Incepted

I have a lot of real things to tell you, but it's very late and I have to get up very early to get a lot done before the superheroes leave town for Labor Day tomorrow after lunch.

Instead of doing some of that work tonight, I watched Inception. 

For a while, it was innocent enough.  I was folding laundry for the first hour.  And everyone knows all your laundry has to be folded and put away before you can pack.

But then it was just me, sitting there, watching a movie I had seen in the theater.  Because it's amazing, that's why. 

And because Drew, one of our People, had suggested that the totem Cobb carries around--his wife's pewter spinning thing--is not really his totem.  His real totem is his wedding ring.  Drew said that he fiddles with it conscientiously in some scenes, and in other's, it's not even on his hand.

So in the last scene, we should not be staring at the pewter thing, we should be studying whether he's wearing his ring. 

This blew my mind.  This rocked my world like an explosion from the third layer reaching down into Limbo.  No way could this be true. 

So I watched for it, in that first hour when I was folding laundry.  And it's not true.  Nope.  The Director totally and completely sets up the story around that pewter totem and how Cobb uses it now and then we'll learn later how he used it to plant an idea in his wife's mind. 

I had the answer.  An hour into it.  This little theory about the ring must be just an internet rumor.

But I couldn't turn away!  I had other things to do--still do!--yet I had to watch it through to the end.  It's like Drew planted that idea in my mind.  Inception! 

Darn him. 

Off to Wyoming tomorrow.  Plan to be home Sunday.  We're feeling pretty clever about getting ahead of the traffic on both days. 

I'll be back Sunday evening to blog all about it, and about other half-remembered dreams of these past missing months.

Down With People

A few more notes on the People with which we were recently Up.

• Was never sure where this name came from.  "Up" with people?  What?  Down With People, I would get.  You know--"I'm down with that. . ."

Then I learned that it was started in 1965 by hippies, though I don't know if they called themselves that.  And there's a lot of language from those days that isn't around anymore and that I've never heard reference to.  It's the nature of language.  Only the few phrases can survive.  "Up with. . ." wasn't one of them.

•  These 3 guys ate a lot of food.  I bought a ton to stock up for their stay, all the while with my special paranoia hovering.  If we don't have enough to feed them, Gramma will be so disappointed as she watches from Heaven. 

So I bought plenty.  Plenty.  Plenty.  And then had just enough to make it through the week.

This was great, of course.  It was just a reality check: normally, I'm cooking enough to feed 2 small children, 1 woman who eats light in the evening and 1 man who eats like a 40-something and not a 20-something. 

•  We played a game with them called 10 Days in Africa.  The Superheroes play this together and a game takes about 15 minutes.  Bryan actually likes it (which hardly happens when it comes to games) because it's all about planning.  When we play together, Joshua is on Bryan's team.

This time, there were 4 players with the kids on teams with 2 of the guys.  Something about that 4th player. . .The game dragged into 45 minutes when Hans asked, "Are we allowed to have 2 plane cards together?"

I consulted the rules.  There was no statement about 2 plane cards together.  So I ruled, 45 minutes into what should be a 15 minute game, "Go for it."  And then Hans and Josh won.

Drew was looking at the rules, too.   Then he whipped out his smart phone to dial the number provided.  "I'm going to call to ask them."  And as he dialed, he started laughing and said, "This is going to be epic!" 

It was 9:45 in Wisconsin where the answering machine picked up.  He left a message, including his phone number. 

Something about this I love.  When you're 36, you don't think to call in this question.  And if you do think to, you don't actually call.  You might say, 'It would be funny if we called,' but there is no dialing.  No message.  No thinking about it ever again. 

When you're 21 and armed with a phone, you call. 

It is epic.

Josh and Gemma asked him each evening when he got home, 'Did they call you back about the rule yet?'  Nope.  They never did. . .

•  The kids and I went to the performance.  Bryan did not because a) there was a lot of work we had to get ready for a Cubbies training session later that weekend and b) his capacity for enjoying live theater is about 2 or 3%. He doesn't complain when I ask him to take me to these things.  But I, uh, have more fun without him. . .

It was a fun show.  The cast and crew had spent the week on Ft. Carson, both doing service in their schools and spending time with soldiers.  A bit of boot camp action, even.  The show was staged in one of the Ft. all-purpose buildings, which is code for, "We do a lot of stuff in this space, and so the space is designed so that nothing we do here can be done well." 

Is there a way to run sound inside a wooden-floor gymnasium lined with bleachers that's going to sound really terrific? 

No matter.  We got there early and sat in the front row and had a lot of fun picking out our 3 guys whenever they were on stage.  After the second song, Gemma asked, 'So are they, like, going to tell a story?'

No.  Not that kind of show.

It was a collection of song and dance.  The general message was, "Be a positive person.  Have a positive impact on those around you.  If everyone did this, the world would be a much, much better place.  So go out there and sing your song." 

You know what?  I was glad to hear it.  Glad to see it.  When you're 36, you see the cynicism of nearly every other adult.  You see it in yourself.  It creeps in when you're not watching out for it. It makes your dreams and hopes sick if you don't guard your heart closely.

But when you're 21, and you're going to spend your money to tour with a cast to share a message of hope and you actually believe what you're singing, that in itself is a hopeful thing.  Good for them.

What a great way to experience this country and others, by the way.  Worth every penny they spend for the privilege.  I would be delighted if Gemma or Joshua wanted to pursue it one day.

•  About that message, though. . .  It's a call to be an effective person.  I want that.  I believe I have found the keys to the kingdom of being the most effective version of the best version of myself.  I don't believe anyone can get to this version of self without the power of the resurrected Christ.  That's the song I have to sing.

•  These People, I noticed--and I was around more of them one evening when a different host family hosted a BBQ--are collectors of experiences.  Stories of what they had done, where they had been, or even just the statement that they had done and been, were a currency among them. 

Not in an ugly way.  Maybe a little one-up-manship here and there.  But mostly in the way any collector displays his collection. 

You might be a traveller and so would prefer hotels and blocks of time in one place.  But if you're a collector of experiences, touring with Up With People is probably the way to go.

I realized that I'm a collector of stories.  I really didn't know that about myself until this past week.  I'll have to tell Bryan, as he's been hounding me for 12 years now to start a collection of something. . .

•  On they go, to increase their collection.  Here I stay, where I can still grow mine.

Onward Trails, Upward People

Well.

That was a nice break.

I hadn't thought it would last for nearly 4 months.  And to the extent that this blog is a journal of our family exploits, these past 4 months were the wrong ones to sit out.  We were plenty exploited this summer.

But good writers know not to start out with apologies, right?  So I'm not sorry.  I'm just back. 


And I'm up with people!

This past week, we hosted 3 cast members/students from Up With People.  Long-time readers will be relieved to know that they were not Chinese nationals, so Bryan's security clearance remains clear.  But I read in our paper that Up With People was coming to town and that they needed host families for 40 more people. 

I called right away and placed an order for some Americans. 

They placed 3 men with us, Hans, Taylor and Drew.  They slept here for 7 nights, I drove them to where they needed to be each morning at 7:15 and Bryan did the picking up at 6:15 each evening and their goal, as they live with host families all over the nation and unto the rest of the world, is to "live as we live."

That means no cable, guys.  When I broke that news to them on the car ride home there was a. . .certain kind of silence.

Later in the evening when I took out the password for our wi-fi internet access, their look of relief was coupled with a passing glance of, 'Why didn't you say so?. . ." 

It was a delight to have them here.  I wasn't at all surprised by how much I enjoyed it.  And since dropping them off this morning, I've been puzzling through why I wanted to host in the first place and why it was such a great week.  Yes, yes, they were very good guests, very nice men, very fun to be around--especially for the kids. 

(Joshua and Gemma engaged them in a light-saber battle that careened into mayhem--Jedi against Jedi, Syth against Syth--it was the Center Falling Apart in the backyard that night. . .) 

What I've come up with is this:

1. We have an enormous home.  "Nice" by American standards.  A palace in comparison to almost all other people worldwide and across time.  Generally, we live in every room every day (except for the guest bedroom).  But it is satisfying to see the home be used even more.  Good for the kids, too, to have to share their space, if even in a little way like this.

But mostly:

2. Homeschooling is an insulated experience.  This is a good thing.  This is one of the chief blessings of the lifestyle.  We have lots and lots of friends.  Lots of them are also homeschoolers.  Some are not.  But all of the families we make an effort to be around regularly are very similar to our family. 

It's a good thing for all of us--especially the children--to be around different people with different perspectives.  These guys are performers, all in their 20's, one from DC, one California, one South Dakota.  Their voices and hearts and eyes were a giant burst of different, fresh air for all the superheroes this week. 

It was time well spent.

There's more to say about Up With People.  Check tomorrow's blog.  (Yes! For a while, anyway, we're gonna hit it daily.)

For now, photos from our hike on Sunday, designated as "Family Day," whence the host families have their guests to themselves.  They elected to hike and we were glad to oblige.

My first hike since breaking my ankle in October of 2008.  That sounds ridiculous. . .3 years with no hiking?  But that next summer was the cancer thing, and last summer, we were out of town for all but 2 weekends.  And this summer?  Well, you don't really know what we've been doing for 4 months, do you, so don't judge me for not hiking. 

For my triumphant return to the trails, we selected the very one where I broke my ankle.



I don't know why this pic is sideways. This hasn't been a problem for me before on blogger.  Nice one of us all, though, no?




Drew, Hans and Taylor against a lot of Colorado.



The law says I have to feed them, and they keep sleeping almost half the day, and so they keep growing.  It's both perfect and horrible.

Overlooking Cheyenne Canyon

This looks more dangerous than it was.  I swear.

If this tree doesn't have a geological-landmark name among people who names things like this, it should.  Plenty of the soil it has grown through has been washed away, but the roots remain.  Now more beautiful than ever.

 

DC Day 1

About that flight, and my optimism that avoiding earphones might lead to an interesting conversation:

I did avoid earphones.
Everyone around me did not.
And I am not so interested in interesting conversation that I would mis-read that very clear signal. 

Plugged-in=Checked-out

Fine, fellow travellers.  Stick with music you've heard a thousand times already.  Read the book that will be there later for you.  But you've missed out on me.

This did free me up to put on earphones and watch DirecTV on the 3 hours flight.  Watching TV fused to feel like a big treat, because we don't have it at home.

This time, though, it felt more like a series of snapshots of the culture.  Jon Stewart of the Daily Show, for instance.  I think I used to find him funny.  This time, I couldn't help feeling, "Ouch.  This guy is hurtful.  And snide. And. . .and. . .hurtful."

Switched to HGTV and watched a series of shows--makeover types, HouseHunters--about Americans upgrading where they live.  Made me wonder how the producers find people to be on these shows.  If we wanted to turn our backyard into an "Outside Room," for instance, whom do we write to?  And does the show pay for the makeover or do we have t?  And if the show does, do we pay taxes on that improvement?

From the Regan airport, I found my way on the Metro to a pre-arranged coffee shop where Suzanne met me.  That Metro journey included a line change, and I didn't make any mistakes getting from one point to the other.  This is the kind of thing that makes me feel good about myself. 

We walked from her place to the Iwo Jima memorial.  Had no idea it was that huge.  Huge. 
She told me something about it that you may not know, but are about to be glad you do know: 

As you know, it features 5 men.  But there are 11 hands.  That's right--an extra hand, the Hand of God.
Love it.

A monument like this makes me think of a moment--it is a moment captured, after all.  And there is a lot of talk about "living for the moment,"  but in fact, the moments that are worth making statues out of are never just moments, they are always culminations of a lifetime of choices and preparaiton.  Those Marines didn't become victorious warriors in a second. Theirs was "a long obedience in the same direction."  (Eugene Peterson's words, not mine.  Though he wrote them in reference to something else, kind of.) 

We all have moments in the making right now, I think.  I hope. 

Hijinx Ensues

I got to the airport an hour before my flight this morning. 

But the pilot scheduled to fly the plane did not show up for work.  (The gate agent's words, not mine.)  So the flight was cancelled.

This was to be a quick jaunt up to Denver, from which everyone sitting in the Colorado Springs was continuing on to somewhere else.  This kind of thing. . .what's the right phrase for this?. . .this kind of thing activates personalities.

The middle-aged woman who is leading a mother and a few sisters turns into "I Will Manage This Situation!"  Nothing she did helped her own cause.  Not the interrupting of the agents at the desk to 'get answers.'  Not the loud-enough-for-all-passengers-to-hear-but-still-in-a-controlled-voice-so-that-she--among all these other crazies--would-not-look-crazy, "These two agents are incompetent."

She and her companions ended up on the bus up to Denver.

I knew from the first I wouldn't be on that bus.  Buses make me want to throw up.

Another family was very upset as well.  On their way to some kind of reunion, and due to meet up with grandkids in Denver--I heard all about it.  The father in this group was reasonable enough.  He kept telling his son--maybe 19 years old, the lilt of a brat about him--that "It is not OK to get upset about this."

The son responded very calmly that he could, indeed, get upset.  It was what he was experiencing in his reality and he had a right to it.  I felt uncomfortably as though I were sitting in on the family's counseling session.

Eventually, this same son announced to his father as they sat in the terminal that if such and such didn't happen in time he would, "Rip somebody's f***ing head off."  (His words, not mine.)

This ripping, though I did not mention this to the guy, is against Federal Regulations.  Someone with latex gloves and ill-fitting trousers would be after him in no time.

The trousers of TSA employees!  None of them fit anyone!  They are either too tight, or too baggy in at least a few places.  Check for yourself next time you are in an airport.

I did not have my new iPod with me.  Didn't want it.  Being plugged in is a sign to everyone else that you don't want to talk, whereas I like to be available to my fellow travellers.  I got to chat with one man who's considering relocating to the Springs, for instance.  Another whose family just opened an Italian Bistro in Pueblo where he is the head chef.  And, no, he neither saw Ratatouille nor planned to.

His parents are from Palermo, however, and everything he makes is his mother's recipe.  The Superheroes will plan to eat there this summer.  Let's hope the restaurant stays open that long. 

Clarity, though: I used to be more upset about this kind of thing.  I paid good money!  They owe me a plane ride now, not later!  What is that pilot's name?!  I will never fly on this airline again. . .  

A while ago, though, I realized that if I were to stick by my various vows to avoid certain airlines, there would be no one left to fly.  This is just what air travel is like.  Stuff happens.  Kind of often, it feels like. 

I remember Sister #1, who flies a lot, telling me this a few years ago.  I see her point now.  What can you do?  And, in my case, I did not even absolutely, positively, have to be in DC today.  I am going to visit a dear friend, and it looks like I might get to see and extra two friends in the bargain.  Whoopee! 

But the trip can start tomorrow.

Because my other option was to spend an entire day in airports and arrive around midnight.  Folks, I have a lot to do here at home that I was already dreading coming home to on Sunday night and then finishing up so I could leave Monday morning.

I re-booked for Friday morning, 6:00 AM, which will get me there in plenty of time to enjoy my friends.  And voila!  I therefore had a whole afternoon to get everything else in order for my road trip--and got to do so without Gemma and Joshua around.  I'd say it's working out perfectly.

Final bonus: I can go to the National Day of Prayer gathering at our church this evening, which I had been bummed to miss out on.  Now, Bryan and I can go together.

Tomorrow starts early, then.  I'll have about 2 hours to use between my landing and Suzanne being off work.  I'll navigate the Metro to her stop and we've planned a ren-des-vous at a certain coffee shop.  She added that there's wifi there, if I had my laptop with me.

I first thought, "Hmm, I do have a lot of work I could do on the plane, and then at the shop as I wait for her."  But then I thought, "No, being on a laptop tells the world that you do not want to talk.  And, frankly, I want to hear what the guy who plans to rip someone's f***ing head off has to say. . ."

So Many Odds!

Easter last weekend:  Bryan was driving in from MO, where he'd spent a day clearing out what was left in the barn we sold.  The kids and I enjoyed the day at the Burches, cementing what was already the tradition--now 5 years running.

It was a snowy, cold day.  Pretty typical for Colorado. The kids and I had been listening to the audiobook of The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe and though I've read it before, this time, it struck me.  Maybe because it led up to Easter? 

In one portion, Mr. and Mrs. Beaver are trying to explain to the children what being in the presence of Aslan is like.  "He is terrifying," Mr. Beaver said.  "Terrifying, yes, but he is also good."

***

Our homeschool co-op wrapped up last week.  They created a version of The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe.  This had been months in the making, with the kids imagining great things for their production. 

In execution, it involved children acting out the key scenes under Cecilia's direction (she's the 12 year old among them) whilst I recorded it with my DVD recorder. 

After 3 1/2 hours of work, they had made 18 minutes of footage, which we then watched together.  "All that work?! Only 18 minutes long?!"

I'd say they all learned something. . .

Gemma was Lucy, by the way.  Joshua was Mr. Beaver. 

***

If I know anyone on the planet who should have a GPS in the car as she's driving, it is the superhero, Amy Ponce!  It is impressive how lost I have gotten, especially at times and in places where no reasonable person gets lost.


Look, I don't have a lot of common sense.  It's too bad, sometimes.  But I like to think that this lack has created an opportunity for creativity that has made for a rich life so far.  With a GPS, I now feel like I have a lot less of the pain of being non-common-sensical, with all of the creative gain.

We now also have a hand-held GPS that we use to geocache.  This was our Christmas present from the grandparents and we so enjoy the hobby.  I have wanted to be a geocaching family ever since Gemma was about a year old.  Now, both kids are big enough to hike on their own two legs. 

***

One more gadget is new to me:  An iPod.  My first digital music device.  Seriously.

I'm loading music from my cd's onto it as I compose this message.  The pod itself is tiny.  A "nano," which, when we won one in a raffle back in Korea in 2004, was shockingly slim: 4 inches high, almost as thin as a credit card.

The one I bought yesterday is, like, and inch and a half, just as thin, with a clip on it.  I can wear it on my collar and its pedometer function will still take an accurate count of my steps.

It can hold up to 4000 songs.

Is anyone else dazzled by this technology? 

I think there's even an "app" (we've shortened the word "application" because of this technology! who would have thought that the syllable, "app" would ever mean anything?) related to fitness tracking I could use.

But I don't think I will.

***

Speaking of shortening words, this has become Gemma's habit.  It's weird.  She started doing it with people's names. 

We all do this with people we know and love, right?  People we feel very close to and can take license with?  I mean, it would be pretty normal if I started calling my husband, "Bry." 

Gemma calls on of the cul-de-sac kids--one who is hardly ever home or outside playing, we see him maybe half a dozen times a year--has started calling this child, named Regan, "Rege." 

Not just names, either.  "Are we having tacs for dinner?"

"Tacs?"

"Tacos?" she clarifies.

***

Joshua was with me in a store the other day.  We were there to get a shirt for me.  He saw a toy and asked for it.

"Not today," I said.  He persisted.  "Joshua," I said, "I am not going to buy you a toy for no reason."

"But I want it!  That is a reason!"

(No, I didn't get it.)

***

Let me tell you about the shirt. 

Previous to July 2009, I was a v-neck t-shirt and skort kind of girl in the summertime.  These v-necks were red, black, white or navy blue.  This was a good look for me.

My physique is somewhat different now.  This look doesn't really work.  It would if I were to wear fake breasts, but I don't really want to.  I found a new look instead: a tank top under a button-front, collared shirt with the buttons open. 

This hangs nicely.  Doesn't draw attention to my bony expanse of ribs.

Two problems, though: 

1. It's hard to find women's button front shirts that are not too long for me and

2. It's hard to find women's shirts that do not have pronounced darts sewn into them.  Darts that I do not, ahem, need and that hang funny when there is nothing darting into them.

Then, one day while in a dressing room, facing this problem yet again, I had a revelation: Now that I am built like a pre-pubescent boy, why not starting wearing their clothes?

The perfect length!
The fronts are sewn straight.  (I do have to pin the backs to get that part to cut in. . .so, not a perfect solution)
And you'd be surprised at the colors they make for boys' clothing.

No, I don't plan on handing them down to Joshua.

I do feel like a genius for figuring this out.

***

AWANA graduation was this past weekend.  Bryan and I were responsible for the Cubbies' graduation ceremony.  But Bryan had the nightshift for an exercise for the better part of 2 weeks, so, really, I am the one who had to put it together.

This is totally OK.  He did most of the work throughout most of the year.

The point is, I was keenly aware of how many hours go into something like this, and the whole time I was thinking, "Who even cares about Cubbie graduation?"

Then, at Cubbie graduation, I saw each little pre-schooler up close as he walked across the stage.  And I'll tell you who cares about Cubbie graduation:  Cubbies.  They were so happy and proud and thrilled.  It was so precious.  What a blessing to be a part of that.

Joshua got an extra round of applause when he walked across.  People know that when parents do ministry, their kids end up "doing" it, too.

We got the whole thing done in 30 minutes, by the way.  Something of an AWANA record.

Then it was the Sparks' turn.  Gemma won 'Clubber of the Year' for her age group.  I don't mean for that to constitute bragging.  But this is our family record, right?  Now, if I were to point out that she won this award last year, too, that would be bragging.

As for Gemma, she seemed surprised by the award.  Delighted.  But humble, too.  We're just glad both our kids like AWANA more than any other thing they do.

***
I leave for a trip to DC on Thursday morning.  Return is on Sunday. I leave on Monday for a road trip with the kids. 

I would love to blog from the road.  I'm not sure if I will.  I'll tell you what's odd: When we are busiest, as we've been this April, for instance, I want to sit down and write least of all. 

Yet, these busy times are full of the stuff that wants writing down. 

Maybe our trip will be boring and I will post lots of blogs.

Just in case, though, I'm taking my own deadline away.  Not that's it's meant much lately.  We'll be back in mid-June.  I hope to check in before then!

Kings

B:  Has been working very hard on our garden.  I asked him weeks ago why my kitchen floor was not loaded with seedlings in trays lain out in the sun that shines through our glass doors and he explained that this year, he would be "ammending the soil." 

Planting vetch, for instance, in last year's corn patch.  I don't think I believed that "vetch" is a plant and not a Yiddish word.  He will also spend his summer building hot-boxes (low-lying green houses) using windows he bought at an auction.  He has been digging holes for the currant and raspberry bushes and has abandoned hope for growing blueberries.

All of which is to say that this year--with its structural improvements, climate-considered plant choices and long-term soil improvements--marks his own mental adjustment to being a resident of Colorado Springs, and not a guy who is going to move to a farm in Missouri any time soon.

One might ask why he should bother at all.  This is a high dessert.  Is food supposed to grow here? 

I think he does it for the fun of it.  (Though it never seems like fun when the hail comes in late June and wrecks shotgun-like havoc upon all his efforts.)  For something to do with the kids each evening as they go out and tend the garden together. 

I realize this time around that there might be one more reason:  He has dominion out in that yard.  He gets to plan what goes where.  He gets to yank out weeds that do not belong.  Until the hail comes, anyway, he gets to be King over a patch of Earth.


G: Gemma's performance in The King and I was this past Friday night.  Not the whole musical.  It was a 17 minute production where each of the 12 kids in her class had 3 lines to say and they all sang 3 songs from the show. 

Of course, once you take everything out of the original production that you don't want to explain to 7 year-olds (you know--the harem stuff, sexual slavery, xenophobia) you only have about 17 minutes left anyway. 

For 3 months, we've been driving around with the soundtrack of her 3 songs.  "Getting To Know You," which, before this, I thought was from an Oldsmobile commercial; "I Whistle a Happy Tune," which provides a helpful strategy for frightful situations:

Whenever I feel afraid, I hold my head erect
And whistle a happy tune so no one will suspect I'm afraid. . .

The result of this deception is very strange to tell:
For when I fool the people I fear, I fool myself as well.

Got that, friends?  So, say, if you are ever cornered by a tiger who has just escaped the zoo and you feel afraid, put on a fresh face, whistle a happy tune, and you'll fool not only that tiger, but yourself as well.


I particularly liked her final song, 'Shall We Dance?'  Rogers and Hammerstein (or whichever one was the lyricist) could be so coy. . .or maybe it was a 1960's thing.

Shall we dance?
On a bright cloud of music, shall we fly?

Shall we dance?
Shall we then say "Goodnight," but mean, "Goodbye"?

Or, perchance,
When the last bit of star has left the sky
Will we still be together with our arms around each other and will you be my new romance?
With the clear understanding that this kind of thing can happen
Shall we dance?  Shall we dance?  Shall we dance?

Love it!  "This kind of thing can happen."  Indeed! 

I'm not even googling for these lyrics, you know.  They're locked in my head.  For. Ev. Er.

They're locked in Joshua's, too.  His favorite is also this last one and he loves to shout out Yule Brennar's line--the numbers he calls out as Anna is teaching him to dance and he is trying to keep time. . .

That is, Gemma sings, "Shall we dance?"

And Josh says, "1, 2, 3 and!" 

"On a bright cloud of music, shall we fly?"

"1, 2, 3 and!"


OK, OK, back to "G,"  -- the show was Friday evening.  She was so cute.  So cute.  A parent's job is to identify what special talent and fire and passion God has put into a child, and for Gemma, the theater is not it.

But she delivered her lines with great confidence and effect, and she danced away with the other children of the king and, this part  surprised me: she smiled the entire time she was on stage.  I'm telling you: crazy cute.


J: Gemma's was the second of 6 performances in a row, by classes that are all run by the same school.  We had planned to make a quick exit after Gemma's, mostly in consideration of him.  It was almost 8 PM, after all, and how long and late should he be expected to keep quiet and still?

(And this wasn't being rude to others.  It meant that we would be leaving our front row seats that I had arrived 60 minutes early to secure, and other parents could then sit closer and take great pictures.  Plus, there were several minutes between shows in which we could leave without interrupting anything.)

But he didn't want to leave.  He wanted to watch the next one!  So we did.  He and Daddy stayed in the front row and the Burches and I left our good seats and stood in the back.

Then Daddy decided that he had totally put in his time--his own kid's show? yes, but how many shows full of strange children should he be expected to endure?

Josh wanted to stay.

Daddy tried to bribe him with a reminder that we were headed to Applebee's with Miss Betsy and Amy for our after-show celebration. 

He wanted to stay.

So we did.  Through the fifth show, at which point I was prepared to lie to him and tell them there were no more.  There's no way I wanted to get stuck in the parking lot when the whole audience let out.

But after the fifth performance, he stood up and announced in the darkened auditorium (as one cast left and the set was being changed for the last time), "Mommy!  It's Time to Go!" 

I love that he loved all these performances. 

He likes to perform himself.  For Gemma, anyway.  Tonight, as we drove home from AWANA, he had put a cardboard crown onto a balloon and making the balloon-king announce all the laws of the land.  Things like, "You have to clean up your toys and you have to stay inside unless your Mommy or Daddy says you can go outside. . ."  Gemma was cracking up and he loved it.

We pulled into the garage.  He opened his door and shouted, "Announcing: The King of Colorado!" 

Furlough

Had the government shutdown this weekend, Bryan, a non-critical government servant, would have been sent home without pay. 

We would have welcomed a furlough because Bryan could use the time away right now to make one last trip back to the land in Missouri before we sell it.  (Praise God!  We have a buyer!  Perfect timing, too. . .)

And I kind of liked playing up the "buckle down" mentality.  Bryan told the cul-de-sac kids he would pay them to help bag up his dead grass rakings.  He came in to gather their salary and asked, "Do you have any singles?"

I said, "Singles?!  We're facing a furlough!  We should pay them with quarters."

Alas, the gummint men figured something out, Bryan will go to work on Monday and he will have to make his trip on Easter weekend, instead. 

Got me thinking of the nature of "furlough," though.  No pay, but no work, either. 

And how I, personally, can't be put on furlough right now.  The last time I worked regularly during hours that were counted by others was 2003.  And only half of that year. 

Maybe you're thinking, "You do work regularly, Amy, you just don't get paid a salary." 

Eh.  Not really. 

When the kids were babies, yes.  That was work.  It was work I didn't like doing, though I was thankful to be doing it. 

I consider my days now, though.  I get up and dressed before the kids awake.  I drink my iced coffee and eat breakfast while I read the Bible.  (Bryan and I are reading "The One Year Bible" that has all the scriptures arranged chronologically and then divided into daily readings.  It has been a real joy so far.)

Then the kids wake up. 

Gemma comes right down, says "good morning" and makes her breakfast.

Joshua sits on the top step, says, "Good morning, I love you" in a groggy voice and he sags and wavers so much from sleepiness I worry each time that he'll topple right down the stairs.

A few minutes later, he thumps down and sits next to me on the couch, curled up.  Gemma finishes eating.  I'm done reading my Bible.  I pick up theirs and read aloud, then we read library books, then Gemma reads aloud to me, then I read history aloud to them (by which time Josh is ready to make his breakfast and eat).  We practice AWANA verses, then the kids go upstairs to get dressed while I empty the dishwasher.

We have a snack and then go downstairs for schoolwork until a mid-afternoon lunch.

Our kitchen is sunny when we eat.  Sometimes the kids get out their little tray stands and have lunch on the soft rug by our back door, right where the sun is shining in.  They sit with their backs against the glass and feel cozy.

Then we play a game together.  And read more.  Have a quiet time when the kids can do whatever they want except talk to me or put their eyes on a screen. 

Then the cul-de-sac kids get home from school and they all play outside until dinner.  I work out upstairs.  Check e-mail.  Make dinner. 

Bryan gets home at a nice hour nowadays.  Usually by 5, often by 4:30.  After dinner, we play a game all together.  Read more.  Put the kids to bed.

This is my whole day.  It's not work.  It's a dream come true. 

I participated in a phone survey today, mostly because that's the only way to make the survey company stop calling back.  Towards the end of it, she asked me how I would describe my profession.  I told her, "I'm a superhero,"  and she laughed.

Why do people always laugh?

Maybe being a superhero each day is work.  If so, how blessed am I to have found my dream job?  No furloughs here, I'm glad to say.

B, G and J: Our Circles

B:

This story starts with me and a program hosted by a church here in town.  The program hosts Chinese teenagers for 2 weeks.  The kids spend the day learning English and American culture and their evenings and weekends with host families.

How exciting!  What a great experience for our kids, a great way to use our guest room in the basement, a great way to share the love and message of Jesus with a person who might not otherwise ever His Good News.

I flashed the brochure to Bryan and spooke rapid-fire about what a terrific idea this was for our summer.  Then I noticed the look on his face and stopped talking.

No smile.  Just a furrowed brow.  A quizzical turn in the corner of his mouth. "Are you serious?" he asked.

I don't know what my face looks like when it is dumbfounded, but I was dumbfounded.  "Yes. . .?" 

"Babe," he began, "I cannot begin to imagine what that would do to my security clearance. I don't think there's enough forms out there to fill out to make this OK.  I would have to be debriefed afterwards!"

Oh. 

"Especially the Chinese!" he shouted, shaking his head.

Oh. 

Good illustration of how our two lives are really one life--you know, same house, kids together, growing old together--and yet our two lives mostly happen in two different circles.  Mine, in a happy cul-de-sac, as we happily homeschool and toodle around town for this activity or that, where the daily plan is all about scheduling our days to limit stress and maximize work and the other part of the plan is having something ready for dinner. 

His world involves planning that I don't know anything about because he can't tell me, but now I realize it involves mental alarms sounding off at the mention of "Chinese teenagers." 

I wanted to test this out, though.  Was he being dramatic?  Was it really that big a deal?  At Col Putko's (I LOVE that guy!) fairwell party, I told this story to several of Bryan's co-workers.  Every one of them started laughing the moment I said, "Chinese." 

The most memorable of their comments:  "One e-mail home from the kid at your house and the whole family back in China gets a raise!"


G:

As you know, the superheroes frequent the used market.  Thus far, I've managed to clothe our children in about 95% used items.  Hand-me-downs.  Garage sales.  Collecting bigger clothing and keeping it in a box until it's the right size. . .  I have a pretty well-oiled system. 

But Gemma is growing out of this mode.  There's not as much used clothing around for elementary-aged kids because they don't grow as quickly as they did in the baby years, so that one dress is going to last 2 years, not a mere 6 months, at at the end of 2 years, it is not going to be in great shape, the way the one that fit for just 6 months did. 

I'm OK with all this.  I have no problem shopping in real stores.  Good values can be found on a sales or clearance rack.  So there Gemma and I were: in Old Navy, shopping for pants for me.  Also in Old Navy--and this is where they must make the majority of their money--is a kids' section, including a big rack of t-shirts and shorts, all in the cutest patterns.

The price was good.  I told Gemma she could pick out 2 tops and 2 shorts and that was a thrill for her.  I hadn't realized until that moment that part of having your Mom collect your clothes from the used market means that you don't actually pick out what you are going to wear. She's never complained about this.  But I could tell by her wide eyes that she was liking the opportunity to select. 

This one, this one, these and these, she decided.

I said, "Oh, I'm not sure these two really match," as I placed the top by the shorts.  I looked twice and said, "Oh!  These are cute together!" -- genuine surprise, here.

I looked up and she was looking back, a slight smile, serenely confident that of course they looked cute together.

I looked back to her selections.  "But these two, I think these might be too busy. . ." second take. . .she was right again.  They looked really cute.

"Oh," I said again.  Her look remained the same. 

As we walked to the register with our clothes, I said, "I think you might be better at this than Mommy is."

What was her look this time?  "Yyyyeah. . ." 


J:

He still loves to hug.  A very cuddly boy.  And I love hugging him.

The other day, I was cuddling him up in my lap and he said, completely, as a statement that needed no explanation:   "Mommy, my love goes beyond." 


A:

I judged a speech and debate tournament in Arvada, CO last Saturday.  I was so excited about the opportunity that I cleared it with Bryan, commited to being there and then mapquested the discovery that Arvada is a 90 minute drive from here.

Not ideal.  But I'm glad I went.

The tournament itself was a pleasure.  I just love judging these things.  Love it!   I used to to quite a bit of this work before Gemma came along, and this past Saturday marked my happy return to it after a 7 year break.  It's my idea of a great time.

But there's more:

I was chatting with a fellow judge who, I learned, lives in Manitou Springs.  I know just one other person who lives there, and it's a town of what?  40 thousand people?  I wasn't going to say, "Do you happen to know. . ." 

But later we got to talking about something else that related to this other person I know.  So I mentioned, in telling my story, "a doctor--he lives in Manitou, actually--that-"

"Is it Matthew?" this judge asked.

No way.

"Matt Mayfield?" I asked him, because this is that one other person I know who lives in Manitou.

Yep.  This judge is the Mayfields' neighbor.  His daughters dog-sit the Mayfields' akita.

Mathematically speaking, what are the chances of this, exactly? 

Nope, it's not a coincidence.  It's a God-incidence.  So fun. . . so fun.

All That I Do Not Know

Will posterity wonder why I've failed to post on two Sundays in a row?  I've been sick.  Really, really, totally-wrecked in my "upper respiratory" area sick.  (Why don't we just call that "upper lungs"?  Is there something more to it than the lungs?)

I was still able to function.  I even talked on the phone with a long lost friend, though I sounded like death.  But I hardly slept due to the coughing, and so was tired for a good 10 days.  I'm mostly better now, thanks.

***

Do you have sign holders where you live?  Human sign holders, specifically?

They are ubiquitous here in the Springs.  Pizza places.  Model home sales offices.  Car mechanics.  It's hard to find a busy intersection that does not have an employed sign holder on it.

Here's what I don't know: How do these people get hired?  And how much do they get paid?  There are men wearing Statue of Liberty costumes, waving to on-coming traffic, trying to drum up businesses for the tax preparation franchises.  A couple of Uncle Sams out there, too.

Do you get paid more if you're in a costume?

Is there some sort of national monument anti-desecration ordinance that would require such sign holders to first shave their beards before donning the Green Lady's crown? 

***

Speaking of sick, Gemma had it first.  For more than a week.  Then I had it.  Then Josh woke up with a fever and I braced myself for another week of sick-tending.  (Josh took his fever as good news.  He understood immediately that the word "fever" placed him on the "un-limited popsicle" list.  Cha-ching.)

By day 2, the fever was gone.  He frowned at me when I pronounced him "normal."  This seemed an un-just duration of popsicle access.

But what remained after the fever, and had gotten a little worse, were his eyes.  They were goopy.  A lot of green stuff coming out of them.

I thought, "Hmm.  Gemma fought the germ with a fever.  I fought it by capturing it in my upper-respriatory. . .area and Josh is fighting it in his upper-head--sinus, perhaps?--and draining through his eyes.  How about that!"

The next day, his eyes were worse.  I kind of realized that morning (was it the Holy Spirit giving me wisdom?) that I hadn't exactly heard of a child fighting a germ this way before.  I called Pedro, retired pediatrician, and asked if this was normal.

Because there was one thing I did not want: to go to a doctor here, and be told, "This happens, nothing we can do, go home!" 

Pedro said that this was not normal, it was an infection, he needed anti-biotics.

All of which led to an urgent care clinic PA telling me that Joshua had a "raging case" of pink eye.

Huh!

I had never seen pink eye before!  Had only ever heard of other people getting it. 

We got the drops, have been washing our hands obsessively, and it's already clearing up.

Bryan wanted to swing into more dramatic action. 
"Should we hot-wash his doggers?"  Sure. 
"Should we hot-wash all our pillow cases?"  We can. . . 
"Should we hot-wash all the clothing he's been wearing?"  Uh. . .

"Bryan," I said, "This isn't the scarlet fever."

***

Which reminds me of the Velveteen Rabbit, who almost got tossed onto the burn pile.

I clipped one of our bushes in the backyard.  It had grown to crazy proportions and needed intense pruning.  I looked at the pile of long branches ready for disposal and asked Bryan if he could build a fire to burn them ASAP, before the children of the cul-de-sac found them and starting beating one another with them.

Sure.  He could burn 'em!

I had envisioned his using our metal, portable fire pit.  But I guess he had more to burn than my pile of branches.  Bryan set up operations in his big garden plot, which held a big fire, which made big smoke, which was sited somewhere in the neighborhood such that the fire department was called.

A full sized engine pulled up to our house.  I did not know this.  I was working out at the time upstairs and could only smell the smoke of what I thought was Bryan's small fire. 

The kids told me all about it later when I asked why they and all the other kids in the cul-de-sac were sporting fire department stickers on their shirts. 

Bryan filled in the details.  The firefighters were nice people.  Didn't give him a ticket, not even a formal warning.  They did request that he build fires in his pit from now on.

Mrs. Colorado filled in even more details the next day.  When they pulled up, the kids in front came yelling to Bryan, "There's a fire truck here!"

Then the firefighteres walked to our back gate and were peering over to, you know, see what they could see.  Bryan met them on his side of the gate and was talking over it to them, saying, "Oh, sorry!  I'm just burning some brush back here.  It's all under control.  Nothing to see here!"

They said, "Sir, we need to come back there." 

But.  No ticket.

Mrs. Colorado also mentioned, "Yesterday, of all days!  That Smokey the Bear warning system was on highest alert.  Because of the wind and dryness, there are warnings all over about controlling fires."

We were unaware of such warnings.  "Is that something that's been on TV?" I asked.  She smiled and nodded and rolled her eyes.

So.  No wonder I did not know.

***

I hooked up our new wireless router the other day.  I am not great with this sort of thing.  It requires a practical common sense that I don't have much of.  It's not embarassing to admit that.  I am a creative person.  Not seeing things the "common" way has made for a rich life so far.  It's been a disadvantage at times--not having common sense--but I married someone who has more than enough for both of us.

But he was too busy burning things to get around to the router hook-up.  So I decided, "If it takes me all day, I will do this thing.  I am certain that with my best effort, I can make it happen."

It doesn't help that we've had bad luck with wireless routers.  2 before have failed to work well.  So, if something were to go wrong with this one, it would be my inclination to curse the machine and overlook the possibility of, ahem, "operator error."

For this router, we kept shopping for one until we could find a salesperson who knew what he or she was talking about.  I finally found an ex-Airforce communications guy who hooked me up with something promising.  It includes a "set-up stick" which is the code for "made for idiots."  I felt really confident pulling it out of the box.

I put the stick in, and like a dream, it did its thing.  All I needed to do was connect the modem to the router, which I did.

But then the router couldn't find the internet.  I tried this, I tried that.  I tried re-sets. . .  Finally, I called Comcast with the hope that it was partly their fault.

The guys quickly determined that I had not, after all, done the one thing I needed to do.  I had plugged it into the wrong port, though both ports were clearly labeled!

"Argh!" I said, as I re-plugged. "I'll be you talk to idiots all day long."

"It's OK, ma'am.  This is your first time."  (That's not true.  I've tried to hook up routers before. . .)

"I'll bet you say that to all the idiots," I told him.  And he did not contradict.

The wireless is working now.  Despite my best efforts.

***

Bryan and I were out the other day when we passed a guy on a scooter.  The day was cool to begin with.  Scooting in the open-air had to have felt brisk.

He was tootling along, one hand on his handle bar, the other around a big travel mug.  He was sipping coffee at 50 miles an hour!

That doesn't fit in with my loose theme of "things I don't know."  But it made me and Bryan laugh and laugh and laugh.  How often do you and your spouse come along something that is not your kids and not in a movie that makes you both laugh?

***

Here's something else that doesn't fit:  The weekend we were out, the kids were with Betsy and Amy.  They went ice skating on Saturday, and that evening, we had picked them up and taken them to church.

Later, I was asking Joshua about his time with Betsy and Amy, and somehow, for some reason, asked whether he had told his children's church teacher about them.

Josh said, "I was going to explain who Betsy and Amy are, but I didn't think my teacher would understand, so I didn't."

This amazes me.  He's 4 1/2!

***

As for Gemma, I bought the game, Rummikube last week and taught her to play.  My dream is coming true: I am raising up children to love playing games with me.  And Rummikube is a really terrific game.  She's very clever to have been able to figure out how to play it well.

***

Back to the theme:

We went to a tax franchise located in Wal-Mart to have ours prepared.  So far, every year of our married life has included something tricky or complicated and we find it worth the fee to have someone else go through it with us. 

With Bryan, anyway.  While he's sitting with the Jesse Jackson-Hewitt-Do-It lady, I wander around Wal-Mart with the kids, finding things like Rummikube and other sundry items.  (Can I write off the total bill of Wal-Mart purchases on these trips as tax-prepartion expenses?)

Speaking of which, I should make it clear here that Bryan and I aren't the type to. . .oh, what's the word?. . ."be aggressive" when it comes to taxes.  We like being on the up-and-up.  If Taxman ever came to audit us, we wouldn't sweat a single moment.  We think God cares about this, too.  Keeping whatever amount of money isn't worth being dishonest.

That said, we want to give the IRS as little as possible.  Even if it is the government who has been paying Bryan's salary all these years. 

(The afternoon of our appointment, when I was explaining to the kids where we'd go that evening, I found myself explaining what the whole process was for, which Gemma found unbelievable.  Not the taxing part, this she knew about.  But the pay-roll deduction part and the figure-it-out-after-the-fact part and the pay-thousands-of-people-to-be-part-of-the-figure-it-out-at-the-end-of-the-year- part. . . she thought I was making it up.

Mr. Berger once announced at a block party on Hawthorne street that "The greatest act of sedition against the American people was the passage of automatic income tax deductions!"  It's the only memory I have of that neighbor.  And now I think he may have been right.)

Anyway.  I came to sit by Bryan and the tax lady as they neared the end of the process.

There was one question about something and she seemed so smug about knowing the answer.  But it was a tricky question, and knowing that the IRS code is thicker than a phone book, I asked her to look up the specific clause just to be sure "we" weren't missing something.

She found it.  She read it.  She was right.  So.  Good.  We want her to be right, right?

Then she got to talking about how when you make any improvement to your home--a towel holder, new counters, carpet cleaning--save the receipt so you can write it off the profit when you sell.

I said, "But you don't pay capital gains on your primary residence anyway, so why bother?"

She smiled smugly.  "There is a one time exemption."

What?

Still smug, she said, "You are exempt from capital gains on a primary residence one time."

I smiled at her and said, "You are wrong about that."

She shrugged and smiled.  "One time."

This made me laugh.  I couldn't believe she was saying it.  I know almost nothing about tax stuff, but I know this: no capital gains on a primary residence.  Period.  Everyone knows this! 

"You are not right about this," I said, and started listing off all the reasons I knew she couldn't be right. 

She shrugged again, and said, "I'll look it up to be sure!" as though to humor me.

I looked over at Bryan, who was staring with grim lips and a certain annoyed panic in his eyes and, surely, just one thought:  An idiot has just prepared our taxes!

She looked and looked and then said, "Oh!  I am wrong!"

Sheesh. 

I told this story to that long-lost friend whom I spoke with even though I sounded like death, and she said, "Maybe the person who did your taxes was really the person hired to hold the sign." 

A Great Week So Far

On Sunday, Gemma awoke with a fever.  We couldn't let her go to Sparks, where she would spread her germs.

But Bryan and I both needed to be at Cubbies that day because we were extremely under-staffed and there were jobs we needed to do.

So we dragged her along.  Set her up in a comfy chair, with a blanket, drink and movie player.  Away from other children.

Then we went about doing our jobs.  One of them (that I do not usually do, but love doing) was leading worship for the crowd of pre-schoolers.  We play up-beat songs.  We have a set choreography for them.  I go crazy on the little platform stage, with big, big motions and buckets of enthusiasm.  I love watching 85 little kids jumping and dancing and praising Jesus.

Then I found a crack in the stage where two platforms are pushed together.  I found it with the same ankle I broke 2 years ago, and I went down.  Hard.  Gracefully, I'd like to think.  But I took the flags down with me, so maybe it wasn't so graceful.

It huuuuuurt.  I lay there, just trying to breathe, somewhat conscious that a crowd of children were staring at me, mouths agape.

Bryan and another leader carried me off stage, to the back of the room.  A different leader jumped up and continued on with worship.  A call went over the security hand-held radios for a "Medical help--Cubbies" and there I lay for a while longer as the medical gal wrapped my ankle and foot with ice. 

I was feeling two things, aside from the intense pain:  1) How disappointing.  I had really been looking forward to our club.  It was a very important story time that I was going to give--the day we tell the story of how Jesus was crucified, how He bore every ounce of God's wrath so that those who believe in Him will not have to.

That's a pretty big deal, a day like that. 

Bryan did the storytime instead, and did a good job.  But, with 2 minutes to prepare, he pretty much read from the script whereas I'd been planning for a whole week how to present the whole thing. . .  Ah.  Well.  There's always next week:  Resurrection! 

2) Very deeply, I realized that I did not want to go to the hospital.  I have a friend who is a childhood cancer survivor, and to this day, her initial reaction to medical treatment is, "I'd rather  not."  I get that now.  It doesn't make sense, per se.  But it's a state of mind and emotion and. . .deep, deep aversion. 

ER? No, thank you.

Even if it could involve seeing your buddy, Mayfield, again?  It wouldn't, and even if it did, no, thank you.

I spent the whole club in the teacher's lounge, on a comfy couch, with frequent friends visiting when they had a few moments free from their own duties.  Bryan did not only his own huge job, but also mine and also those of a few other leaders who couldn't make it.  It's crazy how hard he worked. 

And, by the end of the 2 hours, the pain had recessed quite a bit, the swelling had not gotten worse and there is now no pain around the ankle whatsoever.

(The whole time, I had been explaining: we kept the plate and pins in so it would not break again.  This was comforting until a sports medicine guy, who leads games in the TnT group came in and said, "You could have sheared the pins right out.  Happens all the time." 

Oh great.  But it didn't happen this time!  Thank You, Jesus!)

In all, I'm tempted to say, "I should have just stayed home with Gemma."  But, I don't know, maybe it's a good thing this happened.  At the last, God will use this for the good of those who love Him.  That's a promise in the little things as well as the big.

I have been using my crutches and walking boot yesterday and today.  I can already stand on it full pressure without pain.  The swelling has gone down a bit.  I'll continue to stay off it mostly and flex it often.

Gemma's fever remained.  Was worse, actually, when she awoke Monday.  She threw up Monday night, and now I know what it's like to clean up puke with a bum leg.  But she's well trained, in that--here's a tip, parents of young ones!--she had a towel nearby, spread on the floor, and she threw up onto it.  Clean-up is fairly easy this way. 

Today, her fever is far better and she's actually drinking fluids.  It would be really nice if Josh did not get this. . . . Nor Bryan nor I! 

So.  A "down" week.  They kids are watching a lot of PBS kids programming.  I'm on the couch with my foot elevated, reading a lot as well. 

I could ask Josh to be our universal helper, but I am glad to get up and crutch around to wait on them both because it's great exercise.  Seriously.  Crutching is a full-body workout.  And I'm glad to have some pretty keen crutching-skills.

(Oh?  You don't think there are such "skills" to master?  OK, smartie pants, you tell me how to get up and down stairs safely while on crutches.)

This all reminds me of when the ankle was broken and Mom was here to help (especially with Joshua, who was just 2).  I would come down in the morning with my special stair-crutch method and Mom would lead the kids in a chorus of, "Here comes the lady with the walking sticks!"

I still hear their voices when I come down now. 

I've read aloud to them, too.  And yesterday, she had  a spell where she felt up to working on a giant floor puzzle.

They had just finished a little bit of fresh mango, so maybe that was what energized her.  But soon, she fizzled out.  She asked if she "had" to finish the puzzle.

I said, "No, of course not, honey.  But, then, it would feel nice to finish something today, wouldn't it?"  You know that feeling--of just sitting around vegetating.  It takes an emotional toll.  Maybe she's old enough to register what it means to feel satisfaction in completing a little something, at least.

She looked at me with a furrowed brow.  How could doing a puzzle help her feel "nice"?  So, fine.  She's not there yet.

Then Joshua said, "But Mommy!  She finished her mango!" 

Good point, son. 

We also played a few quiet games.  One of them is called "Patchwork," and it is terrific.  Like Sorry!, it's a game that Joshua can play with no help at all, and yet is still fun and challenging for everyone else.

It's extra-challenging with him, actually, because the point of the game is to gather "sets" of cards by swapping them around the table with other players, whose permission you do not need.  Joshua plays this game with a mischeivious gleam in his eye and lips set in a trouble-making line.  He swaps the cards like a mad-man.  There is no discerning his strategy, no way to plan ahead to protect your cards.  Your own plans can vanish at his whim.

Gemma and I look at each other often, shaking our heads at his moves.

When we were playing with Bryan last week, Josh was in fine form at this, and Bryan kept lifting his eyebrows to me as though to ask, "Why does he do that?"

I smiled and, quoting a line from Dark Knight, where the good guy is explaining the actions of the bad guy, said, "Just to see it burn." 

But then Josh came up with a 6-card set.  So maybe there is some reason to his mayhem. 

If this is as crazy as it gets--the foot sprain, the fever, the game plans gone awry, we're having a great week.

Noteworthy

B: Has been to Florida and back, where he helped his parents move.  They closed on their house.  They await their new digs within a few months.  We couldn't be more pleased by how smoothly it went.

Bryan met the new owner of his parent's house, a man who came by every single day to. . .to what?  Check up on the house?  Probably, he was just excited about it.

This man is wealthy.  In addition to making refurbishing plans for the house (which shall serve as a guest house to his big house on an adjoining lot) he and his wife are also busy outfitting their new jet.  The pilot they have hired to fly the jet wanted the job, but couldn't take it because his house in Las Vegas was underwater on its mortgage.

The rich man wanted this pilot, and not another, so he bought the guy's house at the underwater price.

My question:  Has anyone shared the Gospel with this guy?  For what will it profit him to be so wealthy--nice though he may be, philanthropic, even--to have so much of the world and yet have no redeemer of his soul? 


G: Some her friends on the cul-de-sac are walking around with cell phones now.  I do not know if they are operational or just toys.  I don't want to know. 

Gemma saw this, then sat down one evening for a fit of industry.  Out of paper, she fashioned a laptop, cell phone, holder for both with additional pockets and a wallet that fit into one of them. 

It was so cute.  And I was so proud.  My mother did the exact same thing when she was Gemma's age--minus the laptop and cell phone.  Just paper and glue!  This is all their little minds need.


J:  He went grocery shopping with me last week, which included a swing through the PX to check for any outrageous post-valentine's sales. 

We found, instead, a two-pack of light sabers marked 75% off.  This made the price of these really great.  I said to him, "But you already have a light saber." 

He looked at me with a certain expression, the words for which will come a few years later, the thought of which seemed to be there.  "You can never have too many light sabers. . ." 

Then this expression changed and he got strategical about it, "Then we'll have one for Gemma."

Fair enough. 

Even better, now there is enough for someone to fight him while he's holding two. You would think this would be enough for him to defend himself.  But while I was going after him, and had him backed into a corner.  He dropped one saber and shot his hand out at me with a great grimace and squinty eyes.

I paused.

"Force push!" he shouted at me. 

Geez.


Finally, something on a completely different track, it's something serious.  Something you should prepare yourself for.  It might mean something to you today, or one day. . .

A new child started coming to Cubbies.  I'll change her name to Kayla.  She is now in a loving foster family (seeking to adopt her), having come from a horrible, horrible, unspeakable background of abuse. 

Her new father told us a remarkable story:

When Kayla joined her new family, her new parents told her about Jesus.  He asked, "Do you know who Jesus is?"

Kayla is 4 years old.  She thought for a moment and said, "Oh. . . He must have been the one who kept it from hurting too much, but I never knew his name."

B, G and J Day: What We're Good At

Haven't had one of these in a while.

B: This Sunday was especially busy.  We hosted a pizza-party potluck at the church immediately following the Cubbies meeting.  The event was fun, and as Bryan and I are trying to create more opportunities to get to know our volunteers, the party served its purpose.

[It has been pretty neat to see how Bryan and I work as a team in these circumstances.  Bryan does nearly all of the set-up, nearly all of the take-down, and nearly all of the details administration.

I do all of the talking.  And some trouble-shooting during the actual club meeting.  And all of the e-mail writing to parents and leaders.  But mostly: the talking.  The joking around.  The chit-chatting.  The finding-out-how-you're-doing. . .

I'm really good at my job.

And because I'm an extrovert whose batteries charge up with human interaction, I really like my job.]

It was 7:30 by the time we got home from the pizza party.  We got the kids in bed by 8:00.  We were positively wiped out--Bryan from all the work and I, from. . .well, I'm not sure why I should have been tired.

We watched a movie together.  (Knight and Day, which was a very fun movie with a great plot--not at all sure why it tanked at the box office.)

By 10:30, we were both in bed and talking about the day. About the party.  How things went.  About the ministry.  About what we might do differently.

At 11:15 there was a pause in our conversation, and Bryan let an enormous lion-yawn out and asked, "So, are you ready to pray now?" 

I said, "Oh!  Are you ready to go to sleep?"

He blinked up his heavy lids and nodded.

"Were you ready to go to sleep 45 minutes ago?"

He kind of nodded again.

"Then why have we been talking all this time?"

He half-smiled and said, "It's after a party.  I knew I would need to talk you down." 

What a helpful guy.




G:

Speaking of AWANA, every year, we do an adopt-a-club fund-raiser.  The children in AWANA (from pre-K through high school) earn money to give to children in Zimbabwe so they can have an AWANA club, too.

Every year, the Cubbies bring in the most money.  This is not because they earn the most.  It's because their parents put all their loose change into a jar for the better part of the year and change adds up.

By the time children are in Sparks (e.g. K-2nd grade), parents figure the children should be earning the money for their collection jars.  Historically, they've never earned more than the Cubbies' parents drop wantonly. 

(The other levels are technically in the competition to bring in the most.  But their enrollment numbers are nowhere near as big as the younger levels.) 

So. 

Gemma really wants the Sparks to win this year.  She currently has $42.25 in her jar.  I do not know how she's gotten that much.  Something about that girl's efforts to earn money just. . .multiplies.  It's weird.

Every day, she asks me for a job to do to "earn money for adopt-a-club," and I think of something.  And pay her a quarter here, a quarter there. 

The other day she got the bright idea to hunt up loose change all over the house.  She checked couch cushions, nooks, crannies.  She got down on her belly and made a sweep under the washing machine, where she found a dime.

And she found a "strange black thing."  She showed it to me.

Hooray!  It was the remote control to my camera!  I thought I had lost it on the mountain where I broke my ankle over two years ago.  This was the last place I'd used it, and having not seen it since, I figured it fell out of my pocket as I lay, howling, and that it was long gone. 

I high-fived Gemma and thanked her.  This was truly a great find.  Did I pay her any reward money?  Well.  No.  She had already found a dime.




J:

Still enamored with Star Wars.

I've decided to start making hay out of it.  For instance, I challenged them both with the question, "Darth Vader is very powerful and everyone fears him.  But whose slave is he?"

They were both stumped. 

Until I reminded them that he calls the Emporer "Master," and he does the Emporer's bidding.  He was a slave to him. 

This rocked their world a little. 

And then came the hay:  "People think that they want to be free of what God says is right and good and they think they can live how they want to and by what they think is right and good.  But, really, every person has a master, and if the master isn't God, then their master is sin, and they are a slave to it." 

We'll find out later whether they get that. 

On a different day, Star Wars again came up in our conversation.  Joshua had a question about midi-chlorians, of which Annikan Skywalker had an astoundingly high concentration in his blood stream.  Midi-chlorians, those under 60 plus Helen may know, are the biological presence of the Force.

When I saw this in Episode I for the first time, I found it very satisfying.  Finally: the Force explained.    It did not correspond to a Biblical view of spiritual reality, but why should that bother me?  Star Wars was never meant to be a Christian allegory. 

I pointed out to the kids, "The interesting thing about Star Wars is that a lot of the parts of it are just like what we know is true from the Bible.  But some things are different.  For instance, in Star Wars, everyone is born as a good person and people on the Dark Side are those who have chosen to go to the Dark Side.  But what does the Bible say about all people?"

Answer:  All have sinned.  All.  Have sinned. 

"And that's why everyone needs a Savior."  Long pause.  "Can you think of anything else that's different?"


Long pause. 

Josh was ready with one: "In the Bible, no one has 4 arms like General Grievous."

Force Photos

I am no further beyond the realm of Star Wars this week than I was last week.

To whit:

1. A reader of this blog used precious moments of her life to track down General Grievous and update the rest of us as to his unique genesis. 

2. Even before this back story (thank you Helen, I am so much better off now that I know), a certain mini-DVD made its way into our home and on it was a 10 minute collection of light saber battles from all the Star Wars movies, including the animated Clone War features (which we have never seen).

(And I'm not sure I want to. . .  One of the battles featured all female characters, the good and the bad and they all looked very mean and kind of grotesque and I was thinking, "A chick fight?  In Star Wars?"

Then again, perhaps this is the answer to a certain woman I am related to who expressed her irritation with the franchise and disinterest in it because, in her words, "There were no good women in those movies."

"There was Princess Leia," I objected.

"But what did she ever do?"

"Well how about Queen Amadalla, the elected sovereign of Nabu?"  (And, hey Star Wars, how can a sovereign be 'elected'?)

But this relative was not going for it.)

Well.

On this mini-DVD of light saber battles was the moment where Obi Wan takes on General Grievous and, Josh was right, General Grievous does have 4 arms.  The battle ensues and Obi lances off one arm.  Joshua says, "Now he has three." 

Obe takes off another.  Josh says, "Now he has two." 

But before any more arms get cauterized off, the mini-DVD cuts off the scene with a "To Be Continued" heading.  Josh says, "But General Grievous does die."

Really, Josh?  How is that possible when General Grievous is just a cyborg?  Was he ever really living?

And why does he wield a light saber (or 4), I thought those were the weapons of Jedi Knights.

Bryan clarified, "He was trained by Count Duku."  Oh.. .  I guess I should have read Helen's research earlier.

(Gemma, this entire time, is kind of watching, but mostly she is making Valentines with pink paper and fancy-edged scissors.)

Where did this mini-DVD come from, anyway?  It was packaged with Joshua's light saber, which Daddy bought him a few weeks ago when they were out together. 


3. We did not watch the Superbowl last Sunday, but I did watch some of the commercials online the next day.  By far, this was the best of those I saw.  The kids heard it and came running.

Gemma laughed hardest at the doll part.

Joshua laughed hardest at the car part.

Bryan laughed hardest at the husband's eyebrows part.

I laughed throughout the whole thing.






It's not that I want to counter-act the Star Wars with "something other," but I do have some photos I've been meaning to share.


The morning of our first snow, which was back in late November or so. 

I took the kids to the "CandyLand" celebration that the MWR on Schreiver Air Force Bases hosts each year.  Joshua chose to get a 'knight' for his face paint.

Gemma picked little bunches of holly at the corner of her eyes, but it had gotten smudged by the time we arrived home.

Speaking of Christmas-time. . .  Here are Gemma and Joshua opening gifts that Aunt Helen and Uncle David sent down to them.  Upon seeing his Iron Man helmet, Joshua immediately felt fierce.  Upon seeing her master works set of Crayola art supplies, Gemma literally licked her lips.

Here is a photo of me and Bryan on Friday night, on our way to the Second Annual JFCC-IMD awards dinner.  Col. Putko is retiring in April (his wife, the other Col Putko, is as well), and he has been the driving force behind this event.  So who knows if it will continue in his absence.

But I looked forward to it, and enjoyed it through and through.  The people Bryan works with are nice and the food was, again, very good this year. 

Also new to this year was the Air Force Academy band, playing live.  Huh.  It included 5 members, all enlisted personnel.

What is their deal, exactly?  I wonder if they are part of the larger AFA Band, whose members are professional musicians for larger, full-concert performances.  And then maybe a few of them moonlight with these other instruments and form up little bands that do these little gigs?

It's mysterious. 

After dinner, they played a few pop songs, the first of which was Journey's Don't Stop Believin'.

The Major sitting next to me remarked upon the teenage boy at our table (e.g. the son of one of the guys Bryan works with--see?  a family-friendly command!) by saying, "He probably has no idea what this song is."

And I said, "Oh, I'm sure he knows it from Glee."

Both remarks this young man both heard and objected to.  "I grew up on the classics!" he insisted.  And I remembered feeling like him once: that it was an assault on one's aesthetic pride to be accused of knowing only contemporary music, or knowing it at all. 

He'll do OK, that one. . .

This was the dinner last year, long time readers may recall, when I met Esther, the woman who had participated in the Herceptin trials.  She was not there this year. 

Lisa, another b.c. champion was, though.  This time last year, she was suffering through her 9 months of "tissue expansion."  Her most notable comment was that she felt like she was "wearing hubcaps." 

She's all restored now!  And she looks lovely.  A very sweet gal and it was a pleasure to see her.

Last year, I remember looking at myself, all dressed up, and feeling like I really looked nice, what with that great wig and all.  Many of you saw the photos and said I looked great, too.  I believed you.

Then I looked at the photo about 6 months later and thought, "Yeesh!  I looked sick.  And that wig looked like a wig!"

This year, I did not feel sick and I did not look sick! 

My hair actually looked very nice in person, but in photos, it's so dark, it just looks like a helmet.  You'll have to believe me:  the short hair really works.

And after some deliberation, I decided not to wear any prosthetics, or socks, or other device to fill out the top of my dress. 

It wasn't noticeable.  Or maybe it was.  But if it was, then I guess the thought of someone noticing would have been, "That woman has no breasts."

True statement. 

But I'm pretty sure no one looked twice. 

Finally, what was nicest about this evening for me is that most of the co-workers who knew about the cancer have moved on to new jobs, and most of the people I met that night were new.  Presumably, no one even knew I was a breast cancer champion, and it was so nice to be, simply, Amy Ponce!, Superhero.

 

The Dull Fight

The new kid on our cul-de-sac is named Evan.  He moved in this summer and is a few months older than Gemma.  There is a boy a bit older than he who lives here, too, but this boy is never at home and when he is, he can never play.  It's kind of mysterious, actually.

So Evan is left to play with Gemma, Kate, Ayla and Bella (4 girls of the same age) and Joshua, Joshua (yes, there are two) and Riley (3 boys of the same age). 

Evan is a sweet child.  He has very good manners.  I credit him deeply for playing so well with all the girls and so gently with these younger boys.  However, nothing about this gender distribution has inhibited him from playing what is most interesting to him.  This, of course, is Star Wars.

I don't remember doing this as a child--e.g. making a game out of a movie.  But the cul-de-sac kids do. Among them is a broad assortment of light sabers and plastic guns and they kids run around most of the afternoon attacking each other.

I do not know if they have more rules than the overall point, which is "Fight!"  Are there teams?  If someone "gets" you, do you have to sit out or go tag something or do you keep fighting, immortal? 

Gemma is somewhat interested in this gaming.  Often, she and Kate will lose interest and do their own thing, probably with Ayla and Bella, too.  But Joshua.  Whew!  He is taken by the entire enterprise.  (Am I allowed to use the word "enterprise" when speaking of Star Wars and not Star Trek?)

Evan is obviously building into this play little tutorials about the world of Star Wars.  I know this because every now and again, Joshua announces a factoid to me such as, "General Grievous has 4 arms and 4 light savers!"

"General who?"

"General Grievous!"

"Who is General Grievance?"

"No, Mommy.  General."

"What?"

"Say, 'General.'"

"General."

"Now say, 'Greivous.'"

"Grievance."

"No!  Greeev. . . .US"

"Oh.  'Greivous.'"

"Now say it together."

"General Grievous."

"Yes.  And General Grievous has 4 arms and 4 light savers!"

(I sigh.  I sigh because there was--there must have been!--something interesting and valuable I was thinking about and had to stop thinking about so that I could hear Joshua tell me something about what Evan has been telling him. . .)

"How did he get 4 arms?" he asked me.

"I don't know."

"He's the all white guy but Evan said he used to be human but he how did he get from being human to having 4 arms?" 

Josh asked me because he is 4 and so completely convinced that his parents are all-knowing.  Would this be the moment he had to learn that I don't, in fact, know all?

"I don't know, Josh.  It's been a long time since I've seen that movie and I just don't remember General Grievous." 

Long pause.  Was my fallibility dawning on him?  No.  Because he then asked, "But how did he get 4 arms?"

Argh!  Would you believe he has been talking for 2 weeks about this General, asking me the same questions for which I still do not have answers? 

The biggest reason he thinks I do know and am just holding out on him is that he saw bits and pieces of all 6 Star Wars movies when we were in Florida this past Christmas.  The General must be a character from one of the first 3 episodes, which are not to be confused with Episodes IV, V and VI, which were the first 3 movies made and released starting in, what? the late 70's? 

[Side note:  Joshua quickly understood how it is that first 3 movies we watched, e.g. Episodes IV, V and VI, are not the first 3 sections of the over-all story.  So here he is, capable of understanding a complicated situation like the oddly ordered Star Wars movies, but unable to understand that I don't know who this General is!]

[Another side note: Because of Evan, my children refer to Star Wars, Episode IV, the first movie that started it all, as "New Hope."  That's its actual name, which I never knew until Evan came around.  It sounds wrong, though, every time I hear it.  Star Wars is just Star Wars, OK?]

[Another Side note: When these movies were playing marathon-like on some cable channel down in Florida, and as we were watching bits and pieces, my dear mother-in-law kept me asking questions.  Right in the middle of the movie.  Why wasn't she asking Bryan?  Not sure. . .
"Why are they dressed in robes?"

"Because they're Jedi Knights.  It's like a uniform."

"Well are those good guys?"

"Yes, they are Jedi."

"Well what are 'Jedi'?"

"The peace-keepers of the entire universe!"

"Oh. . .(30 second pause). . .Is that hairy guy a monster?"

"No, he's Chewbakka.  He's a Wookie."

"Well why is he with that guy?  Is he a pet or something?"

"No, he's like Han Solo's best friend.  They are renegade partners."

"How does that guy understand him, though?"

"Because he speaks Wookie!"

Finally, after, like, a lot of this, she asked, "Do you know all this because you're a big fan of this Star Wars?"  and I answered, after brief thought, "I think I know it because I'm an American under the age of 60."]

[Another side note: There was a headline in an English-language Korean newspaper shortly after we moved back to the States.  The article was about the yearly tight-rope walkers competition in Seoul, which, that year, crossed the River Han in the heart of downtown.  (I'm not sure if the competition always locates there.)  The headline read, Skywalker Crosses Han Solo.  So, really, it's not even just an American thing, is it?]

Back to, eh, let's see here. . .  Ah, General Grievous. 

Joshua is desperate to know about this character.  And we have been spending our family movie nights making our way through the episodes.  Return of the Jedi was the Friday before last.  Josh asks often when the next movie night will be, for then we shall watch Episode I, Phantom Menace. 

(Which happens to be the first movie Bryan and I watched together in a theater.  And that happened a few weeks after our wedding!  What a risk!  Imagine if he had been the type of movie-watcher who wants to talk and comment throughout the whole thing!  But he's not.  A narrow miss indeed. . . .)

When we were flying home from Florida, Joshua got tired at one point and lay on his seat, head on my lap.  He held his two hands in front of his face, pointer fingers extended, and started slashing them against each other, making light saber noises with his mouth.  Bryan tells me that he was like this as a child--fascinated by martial action. 

As far as the cul-de-sac goes, and in the movies, and in his imagination, it is all very, very exciting.

This boy doesn't know a different category of conflict awaits him in adulthood.  After the excitement of a bout with cancer, for instance, comes the bout with an old vehicle that keeps breaking down--not everything at once--just piece by piece so that you pay to repair it only to have another piece break a month later and is it good money after bad or is it sensible to nurse it along until such a time when you can responsibly buy a replacement?  There is no glory whatsoever in a conflict like this.

Or even the bonafide wars of the world.  Joshua has been asking lately, "Is there a war in our world right now?" and I tell him that, yes, there is, since soon after the Garden of Eden, there has always been a war going on somewhere on this planet and that right now, there are 2 wars going on that Americans are fighting in, Bella's Daddy is fighting in it right now.

He is stunned by this.  Every time he asks.  How could there be a war somewhere?  He looks around.  Doesn't seem like there's a war happening.  Where are the red lazer flashes, and exploded Death Stars and get-a-way pods and star ships that travel at the speed of light? 

Not here, Josh.  Enjoy Episode I.  Later episodes are not nearly as interesting.