Come as you are

Last Saturday when Dave's sisters stopped in unexpectedly I took advantage of the situation and started planning our Easter gathering.

Traditionally, Dave and I have hosted Easter. We started having it even when Janet (Dave's mom) was still alive because it was the one family gathering that we might have a chance of being outside, and we had a small dining space but a nice patio. We also had a nice yard for Easter egg hunts, thanks to my husband, Dave.

So we quickly planned our menu, which wasn't hard. I assigned Julie to bring deviled eggs, because that's what she always brings and they are as beautiful as they are delicious. We decided Jennifer can bring the traditional creamed asparagus casserole, and Julie promised to get her Janet's recipe. I'd already planned on having ham (and Aldi had bone-in spiral sliced double glazed hams half price after Christmas, so it's waiting in the freezer for Dave to fix it) and scalloped potatoes (or hash brown potato casserole if I get pressed for time). My mom likes to bake bread, so we let her bring it. She also is always quite willing to make pies, so I assigned her that as well.

 Thank goodness Jesus' Easter celebration isn't like mine. He doesn't require us to bring anything. Just come. Empty-handed. Bad habits and addictions still in place. He went to the cross to pay for our sins and give us the power to change. We just have to accept it and come as we are.

Shorts and the truth

"Mom, why are you wearing those shorts with tags?" my 15-year-old son Harrison asked me as I was clearing a kitchen counter.
I remember the conversation like yesterday, although it was nearly three years ago. I was embarrassed, caught doing something slightly stupid, something that seemed to happen with increasing regularity now that I had teenagers.
"Well, Harrison," I said, "I am just trying these shorts on. I bought them at Sam's, and I wasn't sure if I was going to keep them."
And then he said two of the the most perfect things he could possibly say:  "I think you should keep them," he said. (YES! Let's face it, ladies. Keeping the item in question is ALWAYS the right answer!)
But then here came the kicker:  "Because they look nice on you," he said.
Because they look nice on you! BECAUSE THEY LOOK NICE ON YOU! I nearly hyperventilated at this simple, unsolicited compliment, delivered casually as he was passing through the kitchen.
Now I know what all of you moms are thinking, and you are correct. Harrison is going to make an awesome husband someday.
I suspected this when he was a preschooler or even younger. He's always known how to give me perfect hugs--not too tight, not too quick. Just the right amount of squeeze for the right amount of time.
And at the right time. He often senses when I need a hug.

Harrison giving a hug to his sister, Laurel

Last spring, Harrison's power of perception stopped me in my tracks.
It was mid-morning on a Saturday, and I had returned home from a 10-mile run with my long-time friend and running partner, Kristen Doerksen. I was discouraged because I was having trouble getting back into running after taking off much of the winter to recover from a hysterectomy.
We were in the kitchen (where apparently, most of our important conversations take place). Harrison asked, "How was your run, Mom?"
"Oh, it was awful. I had to walk a lot. I'm surprised Kristen puts up with me, I'm so slow," I complained.
Harrison said, "Mom, you and Kristen have been friends for a long time, and I bet she's just glad to spend time with you."
I stopped and looked at him, thinking simultaneously, "He's right," and "Where did this guy come from?"
His response made me replay my griping in my mind. I hadn't fully meant it, not really. Just sort of. It was just a lie I was entertaining inside my brain. Harrison's astute assessment smacked of truth and made me pause.
On our next run, I relayed this conversation to Kristen, and as Harrison had predicted, she confirmed she was happy for my company and our friendship spanning more than two decades trumped any speed records she might or might not be setting on training runs.
So the takeaway value for me was to be more vigilant on the random thoughts I allowed into my mind. I was discouraged because I believed my forever friend was barely tolerating me because I couldn't keep up. But that was a lie.
I also saw that I need to recognize truth when someone speaks it into my life,even if it come from unexpected sources. Although I have to admit, my son is pretty perceptive.

Kristen and I ran the 10-mile Turkey Trot before Thanksgiving last year.

  

Kicking it in Cancun

Two days ago my husband and I returned from a vacation in Cancun. On our last day there, something unexpected happened and I am determined to write about it before my tan fades.

My story, however, starts five years ago, on our first trip to Cancun to celebrate our 20th anniversary. On our way from the airport to our hotel, I noticed a terra-cotta path running in front of the hotels, all along the boulevard. So for my early morning jogs, I would set out one direction or the other and enjoy watching the groundskeepers tending the shrubs and watering the grass as I went along.

Groundskeepers tidy up the areas in front of the hotels every morning.

Dave (my husband) had the idea that I could run my six miles in one direction and then take the bus back. That way I could see more of the sights along the path. I had wanted to check out an athletic park I'd spied closer to the city center, so I tucked some pesos in the pocket of my running shorts and that's what I did.

We returned to Cancun two years ago. We stayed in different resort, but it was also on Kukulcan, the hotel zone boulevard, so I ran on the path for my morning runs.

On Sunday morning as I approached the downtown area, I noticed more people running than usual. As I got closer, I saw they had race numbers. Happy for the company, I joined in and ran with them. After a few attempts asking other runners in my limited Spanish, I determined that they were running their choice of either a 5K (one loop) or a 10K (two loops). The morning was unusually hot, so when we passed a water station with incredibly cold water bags, I took one.

I happened upon this race on a Sunday morning in 2014.

Intrigued, I followed them to the finish area and discreetly checked it out. They had banners, refreshments, medals--everything I would expect from races back home.

They had a pretty fruit table.

They had cool medals.

This year, when we decided to go back to Cancun, I remembered the race and wondered if it would be the same weekend we were there. I studied my photos and saw the name of the race. I Googled "Unidos Por La Pas" and found it. Yes, it was to be Jan. 31, our last day there.

Because the race price was in pesos, I didn't register from at home. In hindsight, I probably should have.

A few days after we got to our resort, I went to the front desk area and showed one of the gals my printout. Their internet service wasn't working at the time, but she pulled out her personal smart phone and found some information. Apparently I could either go to the Red Cross downtown or to Innovasport in the La Isla mall to register. Since I needed to get the kids some Cancun tank tops, I decided to head to the mall.

I had a map, and the buses are fairly easy to navigate. Still, I got confused, thinking the mall I was headed to would be before we passed our 2010 hotel, but I saw our Gran Caribe out the window as we whizzed by. At the next stop some people were getting off at a large mall so I decided to get off too and shop a bit before I tried to go back and find the mall I needed. Imagine my relief when I saw the sign "La Isla" and realized I was at the right place after all!

I found a directory and this store:

 A girl helped me "inscriber" (register) for the race, which took about 20 minutes of opening various windows on the store computer and consulting a few fellow employees. I used my credit card and the pesos changed to dollars through the magic of international banking. (I have checked my bank. The charge was $15.38 which was correct).

Packet pick-up was Saturday. The printout the Innovasport employee gave me after registering didn't say where it would be, and the other employees didn't know. I mentioned the gal from the hotel had said the other location was the Red Cross, so we assumed it would be there. She had assured me it was an easy bus ride because it was only a block from Wal-Mart.

So around 11 a.m. I tore myself away from the beach, threw on a cover-up, grabbed my information and flagged down the bus marked "Wal-Mart." It dropped me off a couple of blocks away, but some of the ubiquitous street corner tour guides pointed me in the right direction. Still, when I got to Wal-Mart, I couldn't figure out which direction I needed to go. A guy who spoke English told me the Red Cross was on the other side of the nearby tower, so I crossed the intersection and followed the block around the tower, and there were a handful of people sitting on benches waiting to be seen by someone at the Red Cross. The hotel gal had said the coffee shop right next to the Red Cross was actually the race headquarters, and I felt immense relief when I saw a corner store with two blue "5 ta Carrera Unidos por la Paz" race posters on either side of the counter.

So THIS is where we pick up our packets!

However, they did not have the race packets. They directed me to the Peugeot dealership, which was across the street from Wal-Mart. A girl who had been hanging out at the store walked back with me a block until we had crossed the street and made sure I saw the letters "Peugeot" as she pointed.

My 16-year old tour guide.

Inside, the race people were very organized and another high school aged girl who spoke good English guided me through the process of getting my shirt (thank goodness a mujers grande fit, because that's all they had left), and initializing my chip (they used the ones that you tie on your shoe and return at the end of the race). My name "Karen Franklin Franklin" popped up on their computer, and I was good to go. (At Innovasport, I told them to put "Franklin" twice, because they needed two last names, and I wasn't sure which one comes first, if it should be Epp Franklin or Franklin Epp).

The race was to begin at 7 a.m. I considered just running to the start from my hotel, since it was only 3.5 km away, but since it would still be dark I decided to take the bus. I double checked with a guy at the front desk, and he said I needed to get off on the first right after passing the park. However, the street was already blocked off for the race, so the bus never went right. I finally asked someone because the bus had traveled around the circle and was about to head back down the hotel strip. The bus driver let me off.

A guy named Hector, who was returning home after working all night at a disco, graciously guided me across the busy intersection and pointed me in the direction of the Palacio Municipal.

I made it! The Palacio Municipal. Someone told me the mayor lives here. Yo no se.

An emcee was walking through the crowd, interviewing people at random. He stopped me, I told him I was from the United States, Kansas. He asked how many people came with me. I said it was only me, my husband was sleeping back at our hotel. He laughed and in rapid Spanish relayed the information plus who knows what else to the crowd.

The emcee interviews another participant.

I'm ready to run!

Another guy he interviewed was wearing a triathlon jersey and said he was from Manchester. After the emcee moved on I introduced myself and found out he was indeed from Manchester, England and was on the last day of his honeymoon. He said he tries to find a race wherever he travels. He mentioned it had been a bit of an ordeal with several calls and assistance from his hotel staff to arrange to pick up his packet that morning.

One detail I'd overlooked on the race poster was that there were also races for the ninos (kids). Those were first. So I had plenty of time to hang out. I saw a gal with a labradoodle, which made me miss Odie, our Cavapoo.

I was missing my jog dog Odie.

I started talking to a group of gals with really cool running shirts that had their nicknames printed on the back. They said they run on the path along Kukulcan every day. I had them tell me their ages. Most were in their 30s. One was 20-something, and one was 40, the only one in my age group.

The friendly Cancun running club and me.

They were amazed that I was 47, and they all said I looked much younger, so I liked them immediately. I asked to take their picture, and they insisted that I be in it as well.

When the race started, everyone took off fast. I thought maybe too fast, but no one seemed to be having trouble. I was noticing how humid the Cancun air was, so I was thrilled to see the first hydration station at the 1K mark. I was also excited because I think these Friolin water bags are the coolest things ever. And they were cool--chilled, in fact. Plus, they hold more water than you could ever drink in a race (500 ml), so after biting off the corner and sucking out all the wonderful cool water I wanted, I squirted the rest all over myself. Invigorating!

After the race I caught up with the running club again. While waiting for results, I found out one was a high school teacher in Cancun and teaches web design. Another worked in a boutique at one of the resorts. The 20-something gal said she had moved to Cancun only two weeks ago to take a job at the airport directing airplane maintenance. Somehow she'd gotten hooked up with these gals (I think one of their husbands works at the airport with her, but don't quote me) and she said they had been welcoming and friendly. I could easily imagine.

We took pictures in front of the mural they were painting.

The results came in, and I saw I took second! Angelica, the 40-year-old from the group, had taken 1st in our age group.

Yes, Franklin Franklin Karen is Master Female #2!

Then the unexpected happened. I turned around and one of the gals was handing me one of their club running shirts. She asked if I would wear it on the podium for them.

I remember our church's women's ministry leader Julie LeFevre describing a time in middle school after a sleepover that she knew she and the other girl were really and truly friends because the friend loaned her a hoodie. I felt the same way. Would I wear one of their super-cool club running shirts? Heck yeah! Just give me a moment to choke back the tears.

They handed me one of their shirts to wear for the podium!

We had to take another group picture. The shirt I am
wearing belongs to the gal in the black tank top.
I think she didn't race because she was
watching kids.

The international symbol of
female friendship:
 wearing each others' clothes!

The mens masters (40-49) winners joined us.

I couldn't get over how quickly these women embraced me and welcomed me into their circle. I was amazed. Now we are friends on Facebook!





On the bus ride back, I sat with another race participant, Daisy (in Spanish, her name is Margarita, she told me), who happened to be vacationing with her family from Bogota, Colombia. I have a soft spot in my heart for Colombia because I spent a summer on a mission trip there when I was in college.

I felt like a celebrity walking into our resort. Mary was back on duty. 

She was the one who had helped me register in the first place!

Mary was pleased to hear I had taken second place in my age group.

How many people does it take to run a race in Cancun? 

A lot, but the experience is priceless!

Generation Gulch

This week I reached a milestone. As of Monday, I have officially been a mother for 20 years. Here is proof:

No longer teenagers- Caleb's 20th birthday was Jan. 11, Bailey's 20th was Jan. 12. After the kids had been in elementary school together for several years we figured out that her mom and I had been in the same hospital at the same time.

The proof is not 20 candles on the cake, because I didn't have that many. The proof is my son, Caleb, showing two fingers while his long-time school friend, Bailey, is making a "0."

And the wisdom that I've gleaned after two decades of mothership?

It's not a generation gap. It's bigger. It's a gulch.

The distance doesn't seem so far when I look back. After all, I can remember high school and the nearly 30 years after. I can still relate.

But I also remember being in high school and looking at my parents, who 30 years ahead of me had three kids, jobs, and mortgage payments. I couldn't relate.

I thought I would know my kids. After all, I changed their diapers, read them bedtime stories, sat through parent-teacher conferences. When they could drive, I tried to keep track of where they were going, and with whom. I told them moms never can sleep until they know their kids are safely back home, but I think they knew I was lying. I can be sound asleep by 10:30 p.m., whether they are in or not.

Somewhere along the way, they became their own persons and forgot to tell me. No, they purposely didn't tell me. And all of my questions, driven from both my need to know as a mother and my need for the facts as a reporter, get answered with as little detail as possible and they move on.

When they were little, when we spent our days at the zoo watching the otters and the gorillas, I couldn't imagine a day when I didn't know what was going through their little blond heads. But things got busy, and then they were teenagers, and the gap that I thought wouldn't happen to us appeared and widened into a gulch.

Yet when I remember certain things I went through in high school, I know my parents had no clue. When I got engaged in college, my parents were unsure how I felt about David Franklin, because I hadn't told them.

Why did I think my relationship with my kids would be different?

Today I was remembering when I was 16 and I drove three of my girlfriends to Wichita to see WhiteHeart, our favorite Christian band. A summer thunderstorm was in the forecast so the outdoor location was changed to indoor, but we out-of-towners managed to make it to the new location. The rain was in full force for our supposed-to-be-an-hour drive home, but I really can't blame the weather conditions for my taking the exit to Hutch (apparently there is a Highway 50 west AND a 50 that goes east. Never mind that I'd been to Wichita nearly every month for most of my life, I certainly hadn't paid attention to the directions. I'm sure I was reading a book in the back seat). At any rate, after seeing an unfamiliar flashing yellow light through the driving rain we finally determined that we'd taken a wrong exit and turned the car around.

After dropping off my friends at their respective houses, it was close to 3 a.m. when I drove onto our farmyard. The rain had stopped. I parked in the shed that served as our garage and hiked my boom box (fitted with four new D-cell batteries, just for this occasion) onto my shoulder, still playing WhiteHeart's latest album. Mom met me at the back door. She was less than impressed. I was shocked to realize she was upset with me. It had honestly never occurred to me that she might be worried.

So if I was that self-absorbed, so clueless when it came to viewing things from my parents' perspective, can I blame my kids for being the same way?

I remember Dave and his siblings reminiscing about their youthful escapades one Christmas. Dave's mom kept saying, "That didn't happen! You're making that up!" I thought she was in denial. Now I suspect she hadn't known until then.

I guess I have some stories to look forward to.

In a Better Place

At a memorial service I attended recently the minister assured us our deceased friend was "in a better place." However, she provided no basis for this knowledge or further explanation.

That got me thinking about my own eventual demise, subsequent funeral, and what I hope might be said. My friend Jeff Wenzel, who died of a brain tumor about 10 years ago, made a video when he was sick in preparation for the occasion. It was just like Jeff, who was extremely well-liked and social, to be the keynote speaker at his own funeral. My favorite part was when he leaned into the camera and looked down, as if he were scanning the crowd to see who all showed up.

I could make a video too, but writing something is more my style. Something like this:

Thanks for coming to my funeral today. Because you are here, I know our lives crossed in a meaningful way, or your life has crossed some of the ones closest to me and you desire to support and comfort them. Both are great reasons to be here.

I want to assure you that I am now in Heaven with Jesus, in the place He has prepared for me. I've known since I was six years old that I would be joining Him here. My parents read me Bible stories and took me to Sunday School and church, so I always knew that I needed to ask Jesus into my heart.

On a Wednesday night in April, 1975, our First Mennonite Brethren youth choir sang a song with the words, "Don't wait until you're older, but trust Him. . " I knew I would be seven in a few months, so I decided tonight was the night. When my class went upstairs, I hung back, sat on the landing and prayed. I told Jesus I was sorry for the wrong things I had done (I had stolen a curler from a playmate, and lied about it to my mother, for starters), and I asked Him to come into my life and to take me to Heaven when I died. I was glad to make this important decision

When I re-joined my class, I wondered if they would notice that I was a Christian now. I don't remember if I told my teachers, but I know my Mom and Dad were happy for me when I told them that night.

Later I learned the Romans Road, which are several key verses the Apostle Paul wrote in Romans that spell out the path I took to find salvation. Romans 3:23 says, "for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God." I knew I was a sinner (remember the curler incident). The bad news was I deserved death, as Romans 6:23 says, "for the wages of sin is death." However, the good news quickly follows because the verse continues:  "but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord."

So I am confident that I am in Heaven now, because I believe God when he says in Romans 10:9 "If you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord, and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved." That's what I did, and I know He keeps His promises.

He's been with me all my life, guiding me, protecting me, loving me. I have not followed Him perfectly, but He is perfect, and He is faithful to do what He says He will. And now I have begun the best part that is scary to even imagine on earth--eternal life.

You may not have had the benefit of hearing about salvation repeatedly since you were a child like I did, but the same is absolutely true for you. God doesn't want anyone to be lost, He desires that everyone would come to Him. If you haven't done that, I would love for you to do that today. I would love for my memorial service to mark the day that angels rejoice in Heaven over your salvation.

And I would love to see you again. Let's plan to meet at my place--it's got lots of rooms.

Thanksgiving for Father's Day

Yesterday while in CVS I ran in to one of our favorite customers. Actually, I was passing her at the end of a tight aisle and realized it was her as I was two feet from her. She didn't recognize me at first because I had my hair down instead of in my usual ball cap that I wear when we mow.

Anyway, after the slightly awkward meeting, I mentioned I was heading to the greeting cards to get ready for Fathers' Day. With her usual sweet smile, she said she didn't have any men in her life any more. Her father is gone and her husband died (I think it was cancer) three or four years ago (when we started mowing her lawn). She said the only man she might do anything for would be her son-in-law, and she knew her daughter and three grandchildren were planning lots of festivities.

"He doesn't need a card from me," she laughed.

"Well, I don't know, he might," I countered. And we moved on.

But that little exchanged stayed with me all the day, challenging me on two fronts:

When I am in her situation, I pray I am not bitter at the hand I have been dealt. Her husband died early--right after retiring, if not before. Yesterday, and always with us, she is pleasant and talks about him and her situation in a matter-of-fact, accepting way.

But I am not in her situation. I have a dad who in 2011 was in the hospital for three months with pancreatitis and nearly left us, but he's still here. I have a husband of 24 years who is a good father, loves to spend time with me, and even fixed my computer yesterday. I do have men in my life, and today is their day, so I will celebrate them.

So now I need to post this and go fix breakfast. Happy Father's Day!

Both Sides Now- Facing Mother's Day with a slightly empty nest

My oldest son, Caleb, is away at tech school in Biloxi, Mississippi, so this will be my first Mother's Day in 19 years without him. He's actually been gone since mid-December when he went through basic training in San Antonio.

During his eight weeks at basic, communication was limited to three phone calls--right when he got there, to let us know he'd arrived OK, week four (which happened to be his birthday. That was a little detail that God worked out as a gift for me) and week seven, so we could go over graduation plans and the details of visiting him at the air force base (AFB, the first of MANY acronyms). No texting at all. No email. No facebook messaging.

But he could write letters! And he did, nearly every week. The excitement that filled my heart each time I flipped through the mail and saw his handwriting on the white #10 envelope was palpable. Most of the time he filled both the front and back of a sheet of the the yellow steno pad that we purchased for that purpose. We went back in time to the 1980s. I made a point to write him on Sunday nights, typing my letters on the computer and printing them out because my kids complain about not being able to read my cursive.

I was so excited to see Caleb at his graduation from basic training!

Now that he's in tech school, he isn't limited on his phone, so we text occasionally about random things. Occasionally he posts pictures of his days off on facebook.

So I was thinking about what I'd really like from him for Mother's Day, and a letter topped the list. A card would be nice, too. A phone call would be good, especially if he would take off his waterproof Otterbox phone cover, which muffles the sound and makes it hard for me to hear.

A FaceTime or Skype call would be wonderful. Our family is planning to go to the zoo, which is one of his very favorite places. It would be great if we could connect there. Maybe by the baboons. Which is an inside joke, because he HATES the baboons. When he was four or five he did something to get on their bad side and they threw sand at him. OK, maybe by the river otters or the statues of the grizzlies.

At any rate, I yearn to hear from him. And then I think about when I left home.

I didn't go far. My family lived on a farm eight miles northwest of Hillsboro, and I attended Tabor College, which is in Hillsboro. My mom worked in the library at Tabor, so I could walk over and see her each morning. But I didn't. I remember one semester, I think it was my junior year, I had a free hour in my schedule on Tuesdays (or something) so I would usually drop in and chat with her a bit at the check-out desk, but that semester was the exception, not the rule.

I didn't have weekend meals, so I did go home sometimes for lunch on Sundays. For my 19th birthday, on Sept. 10 I met my parents at a reception center on campus. I think I was too busy to come home for an entire evening (plus, I didn't have a car). They gave me a denim jacket, which I liked. Mom might have brought a cake, I don't remember. I do remember thinking it was nice that they came as I walked back to see what was happening in our dorm.

I don't remember ever thinking about how my mom might have been missing her daughter. How if at all possible she wanted to bake a cake and be with the girl on her birthday that she had baked cakes for each of the 18 previous years.

That kind of insight (hindsight) takes years to acquire.

In fact, it's taken me 27.