Lasting Marriages

Dave and I will have been married 20 years on Dec. 29. We've already celebrated this December with a week's vacation in Cancun, Mexico. The responses we received when we told people were interesting.

On the ferry to a nearby island, I talked to two fun couples in their 50s, one from Denver and the other from Omaha. The wives are friends, and the two couples have been vacationing together for about five years. When I told them we were celebrating our 20th, I thought they might tell me how long they'd been married, but they made no comment. Perhaps they didn't want to one up me by saying they'd been married 30-plus years. Or, Dave thought, after talking with one of the husbands, that at least one of the couples was on a second marriage.

Two fun Canadian brothers we met, in their late 40s or early 50s, had both been divorced twice. One said his massage on the beach was nearly spoiled when he heard "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today. . ." from a nearby wedding. He wanted to jump up and tell them, "No! Don't do it!"

He said he had a few friends with good marriages like ours seemed to be, but left the impression that it was the minority.

Another couple from South Carolina about our age that we met on our way to Coco Bongo almost couldn't fathom being married 20 years. I'm not sure how long they'd been together before their trip to Cancun.

Our waiter at Maria's, the fine dining restaurant in our hotel, was a bright spot. After serving our special anniversary dessert, he proudly told me he and his wife had been married "diez" (10) years.

Back home, a single mom at a school function said both of her marriages added together didn't total 20.

I remember Paul Harvey on the radio congratulating the week's "Champion Lovers." People married 70 years or more were common (and most were from Nebraska). Now he's gone, and the pool of enduring marriages is drying up.

However, the year after our wedding we had a number of friends marry as well, and nearly all of those marriages are intact and thriving. Furthermore, I know a number of friends whose parents are celebrating their 50th anniversaries, and mine are as well.

Of course, the thread that ties all of these marriages together is faith in God. Without Him, they unravel.

Ready for Christmas--On the Inside

"Mom, why don't you make it your goal to not get frustrated?" my 10-year old daughter Laurel asked as we were performing the delicate operation of attaching the four metal feet to the stand for our artificial Christmas tree. The living room was strewn with our boxes of Christmas decorations, she'd already unpacked our nativity scene, our four pieces of a lighted Christmas village, and a few wreaths. Now we were ready to tackle the tree.

How did she know not getting frustrated was exactly my goal? I like Christmas, and I like decorating for Christmas--as long as everyone helps, no one argues, the tree stands straight on the first try, the strings of lights don't get tangled, every bulb lights, and the whole process takes no longer than an hour. When any of the previously mentioned things happen (or don't happen, whichever the case may be) I have been known to express my frustration. Stridently.

Maybe that's why both of my boys and my husband didn't even want to put up the tree this year. It wasn't worth risking the wrath of Mom.

A couple of years ago our family spent a horrible Sunday afternoon putting up outdoor lights and garland for some customers of ours. Horrible because of my attitude. When the blanket lights wouldn't work, when the thorny shrubs pricked my hands and arms, when I secured the garland to the entire porch rail and realized the male plug should have been on the other end to hook into the outdoor socket, I lost it.

When we were finally finished, the house was beautiful. Ready for Christmas. Then I looked at my heart. Ouch. Not ready. I apologized to my family for my Grinch-like attitude.

This Christmas I've tried to be more mentally and spiritually prepared. I'm happy to report I have had no blow-ups, and we have all of our decorations up. And, when Laurel suggested we read "The Crippled Lamb" beside the nativity scene, I sat down with her and watched as she placed the characters in the scene at the appropriate places in the story. Because baby Jesus is coming, and I don't want to miss him.

Turkey Trot Thanks

Turkey Trot 2010. Kristen and I ran 10 miles in 1 hr., 29 min.

I ran the Turkey Trot yesterday! All 10 miles, and my knee didn't bother me a bit. For those of you who read my October post "Miracles and Marathons," about my knee injury and how I was praying for healing, you'll know how excited and relieved I am about this.

I wanted to make sure I blogged about my recovery, because I don't want to be like the nine lepers Jesus healed (Luke 17) who didn't come back to say "Thank you." I want to be like the 10th leper. While on their way to the priest, per Jesus' instructions, all 10 lepers were cleansed. Nine kept going, but one immediately made an about face back to Jesus, and threw himself at his feet, thanking him.

I find it interesting that Jesus didn't heal the lepers immediately. He told them to go show the priest--and he hadn't done anything! They had to walk in their leprous state, stepping out in faith that when they got to the priest they wouldn't be charged with spreading their disease, but, in fact, be healed.

I've had to step out in faith, bit by bit. I ran the last mile of the Prairie Fire Marathon (held on 10/10/10) with Kristen to support her in the finish. In the few weeks after that, I ran short distances slowly, and increased a little bit every day. I've felt a few strange twinges in my knee. I've iced it regularly. Three weeks ago, I started running with Kristen again. Cautiously. But it went OK, aside from being out of breath from laying off for three months.

So we ran the Turkey Trot yesterday. The weather was clear, cool, and not too windy. I got to run with Kristen the entire way (she nearly didn't get to run, but an accompanying gig she was committed to got canceled). Every mile was a struggle, but I kept going. Dave and Laurel cheered me on at mile seven and near the end. Kristen and I made our goal of under 90 minutes. And I am going back to Jesus' feet to say, "Thanks, Lord, for healing."

Changes (My Valedictory Address from 1987)

OK, due to popular demand (which means one person showed a hint of interest. Thanks, Sam) I will print my valedictory speech in its entirety. Upon re-reading it, I was a bit appalled at how random it was, but pleasantly surprised at my attempt at humor. Of course, the unintentional humor drew the big laughs. So for all of you who never heard the last lines anyway, here it is:

The Way We Were- Salutatorian Tammy Ratzlaff and I cool off in the cafeteria after the commencement exercises.

"Fellow graduates, students, teachers, administration, parents, relatives, and to whom it may concern:  as we, the class of 1987, take this major step in our lives, let us pause for a minute and reflect on the changes that have occurred.

Let me take you back to the year 1968. During this turbulent period both Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and Senator Robert Kennedy were assassinated. The Beatles surpassed Bing Crosby in record sales by gaining their twelfth gold record. Johnson stepped down and Nixon became President.

However, to many of the people here, I'm sure the very most important event was the arrival of a child. Perhaps it is somehow fitting that the class of '87 first made its appearance when the movie "Planet of the Apes" was released.

As we were learning to walk, Neil Armstrong was taking the first steps on the moon. In August before we started kindergarten the nation was shocked as Nixon resigned under the cloud of Watergate. This was a big year for us, to finally go to school. Twenty-four of the 48 in our class were together from Mrs. Wohlgemuth's kindergarten clear through this year.

In the spring of '75 wheat prices soared to $6 per bushel. 1976 brought celebrations of our nation's 200th birthday. It also brought the challenges of learning to read with readers like "Magic Rings and Funny Things" and "C.A. Zoo and Kangaroo." This was also the year the high school broke tradition and held the first school dance. A popular style at that time was flare leg jeans.

In second grade the boys seemed mostly concerned with their daily soccer game at recess.

The year 1978 was saddened by the death of Elvis Presley and the mass suicides at Jonestown. "Star Wars" was the number one movie in the nation and quite a hit with us, too. While in 3rd grade we learned cursive writing and struggled through weekly timed tests on the multiplication tables.

For fifth grade we attended school in Durham. Aside from a few broken windows and a substitute teacher throwing containers at us, we managed to survive the year pretty well. Gas prices shot from 60 cents to over a dollar a gallon.

In sixth grade we kept up on the national news with Mrs. Friesen's current event class. We avidly watched the Iran hostage situation and reported on the three major shootings of the year:  John Lennon, the attempt on President Reagan's life, and "Who shot J.R.?"

Changes were also happening at the high school as Mr. Born settled in as the new principal and Mr. Sextro grew a beard.

1982 was the year of the royal wedding between Prince Charles and Lady Diana. We also enjoyed finally being able to participate in sports as 7th graders and had an undefeated football team our 8th grade year. By this time some of the guys had hit their growth spurts and I was relieved to no longer be the tallest in the class. Land in Kansas reached a high of $800 an acre.

Finally we started high school. We had fun in freshmen exploratory learning to cut copper, galvanized, and plastic pape, making very blue blueberry muffins, and drawing cabinets in three dimensions. As sophomores the highlight for many of us who took biology was the trip to the prairie and seeing P.J. in his khaki safari suit. In January of 1986 came the tragic explosion of the Challenger space shuttle which killed six astronauts and one teacher.

As juniors we had many fun times during the late nights we spent decorating the gym for prom. As our senior year rolled around we learned to work together and help each other out. On test days someone would type up a study sheet of the government questions on a computer and distribute 10 or 15 printed copies to other seniors. Speaking of computers, this was the first year that they were used for a typing class.

As seniors we were often eager to share our new discoveries with other classmates. For example, in English one day while looking out of the second story window, Kendall Heide noticed that the UPS truck's roof was never painted. After he announced his observation we, of course, had to go see. Despite Mrs. Hill's protests, we ran to the window. Sure enough, the roof had a brown painted strip all along the edges but in the middle it had only primer. Before going back to our seats we all waved at Randy, who waved back.

This year we have also gotten to know our teachers better. At least, I certainly have. We have grown closer as a class, become even better friends.

Hold onto these moments, remember them, because things will change. Prices, politics, and people have changed drastically in the last 18 years, and things will certainly be different for us next year. Moving out, getting a job, going to college or even getting married are just some of the major changes that will take place.

In this rapidly changing world a person almost wonders if there is anything to depend on to stay the same. The farmers in the early '80s who felt land was a solid, dependable investment are now going bankrupt because of the swiftly changing land values.

However, there is one place in which we can put our trust. In Malachi 3:6 it says, "For I, the Lord, do not change," and in Hebrews 13:8, "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today, and yes, forever." So as we face the many changes up ahead, let us remember to put our trust in God, who will always be there no matter what the future holds."

HHS' class of 1987, directed by Dave Clark and accompanied by Dwayne Helmer, sings "Encore."

Graduation

I'm pretty sure Nora would say to share this (see my previous blog). So here's my most embarrassing moment. After all, it's my banana peel.

I was nearly finished with my valedictory speech. It was the crowning moment I'd had in my sights for four years. I was talking about changes, comparing my and my fellow 1987 Hillsboro High School classmates' development with world events (the first man walked on the moon when we were learning to walk, etc.) and I got to my point, that although our world had gone through many changes in the past 18 years, God never changes. I quoted Malachi 3:6, which says, "God never changes." Only, it's sort of a tongue twister and it slipped out "Malachi  three SEX."
Horrified, I stopped. Then automatically corrected myself, "Three SIX."
I'd done enough playacting to know that after delivering a punch line you need to wait for the audience's laughter to subside before going on. However, working with a script where I knew the jokes were written didn't adequately prepare me for this major gaffe mid-sentence. So I corrected myself and rushed on.
Unwittingly, I had followed our high school science teacher's tongue-in-cheek humor. When students were bored or inattentive, P.J. Jantzen would say, "Human waste!" or "Human reproduction!" to get a laugh, because, he said, that's the two topics that all jokes were about. P.J. never got much more than rolled eyes in response to his joke.
I however, was getting a different reaction. When I first said, "SEX," students snickered. Then they whispered to their neighbors who hadn't been paying attention or who hadn't been able to catch my words on the gymnasium's PA system. The snickering in the chairs on the floor turned to outright laughter, and flowed up both sides of the bleachers.
I didn't have the poise, or the benefit of 23 years of hindsight to stop and say, "Whoops! That was a Freudian slip!" and let the laughter roll.
I'm pretty sure no one in attendance suspected me of having personal experience with the topic of my blunder, but surely my embarrassed response would have removed any lingering doubt.

So I slogged through the remaining four lines of my speech, urging everyone, whether they were listening or not, to trust in God as we faced the many changes to come.
Looking at the Commencement program (which I have saved in my "Seniors" scrapbook), I see the mixed chorus sang "Come Follow Me" after my speech. I'm sure I was up there, but I have no recollection.

Look Who's Laughing Now

This summer I read "I Feel Bad About My Neck," a collection of humorous essays by Nora Ephron, the funny woman behind the movie "When Harry Met Sally." I picked up the slim hardback for $1 at my neighbor's garage sale. Several gems made it worth the investment. One of my favorite of her observations was about humor.

During the course of her growing up, Ephron says her mother told her at least 500 times, "Everything is copy." Ephron interpreted it this way: "When you slip on a banana peel, people laugh at you; but when you tell people you slipped on a banana peel, it's your laugh. So you become the hero rather than the victim of the joke. I think that's what she meant."

Growing up, I didn't learn to laugh at myself. No one in our family did. I guess we figured living on a farm was serious business. So I didn't talk about in third grade when I split my pants playing freeze tag at recess. Or as an overzealous helper at a fair supper I threw away a nearly full bowl of chicken noodle soup, mistakenly thinking the owner was finished. When confronted, I said I was sorry, walked off, and spent the rest of the evening avoiding her death stare. Or in high school, when I couldn't hit the high note for my solo in "Godspell" the director re-worked the choreography so I could hold the microphone high for another girl to sing it while I lip synced.


So now that I'm wanting to write more, I'm tempted to mine the gold from my past. However, if I learned one thing from interviewing people for our church's 20th anniversary newsletter this summer, it's that no one remembers what happened 20 years ago.

So I could expose myself by reminiscing about my horribly embarrassing Freudian slip during my high school graduation valedictory speech, or I could realize that I'm probably the only one in the whole world who remembers it, and never speak of it at all.

What would Nora do?

Miracles and Marathons

The Children of Israel are easy to criticize. God showed them His power by miraculously by opening the Red Sea so they could cross on dry ground, then sweeping Pharaoh's pursuing army away. Yet three verses later, they're grumbling. They're complaining about getting a drink. They had witnessed the biggest miracle in the Bible only days before, and they're grumbling.

Perhaps I've been too hard on them. After all, the verse says (Ex. 15:22) they traveled for three days in the desert without finding water. Three days is about the limit that the human body can go without water, and I'm sure walking in the desert didn't help matters. They were desperate. This wasn't a mere wish for something cool to drink, it was a matter of life and death.

Even after a miracle, you still have to live daily. This summer I saw God intervene and save me from what could have been a fatal four-wheeler crash (see my post "The Crash" 7/30/10). However, I'm left with a hyper extended knee and an inability to run. I'd been running regularly with my friend Kristen for about four years. I didn't mind taking a break in August, because the weather was brutally hot and humid, but as the weather's gotten cooler it's gotten harder.

When I saw the first billboard for the Prairie Fire Marathon (to be held here in Wichita on 10/10/10), I nearly cried. Kristen and I were already training for it before my accident. We ran the Wichita Marathon last year, our first marathon. She had wanted to do one out of town, but we hadn't been able to come up with one that looked suitable. So we ran the Wichita, and agreed with the critics who had told us that running through the air force base was much too long and windy.

So we were looking forward to the Prairie Fire's new route, which will go through College Hill and Eastborough, which is our favorite choice for our long training runs. On an early Saturday morning, we can run 16 to 20 miles entirely in the shade, plus look at all the historic homes with their beautiful flowers and landscaping.

Kristen's still been training, using her ipod for company instead of me, which makes me sad. I miss our oxygen-starved conversations (we get about 30 minutes worth of real-time talking in an hour run, but it passes the time).

Dave and I were listening to Sports Daily on the radio between lawns last week, and when their guest said the marathon route would go over the Keeper of the Plains bridge, I burst into tears. The Keeper bridge! We run over that every Thursday (or, at least, I used to). After this beautiful bridge and the Keeper Plaza were completed four years ago, I've wondered why the different races didn't work it into their routes. Now they have. Plus, they're running through Cowtown! The Turkey Trot always ends at the Cowtown parking lot--never have we run through it.

So I've been icing my knee each morning, wearing a knee brace to mow each day, and feeling sorry for myself. Wandering in the desert, wishing for the Promised Land. It's hard to keep Moses' perspective. But I try. So I remind myself that the tree that I smashed the left headlight of my dad's four-wheeler into could have been front-and-center. That Laurel, who was on the back, was completely unhurt. That I've been able to continue working with very little discomfort from the beginning.

And I know that God could have provided water in the desert for the Children of Israel on Day One, if he'd wanted to. I think he wanted them to ask. I think he wanted to remind them that they still needed Him daily. And that as he had proven in the past, He could and would provide.

So I'm grateful for miracles, but I'm asking for healing. I'm trying to learn the lessons of patience in the desert, and I'm looking forward to the Promised Land.

Books

I first walked into Wichita's new Barnes & Noble Bookstore 15 years ago, when I was pregnant with our first child. Upon entering the children's picture book section, I was overcome with an overwhelming desire to purchase all of my childhood favorites. This desire was, no doubt, carefully orchestrated by a crack marketing team focusing heavily on my demographic. What I saw was clever cut-outs and artistic displays of Harold and His Purple Crayon--I loved him!, Max from Where the Wild Things Are--I loved him too!, Curious George--he was the best!, Dr. Seuss' Green Eggs and Ham and The Cat in the Hat, and others. I wanted all of them. My baby needed to know Harold, Max, and George. Surely visiting Dr. Seuss was just as important as visiting the family doctor.

I was planning to quit my full-time job to stay home with my baby, so spending a paycheck on picture books probably wasn't a wise idea. I left without buying anything.

Later, I thought about all my favorite books--where were they? My mom had never sorted through our childhood bookcase. All of the books we'd ever owned were still there. But I knew I'd look in vain for Harold, and never find his purple crayon. I'd search for where the wild things are, and never find them or Max. Curious as I might be, I wouldn't find that monkey, George.

I'd never owned them. We'd checked those books out from the library. Multiple times. And read them, multiple times. And they became so much a part of my childhood, that when I saw a display of them more than 20 years later, they were my old friends. I hadn't needed to hold them hostage on my bookcase, I could release them for other kids to enjoy.

So when my kids were little, we faithfully showed up for story time each week at the library, and we checked out Harold, Max, and George, and a host of other new characters that became good friends as well.

My kids do have their own book collections, and when they've culled books to put in a garage sale, I've often taken favorites out and put them back, not ready to say goodbye. However, our house is small and our bookshelf space is limited. I know there is no way that we could ever house all of the books I love and would like to keep. But we don't need to. We can go to the library.

Party on the Patio

Caleb's on the freshman football team, so for the varsity game on Friday he was in the band. He's in the center with the tuba, his friend Sean is playing trumpet.

After the first North High football game of the season on Sept. 3, we invited Caleb's friends and their parents over for a party on our patio. The weather was perfect, with the first hint of cool in the air. The kids roasted hot dogs and marshmallows for s'mores around the fire pit. I'd fixed two pounds of taco meat and had a crock pot of nacho cheese for macho nachos. Caleb wheeled out our garage TV so a few played Guitar Hero. The kids had a cooler full of pop, and adults had a few stronger options. After a while the kids were playing tag in the front yard, with the streetlight as the boundary.

Caleb has a core group of friends from McLean Elementary that went to other middle schools but are now back together for high school. A lot of them also spent summers together at the Twin River Club. We're friends with so many of the parents--I love that.

Friday night was also fun because we played East High, where Dave's cousin Walt's daughter is a freshman, so we invited them too. A good friend of Walt and Dave's happened to be in town from Chicago, and he came over too. The boys' wrestling coach came too.

My big regret is I didn't take pictures. I wasn't sure how they'd turn out in the dark, but I should have anyway, because I love this group and I want it to continue. I might have another chance, because a couple of the moms said they'd do an after party during the football season. If they don't, we will.

Coffee you dream about

This is coffee you dream about. Nestled in College Hill is a quaint little coffee shack that you just have to smell to believe. Each cup brewed fresh, the coffee is so intensely flavorful that I wouldn't dare add cream or sugar. The Fresh Roast Coffee Company, at the corner of Clifton and Douglas, is right on the College Hill running route, which is how my friend Kristen and I discovered it.

We were returning from our Saturday morning long run. After 11 miles, we'd drained our Powerade, but saw a water cooler set up on the street near the coffee shop. A sign said, "If you think our water is good, you should taste our coffee." We refilled our water bottles, grateful for the cool drink on the increasingly hot and humid morning. As we finished our last mile, we decided we should change our Panera plans and instead try Fresh Roast Coffee Co. to say "thanks" for the water. We wanted to support someone who supported runners.

So after our run we drove back to High Voltage. Kristen, who's not really a coffee drinker, ordered an iced coffee drink. After talking with the owner for about five seconds, I mentally nicknamed him the "coffee nazi" and felt quite comfortable ordering whatever he recommended. He suggested his special house blend, which he said was made from coffee from Colombia, Indonesia, and somewhere else, I think. I ordered a "MegaWatt" cup (which is a large. "Watt" is small, or "tall" for Starbucks fans, "Kilowatt" is medium). The order took at least 10 minutes, which we didn't mind because we refilled our water bottles and worked on rehydrating as we sat in his little patio area and watched other runners go by.

And it was so worth the wait. Incredible flavor. Smooth. Hot and fresh (I'll drink hot coffee nearly anytime).

After the next long run, we hardly needed to discuss our post-workout plans. We were back. The coffee was even better than I'd remembered.

Then I went to Colorado and hyperextended my knee. No running for me. A few weeks ago on Friday, I asked Kristen, who is still training for the marathon, where she was planning to run in the morning. College Hill, she said.

"What time do you think you'll be at the coffee shop?"

Somehow it didn't feel right to just drive there, so I rode my bike and met her there--took about 40 minutes. Good workout, good company, good coffee. Hard to beat.

To be published

In February, 2008, Dave took the boys skiing and Laurel and I geared up for a gal's weekend at home. I decided she and I would scrapbook. Being our third child, Laurel's representation in any of our photo albums was woefully inadequate, which was an utter shame, since in my completely unbiased opinion she had been unquestionably the cutest three-year-old ever. Here's proof:

But now she was seven, old enough to do a little scrapbooking of her own, and at the perfect age for "Anne of Green Gables," which my Canadian friends had introduced to me at college. I requested the 10-hour DVD series from the library to watch while we worked, and we were looking forward to our mother-daughter weekend.

As I should have guessed, the request took longer than expected and the DVDs were stuck in transit over the weekend, so we headed to Blockbuster and picked up a bunch of other favorites.

I couldn't resist "Music and Lyrics" with Hugh Grant and Drew Barrymore. The beginning pseudo-'80s music video is hilarious, and I love that Grant, the washed-up star of the fictitious group Pop! is booked for a 1987 class reunion (that's my year!), but I really love how the entire movie talks about the creative process as Alex Fletcher and Sophie Fisher try to put together music AND lyrics. The movie is chock-full of great lines, but the best one doesn't come up on any movie quotes websites. Someday I will have to watch it again and write down word for word when Alex tells Sophie that she has too much talent to let anyone stop her from standing.

Then we took a Jane Austen trip with "Emma," "Pride and Prejudice," and "Sense and Sensibility." On a slower part in "Sense and Sensibility," which has our man Hugh Grant in the male lead, Laurel said, "I keep waiting for him to sing, 'Pop! Goes my heart." I had a good laugh at that.

After reveling in Jane Austen's stories, I couldn't resist finally seeing "Becoming Jane," the story of author Jane Austen's life.

Sometime during the weekend, Laurel developed a high fever, so we were completely home bound. We kept the DVDs coming.

We watched "Little Women," enjoying the story of four sisters growing up in New England during the Civil War. I'd read "Little Women" plus a number of other books by Louisa May Alcott growing up.

Then we got the message that "Anne of Green Gables" was ready for pick-up from the library, and we were transported to beautiful Prince Edward Island and captivated by the story of a red-headed, spunky orphan girl who finds a home in Avonlea with Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert. We loved Anne's dramatic rendition of "Lady of Shallot," and regretted her refusal to acknowledge Gilbert for saving her from drowning.

By the time we'd worked our way to the final DVD, the boys regrettably were home from skiing. When Anne gets her package from the post office and it's her BOOK, her book of stories about the people of Avonlea, and she takes it to Gilbert, who had encouraged her to write it in the first place, but is now terribly sick on his deathbed until she shows it to him and she tells him she loves him and he gets a new lease on life, I am a complete mess.

"Hey look, Mom's crying!" I look up, wishing Colorado had been a few more states away. Of course I'm crying. Don't they realize Anne finally got her BOOK PUBLISHED? Then Laurel, who previously had been my comrade-in-arms tattles on me.

"She's cried at the end of every movie," the little snitch says.

And I realize we've had a common theme. The climax of nearly every movie was a book being published. And yes, I cried when Jane Austen became a published author, celebrated at a book signing, the center of attention in a roomful of people listening to her read selections from her works. Yes, I cried when Jo received in print the stories she labored on of her and her sisters' lives and loves.

And although I was happy for Jane, Jo, and Anne, I couldn't help wondering, "What about me?"

"When will it happen for me?" And the scary one:  "Will it ever?"

Our Adventures with Tom Sawyer

I've always loved reading aloud to my kids. Now that they're older, I don't have many opportunities to do that, so one of my favorite vacation traditions is choosing a book to read to them while we're on the long road to Colorado or making the endless trek back through western Kansas.

This year I started reading "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer" before we ever hit Dodge City. It is a delicious book to read aloud, with the Southern dialect and lots of conversation. My boys were saying "I reckon" before the second stop for gas.

They liked the classic scene where Tom, forced to spend his Saturday whitewashing the fence, decides to pretend he's enjoying the work and eventually convinces all of his buddies to pay him marbles, beetles, or whatever "treasure" they had in their pockets for the privilege of helping him.

We camped by a lake, so Caleb, who's always loved fishing, took the first opportunity to put his line in. However, Harrison caught the first fish big enough to keep. Caleb, who also loves knives and collects them, begged Harrison to let him clean the fish. We laughed at the parallels to Tom Sawyer, and told Harrison he should have made Caleb include some marbles, or maybe a beetle or tick in the deal.

When a late afternoon shower forced us into the trailer for an hour, the kids asked me to read. When the rain stopped, we continued around the campfire.

Once we were out of the mountains and headed home, we got caught up in the drama of Tom and Becky being lost in the cave. I finished the book around Garden City, I think, with still plenty of daylight.

So we talked about our trip, and I asked each kid what they liked the best. Harrison said he liked hearing "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer." Well, Harrison, I don't know if I'd go that far. We certainly could have saved a lot of money by going to the library instead of hauling all of our four-wheelers to Colorado. But it was nice to hear.

The Dream Vacation

"Wouldn't it be neat to get a couple more four-wheelers? Then our whole family could ride together," my husband, Dave, said.

It was 2002, we were relaxing at our campsite, gazing at the mountains. At the time, we had only his 400EX, so he'd spent his mornings taking one boy out on a ride through the mountain trails, returning to camp for lunch, then taking the other one out for the afternoon. I'd spent the time with Laurel and the alternate boy, exploring around the lake and holding down camp.

 At the time, I wondered how we would ever manage to purchase not one, but two more four-wheelers (I'm practical like that). Dave's the dreamer, and I hang on for the ride. But for whatever reason--maybe I was tired of sitting at camp while they were riding over mountain passes--this is one vision I caught.
Two years later, we went back to O'Haver Lake in Colorado. This time my brother David and his wife, Jenny, and also his friend, Mike, went with us. David brought his quad, and we had acquired a used four-wheeler and brought my Dad's, so if everyone doubled up with a kid, we could all go on a ride.

In the six years since, we've acquired a few more quads and made numerous trips to the Little Sahara sand dunes near Waynoka, Oklahoma. When the boys' interest seemed to be waning a few years ago, Dave considered selling them all. The only reason I didn't agree to getting rid of them all was the hope that we could take them to the mountains one more time.
This summer, we did.

The Crash

We got to O'Haver Lake late Friday night, so we took two good rides with our four-wheelers on Saturday. Sunday morning we packed a lunch and prepared to take a long ride. Before we left, I led a little five-minute devotional on Psalm 121, one of my favorites. After camping and riding around in the mountains, I thought it was appropriate.

I lift up my eyes to the hills—
where does my help come from?

2 My help comes from the LORD,
the Maker of heaven and earth.

We'd gone over a pass and were working our way back when we came to a mountain road that was hilly, wide and smooth. I was riding my dad's Arctic Cat with Laurel on the seat behind me. At the bottom of a hill was a washed-out culvert. I decided to go to the edge of the road where it wasn't washed out as bad, but was going too fast and swerved off the road.
The mountain wasn't super-steep at this point, but it still was a decline. The left front of the Arctic cat smashed into a tree.
I was launched forward, but my foot got entangled with Laurel's and the handlebars. I hit my head on the ground/vegetation at the right of the four-wheeler. Laurel pretty much remained on the four-wheeler.
When we came to a complete stop I remember hearing Laurel from up above me saying, "Mom, are you OK?" I couldn't see her because of my position, and I think I may have blacked out for a second, but I was so thankful to hear her voice.
"I think I'm OK, but my leg really hurts," I told her.
We got our legs untangled from under the handlebars. I thought mine might be broken, but realized it wasn't.
Laurel, 9, was amazingly calm in this crisis. She climbed back up to the road to look for help. I climbed up a little later too, and we were sitting by the road when the guys came back looking for us.
I'd run over a fallen log right before hitting the tree, so the quad had to be lifted up over that and raised about five feet to get back up to the road. Dave enlisted the help of a couple guys who passed by, so they and Caleb and Harrison lifted while Dave used his quad with a tow strap attached to pull it back up to the road. And it worked!
We tried starting the quad. And it worked! The left front headlight was dangling, the plastic smashed, and the rack bent and broken, but mechanically it seems fine.
We were still a good ways from camp, so I drove it back. I had a little trouble shifting with my hurt leg, so Laurel rode with Dave.
The next verse of the Psalm is

3 He will not let your foot slip—
he who watches over you will not slumber;

My foot getting entangled with the handlebars probably saved me from a massive head injury. I am grateful.

Reading Aloud

Harrison made my day. He asked me what book I was going to read to them on vacation.

I've always loved reading to my kids. When we were camping six years ago I started reading "Where the Red Fern Grows" by Wilson Rawls to them. On the way home, they wanted me to keep reading. We eventually had to find a flashlight when it got dark so I could see the page. I ended up reading for six hours straight.

During the sad ending (I won't tell you what happens, in case you haven't read it yet) I was choking back tears. However, I was in good company--I could hear sobbing from the back seat. I finished shortly before we pulled into Wichita.


Last year I read them one of my favorites, "To Kill a Mockingbird" by Harper Lee (or Tequila Mockingbird, as Harrison calls it). They listened, but it didn't seem to grab them the way I'd hoped.


So I was pleased that Harrison seems willing to give me another chance. I told him I'll read "Tom Sawyer" by Mark Twain.


"Is that even a good book?" he asked.


Oh Harrison, just you wait.

At the top of Starvation Creek road, somewhere in Colorado, 2004. This was the last time we camped at O'Haver Lake and rode our quads on the old mining roads. This year the boys will ride their own quads, of course. Laurel and I will double up on quad in the picture, Grandpa's Arctic Cat.

Shoe Girls

I received a compliment on my new shoes after church yesterday (thanks, Jennifer) but I really can't take the credit.

I was shopping for a new dress. My daughter, Laurel, checked out the shoe section. She returned teetering on brown wedges, begging for me to buy them for her.

"Laurel, you're only nine, you can't wear shoes that high," I told her. I looked at them again, noticing the cute jute-covered heel and fun ruffles down the front. "You can't wear them . . . but I can."

She wasn't happy with me when I found the coveted shoes in my size, paid for them and walked out with the box under my arm. But I've promised she can wear them when they fit her, and she's only a size or two away.

Last summer I was wanting a pair of basic black sandals. I took Laurel shopping with me and ended up with snakeskin sandals, also with a wedge heel. I love those too. And every time I wear them I think, "That's what happens when I go shoe shopping with Laurel!"

God Speaks

Our pastor often says, "God speaks to us, we just don't always hear well."
Sometimes God's voice comes as a gentle nudge to do something, other times a disquieted feeling of conviction that's I've messed up and need to make something right. Often, it's a little uncertain. It's an, "As best as I can tell, I think God wants me to do this" sort of thing.
However, like the Children of Israel who would always point to the parting of the Red Sea as the unmistakable display of God's power and protection, I have two unusual instances in my life that I point to as God speaking directly to me.

The first occurred when Dave and I had been married for over four years and were wanting to start a family. We'd been trying for a few months with no luck, and the difficulties my mom had getting pregnant made me concerned I might have trouble as well.
Dave and I had been mentoring a boy through Youth Horizons, and he was in the process of getting out of foster care and becoming available for adoption. Was it God's plan for us to adopt him?
I had started reading through the Bible that year, and came to Abraham's story in Genesis. Childless, he was asking God if his servant Eliezer would be the one to inherit his estate. God's answer to him came straight to me:
"This man will not be your heir, but a son coming from your own body will be your heir." Gen. 15:4.
I copied the verse on the dated page in my planner.
The boy was adopted by another family.
A couple of months later I'd worked my way to the book of Numbers. Moses sent 12 spies to check out Canaan, the promised land. When they returned, only two, Joshua and Caleb, expressed confidence that God would fight for them and give them the land. The Lord's anger burned against the 10 spies who were afraid, and He declared that none of them would ever see the promised land. 
Numbers 14:24 leaped out at me. "But because my servant Caleb has a different spirit and follows me wholeheartedly, I will bring him into the land he went to, and his descendants will inherit it."
When I went to Colombia in 1988, one of the missionary couples had a cute little baby named Caleb. I'd liked the name ever since. "Wouldn't it be wonderful to have a boy named Caleb who follows God wholeheartedly?" I thought with longing.
A few weeks later I learned I was pregnant, and already had been when I'd read the verse. We named him Caleb. My prayer has always been that he would follow God wholeheartedly.

The second instance I point to happened in the fall of 2005. Laurel, my baby, had entered kindergarten. With all three of my kids in school, I planned to focus my efforts on my writing. I'd been editing our church newsletter for over five years, but I started including a more in-depth feature-style narrative in each issue. For one of these, I'd interviewed Danny, a former truck driver who, through a series of chance events, got a job working alongside a man from our church who befriended him and eventually led him to the Lord.

Over the summer I'd contacted a writer I'd been acquainted with for a few years whom I'd hoped would mentor me, but had recently realized that wouldn't work. Then I ran into a former professor of mine who is also a writer. She mentioned she was moving from her duplex to an apartment, so I arranged to help her one morning, hoping I'd have a chance to talk to her about mentoring me. Since my newsletter with Danny's article in it had just been printed, I brought it along and showed it to her when we took a break. She looked at it briefly, handed it back and said "Why don't you keep it for someone who can appreciate it more?"
Even at the time, I knew she was overwhelmed from moving, downsizing. I knew she was in a "I need to get rid of all this stuff" mode, and I had handed her one more piece of paper to deal with.
But that didn't make it hurt any less. I'd handed her my soul, and she'd stomped all over it.
I lost it.
She had no idea why I was crying, and I couldn't tell her for a few long, awkward minutes.
Eventually I explained, she apologized, and even agreed to mentor me.
Still, I had a lingering, deep ache the rest of the day.
After coming home late from my kids' school rollerskating party, I had a message on our home phone.
It was from Danny. He'd had a rough day, then arrived home to find the Current in his mailbox. He said he was so encouraged to read his story, and to remember again how God had worked in his life. He affirmed my gift of writing, and thanked me for telling his story well.
After I'd replayed the message for the fourth time, my daughter Laurel put her hand on my leg, looked up into my face and asked, "Mommy, why are you crying?"
Through my tears, I told her that God had left me a message.

On Sunday, I thanked Danny for the call.
He told me he had felt really funny making the call, and even more foolish leaving the message, but he'd had a strong direction from the Holy Spirit that he should.
"I know," I told him.

Going for it

Our son, Caleb, will be a freshman at North High next year. He wants to play football, so he's been going to summer conditioning. In fact, he actually did this last year too, as an 8th grader. I have been amazed that he is getting up at 7 a.m. or earlier so he can ride his bicycle the 2 miles to North and be on time. No one is waking him up, he's doing it all on his own.

His friend, who I'll call Joe, doesn't have that same kind of drive. He's had a hard time getting up for conditioning. The two have played football together a number of years, and I think Joe wants to make the team. He's not a morning person. Caleb has tried giving him a wake-up call, but he sleeps through it. Joe's mom goes to work early, so she's not available. He's made it to conditioning when he's had a friend sleep over and they've gone together. Except the time that Caleb stayed the night. Then they both overslept and missed it.

I told Caleb that Joe's idea of enlisting his friends to help him get to conditioning is a good one. If he's having trouble, he needs to figure out ways that will help him succeed. However, there comes a point where he is going to have to find the motivation internally and make it happen.

And I thought of myself. In my writing, I have resembled Joe much more than Caleb. I've let myself get sidetracked, off focus. I've enlisted friends to help, mainly my small group sisters and my running buddy, Kristen. But they can't make me choose to stay at the computer when I feel like running upstairs for a snack. They can't make me stop checking email and facebook when I'm stuck on a story. They can't make me keep working when I decide to take a break and go to the pool for the the rest of the afternoon.

At some point, the motivation is going to have to come from within. Right now, I'm working on a special edition of the Current for our church's 20th anniversary, a project that I lobbied for last fall. I've gotten the go-ahead to use color, and eight pages instead of the usual four. I had the idea for the feature article over a year ago. I interviewed my subjects, and let my notes sit for over two weeks. I forced myself to write the story last week. The rough draft's done, but I have yet to re-visit it. The whole issue needs to be finished in early August. We have swim team championships, a rafting trip, a four-wheeling trip to Colorado, and a synchronized swimming show scheduled before then.

Maybe I need to talk to Caleb and see how I can make this happen.

My Kathmandu

For a couple of years, I volunteered at WSU with their international students' conversation class. Meeting new students every week was fascinating, I loved hearing about their home countries, families, and culture. I remember one gal I met had very good English so we had a great conversation. I don't remember where she was from, because she didn't want to talk about her home. The summer before, she had been to Kathmandu (in Nepal), and she was planning to return as soon as possible. She glowingly told me of her favorite hangouts, the music, the art, the culture. She'd fallen in love with it. (And maybe a handsome local, I guessed).

After my freshman year in college, I spent a summer in Colombia with a missions team. We visited Bogota, Medellin, and the Choco (jungle), but our home base (and my favorite city) was Cali.

The statue of Christo Rey with outstretched arms overlooked the city in the valley. Downtown, street musicians filled the air with a tropicales or reggae beat. I loved the artisan fair, Tostadas Con Todo, and Mimo's chocolate-covered ice cream cones.

The weather was perfect. A missionaries' house even had a permanently open 8-foot square skylight covered with iron bars, because there would never be a time when you wouldn't want a nice fresh breeze, and it would never be too hot or too cold. The skylight was over a tiled area with a drain, so the rain would only water the plants they kept there, and then wash away.

Even people who lived in the poorer sections of the city, in the houses stacked on the sides of the foothills, managed to emerge from their concrete shacks in perfectly clean and pressed clothing. So many men were short, dark, and handsome.

We had a problem with our passports, and got turned away before stepping onto our plane at the airport. Riding with my teammates and our luggage back to the missionaries' home in the back of a pickup, I didn't care. So what if we were stuck in the country for a few more days? I hadn't been ready to leave anyway.

"I know what you mean," I told my conversation partner. "Cali, Colombia was my Kathmandu."

Pickin'

I just bought a couple of canteloupes at the grocery store, which reminded me of when Dave and I were first married. I was in the produce section selecting a canteloupe, and someone asked me how to make sure it was ripe. I said, "I always first look for one with a good-looking belly button, and then I smell it."
My husband added, "That's how she picked me!"

Trash Talkin'

I considered writing about how I found a dead bird while mowing, and how when I picked it up (with a large sycamore leaf over it, so I wouldn't actually touch it) I noticed stuff falling off of it--maggots. And the bird nearly fell apart before I reached the trash can.
Then I remembered my husband's class reunion. There was a guy who only had one topic--his work. And unfortunately, he was in waste management. As the weekend wore on, I heard some people saying, "Let's not talk to him, he's always talking trash."
So, before I risk people saying I'm always talking grass, I'll move on to other topics. Like melons.

Dirty Jobs

OK, I've said some really nice things about my job as 1st assistant in our family business, Franklin Lawn Service. Here's the dark side. . .

Last week I was using the string trimmer to knock down some weeds in back of a shed. The weeds were huge, noxious pasture weeds, really juicy--and they come back every week. I've suggested to our customer that RoundUp or GroundClear would be a better solution, but so far nothing's happened. So I'm clearing out this week's growth, spraying green weed guts all over when I run into a pile of fresh doggy doo. The expression "the shit hit the fan" could just as easily be "the shit hit the weed eater." At any rate, the results were the same. Luckily, I always wear safety glasses. Instinctively I wiped my face and smeared doggy doo all over my cheek and hand. Probably my nose too, because it smelled awful. Nearly walked off the job. I shouldn't have to put up with that shit.

Grace's garden

There's always something blooming in Grace's garden--roses, iris, lilies, butterfly bushes, and other things that I have no clue what they are. Every time we show up to mow, there's something new.
But Grace has been gone for about five years. I never even met her. Her husband, Max, hired us to do his lawn the weekend of her funeral, and we've been doing it ever since. 
The garden was always her thing--Max says he never works in it. We mow around it and trim it as best we can, but the profusion of flowers has convinced me that perennials are the way to go. In spring I plant several flats of annuals, and enjoy the color throughout the summer, but then have to do it all again the next year.
I've also noticed other perennials popping up from Grace's life. My husband, Dave, and I have kidded Max recently about setting him up with Dave's widowed grandma, since they are both 93. He chuckles, but says that the wife he had was the only woman he ever wanted, like someone who had experienced the great love of his life and was content. Her picture, a classic black-and-white portrait in an oval frame, sits by a potted African violet on a small marble end table.
Their daughter, who lives several hours away, emails Max daily. Their son picks up Max regularly to walk in the park or the mall. Surely their mother taught them well.
The other week, though Max told us something that raised my respect for Grace even more. He said his brother, who was incapable of supporting himself after contracting scarlet fever in his childhood, lived with them for more than 20 years. Max and Grace set up an apartment for him in their basement. Every meal she fixed at plate for him and took it downstairs to him, as he wished. Grace must have been amazing.
I want to plant perennials.

Magical summers begin at TRC

By Karen Franklin, editor

Every summer, a little bit of magic happens in our neighborhood. Almost like the Scottish village Brigadoon rising from the mist, a community appears at 2248 Sweetbriar. As the water in Twin River Club’s pool rises over the course of a few days, so does the excitement.

Our summer friends appear, and we comment how their kids grew the past year, and they say the same about ours.

Of course, some of them we ran into around town over the winter. When that happens, the standing joke is, “Oh, I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on!” We laugh, and dream of summer days spent poolside.

We’ve been members at TRC since 2002, and many of my favorite memories are tinged with chlorine.

Like that first summer, watching our six-year-old, Caleb, learn to do flips off the low dive, and the next year, the high. Or Caleb’s first swim meet, when he thought “DQ” meant he’d get an ice cream treat, instead of disqualified. And later meets, when he brought home handfuls of blue ribbons.

Or 2008, when our second son, Harrison, received a trophy for tying for most points at league championships in the boys’ 9-10 age group.

A highlight was Laurel’s first synchronized swimming show. She joined the other “8 and under” girls with their daddies for a routine to “Fun, Fun, Fun.” Dave doing a ballet leg in the pool in front of hundreds:  Hilarious. Knowing that he did it because he loves his little girl:  Priceless.

I grew up on a farm, envying my town friends who rode their bikes to the pool every day. So I love that my kids have that freedom. I’m glad they’ve passed all the Red Cross swimming lessons (which are included with membership).

If you live near and have kids–or even if you don’t–you owe it to yourself to check it out (see ad page 4) and create your own magical memories. Because once summer’s over, it will disappear––until next year. See you at the pool!

Designed to write

Our pastor, Terry, recently had a sermon about how it doesn't matter what kind of work you do, as long as you do it for God. I wholeheartedly agree.

But on the other hand, everyone has specific gifts, and we are happiest and most effective when we are doing what we were designed to do. My husband has an array of shovels in his garage, each created for a specific task. Yes, he could dig a trench with a spade, but if he had a sharpshooter, the work would go much smoother, easier, and with a more satisfying end result.

For the past several years I’ve been working more and more in our lawn care business. I enjoy many aspects of the job--being outside, staying active throughout the day, visiting weekly with our elderly customers, working alongside my boss husband, lunches out with him daily.

But I was made to be a writer. I’ve always known it. And I’ve done it, here and there. I’ve written articles and edited our church newsletter for over 10 years. I've done our neighborhood newsletter for the past two.

Some days when I've had all day to write, it becomes a chore. Ideas stagnate. Writing full time would be difficult. So maybe the two can be complementary. After all, I have lots of time to think and contemplate pushing a mower. I often work out whole columns in my head as I work though the yards.

My hope is this blog will be a place for those columns to get out of my head, and into print.

I wrote frequently in college, and was editor of my college newspaper, but in the nearly two decades since I've pushed my writing to the back burner. I always knew I would go back to it. I was a writer, it was like riding a bike--once I decided to write again, it would come back easily.

However, a writer friend told me that writing is actually more like playing the piano--you have to practice to keep up your skills. Darn.

So here's my practice. Come along for the ride.