Unexpected pirates, biters, and royal ruffians

Note:  Before this "Grounds for Insanity" column was published in The Goshen News back in April 2009, it won an Editor's Choice award in the weekly Faithwriters contest.  Should the Queen of England like some advice on dealing with those kids of hers, she should dial me up.

Life seldom turns out as you expect.  In the beginning, the world is your oyster.  You have hopes and dreams.  You know what you want to be and where you want to go.  Yes, the water gets rough sometimes, and you end up with some sand in your britches, but you just take it in stride and seize the opportunity to make a pearl. 

Years later when you look back, you realize that very little of what you had planned actually happened.  You’ve had enough plot twists and turns to make a Bond movie look positively slow.  And pearls?  Oh, yeah.  Several strings. 

Take parenting, for instance.  When those pink, squalling bundles land in your arms, your heart is filled with love and pride.  You hold the answers to every child-rearing dilemma that could ever arise.  You’re sure you’ve got the next Michael Jordan or Condoleezza Rice or Albert Einstein. 

About halfway through, you realize that what you really have is a little band of pirates.  Apparently Somalia isn’t the only place where brigands roam, judging by the state of your pantry.  When they’ve pillaged the cupboard for the umpteenth time and held each other hostage again with BB guns and slingshots, it hits you – it doesn’t take a village to raise a child.  It takes a team of Navy Seals. 

By the time you’ve sent the last one off to college, having mortgaged your one remaining pair of socks, it’s clear that they’ve pirated more than the larder.  Gone is your secret stash of chocolate, your bank account, and all your supposed answers about parenting.  And what about your youth and energy?  Where did that all go?  Sailing off into the sunset, that’s what, with the last of the outlaws.

No, this is not what you expected.

When the cloud starts to move

It had come through one of those encounters - the ones we call "chance" that really aren't.  I'd run into her one bright morning in the summer at the place we'd become acquainted, our beloved local coffee shop.

Exhaustion was written on her face.  Her mother, I knew, had just passed away, ending a long and painful chapter in her life.

She told me, then, how she'd been eating breakfast that very morning, tuning in on her television to a preacher who'd been speaking from the story of the Israelites.  Using a cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night, the Lord God Himself had led His stubborn people through a desert, dry and barren, and had brought them safely through.

Now my friend, plowing fresh through grief, was looking for direction vocationally.  Uncertain, unsettled, anxious, she felt confused, unsure which way to go.  Then came her word of guidance.  "If the cloud doesn't move," the speaker thundered, "you stay put."

Vastly relieved, feeling that peace, her spirit calmed.  And then she shared it with me.

I knew that day that He'd spoken to me, too, for my own cloud, long railed against, hadn't moved.  Hadn't budged.  Hadn't changed, and though trusting, I was feeling the heat of the day, the soul-deep weariness of battle.

While I still find myself in largely the same circumstances, I am rejoicing today to tell you that maybe - just maybe - that cloud has started to move.  For through what would appear on the surface to be another chance encounter, another door has opened.  A glad "yes" has come, and my territory is being expanded.

My writing has found favor with a delightful Floridian, Sherry Gore, a prolific writer, gastronomist (cook extraordinaire), and a self-described "accidental editor."  Among other projects this busy woman has going, she is the editor-in-chief of the national magazine, "Cooking and Such:  Adventures in Plain Living."  Which (may I shout this here?) goes to over 40 states, Canada, and Scotland, giving me (her words) "monumental exposure."

The very cool thing is that Sherry will be coming to our area soon to host a cooking show at a large area restaurant and tourist attraction, the Essenhaus, and I will get to meet her!  I don't know yet where this will all lead.  I don't.  But I know this...when the cloud moves, I'm ready to follow.

Ready to go, ready to stay.  Willing, by grace, to obey.

All is well,

Rhonda


And wouldn't this be a lovely base for marketing books down the road?

Return of winter sparks crazy quilt of warm memories

Note:  This "Grounds for Insanity" column was published in the 01/23/12 edition of The Goshen News.  Now, that's a crazy quilt.

For a minute there, I thought we’d gotten by.  Escaped.  Slithered through by the skin of our teeth. 

Driving home the other day, I noted something shocking.  I was having springlike thoughts; two of them, to be precise, in rapid succession.  For a slow transitioner who’s perennially one season behind, this was big. 

It didn’t help, either, when the new Eddie Bauer catalogue arrived, landing with a thud in my mailbox.  There they were – capris, sandals, and unbearably cute tops in vibrant spring colors modeled by smiling women on sand dunes, beaches, and the deck of a ship. 

Overcome with excitement and the promise of spring, I was halfway to the closet to find last summer’s pewter flip-flops when it hit me.  It wasn’t spring, it wasn’t warm, this wasn’t the sand dunes, and that was a snowflake on the windowsill.  Shoot. 

Now winter’s returned full force.  I’m left to shiver under my favorite blanket on the couch, warming myself with a quilt of a different kind, a crazy quilt of holiday memories, randomly pieced and featherstitched with laughter. 

My thoughts went back to Christmas morning.  What a treat to be back in my home church, sitting in the pews I’d occupied as a child.  The picture of Jesus in Gethsemane, I saw, still hung over the platform, the place we’d stood and said our vows.  The altar was still there, too, focal point of many a revival meeting.  For a moment, my mind flashed over faces, names of folks who were no longer there, including the old preacher who’d delivered our wedding sermon. 

What was crazy that chilly Sunday morning was to see the youngest member of the pastoral team, my brother, fulfilling his role as lead pastor.  It was crazy, too, to watch the other young man up front, bass voice ringing out with confidence as he participated in a dramatic reading of the Christmas story. 

He looked like an all-American teen, that one, with his hair spiked up in front, khakis on, and the sleeves of his brand-new shirt rolled up just so.  He sounded for all the world like an announcer at Fenway Park or a narrator for the History channel.  Listening to him, one would never have guessed at the shenanigans he’d facilitated just prior to the service. 

It's good, and we rejoice

"Tell 'em the good news," she says, smiling happy.  "Tell 'em what you did."

"Yes, tell us," we say, looking at this one, our friend who's plowing a tough road just now, life hammering hard.  "What did you do?"

"I got my GED."  She says it quiet; says it small.  My mouth falls open.  This is big.  No, this is huge.  For she's been told she can't; that she's dumb; that it's just not in her.  But she does it anyway.

We rejoice, circling around with words of praise, faces beaming bright and smiles cracking big.  She talks on, using words like "college" and "courses;" tells how her son, a great, hulking farmer boy sat patient, helping her through the math.

Oh, it's so good, and we rejoice.

Here at home, Boy Two returns from auditions.  Discouragement rides along, angst scribbled across his features.  "The only thing they had us do," he groans, "is sing one song.  And it was just too high for me..."

I do what mothers do.  I encourage, use my words, pour my heart right into him.  "But they know you all.  Know what you can do.  Know what you're great at."  It doesn't feel like much.

Two days later, he returns from school, stepping light, bounding eager.  "I had a good day, Mom.  I made call backs."  Oh, glory!   A second chance.  Another try.  There's hope.

It's good, and I rejoice.

An email comes:  "I've forwarded it for publication."  I share my news, and friends rejoice.  I wait, squirming, anxious, and then it appears.  In Friday's paper, there it is in a far-away town on the prairie where my roots still lie in hard-baked soil.

And you rejoice.  Fellow Kansans in various states:  "You made me cry."  "A happy bouquet of words."  "I really like it....words painting pictures."  "I teared up, reading about her..." "Thanks for the trip down memory lane."  And this from a friend and classmate, "You made me ridiculously proud."

My old grade-school principal, he with the crippled leg and ready laugh, calls my mother.  "I'm sure you've seen the paper.  It was encouraging," and, "It's amazing.  They're all walking with God."  My father-in-law calls from his winter haven, "I really liked that one."  I'm stunned.

Other friends and readers chime in, sending private messages, leaving comments that I unwrap like gifts with grateful fingers.  Printing them off, I find Mr. Schrock.  "You won't believe this," I say.  "Listen."  Sitting down, list in my hands, I begin to read aloud, words - encouraging words, apples of gold in pictures of silver.  Nearly done, I look up.  He's choked up, eyes swimming, undone at this embarrassment of riches.  And just that quick, I join in.

How grateful I am, you celebrating with me.  How you rejoiced, and it was good, us all giving thanks together.

Now, what are you rejoicing over today?  I'd love to joy along with you...

Defending the indefensible (and a happy announcement)

"I made my English class laugh today."  I sat up, taking notice, for this startling announcement had come from a most unlikely source, Boy Three, He Who Preferred To Dwell In The Shadows.  While Boy Two (a.k.a. Kid Kaboom) lived for the spotlight and stage, not so this one, my non-emotive, third-born son.

Why, it was only Sunday last that I'd seen him sport three new shades of red, squirming in discomfort upon receiving unwanted attention from an adult he didn't know.  And now this?

"What did you do?" I asked, truly curious.

"Well," he said, smile cracking edges of lips, "we had to write a letter, and my table made me write it."  They'd been given a list, he said, of supposedly indefensible things.  Choosing one, they were to write a persuasive essay in its defense.  His group had chosen "police taking driver's licenses away from slow drivers."

Here is what he wrote:  "Imagine it - being late to school or work because of a slow driver.  Then you're late repeatedly and get fired.  Since you got fired, you can't pay your bills, so you get evicted and then you're out on the freeway!

"There is a solution to this madness, and that is taking away the slow driver's license.  Five out of 10 drivers (his source here is unclear) are slow.

"What if you have kids?  How will you provide for them if you are jobless?  So if you get the police to take their license, none of this has to happen."

And then a final plea. "Please.  Do this for the children."

My shy, laid-back, quiet son read this aloud to his class, all of whom are fully used to his introverted persona. All of whom burst into applause, laughing loudly and cheering.  The teacher, laughing, too, said, "You should consider trying out for the musical.  Have you thought about being on stage?"

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised when traces of creativity appear in the children.  After all, their up-line (and I mean way up past me) is quite prolific in that department, and their father is no slouch himself.

And like it or not, they get words - lots of words - from their mother who is just that happy to announce that some of her own are appearing today in her hometown paper, The Hutch News, the paper she's prayed for years to get.  Today, this week's "Grounds for Insanity" column, "Rock-solid memories of the prairie," is live in Hutch.  I'd be tickled clear pink if you'd visit me over there.  Thanking you in advance...

And if you'd pray for favor on my behalf; for mountains to move; for doors to open; for a great, big 'yes;' and join me in seeing miracles...

Walking strong, walking true

Like a coal, glowing, it rests just there in my chest.  Days later, I feel its warmth whenever my thoughts go back...

From far-flung states, they'd come.  From a far-off country, too, just over the great, big pond, they'd journeyed, drawn, each one, with that imperceptible pull toward home, toward family, toward their roots.

They'd been teens when they'd last been together, faces shining, hopes fresh and dreams alive with the big, wide world stretching just past those double doors.  Twenty-six years, eleven souls.  Now, on a crisp December night, they'd gathered again, minus two.

It was the class of 1985, my graduating group of seniors.  Having moved away as a young woman, I'd not seen many of them for lots-and-lots of years.  Now, at long last, I would get the chance to sit down around a table, to see their faces, hug their necks, hear their stories of what life had held since we were teens.

It was surreal, really, to gather in the Learning Center where we'd sat through chapel talks, given speeches, labored through PACEs, and shot the occasional paper wad across the dividers.  Now we were back again, many with spouses, some with children, telling our stories...

It's the stories that grab me; pull me in; undo me.  For the class of 1985 has accomplished much.  Some of us went on to college.  We are nurses, teachers, and a doctor.  We are (and have been) secretaries, book keepers, mothers, fathers, missionaries, chaplains.  We've spoken, written, traveled, telecommuted in a world that has shifted, changed like quicksand since that day in May.

The class of 1985 has suffered much, too.  There were no warnings of hard things to come that night; no "heads up, it's gonna get choppy" to steel us for what was ahead.  Nothing to really prepare us for life in the wild; life in the real world.  All those stories...

How one of us, a father and nurse, cannot revive his tiny daughter.  How he and his wife stand beside a hospital bed, hearts in pieces, and make a decision no parent wants to make.

A mother and teacher whose family escapes the flames with only the clothes on their backs.  And then, as shovel is set to touch soil, rebuilding their home, an awful diagnosis - cancer.

Another one, a mother and secretary, delivers prematurely.  He's a fighter, her tiny boy in his bassinet.  And then...a human error, and she's standing by his grave in her husband's arms.

Such suffering. But such strength, for every single one of the class of 1985 is walking with Jesus.  Through fire and sickness, through great loss and devastation, their testimony is strong.  They are using (thank God!) their unique talents, gifts, and abilities as world changers in Kansas.  In Ohio.  In California.  In South Carolina.  In Indiana, Albania, and Alabama.

I've listened to their words, giving thanks.  I've seen peace on their faces, giving witness.  I've watched their lives, giving glory to the Lord Christ.

That Christmas trip to home, to family, to my roots, has moved me deeply.  For it's one's past - your history - that gives you your "you-ness."  What a gift it is to find that these friends, so rooted next to me in the Kansas soil, are still brothers and sisters, walking well, walking strong, walking true.

Giving thanks, for all is well,

Rhonda

Giving thanks for heritage, roots centered on the prairie

Note:  This "Grounds for Insanity" column appeared in the 01/16/12 edition of The Goshen News.  The Writer is thankful today for a heritage that springs from the folks of the prairie; for roots revisited, renewed.  


I’d forgotten its beauty.  Forgot how the dying sun streaks orange across the horizon just there where sky touches earth.  Forgot how the twilight shades up into a velvety midnight blue before the darkness falls, curtain like, and the light goes out. 

Driving in, there it was on grand display, trees outlined in black on that band of orange, marching like sentinels on the very edge of the world.  It was sunset on the Kansas plains. 

I’d heard it from others who’d only traveled through.  “There’s nothing there,” they’d say, “nothing at all.”  Smiling, I’d nod, knowing what they meant. 

Here, there were no mountain ranges; no rolling hills.  There were no canyons cut by glaciers or beaches sandy white.  Here, there were only miles and miles of hard-baked prairie stretching as far as the eye could see.  That, those sunsets, and the people. 

It was the people that drew us back.  For the richest resource of any region is its people, and my roots remained firmly embedded and intertwined with the folks of the plains. 

I’d been born and raised there amidst the buffalo wallows.  I’d ridden a combine around a field of gold, chewing wheat ‘til it turned into gum.  We’d spent many a happy summer’s night on the farm, playing Kick the Can and Grey Wolf with the cousins. 

There on the prairie, I’d gotten saved, been baptized, and threw pitches from the mound.  I got my first job washing dishes at the Dutch Kitchen out on Highway 50.  I’d attended weekly socials with our lively youth group, and cruised Main with my friends. 

I’d gotten my diploma at a small, private high school on a bumpy dirt road along with 10 of my classmates.  Now, on a crisp December night some 26 years later, 9 of the 11 original members of the class of 1985 were gathering once more in that familiar building along the same bumpy dirt road. 

Broken down, strengthened up

It came up this past weekend.  Able at last to go on a date night with hubby, the venerable Mr. Schrock, we'd slipped out for the evening to catch a movie and run some errands.  We talked about the kids, work, our hopes and dreams...all the stuff, really, that spouses discuss when they are finally free of smallish ears.

Somehow, the conversation turned to a supremely difficult time of testing that The Mister had been through some years back.  "How long," I asked him, "was it tough and miserable?"  Remembering the toll it had taken on him mentally, emotionally, and, in the end, physically.

"Three and a half," he said, remembering, too.

Thinking back, I recalled his misery.  Recalled the agony of working for an oppressor; of laboring under the authority of a man who lacked integrity.  Who struck and struck and struck at his personhood, his value, his self-esteem, his very manhood.  Who thought that by making another small, it would make him big.

In those months and years, I'd seen him wrestle.  Seen him struggle.  I watched him hit the very bottom of a pit, deep and wide.  Saw him completely undone, every bone broken.  I watched, then, as he found, in that place of weakness, the Lord Christ, Gentle Healer, who carefully knit together those broken pieces into something stronger, something lovely, something good.

"It's as though," I said out loud, thinking it through, "you were broken down and then strengthened back up!"

"And now," he'd said, "it seems like it's your turn."

Ah, yes.  My turn.  My turn for the breaking down.  My turn to fall, arms flailing, into a pit.  My turn to hit the bottom.  My turn (yes, it is) to come undone, every bone broken.  My turn, now, to find, in that place of weakness, the Lord Christ, Gentle Healer, who is even now carefully knitting together all those broken pieces into something stronger, something lovely, something good.

While nothing outwardly has changed, I sense in my spirit that this extended time of testing is nearly at an end. Even if it's not, I know this for sure - it's been His mercy, this breaking and weakness.  His mercy, this darkness requiring faith.  His mercy, this refining, purifying fire.  His mercy that strengthens back up in loving preparation for what comes next.

And you?  How about you?  If you're in the refiner's fire, take heart.  There's a fourth man there in the flames.

Walking through the waters?  They will not overflow.  Bones broken?  Oh, one day you shall rejoice for you, too, shall be made into something stronger, something lovely, something good.

"Make me to hear joy and gladness that the bones which thou hast broken may rejoice."  - Ps. 51:8

All hands on deck

Note:  In light of the exciting news this week that my hometown newspaper, The Hutch News, is set to carry yet another guest piece imminently, my mind goes back to where it all began.  When the "what-if" of a column first came about and a dream was born, this normally-fearful girl did a very brave thing.  With fear and trembling, she sent a piece she'd written to the editor down there, asking a big, big question.  To her great surprise, he wrote back with a "yes on this one," and a column was launched.  To this day, it thrills her to no end that the very first column to ever go live, did so in her own community where friends, family, old teachers, and fellow churchgoers opened the paper one day and saw it there.  Here, again, is that first piece.

With the boys back in school now, things at our house are finally settling into a routine for the baby and me.  The first week was a little dicey.  He was cranky.  He wouldn’t sleep.  He organized a little protest march from my computer to his toys and back again.  Fortunately, his attempt to stow away in a backpack was foiled by an alert older brother. 

Thanks to modern technology, I am privileged to be a full-time mother with a full-time career.  My commute consists of walking upstairs to my computer and booting up.  

Medical transcription is a very interesting and exciting field.  It is certainly a different experience, working remotely for a person I have never met and listening to doctors I have never seen, but it allows me to ride shotgun on the homework crowd, keep the laundry going, and to care for my own baby.  It’s a wonderful thing. 

Well, most of the time it’s wonderful.  It was all well and good when the baby was tiny.  He would sleep under my desk in his car seat.  When he fussed, I would literally rock his seat with one foot, press the pedal to play the dictation with the other foot, listen to the doctor with both ears, and type with both hands.  Talk about multitasking – I think I wrote the book on it, but I was so sleep deprived back then that it’s all a blur. 

Now that he’s mobile, however, the dynamics have changed.  He no longer sleeps most of the day.  He toddles.  He climbs.  He explores his world.  And he loves to “help” me type.  I will be working away, fingers flying at the keyboard, lost in a world of echocardiograms and colonoscopies when a hand appears out of nowhere and suddenly I am typing in ALL CAPS. 

His other favorite button is “enter.”  With a furtive little tap-tap, the cursor is not where I just had it.  It’s down in my lap somewhere.  The little monkey actually made a whole document disappear once.  If it hadn’t been for the Microsoft recover feature, I would have had to type the goofy thing twice.  Thank you, Bill Gates! 

Look up

It's winter now, and the year is new.  I'm working on it, practicing the habit of turning my focus to Him.  This summer meditation reminds me today...

Birdsong trills in the morning air, dripping like jewels from greening trees beneath a gray, overcast sky.

Just home from an end-of-the-year meeting at school, I get Little his breakfast, grind up the beans, and measure fresh coffee into the filter.  Cream (the real kind) swirls like ribbons in my insulated mug.  Backpack over my shoulder, I slip outside to share a cup with my Friend Who Knows.

The clouds above, they match my mood.  Restlessness, anxiety, uncertainty swirl down through my heart like the cream in my coffee.  What is happening?  What's coming next?

Things are changing at work.  Slowly, so slowly in recent months, the volume's been dropping.  My checks have been shrinking.  And now, out of the blue, it's dried to a trickle.  Technology invades.  The doctors, I know, must keep pace with the times; hence, the switch to electronic records.  Leaving me and my colleagues...

Other worries, fears tick through my mind.  A sense of failure pervades.  Perhaps if I'd only...or perhaps if I hadn't...

I sip from the mug.  Thinking...thinking...listening...

Yes.  I see exactly which enemies are getting the best of me right now.  Battle.  War.  Fight it.  But how?

Opening His letter, I turn to the shepherd, warrior, and friend of God.  There, the Psalmist speaks to me of refuges and shields, of training for battle and defeating my foes.  I read of victory and praise and enemies turned to flight.  Yes!  Oh, yes.

From my quiet place facing the wide expanse of freshly-mown lawn, I open just one more source of nourishment, that little devotional, "God Calling," and read this for today:

"'Look unto Me and be ye saved, all the ends of the earth.'  To look is surely within the power of everyone.  One look suffices.  Salvation follows.

"Look, and you are saved from despair.  Look, and you are saved from care.  Look, and you are saved from worry.  Look, and into you there flows a peace beyond all understanding - a power new and vital, a joy wonderful indeed.

"Look and keep looking.  Doubt flees.  Joy reigns, and hope conquers.  Life - Eternal Life - is yours, revitalizing, renewing."

Herein lies our hope.  We look to Jesus, Author and Finisher of our faith.  Through joy and sorrow, through victory and defeat, through uncertainty and in the knowing, we look.  And in the looking, we are helped, we are saved, and we are led.

Look up.

"I will lift mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help.  My help cometh from the Lord Who made heaven and earth." 

Because there is salvation (resurrection) as we look in faith...

How a "nothing happened" week can look

Note:  This column was published in the 01/09/12 edition of The Goshen News.  Good thing there's 'nothing' happening.  My excitement meter's in the red.

Right about now, many people hit the mid winter blahs.  Holidays are over, and Memorial Day is a long way off.  At our house we are between school activities, so all is quiet on that front. 

Life, I find, seems mundane in the absence of big goings-on.   Of course, if I go by what my men tell me, there’s never anything happening and it’s always mundane.  Here’s how that particular conversation goes. 

Me:  “So what happened today?”

Them:  “Nothing.”

“Really?” I say.  “Nothing happened?”

“Nope.”

Out of curiosity, I decided to keep a record of what actually goes on here in the course of a normal, boring week.  Here is a peek at my journal. 

Sunday:  Attend surprise party for sister-in-law’s fortieth birthday.  Come home, lie in bed with third-grader whose love language is quality time.  Older brother in camouflage slips in, making three.  Uncharacteristically, oldest brother joins us, making four; then, characteristically, proceeds to pound younger brothers.  Father enters fray, disperses mob.  Team of Boy Scouts moves in to untangle knotted sheets.

Monday:  Senior demonstrates superior logic by asking parents for ride to school because he has no gas, then announces plans to drive to Mishawaka later with buddies.  Parents politely decline.  Baby insists on feeding self, finger paints in spaghetti sauce. 

Popular Science magazine is confiscated from son with far more interest in gadgets than homework.  Mother “encourages” keener interest in homework by firing in the air twice.  Same son stops mother on the way out the door with pressing questions about Heaven.  Baby sits on brother’s Ripstik, tries to “rip.”  Mother overhears nine-year-old tell baby, “You surprised us (by being born).  You barely hit the target of life.”

Tuesday:  Father changes baby before going to work.  Calls up the stairs from a kneeling position, “This is a three-wipe deal – and you know I’m conservative!”  Mother chortles at keyboard. 

Senior announces at breakfast that financial aid meeting was last night.  Parents take turns pounding son into kitchen floor like a tent stake.  Baby wakes up from nap with diaper inexplicably around one ankle, liberally waters bedding.  Mother smuggles Blanky into machine to forestall angry wails at the window of the washer with pathetic attempts to retrieve wet Blanky.   

"Go write"

"Go write."  That's what he said, peering at me with Those Eyes.  "Go.  You need to."

I may have sniffed, flipping one shoulder up with a dismissive wave of the hand.  "But what if I can't anymore?  Maybe...maybe I'll quit."  He shot me a look.  I sighed, knowing the truth, and slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I left for the coffee shop.

To be brutally honest, I ended the year on a low note.  Working like crazy, praying for help, I'd cobbled together two columns and sent them in ahead of our trip because, as I told my editors, "I don't want to write one.single.word while I'm gone."  And I meant it.

The return from my hometown did not bring a return of my zest for writing.  Somehow, it had been buried, lying dormant beneath a heap of anxieties, fatigue, discouragement, and uncertainty.  But deadlines don't wait, and callings can't be neglected forever...

"Go write."

To this day, I find it utterly amazing.  How God took a girl who knew she could tell stories and make people laugh and put her with a man who saw a book in her.  How she didn't see the books.  How she saw the mountains instead and shrugged it off and kept on typing.  How once- or twice-a-year prayers thrown up, scarcely the size of a mustard seed, were answered in a most astounding way, and a door opened up.

"All is well"

For months now, it's been present; here a few droplets, wearing away tiny pieces at a time; there in a wave that rolls through my stomach in an actual sensation I can feel.  Without warning, it strikes, and down I go.

Anxiety.

It's not that there aren't reasons.  There are.  It's not that I don't know where to turn.  I do.  And so I whisper one word, one name, "Jesus..." when the darkness threatens.

Home, now, from our holidays with my family, real life returns.  The doctors are talking again, there are column inches to fill, and a hectic schedule that will pick right back up next Monday morning.  I awaken early; faces, situations, demands ahead run relentless through my mind.

Tossing and turning.  Fretting, anxious, I feel it once more.  How will it turn out?  What will happen with...?  When will (fill it in) finally change?  And then the big one, "When will God come through?"

"All is well."  That voice...

"All is well."  

But this hasn't been fixed.  But that hasn't changed.  But I'm still waiting for...But, but, but.

But what if all really is well, even though?  Even though I don't know the outcome?  Even though (A-B-C) isn't resolved?  Even though - miracles delayed?  Even though He seems to linger?

I think perhaps these are my three words for the year ahead.  For if this is true, "The Lord is near to all who call on him," and if it is true that the spirit of the living Christ dwells within these suits of flesh, then surely all truly is well.  Because I have Jesus, because you have Jesus, we have all we really need.

The God who fashioned the universe, who calls the stars by name, who rides upon the storm, He - this very God - can do anything He wants to do. This Great One has promised to provide all our needs according to His vast, unfathomable riches.  So every single moment, He provides just what we need.  Period.

"All is well."  For my friend who messaged me ("I've been better"), using words like "lump" and "mammogram," "ultrasound" and "biopsy," all is well.  There is grace sufficient, today.  For the unemployed, all is well.  He will provide; He has a plan.

For the grieving, all is well.  A grand reunion awaits.  For the tired and discouraged, all is well.  He will refresh the weary and satisfy the faint.  And for the anxious, all is well.  He is here.

Yes and no, giving and taking lead to fun and frustration

Note:  This "Grounds for Insanity" column appeared in the 01/02/12 edition of The Goshen News.  If Bethlehem is short one camel next year, don't look at me.  I had nothing to do with it.  Uh-huh.

It’s the gift that keeps on giving.  And taking and giving and…well, I’m sure you’re catching on. 

We hadn’t planned on getting it.  After all, we were still reeling from the impressive campaign they’d launched a year ago, the Christmas 2010 “Just Say Yes” initiative.  Using charts, graphs, and colorful PowerPoint presentations set to sad, sad music (think “Christmas Shoes”), they’d made their case. 

They’d made it well, and we’d said no.  And no and no and no.  Hoarse, we’d packed them into the van like sardines, only without the oil, and hauled them to Tennessee.  In the melee that followed with cousins upstairs, cousins downstairs, and several in the rafters, they’d forgotten about it.  Until this Thanksgiving when those cousins came over. 

The cousins had done the research.  Armed with flyers, they pointed and explained and nailed it down.  The deal of the century – nay, the millennium – would be found at Store ABC, go time 10 p.m.  At Store XYZ, controllers for The Very Big Deal were on sale, one day only, for a cool twenty bucks off.  Their parents had decided to spring for it, they said, with the understanding that this was their Christmas present, and it was meant to be shared. 

That may have been the day Mr. Schrock and I lost our minds.  For at long last, we relented, saying the one word that set them wriggling and squirming over the mashed potatoes.  And that’s how we ended up joining the rest of the common horde that night. 

Writer offers list of wishes, but no resolutions for the New Year

Note:  This "Grounds for Insanity" column was published in the 12/26/11 edition of The Goshen News.  The writer's back in town, having had a fun-filled week in southern climes with the family et. al.  Today, she offers a list of wishes - not resolutions - for the New Year.


The ornaments still adorn the tree.  The stockings still march across the top of the bookcase, sagging and empty in the aftermath of four hurricanes that hit. 

The ham’s still cooling in the fridge.  As fresh coffee hits my cup, holiday happiness fills my heart in a wave that radiates down my left leg. 

Wait.  No.  That’s shooting pain from the brand-new Legos I just stepped on.  At least I’ve got Christmas joy as far as the waist, which is more than can be said of Someone Else who’s just waking up, judging by the no-coffee scowl beneath the tousled hair.  If He Who is Only a Sniffer and Not a Sipper would just try it, perhaps he, too, could know the joy that floods.  (Watch out for that Lego, hon.)

Anyway, as we stand on the threshold of a new year, our hearts are filled with hope anew.  Dreams once dead now burn bright.  Gazing across the snowy pages of time, untouched by pen and ink, all seems possible.  And if I had any more overused, cliched sentiments, I’d use ‘em, but that’s all I’ve got. 

If I could, I'd take Miles

"Where's the line to see Jesus?"  It was these words from a song in the children's musical one Sunday night that grabbed me.  And just like that, I saw it.

Jesus in skin, receiving the needy, a line of humanity bedraggled stretching before him.  There, the woman bent with an issue of blood that had kept her weak.  Behind her, a child, leg crippled, who'd never run, never leapt or climbed a tree.  Here, a blind man.  There, a mother clutching her baby.

Later that night, after the program, I heard it.  Heard the story straight from her lips, how her grandbaby, precious Miles, was suffering.  And with him, his mama and daddy, his grandma and "Big Grandpa."

She told me of his seizures, those terrible fits that would grab his little body, wringing it hard and stealing all of his words.  It hurt her terribly, seeing him like that, knowing they'd be right back at ground zero when it happened again, building his vocabulary one word, one phrase at a time.  And who knew how long he'd keep it?

He was housebound, the little mite, for the tiniest bit of excitement, of stimuli; the merest hint of a virus could trigger another bad one.  And there they'd go again...

Thinking of her, of them, of the constant danger he lived in and the stress and strain they wore like a second skin, I thought of that song.  Pictured that line.

If Jesus were here in the flesh, how I'd rush to join the line, taking little Miles and laying him in His lap, for one word, one touch is all it would take.  If Jesus were here, I'd take...I'd take...

Faces and names appeared before me.  Wouldn't I take my children, presenting them before the Shepherd to receive a blessing?  Wouldn't I take my husband to receive one, too?  I'd take myself, kneeling at His feet, spreading broken pieces of messy me around those sandals, waiting to feel His hand on my head.  So many others I would take and hold with me in that line, presenting them to Him...

This, dear ones, is the hope of Christmas, the promise for those of us who are, really and truly, waiting in line to see Jesus.  For one day, it will be our turn, and we shall "see Him as He is."

As for Miles, his grandma told me that his three phrases right now are:  "I'm good," "You good?" and, "I like it!"   It's amazing, she said, how much he communicates through these six words.

I can't help but picture him, looking around Heaven one day, fully healed, exclaiming to the Lord Jesus, "I like it!  Jesus, You good?"  Then, with a leap and a shout, "I'm good!"  Oh, yes.  I'm good.

Merry, merry Christmas from our family to yours.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for the encouragement and life you've breathed straight into this girl for yet another year.  Thank you for rejoicing with me over the good stuff, for crying with me when it got tough, and for saying, "Keep it up!" when I wasn't so sure.  Over the holidays here, I'll be taking a bit of a blogging break to spend time with my family.  There will undoubtedly be plenty of stuff to write about when I get back.


"I'm good.  You good?"

Easter's hope began at Christmas

Note:  This column was published in the 12/19/11 edition of The Goshen News.  Months ahead, I begin to pray, "Lord, give me a story for Christmas."  For four years now, He has.  The first three years, the annual column involved a baby.  The story He gave me this year, however, is a bit different, but offers hope nonetheless.

It was the annual children’s Christmas musical.  For weeks, the preschoolers had been practicing.  Singing here, singing there, Little’d been sharing snippets of a song he was learning about Joseph, Mary, and the Baby Jesus. 

On the night of the program, he’d flashed upstairs after his nap, looking for the shirt Mama’d told him to wear.  In a trice, he’d presented in his khakis, brown shoes and, yes, the right shirt. 

Sitting on the end of a bench, his father, two brothers, and I craned our necks as a stream of small people processed down the aisle.  And there he came.  Crooking a grin and waving one small hand, he marched by, proudly taking his place in the front row along with the rest of the Cherub Choir.  Songs done, he settled onto Daddy’s lap and watched, rapt, as elementary students shared the message of Christmas onstage. 

The wise men that knelt around the manger were a charming lot.  The one in purple, I noted, had his crown on sideways while the crown on the stocky little fellow in gold had slipped down behind his ears, pushing them out in a most endearing way. 

The third wise man peered out from beneath a red velvet headpiece that simply covered his ears and rested at his brow.  Seeing them, I smiled, rejoicing in their innocent faith as they sang with all their hearts. 

It was the second-to-last song that grabbed me.  “Where is the line,” sang the girl with the curly hair, face lifted, “the line to see Jesus?”  There’s a line to see Santa, there’s a line at the mall, but where’s the one for Him? 

 As they do every holiday season, my thoughts turned to friends who’d lost loved ones.  Names and faces scrolled through my mind, and I thought of empty places around tables and in hearts, of the sorrow that pulsed beneath greenery and lights. 

I remembered passing the church that gray, dismal morning in November.  Parked just there before the front doors sat a grim reminder, the harsh reality of life in a fallen world.  Seeing the hearse, my heart sank.  “Lord,” I prayed.  “Comfort, please.”

It's a madhouse, and that's a gift

"It's a madhouse!"  That's what I said to her, holding the phone cocked on my shoulder last night on the couch.

We'd called my mother to say, "Happy birthday."  Boy Two (aka Kid Kaboom) was singing a seriously goofy, nasal-ly version on a phone upstairs; I was cackling into the phone downstairs; Little was half-on, half-off; and The Mister was standing in the kitchen, shooting a cap gun.

It was, to put it mildly, chaotic.

In the midst of a crazy busy time, a long car trip imminent, it looked a whole lot like Christmas.  Glancing around, I saw it clear - the colored lights twining 'round the tree.  Four bulging stockings, marching across the top of the book case.  Fudge (two kinds) stashed here and there, cream cheese cookies (a Schrock must) resting atop the washing machine, freezer bulging with cut-out cookies of all shapes and sizes.

Those cookies - what a production that had been!  Frantic rolling and cutting, desperate to get them done before dashing off to Kid K's Christmas concert at the high school.  Sleeves rolled up, the two Smaller's attending, flour everywhere.

Out came the cutters...the Christmas tree.  The gingerbread man.  The wreath.  The teddy bear.  Santa's boot.  The star.  A cow.  A sheep (my favorite) and that infernal camel.

"Not him!" I exclaimed, remembering the skinny legs that burnt too quick, breaking off at the slightest touch.  No, they said in unison.  We must have the camel.

"But he burns," I said, "and he breaks.  Let's not."  "Yes, let's!" they said.  And so they cut camels.

We cut and baked and rolled and cut some more, sliding the last pan out of the oven just in time to munch tacos and head for one more Christmas concert.

Oh, my.  Sitting in that darkened auditorium, listening to the concert choir singing, the NorthWood band playing, and watching Boy Two and Dawning Generation (the swing choir) performing...there it came again.  The Spirit of Christmas, joy flooding, heart swelling at the sight of those kids...and our boy, shoes on fire, lighting up the stage.

Today, I am one proud and thankful mama.  Proud to watch our son excel (hearing others say it, too).  Thankful for the gifts of Christmas; the ruckus, even cap guns that pop in the kitchen; the treats we make with our hands, love baked right in; the mystery of the gift beneath the tree, small boy guessing, excited.

I'm thankful, too, for the joyful mess; for legs that break off of camels.  For gingerbread men misshapen.  For too many bear cookies, stamped by Someone Small.  For frosting - red, green, and blue - everywhere.  For shaky X's that mark the calendar, scratched carefully by Little whose Daddy lifts him up every night, counting days.

In this high and holy season comes solemnity, remembering The Gift.  But, too, laughter comes, and joy and fun and hilarity, gifts each one, as we share the days with those we love.

Once again, Merry Christmas!  May you find joy as you live each moment of it, eyes wide open.

Ice cream goes a long way in soothing Christmas tree woes

Note:  This "Grounds for Insanity" column appeared in the 12/10/07 edition of The Goshen News, a mere one month after its initial debut.  Thankfully, the Tree Setter-Upper is far more experienced now when it comes to choosing...

There’s no doubt about it – Christmas is our favorite time of year.  It begins when Mr. Schrock gets out his huge library of holiday tunes.  Such a Christmas buff is he that when the decorations start appearing in the stores, he rejoices.  He revels.  He wallows. 

He calls, issuing regular reports.  “Christmas stuff at Target, aisle 15,” he might say before ringing off. 

For the rest of us, we really start getting pumped when we hit the tree lot.  You see, there is far more at stake here than just getting a tree – there’s a title on the line.  The “Winning Tree Picker Outer” trophy comes up for grabs every year.  

This tradition came about after a several-year winning streak by yours truly.  When the family twigged to the fact that for two or three years running, I had been the Finder of the Perfect Tree, they revolted. 

“Enough!” they shouted, and they set about seeking to wrest the title from my delicate hands. 

It’s tough, I’ve learned, being a winner.  It puts a bull’s eye on your back; it really does.  Hence, our annual trek to the tree has become a good-natured contest to find the best one.    

For years we had gotten our trees at a cut-it-yourself place, which the boys have always loved.  This year, however, the lure of the Chief proved to be too great.  After some discussion, they reluctantly agreed to break with “terdition,” as the nine-year-old calls it, and pick out a precut tree if – and only if – we could get some pints. 

“Are we there yet?” I cried, mouth watering at the thought of the butter pecan.  Either, I mused, it would be a great way to celebrate winning or I would self-medicate with it if – dark thought – one of the hoodlums won the title. 

Imagine, then, the utter dismay that fell upon us when we were greeted with the news that The Last Pint Had Just Been Sold.  In a trice, the little mob had chucked the spoons and staged a protest.  (PETA only wishes they were so efficient.) 

When we caught up to them, they were marching past the firs with homemade signs chanting, “More pints!  More pints!” and “I scream, you scream, we all scream…”  You get the picture.  Adding insult to injury, it was actually the Head Hoodlum who found the perfect tree.  Being, of course, unable to ease the pain with butter pecan, I had to settle for carry-out chips and salsa from nearby Hacienda.  There was no balm in Gilead.   

Receiving to give - just breathe

"Are you ready for Christmas?"  She drops the question, that curly-haired barista, as I slide into the local Starbucks.

I stop.  And think.  In a split second, this-this-and-that rush through my mind, things that aren't finished yet or tied neatly with a bow.

I stop and think and then I say, "I am on the inside, but not on the outside."

She grins, kind, and says, "I know what you mean."

It was a conversation I'd had just earlier this morning with another strawberry-blond friend, the one who rushes past in those cute Ugg boots, stopping to talk "life" for several precious moments at my table.  I'm trying, I tell her, to do one thing at a time.  Just one thing, clinging to peace where it matters, remembering why we're doing any of it anyway.

Why is it such a battle?  Why, in this season of beauty and greens and lights and music, does the pressure come crushing, anxiety clenching?  Why do I think it must all be done, that nothing less than perfection will do?  That it's never enough, and who can measure "perfect" anyway?

Perhaps the key lies there, "battle."  For who and what opposed the Babe who was born?  And who and what opposes Him still?  The kingdom of darkness clashes with the kingdom of light, and we are the casualties, you and I, if we've fallen asleep.

Do you see it, how comparisons and anxiety, expectation and perfection all come at us, horrific weapons wielded by unseen hands, to distract, to deter, to weaken and fatigue us, the redeemed?  Perhaps my friend had it exactly right when she told me this:  "This is a hectic time.  Just be.  Don't make yourself do, do, and do.  Just be...I will pray for you to let yourself just breathe, and not have to row everyone's boat and yours, too." 

And so I stop.  Again.  And I breathe.  In, out.  In, out, taking in Jesus who is really and truly the air of the soul.  For I cannot fully give to others if I have not myself received the gift.

To you, my friend:  Just be.  Don't make yourself do, do, and do.  Let yourself breathe.  Take Him in, receiving His life as yours, and then you, too, will have to give.

What you can miss

"DQ sells enough bananas each year for banana splits that it would meet the needs of 43,552 monkeys for one full year.  That's a lot of monkeys."

That's what it said on the box that held the onion rings.  Sitting there at the local Dairy Queen last night post Boy Three's Christmas program, I laughed.  Reading it aloud to our own smallish tribe of primates, I couldn't help but think of the hot batch we'd just watched onstage.

It was the seventh-grade show.  Stretched across the risers in the high school auditorium, a wriggling, squirming batch of adolescents gathered, nervous and self-conscious, to perform for their assembled parents and grands.

To my right sat my mother, having flown all the way from the wheat belt for B3's show.  To her right, B2, the one who dominates the stage as a senior and member of the high school swing choir and drama department.  To the left, Mr. Schrock and his father, THE Mr. Schrock with Little perched on his lap.  Behind us sat a great-aunt and -uncle, then an "adoptive" set of grands, and the other grandma, Grandma Schrock.

What a difference there was, I thought, listening to the cracking and growling of boys in that awkward 'tween stage, not quite men, but no longer little boys; what a difference between those junior high years and the high school years.  What a leap it was from there (middle school) to the juniors and seniors who performed with confidence, dipping, twirling, leaping, and singing out; to the professionalism and superb abilities of the Notre Dame Glee Club we'd enjoyed on Saturday last.

I watched Mr. Middle School, standing stiff, uncomfortable with being in front.  Grinning, The Mister leaned over, making a motion with his hands ("I think his lips are moving?").  I nodded.  "I think I saw them just now."

Remembering his brother's prayer at the dinner table earlier, I swallowed a cackle.  "...and Lord," he'd prayed, "help him to sing good - and loud!"

This coming Saturday, it's The Pray-er's turn.  He'll take the stage again with the high school music department, band and all, and we'll tuck in yet one more Christmas event.  Knowing it's the last one of his high school career puts a lump in my throat.

This morning, thoughts of firsts and lasts fill my mind.  Little's first performance on stage with the Cherub Choir a week or so ago.  The last Christmas concert for Boy Two.  A seventh-grade performance by Boy Three and his peers, a smaller milestone that could be overlooked...if I wasn't looking.

And that's what I don't want to miss - precious moments, priceless gifts, extraordinary treasures in an ordinary life.  We will never pass this way again, you and I.  All we've got, really, is today, right now, this moment in time.  This moment that's full, if we're looking, of fingerprints divine.

"Oh, grant me, Lord, the gift of eyes wide open, ears that hear, and a heart that's soft to receive the gifts, to embrace The Gift, God in skin, who dwells within."

"If you give a boy a (well, pretty much anything)," mayhem ensues

Note:  This "Grounds for Insanity" column was published in the 12/12/11 edition of my paper of record, The Goshen News.  If you give a mother a column...she'll need a nap to go with it.

She must’ve been at my house.  Or peeked in the windows, at least.  Surely, surely she’s had kids of her own, and that’s how she was able to write it.

“She” is Laura Numeroff, and “it” is her bestselling series of children’s books that started with “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.”  In them, a seemingly benign act (such as giving a mouse a cookie, a moose a muffin, or a pig a pancake) leads to an unexpected series of events that leaves the giver exhausted, shot, collapsed in a heap on the floor. 

You can see why it sounds familiar. 

There was, after all, the one Sunday afternoon when it all went south, starting at the kitchen sink.  Oh, they weren’t shooting for literary excellence, those two.  Not in the least.  But as an alert relative pointed out later, it read exactly like a Numeroff book. 

“If You Give a Boy a Dishcloth” is what I called it afterwards.  Even Laura, I think, would be hard pressed to come up with the plot the Schrocklets wrote that day.  It went something like this. 

“If you give a boy a dishcloth and tell him to wash the dishes so you can take a Sunday nap, he’ll become a U. N. diplomat, a highly-skilled negotiator.  He will offer you everything from a week’s allowance to his own firstborn in an attempt to dodge the draft.  Wise parent that you are, you’ll bring in the big guns (his father), sticking to your own, and point him again at the sink.

“After considerable delay (snapping his brother with the towel, a couple of chases around the table, and some pointless staring at the bubbles in the sink), he’ll finally begin to wash, giving his brother something to dry. 

“In the midst of such monotony, one of them will peer out the window, noting the passage of a squirrel.  Dishes forgotten, they’ll rocket into the back room, tracking the squirrel through the window.  Seeing that he’s burying acorns under the tree, they rush outside as their parents doze, unaware.

Jesus smiled

It's been nearly two years since it arrived, tucked quietly in my inbox that morning as I was booting up, preparing for the day's work.  There it was, an email from an uncle in Kansas.  My cousin, Twila, had been suffering numerous physical challenges in recent months and years and had recently undergone surgery on her thumb.

Twila is a woman who has lived with a mental disability all of her life.  She is a faithful letter writer, according to my mother, and in letters of hers that I've read in the past, I recall her encouraging us to live for Jesus and to stay the course.

What Twila was facing that February day was much more difficult, even, than the thumb surgery.  She was preparing to have a mastectomy due to some precancerous cells that the doctors had found.

Here is what her father (my Uncle Willis) wrote that day:  "Just a brief note this morning.  Twila came upstairs this morning all smiles. She said last night Jesus came and sat on her bed and smiled at her and she smiled back.

"Sometimes God goes the second mile to assure us of His presence."

Thinking of this all these months later, I'm reminded of the viewing that we attended on Saturday last.  There at the end of the line of family members was a well-loved pastor who'd finished his race here.  This kind, gentle man had preached many a sermon in his trademark down-to-earth style, using stories that drew us in and made it easy to listen.

I'd taught school with him for one year, too, and had shared many teacher meetings around that eight-foot table.  Looking at his picture, I could hear once more his chuckle.  Could see the kindness in his eyes as he spoke.

The last time I saw him alive, he'd been in a motorized wheelchair at the grocery store.  Now, his body, the shell that had housed the "real" him, lay in state, no longer constricting, constraining, or binding the spirit of this one whom God loved.

So happy, so glad that he was running free, flying high, rejoicing with Christ and those who'd gone before, my heart lifted.  "Thank you, Lord," I prayed there before his casket.  "Thank you for his life and the difference it made."

What a Christmas Pastor Miller (Floyd to us) is having!  What a celebration must be under way for another faithful servant who has made it home and has received - in person - Jesus' smile.

Let's finish strong, you and I, knowing that we live in the light of His smile.  And one day we, too, shall see it for ourselves with eyes new and clear.

Rejoicing,

Rhonda

Untangling the tinsel

It was a sage piece of advice.  Tucked in amongst others of its kind there at the coffee shop, I grinned when I read the small, wooden sign.  "Don't get your tinsel in a tangle," it said.

Tangle, huh?  While I regularly "untangle" there in that place with the aroma of fresh-ground beans, the lights in greenery twining, and Christmas music tinkling in the air, I knew just how fast it all got tangled up again upon entering real life back at the house.

With stocking stuffers to buy, a column deadline looming, Christmas programs galore, and an upcoming trip, it could tangle straight into knots, and quick.  The proverbial tinsel snarls, spirits fray, and there goes the joy, right past the stockings that hang on the bookcase and out the window.

Ensconced in my favorite "untangle spot" this morning, the corner table by the window, my thoughts turned toward Christmas and what this one smallish mother, wife, transcriptionist, and writer loves about this magical time of year.  And a list began to form...

1.  Its beauty unique.  Period.  The greens that speak "life."  The lights that mirror the Light of the World.  The decorations in the stores.
2.  Its sounds - Celine Dion and her matchless voice.  Andy Williams crooning the classics.  Handel's Messiah sung by a choir that makes me want to weep.
3.  Finding exactly the right thing...on sale!
4.  Counting with Someone Small, tracking how many nights we have to sleep in our jammies.
5.  My mother's caramel candy that is, as Dad says, like gasoline - it evaporates.
6.  Laughing like hyenas over a certain game our families play with inside jokes that only we would "get."
7.  Staying in PJs way too long and watching movies back to back to back; slipping out of the wrinkled ones long enough to slide into a fresh set.  (There should be a federal law mandating this.)
8.  The annual Subway platter for the annual slumber(less) party with the boys.
9.  The smell of a fresh Christmas tree that can't be captured, bottled, and sprayed to make a fake one seem real.

Even as I think over these things, I can feel it, joy returning, twining like gossamer ribbons through my heart and mind.  I recall the comfort of sipping fresh, hot soup, lights twinkling on the Christmas tree just earlier this week; remember those transient, happy moments where peace reigned, if not in the world, then around our table.

From Cousin Sara comes a fabulous recipe for Creamy Wild Rice soup, which The Mister and I love and Boy Three ranked just above "red" chili soup, but just under white chili and taco soups.

1 med. onion, chopped
2 celery ribs, diced
2 carrots, diced
2 c. cooked turkey or chicken
2 c. cooked wild rice
1/2 c. butter
1/2 c. flour
4 c. chicken broth
2 c. half-and-half
1 t. parsley
1/2 t. salt
1/4 t. pepper

Cook vegetables.  Melt butter in pot and stir flour into it.  Add broth; stir until thickened.  Add meat, rice, vegetables, half-and-half, and seasonings.  Savor the peace and quiet that falls, taking pictures if desired to preserve the moment for posterity.

Merry Christmas!

What a trip like that can do, Part Two

And he's back.  As promised, Boy Two (a.k.a. Kid Kaboom), one of our two seniors, is in the house today.

It was a mission trip to the Dominican Republic this summer that impacted his life.  He'd loved the country, loved the people, loved living on the edge and having new experiences that made his mother cry, "It's good I didn't know!"

Mr. Energy, He Who Jumps From Cliffs Into Small Pools Far Below, is home.  He still talks about the country and the people - a lot, plotting and planning, looking for ways to go back and visit the place he fell in love with.

If you didn't catch the first half of the letter he wrote to his supporters when he returned, click here.  Today, I share the second and final installment.  Here he is, now, in his own words:

"While we were there we focused mainly on the spiritual needs instead of the physical needs, which weren’t as many as we really thought there would be. For six out of the ten days we spent large amounts of our time doing VBS. We split up into three different groups and went to three different churches; Guanabano, Oyo Grande, and Naranjel. My group went to Oyo Grande, the second biggest church. One day Ramiro, a man who helps at the church, took us down to a river that flowed down from the mountains. Us and the Dominicans then started jumping off of a 20-25 foot cliff into the river. It was an experience!

We also, as an entire group, helped bring three people to Christ. We also prayed over a man who was sick and needed a blood transfusion. His family tried asking us, since they think we are all rich,  for $600 to send some of his blood to the states to be tested. Knowing we probably didn’t have that much, we prayed over him instead and he was healed! He was one of the people we led to Christ.

Towards the end of our trip, we spent about two and a half days at a resort in the mountains to debrief. It was so we could better learn how to take what we had learned home with us. We then drove up further into the mountains and went swimming in a river with a waterfall. We swam under the waterfall and jumped off a 25-30 foot cliff right beside it. It was awesome! It was a nice ending to our trip. I hope that you now have an idea of what our trip was like and what you contributed to. Once again, do not hesitate to ask me more about my trip. There is much that has been left unsaid. Thank you again for your generosity and prayers. May God bless you ten times the amount that you have blessed me.

Appreciatively, 

Jamison