Pelted by a Krispy Kreme

The other week I was shopping at a local discount food store and I was in line, struggling with some major sinus/allergy symptoms that were making my left eye water constantly. This led, of course, to a constant need for facial tissues and made me look half drugged.

I guess I must have looked extra pathetic because as I stepped up to the rolling belt to unload my cart, a Harley Davidson looking dude stepped up and said, "I paid $50 toward your groceries." After giving me a hug and wishing me a Merry Christmas, I stood dumbfounded and wanting to tell him there were others who actually needed the money...I am just so cheap I shop at Aldi's because I can! But alas, he was out the door loading his groceries into a beat up minivan.

Made me realize that goodness comes from unlikely places...not the wealthy, well-dressed people who actually HAVE money but the ones who know what it is like to be down and out.

I read a book once called "Under the Overpass" that was an experiment by two college age guys. They decided to live as the homeless do for 90 days in at least three different US cities and see how they were treated. As I read the book, I recognized myself in some of the people who barely give the homeless a glance. My criteria for giving to the homeless had been that they had to be missing an appendage (I know...I'm deeply spiritual).

As I am reading this book, and these two homeless guys are describing being asked to leave a church picnic they walked up to and about the non-believers who took them in and let them shower...I felt REALLY convicted and that, given the chance, I would be more compassionate. The book cautioned that there are a lot of homeless people who are addicted to drugs and alcohol and therefore, if you want to give them something, give granola bars or water or at the very least, a warm smile and a word of acknowledgement.

My opportunity came outside the local Walgreens as I saw a homeless man all dressed in black on a sweltering day. He was sitting on the ground, leaning back against the replacement propane tank case and watching everyone with hatred. I went inside and decided that a nice bottle of cold water would be best. I paid and went outside, confident that I was now being Jesus' "hands and feet". Only when I smiled, said hello, and gave him a bottle of water, he yelled at me, "THAT'S NOT WHAT I WANT!" and went off in a tangent that would make a sailor blush. I scurried to my car, disheartened that my first attempts at homeless benevolence were thrown back in my face.

Until I called Erin. Remember, she had read the same book and had the same convicting spirit. She told me she was in Nashville and tried to give a homeless man a donut...and he threw it at her. Perhaps from now on, we will be giving out marshmallows to the homeless!

Going Under the Knife

Our moment of excitement this past week was Elisabeth - who I will now refer to as Eli from here on out...mostly do to sheer laziness in not wanting to type her full name - and her surgery. She was born with an umbilical hernia which normally goes away as a child grows, only hers must have been fairly substantial at birth because at age 7, she still had a bulge around her belly button. We visited with her peds surgeon a couple of months back and she recommended we go ahead and have the surgery done.

So off we went to sign in for surgery. Eli was quite delighted to find out she would have an "innie" after she was done - she turned to me and said, "Just like you, Mom!". Yes, well, praise God for the little things, I guess. She was very intrigued about how she was going to be "put to sleep" and I explained to her it wasn't like animals being put to sleep (I'm sure the State would have something to say about that!) but rather, she would breath into a little mask and next thing she knew, she would be waking up and it would be over.

Eli was given a pair of little blue scrub shorts and top and some yellow slipper socks with VERY grippy bottoms. She was allowed to bring a blanket and stuffed animal and luckily I packed her Leapster because her surgery was delayed three hours.

Finally, the surgical nurse came to wheel Eli back...she looked rather forlornly at me as she went around the corner, out of sight. The surgery unit has a pager system now and you are assigned a code so you can tell what stage your child's surgery is in. 45 minutes later, I was called into the recovery room where a very groggy and weepy Eli was just coming to. She winced and told me, "Mom, I didn't know it was going to hurt THIS bad!".

For the next 90 minutes, she fought to wake up and the nurses worked on managing her pain. She was able to transfer to a second stage recovery and lay against me as we rocked and I sang songs from past Andy Griffith shows (I know...I am so deeply spiritual). I must admit...her sitting still long enough for me to rock her has well, never happened. I rather liked the post-anesthesia Eli...but the nurses denied my request to leave the IV in and send me home with some extra IV drips of sedatives. Spoil sports!

So Eli took a couple days to be able to stand upright and still needs help dressing and sitting up. She is back at school today but is unable to participate in any physical activity. She also walks hunched over like a little old lady. Someday, though, when she wants to sport a 2-piece swimming suit or even become pregnant, she'll be glad she went through all the pain now.

Unicorns Eat Peaches

No, I haven't been sniffing glue in my household...my weird title for this post comes from a statement uttered very matter-of-factly by Kate when we were on our way to church. Husband and I shot each other confused glances wondering if we should follow up or just let that statement lay...we couldn't resist. Kate went on to inform us that she had a dream last night about unicorns and they were eating peaches.

She remembers her dreams long after she wakes up...like the one about bears chasing her. She wouldn't sleep with her stuffed bear for weeks after that.

I can commiserate on the weird dream thing...but I usually have to consciously try to remember mine right after I wake up. Like earlier this week, I dreamt I was in a play and while on stage, I realized I had not bothered to memorize my lines. I was trying to discretely hide my playbook behind props but was failing miserably.

Then last night I dreamt I was in high school during homecoming week and the theme was 70s disco...so we were all grooving out to "Stayin' Alive" only I had a "cast" of sorts on my foot/leg that resembled my drink koozy (sp?) or whatever you call that squishy thing that keeps your drink cold. And someone I hadn't thought of in 12 years showed up in the dream. Just randomly.

My recurring dream is that I am nearing finals week in college only to re-check my class schedule and realize I had enrolled in a class that I had NEVER attended or done homework for...so I would have to cram all that homework plus a final in in order to graduate. I wake up in a cold sweat.

Husband thinks I am not quite right to be having all these weird dreams. He also has never experienced sleep paralysis where you are mostly asleep but you swear you can hear someone coming into your house or talking to you but when you try to answer or move, you find out that you are totally paralyzed. You try to scream but it comes out as a "meep" and you have to force all your concentration to move one tiny finger...until suddenly, the "spell" breaks and you can move again. It is SO frightening...and evidently genetic as my brother suffers from it, too.

So that's my weird confessions of the day...I'd be interested to know your strangest or recurring dream...I'll give a packet of Unisom to the winner!

Elisabeth the Elementary Evangelist

We were riding in the car yesterday on our way to piano lessons when Elisabeth pipes up.

"Mom, in Sunday school my teacher said if we know someone who doesn't know about God, we should tell them. So this kid (I just call him E) in my class doesn't go to church and he doesn't know ANYTHING about God so I told him that God is a good person. Well, he's not really a person. He's a Holy Ghost. Does He help bad people, Mom?"

I explain to her that God loves everyone and wants all people to follow Him, even the bad people.

"Yeah," she continues, "I told him that he helps good people and sometimes he helps bad people. And when we were in the library, I told him that I would give him a Bible and he said he would like to know more about God. I think I'll give him one of my Bibles but not the one the dogs, um, chewed the cover off of." (a few weeks back she left the minibus door open and the dogs had a chew fest...including the cover off her "Eager Reader" Bible).

Now, you may be thinking that I have done a great job as a parent in teaching them about God but that would be a big fat lie. If I am supposed to lead by example, it's not so much happening. I am crabby far too often. I went a whole week without even cracking open my Bible once...and didn't even realize it until it was Saturday night - you know the time when you get a double dose of conscience about the fact that you'll be standing before God in Sunday worship in less than 12 hours. Most my prayers consist of "Lord, I'm a mess. HELP!"

You may also think that I am somehow modeling how to boldly share the Gospel but in fact, I'm a big chicken about sharing something so dear to me. I know all the cliches about how holding the Truth and not sharing is like having the antidote to cancer and not sharing and have heard all the flowery Jesus speak but I remember how people who didn't even know me used to say things to me before I came to Christ and it honestly didn't stir me in the least...it was when people who didn't say a word to me but showed they loved me unconditionally would do things they didn't even realize they were doing...that's when God spoke the loudest.

I'm not the one to turn to my seatmate in an airplane and start expounding on the Word. I wish I was...I sometimes pray for bravery which may seem odd since I am such a Type A bulldog in the other areas of my life. Often times opportunities pass me by as I am sitting in consternation about what to say to someone I know needs to hear the truth.

And then I have a seven-year-old who just plows on ahead...no pretention...no hesitation...just honesty and forthrightness as only a spastic 2nd grade squirrel can produce. Now I know why God says to let the little children come to Him. They are WAY easier to mold then us fretting, stewing, spineless yet stubborn adults!

Following the Machete-Wielding Man

Husband and I just got back from some very random adventures in what I call "Hidden Mexico". Yeah, most of you lacking imagination go to beach areas like Puerto Vallerta or Cancun. Where do Husband and I end up?

Following a machete-wielding man into a tropical forest to find the source of a river. And we had to drive through a sugar cane field to even find machete man.

The vacation didn't start out so hair-raising. We took my sister Erin's advice and joined her on a trip to Zacatecas, the highest elevation in Mexico. It's about six hours in from the border and is a colonial city with amazing colors, fanastic old monastery ruins, a silver mine, and the never-ending mariachi tribute to Pepe Aguilar (evidently the Mexicans version of Elvis Presley in terms of adoring fans and fame).

From there, I told Erin I wanted to see the waterfalls that were in the pictures she had posted on Facebook earlier this year. The photos were phenomenal - like my version of Paradise on Earth. So off we trek on another three hour journey to a town called El Naranjo (The Orange Tree). From there we see El Meco (the biggest waterfall) and then my favorite Cascada Minas Viejas (Old Mines Waterfall).

The name is very unimaginative. It should be called PURELY FANTASTIC FALLS! The pictures don't do it justice. This fantastic place is hidden in the middle of a sugar cane field...literally we are driving on a dirt path between the high sugar cane to find the entrance - which is unmanned currently because the two men that work there are laying a stone path down to the falls.

Erin is intrigued about the source of these waterfalls and her friend Ericka asks the men about where it begins. They tell her that the river just "comes up out of the earth" and that the source is about 4 KM then another 20 minute hike through the woods to get there. That doesn't sound so far so we decide to go see it. The man (and his machete) climbs in our SUV and directs us through several more sugar cane fields, past a burro and several horses tied to banana trees, and into a spot on the edge of a large pasture.

This is probably not our best plan but off we go, dodging large piles of horse dung and enter the tropical forest behind Machete Man.

We soon learn that time and distance are fuzzy concepts in the Latin World. 90 minutes later we come to another cool waterfall - definitely worth seeing - but still nowhere near the source. In fact, Machete Man looks a bit sheepish and tells us its another 250 meters further (which is the same figure he has been telling us for the last 90 minutes).

We decide that was far enough. We head back to the vehicle (and are very thankful it was still there) and head off to the Hacienda Santa Engracia another three hours away. This fanastic property once owned by Juan Martinez has original furnishings from 300 years ago, it's own private chapel, and fantastic woodwork.

Thankfully, with Erin to interpret, we were able to see some amazing parts of Mexico that even most Mexicans don't know about. Here's to random side trails in life that change you forever. I plan to go back down to the falls when it's warm enough to swim and stay there until the Machete Man chases me out!

Training up the Squirrels

On November 8th - which just happened to be Orphan Sunday - we dedicated our squirrely girls to the Lord. I was not raised in a church that did a dedication service and always assumed it was some sort of infant christening or baptism but instead, it is a promise that parents make to raise their children according to God's precepts. In return, the church body promises to support parents in their endeavors to "train up a child in the way he (or in this case SHE) must go so when [they] are old, [they] will not depart from it".

We did our best to explain to the girls what this ceremony meant. We asked them what it meant to be dedicated and what it meant to be raised according to God's Word. They threw out several things like "It means...we don't lie, we don't kick each other, we don't be mean, we obey our mom and dad."

How do I tell them it means so much more than that? How do I explain God's grace? The presence of the Holy Spirit? The sense of overwhelming peace? The prophesies of God fulfilled over and over again? When I think about the vast ability I have to completely screw up my child, I wonder how anyone can parent without the Word of God. I already know my kids will need therapy after having me as a mother. If they A) make it to adulthood and B) turn out halfway decent, you will ALL KNOW beyond a shadow of a doubt that God listened on the day of their dedication and gave us above what we could ask or imagine.

(Photos courtesy of Heather S.)

Post-Traumatic Butt Disorder

I have been receiving several emails about the upcoming Des Moines Register's Annual Great Bike Ride Across Iowa (or RAGBRAI - as we former Iowegians know it) and the are causing some post-traumatic butt disorder for me...what is this medical phenomenon, you ask? Let me 'splain...

Three years ago, I get a call from the CEO of my company...he was all excited because the town in which our company is located was named as the starting point of RAGBRAI for that year and he felt we need to "represent" by having a company team. In a moment of weakness, my head opened up, my brains fell out, and I said, "Why not?"

RAGBRAI, for those who don't know, is the longest running pleasure bike ride in the U.S. It starts at a town along the Missouri River on the western end of Iowa, and through a series of day long rides (ranging from 65 to 100 miles per day), you wind up on the eastern half of Iowa at a town along the Mississippi River.

The term "pleasure ride" is seriously misleading, as I have first hand (or first butt) knowledge of just how unpleasurable it is to bike 500 miles in 7 days, particularly to the exercise haters of the world, of which I am a charter member. There are 10,000 registered riders and at least another 10,000 riders that don't register but add their bike to the gleaming metal miles long pack each day. The only benefit to registering, I guess, is that you get a bike shirt and a wrist band which allows you access to the "Saggin' Wagon" each day should the ride become impossible.

This 7 week ride is filled with major bike enthusiasts - some of which started months back all the way on the West Coast and coincide their arrival just in time to start RAGBRAI. New riders for the year are marked as "Virgin" with black oil paint on their left lower leg. There are all sorts of costumes, such as RAGBRAI brides (they wear a wedding headpiece to show they met their spouse on RAGBRAI), the team dressed as Holstein cows, Santa and his elves, and various and sundry other characters. Some groups are a part of massive teams, such as the US Air Force and LiveStrong. Since Lance Armstrong has been joining the rides, the throngs of people riding and watching has significantly increased.

My team was comprised of my co-workers and their families - none of which are avid cyclists. We had secured an RV for the trip and another tent for the overflow. We had also set up host families to stay with each night - most of which provided some food and access to a bathroom. I had borrowed a bike from major cycling enthusiast friend of mine who told me I needed a "road bike" versus the mountain bike I had planned to take. I had to figure out how to use bike clips without falling over and became intimately familiar with a product called "Chamois Butter" which is the adult version of a diaper cream. I never knew underwear and biking shorts were incompatible so I guess these teeming throngs of bikers were the largest contingent of Commandos on the road at any one time.

The towns we passed through spared no expense in welcoming the bikers...and where else would you be eating pie and rib eye sandwiches at 9:00 in the morning? I guess the underlying reason for me signing up for the trip was weight loss but to be honest, after 500 miles, I had only lost 3 lbs. I think that if that isn't cause for depression, I'm not sure what else is!

From all of this, I learned that A) Iowa has the friendliest people on earth B) biking through hog smells is enough to make me not move back to Iowa C) if you can push through the third day of biking, you bum goes numb from there on out and D) people can still bike when they are extremely intoxicated (I don't have first hand knowledge of this but certainly, on RAGBRAI, there are several who frequent the beer tents until closing time and still manage to bike 87 miles).

People along the trip asked me if I had caught the "biking fever" to which I emphatically replied "Nope!" and then they looked like I had just told them their baby was ugly. I think this is one item on my bucket list that I can cross off and say, "Been there, done that, have the biking shirt to prove it." Now, if I can only get the RAGBRAI commission to respond to my "unsubscribe" requests to their many email invitations to join this year's ride...