It's Launch Day, and it's a party - join me?

After weeks and months of work and planning, my brand-new, official author website is ready to unveil.  Yes, it's Launch Day, and we're throwing a party over there.

Please join me at RhondaSchrock.com to see my new home in cyberspace. Grab your own mug and hop on over to join in the celebration.  I'm giving away some very cool prizes, and I want you to win! Visit me on the new blog and leave your comment there to enter.

You don't know how I appreciate your faithful readership here; you don't. I look forward to continuing the friendships that we've established here and carrying them right on in my bright, little coffeeshop online.

See you there!

Boys grown up to be men, the godly heroes we need

Note:  This "Grounds for Insanity" column was published in the 08/06/12 edition of The Goshen News.  Who's your hero?

He's doing it out loud. Thinking it through, putting pieces together in that way small people have. “So daddies are men?” he asks, blue eyes earnest. “And women are girls?”

I look at his face, suntanned from hours spent outdoors. “Yes,” I say, smiling. I could eat him with a spoon, that one. “Daddies are grown-up boys.”

I stop, thinking about what I’ve just said. “Daddies are grown-up boys.” I’d not meant it facetiously, but there was truth here. “Grown-up boys.”

I consider what I know about boys. Lord knows, I’m surrounded. There are, after all, the five who live here. Then I have a father, a younger brother and boy cousins who could aggravate the tarnation clear out of the girl ones. And often did.

Boys, growing into men. Boys, looking for danger. For adventure. For hidden treasure, for bad guys to capture, for damsels in distress. Looking, really, to be heroes.

I could see it in the movies they chose and the books they read. Stories of danger, adventure. Hidden treasure and bad guys. Beauties to save and battles to win; these were the stories they loved.

Here, I knew, boys canvassed the yard with a metal detector, searching for gold. Here, the garage housed a unicycle, a ride with one wheel (one!) on which a boy perched, wobbling and lurching as Mother held her breath. If only it weren’t cement (cement!) beneath him when he fell.

Grappling hooks, BB guns, bows and arrows. It was a boy club, alright, and the one daddy who lived here truly was a grown-up boy. That’s what the mother thought as she watched him join the wrestling and horseplay that broke out routinely like a rash in a bean patch.

In the 25 years and 4 boys that had transpired since the “I do,” The Girl had learned a lot about The Boy and his gender. She’d learned that male and female were not the same. That neither one was better. That they were different, that was all, and that different was good.

Her men, she’d learned, had been born with some wildness in ‘em, and it was this derring-do that made them the fierce protectors and providers; the movers, shakers and risk takers that their families and society at large needed them to be. She’d learned to appreciate this even as it drove her to her knees with prayers for protection on her lips.

A man (she was learning this) wanted to fight for those he loved, especially her. Wanted to win her heart and trust. Wanted to provide for her and their children. Wanted to know that he’d come through for them all; that he had what it took. That he was a hero, especially to her.

Throwing ropes, catching flowers

"Oh, look!" I say to him. "Look at those colors.  Pinks, purples, whites.  What's your favorite?"

"All of them," he says, eyes glowing, a-light.

"And look," I continue.  "Look at the green, green grass up against those colors."  I point at the impatiens glory marching along the front of the chicken coop.

"I could jump and shout!" he says, grin cracking big.  And so saying, Little Schrock, my blue-eyed, suntanned Child of Summer, gives two happy hops.

We're lying on our backs on the trampoline, gazing at clouds overhead and watching for planes.  He's found two already.  Flipping over, we're feasting on colors, eyes really seeing the red, red tomatoes on the white picnic table.  The green, green tree that spreads above.  The brown of its trunk and, of course, those flowers, all splashing joy.

I'm sitting at my favorite spot, coffee mug nearby.  I've told her of heat.  Told of fatigue and uncertainty that fill my days.  Of doubts creeping in, peace leaking straight out.  It's hard to keep walking with legs like jelly, landscape full brown.  And when the spirit's dried up, how does one write?

She listens.  She hears.  She speaks, life words, throwing ropes to the drowning.  And she, praying, sees.

Sees my path, lined with flowers.  Before the drought has broken.  Before the rains have come.  Before the spirit's full restored.  There, she sees flowers.

I lift the pen.  And write.  Words not mine flow.  Through my spirit, dry, He breathes, life flowing through pen to screen, then on in ways mysterious, spelling it out in ink on paper.  Life words, throwing ropes.  And she sees...

Sees flowers.  A message slips in, twinkles diamond like in her inbox. "A very good article.  Everyone should read it."  A stranger (a gentleman) has spoken.

"I sent it to my family in another state."  And, "It was read in our church on Sunday."  And, "Someone cut it out and gave it to me."  And, "I'm an Amish woman.  I just wanted to call and say we're huge fans.  That drought column...your humor...thank you."  Then this, to her great surprise, in the evening paper.

She catches each one, holds the bouquet, lifts it up.  She feels His smile, sees an Artist's touch in the colors bright and lavish.  Knows the Gardener's still at work, breathing life.  Even in drought.

And you, dear friend?  Are you, too, finding flowers along your way?  If not, may I pray that He'll send some, just for you?

Diaper changing should be an Olympic sport

Note:  This "Grounds for Insanity" column was written during the 2008 Summer Olympics.  It remains one of my favorite humorous pieces, and I still think the IOC should change their minds.  Enjoy!

It’s summertime.  The days are long and lazy.  Flags are flying up and down Main Street.  The county fair is in full swing and the Summer Olympics are right around the corner. 

At our house, the countdown to the Olympics provokes two distinctly different reactions.  One of us sits poised, panting with excitement on the edge of her seat in anticipation of the opening ceremonies.  The other one huffs and grunts and hunkers further into his favorite corner of the couch, declaring that under no circumstances is he biologically capable of surrendering the remote for a mere two weeks. 

To the chagrin of the one waving the flag and sporting the five special rings, feverish phone calls to the insurance company requesting approval for an emergent remotectomy have been met by outright guffaws and rude hang-ups.  It’s so unprofessional. 

As long as I can recall, the games have held a special fascination for me.  I remember watching Nadia Comaneci, the famous Romanian gymnast, back in the seventies and wishing I could be like her.  The same is true for the figure skaters who have always enchanted me with their grace and daring. 

There are few pictures that provoke more patriotism in me than seeing a sweaty, triumphant American athlete atop the podium, bending to receive the gold medal as the flag is raised overhead and the national anthem plays.  When he or she tears up as the camera zooms in, I’m a goner, crying into my red, white, and blue napkin.  If that scene doesn’t put a tear in your eye, then call a mortician because you have obviously assumed room temperature. 

The only thing that can spoil my Olympic joy is watching it with a party pooper.  Or two.  During the winter games two years ago, my brother and his wife were visiting us.  Every night we would tune in to get the latest medal count and to cheer for our athletes.  Well, two of us would cheer. 

The other two were suddenly armchair coaches, well versed in every sport, shouting instructions and holding up placards with hastily scribbled scores after each ski jump.  As we women sat enthralled during the figure skating competition, they harrumphed and made snarky remarks about men who wear spandex.  Never mind that neither one of them possessed the wherewithal to lift a 100-pound bag of cement, much less a grown woman, overhead on one hand while skating across the kitchen floor in tube socks.  This, in their world, was not a disqualifier.  When we delicately pointed this out, they only snorted again and went to look for more potato chips. 

Mother of four volunteers for Olympics - as Team Mom

Note: This "Grounds for Insanity" column was published in the 07/30/12 edition of The Goshen News. Pick me! Pick me!


It was shocking. There they were, the elite cyclists in the racing world, climbing one of the Pyrenees Mountains in the Tour de France. Demonstrating incredible strength and conditioning, they were conquering that slope, perched on seats the size of postage stamps.

“How do they do it?” I wondered aloud. “How do they climb an incline like that without stopping, without a mocha and without having their thighs burst into flames? How?”

“Come to spinning classes and we’ll show you,” said a friend who teaches spinning.

I laughed. It’d take more than a spinning class to get this girl into shape. There were too many factors working against me, the first one being my distractibility. Put plainly, I was a gawker. How would I ever focus on winning a race while passing castles and ancient ruins in the French countryside? This was a dangerous proposition if you were in the middle of the pack where the least sneeze or hiccup could level the whole kaboodle.

Then there were the delightful French citizens lining the course, cheering as the riders blew past. For a social butterfly, this would be all kinds of risky. When every stranger was a potential friend, I’d never be able to keep both hands on the bars and my eyes on the road. Waving here, waving there, beaming like Kid Kaboom's krypton spotlight at all those people; well, it spelled disaster.

Yes, distractibility was an issue. No corporate sponsor would endorse an athlete to rubberneck through each town and village, looking for some famous French coffee. Team Schrock would be on its own, I had no doubt.

But back to the shocking thing that happened on the mountain. There they were, the cycling greats, dashing along in brightly-colored Spandex and catchy helmets on those itty, bitty seats when boom. One after another, tires began to blow, sidelining riders right and left. By the time it was over, roughly 30 riders had been nailed (pun intended), waylaid by tacks in the road.

When your backside's gettin' crispy

"I wish He'd turn me over.  My backside's crispy gettin' crispy."  That's what came out of my mouth several nights ago, walking the road with my favorite person in the whole, wide world, Mr. Schrock.

The rains had come.  Drought still gripped the land, but the liquid gold, so long delayed, had begun to fall, transforming brown landscapes with advancing shades of green.

In our lives, we'd felt the drought.  Felt the all-consuming heat of trial by fire.  Knew what it was, being tested in a furnace that, instead of abating, only seemed to heat up further.

It was hot, all around the countryside, and it was searing in the furnace.  Stress.  Pressure.  Struggles, intense.  Exhaustion of every kind.  Yes, it was hot in here.

At night, we'd work it through. Walking in the blazing heat with the smell of the corn in the air, sweat dripping, we'd talk it out as we walked it out.  "Two are better than one," Solomon had said, and we were learning the truth of that for sure.  "A cord of three strands is not quickly broken."

Three strands.  Two people.  One furnace.  Where was God?

Which is basically what I cried one night there on that road.  Mr. Schrock, listening, merely nodded.  "...and I don't understand why there's no rest?  Why there's never a break?  Why He just doesn't seem to move?  It doesn't seem like praying helps.  It feels like He's forgotten; like He's just left me here in the furnace."

And then this, "I wish He'd turn me over.  I think my backside's crispy."

He laughed, and I hiccuped.  I'd only been half joking.

Three strands.  Two people.  One furnace.  And long ago, in another time, another place, there'd been three in the furnace, and then a fourth.

A fourth.  The fourth man in the furnace!  Oh, I knew it was true.  Knew that no matter how it looked or how it felt, there was an extra Man in the fire, standing alongside.  He was watching, always; listening, ever; guarding, oh so closely, making sure that the flames never got too high or too hot.  In spite of how it looked and felt.

You - hey, you!  You there, walking in your own furnace testing.  Feeling, too, the blistering heat of a trial.  Sure that your own backside is way past crispy.  Taking blows that never stop coming...

From one furnace dweller to another, you are not alone.  You've not been abandoned, forsaken, forgotten.  You are carefully watched, protected, and guarded, for the Fourth Man walks, too, with you.  Take heart.

Warmly,

The Writer

For spiritual drought, we need the rain of revival

Note:  This "Grounds for Insanity" column was published in the 07/23/12 edition of The Goshen News.  It was written and submitted two days before the horrific shooting in Aurora, Colorado.  Oh, how our country needs rain!

It pained me to see it.  Driving along, the signs were stark, sobering.  Past lawns, dry and brown.  Past fields of corn, leaves curled and brittle.  Past homesteads and farms usually green and fertile where drought had come like a thief in the night, stealing hopes and dreams from the people who worked the land.

“Lord, send rain.”  My heart turned instinctively to the One who could help.  “Oh, Lord.  Send rain.”

Only days ago, our next-door neighbor had come over.  Her water was nearly gone, and she was inquiring about our supply.  Concerned, I’d told the boys not to fill Little's wading pool.  We’d tried to be careful, taking shorter showers and being cautious with the watering.  Then one night, it faded to a trickle.  The drought had come to us.

The heat that came with it was suffocating.  Across the nation, records were falling like walnuts from our trees.  Then storms struck, leaving thousands without power in the midst of dangerous temperatures.  People were hurting, desperate for relief.

Drought and heat.  Barrenness and lack.  Death, slow, in browns.

My thoughts turned to what was happening in our beloved country.  So many folks were out of work.  Unemployment was a staggering 8.2 percent, which didn’t count those who’d given up.  It couldn’t tell, that terrible number, all the stories.  Couldn’t show all the faces of all the people whose lives were being affected.  People who were hurting, desperate for relief.

Drought, heat.  Barrenness, lack.  Death, slow, in browns.

What was happening in yards and farms, cities and towns across the land was only symptomatic of what was happening at a deeper level.  In the nation that had been founded on biblical principles, a far more ominous drought had come, this one in the hearts and minds of its people.

The country had been settled by sturdy men and women who’d forged west, facing great peril and death.  Who’d cleared the land with bare hands and bent backs.  Who’d built cities and towns by the sweat of the brow and steel determination.  Who’d known what it was to do without; to help, neighbor to neighbor, and so doing, had done great things. 

When life stinks (look up)

I didn't know I was doing it.  Not really.  Not until I glanced up and saw what stretched before.

We've been walking, The Mister and I, logging three miles a night.  "See you later," we tell the kids, lacing up our sneakers and hitting the door.

Some nights, we're in more of a hurry.  Depending on what the day's been like, there could be a traffic jam in that back door, both of us scrambling to get out.  Could be, I said.  There could be.

Anyway, so I've been noticing something odd.  There we are, walking along, talking over the day's events and over all that concerns us right now.  Head down, I'm plowing along, pushing ahead, straining forward, 'cause that's life right now.

Head down.

All at once, I look up.  And see all that I've been missing.  To the left?  The current corn crop, hard hit by a terrible drought, but green, still.  To the right?  Soybeans, a signature Indiana crop, also green.  Trees, too, green, along the way.

We hit halfway, our turning point, and forge back the way we came.  I'm doing it again, looking down.  There (oo, ick!) is a dead raccoon, road kill because the poor fellow didn't make it across.  He stinks!  Shuddering, I cross the road.

"I'm not walking past that," I say, hand clamped over my nose.  The Mister, he laughs.  That girl...

And I get it.  I do.  How many times have I done this?  How many times have I dropped my gaze, allowed my focus to drift to now, here?  To the today?  To the trials and pain and difficulties of the moment?  To the - excuse me, the ugly and decaying; the yucky parts of life in a fallen world?

There's no getting around it. Life down here just stinks sometimes.  It does.  It's hard.  It's messy.  It's painful.  It takes everything you've got and then some.  It can steal your joy that quick if it's all you see.

So here's what I'm learning out there on the open road.  There where the sun's shining so bright and fierce you can hardly see.  Where it's hot and it stinks and it's blood, sweat and tears.  On the road, which is a whole lot like life, I have to look up.  The stretch that I'm on right now won't last.  There's more (lots more) just past the next step.  And the next.  And the next.

I'm learning to look up toward Heaven.  Toward the Father.  Toward Him from whence comes my help, for in Him is strength.  In Him is joy.

In Him is hope and help and peace no matter what I'm walking through (or walking past) today.  Up ahead, there's green.  And gold.  He promised.

"But He knoweth the way that I take.  When He hath tried me, I shall come forth as gold." - Job 23:10

Parents spring for espresso, chocolate patches, offer children chamomile

Note:  This "Grounds for Insanity" column was published in the 07/16/12 edition of The Goshen News.  It will, Lord willing, be the last one posted on this site as we hope to launch anytime now.

It had taken a crowbar to do it.  That, and Mr. Schrock’s famous limb, the Left Leg of Leverage, to fit us all into the truck.

The holiday had come.  With the ban on burning and shooting off boomers, plans had changed.  The ruling by the commissioners had left the men of the family both shaken and stirred, martini like, and they’d convened their own council.  Unable to bear a boomless Kaboom, they’d voted to postpone the annual party here on The Three. 

I realized two things, driving along in Big Red, The Mister's much-loved truck.  The first one was that my prayer for Boy Two's safe return from the mission field had been answered.  The second was that my prayer that he’d leave some of his personal kaboom at the equator had not.  Judging by the cacophony behind the headrest, it had all returned and then some.

From the back came whacks, grunts, manly chortles and then – cartoons?  It sounded like a Saturday morning show, but one with which I was unfamiliar.  How many times had they reenacted Bugs Bunny, Yosemite Sam and Porky Pig, imitating voices to a T?  But this, this was something new.

“It's a really big guy, Mom,” someone to the left of my shoulder blade announced.  “He has to eat all the time, so he wears a gravy patch.”

I laughed.  A gravy patch, huh?  Maybe that's what we’d missed.  That and a hearty dose of common sense, considering how it had gone at the large home improvement store we’d just visited.

Mr. Schrock, seeing that the holiday had opened up, decided it was his day, his time to head for the store, list in hand, and buy the supplies for a summer project, a new front porch.  “This will take awhile,” he’d warned, clutching the list, man-on-a-mission look firmly in place.  And using that left leg, he’d installed us in the truck.

What he’d failed to mention was that the path to the lumber section went right past a full display of axes, hatchets and mauls.  Which was a mistake, seeing that his progeny were trailing him, duck like.  He should’ve routed us through paint and wallpaper, as we soon learned.  It was a simple oversight, but one that made a passing employee ask, huge grin cracking, “Are they brothers?” at the sight of Boy One stalking a sibling, ax in hand.  

The One who carries the load, holds your hand

"Three months."  That's what she says today, tears leaking.  I listen, coffee steaming in the mug like prayers rising.

"It's three months, and we're all undone.  I don't know why it's hitting us like this now, here."  I feel it, too; tears leaking, heart paining.  "The one," she nearly groans. "One gets up every morning and asks, 'Is he coming back today?'"

It's been three months since a third burial.  Since hopes and dreams were lowered into earth, dirt raining down on a third child and son.  Precious boy.

"I can't pray.  Can't pray," she says.  My own throat is tight; I can scarcely speak, but I see.  Oh, I can see. "People tell me, 'You need to pray!'"

"Oh, don't," I murmur.  "You don't have to.  For I see you, tired mother, and I see Him.  And He's carrying you. Rest.  Just rest."

It's Saturday last.  I'm up, alone.  The family slumbers.  House quiet, I steal outside, coffee in hand, for time with Him before I take to the road.  The neighborhood is still.  Birds sing, leaves stirring in a quiet breeze.  Gazing across the vast back yard, my heart quiets, and I listen.

Listen and see.  As though a movie reel is turning, I see a little girl, running, playing in the pasture sprawling past the big, red barn.  Running, laughing with Elder Brother, Kinsman Redeemer, the Lord Christ.

Curls messy, small feet dusty, walking down a path together.  One tiny hand tucked safely in a big strong one, it's Jesus and me.  Only now, He's carrying a backpack.

I know that pack.  It's mine, and in it are tucked hopes and dreams; hopes, dreams, and the tools I need to do the work He's called me to do.  The work that's become a burden.  The work that's cost blood, sweat, and tears.  The work that demands near more than this girl can give right now; that's overwhelmed me into paralysis, discouragement stealing in.  That pack, with all its burdens, all its hopes, all its dreams...it's on His back.

This morning, I know this - that Jesus carries, and Jesus saves.  Whether it's a tired, broken mama who cannot walk herself or a heavy pack too large for one small back, Jesus takes the burden.

Are you the tired and broken?  Carrying a load that breaks the back?  There's this...I see Him.  And you.  You are loved.  You are carried.  You can rest, for He holds the burden, and He holds your hand.

Most warmly,

Rhonda

It's no boy club, he's right (but I love my girls)

Hopefully, this will be one of the last posts on this blog.  We're very close to launching the brand-new website with giveaways and pictures and all kinds of great stuff.  Stay tuned right here, and I'll announce it the minute it's ready!

"Mama, come jump!"  It's Little, my blue-eyed, suntanned Child of Summer.  He's grinning at me, eager for me to join him.

I sigh, overwhelmed with exhaustion, sidelined by fatigue and bone-deep weariness.  But he's expecting me.  I'm invited, so I go.

We jump together.  "You stay over there," I tell him.  "You're stealin' my bounce, and it's making my legs tired."  He grins, ornery like, then giggles out loud.

He stands atop the tire swing. "If you sit down, I'll push you," I say.  He lowers himself, gripping the rope, legs dangling.  He's ready.

"It's a boy club here," he informs me.  Swoop.  "Not a girl club."  Swoop.

"I know," I say, a world of understanding in my voice.

"I hate girls."  Swoop.  He sounds for all the world like one of the Little Rascals and a member of the He-Man, Woman-Haters Club.

"But what about me?" I say.  "I'm a girl."

"Not you.  You're my mother.  You don't hate mother-girls."  Swoop.  His bare feet are dirty, and there are smudges just below the knee on the right.  Swoop.

Girls.  I think of the girls - my friends - who've been especially dear to me this year.  Names, faces scroll through my mind. I'm so thankful, I tell my husband, for the kindred spirits in my life who live nearby, sticking tight, sticking close.  For those who live far away, sprinkled here, sprinkled there.  All those girls...

Treasures found in far-flung places, they are.  One at a committee meeting.  Two at the coffee shop.  One in a salon.  One through the pages of a magazine.  Some from my past, and some through this blog.

They're the face of God, shining light.  They're the voice of God, speaking truth.  They reveal the heart of God, showing no-matter-what kind of love.  When they talk, I listen 'cause I know who they're listening to.  I love these girls, my friends.

I love what you stand for, how you live.  I love you for all you've done.  I love you, those who've been spiritual mothers for me in a way my own mother could not.

For every word of encouragement, every nugget of insight.  For every prayer you've raised and for huggin' my neck.  For the texts, phone calls, emails, and messages, I'm grateful.  Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

And now you - what girls do you love?  Who are your gifts straight from Jesus?

Period prays to be a comma, shakes mom's composure

Note:  This "Grounds for Insanity" column was published in the 07/09/12 edition of The Goshen News.

Like a bolt of lightning flung from the heavens, he dropped it in my lap.  “I’d like a sister,” he said, peering meaningfully at me. 

I think I croaked.  I know I spluttered from somewhere beneath the desk where my head now rested between my knees.  Where in the world did that come from?  And why was the little booger chucking this conversational bomb right at me when he could see I had no coffee close by?  Why?

When he persisted, I gathered my wits, drew on all my diplomatic expertise and feebly suggested that he simply enjoy his newest cousin, Baby Leah.  He seemed unconvinced. 

I thought the issue had been laid to rest.  Finished.  Done.  Forgotten.  Until the other day when his brothers informed me that it was back.  He’d been doing what he does (shadowing his siblings), and they’d been doing what they do (working sporadically).  Which, in this case, meant painting the chicken coop.

There they were on a bright, sunny day, brushes in hand, when he said it again.  “I want a baby sister.”  And so commenced a community prayer meeting with congregants dropping to their knees in the grass, taking his request to the Almighty.  This, see, as their mother worked away, typing blithely upstairs in her office, unaware of what was happening amidst the paint cans and ladders.

They shared the story when they straggled in for lunch.  Once more, I spluttered.  Once more, I croaked.  And once more, I found myself with my head between my knees, burbling something incoherent from my spot beneath the table.

We talked, then, about topics of import.  Things like faith and common sense and how those two can work.  Stuff like miracles, the power of God and how someone has to be the last. 

They knew, those kids did, what a big surprise he’d been, coming, as he had, toward our middle age.  We’d thought (they knew this) that Boy Three had been the period on the end of that sentence.  Instead, he’d turned out to be another comma, and all because Someone (Boy Two) had prayed.  They knew that, too.

And that was why B2 had such sympathy for his small sibling.  I understood it.  But the fact that they’d chosen that particular day to secede from the family over the chicken coop assignment called into question their level of discernment and how tuned in they really were to the voice of the Holy Spirit.

Writer calls for more "pink think" in the family

Note:  This "Grounds for Insanity" column comes from the archives.  Just having come through a challenging week, I'm taking a break by sharing this classic piece.  And after noting the depressing headlines on my favorite news website, I'm doing my civic duty by offering up some humor to take you into the weekend.  Happy Friday!  

Growing up in a family where women outnumbered the men three to two, life seemed pretty fair and balanced.  On my father’s side, there were 19 cousins, 12 girls and 7 boys.  While it may not have been balanced, it was certainly fair. 

I should’ve known to enjoy it while it lasted.  Back in the glory days when girls ruled and boys drooled, there was justice in the world.  Sure, there was some infighting, but if the boys were being dumb or mean, we girls would circle the wagons and give them what for. 

Cousin Don in particular was one of the biggest stinkers.  Once in awhile, just to keep him humble, we would gang up on him and wrestle him down so one of us could plant a big, wet one on his cheek.  That he fought like a cornered badger goes without saying. 

Naturally, my girlish dreams centered around a knight in shining armor.  Well, he certainly showed up.  But my dreams of a nice, even mix of little knights-in-training and curly-headed ladies-in-waiting at a round table?  Ha!  We got the little knights, but there is no round table, and the only curly-headed lady is me, although it’s true – I’m always waiting. 

Part of my calling in life, I believe, is to inject as much estrogen as I can into my world.  If this sounds noble, it’s not.  It’s a matter of survival, really, and it’s my attempt to keep my frail pink canoe from being swamped in a sea of testosterone.  That’s why, for instance, I carry my keys on a ring that holds a little pink dress.  It makes the other drivers in my house very nervous.  They have whiskers, see, and low voices.  They’d rather walk barefoot over a bed of nails than to be caught carrying the pink dress.  If they absolutely have to use my keys, they get buried deep in a pocket or in the depths of my red purse before one masculine toe exits the van. 

I was reminded recently of the stark difference between “pink think” and “blue think” when we went to pick out new cell phones.  The teenager was largely concerned about available music features.  Mr. Schrock basically wanted a handheld office manager – a touch-screen phone with Word, Excel, Power Point, an iPod, and a Day Planner that would sync to his computer and start the coffee in the mornings.  And I?  I was going by color. 

Mother talks turkey (and ice cream) with the mayor

Note:  This "Grounds for Insanity" column was published in the 07/02/12 edition of The Goshen News.  Mayor Bloomberg, let's talk.

If there were an encyclopedic set entitled “Great Mysteries of Modern Life,” this one would fill an entire volume of its own.  It ranks right up there with “Where Do All the Socks Go” and “How Do I Always Pick the Poky Lane?”  It really does.

“How Politicians Think.”  That's what's confounding me today.  I sure wish I could nail it down and write the book because it’d sell for sure.  I’d win the Nobel Prize in Literature, top the Times’ bestseller list and get interviews to who-shot-Lizzie from the whole bloomin’ thing.

“What are they thinking in New York City?”  That was the reaction of citizens across the country when the news broke recently.

The uproar began when Mayor Michael Bloomberg announced plans to go after a basic American privilege – the right to have a large soft drink in hand (right or left) and the right to actually enjoy it.  Citywide, anxious New Yorkers clutched their Big Gulps and went back for refills.

As if that weren’t enough, the board handpicked by Mayor Bloomberg to approve the proposed ban on the sale of large, sugary drinks zeroed in on other targets.  “The popcorn (at movie theaters) isn’t a whole lot better than the soda,” said a Mr. Bruce Vladeck.  And Dr. Forman, another board member, added that certain milk drinks, such as milkshakes and milk coffee beverages, were high in calories and should be size regulated, too.  There was, I noted, no mention of high-calorie alcoholic beverages.  This, as I clutched my white mocha a little tighter and went back for a refill. 

Politics run amuck.  What else was it when a city (in California) went after the children (Happy Meal toys) and then climbed into the cups of Mr. and Mrs. Average Citizen?  It was crazy, that’s what it was.

All of this went through my mind the other day as I was engaged in a common summer activity; i.e., the making of strawberry jam.  “Mayor Bloomberg's teeth would curl straight up to his gumline,” I thought as I folded in the sugar.  It was good the Fun Police were busy elsewhere because we liked our jam around here and didn’t need a city council going after it.

Of tutus and threethrees (and other crazy conversations)

It's summer here, and the kids are everywhere.  One of us, Kid Kaboom, is in Honduras, carrying his signature - well, "kaboom" to the equator with other members of the team.  College Kid is here, there, and...wait.  Where is he now?  Probably out with his friends.

Electro Boy (a.k.a. Mr. Middle School or Boy Three) is up(stairs), down(stairs), in and out, likely jumping on the beloved Circle of Fun with his baby brother, Little Schrock.  Yesterday, the pair of 'em came in, dripping, having cleverly slipped the sprinkler in under the trampoline, their way of beating the searing summer heat.  The fact that they looked happy (and cool) was not lost on me, the family's Activities Director, when they presented all soggy like at my desk.

With everyone underfoot, a frequent topic of conversation begins like this:  "What can we have for a snack?"  If I had a dollar for every time they've asked this question, I could retire, richer than Croesus, on an island where well-muscled cabana boys bring beach ploppers their tropical drinks; virgin, of course, with a fun little pink umbrella.  Which I don't need, see, because I've got the well-muscled Mr. Schrock to bring me mine.

Anyway, a lot of things center around food.  Like what's for dinner.  Who got into the chocolate cake.  Whose half-eaten pint of Chief ice cream is on the second shelf, and important things like that.

Other conversations have covered things like fund raising; as in, "Our XBox Live ran out and I can't play with my friends and I'm really, really letting them down by not getting on and how much can you contribute to my XBox fund?"  And so forth.

Last night (don't ask me how), the topic of tutus came up.  Around here, you never know, but it may have had something to do with me requesting that Someone try at some point in the far-distant future to come up with a small, pink package; i.e., a baby girl.  Then Someone Else may have said that he couldn't see himself doing tea parties with a granddaughter while another Someone Else (alright, it was me) laughed and said, "Oh, yes, you would, and furthermore, you'd be center seat, front row, at her little ballet recitals."

That may have been how it went.  And then it was about there in the whole jumbled deal that the first Someone Else said, regarding the tutus, "Mine would have to be a threethree," and we all cracked up because he'd never, not in a million years or for a million bucks, ever stick his leg in anything Spandex like that.  Ever.

Goofy, I know, but that's how it goes. Oh, and speaking of conversations, I was part of a lively one only yesterday with friends Sherry Gore and Suzanne Woods Fisher on Suzanne's radio show, "Amish Wisdom."  We had a ball, talking about "Cooking & Such," the magazine, and hearing from Sherry about all that's been happening for her lately.  If you want to catch the show, just click that itty-bitty old link above.

Now it's your turn.  Let's have a conversation.  What topics are coming up in your house and around your table this summer?

In the storm and the 'funder,' God is there

Note:  This "Grounds for Insanity" column was published on 06/13/11 in The Goshen News.  It was inspired by a conversation between Little Schrock and his daddy, as well as the tornadoes that devastated the Midwest.  Now, a year later on a day when the Supreme Court handed down a monumentally important and frightening decision, we remember this - we trust not in man or all the chariots of Egypt.  Our hope, our trust is in God.  Amen.

With a crash and a bang and bright flashes of light, it was a loud thunderstorm that rolled overhead late into the night.  The next morning, he brought it up.  Getting ready to go to work with Daddy, Little said it.  "Did you hear that 'funder' last night?"  Yes, Daddy said.  He'd heard it.

"Did it scare you?"  This to Little.

"Yes."

"Did you talk to Jesus about it?"

Yes, he said.  He'd talked to Jesus about it, and He'd made that scary old 'funder' go away.  Then, as if suddenly realizing that his prayers had been answered, this VSPF (Very Small Person of Faith) exclaimed, "I should write Jesus an email!"

Driving home that morning, I asked him about it.  "I have a question.  Did you talk to Jesus last night when you were scared of the thunder?"

"Yes.  And it was shining.  I didn't like the shine (this reference, of course, to the brilliant flashes of lightning)."  He said it again:  "Jesus made the 'funder' go away.  He made it go to sleep."  

This little incident occurred back in March.  I thought of it again recently when news of the killer tornadoes flashed over the wires.  They’d struck the nation’s heartland with particular ferocity. 

Images coming from the ravaged plains were devastating.  Aerial footage of the Oklahoma storm clearly showed the path it had taken.  There it was – an angry red slash ripping across fields and farms, houses and lives, tearing, destroying. 

In Joplin, it looked like war.  Everywhere, brokenness littered the landscape.  Businesses, schools, churches, neighborhoods, homes, a hospital, crushed like toothpicks and flung into great piles, burying at once the hopes and dreams – the very lives of its citizens. 

The stories that came – who could bear it?  Stories of children ripped from their parents’ arms.  Of a father crying, “He was my little buddy.”  Of a high school senior, tassels freshly turned, torn from a vehicle as his terrified father clung.  Of the unfathomable violence of a storm that pulled flesh and blood from such paternal love, dropping it heedlessly into a nearby pond. 

Mom heads for Hunker Bunker, escapes fireworks and starving offspring

Note:  This "Grounds for Insanity" column was published on 06/25/12 in The Goshen News.  Scarcely was the ink dry on the morning edition when a faithful reader emailed, laughing, and offered her superior decorating skills to outfit my bunker.  That's a friend.

“Mr. Schrock,” read the note that went up the other day.  “Your children are setting off bottle rockets in the back yard.  Pretty sure that wasn’t on the handwritten list I handed down earlier today.  If you’d like to limber up your running legs or practice your pulpit voice, you can come right home and do both.  Thanks.  Signed, Me.”

Predictably, my friends laughed.  And predictably, the children’s father stayed right where he was – in that oasis of peace and tranquility otherwise known as The Office.

I couldn’t blame him.  Who could work with all of that going on?  “You need to find a bunker,” a friend said, chuckling, “and hunker down.”

A hunker bunker, huh?  By cracky, it was exactly what I needed.  From the little I knew about bunkers, they were dark, they were quiet and the lock was on the inside.  That would make it an invitation-only kind of deal, I thought, and began to draw up schematics.

With the advent of summer had come its attendant chaos and calamity.  This included more noise, more dirt, more laundry and higher grocery bills.  More of everything, actually, except sleep.  With College Kid’s new job and odd schedule and with Kid Kaboom sprouting around, the sleep meter had dropped precipitously into the red, a finding that boded ill for the noisemakers and door slammers in our midst.

Speaking of doors, it was high time for the annual installation of The Revolving Door of Summer, given what was happening on The Three.  We’d just hosted the hoo-ha for Kid K.  Whoosh-whoosh.  Now, he was leaving for foreign soil, taking all of his energy and firecracker-like spirit to the equator with the rest of the team.  Whoosh-whoosh.

For 11 days, there’d be peace and quiet.  Then he’d return, the Schrocks would appear for the annual Fourth of July party (yes, The Kaboom) and Boy Three, Mr. Middle School, would leave for summer camp.  Whoosh, whoosh and whoosh.  Meanwhile, we were left reeling, exhausted, trying to gather our wits and unravel certain mysteries that yet remained unsolved.

What, for instance, was going on in the laundry room?  While the rabbits were multiplying in the back yard, the dirty towels were doing the same in the back room.  For every load I washed, two more appeared.  Were they using one for each limb and one for their hair?  That math was real fuzzy, but it was all I could come up with to explain the Mount Everest looming menacingly in my laundry baskets.

"This is a sugar bowl, and this is a vegetable"

Note:  In this classic "Grounds for Insanity" column, The Lively One analyzes the vagaries of masculine (and the offsprings') visual acuity.  There's a reason she uses flip charts around here.

With a combined 44 years of parenting under my belt, you would think that any naïve and idealistic views I once had about the job would have been skewered by now.  For the most part, this is true.  It’s just that every once in awhile after a particularly fractious day, I find myself involuntarily heading to the safe where we keep important papers and reaching for the file labeled “return policy info.”  And then reality hits.  Oh, that’s right.  This is a no-return, you’re-stuck-with-‘em deal. 

Over the years, I have often said to my husband, “We sure didn’t know what we were getting into when we brought that little baloney loaf home from the hospital, did we?”  Depending on what the little “baloney loaf” has pulled that day, his father will mutter darkly, “We should’ve dropped him and run like mad.”

Actually, the same “no return” policy applies to spouses as well.  So does the whole “I sure didn’t know what I was getting into” theory.  How was I supposed to know when I said, “I do,” that the blue-eyed package I was getting included a bloodhound-quality nose and intermittent glaucoma?  Surely I’m not the only living female who knows that men of any age are prone to sharp swings in visual acuity. 

For instance, my husband, who is a big IU basketball fan, can call fouls, pick out a player’s mother in the bleachers, and spot a mole in number twenty-three’s hair line from the other end of the house.  Imagine, then, my utter perplexity when I find him staring blankly into the pantry, looking for the sugar bowl that is completely “obscured” by a single teabag.  When I lift the teabag and point out the sugar bowl, he mumbles, “Well, it wasn’t there when I looked.”

Then there was the day he was searching for the all-important blanky.  He looked high.  He looked low.  He tore apart the room wherein it was last seen right down to the studs, but all for naught.  Once he managed to rebuild it again, I walked around the end of the bed and there was the object of baby’s desire lying in plain sight on the floor. 

When you need a new name

In the coffee-scented atmosphere, I sit, mug in hand, leaning in over words, ancient, penned slow by the prophet of old.  "You will be called by a new name that the mouth of the Lord will bestow."

I stop; quiet, listening.  Names...

Photo Credits:  Bryan Chris Photography

I think of the name I'd held so long, clinging ragged, gripping hard with both hands.  This is who I am, this awful name that chains me tight...

And I think of the whisper that came one day:  "That's not who you are.  You're not That Girl anymore.  This is who you really are."  And lovingly, He speaks it, truth medicine into the place of the lie.  "Daughter of Joy, Shiner of Light, Girl of Courage."  Oh, these names!

Identities, names, the labels I've taken, shaping me, defining me.  It was time to be done with those old things.  For in Him, all is new.  The old is gone, the new has come, and it starts with my name.  And on this quiet summer morning, He reminds me again.

"No longer." It's the prophet, speaking again. "No longer will they call you Deserted or name your land Desolate."  No longer.  No more.  Not Overlooked.  Not Fearful.  Not Anxious.  Not Angry.

"But you will be called Hephzibah and your land Beulah, for the Lord will take delight in you, and your land will be married."

Hephzibah, "My delight is in her."  Beulah, "married."  Oh, my.

"As a bridegroom rejoices over his bride, so will your God rejoice over you."  

I smile, heart cracking wide, and breathe.  I have a new name.  It's Hephzibah Beulah.  "My delight is in her; (she is) married (to Me)."

New identity.  New me.  New name, bestowed by the mouth of the Lord.

And His name is Father.


Oh, you dear readers who, too, need truth medicine.  Need to know your name, to know who you really are.  Ask Him, won't you, to speak your own new name straight into the place of the lie?  He loves to do this, and He's got one just for you.

Man candles are nice, but there's more they could do

Note:  This "Grounds for Insanity" column was published in the 06/18/12 edition of The Goshen News.  If you could bottle anything - anything at all - and put it into a candle, what would it be?

It was a great idea for Father's Day.  How many ties, after all, does a fellow need?  Or dress socks in shades of navy?  For a guy who had plenty of both, it took more than that to light him up.

The answer came, oddly enough, in a jar.  “Yankee Man Candles” said the link that someone posted on Facebook one day.  Curious, I clicked, and there it was.

“2 x 4,” read the label on the jar.  What?  The Yankee Candle Company had captured the scent of a lumberyard and put it in a jar?  This was novel.  For those who liked to hammer, saw and pound, it fit the ticket.  Nationwide, tired contractors would relax to the aroma of sawdust, wriggling toes in dusty socks as the day's tension ebbed away.  But that wasn’t Mr. Schrock.

“First Down,” said another.  Just like that, I heard the roar of a stadium; smelled the popcorn and hot dogs.  Saw foam fingers bobbling around as The Wave swept the crowd one section at a time.  I saw great, hulking giants wallowing in the mud, putting stains on white pants that would make their mamas bawl.  

Sweaty players, muddy turf.  Popcorn and locker rooms.  It would be a huge hit with the Average Joe dribbling cheese dip on his shirt as he hollered for his team from the couch.  But that wasn’t The Mister, either.

“Man Town,” read a third.  I shuddered.  Man Town?  Where no one shaved and socks moldered?  Man Town, where they burped out loud and wore shirts two days in a row and pizza grew fur in boxes?  If it smelled like our game room after a night of teenagers huddled around the X-Box, I’d take a pass and head straight for the florals.  No way would I light a wick on something like that.  No way.

Staying positive in a negative world (wherein I pick your brain and write a speech)

"The Petite, Prim, Proper, and Pooped Party Planner presses on. What's next? Plan speech; prepare perky, powerful proposal; and praypraypray from her perch with her pen. Sans power pumps."

That was the status that went up on Facebook on Tuesday last.  Fifteen phriends 'liked' it.  One alert Iowa girl, herself a mother of boys, pointed out that there were 25 P's in that status alone and wondered aloud if that was a record.

"Pretty phenomenal, princess," a local phriend wrote.  And someone, a faithful reader from the North added this:  "Pumps or no pumps, pave your path with praise."

They were all, I told them, "particularly pleasing and purportedly phantastic," even the fellow whose suggestion it was that I could "perhaps pick peas?  Pshaw.  Preposterous."  Clearly, my peeps were having fun with the whole kablooie.

Anyway.  It's Monday again, and the speech I mentioned last week is just around the corner.  Which is why I need your help.

Weeks ago, a phaithful column reader messaged, wondering if I'd come and speak to a couple of local extension clubs.  "Sure," I said, pleased, and then proceeded to shelve the proposed appearance as party plans and Pomp & Circumstance pushed everything else right off of my plate.

Now, the party's over.  Literally.  And the next two Big Deals have clicked to the front of the line; i.e., the speech and the proposal in preparation for landing the agent and, hopefully, a publisher and a big phat contract.

I'm nothing if not hopeful.

But back to the speech.  When I asked her what the topic was, this is what she said:  "Staying Positive in a Negative World," then added, "And yes, we'd like some humor."

Even as pieces begin to phloat around and arrange themselves in my brain, I've got an offer for you - help me write this one.  I've got some ideas, but I'd love to hear just how you do it.  How do you stay positive in a negative world?  I won't make you come along, take the podium, and deliver the speech, but you can go by proxy.

I'm so excited to pick your brains, to plumb the depths of your own profound insights.  I am!  So talk to me; I'm listening.

And the color is...orange

"Riddle me, riddle me, ree.  I see something you can't see.  Riddle me, riddle me ree, and the color is..."

This little song is my fail safe.  My safety chute.  It's my Plan B and the trick I use when the natives really are getting restless.

We learned it when College Kid was seven.  Now, 15 years later, we're still playing it when we're waiting, usually in the BMV and usually on The Mister.  Here's how it goes.  The "it" person picks an object somewhere within his visual field.  He (or she) will sing the little ditty above and name the color.  The rest of us (The Restless Ones) search high and low, guessing, guessing, guessing all objects of that color until someone (The Lucky Guesser) names it.  Then he's it.

Little Schrock loves this game.  He loves it, even though he never quite nails the words.  "Riddle me me me me me," he chirps in his high, sweet voice.  "...and the color is..."

Here, he says it out, bold, eager, as he looks right at the object.  The rest of us, with furrowed brows, play it up. This is a tough one.  What's he picked out now?


"Riddle me, riddle me, ree.  I see something you can't see.  Riddle me, riddle me, ree, and the color is - orange."  


And it is.  It's my color for this summer.  In a season of bone-deep exhaustion, in a whirl of graduation and year-end activities, it's orange.  After weeks of party planning and feeling the stress of pulling it together, pulling it off, holding it together...

The color is orange.  Orange sandals.  Orange scarf.  Cute orange shorts and orange flowers on that sweet, new dress.  It's orange.

In the midst of physical weariness; in spite of emotional and mental exhaustion, I'm choosing orange because of what it says.  It shouts life! spunk! happiness! joie de vivre! joy!  All of these, even though.

Inside the cover of my brand-new, Italian leather journal I've written this verse:  "(She) will be like a tree planted by the water. (She) does not fear when heat comes.  Her leaves are always green.  (She) has no worries in a year of drought. (She) never fails to bear fruit." - Jer. 17: 7,8.  On the outside of the cover, embossed in that beautiful leather, are leaves.  In green.

In one week, Kid Kaboom goes to Honduras.  College Kid is back.  We're short one vehicle.  There's a speech to plan, a proposal to write, a website to finish, my doctor's going nuts, and people are looking for lunch.  It's orange.

It's orange.  And green.  For Christ within me is life, spunk, happiness, joie de vivre, joy, and the ever-green of a tree that's planted solid, sound, by a river of living water.  Even though.

Even though.

And what is your summer color?

Mother turns game warden on wildlife sanctuary

Note:  This "Grounds for Insanity" column was published in the 06/11/12 edition of The Goshen News, this writer's paper of record.  There won't be any Goodyear-tread boots anytime soon.  I'm just sayin'.

Where they’re coming from, I don’t know.  The other question is how long they’ll stay, and so far, none of them are talking.

“Them” is the members of the animal kingdom that have taken up residence in our sprawling back yard.  From the looks of it, word went out at the annual squirrel convention that our doors were open.  They’ve converged here, and all day they race, rocket like, from tree to tree, tails streaming behind.

Then there are the rabbits.  When the Good Lord said to Adam, “Be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth,” they thought He was talking to them.  They got right on that, those proliferative little boogers, and now Peter Rabbit and all his descendants are loping about like they own the place.

Not wanting to miss the party, a family of raccoons has moved in.  They’ve chosen the culvert by the neighbor's pond for their base of operations.  Joining them to represent the bird contingent is a local cardinal who is known as Cardinal Schrock, official family bird, for his steady presence here.

Of course, the trees are filled with his friends who insist on singing loudly as the sun comes up.  While they cover dawn patrol, the frogs on the pond take it from there, filling the twilight with their deep-throated croaks.

“It’s a wildlife refuge here,” I thought to myself, observing the activity one day.

Wildlife refuge, huh?  What else was it when you had raccoons, squirrels, rabbits, birds, and – oh, yes – four boys roaming about the property?  Crickets chirped, a car roared past, and someone stole another cookie as I pondered the question.

Travel light

"You don't need that."  I knew the voice.  "You don't need to carry that particular pain."

I'd been thinking over a sore spot; felt the pain of it settling in, sinking down, looking to root, to find a home.  And then The Voice.

"This is not something you must carry."  Oh, wasn't He kind, the Counselor Wise?  And didn't He know, with all that was on my plate, what counted and what did not?

There was plenty there, that was sure.  So much bouncing around, ricocheting about inside my brain 'til it seemed my head would explode.  Things large; things small, much of import to weigh, to consider, to trust Him for.  But this, with everything else that concerned me just now?  "Don't," He'd whispered, still.  "Travel light."

Travel light.  Like the North Star shining in the night, the words brought direction, pointed the way.  There was one thing, really, that was needed.  One thing.

To press ever on, always further into Him.  No matter what.  No matter who.  No matter why, where, or when.  Though the earth shook and mountains fell, the one thing needed was to follow hard after Him.

To follow hard even when it was hard, and in the hardness, giving thanks.  "Thank Him for what is," a wise friend had told me once.  Thank Him for what is...

I'm coming 'round.  Finding my focus.  Picking up and moving forward, reaching out like my little boy to grasp His hand, following close.  

I'm thanking Him, too, for just what is.  For what He's doing now.  For what I know (but cannot always see) that He's about.  

May I share this word with you today, you who, too, are tired?  Who've lost focus?  Who need a northern star?

Travel light.  Drop the worry.  Leave the grudge.  Open your hands and let it go.  Thank Him, rather, for what is.  "Jesus loves me, this I know."  And Jesus knows me; this, I love.

Offering for your encouragement today, Little Schrock's recent rendition of the Trinity in green Crayola.  Just in case you're doubting His ability to handle your load.  God, as you'll note here in the middle (and as Little told me himself), "has muscles."   

Trading places - whimperer proposes a swap to whooper

Note:  As this "Grounds for Insanity" column went to press, The Whimperer was still waiting to hear from The Whooper.  Hon.  Have your people call mine.

Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.  They’re always jumping, ever grazing, and seldom sleeping.

Yup, it’s summertime and the kids are home.  Somewhere, tired teachers are on their knees, thanking God that it’s over before heading off to sleep ‘til August.

No one is quite sure where the bus drivers have gone, having apparently disappeared en masse.  There was one reported sighting in Malaysia, but local police are “awfully suspicious, seeing as how the tip came from a pay phone at the playground.”  This, according to an inside source at the department, who then added, “The tipster sounded real young and was laughing when he hung up.”

Interestingly, early indicators show a strong surge in productivity as offices throughout the county are opening prematurely now, some even as early as daybreak.  This has officials scratching their heads, but I know jolly well what’s behind it.

We have the abovementioned small fry to thank for this.  They’re the ones sending frazzled fathers fleeing in frustration, leaving behind a myriad of mothers mired in melancholy.  At many homes, there’s whooping from one party and whimpering from the other as the whooper whips out the drive in a cloud of dust.  (Sorry.  It’s the Seuss again.)

I know this for a fact because I got it straight from the horse’s mouth.  The “horse,” of course, shall remain anonymous, but he told me just this week that he “uses all eight cylinders” when he leaves for work in the mornings.

After a couple of weeks, now, of this whooping and whimpering arrangement, I’ve come to the conclusion that the scales of justice are seriously out of whack.  Lover of justice that I am, I believe I’ve hit upon a solution.  The following is a rough draft of a proposal I intend to present to Mr. Schrock for his approval.