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.