that at that time pastors and their families tended to live in parsonages provided by the church, so we didn't know if owning our own home would ever happen. It actually happened much sooner that we ever expected.

Jim finished seminary in December, just six months after our wedding. The church hunt began earnestly and he was interviewed by several churches in Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont and Massachusetts. Sometimes I accompanied him on the interviews, sometimes I stayed at home while I completed my student teaching experience. After one particular interview in Ware, MA, I had great suspicion we'd just found the right fit. What was the indicator, you ask? Easy. He came out of the local 7-11 store with a Diet Coke in his hand and a smile on his face. "What?", I asked. He gave a crazy big grin and said, "They get cable here". Call me crazy, but I was right. One of the draws to this particular church was the fact that they would lend us a sum of money for a down payment on a house. It seems the church, against their better judgment, had sold the parsonage right next to the church a few years before. Perhaps a mistake for them, but a bonus for us.

The first few months in Ware, we lived in an apartment on a dairy farm owned by a member of the church. It was great fun for me, an in-town girl, not a country girl (Heck, I thought they dyed beets that color and to my knowledge vegetables only came in cans. True story). I had a blast helping to deliver calves, riding in the manure truck with Farmer Ed and chasing escaped piglets. Oh, how much fun we had there. All that is a story for another day.

Soon enough, we drafted our wish list and started the house hunt. We eventually found a 150 yr old house in town, priced right because it needed work that included every single item on our list. We found that we had wonderful neighbors who, despite being 90% Catholic, welcomed the new pastor and his young bride to the neighborhood with open arms. It was a wonderful place to raise the baby girl who eventually arrived and became a therapeutic tool for the neighbors and members of the church. We bought the house from a family with two teenagers. The father and the son were both named Richard Nixon. The father grew up in Louisiana and had planted peach and pear trees in the side yard because he missed the ones from home. Our first summer, those trees bore their very first-ever crop of the most wonderful treasure. The peaches were GIGANTIC and oozed and dripped so much delectable juice that we had to eat it leaning forward so as not to get the mess on ourselves. Poor Mr. Nixon, he never once got to taste those peaches after five years of nurturing them to health.

Five years later, we moved to another church in Massachusetts which had a large manse with old servants' quarters on the third floor. One week after moving in, we celebrated our sixth anniversary. Two weeks after moving in, we welcomed a baby boy to our family. Yes, it was a crazy time. This move was a huge mistake on our part and, after a year and a half, we left under less than pleasant circumstances.

Jim accepted a part-time position in a church in mid-coast Maine. With the move being as crazy and unexpected as it was, we were scrambling to find a new home. One very snowy February day, we found it. It was another beautiful 150 yr old home in need of a lot of work. Two wedding maples graced the path leading up to the front door. Mrs. Payson, the 83 yr old woman who'd lived in the house for fifty years was shoveling the driveway when we drove in. She was typical hardy Maine stock. We really loved her strength and her character and her stories. Rumor had it that her husband, a local pharmacist, was a bootlegger during the days of prohibition. A few years after moving in, my dad was doing some repair work in the cellar. He had to pull down some old lathing on the cellar ceiling. After just a few tugs, there was a mighty crash of glass and suspicious smelling amber liquid splattered and spread across the dirty cellar floor. I guess there was some truth to the rumors. There had never been a washer/dryer hook-up installed in that house, so we just used what Mrs. Payson left us---a very old wringer washing machine. Let me tell you this---you must never ever put rubber pants through that wringer. Cloth diapers, yes, but those rubber pants will just make a big popping sound before blowing a hole in the rubber pants. Trust me, I speak from experience. Just a stone's throw from the house was an old working grist mill---Morgan's Mills, which had the most wonderful grist pond in front in which a steady flow of water passed through with each moment. It was a truly idyllic spot and the local swimming hole for all the kids (and big kids) in the neighborhood. When our dug well went dry early one rainless fall, it also became our family bathing hole. For an entire month, I traipsed down to the mill pond to bathe before going to work as a school counselor. It was an adventure for this girl. My kids loved this place and were sad to see us leave. We were sad, too, but God was calling us to new adventures.

Who knew that adventure would be in Indiana? Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would ever live beyond a three hour drive from my parents home, let alone eighteen hours and half a country away. Seventeen years after arriving in this flat corn and soybean-heavy land, we are still here. God brought us here, but not for the church we thought was meant for us. After five years, we planted a new church start in the former American Legion. Almost twelve years later, here we be. After yet another stretch of uncertainty which brought us back to being poor church mice once again, we are settled in what is, most likely, our last home. I think we are here for the duration, although God sure does have a funny sense of humor and there really is just no telling. With little in the way of homes to choose from at the time (count 'em---five), we bought a small, and I mean small, three bedroom ranch with a fully open basement. After nine years, the house is how we want it, with the exception of a few projects like new furniture and wall decor. BUT...

BUT, if I were to have my true dream home it would consist of a walkway graced by two fifty year old wedding maple trees, peach and pear trees in the backyard, a grist mill and pond down the road, friendly neighbors with their dairy farm next door and friends and family nearby. The appearance of the house wouldn't matter just as long as the door regularly opened to find those loved ones on our doorstep, bringing and receiving love.

Oh, and I just might have an old wringer washing machine, too, but this time it would be in my garden planted with flowers gracefully cascading down to the ground.

A Mother's Angst

2010-11-07T01:55:00.000-04:00

I had a totally different topic to write about today, but the last hour has changed some things for me. All I will say is that parenting is the hardest job in the world and at any moment gut-wrenching events can occur to turn your world upside down.

With strength given only by God, we get through.

God, please get me through tonight and what the next days bring.

Everyone is safe. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Some trust has been broken and will need to be rebuilt.

A Brief Encounter

2010-11-05T18:28:00.003-04:00

I am headed out to a friend's house to unwind with my daughter and her and I'm afraid I won't be back in time to post by midnight! So, as a Sneaky Pete, I'll just leave this teaser until I return. Today's question via NaBloPoMo:

"What makes you notice someone?"

Don't hate me 'cause I'm cheating! I'll finish the post, I promise!

...later the next morning...

Okay, so here's the deal. I FORGOT MY GLASSES AT MY FRIEND'S HOUSE and I left my spares in my office, so I couldn't finish the post last night. What a loser. At present, I am sitting here wearing my husband's readers and my eyes are killing me. I must persevere!

There are many things that cause me to notice a person---their eyes, a smile, an act of kindness, looking good in some fashion or just by being beautiful. There is not just one thing that does it. It could be something obnoxious, too. I hate when it's because of a negative. We seem to be so surrounded by that in our culture these days.

As I sit here and write this, I've begun to realize something. I don't notice people the way I used to and I will blame it on something I call "Bremenitis". I grew up on Army bases and in a small town. It used to be in Army circles that families would embrace one another and be fairly tight-knit. I can't say if it is the same today. My parents were pen pals with friends from their days in the service for over fifty years! That's amazing. Because of this and because I am by nature an extrovert, I developed into a person who would and could meet and welcome anyone into my life. I really love that and I just assumed growing up that everyone was the same. When we returned to my dad's hometown, the openness continued, at least in my own mind and in my own family experience. Everyone knew everyone and, as a child, I felt loved by my community. This continued through my adult years until my late 30's. Then we moved to this small town in the midwest.

It took me a while to figure this out, but once I tested my theory, it became more and more evident. What I found was that people would barely greet each other on the street. Maybe I should say that they would barely greet me on the street, but I truly believe it is wide-spread. The weirdest things would happen. I would meet people through church or meet other parents through our kids' activities. We could have multiple conversations over a short period of time, yet they couldn't muster a simple "hello" when they would meet me in the grocery store or walking down the street. I can't tell you how many times this would happen: I would notice another football mom coming down the same aisle in the grocery store and I'd be gearing up for a "hi." The mom would see me coming and turn and look at the shelves as she passed by me. It wasn't always the same person, but it happened soooo many times. I'm telling you, it was and is the most bizarre thing! I always wanted to shout, "Hey, bimbo! I don't want to be your best friend, I just wanted to say hello!!!" What I have found is that (many/most) people in this town get stuck for an answer when you say "hi". Those who don't have a spot in my heart forever because I'm just so grateful not to be ignored.

The saddest part THAT I MUST TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR is that the wounds I have felt from these experiences over the last seventeen years have caused me to become a bit like them. That is shameful. It's not that I don't want to reach out, it's that I can't continually put myself out there for fear of being once again rebuffed. Sad, and very, very stupid. As Ghandi would say, I need to be the change I wish to see in the world.

I don't want to paint a horrible picture of this community because there really are some wonderful people here. I just think we need to be kinder, more welcoming and loving toward one another. I think that is the case everywhere.

Man, how was that for a spin on the question?

FINAL NOTE:

Beyond the question of what makes me notice people is the question "What makes me want to know them?" The answer to that is so simple. I want to know someone when I detect that they have a heart condition. Is it big? Is there room in it for others? Do they use it for good? If the answer to that is "yes", then come on over to my house. There's room for you here, too.

Beauty Is In the Eye of the Beholder

2010-11-04T20:04:00.000-04:00

Would you rather be wealthy and ugly, wise and sickly, or beautiful and stupid?

I had to reason this out for a bit before I could answer. I think to be wise is beautiful, but I really don't want to be sick. I've watched the wise & sick and have gained great insight and awareness from them, but watching them in their illness was heart and gut-wrenching. It's so hard on the ones who love you. Being beautiful is good, too, but being stupid would be agonizing to think about. That leaves wealthy and ugly. I could handle that. It has nothing to do with the money, although having the money would help. I had to think about all the things I love to do---travel, entertain, involve myself in ministry, work with children, shop for bargains, decorate and dress on the cheap, inspire and encourage others, drink red wine (heh-heh-heh). One doesn't have to be beautiful to do any of those things, yet having wealth could enable me to do more of them. Being wealthy and ugly also doesn't preclude one from being wise...How much fun is that?

Here's to the man

2010-11-03T21:49:00.000-04:00

NaBloPoMo prompt of the day: "Describe the plot of the next book you want to read, even if the book doesn't exist yet."

Hmmmm. Not sure about this one. Okay, I think the next book I read will be the draft of the biography I'd write about my dad. Also included would be stories of my little mum and my sister, Suzanne. It would be called "Damn Good Soldier" and it would be so awesome that Hollywood would be beating down my door, begging for a stake in it. The part of me the main female character, of course, would be played by a most amazingly talented and brilliant actress of a certain age. The plot would be about a seemingly staunch and staid man who showed tremendous courage and determination, as well as the most amazing example of love and commitment to a wife with dementia and first daughter with brain damage and the second daughter who loved him beyond measure. Everyone would marvel because a man of this character is found so far and fleetingly in men of today.

Someday. Someday.

http://damngoodsoldier.blogspot.com/ is one of my other blogs.

"Don't Forget---When You Die Those Rings are Mine!"

2010-11-02T21:15:00.003-04:00

Those weren't my words, they were my older sister's and she would often repeat them to my little mum whenever she'd go home for a visit. Ooooh, boy, did that make my little mum mad. It wasn't just the ring set Dad purchased for Mom in Alaska one year that brought the comment, but a few other family pieces that she'd long ago decided were rightfully hers as the firstborn daughter. I'm not sure why she felt it was okay to bring it up time after time, but she did and it didn't sit well with Mom. Suzanne was a wounded soul and she would often show her ugly side at the most inopportune times.

My little mum was the sweetest thing. She was kind and generous. She opened her home to anyone and would not be satisfied until she'd fed them and offered them drink. She had a cute high-pitched giggle that would end almost as soon as it began. She had a little French-Canadian accent that always made me laugh when she would talk about the first, second or turd...whatever. Then she'd wave her little finger at me and tell me to eat poop (in French, of course). She was so cute.

Ah, yes, well, one day, Suzanne had commented on her right of ownership just one too many times. When she left the room, my mom leaned in and said to me conspiratorially, "I have half a mind to give it to you just to piss her off!" Now my little mum rarely said "pissed" so I knew she was steaming. I just begged her not to because I didn't think I would survive Suzanne's wrath. Oy.

A week before my wedding, my mom handed me the wedding band that Sue had always claimed. I don't even remember the moment now, but I know that my mother insisted that I have it and wear it on my wedding day. She was very insistent and I knew it was important to her for all the right reasons. So I took it and after twenty-eight years, it is still on my finger.

The worst part, though, the very worst part occurred on my 25th birthday six months after my wedding. Jim and I were living with my parents because we were in transition. He'd just graduated from seminary and I was about to start my student teaching. Jim would be moving to a church in Massachusetts and I would follow him in March once my teaching requirement was done. My birthday was on a Sunday. Jim and I walked home from church to a warm and favorite meal Mom had prepared just for me. We sat down to eat, Mom, Dad, Jim and me. In between dinner and dessert, Mom placed a small box in front of me. I had no clue what was inside that box when unwrapping it. Still clueless, I opened the box and lost. my. breath. Inside the box was the matching diamond engagement ring to the band I had previously received. The tears just poured down my cheeks. I don't know which feeling was the strongest---the joy I felt at receiving something I never thought would be mine or the fear that struck me, wondering just how Suzanne would react. Oh, dear.

Suzanne lived in Florida at the time, so I was safe for a bit. I have no idea when my mom told Suzanne about the ring or what was said. Suzanne never said a word. Two years later, that drunk driver would change her life forever and I wished for a time that she'd had just a moment to enjoy the rings as her own.

Twenty-six years after I received the diamond ring, I presented it to my daughter on her 25th birthday. A tradition had been born. I waited with great anticipation to pass it on. She waited all her life to receive it. Now it's her turn to pass it on.

NaBloPoMo National Blog Posting Month

2010-11-01T22:36:00.002-04:00

What are the chances I can write a blog post every day of this month, including weekends? Slim to none, but I think, what the heck, I'll give it a shot. You can read all about it and get the daily writing prompt HERE. I may or may not use the daily prompt. Give it a whirl, folks.

How would your life change if you didn't have rent or a mortgage to pay, i.e., if your housing was free?

That's easy. I wouldn't change much other than travel more freely. Jim and I have never had the luxury until the last few years of traveling outside the country. Our first trip was in 2005 when a couple from our church paid for us to go on a two-week mission trip to Cebu in the Philippines. I got my first-ever passport. Jim had one ten years before because he went on a trip to Israel and Egypt. Lucky him, but I didn't have the inclination to go to such a volatile spot with young children at home. Fast forward a few years when the kids were in high school and college and we felt called to take that trip. That brought forth the very contagious travel-bug, for which there is no cure but more travel.

Our second trip was to England to celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary. When we celebrated our 20th anniversary, I told Jim that I didn't want anymore gifts of any kind for Christmases, birthdays, anniversaries for the next five years. I told him I wanted him to start saving money so he could buy me a special gift for our 25th---"a-big-honking-go-into-debt-diamond-ring." I meant it, too---for about two and a half years. When we first got engaged, we were the proverbial poor church mice and I was extremely practical and considerate. My engagement ring was a modest three-stone ring. I loved it and love it still (although the stones kept getting knocked out and I eventually had it made into a necklace so I could actually wear it instead of keeping it in a drawer sans stone). Anyway...I wanted some impractical bling for once. But, like I said, the desire only lasted about half way through the five years. After a time, I started to feel guilty. As I mentioned, I was and still am a bit of the practical and considerate sort. I just couldn't justify spending that kind of money for just me. After some hemming and hawing, I decided that we should take a trip to Europe instead. Jim's childhood friend, John and John's wife, Lynn, were to go on the trip with us. In fact, we'd be staying with Lynn's college roommate, Lucy, while we were in London. As it got closer and closer to the month we were to leave, it became clear that John and Lynn were not going to be able to make the trip. Lynn's mom got sick and went to live with them and their five children. They could not leave all that behind. We were so disappointed and didn't know what to do. After all, we didn't know Lynn's friend, Lucy, and we couldn't stay there. We were broken-hearted for a time. What to do? What to do? Finally, Jim said, "You know, Jan, I've always wanted to go see Utah..." I sat there in disbelief and thought, "England. Utah. England. Utah. Hmmm." Finally, I looked at Jim and said, "Jim, I am NOT going to Utah!!" Jim's mouth got teeny-tiny and he said quietly, "Okay." We didn't know what we'd do about housing, but we determined we were going to England. We did and it was a wonderful trip. And guess what? We stayed with Lucy and her very gracious family. Her gracious and elusive family. We could never get them together for a photograph despite trying for two weeks.

Since England, we've made two trips to Germany and will head to Ireland before the new year. We eventually did get to Utah. With Clella. And it was a trip worth every moment.

So, anyway, I would not change much beyond the additional traveling. I love my work. I love my family. I love my friends. I love our little church and I love being in ministry. I love our finished home that allows us to entertain and embrace those we love and those we don't know. I guess I might add that I would have people in more often, but since the renovation has been completed, impromptu gatherings happen so much more easily and delightfully.

Life is good. A life of service is better.

Jan

p.s. The pictures will have to come later because they are on my laptop at work!

A Love Story

2010-06-07T22:56:00.002-04:00

Being a pastor's wife isn't always my favorite thing. Mind you, I would miss this life if we weren't in it, but there are just some days when it ain't no fun. Christians can be such butts sometimes. In fact, Christians can be butts a lot (and, yes, I think you might find 'butts' in the dictionary under 'Christian', right after 'loving' and 'giving'. It just goes with the territory) . I include myself in that statement, so don't think I'm goin' all "holier than thou" on you. I've got three fingers pointing back at me, too. Saturday became one of those days that I love.

One of the privileges to being in ministry is that one gets to experience the best and the worst of other people's lives. I love watching as a young girl grows and matures and falls in love. I love watching a young boy grow and mature and fall in love. I love to see them pledge their lives, one to another, especially when you know that Christ is at the center of their relationship. It brings a new dimension to the mix. The metamorphosis is a gift to observe and experience as part of the great cycle of life. It continues to evolve as they fight the battle of the first years and as they add to their family. It's just a gift to be a part of that.

But love stories don't always start that way...

A few months ago, Jean started bringing Jim to church with her. They were "just friends" and he was curious what our little church was all about. We all had a sense that a bit more was going on, but we played along with them, giving a knowing wink to one another. Jean was a great hostess and made sure that Jim was introduced around. Jim had a great handshake and when he said he was "pleased to meet you", one had a sense he really meant it. Unlike many who visit Horizon, Jim came back. Every week. With Jean. Time proved that Jim was as genuine as he seemed. He was a really good man. As I continued to watch Jean over the ensuing weeks, I noticed the appearance of a light spring in her step. You might even say there was a bit of a sashay as she moved. Jim was very attentive to Jean's needs. It was a different kind of love story and it was blossoming before our eyes.

Jean has been a widow for forty-two years. Forty-two years. Her husband died unexpectedly of a heart attack when she was forty years old. He was a principal at one of the local schools and he died at his desk. This left Jean with three small children to raise on her own. She did so by supporting her family as a first grade teacher. She retired after many years of loving little ones. Whenever we have visitors to church, I can count on Jean to introduce herself and I know it won't take long before she is learning of their family lineage. Somewhere along the line she has taught a father or grandfather or aunt or cousin and she's going to figure it out. In a town the size of Bremen, it doesn't take long to find the connection. Everyone is related to everyone, except of course for those of us like me who are from away.

Jim hasn't been a widower for quite as long. His wife, Lucy, died last fall. Jim and Lucy had lost a son of their own tragically the year before when he was in a cherry picker for work and a power line brushed against his arm. Jim and Lucy had been longtime friends of Jean and her husband. I think Jim told me that he and Lucy had been friends with Jean for 62 years. I don't know the details, but somewhere along the line of the last half year or more, Jean and Jim became companions. I think it just came naturally from that longtime friendship. And so, Jim came to church with Jean. And we all watched. On Sundays, they go to his church. Jim C said he'd always wondered to his wife, Lucy, why Jean never remarried. Later, he told Jean's son, "I think God was just saving her for me".

About two months ago, my husband, Jim, came home and with a twinkle in his eye said, "I've got something to tell you". It seems Jean had visited him at the church office that morning and wanted to know how he thought it would look if Jim and she got married. My Jim thought it was a wonderful idea. There was a bit of a catch, though. They wanted to be married in the eyes of God, not through the eyes of the law. New marriage gets complicated for the elderly. A legal marriage would mean that they would both lose financially. There is the complication of pensions lost and separate families being provided for. It is a great set-up for stress, tension and hard emotions. It's not fair, but it is the way our legal and financial systems work in the U.S. Jean and Jim C did not want to do anything that would be frowned upon in the eyes of God. If God couldn't bless their relationship, then it just would remain as is. Because my Jim had researched this situation years before he was able to quickly ease her mind and the planning began. Jean was still a little hesitant for people to know (she was afraid "people might talk"), but she gave my Jim permission to tell me. That night at church as she passed by me, she grabbed my arm and said with a bit of a giggle, "You know something, don't you?". My response was, "YES, Jean, but I have one thing to say to you---NO BABIES!". "Oh, you," Jean said as she slapped my arm. I got all warm inside.

A few weeks later, my Jim was in Utah with Clella and another couple and Jean and Jim C stopped by. Jim C has a vintage car in pristine condition and I kept seeing it drive slowly by my house. Finally, they pulled in the driveway. It was about 8:30 pm, but they were hoping to catch me so I could call my Jim to confirm a date for their wedding. We sat and talked a bit and I asked them a little bit more. We talked about their children and how they were feeling about this marriage and the love and support Jim and Jean were feeling from family and friends. Jean told me that Jim's kids were wanting him to move to be closer to them, but Jean said, "I told them it'll be okay. I'll take care of him.". She said it with such tenderness and such love. Her saying that brought tears to my eyes because I realized something. Jean was content in the thought that she could take care of Jim. In all the years I've known her, I've never known her to be unhappy in her single life, but there was a settled joy in her statement. It was lovely.

So, last Saturday morning around eleven o'clock, my Jim and I joined Jean and Jim's families at the home of Jean's son (a third Jim!). Her son had made the outside just lovely adding a display of flowers for the bride and groom. As luck would have it, it began to pour as the ceremony was to begin, so inside we went. The rain could not dampen the spirit of the day. Jim C was surprised to see my Jim in a suit and tie because my Jim preaches in blue jeans. "Oh, I told everybody you'd probably be wearing jeans!". "Not for a special day like this, Jim.". "Oh, well, you didn't have to do that, Jim.". (All these 'Jims' are making my head swim!).

As my Jim began the simple yet sweet ceremony, he talked about the vows to be spoken. The vows would be the traditional vows, but he said the words "til death do us part" take on special significance when the bride is 82 and the groom is 86. Then the tears began to pour. I couldn't stop. When my Jim asked the groom if he took Jean to be his wedded wife, he didn't say "I will". He said with conviction, "I will!" When my Jim asked the bride the same, she whispered with equal conviction, "I will". As they tried to place the rings on the finger of the other, it was not without struggle due to swollen knuckles. We all laughed out loud as we collectively cried to hear the words of exasperation being spoken back and forth. I wish I had gotten it on tape.

When my Jim pronounced them "husband and wife", there was a simultaneous "Ooh" from the bride and an "Aww" from the groom.

My heart just danced and I knew I would have to write this down.

Oh, and the honeymoon? They went to church that night.

What a gift I received to be present at this wedding.

Living in a Fantasy World

2010-03-24T22:38:00.000-04:00

I don't remember why I started thinking of this tonight, but can I tell you what a dork I was as a kid? Not kind of a dork, but a dyed-in-the-wool-what-were-you-thinking-are-you-nuts-kind-of-a-kid. Quite a while ago, I posted 25 random (that I'm absolutely sure you are dying to know) things about me. Number 9 mentioned that as a ten year old I was convinced that Elvis Presley was going to wait for me to grow up so he could marry me. I believed it, really I did. I can even tell you where I was standing the moment I found out and saw the wedding picture of Priscilla and him. (I was standing near the side steps of Joanne Guillemette's house on Brook Street, you know, towards the back by the driveway). Oh, I cried. What was he thinking marrying that old Priscilla when he could have waited a few years and married me? The fool. Look where it got him, too. Serves him right. Sheesh.

I once tried saving a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest. I scooped that featherless little critter up on a flat scrap of cereal box I found on the street and slowly rode my bike toward home. With such care and tenderness, I held my treasure in my left hand while steering the handlebars with my right. I rode down my long street, stealing glances at my new friend as I did so. I envisioned the friendship we would have, how I would feed it droplets of nourishment so lovingly, how I would teach it to sit perched on my shoulder as we traveled the neighborhood or went shopping and how I would be the envy of all the popular kids because I had something no one else had. I was so lost in my little fantasy that I never saw the bump in the road that caused me to drop my little treasure and run over its head. Bummer.

The summer after fifth grade, this little Catholic girl attended Vacation Bible School at the Baptist church a neighbor girl attended. For the closing ceremony, I got picked to carry the Bible down the center aisle because the head VBS lady said that I could walk in a straight line. For years, I thought I was something special because I could walk in a straight line. Wow, just think of it. I could walk in a straight line. Stop it now, I can feel your envy. Don't bother to practice. I'm already the winner.

From about the time I was nine until the time I graduated from high school, I was convinced, CONVINCED I tell you, that Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton were going to drive through Sanford/Springvale in their black stretch limo and discover me. They were going to drive by as I walked to the corner store and Elizabeth would say, "Oh, Richard darling, look at the lovely little girl. We simply must put her in our next movie. James, pull the car over". I always decided what I was going to wear based on this. You can't be discovered in just any old rag, you know? My outfit of choice was usually something owned by my older sister, Suzanne. She always had the nicest clothes, so why not? The problem was that Sue was over nine years older than me and I was about a foot and a half shorter than her at the time. One particular outfit consisted of a lovely pink brocade vest and coordinating dress slacks. The blouse had lots of lovely ruffles and long sleeves with ruffles on the bottom. The sleeves hung past my hands by a mile and the full and flowing pants bunched up and dragged in the dirt. Man, I was gorgeous. Gorgeous, I tell you. Let me just say that I think James got lost because that twain just never met.

What is the point of this post? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just walking down Memory Lane.

20 C + M + B 10

2010-01-26T22:35:00.004-05:00

A few Sunday nights ago, a group of youth, along with their group leaders and Jim and me, set out to bless the homes of some of our church members. When we arrived at their homes en masse, we would explain what we were doing, write on their door with chalk (with permission, of course), and leave them with the following letter of explanation and a piece of chalk:

January 2010

Dear Friends,

On a recent trip to Germany, a local family noticed a series of letters and numbers written in chalk above the doors to many houses, churches and restaurants. When we inquired into their significance, we were touched by the tradition and the significance of their meaning and wanted to share it with others. And so, an idea was born. Could this be a tradition which could be spread throughout the community of B*****, a community rich in German background?

The letters and numbers: 20 C + M + B ...

Their meaning and significance:

*the 20 stands for the present century

*the C + M + B stands for the three wise men---Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar. It also stands for the Latin "Christus Mansionem Benedicat" which means "Christ, bless this house". Often a small t would be written above the M to represent Christians.

*the "..." is where one would write in the present year.

The tradition: Around the time of Epiphany, celebrating the arrival of the wise men to the baby Jesus, friends and family would visit door-to-door, praying over the home and writing above a door in chalk. Each year, this tradition would be repeated and the present year would be changed above the door. This might be written on the outside or the inside of one door in the home.

Our visit: So, this night you have been visited by the youth and friends of H******* Ministries to bestow a blessing on your home for this new year.

The blessing: "Christ, bless this home and all who dwell within."

The chalk: For you, so that you may bless the homes of others.

There were some in our group who were a little skeptical about the endeavor before we left on our adventure. By the end, we were all touched by the response we received. You see, we went with the intent to just do something kind and caring. What we found we did was to provide comfort to those experiencing unknown pain. When the tears came and their pain was shared, we were humbled by the omniscience of God who went before us, guided our journey, and brought peace to those in need through the simple actions of a group of teenagers and the bumbling adults who led them.

I hope this is a new tradition we continue annually.

I altered the letter a bit and shared the same tradition with some of my friends at work. Again, the response was humbling. You see, when one takes a risk to share the compassion of their faith, they risk rejection. In many cases, it is with good reason as someone, in the name of faith, has done more damage to the cause with their zeal and arrogance. But that wasn't my experience at work. I found the act of caring and extending love was only greeted with gratitude and a desire to pass along to others what was bestowed upon them.

What was beginning to be a month of dread and gray and gloom was transformed when I stopped focusing on my own self-pity party into a celebration of all that was, and is, good.

So, to any and all of you who may chance upon this post---"Christ bless your home and all who dwell within."

Here's to 2010.

Jan

Joy In My Arms (revisited)

2009-12-01T22:01:00.003-05:00

(Audrey at Barking Mad is sponsoring a giveaway for a $300 gift card to Target. She is asking us to write about joy and what brings us joy. I guess I'm cheating a bit by revisiting this post from Sept. 2, 2008. I hope it counts. I don't know why, but I've lost my sense of joy. It'll come back. I hope it's soon.)

Where do you feel your joy?

Joy is my favorite word, not because it's such a pretty word, but because it is the representation of a beautiful experience. American Heritage Dictionary (via dictionary.com) defines it this way:

Joy:

1. Intense and especially ecstatic or exultant happiness.
2. The expression or manifestation of such feeling.

It's not just a feeling of happiness, joy moves way beyond that. It's almost a visceral emotional experience. I find joy in the smallest snippets of my day. In my work with students, I find that many of them have never experienced the feeling of joy and have great difficulty identifying an emotion as such.

In the middle of July, I brought three dear friends to experience my home state of Maine. I love Maine. Although it has some not-so-pretty parts, most of Maine is breathtakingly beautiful. I was ecstatically happy to bring people I love to the state I love. They recognized and saw beauty even in the simplest of things. My heart danced with delight. All through the week, I would stretch my arms in the air and say, "I'm so happy." Eventually, that turned into, "I have joy in my arms!" They all laughed and said, "You have joy where? "In my arms! In my arms! I have joy in my arms!" And I did. From the shoulder to the elbow. Joy, joy, joy. In my arms. Joy in my arms.

Don't ask me why I had joy in my arms, I just did. I had it in the region of my heart, too, but I noticed a tingly, delightful feeling in my arms. I'm getting it right now as I think of it. My children bring me joy, my spousal unit brings me joy, a beautiful sunset brings me joy, seeing a flower I've planted bloom brings me joy. Little children who delight with abandon bring me joy. Not just happiness, but joy. Joy, joy, joy in my arms.

So, I ask again, where do you feel your joy? And what brings it to you?

Hello

2009-10-31T15:14:00.003-04:00

I have absolutely nothing to say, but I wanted to post just because it has been so long since I have. I seem to have lost my voice for a time. I feel stuck. I want to move on something, but I don't know what that is.

So, anyway. Happy fall. Happy Halloween. I hope all is well with you.

Jan

New Year's Eve

2009-09-09T20:17:00.008-04:00

I am a happy camper. I am a happy camper. I am happy, happy, happy!

I just booked five flights to Munich.

Jim and I are taking the kids to Germany to show them all the spots I visited on my trek to walk in the steps of my father during WWII.

I can't wait to show them the door

and have one of these with them.

And maybe they'll get to meet these guys.

...

at their table reserved ("stammtisch") at 3 pm (ab 15 Uhr)...

and see the real Cinderella's castle, otherwise known as Neuschwanstein

...and meet the Night Watchman ...

...and walk the streets that (I swear!) Shrek must have walked in Rothenburg ob de Tauber

Ich bin excited!!

My Girl Got A Job!

2009-08-18T21:24:00.002-04:00

This roller coast called "Life" can really s-u-c-k (I hate that word) sometimes. The prospects for teaching positions in our area of Indiana have been few to none this summer. That does not bode well for all those graduates excited to put their long-sought skills to practice. Needless to say, it's been a disappointing summer for Jordan. Interviews for two positions did not bear fruit for Jordan. So, her plan was to be a substitute and keep her serving job for the year. Last week, she sent out about 31 resumes---to all schools in the South Bend school corporation. Come Friday, she gets invited to interview for a paraprofessional position (fancy name for teacher's aide). Not what she was hoping for, but a foot in the door of education nonetheless. So she psyched herself up for the challenge and waited for the interview on Monday afternoon. Just after she jumps out of the shower, she gets a call from the principal she was to meet with. It seems that "the PERFECT candidate" walked in the door that morning and was hired on the spot. Enter the word "That sucks". A roller coast of emotions ensued. Being in the middle of 400 sixth graders in the cafeteria did not allow me to be a very compassionate and present ear. My stomach and heart hurt for my girl.

Two hours later, I get this text---"I got a job!" I am so confused, so I call. It seems the teacher she student taught with talked to a principal in South Bend who had a part-time position open. He calls her yesterday and she goes right in to see what he has to say and is offered the job on the spot. It's only a 40% position, but It. Is. A. Teaching. Job. Halleluia, praise Jesus, Glory be to God!! Yippee-ai-cai-yay!!! She gets a real contract, gets on the ladder for seniority and will be one of the first in line next year for any positions that come open.

So when does she start? Last night! She attended the open house and met the kiddoes She is job-sharing with another teacher and will teach math and Social Studies to ENL 2nd graders. Today was her first day. She's thrilled.

So am I. She's worked hard to get to this point.

Shame, shame, shame, shame, shame, shame, shame, shame, shame, shame, shame, shame, shame!

2009-08-10T22:50:00.005-04:00

Get the message? No? I'll explain.

I've been privy to several conversations lately that make me want to wag my finger at Christians. First of all, there seems to be a lot of finger waggin' and downright condemnation by so-called Christians who are leaving nasty, accusatory comments on different blogs that I read. They want to give failing report cards to people they don't know. They want to tell them how wrong a Christian the bloggers are and how, if they lived their lives the "right" way (according to themselves) they'd be better off. How would you like to get this in your comment box:

Havent you never heard the saying let go and let God? Well you need to do that. I bet if someone were to go and pick through your past wed find all sorts of things that werent very positive and I bet its because you insist on controlling your own life and not letting God control it. You have huge satanic influences in your life and thats why you make yourself sick. its Gods way of trying to get the evil out of you. Almost every person who has an eating disorder has some sort of issue and needs to let go and let God. You should probably get down on your knees and thank God for the blessings you do have and give your life back over to him. Atone for your sins and ask Jesus back into your heart. I bet things will be right as rain in no time.

This was in the "In" box of one of my favorite bloggers. What do you think of this? Does that make you want to jump on the Christian bandwagon? What do you mean it makes you want to run in the other direction? Does this make you feel like Jesus could be your Homeboy? Do you feel the love? Nah, me neither.

You have huge satanic influences in your life and thats why you make yourself sick.

Now, isn't that the kind of thing that makes you want to change your life? Isn't that just the greatest thing to have someone say to you? Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside (insert eye roll here). Does it make you want to say, "Hey, thanks. That was just what I needed?"

its Gods way of trying to get the evil out of you.

Oh. My. God.

Yup, that's the way to bring people to Jesus.

Somebody please tell me what kind of stupid this is. Please.

I just don't get it. Did they miss the part in the Good Book about the Great Commandment? You know, the one about loving God with all your heart and all your mind and all your strength and loving your neighbor as yourself? Just sayin'. This comment doesn't speak love. It speaks condemnation. And what good will that do? No good. Do they think this is helping the cause? IT DOES THE OPPOSITE. Shame, shame, shame on them.

The other thing that has cropped up around me lately is the comment about Christian churches being unfriendly places. Several people have mentioned around me lately that when they have visited certain Christian churches for the first time, they have not felt welcomed. Yikes, this drives me crazy! How hard is it to extend a hand in greeting? Don't give me the excuse that you are shy. A visitor has much more to lose and may feel much more trepidation. Hosting people at church is just like hosting people at your home. When you have new visitors, do you wait for them to introduce themselves to you? Do you wait for them to come to you? Do you expect them to make you feel good and comfortable in your own home. NO, you don't! A good host welcomes his or her guests. A good host makes them feel comfortable. A good host goes out of his or her way to ease the discomfort or fear of a guest.

Excuse me, I just feel like growling.

Snap out of it, friends! Help the cause! Be kind, be loving, be welcoming, be patient, instill hope, spread joy, share goodness, be faithful, exude patience, exhibit self-control, demonstrate gentleness. Those are the fruits of the spirit. Galatians 5:22-23 (New International Version)

What's Your Favorite?

2009-07-30T12:13:00.004-04:00

Audrey at Barking Mad is asking readers to write a post about our favorite charity/humanitarian organization/non profit group and why it's so near and dear to our hearts. I have been giving this some thought and several ideas have easily come to the forefront. My favorites would be Horizon Ministries, Habitat for Humanity, and any organization that works to feed people because there are just so many hungry people in this world, literally and figuratively.

I would say that my first favorite humanitarian group would be my church, Horizon Ministries. I don't say this because my husband is the pastor. I say this because of our Four Areas of Focus: intimacy with God; fellowship with insiders; influence with outsiders; and extending hope to the poor. I also say this because we really mean it. We choose to be very outward-focused, be it locally or globally. For a little church (very little, about 50-60 people at this time), we pack a lot of punch in our community. For example, we are spearheading a free car wash this Saturday. It was Jim's idea, but we have invited other local churches to participate. The purpose is to show that for the sake of others, we need to give something up (time, money, bits of ourselves, etc). We are to do this for those in the church, outside the church and even for those who don't love God.

One of my favorite things that we did for three years was called 5K. It was based on Jesus' feeding of the 5000. Every Thursday, the back of our '88 Suburban was loaded up with about 60 pizzas (from both local pizzarias, just to be fair) and coolers full of pop. When the lunch bell rang, high school kids would come out to get a free lunch. Jim stressed to all those involved that we were not to mention our church, we were not to evangelize, we were not to mention God. What we were to do was build connections and to let the kids know that they mattered. The kids could eat as much as they wanted until the food was gone. The only rule was that they start out with two pieces of pizza and one can of pop to help ensure that anyone who came could get served. The high school principal at the time was very cynical when Jim mentioned the idea to him. "Jim", he said, "Everyone is just going to think you're weird". Jim's response was to say, "Look, I'm not asking for your approval. I'm just giving you a heads-up in case cafeteria sales are effected". The principal said, rather condescendingly, "Cafeteria sales will not be effected". The first week, we served about 50 kids. The second week, we served about 110 kids. The third week and every week after for the next three years, we served about 200 kids. Cafeteria sales were effected and the cafeteria ladies almost got the principal's head on a platter. Once it was realized, the cafeteria adjusted the amount of food they prepared on Thursdays and everyone was happy.

We do other missions in the community and in other countries like the Philippines and the Dominican Republic. We are always finding ways to feed people. We are always extending our hands out to others. We do it Sunday through Saturday, not just the days we attend worship. Jim stresses that it should be a way of life, not a day out of your week. I know, I know. This is what Christians are supposed to do. We just really try to live it. You know, Christians are often the worst advertisement for the cause because they frequently don't walk their talk. Jim encourages us to make our walk and talk congruent and not scare people away with condemnation.

Our little church began 10 1/2 years ago, as a phoenix emerging from the flames (a story for another day). We often joke about being the church on the Island of Misfit Toys. And we seem to be---Jim says we are all just a bunch of knuckleheads, ahem, his favorite term of endearment. Because Jim is willing to think outside the box and take risks, he has been ridiculed, ostracized, and condemned in this tiny little town. Although, it has been very pain-filled, Jim just kept repeating, "Time and truth walk hand-in-hand". And you know what? It has. It's still not easy, but it's easier. Jim's willingness to face the obstacles and the arrows and to persevere despite it all just makes me love him all the more.

Overwhelmed

2009-07-27T07:40:00.002-04:00

Too much.

Too much to do.

Too much to think about.

Too much to move---from basement to bedroom to living room to dining room to walls to bathrooms to Jordan's room to Indianapolis for Dylan.

Too few days left before school begins again with no time to prepare.

Too many thoughts floating through my mind to form into words to write down here.

Too many people in crisis, my heart aches for them and my inability to help freezes me.

Too far away from home to begin moving forward.

Too much self-imposed pressure to blog. I've realized I'm not a true blogger. I make a better blog-reader.

Too much desire to connect, with limited opportunity to do so.

Too many irons in the fire.

Just too much.

Generation Gap

2009-07-22T13:49:00.004-04:00

Clella and I drove to Maine yesterday. Seems like Clella travels with us a lot, eh? I get to see extended family. She gets an unexpected trip to see her daughter.

At McDonald's along route 90 in eastern New York:

Clella to young male cashier: "I'd like a black coffee".

Young cashier with puzzled look walks over to coffee pot and pauses. He walks back to Clella and says, "We don't have black coffee".

Young female cashier says to boy, "That means she doesn't want cream or sugar, stupid".

Chagrined cashier gets her a black coffee.

Holey-Moley

2009-07-14T08:50:00.003-04:00

I can't believe I haven't posted in over a month. What a wild ride the last month has been! Since I returned from the DR, we have been knee-deep in all the details of the renovation which is entering (yippee-yai-ky-ay!) the final phase. We are only about two weeks away from moving out of the never-sees-light basement and into our new digs. It's been a long haul since Christmas. Our daughter moved home in the midst of all that. The poor kid is sleeping on an Aero mattress on the floor, surrounded by mountains of furniture, boxes and miscellany. She says she has nightmares.

On top of all that, Jim and I have taken on the task of co-teaching a six-week intensive graduate level course on multicultural counseling. We were last minute fill-ins because they couldn't find anyone to teach the class during the summer session. This is the last class many of the students in the counseling program have to take, so they were feeling a bit desperate (that is NOT to indicate why they finally agreed to take us on, mind you!). To prep last minute for the class, create the syllabus, determine projects and grading scale, etc., has required that we eat, breathe, sleep this class.

It has been an interesting class so far. All the reading and preparation has helped me reconnect with many of the multicultural experiences I've encountered in my life. The memories are good. As we get to know the students, I am surprised, yet not surprised, by the limited experiences many adults have of other cultural experiences, be they related to race, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, religion or social class. I'm an extrovert and I seek out new and varied experiences. These become love/hate experiences for me. I hate the discomfort and fear that accompanies the newness of an experience, but I love both at the same time. It is invigorating to get through the challenge and grow as a result. It is hard to comprehend that others do not do the same. For others, the idea of this can be debilitating. I have also enjoyed the self-reflection teaching this class prompts in me. I am forced to look at my own limitations and biases and work through them.

It has been a joy to co-teach this class with Jim. In all of ours years together, serving churches, leading youth ministries and such, we have never really co-led anything together before last fall. In the fall, we co-led Dave Ramsey's "Financial Peace University" class. That was a lot of fun. Teaching the multicultural counseling class is even better because we are having some great and challenging conversations as a result and just enjoying each other.

Los Patos #1

2009-06-13T11:09:00.007-04:00

June 11, 2009

Greetings from Los Patos! We arrived on Monday afternoon, ate black beans and rice and then headed to the river for a refreshing dip. The river water is nippy, but nice. The water comes down from the mountains, winds around a bend and then feeds into the sea. It is the local supply for drinking/cooking water, the local watering hole and, for those who need it, a bathtub. I would say that most of the people in the town need it for a bathtub. They also use the river water to fill up large buckets in order to have water to flush their toilets.

Our first morning here, Arelis and I got up at 6am and walked about a half mile down the beach to the place where the river meets the sea to bathe. As we prepped for the day, Arelis was telling me how she, her mom and dad and eight siblings would walk down the mountain each day. Then she proceeded to show me how she would splash and frolic around in the water. It was comical to watch her as she did this.

I wish I'd brought my camera along for the walk. The early morning provided many beautiful moments to capture. The pictures on the blog are from another morning and the morning wasn't quite as lovely. We walked past as the pescaderos (fishermen) were prepping the boats for the day. Later as we drove to Barahona, we saw boats scattered about the sparkling water. Quite picturesque. We also walked past a pig and a burro grazing and a rooster strutting and chickens doing their chicken thing. The river, in the early morning light peeking behind a cloud, was just breathtaking.

I can see how happy Arelis is to be back here. She does not get here often. She has only been here three times in the last seven years. I've been lucky enough to have been on two of those trips. Many of her brothers still live here. Her father, who is 83, is still here. Her grandmother is still here. Cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews and old friends still make their homes in typical Dominican wooden shacks. We went to Grandpa's Mountain yesterday. On the way up, we stopped to see Arelis' abuela (grandmother). She was walking to her house when we arrived. At 121 years of age, she walks hunched over now, a wirey little thing. She was wearing a green bandana on her head, a square of white cloth with frayed edges tied around her shoulders and a little nightgown. Underneath her nightgown, I caught a glimpse of the roughly done hand-stitching of the homemade white sheath she wore beneath. It would not surprise me in the least if she stitched it herself. She lives in a wooden house painted pink. Ten years ago, she was still living on her own up on the mountain in a little shack with no running water or any other amenities. Water would still have to be carried up the mountain. Cooking would have been over an open fire. Talk about a tough old bird! I should be so lucky to be in as good a shape when I'm my seventies.

The trip up Grandpa's Mountain was a delight. The whole mountain is owned by Job's (Hobe's) grandpa. Two of his sons tend to the land now. One son, René, is building a new home not quite midway up. Homes are now built of cinder block. Sometimes they are given a stucco finish, sometimes the gray blocks are left exposed. He will have two bedrooms, a bath, living room, and kitchen. All the rooms are small. When you picture these rooms, you cannot picture them as typical to our rooms. The kitchen will have a small gas stove and maybe a sink. Counter space is a rarity. There will be no refrigerator because there is no electricity. Food that needs to be kept cold is not commonly stored and people tend to buy what they need on a daily basis.

We spent several hours on the mountain. Arelis and Pedrito took a hike higher up. We all hiked around the shack where Arelis lived as a child. We gathered mangoes, limes and bananas to take back to the house. We drank fresh coconut milk and ate the white flesh of the coconut meat inside. These are not the brown coconuts and hardened coconut we find in the grocery stores in the states. These are the green coconuts taken straight from the tree. They use a machete to slice off the top to make a hole the size of a silver dollar. You drink the milk from that. Then you slice open the whole coconut to reach the meat inside. A piece of the green shell is shaved from the side and this is used to scrape the meat from the coconut so you can eat it. It's like an all-inclusive take-out wrapped up in one neat little package. Just bring your own machete!

René is 57 years old and is long and lean. He is in amazing shape from the hard work he does daily and was quite tickled when I told him that Job and Jairo were getting fat back in the states. He laughed when I asked him to make a muscle pose for a picture.

Every time I come here, I am reminded of how cushy I have it at home and how much I take for granted every single day. These people here have so much less than we have, yet many are thriving and are happy. Still, there are many who go hungry.

Crazy Gringa

2009-06-09T10:11:00.007-04:00

June , 2009

...Rumor has it that there is crazy gringa with silver hair running loose in Santiago. Reports say that she has been spotted in a variety of places and is suspected of being the responsible party for near accidents and severe cases of whiplash. She is also suspected of accosting strangers in supermarkets...

Yesterday, Arelis, her daughter Yohaira and I went to the supermercado (supermarket) to pick up a few items. Arelis also had to exchange the money I am using to bring food to families in Barahona/Los Patos. As we passed a Dominican man, I glanced at his t-shirt. I was so excited that I stopped him and started pointing at his chest. He looked at me like I was a little off my rocker (no comments!). “Mi universidad! Mi universidad!” The man looked at me again. I repeated, “Mi universidad!”to which he responded, “Bingo!” We all laughed. You have to understand---as a Maine transplant living in the midwest, it is a rare occasion anyone has ever heard of the University of Maine let alone wear the t-shirt. Ball State, Indiana University, Notre Dame, Purdue, yes. UMO, no. So you can imagine my excitement (just try, will you?) to see a little Dominican wearing a t-shirt from my alma mater. Moments later, I had regrets for not getting his picture. Dang. Just as I had that thought, I saw him a few aisles over. “Arelis! Un momento! Un photo!” I chased after him, gripping my purchases and my camera. I tapped him on the shoulder and he turned around. “Señor, por favor! Tengo un photo?” as I pointed again at his chest. “Que?” he asked. I repeated my question while pointing at his chest. Then in Spanish he asked me if I wanted his phone number. “No! No!” I pointed again. With a shrug of his shoulders, he said yes and I grabbed my camera and quickly took his picture. As I said “gracias”, he touched his cheek to mine and said, “De nada.“No problema.” As I walked away, I saw four teenage girls looking at what had just taken place. I repeated while circling my finger toward my chest, “Mi universidad.” They just laughed at/with me. When I caught up with Arelis and Yohaira at the bread counter, they were just shaking their head and laughing.

My hair color and white skin seems to be causing a bit of a stir as well. Of that, I am 100% innocent. I'm just made that way, you know. I don't just seem to stand out in the barrio, but everywhere I go in the city, too. I'm kind of getting used to the stares and the double-takes. It's rather comical to see the expressions on people's faces when they catch sight of me. Arelis just giggles. The other day, a Haitian man walked by the house carrying a bowl of avocados on his head. “Aguacate! Aguacate!”he shouted as he walked down the street. Arelis called him back to buy some. When Arelis finished making her purchase, He was still staring at me. “Okay! Vamos!” she had to tell him. He let me take his picture before he left. He was back the next day, shouting in Spanish through the gate, “Does the Americana want to buy some avocados today?” Arelis told me to just say no, thank you. He seemed very disappointed, almost put out. I'll tell you, though. I've never had avocados that tasted better than here. Arelis says the ones in Los Patos are even better and much bigger. She makes the size of a gourd with her hands.

While I laugh and joke about my hair and white skin, I am saddened at times about what it means. Yesterday, I accompanied Arelis to an end of year celebration at her school. One of her co-workers, a beautiful cafe-au-lait woman started talking to me about my skin. Basically, she was telling me that she wishes her skin was white and that white is better. I just told her that God made her beautiful already. There are many Dominicans here who think the same way she does. I experienced the same thing on a mission trip to the Philippines five years ago. Everywhere I went, the children would constantly touch my skin and talk about how their skin was ugly because it was brown and mine was beautiful because it is white. Man, I hate that. There were even billboards advertising products to whiten skin. The condition of the human heart is delicate and we wound ourselves even more. We are all miracles and beautiful in all our shapes, sizes and skin color. When will we accept ourselves and one another?

I keep saying that I want an adventure. Little moments like these fit the bill.

A View From the Peanut Galerìa

2009-06-05T10:22:00.007-04:00

Thursday, June 4, 2009

Here I sit, peering down from the galerìa, or balcony of our home-away-from home at Pedrito and Arelis house in Hato Mayor outside Santiago, Dominican Republic. Pedrito just left on his motocicleta and Arelis is at work for a while longer. My girl left for home this morning. I hope she makes it through customs okay. I pray her flight is smooth and she arrives home safe and sound. The recent loss of a plane carrying 200+ people over the ocean does nothing to ease my worries. Gotta have faith.

So here I am. Alone for two weeks with my friends who speak no English. Me who barely understands Spanish. Barely. I wanted to go on an adventure and here I am. I'm very curious as to what this adventure will bring me. My adventures will be limited to what I can do with my friends as I will not be left alone except for brief moments like this. Pedrito is very protective. I'm amazed that he let me walk around the corner alone to use the internet this morning. Usually, he goes with us and waits. I feel as if I need to rush because it can't be much fun for him. He is a good and generous host. It is my only contact with the technological world and I need it like I need water and food. There is a TV in the kitchen, but it has only been on one time in a week and that was to entertain a 4 yr old boy who can't sit still. World news has been fleeting. With limited time on the internet, I forget to check out news websites. It is strangely discomforting and comforting at the same time. A throwback to simpler times.

Things will get much simpler still next week when we head to the other side of the country to a more remote area, Los Patos. I love Los Patos. That is a story in itself. I am looking forward to seeing Arelis grandmother again. She will be 121 years old this year. No lie. She was born in 1888!

I am scarfing cookies like no tomorrow. Cookies are my downfall and I bought a package at the supermercado last night when Jordan and I went to stock up on vanilla (the best anywhere! Makes for a great and cheap gift). Anyway, I love cookies and was having a bit of withdrawal. Arelis is a good cook and has filled my belly with typical Dominican food---red beans and white rice, plantains, yucca, lachosa, mango, pineapple, mangoo! Mangoo is a dish made of mashed plantains. Yucca is like a potato only a bit denser and the flavor is different. Hard to describe, but it is yummy. She also makes delicious juices with fresh limes and oranges and melons. Chinola juice is my favorite. Chinola is the real name for Passion Fruit. LOVE it You cannot get anything in the states that tastes like it. I know, I've tried. No

comparison. We have also eaten a lot of fried salami and queso frito (fried cheese—it's the best!). My little mum always said food tastes best when you don't have to cook it yourself. Maybe so, but Arelis cooks with a lot of love, too. That adds to the flavor.

Electricity is iffy. Sometimes we have it. Sometimes we don't. There are two or three car batteries hooked up outside the kitchen that serves the electric for the downstairs. Three more feed the supply for the newly constructed upstairs Warm showers are infrequent. With the warmth and humidity, I find I welcome the cold showers anyway. Last night, we sat in the dark talking by candlelight. Arelis cooks on a gas stove, so that is not a problem. Dominican coffee is deliciously rich and strong. We use a lot of milk and sugar. I can buy Santo Domingo coffee here by the pound for about $2 and it is a real pound, not 12 oz like at home. I usually stock up when I'm here. I hope I can fill all the orders I have from home! I bought a coffee pot like Arelis has, but my coffee still doesn't taste like hers. Maybe I'll get another lesson while I'm here.

I was stung by a wasp on Saturday. We were almost in a car accident on Tuesday. On Tuesday night, we rode a carriage around the city's monument. The monument was once erected by the dictator to honor himself. It now honors the heroes and heroines of the revolution which overthrew the government maybe twenty-five years ago. It's a beautiful and massive structure. Yesterday, we ventured to Jarabacoa (ha-rah-bah-co-ah) and ate beef and pork grilled over a fire from a little street vendor.

I know, I was nervous about it, but I figure if Arelis can eat it, so can I. No indigestion yet. Jordan bought shoes. Go figure.

Ah, Pedrito is back and Arelis just arrived home from the preschool where she teaches. Their friend, Cesar, has arrived as well. Time to go.

Maybe tomorrow I can tell you about the police captain who visits to insure the safety of the guests (me).

Adios, Amigas y Amigos!

Peek-a-Boob! I see you! (or how one little breast brought two worlds together...)

2009-06-01T11:16:00.005-04:00

Peek-a-Boob! I see you!(or how one little breast brought two worlds together...)

I am sitting in the mission house of Hato Mayor in the Dominican Republic. It's early morning and I'm listening to life in the barrio awaken as I lay in bed. Life in the street is getting busy. Cars rumble along. A rooster crows nearby again and again. I'm on a two-fold purpose for this trip. First, my daughter, Jordan, is with me. This is her gift for graduating from college (yippee! At last!) The second purpose is to continue building the connection between our church and the little church we helped complete two years ago. We have just returned from a four-day stay in Puerta Plata at an all-inclusive resort and are now staying with our Dominican family, Pedrito and Arelis Marmolejos (mar-mo-lay-hos).

Our stay in the barrio is subject for other posts. For now, I just want to write about our little excursion to go snorkling at Paradise Island. I've never snorkled before, have you? It's much easier than I thought it would be to coordinate breathing through the tube and swimming with fins. The breathing came easily, I believe, because of the nose piece that covered our noses and prevented a lick of air to come through. One bit of intake through the nose created a vacuum in a hurry. Yup, one breath through the nose and I learned in a hurry that I
would be breathing through my mouth! It's a bit frightening to attempt a breath only to find there is no air. Didn't like that feeling one bit.

It was a lovely excursion. The two and a half hour bus ride to and from was not a lot of fun, although the scenery was beautiful. Paradise Island is a sand bar pretty much in the middle of nowhere. It is surrounded by a small reef. Within 20 minutes of landing, we had our snorkels and fins and were swimming with the fishes. No lesson, just sink or swim. Jordan and I swam. I have not gone swimming in the ocean for a long time. I forgot how easy it is to float in salt water. I thought I would have to work hard to swim and breath at the same time. It felt effortless and allowed us to enjoy the view below. I think there are probably more beautiful reefs to experience, but for our first time out, it was just right. Bright blue fish, yellow striped fish, tiny white fish swam by, just out of reach. Gigantic white sea urchins and sand dollars were settled helter-skelter along the sandy bottom ocean floor. The coral reef was a mass of life, seaweed waving gently with the current.

We spent two-plus hours on the island. It is not a big sandbar, maybe a little more than a tenth of a mile long and not very wide. Four or five little shelters had been set up to give a break from the sun beating down and to provide a little snack bar where freshly sliced fruit and drinks were provided. The pineapple here is to die for. Not an under ripe one to be found. Also yummy were the cantelope and oranges. So much more flavor than that found in the grocery stores at home. The drinks consisted of Coke and rum, Sprite and rum, rum, rum or rum, oh, and a little bit of water. Not being a rum girl myself, I chose the water. I got a quizzical look from the young man serving the drinks.

Anyway, we spent quite bit of time on the sandbar out of the water, as they had to take turns bringing small groups snorkeling. So Jordan and I sat and relaxed and talked and people-watched. I love to people-watch. It keeps me entertained for hours. Anyway, this one particular couple from another group caught my eye. From their accent, I could tell they were German (I actually found out later they were Austrian). He had made several trips to the bar, NOT for water. During one trip, I heard him say to the boy, “Gots to getz Mama drrrunk.” It made me chuckle. They were a couple in their seventies. He wasn't very tall, a bit shorter than me, and was of stocky build, belly round. He looked strong-like-bull. She was littler still, short gray hair and blue eyes that sparkled. I watched her quite a bit. I just loved how her roundish, seventy-year old body embraced her two piece bathing suit. The top was skimpy as bikinis go, the bottoms not quite so, but a two-piece just the same. I delighted in the lack of self-consciousness she exhibited. In fact, that is one thing I appreciate about the majority of European woman I saw---they seemed to have no care about sporting the perfect body in their bikinis. They wear them with abandon. We Americans could learn a thing or two about that.

So I watched them. Near the end of our stay on the “island”, I watched as she walked over toward a group. Something wasn't quite right, but it took my mind a minute to realize what my eyes were seeing. She was oblivious to the fact that her errant right breast had loosened itself from its bindings and was laid out there for all to see. Everything started to move in a bit of slow motion as Jordan and I watched with mouths agape. It was like we couldn't move. We stood there. I said, “Jordan, look. That little woman's boob is hanging out. She doesn't know it.” Like idiots, we stood there and watched. The woman bent over to pick up a t-shirt. “Good,” I thought, “she'll put it on before she realizes it.” Not so. She continues to walk around, oblivious. We continue to stand like idiots and watch. She walks over to her husband and they talk for several minutes. They talk for several minutes and HE NEVER SAYS ONE WORD ABOUT HER EXPOSED BREAST!! Jordan and I are just amazed at this and still we are stuck where we are standing underneath the little grass rooftop. The little woman walks away from her husband and begins to weave through the small crowd, Betty Boob pointing the way. I begin an internal battle---”go tell her, Jan.” “No, I don't want to embarrass her!” “Embarrass her, Stupid, her boob is hanging out in all its glory!!” I do a stop-start-stop-start-stop-start-STOP. What is so flipping hard about this? I tell men their flies are unzipped all the time! Sheesh! The final straw comes when Jordan points out two women in their twenties who are laughing and pointing at her. That is IT. Stupid bimbos. I walk up to her. I point. She looks at me confused. She holds up her t-shirt toward me like that's what I might want. I shake my head and point again. She just looks at me with a puzzled expression on her face. Finally, I lightly touch my hand to her chest (No, NOT on her breast, silly!) She looks down and exclaims loudly, “OHH!!” She puts the girl away and then grabs me in a hug. We laugh, laugh, laugh, then she starts going on about her husband not saying a word. She hugs me again. He walks over. She berates him. He shrugs his shoulders and says to us nonchalantly, “I know what she's gots.” Pause. “And she knows whats I'ves gots, too!” He chuckles. We all laugh. She smacks his arm and says something to him in German. We talk for several minutes, but too soon it is time to go. We wave our good-byes and head toward our separate boats.

Shortly after a boat ride and a quick trip to a Dominican restaurant, we meet up briefly again. We invite them to join us at our table and we sit and eat. We learn their names are Peter and Eva and they are from Austria. They have been married about 15 years. We learn much in such a little amount of time. She is his second wife. He has one boy and a granddaughter. She has two children. They like to travel. He lived 50 years in Canada and was an engineer. She was an only child. She was conceived when her mother was barely 16. Her father was the first man her mother had “been with” and she was conceived the first time “they were together”. And kids think it can't happen to them. Ha. Her father was later killed in the war (WWII). They are just delightful. We eat. Eva coughs and I look. She turns toward Peter and taps his arm. She's choking. She motions him to pat her back. He keeps asking, “Heimlich? Heimlich?” I pound her back. She tries to cough. I pound some more. She coughs. Jordan grabs her bottle of water, quickly twists off the cap and hands it to her. She drinks it. She continues to cough a bit and tears are streaming down her cheeks, but she is going to be okay, I can tell she was scared. She keeps patting my arm. “Thank you, thank you.” she repeats.

We finish our lunches and say our good-byes. We hug. Eva says something about me saving her life. She hugs me again. We board our buses and go our separate ways. A glimmer in time has passed.

On the long ride home, I chuckle at random times. Jordan asks, “What?” Each time I answer the same. I'm just thinking about Peter standing talking to Eva while her little breast is playing Peek-a-boob. “I knows what's she's gotz.” Well, now, a lot of us do, too.

Today was a gift from God and I am grateful.

No Time to Breathe

2009-05-19T05:16:00.003-04:00

Hmmm. Why haven't I been posting? To say that life has been non-stop for the last several weeks, let me give you a run-down of my Sunday...

(We went to a Saturday service last August, so no church this morning. Just good old fashion worship of the heart).

5:30 am - The dog wakes me up to go outside.

5:35 am - I realize that if I want to get my painting project done today (and it must be done today so I can put the second coat on tomorrow night so our cute little construction guy can get the beadboard ceiling in on Tuesday).

5:40 am - I begin cutting in the edges of the ceiling.

7:00 am - Get in shower

8:00 - Bring my brother and sister-in-law to the airport (they came in to surprise Jordan for her college graduation (Yay! We have a graduate!)

10:00 am - Leave the airport.

10:20 am - Go to Lowe's to get the right paint for the walls. This is a good thing since I gave them the wrong paint chip for the four gallons I bought and began to use on Friday. We have now gone from an apple green to a moss green for the living room, dining room, kitchen area. Much better, thank you.

11:00 am - Arrive home.

11:15 am - Put a coat of paint on the ceiling (white, not green).

1:30 pm - Stop painting. Wash face, which is spotted white. Wash hands and forearms, redo make-up. Throw on some decent clothes.

1:55 pm - Arrive at church for our combined Open House for the five graduates from our church. It's a good thing my husband is capable of setting up. In fact, he ordered and picked up the cake and ice cream and soda/pop.

2:00 pm - Enjoy good company. Listen as the grads answer questions for the group of the things they've learned and their plans for the future. I just love young people. Their answers give us great insight to them as real people.

4:00 pm - Head home.

4:10 pm - Crack open the green paint and begin to paint the kitchen walls. Gotta get that first coat on, dontcha know.

5:45 pm - Do a quick clean-up.

6:00 pm - Pick Jim up at church. Head to South Bend for dinner with friends and their Notre Dame grad. Fun times and great food (Parisi's, South Bend).

9:20 pm - Leave the restaurant and head home.

10:00 pm - Change back into my paint garb.

10:10 pm - Attack the last two walls. More cutting in and rolling.

11:00 pm - Change into jammies. Brush teeth. Crash.

No joke. This is how the last few weeks have been. I am looking forward to flying to the Dominican Republic for three weeks to live with my little Dominican family next Tuesday. Am excited that Jordan will be with me for 10 days. I need sunshine and stopping (No, not shopping). A little fresh avacado and mango won't hurt, either. Oh, and have you ever had fried cheese Dominican style? To die for. Probably incredibly bad for you, too.

Now off to my last four days of school for the year. Halleluia! I love my job, but I need summer.

jdm

Quick Tropic Update

2009-04-29T08:34:00.003-04:00

In Santiago, DR.
This will be a quick post just to tell you that we arrived in Bryce Canyon and Tropic, Utah with Clella yesterday. She/We had a wonderful day that I will post about as soon as I can and add pictures to boot.

We've been to the cemetery to see where her mom, dad, sister and baby brother are buried, visited with the people who live in the house where she was born and had a long and delightful visit with the people who own her grandfather's barn. She got a discount at Ruby's Inn for being "pretty close to local" and a free breakfast coupon for having a birthday on Friday and for being from Tropic. She had a hard time settling down to sleep because she'd had "such a wonderful day". Today, we will return to Tropic and try to connect with some of her childhood friends. We learned that several are still alive and still live in Tropic.

Bringing Clella to Tropic has been as much a gift to us to experience with her as it has been for her. It is always wonderful to experience someone else's joy.

The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Guidance Counselors

2009-04-24T19:57:00.005-04:00

So yesterday on the CounselorTalk listserv I'm a member of, a high school counselor sends out a request (a plea, actually). She has a senior girl who wants to go to the prom. She is a plus size girl, wears a size 24, can't afford a dress and can't find one at the stores. I make some long distance phone calls to the nearby city she is in. I call Lane Bryant, a clothing store for plus size women. They don't sell prom dresses. I call JC Penny. They have plenty of prom dresses---in junior sizes. The largest they have is a 16. So I call two numbers for the specialty store David's Bridals. Both numbers are disconnected. It kills me to think this girl can't get a dress. Oh, and did I mention that the request came on Thursday and the prom is on Saturday? Yeah, well, I thought about that girl all night long.

Then I go to get my haircut. Midway through the cut and on a whim, I ask my hairdresser if she knows where I could find a dress. Unbelievably, her daughter has one hanging in her closet, just the right size. I can't believe it.

I do a little research. The girl's school is two hours from me. Okay, that's do-able. I talk with my friend, Ann who also happens to be my boss. She's game for a road trip after school. Unfortunately, the other counselor is leaving town after work and cannot meet us. We can only get to the girl if we leave during the day. Ann says, "Hey, we've got planning to do for Monday's in-service. We can work in the car." We hustle. I call the school to get directions. Yay, the girl is at school today. We get in the car and head out.

We are cutting it close on time, but we may just make it. We realize we haven't come to one of the exits after a period of time. We should be near the school by now. We see a sign that confuses us. Seventy-four miles to our destination. How can that be? I call the school. Ugh. When I looked up the school online last night, I SWEAR it said the school was in Marion. I swear. I cannot find those websites now for proof, of course. Last night when I googled, I could not find a website for the school, just some independent sites with generic information. Okay, I thought. It's a private Catholic school. Maybe they don't have their own website. So I call the school for better directions. The school is not in Marion, it's in Marion COUNTY!!! !@#$%^&*(

We will never make it. In talking to the counselor, we find out that the girl found one dress at a charity shop. She has to hem it, but it will work. Plans foiled, but we tried.

Well, Ann and I got a lot of planning done in the three hours we were in the car. We are all ready for that in-service on Monday. I got some other work done to boot. Oh, well. We also treated ourselves to a little milkshake at a Steak n' Shake in Wabash. Woo-hoo! They are half-price today. Just a little gift sent our way.

I hope that girl has a good time at the prom. I hope she feels absolutely beautiful. I hope she knows there are strangers who cared.

Off on another adventure tomorrow. Going with another teacher to hopefully get in the Guiness Book of World Records by participating in the largest group hug at the St. Joseph County fairgrounds. Got to bring some canned goods for the foodbank, too.

Gotta love adventure!

Sincerely yours,
A Directionally Challenged School Counselor

Sick of Being Sick and a Road Trip

2009-04-21T21:44:00.007-04:00

Clella and Todd catch a little dance at a pit stop along the road to Los Patos, DR in 2007.

I am not complaining (much)! I've had the creeping cruds off and on for about four weeks now. It's time to be done. Yesterday, I thought I was on the mend. This afternoon the aches were back. I need to be better by Sunday because Jim and I are going on a road trip with Clella, our adopted grandma. If anyone read the entry last April, she and I went on a road trip to Maine when I went to take care of my dad for a few weeks.

Jim and I are flying to Arizona to pick up his mom's car and will drive it back. We decided we should take Clella with us. Clella grew up as a Mormon in Tropic, Utah. She joined our non-denominational Christian church about eleven years ago. Jim met Clella when he got called on an emergency pastoral visit to our local hospital. Clella and her husband had been brought into the hospital for carbon monoxide poisoning. Sadly, Clella's husband, Dale, did not survive. Clella did. Dale and she had just moved into their new house three weeks prior. They had three different companies inspect the house and chimney before they moved in (Dale was always a cautious and common sense man, according to Clella). All three companies missed the bird's nest that blocked the chimney. Very sad indeed. Anyway, Clella struggled for a long time with Dale's death. They'd had a long and happy marriage. Clella and her sister picked up two navy sailors who were hitchhiking way back when. Clella claims she and Dale fell in love on that car ride between Tiajuana and San Diego. They were married a short time later.

Anyway, Clella has repeatedly told us her stories about growing up Mormon and being from a large family. When she was twelve, her mother died shortly after giving birth to a baby boy. Because the older children were independent or unable, Clella gained the responsibility of raising four younger brothers and sisters. At the age of twelve, she was expected to have all the responsibilities for them. Clella says her father was too busy spreading his seed all over Tropic to be bothered with raising children. Later, he remarried and Clella gained the quintessential ugly stepmother.

Taking to the shade on the beach in Sosua.

We have decided to take Clella to Tropic on our way home. This may be her last trip to Tropic, as she'll be 83 on May 1. You never know, though, she's a tough old bird. We want her to show us all the places she's talked about. I think it will be a lovely walk down memory lane for her and a delightful gift for us. We fly out early Sunday.

When we fly out, there will be major demolition going on back our house. New bathrooms are goin' in. Excitement all around.

"Last Trip to Tropic". Won't that make a great title for a story?

You cannot believe how this little bugger works.
We have to force her to stop. (this is at the church we were building outside Santiago, DR.

With Arelis in Los Patos. She'll try anything. I think she was hoping for a little gin in her coconut juice.

A late evening at Camp David, outside Santiago. This restaurant is on a mountain top which has the most harrowing drive up a mountain I have ever experienced. I was so stressed by the ride up that I refused to drive down in our van. Had to switch vehicles. I'm telling you, we almost slid off the cliffs several times. It did me in. Clella just made the trip like Aunt Edna from National Lampoon's Vacation, except she wasn't dead and tied to the roof.

On a shopping trip in the city of Santiago, DR.
How can you not just love her?

jdm

Nothing Like An Egg Hunt to Release the Inner Child

2009-04-14T13:23:00.003-04:00

(Yes, it's been a long, dry month of no posts. Am home sick again today. I just can't seem to rid myself of a general malaise brought on by my second cold/flu bout in three weeks time. Must be the creeping cruds. Anyway, the post that follows is a year old. It comes from an event we held at school to lighten the climate during the drudge month of March '08. We have just held our 2nd annual teacher egg hunt for '09, but I've no energy to recap, so am giving you a recount of last year's just so I can post. Hope you are all well. I've also been busy dealing with our renovation which we have just expanded to include new bathrooms and a walk-in closet. I guess if we're going to renovate, we may as well get it all done at one time. I hope you all had a wonderful and blessed Easter.)

This is the original email which was sent to an unsuspecting staff in March '09:

Get Hoppin’…

Peter Cottontail and Betty Bunny were very busy Tuesday night. They hid 162 plastic eggs ALL OVAH the school.

In all your rooms, Peter Cottontail has hidden a plastic egg with your name on it.

The Challenge: Peter is challenging you to find your egg. Some will be easier to find than others (in fact, Peter thinks some won’t be found until retirement). Return the empty egg with your name sticker left on it to your grade level secretary by the Friday prior to spring break (April 4).

The grade level with the greatest percentage of returned eggs will be treated to lunch on the Monday we sluggishly return from our respite (April 7).

Peter hopes the eggs reproduce as rapidly as rabbits!!!!!

This is the recap which I sent to Andrea Corona Jenkins at Hula Seventy ...who had a wonderful post about Little Paper Fortunes entitled "Friday Afternoon" which began the whole inspiration for the egg hunt (you MUST read her post. It is wonderful. You'll need to scroll down to Oct 15, 2007 entry). Here's my recap from last year:

December is a tough month in education, as is March! Prior to Christmas Break the kids and the teachers were stretched to just put one foot in front of another as they waited for a little time off. Only about five teachers decided to do the project this year, but they did enjoy it. They couldn't take the kids off school property to "plant" the fortunes as I'd hoped. Anyway, they did do the best they could at the time. Each class group placed all the fortunes in chinese food containers decorated with holiday themes they got from Hobby Lobby. The teachers then brought the boxes to a few coffee houses and some mom-and-pop type stores where they set them up by the cash registers. People were encouraged to take a fortune when they made a purchase.
BUT two weeks ago, the principal and I revisited the little paper fortunes idea in an attempt to lighten the droll, cabin-fever climate hanging like a cloud over the building. I took blank fortune strips to the media center (our library) and explained what I wanted to the students who so (un-)cheerfully had to spend two hours with an assistant principal after school for a little, um, extended day. I told them I needed volunteers to write generic, cheerful notes to our staff. It was totally voluntary on their part, yet about 20 kids took the bait. After a time, I told them if they really wanted to, they could write fortunes to specific teachers. These kids have a tendency to only show their tough exteriors, but during this activity they really allowed their sweet insides to emerge.
As an aside, there are 162 teachers, aides, custodians, cafeteria workers, secretaries, counselors, principals, School Resource Officer, bookkeepers, media center specialists, and other staff in our building. We also have 1500 sixth, seventh and eighth graders. It's a wonderful, crazy place.
So anyway, the principal and I stuffed 162 plastic eggs with treats and paper fortunes and labeled each egg with a staff member's name. (I so enjoyed being able to stuff some very tender fortunes in specific teachers' eggs. I knew they'd love them.) We then hid an egg all over the building in areas specific to the individual--i.e., in that teacher's classroom, in the school kitchen, in the boiler room, etc. It took several hours to hide the eggs and we almost got caught by one teacher who was working too, too late. The principal unlocked the classroom door and walked into what she thought was an empty room only to find the teacher sitting at his desk under a dimly lit lamp. "Oh!, she said, "I'm in the wrong room!" and then quickly backed out before the teacher could respond. It was so dumb, we laughed all night about it.
The next morning, I sent out an email with the announcement that we had hidden the eggs and that there was a challenge to each teacher to find their egg. Oh-my-GOSH! What a delightful impact this whole endeavor had! You would have thought these teachers were all little children again. Some teachers let their students help in the hunt, while others threatened to fail (in jest) any student who found their egg before they had a chance to look for it. There were emails flying back and forth with comments and silliness and "found-mine-in-the-4H-geraniums-by-the-way-you-can-buy-one-for $1.25-each!" advertisements and "my OCD is kicking in and I can't get any teaching done until I find my egg!" and much more. It was so wonderful to experience pure joy and silliness in people who were so tired and just praying for spring to arrive.
We asked teachers to return their empty eggs to their grade level secretary (for next year, of course!). The grade level with the greatest percentage of returns would have lunch provided the Monday we get back from spring break. We're actually going to provide lunch for everyone, but it was fun to put forth the challenge.
Anyway, everywhere I walk in the building, I see those little paper fortunes put in places of honor. I walked by our technology guy's office and saw his taped to his window. It says, "Thank u for makin this a grate plase to be." I guess we need to work on that spelling some more. I taped mine above my desk. They say, "You are loved" and "You are lookin gooood!"
It is two weeks later and I'm still getting comments from teachers about how much they enjoyed it all. So, Andrea, you need to take some of the credit. The impetus for all this was your inspiring blog entry about having your wee-ones make little paper fortunes to leave around your city for no other purpose but to bring a moment of joy or tenderness to what might have been an otherwise difficult day.

I haven't lost a son, I've gained a granddogger

2009-03-22T09:51:00.004-04:00

Much to our cat's dismay, we are now harboring a criminal. You know how it is? Son goes to college and lives on his own. Son thinks, "I need a dog." Son gets dog. While son in Maine for funeral, son's friend leaves door of apartment open, dog disappears never to be seen again. What does son do? Gets another dog, of course. "Mom, she was just laying there, all sick and scrawny looking. She needed someone to love." Of course, Mom-who-sees-into-the-future thinks this better be a good dog because she just knows we are gonna inherit her one of these days. Fast forward a few months. Son is looking for new apartment. No take dogs. Oh, what a surprise! Mom picks up dog. Mom loves dog, BUT...

Dog loves to chew because dog is still a puppy. What do puppies do? CHEW! Anything and everything.

My favorite pair of boots...

Chicken bouillion...

Weight clamp ends (or whatever these things are called)...

Pepper spray (um, yeah, that was a close one)...

Corners of coffee tables...

Insulation (yeah, that's just stupid and dangerous)...

Cat is not happy and spends most her days hiding under bed with dust bunnies...

...and despite protestations to the contrary, the spousal unit does, too, like this dog.

p.s. I still feel a little yucky and now the spousal unit does, too. :)

Wah.

2009-03-18T23:02:00.000-04:00

Feeling yucky. Cough, cough.

Janet Lorraine Sweet

2009-03-10T18:05:00.007-04:00

I've spoken several times of my "blog-friend", Dave and his challenge of waking one morning to find himself himself utterly and completely deaf a year and a half ago. I've also mentioned a few times that his wife, Janet, had her own battle raging with leukemia.

On Saturday, March 7, Janet lost her battle. For a beautiful read about Love, read this post. To read Dave's beautiful tribute to Janet, go here. It's worth the time and the trip.

(Photograph borrowed from Seismic 2000 at flickr.com)

Dust Bunnies and Cobwebs

2009-03-05T22:28:00.006-05:00

Well, I can't believe it. I have started a third blog. A third blog! What a dork. Anyway, my new blog is called "Dust Bunnies and Cobwebs". Jim says it's a negative title. What does Jim know anyway? I love it. Anyway, I'm starting it to document the renovation on the living room/dining room/kitchen that we are doing. I'm not sure how often it will get updates, but check it out once in a while, especially if ya ain't stopped by the house in a while.

p.s. I did not win the gift certificate to Target that Auds at Barking Mad was giving away (what's up with that anyway?) Oh, well. I think my name is supposed to go on the Keurig Coffee System she is giving away in April. I've been thinking about getting one for the cafe at church. I better win that one or else...or else what, I don't know, but it sounded good. Man, I hope I win it...

Barking Mad

2009-03-01T22:40:00.006-05:00

Not me! The blog, i am barking mad! She's having a wee bit of a contest. The winner receives a giftcard to Target worth $250. I could do a little something with that, yes, I could. All I have to do is post 5-10 of my favorite blog posts. Yup, I can do that, too. I have a few more favorites, but this is enough, dontcha think? So, here goes.

You know, as I look over all of these, there seems to be a somber theme, but it's not, really. It's been a tough year, but it has also been filled with so many blessings. Everything I'm writing is really a celebration. It has been an honor and a privilege to have been touched the way these stories have touched me.

Crown Wretch - written after a trip to Maine last summer. The morning I started the drive home, my sister-in-law and friend learned of her nephew's death in a middle-of-the-night car accident. This happened after two years of one tragedy in her family after another.

Seeing Ghosts At IHOP - since December 27, 2007, I've lost my mother, my father, my mother-in-law and my older sister. It's been a year.

My Little Mum - posted on the anniversary of my little mum's death.

It's Not an 18 year Commitment, It's Forever - written after a horrible early morning phone call.

Knowing God - written in response to a question from Cafe Chat.

A History, A Mystery - a two-part posting of the grant proposal for educators I submitted before I realized my father would not be able to accompany me on a trip to Germany I'd long dreamed of taking him on. I received the grant. My father died while I was on the trip.

Doors, Rainbows and White Crosses - a post about solving the mystery I sought in Germany and the morning my father died.

Fog Delay

2009-03-01T20:59:00.004-05:00

As I was ironing my clothes for work at 5:30 am on Thursday morning, I received a lovely surprise---a phone call from my boss and friend. "Two hour delay this morning." she said. I hadn't even taken a gander out the window yet to see the fog which enveloped the area. It was so thick in some areas that school was eventually called off for some. There was no use in trying to get more sleep. I can never fall back to sleep once I'm awake. I was feeling quite lazy though.

With coffee made, I settled in to read a blog I had discovered a few days before. Some things the writer wrote peaked my interest and I had to start from the beginning. This meant reading almost 600 blog posts over a six day period. To say I had other things to do was/is an understatement. I was like an addict, though, and had to read it all. It is hard to read between the lines when a person expresses debilitating and agonizing pain. It makes me want to reach out and find a way to help them heal. This week has been one filled with agony, others' agonies, not my own (Although last week was one of the most stressful ones I've had in a while. Compared to others, it was nothing.) Jim had to help a family deal with the death of a 22 yr old father of a beautiful baby girl. My blog friend, Dave, at Five String Guitar is dealing with the quickly declining health of his love, Janet, in what may be her final days of battling leukemia. Others in blogland are dealing with death, illness, job loss, and what seems to be personal attacks of debilitating proportions. It makes my heart heavy.

I've been thinking a lot lately of experiences our family has been through in the last ten years. We faced demons and personal attacks and rumors and gossip. Our children, most notably our daughter, were caught in the crossfire. For several years, I allowed the anger to rule me. It ruled me to the point that I got lost in myself and no longer recognized the person I had become. I hated what I allowed it all to do to me. But the thing that is becoming clear to me is that I'm coming back. Snippets of who I was are becoming who I am. The heaviness that has ruled my heart for so long is leaving and, I think, most of it is gone. There is a lightness and a hope in my life that I used to feel daily that is returning. I like the person I was. In many ways, I've become stronger. I think the person I'm becoming is better. I like that.

There's been a delay, but the fog is lifting.

Knowing God

2009-02-20T22:32:00.001-05:00

(this is a 2/14/09 post I made on a different blog, one that is devoted to my parents).

Cafe Chat posed a question for answering today: Tell of one specific time in your Christian walk that you were overwhelmed with God’s love for you.

I had to think for just a second when the answer came to me. It's not the only time I've felt this way, but it might be the first time I consciously realized the fullness of God's love.

Twenty-four years ago, on a late January night, my older sister was driving home from work as a nurse. In the flash of an eye, her life was changed forever by a drunk driver. For six months, she battled between life and death as she lay in a coma, her skull crushed, brain stem damaged. She lived in Florida, my parents lived in Maine. My father flew immediately to West Palm Beach, arriving in the wee hours of the morning to the ICU. It was evident that the doctors, nurses and the priest had given her up for dead. Everything changed when Dad arrived. Then began their unease when they learned what they were reckoning with in the form of a father on a mission. Dad was livid and everyone within earshot knew it. Three months later, Dad had Suzanne flown back to New England by air ambulance so she would be close to home. For twenty-four years, my father cared for this girl. His love and care of her never wavered. It took a full decade for him to accept that she would never walk and talk again, but this never undermined the care he insisted she receive.

Before I go on, I must explain a little bit about my dad. He was a towering man with a booming voice. He had a successful career as a commanding officer in the U.S. Army. We followed rules at our house and we six kids were expected to toe the mark. We did not run around in our underwear.
Dad, second from left.
Ladies did "not drink beer from bottles" and you were expected to respect your elders. It sounds much fiercer than it was, I just want to give you an idea of a man who, on the surface, did not seem like a warm fuzzy. I was eighteen before I remember hearing my father actually tell me that he loved me.

One beautiful, breezy, late summer afternoon, I had the great honor of witnessing one of the most tender moments of my life. I had gone with my dad to visit Suzanne. She'd come out of her coma a few weeks before. Dad wheeled Suzanne outside to enjoy the sunshine. I watched as my father lovingly tended to her as he sat facing her. He filed her fingernails as he spoke tenderly to her, calling her 'Little Girl'. My sister was 36 y.o. and my father was calling her "Little Girl". They looked into each other's eyes as he spoke. Have you ever watched love electrically pass between the eyes of two people? This is what I witnessed. I could not speak, I could only observe. I felt suspended in air looking down on this scene. I then watched as my father carefully painted Sue's fingernails. My father, the Colonel, was painting my sister's fingernails. Gently, tenderly, he swept the brush across her nails. Tears streamed down my face. My eyes water at the memory. It was at this moment I felt the enormity and fullness of God's love. I saw Jesus, and he was painting Suzanne's fingernails.

I would continue to feel this fullness throughout the long years my father cared for my sister. What an example of Fatherly love my own father exhibited. There is much to Suzanne's story, before and after the accident. She made choices that would cause my parents to rescue her on several occasions. My father and she battled frequently, each convinced that their own stance was right. Theirs was a love-hate relationship of major proportions. She was the lost sheep my father would go and seek. But all the battles didn't matter at Sue's life-changing moment. Nothing mattered but Suzanne's care and well-being. It was this relationship which brought understanding of God's love to me.

I know that Jesus would paint my fingernails, too, if I could not paint them for myself.

jdm

25 Random Things

2009-02-15T22:18:00.000-05:00

My little friend, Abby, sound board technician extraordinaire, cute-as-a-button girlfriend of Trent, she-who-makes-a-toothpick-seem-obese, recently posted a list of 25 random and simply fascinating facts about herself. I thought I'd give it a shot. You will also find my list random and simply fascinating, I'm sure.

1. I cannot function in clutter. A little bit of clutter and my mind can't concentrate and I become simply overwhelmed. This is a wee bit of a problem because I am a clutter-er extraordinaire. Gah!
2. When I was six, I was in the Alaskan earthquake of 1964. It was a shaking experience. We boiled snow for drinking water and lived on C-rations for several days. Seventh grade students get extra credit from their Science teacher if they interview me about the experience.
3. All my life, I have battled the "priss factor". I am not a priss. Far from it, yet "priss" or "snob" are impressions people form of me before they get to know me. People have frequently told me I am intimidating because I seem to have it all together. HA! If they only knew. I've deduced that this is because I am tall and, when in unfamiliar or uncomfortable situations, become extremely reserved. Once I'm comfortable though, watch out.
4. I am incredibly honest--honest with my opinion and honest as in I don't lie, cheat, or steal. I will not tell you what you want to hear. I will tell the truth, but I will use great tact (most of the time. Sometimes, there is no way around things but to be extremely direct). I want to be treated the same even if I won't like what you have to say.
5. My first memory of going to the emergency room occurred when I was three. I was standing in front of a big picture window eating sunflower seeds. For some reason, I thought it would be very cool if I shoved a sunflower seed up my nose. My mother did not think it was cool. The doctor wasn't too keen on it either.
6. A not-so-nice girl on the yearbook staff of my high school had the phrase "Heard for miles" put under my senior picture in the yearbook. While quite true at times, I resent her action to this day. It doesn't rule my life because I am a grownup afterall. It was just a nasty mean thing and she relished it. I don't get it.
7. My favorite scripture quote of late is: "The command we have from Christ is blunt: Loving God includes loving people. You've got to do both." 1 John 4:21 (The Message). I strive to do better at both.
8. I can't stand when people claim to be a Christian, but don't love their neighbors, or people of color, or people who read a different version of the Bible or gossip or... I just don't get it. See #7.
9. When I was ten, I was devastated by the news that Elvis had gotten married. I really, really thought he was going to wait for me to grow up. It took me days to get over it.
10. I have been on mission trips to the Philippines and the Dominican Republic, Michigan, New Hampshire and Maine. I can wield a hammer and a paint brush and I don't mind being up to my knees in muck.
11. I'm a pastor's wife, but I'm not your typical PW. I will not be put in a box and it is not a two-for-one deal. I serve because I delight in it. I love being a pastor's wife.
12. I had the best parents in the world.
13. I was a tour guide on a lobster boat in southern Maine during college summers. It was a blast. I have also worked in a factory which made machine guns and had to assemble M16 rifles for several weeks. When I was 19, I once modeled in television commercials for a local clothing store. It was okay, but nothing to write home about.
14. The most favorite gift my husband ever gave me was a red hair brush. He's given me some very nice things over the years, but this was my all time favorite.
15. I'd rather feed people than have a big, honking, go-into-debt diamond. I wanted one of those for my 25th wedding anniversary, but there are just too many people in this world to feed to justify that kind of extravagance.
16. My left eye is tri-colored and I love it that way. Yes, I can see out of it.
17. I got my first silver hair when I was fourteen. My hair started turning for good when I was eighteen. When I was 21, women would ask me who my hair dresser was because they wanted their hair frosted like mine. I've never once colored or dyed my hair. It is a gift from my little mum and I like it the way it is.
18. My husband is my best friend.
19. I had two freshmen years of college--the year with a 1.0 GPA and the one when I made the Dean's List. I did graduate with high distinction eventually. I had a lot of fun both years, I just chose not to study during one of them.
20. "Life is a song, so sing along" is one of my mottos. I will frequently break into song if a word or phrase you say in passing brings a song to mind. Can't help it. I also tend to make up words to songs because I don't pay attention to what is really being sung. My husband calls me "Jingle Jan".
21. I make wicked good chocolate chip cookies.
22. I'm not interested in the condition of your house, your car, your clothes. I am more interested in the condition of your heart.
23. I embarrass myself on a daily basis and have laughed, I mean, lived to tell the story.
24. I have a cat named Genni, short for Genesis. I believe she found us so she could bring us comfort and healing during a very difficult time at the beginning of a new chapter in our lives.
25. I have two amazing kids, the first of whom will be 25 y.o. on March 19. Holey-moley. How'd she get so old when I'm only 28?

My Honey Bunch

2009-02-14T12:26:00.006-05:00

It's Valentine's Day! I'm not big on worrying about celebrating this particular holiday because, of course, every day with Jim is like Valentine's Day (little murmurings and oohs and ahhs can be heard in the background, soft music playing, butterflies are flittering and all is right with the world). Ok, ok! Back to reality.

Jim is my best friend and we don't get our shorts in a knot over man-made holidays. We have fun together and our relationship has only grown stronger over the years. Tonight, Jim will be at church and I will be at the "BIG" 8th grade dance for my kiddos at school. So instead of a romantic evening together at dinner or such, we spent a very romantic breakfast together with members of the high school wrestling team at IHOP. All you can eat pancakes were ordered by all. Yessiree, we know how to do it up right! Now, don't be jealous. Actually, this is one of my most favorite things to do---spend time with young people. Every weekday morning, Jim gets up at the crack of dawn to work out with these guys at the high school. The real coach can't be there because of his job, so Jim fills in. He loves building relationships with these kids. In the long run, it's all about building relationships, not building muscles. This only makes me love him more.

A few years ago, Jim had to officiate at the funeral service for one of three volunteer football coaches/statisticians killed by a drunk driver on their way home from a Friday night game. One of the things he charged us all to do was to "be tender with one another". That struck me and it's one of the things that I have grown to love most about him---he is tender with the young, the old, the hurting. What is not to love about that?

Happy Valentine's Day, Jim.
Jim and Steve with Dahni in the DR. Dahni is a Haitian who put the decorative finish on the church floor. His shoes were four sizes too small for him. Jim and Steve left him their workboots and some sneakers.
Love,
Jan

Pouring a cement floor at the church
in Hato Mayor.

Totally pooped after a harrowing ride to Sosua, DR.

Big White Marble and Cotton Candy Skies

2009-02-10T21:33:00.005-05:00

I woke up earlier than normal this morning when, ahem, somebody got up to go to the bathroom and drew more attention than normal. 4:00am. Wah. I knew I was up for the duration, so there was nothing to do but get up and get to work. My office is a mess anyway and I had tons to do. When I left the house, I backed into our little turn around and was about to pull out of the driveway when I looked up. Against the dark sky, the most beautiful full moon beamed down on me. I had to take time to appreciate it, after all, it won't be back for another month and I might just miss it then. Oh, it was lovely.

My day was crazy hectic. I'm working with a practicum student in school counseling this semester and this was her day to be with me. I'd like to show her a typical day-in-the-life, but there is no such thing. Every day is different and brings great un-expectations. The adrenaline flows and I love it and wouldn't have it any other way, but it is anything but typical. Some days, I put on bandaids. Other days, I'm doing open heart surgery. This was a bandaid kind of day and I think I went through at least a figurative box. Keeps the blood flowing though.

We continued our Operation Nice project for the month. Today's assignment---be on time to class. I'm sure it received a collective groan when it was pulled out of the fishbowl this morning. Yesterday's assignment was "Give somebody a 'prop' today---tell them "Good job!" I got a lot of thumbs-up and "Good job, Ms. D-M!" in the halls yesterday. The smiles on their faces and the pleasure they got from the act was priceless. I just love it. One thing I love is that the kids taking the most risks with these "assignments" are the kids that I most hope to reach--you know, the ones most at risk. THAT makes it a joy.

We also had our annual fundraiser for "Hats for Hounds Day". What's that you ask? Well, kids pay a quarter, get their hand stamped and get to wear a hat in school for the day. We usually raise about $400 and all the proceeds go to Indiana Task Force 1 Canine Urban Rescue Team. This is a volunteer organization that trains search and rescue dogs. Some of their dogs have been deployed for the 9/11 tragedy and after Hurricane Katrina. Our county has been hardest hit in the country with unemployment (yes, we are neighbors to Elkhart where President Obama spoke on Monday). Anyway, our collection was much smaller this year. I was kind of bummed about the participation today, but I had to put it into perspective.

Then I had to deal with manipulating the schedules of ten girls who are giving their teachers fits just because of all the Girl Drama they stir up every day. I spent about two hours after school just doing that . Crazy. Was running late and had to hurry home to try to make a book study at church over William P. Young's The Shack. I was dead tired and really wanted to go home and just go to bed. I'm glad I went. We had a good crowd and the discussion was thought-provoking. Great to hear different interpretations and insights of those there. When I arrived, sandwich in hand, package of Oreos in my arms, I made a comment about having worked so late. I didn't mean it as a lament, just a statement of fact, but a newcomer sitting next to me said, "At least you have a job." That gave me pause. I was not in any way offended, but it did make me stop and think, "Yup. Be grateful" and be careful what you say. Times are tough.

I was tired after work. I was tired before I left for work because I got up so early. The day was busy, I just wanted to snap my fingers, twiggle my nose and be home. But if I'd slept in, I never would have seen that moon. And though my day was long and exhausting, I still have a job, a job I love. And had I not worked for two hours on those ten schedules, I never would have seen the cotton candy sky of pink, blue and white wisps of clouds that led the way home.

Weekly update: School Operation NICE project

2009-02-06T21:04:00.002-05:00

Operation NICE has made my school a fun week. The following are a few emails to/from Melissa of Operation NICE to tell her how the project is going. Sorry, can't post pics of my school or kids:

Greetings, Melissa,

I would like to tell you that Day #1 of Operation Nice started quite nicely. We introduced the idea a wee bit and will give them a little more each day. I filled a fish bowl with strips of daily Nice assignments and will pull one out each day of February. Today's assignment was "Tell someone they look nice today." I wasn't sure how all of this would go over, but I was warm-the-cockles-of-my-heart-pleasantly-surprised. I walked by one of my eighth grade girls in the cafeteria and she said, "Hey, Ms. D-M!" I turned to look. She smiled sweetly and told me I looked nice today. I gave her a big hug not because she said it to ME, but because she was promoting Nice and got a kick out of it. She was only the first of quite a few kids I caught in the act. It was fun. During second lunch, I made an announcement over the microphone---"Hey, 7th and 8th graders! Have I told you how nice you look today?" This brought on an outburst. They all "got it" which meant they were paying attention to announcements this morning :-) and they carried on with it, too. What a kick. I think one part that was the most fun today was being able to say it back to them and watch the smile light up their faces.

I hope you had a wonderfully Nice day.

Jan D-M

***********************************

Melissa,

Day #2 of Operation Nice - today's assignment: Hold the door open for someone. You even said that in the video! After Live Announcements today, I went around school posting the assignment of the day (I'll be sending you pictures eventually). I had the messages translated into Spanish and was posting them up by the classrooms for Beginner English kids. I heard a boy's voice speaking in Spanish. Now, my Spanish is limited, but I do recognize "la puerta" (door) and "Miss!" (sounded like 'meece'). I turned to look and found one of our Hispanic boys holding the door open and gesturing for me to come in (exaggerate the gesture here). He smiled at me and I just kept exclaiming how sweet he was. Then, a classmate of his came to the door to enter the room. The first boy wouldn't let him in. He held up his hand as if to say "halt", then he closed the door. Right away, he opened it again, gestured for the boy to enter and said, "Bienvenidos!" (Welcome). Again, he gestured for him to come in with a little bow and a slow pass of his hand. He did the same thing for his teacher when she got to the door--held up his hand to stop her, closed the door, then opened it again. The teacher enjoyed it just as much as he did. You could see he was receiving as much in the doing as the others were. It was so much fun. I was tickled pink.

You know, the kids feel a little embarrassed to do these things because they are afraid of not looking cool. But, they ARE doing the assignments, they just do it in a goofy way to cover it up. I think it makes my heart happier because they are taking a risk, even if it is disguised.

*********************************
Greetings, Melissa,

I am pumped to show your video greeting tomorrow!

Day #3, Operation NICE:

As I was walking down the hall this morning, fishbowl filled with assignments in hand and headed for Live Announcements, a young girl I didn't know (she's a 7th grader and I'm with the 8th grade this year) shouted, "Hey, Ms. D-M! Can I draw the assignment today? I just smiled, gently grabbed her wrist and whisked her away down the hall. "Really?" she asked, "I can do it?" Yup. Maybe this was a kid who isn't involved in activities that might get her on air, so it was fun to let her do this. The assignment--Create a Love List about yourself. This was one of the three Love List assignments in the fish bowl and the one I was most concerned about students rejecting. I came prepared, though. I had printed out the Love List that you wrote about yourself, so I read parts of it so they would have an idea of what I was asking. I ree-e-a-lly wanted the kids to have a chance to do this. It is SO important for kids to recognize and love their gifts and beauty and talents before they can more fully love others, you know? It's so important, but it is hard, hard, hard to do it sometimes. Anyway, I cut paper into fourths and brought them down to the cafeteria. Once again, I got on the mic and said, "Hey, everybody, I'm looking for volunteers. I need people to make some Love Lists about themselves. You don't have to do it, but I'd really love it if some of you did." I was able to do this over three of the lunch periods and had a really great response. The kids really enjoyed it and took it seriously. Some are very sweet and tender, others are funny. I intend to post them up near the offices so kids can read them. There is just no extra time in the day! Again, I promise to get some pictures when I have some down time.

On the way back to my office, I stopped by one of our classrooms for special needs kids. This particular classroom of students are more moderate to severe special needs. As I walked in, a student said something to me I couldn't understand. I thought she said I was nice. Her teacher told me that she was saying, "Make a Love List." Aww. She understood.

Day #4 - Operation NICE:

My practicum student and I were headed once again to Live Announcements, fishbowl in hand. I got an idea as I walked down the hall near the special needs classroom. I stopped in to see Whitney taking off her boots and putting on her pretty pink and white tennies. After a quick whisper to the teacher, I asked Whitney if she wanted to be my helper on Live Announcements today. "Yes, I wanna be a helper!" So, grinning ear to ear, Whitney walked with us to the camera room. She sat next to me in front of the camera and continued to smile the whole time we waited for our turn. She was precious. The assignment for today--Give a long distance hug. This is my favorite! What you do is cross your fingers (as in cross-your-fingers-for-good-luck), then you wave them a little bit. You should have seen Whitney. She "hugged" everyone as we walked back to her classroom. When she got to the room, all her classmates were standing and applauded and said, "Yay, Whitney!" Butterflies and giggles in my heart.

What I loved most about this assignments is that it was something easy and the kids could do it with a little bit of fun while connecting with other kids. I saw kids doing this all day long. I saw one girl practically do a back flip trying to "hug" a friend around the corner. Each time I saw kids do it, they laughed and smiled at each other. What a blast. They just did it. They didn't seem one bit self-conscious. It just makes me happy. One last "hug" to me came as I was standing in the lobby as kids ran to catch their buses. Several hugs were sent my way. A brand new male substitute teacher was coming down the stairway on his way back to the office. As he walked by me, he wiggled a hug at me. We both laughed out loud and he said, "That is just so cute."

Have a great Friday!
Jan D-M
******************************

(from Melissa)

Hey Jan!

Sorry I haven't written back. I went straight from work to Rent last
night, got home super late, got up super early, went to work, went to
a food show, and just got home. Now I'm POOPED!! But I wanted to make
sure I wrote to you before heading to bed. I'm so excited about the
video tomorrow! I can't wait to hear what everyone thinks. Hopefully
I don't put the kids to sleep with my rambling. :) You are all so amazing
for doing this project. I don't think you can know how proud I am to
be a part of it all. It makes every single minute of time that I've
put into Operation NICE completely worth it.

-melissa

********************************

A Nice Kind of Month

2009-02-02T21:06:00.002-05:00

The guidance department at my school sponsors a month of activity in February that we call Life, Love and Learning Month: value life, value love, value learning. This is the seventh or eighth year we have celebrated LLL. In addition to the overall theme, we have a sub-theme. This year, we are stealing the idea of Operation Nice founder, Melissa Morris Ivone. I sent Melissa an email today to let her know how the kick-off went:

Hello, Melissa,

I would like to tell you that Day #1 of Operation Nice started quite nicely. We introduced the idea a wee bit and will give them a little more each day. I filled a fish bowl with strips of daily Nice assignments and will pull one out each day of February. Today's assignment was "Tell someone they look nice today." I wasn't sure how all of this would go over, but I was warm-the-cockles-of-my-heart-pleasantly-surprised. I walked by one of my eighth grade girls in the cafeteria and she said, "Hey, Ms. D-M!" I turned to look. She smiled sweetly and told me I looked nice today. I gave her a big hug not because she said it to ME, but because she was promoting Nice and got a kick out of it. She was only the first of quite a few kids I caught in the act. It was fun. During second lunch, I made an announcement over the microphone---"Hey, 7th and 8th graders! Have I told you how nice you look today?" This brought on an outburst. They all "got it" which meant they were paying attention to announcements this morning :-) and they carried on with it, too. What a kick. I think one part that was the most fun today was being able to say it back to them and watch the smile light up their faces.

I hope you all had a wonderfully Nice day. Pass it on. :)

Oh, by the way, have I told you how nice you look today?

jdm

My Boyfriend's Back!

2009-01-31T07:30:00.000-05:00

Just in case the title of this post made you nervous, boyfriend = husband/Jim. Ha! I'm a funny girl.

Jim returned this week after taking a mission group to Hato Mayor (see previous posts). A group of twelve individuals, some from Horizon, some not, spent a week working on the mission house being built there.

"A typical Dominican house" set up at a city museum. This was much nicer than many of the country homes we saw.

Let me ask you this---have you ever gone to visit someone you've never met before and when you left they started adding an addition to their house just so you would come back? Me neither, but that's what happened to us after our first trip to Hato Mayor. I told in an earlier post about Pedrito's dream in Hato Mayor. His son and daughter-in-law's dream is to someday have a mission school connected to the church. There is so much need in the barrio where they live. Our little church has latched onto the dreams and we hope to make them come true. We will eventually arrange medical missions and more in the barrio. It's all about being a light in the world, not just in this little community where we live in Indiana. It's about building relationships and telling people they matter---to us, to God. It's not about preaching the Word. It's about living the Word. Words fall on deaf ears. Actions say you mean it.

So Arelis and Pedrito build. They are able to build because of generous hearts across the great divide. (I hope my friends don't mind me sharing this). Steve and Amy were blessed by some unexpected funds. They could have put in a new pool. Steve could have built a bigger and better pen for his beagles. Amy could have expanded the garden of her dreams. No, they wanted to do something more, something worthy. So, the mission house outside of Santiago is built with much love. Steve and Amy have received a little help from friends, but it would have taken years for the dream to come to fruition had they not given generously of their time and money.

There is more to do to complete the Mission House, but it is lookin' gooooooood! I am looking forward to my three-week adventure there this summer. I'm going alone at the moment. Steve has created a laundry list of "projects" for me to complete. Wait a minute! Wasn't that supposed to be a vacation?! Not really. I'll be visiting family, my Dominican family. And they will welcome me with open arms and ginormous hearts. Can't wait.

The reason we go:
A few miles outside Santiago

Sunday afternoon at Children's Church

Waiting for baseballs, bats, and gloves that we brought from the U.S. Much better than the sticks, milk jugs and bottle caps they are used to using instead.

For more about this recent trip, see Jim's posts and Todd's posts. If you would ever want to join us on the adventure, send me an email! Anyone with a heart for serving is welcome to join us.

The Real Oldest Woman in the World

2009-01-26T19:35:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I don't know if she really is the oldest woman in the world, but she's the oldest woman I know.

Her name is Sahndai (spelling uncertain). Is she not beautiful? She will turn 121 years old sometime this year. She lives in the little village of Los Patos in the Dominican Republic. Up until about 7 or 8 years ago, she still lived on her own in a rustic little cabin on what we refer to as "Grandpa's Mountain". She was born in 1888!! There is no documentation to prove this, so she won't make any books of World Records soon.

From my journal, July 2007:
"She is in amazing shape for a woman her age. She walked down the street to meet us at her daughter’s house. The daughter is 72 years old and the last of fourteen children. The oldest child is 97 and still going strong. When Joel introduced Todd (in the Dominican way—he didn’t pronounce the last sound of the word), Great- Grandma said in Spanish, “Ta? Ta? That sounds like poop!” She laughed out loud. So did we. Her sense of humor became further evident when she stood up, stuck out her back end and passed gas. Then she let out a roaring laugh. We were all so taken by surprise by this that we could do nothing but roar with her. She got quite a kick out of herself. When we showed her the pictures of her on our digital camera, she said, “Ai, caramba!” She was something. She thought my silver-white hair was pretty so we took a picture together. Our hair is the same color. When Steve asked how she lived so long, she attributed it to two things: 1) her name was taken off the “death list” and 2) Coffee! She loves her coffee. Arelis brought her a new mug to drink from. She grabbed it and put it to her lips and said, “Where’s my coffee? Where’s my coffee?” I think she enjoyed us as much as we enjoyed her."

Her son, Joel's grandfather, is 87 yrs. old. He took quite a liking to Clella, the 81 yr. old on the trip with us. Rumor has it that he is quite a ladies man and is the father to many children of numerous mothers in the community.

"One thing we noticed about grandpa, great-grandma and the uncles is just how healthy they are. They have good teeth and good health. They are all spry and in great shape. We attribute it to all the natural foods they eat and the hard work they do." I guess a lot can be said about beans, rice, avocado, mango, and fish! I LOVED eating in the DR.Joel and his Grandpa, the ladies man.

A Dream In Hato Mayor (Ah-toe My-your)

2009-01-23T20:49:00.000-05:00

On Tuesday, Jim and I were two planes passing in the sky. While mine was arriving in the Hoosier state from the snowy hills of Maine, his was headed to the warmer clime of the Dominican Republic. We will have spent thirteen days apart by the time he gets home again. Jim left with a group of people on a mission trip to the barrios of Hato Mayor, just outside the city of Santiago. This will be the third trip members and friends of our church will have made to this neighborhood since the summer of 2007. We originally made our first trip to help complete the building of a church there. The church had been the long-time dream of one man, Pedrito, and his wife, Arelis. There were no churches in the near vicinity of their little community. To get to the closest church would have required a combination of three different modes of transportation and would have cost more than the neighbors could afford. Pedrito and Arelis asked themselves, "Who will teach the children about God?" The silent yet clamouring answer they received was, "You."

For fifteen years, Pedrito built this church, literally, brick by brick. You have to understand that Pedrito and Arelis make very little money. Pedrito has a health condition that prevents him from holding regular employment. Arelis teaches at two different preschools and makes the equivalent of $4000 per year. They are not rich, but what they have, they share. Last spring when I was there, I watched as an emaciated woman approached the gate of their house. Although I could not speak the language, I could tell some bargaining was going on. The woman would talk, Pedrito would shake his head. Gently he spoke to her. Soon, Pedrito reached into his pocket and placed a few pesos in her hands. Through a translator, I learned that the woman was a drug addict and she came begging for money. We asked Pedrito why he gave her money. His response was, "She has babies. They need milk." A few moments later, the woman walked past, a quart of milk dangling from her hand. With a nod and a glance, she whispered, "Gracias, Pedrito."

Whenever Pedrito would receive a donation, usually a small one, he would purchase materials for the building. Perhaps it would be enough for two cinder blocks or perhaps a coil of wire. Bit by bit, he cleared the land. Piece by piece, he built. Fifteen years later, we came to put on the finishing touches. For years, the people in the barrio would watch him. "Look," they'd say, "there goes crazy Pedrito. What's he doing today?" They would scoff and they would laugh, but during the two weeks we were there, a change in attitude became apparent. We gringos became quite a novelty in the neighborhood and curiosity brought people out of the woodwork. Before our return to the U.S., we were able to have the first worship service within the church. They packed the house!

The first service was at night, scheduled to begin at 6 pm. Well, you know, there is American time and then there is Dominican time. By 7:30, we were ready to roll. The journal entry I wrote about this night said this:

Just want to tell you quickly that we have finished the work we hoped to on the church in Santiago. We had the first service of celebration in it last night. The electrician came Sunday afternoon, so we had lights! It looks wonderful even though there is much more for Pedrito to do when we leave. It was a very emotional moment. Joel (his son) had been sick and we didn't think he was going to make it to the service. He came a little late. I was very blessed to have been able to see his face when he approached the doorway. He stopped just short of entering. When he saw the church filled (really filled) with people from the central church, he burst into tears and started sobbing. He was overcome with emotion from seeing his father's lifetime dream come true. I am crying just thinking about it. Laura said, "THIS made everything worth the work." During the whole time of gathering and worshipping, Pedrito would not enter the church. I watched him. He would circle the church and look in through the windows. From window to window, he would travel. He was invited inside by many, but each time he would give a slight shake of his head. To another window he would go. Oh, how I wish I could have known what thoughts went through his mind. I know his heart was overcome.

Father and son 1

Father and son 2

I am green as a ripe avocado with envy that I couldn't make this third trip.

jdm

Unexpected Gifts

2009-01-18T08:47:00.000-05:00

The Mass for my sister, Sue, went very well. While I wasn't surprised, I was very pleased. For me, a Catholic Mass can seem very impersonal, disconnected almost. Much has to do with the priest at times, but it also has to do with the rote-ness of the pomp and circumstance. This is not meant to be a bashing. It is just my own personal experience coloring my perception and what I need in/from a worship experience. Anyway, I found myself embracing the tradition of the Mass yesterday. I'm not looking for a steady diet of the traditions, but I did find comfort in it yesterday. I think much of that has to do with the fact that Catholicism is just part of the fabric of this one family's life. I also think I've grown up and matured and I don't need to reject or criticize as I once did. I've accepted the role Catholicism has played in my life and have learned to embrace the fact that it has much to do with the person I grew into. It is part of the good and bad in me. I've come to peace with it.

The service was given a more personal touch because family members were allowed to participate in the service. My sister, Michele, and niece, Amy, read scripture. Michele's daughters, Hannah and Olivia, brought the gifts for Communion. Ronnie, the firstborn of our family, ordained as a deacon in the Catholic church, assisted the priest and gave the homily (message). He did the same for Mom and Dad's memorial services as well. Ronnie is rather quiet and reserved. He's also been the most disconnected from the immediate family due to the demands of a military life and settling eventually in the southwest. Sometimes, I feel that we just don't know him well. While I think it has been an honor for him to be involved in the three services this way, it is also a burden to carry that responsibility. It requires putting aside one's own grief for a time to provide strength for others. Each time I've watched and listened to him in these moments, I am struck with how beautifully he handles them. It is a surprise each time because it seems so outside his comfort zone. But it's not really. I've placed that assumption on it. Even so, I love the surprise of it, because it provides a moment for me to appreciate his skill.

There is much about the memorial services for Mom, Dad and Suzanne that has touched me, but one of the greatest gifts I've received through them all was an opportunity to reconnect with family members that were once such an integral part of my life. Cousins, aunts, uncles, family friends. I'm touched that they've come. Some have come from very long distances to do nothing but honor the lives of these people who meant so much them. I am deeply moved by their presence. I miss the idea of them being a constant presence in my life.

Of all the blessings in the day yesterday, there is something else that touched me deeply to my absolute core. I feel guilt in the pleasure of it because it has everything to do with me and not much to do with Suzanne. It has to do with six people who were there, who came just for me. They came for me. I don't know if I can do justice to the emotion inside me or if I can really explain well what this meant to me. Sandie, my best friend from high school, and her husband, David, were there. They are always there. I know this and it comforts me. Sandie and I can go months without talking, but it doesn't matter. That constant hasn't always been there, but it is something that has grown with the years. Our friendship is like an old sweater I put on that wraps me in warmth.

As I sat in a pew toward the front of the large sanctuary waiting for the service to begin, I spied a woman come in from a side door which I had discovered led to the bathrooms at the base of the stairs. Something familiar about her caught my eye, but I couldn't place it. "Who is that woman?" I wondered aloud to my nephew. Her curly bob, held back by a thin ribbon, framed a freckled face. My eyes followed her as she walked toward the back of the church. As recognition dawned, my head snapped around, seeking the face of her husband. I found him sitting there watching me watch her, a quirky smile on his face as our eyes met. Jim and I had worked together over seventeen years ago in the same school corporation. Lori was an elementary school counselor in a neighboring corporation. We became fast friends until they moved to Portland so Jim could attend law school. He now works in school law. I moved to Indiana. We hadn't seen or spoken to each other for at least ten years. The last time we spoke was when we met for breakfast one summer morning while I was visiting my parents.

After the service, I joined my siblings at the back of the church forming a reception line in the back. I was the last in line, shaking hands, receiving hugs and words of condolences. Twice more, I looked into faces that took me a moment to recognize, mostly because I never expected to see these people here. The first was the face of a man I almost married. I broke Roger's heart to marry my Jim. For years, I prayed I wouldn't run into him when I returned to my hometown. My guilt was great and I didn't want to see it in his eyes. From time to time, I would run into his sister and she would give me updates. When I mentioned that it was good to see him after so many years, he said, "It's been 28 years!" Wow. That did something to me. The second was the face of my old friend, Keith. We were good friends in high school. Once we graduated, we only connected once every five to ten years at our reunions. It was always good to see each other, but the visits were fleeting. We did speak one day last summer. I was driving home to Indiana after a week in Maine for my dad's memorial service. I'd heard that Keith's brother, Paul, had been badly injured in a car accident and was lucky to have survived. Paul and I had dated for two years and I needed to know how he was doing. It was good to talk with him and get the update. I figured that I would see Keith at our next reunion, should we both go.

To put into words the impact their presence meant to me is very difficult. Our little church does much in our community to reach out to the lonely and the hurting. Jim is always reinforcing that we do these things to let people know that they matter. Our actions are intended to say that we see them and they matter to us. In my work and as a pastor's wife, I am the one who is usually reaching out---to students, to parents, to staff, to members of the congregation, to friends. I am the one who needs to be strong so someone else can fall apart. I am the one who says "I see you and you matter to me". It can be a lonely place. Who pastors the pastor? Who helps the helper? Many times the answer can be "no one".

Had Lori, Jim, Roger or Keith not been at the service, I wouldn't have given it any thought. I would have gone on with my day, greeting and hugging friends and family. At any time though, when thinking about my life, I would have told you that these people held a place in my heart, a strong and vital place in my heart. They are part of my fabric and I would have guessed that I was just a fleeting part of theirs. I think what their presence said to me yesterday was that I am a part of their fabric, too. I think that's the part that makes the tears flow as I write this. Somewhere along the line, someone saw me and I mattered to them, too. Gosh, as I write this it sounds so incredibly dorky. And needy. gyuck. I don't mean it as such. It was just an incredibly good and beautiful and heartfelt day and I am grateful for it.

jdm

2009-01-16T17:20:00.000-05:00

I traveled back to Maine last night to return for the Saturday funeral service for my sister, Suzanne. Not going to say much tonight, but I wanted to post a few pictures of Suzie and me. I'll have more to say in the days to come.

Sue in Ocean City, 1960. Note the
St. Christopher's medal
mom pinned to her swimsuit.
Made me smile.

Suzanne and me, maybe 1961,

Laurel, MD.

Sue and me, Elmendorf AFB, AK,

1962.

Mom just had baby #6. Suzanne is

holding Michele. I'm wearing the braids.

The other girl is a neighbor on base.

Ft. Meade, MD, 1965.

Suzanne and Michele,

Springvale, ME, 1969.

Sue and Jan, Alaska.

Family of six.

Germany, 1953.

Family of seven,

Alaska, 1963.

Family of eight. Dad's

retirement party from US Army.

Springvale, ME, 1968.

Snow Angels

2009-01-10T08:20:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was my birthday (Insert birthday song here. Thank you!). I had a really good day. Several birthday greetings, a few people singing silly songs to me and a few cards from co-workers that were unexpected. It was just nice to be remembered. There was nothing extraordinary about it, it was just a really good day. It gave me joy in my arms.

It's rather humbling with each year to see the age meter rise. I don't feel as old as the numbers would suggest. For a long time, I've said I feel about 28 years old. Not a teenager, but not old, either. Possessing a sense of maturity, but not too old for fun. More frequently lately, I feel a bit closer to my actual age. This usually happens when I find out I'm actually older than individuals I thought were older than me. That's always a shocker and provides a dose of reality. This has been occurring since I was about 35 y.o. I just feel young and it creates a pause in me when it happens. Then it makes me laugh because I think how silly it is for me to forget I'm getting older. I hope I always feel young. I don't want to be an old fluff (I hate the f.a.r.t. word) who laments and forgets to find the joy in a moment. I've been around too many people like that. Don't like being around people like that.

There are other moments that I reclaim my childhood and go all silly and goofy. Yesterday was one of those days. A while ago, one of our secretaries and I were talking about wanting to make snow angels. I usually do this at least once a year, but last year passed without me doing it. Rita said we'd have to wait for a snowy day and take the opportunity together. So yesterday morning as the snow was falling and several inches were predicted, Rita said, "Hey, Mrs. D-M, today's the day for snow angels!" I immediately got in touch with my inner child. The thought of this activity gave me butterflies. I thought about it as I walked to the cafeteria and I thought about it as I walked back to the office. I thought about how we could make it an activity that would include more people. My inner child thought we should put a halt to this thing called school and get everyone outside making snow angels. But, um, no. That wasn't going to happen. Can you imagine, though, what it would be like for 1500 middle school students and their teachers to go out and make snow angels? We could laugh and get silly and goofy. Heaven forbid that middle school students would get silly and goofy. For some, that would be a fate worse than death. Not to mention the fact that the rest of the day would be utter chaos. So, alas, my imaginings were altered to a bit more reality.

Rita and I did have jobs and we did have work to do, so we waited. BUT, as soon as the buses hit the road and the school had pretty much emptied out, we made an announcement over the loudspeaker (with the principal's permission, of course). Rita got on the horn and said, "If anyone would like to join Mrs. H and Mrs. D-M outside to make snow angels and to celebrate Mrs. D-M's birthday, meet us in the courtyard in five minutes." We were joined by one teacher and five students. None of the students had coats, of course. Who wears a coat in the winter when it's snowing outside? Not a lot of middle schoolers, I'll tell ya. But Rita, Mrs. S and I were bundled to the hilt. Out the courtyard doors we went. Rita and I had to rein in the students because they were about to traipse all over the fresh fallen snow. You gotta do snow angels on virgin snow, dontcha know? Rita and I had planned just the right spot. There is a little bit of a hill in the courtyard where trees and flowers are planted. We chose the side of the hill so our angels could be seen from the office windows. We lined up a few feet apart, conferred on our strategy, then fell back on the snow. Swish, swish, swish, we spread our arms and legs back and forth. Laughter and silliness abounded. Carefully helping each other up so as not to make a mess, we stood back and observed our creations. We deemed them perfect, thank you very much.

As we headed back into the building, one student found a speaker that had fallen off the roof of the building. She quickly turned it into a bucket for scooping snow. I just caught the glimmer in her eye when a speaker full of snow caught me in the face. Um, so I chased her. Unfortunately, she had the upper hand, being much quicker than I and wearing proper foot attire. My prissy little red shoe boots with the smooth bottoms could not grip the slippery snow. I slipped and slid in my pursuit almost to no avail. RITA HAD THE KEYS. The students had to get past us to get back into the building. It's not true what they say, you know. Revenge does taste sweet. (insert evil laugh here).

The evening was low-key. Jim and I went to dinner at a new restaurant in town. I received a lovely gift from my spousal unit. We were home by 8:30 pm. Joy in my arms.

I said it wasn't an extraordinary day, but I was wrong.

jdm