Easter Service, Part II

Easter Service, Part I

An interactive, wee-hours-of-the-morning post

Of course I should be sleeping. What kind of silly question is that?

It might be the cookies laced with espresso powder. It might be the three hour nap I took today. It might be the fact that I'm excited about Easter and church and Easter baskets and bacon onion quiche.

Whatever the reason, I just can't seem to sleep.

So I got to thinking. What if I were sitting here, and I realized that my computer screen was in desperate need of a cleaning, so I grabbed a washcloth from the kitchen and gave the screen a good wipe-down, when, suddenly, a genie--who looks suspiciously like Bernadette Peters--rises up from my monitor and speaks.

"You have awoken the Genie of the Monitor. I am here to make all of your wildest dreams come true! Close your eyes and sing, "All My Lovin'" and then make three wishes. If I like them, I'll grant them to you. If I don't like them, you have to come up with three more."

Well, what would *you* do? After that, I mean!

I'd close my eyes and start singin', buddy, and then I'd give three wishes.

I'd wish for perfect healthy for my family and me.

I'd wish for an endless supply of money so that I could be debt-free, and so could all of my friends, and I could give to everyone who was in need.

I'd wish for all of the difficult people in my life to realize how much pain they've caused me and come to me with sincere apologies, which, of course, I would accept with grace now that all of my problems are solved.

Now, you pretend you're Bernadette Peters, the Monitor Genie. Were my wishes good enough?

Stream of Consciousness Whilst Avoiding Work

Everyone is asleep except me, the dogs, the chickens, the cats, and the pigs.
I'm not sure what I want to do with my day.
I have a hankerin' for a good thrift-store visit and maybe a movie.
I should make potato soup.
I should have a tea party with the girls.
The chives are up. It's officially spring.
I'm looking forward to gardening this year, but I'm not looking forward to the work.
Someone needs to fence in the garden so the pig can till it up.
I'm glad for the pig.
It's cold out today.
It's too cold to put up a fence around the garden.
It's not too cold to do laundry.
Darn.
I need to go running again. I haven't been for almost a year.
That's terribly depressing.
I'm glad for other things, though.
I'm glad for Bard's scholarship.
I'm glad for a church family.
I'm glad for my iMac.
I'm glad for food in the fridge.
I wish I had more money.
But I'm not glad for wishing I had more money.
I'm glad today's Saturday and there are no outside plans.
I'm not glad that that means I have a whole day to do the cleaning projects I've been putting off.
I didn't put up my Easter decorations this year.
I don't really want to put up my Easter decorations this year.
I should put up my Easter decorations this year.
But then, I'll just have to take them down again.
Laundry always inspires me. Not that I *want* to do laundry, but that once I get it going, I feel like doing other things. That makes me productive.
I've been dealing with a lot of depression lately.
Wish I could overcome that.
I think it's caused by too much time on the computer.
I don't want to give up my computer.
It's a vicious cycle, isn't it?
I should be knitting more.
I should learn to sew.
I'm glad I filled my birdfeeders.
I need another birdfeeder.
Why do I always need "more?"
Human nature, I guess.
The neighbors are moving to New Zealand.
It's interesting to me that they're moving as far away from us as they possibly can.
I should be a better neighbor.
The rooster is crowing.
I need to take some of our livestock to auction.
I don't want to go another year with goats eating my garden.
That was extremely depressing, goats eating my garden.
I won't be working at the greenhouse this year.
Is that a good thing or a bad thing?
When I worked, I knew my time was limited, so I used it all as efficiently as I could.
When I worked, I never felt like I had time to *really* clean my house.
Now that I'm not working, I feel like I have all the time in the world to clean my house.
So I can do it later.
So I don't do it.
Ugh.
It would be better if the weather weren't so gray.
But then I'd have both the indoor work *and* the outdoor work to do.
I should clean the windows.
Anyone want a female Jack Russell Terrier who isn't fully housetrained?
Me neither.
My stomach is growling.
It's time to make soup.

::: of god and gas cans :::

My friend Catherine reminded me that I hadn't told my sappy, almost-unbelievable miracle story. Actually, she and her mom have reminded me repeatedly. And on Tuesday, I promised her that I'd have it up the next day.

Guess what I didn't do?

Better really, really late than never ever.

So here's my tale...

In early November, a silly mother named Thicket Dweller was fighting with her checkbook. It seemed that no matter how she counted her pennies, there wasn't enough to go around. There was always a washing machine breaking down, or a car tire going flat, or a surprise expense of some sort that would zap her budget. But she knew that she needed to get very busy thanking God for what she did have, because there was always food available, and her children were healthy, and she lived in a beautiful farmhouse on the top of the loveliest hill in all the county. But, even so, she was feeling sad because Thanksgiving was coming, and she had just used all of her spendable money on real estate taxes. That was another reason to thank God! Just a month before, she had been certain that they would not be able to pay those taxes, but through the intervention of God and the kindness of others, that bill had been paid. Even still, as is the nature of Thicket Dweller, she was a pitiful soul, feeling sorry for herself because she knew that her kids were really looking forward to a Thanksgiving feast, and, as we all know, Christmas comes right on the heels of November.

Thicket Dweller knew that her regular grocery budget would never cover the extra groceries that her family's traditional Thanksgiving would require, and it certainly wouldn't cover the upcoming Christmas tradition. Even if she did what she'd done in past years, which was scour the thrift and used bookstores for appropriate gifts for her children, buy nothing for her husband and extended family, and make cookies or candies for neighbors, she knew that she wouldn't be able to stretch this budget far enough to buy a real tree or purchase the new Christmas Eve pajamas her children had become accustomed to opening. She might not even be able to hit the thrift stores.

It was Wednesday morning when her husband told her that the decision for the week would be to pay the mortgage or buy groceries. She knew that paying the mortgage was the right thing to do, the necessary thing, but she didn't feel like baking bread and eating rice all week. What's more, she had volunteered to teach a women's history class for her local homeschool group on Wednesday, and the needle on her gas tank was teetering just below the "empty" line. The gas for her vehicle usually came from the grocery budget. If she could scrounge up enough change, she might be able to make it to the closest gas station. So, with her syllabus in hand and her head hanging a bit lower than usual, she made her way to the car, knowing that just having a vehicle was a privilege.

Thicket Dweller's the sort who always runs herself short of time. One more phone call. One more load of laundry. One more check of the e-mail. And then there would be something she couldn't have expected. A flat tire. A broken tie rod. A sick or inconsolable child. And then, she would find herself panicked and hurried, certain that someone would be waiting for her angrily, deeming her irresponsible or thoughtless. This Wednesday was no exception, for she had taken the phone call of a friend who was feeling very down. They talked for a while, and Thicket Dweller tried hard not to watch the clock as her friend told her that she had a box for her waiting in her garage. Could she pick it up today? While Thicket Dweller loved her friend dearly and so wanted to stop and see her, she knew that she wouldn't have time. But she said she'd try, hurriedly hung up the phone, and raced to the car, cringing as she watched the gas needle barely quiver forward as she started the engine. She found herself fighting against the temptation to go just a teensy weensy bit above the speed limit. But knowing that she had only a handful of change, and knowing that the faster she would drive, the more gas her car would consume, she had just enough incentive to keep her commitment to driving the speed limit.

As she rolled into the parking lot of the closest station, she couldn't believe her eyes. All of the guns were covered with ghostly white plastic bags, and the sign above the station stood void of numbers. No gas. Now what? The closest station from here was beyond the history class site! And she surely didn't have enough gas to get to that station, anyway!

With no cell phone to call home, she decided she would just make her way to class and pray that God would see her there safely. Once there, maybe she could find someone to run her to a station to fill up a gas can. And so, she eased out of the parking lot and crept along the road towards the classes.

As she climbed the hill a half-mile before the class site, she remembered the conversation she'd had that morning with her friend who had asked her to please stop by. She had a box of things for Thicket Dweller that she would leave in the garage, some garden seeds and books she no longer needed. The house was right there, directly on her route to classes. Thicket Dweller knew that she should stop, but she was feeling rushed and stressed, so she told herself she'd stop later. This decision just didn't settle with her, and she tried to justify why she should keep moving. She would be late for class. If she ran out of gas, and her friend wasn't home, she'd be stuck there with no phone and no way to let her students or husband know she was stranded. If her friend was home, she might get into a meaningful conversation and run herself even later.

But no matter what she told herself, she couldn't agree. Reluctantly, she found herself turning the steering wheel and swinging into the friend's drive; her only comfort was believing that she was obeying something she couldn't see. What she could see was that there were no cars sitting there; her friend was not home.

Just as her car pulled fully into the drive, it sputtered. Out of gas. She was able to coax the car just a few more feet before it refused to move another inch. She let her head drop back against the seat and closed her eyes in disbelief and defeat.

Not knowing what else to do, she opened the door of the car and swung her feet out. There, beside her feet, was a five-gallon gas can. She could hardly believe her eyes. She rushed to the can and lifted it. Yes! It was heavy with gas! Knowing that her friend would offer her the gas if she were home, Thicket Dweller put some of it in her tank, listening with amazement to the glug, glug, glug that the fluid made as it left the can.

Oh yeah, she thought, I need to get that box she has for me. There it was, in front of the garage, a box full of beautiful books, a gift for her soul. Here was one on Tasha Tudor's garden, and here was another on herbs, and yet another on edible flowers. It was like her friend knew that she needed a bit of spoiling, that he heart was dragging a bit and needed to be lifted. On the top sat a bundle of garden seeds that she would gladly plant the following Spring, and, on top of that, an envelope. Likely a card or a note explaining what the seeds were, why she was giving her the books.

Thicket Dweller carried the box to the car and climbed in. How good God is, she thought, that He knew just what I needed today! Even as she said it, she knew how sappy it sounded. But it was so true!

Starting the car, she coasted to the bottom of the drive. The traffic was heavy, so she sat waiting, knowing that even though her class would be starting very soon, it would all be okay. She could be patient. She could wait.

The envelope sat on the top of the box, inviting her to open it, so she put the car in park and ran her finger along the inside seam of the flap, exposing the note inside.

Along with a bundle of cash.

Thicket Dweller could not believe her eyes. She checked the front of the envelope. Yes, it had her name on it. Tearing open the card, she read the note from her friend, explaining that she had found this money in a dresser drawer while doing some cleaning, money she had forgotten was there, and felt compelled to give it to Thicket Dweller. A Christmas gift, she wrote. Buy some nice dishes, the note said. Buy something nice for yourself and a gift for each of the kids, it said. Pulling the money from the envelope, she counted.

There was enough there for the mortgage. There was enough for groceries. There was enough for a tankful of gas.

Thicket threw her head back and cried out loud. "God, why? What have I done to deserve this?" Tears sprung from her eyes, and soon she was sobbing uncontrollably, crying out, "I don't deserve you! I don't deserve this!"

And she was right. She had done nothing to deserve it.

The truth was that her friend loved and obeyed God, and that God was very, very good. It wasn't a reward. It wasn't payment. It was a gift.

So, Catherine, there's the story. I know it took me a long time to write it, and I didn't do it justice, but I know that God's timing is perfect, and that this is a story someone needed to read today.

Productive Inanity

So, we were trying to come up with a good way to raise awareness and money to fight world hunger. We thought of some pretty interesting ways to do that, like painting an old beater with the words "hunger" and "poverty" and charging $5 per swing of the sledge hammer to destroy the problems. We thought about doing the old standard and having each person find sponsors for the 30 Hour Famine. But the one that stuck, for some crazy reason, was the making of a paper chain.

Yep. A paper chain. You remember those, right? Like the ones we used to make in elementary school when we were counting down the end of the school year, or the days until Christmas, or a way to decorate a Christmas tree for next to nothing.

But this paper chain is different. It might help to feed the world.

See, what we decided to do--and when I say "we," I mean our very tiny youth group composed of four members, a couple of guests, and Bo and I as sponsors--was to create a paper chain with each link representing one child who dies of hunger and hunger-related issues every day. The finished chain would then be displayed around the church, and the links would be sold for .25 each with all the money going directly to WorldVision to help eliminate hunger in the world.

Do you have any idea how many links that would be? Do you know how many children die *every day* of hunger-related issues?

Can you imagine making a paper chain with 29,000 links?

Not 2,900. Twenty. Nine. Thousand.

Since January, we have been plugging away on these paper chains. People from the community as well as from our small church have been working together to put together the huge chain which we will reveal on March 20th as part of our youth service. Yesterday, we met with residents of a local retirement community and completed the last 1,700 links.

Our project has just begun, because now we have to sell the chains. Some say we should sell them for 25 cents, and others, who are more realistic, are suggesting 10 cents each.

I thought that this was a unique idea, making a 29,000 link paper chain to raise awareness of world hunger, but it's not. I found that there are other groups doing this and other paper chain fundraisers here and here and here.

It's also pretty cool that we've had local newspapers do feature pieces on the project, and that several members of our church have pitched in to help, which has given us a chance to get to know them.

It seems like a silly thing, this huge chain of brightly colored recycled paper, but it has really helped us to think about world hunger, to help others realize what a big deal it is, and to build some relationships along the way.

Who told you that?

I feel like redecorating a room. I feel like painting a wall with whimsical characters. I feel like hand-sewing something. I want to open a toy store or a chocolate shop or a magical book store. I'm uplifted. Inspired. Creatively charged.

The last time, it was kind of an accident. A whim really. It was Monday, and Monday is fifty cent movie day. If you can take a boatload of kids to a theater and pay $3.50, you go if there's something worth seeing, you know?

And, while I had really, really, really wanted to see Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium the first time I saw the trailer in the movie theater, the whispering critics changed my fickle mind. I don't even remember how it seeped into my brain that this movie was a dud. I just, Idunno, heard it somewhere. Probably like people had heard that The Wizard of Oz was a dud. Or The Princess Bride. I can't recall reading it anywhere, or even having a conversation about it, but I know I had a negative feeling about Mr. Magorium's, so I steered clear.

Fortunately for me and my tight fist, I got a second chance when Mr. Magorium's was on at the cheap theater that day. And, what was especially intriguing to me, that it was rated G. A cheap family date and I wouldn't leave the theater regretting that I'd tainted my children for life with a host of innuendos and potty jokes.

So we gave it a shot.

Everyone, and I mean everyone, from my five-year-old up to my eighteen-year-old, adored the movie. And so did I! I was whisked away by the sparkling innocence and charming quixoticity of it all--the set, the characters, the story. It enchanted me, truly.

Tonight, for family night, we watched it again, and my feelings were the same. Here, at last, was a clean, phantasmagorical film with quirky, quick-witted, capricious dialog and light-hearted humor. Nothing embarrassing. Nothing risque. Just sweet, fun-loving innocence.

Have you seen it? Have you avoided it because you heard it was a Chocolate Factory rip-off, or that Dustin Hoffman presents an annoying Willie Wonka wannabe? Who told you that? Whoever it was, I'd venture to say that those are people who have handed over their innocence, ultimately losing their identities to too many Bourne movies or poisoning their imaginations with the harsh violence and overdone bathroom humor present in the majority of today's films. Mr. Magorium's, while somewhat trite in places, and, admittedly, a bit weak in the ending, nevertheless shares with us the beauty of relationships, the transformation that comes from loving, the unabashed compassion that one human being can have for another, and the novel idea that death is not scary or undesirable, but should be accepted as another stop on our adventure--indeed, even something to celebrate. It shares with us that, in the depths of our souls, there is someone who was born there, someone we can't kick out, someone who is keeping a volume of books recording with meticulousness every moment of our lives. It teaches us that how we love matters, that intergenerational relationships are what make us grow, and that there is no end to the importance of a good pair of shoes.

There are timeless truths here, to be sure.

On Bard's eighteenth birthday, we had lunch at Chic-Fila, and I happened to hear someone at the next table talking about Mr. Magorium's, giving it, as I have, a glowing review. I couldn't stop myself from interjecting and connecting with this kindred spirit.

"I loved it, too," I ventured tentatively. And we shared our favorite parts. She told me how she sat in the theater alone (she'd just turned 50, she said) after doing just what I had done; she'd had a spare afternoon, some loose change, and had found herself at the ticket window of the bargain movie theater.

"I even asked the ticket girl if it was a dumb movie, and she said she didn't know. I figured, 'What the heck? For a couple of quarters, what do I have to lose?' So I went it, and was mesmerized. Smitten! I pulled out my notebook and, there in the dark, tried to jot down all that stuff I wanted to remember. I had a full page by the time it was over!"

Like me, she wondered what had kept her away. "I don't know why I thought it was a flop. I just heard it somewhere. But now, it's one of my favorite movies.

"It really made me think about my life," she said, "and made me ask myself what I'm saving things for. I had a friend who died of cancer a couple of years ago, and before she died, we went through her closet, and she had all these great, fancy clothes. Clothes she'd rarely or never worn! Why? Because she was 'saving them for a special occasion,' she'd said. I thought of that during the movie, when Mr. Magorium says, 'Your life is a an occasion. Rise to it!' That line! I decided that I'd wear my good clothes now, every day. What am I saving them for?"

If you're looking for a clean family film, a departure from the prosaic, something to sweep you away from the proletarian day-to-day, Mr. Magorium's just might be it.

No matter what "they" say.

::: it CAN be done! :::

The call came today in the late afternoon. Sixteen-year-old Houdin answered it, passed the phone to his sister, Bard, who took the tone of someone talking to an important person. After hearing comments like, "You're kidding," and "Oh my gosh!" I knew that something good was coming.

And I was right. I hope I didn't harm the admissions counselor's ears too badly with my scream. A full four-year scholarship to one of Bard's top two choices for college, after all, is worth a bit of a squeal. Just three weeks ago today, she was sitting in a room writing essay, and then answering a series of questions by a panel of professors, and then chatting excitedly about how she thought it went and wondering whether or not the profs liked her.

Apparently they liked her.

It feels so good to know that I made the right educational choice when I decided to be a home-learning family.

She's still waiting on word from her other top college choice. She's still in the running for a full four-year scholarship there, too. She's in the top ten, and will only get an offer if one of the top two declines. But there's still a shot. In the meantime, she has a lot of thinking, reading and comparing to do to decide where she's going to go.

I'm so proud of her.

And, I have to admit, I'm a wee bit proud of me, too.

Women in History

We're nearing the end of another semester of Missionaries, Mothers, Martyrs and Others, a women's history class for homelearners. This is the second year I've taught the class and have really enjoyed it.

It all began with the realization that most of the girls of a homeschool overnighter could name most historical men, but didn't recognize the names of women like Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Jane Goodall and Mary Cassatt.

So I pulled together some resources and made the class available and was pleased when several young ladies signed up. We had great discussions and it was a year of discovery for all of us.

This year, I became more structured and organized, creating a syllabus and assigning weekly oral reports, monthly written reports, and a larger year-end project--an interview of and presentation about a woman they respect. Throughout the year, these girls have taught me about the issues that matter to them, the people who inspire them, and the goals that they dare to set for themselves.

Tonight is our Spring Arts and Science Fair and we're planning to host a Women's History table, which is cool since March is Women's History Month. The girls have a bunch of cool displays prepared, and I'm really looking forward to it.

And I know more about women in history now than I ever have. That's the beauty of learning with your kids...you pick up that stuff that was too boring to care about the first time around, because this time, it matters.

Interview with a Five-Year-Old

Another thing to do with a snow day--interview your five-year-old.

What do you do when you're snowed in?

The Baby said she wanted to go sledding with her dad, but she knew he wouldn't go because he's "too old." Bo said he'd take The Baby sledding, but he thought she was "too young." They proved each other wrong. When they were all done, they came in for some homemade chocolate with fresh whipped cream. Our speech and debate tournament was canceled part-way through, but, even with being completely snowed in today, I've enjoyed the two feet of snow!

Another M. Night Movie!

...and I have to wait until June to see what's Happening!

::: stream of consciousness about getting older :::

I think I'm having an identity crisis.

For so long, I've felt that I was in a stage of life that I could ride on out, and when it was over, I could get on with my life. After I'm done being a mom, I'll be a writer. After I'm done being a daughter, I'll be a lover. After I'm done having babies, I'll lose weight.

But now I find that I'm approaching a stage I wasn't quite prepared to enter into.

Middle age.

And it reminds me that I shouldn't wait. That I need to get right to those things I want to do. I need to write. I need to travel. I need to love more and yell less and be patient more and procrastinate less.

But it also has another effect on me. Futility. I feel so much like the writer of Ecclesiastes. Futile! It's all futile! It will all go up in a puff of smoke! I spend a lot of my time wondering, "Why start now? Your life is half over!" or thinking, "If only I'd done that way back when..."

I hadn't realized how much this would affect me. Why bother running? The body's falling apart anyway. Why bother starting a career? Educating myself? Reaching for goals?

Smoke!

I'm trying to embrace today, struggling to improve, hoping that my best days are still ahead of me.

Do you ever feel this way?