She Thinks Too Much

Food Thoughts 2

2012-02-22T21:57:00.001+02:00

Continued from yesterday...

At the time I was more in shock by their lack of portions than my own portion control. In my mind, I always ate less than the rest of my family---or even the church people (Baptist, not surprisingly I'm sure :) ).

Photo Credit: Stuart Miles

But for some reason, which I've not figured out, I felt the need to hide extra eating. Hiding it was not necessary in our home because everyone ate a lot---it would not have pinged on anyone's radar that I wanted an extra brownie before bed. But I would sneak it.

I never did figure out the hiding thing. Did I not want anyone to see me eat? Was I ashamed of eating too much? I don't know.

While Rolly and I were dating, we each saw the stark contrast of our families (in many, many ways). His family ate very small portions and seemed relaxed when they ate. My family devoured large portions and focused solely on eating. We enjoyed our food, but our focus was not on fellowship around the table; it was all about the food and just how much we could eat.

You know the old joke.... You know why Baptists are so fat? Because every time they pray, they think it's time to eat.

Every bit of fun we had revolved around eating---family holiday dinners, youth group pizza parties, every-fourth-sunday-church-potlucks, etc. Fellowship and food went hand-in-hand.

Then I got married and I began to host family dinners.

I was much more comfortable hosting my side of the family because they always showed up on time with their invisible bib already tied on. They loved my cooking and ate it all, down the last morsel. Whereas, Rolly's family would show up 30 minutes late (with the food getting cold, and me pacing the length of the kitchen) and eat an ounce of turkey, a couple tbsp of potatoes, ten kernels of corn, and a half a biscuit. Sometimes they'd even leave food on their plates.

Honestly, I didn't like the in-laws coming over for any eating other than dessert. Their picking drove me insane! They were kind and complimentary, but their eating habits made me feel all weird.

So I became on oddity to both sides.... my side thought I would waste away if I didn't eat three helpings and his side thought I was a rather hefty eater.

All the while, I was birthing a bunch of babies and holding on to more and more baby weight each time.

Tomorrow (or the next day), I'll tell more of the story...

Some old thoughts on food...

2012-02-21T09:58:00.006+02:00

Usually I like "food for thought", but today I'm going to give you thoughts on food. I wrote this, and the next few blog posts, over a year ago and it still rings true today.

Ready, set, GO!

Photo Credit: Suat Eman

We were an eatin' family!

Even at a young age, any one of us kids could pack away three plates of spaghetti and meatballs, to the apparent satisfaction of our parents, who, on many occasions, would boast about our wonderful appetites. Dad would talk about my older brother, who he described as "husky". He would talk about how that he was a chip off the old block and that he would grow up and be rough and tough and play fabulous football.

Chubby meant healthy.

I didn't really pay it much attention as a child because we were loved the way we were and encouraged to clean our plates and get some more.

So I did.

And then when I could, I would sneak even more than that. Three Oreos after school became 10. A bowl of cereal became three or four.

Yet I managed to stay fairly trim, compared to most of my family. I suppose it was because I was a tom-boy.

Then I met the man of my dreams (Hi, Honey!). He was tall and thin and played baseball like nobody's business. He invited me to his family's home for Sunday dinner.

You know what they ate? Half a "chip chop", three tbsp of mashed potatoes, four green beans, and a half a roll. And then proclaimed themselves full!

Whaaaaaa? No way!

I remember joking with them about their bird feed, to which my then-future-Mother-in-Law replied, "You live to eat, but I eat to live."

More tomorrow...

Gratitude

2012-02-19T11:19:00.002+02:00

31. A trick I learned, which lets me curl my hair with a head band. Ask me about it; I know you wanna know :D

32. Counter tops (how did I live so long without them???!?)

33. Empty laundry baskets

34. Winning a game of Words with Friends

35. Patience

I Love Valentine's Day!

2012-02-14T12:36:00.002+02:00

Photo Credit: Carrie, of She Thinks Too Much

Valentine's Day is wonderful!

Sure, it could be argued that it's a day of gross commercialization, preying on the one constant that everyone craves---LOVE! But, how romantic would that be?!

I'd rather embrace the day.

I love Love Day, but not for the reasons one might expect. It's not just because of the chocolate (and that's saying a lot for this chocoholic). It's not just because of the floral bouquets. It's not just because of the soft lighting and romantic music.

It's because on this One Day a year, I realize that I don't need it. I don't need a grand display of affection.

And the reason I don't need it is because every day is Love Day in our home. We find little ways to show one another how much we care all day, every day. Oh, don't get me wrong, we find enough annoyances to balance out the mush, but we have a strong foundation of love and respect and this is shown in our actions toward one another.

I have spent more Valentine's Days with Rolly than without. And I can honestly say that though I loved him as much as I could back then, I love him more and more as the years go by.

Way to traumatize my kid, stupid!

2012-02-13T20:04:00.002+02:00

It wasn't a nice way to be greeted to the United States last spring. As soon as you made your presence known, you scared my youngest child so badly. We didn't even have a chance to get out of the airport before your awful greeting.

And in every public place, we saw you. You were scary.

And even now, she has not forgotten you. She still asks about you when we go in public.

So, thanks a lot. You traumatized my kid.

Stupid automatic flushing toilets!!!

Photo Credit: Mark Torresin

Gratitude

2012-02-12T20:31:00.001+02:00

26. Ice cream

27. Mayberryopoly

28. Hot shower

29. Minty dental floss

30. Kindle Fire

Blah, blah, blah!

2012-02-09T08:57:00.003+02:00

The weather has been, well, wintery. Don't believe me? Click here.

It has been relatively mild for us, since we have two wood stoves and a supply of wood. We also have a stocked pantry and fridge.

Because of the struggles so many have endured through this, I feel completely juvenile complaining at all. But after being snowed in for the better part of three weeks...

I'm climbing the walls. I need sun. I need to run. I need ice cream. I need to get away from my children. I need to run away. I need to belly laugh, followed by crying a bucket of tears.

Then, mayhaps, I'd get over these blahs. Blah!

BLAH!

Photo Credit: Dan

Grace talk

2012-02-08T14:47:00.001+02:00

"Let your speech be alway with grace..." Colossian 4:6

Um, ouch!

I can't say that my speech is peppered with grace. My thoughts certainly aren't.

See, there are times when I want to call someone a no good pain in the posterior. And, sometimes I do say something similar.

Neither are grace-filled.

I'm sure you'd never say/think anything like that about people, would ya? Hhhmmm?

Photo Credit: Digitalart

The truth is, we don't always think positively of others. But this verse didn't say anything about thinking it... it specifically addresses what we say. Or, rather, how we're supposed to say what we say.

With grace.

I'll be chewing on that the rest of the day...

Pinterest Fun!

2012-02-06T19:40:00.003+02:00

Pinterest! I'm a fan!

However, I've pinned all sorts of things I have neither time, ambition, or space to actually do anything with. But it's sort of like the Sears and Robuck catalogs of old---simply used for window shopping and fantasy.

But... I have done a couple things. Here's a picture of one:


A door we (Dude and I) made to cover the breaker box in the entryway

And another:


A bench Dude made from an old pallet

Now, as much as I love a good Pinterest success story, I really, really love a Pinterest Fail. That's my kind of humor. Click here to see what I'm talkin' 'bout.

Both Pinterest and Pinterest Fails make for all kinds of fun!!

Gratitude

2012-02-05T14:18:00.002+02:00

21. Story ideas

22. Finishing a project

23. Cooperation

24. Communication

25. Rest

Reputations

2012-02-03T18:16:00.001+02:00

Reputations are easily damaged and very difficult to repair.

That's why gossip should be stopped in its tracks.

Stopped.

Photo Credit: David Castillo Dominici

Speaking from experience, I've had all sorts of reputations...

-Bad Girl

I remember this one. I think it had to do with that one year in my teens where I wore a pair of shorts that showed my knees.

-Vindictive

I know how I got this one--it was because of one person's "shared" opinion of me.

-Controlling Wife

I know how I got this one, too. I worked along side my husband, doing manual labor---someone thought I should have been in the house baking cookies, so they "shared" and "joked" about my brawn.

-Mean Mom

Okay, I'll give 'em that one. My kids started it. HA!

Once someone gets a picture in their head of someone, it's difficult, if not impossible, to change it. It would be possible for gossip to convince someone that I am a mean, controlling, vindictive hussy.

And that would damage my reputation. Or, rather, establish a very negative reputation.

That would be unfortunate. If one were to believe such things, they would never get to see the true me.

So, the next time someone starts slamming/mocking/"sharing" about others, shut it right down. I know it's easier said than done, but it's for the best. Those things take root, grow, and destroy.

It's easy to find fault with the church

2012-01-31T19:31:00.000+02:00

Photo Credit: Photostock

She wears white.

She stands adorned in the perfectness of his righteousness. He sees no scars. He sees no mistakes. Only sees his bride. The one He loved with his very life.

She's the church.

He treats her well. The best. Gives abundantly of the depths of his love for her. Sees her through eyes of adoration.

But she's not treated well by others. She's taken for granted. She's forsaken. She's gossiped against. She's abused.

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My husband is very aware of my faults, and he loves me anyway. He--knowing my scars, my fears, my mistakes--He looks at me with such love that sometimes I can't help but look away. I'm undeserving. I accept his love and return it with fervor, knowing and appreciating how much it takes to love one such as I.

As the Bride of Christ, I feel the same way. I'm undeserving. He sees, knows, and loves me anyway.

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The Bride of Christ, the church, has many members... like a body. All fitted together, working together, as a body. We all have different talents, different gifts, different burdens---all for the good of the whole body.

When I was a young teen, I did something fool-hearty and jumped off a large jungle gym. I landed on the side of my foot and something popped so loudly my parents could hear it across the field. The pain in that one localized area affected my whole body. I had to take special care to help my foot heal. I had to compensate for the weakness in that limb, in order to continue daily functions.

The body of believers is no different. When one member is hurting, help needs to be given, no, rushed, to that one.

Wouldn't it have been foolish for me to grab my wounded foot and yell at it? Hit it? Cut it off?

Doing so would have been a detriment to my entire body.

These things ought not be, friends.

Sure, we can easily find faults with the church---I certainly have my own list of complaints---but wouldn't we, as a whole, be bettered by taking extra care to give aid to the wounded? To speak well of one another? To pray for one another?

To see the bride as Jesus sees her----Beautiful. Worthy. Loved.

How shallow is our faith?

2012-01-30T18:53:00.001+02:00

What would it take for your faith to shatter?

It's a thought I'm musing on today.

Gratitude

2012-01-29T12:47:00.001+02:00

16. Neat bookshelves

17. Apple pie

18. Perfecting a recipe

19. Lindor

20. Peace

Because I'm the Mom, that's why!

2012-01-25T17:15:00.003+02:00

I'm sitting in my rocking chair, eating a mini ice cream bar, and wearing a big, bright, green badge that says "Mom!"

Um, everyone knows I'm the Mom. I mean, the yelling and finger wagging alone should be a dead giveaway, no?!

But I wear the badge my child made for me.

Mom.

Looking at the badge, I have many thoughts...

1. What was I thinking becoming a Mom? Oh, my poor children!

2. Why did I have so many kids? Oh, my poor wrinkles and gray hairs.

and

3. I have an extremely important job and I do not take it lightly.

My kids are my life.

Unfortunately, that means for me that I am frequently tired and tend to medicate my anxiety with dark chocolate.

But it also means that I get every chocolate pudding kiss. Every good night hug. Every "I love you, Mommy!"

I also get every "Mom, I feel sick." Every "Moo---oooom, he won't leave me alone!" Every "But why??????"

I get all the good and all the bad. Why? Because I'm their Mom.

Photo Credit: Digitalart

It's my responsibility to be an example for them. To encourage them. To admonish them. To pick them up when they fall--dust them off, clean them up, wipe away the tears, and set them back on their feet. To let them know when they're getting too big for their britches.

Some days I'd rather do something else. Anything else. Some days are certainly trying.

But I'm needed. They need me. And I need them.

I'm the Mom.

My badge says so.

Gratitiude

2012-01-22T19:13:00.001+02:00

11. Gym time

12. Snow days

13. Chicken soup

14. Bean bag chairs

15. Answered prayers

Walk a mile in my shoes

2012-01-21T15:00:00.000+02:00

I have a love/hate relationship with politics. As in, I love to talk/read/think about it, but hate all the distorted policies and end up getting myself all worked up over it.

Today I was thinking about Mitt Romney and the millions of dollars that he (allegedly) has in the Cayman Islands.

I won't go into my thoughts on that, which are many and fiery, but I will go into this one thought:

How could that guy possibly be able to represent me if he cannot relate to me? He would have to walk a mile in my shoes.

And then that little inner voice (which I sometimes appreciate and sometimes want to poke with a pitch fork) said, "Have you ever walked a mile in his shoes?"

Well, first of all, with all those millions, I'd sure give it a shot! HA!

But, no, I have not. I cannot begin to put myself in his shoes. I simply cannot relate.

Which made me wonder how I could possibly have compassion for others if I cannot relate. I'm going to have to think on this some more...

Hand fulls of purpose

2012-01-20T22:24:00.001+02:00

She was hunched over from years of bending to sweep or to hoe. Her face showing the effects of the long, hard years she had endured.

She was sitting in the road, desperately sweeping wheat into the pocket of her apron.

A farmer was harvesting the wheat, while wind blew some pieces across the field and into the road.

These few pieces of wheat were precious to her. Almost as if she was panning for gold. She didn't seem to mind the danger of the cars whizzing around her--she just wanted that wheat.

It made me think of Ruth and Boaz. She was the gleaner and he, seeing her and loving her, told his reapers to leave her "hand fulls of purpose".

However, these hand fulls would only benefit Ruth is she picked them up.

Sometimes I feel like the woman with the wheat, desperately grasping and clinging to anything and everything God drops my way. Not caring what is going on around me--only that I want everything I can get, and I want it now--don't want to let the opportunity pass me by.

Other times I feel like I am walking along in a zombie-like state, missing the hand fulls of purpose around me. They could be falling from the sky like the old Skittles commercial and I wouldn't even notice.

I suppose it depends on how I see my need.

Challenge of the day: Look for the hand fulls.

Sometimes we struggle

2012-01-19T22:33:00.001+02:00

When I was a child, it seemed to me that knowing Jesus was the antidote for everything mankind ever struggled with.

Sick? Pray to Jesus and He will make you well.

In debt? Pray to Jesus and He will get you out.

And so on...

Of course there were a few things that, should a person struggle with, were very telling. For example, if a person was an alcoholic, finding Jesus would automatically remove any and all desire for alcohol. If, after a profession of faith, that person fell off the wagon, he/she was never really saved in the first place.

Bah!

Here's what I know... Jesus saves the soul and helps us in all areas of life, but we still drag around the old flesh. We still have to cast down imaginations. Still have to put it under subjection. It rears its ugly head on plenty of occasions, and it can be a fight to keep afloat. Following Jesus didn't magically perfect us.

That's why we still struggle. We still get sick. We still deal with stresses and anxieties. We still have our thorns in the flesh.

But what is different is that we have a Friend to walk along side us. To hold our hand. To speak peace to our souls. To give unconditional love.

I'll be honest here, I struggle. Some days I'll be walking along, singing a song, serving the Lord with my whole heart---and the next day I'll be in the depths of despair. Should I, when I have such a Friend? No. Do I? Yes. Sometimes my strength fails.

But, praise God, when I'm weak, He's strong. I can always count on him to reach down and pick me up again. Sometimes it takes longer than I think it should, but He has always been a faithful friend.

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Is someone around you struggling? Be a listening ear. Encourage them. Pray for them.

unorthodox

2012-01-17T12:31:00.001+02:00

We climb out of the car and walk up to a green door--one of many green doors on that block. Actually, come to think of it, I can't remember a door in that whole village that isn't green.

The door is short. Either that, or we are just excessively tall. Maybe it's both. Whatever it is, we have to duck--or do the limbo--to enter.

The green door takes us into a courtyard. There are two houses inside this courtyard, but the houses are hooked together. At least two families live in this one courtyard. They share a garden, an outhouse (which, have you ever had to limbo into a bathroom and use the hole in the floor in place of a toilet?), and an outdoor sink.

Photo Credit: Paul

The houses are brick and mortar. Sometimes mud brick. Inside the walls and ceiling are uneven and nothing is level. They are roughly plastered and sometimes painted. The floor is concrete, sometimes level, sometimes not. Over the concrete are rugs. Many multicolored rugs. Sometimes linoleum, but more times that not, rugs.

These do not in any way resemble carpet. To me, they bring to mind a throw blanket.

Once inside the house, we are invited to take our shoes off and come into the family's room. We duck/limbo our way in and take the chiefest of seats, which they insist upon.

This chiefest of seats is the bed. And usually near the wood stove so we do not get cold.

The bed is old. The springs have long given up the ghost, which means that when we--The Pastor, my husband, and I--sit on the bed, we all fall toward the sagging middle. Readjusting, we scoot as far back as we can, until our backs rest on the wall, and our bottoms find a sturdy brace.

Other people come into the room. They are happy to see us. We rise each time, to shake their hands and kiss their cheeks, returning each time to our perch.

The room is full. People sit on the other bed (6 women on a single bed--all sitting either far back on a brace or far forward on a brace, but none in the middle), on a stool, on a milk crate, and on the floor.

After a few lighthearted conversations, the Pastor begins the church service. He passes out song books and calls out a hymn number. He begins to sing and we all join in.

We sing for nearly an hour before stopping to pray. The Pastor encourages the people to boldly approach the throne of God and bring their every care to the one who cares for them. He asks my husband to lead in prayer and we all join in. Voices blend together in three languages, but one heart. The sounds of prayer almost always bring tears to my eyes--it is absolutely beautiful. As melodious as any sonnet.

My husband shares his heart with the people and tells them to seek to have the same heart as Jesus--to love others, to forgive, to give, to reject pride.

A baby crawls over to me and I touch his nose with the tip of my finger. He looks at me with hesitation, but the shiny ring on my finger captures his attention and for the next twenty minutes, he spins the ring around and around my finger, stopping only to look up at me (or sneeze or cough on my hand) a few times.

The Pastor preaches and the people nod in agreement, occasionally throwing an 'amin' into the mix.

We prepare to pray again, sharing our prayer requests. Our concerns for our loved ones. Our heartbreak.

Once again, we lift our voices together in prayer, holding our palms open toward heaven, knowing that God can and will hear our cry and fill our emptiness.

After the last amen, we shake hands and kiss cheeks again. Ducking through all the doorways, we walk back to the car. The people follow us and wait until we leave before returning to their own homes. They stand there and wave until we are out of sight.

That, my friends, is a typical village church service. It's not anything like the services of my childhood. It's, well, unorthodox.

I love it!

Grattitude

2012-01-15T12:18:00.001+02:00

6. Successes

7. Quality chocolate

8. Jogging

9. A good read

10. Snow days

That's not the Jesus we want

2012-01-14T22:51:00.002+02:00

He rode into the city on a young donkey as they laid palm leaves in the path, thanking Heaven for Jesus. A simple man. Humble.

He could have come in clouds, trumpets blowing, chariots rumbling, pricking hearts with fear.

He fell to his knees in the garden, praying so earnestly that the very sweat on his brow became drops of blood. Heartbroken.

He could have charged the throne, setting himself down in regal apparel, wiping out any and all opposition, establishing his kingdom forever.

He let them take him, clothe him in purple, beat him beyond recognition--without just cause. Unrelenting Love.

He could have set the people free from the yoke of heavy bondage and taxation under which they lived, giving man the civil liberty he had so longed for.

He laid his life down, enduring the death of the cross, voices shouting "Crucify Him!" Forgiving.

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Had he not fed them? Had he not healed their sick? Raised their dead? Had he not taught them with authority? Had he not walked among them, unashamed of their scars?

And yet, their voices blended with the mob, calling for his death. The man they thought he was--that he should have been--was dying a shameful death. Surely he could not be the Messiah. They had been duped. He was not what he should have been--what he could have been. There would be no redeeming them from their bondage. They would remain under the yoke of the government.

That was not the Jesus they wanted.

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He paid sin's price, conquering death, hell, and the grave.

He removed the bondage of the law, setting us free to live and love.

He beckons all to come to Him.

And yet, this is not the Jesus we want.

We want our conditions to be made perfect. Our wallets comfortably padded, our pantries over-full. Our civil liberties established and protected.

We want a land flowing with milk and honey. We want a Messiah.

He already came. His arms are open wide.

But this is not the Jesus we want.

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What will you do with Jesus?

Free Cloth Diapers for Missionaries...

2012-01-12T21:36:00.000+02:00

What a neat resource!

Link

Gratitude

2012-01-08T20:37:00.000+02:00

I need more gratitude in my life, so I'm going to try to share five things I'm thankful for, each week. You are more than welcome to join me in comments :)

1. wood stoves

2. midnight kisses

3. group prayers

4. unexpected emails

5. belly laughs

It's not an adventure

2012-01-06T16:48:00.000+02:00

Photo Credit: markuso

When we were on deputation, people would often shake my hand and say things like,

"You're brave! I could never take my kids to a remote part of the world!"

"Wow! What an adventure!"

and

"I wish I were THAT close to God. You're awesome!"

Ugh.

First of all, I'm not a super Christian---there's no such thing. Second, it's not really all that adventurous to clean mud out of my entryway all day, every day. And third, I'm sooooo not brave---I tend to stick with what's firmly planted in my comfort zone.

Let me start by telling you what my life is NOT:

-It's not all that exciting. I homeschool the children, make meals, do the laundry, clean up mud, budget, grocery shop, do more laundry, feed the chickens, clean up the mud, and do laundry.

Want to be a missionary wife yet? :D

-It's not anything at all like I expected. See the above point.

-It's not a vacation. Walking around with a pocket dictionary is charming when you're on a vacation to Paris, but it's not so charming when you live here. Also, the cultural differences are intriguing and interesting at first, but after a while, they can be quite frustrating (while still being intriguing and interesting).

Now let me tell you what it IS:

-It's a life of unknowns. While this can be unsettling, it can also be pretty nice. Things don't stay the same long, giving me a chance to experience a wide array of things.

-It's.... unique. On any given day I can use one language, or 4.

-It's busy. Time flies. There really is little time for boredom.

-It's rewarding. This mission life affords me opportunities to work with people. While it's not always easy, it certainly has its rewards. You can never go wrong helping others.

When I was 12, I knew I was going to be a missionary. The very thought thrilled me to my socks. Now, at Perpetually Thirty, it's not so thrilling. The honeymoon is over, so to speak. But in place of the former infatuation at the ideals of mission life, there is a practical love at the reality of this life.

The reality isn't as exciting as everyone seems to think. In some ways, it's not so nice. But in other ways, it's much, much better.

It's life. Just 5,000 miles away from the place of my birth.

No, it's not an adventure. And I'm not a brave super Christian.

It's just me, simple, everyday Carrie, living life.

Life.

Bloom Where You're Planted

2012-01-02T13:52:00.002+02:00

Last night while on a particularly difficult road trip (dense fog and ice), I tried to keep the kids (and myself) calm by talking about various childhood memories I hold dear. Some funny, some sappy. Mine.

While talking with them, one of the teenagers (because, as y'all know, teenagers know absolutely everything) threw out a zinger, dripping with both disdain and sarcasm.

I have no idea where it came from, but I said simply, "Bloom where you're planted."

It sort of caught me by surprise because it's not something I generally say. But, from somewhere deep inside, this one phrase hit my lips.

And it fit.

The beautiful little know-it-all replied with, "Whaaat?"

Smiling, I said, "Yeah, bloom where you're planted."

Soon the whole carload of kids wanted to know what that meant.

Ah, a teachable moment. I live for those!

I delved into the finer aspects of keeping a good attitude, not letting our surroundings bring us down, finding the good in everyone and everything around us, and simply being happy. I ended with, "Don't let your perceptions rob you of all the happiness you can truly have."

And to the now gentler zinger-thrower, I said, "You have only a few years before you leave this safe haven called 'home' and you'll be on your own. Don't let thinking about all the things you wish you had elsewhere in the world, rob you of enjoying your family, and the life you have right here, in the few moments you have left. Bloom where you're planted."

The subject was quickly changed, but the point had been made, and received (though we'll see if it is put into practice...).

But the phrase has stuck with me.

I'm not blooming where I'm planted. I find myself with the same rotten attitude I admonish my teens for. I complain about my surroundings, or my perceived lack, as well . I let all these things, and a few more, bring me down and instead of living the victorious life I was meant to live, I feel defeated most of the time.

Shame, shame on me!

Happiness is a choice--and it's a choice I want to consciously make.

Time to bloom where I'm planted!

Photo Credit: Anat_Tikker

Winter Wonderland---or is it?

2011-12-26T16:58:00.000+02:00

Photo Credit: Dan

Snow fell. Not much, but enough to make a snowman. Across the hills, the farmers' fields are dusted lightly, still showing the would-be rows underneath. If snow were to continue to fall, we would be delighted. We have enough food in the pantry to last a while. I would sit in my rocking chair and cover my feet with an afghan, while reading a good book. Rolly and the kids would gather on the big rug on the family room floor and play a game. The dog would flop down by the woodstove and sigh, as if her life were a difficult one. It wouldn't matter if we were snowed in for a few days. The quiet, along with lack of hustle and bustle would almost beg for an occasional snow day.

And yet, not 1/4 mile down the road, the overall feeling toward such a storm would be entirely different. The ladies who live in the house down the road, have a very different life from mine. Though mine is simple in many ways, theirs is downright hard. They not only have to go outside to go to the bathroom, they don't have an outhouse. Instead, they climb down into a deep hole (resembling an old well) with the use of a ladder. During a snow, they keep a sheet of plastic and a large rock over the hole. After a snow, they have to dig it out just to be able to go to the bathroom.

Elsewhere in the village, little old ladies have to brave the ice, cane in hand, and go to the center store for their daily bread.

A nearby friend, though 60 years removed from the years he nearly froze as a child, keeps his house so warm that he spends his last penny on wood throughout the winter, often going in debt to do so.

This is life in the village. It's not new to them. They do this year after year. It's how they live.

So as I sit in my rocking chair by the fire, I want to have a thankful heart. Thankful for my warm home, a full pantry, and my family around me. But I also want to have a heart for others. To not only whisper a prayer for them, but to be ready and willing to help anywhere I can.

Oh, to be a kid at Christmas!

2011-12-24T21:49:00.000+02:00

Photo Credit: Kittisak

I remember my early years... running down the stairs and staring at the Christmas tree, waiting so very impatiently for my parents to come out of their room.

Dad was a Pastor who also worked midnights. In short, that dude was tired!

Mom was usually up first. She had a habit of waking up before anyone and then vacuuming our rooms to wake us up.

But on Christmas, we were up first. All four of us. And boy was it hard to keep quiet! As hard as we tried, our giggling usually woke Mom, who came out to shush us for a few more minutes. Mid shush, Dad could be heard from the other room, "Hold on, kids, I'm up. Give me five minutes."

Our muffled giggles turned into full-blown laughter and we would hoot and holler until Dad would appear.

When he came out, he'd clap his hands together loudly and we'd all jump up and down...

Those were the simple years. Years when Dad knew everything and we were too afraid to cross him to try anything terribly stupid. When Mom was the prettiest in the world and was the most awesome mother in the neighborhood because she designed and built our enviable treehouse. When siblings bickered but always looked out for one another.

Those days are long gone and the family that once was, is no more. Time changed everything. Sometimes I look back and miss those days.

But I don't have much time to look back. Five little ones of my own will be giggling outside my room in the morning, waiting for us to wake up and open presents. Five little hearts, wide open to both give and receive love. Five little lives, making memories of their own.

Oh, to be a kid again!

You can't compete with fake

2011-12-21T20:37:00.001+02:00

Photo Credit: Vichie81

"Beauty" is forced upon us on a daily basis. The ideal woman. She's usually tall, incredibly thin, has no scars, no moles, and no back fat. She has silky smooth skin and satiny hair. Her teeth are straight and pearly. Her lips are full. She has no grays, no laugh lines, and no warts.

You've seen her. She's on TV, in the movies, and plastered on every magazine at the checkout.

But here's the thing. She doesn't exist. She's not real. She's made up.

They take a real, normal, attractive woman and hand her over to a team of professionals to work on hair and face. Then they take this woman and while a fan whips her air around, they snap pictures of her. And when they're done, they take those pictures and "enhance" them. They slim her waist, plump up her lips, erase wrinkles, smooth skin, and transfer that little bit of extra weight from her posterior and transfer it to her bust.

The woman who walked into the studio, and the woman you see on the magazine---they're not the same person. Not even SHE looks like that.

And yet it is the woman on the magazine that other women aspire to mimic. The fake one. And then they (we) get all depressed because this perfection, the perfection that is assured us if we use their product, is impossible to achieve. Impossible.

But we keep buying into it. Why?

Our daughters suffer for it. Why do we buy into this ideal? Why?

How many more have to die from Anorexia? How more dollars to we have to spend for self-improvement?

And why are we so shocked at the pictures of actresses without their makeup, LOOKING LIKE NORMAL, EVERYDAY PEOPLE?!?!

Why are we letting the industry treat normal as ugly?

I'd love to find some answers to my questions. And, I'm hoping that my questions cause you to ask questions of your own.

We're beautiful, just the way God made us. Absolutely beautiful!

Why blog when you can Pinterest?

2011-12-10T19:49:00.001+02:00

Pinterest, my new online interest.

I am working on a tooo-ooooon of projects and I'd like to show y'all some pictures, but because my husband reads here (hey, Rolly!) and I want it to be a surprise when he returns home in a few days, it will have to wait.

I know you'll be sitting on the edge of your seats and biting your fingernails. HA!

I still think too much

2011-12-03T18:32:00.001+02:00

I'm analytical. Sometimes to a fault.

Why did she do that?

Why did I say that?

What did that nod mean?

Am I missing a cue here?

What am I thinking?

The main questions my mind asks is "why" and "what if". Sometimes it's difficult to hold my thoughts in captivity and they often run away with me. Just pick me up and carry me off on a weird and wild adventure through the recesses of my imagination.

I suppose that is the side of me that makes me a good story teller, but it can become a problem in interpersonal relationships.

On their side of things, I'm strange. Sometimes make up intent where there was none, which I'm sure if incredibly frustrating.

On my side of things, I'm strange. I question everything and in my over-analyzing, I tend to alienate myself from others. I sit outside the room, listening to everyone inside as they joke and laugh, but can't bring myself to get up and go inside. In this way, I guard my heart from what they might be thinking of me.

Crazy, I know.

I've gotten a lot better with age, but I still battle from time to time.

Photo Credit: Graeme Weatherston

Perhaps I do this because of my crazy life as a Preacher's Kid. I lived under a microscope. The few times I trusted people, I was hurt. I was never good enough. Any mistake was magnified and made to be a serious problem.

Because of that microscope, I began closely scrutinizing myself to avoid the hurt. To perfect myself, somehow. Until I could reach that expected perfection, I withdrew from people. I built walls. Guarded my heart. Perfection was never reached, obviously.

Time and distance have healed a lot of that, but I'm still guarded. Still withdraw. Still sit outside the room.

If I could change one thing (other than being so overly-analytical), it would be to go back and be myself regardless of what others thought. To not let the magnifying glass bother me in the least. To tell myself that I was just fine the way I was. That I was loved the way I was.

And if I can do anything now, it would be to encourage those around me to give love, mercy, and grace without limits. To stop putting people on pedestals and expecting them not to fall off. To be encouragers. To get up from the table, walk out in the hall, and bring the outsiders, inside.

Funny how I went from the microscope of PK to the microscope of missionary wife. I must be a glutton for punishment. HA!

The law is unfeeling

2011-11-30T09:46:00.001+02:00

Photo Credit: Salvatore Vuono

Laws cannot be emotional. Can you imagine laws changing based on various emotionally charged situations? No way! It cannot waver.

These thoughts come from recent musings on the Death Penalty. Our oldest son had to write a composition paper, giving his thoughts on this hot button issue. Being overseas as a missionary kid, he hadn't really been exposed to the issue, so I sat down with all the children and outlined reasons for and reasons against. We discussed it at length and I tried to explain it in an unbiased manner so they could form their own opinions.

For the oldest, it was cut and dry. If someone was found guilty of a heinous crime, that person loses his/her right to live. To him this is the only way to make sure it never happens again.

But for one of the younger ones, it wasn't so black and white. To her, death is final and should not be taken lightly. Every chance at repentance should be granted, though a life in solitary confinement, so as to never hurt anyone again, would be prudent.

Hearing the opinions made me realize that one answer was emotional and one wasn't. It also occurred to me how unfeeling the law is. It has to be.

Upon reflecting on the laws of the nations, I began also to muse on other laws...

Physical laws: Death comes to everyone. And it comes whenever it wants. It is unfeeling. Life. Life happens also. Unwanted pregnancies happen. Also, unfeeling. Nature itself does what nature does, with no regard to extenuating circumstances. My Grandfather jokes that he keeps a bunch of unfinished projects so God will leave him here with his family a little longer. But, physical laws don't work that way.

Gods laws: The law of Moses is pretty rigid also. If this, then that. If that, then this. The only time exceptions seem to be allowed is when one could flee to a city of refuge. And even then, there were strict laws about who could and who couldn't, the avenger of blood, and all that. This law was definitely strict.

But this brings us to my final thoughts--Jesus. Mercy. Grace.

I've broken the law. Many times, even. I can't imagine where I'd be without Jesus. Without his mercy. Without his grace. He certainly isn't unfeeling. He knows my name. The law does not. He knows my inner thoughts, my heart, my dreams. He sees me mess up and picks me up anyway.

I'm thankful today that Jesus changed everything. He conquered death and gave life. He forgave our many transgressions, eliminating our guilt.

I fully realize the necessity of law, but I'm much more thankful for grace!

Stepping on my soap box. Vote!

2011-11-22T13:38:00.001+02:00

Nearly four years ago, I was researching Presidential hopefuls on both sides of the fence. It was a lot of information to sift through (particularly when unbiased sources are difficult to come by) and I enjoyed talking with people about it so I could hear a variety of thoughts.

Some people weren't so receptive of talking about politics, which is fine by me. Not everyone gets a kick out of it as much as I do.

Some people were eager to discuss it and share opinions.

But the one response that really got me was this: "I don't vote. I don't care who runs Washington. My responsibility is to take care of my home and my kids."

[Insert gasp here]

You don't vote? You don't care who runs Washington?

[Insert second gasp here]

Okay, let me be honest, I didn't gasp. I didn't say anything at all. I was too shocked to say anything.

Soooooo, my husband got to hear all about it. I stepped up on my soap box and yammered on and on for quite a while--quite passionately, I might add. I said things like:

-Voting isn't just a right. It's more than that. It's a responsibility. Anyone who truly cares about their country will get out there and let their voice be heard.

Picture Credit: taoty

-People all over the world wish they had an opportunity to vote for their leaders. We are truly fortunate to even have the opportunity, so we should exercise it.

-Wars have been fought to hold on to the freedoms we hold dear---one of which, is being able to vote for our leaders.

-The freedom of our home and family are directly tied into the freedoms granted us by our government, so in order to protect our homes and family, we need to vote.

and lastly,

-I don't want to hear her complaining about this, that, or the other if she refuses to vote.

Ok, I admit it; I have strong opinions. But here's the thing: Our voices will not be heard if we don't use them. It doesn't matter if someone else's voice is louder. It doesn't matter if the hopeful's prospects are about as great as a snowball's chance on the sun. None of that matters. What matters is that we've had a say in the future of our country. The future for our children.

Vote!

/soap box

Lazy Girl's tip for quick-er muffins

2011-11-20T11:14:00.001+02:00

Muffins are a family favorite, but sometimes I'm in too much of a hurry. Okay, let's be honest here... I'm almost always in a hurry. I work hard to get all the youngins sufficiently educated before lunch every week day so I can take care of house and ministry responsibilities in the afternoon, and spend quality family time in the evenings. In some ways I'm over-scheduled, but I'm not sure there is much room to squirm here with everything that needs to be done.

I already told y'all about my oven oatmeal, but here is another quick tip:

-Layer all dry ingredients in a jar and seal tightly.
-In the morning, preheat the oven, pour the dry ingredients in a bowl. Add a beaten egg, milk, and oil (or applesauce). Bake as usual.

While it doesn't save an enormous amount of time, I know that first thing in the morning, my brain isn't ready to focus on recipes, so this way helps me out quite a bit.

Also, if unexpected company stops by in the afternoon, it's easy to throw these in and serve with tea or coffee.

The above jar is versatile. I can use this as a base recipe and go wild from there... blueberries, bananas, zucchini, dried fruit, etc.

Base Muffin Recipe:
-1 1/2 cup wheat flour
-2 tsp baking powder
-1/3 cup oatmeal
-1/2 cup chopped nuts (I use almonds)
-1/4 tsp salt
-1/3 cup sugar

When ready to bake, add:
-1 beaten egg
-1/4 cup oil or applesauce
-3/4 cup milk (if you use bananas or blueberries or zucchini, use only 1/2 cup milk)

Bake at 350 for about 20 minutes.

It takes a village

2011-11-18T14:23:00.001+02:00

While I don't really think it takes a whole village to raise a child, it does make it easier when you have a good support system.

Right now my husband Rolly is in the United States, seeking medical diagnosis and treatment. When his health took a turn for the worse, we were in another country at a conference. He flew out from that country, which meant that I had to drive home---something I dreaded because of the crazy driving style there.

A fellow missionary stayed behind and helped me navigate the big city. I knew where I was going, but having him and his family in the van in front of me, gave me a calm, peaceful feeling. Having that support was invaluable.

Also, the wood my husband ordered quite a while before he left, didn't come. I hounded the mayor about it, and she finally just gave me my money back and told me to look elsewhere because her hands were tied. Intimidated at the prospect of finding a good deal on my own (and being taken advantage of because of my ignorance with regard to fire wood), I called a local National Pastor for help. His help was also invaluable---and I now have 10 cubics of wood for the winter.

In addition, another missionary wife in our village and I have swapped favors all week---algebra tutoring, running kids to and from music classes, help finding a lost phone, and general commiseration. One night she called and we talked for several minutes about choosing joy in our lives. Her support and encouragement has indeed been invaluable.

I appreciate all of these folks helping me get through this difficult time. They have made my load a little lighter and a simple "thanks" just doesn't seem enough.

I'm thankful today for My Village.

Managing Emotions

2011-11-16T09:05:00.001+02:00

My usual MO to manage emotions is simple: Coke and chocolate. Other times I manage by taking a run. Both work, somewhat.

Photo Credit: Farconville

But, I'm finding right now that the answer to emotion management is to let them wash over me. Turn on some music, sit down and close my eyes, and let the tears come. The tears have a powerful, cleansing effect.

So long as I don't get to where I run through the village with puffy eyes, a chocolate ring around my mouth, and a can of Coke in my hand, it will all be okay. HAAAAAA!

Today I'm asking Jesus to hug me tightly as I cry through the emotions.

---------------------------------

How about you? How do you manage emotions?

Life is complex with its many inconsistencies

2011-11-11T10:53:00.001+02:00

Photo Credit: Rawich

Inconsistencies, we all have them.

Example: I consider myself to be a bit health conscious. I make sure we always eat plenty of vegetables. I don't let the kids eat anything with artificial sweeteners. I've been known to make carrot juice for everyone during times of illness.

And yet, I drink Coca-Cola.

I would call that inconsistent. However, my inconsistency doesn't bother me. HA!

But I do have other inconsistencies that DO bother me. Like, saying I love my brethren and yet not praying for them. Like telling the Lord I love him and not singing praises.

There are also perceived inconsistencies...

Example: a couple years ago I got into a debate with someone about how a person could possibly reconcile being both pro-life and pro-death penalty. That was an interesting discussion.

I've been thinking today about inconsistencies, both real and perceived, both reconcilable, and, well, not. And I have come to this conclusion:

Inconsistencies are a normal part of life. Humans are complex. Humans are fallible.

BUT, God is always the same. In every black, white, and gray, He's the same. His love is never-changing, never-ending.

That's a comfort in this ever-changing, inconsistent world!

So now I suppose the real question is, Does God like Coca-Cola?

Open heart, open doors, open arms

2011-11-09T11:37:00.002+02:00

Photo Credit: Simon Howden

Have you ever been to an unfriendly church? I have.

I've also been an unfriendly church member, I'm ashamed to say.

Many times our religion becomes mechanical and we become puffed up with the pride of knowing how clean our living has become. In this pride, we look down our long noses at others, exuding disdain.

We forget from where we came. We forget the mercy extended to us. We forget that our self-righteousness stinks in the nostrils of God.

Who wants to hang around that?

The church needs to get back to the basics. Remember when you first met Jesus and you loved him with your whole heart and loved everyone else too?

We need to get back to that.

We need open hearts, open doors, and open arms.

Let me rephrase that...

They need us to have open hearts, open doors, and open arms. How else will they see Jesus in us?

I think I'm a goat

2011-11-07T18:26:00.001+02:00

Photo Credit: Tom Curtis

I once had a goat. A beautiful, black goat with large, curious eyes. I liked her a lot.

Except when I hated her. She was stupid.

My mistake was only getting one goat (and expecting her to act as a lawn mower instead of eating my fruit trees). She wanted the companionship of the herd.

Every morning I would walk her out to the shepherd and she would butt heads with all her buddies. She would be out there all day and at dusk, the shepherd would blow his whistle, alerting me that it was time to take her home.

I would go out to meet her, but she refused to come home. The shepherd would try to lead her my way, but she would remain with the herd.

One day I tried to get her and she ran from me. I chased her across the village, getting all muddy and nasty, cursing her all the while. She eventually ran into the barn of a man I had never met (and who found me both comical and annoying). He went in and grabbed her by the collar (the only goat in our village with a collar. LOL!) and brought her to me.

As I was walking her home, I threatened to turn her into BBQ ribs.

Eventually I was able to train her by using a Coke can with a pebble in it. But that's another story for another time...

Anyway, today I was thinking about God as The Good Shepherd. How that He's leading me down a path I don't recognize. How he's chosen a path for me that isn't the most comfortable. And how I can have confidence that He knows what He's doing and where He's going. I can trust Him.

And yet, more times than not, I'm like my stupid goat.

I'm musing on this today.

When life takes a sudden turn

2011-11-04T12:46:00.000+02:00

Photo Credit: Nuttakit

Ah, the best laid plans of mice and men...

Things rarely pan out in life. I can plan today to go to the grocery store and dust my house and those things probably will happen. But many other plans never come to fruition, because sometimes life takes a sudden turn.

Actually, more times than not, unplanned situations have greater bearing on our lives than planned ones.

But we know that we never walk that path alone. God promised to never leave us, nor forsake us. He promised to be with us always.

I'm finding the Good Shepherd to be quite a comfort as I walk an unexpected path. It's a path I would not have chosen and one I've never before navigated. But I can rest in the knowledge that even when I don't know the way, I'm holding the hand of the One who does.

Doubt turns you into a grasshopper

2011-11-01T20:27:00.001+02:00

Photo Credit: Michelle Meiklejohn

In Numbers 13, we see the twelve spies going into Canaan to check everything out. To return with a report on the inhabitants, the land, what kind of housing the people used, the cities, etc.

Joshua and Caleb came back with a good report, confident the Children of Israel could take the land. But the other ten disagreed.

They agreed the land was lovely. They agreed it would be perfect for them. But they disagreed on their ability to win.

Verse 33 says, "And there we saw the giants, the sons of Anak [which come] of the giants: and we were in our own sight as grasshoppers, and so we were in their sights."

Being filled with doubt, they became small in their own eyes. They compared themselves to others and felt inferior. Doubt did that.

The wording at the end of the verse can be taken a couple ways... it could mean that the giants literally looked down on them as if they were grasshoppers. Or, it could mean that as soon as they felt so small, others thought of them that way also.

It all boils down to confidence.

We do not have this confidence in and of ourselves. When we look at our own abilities and then look at the giants we are about to face, we quickly retreat. But when we release the doubt and hold to the confidence we have knowing God is with us, just like little David with a little sling and a little stone, giants will fall.

Giants still fall.

Don't let doubt turn you into a grasshopper.

Can you ever love someone too much?

2011-10-25T20:07:00.000+03:00

All the law and the commandments are summed up in these:

-Love the Lord with all our heart, mind, soul, strength
-Love our neighbor as ourself

Everything God ever wanted from people can be summed up in one word: Love.

Photo Credit: Nutdanai Apikhomboonwaroot

Love

It's a beautiful word.

So I'm blown away by hearing, "You're gonna love them right into hell!"

Not possible. And yet I've heard it more times than I care to remember.

Here's what I'm thinking: the people who say this are afraid. Afraid that their standards will be compromised. Afraid that the world will creep into the church and in the name of love, believers will embrace the ways of the world. Afraid that reaching out and touching a sinner will dirty them up.

The thing is, Jesus reached out and touched the sinner. Literally. He talked to people most religious folks avoided. It was his compassion that drew crowds.

Jesus said to do as he did and love.

Time to ditch the fear and listen to Jesus.

Love!

Reserving a little mercy for myself

2011-10-20T20:19:00.001+03:00

I can't say I'm a particularly merciful sort. Just ask my kids---a couple weeks ago one of the kids rounded the corner through the kitchen and hit his shoulder on the refrigerator, actually causing the appliance to slide a little. To hear the kid retell it, I was mean...

Me: You okay?
Him: Yeah, but my shoulder hurts now.
Me: Dude, maybe you should watch where you're going then.

I'll admit, I'm a tough ol' bird, but when push comes to shove, I dish out mercy. Need help? I'm there. Sick? I'll care for ya. Need a shoulder to cry on? I've got two sturdy ones.

While I don't dish out enough mercy as I should, reserves are ready when needed.

Except for when I need it.

As tough as I am on those around me, I'm much, much tougher on myself. My personal perfectionism is nearly unattainable, and yet I expect it anyway.

I've gotten better at this with age, but I still fall into old habits from time to time.

Case in point: Today while fall cleaning, I found an old VHS tape of my babies. The kids wanted to watch it and everyone was laughing at all the silly things they did as wee ones. It was absolutely precious.

I was also engrossed (and a little verklempt), but found myself fighting a twinge of something else. Something I had tucked away deeply in my subconscious under lock and key.

It resurfaced as I saw her. I say "her" because while it was "me", I didn't recognize her. "She", while "me", is not "me".

Clear as mud?

As I sat with my children, watching an old family movie, I saw myself as a young Mom, 12 years ago. Young and naive, that's what I was. Tired was also a word that could describe me. I had three little ones and loved them dearly. On the video, you could hear me talking with them, playing with them, bathing them, and laughing. Lots and lots of laughing. I sure did seem happy.

But I was obese.

My entire identity was wrapped up in this: I was obese. I could see nothing more about myself.

Not that I served the Lord. Not that I supported and loved my husband. Not that I loved my children and cried and prayed over them. Not that I befriended others. Not that I had a great smile and a contagious laugh.

Only that I was obese.

It was an awful time of my life, for me. The internal turmoil was simply awful.

Long story short, I changed a lot of things and lost a ton of weight. I gained some confidence and began to see myself as more than a number on a scale or a size on a tag.

I still have twinges of the old Carrie, but for the most part, I thought I had improved. But seeing her today made my heart sink. I tried so hard to forget her.

My heart is heavy tonight as I struggle with this. It's time to give myself some of the mercy I've only reserved for others. I almost wish I could reach through the TV and give that girl a hug and tell her how much she's really worth.

How much I'm worth.

The best chocolate cake you'll ever make. Hands down!

2011-10-18T23:11:00.004+03:00

Sorry, no shortcuts here. But it is so, so, SO worth the time and effort. And it's rich enough to last quite a while (or feed a large number of people).

Be sure to try it and then let me know what you think :)

Recipe for Died and Gone to Heaven Chocolate Layer Cake

Intentional Blogging

2011-10-16T20:40:00.001+03:00

I've not been posting regularly. This is not good blogging. But I'm going to try to do better. I've set aside a time (in my mind, anyway...) when I will be able to sit down and write.

And now a shout out to Lisa at Stop and Smell the Chocolates for the blogging reminder. Great series, Lisa!

Intentional Worship

2011-10-10T18:00:00.003+03:00

I spend a lot of time doing my various activities--~~farting around on Facebook and skimming blogs~~ Cooking, cleaning, educating the kiddos, meal planning, exercising, connecting with my spouse, spending time listening to the kids, and keeping up with my missionary responsibilities--I have little time for anything else. Something has to take back burner.

Usually it's worship.

I've analyzed why that is (because, if you haven't yet figured it out, I analyze EVERYTHING ;) ) and I've come up with a list. Because, well, lists are cool!

1. Laziness.

A lot of times I'd rather sleep in a little later in the mornings. Or rest a little in the afternoons. It's just easier to say, "I'll fit it in later."

2. God is more forgiving.

Let's be honest here... if I don't fix dinner, people ain't gonna be too happy 'round here. But God's not like that. He epitomizes mercy and grace. So I know if I don't show up for a bit, He'll still love me. Smile at me. Want to hear from me.

3. Sometimes it feels like a one-sided relationship.

Have you ever had a friend or relative and you had to be the one to call or email? And when you did talk, you carried the conversation? Yeah, sometimes it feels like that. Like maybe I interrupted a board meeting or something, so I'm put on hold.

If it sounds like I'm making excuses, I am.

But here are a few things I've learned about worship (yes, another list):

1. It rarely just "happens".

There have been times in my life where I've been doing one of my daily chores and all of the sudden a spirit of worship would come over me. I've dropped to my knees in the kitchen with bread dough on my hands, thanking God for who He is and what He has done. These times have been precious, but they've also been few.

2. Though worship is meant for Him, it also helps us.

After a time of worship and praise, I can't remember even one time of walking away empty. Or lonely. Or sad.

3. Faith decreases without it.

You know what I'm talking about. Absence of worship does not make the heart grow fonder.

4. When time fails, worship does not have to.

Some days, well, most days, I wake up in the morning and hit the ground running (literally, sometimes). I don't slow down until well after dark when I fall in a heap and sink into deep, blissful sleep. But on such days as these, when the Sweet Hour of Prayer is non-existent, I can still have a heart of worship. I can commune with him in the quiet moments (ha!) spent weeding the garden. Or while hanging clothes on the line. Or hiding in the bathroom from the incessant queries of the children. I can steal away for a moment...

But it requires being intentional. I can't let myself get swept away in the rushing river of this busy life. Instead I need to grab onto the lifeline while I roll with the flow.

Intentional at Home

2011-09-26T18:44:00.001+03:00

I'm home a lot. A LOT!

There have been times during my domestic tenure where I have been less than enthusiastic about my role. In other words, I withdrew.

When times got tough, I found ways to shrink away from my duties and go numb for a while... a book, the computer, a telephone, etc.

But this is not only not good for me, it's not good for my family, either. Yes, I need times by myself. And, yes, quiet, solitary time can certainly be beneficial. But not when used as a means of avoidance.

Sometimes my life as a wife and mother gets so overwhelming that I want to run away. And sometimes I actually do. I remember one time a couple summers ago when the kids wrecked the house while I was out gardening. I came in, flipped my lid, cried buckets, and told them all I was leaving and not coming back until it was cleaned. Yeah, not my finest hour. I went to the store in our village center, bought the largest chocolate bar I could find, and sat on a sidewalk step and sulked a while (of course, asking myself why on earth I was crazy enough to have so many children so close together... and raise them in a tiny village in Eastern Europe---as opposed to living near their Grandma so I could dump them on her in times like these. Love you, Mom!). The only upside to this story is that I came home to a clean house AND got to eat an enormous amount of chocolate.

But that certainly was not a proper response. Not intentional parenting. More like a toddler's temper tantrum.

What can I say... I'm a work in progress???

But I want to be more intentional. Flex my Intentional muscles. Batten down the hatches and plow through. Sway with the many breezes of change. Smile more. Laugh more. Cry more (not the tantrum kind of tears...).

And I'm working on it.

Sometimes I make popcorn in the middle of the day and then play Mario with my brood. Sometimes I announce an impromptu bike ride and try to smile through it while at least one is complaining about some perceived injustice. Sometimes I break out into a silly song and dance around the kitchen (it always attracts a happy crowd). Sometimes we play games or read a book or just hang out.

But what helps my kids more than any intentional doing, is intentional listening. And not just listening, but really hearing them. Really absorbing what they're trying to say. And giving feedback when necessary. I've seen Intentional Listening change a sullen teen into a happy-go-lucky kid in only a few minutes. It's good stuff.

And this doesn't just work for the kiddos. Rolly and I certainly benefit from really hearing one another as well.

So try these tips this week with your spouse and/or children:

-Intentional Listening
-Intentional Hugging/Kissing
-Intentional Snacking (make some cookies with the kids. make some chocolate cake and then sneak away with your spouse and stuff one another's faces with it)
-Intentional Praising (every day, try to tell everyone in your home of something they are doing well)
-Intentional Learning (read something together. Study a flower together. Take a nature walk together)

Try it. Be more intentional in your home. You will all be better off for it :)

Intentional Napping

2011-09-16T13:37:00.000+03:00

Okay, this was not supposed to be part of the series. BUT... I have pneumonia, so napping is a must.

So with this post, I'd like to encourage you all to go take nap. They're good for you.

Happy napping!

Even Lazy Girl gets intentional!

2011-09-12T19:43:00.000+03:00

I'm not lazy. In fact, unless I'm ill, you will find me working on something constantly. I'm a busy bee. But I have so many people to care for, animals to tend, a house to clean, and a ton of other stuff to do, that I must take shortcuts. Or, take the lazy way out.

I got that phrase from my sister who prefers to knead bread by hand, as opposed to letting a bread machine or food processor do it for her. It works for her and she thinks any other way is "The Lazy Way". Whereas I personally prefer to think of it as the smart or industrious way ;)

Love ya, sis!

So that's how Lazy Girl came about. Not because I'm lazy, but because of my shortcuts. Shortcuts I like to pass on to you so you can make homemade dishes with less effort/time.

Now that I've droned on and on, let's get to the part where Lazy Girl gets intentional...

Yesterday I wrote about intentional health. About exercise. I'm a fan, obviously. But it would be difficult for me to get in my thrice weekly jogs/runs and get a hearty breakfast on the table at the same time.

So I monkeyed around with Oven Oatmeal. Easy, healthy, tasty, hearty, and.... I don't even have to be at home to make it. WIN!

Here's what I do...

5 minutes before waking the children I get out my favorite casserole pan. In it I put 4 cups dry oatmeal, *6 cups water, *2 cups milk, 1/2 tsp salt, and 1/2 cup sugar. I don't mix it. I just slide it in the oven as-is, and set the temp to 150C (300-325F would work great) for one hour.

Then I go wake the children and get them going on their morning chores. Rolly keeps them going while I take off for a run.

When I return, I feed and water the dog and chickens, wash my hands, get a drink of water, and head back to the kitchen. By this time the oatmeal is just about perfect.

I usually serve it plain, but once in a while I jazz it up with cinnamon, slivered almonds, and/or dried fruits (add these after baking).

It's a hit.

*You can change these numbers up to make it more or less creamy. Just make sure the final amount of liquid comes to 8 cups.

Intentional Health

2011-09-11T14:47:00.000+03:00

Perhaps now is not a good time for me to be writing this particular post, because I'm sitting on the couch under a granny blanket, hacking up a lung, and alternating between breaking out in goose bumps and sweating buckets. But...

So much of our health is out of our control. Genetics and environmental pollutants are definitely against us in terms of health.

But that doesn't have to be the end of the story.

There are many, many things we can do to take care of our bodies.

I personally deal with Bulimia, seasonal depression, hypothyroidism, and multiple food allergies, which is quite a list!

I have found one thing that helps me feel in control of all of that... it's called... wait for it.... EXERCISE!

But if I want to exercise, I have to be intentional about that thing. I mean, it doesn't just fit in in this crazy life I live.

So I made it fit.

It's my responsibility to walk the dog three times a week. Bingo! Perfect time for exercise. Walking is very good, but I needed something that packed a greater punch in a shorter amount of time. So, I went with the C25K program. I am getting ready to start the sixth of nine weeks and I cannot believe how well I have done with it. I haven't run this much since I was six.

Aside from the feel of the challenge and the thrill of the victory, these runs must trigger some kind of happy hormone because I feel absolutely fabulous!

And, exercise can be contagious. Right now two of my children are running up and down the village roads because they don't want their old Mom to show them up. HA!

While I highly recommend C25K, any kind of exercise will do. But the important part is to actually do it!

Be intentional. Get up, lace up your shoes, and enjoy your health :)

Intentional

2011-09-09T20:36:00.000+03:00

I have oft called myself "The Queen of Good Intentions Gone Awry". As a matter of fact, I'd like to have an apron monogrammed with that title.

I always have the best of intentions. The absolute best.

But things rarely ever go as I intend.

A couple examples:

1. My garden. I planned it. I journaled about it. I hoed it, aerated it, planted it, staked/trellised it, etc. I put a lot (and when I say a lot, I mean A LOT!) of work into it.

Then my Father-in-law came for a month long visit and I put the garden on the back burner. All my work, all my good intentions, undone in a short amount of time. My lack of tending made my garden suffer. Hence, the lack of tomato sauce in the cellar...

2. Doing for others. A recent example is gas in the car. I have never, ever had to fuel up the car here. Rolly does that. But I drive it once a week and this week, the low fuel light came on.

I called him and he told me I had plenty of fuel to get home and for him to get to town to fuel it up on his way to church meetings.

But I wanted to do something nice for him, so I stopped and put some gas in it (actually, I didn't put gas in it... an attendant did that. The gas stations here are full service).

I was pleased as pie when I got home. But then when I told Rolly what I had done and where I had put gas in it, he sweetly patted me and informed me that fuel from that particular gas station has been known to cause damage in cars.

Um, can you say, OOPS?!

(fortunately, it has not caused any damage to our car, which is running tip top... but still...)

Good Intentions Gone Awry

And I'm Queen.

So when the blogosphere was a buzz about One Word 2011, it seems silly that I decided to participate in my own life.... with "Intentional" being my one word.

I know, slap forehead.

It's almost as far fetched as saying I'm going to finish The Great American Novel this year and run the Boston Marathon next year.

But I try. It's the story of my life. Actually, it will probably be my epitaph... She Tried.

In light of all of the above, I'd like to use the next couple of posts to encourage you (and me) to be more intentional. In parenting, marriage, friendship, church, worship, etc...

Stay Tuned...

Words are Powerful

2011-09-04T16:37:00.003+03:00

Do you remember the childhood ditty, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me"?

We said it over and over in order to convince ourselves of its truth, but in reality, words cut deeply. Some even scar.

But some words cause unintentional hurt. We don't mean to wound, to scar, but we do sometimes.

These words are, more times than not, said without thinking first.

I have a personal example...

My little girl has a physical handicap from Spina Bifida, a neural tube defect. I don't think of her as handicapped. To me, she's absolutely perfect.

But one day she, as teens are wont to do, was giving me trouble with her regular chores. Rolly called to see how things were going and I said, "Everyone is fine. Except for Half-cup. She's dragging her feet."

I didn't catch what I said, but she did. I wounded her with my words. I was able to turn it into a teachable moment for both of us, but, man, was that uncomfortable!

I try now to be careful what I say (or at least be careful of my audience...).

Because words are powerful!

Regardless

2011-08-25T19:51:00.001+03:00

This evening I find myself musing on that one word... Regardless.

While reading various definitions provided by the interwebs, I came across many negative connotations, often making it synonymous with words such as negligent, neglectful, indifferent, and unconcerned.

But I have my eye on a different definition... "in spite of everything"

That's how I think about the love and grace of almighty God.

So when I say, "Jesus loves me regardless", it means that...

in spite of anything I've ever said or done...

in spite of anything anyone else has ever told him about me...

in spite of my lack of faith... my lack of mercy... my lack of grace...

in spite of me...

Jesus loves me!

It's a reckless kind of love. A love that expects nothing in return. A love that makes me equal with both king and pauper. A love that sees ragged little me as beautifully adorned. A love that took him all the way to the cross to offer me a gift he did not force me to receive. A love that is boundless, beyond understanding, infinite...

Regardless.

A personal revelation.... and ellipses...

2011-08-23T23:10:00.000+03:00

I am extra fond of the ellipse. In fact, I use it a lot. Too much, probably.

Tonight as I was writing something about my life with an eating disorder, I trailed off with the use of an ellipse.

Then it occurred to me. That one piece of punctuation is my hope. My "to-be-continued". My "this is not the end of the story". My "anything is possible".

So when I say something like, "I'm waiting for a moment like that...", it means I'm holding out hope. I'm not giving up. I'm looking for brighter days.

Strangely enough, this gives me comfort. It's not just a cute little quirk... it's me, hoping.

Hanging up my harp...

2011-08-21T12:47:00.000+03:00

The children of Israel had been taken captive. Stolen from their homeland. Everything they had ever known and loved, gone.

Where would they end up? Where would they sleep? What/when would they eat? What would become of their children? Their families? Would they ever see their homeland again?

As the trudged along, no doubt under unthinkable conditions, their hearts broke.

Sitting by the river, their captors told them to sing.

Sing!

Sing something joyous... one of the songs of Zion.

But they could not sing. Their song was gone.

One by one they stood and hung their harps on the willow trees. They could not, would not, sing the Lord's song in a strange land.

-----------------------------------------------

My soul relates to this passage of scripture (Psalm 157). I've not been taken captive. My family is together and safe.

That in itself should be enough to have me singing nonstop.

In my despair I've hung my harp on the willow.

I try to sing, but it gets caught in my throat like a lump and I end up choking back tears instead.

My consolation is this... these are the seasons of life. Spring will come again. Birds will sing again. I will sing again.

Bulimia does not define me

2011-08-18T21:54:00.001+03:00

Do you know anyone who struggles with an eating disorder?

I'll bet you know several, but just don't know it.

It's funny the armchair diagnosis I hear. "Look at the bones on that girl! Anorexic, for sure! Somebody give that girl a cheeseburger!"

As if you can tell an eating disorder simply by looking at a person. Or that simply eating would fix the whole thing.

Did you know that eating disorders come in all shapes and sizes? You don't have to be bone-thin to have an eating disorder.

How do I know this?

Because I struggle.

I'm not thin. I'm not obese. I'm average. But average me struggles with bulimia.

It took me a long time to even let that word escape my lips. The shame attached to that one word set me reeling.

But one day I did say it. I said, "Honey, I think I'm Bulimic."

I'm not sure what I expected him to say, but his reply surprised me. He said, "I know. I'm here."

And here I thought I was pretty good at hiding it. But he knew me better than I thought.

I felt better, empowered, by my admission, so I decided to step out of my comfort zone and admit it to someone else.

Her response also surprised me. She said, "That doesn't make any sense. You're already too thin. No, I'm serious, you could stand to gain a few pounds. You just need to stop thinking like that."

Huh. Who knew it was that easy. Just stop thinking that way.

So I suppressed again.

But not any more. I'm not shouting it from the housetop or anything, but I hope to minimize the shame I feel when I say that word...

and I hope to be an encourager.

Because that one word does not have to be the title of my Life Story.

I would much prefer to title my story, "Mercy and Grace".

Lazy Girl's best jelly-making tip!

2011-08-13T22:03:00.000+03:00

Homemade jams and jellies are some of the best of life's little indulgences. Strawberry jam on a hot, buttered biscuit? That's a little bit of heaven right there!

Most people I talk with prefer making jam (actually, most people I talk with prefer buying jams and jellies from the store, but...) because it's easier. No messy jelly bag. No pulp to clean up. No cloudy product because they got impatient and squeezed the messy jelly bag... not that any of you would do that, right?

But I have discovered a fabulous little tool that makes jelly making a ton easier!

Here's the perks:

No pitting
No peeling
No hulling
No cutting
No jelly bag

You think I'm pulling your leg, no?

Nope!

With this handy dandy tool, jelly making is a breeze!

It's called a steamer juicer.


Steamer Juicer

How does it work?

The steamer juicer has three parts. In the bottom part, the pot, you put water. This makes the steam (duh, right?!). In the top part, you put the fruit. The middle part catches the juice. Clear, beautiful juice. You can then use the funny lookin' hose out the side to pour your juice into another container.

Be careful, though, because that juice is HOT!

You can then take this juice and process it using your favorite jelly recipe.

See, easy. And no mess!

This is one of Lazy Girl's favorite kitchen aids!

Lazy Girl is bummed!

2011-08-13T12:14:00.000+03:00

My favorite Lazy Girl tool went kaput. Yes, that's right, my food processor went up. Now I'm going to have to do everything by hand. Whatever will I do???

This evening, if I get my tomatoes and Cornelian Cherries canned, I'll get to the jelly tips I promised you eons ago.

Stay Tuned...

Why move overseas when there are needs next door?

2011-08-05T22:24:00.001+03:00

This is a question to which I have given considerable thought... why move overseas when there are people who need your help right in your own neighborhood?

It's a very good question!

Here's my short answer:

It's kind of like the military... they are sent where they are needed. Some stay on US soil and others are sent overseas.

There are needs everywhere. Everywhere.

Let that sink in for a minute.

There are many homeless, orphaned, poverty stricken, hungry, sick, naked, cold, alone. The needs are great. The help is small.

And missionaries are sent out to help.

But the church they are sent out from does not leave the community. They are still there to help with the needs of that area.

The church has octopus arms, giving out help in all directions.

At least that's how they should be... but that's another post for another day...

If you're still reading...

2011-08-01T23:15:00.002+03:00

If my love of ellipses, over-use of commas (particularly, the Oxford comma), and lapses of time between posts haven't driven you away, well, thanks! =)

I've just come back from English camp meeting and I have a lot of thoughts swirling around this hurricane-in-a-bottle, AKA, my brain--and I'm going to share a lot of them with you in time...

But first I have to finish up my rebuttal.

Then I'll try to articulate these musings, as well as share with you a Lazy Girl's Guide to Jelly Making. I may also post a fabulous recipe for summer cheesecake.

So, once again, stay tuned...

Why do missionaries try to Americanize other cultures?

2011-07-21T23:51:00.003+03:00

This post is a continuation of a short series, answering some serious questions/accusations I've heard during my time as a missionary.

Why do missionaries try to Americanize other cultures? Why do other cultures even need missionaries; they've done just fine for thousands of years? Why do missionaries proselytize, effectively changing other cultures to match that of their own? Why do missionaries feel the need to proselytize at all, as opposed to simply being humanitarian?

These are big questions. The answers are equally as big, though not readily accepted. Let's break them into small pieces...

Proselytizing:

-As followers of Christ, we all do our best to live as an example of Christ's love. We strive to love God with all our hearts and love our neighbor as ourselves (sounds simple, but that's quite a mouth full!). And we desire to fulfill the Great Commission---to go into all the world and preach the gospel... To share with others the love, mercy, and grace we ourselves have experienced.

Each Christian walks a different path. Some preach. Some sing. Some play instruments. Some remain in America and some move overseas. Each one is doing what they feel led of the Lord to do.

This is not to change a culture, but rather to reach out with the love of Christ. To tell them of salvation through Jesus.

But do other cultures need missionaries? Yes and no. God could certainly get the gospel message to them another way, but it seems he has chosen to do so by using missionaries.

Americanizing:

-I would worry more about McDonalds and Hollywood Americanizing other cultures than missionaries. I've seen first hand the effects of both on our area's culture. Though they use them incorrectly, the kids in our village know every English cuss word. I know I didn't teach them that, so can't blame that one on the missionary (LOL!).

-And in the cities, weight loss clinics are popping up---they were not there before McDonalds, Pizza Hut, KFC, or Burger Kind, but they're there now. The people are getting bigger. Portions are getting bigger. Can't blame that on the missionary, either.

A couple other thoughts:

-Changing a culture isn't always a bad thing, though. I think we can all agree that missionaries who taught against cannibalism were doing a very good thing! Also, missionaries in Africa who teach the people how to stop the spread of HIV--also a good thing.

-There are always going to be naysayers. They're everywhere. In every subject. And that's okay. Everything has a purpose. But when the negative opinions turn hateful, there's a problem. No matter the subject.

-This was a difficult post for me to write. Why? Well, because I realize from reading various accounts in history that not all mission endeavors turned out well. Some were disastrous. One example, Christopher Columbus. While not a missionary in name, he made it known he wanted to take religion to the savages. The end.... not so good.

So for me to say that one should never be leery of missionaries...well, that would be wrong, too. I wish I could defend every single one because I believe it to be an honorable calling---but I cannot in good conscience make blanket statements because as sure as I'm sitting here in this comfy rocking chair, there will always be exceptions. Shamefully embarrassing exceptions. Anyone who uses the name of God for personal gain is a very bad apple, who, unfortunately, spoils the whole barrel in the minds of many.

-I am thankful for people who answer the call to go and be missionaries. I'm thankful for those who support those missionaries through prayer and financial support. And I'm even thankful for the naysayers, because, well, they give me a lot to write about... ;)

She facebooks too much...

2011-07-19T23:21:00.000+03:00

I'm supposed to be catching up on some writing, but Facebook is more fun at the moment. I'm so behind the times, but, better late than never, right? Well, except that by the time I get settled into my Facebooking groove, Google+ will be all the rage.

Meh, I never was a cool kid anyway.

I'm also numbing my brain on Facebook because sometimes my brain goes a little crazy on me and it needs numbing.

Why?

I'm glad you asked.

I over-think stuff. No, seriously, I do. I analyze it, play devil's advocate with it, and then freak out about it.

Whatever "it" happens to be at the moment.

At this moment, it's fish oil. Yes, I'm freaking out about fish oil.

I took some fish oil yesterday and today and I began to feel a little sick. Unsure as to whether it was fish oil related, as opposed to just being a virus or something, I took to Google to diagnose me.

Go ahead and laugh and shake your head--I'm making fun of me, too.

So Dr. Google says I'm probably having an allergic reaction to the fish oil.

I'm no stranger to allergic reactions. A few years ago I had one so major I thought I was going to suffocate on my own tongue (I know, there's irony in that).

So right away I'm thinking, if this is an allergic reaction, surely I'm going to wake up in the middle of the night choking on my tongue, wishing I would have just been content with my charming moodiness and not taken those blasted fish oil capsules.

Sound logical to anyone?

I didn't think so.

But when you're an over-thinker, you can go from feeling a little ill to worried about death by fish oil in a matter of seconds.

So I Facebook...

--------------------------------------------

What do you do to numb the brain? Ever have an allergic reaction to fish oil? Leave a comment below =)

Like a rock in the shoe

2011-07-17T18:46:00.001+03:00

Photo Credit: Elwood W. McKay III

I'm a flip-flop wearer. I prefer to wear no shoes at all, but because of the animal poo and mud that surrounds me, I wear footwear---the least amount of footwear possible.

But flip-flops have their cons. Namely, snails.

We had tons and tons of small snails in our yard this past spring. You could not take a step without squishing several of them.

With running shoes, it was no problem. But with flip-flops, it became....well.... messy. With every flip and flop, a crunch and a squish could be felt. It was nastay!

Where was I?

Yes, flip flops.

What's great about them, though, is that, unlike the running shoe, rocks don't get in there and hurt my foot.

Or do they?

Today I was at the open air market, trying to find some raw honey, and my right foot began to hurt. Like there was a rock in my shoe. I kept going because I was in a hurry, but with every step, my foot hurt a little more. I stopped briefly to look at the bottom of my shoe.

It was a gravely piece of gunk. Didn't really look like that big a deal. So, in order to not get my hands dirty, I left it alone and kept walking.

That sucker really began to hurt, so I did a scrape walk. Walk, scrape, walk, scrape. Surely scraping a flip flop on a sidewalk time after time after time would get rid of the gravely gunk.

No dice.

Finally, after quite a while of ignoring it, looking at it and then deciding to leave it alone, and then doing the scrape walk, I just stopped. Stopped.

I took the shoe off and peeled the gunk off. It was a gray mass of what appeared to be dirty blue gum with several small pieces of gravel in it. But hidden in the middle was quite a large, jagged pebble. No wonder my foot hurt so badly.

Six hours later, it still hurts a little.

As I sit here and reflect on the pebble, I think about the effect of tiny seeds of bitterness. Bitterness I found hidden inside, though I was sure there was none there. Bitterness I'd rather ignore. Bitterness that slowly gathers other jagged pieces as I travel this dirty path. Bitterness that slowly debilitates.

I've seen firsthand what bitterness can do to a person's life. And yet, I harbor bitterness.

I hate that! I know better!

And yet it's there. Tripping me up. Making the journey uncomfortable. Hurting only me.

How ugly is that?!

If there is stinky trash in the house, what do you do? Throw it out.

If there is a mess in the middle of the kitchen floor, what do you do? Clean it up.

If there is a sticky, spiky mass in your shoe (or in my case, the bottom of the shoe), what do you do? Stop and get rid of it.

I wish bitterness was as easily discarded.

But, at least I know it's there. And, in the words of my husband's favorite childhood tv show, "knowing is half the battle".

Sigh.

Would you pray with me about this?

-----------------------------------------------------------

I'll be jumping back in to the series on missionaries shortly. Didn't want to broach such serious topics while I'm grouchy.

A break from the serious... Updated picture of The Ugly Couch!

2011-07-14T14:56:00.001+03:00

Sanded and stained...

I changed the cover to a burgandy, though, and it looks much better. It has almost upgraded from Ugly status.

On the flip side of the coin (pun intended)...

2011-07-12T16:35:00.002+03:00

Yesterday I wrote a defense of missionaries and the seemingly constant requests for money. Today I want to sympathize with those who have been burned by humanitarian organizations or individual missionaries.

-------------------------------------------------------

There's no doubt about it, some people are jerks. They take advantage of generosity. They prey on the naive. They beg, steal, and lie. Shoot, some of them would probably cheat their granny out of a buck fifty.

And those dudes are the ones giving the rest of us a bad rep. And make you leery of giving ever again.

I hate that for you. And I hate that for me. Mostly I hate it for the people in his slide show who will never see a dime of the help generous folks tried to get to them.

But I urge you to not let that bad apple spoil the whole barrel. There are plenty of fabulous missionaries and ministries worth supporting.

Here's what you should do... Search your heart. Find your burden. Is it feeding the hungry? Clothing the poor? Sponsoring an orphan or a widow? Digging wells? Helping families become self-sufficient by supplying a couple goats or a bunch of chickens? Supplying medical relief for HIV clinics? Supporting a national pastor? Supporting a missionary?

And when you find where your burden lies, seek it out. These kinds of ministries are not hard to find. Google is your friend =)

After you find what appears to be a reputable organization, ask them a lot of questions... how much money goes toward overhead? How much money goes directly to the designated ministry? How long have they been a mission organization? What is their statement of faith?

And if it's a missionary you wish to support, ask them a lot of questions... how long have they been on the field? What do they do there? How much does it take per month to live there? How much of that is spent on ministry use? What is their statement of faith?

Of course, there are other ways to help a missionary. As my husband puts it, "thinking outside the box". Things like, sending school clothes each fall. Sending Christmas or birthday presents. Buying and shipping homeschool supplies yearly. All these and many more can help a missionary immensely without any concern from the giver as to where/how the money is spent. Because, as I mentioned above, people don't want to get burned.

Just remember, there are plenty of worthy organizations. Find one. Pray fervently. And support it any way you can.

Money, it's all missionaries ever think about

2011-07-11T23:18:00.000+03:00

Money. It's a subject with which missionaries are very well acquainted, whether they want to be or not.

But this accusation that money is all we ever think about is quite wrong.

We think about the following and much, much more (in no specific order):

-pot holes
-missing Mama
-foreign languages
-educating our children
-quitting
-pepper spray
-church folks back home
-lost souls
-extracurricular activities for the children
-fitting lawn work into the schedule
-the poor widow next door
-needy children
-diesel engines (or in my case, kitchen gadgets)
-sports (or in my case, blogs)
-church needs
-national pastors
-bottled water vs. tap water
-immune systems
-visas
-furlough
-spina bifida
-missing old friends
-fellow missionaries
-the home church and Pastor
-the weather

and

-money

The thing is, most of what we think about has very little to do with the folks who read our prayer letters. In our letters, we try to give pertinent information about us and the ministry. And all this information must fit on one page because the very few who read the letters posted on the bulletin board at church, prefer to read letters that are short and to the point. And, as such, we can only fit the most important of information.

This information includes:

-ministry updates
-praises
-prayer requests
-family news

and

-financial needs.

So it may seem as if we focus on money, but the truth of it is, it is our responsibility to make the needs known. It is the responsibility of the church to take care of the needs, whether through prayer, letters of encouragement, or gifts of money. Missionaries appreciate all of the above.

So the next time you hear someone talk about us "Moochinaries", please remind them that we rely on the generosity of others to minister in the various corners of the world. That we don't particularly enjoy asking for money, but that the ministry in which we are involved is so near and dear to our hearts, we ask anyway. That we need the faithful prayers and support of the church--that we could not be here without it.

Thinking about missionaries...

2011-07-09T22:57:00.005+03:00

I'm a missionary, so the subject of missions/missionaries is quite personal to me. I've heard/read some not-so-nice things said about missionaries and that's not cool in my book.

In the next couple of posts I'd like to address some of those things. Such as:

-Why do missionaries talk so much about money? (and why do they always seem to need so much)
-Why do missionaries try to Americanize other cultures?
-Why do so many missionaries feel the need to go overseas when there are people right on their block who need their help?

And maybe answer questions like:

-How close is the nearest McDonalds? (Because we all know how important that is)

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Got a question about missionaries/mission work? Feel free to ask in the comments section below.

A DIY couch from shipping pallets? Impossible!

2011-07-06T22:18:00.001+03:00

Or not =)

This morning I had a hair-brained idea to make some sort of homemade couch. I wanted a homier feel in the family room and I thought a couch would do the trick. But coming up with the right idea left me scratching my head.

So I Googled. I looked through many ideas on couches and futons, only to be disappointed because I lacked a few items.

Jokingly, I asked Dude if we should try to make something out of the old shipping pallets in the side yard. He laughed and said it was impossible. I thought it would be funny to Google and see if anyone had ever used pallets to make furniture.

And, wouldn't you know it, lots of people had. Theirs was part of a Reduce, Reuse, Recycle; mine was part of being el cheapo.

So Dude and I put our heads together and went to work. This is what we came up with:

In a couple days I'll sand and paint it. Then I'll post a picture of the final product.

I am absolutely thrilled with this couch. We made it from materials we already had. Not a dime was spent. Just a day of labor (it would have taken less time, but we made it too high and my feet were two feet off the ground. Oops!). Now there is a rustic, comfortable feel to the family room. An afternoon well spent!

Goodbyes don't get easier

2011-07-06T09:44:00.001+03:00

Just ask my children.

I don't like goodbyes, but I deal with them. Or, one could say I become numb to them. Goodbyes are an inevitable part of missionary life, so I figure it goes with the territory.

But my children are far more tender than I. Goodbyes don't seem to get any easier for them. And their tears break my heart for them.

Last night they said goodbye to their grandfather, who has been here visiting for a month. One by one they clung to his neck and cried buckets of tears. One child didn't want to let go, figuring if she didn't let go, he couldn't leave.

One by one the tears dried and they went on to bed.

But not before finding some special trinket to give him to remember them by. Silly things. Favorite things. Special things. They each found something for him to take back.

When children were tucked neatly in their beds, grandfather wept.

All the emotion threatened to break down the walls I built around my own heart for such things, so I hurried to help him pack his suitcase. I forced back tears and kept my heart well protected.

Then I thought perhaps the kids' way was better. Their way kept their little hearts tender. My way, while keeping me from experiencing that kind of hurt time and time again, keeps my heart numb.

I will be musing on this today while I help mend little hearts.

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How are you with goodbyes? Are you better at them as an adult?

What this world needs is more.... righteous indignation?

2011-07-03T23:10:00.001+03:00

Righteous indignation, I haz it.

But, in my defense, I come by it naturally---I come from a long line of the Righteously Indignant. In my family tree, we have brother against brother, Mother against daughter, Father against children (and children against father), and a couple dudes who are against every one and every thing.

What do each one of them have in common? They're the only one who is right.

But I didn't learn it solely from my family; as a youngster I also learned it at church. We could rant and rave against all kinds of stuff and have scripture to back it up. Scripture made us right and everyone else wrong---and those who were wrong were deserving of indignation.

I've long removed myself from a lot of the above influence, but every now and again, I fall back into old habits. Certain of my rightness, I lift my chin and look down my very long nose at any potential injustice, even if it's only perceived.

When I'm in that mode, you know what's annoying? My husband. He doesn't get angry along with me. Oh, he might get a little upset, but his actions do not reflect it.

So I ask him, "Babe, aren't you even a little upset about this?"

His reply: "Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy"

So I say, "Yeah, but..."

and he interrupts with, "Everyone needs mercy."

I become quiet and reflect. I put myself in the other person's shoes and know without a doubt I'd want mercy.

Ouch!

I'm reminded once again that the only One who is right enough to be indignant chose instead to give mercy. And if I am to be the light that shows others who Jesus truly is, I need to do the same.

This world does not need any more righteous indignation; it needs mercy!

New Posts Coming Your Way... Stay Tuned...

2011-07-02T22:29:00.000+03:00

New posts, complete with comma over-usage, subtly expressing my apparent love of the ellipse, is coming your way.

Such posts include a tribute to Hal-Cup, the newest teenager in our home, a few posts about missionaries, and a couple spiritual musings. I may throw in a couple Lazy Girl guides as well.

So, stay tuned...

Perfectionism and Bulimia

2011-06-28T14:42:00.000+03:00

Food for thought...

I'm a perfectionist.

Not the kind you're thinking of where every household item is in place and well dusted. Where ever wrinkle is ironed out. Where every dish is washed. Where all the tooth brushes face north.

I'm the kind who places very high standards on myself. Nothing but strict adherence to my high expectations will be accepted. Nothing.

And yet I fail. Miserably. I cannot attain unto my own standards. I fall dismally short.

One would think that I would lower my expectations. Nope. It just means that I'm a stupid failure who needs to work harder toward the perfect ideal.

When I read the above paragraph more than once, I can laugh at the absurdity. But when you deal with this kind of perfectionism, it really does make sense. Nonsense makes sense to me.

Examples:

-If I gain any weight at all, I do not want to be seen by any of my friends. If they see me looking so fat, they will know what a failure I am.

-If I overeat, I punish myself by resolving to never eat sugar again. Ever. And then when I break that rule, I beat myself up for not having will-power.

-If I forget to add sugar to the brownies because I've been awake for several days with sick children, I punish myself for being such a dummy. It's worse when it's done in front of others because then they also know I'm a dummy.

And many, many more things...

I don't always dwell on these types of thoughts. Many times I can hold them captive and reveal them for the lies they are. But sometimes when I'm tired or weak, they sneak up on me and take hold.

So I have to be on guard for them. Karate chop them. Whack them with my light sabre. Spin kick 'em.

How do I do this?

By wallowing in truth.

It's not as easy as it sounds. It's requires persistence.

There are two words I use when talking about my perfectionism issues and bulimia---Proactive and Intentional.

Proactive---Be my own advocate. Take care of myself. Don't deal with the aftermath--stay on top of it now.

Intentional---good intentions are usually just that. But when you live your live intentionally, it's more than just happenstance. Don't wait for the good days to come--make this day a good day.

Perfectionism and/or bulimia will never magically go away. You want to know why? Because I'm an imperfect person living in an imperfect world. Everybody's got something and these happen to be mine. I deal.

But I don't have to deal alone. And I don't have to hide them so others will think higher of me. I don't have to act perfect because then I'm a liar. A Pharisee. A hypocrite.

You don't have to deal alone, either. Whatever it is that you deal with, you are not alone. Even if you feel like it, you are never, ever alone.

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Do you have a special need you'd like us to pray for? Have you ever dealt with perfectionism or bulimia? Leave me a comment below.

This is totally normal, right?

2011-06-25T18:17:00.001+03:00

Photo Credit: Ambro

I am told that sneaking treats is a normal childhood behavior. And, when I think about my own pantry-sneaking escapades, I suppose I can agree that it's normal. That is, if I'm basing what is normal on my own personal behavior.

But even if it's normal, it's still hard to take.

For instance, I made a beautiful German Chocolate Cake. Gorgeous, I tell ya. The cake was fluffy even though it was half wheat. It was of the melt-in-your-mouth sort. As for the frosting, what can I say? It was the kind where when you put it in your mouth, you close your eyes and are instantly transported to your happy place. And the chocolate drizzles on the top.... mmmmm mmmmm mmmmm...

Wait, where was I?

Oh, yes, normal childhood behavior.

Simply put, one (or more) of my kids sneaked bits of chocolate drizzle off the cake until it was left bare. The little rats! They stripped my legendary cake naked.

Then, when I was already upset over the nude cake, I discovered they had also eaten my almonds. My almonds. Mine!

I have so many food allergies that I am limited in my snack options. So, when I splurge on something like this for myself, I kind of expect to be able to eat it.

But not with a house full of normal children, apparently. Lesson learned.

So as I was standing in the kitchen, fuming over the cake and the almonds, I had a thought...

Surely it's normal Mom behavior to take a large bite out of their food before giving it to them. Ya know, just to show them how it feels.

And at the time I was seriously considering it. Fixing them a sandwich and taking a large bite out before handing it to them. Or biting a chunk off their fried chicken. Or giving them a piece of cake with the frosting removed. Or ripping the decals off their bicycles...

But I didn't want to take it too far...

I walked away and had a good laugh at myself. A belly laugh, actually.

Surely this is all normal Mom behavior. Right?

Father's Day

2011-06-19T21:45:00.003+03:00

I love my Dad.

At least I think I do. I've not had a relationship with him for several years.

So today one would think I would mourn that loss of someone to wish a Happy Father's Day. But I don't. I mourned the loss years ago and am ambivalent, for the most part.

Mostly because I still have someone to celebrate. My husband.

Rolly is crazy goofy. Like, the kind of fellow who used to wish his co-workers a Happy Monday at 5:30 a.m. He's also kind, merciful, and loving. And he's a great listener.

I fell in love with him for all those things. But it is also those things that make him a great Dad.

I watch my children with him and they adore him. They light up when he comes home. They can tell him anything and know he will put everything on hold if they need to talk.

Sometimes when I watch them with him, I feel a pang of jealousy, wishing I had their childhood. I would have loved to take a walk and tell my Dad all my preteen anxieties. Or have him point out the positive sides of my personality.

And then a giggle from one of the girls pulls me from that place and I smile at my own kids' reality.

I don't tell him enough what a great Dad he is (and I'm not just saying that because he might read this...), but today, and everyday, I'm thankful that he is the father of my children.

Happy Father's Day, Babe!

Too revealing

2011-06-18T16:47:00.002+03:00

Photo Credit: Carlos Porto (www.freedigitalphotos.net)

Certain things reveal too much about us:

-A skirt caught in the back of panty hose.
-White underpants. (I think I wash too much kid laundry...)
-The scale at the doctor's office.
-Mom's family reunion stories.

...just to name a few.

Other things reveal small pieces of our character or personality. Things like:

-The car we drive.
-The clothes we wear.
-The things we collect.

...and more.

But there are things only we know. Things about us that are revealed when we least expect it. Don't know what I'm taking about? Read through Proverbs. Can you say, "Ouch!"? I don't know about you, but that book reveals too much of my ugly heart.

And what about the red words? The words of Jesus. Ultimate ouch! Those kind, loving words--those hard sayings--they reveal how little I love. How little mercy I have. How selfish I am.

But here's the thing... I could reveal something embarrassing (see above skirt in the hose, which never, ever happened to me, ever) and be forever remembered with a chuckle. No big deal. You could hear my Mother tell the story of when my dress got caught on the bus and ripped as I flew headfirst out the door into a mud puddle (my Anne Shirley and the Jersey Cow moment to be sure!) and I might turn a little red, but it's no big deal.

But what about that love and mercy thing? Now that's a big deal! Think of the effects. Or, don't. I know I'd rather not.

Fixing that isn't as easy and plucking the hem out of the waistband. This one comes by much prayer. Much soul searching. It's not easy. But it's what this world needs. They need to hear of the love, mercy, and grace of Almighty God--and they need to hear it from me. And from you.

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What about you? Have an embarrassing story to tell? Ever seen a lady in the gas station with a train of toilet paper sticking out the back of her britches?

Or maybe you'd like to share something spiritual the Lord has been revealing to you.

I'd love to hear from you; leave me a comment below :)

Maybe I don't mind being taken for granted after all...

2011-06-13T22:43:00.000+03:00

My kiddos, God love 'em, don't appreciate me much, it seems. They take me for granted. They don't see what a fabulous mother they got when they got me. And such a humble one, too.

This evening Rolly and I were talking over some Oreo ice cream and we came to the conclusion that perhaps it is good we are taken for granted.

Here's how we arrived at this hypothesis:

-When you've been through awful things and arrive at a safe haven, you appreciate it.
-When you've lost something, you suddenly appreciate it.
-When people have been super mean to you and you meet a loving person, you appreciate them.

So for them to take us for granted means they've lived a nice, safe life. We've done well.

At least that's what we're telling ourselves.

=)

Mars and Venus Collide

2011-06-11T19:54:00.001+03:00

Photo Credit: fotographic1980

Father-in-law is here for a visit. Our very first visitor while on the mission field!

Today he was sitting at the table, eating a lunch of olives, German salami, and goat cheese, while I was sitting in a chair nearby, reading American news on my laptop mini.

He looked over at me and asked, "What does an outfit like that run here?"

I looked down at my brown top and tan capris and said, "This?"

He nodded.

I shrugged and said, "A couple bucks. Got it at a second-hand store."

"Wow! I'm thinking about picking up one for use in my business," he replied.

Bewilderment lasted a split second before realization set in.

"Oh," I said, "You mean my laptop...." laugh, cough, laugh..."I thought you meant my outfit!"

Yeah, two different wave-lengths.

Funny how you can be speaking the same language and still not understand. LOL!

Value

2011-06-08T15:55:00.000+03:00

I put a lot of stock in my abilities. In my intelligence.

Making the perfect German Chocolate Cake? Success.

Growing and preserving a winter's worth of food? Success.

Having an intelligent conversation about things way over my head, and yet still being able to hold my own? Success.

Having a clean house? Success.

Singing a flawless song, having no zits on my face, smelling like Sweet Peas? Success. Success. Success.

Throw in a compliment about my "five star pizza" and my head swells.

In all those things, I mistakenly place value.

Because, what about when those things are gone? When I burn the cake right in front of the Paula Dean of our mission group? When I forget to put sugar in the brownies? When I forget the tea kettle on the stove and the whole house smells like burned cinnamon for days on end?

Failure. Invaluable.

And what about when I gain a couple pounds? Or break out like a teenager? Or smell like I've been working in the garden all day (can anyone say Manure Tea?) and someone stops by to say hello?

Failure. Invaluable.

And what about when I can't bring myself to sing a song? Or I can't hold my own in a political debate? Or better yet, a religious debate? And what about when my house is a mess and my children don't want to heed my instructions?

Major failure. Crapola!

These are the things the inner voice tells me---you're a failure. You never do anything right. You deserve to be alone and miserable. No one even likes you. And go put on some deodorant already!

Admit it, you have that inner voice too. The one that tears you down and holds you back.

But then there is the Voice of Truth.

He says, "You're loved!"

He says, "You're wanted!"

He says, "You're fearfully and wonderfully made!"

He says, "Draw nigh!"

He says, "You're worthy!"

He calls me Friend. He doesn't see me as scarred. He doesn't see me as a failure. He doesn't see me as I see me.

He sees me much like I saw my newborn babies. Precious. Flawless. Perfect. Beautiful. Cherished. Wanted. Unique. Special. Loved.

And that's value!

There's one person in this house I have a hard time caring for...

2011-06-02T20:44:00.000+03:00

I absolutely adore my husband Rolly. And I'm not just saying that because he reads this blog ;)

Seriously, he's about the best thing to ever come into my life. He's my best buddy and I enjoy being with him. I enjoy making his favorite foods, like to keep the house neat so he can relax when he gets home (though, truth be told, who really relaxes in this house?!), and generally enjoy taking care of him.

Then there's the kids. Lots of kids. I love 'em like crazy! I get a kick out of their appetites and revel in every compliment. I don't particularly enjoy going behind them and fixing everything in their wake, but I enjoy taking care of them and their needs. Much of my time is spent either caring for them, or thinking of various ways to give them everything they need to succeed in life.

My family is my whole life.

But there is one person I don't take good care of. Sometimes I don't like her. Sometimes she annoys me. Sometimes she frustrates me. Sometimes I'm unkind to her. Sometimes I feed her as much chocolate as possible just so she'll shut up. I neglect her, even though I think far too much about her.

The person I neglect is me.

I have all kinds of ~~excuses~~ reasons why I don't take care of myself. Oh, sure, I shower, eat, laugh, love, and work. So in that aspect, I take care of myself rather well.

I neglect:

-Time for personal reflection
-Time for scripture digs
-Time for stillness
-Time for exercise
-Time for pursuance of dreams

But... because I have such a great family, they have decided to encourage me to step outside my comfort zone. To soar to new heights. To take care of the one who takes care of them. And to not feel guilty about it because it's not selfish.

Thank you, Family! You're the best!

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What about you? Do you take good care of yourself? What are you neglecting?

"Go to the ant, thou sluggard;...

2011-05-30T12:16:00.000+03:00

...consider her ways and be wise" Proverbs 6:6

Photo Credit: Simon Howden

Ants are really awesome! I've never seen such hard workers. By the time I roll out of bed, yawn, and stretch every morning, they've already been hard at work.

And, ants can lift stuff 50X their own weight. That's like bench-pressing a bulldozer! (If you get that reference, you totally get 50 STTM points, which will do absolutely nothing for you except make you feel like Super Geek)

For the last two weeks I've looked at the ant. I've considered her ways. And I've done a lot of personal reflection...

And now, the ants have got to go!

They have taken nearly all my grass seed and carried it to their colony---right in the middle of my strawberry patch, which would be one of the last places I want to grow grass.

And now they are plaguing my dreams. That's the last straw!

Somehow I need to work harder than the ant so I can beat them at their own game.

Or, nuke 'em.

So tell me, how do I get rid of the ants in my gardens? Or at least get them to leave my grass seed alone?

If you have any advice for me, please leave a comment below =)

Dumpster Diving for a Dead Cat

2011-05-26T22:56:00.000+03:00

We got home this evening from a long, eventful trip to the capital where we renewed our passports. I say eventful, but that only means that I got us lost a few times, despite having maps on my lap. Otherwise, the trip was easy peasy.

We took a different route home. Instead of taking the autobahn, we decided to see a bit of countryside. We hadn't done much driving as a family since furlough, so we thought it would be nice to drive home leisurely and enjoy the sites. To roll the windows down, turn up the music, and sing at the tops of our lungs while the wind whipped through our hair.

It was delightful. Well, not all of it--there were several storm systems we had to drive through, including one with hail. There were also giganto-potholes we had to dodge. But when you take all of that out of the picture, the scenery was magnificent.

A waterfall cascading over mountain rocks, breathtaking views from the gorges, miles of vineyards, wild roses in abundance, floral perfumed breezes, driving through the clouds--all of it was absolutely amazing! God is a fabulous creator!

And then we came home.

As soon as we got out of the car, our stomachs turned at the smell that greeted us. It was coming from the dumpster.

Our village had dumpsters brought in a couple years ago, making life so much more convenient. Before that, we had to drive our trash to the city or take it out to the field behind our house that the village folks used as a dumping ground. But with dumpsters nearby, things were made much easier.

The dumpster smell was putrid.

Rolly voiced the same concerns I had been thinking---we didn't want the children to take the trash out and breathe in that smell day after day until the dump truck came (roughly, three weeks from now). But we didn't want to have to figure out another way to manage our trash, so we had to come up with ideas.

At 9:30 tonight, we agreed to a plan and quickly put it into action. He grabbed a miner's style flashlight and I grabbed gloves and a trash bag. Together we went, in the dark, to the dumpster.

We almost looked criminal.

I pushed back the spring-action lid, locking it into the open position. The smell burned my nose and turned my stomach. I tried to reach into the dumpster and fish around for the culprit, but I was too short (which is saying something because I'm at least a head taller than most of the people here). Rolly tried to reach it, but he, too, was too short.

I ran to get a stool.

Now picture us. Two Americans--one with a flashlight on his head and one utility glove on, and the other with remaining glove, holding a trash bag--dumpster diving after dark.

Rolly retrieved the maggot-covered culprit (a cat) and lowered it into my trash bag, all while proclaiming that it was "juicy". I nearly gave up the cereal I ate for dinner.

Together we rushed to the field by the house and disposed of the mess.

Understandably afflicted with a case of the heeby-jeebies, we ran home to change our clothes. And burn them (not really, but it was tempting).

And all of that so we can take our trash to the dumpster everyday.

Welcome home, eh?!

Quit, but still there

2011-05-21T15:38:00.002+03:00

Photo Credit: Arvind Balaraman

Ever have one of those moments where you throw your hands up in the air with an exclamation of "I quit!"

I have. More than I care to admit.

You know the verse that says, "I die daily"?

Well, I quit daily.

Totally not the same thing.

So I got to thinking about quitting...

Some people quit their job. Some people quit their marriage. Some people quit God. Some people quit life.

And then, some people quit without actually quitting. As in, they're there in body, but not really there. They checked out.

I do this.

When things get tough on the parenting front, I check out. Oh, I'm still here doing the laundry, teaching math, wiping noses, fixing five-star meals, and making the finest clothes out of nothing but grass clippings and grape vines. Okay, so I stretched it a little on the last two, but you get the picture.

I'm still here, but I'm trudging through in a zombie-like state. I take care of the physical, but completely miss the mental. The emotional. The spiritual. I'm a great big help to absolutely no one. Not even myself.

Checking out is a coping mechanism. I get it. I do it. But it doesn't really help.

I do it with God, too. I can go through the motions of a personal relationship, but it's dry. Empty.

I know why I do it. Fear. Fear that I'll lose control. Fear that I'll get hurt. Fear of the unknown. Fear of being alone and unloved, because I already feel as if I should be.

I take my heart and hide it in a big steel box under layers of chains, with a huge padlock holding them all together.

Why?

Fear.

Quit, but still here.

How Missionary Families Entertain Themselves

2011-05-17T20:54:00.001+03:00

I've not fallen off the face of the earth. I'm still very much here (not all there, just here ;) ).

I've been too busy to write. Too busy to think. Maybe this is a good thing...

So, I have a terrible sunburn. I got it while weedeating the lawn, tearing up our grape arbor (I'm redoing the overall design), and running after some chicks. Yes, CHICKS! I'm super excited. I've been waiting and saving for them and now I have them. Yeehaw!

The kids have had to keep themselves occupied while I work in the yard and gardens. It's funny the things I see and hear from these kiddos as I'm working.

Examples:

-I overhead Berry telling Fawn to hurry up and hold still so she could capture her. Then she yelled to me, "Moo-ooom! Fawn won't hold still so I can capture her!"

-Rolly got home for dinner the other night. I met him outside to show him what I'd been up to. Just then a super hero ran by. She was wearing a swim suit, leggings, a curtain (cape), and the top half of a water jug (a mask). She was wielding a wooden sword, inflicting fear in even the worst villain heart.

-ComicKid has a very active imagination, even as a teen. In his mind, ninjas in black are surrounding him and he has to use his very best Martial Arts to defend himself. The thing is, he does this as he's walking down the hall. Yesterday I was walking around the corner and nearly got a karate kick to the face. I thanked him profusely for defending our home from the invaders. I got a grin and an eye roll in return.

-Tonight as we were setting the table, Berry asked me, "Mama, are worms good for fishing but only if they're baked?" I let out a laugh and explained that they are not "baked", they are "bait".

And that's all for now.

I love to muse on words, and the word of the moment is "redeemed". I will be writing more on this in soon...

The bird knows too much

2011-05-12T21:09:00.000+03:00

I'm kneeling down by the cucumber patch, toiling away, deep in my thoughts, when a stranger in the distance breaks through the silence with a loud exclamation. She's sharing my secret. Telling all the neighbors what I've tried so hard to keep to myself.

I'm hanging clothes on the line, humming a happy tune, when she once again begins her tale-bearing ways. She proclaims my secret truth and I let out a groan.

I'm laying in the hammock, reading a classic, when she reappears. She's hanging around outside the fence, peeking in and revealing more than I want known.

I can take it no more. I stand to my feet and call back to her, "Leave me alone! You know too much!"

And all she replies is, "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!"

Yup, that bird knows too much!

Photo Credit: Simon Howden (freedigitalphotos.net)

Have you ever seen a quince blossom?

2011-05-11T23:04:00.000+03:00

These beautiful blossoms are right in my backyard. Are ye jealous? =)

Lazy Girl Makes Bread

2011-05-10T20:58:00.000+03:00

Bread is super duper (or is it, dooper) easy, especially if you have the right tools.

My tools?

An old food processor, a bowl, a tulip glass of Coca-Cola, and a dryer.

Now, I know what you're thinking. It's one of two things... 1) What does Coke and a dryer have to do with making bread? or 2) Dude, this lady is weird!

Okay, maybe it's both.

Back on track...

Bread.

Here's the recipe:
-3 cups flour (I use 50/50 white/wheat)
-One tulip glass of lukewarm water (or, 1 1/3 cup, for you rule followers)
-1/3 of a fresh yeast block (or, 1 packet of dry yeast)
-palm of salt, eyeballed to perfection (or 1tsp)

Dump it all in the food processor and set to high speed. Take a drink of your Coke while you watch the dough ball spin 'round and 'round. I do this for two minutes.

Check the ball. If it's sticky, add a bit of flour and set it to spinnin' again. Otherwise, take it out and roll it in a ball in your hands (so you can say you worked the dough with your own hands).

Once well rounded, give it a spank. Not because you need to, but because I do, and, well, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

Then place it in a bowl with a bit of oil in the bottom. Roll it in the oil. Cover and let sit for an hour or more.

Now the dryer part... Our washer and dryer are in the kitchen and I use them as a counter top. This isn't always convenient, but for making bread, it is. The heat from the dryer is just enough to puff up that dough in no time. Plus, I get the laundry done. Multitasking!

While you wait for the dough to rise, you can go outside and make one of these... A rock garden!

This is the result of an epiphany, and I love it! So much so that my children are making fun of me---they walk around the house, holding clenched fists out in the air, and yelling, "I'm loving this!"

Obviously I'm excited.

It's a tribute to the land on which we live. You see, this whole yard is rock. Everywhere you dig, rock. Need to plant a tree? Gotta dig up rock first. Want to dig a septic? Oy! Lots and lots of rock!

So a lot of the rocks we pulled up during various digs are in this rock garden. They are proof that something so difficult can turn into something beautiful.

Back to the bread...

Now it's time to punch down the dough, roll it in your hands again, forming it into a log, and place in a bread pan. Let it rise for at least another hour. Throw in another load of laundry =)

Now you can go lay in the hammock and admire your garden for a few minutes.

When the dough is risen, bake at 180C for 30-40 minutes (until golden brown).

Voila, bread!

Preparation: 5 minutes
Punching and forming: 1 minute
Total rising time: 2+ hours
Baking: 30-40 minutes.

Clean up? A breeze.

My Mother, My Friend

2011-05-08T13:55:00.000+03:00

I added one cup of salt to the cake, instead of the one teaspoon that the recipe called for, but that didn’t seem to bother Mom. It was important to her that I learn, even if I made mistakes. Then when I made a dress for myself that was two sizes too big, she was beaming with pride that I had completed it all by myself. Later when I crocheted one large granny square, large enough to fully cover a king size bed, she bragged.

Mom taught me so much--cleaning, entertaining, sewing, crocheting, reading music, and balancing a checkbook. I appreciated all of that later in life, but that wasn’t what impressed me most.

She was a fabulous playmate. She could make puppets, draw, do crafts, and make funny voices. She took me fishing and camped out. She packed wonderful lunches of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for me to take to the clubhouse (a log cabin) she made. She made dolls for me with fancy clothes. Even though I thought she could do anything, that’s not what impressed me most.

I watched as Mom worked endless hours to make things nice for her family. She waited tables while we were at school and then helped with our homework when we got home. In her spare time I stood over her shoulder and watched her make our clothes. I looked on with interest as she designed and built our tree house. I worked along side her as she preserved the garden produce. She was beautiful, creative, and industrious, but that wasn’t what impressed me most.

As a teen I withdrew. It wasn’t the cool thing to hang around Mom anymore--parents were such a drag. Instead I watched her from a distance. I watched as she put her whole heart into helping others. She was a Pastor’s wife, Sunday School teacher, Children’s Church puppeteer, and pianist. She organized the teen choir and Christmas pageants. She made all the costumes and even wrote the scripts. She was adored by all, but that wasn’t what impressed me most.

When I married far too young, she was there. She helped me button all the little buttons of the wedding dress--her wedding dress. She kissed my face and imparted words of wisdom. She gave one of her own rings to my soon-to-be husband, as a surprise for me, and told him to take special care of me. She embraced him as part of the family and always treated him as one of her own. She had her own opinions on how things should be done, but she was always supportive of my choices. Still, that’s not what impressed me most.

When I gave birth to my children, she was there. When I chose to deliver at home with the help of a midwife, she asked to be there. She helped however she could and then had bragging rights at work that she had helped deliver a grandchild. At one point I grew tired and told everyone that I just couldn’t do it anymore. She tried to reassure me that I could, but I told her to quit bossing me around. She laughed and took it in her stride. She was a proud Grandmother and all her grandkids were crazy about her but that’s not what impressed me most.

Eventually my life took a turn and we surrendered to do mission work in Eastern Europe. When I called and told her about it, she cried. She would miss me. She would miss my husband. She would miss our kids. Looking beyond her own tears, she threw a grand going away party in our honor. She invited all the family and served the nicest foods on the prettiest tables. Hiding her tears and with a smile, she held her head high as she kissed us all goodbye, but that’s not what impressed me most.

I had been in Europe for only six months when I got an email from Mom. Her life had just been turned completely upside down. She assured me that she would find a way to work through it and that everything would be fine. But I heard something different in her voice. I had never heard her so broken, so unsure, so low. I worried about her.

A bit later, we needed to go back to the States for a few months. As quickly as we could, we went to visit her. She fixed a grand meal with all the American foods we had been craving. As the evening wore down and the children were content to play with all of Grandma’s cool toys, Mom handed me a letter and left the room. I sat on the couch and read the worst letter of my life and my heart broke. Mom returned with a red, tear-streaked face. She looked at me and asked, “Now what am I going to do?” I had no answers. Instead we cried and hugged on her couch for what seemed like hours.

That night on her couch, something changed in me. I saw my Mom in a whole new light. I wasn’t her little girl anymore, watching as she showed me how to do everything. She wasn’t the teacher and I wasn’t the student. I was, at that moment, her friend.

Being her friend has shown me more than any of the lessons of my childhood. I have had the honor to watch this woman overcome all odds as she started her life over. I cheered her on as she went back to college and got her business degree. In her ups and downs, she showed true strength and grace. She taught me more with the strength of her spirit than I ever learned at the sewing machine or by the stove. That is what impressed me most!

I love you, Mom!

A Lazy Girl's Ultimate Tool for Homemade...

2011-05-06T20:02:00.002+03:00

Honestly, I'd curl up in a corner and cry if anything ever happened to it... I love it! It's my......

FOOD PROCESSOR!

Dun dun dun!

This bad boy can do just about anything. It can chop, shred, knead, puree, mix, and more.

I use it more than a mixer. More than a blender. More than any hand-held utensil. I mean, who wouldn't want to say goodbye to arm breaking work? That is, unless you're trying to build your biceps, triceps, or deltoids. Or, as my sister says, taking out your frustrations on a dough ball.

What can you make with the help of a food processor? All kinds of stuff:

-bread
-tortilla shells
-salsa
-refried beans
-cheesecake
-meatloaf
-cabbage salad
-cookies
-peanut butter

Just to name a few.

I use this handy dandy tool nearly everyday. It helps me to cook/bake with fresh, natural ingredients in less time. And, as all Moms know, time savers are...well... life savers.

Now if I could teach this thing how to fold laundry...

Do you have a favorite kitchen tool that saves you time? Do you love your food processor? Leave me a comment below =)

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Disclaimer: Clicking on the picture above will take you exactly nowhere. I love my machine (which isn't as fancy shmancy as the one in the photo), but do not receive any compensation whatsoever for recommending it. I could only wish...

A Lazy Girl's Guide to Homemade

2011-05-05T14:45:00.001+03:00

I don't consider myself lazy. Well, not really. I'd rather call myself industrious. Or time-saving. Or efficient. Anything but lazy. But the Lazy Girl name has more of a draw to it than the others, no?

So let's begin what I hope will become a regular feature on this blog. Almost like I found my niche or something...

Introduction to A Lazy Girl's Guide to Homemade:

We live in a fast paced world, full of convenience foods. And those of us who want to provide home cooked meals, if we were truly honest with ourselves, still rely on convenience. I mean, do any of us milk the cow and make our own cheese or yogurt? I have, but it takes soooo long. And who has that kind of time? I mean, I have a lot of ~~farting around~~ chores to do and ~~blogs~~ a Bible to read.

So I rely on the convenient.

I don't build a fire in the mud oven. I use a conventional stove. I don't milk the cow. I buy it from the store.

I guess what I'm getting at is "homemade" is a little bit subjective.

But since this is my blog, I make up the definition, and it is this:

A recipe has to be followed. Fresh ingredients, as opposed to already prepared for you (think, Ragu) must be used. It cannot be a meal-from-a-box. "From scratch", I guess.

Photo Credit: Simon Howden (freedigitalphotos.net)

I'm sure you're on the edge of your seat, waiting for tips and recipes, but I'm going to keep you in suspense just a little longer...

Lowe's, Walmart, and Taco Bell

2011-05-04T20:15:00.002+03:00

...are three things we miss. The one-stop-shop and cheap fast food definitely has a draw to it.

But we don't have that here. Some stores are popping up here and there that make shopping a little more convenient, but for certain items, you have to search high and low. And usually, you still have to make do with duct tape and super glue.

Odd stuff can be found in abundance, though.

For instance:

-At the local doner shop, the fella behind the counter uses a putty knife to move around the meat on the grill.

-The roads in town have started to sink in certain areas (where they redid the water lines last year). In one spot, it became a huge hole. To warn drivers to go around it, they put an orange box in front of it, with an old rubber tire in it to keep it from blowing away. Near a national Pastor's house, there is a hole that has been there for a few years. They threw a tree branch in it to let drivers know to go around.

Photo Credit: Jscreationzs

-There is a pizza place in town with a large Spiderman on the roof, holding out a sun-faded pizza WITH BOILED EGGS ON IT! Can you say ewww?! You can also find pizzas with corn, pickle slices, and peas.

-The trash cans at the park in our village have no bottoms in them. And no trash bags, either.

-With most electric stoves, if you use the oven, you can only use half the stovetop burners. This is why we bought an appliance that is half gas, half electric. This is a slight inconvenience because gas appliances are run from a gas bottle, like a gas grill. It can be difficult to find an inconspicuous place for it in the kitchen, but it makes Thanksgiving a lot easier!

And there are many, many more things, but I'm drawing a blank now. So.... stay tuned?

My kids' Mom is a little weird.

2011-05-03T13:35:00.000+03:00

The kidlets have taken notice of unique things that I do. Odd habits. Coping mechanisms. I wish they weren't so observant, but, I guess that's what kids do.

Here's the list:

-Mom eats two of something at once. Grapes, for instance. She can't eat just one--she has to have one for each cheek

-Mom makes a clicking noise when she's stressed that sounds like pop rocks in her mouth.

-Mom tucks her hands between her knees during family devotions. Either her hands are cold, or she's trying not to bite her fingernails.

-Mom bites her fingernails.

-Mom draws funny shapes on her finger with the tip of her thumb. She does this most in the car.

-Mom has to place her glass in a specific spot on the table each and every time she takes a sip. She also has to arrange everything on an angle.

-Mom is pretty particular about her decorative pillows.

and

-If Mom is swaying back and forth when we're trying to tell her something, it means spit it out fast because she needs to jet to the bathroom.

Here's what I think: somebody needs to tell my kids' mother how weird she is. But, I'm not sure she'd listen. She's weird like that.

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Picture credit: Ambro (freedigitalphotos.net)

In Light of Yesterday's Post

2011-04-30T09:15:00.001+03:00

Or maybe this one:

I told you I think too much

2011-04-29T15:29:00.001+03:00

I may be just a little bit of a hypochondriac. Ever since I thought I was going to die on my own tongue (there’s a bit of irony for ya) during an allergic reaction, I have been a little jumpy about health related things. Okay, a lot jumpy. It was worse at the beginning than it is now, but I still have my weak moments.

Case in point, my recent headaches. They’re not my typical allergy sinus headaches. They travel up the sides of my head, eventually resting at the top.

If I told you all the things I worry it could be, you’d think I was nuts, though I suppose you’ll think that anyway after reading the next paragraph.

Yesterday morning I woke to an odd sensation in my right nostril (don’t pronounce me crazy just yet). It felt like a spider crawling around in my nose. Just then it hit me! Spiders must have climbed up in my nose, had a bunch of spidie babies, and now they’re all crawling around in my head, eventually coming to a rest in their nest at the top.

Sounds logical enough, right?

Bring on the straight jacket.

Okay, I don’t really think I have spiders in my head. That’s just my active imagination talking. But I do find that I have to grab onto my imaginations sometimes and hold them captive. To look at them rationally and hold them under the light of truth. When I listen to the voice of truth instead of my overactive imagination, I can do as Psalm 4:8 says, “I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, LORD, only makest me dwell in safety.

So tonight, rest well, and don’t give a second though to the possibility that you may have a spider nest in your head.

Picture by AKARAKINGDOMS

Welcome!

2011-04-28T12:06:00.001+03:00

Photo by suphakit73 (freedigitalphotos.net)

She thinks too much. She talks too much. She eats too much. She’s just too much. We’re pretty tired of her excesses ourselves, but then again, we’re also tired of referring to her in the third person and speaking of the singular, in a plural.

In other words, Hi, I’m Carrie. I tend to overdo just about everything I do. Or, underdo, depending on my mindset on any given day. I’m a zealous overachiever who accomplishes very little. A procrastinating perfectionist, you might say. If you ask my husband, he’d say I’m fabulous. But, since his biased vote doesn’t count, I tend to go with my own opinion, which is usually that I’m a Loser (and, yes, I do that with my finger and thumb in the shape of an L on my forehead). It’s part of my charm.

I’m the wife of a fabulous guy, who can fix anything and everything with duct tape and superglue. He has been my best friend for over seventeen years and has earned his gray hairs by putting up with me and my whims. And, running the risk of coming across as cheesy, let me just say that I think he’s great! Great husband, great Dad, great friend, and great missionary.

I’m also the Mom of five ~~stinky brats~~ little angels. I can’t say that I’m a great Mom, but somehow I ended up with some pretty great kids. They’re not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but I love them. They love me, too, despite embarrassing them in front of their friends, insisting on kissing them goodnight, and singing them awake every morning. Ah, yes, I’m the Mom every kid wants.

And I’m a missionary. Or, missionary wife. Whichever you prefer. My first ministry is at home to my husband and children, but when I get a chance, I enjoy getting out with the people. When I’m with them, they call me Barbie Doll. They pinch my cheeks and tell me that I need to be fatter. They love to ask questions about my native land, my family, the foods I love, how many jars of tomatoes I put up last year, and the size of my feet.

Other things about me:

-I am a hobby gardener who does more experimenting than actual gardening (oh, and I hate to weed!).

-I enjoy canning (for the most part) and could sing the praises of steamer juicers.

-I enjoy writing and if I go too long without writing something, I get a little cranky (hence, this blog).

-I love chocolate and if I go too long without eating some, I get a little cranky. No, no, I jest. Sort of.

-I’m an avid reader, but find there are not enough hours in a day to get all my stuff done and still have time to read.

-I enjoy cooking and baking, though my culinary skills were seriously lacking until I moved overseas (remind me to write later about a split pea soup I made 15 years ago---with cream of wheat in it! I only wish I were joking).

-I have all sorts of food allergies/sensitivities, so I become a real pain when invited to social gatherings.

-At this moment I'm trying to think of ways to work words like "ergo", "ethereal", and "antithesis" into a sentence.

-And lastly, I flush public toilets with my feet.

In spite of everything you just read, I hope you’ll drop by often and say hey.