Feeding Tebow

I don't know much about football except what my friend Ruth has taught me. A few years ago, after discovering my dearth of knowledge on the subject, Ruth invited me and my guys to watch the Super Bowl with her and her family.

Ruth, an 80-something, God-loving woman who can barely see anymore, proceeded to give me lessons in the art of American football. I learned all kinds of stuff under her tutelage: why a team might kick the ball even though they have one more chance at a touchdown, what a safety is, and that they actually pause the game for commercial breaks (who knew?).

But nothing Ruth taught me prepared me to come face to face with Tebow...the dog, that is.

When some good friends left on a short trip they asked me to feed their new dog. Now, I don't love dogs, but I have a generally congenial relationship with them. I don't bother them as long as they don't bother me. I have nothing against them and appreciate those who love them. I only ask the same in return. So feeding a neighbor's do is no big deal. Not, that is, until I came face to face with him.

(Those of you who know about dogs are about to learn that I know as much about dogs as I do about football; perhaps even less since I've never had a dog tutor.)

Tebow is a tall-ish dog with a rounded pug-like face whom I later learned is a friendly boxer. But when I looked at him eyeing me through the glass door I was supposed to walk through to offer up his victuals, all I saw were his teeth (even though in retrospect I am certain he never actually bared his teeth) and flashed back to all the stories of people mauled by previously friendly dogs.

Still, I know these friends well and know they would not have a vicious dog. Nonetheless, I was quaking as I unlocked the door and slowly opened it, moving ever so cautiously and without making eye contact with Tebow. I shakily got the food in the bowl, refreshed his water, and got myself safely back on the other side of that door before I took another look at the giant living shredder.

And that is when I realized that the whole time I was out there feeding him, Tebow was cowering behind a bench. Perhaps Ruth could teach me a thing or two about dogs as well.

A Half-Day In the Life...

After a night of tossing and turning, I finally gave up the bed at 5:44AM (about 2.75 hours earlier than my usual). No longer willing to fight the war in my sinuses for a bit more sleep, I schlepped to the kitchen and made a cup of Starbucks's micro-ground water soluble Via (that's what they call their instant coffee because it's not really instant). Typically Mark is up and has great coffee made before my eyes see the light of day, but not wanting to disturb him I decided to try this sample packet we had received.

After downing the non-instant instant coffee (which, by the way, tasted awfully like instant) and a 12-hour pseudephedrine tablet, I was alert enough to do some reading.

Finally, Mark awoke and brewed some mega-awesome coffee, and after drinking a cup I was raring to go! So I did...all the way to the treadmill at the YMCA where I ran an easy 3 miles. This, too, was way out of the ordinary since I generally do my best exercising in the post-noon hours (which is pretty much when I do my best anything).

I headed back home, cleaned up, and took Boy 1 to his orthodontist. All seemed to be going normally as we ran some after-the-orthodontist errands.

Since I had a lunch date at 11:30, I dropped Boy 2 back home and headed to Panera by way of stopping by a friend's to feed Teebow (that's another blog for another day).

I should have known by the odd way my day began that the normal would not continue.

After waiting 30 minutes for my friend who apparently couldn't make our date, I left hoping nothing horrible had held her up. Moments after I left, my friend called to see where I was at. It took us a few moments to discover that all the while I was waiting in the warm inside, she was waiting for me in the 35 degrees outside.

As I contemplated the strange goings-on of my day, I realized I was only halfway through it and more oddities were bound to come my way. Nothing could have been more true.

I went to my office where I helped a boy stop his bleeding nose (no, I am not a doctor or nurse nor do I work in a place of medical aid) then spent the next 2 hours unable to get any work done because of one thing after another.

I take days like this in stride; there is no point being crazed by them since there is no way of stopping them, but they certainly increase my appreciation for the ho-hum of a lovely routine day!

A New Den

The destruction began today.Creating a den where growing boys and their friends can hang out and feel independent while not being so isolated as to prevent parents from peeking in on them easily and without giving warning has been our desire for some time now. The perfect spot for just such a den lays at the top of our stairwell and until today was simply a small bedroom. Now with most of the wall between the bedroom and the hallway down, the beginnings of the den have appeared.

Boy 2 helped out with the demolition part of the job...something he was perhaps born to do. He is not naturally destructive, but he loves to get hands on with life. He is a natural born adventurer and 

The best renovation advice we ever received was from our home inspector when we bought this lovely and nearly transformed fixer-upper 3 years ago: Always have your electrical work done by an electrician. That way if your house burns down due to an electrical fire your insurance will cover it. 

We are more than blessed by our friend, Chris. Not only is he godfather to Boys 1 and 2, a great friend, and a marvelous husband to our dear friend Leisa (godmother to the boys), he is also an electrician. 


Chris and Mark had a great time rewiring the new upstairs den while Leisa and I enjoyed an impromptu visit.

An Enemy Routed

Thirty-six hours into this thing called resting, I have discovered truth for healing. One truly does get well faster if one heeds one's own body's signals for extra rest. 


After yesterday's nastiness which kept me in bed all day, I awoke this morning still feeling ill, but as if the viral troops had been dispersed and were no longer attacking only my throat. With the war now being waged on many fronts, my immune system had the upper-hand. 


Of course, my first thought was to get myself on to church and to doing other things a day like today would generally require; making lunch, cleaning up from Christmas, etc. My second thought, however, has turned out to be much wiser, for I opted to remain in bed thinking that if one day of rest had so routed the enemy, two days of rest would surely obliterate it.


I don't usually have the luxury of taking to my bed when a virus strikes. Viruses are not typically discretionary in the time they choose to attack. Motherly duties do not halt in the face of this kind of enemy; carpool, homework, and laundry all march on. 


But if ever the opportunity arises again, I will not hesitate in the least to take comfort in my bed and let my immune system annihilate the hostile virus.

Snotty Day After Christmas

This chilly, windy day draws close with the setting sun, and I have spent the vast majority of it in bed. 

I awoke in the night with my throat on fire and a headache fit for, well, no one. After a dose of Nyquil I slept again, but woke with the dawn knowing the wretched truth: I had a cold and the Snot Not Christmas was over.

Being the day after Christmas, and a Saturday to boot, I took only moments to decide that staying in bed all day would be the wisest and loveliest thing I could do. So I hobbled out to where the guys were engaged in various activities and croaked my intentions. 

Since then I have been treated to breakfast in bed by Boy 2, coffee and other needs checked on throughout the day by Boy 1, and the lovely sounds of Mark finishing up the renovations of my office across the hall. I have enjoyed two long naps, and my waking hours have been spent with Ben Witherington III's socio-rhetorical commentary on Acts.

I have felt no twinge of guilt or sense that I should be getting things done. No one has asked or begged me for anything. So while the Snot Not Christmas is gone, I find this was a rather lovely way to spend the day after.

A Snot Not Christmas

After a lovely morning of revelry and joy, all four of us chipped in to prepare a feast for several friends who also find themselves far from family this holiday season.

I have made it a point to teach my boys how to cook, clean, show hospitality, and engage in other homely activities. The past few years I have enjoyed the first-fruits of my labor and no longer spend holidays by myself in the kitchen. Instead, everyone takes responsibility for some part of the meal and some of the chores that need doing. Then we all get in and get it done.

As with all group projects, it is easy to get in one another's way, have conflicting ideas of how things should be done, and generally irritate and be irritated. In an effort to minimize the effects of this dynamic on this lovely Christmas morning, I instituted a new rule: The Snot Not Rule. And I gave everyone permission to give kind reminders of the Snot Not Rule to those in violation.

Put simply, we agreed not to get snotty with one another (to snot not) and to heed the reminders of others to not snot.

I could not have invented a more perfect rule had I tried. In the end, we had a grand feast for which all of us enjoyed sharing credit, a clean home to invite our friends into, and calm and joyful spirits with which to welcome them.

Christmas Eve Will Find Me...

...in the den after dinner opening stockings with my family.

Each year the Parkers hang out our stockings early in December. Throughout the month each of us puts trinkets in the other stockings so that by Christmas Eve they are overflowing. Then, on the all important Eve, we open our stockings.

I have a bit of an addiction to lip balm. I keep one in my van, one by my bedside, in my purse, in the bathroom, and generally I have one in my pocket. The boys spend the month seeking the best lip balms around. I had four in my stocking this year and am currently enjoying Nivea A Kiss of Moisture Hydrating Lip Care.

Mark enjoys his Andes Mints and the boys love the gum and mechanical pencils they always find.

Then there are the novel items each finds in his stocking. It is a great adventure to find new things each year. Everywhere I go in December my stocking stuffer radar seeks new items the boys will enjoy.

After stockings we do whatever night-before things need doing for Christmas dinner then settle in for "It's a Wonderful Life."

And that's where Christmas Eve always finds me.

My Nemesis

Running is my nemesis. I cannot conquer it. I started running in college to lose my freshman 15 and keep it off, but back in those days I could run 3 or 4 miles a week and that was plenty...literally. 

Right after college I moved with Mark to Croatia. We spent four years in that wonderful place. I tried to keep running after we moved there, but Croatians do not run the streets for exercise. It wasn't part of the face of their culture, and my few attempts showed me very quickly that wasn't the way to stay fit in a place where my goal was to blend in thoroughly. Fortunately, Croatia is a walking culture. They walk everywhere and it was not unusual for me to walk 10 miles a day or more between getting to and from the markets, church, friends' homes, and anywhere else we went.

So I quit running after college and did not start again until after Boy 2 was born nearly 10 years ago. I gained a lovely 65 pounds when I was pregnant with that sweet boy and was still carrying most of it on his first birthday. I knew that I could no longer blame the weight on baby fat when the baby in question started kindergarten. I decided to get serious about it and remembered how well running worked for me in my college days. Since we were back in the U.S. by then it I had no missionary excuses.

But with 65 extra pounds on a 5'2" frame that had not exercised in, well, a while, running was not an immediate option. But I was more than determined. I found a nearby park that had a standard 1/4 mile track and started walking one lap and running half a lap (I use the term running loosely here because my running pace was slower than my walking pace). Eventually I was able to "run" an entire lap all the while reminding myself that I did not care how horrifying I looked to passers by.

Two years later I ran a marathon.

I still enjoy running, but it remains my nemesis. It is the one exercise that suits me best in every way, and yet I continue to go through phases of lots of running followed by no running at all. So every time I start running again I have to go through the pain and suffering of rebuilding cardiovascular abilities.

Right now I am in that place where running feels really good for most of a good run, and although I would much prefer to continue sitting here writing, I do need to get off my tush and get on my Saucony!

Smoked Broccoli

Wee 1 and her parents had dinner with us last night.

Generally when we have dinner guests Mark's job is to take the guests into the other room while I get dinner finished because I cannot chit-chat and cook at the same time. Inevitably I get distracted by the conversation and then lose my place in the meal preparations. Cooking is the ultimate multi-tasking experience if you want to get everything on the table at the same time while it's all still hot. Adding a layer of mere casual talk can be problematic...tonight it was disastrous.

Wee 1's parents have long been more like family than friends, but outside of church we don't get to visit very often. So instead of sending them with Mark to sit in the living room, I attempted, against my better judgment, to talk and cook.

Both pastas were done cooking at the same time, the salad was on the table, and the sauces were finishing, when the smell of smoke wafted through the kitchen. I checked everything and it all seemed fine--then I looked at the vegetables I had steaming and realized that what I was seeing was no longer steam coming out of the pot.

I had let the steamer run dry and the stainless steel pan was smoking. I pulled it off the burner, whisked the steamer basket away from the smoke, and tossed the smoking pot into the sink. Then I turned my attention back to the broccoli. It had an interesting tinge to it and a slightly smoky smell. Wondering if I had ruined it completely, I tasted just a bit. Sure enough, it was smoked through and through.

After some good laughs over smoked broccoli, we enjoyed a good and long overdue visit.

The Mad Woman in the Attic

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte reigns as one of my favorite all-time novels. Darkly haunting with hope and love drizzled throughout, the book enthralls and inspires.

Sadly, the ravings of the mad woman recently in my attic were neither enthralling nor inspiring.

Boys 1 and 2 went with me to excavate and organize our attic. We have an amazingly spacious walk-in attic with more than enough room to store the items we do not use regularly. Rather than keeping it organized and neat as it was when we moved in three years ago, we have merely thrown items wherever there was a spot after using them. Consequently, the walkway through the attic to the room above the carport had been reduced to a mere footpath.

The boys and I decided to clean the attic as a Christmas gift to Mark. I knew it was a huge undertaking, but I felt pretty certain we could tackle  it in short order with a little hard work and a lot of cooperation.

We were all in a fairly rotten mood when we started, and the mountains of memorabilia, camping and hiking gear, and paint cans did nothing to ease the tension...enter the mad woman in the attic.

With teen and pre-teen hormones and attitude swirling about me, I did a poor job of playing the role of the calm, adult mother. Instead, I opted for the irritable, angry, mad woman.

Eventually, though, the attic was clean; everything had its own place and the trash was cleared away. And the mad woman came down from the attic (though in a much less dramatic way than Bronte's mad woman).

So Long Santa

Christmas traditions are wonderful. For Christmas I will do things I wouldn't do any other time of the year, like shopping and making caramel corn. For Christmas I will watch the same movies year after year even though I rarely like to watch the same movie twice. For Christmas I will go to extravagant lengths to hide things and get up earlier than anyone else in the house.

This year I bid adieu to one Christmas tradition: Santa.

Boy 1 has known the truth for some years now. He first began to question when he was seven, and each time he would ask if there were a Santa I would reply simply, "What do you think based on what you know? Does the evidence add up to a Santa or not?" That would launch him into a quiet reverie at the end of which he would share his conclusions. Then one day he inadvertently heard me talking to my mother about the "Santa gifts." That was the last piece of evidence Boy 1 needed, he had conquered the Santa myth!

Boy 2 has been questioning for a year or two. His investigative process, though, has been dramatically different from his brother's. While his brother thought and contemplated, Boy 2 tells me what he thinks and then begs me to tell him the truth.

Mark and I never told either boy that Santa does exist when asked directly. Rather, we always told them to think for themselves and decide based on what they know. As noted, this worked perfectly for Boy 1. But as every parent knows, every child is different and must be parented carefully and uniquely. The question of Santa turned out to be one of those areas in our family in which we had to parent our boys uniquely.

Telling Boy 1 to investigate the known factors thrilled and challenged him. Telling Boy 2 that merely sent him in frustrating circles. He tends to be more of a big picture thinker; the minutia of details holds no appeal as it did for Boy 1. So two nights ago I did the unthinkable--I answered Boy 2's question.

And just like that, with a few brief words, this penultimate Christmas tradition disappeared from our family.

I'm not a terribly sentimental person, and my heart is not breaking, but I do find other traditions holding a bit more weight; traditions that cannot be taken away simply because we no longer believe. When Boy 2 asked why I was making the caramel corn even though Boy 1 cannot eat it (braces), I simply said because it's what I do at Christmas. And when the boys said they did not want to watch The Polar Express, I overruled them and we all became quickly enthralled by this marvelous story. A sense of equilibrium has been maintained in the keeping of these and other traditions.

And the ultimate tradition of Christmas, the contemplation of the birth of the Christ-child, cannot be taken away merely by the whim of belief. It will always be true, weather any individual believes it or not, that Christ came to this earth in the form of innocent infancy to bring great joy to all mankind.

Sweaty Nails

There is a smell unique to boys who have been outside playing. It is a combination of boy sweat, grass, dirt, and some kind of metallic smell. The best way I can describe it is that it smells like sweaty nails.

If you have never smelled a boy just come in from the backyard, then imagining what sweaty nails smell like may be rather impossible. However, having discussed this matter with other boy moms I am confident in my description.

It does not take long for a boy to accumulate the sweaty nails smell. Often my boys have gone out a mere five minutes before returning indoors (usually with some kind of "I'm bored," or "It's too hot," proclamation) and reeked of sweaty nails. Nor does it have to be hot outside to engender the sweaty nails smell. Just today my boy played in the backyard where it was a cozy 35 degrees and still the sweaty nails aroma found them.

Being hugged by a sweaty nails smelling boy is not the greatest joy of being a boy mom, but it certainly one of the more interesting aspects.

HUGSR Chicks Christmas Cookie Extravaganza!

Last year I hosted the first annual HUGSR Chicks Christmas Cookie Extravaganza. It was a wonderful evening with women from Harding Graduate School, fellowshipping and decorating Christmas cookies. On that historic night I learned a marvelously easy and fun way to decorate cookies from my good friend Lisa.

Lisa, an amazing young woman with a bright future in ministry and a beautiful smile always adorning her face, grew up decorating cookies with family. We hosted the evening together in my home...I was in charge of baking the cookies and she planned the decorations. In addition to the traditional non-pareils, Lisa brought ziplocs of variously colored frosting. She proceeded to snip off a tiny bit of one corner of each baggie...voila! we had piping bags!

Finding Lisa's method so simple, I decided to make and decorate cookies as teacher gifts last year. They turned out marvelously and the teachers raved (yes, I know teachers rave over every gift, but I chose to take my raves at face value!). So this year I decided to branch out and make cookies for others as well, including our Bible class Christmas party.

With a bit of trepidation I quietly snuck the cookies into the party and slipped them unseen onto the dessert table. I stealthily watched as others took and ate the cookies. Since no one knew who made them, I knew the reactions would be real. Soon I heard others asking about the cookies. To my amazement, several assumed the cookies were made and decorated by our residential baker/decorator, Cathy. Their amazement matched mine when they discovered the true baker's identity.

Needless to say, I am pleased with this year's cookie triumph. I even stumbled upon some designs that will be lovely throughout the year and for events such as baby showers and birthday parties. No longer will I be rushing to volunteer to bring the veggie tray because it's easy to make look good!

And it's all thanks to Lisa and my beloved HUGSR Chicks!

It's Friday...Almost

The boys have no school tomorrow and my office is closed for the holidays, so I declared this Thursday night to be Friday night.

For us, that means a number of things: shirking of all chores, Little Ceasar (pizza, pizza), a good movie, and everyone in their PJs early and gathered in the den. Occasionally we add a friend or two or throw in a good game of Monopoly or a few rounds of Taboo.

And for me, Friday night also means Saturday morning is next. Since our boys were old enough to fend for themselves we have had a mutually beneficial deal with them: they keep quiet and let us sleep in Saturday morning, and they can watch all the TV and play all the Wii or DS they want (having no cable and locking the family computer keeps it all safe and better ensures some good slumber).

To all who must rise early and work tomorrow, I will be mindful of you as I revel in my PJs.

"Mom, that is SO good!"

I did not learn how to cook growing up. I learned how to open cans and pop out biscuits or pour out soup, but never really learned to cook. My mother was more of a baker, and I remember watching her spend hours baking and beautifying cakes. But cooking was something I had to teach myself.

Mark and I spent the first 4 years of our marriage as missionaries in Croatia. In those days markets were small, there were no mega-marts full of processed and packaged foods. I had to learn to cook from scratch just to survive...and so I did, though I must confess that I did so with a lot of help from Mark, who is a fantastic cook.

The first decade or so I was quite recipe dependent--I pretty much stuck to a recipe's instructions. Several years ago, having gained both confidence and knowledge of the way ingredients work together, I began to experiment with recipes. Adding a little something here, taking out something there. I have a repertoire of dishes that are my "specialties," perfected by trial and error, like spaghetti sauce and the infamous tomato soup I wrote of a few days ago. I still have things that just don't turn out, but I am happy to say that on most nights I hear something like, "Oh, mom, this is SO good!"

The culinary art I have yet to conquer is baking...but that is another day's post!

Once An Exegete...

As mentioned previously, I am a professional student...not in the sense that I get paid for it, but in the sense that I just can't give it up. I know it sounds cliche, but cliches are cliche for a reason.

In any case, I have for a few years now been in a rotation of biblical Greek classes. While I cannot say I adore the Perfect Passive Participle (except for the elegance of its alliteration), nor do I swoon at the thought of an Aorist of any kind, I love being able to read the Bible in it's original language, even if it does take me five times longer than reading it in English.

But language learning comes easy to me. I have studied a number of languages and am fluent in a couple. There is a comfortable routine to learning languages in which I have been safely cocooned for the past few years. With the completion of my final Greek final last week, the cocoon has fallen away and it's time to fly again into the realm of biblical exegesis.

I have studied, taught, learned, retaught, etc., the Bible for over 2 decades now. In other words, I have been an exegete for more than half my life. But in a mere 3 short weeks I will be jumping back into the scholarly world of exegesis with both feet (or should I say flying in with both wings?) which I have been largely out of for 3 years. I must confess I do so with a tad more than a bit of trepidation.

You see, I know the boys and girls I will be studying with. I have been part of their world for 13+ years now since Mark and I moved to Memphis. Not only do I take classes with them, but I have them in my home, I get to know them, I minister to them, and I learn a lot from them, especially about what the young folks are doing these days. For instance, only last week a few were teaching me what "Emo" and "Scene" are and that Hello Kitty is not just for little girls anymore.

One of the things I know about these wonderful people is that they like to toss around their special theology words (even "exegesis" is just a fancy word for good, in-depth Bible study) and speak in sentences three times longer than they need to in order to say what they want to say. Don't misunderstand, I love them tremendously! They are brilliant, godly, big-word-users (and I do love big words). But they can be a bit intimidating.

"You? Intimidated?" I know that is what many of you are thinking (along with the thought that it's probably good for Christine to be a bit intimidated). But think with me for a moment...what would be most intimidating to me? Yes, that's right. You've got it. Sounding stupid. I don't want to go to class and not know the language.

So I went to a professor recently and asked him to suggest a book for me to read over the winter break that would refresh my memory of the language of exegesis. He recommended a book by Michael J. Gorman called Elements of Biblical Exegesis. While it sounds rather dry and dull, I confess I have enjoyed the book more than I expected to.

And while I am confessing, I might as well say, the reason I am enjoying the book so much is because in the very first chapter, the wise Dr. Gorman said the following:

An exegete needs not only principles, rules, hard work, and research skills, but also intuition, imagination, sensitivity, and even a bit of serendipity on occasion.

Intuition, imagination, sensitivity, serendipity...now those are things I know intimately. Such things I bring to the exegetical table along with the rest.

So, thank you, Dr. Gorman, for reminding me that exegesis is much bigger than rules and a bunch of big words, which, interestingly, I find I am recalling quickly as I read the book. Perhaps in the end I can safely say, once an exegete, always an exegete!

An A-Typical Ode to a Girl's Friends

I just got a great suggestion from one of my many girlfriends.

A number of days ago I mentioned that rather than use my sons' real names on this public blog I would call them Boy 1 and Boy2, but I did not have a good name for the sweet little girl that spends a few days each week with us. Today it was suggested I call her Wee 1 to match the number system I use for my boys. Simple but brilliant.

Such brilliant ideas are a very small part of why I love my girlfriends...but do not fret, I am certainly not launching into an overly-sappy ode to a girl's friends (there are too many of those out there already, and my friends would think this blog was being hacked if I wrote that kind of stuff about them).

Rather, I'll just give a short, witty, nod to the value I place on my girlfriends:

My girlfriends are brilliant, witty, and wise.

They laugh with me (and at me).

They cry with me.

They pick up my kids and spy on my kids.

They listen to all my chit-chat.

They reflect God into my life as only God's women can.

How Did Elizabeth Know?

One of my favorite Christmas songs is "Mary Did You Know?" Against the backdrop of a haunting melody, the song gently asks Mary if she knew her baby boy would one day walk on water and was the Great I AM. 


Of course, we cannot know what exactly Mary knew. We know she had been told her baby would be called the Son of the Most High and would reign over the house of Jacob forever. We know from her song that she knew the many mighty deeds God had done for Israel and His unending faithfulness to His people. And we know that she praised God as she submitted herself to His work in her life.


But did she really know that her baby would save our sons and daughters? Did she KNOW that he was Lord of all creation?


Intriguing questions, to be sure, accompanied by a similarly intriguing question which the Luke narrative of Jesus' birth brings to my mind: How did Elizabeth know? 


During a conversation earlier tonight over the Magnificat I noticed that Elizabeth seemed to know something the others did not; yet we have no record of an angelic visit to Elizabeth and Gabriel doesn't tell Zechariah that his wife's cousin's baby would be the Lord his son would be making the way for.


Nonetheless, when Elizabeth sees Mary coming she is filled with the Holy Spirit, feels her own babe move within her womb, and exclaims:

Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the child you will bear! But why am I so favored, that the mother of my Lord should come to me?    --Luke 1:42b-43

How did Elizabeth know that Mary was the mother of her Lord?  

I Made My Boy Barf

Last night I made my son throw up. It's not something I typically do, and it wasn't over a plate of green vegetables.

After five days of asthma treatment, Boy 2's energy has returned with a vengeance. He's not excessively hyper, but he does get a bit spastic when cooped up for long, which, between bad health and bad weather, he has been.

Years ago I stumbled across a foolproof way to deal with spastic boys--jumping jacks. 100 of them usually takes the wind out of a boy's sails, and if it doesn't 5 minutes of running in place also helps.

So that's what I had Boy 2 do last night. 100 jumping jacks. We all laughed and had a jolly old time, including Boy 2, as he continued to spaz through the exercise.

When he finished he was still rather wound up and just as he was about to engage in the next exercise I assigned, he coughed. It was all over...and by that I mean all over the floor.

I make a good tomato soup with real tomatoes and cream. The boys love it, but we learned last night that it stings the nasal passages.

I felt pretty bad as I helped my boy blow the tomato out of his nose. But then he summed up his experience as follows:

"Man do I have a great story to tell the guys!"

DIY Christmas

I have not purchased a single Christmas present. That's because this year we are trying something a bit different...Do-It-Yourself Christmas.

Making each other gifts to go along with the ones we buy has been a long standing tradition in our family. Last year I gave Boy 2 a set of 12 chore passes. Once a month he could redeem a chore pass and I would do a chore of his choosing for him. Another time I enlarged and framed a photograph Boy 1 had taken and was particularly proud of.

This year we added the DIY element. It all started with discussions about enlarging the room upstairs the boys use for their Wii, guitar hero, and other hang-out types of things. As they and their friends get bigger they seem to need a bit more elbow room for their gangly selves.

I would like my home office and bookshelves painted, and Mark wants a clean attic. As we tried to prioritize these projects we hit on a unique idea. Why not do them for each other as Christmas gifts?

So instead of double checking a list of gifts to buy, this year I am staring into the stark cold of the attic wondering whether I will regret the gift I am giving this year!

The Extraordinary in the Ordinary

When I set out to right this blog I wondered whether I could actually do it. 365 days of writing something worth reading is daunting to say the least. Today is day 15 and nothing happened toay that was particularly interesting, witty, compelling, or out of the ordinary and, therefore, worth writing about.

Not unless you count dropping everything to respond to a call from Boy 2 about whether he is coughing too much to stay at school and then sitting with him through the sweet kindergarten holiday program just so I could listen to his cough.

And to most a visit to a dear friend who is preparing to move herself, her husband, their unborn child, and their entire life to a completely new place to begin a ministry God called them to does not make for riveting reading.

Or what about the trip to the grocery store to buy pears for Boy 1 to take to his Latin class tomorrow for Latin Food day and spending the evening smelling the spray paint on his lightening bolt to go with his toga?

A few might find it fun to read about how Mark and I reversed roles today when I did not know something he has been telling me all week and for which I even thanked him for letting me know about.

This 15th day of my 39th year may sound humdrum and run of the mill. It may not make great fodder for a lighthearted look at life. Nothing that I might not be doing any day of any year.

Not one thing today was interesting, witty, compelling, extraordinary, or worth reading about. But all of it together made for a pretty amazing day and reminds me how truly extraordinary my life is in all it's ordinariness.

Crammed!

Long day of caring for the asthmatic boy yesterday means a day of cramming today for a final tomorrow.

Being immersed all day in koine Greek leaves me with very little else in my head. Since I cannot actually write biblical Greek--for we learn only to read it for the purposes of studying the New Testament better--I have nothing much to say.

Rather than bore, I will bid adieu for the night and get back to my studies.

(I had to say goodbye in French because I don't know how to say it in Greek.)

There is a Time Warp in My Home

This morning I learned that the itsy-bitsy virus Boy 2 had was actually a reprise of the asthma he has not been visited by for 3 years. Within moments of getting the news I found myself back in the space and time in which  I dwelt in his 7 asthma years which began when he was an infant. Everything came back to me in the flash of a second as if we had never stopped breathing treatments and midnight ER runs.

After leaving the doctor, Boy 2 and I headed for the all-too-familiar pharmacy for the many meds to control the asthma. I could write this list of medications in my sleep and still get the spelling correct! And they look just like I remembered. Octagonal respules of clear liquid in a white box with green and purple writing. Vial shaped respules with another clear liquid. A little pink pill. A little red pill.

On the drive home I could not remember where the nebulizer was. Did I even have it anymore? We had moved since we last used it. Visions of wrangling with insurancendanced in my head--also a very familiar part of caring for a child with asthma.

But, just as if I had used the nebulizer this morning, I walked right to the closet in which it was stored and found it on the first shelf I checked. I dusted it off, put it back together in 5 seconds flat and had the medicines in it in a flash.

And then it came...the most familiar part of all: the nebulizer noise. A sound like no others. One you begin to hear in your dreams. Asthma moms can identify the sound of a nebulizer through a cinder-block wall. It's not a horrible sound; no fingernails or chalkboards. But it is a distinct sound that sticks in your little head forever.

And so there is a warping of the time-continuum in my home. What we thought was past is now present and foreseeable future. The present we knew yesterday is now past and the future is more of the past.

But, warping time is a major part of the journey of life (that whole this-man-shirt-wearing-boy-was-just-starting-kindergarten-yesterday thing). So rather than dwell further on this strangely familiar future, I will go release Boy 2 from his nebulizer prison and enjoy a bit more of the present.

Man Shirt

I have a great life. It's not always been great (lots of bumps and bruises from the growing up days and my own stupidity in my adult days), but it is right now. And I am so grateful.

Boy2 (my new easier-to-type moniker for my youngest son) stayed home with a cold today--no, I'm not the mom who coddles her kids at the first sign of snot. But I am the mom of the kid who never runs fever when he is seriously ill with, say, pneumonia and two insane ear infections but does run a fever with an itsy-bitsy virus. But I digress...

Since Boy 2 was home but not particularly ill, I decided to run the errands I had planned and just take him along. We stopped to buy Boy 1 (the older son, of course) a new white dress shirt for his choir concert since the new white dress shirt he has is already too small. Alas, I had to buy it in the Men's Department. Albeit a Men's Small, a Man Shirt nonetheless.

There are things that mark the lives of parents. The firstborn, the first steps, the first day of school, and, now, the first Man Shirt. It was no real surprise to me--Boy 1 has been in the margin between Boy's and Men's for some months now--but it apparently surprised Boy 2. For, as I was looking for the Men's Small, I glanced down to see him tearing up.

Quickly kneeling in front of him, I asked Boy 2 what was wrong. His response was a lip-quivering, "I don't want [Boy 1] to go to high school next year." I gently hugged Boy 2 and asked a few probing questions. Turns out, Boy 2 loves Boy 1 so much he doesn't want him to change, to grow up and move away. The first Man Shirt and the first day of high school (still 9 months off) serve Boy 2 as reminders that Boy 1 will not always be around for Boy 2 to play with, fight with, aggravate, and count on.

The tears passed quickly and we moved on to look for a Christmas present for our sweet little baby friend we keep each week (still looking for an easy to type moniker for this wee one). But for me the moment will last a long time as I treasure it up in my heart.

I am grateful for a life full enough of such moments that I can truly call it great.

Less Than Lucid This Week

If you had asked me 20 years ago I would not have predicted that I would spend 10+ years in graduate studies. Alas, and so I have, with many more to go.

In 1996 we moved to Memphis so that my husband could attend seminary and earn a Master's of Divinity. In 1997, I began my degree in counseling at the same school. Both of us were committed to keeping family first, so we studied part-time.

After 5 long and laborious years (which, incidentally, included the birth of our second child, so when I say laborious, I really mean it!), I earned my degree.

I took a year off, but was soon back at Harding University Graduate School of Religion auditing classes in the M.Div. program. By that time I was being invited to teach and speak more and more, and I knew everything I learned at HUGSR would benefit that ministry.

Before long I was hooked. I enjoyed my studies in counseling, and the knowledge and skills I gained through that degree inform every aspect of ministry today. However, I quickly discovered that my passion was in theological studies.

So far I have loved (almost) every minute of my theological studies. As I finish my Greek series (I'm writing this as a break from studying for the upcoming final) I look forward to the next adventures in theology.

And if this week's musings are a bit less exciting, rather boring even, or if they are less than lucid, please forgive. A wiser blogger might take the week off, but I am no such blogger. I promised a daily adventure as I count down to 40, and I am quite certain this is just one opportunity of many to glimpse the less glamorous side of my otherwise amazingly exciting life!

Home Alone

It's Saturday night and the house is empty of all but me. For many women that would mean it's time to light some candles and get out the bubble bath. For others (believe it or not) time alone involves scrubbing bubbles and Mr. Clean.

But for me on this night the equation for relaxation looks like this:

Boy 1 at teen boys' retreat x (Boy 2 + Husband at karate Christmas party) = Mom in empty house x Singing at top of voice with all-time favorite tunes

It's a rare gift to have an empty house, and I have learned the fine art of taking full advantage of it. Generally speaking, my alone time looks and sounds pretty bad. I put my headphones on, crank up the iPod, and sing and dance with all my heart. (Lisa, if you are reading this, it's pretty similar to the many Manilow parties we had in college only with a few post-partum pounds and gray hairs.)

(Right now "Higher Love" by Steve Winwood is playing, and, yes, I am singing loudly as I type.)

There is something about music that reaches deep into me and brings out emotions of all kinds. Whether I'm listening to ABBA, beautiful hymns, or Billy Joel and Barry Manilow, music moves me in unique ways. It is a full-on intense experience that I love!

So, lest I lose my chance before Boy 2 and Husband return from above mentioned party, I will sign off and replay that Steve Winwood song before moving on to a bit of Natalie Merchant and 10,000 Maniacs...bring me a higher love, bring me a higher love, where's that higher love I keep thinking of?

...evil may be thwarted...

I had an interesting lunch today. The food was Chinese at a place new to me. It was delicious, of course, but the conversation left me feeling rather spent.

For two hours a friend and I discussed how to protect vulnerable others within the church context. This friend is a highly experienced, well-regarded, and published psychotherapist who now conducts training for churches in protecting the innocent from predators. Whether it be children abused at home, spouses abusing spouses, children being exploited by adults, sexual harassment, or any other form of abuse or exploitation, she actively gives voice to victims and urges churches to implement measures designed to prevent exploitation on the front end.

Years ago in the midst of my Master's degree I did some reading in the area of childhood sexual trauma and its longterm effects. One book in particular was absolutely chilling and changed the way I parented forever. It was written by Anna Salter and entitled, Predators: Pedophiles, Rapists, and Other Sex Offenders: Who They are, How They Operate, and How We Can Protect Ourselves and Our Children.

Ms. Salter interviewed convicted sex offenders to discover their means and methods of getting access to our children, gaining the trust of both parents and kids, and, ultimately, exploiting the children. If I never forget one thing I learned in graduate school, it will be this: predators knowingly and intentionally target churches to find their prey.

Predators are smart. They are charming, manipulative, and deceptive. And they know us better than we know ourselves. They know that in a church they will have easy access to children. They know parents will be generally trusting of everyone who looks "normal" and says all the right things, and they know all the right things to do and say. To put it bluntly, predators know that a perfect storm exists within most churches that will make catching their prey relatively easy.

Consequently, I never allowed my boys to roam hallways, play on the playground alone, or even go to the bathroom unattended. Through the years Mark and I have taught the boys clearly, carefully, and thoroughly how to respond to an uncomfortable situation. While some may fear we shattered their innocence at too young an age, I would suggest we have protected their innocence. I would rather have them know what could happen than experience what does happen.

Why, you might ask, are you sharing such dismal lunch fare with the rest of us? This is supposed to be a "lighthearted look at life" as you turn 40!

And so it is. But I think this fits because there are things we can do proactively that do not require churches and church members to mistrust everyone who graces the halls of fellowship. There are ways we can create both a safe environment for our children and maintain a warm and welcoming environment for adults. Churches and church members can proceed with caution without paranoia.

I feel much more "lighthearted" knowing that evil may be thwarted if enough of us illuminate the proactive things we have the power and responsibility to do.

An Undocumented Legacy

It's been a week since I turned 39 and started this adventure in journaling. I must say, having made a public commitment sure has improved my journaling.

I've never been one to write daily, take pictures, scrapbook, or generally preserve the now for the future. All those a-mother's-journey-to-you kind of books I was given while the boys were gestating sit dusty on my bookshelves. I can see them from where I sit and feel the pang of shame that all they will have is a page or two.

And their baby books? I have them. The firstborn's is about half done, and the rest of the stuff for it is packed safely in the box with it. But the 2nd child? Well, you know the story.

The legacy I pass on will have to be one remembered more than documented.

They will remember my love for God, their daddy, them, and the people who came across our paths. I'm sure they will remember family time at dinner and the conversation and laughter that often ensued. I know they will remember times I lost my temper and yelled. They might remember the way I always apologized afterwards (being sure to tell them my yelling is not because of anything they did nor did my apology indicate any innocence on their part!).

But will they remember the things from my heart? Will they remember how much joy I experienced when they found themselves in their elements? Will they remember the grief I knew when one of them was experiencing the real-world consequences of a bad decision (and by that I do not mean the this-spanking-hurts-me-more thing...I haven't really found that to be true). Will they remember how much their daddy and I tried to move into the shadows so they could shine? Will they even know?

Probably not, for I have not written of those things. And perhaps that's for the best. Kids need to know that parents make deep sacrifices for them, but they will know it when they themselves have children. At that time they will also know the joy that comes from making those sacrifices; not that the sacrifices were easy, but that the kids were worth it. They will have a context for truly understanding the love I have for them even though I never journaled and didn't get their baby books finished.

And from that I hope they get a glimpse of the love God has for them as my relationship with them has given me a glimpse of the love He has for me.

And if I am wrong, at least they will have this to read!

Uncle Sam Wants ME!

I got a personal invitation in the mail yesterday. Addressed to Ms. Christine Parker, it was unmistakably mine.

The invitation raved about all the reasons I was specially chosen for this very special honor. I am self-motivated, hard-working, adventurous, a world-traveler. In a word, awesome.

The invitation went on to describe the myriad benefits of accepting. I was tempted by the knowledge I would gain, experiences I would have, and long-term stability I would enjoy. Opportunities to travel, meet new people, learn about new cultures. I would be nuts to pass all this up.

Finally, the real sizzle came; the selling-point of selling-points. I would do more before the age of 30 than most people accomplish in a lifetime!

I had been invited to join the Navy.

Today I am Middle-Aged

It's one thing to be 39 looking forward to 40, but it's a completely different psycho-physiological experience to be middle-aged. 


I have discovered at least two factors that correlate with a person's middle-agedness:

• The amount of time a person spends driving kids places, and
• The number of times the term "hot-flash" is used in conversation.

If this is true, then today I was middle-aged.


I spent a total of 4.5 hours driving kids to school, delivering medicine to school (young son recently had his tonsils out and, unlike when I was a child and my mother sent paragoric with me to school so I could take it at lunch, a parent or legal guardian must now be present and administer all drugs, including Tylenol, which are not registered in the school office and accompanied by a doctor's note), picking kids up from school, dropping off carpoolers, and taking my older son to have his teeth and braces cleaned.


That clearly hits my daily quota necessary for the first correlation. As to the second correlation, I have been having hot-flashes for 7 years now and have gotten so used to them that I just don't talk about them so much (though I have noticed people no longer tell me I am too young to have them...I'm sure there is a 3rd correlation in there just especially for me!). 


Today, as several of my mom-friends and I chit-chatted waiting for our 8th graders to meander their way out of the school building, the conversation turned to hot flashes. It surprised me because this is not a common topic for this group. Then I remembered. 


Recall, if you will, a previous discussion in which I shared that most of my friends are 4-5 years older than I am. That puts these women at 43-44, which is just about the time most women start having hot flashes. They are talking about hot flashes now because they have just started having them.


And my quota for correlation #2 was met with room to spare!


So today I am middle-aged. Tomorrow I will revel in my near-40ness again. But today I will take my gas-pedal weary foot and my troublesome sciatic nerve and my cup of geritol tea and head to bed early.